Meat Curtains Psychology - # 9
This story is self-explanatory. That rhymed.
Meat curtains. Roast beef. Spam wallet sandwich. Liver lips. How do you get that junk? It’s the 8th and final wonder of the world. That’s some mysterious Leatherface stuff, man. Like if you didn’t have that shit, and you woke up with it, would that be a terrifying nightmare? Oh my, imagine pulling the covers back to find Freddy Krueger eating you out, no wait, that is just your pussy skin, your pissy pastrami wings. Gross? I used to think it was gross. Labia minora becoming labia majora, is an interesting concept. Then I began to wonder, with labia minora protrusion being so common, and labiaplasty becoming a quite popular plastic surgery procedure, what would life be like with a set of mutton linens down there? An extra side of yogurt slinging flesh lettuce between your thighs. How would having more pussy make me feel? How would it make you feel? Is it a plus or a minus?
They say the porn star chicks get it from banging or you get it from cannonball-blasting a baby out of your pum pum. That’s why they get the vaginal rejuvenation surgery. It’s to reanimate zombie vaj, revive the dead snatch pieces that are hanging out ones gooch. I just thank the Lord everyday for not cursing me with it, and I pray that I never get it. My pussy gives me enough problems as it is. More pussy, more problems …
If you get ham blankets from smashing copious amounts of big cocks do not sign me up. No. Wait. Sign me up. No. Don’t. Stop. Do not sign me up. Okay, sign me up. Wait, no, I don’t want to be signed up. A pro, to that scenario would be getting mad endless diznick, the con, is having a supersize flappy meal between your thighs.
Makes me wonder, maybe not every chick gets it from banging too many dicks or having numerous breach, sideways, 15 pounder babies. Perhaps there are ladies born with it. There are virgins out there with four, half pound Arby’s 2 for $5 Beef and Cheddar specials betwixt their legs out there right now. And yes, I just used the word betwixt. And, yes now I want a Twix. These women maybe among you right now. The ones who can’t cross their legs properly on account of the shredded sirloin gweeble slappers in the middle of their stems.
If a virgin can have that shit so can a baby. Maybe if a baby has an extra side of pussticles, that baby is destined to be a hoe. Destined to be named Destiny and in DVDA porn. I mean, why not? You’re already napalmed to shit down there. It’s like what came first the chicken or the egg? What came first the clithanger steak drapes or the slutiness? When you have some hot mess smooshed up and wedged up in your business like that, like a couple of fat sloppy In-N-Out Double Double Animal-Style Cheeseburgers you are mos def going to be more ‘pussy aware.’ From the pure motion and the pendulum-esque mature swing of the dense weight of your damn hanging twat, of course you’d be more conscious of it. You’d grow up, working yourself into a carnal fury as it rubbed up on every friggin’ thing, pondering ‘What is this ghastly body part? I must use it!’ That is pussy awareness.
I once had a threesome with a girl who had massive, dangling pink mouse ears for a bedussy and she was a major slut in a good way, and she didn’t give a fuck about too much in life. I mean, my life. She went to UC Santa Cruz, she was a fellow voluptuous thick chick who posed nude for art classes for a living. One of her mouse ears was extremely longer than the other one, like the ‘mouse’ was inquisitively tilting its head at a 90 degree angle. She was somewhat self conscious of the bloody thing and you know what she did? It wasn’t bloody, but you know what she did? She got that shit pierced with a big ol’ heavy curved barbell horseshoe, to really own it and empower herself from any lack of self-confidence or shame she felt over her vage. Her hope was, folks would pay more attention to the jewelry than her cotton candy fuck bubble. And it worked!
So, she’s got this enormous bedazzled cow udder for a twat, and she loves it because with all that lady meat just bulging out around the piercing, rubbing against her pants, because she didn’t wear panties, again because she was a slut in a good way, she could cum from briskly walking or from a light jog or from sneezing. Can you imagine orgasming and running? Or suddenly climaxing when you sneeze? Gesundheit baby!
In general, she came super easy, all her good parts were just hanging out getting aroused on the regular from everyday wear and tear. Pun intended. Which kind of fits in with my pussy awareness concept. Any-fucking-way the guy we were with couldn’t get enough of that open faced bologna hoagie, he was trying to suck on that thing like he was a newborn baby and that was the last titty on earth on Christmas morning. If you know what I mean, and I know that you do. I mean, we’ve all been there. I was almost left out of the three-way due to her embellished pink canoe, conch burger, that and she went straight to making out with him, to a giving him a light dick licking to munching on his asshole. Fucking UC Santa Cruz alumni! Like right after making out, pretty much straight to ass. Who does that? And then they were like in this weird 96, 69 position fighting over each other’s orifices. He, also had a massive Mag-Lite of a member and had a Prince Albert or was it a Prince Harry piercing, so maybe they were just really into each other because of their body mods and their hefty sexy parts. Maybe it wasn’t a threesome at all. Maybe I was just watching, getting my voyeur on. I don’t quite remember due to my excessive PBR consumption, which I got one more of and smoked a bowl while they were still getting it on, and then I hopped back in once the sphincter munching schmorgasburg had ceased. That was my thing for a minute, popping in and out of threesomes, and sex in general. I’m a busy lady, beers aren’t going to drink themselves, bowls are going to smoke themselves. In fact, the concept is absurd.
As I digress, it makes me wonder, when a girl is born with those rare reuben panini deli meats, is the doctor like, “It’s a fucking girl! And she’s a fucking a hoe. Ahhhh, look at her, 5 fingers, 5 toes, and she’s got a handful of rosy chitlins there for a vagina. She’s adorable, she is happy and healthy as a lark! Whatever the fuck a lark is. Oh, and good news, due to her quadruple moose knuckle salmon taco salad down there, she won’t need you to save a dime for her college fund or her violin lessons. You should invest in getting her a Frederick's of Hollywood credit card, so she can begin an endless collection of clear platform heels, and stringy lingerie. Also getting her involved in gymnastics or dance will be immensely helpful to her … because your baby is going to be a mad sack surfer. Oh, please remember Papi feel free to blast her with various types of Daddy issues like, ‘abandonment’, and ‘ unachievable, ridiculously super high expectations’, and Mommy, call her ‘Bitch’ a lot, and compare her to yourself and other women like non-stop.
“Also, this is very important, make sure her first boob job is botched so she still doesn't feel good about herself, I got a discount tit doc to refer you to for that, anyway the botched job it will surely mess with her self-esteem and she’ll be forced to fuck the pain away to build up her confidence. Oopsies and I almost forgot, here are just a few porn stars or stripper names you might like to go with and by-pass her ‘renaming’ herself later in life; something like Tatiana, Bambi, Diamond, Lexie, Crystal, Skye or Champagne. I personally love the names Amber and my all time fave Cinnamon, it’s got some spice to it. Get it, it’s got spice to it.
“I had a baby girl her names is Barbara, she has a regular puss and she’s probably going to be a doctor like me, or an accountant like her Mom, whom she inherited her regular whisker biscuit from. I also have a son, Toby who is about 10, he is skinny, a nerdy brainiac with eczema, with a small dick, so he’ll probably be a billionaire and run Microsoft or Tesla when he gets older in about 6 years.
“Your baby THOT is healthy and that is what is most important. Alas, one more thing, you can continue slapping her on the ass, go for it, like I just did,” The doctor will say this as he fantacilly flips, throws around and smacks at your baby like a brand new ball of pizza dough. “Oh, and feel free to slap her in the face a bit, just lightly, relax, chill out ... I’m helping her evolve more efficiently … and so you can have this real, future money maker on your hands. She’ll get use to the spanking, the insults, she’ll enhance her twerking skills and stripper pole work and professional athletes, celebs and rappers, motherfuckers of all sorts will really make it rain on her … money … semen, Ciroq, pills … maybe piss and poo, that’s where the real moola is.”
The doctor will then try and give you a high five here, while he dangles your baby by the feet with his other hand, like a rogue tentacle jiggling an upside down maraca. “I kid, I kid. Not all babies who have roast beef turn into slut bags. Only the ones that cry like this, (insert female pornographic boohoo here).”
You know there’s nothing on a man’s body that’ll make you think he’s slut. He could be hot as fuck in the face and bod, know how to fuck, have a big cock, be uber successful and a boss, a mega genius used to getting what he wants. None of that necessarily means he’s a slut. Nevermind, it does. Wait, for reals though, not every guy I boned, who had those attributes was a slut. I’ll tell you how to find the Dude Sluts and Man Whores though. They will usually have multiple Baby Mamas, keyed cars, an infinite bitter ex-girlfriend or ex-boyfriend list, hence the multiple Baby Mamas, they’ll have an extensive lube and STD collection and a questionable dick, perhaps slightly inflamed with red dots or a bumps … and when you see any of those signs especially a bumpy dick thats when you should just run like hell away from them. Oh and their dick and balls will commonly reak of various types of pussy, so be sure to sniff at those jizz bits from time to time. Just trying to help you out here, and save some hearts.
In conclusion, for the record, logic melting love aside, if a chick is hot enough or rich enough no one cares what her pussy looks like. Like if Beyonce or Oprah had elongated, goliath va-gyros with extra tzatziki, no one would give a shit. The same we all feel about guys with small dicks, hot or rich enough, no one gives a hoot about your weiner … I mean you have to compensate with your dirty talk game, and by be amazingly good with your tongue and … your fingers though. Nice manicured fingers, with no long nails. On another closing note, I know a lot of girls with bacon smuggling, floppy cock pocket coochies and they were not all sluts. Okay!? They were simply free spirited, strong, empowered women who chose, and made it their decision, to have their cunts get their cum guzzle on with tons of different men, during numerous one night stands. So there. Not sluts. Strong, choosy, empowered women.
So the next time you’re intimate with a lady, and she’s got some wicked gizzard flappers for a pooter, do yourself a fave and dive head first into the soft pink-stink, of those infinite pork sofa saloon doors. Having too much pussy should not be a downfall, it should be an asset. Like, it is when you’re dude with a wickedly large wang. Ample meat curtains, roast beef, spam wallet sandwiches. Liver lips. Not grotty. It’s nobody’s fault that they have that. And in a world where none of us are getting fucking laid enough or cumming enough you should be happy and blessed to get some of that abundance of gushy strange. We all came from one. Remember that. You’re welcome.
Unless, you were a c-section baby then you are fucking disgusting. An abomination to mankind who nobody should fuck. Just kidding. We should love all pussy, show all labias some love, they go through enough as it is. The more, the merrier.
Again, and I don’t have any … Gawd! I swear I don’t. It would be no biggie if I did, just saying, I don’t have them.
To see the inspiration for this story, after falling down an eclectic Google rabbit hole, feel free to search labiaplasty before and after photos. The website realself.com had the best ones, I didn’t look at them all. Ok, I did.
Enjoy and again … you’re welcome.
Gaylien … No More Gay Boyfriends For Me. Thanks! - #8
How my relationship misadventures with a sizzling awkward, perhaps gay beefcake lead me to my truer self.
Back in the day, when cats referred to The OKCupid, by it’s full, entire gov’ment name and not simply as The OKC, I let my gay BFF / brother-sister from another mother-mister, pretend to be me online to get me some man-pussy, which is one of my old-school nicknames for dick sex. I, hella thirsty, horny and staying at my Mommy’s house, post college, post Berkeley, leapt at the opportunity to get some new weiner when she left town on business, A.K.A. vacaying in Downtown Vegas, at the Gold Nugget for a black Golden Girls trip.
Now, I am cute as a button and never had any issues getting cock sandwiches, which is another nickname for sex, however, living with my Mom in Butt-Fuck-Egypt, California, I was enduring an odd dry spell. All puns intended. So I invited my GBFF, who was also staying with his fam bam at the time in the same area to help me find a fella to give my precious cooch some love and attention.
