1. Host an orgy. Smell is the sense closest related to sexual arousal, so spray the entire house down with an invigorating aphrodijiack (Hilfiger Black should do the trick) to get the mood set just right. Light some scented candles so the light is at an intoxicating level. Then put on some music corresponding to the type of sex that you imagine taking place. Slow and rhythmic? Let Miles Davis or Barry White guide you to a smooth, full orgasm. Fast and unbridled? Pump the techno just like they do in professional porno flicks. Will blood be drawn? Fuck to thrash metal, like Slayer or Lamb of God, as you rip and rip and tear. Above all else have fun...after all, isn't that what orgies are for!?
2. Eat a microwave dinner. Oh wait you can't do that, the power is out! Bury your face in your palms and scream out in rage after you come to this realization. You really wanted, no, needed that mush flavored buffalo chicken Hot Pocket. Dammit.
3. Play with the dog. You know, the dog? That furry, brownish animal that you usually don't notice until he farts or has to take a piss? Yeah, he's pretty old now. In fact he's probably going to die within the next few months. Take this opportunity to get reacquainted with an old, decaying friend. There will be plenty of time to ignore his existence after you get internet back.
4. Surf the internet with your Iphone. Losing electricity isn't nearly as unbearable as it was back in the Dark Ages of the 1990's.
5. Clip your toenails. For Pete's sake they're long as hell all yellow and nasty and stuff.
6. Go ghost hunting in the woods. Take a knife to defend yourself from packs of rabid wild wolves. They've been spotted recently in your area. If you don't have any luck finding ghosts, go in search of the wolves. If you can get close enough, split one vertically down through the ribcage. Then sling the bastard over your shoulder and take him home so dad can grill him up.
7. Cocoon yourself in a sleeping bag and slide head first down the steps. Have your parent/friend/sibling wait at the bottom with 911 predailed into a cellphone.
8. Tie a string to ceiling fan blade and coerce your cat into latching onto it. This will be fun for hours. Oh wait, fuck, the electricity isn't working. Dammit.
9. Kick your younger brother's ass with a styrafoam pool noodle. Unless your brother (1) has an anger problem (2) is freakishly large for his age or (3) both 1 and 2. You won't want to live with the shame of getting your face pounded in by somebody four years younger than you. Trust me.
10. Put your brother on a leash, force a pair of skates onto his feet, tie him to the trampoline and put a bag of rotten potatoes on his head. Just do it. The skates will keep him from making a quick escape. When you see him wobbling and sinking into the mushy ground as he tries to "run" away, round up your friends and beat him with multiple styrafoam pool noodles.
11. Plot an extravagant murder of some of your classmates. Tell your parents it's just a joke when they find it.
12. See how many times you can masturbate in 24 hours. You'll probably shooting blanks around the 5th or 6th orgasm. Don't let that stop you. You're a winner, not a loser.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Derrick awoke slowly one morning feeling like his head had been crushed with a giant hammer. He had nowhere important to be for the rest of the day (and nobody of great importance to meet) so he simply laid in bed and enjoyed the peaceful silence of the morning. As he blinked he spotted a cockroach wriggling its' way along the ceiling from one wall to the other. The scaly bastard, he thought. When it reached the far wall he stumbled out of bed, snatched up a leather boot, and crushed the fragile insect with a deadening THUD. Then he picked up the flattened creature by one it's wiry legs and tossed it into a trash can.
"Damn bugs," he thought to himself. "Where there's one there's many. There's probably a whole colony the bastards lodged somewhere in this apartment...planning some sort of elaborate invasion."
He remembered reading somewhere that cockroaches, as a species, were virtually indestructable. Not even a nuclear fallout could wipe them from the face of the earth. He balked at the thought of an insect outliving humanity and all of it's accomplishments - the Pyramids, the Eiffel Tower, indoor plumbing - then he scratched his foul smelling armpit and made his way down the stairs and out of his apartment.
The hammer pounded Derrick's head once again as he stepped through the revolving door of the lobby and out into the sunlit world. There were no cars on the street and, from what Derrick could see, no people either. This struck him as unusual but not impossible. The town he lived in was relatively small and folks usual didn't wake up until early afternoon on the weekends. He kept his eyes on the pavement to avoid the harsh bite of the sun and swiftly made his way to the coffee shop next door.
