Silk

Whenever I happen upon a dead body I always assume the person has been murdered. Does one usually drop dead out of sight and mind of others, waiting for me to come upon them? No. So when I was ambling through my favorite alley one day and came across a corpse that wasn't encrusted in filth and didn't have a knife embedded in the back I thought it somewhat strange. I started to nudge the body with my foot..."Were you poisoned? Yoo hoo? Were you poisoned?"

For some reason I was almost singing my query, and then I stopped and kind of laughed at myself, cause the person was dead and obviously couldn't hear my question. It was then I noticed that my gentle nudges had left a little blemish on the corpse's silk blouse. "My that will hurt the resale value," I thought. And as the rats twittered amidst the refuse surrounding us I let my mind wander back to that Japanese girl who said she would die if I did not return.

She loved me, but she loved her fried chicken more, and when I told her that after heading to KFC I was going straight to the racetrack she screamed, "No!"

There even seemed to be tears in her eyes when she yelled it. "You must come back!"

"But I'll miss some races that way."

"I want some fucking chicken so bad. And a biscuit." She clutched her belly through her silk shirt as though she was trying to prevent a parasite from burrowing through and escaping. "I feel like I'll die if you don't come back with some chicken for me."

I grimaced. "You won't really die though. Have some peanut butter."

She let forth such a horrible scream that I worried my parole officer would hear it, even though I had no idea if he was even in town. "I will fucking bludgeon you to death with this jar of Peter Pan if you don't come back. Please! Just tell me you'll return."

I looked at her. "That jar is plastic and its empty. You couldn't really bludgeon me with it. Feel how light it is."

She fingered the last remnants of the peanut butter and smeared it all over her lovely silk blouse. "You are doing this to me! You! My favorite silk blouse! You are making me do this!"

She was a wily one that Japanese chick. She knew how much I loved to lick peanut butter off of her nipples. "Hmm, maybe I'll come back. Don't ruin your blouse though, it's Christmas tomorrow and you have to wear that in the choir."

She knelt on the floor and clutched her breasts and nodded. "I'll take it off. I don't want no chicken grease on it either."

She was smart that Japanese chick.

I looked down at the body. I wondered if she had been smart too. Not smart enough to avoid dying in this alley I guess.

Good Times in Vegas!

I won a lot of money in Vegas one time...cock fights...seems I have a talent for spotting the cock with the most fire in its eye. Most people look at the belly or the claws, but I would go into the pens before the fight and take a deep look into the cock's eyes...wait until I saw that special glint that told me that that cock was a fucking killer. Then I would drug his opponent and bet a bundle on the killer cock to win.

So after one particularly bloody cock killing that netted me a small fortune I decided to spend it like a big shot, cause bouncing from buffet to buffet and shit ass strip club to low rent brothel just didn't carry the same thrill it once had. I guess all pleasure wears thin after awhile, like an oft used condom. I think Shakespeare said that, the faggot.

So as I lay in my suite's jacuzzi, my chest covered in Fluff, a whore passed out on the toilet, I thought it would be fun to engage in an act of deviance no one ever had before, not even well known reprobates like Nixon and Joan of Arc, the famous french sodomite.

So I woke up the whore by squirting Crest up her nose, (she got a big laugh out of that, good sense of humor on that broad), and I told her my plan. She was amenable once the finances were ironed out.

I gave her 1500 hundred bucks to marinate her hand in liquid heroin overnight, and at dawn, while I ate my cereal infused with Omega 3's, she promised to give me a vigorous handjob with her H imbued fist. Has anyone ever gotten a 1500 dollar handjob before? Maybe a world class fucking idiot or Kublai Khan, but I doubt it.

She was used to being strung out so she was keen to see how fucked up she could get dipping her fingers in heroin for 24 hours, and I was curious to see her choke my cock with a drug fueled fist. Should I have expected her to die?