Now, before you get on me about the types of dudes I do the horizontal hokey pokey with, let me turn you around and mention … my United Colors Of Benetton upbringing. I grew up in Southern Cali in the high desert, about an hour away from the City of Angels on a steady diet of rude girl, sand dune music. Punk and Rock and Ska; Suicidal Tendencies, Sublime, The Descendents, Bad Brains, Queens of the Stone Age, The Clash, Alice in Chains, The Specials, Bob and Bunny with a splash of Color Me Badd, Warren G, Stevie Nicks, Pac, Brenton Woods and tablespoon of pop and alternative music mixed in. You wouldn’t find me in a mosh pit crip walking, but you could surely find me in the pit skanking for reals. I’ve always had a Mexican girl BFF and a GBFF, race and sexual orientation was never an issue in my life. They were my family. I was their family, no questions asked.
I’ve always lived in a multicultural environment, forever a minority surrounded by people of caucasian persuasion and code-mixing, which equated to an epically long white boy phase sprinkled with a We Are The World groove of different kinds of tasty men. I date everything, but white boys are usually the most dominant form of ding-dong variety around me. Now I have had a little bit of everything on my buffet plate, Dope Ethiopian Skater Boys, Kosher Jewish Surfer Bros, Hot Chocolate American Graffiti Artists, Caliente Meximelt Latino Mathematicians, Hearty Filipino Rude Boys and I must admit my colorful sexual appetite has lead to a more brilliant and vibrant way to see and understand the world and all our beautiful cultures, up close and personal. Immersing myself into other cultures has allowed others to immerse themselves into my progressive, free Co-Co So-Cal lifestyle and culture as well.
Getting back to the situation at hand, The OKC chap my GBFF found, (or maybe he found us,) was hot as shit, a possible Gyllenhaal-Gosling genetic love child with a bod and fashion designed by some Eurotrash version Abercrombie Fitch fully equipped with a chiseled Greek-statue face and piercing eyes to match. Sadly, he had the personality of a dead rotting fish, you could tell he was nice though and mos def down to fuck. He was living in Encino and after a few nights of sexting and cyber and phone boning it was on like Donkey Kong and he was on his way over. My GBFF watched him drive up with his red Pontiac Firebird with Illinois plates and observed our initial interaction, and texted me every two minutes until I gave him the okay to get lost. I have had an amazing history of getting along swell with people from Portland, Chicago, Philly, Iceland and Baltimore for like forevers, so I had a feeling I was going to be ‘okay’ with him.
Let me tell you about his eyes a little bit more, they were cold, blaring White Walker blue. Two great, big ol’ beautiful, glassy, judgemental marbles, vacuuming you up whole. Unwavering and stark he’d stared at everybody, everyone, without blinking, with little to no emotion in his frozen handsome face. Like he was in deep, deep thought...about you. Why do you look that way? Why do you move like that? He seriously could make one feel straight up crazy uncomfortable just by laying those bright peepers on’em for a few seconds.
He brought his own slightly bumping so-so techno-trance-ish, Calvin Harris-esque muzac for us to get our freak on to, it was burned on a CD and he also brought an unopened brand new bottle of Jameson and 3 pre-rolled j’s, even though he consumed neither, like ever. He was quieter than a deaf mute in a silent film, in between asking me pre-rehearsed regular and weird questions and watching me get lit, as he literally lit my joints and poured me more dranks, as I happily and drunkenly, poured myself over him.
“How old were you when your family left Puerto Rico? Would you let me finger you in the ass at a Denny’s? What’s your favorite color?” He asked, gawking at my ass.
He did not answer any questions. He did not share one thing about himself. I couldn’t tell you anything about this guy. Did he have sisters? Did he go to college? What was his favorite color? His actions in retrospect were highly suspicious, Dahmer-like in a way. It was if he waiting for me to get drunk enough to pounce me, but not wanting to pounce me until I was ready. For sure, pouncing and bouncing was his objective. More the former than the latter. He was dissecting and downloading me like a Dr. Manhattan project. Disassembling and reassembling me, he was an alien-droid learning to be human … through me. He was my audience, I felt like I was on a stage in front of him. I had to be on in front of him. Awkward, warm and talkative, curvaceous like a cartoon. I was a lot to take in. He got mad creep-sexy James Spader all up on me as we sat across from each other on my Mama’s floral tapestry covered cocktail chairs, me, coincidentally in a black and white jailbird inspired shorter than short t-shirt dress. I could tell he liked me a lot. Who wouldn’t? Those sound like classic last words.
At the exact moment, I ran out of conversation for 3.5 seconds, he began to undress ... himself. Each piece of clothing he deliberately and carefully folded, and placed in a perfect pile over his shoes on the floor, on my Mama’s swirl designed, art deco rug. He was fully erect and grabbed a condom from his folded jean pocket, a motherfucking Magnum. He rolled it on and he actually fit the damn thing. Thank God! He stood in front of me naked, and undressed me, before he even kissed me. He folded my clothes up too, another meticulous pile. His lips and tongue finally touched mine, I got the first, full burst charge of the actual salacious, sinfulness of our one night stand-ish actions. He had a huge throbbing veiny cock, romance novel size, a weighty one, that flopped about, like rocks in a sock. We fucked mmmmm … pretty much immediately after that, mostly doggy style standing up in between him spooning me on my Mama’s vintage velvet mint green fainting sofa. He caressed me and kissed my back, shoulders and neck in silence...to the beat of his own trance music. This emotionless entity, with those eyes, didn’t want to leave, not even the following day, and we texted and talked on the phone all thee time and continued to get it on endlessly even after I moved to LA with a few of my GBFF’s.
The months passed, turning quickly like feather-like pages, he was way very attentive, A.K.A. needy and wanted to hang out all thee time. He loved picking me up on Friday nights to have me all weekend to himself in his minimalist Encino pool house, he was renting from some rich industry folks perpetually on vacation. He would record me, talking to him just lounging around his pad in my underwear and we even made a song or two together. Me singing and rapping, attempting to spit mad fire.
He is one of the many fellas who was in awe of me, like he was consuming me. A larger incubus to my ripening succubus. He would pamper me when I was at his crib, stock the fridge with my favorite things, all the shit he didn’t like; my liquor, my Pom juice, my Drumstick Ice Cream Bars. My junk dirty snacks and beverages. He’d make me these level 500 vegan, raw apps, he’d massage me, kiss me on the forehead, in between making beats, and let me pick all the documentaries and 80’s jams on Netflix. He was cool.
There were no others, just me. I was his Highlander, the only one. Just me, him and the gay porn. Yeah, the gay porn. Did I forget to mention that. Urm, yeah, the second time we were in the bone zone at his place, bisexual threesome guy, guy girl porn was on. The third time we got it on, and everytime after that full on gym rat hot guy on hot guy hardcore, butt-pounding, tongue-frenching, creamsicle ass-dripping, balls-to-the-skeet-wall gay porn was on a Macbook or on a TV or on a cell phone, or on all three. You bet your cum squirting ass, if we were banging there was also a vid on of a guy getting his bang, bang on with another guy.
At first it was not a big deal … Hello, I’m the poster child for the United Colors of Benetton! It was exciting, avant garde, cutting edge and we would mimic and do whatever they did in the movie, then duh, you know what's coming, he started watching the gay porn movies more and more, and getting his rocks off with me doggy style mostly, hello, my face faced the other way, his face buried in the meat spinning, semen slinging, daddy-on-daddy guttural moan competetion porn video. He wasn’t getting all America Me, with me, we weren’t doing anal, besides a handful of ‘wandering thumb in the booty fiascos’, however, our sex life was certainly off. I told myself, ‘He’s sweet, a good guy. I’m not going to let this get to me. It’s no biggie. I’m a modern wo-man. He only went out with me, he only stayed in with me, he only wanted to be with me. We were having fun together. I was having fun with him.’ No matter what I told myself, I still could not ignore this growing oddity.
Was he gay? Was he attracted to my GBFF home boy’s online persona when they were communicating and vibing online, on The OKC, on some subconscious homo-erotic plane, when my bestie was pretending to be me? Like on some level did he know he was convo’ing with a gay guy? Was he getting all Sloppy Joe with my female Manwich? Was he with me because I was manish in some way? There was this blasted hobo who yelled at me, “El Guapa” that one time we were leaving The Cha Cha at 2 am-ish in Silverlake. Was the hobo right? Was I El Guapa? Was I not being a progressive yupster if I wasn’t down with his behavior? Was I being fucking prejudiced? Was there a gay elephant in the room who wanted to fuck? Oh my, was I the gay elephant?
A few weeks later, I invited him to my GBFF’s house, where my other fast ass, sexually open Boo-Friends were enjoying one of our traditional Friday nights. Ah, our traditional Friday nights consisted of rocking out to Rilo Kiley, The Bird and The Bee and dirty snacks, drinking, smoking, wiggle dancing and flirting with each other, while we played grab ass and talked shit. Most of my pals knew of the rouse and how we met, nobody was tripping off of it, except the room would get strangely quiet whenever he spoke directly to my GBFF, the one who did my catfish bidding for me, pretending to be me and had chatted it up with him and baited him on The OKC. It was like, any moment he was going to find us out.
Having no personality, my almost boyfriend, also known as the Gaylien, didn’t turn down one advance my friends put on him, and most of them were fake. Whether they were real advances or not, the spineless Ken sex-doll, was just a wet ball of yes. He exchanged his phone number, you know for a ‘good time,’ with my dumb ass slightly hating girlfriends who were lesbians who didn’t even want to have a ‘good time’ with him, they were just messing with me to mindfuck and punk him to see if he would give them his digits just for shits and gigs. Puh! Those darn girlfriends who are no longer my girlfriends for the record. Thank goodness, I know better lesbians now!
Anywho, poor tragically yummy, introverted, Gaylien was quiet and uncultured, inhaling everything we extroverted asses did, our gestures, our sayings, our love for each other. He couldn’t be more comfortable watching us, making us more uncomfortable and be more uncomfortable in his skin at the same time. Everytime one of us joked he wouldn’t or couldn't laugh or get even just a smidgen loose, and everytime we got physical with him, playing grab ass he would make it painfully outlandish by groping, bumping and grinding on us … mostly on my guy friends and me …and he elongated the weirdness of his actions with his trademark hair-raising Menendez Brother glare. He was no-joke, rape dry-humping all my guy friends … and me. Our hair and our flimsy-floppy necks were jerking hard and all over the damn place, like crash test dummy newborn babies, as he picked us up and pumped on us, punching us with his meaty pelvis … mostly on the guys and … me. It was out of control, he was giving everyone whiplash, again mostly the guys … and me. He was a almost harmless over-the-clothes molester, the chomo bro of us grown-ass young adults. He was a gangbang of one. It was like we were his science experiments for the night and this fool failed all his own tests.
I was failing too, at reading him that night. My nervous, insecure, infinitely Hershey squirting, Hellmouth did all of the yapping that night, and G did all the hearing and absorbing, occasionally he’d do some funky impression of what he thought we acted like before humping us some more. Maybe he was having a social retard moment, from being around so many new cray-cray, uber-cool, outgoing people at once, and sucking sweaty, sour taint at attempting to just act fucking normal. Maybe he was being fucking normal. Maybe I didn’t know this dude at all from a can of gay discontinued rainbow paint and I had no DJ Clue of how he was supposed to act, and what was actually normal to him. Who knows?
In the wee hours in the morning. He stared at me passionately from across the room in between bumbling dry humps and not mother-fucking blinking. He walked up on me, gave me a hug and one of those kisses on the forehead. He posted up on a wall, drinking a water. He was 100% sober. The gang and I were 100% buzzed. He smiled and laughed a lot when he listened to me. He found me entertaining, and would let me, for lack of better words, be me, by welcoming me to be my loud ass dismissively crazy, eclectic, intellectual, funny story telling, kooky trivial fact giving, hair tossing, BS talking self. Me. He found me to be me. His eyes visually swallowed my mouth as a chatted it up with everybody, like he was saving my words. Saving them to build himself an identity, a better personality. We had a magnetic attraction we were just unable to connect. I wish I could have accepted him the same lovely way he accepted me.
