Thursday, June 30, 2005

Pretty Perfect Friday

If I had a vagina I would take it for walks in the park on the fairest of days.

The people would remark to us, "What a sweet dog and so well groomed."

I would stop and talk to the people but my vagina would keep her distance, she does not like to be petted by strangers and old men. Young girls and pregnant women she tolerates well enough, though.

"What is her name," they would ask. All would know instinctively that she was a she because of the perfectly trimmed hair and the small red bow in the curley coat.

"Lydia," I would respond.

"What an adorable name," they would say.

"Not really," I would answer. "I hate that name."

I would pause for them to ask why I hated the name, but they would never ask. They would sense that they went one step too far on the ice. I would tell them anyway because I am a friend to society and hate unanswer questions.

"I named her Lydia to protect her virginity. My step-mom's name is Lydia and no one in their right mind would fuck that cunt."

The people would begin to move away from me then, which is fine. I came to walk my vagina, not talk to the people about names.

If I saw my dad in the park he would certainly ask why I named her after his wife.

My answer would be what it can only be between a man and a son when walking a vagina in the park on a lovely day.

"I'll kill you, old man."

And a small pic for the Friday Delights. Not quite Turkish Delights but not bad.

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Sperm Living

I feel very sorry for sperm. They are such little puppies running around in circles for eggs--prancing around like crazed demons on a demon egg-hunt. And some of them die inside the seminal vessicles...without even getting expelled. That's the saddest thing of all. They didn't even get to run around looking for the egg. Just sat there in the old testes and waited.

If I were a sperm I'd take life a lot easier than my fellow sperms. I'd be the one that people pointed to and said, "Look at that lazy sperm, son. He'll be poor his whole life."

I'll be the sperm who's always saying, "Relax, life is too short to run around looking for an egg. In fact, that egg can come to me, I don't need to chase the egg. The egg can chase me for awhile. My merit is not in finding the egg, I am the egg. I am the sperm. I am both halves and you worry too much." I would even add a Koo Koo Ka Choo at the end if I were feeling especially giddy.

Most sperm would scoff on me--even call me a member of the liberal media, but I wouldn't care. I'd be happy. I'd skip Saturday workouts, even. You don't need to be buff when the egg rolls to your door.

I'd stop and smell the roses. Many people don't know that there are roses in the prostate gland. Their scientific name is Rosatia Prostatia which means simply...Prostate Rose.

In fact, once when I was having a prostate exam my doctor pulled out a delicate rose petal and showed it to I should be surprised there was a rose petal on my prostate gland. Why should I be surprised, I put it there.

Wednesday, June 29, 2005

Blue Shirt Blues Revisited (or how I shot into space and never looked back)

When I make love I am a captain piloting the USS Lollipop filled with happy tourists to their 3 week vacation in my dull-headed rocket of love.

Along the way the passengers marvel at the vastness of space and the sights of my living room as we approach the space dock.

A large intercom announces our arrival to the space station and she prepares for the arrival.

Sometimes I try to land in the wrong port. I prepare to dock in the rear of the station and the groans and creaks and the occasional warning shot suggest that I should approach the front bay. Always the front. Sometimes even good captains forget every time.

The passengers wonder at the delay and are in such a mood for getting off. Let me go, says one young lad and I tell him to please take his seat. Please take your seat or I'll have to turn this ship around and no one wants that. Not me, not the space port and especially not me.

The docking takes only a matter of minutes and all the passengers struggle to get out first. It's a mad race for the doors to explore this wonderful new world. I try to tell them to remain seated until the rocking of the docking stops but they don't listen. Ah, youth. Sometimes I think it's the rock of the dock that pushes them on.

When every last passenger has disembarked I pilot home. Sure, I'm tired. Piloting a star cruiser this big takes a lot of energy. But in a few minutes I'm ready for another trip.

I radio the docking station, "More for drop off, over."

That's when my wife tells me to take off my fucking captain Kirk shirt for the week.

"Take that stupid shirt off, Kirk. We've had our weekly tussle."

That stings.

I'm Picard. Not Kirk. She can really hurt me sometimes, you know? I'm sure she doesn't mean to, but ... sometimes I cry.