What do I look like a doctor? Her limp fingers did eventually stiffen but I must conclude her handjob sure wasn't worth 1500 bucks. I rolled her into the tub and flushed, abandoning dreams of a post wack job blumpkin, and headed for the strip, hoping to catch the last act at Circus Circus before the swarms of white trash made that shithole a nightmare too horrific to enter.

Indian Love Song

I joined the lacrosse team cause deep down I'd always admired the Indian. Not the pacifist, bean-eating, cow worshiper, but the feather-wearing, face painted, tomahawk throwing, killer Indian. Who hasn't dreamed of taking a tomahawk to their enemy's head? Hurling it and watching it whistle through the forest til it strikes the exposed back of the trapper who dares to tread in your wood. Your squaw raping days are over white man!

During games reveries such as these made me somewhat of an ineffectual player, but I cared not. I would sometimes flip up my helmet mid game in order to expose my war painted face, daring an opponent to challenge me, so that I could destroy him.

I was relegated to the bench for much of the season, but a rash of injuries in the final game led to my insertion. The clouds were black and a downpour rendered the field sodden, but still we played. It was a big moment, but how was I to concentrate when the cheerleaders too were sodden, and their jumpers were drenched, and they were so spry. So very spry and sopping wet. I got so hungry on the field sometimes.

It was the dark haired one who inspired me. Her legs were spattered with mud under her skirt, though raindrops ran down her thighs. I imagined she was a maiden who would await for me after battle in our tee pee, hoping I would bring her home a fresh white man's scalp to garnish her meal of roast fox. Could she cook a fox well I wondered?

Perhaps my visions helped me to ignore the weather and wet ground. While the other players were slipping and struggling to move about in the slop, I was impervious to it. It helped too perhaps that I chose to find a quiet corner of the field to wait and think. Standing still and looking at the cheerleaders. They got so wet out there! I wondered if they were very cold.

They made me want to win more than the other boys I think. I bet the other boys regarded the contest as simply a game, and not the death struggle with a continent at stake as I did. I convinced myself that were our side to lose we would all be slaughtered and our women raped. Such thoughts made me play harder than the other boys.

Did I want to be disemboweled on the field and left to rot, my bleached bones eventually being carved into lacrosse sticks by those crafty white men who had murdered me? Did I want our pom pom wielding cheering squaws raped?

With but seconds remaining and the scored tied I finally took action, leaving my quiet spot and, with the driving rain impairing the vision of the officials, I speared an opponent in his groin with my stick unseen. His cowardly collapse allowed me to break free and score the winning tally. Heroism always did come naturally to me.

Later, in the warm confines of the locker room, the editor of the school paper approached to congratulate me. I cut off her putrid praise.

"Don't talk, your thoughts aren't worth listening to. I want you to note in your little paper that Jesus had nothing to do with my victory. That fucker is the god of the white man who oppresses my people. This war does not end with this victory. Not until i jam my lacrosse stick up Jesus' dainty ass and scalp his hippie fucking head will I truly consider myself a champion!"

Before she could respond with what would have been an undoubtedly insipid follow up question I began a war whoop, "Death to the white man and his oppressive god!"

She looked at me, seemingly puzzled. "Aren't you white?"

I nodded, but then called her a racist.

She slapped me.

I held my cheek with one hand and handed her a note with the other. "Another thing. I've written a little sonnet, like Hiawatha's song, to that cheerleader...you know the one...dark haired and mud on her thighs...I want you to put it in your little paper. Front page maybe. So she'll know I like her."

She took the note, crumpled it, and threw it in my face.

"That's pretty rude." I said.

Showbiz magic big time

I was a child actor, child porn actor...not film mind you, more of a stage show, which was tougher of course...hard to keep it up in front of a live audience...and you only got one take...even if you were bleeding...

My stage name was Wee Willie Fucker...which was kind of a misnomer, cause technically I didn't do any fucking, I was just sort of tossed on stage and fucked. My manager didn't like the sound of Wee Willie Fuckee though...said it made me sound Chinese or something.