I only knew him through our selfish, controlled, one-on-one rendezvous, gay porn bedazzled sex sessions. He was really no match for my really real real world of over the top, dysfunctional bawdy as fuck, theater and FIDM school drop out friend crew. We were the first to go ‘home’ to his joint in Encino and I even though I had a pretty okay time with him, I still was a tad salty about his behavior. Ironically, mostly about him snagging my GF’s digits and not the incessant dog humping. I made him delete my girls’ numbers and scolded him as we went to Encino to do what we normally would do. Attempt to bond and fuck like bunnies over some cornhole canyon, population paste slathered porno. I shouted at him in his Sunfire, ‘Don’t you know how to act, man? Don’t you know how to just...be?” I didn’t. He didn’t. He really didn’t. He was just some unsure, Aspergery kid from the midwest with a a’ight ear for music, who had great big dap-bong-pipe dreams of making it in LA. Aren’t we all?
I wanted so desperately to ask him if he was gay and why he was humping all my dude friends and … me. I didn’t though. I didn’t have the balls. Literally and figuratively. To ask him, Are ya’ gay? Do you want to fuck bros? You want to bone bros and me? Why are you assaulting my homies and … me with your dry, meat sausage? If you have to ask those type of questions, real talk you already know the answer. Why would I ask questions I already knew the answers to. Why?
I look back now and see everyone’s immaturity, mine, wanting to claim him even though I didn't know who he was, not even in a ‘regular’ social setting. I could see crystal clear, the immaturity and insensitivity of my friends playing an advanced game of grab ass with a newbie, and them being horny fucks who didn’t care about me, him or any sort of blossoming relationship they were dying to poop on because they wanted me to be eternally single. Ok, that’s dramatic. He was just a glamified fuck buddy fuck boy toy with a killer bod and ass. We’d all be stupid to not play grab ass with him.
I went to a few dozens of Gaylien’s shows, this shadow of a person, and we continued our weekly Encino sex seshes, never discussing anything real or progressing. I think of us eating bok choy and star fruit, sipping juice boxes by the pool naked, his trance putting me in a trance from his boombox, us, so pretty from the outside looking in, and the hungry way he used to look at me and I realized that just because we were smashing and spending time together, it did not mean we were in a real relationship, at all. His lack of soul is what made his mediocre music and his personality suck, and made us go nowhere at all. Plus, we didn’t invest any real parts of ourselves in each other. Who in the fuck would want to be around a blank canvas you had to constantly paint on and perform for? Nobody wants to create and paint their own lover.
He was not a cheater, he was nice, he was chill, he had a nest egg, he was polite, he was unassuming, he was a faux creative, he was yummy looking, we never argued, he took good care of me when I was around him, and me of him, he fucked me like a champ, like I was lubed up funhat or Nick Jonas, or just some hot and horny gay THOT, and again he was wonderland in bed, but who gives a shit about those things when there is no true zest or electricity popping off.
He was not the worst guy I have been with. Believe me, I have had worst motherfucking boyfriends. Like literally one of my boyfriends at a ‘Meet My Parent dinner’, after eating an entire trough of my Mom’s homemade spaghetti and meatballs and drinking an entire bottle of her Johnny Walker Black label tried to fuck her. He tried to fuck my Mom, well not fuck her but kiss her … like tonsil hockey her to death … Nonetheless, I never question or wonder why I even let my Gaylien go, like a clear balloon in a midnight star speckled sky, or why I let them all go. I do know why though, deep down I do. I need more from a person, not just some smoking hottie ghost in a shell. I know, it would have never worked because I am too much woman and human for a drab, vapid hollow doll, someone who was barely a human at all personality wise.
Could I have honestly been okay, in a relationship with a guy who was overtly sexually attracted to men, a gay guy who was awkwardly super into me? I would be the only biatch he fucked with. His only lay-day. Could I ignore that insignificant fact … and focus on all the good stuff we had and the rad life we could have built together. Be his Phyllis Gates, he’d be my Rock Hudson. His Liza or Star Jones to whatever rude rubbish they were fucking married to. Although their husbands, were negative and blatant weirdos. So perhaps they don’t count. Could I be the beard of all beards. Queen Beard. Could I have done that? Maybe. Then get butt hurt when he butt fucks my buddy or some boner he met in We-hoe 6 months or 60 years down the road. I wouldn’t be able to do that. Lying to myself, waiting for him to burn me with his truth. I would have set myself up for failure, by not following my heart. Yes, yes, I had to let him go. It had nothing to do with him leaning more toward the ‘G’ in the LGBTQ than the ‘Q’. Hell, I am a motherfucking Q. Gaylien was just an temporary empty sweet morsel of quirky mystery, and we weren’t meant to make it, and that’s it.
Sometimes you just have a ‘relationship’ to learn. To learn from. To learn what your taste. To learn what you require in a relationship, what your prerequisites are. Sometimes you just have fun with a person. Somebody you met on the ‘gram or some free, BS, booty call app, somebody you are supposed to have a short term romance with for a few hours, days or few months. Sometimes they just have fun with you, your ass literally. Sometimes you’re just meant to pass like ships in the night or collide like platinum cymbals over 2 years until they disappear from your life completely. And you disappear from their life. And that's okay. Sometimes you learn what to do, and what not to do; and most importantly you can learn qualities you like and dislike in a potential mate. For example, you never know you love avocado or that you are repulsed and allergic to it until you try it a few times. Sometimes you just need to exchange energy with other beasts and critters to realize your truer needs ... like not having a soulless, socially retarded boyfriend who rape dry humps your buds and has an addictive penchant for gay porno who you barely rock or vibe with. Yeah, I have no need for that. And as much as I miss watching Snowballs with Gaylien, a gay skiing fantasy rectum riding porno film we watched like a zillion times, it comforts me through these wiser years to be able to say that. I have no need for a Boo like that, that I’m not compatible with that doesn’t bring out the best in me, and that feels good. I need more … and no more gay boyfriends for me. For reals. Thanks!
Just Because They Were Suicidal Doesn’t Mean You Have To Be - #7
A reaction to the suicides of Chris Cornell and Chester Bennington. Refreshing tips and insight on flipping a negative into a positive during this unsure, dark time.
Go on … it’s okay. Come on you mouth-watering, googly eyed insatiable music feens with raging boners for ears. Don’t be afraid. Be free, feel free to enjoy audible art from yesteryear, like, Sound Garden and Linkin Park again. Know, that just because they cut their timelines short doesn’t mean you have to suffer the same way ... these artists deserve to be celebrated, slowly, savored like a fine box of wine. So start listening to them on random and repeat along with a variety of badass tunes from the past. And by bad, of course I mean good. Chug down the sweet sounds of Chuck Berry and Prodigy as you temporarily, and I mean fucking temporarily, put down your Ed Sheeran and Cardi B. Your music taste buds are in the mood for something old, new and slightly blue.
It’s been a rough year for music. Especially rock music. It’s been a rough year for all of us. T-rump is straight up taking a idiotic-irrational-bigotry power diarrhea dump all over us, racial relations are rapidly boiling over on high; hollow, mumble rap is topping the charts being compared to the gawd damn Beatles and Brother Jimi Hendrix and rad rockers and remarkable rappers, are passing left and right, on top of that suicide rates are currently up 60% . I have just the cure for you. How about The fucking Cure or Arrested Development or Joy Division? Do what I do...stop being butt-hurt and honor and kick up your heels for these and other sometimes mo’ better pre-Y2K wonderful artists and luxuriate in their music stat.
It’s a bummer for reals, when you listen to these recently passed Masters of Sound, it could really put you in funk and most definitely not a P-Funk. Especially in the case of Chris Cornell and Chester Bennington, the recently fallen lead singers of Sound Garden and Linkin Park. They were the background music to my existence and I grew up listening to their vocals on KROQ. They were in their prime then and selfishly, that’s how I’d like to remember them now. Laser focusing in on what they’ve been through in their lives, the parallel murder kiddie-porn ring conspiracy theories, their telling, haunting song lyrics and how or why they passed; it can drag you down into a sad emoji oblivion.
Yo, the same thing happened to me when Kurt Cobain, MJ and Prince died, I could not listen to their music. I could not even look at their album covers for quite a long, long while. Oy, I still have yet to really listen to an Amy Winehouse album from beginning to end, Back To Black, makes me feel blacker than her ‘version’ of black, and I am black. I am still in mourning, when it comes down to any of these people who have fondled my heart strings and it’s ri-cock-ulously hard to get my Rock Lobster-on to them or simply view these unforgettable idols without some serious eye leakage or feeling like someone did a triple spin kick right into my throbbing chest soul hole. And who wants to go through that. Why make yourself feel bad when you can feel good.
Whenever one of these virtuosos die of drugs or suicide, super fans such as I, are left deeply wounded, and just like when a loved one passes it is terribly hard to remember their radiance and invite them back to my present existence and everyday life without feeling emotionally mauled… without feeling beat. Of course, I didn’t know any of these people personally, but they have touched my life in such a way through the years, I felt like I did. We all feel like that on some level.
It’s painful to think we can never have it all. These beautiful ones, smashing their own pictures, these breathtaking deities who we think have it all, still commit suicide, or overdose on drugs and alcohol due to untreated deep rooted demons. If they were unhappy with their glasses full to the brim with blessings, with tons of Scrooge McDuck money, fame, all the hottest hottie bunnies to fuck, how can I be happy with with my half empty, crushed, pin-hole ridden, red plastic party cup, that contains my perpetually negative bank account, that last 20 pounds I have to lose, my mother’s inherent intimacy issues and a lover who looks like The Elephant Man’s double? How? I suppose … by accepting the fact that we are all human, and none of us are perfect. Even though we all strive for balance, none of us are exempt from the tragic ups and downs of life and there is no such thing as greener grass.
Unfortunately, it seems the higher we go, the bigger we are, the harder we fall and no one knows how much time we have left. All of it is ticking away. You could get hit by a bus today, or disintegrated by a nuclear North Korean missile, none of us know what ‘thing’ is going to take us out. You never know what will occur and happen to you that will surprisingly, overwhelmingly knock you on your ass and fill you with mind-fucking anger and woe. You never know what series of issues will have you blasting the volume of that little whispering suicide speaker in the back corner of your skull, amplifying it into a blaringly loud, aura-dissolving, blood-curdling scream that you find unbearable to contend with, and you find yourself staring at the ledge of a building, or a barrel of a gun, or down the neck of a bottle of Jack, or your Ginsu cutting knives, or a heroin needle, or your ceiling fan and your belt, saying ‘I should do it. It’s all too much. I need to do it’. Don’t do it. I speak from experience, knowing quite a few secretly suicidal people in my life (usually cookie cutter, 1%-er buddies who went to ivy league schools) and having sporadic suicidal moments myself, we are all ticking time bombs in between paying bills and attempting to be normal and fit in and be liked and get likes.
The same way most of us are a few paychecks away from being homeless, we are all one dreadful heartbreak-bankruptcy-busted-tire-smidgen-of-mental illness-or-deep-dark-unsettled-emotional-traumatic-trigger away from offing ourselves. Just imagine the 5 worst things that you think can happen to you. Okay, now imagine them all occurring in one day … or one hour. No one is immune to those feelings. We never really know what’s going on with the people we share our air with, or what is going to set us off. Hell, I barely know what’s going on with myself half the time or what’s going to get me going. I almost killed a man once for grabbing my ass. I was moving that day, with my also a 1%-er banana nut flake cereal killer BF and was on my period and I went full Mike Tyson on the ass grabber’s face. I bashed his Luis Guzman head into hamburger meat within seconds, with one fist. And get this, I never dropped my end of the couch. Pretty OG. I was going through a lot that day. That dude should have known better. The point is it’s extremely important that we take good care of ourselves, one another our bodies, minds, souls, our households and we stay present and focused on what truly matters. We need to figure out what moves us and makes us tick, what sets us off, apparently for me it’s ass grabbers, as we groove more and pound more through our way of life, as we smile more, laugh more, learn more, give more, live more and love more as much as possible … hopefully to the jams we love old and new.
To heal ourselves we must face what ails us. Sometimes we got to rip the band aid off and let the world blow on our grief gashes. While the pain is fresh, we need to delve into the paint of the artists we love. We need to keep our playlists popping with these guys, and anyone from yesterday’s jukebox and discotheques that you’re even vaguely curious about and spice up our audios and visuals of slightly retro music and art from the past.