Tuesday, June 28, 2005

Blue Shirt Blues

Today has been unmade. It started with great plans. In my top-most drawer is a letter to Jenna. I have tried so hard for the pron addiction. God knows I have tried. I have watched 10 thousand hours of pron this month alone but it does not haunt me like it should. It is like a good friend who does not take but only gives and that is not addiction, no. That is friendship. Addiction should take more than it gives.

I believe it was the shirt. It was the shirt that fucked me, it must be said. There is no breast pocket. Where shall I keep my things? What am I without a breast pocket? I look down every four minutes but they never show up. They are gone. And no, it's not inside out. No, it's not.

Then I saw the woman who was going to outsource me--rightsource, rightsource, rightsource. She was immediately spottable. Hair nicely done, business suit polished, small suitcase trailing behind her. She was lovely but I recognized her as an axe immediately.

I made a note to seduce her and tried to put the note in the pocket of my left front breast and it fell to the ground.

I think the security guard saw me. I'm pretty sure she judged me. She's old and will die soon, but that doesn't help as much as you'd think.

All is undone.

Monday, June 27, 2005

Book Review Number 8 (Or how Oprah went down on me..again)

When I first saw the book, The Bonesetter's Daughter, I thought to myself...well, hello, Amy Tan. I have a bone you can set...if you know what I mean? And if you don't know what I mean, I mean the fuck bone. It's engorged and throbbing and needs to be set in the cast of a vagina.

So I picked it up and started reading it. It's very well written. The thoughts, the story, it's just very fucking boring. Yadda yadda yadda my mom is hard to deal with, my kids don't appreciate me, my job sucks. Well fuck you, Amy, welcome to reality. If you're not going to fix my fuck bone I want nothing to do with you.

Reading a well-written book that sucks is like getting a blow job from someone who talks through the whole thing. And my mother, this...*suck*...and then she said...*suck*...and the deal I got at K-Mart...*suck*...

Nevermind, just nevermind. I'll stick to drinking from now on.

Saturday, June 25, 2005

Happier Days

If I could be anyone from Happy Days it would probably be Ralph Mouth. He was so funny. The things he would say! He sure did have a mouth on him, didn't he? I especially liked it when he would say, you're such a Potsy, Potsy. Oh, I laughed at that.

But Potsy was pretty cool, too, in his own way. He was very sexy, too. Joanie had a secret crush on him, of course. We all knew it but not Potsy. Potsy was just a Potsy. I'll bet he's a computer programmer, by now. Like all of us.

Or maybe I would be Richie. He was also cute in his own way. Remember when he was talking to Pinkie Tuscadero and she had on her pink halter top and that short skirt, and she was straddling his waist and his pants were down to his ankles and he was shouting out, "Grind, bitch, grind, you go now or you don't go!"

That was a good episode.

But I would never be Fonzie. He turned out to be quite a pussy when things fell apart. Quite a pussy, indeed.

Thursday, June 23, 2005

Upscale Ho

If Ho ran a restaurant it would be the kind of place where women would feel very comfortable to be naked while they ate. It would be a very accommodating, very nice, very open and friendly place. There would be no boob grabbing allowed… unless that was something that a person wanted.

I would call it Ho’s Walk because I would constantly be walking around and mingling with my lovely clientele…and also because there would be a lot of whores walking around. Very classy whores, too.

The wait staff would be silent and professional… like ninjas but not wearing the ninja costume. In fact there would be only one waiter, fitness celebrity John Basedow.

John Basedow would not really be a waiter so much as just there as some dude that gave blow jobs. I really can’t stand that John Basedow prick.

It would be the kind of place that was vegetarian because women really dig that kind of sensitivity. Steaks would be served in the back for the men, of course.

I’d ask the Asian community to make my restaurant sign because I think that would encourage Asians to come into my place…and we all know how much I need to fuck more Asians.

The only bad thing about Asians is they really can’t spell. Sure, they’re good at math…oh, yes…but they have a lot to learn about spelling.

Thank you, Kirlin, for the picture. And the idea. And for writing this for me.