I always found it funny when some of my fans would come backstage and find out my first name wasn't really Willie...I mean come on. You gotta be pretty fucking stupid to think that.

My part called for me to get tossed on stage...like a midget I guess...but I wasn't a midget I was just a little kid...I never really thought if I was violating child labor laws, and now that I think about it was probably rape...I mean I certainly wasn't willing...though I was paid...I guess that made me a whore in a way. I guess that was part of the appeal to me. There was also always a lot of candy backstage and that was pretty cool.

Looking back I'm not real proud of it...cause it wasn't a very good show...after the initial shock of throwing me onstage the lead actor, Franz Frankenfucker, (talk about a stupid fucking name...he wasn't even German), would just come out and say, "HERE COMES THE SHOW!" real fucking loud, and by show he meant his cock.

I thought it was a pretty arrogant move, but the audience always seemed to respond to it.

He would then just pull down my little shorts and fuck my ass...that's it..just would fuck me til he came...no jokes, no musical numbers, no real imagination of any kind. Simply put it lacked drama or intrigue.

Don't get me wrong i was dynamite...I mean I'm not gonna look back and get all modest. I was pretty fucking awesome in the role, not that it called for much except for being kind of a rag doll hole.

Still I'd say it was a lot tougher than what most child actors get praised for...like Shirley Temple...I think dancing around in a little sailor suit is a helluva lot easier than taking a cock in your ass on stage 6 nights a week and twice on Sunday.

I don't think she ever did anything like that...did she? If she did I'd probably be interested in seeing it.

If I could go back and do it all over again I probably wouldn't, or at least I would demand better candy backstage...and lube.

Always a Bright Side

Sometimes the sun does not shine and I make the mistake of venturing outdoors without the warm glow protecting me from the grey world and the cretins who inhabit it. Instead of palm trees bathed with golden rays I am forced to set my eyes upon people who who are not brown and beautiful, but pale and dingy and worn.

It especially revolts me to see homeless women wearing make up. What could be more ridiculous? Such views make my pancreas heave in revolt and the veins in my wrist bulge as if longing to be severed so as to end the ordeal that is life among such wretched refuse.

Did the Statue of Liberty really have any idea what she was asking for? I bet if she could see the teeming shit that washes up on the shores of my vision she would take her torch to it and set it alight.

It puzzles me to see the homeless on the bus. Is there a better box waiting for you at some distant stop? And just why are you wearing nail polish? Instead of putting make up on your body would your time not have been better served by taking your own life? Is there a Miss Homeless Pageant being held under a rotting bridge somewhere? I suspect you wouldn't win it anyway. Being homeless is no excuse for split ends madame.

I rarely make friends on the bus. It is no wonder I suppose. Sometimes I affect an Icelandic accent and throw peanuts at my fellow passengers, when not castigating them that is. Actually I'm not even sure if half the people I accost are homeless, or just have poor fashion sense.

Surely though a greater peril exists when I eschew the bus and choose to walk under grey skies, and allow urchins to steal my phone with the cunning ruse of a lost dog to lower my guard. They must have known I would ignore requests for assistance if only their well being were at stake. Could they somehow sense I cared not a bit for humanity?

However at mention of their dog being lost I was impelled to help, and moments after I lent the rogue my phone I watched them peel away, knowing I would never see or speak into that device again. It made my heart cry, and I was wistful, for the last call I had received on it was from my favorite prostitute, berating me for inquiring about her health, as if that was any of my fucking business.

My phone is gone and stolen, but I exist still, sound of mind and body, driven with longing but capable of enjoying sweetness when it comes to me again.

I think of my dog, and how I miss him so. He died of Aids, not HIV mind you, but full blown Aids. The vet never could explain to me how he even contracted the disease, but dared not insinuate that my whippet was a homosexual. He equivocated whenever I pressed him for answers, and to this day I do not know if they even make dog condoms.