Stop complaining about new music, when we have a plethora of old music to get off to. Cease the back-in-the-day stuff! We need to enhance and enjoy their gifts and appreciate our lives by headbanging, singing-a-long, moshing and booty-bumping and pop-locking to the electric shuffle vital sign soundtrack they have provided for us. It’s why they made music, for us to listen to. To understand them, to lift us up. Perhaps on some Jesus-Messiah level they absorbed the brunt of the ultimate case of the mopes, so we didn’t have to.
And for those of you who never had the joy of these artist making sweet balls deep love to your ear holes, now is the time. I’m also speaking directly to the haters and music snobs I worked with in Berkeley those bougie music connoisseurs, who treat and consume their collections like caviar; those folks who have repeatedly traded and purchased original White albums on vinyl, already having 6 unopened ones in their possession, in their ‘Ikea wall record / bookshelf’ collection...Go on, come on, you can stop calling Linkin Park, Stinkin’ Park and give Chester the props his voice deserves. Let’s allow the great artists from the past who have passed to bless our spirits again.
And while you're at it, bang out to some Al Jarreau, Prodigy and check out some Chuck Berry, they all passed this year too and deserve our respects as well. Go explore, indulge and listen to all that sad music of yesteryear, Amy, Kurt, MJ, Prince, and let your head re-absorb B-side Radiohead and Portishead, or whatever artist you desire. Just because they are sad doesn’t mean you have to be. You don’t have to become what you are listening to, learn from their mistakes or from their bleak messages. Place a positive spin on the music and apply it to your life. Besides, nothing makes you feel more lovely or empowered than being a growing light in the dark. While we are here, let’s shine bright.
If you or anybody you know is struggling with thoughts of suicide, call 1-800-273-8255, the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline number the same number and song featured and performed by the rapper Logic at 2017 VMA’s.
Peace and much love from a soul who understands.
Stalker 2B - #6
A futuristic virtual reality tale of odd droid attraction and circumstance.
“...In this VR fantasy session, you are Jenna,” the VR voice from the booth transically stated.
Jenna had OCD, and Tourette’s, it dominated her existence. Involuntarily, eternally, incessantly counting tile, drawers, the buttons on passerbyers outfits, the asbestos specks on the ceiling, the freckles on ones face, as well as counting, counting everything else, constantly touching door knobs, endlessly clapping, and relentlessly spinning around, ceaselessly twirling that hot pink scarf of hers she wore around her ponytail, always in twos. In addition to those ‘pleasures’, she would also, uncontrollably shriek and shout out the most vulgar of words, Exorcist-like, violently twisting her head when she would do so, again, and again, always in twos. “Ass Pussy Spunk Guzzler!! Ass Pussy Spunk Guzzler!!” Ironically, she was a single, perpetually solo, all of her current meals, were for one.
Jenna’s lawless, loud as fuck, subliminal, visually evasive rituals, usually took place in front of her khaki-colored life-less-life and her communist fashioned, flavorless, judgemental, snickering older model droid, coworkers, in a cream, promotion-less, taupe, perpetual office space of beige energy and beige microwavable food. Her cubicle was a cell of manilla folders, a 36 inch high ‘in’ basket and and 8 and a half inch ‘out’ basket with Top 40, 1980’s jazz muzak played way too loud, out of biscuit tinted corner speakers. She loathed droids, just as much she loathed working there, at that bland rendition of Haiti.
She had always hated droids, when Jenna was 16 her mother was murdered by one, one of the millions of civilians killed by one of the invisible stealth drone-droids from the last World War. The state had given Jenna a bossy, condescending Fem-droid to help raise her and look after her, in her own home, while she waited on foster parents, foster parents that never showed up, as her Tourette’s took a dive for the worse. For more than half her life, Jenna associated Tourette’s and droids with the worst time she had ever been through. Jenna had carried the sand bags of Tourette’s, the maiming wicked disease and her robot prejudice since then. Her dream was to be normal, and that all the bots would be infected with a virus and fuck off and cease to exist. The weight of her illness and her stinging hatred, hung on her frame like decomposing bodies and she always felt as if she was on the verge of bursting.
“Turtle-Heading Horn Snoggler! Turtle-Heading Horn Snoggler!” She was a slave to her Tourette’s jerking fidgeting, and chained to a tight and stale, bland life. Jogging on a drifting treadmill of nothingness, in a river of disappointment, with a clear recycled plastic bag over her head, surrounded by dagger like mirrors, all pointing, aimed at her vital zones.
Jenna was suffocating. Still she involuntarily, eternally, incessantly counted tile, drawers, the buttons on passerbyers outfits and asbestos specks on the ceiling, as well as everything else, constantly touching door knobs, endlessly clapping, and relentlessly spinning around, ceaselessly twirling the hot pink scarf of hers she wore around her ponytail, always in twos. Again, in addition to those pleasures, she would also, uncontrollably shriek and shout out the most vulgar of words, Exorcist-like, violently twisting her head when she would do so, again, and again, infinitely, forever, always in twos. “Shart Lathered Booger Burger!! Shart Lathered Booger Burger!!” On top of all of these actions, always, always in twos, she struggled in a ‘could-of-should-of-would-of world of regret, this was her endless, underwhelming railroad, she worked on and on, and on all the live long day, long, this was her prison, this was her seventh layer of hell. A sour-apple bottom, a worthless dime. A hot woman, dipped in striking curves, dashing looks and magnetic attraction, with a suicidal soul, bleeding steadily out of her lovely capsule. “Cock Gobbler Poop Squeegee!! Cock Gobbler Poop Squeegee!!”
The only thing that helped her feel vaguely real and human was her evening visit to her local dive cyber-lounge. She’d plug in for about an hour a day after work, from about 6-7 and she’d be in her own version of OCD VR, Virtual Reality heaven, in a gorgeous, glorious grocery store, enlightened, stocking colorful produce around dazzling displays, and up and down immaculate aisles of glossy, brand new boxes of cartoon hampered, ADHD enhanced sugary cereals and sparkling dew laden ruby red, red strawberries and cobalt blue detergent bottles with yellow caps and swirling heavy handfuls of now extinct organic rust dipped sweet potatoes and emerald juice filled pickle jars, cartons of decadent premium ice cream loaded down with whirling candy bar moose knuckle tracks and cans of beans with festive vintage backgrounds. Her Gods, Cap’n Crunch, Uncle Ben, Aunt Jemima, Betty Crocker, Paul Newman The Jolly Green Giant, Tony the Tiger and Little Debbie, just to name a few, the whole sanctified gang was all there.
This was her Queendom, where she was free of her ‘illness’, of ‘Ass Pussy Spunk Guzzlers’ and the perpetual fidgeting, this was her place, a calming chill place, where some cutie pie of a guy silently watched her stock with slightly obsessive adoration sitting patiently on the glistening clean floors, or following ‘sweetly’ behind her, quietly, harmlessly lusting after her. This place, her place, surrounded by the layered sounds of tranquil fluorescent light buzzing static white noise layered over the soothing echoes of a stormy rainforest, layered under orcas and dolphins singing comforting underwater lullabies. This was her VR world, she could have it her VR way.
She sighed. She’d give anything for that world, to be her real world. “Thoughts become things,” she sadly, yet hopefully exhaled the words as she tapped hopefully on her ear lobes and ran her fingers over her ponytail and her hot pink scarf in her hair, always in twos. “Pig Fucking Shit Waffle!! Pig Fucking Shit Waffle!!” Jenna unwillingly ejected and vomited this putrid statement from her mouth, in complete contrast from her more melancholy last words and disposition. “Thoughts become things.”
Her cyber-lounge had a gold glow twinkling from it’s icy center, 1000 amber whiskey bottles with warm stage lights behind them were delicately placed in towering columns lining the inside of the bar’s back drop, which was an open fogging massive freezer, creating a wispy cloud of cool vapor that crept and wrapped and clasped it’s airy clutch, around everything in the bar, like a spell from Middle Earth. Like staring at the sun’s rays swallowing cumulus nebulous on a savagely stormy day, the caramel bar, radiated a huge flush of genuine energy, a neon honey hive with an ethereal aura. The place was a buzz with divinity, it was too keen to have a name. Although ‘Divinity’ would have been a killer name for it.
The whiskey tasted like kerosene sweetened with the sugary nectar of summer sunshine. It was the only bar in town that served liquor and virtual reality. Although mostly all dim lit bars and clubs believe that they do. The bar owner bottled the sweet stuff in the middle of the bar. This was his dying, mysterious theater, wonderful world of whiskey making, surrounded by the pillars of the glowing gold liquor. His loves. His everything.
The bar owner, the one with the cute butt, the trusting, smiling eyes and brows, the trust fund left to him by his previous owner, the passion, the mild disposition, the motorcycle, also had a vast home-grown knowledge of whiskey making and motherfucking Superman dimples. He also was a humanoid. A rich robot (bitches!). He was cute! He turned and looked at Jenna and winked at her, at you, she blushed, you blushed. So cute.
His name was James. James was a workaholic, the bar was his life, and 9 times out of 10 you could find him there. He worked the cyber booths from 6:30-7:30 to take a break from his tedious whiskey duties, and give his VR bar / programmer and his mind a break...and to spy on virtual reality sessions of his customers. He had OCD too, (who doesn’t) when it came down to his whiskey, everything had to be perfect. Seeing, spying on the various, VR dreams and lives, made him laser focus on his life more, and what he could do to improve it. Spying on people’s minds also aided him in curing his gnawing anxiety. The spying it, it calmed his obsessive, perfectionist nature. This odd little thing, this habit of his, James, being a slight voyeur perv, looking in on his customer’s fantasies, their VR ‘seshes’, was the only thing that would help him cure these spikes of uneasy, antsiness in his chest, limbs and motherboard. He especially enjoyed Jenna’s, her VR ‘seshes’ were the best, which he usually caught the second half of.
He handed her a pair of VR viewers when she walked in. He was expecting her, as usual, “Here you go pretty,” his crush energy towards her was electric and palpable. He liked her, liked her-liked her, very much with a cherry on top, annoying OCD, barking Tourette’s and all. James found her beauty intoxicating, and her to be unbelievably interesting. He needed to understand how she worked. Just visualising her made him feel so vulnerable. He genuinely felt she could spice up his va-nilla tainted story. “Thank you,” she said taking the viewers from him, not noticing his eyes studying her. Jenna said, “Greasy Muff Snorting Nerfherder!! Greasy Muff Snorting Nerfherder!!”
Jenna ignored him completely, all though she counted the 7 buttons on his shirt and the beads on his buddhist bracelet, 25 to be exact, James was non-existent to her. Ignoring frigging people, this was a talent she had perfected from many, many years of pretending everyone she encountered was invisible due to their ill treatment of her due to her ‘illness’.
As soon as she got into her booth and placed her VR viewers on she knew today’s VR session was completely different than her u-sh, she went with it anyway. She needed a change. And if the session sucked she would ask for her credits back. She experimented, it was thrilling, fleeing away from her norm. Jenna had nothing to lose.
In this VR session everything was different. For starters, she was not a stocker in a brilliant grocery store stocking colorful, lovely stock. James was there, and she was boning him. She was violently smashing him, milking the fuck out of him. They were in a darkened hotel room of mirrors, Jenna banging James in a chair, facing away from him, her black dress dripped off of her, her hot pink scarf, her ponytail, smooshed his face, her scent, tickled, caressed him all over, he inhaled her, in an infinite room, an abyss of reflection. Their bouncing actions reverberated all over the room as she pounded her weight in to him. Rubbing his hands up and down on her heavy, heaving breast, Jenna made James repeat after her.
“Repeat after me, I love you. I love you. You are my everything. Everything.” Suddenly standing up, she got up and looked at him, an enduring, hungry look, blowing him a kiss before she left the room, a long, lasting, lanky corner of her whirling hot pink scarf took it’s time leaving the room.
He slunk down in his seat and slammed the back of his head into his cushioned chair, and sighed, “Dammmmmnnnn.” He fixed himself up, checking himself out in the walls of mirrors. A room of 1000 James’. Immediately he followed her into the darkened, completely black hallway.