When he got there the door was locked. He banged on the glass several times then peered inside. Nobody. The lights were off and the chairs were turned upside down on top of the tables. He reached into his pocket to check the time on his cell phone but the battery was dead. It couldn't be that early, he thought, the sun was already directly overhead. He wiped a layer of sweat from his brow and walked swiftly to a Starbucks a little further down the block. He peered in and saw chairs turned upside down on top of tables.
"Damn bugs," he thought to himself. "Where there's one there's many. There's probably a whole colony the bastards lodged somewhere in this apartment...planning some sort of elaborate invasion."
He remembered reading somewhere that cockroaches, as a species, were virtually indestructable. Not even a nuclear fallout could wipe them from the face of the earth. He balked at the thought of an insect outliving humanity and all of it's accomplishments - the Pyramids, the Eiffel Tower, indoor plumbing - then he scratched his foul smelling armpit and made his way down the stairs and out of his apartment.
The hammer pounded Derrick's head once again as he stepped through the revolving door of the lobby and out into the sunlit world. There were no cars on the street and, from what Derrick could see, no people either. This struck him as unusual but not impossible. The town he lived in was relatively small and folks usual didn't wake up until early afternoon on the weekends. He kept his eyes on the pavement to avoid the harsh bite of the sun and swiftly made his way to the coffee shop next door.
When he got there the door was locked. He banged on the glass several times then peered inside. Nobody. The lights were off and the chairs were turned upside down on top of the tables. He reached into his pocket to check the time on his cell phone but the battery was dead. It couldn't be that early, he thought, the sun was already directly overhead. He wiped a layer of sweat from his brow and walked swiftly to a Starbucks a little further down the block. He peered in and saw chairs turned upside down on top of tables.
Monday, March 7, 2011
optimistic words on the holy union of marriage
To me, marriage appears to be one of the most boring and repetitive organisms existing in the known universe. You come home from work and she is there: How was your day today here is your dinner. You wake up and she is there: How did you sleep I've made you breakfast. Those things are sweet of her, and that sweetness is recognized at first but soon it fades to blandness. The food begins tasting like tree bark and her words float in and out of your ears like the dull buzzing of a refrigerator. No retention of their meaning.
Every. Day. She. Is. There.
The television becomes the third party in what was initially a holy union between two lovers, even though it didn't attend the ceremony and doesnt have the ability emote. But still it takes center stage and keeps the two lovers from discussing thoughts, feelings, and dreams. If, that is, the television hasn't killed those things already, which, if given the opportunity to breed in the mind of a certain type of person, it will do almost 100 percent of the time.
When the TV isn't enough, the couple will turn to other distractions:
- The internet. (there are funny videos of people getting seriously injured)
- Solitaire.
- Thunderstorms.
- Naps.
- The dog.
- The cat. ("Come here, kitty!" will be repeated far too often)
- Walks in the forest with hands locked rigidly together. ("It's cold today. I think it's suppose to get colder tomorrow and rain. That's what the news said.")
- Books. (There are some really erotic romance novels out there that will make your wife's pussy purr. Something you don't do any more. Maybe these will keep her satisfied so she doesn't go out and fuck the mailman or the pool boy or fall in love with a coke addict and fuck him passionately in the bathroom at a party while you LAUGH it up with friends in the dining room. Or maybe these books will be a catalyst for her pursuit of a steamy affair. It could go either way. She'll come home and wash the cum out of her hair and you'll never even know the difference.)
Stay distracted. That's the key to a healthy and happy marriage. Then on your death bed you both will realize how much time was wasted and how fucking pointless and trivial your existence has been.
Every. Day. She. Is. There.
The television becomes the third party in what was initially a holy union between two lovers, even though it didn't attend the ceremony and doesnt have the ability emote. But still it takes center stage and keeps the two lovers from discussing thoughts, feelings, and dreams. If, that is, the television hasn't killed those things already, which, if given the opportunity to breed in the mind of a certain type of person, it will do almost 100 percent of the time.
When the TV isn't enough, the couple will turn to other distractions:
- The internet. (there are funny videos of people getting seriously injured)
- Solitaire.
- Thunderstorms.
- Naps.
- The dog.