Wednesday, June 22, 2005

Roast my soul to a fine medium rare. I dare you.

remember the time
in 1976
when time seemed so kind?

So anyway, the Mormons have this quaint little thing where they baptise people after they're dead. It's kind of like a get out of jail free card.

Let's say you're Catholic and roasting in hell. Well, then along comes the posthumous baptism and BAM! Heaven. Sweet deal, no?

So that got me thinking... I got in touch with Satan and started selling off souls posthumously. I've gotten some sweet shit out of it. What did you get for a few souls you're probably wondering. Let me fucking elucidate.

1.) Six bjs from a sandy nun. On a Sunday. In the confessional. It was delightful.
2.) The promise that classic rock will die soon. This may have been a bad one because of the word soon. But if I hear Stairway to Heaven one more fucking time I'll go ballistic on old Satan. And I will, too.
3.) A good Krispy Kreme donut. I fancied that an imposibility, but I guess there's at least one out there.
4.) A diamond ring from a record machine priced at a dime fifteen. I sold it for beer money and a hand job.
5.) Sin and sunshine and salvation all rolled up into one. I'll see you in heaven--don't sell my soul or I'll haunt you like a sick bitch.

Excuse the spelling errors, I was high and horny and filled with a gentle wrath.

Tuesday, June 21, 2005

Gary Gygax got game

If I were Gary Gygax I certainly would not change my name to avoid all of the praise from the ladies.

Whenever I met a hot chick I would go up to them and say, "Hi, I'm Gary Gygax and you're too hot for this solar system--nay galaxy."

The words Gary Gygax would be emphasized with a rapid and obvious increase in pitch and tone and a marked increase++ of a squeeky voice.

If I sensed that they failed to recognize me I would drop subtle hints, "Your charisma is probably about an 18. I'd even say 19, but that's technically impossible unless you're a demi-god. Are you, a demi-god?"

Then I'd whip out the 20 sided die and roll for saving throw against scorn.

"My charisma is a bit low, of course, but my strength is probably and 18 (00). I can bend bars with a 40% chance of success."

"By now you probably realize that I invented D&D. I've been out of circulation for a few years but the Gygax is back!"

"My ex took most of the cash I made but I still got skills, baby. I'm still thinking of all kinds of games for the kids. Much like D&D but better."

"Wait, where you going? You're walking away from the G A double G Gygax Galacticus!"

You can't win them all, though.

Monday, June 20, 2005

Best Ass in the Galactic Senate

The first thing I would do as Galactic President of the Republic is round up all of those Sand People on Tattooine.

I would appeal to the senate for the safety of our settlers citing many notorious slaughters of at least one person. To the arguement that Sand People are easily frightened and usually run off causing no damage I will challenge, "What if your mother were killed by a Sand Person? Would you be so sanguine then? You're soft on crime, Senator."

After I received permission I would send down all of the Jedis and fight the Sand People until they were either dead or willing to relocate to reservations.

A lot of people will judge me harshly in the bright light of history, but I'd be doing it for the safety of the family, the security of our children and finally as a decisive check on unprovoked agression by a violent and terrificly course group of savages.

I would also rename Tattooine because it sounds so stupid. Planet Ho sounds so much better, but not Planet Hollywood, that just sucks.

Saturday, June 18, 2005


Well, I'd like to tell you that I hate to say it...I've sold out...but I don't hate to say it. I've been waiting to sell out since I started this little online diary.

Apparently, the powers that be over at Honda have been keeping up with my daily posts--and really, why wouldn't they? After all, both Dan Brown and Ken Follett are daily readers...

Anyway, they were a bit upset about my aspersion that all Hondas are gay-wagons. They have offered me huge sums of money to correct that statement and that's what I'm here to do.

I've received a statement from the marketing department at Honda and I am instructed to print it here. If it goes well, it may just become their full-time slogan and there may be more money in it for me, so here's hoping.

Honda--not just for homos, anymore.

I've also been instructed to let everyone know that Hyundai is really the homo brand. Actually, I think that's probably true.