He could still smell her sugary perfume and salty sex on him. Mmmmm her scent. He followed flickers of light to get himself free from the slim hotel space, and found himself outside, even though he really didn’t know how he got there. He looked around, he was on his block, everything was recognizable, he was literally on the street his bar was on, this was his stomping ground. He knew exactly where he was. What a relief. With great familiarity he moved about his town. She, Jenna was nowhere to be seen. He inhaled. All he had to follow her, was her scent. Mmmmm her scent. He headed left up the street.
He looked at the murky pastel coloring of the dusk brushed sky. Two planes buzzed overhead, one a sky writer, with poofy smoke that read, ‘I love you,’ another plane passed by with a banner that read,
‘You are my everything.’ And she was his everything, he thought this as he saw the ends of that hot pink scarf of hers blowing and stretched behind a corner. Suddenly from the surrendering skyscrapers Jenna’s head popped through one of the many windows, her curviness still swelling through the window, then another two Jennas popped randomly out of other windows. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He was thrilled to see so many Jennas, and beyond frightened at the same time, Then another two Jennas, and another two Jennas, and another two Jennas popped out of all the other windows and so on and so on, all dangling that hot pink scarf of hers now winding its way around her ponytail and her neck, all of this, all of her, out of all the motherfucking windows, shouting, “You are my everything! I love you!”
All the Jennas dropped the scarfs out the windows, they feathered out and down, cradling the gentle currents of the breeze, taking their time to rest on the chilly pavement, yet when the hot pink scarfs of hit the ground, they exploded with the force of 10 ton missiles. Massively destructive bombs of spectacular force, are exploding all around him, murderous shrapnel and chunks of brick and mortar are tumbling all about, in an instant he was in a war zone of a crushing magnitude, the world, his world was crumbling all around him. Seas of buildings fell before him in exultant waves, yet miracuously he was unscaved by the hot pink scarfs. Somehow, he knew he could not be injured or harmed in this VR world. And he wasn’t.
James covered his eyes, he inhaled, oh her scent ...he followed her deeper, and deeper into the concrete jungle. Blindly he was lead by her scent. James floated, he walked through an intersection, cars sped around him, blurry blocks of metallic fiberglass, the drivers were all shouting, were all screaming, all continuing the chant, “I love you, you are my everything.” An amphitheatre crowd of voluptuous bodies, all the same person, 1000 beautiful Jenna’s yelling, “I love you, I love you! You are my everything! You are my everything!”
Showy, attractive, fragrance, fashion, top models and lawyers on collosual imposing advertisements, superhuman hieroglyphic deities looked down on the city and melted into pleading, needy versions of her, that face, Jenna’s face; with that hot pink scarf of hers flowing in the distance. The matte cold, black bold Times New Roman font characters on the ads, letters and numbers, their addresses, their motos, their websites on the ads transmogrified into a graffiti of her color, her complexion, her body, her body parts and spelled out the words, ‘I love you, you are my everything!’
Still he chased after her, he couldn’t stop himself, every person he passed on the street embodied some lovely, juicy little part of her, all adorned in that hot pink scarf of hers. The silky hot pink fabric scarfed up the town, like a rosy glossy paint consuming the town in one swallow like a velvety blob. He ran so fast, not knowing if he was going in the right direction, he ran, ran, and ran, he didn’t know if he was running towards her or from her, or if he still wanted her or if he was he frightened of her, he ran and ran, looking back only catching the last word on an ad boundlessly duplicating itself, in Jenna's exact creamy bronze skin tone, the phrase, ‘Everything. Everything. Everything. Every…’ and that’s when he saw her, his love, his thing.
She was standing in front of the only tree on the block, the only tree, on a darkened, decaying street, the landscape of heavy hanging clouds of grey and black morphed into terrifying twosomes of troubling twisters, clusters of tornadoes, that hovered low in the sky, menacing shadows hunted him, hurricanes of buildings hurtled around Jenna and James, in the eye of the storm. Their souls and hair blew all around them hectically. In the chaos of this rapture, Jenna and James were wolfed down whole, gobbled up into a canopy of hot pink Pepto-bismol. James unable to breathe, unable to inhale, was drowning in a drain of boiling liquid hot pink, yet he still reached for Jenna. James couldn’t stop himself, Jenna comforted him, smiled at him, and kissed him on the forehead and whispered, “Wake...up.”
His eyes flashed wide open, his pupils were watering fountains, yet in an instant were completely bone dry. “Hey, wake up. I think, my VR code was totally wrong or maybe that machine is malfunctioning.” He took his shades off to wipe his watering eyes, at which point she said, “Gasp,” she said the word just before she actually gasped, which is ridiculously hard to do, as she finally recognized him, his face. James.
“You were in my VR dream. Slutty Douche Canoe Pirate! Slutty Douche Canoe Pirate!” she giggled.
“I was?” he said, knowing he was.
“You were,” she said.
She paused and stared at him for a beat. “Crusty Smega Rag Muncher! Crusty Smega Rag Muncher! I usually order Stocker 2B, and this was something else. Entertaining, most definitely odd.”
He grabbed her viewers, and synced them with his. Oh, I see our programmer entered your code wrong. Stalker 2B. You normally order Stocker 2B. I know you like to stock. I saw one of your VR’s programs by accident when we were enhancing our system last year.”
“Oh, I don’t care,” Jenna said, finally flirting back with him, she touching then grabbing his forearm. She grabbed it twice. His arm brought her to life, the feel of his warm, welcoming skin, the prickly sprouting hair on his arm, the rigid muscle beneath, made her tingle. Mmmm touching, she thought, she couldn’t remember the last time she touched a person. A real person.
“You like stocking?” He asked her already knowing the answer to the question.
“Butterface Maggot Loaf Eater! Butterface Maggot Loaf Eater! “ Yup. I’d love to do it for a living. Stocking that is. Somewhere just chill and peaceful. I’m stuck in my current 9 to 5 though.”
“Oddly enough, I have a 1st life position available, here in my bar, the money’s good and I’ve been looking for a person, a real person, I can pass on my passion and legacy to. I could pass that legacy on to you, I could teach you about whiskey, the history, what it takes to create my whiskey, whiskey craftsmanship. You’ll be my stockperson and my apprentice. If you are interested?”
“I don’t usually make decisions like this so rash, but I’m in. “Circle Jerking Taint Fuck! Circle Jerking Taint Fuck!”
“You can start now. Come along, follow me,” he said.
“Sure,” she said, as he quickly traded places with the scheduled programmer, who was back from his break. The nerdy, soft spoken programmer attempted to tell James that the booth Jenna just exited was the broken one. The one that blended one’s subconscious with random elements, including the programmers. The broken booth should have been labeled Out of Order and should have not been used. They both ignored him, as James pulled Jenna away toward the glowing bar.
“Okay,” he said hopping over the bar, signaling for her to do the same, which she did clumsily, needing a little too much help from him getting on and off of the bar, James looked as if he was helping an oversized baby. As Jenna made it to the other side she basked in the glow of the bottles, that lit her up like a Egyptian goddess. She immediately counted 292 bottles. Perhaps he was right, she thought, maybe this place could be her new Queendom.
“Meat Curtain Motorboat Nazi! Meat Curtain Motorboat Nazi!” I’ve always wanted to be behind here,” she said, her hands gripping and then patting the gorgeous horizontal detail on the repurposed old cathedral door, which was a part of his bar.
“Me too,” he said. “I mean, I’m glad to get the help. Have you here. Have you here. Have you here. Have you here. Have you here.” He said as he lightly tapped his temple. James the Droid was malfunctioning. He was bugging out. He could feel a slight breakdown, his brain circuits felt short. He cleared his throat, maybe she didn’t notice. She did. A happy thought torpedoed through Jenna’s head, Yey! He has a splash of Tourette’s...too. She relaxed deeper than she would have around some other ordinary stranger, and made the decision, that James was someone she could finally be herself around.
“G-g-g-g-glad to have you here. Welcome.” James stuttered the sentence out awkwardly. Shit! James was still malfunctioning. He was a hot ass mess. He smiled at her as she clapped and spun around, twirled around twice. “Follow me,” he led her into the middle of the bar, where the warmth of the lights were cancelled out and chilled out by the arctic nucleus of the icy cool freezer.
Guiding her, before him, ahead of him, he checked out her ass. “Ladies first,” he smirked, like the Cheshire Cat taking her all in, he put his hand on her lower back, just above her side swaying hips, he inhaled her, mmmmm, visually, that hot pink scarf of hers, as he propelled her to where he stocked the bulk of his flavorful, colorful booze. Jenna walked into the icy mirrored room of liquor, as James savagely sucked down her body and her curious and naive demeanor. He salaciously licked his lips like LL and sneakily slinked that hot pink scarf of hers down her back and into the deep bowels of his jeans back pocket the attitude of a snake.
“It’s a bit brisk back here,” she touched her neck, in search of something, she patted her ponytail, her scarf it was gone! That hot pink scarf of hers. She couldn’t have lost it today, it’s was like her favorite thing, she thought, not knowing James had it in his possession. It was her silky history, her DNA, it kept her feeling grounded, peacefully secure and cozy, like it was the only thing in her world that was truly was under her control. Her pout turned into fretting and then grew into an immensely heated, pulsating panic attack. Poor Jenna continued to keep reaching for the scarf, patting and patting the back of her neck, hungrily grasping for it. “Gushing Cum Jelly Donut! Gushing Cum Jelly Donut! I lost my fucking scarf!”
“I know. I know. I know. I-” James said, whispering softly, under his breath, as he tucked the scarf deeper and deeper into his back pocket, before vigorously ripping it out of his pocket glamorously and presented it to her. “I literally just saw it on my floor, I was wondering how such a thing would get back there.”
“I wear it in my hair,” Jenna said trapped in his handsome eyes, not feeling her natural thud of Tourette’s throbbing through her veins momentarily.
“Here, let me put it in for you,” he said, not waiting for a response, James was already walking behind up her to do so. Jenna allowed him to tie the scarf on her ponytail, her fem-colored half-yard of self-confidence, she felt as if he had given her power back, when in fact he had somehow already stolen it. She hadn’t even noticed.
“Now let me introduce you,” he fancied his hands up above one of the pyramid towers of the frosty whiskey bottles, and bit at his lower lip, drinking her all in, getting drunk off her curvations, trailing her the same way a hungry camouflaged lion would stalk a clueless furry house mouse. James prepared to devour her in every way imaginable, “These are my babies, my creations, my whiskey. My loves. My everything.” She belonged to him now, forever an alluring servant to him in his Kingdom, the broken computer thought.
“Dingleberry Pie-Eating Fucktard! Dingleberry Pie-Eating Fucktard!” Jenna squawked, she was so overjoyed to have found a job that suited her, with a real boy at that. A man, that liked her, an intelligent business owner. Her Mom would have been stoked for her, Jenna daydreamed about a chipper future for just one quick flash.
“My love. M-M-M-M-My Everything,” James said to Jenna, gazing at the pretty booze then at her, glitching again he could feel all of his previous obsessions liquefying into her...or was that a glitch. Either way neither Jenna or James felt more alive.
You have 10 seconds to continue this VR fantasy session. Please enter more credits to continue this VR fantasy session, press A to continue as Jenna, press B to continue as James…
...3, 2, 1...You are no longer Jenna. End fantasy.
dashing serpents - #5
This is a poem about a family and ideology I’m so over.
Can you hear that sound of the cameras click, clicking, in tune with our lives tick ticking away. In tune with our lives tick ticking away.
I want to be with a woman who directly reflects who I am. A woman who mirrors the women in my family I look up to. The only women I have known who have bullied and stomped on me. The only women I know have digested handfuls of my umbilical cord, my non-existent spine, personality and soul. Unfortunately these women are not dynamic women, they are barely women at all, void of character, moral compasses, vales and divine education based inspiration.
They are just like me. They are just like me.