- The cat. ("Come here, kitty!" will be repeated far too often)
- Walks in the forest with hands locked rigidly together. ("It's cold today. I think it's suppose to get colder tomorrow and rain. That's what the news said.")
- Books. (There are some really erotic romance novels out there that will make your wife's pussy purr. Something you don't do any more. Maybe these will keep her satisfied so she doesn't go out and fuck the mailman or the pool boy or fall in love with a coke addict and fuck him passionately in the bathroom at a party while you LAUGH it up with friends in the dining room. Or maybe these books will be a catalyst for her pursuit of a steamy affair. It could go either way. She'll come home and wash the cum out of her hair and you'll never even know the difference.)
Stay distracted. That's the key to a healthy and happy marriage. Then on your death bed you both will realize how much time was wasted and how fucking pointless and trivial your existence has been.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
release meh
Big wigs high up in the sky, casting their scorn down on the less-fortunate population. it makes the knees twinge with anger. its makes the eyes cast themselves downward. as if eyes could make choices of their own! a silly thought, surely, but what if they really could make their own choices? what would they choose and how would they choose it? would they latch on to the first thing that fit their fancy, such as a scantily clad woman or a slice of red velvet cake? or would they use reason in their choices? "oh, that lass has a nice behind but i must not stare because her boyfriend looks like hulk hogan!" what if the eyes got too caught up in editing their selections? what a bore that would be! "No, don't look at the cheesecake because it will send a message to the stomach saying 'eat, eat, eat' and this body does not need any more fat food." the eyes might have to detach themselves. move on. live independently from the body. become fry cooks at a fast food restaurant just so the rent can be paid. buy little shoes to house the eyes and keep dirt from sticking to them. they would miss the body, but their despair would be lessened because they had each other. not much, but better than being alone. little dull conversations that lack meat but still, better than silence. "how was your day, righty?" "good, lefty, i purchased a new contact today and the burden of being without body is really starting to lighten. i think im going to be okay."
"that's swell to hear righty," says lefty. "i'm glad we talked."
"that's swell to hear righty," says lefty. "i'm glad we talked."
Sunday, February 27, 2011
one o'clock on a sunday
Brooke sits upright in bed, cursing silently to herself and sucking on the moistened end of a menthol cigarette. Her lungs are shriveling up and dying, she can feel it, but every morning after yawning and stretching she grabs the pack from her night stand and fires one up. Then another. Then another. Between puffs and wheezes she fantasizes about killing her family. She wishes she could gather them all in a wooden barrel and roll them into some deep, remote body of water to writhe and gurgle and drown. Then she would wipe her hands clean, fire up a cigarette, and drive quickly away to no where in particular.
These fantasies make her content if only for a brief moment. They keep her mind off of the reality of the situation.
At the precise moment that she begins a particularly violent thought her mom bursts in the room with a beer in her hand, smelling like the floor of a horse's stall. The shirt stretched aross her large breasts reads "REBEL" in dark red ink. She works forty hours a week as a cashier at a 7-11 and answers every request from her manager with a "Yes sir!" It is unclear what she is rebelling from. She's skinnier than her daughter, almost attractive, but then she opens her mouth.
"Your grandpa is at it again!" she screams, her dead glassy eyes bulging out of her skull. It is a very tiny room yet she continues to yell as loud as her blackened, shriveled lungs will allow her.
"Your grandpa is at it again!" she repeats with southern vigor. "He fucked your grandma last night. Now he's lying to the both of 'em!"
Brooke flips a page of People Magazine. No glance at her blabbering, half-drunk mother. Yet her mother continues with no loss in enthusiasm.
"He's back sleepin' with that 30-year old gold digger from Texas!" she yelps, fingering her thick gold wedding ring. "He told yer grandma that he was finished with her, that he won't gonna fuck her no more. But momma found messages in his phone from that rotten skank sayin' some of the most foul and repulsive things. But your grandaddy talked his way out of it like he always does and ended up havin' sex with momma to prove that he still loved her. But he's been tellin' this bitch from Texas that he ain't fucked momma in 16 years! And to top it all off, she's been stealin' money out of poppa's wallet. The nerve of that redneck!"
She stops to take a healthy gulp of Bud Light, spilling a drop on her Rebel T-shirt. "Brooke, you gotta 'nother cigarette? I just smoked my last one, baby."