Thursday, June 16, 2005

In a rare bind

I can't type long, I think I'm being watched. Tonight I realized that there's a great Homo Conspiracy.

Please pay close attention because I don't have much time to get the truth out.

For weeks I've noticed that whenever I drove by an Acura I got an increased urge to fuck a man in the bum. At first I wrote it off as an errant wim, a deviant desire, but after awhile I realized with some clarity that it was always when I was behind an Acura.

Today I pieced it together. I was behind an Accura and I was tempted to just ram my big, fat, strong car right into the back of the Accura--heterosexuality be damned! I was just going to plant my swollen car right into the back of that little car.

I somehow got ahold of myself. A firm, strong grip on my senses and I swerved around at the very last second. I looked in the Accura and there I saw them. Homos activating some kind of Homo beam. I'm pretty sure they were Homos because one was wearing a salmon colored shirt with pressed slacks and the other was wearing a pineapple print shirt with Bremuda shorts.

"Yep, homos." I said to myself. And aloud.

I followed them discretely and inspected their car after they got out. On the back I noticed the ubiquitous H. I always thought it stood for Honda. Not so. Upon closer inspection it was a Homo conversion device.

If you don't hear from me again, please contact the Hetero society. I'm just so worried that they're onto me. If you don't know how to get ahold of the Hetero might be in trouble yourself.

Wednesday, June 15, 2005

Bless me father for I have sinned

I have been criticised, in the past, for my bullish insistance on the missionary position. It is not because I prefer it to any other sexual position but rather it is because of my deep devotion to God.

What many people don't know about God is that his favorite position is the missionary position. In fact he liked it so well he insisted it be called, "Missionary"--people who really annoy the hell out of him but also people he finds necessary to promote his word.

There's nothing God dislikes as much as when he's watching reruns on tv when there's a knock at the door and a pack of missionaries are there trying to convert him. The irony.

A lot of people assume that God prefers the 69. Not so. Even with a few fingers shoved in the vagina or bumb would not make God prefer the 69. No, sir.

So when we make sweet sweet love and you want it from the back and I start to pray, please know that I'm praying for us. And I will hit it from the back, but it will cost me my soul one day.

I do it for us. I do it for you. I do it for Catholic. I do it for Jew.

Oh, and I'm also praying that I can hold on as long as you because sometimes the gun goes off even when the person holding the gun needs just a few more minutes.

Tuesday, June 14, 2005

Where in the world is AB?

Many people have asked me where AB went. I hate to be the bearer of bad news but he died over the weekend. Just kidding.

The real truth is that I was AB all along. I grew tired of updating 2 blogs so I got rid of one and I axed the obvious weak one. Again, false.

The real truth is that as we speak, AB is in Bloggers Anonymous--put there by his caring family and demanding job because of his inability to function unless he got at least 20 comments. I wish this were true...but it's not.

The real truth is that I won him from his wife in a poker game. She was down a shirt and a skirt and instead of throwing in the undergarments offered AB. I foolishly accepted and here we are. Him cooking my meals...quite badly..

The real truth...

A big fat dirty cunt (take that, google)

If I lose my memory, please reassure me that I was great.

Tell me that I was a king among gods and that everyone looked to me for beauty advice and fighting the savage hoards.

Tell me that with my left arm I slew the dragon that thrice weekly scorced the crops and with my right hand I killed the killer of sheep and shepherds.

Tell me I lay with scores of women and all wept to see me go, yet all knew that I had a different destiny than with them. Tell me my children look at me not as an absent father but as a man who had a higher duty to fulfill.

Tell me that I developed a time machine and my assistant foolishly went into the future too far and died and now I can't get it back.

Tell me I once had herpes but cured it with my own will.

Tell me all of these things and tell me that I gave it all up for nothing because it was nothing to me.

Tell me I've fallen on hard times recently.

Tell me I kind of suck, these days...that my left and right arms aren't nearly as strong and that my back hurts when I turn certain ways.

Tell me that I really wanted it that way. Really really really wanted it that way.

Finally, tell me that I lost my memory from auto-erotic asphyxiation because that would be the only thing that could bring Ho so low.