Physically they embody, shadows of hollow, juicy, inviting Vargas girls, with no literal or figurative room for growth. Blackened eyes these talentless, culture vultures, nasty fucking succubus suck up dollar signs, dicks, your precious attention, your valuable time. Unable to remember the last time they, we did something nice, a genuine good deed or read a significant book, with the camera off. They are just like me. WE are photogenic, demonic sirens with a lust for magic. With the sleight of our hands you want to be us. With the sleight of our hands you want to be us.
I sought a potential salacious mate, she is just like me, just like my kin, that same multiplied brash disgusting force. She sucks me as I suck her. Siamese algae eaters smear audibly eating trails of waste on your camera glass. She’s vacant and lovely. I need her. She needs me. She’s a gag, a trick, who tricked me, as I tricked her. Damage done, I lift up the veil of trashy cloth my folk germinate from. How is anyone surprised? She is just like me. I am just like them. We make gorgeous children. Don’t we? Don’t we?
Don’t judge me, I am your sad wayward son, not knowing that I stand as a man, with a lack of testosterone in my home, I fell for anything. I fell for a rich lowlife, like myself. An integrity failure. I am sickened by what I am and what I have become. A curvaceous snake, eating itself. Unable to control the primitive instinct of choking on my sagging girth, my rattling stump tickles stump my throat, I retch, I can’t stop. I’m sorry. I can’t stop. Full to the brim, I make room for one more bite. Like and subscribe to this buffet of our talentless vessels of idiotic eye-candy. Repost this vomit shmargidboard of fine, young cannibals ready for more wealth, followers and close ups. We can’t stop. We can’t stop.
I’m hungry and lonely and lovely in no particular order.
Can you taste my despair.
Can you taste my despair.
So um...where the hoes at? So..um...where the hoes at?
The Cough - #4
This is the story of one’s inevitable evolution, based on a true story.
Ursula, had to go stay with her Mom, in an active senior community, for undisclosed reasons. If she’d let you look into her eyes, for longer than one nano-second you would know that she used to be strong as diamond nails, however, in this moment, she was weak, beaten to a purple pulp by the world. If she’d let you look into your eyes, you would know she was running from something. You would know that she had a secret.
Her Mom knew Ursula was dealing with a lot, she had always been a productive, manic depressive, bipolar boss, with a borderline personality. This time around, Ursula was at a crossroads, crushed between the jagged, slicing edges of another nervous breakdown, a low a bank balance, wavering confidence, a shattered, butt hurt heart and the glittering silver lining of her next glorious phase of her evolution twinkling just over yonder, a rosy hued, spirited horizon. Ursula just had to focus and press on through the swampy, messy muck of her current life. Ursula would have to work hard on herself to get out of her current state. Yoga, meditation, visualization, eat right, not scarf down the fried overcooked shit her Mom made from recipes gathered from newsstand ‘Ol’ Lady Magazines’ and work her shit out, stay out of random arguments with her my Mom over modern art and music, that her mother hated and she loved. And not to forget to smell the roses, watch sunsets and daydream the routes her life could still possibly take. She’d have to remember and believe with all of her heart. That if she could dream it, she could do it. For some reason she couldn’t see or visualize her future. All was dark.
Her mother a mostly silent and sometimes moody, supportive bestie knew this about her daughter, and let her stay trouble free, in her grandma-y cottage-y duplex, in her pre-pre-hoarder-esque spare bedroom of stuff she’d never use or wear again. The room she’d store her never ending micro-piles of Big Lots and Target merch and internet or consignment and thrift shop purchases As Seen On TV light clutter and her vast collection of rare, high end, expensive, brilliantly colored designer robes, which hung neatly in the closet like a Wikipedia of Fashion, a prestige spectrum of Skittles-died history in the closet. Knowing her daughter’s disposition, which was similar to her youthful spirit, she knew that Ursula would be on her way soon, like a pretty little rocket, as soon as she gathered herself, visualized and owned her future, rested deeply and found her newly adjusted dream route and strength again. After Ursula would complete that, she would bounce, usually in a moments notice.
Ursula’s Mom’s active senior community, was filled to the brim with smiling, thankful, friendly yet nosey Gramps and Grannies who were right out of a Doug cartoon, fully equipped with tradeable homemade comfort food delights and hugs that lasted way too long. This inviting tiny district was fully flourished with the fragrance of blossoming lemon, and orange trees and charming, welcoming flowers of an enchanting variety, and had mild wild life of curious, sweet, scurrying little critters like lizards, birds and squirrels, oh my! It was a pastel watercolor, gently manicured botanical garden, which was quiet and chill, and extremely peaceful...in between ambulance sirens for this one and that one...one could really, really rest there.
Figuratively and literally there was one old lady who refused to rest easy, nothing could lull her energy. She went by a lot of names, sometimes she’d tell you she too had a secret, it was darker than most. She coughed, she coughed alot, one of those, loud, husky man distorted, disgusting and wet coughs. One of those wicked whooping coughs that sounded as if she was hacking up dozens of weighty concrete dipped iron lungs doused in bucket of sticky fluorescent-Slimer green mucus. The kind of cough that made your fucking lungs ache, after she was done spitting her nastiness in a balled up overused, stained, diseased-ridden dirty little napkin of hers.
She always wore black from head to toe. From afar she looked like a ancient, fragile bum, however, if you got up close on her you would see that she was smothered in vintage brands of yesterday’s past, tucked into the front of her pants of her bone-skinny body. Coco Chanel, Pierre Balmain, Christian Dior, all loose and dripping off her like blank ink. She was continuously coughing. Her hat though was something else, something of a safari variety, it was rather worn and weathered, also in black, a very dusty black. She wore it down, down, low on her tiny shrinking head, so you barely could see her shriveled testicle face. Ey, that hat, if it could only speak, the tales it would it tell. It was beaten with black, not solid in coloring with a round brim, with bollo strings tied up tight around her fatty, spotted, flapping chin, a scarf draped around her head and hat all of that grotesque-ness.
She had not aged well. Her little frame, her silhouette was, quite menacing underneath all the black outwear. She went by a lot of names, sometimes she’d tell you her name was Cleopatra, Harriet Tubman, Esther, Sappho, Hatshepsut, Catherine the Great, Sacajawea, Joan of Arc or Lil’ Sweet Tea Tea. Her real name was Kelly. Everyone called her Hobo Kelly behind her back and Kels to her face. She spoke of the billions of dollars she had stashed in her boat in the Marina. She spoke of knowing where the bodies were buried and that she knew the Colonel's secret fried chicken recipe. She spoke a lot of nonsense. Always coughing out her spleen and pacing around the property puffing on her cancer sticks with her walking stick and her nasty napkins in tow, the old bitch Hobo Kelly was always in earshot and eyeshot.
Whenever Hobo Kelly, whenever she looked at young Ursula, her casual, hipster fashion, the way she effortlessly rocked blood red lipstick and her mother’s classical robes over shorts and leggings with a messy bun with bangs and what not, over by the pool for water-aerobics meditating, over in the rec room for poker day and potlucks socializing living in the moment, or picking up her mother’s junk at the mailboxes being a good kid, she couldn’t help but to take her all in. If she could be young again, at least in her 30’s, today, that’s what she would look like. However, whenever Ursula encountered the old woman Hobo Kelly, all that came out was disdain, a thick smoke of evil. A series of judgmental barks covered her admiration for the girl.
Ursula’s mother informed her not to conversate, or interact with the old hag Hobo Kelly, but whenever Ursula went outside for anything there was the old heifer Kels. It seemed the old woman was always lurking in sight, just feet, just inches beyond Ursula's radius, sometimes she’d talk to herself in some unrecognizable dialect, a gibberish only Hobo Kelly could understand. She gravely inhabited this veil, between Ursula and the outside world.
For 3 weeks the old woman coughed that cough of hers just outside Ursula’s window. There was a small patio out there, and 9 times out of ten the old woman would be out there smoking like a jealous chimney. The old woman was doing whatever she could to be a part of Ursula’s world.
On this one early morning around 4 am, Ursula could take the coughing and the old women’s protrusion no longer. She threw on one of her Mother’s old japanese robes on, and carried her mother’s baseball bat outside and perched it against the outside of the door. Just a safety precaution.
“Hey there Mam, how are you?” She asked, Not waiting for a response. “Can you please stop coughing directly outside my window? I understand you have to cough, but must you do it here?”
The old woman, stood up and said, “You are not supposed to be here,” she whipped and wagged her hands about her own face, like some scary, fucked up version of Madonna Voguing in reverse and shook her walking stick about. She spoke in her native tongue, that unknown language, whatever the fuck that was and loc’ed up on the Ursula girl. She began to attack Ursula, punching her with her elbows in the face, kicking at her with her shins, forcefully mashing her body against Ursula’s taut bod. As the Hobo continued to strike Ursula she smiled. Today was the day, Hobo Kelly, Cleopatra, Harriet Tubman, Esther, Sappho, Hatshepsut, Catherine the Great, Sacajawea, Joan of Arc or Lil’ Sweet Tea Tea, her real name was Kelly, would become her newer truer self, live her new life in her new body. Ahhh, living in a 30 something year old body. No digestive IBS issues, no more sagging skin, no rotting teeth or hair loss, no need to wait for your body and mind to mature. She would be able to curse and fuck like a sailor and eat cheese by the handfuls, and outwit the regular folks...and in a matter of a minutes without regret the Hobo Kelly was going to throw all of her cautions to the wind, like a 100 mile an hour fastball, and within seconds she would be able to fucking be alive again.
Ursula just took it all in, frozen in time, not knowing sure what to do this ol’ white biatch was attacking her, no one would believe what was actually happening, black lives would not have mattered, only ol’ white biatch life mattered. Ursula geeked out, spazzed out and panicked in that order and ran for the propped up baseball bat, clearly battered and out of breath, at last she reached and grabbed the bat, just as the wrinkled papyrus skinned woman groped and grasped at her with daggery fingers scratching, slashing through the back of the cobalt royal blue silky slippery japanese robe fabric. She gripped the robe and roped Ursula in, with her shockingly absurd MMA fighter strength filled up in that flimsy bod of hers. Just then the old woman misjudged the sturdiness of the robe, and as it ripped in slow motion between her fingers the old woman Kels fell back, back, back onto her head, which immediately cracked open like a melon filled with intestines, splattering out important cup fulls of bodily gunk and goo, spilling out hefty amounts of chunky brain matter and black, black blood. It all ran as far as it could staining the concrete.
Shocked and stunned, Ursula in a daze but with tremendous speed grabbed the bat, and slid in the house in the slinky ripped robe. She closed quietly the door behind her, she sat against it, on the other side, on the other side her life flashed before her eyes. “I killed a woman,” she said, streams of tears fell out her eyes.
“I killed a woman,” she said, a smirk swiftly made it to her face only to disappear a flash later. By the 6th time, she said, “I killed a woman,” she was laughing hysterically and never felt stronger. As she giggled, she exited her Mom’s crib, she walked over the Hobo’s bleeding, now completely crippled form and grabbed the old woman’s hat and placed it on her head like a crown. That’s just what she needed to feel like herself again, like her warrior self. She knew she could take on the world….again...Hobo Kelly’s accidental suicide was just what she needed to make it so.
Ursula coughed uncontrollably, the last few remaining pieces, parts of the old woman Kels, she suppressed her, she swallowed her down hard. Ursula stood up steadying herself. She was in control, strong in breath, strong in stance. That Hobo held on for dear life inside of her, clutching, scratching into to Ursula’s soul. Ursula was too strong. She was an ox. She overpowered the woman, the women, she soaked up the layers of their essence. Cleo, Harriet, Esther, Sappho, Hatshepsut, Cathy, Saka, Joanie, Lil’ Sweet Tea Tea they were steeped into her now, they clung to her like soot dipped wisdom. She was all of them. They lay dormant inside of her now. Ursula walked away barefoot from the property 100% empowered. 100% in control. Her head tilted high, higher and higher, her heart full of generations of unfulfilled ambitions full of light and swag.