The world is so ugly sometimes. When there is not sun and I am repulsed by the grotesque spectacle that is so much of life I long for a refuge. Not some ridiculous fanciful paradise where 72 most likely fat and ugly virgins await. There must be a reason why they are virgins no? And of course once you break them in they would get all clingy, and what kind of paradise is that?

Does heaven provide a sanctuary for a seeker such as me? A quiet hallowed place when one can escape the tumult and trouble of the surface life? A safe haven one can always turn to in troubled times, where one can find a secret, dark corner, imbibe an amber drink, and watch with a sly grin as your girl whirls and gyrates to drunken grunts amidst the murmured hum of the sports on the flickering screen and the drone of the DJ. I cast a furtive glance about my den and suck on the bottle. I close my eyes and see her now and all is well.

Your Destiny is Death

I was the valedictorian of my high school. Of course.

It was early in my existence that I learned the value of a well placed bribe. Do you think the high school nurse used rectal thermometers on all her students?

When my days there were dwindling I felt it my duty to impart some of my wisdom on the lesser lights I had the misfortune of sharing the halls with lo those many years. (Subsequently I would come to the conclusion that such wisdom was wasted on chattel destined for ignominious death, but I was a naive youth in many ways.) In the spirit of generosity I endeavored to become the valedictorian, so as to be able to deliver the farewell address to the cretins who so stained my formative years. It was most magnanimous of me, though I did selfishly take pleasure in knowing that I was depriving the long winded girl who, by study and hard work, had achieved grades that rightfully would have given her the honor. Lesson learned babycakes, effort is largely wasted, and cash conquers all.

I strode to the podium somewhat erect, not my posture mind you, but my penis, as my favored organ had a habit of spontaneously arousing in those days, as I was wont to spend idle moments dreaming of girls tawny and loose. How little has changed come to think of it.

Luckily my robes concealed what would have been a distraction from my words, and after casting a withering and dismissive glance at the "educator" who introduced me, I spat a hello to the assembled and began my address:

"Though I know that the majority of those present today are ignorant slobs, looking forward to nothing more than this evenings repast of fried food and shit on TV, I shall deign to attempt to enlighten you, with the hopes that perhaps one or two of my fellow graduates here today will take a word or two of what I say, and with it, glean some measure of happiness in the years of torment and futility that are sure to follow this humble ceremony.

This grotesque assembly of "teachers" sitting behind me spent four years inculcating your mind with crap and rote nonsense, whereas I, in one sentence, will deliver more insight than they have been able to give you in ten thousand. I quote Sophocles,

"O ye deathward going tribes of men! What do your lives mean except that they go to nothingness?"

Clap your slobbering jaws up for a moment to ponder that! You may thank me with your words later, and for some of your more attractive ladies you may thank me with your bodies, but for now truly grasp what I have told you. Did I waste your time with platitudes about the beauty of existence? With drivel about seizing the day and being all you can be? You cannot! Do you think you are special? Engaging in this pathetic ceremony as so many have before you, destined to live a little life and die one day, largely forgotten, your only impact to squeeze out another wretched person who will emulate you and too waste their days with petty struggles.

Oh there is no doubt that one or two of you are thinking you are special. You condemn your fellow classmates to obscurity but believe that you are destined for greatness. And perhaps you are! Perhaps a future Napoleon or Beethoven sits here before us. And so what? Do not worms crawl over their bones now? Any praise you have for them now brings them no joy, for they cannot hear it.

I urge you to abandon any idea of going to college. It is a waste of time. Think not of religion. Dear god I cannot believe in this day there exist people who still cling to such a ridiculous charade. If you wish to seize something let it be the juicy morsel of fruit nearest you, whether it be a succulent pineapple slice, or the heaving bosom of the girl in your math class who would not favor you with a glance all these years, though you let her copy your homework that time...

It was then that the microphone was seized from me, in a act of wanton rudeness. I was ushered from the stage with force, despite my protestations as valedictorian, and I launched my square graduation hat in protest, and achieved a measure of satisfaction when I saw its point strike an especially odious administrator in the groin.