Song Play

There is this song that I used to really like... something about I've got some real estate here in my bag! About these two young lovers touring the United States--or somewhere--in a bus.

I was singing it to myself the other day when I ran across something that didn't quite fit.

Pass me a cigarette, I think there's one in my raincoat.
We smoked the last one an hour ago....

Wait, wait, wait, wait..what do you mean we smoked the last one an hour ago? I only had like one drag. You hogged the whole fucking thing. Now we're on a bus for the next god knows how long and we don't have any smokes. Plus I'm out of money, I spent all the damn money buying these tickets. You'll have to cough up for the next pack... and go easy on them, next time.

What do you mean I'll have to buy them? I don't have any money. I told you I was broke when we started this trip. This was all your idea. "Oh, let's get on a bus and drive around the country and just live." Bullshit. What happened to "real estate here in my bag?"

That was a metaphor! A metaphor! I was talking about how our love could survive anything because we have each other and these meagre belongings.

Well fuck that. I want off.

I hate you. Mother was right.

That...makes more sense to me, now that I think about it.

Sunday, June 12, 2005

A Virgin's Tale

Once...I was a virgin...long, long ago. Having never been face to face with a vagina, I had a clear ... let's call it a vision ... of what it would look like. It was round and hairy and.. well, let me just show you:

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Somehow I met a girl and we made sweet, sweet love. I was confused but not in a bad way. This was nothing to be afraid of...but I was not quite sure if the experience was as great as I had heard. I have drawn the emotion I felt:

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After the second and third time I was hooked. It was was great. The vagina was no longer a round black hole, but it was thinner and...well, not round at all. It was my friend and we went everywhere together. I was always looking for new ways to experience my new friend and all things were good. Slide three, please.

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Now I'm married and my fervor for vaginas has slackened not at all. I am the champion of vagination and the prince of hetero-eroticism. I feel as strongly, nay more strongly, that my place is in a vagina whenever the sun shines or moon waxes and wanes. actual contact with a vagina may have diminished. I try to say that with a modicum of understatement that only a picture will accent:

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Please enjoy the Monday. I know I will.



Saturday, June 11, 2005

Glaucoma by a nose

If I had a racehorse I would name her Glaucoma.

When after a random drug test it was discovered that Glaucoma had been smoking weed I would declare solemnly, "It's not just her name that's Glaucoma, but...she has glaucoma." The clever listener would note the catch in my voice and feel sympathy.

She would be cast out of competition even though she was the fastest horse ever born. I would be indignant. How can you suggest that weed is enhancing in any way, I would protest.

But laws are laws. People who need to enforce them can be sticklers in the extreme.

I would put her down myself. It would be for the best. A horse made to run who tragically has glaucoma and can't smoke weed is no horse.

I'd sell her carcass to the best dog food plant.

She'd want it that way.

A day at the store

I went to the store today and you'll never guess who I saw there. Dannielle. Isn't that the worst!!??

The aisles are narrow and I couldn't get past her. I couldn't sneak past her and she was all, hi how are you and i was all lolz--good.

Then she left. What a bitch.

Work is soooooo boring I can't wait until next weekend when we go to the lake.

Have you heard that new Dave Matthews CD? Someone told me he was from South Africa.

Anyway, I hope you are doing good. I am.

Friday, June 10, 2005

Friday Travel Report

Well, bad news. I just got back from Nogales, Mexico and they have no anal sex down there.

I asked every woman I met, "Tu quieres anal?" Which is Spanish for, "I will make sweet sweet anal love to you and you'll never have another like me."

Nothing. Not even a hint of recognition of lust. It was like trying to explain to an Eskimo what a volcano is.

I developed a new strategy...I broke out the old dictionary.

"Queiro ser en tu culo." Nothing. "Quiero SER en tu culo." Nada.

I'm afraid by this point in my trip I was shaken. I broke down. I fell to my knees and shouted out, "From whence the Dirty Sanchez if not Mexico? Oh, God, why do you make me chase this dream? Why?"

Turns out I should have been using Estar, not Ser. Ser is permanent. It is roughly analagous to, I want to be in your bum...forever. Which works for me, but.. women can be so picky.