She had ample remnants of these women’s physical spirits contained inside of her now. Ursula knew, the world was finally hers, this time around as she hailed a minion in a Toyota to take over his mind, and take her to the Marina to reclaim her fortune and new life. Ursula cleared her throat of the yellowy nastiness, of the poison that belonged to the Hobo. Ursula cleared her tongue with her teeth and spat out the last scattered painting of venomous phlegm from the Hobo, from her body. She could now visualize her future, “My possibilities are endless,” she told herself, as she looked back at her Mom’s place, adjusting her dusty crown in the Toyota as an ambulance approached in the distance. “The world is mine again. All mine.”
the n.word b.word diet - #3
Nigger. Nigger. Bitch. Bitch. I’m done with you two. The stinging slice of these words, fuck do they hurt, even after all these years. I can no longer perpetually give you two any more power. You soil my vocabulary. I do not have any back up words to replace you two with. I will be more creative and contemplative with what I say, instead of you.
I will not re-claim you by adding the letter ‘w’ or’ a’ to you fucking schmucks, that isn’t going to work. Wigga, Nigga, Biatch still has the same ring to it. I will not allow you to be appropriated by those who do not carry the hefty weighted stench of your keloided presence, pulsating and beating, bubbling a burning pulpy puss of ill snake like scars.
I will not beer cheers my girlfriends, clink, clink, clink my glass chalice or give any dap, with you in my mouth, no longer will I repel you from the cushiony comfort of my juicy blood-red lips. We have your photograph, there’s a grainy picture of you, behind the cash register, you will not be served. We will hide our children, our husbands, our wives. We will find you. Seek you out. We will point you out, you are not welcomed here. Get the hell on!
My hope is that many more will lay you stabby little monster nouns to rest, your ashes burned in unmarked graves absorbed by positive adjectives and memories of smiles and sunshine bursting warm hugs. You are 86’d, banned for a lifetime. Nigger. Nigger. Bitch. Bitch. So long. I’m too good for you. You are x’d out, banished to the trash, permanently deleted. Nigger. Nigger. Bitch. Bitch. I never want to see you or use you ever again.
I’ll start first thing Monday morning.
US - The Grand Old Party Next Door
Hello, I’m The Epistolist, and this is a commentary based article also known as a rant, about attempting to re-realize and re-visualize this damned single issue / two party voting system we hold so high and dear; and how the term Republican has become one of America’s oldest, wash-your-mouth-out with Lava soap bad, bad f-words. You hear the word Republican, you hear the word bully.
Back in the day in the mid 1800’s, The Republican Party was created and composed by a group who ironically called themselves ‘Democrats’, the 'Free Soil Democrats’ to be exact, a short lived party that lived in the North, in New York, and along with the ‘Conscious Whigs’, all of whom were strongly opposed to slavery. The GOP, AKA, The Grand Old Party, AKA, The Republican Party consisted of a large, majority of Protestant Christians, professionals, businessmen, business owners, long term farmers and farm owners, factory workers and black folks due to its anti-slavery, semi-pro-black status...You know, like how it is today, except for that ‘black folk’ part.
The ‘real’ Democrats greatly opposed The Republican, Grand Old Party. At the time Dems came across as anti-freedom fighters, ironically made up of worker bees, poverty level farmers, urban and Irish-American immigrant workers who wished to divide and separate themselves from the ‘cursed’ chocolate people riddled freedom GOP party. Much hasn’t changed in the Dem party either, except the Irish folks being replaced with Black folks and millions of free-er thinking, sometimes dreadlock baring, usually hand holding ‘Kumbaya’ yupster lefties and fellow progressives.
With America’s tremendous dips, trips and falls, AKA, the Great Depression, AKA the collapse of FDR’s New Deal Coalition, along with Southern Democrats opposition to the Civil Rights Act of 1964, the majority of backward thinking middle America, AKA the ‘Bible Belt’ lost control of their upper hand on ‘their’ Democratic Party. Which at the time was their party. This ‘reverse’, ‘Freaky Friday’ Democratic Party pursued the larger, more powerful GOP, The Republican par-tay for themselves. It was the more fruitful party, juicier, meatier, patty of a party, it was the one-party that tasted great, and was more fulfilling. The Dem party infiltrated the GOP by expanding through the South, under their new guise of white conservative Evangelical Protestants and Roman Catholics. These conservatives, vanilla Jesus Freaks claimed the Grand Old Party for themselves and black folks and forward thinking liberals literally switched sides of the political boxing ring and became Dems. Repubs turned into Dems, Dems turned into Repubs. The tentacles of this insidious transitional switch-a-roo, this dramatic flip flop can be seen clearly from the ending of the Kennedy Administration into the Reagan Administration.
With all that being said, Repubs weren’t always the deplorable, crooked bad guys. Like every villain their origin story begins with them being birthed in the purity of American truth and freedom. I can almost hear a bald eagle calling for my country in the distance. "Cacaw!" Not! Nowadays when you hear the word Republican Party, a lot of us wish to run in the opposite direction. Two words that used to evoke a sense of pride and a better tomorrow, are now synonymous with some of the worst words. A term that describes racist, sexist, macho chauvinist pig dudes, pigmently and cultural challenged people, the savagely, selfish wealthy, narrow minded, ignorantly hard headed peon people, the ‘oh so wrong’ right, and those fat cats that wish to gobble up our beloved, bald tweety bird eagle. You hear Republican and you think white bully. Bully. Republicans are today’s bullies.
Now, I loathe generalizing, I know there are some gooood Republicans out there, and I salute you, with an eagle call, "Ca-caw," but as you know it takes only one rotten, poisoned apple to spoil the bunch. Those greedy, big butted, smiling, spoiled rotten, historicly poisoned apples, are to blame, the ones we should be shamefully, infinitely friggin’ wagging our sausage-esque middle fingers at, are the ones that have soiled this once ‘pretty okay’ party; Lil’ busters like Regan, Coolidge, Eisenhower, James Knox Polk, Thomas Woodrow Wilson, Friggin’ FDR, Johnson, Jungle-fever-loving Thomas ‘T.J.’ Jefferson, Monroe, Andrew Jackson, The Bushes, W. Bush and Lil’ Bush, and more recently, WWE's Gianforte, and the full on bigoty cho-mo representing Alabama, Roy Moore, and who could forget our current racist, selfish President Trump, welcome to the club jerks. Anywho, that is a list of politicians that wish to go number two all over the little guy. If you are broke and not generationally wealthy, they poop on you, if you’re not of the same class, color or religion, they poop, poop on you. And if you add a sprinkle of LGBTQ-ness to the mix, you are straight up operating through their diarrhea.
‘Children of Diaspora’ American-humans like me, are beaten down, by those red states, attempting to keep us out of the positive, and it is their wish to expel us back to a country that we were ripped from, that we no longer have souls, an identity or a zip code in. They wish to eradicate and go full metal jacket genocide on us, they wish to see our bodies in mass graves, alive, ‘Walking Dead’ in the ditches. That’s harsh, and of course, perhaps, untrue, but that’s certainly how it feels sometimes for us. Like they, are attempting to crush us. Yet our only crime is being black in America. Even those of us who have ‘made it', feel under fire, sometimes even more. Our success is seen as a target on our backs.
All of that being said, we could quite simply, put the arms of our political parties down and just treat each other as equals, as human beings, as brothers, sisters, each other's fathers and mothers, we could be each other's family, and evolve past the peaceful notions of our other, other forefathers like Buddha and Siddhartha and Mother Gaia, and maybe if we did that we could become the life-like characters from illustrations in a Jehovah’s Witness pamphlet. Transform into a ‘United Colors of Benetton’ ad world of an ultimate melted crayon box, of peach-flesh and sienna multi-colored children, petting Lions and Unicorns and shit. And perhaps then we could all live in harmony. Ok, that is too far, but what’s wrong wanting to live in a world of peace, and chillness, in a world where can actually enjoy the fruits of our labor, and finally basque in this abundant, fantastic place that our ancestors created with our sweat, our tears, and our blood, on our tender yet mighty backs. A new home, one of safety and pride, where I don’t feel as if I’m being hunted as game, for my sun kissed hyde and power...one where I can happily pet those many maned, teddy bear-esque lions or sparkling magical unicorns. Ok maybe I enjoyed my creative writing tools too much this eve, AKA, I had too much to think, drank and smoke.
To be honest, it’s sad to think that this Grand Old Party, before the dudes I mentioned, is grand no more. Old yes, but no longer grand. It’s swiftly becoming the lame old party nobody wants to go to, be a part of...or make great...again. Whatever that means, as multiple dog-whistle racism themes play in my head. It’s time for us to reconceptualize our one issue / two party system that needs to be able to accommodate multiple views, positions and parties and people; such as the ever-growing, progressive parties, like the Freedom, Green and Independent parties, parties that are forced to vote Democratic to battle the madness of today’s bully Repubs and alt-right. We need to reconfigure the realistic world we want to live in, the one where we heal the world, make it a better place, for you and for me...and the entire human race. I’m pretty sure, I just quoted Michael Jackson’s ‘Heal the World’ lyrics, nevertheless, it can still be done, and it starts with US, by doing whatever we can to better our communities and taking accountability for this place we live in; by promoting a positive dialog with fellow supporters and even the folks from the other parties, as well as with our local and distant decision makers. We all need to do better and do what we can, to demand the change we deserve, and be more like our neighbors, The Grand Old Party Next Door Upstairs. Friggin’ Canada. We need to be more like friggin' Canada, there I said it.
Feel free to click the link below to complete the petition / forward to your squad to get our current bully, um...I mean Repub President Trump out of office. Go to change.org to create your own petition, and get more details.
Petition To Impeach The Donald
True, a petition may not save the world, but it’s a start. We must continue to do what we can with what we have.
Thanks for Reading, Now Let’s Start Doing.
Hello, I’m the Epistolist and this is the true short story of when I met Bill Cosby, and how he was such a friggin’ creepy jerk-ass.
Hey, Hey, Hey, Bill Cosby Gave Me Just The Tip (...A.K.A. The Claws of Cos ...A.K.A. Thank You Bill Cosby For Not Raping Me...However, You Suck For Insinuating I Was Fat Though)
The Place: San Francisco, California
The Year: Around 2000
Current Hairstyle: Diana Ross Inspired Curly Fro with Bangs
Food and Beverage of Choice: Deep Dish Pizza and Any Beer of a Golden Complexion
Inhale. Ahhhhh San Francisco, I miss the air the most, one of the many cities I consider home. My fiancé’s name was Franz, we were spinning around the drain up there, knee deep in artsy-fartsy, hippie-dippyness, silver sativa clouds and our pipe dreams, otherwise known as ‘college.’ We were living in a pretty legit, modern residential hotel, one of our many cribs, this one, bordering the Financial District and Nob Hill. We were surrounded by a whirlwind of trendy pizza joints, pubs, vintage shops, everything tailored with well designed windows and everything adorned with swank beautiful ones lined up in rows against the backdrop of trees winding with wisdom and bold, pointy and inviting skyscrapers. In this lively, spellbinding habitat we blended with the elite, paying for our home on a week to week basis. Pretend balling.
Franz, my boo, my bey, was a looker, with dark rockabilly hair; tall, white, broad, average in nature. He was a towering Elvis, a basic, one whose three earthly talents were 1) Random muscle car knowledge, 2) His big heart and 3) He loved the heck out of yours truly, which believe me is a great and magnificent talent. He had an enormous soda can dick he measured often and a negative triple digit I.Q. He was a gift from God. And he of course, had no problem snagging an awesome job within milliseconds of arriving in town, at a high end bougie boutique hotel in bustling Downtown.
I always have issues finding and keeping a gig due to my LA face, Oakland booty, juicy body exterior and my even juicier, spicy eccentric, bubbly, beyond intelligent, strong as steel interior. Franz attempted to get me the hire hook up through his company...needless to say, I intimidated the management of waspy, boring, pale-vanilla cattle. They chose other candidates more like themselves, more like him and after a elongated minute of charming the pants out of folks as I hit the pavement 14 hours a day, a la mode with my resume in tote, I finally, finally found myself a gig...working at the super ritzy, plushy, Clairmount Hotel…In the gym… In the basement.