Without looking up, Brooke tosses a pack of Camel Menthols towards the foot of the bed.
"You can have one," she says. "But don't take any more."
The Mom pulls a cigarette from the pack and sparks it up. She makes a remark about how menthols taste like the tail end of a tractor pipe, but her attempt at humor flops like a dying fish. The two smoke, in silence, as Mom wanders over to a DVD stand in the corner of the room. As she bends low to inspect the bottom of the rack a black, a laced thong rides up the small of her hairy back. "Oh, I just love Vin Diesel!" She glances over her shoulder. Brooke jams her cigarette on the top of the can and flips the page of her magazine.
"We're havin' pigs in a blanket tonight Brooke," she says timidly. "I want you to eat with us."
Brooke eyes rise slowly from the magazine to meet her mothers. Beautiful deep brown with dark black bags underneath them. In her head she imagines her mother roasting on an open flame, surrounded on all sides by people poking her face with long, sharp sticks.
"Why? So I can listen to you and dad argue about Chester again?" she says, locked in a wide eyed stare with her mother.
"No, I'm not going to sit through another night of that. It hurts me enough to see dad walk around like he's already dead. That kills me, absolutely kills me. And there's absolutely nothing I can say to him to make him feel any better. The only person who can do that is you but you're too damn wrapped up in yourself to look in the mirror and admit that you fucked up! You can make this better but you don't. You refuse to. You see how badly grandpa has hurt grandma. She doesn't even get out of bed anymore. She barely talks to any of us. Yet you go out and do the exact same thing. I'm over it. I'm done."
She grabs her pack of cigarettes from the nightstand and stomps out the door, slamming it with a thud behind her.
The mom looks out the window and sees her daughter driving away to no where in particular. The reddened leaves have begun to fall, leaving the trees gray and naked. Without blinking she follows a leaf from a high branch as it flutters and drifts to the brown grass below. She takes one final swig of beer, crushes it between her hands, and stares with dead glossy eyes at taillights of her daughters green Honda.
These fantasies make her content if only for a brief moment. They keep her mind off of the reality of the situation.
At the precise moment that she begins a particularly violent thought her mom bursts in the room with a beer in her hand, smelling like the floor of a horse's stall. The shirt stretched aross her large breasts reads "REBEL" in dark red ink. She works forty hours a week as a cashier at a 7-11 and answers every request from her manager with a "Yes sir!" It is unclear what she is rebelling from. She's skinnier than her daughter, almost attractive, but then she opens her mouth.
"Your grandpa is at it again!" she screams, her dead glassy eyes bulging out of her skull. It is a very tiny room yet she continues to yell as loud as her blackened, shriveled lungs will allow her.
"Your grandpa is at it again!" she repeats with southern vigor. "He fucked your grandma last night. Now he's lying to the both of 'em!"
Brooke flips a page of People Magazine. No glance at her blabbering, half-drunk mother. Yet her mother continues with no loss in enthusiasm.
"He's back sleepin' with that 30-year old gold digger from Texas!" she yelps, fingering her thick gold wedding ring. "He told yer grandma that he was finished with her, that he won't gonna fuck her no more. But momma found messages in his phone from that rotten skank sayin' some of the most foul and repulsive things. But your grandaddy talked his way out of it like he always does and ended up havin' sex with momma to prove that he still loved her. But he's been tellin' this bitch from Texas that he ain't fucked momma in 16 years! And to top it all off, she's been stealin' money out of poppa's wallet. The nerve of that redneck!"
She stops to take a healthy gulp of Bud Light, spilling a drop on her Rebel T-shirt. "Brooke, you gotta 'nother cigarette? I just smoked my last one, baby."
Without looking up, Brooke tosses a pack of Camel Menthols towards the foot of the bed.
"You can have one," she says. "But don't take any more."
The Mom pulls a cigarette from the pack and sparks it up. She makes a remark about how menthols taste like the tail end of a tractor pipe, but her attempt at humor flops like a dying fish. The two smoke, in silence, as Mom wanders over to a DVD stand in the corner of the room. As she bends low to inspect the bottom of the rack a black, a laced thong rides up the small of her hairy back. "Oh, I just love Vin Diesel!" She glances over her shoulder. Brooke jams her cigarette on the top of the can and flips the page of her magazine.