Looking back I see that my words were wasted, and I would have been better served had I simply burned the building down, or skipped the ceremony entirely, and spent the day with someone brown and warm and soft.

Respect the bread

One time I was throwing pieces of bread at this Venezuelan chick's open mouth. It was night. The sea was illumined by the moon. All was right with the world for those few moments. What could intrude on such a little time of happiness?

If someone had answered a fat Turkish asshole I would have thought it a funny answer, but that actually was the right one. There she was laughing, soft rolled up pieces of bread bouncing off of her pretty face. She seemed kind of insane in that moment, truly crazy I mean. As if she had abandoned all hope of ever being satisfied and longed to forget about everything and just allow my bread to bounce off of her face as she stared at the ocean and giggled.

It was one of the more tender moments of my life.

I tossed the bread lightly into the air. Perhaps it was kissed by an ocean breeze before it descended and bounced off her cheek, or nose, or landed in her long dark hair. I never could put it in her mouth. She giggled weirdly each time it hit her face, but never more so than when a little bread ball caught her in the eye.

"Oww!" she said, in English. I wondered what she would have said had she spoken Spanish for that second. She was laughing as she said "Oww", and put her fingers to her face. I think she was truly happy in that moment, getting gently pelted with bread balls.

Suddenly the fat Turkish asshole appeared. I don't know about the lives of most people, or what situations one might find oneself in, but I don't think there exists a time or a place where a fat Turkish asshole's presence is a good thing. Maybe a buggerer's convention in Ankara. Do they have those?

He feigns being a gentleman and asks if the Latin chick is hurt. She giggles bizarrely in response and stares at the moon with a goofy smile, as if her mind was a thousand miles away. I wonder if she was dreaming of nutella. She liked sweet things that Venezuelan girl.

Next the fat Turk, who undoubtedly smelled, picked up a bread ball and hurled it at me. "Respect the bread!" he yelled.

I laughed. Not freakishly like the Venezuelan girl, but heartily, like some king who sees a peasant get crushed by a runaway cartload of pumpkins.

"What?" I was truly fucking incredulous.

"What are you doing? You have to respect the bread! You can't throw bread around."

I think it's rare when a person can pinpoint exactly, through all their years of life, and all the hundreds of thousands of words they've listened to, the absolute stupidest fucking thing they've ever heard uttered.

"That's the stupidest fucking thing I've ever heard." I said.

It was.

"You can't throw bread!" Asshole was getting angrier.

"Wait a minute, you just threw it."

"No I didn't."

But of course he had. Asshole was stupid as well as fat. "Yes you did. You just picked up a piece and threw it at me."

The Venezuelan girl had a contented far away glaze in her eyes. Was she on heroin?

I wondered.

The Turkish asshole was contrite for a moment. "Oh. I shouldn't have done that. That was a mistake. But look what you were doing with the bread...you're an asshole."

I didn't think he had a future as a lawyer. "She was throwing the bread too. Are you calling her an asshole?"

Fatty demurred. "No...she's not." He strained himself to concoct an excuse for his hypocrisy but his fatness failed him, and he simply changed the subject. "You were not raised right. You don't know you're supposed to respect the bread...blah blah blah fat Turkish things."

I really don't remember much of what he said after that. He was so greasy and stupid. I decided to tell him so as I was growing bored and the Venezuelan girl was in a stupor.

"Listen, you're really stupid. Seriously. You're a stupid person. I mean that. So you shouldn't talk. You really should just keep your mouth shut cause you're not very bright. You're saying some of the stupidest fucking things I've ever heard. Really. Stupid people like you should not talk."

For some reason he got upset at that. He mentioned the bible in some context but I wasn't really listening anymore. The girl from Uzbekistan showed up and started talking about the bible too. Whenever someone brings up the bible I usually drift off and start thinking about pussy.