This gorgeous hotel had an high end staff and is literally etched in pillars and gold. The employees were pretty diverse my boss was a lovely gay Latino guy with salt and pepper hair who truly dug me, he’s how I got in and hired...oh, and I told him about my gay brother, my darling imaginary gay brother who raised me. I always use my imaginary brother, to get the ‘in’ with peeps I need to influence. He of course, is a clone of whoever ‘they’ are. I’ve snagged many a job and sold many goods with my bro in my corner. Also, with the help of my mad genius computer skills and my almost-plus size model looks, and my darling personality I told you about, my work ethic and constant thirst for overtime and of course my employer’s or customer’s need to have a sassy caramel macchiato BFF; I’ve done pretty well for myself. I’m sure a splash of Affirmative Action aided me as well...Thanks again Affirmative Action...I think. Even so, you hire me, you have a bomb ass, ride-or-die employee for at least 6 months to a year in a half, if you promote me regularly and raise my salary in $10 to $15 increments frequently. If you continue to treat me like a human you may have me for my life, I have yet to find that position though.
Anywho, needless to say, this hotel was a celebrity magnet and I don’t mean to toot my own horn but I personally customer serviced and handed out bleached pressed white towels to a slew of high end celebrities on the B list. The various band members from Third Eye Blind, INXS, (Michael Hitchence, I know you died in ‘97, but rest in peace anyway, it was my pleasure to be close to you through your bandmates, “I Need You Tonight” will forever be my karaoke jammy jam) and a few baker’s dozen of aloof European Supermodels, Dominatrixes on holiday with their billionaire slaves, and a lot of those celebrities who comment on those ‘I Love The 80’s / 90’s shows on VH1. Anywho, as I digress and digest, in this celebrity haven, we’d even close down the gym to the public, so these stars could do aerobics and sweat like pigs in peace.
One day, the star was Mr. Bill Cosby. Being black and growing up in the 80’s and 90’s I was force fed episodes of The Cosby Show and a Different World, the most popular cocoa shows of that era, and told quite honestly how to be a ‘goood’ black person in modern day society by a now known rapist. Or alleged rapist. A rapist still, nonetheless. I hum verbatim the introduction of The Cos show, the theme song, when I’m trying to think or study or parallel park or work out, or masturbate or bake a cake, that’s how crammed this man as an entity is in my mind. Other themes that are held equally dear in my brain are The Golden Girls, Saved by The Bell, Living Single, Mr. Belvedere and of course Small Wonder, and as of late the Pretty Little Liar theme song.
Cos, however, as a black pop icon sat on more real estate in my head than any other media from that time in my life. Bill’s vomit colored knitted sweaters, his words of wisdom, his love of apple juice, sandwiches, and getting some before-bedtime coochie from Mrs. Huxtable...also taking up precious real estate in my head, was...Hi, Rudy’s ponytail and snaggle tooth grin, which I embodied as well back then since we were about the same age, um, fucking annoying spineless, and no-storyline Sandra and Elvin, horny Cockroach, ( I love those words together) Theo’s pre-pubescent mustache, Buuud, and the Cosby kid no one really cared about, what’s her name? It started with a V, Victoria or Vanna, Vanessa or something or other. And a bucket full of light skinned kids, cast, crew and grandkids, that were whitewashed by the wayside. Oh, I did not forget to mention, the gorgeous, Lisa ‘Everyone wants to be you, be your BFF and fuck you’ Bonet.
With all that happening in this skull of mine, I felt like I knew the guy. I knew his version of bland, uneventful storytelling stand up, that sucked to me because he was never edgy enough. He was infinitely safe, an abyss of thumbs ups he never truly made me laugh once and I always felt that the Fat Albert Show was super racist. Which never made since with his image, because he was sooooo pro-black, anti-racism, or was he sooooo pro-racism and anti-black, perhaps he really is a slightly self hating black dude. I remember his incessant battles with America’s black youth over rap music and about us wearing our pants around our waist not around our ankles and cursing. He didn’t want black people, my people who endured lifetimes of feeling like we were cursed to curse.
I also recall hearing back in the day that he was attempting to purchase old Amos and Andy shows, to prevent them being aired to modern day audiences, in addition to that I read that he had enough bread to purchase NBC and was vehemently trying to do so. I felt his need to display a 1% positive Black American Family to the world, jam packed with black regal wealth, black history and black education, black doctors and black lawyers and black brownstones, oh my. I felt his need to show us that and get me to college and to 6 digit bank account status. I appreciate him showing me and us, this world, a world of squeaky clean college grads with natural hair galore. Knowing he came from Philly in the era he did, you just want to look up to this guy, even though his agenda is annoying and confusing, I was still proud of him. Proud to claim him as ‘one of us.’ You want him to win with honor, even though he comes across as a likeable black Uncle Tom. Wait...aren’t all Uncle Toms black? Nevertheless, I never knew how to truly digest his contribution to the industry or society, however due to him being the funny face of Jello pudding pops, and America’s favorite chocolate black Pop-Pop Dad, I was a brainwashed fan. I was a fan. And I told him so right away when I met him.
I knew he was coming, no pun intended, we closed down the gym for him. My boss was scheduled at another gym that morning and it was just me and The Cos. We had closed down the gym for him per his request. He was there early at like 6 in the morning. I opened the gym door, I introduced myself. “Hello. Good Morning. I will be giving you a brief tour of the gym, before you begin your workout and feel free to let me know if you need anything. By the way I am a huge fan.” I smiled from ear to ear, my positive energy radiating from my pores.
His energy was pompous and flat as fuck, in a noisy track suit, his face not-so-funny, he looked down on me. His nose, eyes, lips coiled up like he had just smelled a nasty fart, which is actually kind of funny when you think about it. And even though he had a big ass belly, he had a solid firm bod and disposition. He looked like he could choke a bitch out. “Treadmill,” he demanded. “I’ve been here before, no need for a tour.” Ooooh, that rhymed.
If I didn't know he was The Cos, I would have never guessed he was, he was just some ordinary foul faced dude. No, he did not look like a comedian; a jerky millionaire, yes.
I got him some mighty, bright, white towels, an ice cold water bottle, as I took him down to the treadmills, and he asked, “Do you know who I am?”
I replied, “Yes, I do. You are The Cos. I-I just said, I just told you I am a huge fan,” as I got his treadmill going. Beeping the buttons with my finger.
“Put it on 2.5.”
“You got it Sir. Do you want it on an incline?”
“No,” he snarled.
“Super,” I said assuming he was all set as he grabbed the treadmill handles and began to walk. “Well let me know if you need anything else,” I said.
He turned to me and barked like an evil, snobby version of the hookah smoking caterpillar from Alice in Wonderland, “Where are you going? Get on this treadmill,” he eyeballed the one next to his.
I told him, I lied, “Unfortunately Sir, I have other work to do, I have to-” I chimed like a cheerleader, showing my ripe age.
He immediately interrupted me, “No you don't. There’s no one else in here and I know you have instructions to…(he paused long here, due to his predator instincts or he was already out of breathe)... To assist me while I am here.”
He was fucking right, I had nothing else to do. I was alone with him. He was fucking wrong though, his tone was sour and lame, but he had a point. I smiled and abided, this was my second job that year. I got on the treadmill next to him and put it on a 2.5.
“Put yours on a 6 and just run,” he demanded of me, literally inhaling my Oakland booty and my ample boobie with his wonky eyes. I could tell he was getting off on trying to ruffle my tail feathers.
I was unswayed. Jokingly, forgetting my work veneer for a moment, I said “You should too bro, pump yours up to an 8,” I eyeballed his 8 month pregnant looking tummy… “Hold on, hold up a minute, wait are you insinuating I’m fat?” He had no right, even with my current food and beverage of choice, he had no right to say such things to me. I was appalled by his rude familiarity. How dare he, I knew him, he didn’t know me. He picked up on me being slightly offended and tried to back track, by giving me that snide look again looking at my juicy lady bits, which eased into a Jello Pudding Pop Pop face. I was like finally getting a taste, a slick lick and a wicked whiff of some of that Jello Pudding Pop-Pop goodness-personality of his, the one I actually thought he had. All that from one positive, silly facial gesture. The man was talented.
Man, a Pudding Pop sounds so good right now. So does a little deep dish and a beer. Maybe I was a fatty. Anyway, back to The Cos insinuating I was chubbers.
I said, “Hey, Hey, Hey…” Like several hundred times. I was in awe of this moment. I repeated the question, “Are you saying, I’m fat dude.”
He looked at me, his face no longer filled with Jello Pudding Pop-Pop expression of joy, drained of all light, he gave me the straightest gas face ever, and said, “I need to concentrate, focus on my workout.” He was mind fucking me. The Cos, raw dog without a bag, was prison butt fucking my mind, my self-esteem with no lube.
“Yeah,” I said completely weirded out, “Walking can be quite difficult sometimes. I shall let you concentrate and focus...on...your...work...out.”
I walked with him for about 20 minutes, the longest, most uncomfortable 1200 seconds on Earth. Any attempt I made to break the silence, he’d either give me his trademark stank look, nod his head nonchalantly or he’d mime shush me when I hummed The Cosby Show theme. Oh, the horror.
The only consistent sound was the dredging sound of our ‘mills’, his rudeness expelled in various sighs, stank face looks and eye rolls, oh and me humming. At 22 minutes in he gestured for me to turn his machine off.
“Walk me home.”
As I tried to tell him, I couldn't just close the gym and walk him home he said, “Walk me home I just live down the block.”
I called my boss and Ok’d it, again this was my second job that year and I locked up the gym and we begin to walk deeper into Union Square, ironically walking vertically up, up, up a tall, steep hill as The Cos continued to attempt to ass pound my confidence down, down, down into the sidewalk.
It was a beautiful post card of a morning the breeze lit by the sound of happy, chirping birds, and cars zooming and booming top 40 hits, various drivers getting their hope filled days started and there I was walking with the legendarily douchey Bill Cosby in awkward silence down the street. As we approached the obnoxiously humongous and striking cathedral church, I asked him, “Is your wife Camille home?” I don't know why in the fuck I asked that. Can you say random? I don't know how I know Bill Cosby’s wife’s name. I barely know my times table past 12, or my Mom’s maiden name. But I know Bill is married to Camille and somehow that name is stored on The Cosby sanctioned part of my brain. All I know, is that those words came blasting out my mouth at like 90 miles per hour.
Maybe my spider sense was tingling… And knew that was the only way I could be free from the passive-aggressive-aggressive claws of The Cos. Or maybe I was too cute for him to rape, too hip, too odd, too tough, too hard to read. I also didn’t have a drink on me to spike with his Cosby Jesus Rudy, I mean Ruffie, Juice. Nonetheless whatever I did, frigging worked.
Out of nowhere, after my ass inquired about Camille, he abruptly said “This is far enough. Now beat it”. As I turned to walk away, he counted his palm of benjamins, he gave me one, $100 bill. Pretty nice tip for being his bitch for 30 minutes. A little over three dollars a minute. Not bad. That’s like phone sex money…hmmm, or was this his version of shut up money.
“See you Cos, have a lovely one,” I said as I headed back. Recounting the one bill a dozen times. Ironically the irony was priceless! A big bill from 'Big Bill.'
All and all Bill Cosby is a jerk, a good tipper, yet a total jerk and kind of a creepy asshole, or just another celeb who has lost touch with reality and the human connection we all have with people that have careers within the service industry, all those positions the upper class look down upon. Mr. Bill Cosby attempted to make me prey to his predatory nature, he tried to miniaturize me as a person, as a thickums, and as young, chocolate dandy, candy, lady, however, he didn't rape me… Not in the traditional sense. He treated me how chauvinistic pigs treat ladies like me.
He reminded me to not get lost in the essence of celebrity, their wealth and the images the project. He reminded me to be true to myself and not let anyone get away with dogging me out, that I could still stand up for myself and be professional, without wagging my neck or raising my voice and keep my cool and my job. He left me a $100 dollar tip, that I was going to dangle in front of and brag to my bf about, he gave me a tip objectify me, a tip to put up with his nonsense, a tip that was not connected to his penis. And for that Mr. Cos. I thank you.
*The boyfriend and hotel names have been changed to protect their dog gone privacy.