Thursday, June 09, 2005

Victoria's Secret

My wife went out of town for a few days. As soon as I sensed her plane leave I went right out and poured gasoline in the plants. I hate to see things suffer.

Next I reached into the old magazine rack and perused through old copies of Mrs. Ho's clothes catalogues. I masturbated eight times in two hours.

The really great thing about clothes catalogues is that the women start out in the beginning of the magazine fully if you were on a date.

I introduce myself to the models and we have a good time, I buy them a nice meal and we have drinks. They dress up so well for our date and toward the end of the date I flip back toward the end of the magazine and there they are--in their panties.

It's then that I see the nice meal and drinks has paid off. I only wish clothes sellers would add those last few nude pages.

Wednesday, June 08, 2005

Book Review

Dear Ken Follett,

Words cannot describe how much I enjoyed Code to Zero. No, wait a minute, they can. Let's just say that if you ever come near my house I will beat you to death with a copy of Eye of the Needle--that's how much I enjoyed Code to Zero.

While reading it I kept looking at the cover to make sure I wasn't reading The Idiot's Guide to Being the Worst Fucking Spy in the Entire World. Sadly, it was always Code to Zero.

I got this copy from the library and I thank god every 12 seconds that I didn't pay one cent for this truly bad piece of fiction. But then I had an idea...I owe it to my fellow humanity ... I must destroy this book.

I immediately took it into the bathroom with me and produced the most terrible poop that ever was. I wiped my ass with every page in that book. After every wipe I was none the cleaner. I was puzzled and after two hundred pages I figured it out--the pages were made out of feces. Very clever, doctor, very clever.

Just kidding about the beating to death. But I would make you eat that shitty Code to Zero book.

Here, Kitty-Kitty

A sad thing happened this weekend. One of our cats ran away. We've had her for several years, she was a warm and comforting and friendly part of the family.

It's been a week since we have seen her and the kids were crying about it. I was crying too, just a little. Between solemn tears I figured it was important to soothe the kids because that's what dads do.

So much of the angst with a lost cat is that you don't know what happened to it. You worry and worry that it was hit by a car or just ran off.

"Kids, I saw an eagle swoop down and eat your cat. You should have taken better care of her."

My youngest asked me, "Do you think she's in heaven?"

"No, sweetie, you didn't love her enough. Plus she's Jewish."

Oh, sure...they cried some more but I think they felt better knowing what happened to Ruth.

Tuesday, June 07, 2005

I've been catching up on my cards and letters

Department of Menage a Trois
15 Dodge Street

Dear Sir/Madame--

First of all, thank you for the opportunity to be on the Menage a Trois wait list. I understand that there are a lot of people out there who want to experience the Menage a Trois and I am grateful that I am being considered instead of rejected out of hand like my friend Dave was. Good call on that Dave rejection, he's a real asshole.

I am responding to your questionnaire that you sent to me a few days ago about how to get off the wait list sooner. First of all, I did mention to my wife that I was interested in a Menage a Trois. Without going into too many details let's just consider that to be a closed avenue.

I really thought you had some good ideas about getting off of the wait list sooner but I think your suggestions are a little beyond what I'm willing to do at this point. A transsexual still kinda counts as a man and a hermaphrodite is... well, I'm not sure, but I don't think a hermaphrodite is a girl, so a threesome with those two I'd like to kind of keep on the back burner for now.

Finally, and I really hate to sound picky but I figure this is a once in a lifetime shot...No identical twins. I would totally screw up the names and that would be so embarrassing. And twins usually have similar starting names like Tami and Tonya or Suzanne and Sally. I just wouldn't be comfortable with that. If I shouted out, "Oh, yeah, Tami, that feels so good..." when it was Tonya I would never forgive myself.

Again, thanks for the consideration and I look forward to hearing from you. I think you will find me a candidate of unusual merit and deep, deep interest.

Monday, June 06, 2005

Suckass and Cuntface

If I were an evil Jedi my name would certainly be Darth Suckass. I would lay on the couch most of the day in relative darkness using the force to masturbate when my right and left hands get tired.