The Venezuelan girl was funny. She looked good under that night sky, a palm frond tickling her shoulder. The sea breeze was blowing hair across her face and she was staring vacantly at a bread ball on the ground. I think she wanted to eat it.

Cream cream cream

You're most likely an idiot. Most people are you know, or don't know, cause you're stupid. Napoleon knew it. That is why he had no qualms about mowing your ancestors down with cannonballs. I don't care if your ancestors weren't from Europe, you're still most likely dumb.

Take the woman I saw in the mall today. She was laden with shopping bags, and she waddled from side to side, swaying to and fro, fat and happy with her purchases. A salesgirl stopped her in front of a cart and started to pitch some bullshit cream. I saw the woman's eyes widen as she listened to the pitch, widen in a way I didn't think possible unless someone were to wave a hamburger in front of her floppy face.

I took time out from ogling better looking broads to listen to the salesgirl. She scooped some cream and held it on her fingers, then gently pulled the fat woman's arm towards her, and started rubbing it into her elbow. Apparently it was some miracle cream from the banks of some faraway sea that would have a tremendous effect on this woman's elbows. The fat shopper was eating up the salesgirl's words as if they were chocolate covered candy drops. I could see the thoughts racing through her mind in her shining eyes. "I have always neglected my elbows haven't I?"

She was fat and in her 50s, and had probably churned out a kid or two. Who gave a fuck what her elbows looked like? Did she really think that elbow cream would have any positive influence on her life, or the lives of those around her? Would it improve her existence in the slightest?

I was shocked to see her buy the jar, and longed for something heavy to throw at her. As if that bullshit cream even worked. Even if it did, did she really expect anyone, anywhere, at any time, to offer any kind of complimentary words, "Hey Sue! Hmm is there something different about you? Did you have work done you rascal?"

"Well," she would demure, face aglow with pride.

"Did your...are your elbows different?"

"I got this cream..."

"I can fucking tell! Wow, those elbows look amazing! And here I thought you were old, fat and ugly, but now I see you have some dynamite fucking elbows."

"Only 65 bucks a jar."

"A bargain."

It reminds me of all those plutocrats like Cheney. They are old and close to death, but continue to employ honest graft to make millions more they'll never spend. To what end? I don't understand why they would waste their days, going from the golf course to the heart surgeon to the board room, engaging in shady deals so they can line their pockets with money they don't need, and then go home to their fat ugly wives. Is it worth it? At least develop a drug habit, or fuck an endless procession of young floozies, but to be so devoid of morality and to ceaselessly pursue wealth at the expense of justice just so you can wear the same blue suit as every other asshole you know and fuck a woman who is overweight, ugly, and indistinguishable from all the other wives of your fellow dumb-asses...it just doesn't make sense.

I can see why Cheney might have lashed out and shot a fellow asshole that time...he must have been so tired of his disgusting wife, and his closet full of dull suits. To think that he had worked his whole life, and amassed such a fortune, and been condemned as corrupt and immoral, all so he could occasionally hunt quail, or golf once in a while, and then go home to his unappealing spouse. I bet if he could do it over again he would be a truck driver, or a sanitation worker, or anything that wouldn't give him a succession of heart attacks and some dumpy broad that drives him to shoot his friend in the face.

No Fat Chicks in Heaven

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to hang out with Santa Claus. He must hate everybody. Looking down at us from the North Pole, a bunch of pathetic fools hoping he'll give them some toys once a year. I bet he has a great time the other 364 days a year. Just hanging out with his elves and fucking Mrs. Claus. Chillin with his reindeer. No one buggin him up there except maybe when a nuclear submarine floats by or some Norwegians get lost. I bet he just comes to deliver toys once a year so he can remind himself just how sad and stupid the bulk of humanity is, and maybe stare at some girls who sleep in the nude.

So I was thinking that when I saw the Salvation Army lady standing all by herself next to her bucket. She looked lonely so I went to talk to her, even though she wasn't dressed like Santa, and didn't even have a bell.