"We're havin' pigs in a blanket tonight Brooke," she says timidly. "I want you to eat with us."
Brooke eyes rise slowly from the magazine to meet her mothers. Beautiful deep brown with dark black bags underneath them. In her head she imagines her mother roasting on an open flame, surrounded on all sides by people poking her face with long, sharp sticks.
"Why? So I can listen to you and dad argue about Chester again?" she says, locked in a wide eyed stare with her mother.
"No, I'm not going to sit through another night of that. It hurts me enough to see dad walk around like he's already dead. That kills me, absolutely kills me. And there's absolutely nothing I can say to him to make him feel any better. The only person who can do that is you but you're too damn wrapped up in yourself to look in the mirror and admit that you fucked up! You can make this better but you don't. You refuse to. You see how badly grandpa has hurt grandma. She doesn't even get out of bed anymore. She barely talks to any of us. Yet you go out and do the exact same thing. I'm over it. I'm done."
She grabs her pack of cigarettes from the nightstand and stomps out the door, slamming it with a thud behind her.
The mom looks out the window and sees her daughter driving away to no where in particular. The reddened leaves have begun to fall, leaving the trees gray and naked. Without blinking she follows a leaf from a high branch as it flutters and drifts to the brown grass below. She takes one final swig of beer, crushes it between her hands, and stares with dead glossy eyes at taillights of her daughters green Honda.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
love.
love.
is a merging of two worlds.
love is simple: love is a foot massage, a back rub, a hand stroke. love is a look. love is innocence. love is childlike and playful. it giggles. loud. it cooks for you. it feeds you french fries while watching jerry springer. it licks the grease off your cheek or wipes it with a finger. love is small talk, big talk, bed talk. love sucks toes. love licks below the belt between the cheeks. love is dirty. love is watching her sit and pee. love is fishing out her tampon. love fucks during periods. love fucks twice without cleaning up. love bites and scratches and sins. it's not always flowers and lollipops. sometimes its razors and needles. fuck me until i bleed. love moans. love comes inside. "i love you, you're amazing." love kisses her eyes and drifts peacefully to sleep.
love is complicated, love is insecure: don't hurt me, you're all i have. you have my heart don't stomp on it. love cuts and curses. blood and "fuck you." i was drunk, no excuse but im sorry. my old boyfriend had me upset. love nags and demands. i love you. baby i love you. love me back talk to me. you haven't loved me enough today love me more. why arent you talking. stop being a bore. rub my back stroke my hand rub my feet. i need these things and you are here and i love you.
love sometimes explodes. then love is deadpan. love opens avenues and closes them, too. it floats down low and sometimes become stale but it never cheats. never. it stays loyal through shit and rainbows alike. love is work. love sacrifices. love dedicates.
love is a merging of two souls.
love
is never a waste.
is a merging of two worlds.
love is simple: love is a foot massage, a back rub, a hand stroke. love is a look. love is innocence. love is childlike and playful. it giggles. loud. it cooks for you. it feeds you french fries while watching jerry springer. it licks the grease off your cheek or wipes it with a finger. love is small talk, big talk, bed talk. love sucks toes. love licks below the belt between the cheeks. love is dirty. love is watching her sit and pee. love is fishing out her tampon. love fucks during periods. love fucks twice without cleaning up. love bites and scratches and sins. it's not always flowers and lollipops. sometimes its razors and needles. fuck me until i bleed. love moans. love comes inside. "i love you, you're amazing." love kisses her eyes and drifts peacefully to sleep.
love is complicated, love is insecure: don't hurt me, you're all i have. you have my heart don't stomp on it. love cuts and curses. blood and "fuck you." i was drunk, no excuse but im sorry. my old boyfriend had me upset. love nags and demands. i love you. baby i love you. love me back talk to me. you haven't loved me enough today love me more. why arent you talking. stop being a bore. rub my back stroke my hand rub my feet. i need these things and you are here and i love you.
love sometimes explodes. then love is deadpan. love opens avenues and closes them, too. it floats down low and sometimes become stale but it never cheats. never. it stays loyal through shit and rainbows alike. love is work. love sacrifices. love dedicates.
love is a merging of two souls.
love
is never a waste.
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