I would pop popcorn with that blue light that shoots out of the fingers, but I wouldn't overpop because if you do too much of that blue light shit, it really fucks with your face and I want to stay attractive for the ladies...even though I'd never go out to meet any.

If I did meet the ladies I'd be cool about it. I'd reach out my hand from underneath my robe and say, "Hi, I'm Darth Suckass. I'm naked under this robe and I know the force. Are you in?" How could that fail.

For an apprentice I would look for a hot chick in all of the comic book stores and trading card and coin shops, but I'd probly end up with some fat counter help dude with an extensive collection of Ricky Martin t-shirts. I'd name him Darth Cuntface.

At restarants I would use the force to think I tipped when I didn't. See how evil I would be? I'd drive everywhere too, just to make the crazy liberal Jedis mad. And I'd rub Ben Gay on my dong for protection against "Jedi Mind Tricks."

Finally, I would prepare three masks in case a good Jedi burns my face off.. which is really quite common with those pesky good Jedis. My favorite is the first but it's important to keep an open mind.

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Did I mention the scarab beetles had fat, hairy vaginas that bled small drops of blood with every step? They have six legs so that’s six small drops per…step. Did I further mention that they had small nubs on their backs that were giant clitori that buzzed when I licked them with my hot, hot tongue--buzzed until the buzzing sound was a tumult of ululation and lustful agony whereupon they sprayed ten thousand bug eggs into my mouth where I nurtured my love children in the cavernous warmth of my fecund cheeks until they hatched and I expectorated ten billion baby Ho bugs into the wilds of Egypt? Did I mention that? Did I mention I won the national Utah hackey sack championship in 87? Did I mention my prize was a 2-litre bottle of mountain dew?

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On Digital Cameras

How many scarab beetles have watched the pyramids rise from the sand? How many beetles have pushed along balls of poop, their small feet flicking small bits of sand on the faceless dune?

How many scarab beetles knew they were worshiped and how many knew when they weren’t? How many were caught by small hands while running, flipped on their backs and had their legs plucked off left to sit in the sun seeping bug guts as a failed experiment?

How many desiccated carapaces have dried and become just dust in that vast expanse of sand and history?

And how many tourists have smashed down the odd beetle as it ran from rock to rock—tourists armed with digital cameras taking quick pics of the long dead Egyptian tombs; and when they return home they will show the family and the friends a few of the pictures and they will remember that trip and will think of it keenly for a few days, and ever less so as the days go on until it will be the big trip eight years ago or the last, best trip, the one where I got so sick and you got so burned but weren’t they so nice there… weren’t they so nice.

And there the beetle, rolling a ball of dung up the hill and down the hill and over the legs of other beetles and into the past and well on into the past.

Friday, June 03, 2005

Asia Carerra is in my dreams of late

In some fine dining places veal is on the menu. I cannot eat baby cows. I know, I cows or adult cows, what's the difference, right?

Still. I kind of have a policy on not eating babies.

And then I thought...what about the Asians? They eat weird things. Fruit, things like that.

And then I thought...what is the Asian word for puppy? Is it veal? Is baby dog tender and more expensive than cow?

I'm off to tend to my profound hangover. I like my neighbors so well I may have to move.

Wednesday, June 01, 2005

I've been tagged and it hurts so good

Well, here it is...a list of things about Ho. I hope that the list of things entertain, shock, dismay and even make you cry a little--but not throw up in your mouth a little, no...not that.

It will be a long journey into the painful memories of history and the poignant dreams of Ho's future. It will be long and there may be vaginal blood along the way, I cannot promise there is no vaginal blood. I will not promise, no.

Ho's life is somehow ... drenched in vaginal blood. But I digress. This will be long and you may want to turn away right now. I wouldn't blame you.

The idea is that we write five things per heading. As we all know, Ho hates lists, so I'm going to write them as if they were ... free-form-rap ... but no rhyming.

10 Years Ago, I...
was touring around the country with the rock and roll band Asia. They were on their last legs and we played the diviest of joints. I was working my way through college and fighting off the unwelcome advances of all of those Asia fags.