"Where's your Santa costume?" I asked.

She laughed. "Oh we don't do that anymore, but I do have the belly!"

I smiled. She was fat. "Yeah," I said.

She then stroked her chin, "I have a beard too. Ha ha!"

I looked closely, and sure as shit she had a downy white chin. Jesus fucking christ. I knew I should not have violated my rule of never conversing with any woman over 22.

She chuckled some more as I stood there astonished. "Got the beard and the belly!" She rubbed her belly in a happy circle. "I've had this belly for 40 years!"

I nodded at her. Why was she still talking to me?

"Ever since I had my daughter. Belly never went away after that. I exercised but my husband laughed at me, so I said, if you're going to laugh I'm not gonna exercise no more! Ha ha!"

I looked around for police or a passing psychiatrist. "That's tellin him."

"Ha ha! Yeah! A year later he left me."

"Oh."

"When I asked him why, he said, "you're fat"."

I noticed her bucket was empty. I wondered if she took all the money to buy booze. I would not have blamed her.

"Just me and my daughter now...and her asshole boyfriend."

"Oh."

"He calls me fat too. But I just tell him to go get a fucking job. He has a kid with my daughter you know. And she has a kid from another guy."

"Interesting."

"But not me, I'm through having kids and through with men."

"Yeah?"

"After I caught my last boyfriend sleeping with my sister, yeah. Ha ha! Real Jerry Springer moment huh?"

I wondered if I could kill her with one mighty blow from her bucket. She kept talking and my gaze went from her lips to her downy chin to her belly. I winced, and thought of Santa, probably looking at me and laughing, a hot little elf on his lap and some mutton in his beard. He was no fool that Santa.

It's a beautiful world

The thunder forced me to take the bus the other day, as I feared its comrade in destruction, lightning, would finally get its wish and strike me down. As the rain pelted the lumbering vehicle I sat and stared at my fellow passengers, who were the usual assortment of hideous humans I so despise. On this day in particular though, one fellow stood out. He seemed to me to be the ugliest person in the world. Of course I am referring to outer beauty, or lack thereof. On the inside he may have been beautiful, as if that mattered. No good deed he may have ever performed could make up for the hideousness that was his everything else.

I turned away from him in disgust, wishing a thunderbolt would blast open a bus window and vaporize him. Soon my eyes found the shaved head of another passenger, which was adorned with a tattoo of a hand grenade. I found him fascinating. He also had a tattoo of a fetus in a jar on his neck. Clearly he was an art lover. He was talking to himself and so I snapped out of my visual reverie to listen to his thoughts.

"Dick Cheney is the anti-christ, not me man."

It was then I realized that he was not talking to himself, but was in fact conversing with a little man holding a big cross, who returned his rebuke of Cheney with an accusation. "You are a sex demon!"

They both seemed to make good points. I was impressed. Usually the shouting matches on the bus are full or irrational nonsense, but these two gentlemen seemed to be well prepared to debate.

The guy with the skull grenade tattoo smiled wildly. "Listen Mr. Haiti Voodoo Priest. Cheney needs to go down man. If there was a Zapruder film of that asshole getting his brains blown apart I'd jerk off to it."

"Sex demon!"

Jacking off to assassination footage did seem to be evidence of a sex demon. I was going to say so when I noticed the ugliest man in the world begin to stir. It was his stop! I hoped his departure would lighten the mood, though I felt sorry for the raindrops that would soon have to alight on his disgusting form.

It must be tough to be a bus driver I thought. I would like to bar passengers for being so ugly. Even if he offered me a hundred dollars to ride I would close the door in his face, and then knowing I would probably be fired I would find the nearest pier and drive off of it. It is a good thing I did not become a bus driver.

These thoughts were interrupted when that fetus tattoo dude tapped me on the shoulder. "Hey man," he shook an opened bag of Doritos in my direction, "you want some bro?"