"Ho, part of the job of a roadie is to suck a lot of dick." I was having none of that. I'd suck dick, sure, but not Asia dick. No, get me Van Halen, get me Quiet Riot, hell even bring in Judas Priest...but not Asia.

5 Years Ago, I...
was still stuck with those cunts from Asia. Let me tell you something..when you're desperate for a new job, people can really sense that. It all came to a head one night when Johnny Flames grabbed my ass. That was it, I was out of there. I packed up my suitcase and moved to Nebraska.

Yesterday, I...
had a small hangover and was somehow covered in vaginal blood... I'm not sure where it came from. The odd thing? It was on both elbows and my right knee... nowhere else. Like that movie Exorcist III when the devil guy collects the drops of blood into the little cups..remember that? Like that but on my elbows and knee.

Today, I...
masturbated at work several times in the stall in the men's room. At the height of ejaculation I shouted out the following phrase, "Oh, oh, oh my god, my dick's burning up with the fire of bad decision making."

I also had a bagel sandwich with onion, tomatoes, avacado, cream cheese and a liberal shake of lemon pepper.

Tomorrow, I will...
probably regret what I yelled out, yesterday. Tomorrow I will change what I shout out to something like, "The old testament calls the Jews the chosen people, but who wrote the old testament?" That will go over a lot better in Omaha, I'm thinking. Oh, sweet regret.

5 Snacks I Enjoy:
Ho does not snack. Snack is a word that the gays have created to make Ho gay. Ho eats meat every time he eats or never at all. Except the bagel. That was a rare exception and certainly not a snack.

5 Songs I Know all the Words to, Even Without the Music:
Every song in the Baptist and Mormon hymnal. I use this knowledge for evil, of course.

5 Things I Would Do With $100,000,000:
I would buy blogger and every time someone clicked next it would come to my blog. I would pretend shock at how popular I had become while secretly snickering at the confused bloggers. I'd promise to "get to the bottom of this" but that would be code for masturbating and spilling my seed onto the skin of baby seals.

Top 5 Locations I`d Like to Run Away To:
Ho does not run. Running is a gay conspiracy. Men should have guts, not rock hard abs and a good cardiovascular system. Men are for eating sausages and drinking Irish whiskey, that's what men are for.

5 Bad Habits I Have:
I don't believe any habits are inherently bad. But I do bite my toenails at work...that kind of creeps people out.

5 Things I like Doing:
There is only one thing that I can truly admit to enjoying. Sex. But I could describe at least five ways to enjoy sex..places, tools, etc. But I won't because I just don't feel like it right now.

5 Things I Would Never Wear:
one would be the scalp of a guilty man. never that. The other four in no particular order would have to be underwear, and that's it.

5 T.V. Shows I Like:
The better list is TV shows I don't like. Why don't you ask me that? Who cares what I like? It's hate that interesting, not fun. Fun sucks. Bring me a hate sandwich any day.

5 Movies I Like:
All pron, all titles I've long forgotten, though the devil in miss jones was pretty good.

5 Famous People I'd like to Meet:
Ho does not like people--especially famous people. Famous people are famous because they want to be famous and I cannot get behind that. Wanting to be rich, yes. Famous, no. I'd take money over fame any day. If I were famous I'd move to France and live by Johnny Depp.

5 Biggest Joys at the Moment:
Vaginal blood would have to top the list. I've been licking it from my elbow for the last little while and it seems to have magic properties. I think I've gained +1 Charisma and my Constitution seems strengthened as well. Time will tell.

Now then. 5 people to tag. I've decided to tag strangers -- it's kind of like I had sex with them without their knowledge. Thank you, RQ, for the chance to share. In no particular order...

Friend of the People

There is a website that is downright dedicated to the work of short fiction. I'm a big fan of it and as such I submitted a small work which didn't really fit here. Sure there's a penis in it and mad lovers racing for mad love... just was not quite right for legsakimbo. But I liked it well enough so I asked if they would print it and I'll be damned, but they did.

I'm working on a tag which has been taxing all of my capacities..perhaps I'll have it by tonight.

Love, Ho.

If you long to read the story..and really, who wouldn''s here.