I longed for a knife. "I'd sooner eat a turd out of Hitler's ass."

He didn't seem to hear me.

"What?"

"Do you watch Top Chef chief?"

He seemed puzzled by my question.

"What are you talking about dude?"

"The only thing I want to eat on that show is Padma."

"Sex demon!" The voodoo priest with the big cross was shouting at us both now. "Two sex demons!"

I had a guava with me that I was planning on eating at the beach, but since the rain was not stopping and the beach was not to be I threw it at him. He tried to deflect it with his cross but I caught him right in his eye.

"Whoa." said tattoo guy.

The bus driver opened the doors and ordered me out, and though the bus was empty now save the tattoo dude and the voodoo priest, I knew that if there had been more people on board they would have cheered me. The raindrops seemed eager to wash over me, and I really did feel like a hero.

The Egg Came First, All Over the Face

I was 8 years old, holding a spoon with an egg on the end, standing on the grass and gazing at the sky wondering, is anybody ever right about anything? I spat onto the ground in disgust as I pondered yet another example of just how putrid and insipid the supposed knowledge of mankind was. Centuries of learning passed down over generations and there I stood, holding an egg and seething with contempt. As if the bible wasn't stupid enough, now I had oft used maxims to regard with scorn.

I looked at the winner, tossing his egg into the air in celebration as the race moderator placed the red ribbon of victory around his neck. How could this have happened? Just before the race began I called to mind the venerable aphorism, "Slow and steady wins the race", and of all races surely a race in which one must hold an egg on the edge of a small spoon would prove the soundness of that theory. And so when the order to commence was given I sauntered forth, slow and steady, mocking the competitors in front of me who foolishly dashed forward with eggs tottering.

Sure enough one by one they began to fall, eggs jolted by the frenzied rushes and reckless bounds, dropping from their precarious perches to the waiting grass below. I smiled as I ambled, wondering just how I would revel in the glory of my win, when to my dismay I noticed one boy far in front, with his egg seemingly secure. How could this be? Was he not flouting the wisdom of centuries?

It was with astonishment and revulsion that I saw him break the tape and exult, egg still atop his now glorious spoon, though he had been neither slow nor steady. My egg remained fixed atop my pathetic utensil, but my jaw dropped. The world had turned upside down and I stood there, immobile, and pondered this shattering blow to all I held dear. I looked down and saw a little caterpillar crawling over a green blade.

"Hey," I said to him. "Hurry up caterpillar. Slow and steady does not win the race. In fact it seems to be the precise opposite of what one needs. Speed wins." I gritted my teeth and clenched my spoon tighter.

I tilted my head to the sky and felt the sun on my face as I pondered this crushing defeat. Surely the necessity for speed is implied in the very name race itself! How could I have succumbed to such an obvious lie? Why would humankind conspire over the course of centuries to humiliate me so, looking so stupid, holding my egg, far from the finish line, a distant second?

Did the winner cheat? Did he hold his egg throughout the race with a wayward thumb? I took my egg and fired it at him, breaking into a broad smile when I saw it race through the air and strike true, cracking apart on his nose and splattering his face with yoke. It ran down his chin and dripped til it stained his ribbon of victory.

Soon they came. As they hauled me off the field with force I exulted. "Give me a bible to burn!"

In my haze of contemplation and fury I heard an adult admonish me. "You shouldn't have thrown that egg little boy! That's very poor sportsmanship! No one likes a sore loser!"

I looked at his face. I pinched my nose. He smelled.

"Aesop was a fraud," I murmured, and just when his eyes met mine with a quizzical expression I jabbed him in the throat with my spoon and ran into the woods, eschewing the useless slow and steady pace of losers, and embracing the unbridled speed of the champion.

My Den Mother Was a Communist

I was five when I lost my faith in man. I remember shuffling through the leaves, making them rustle and fly up into the brisk autumn air. I peeked inside my coat to see my cub scout shirt, but it made me sad, cause it was medal free.

I fingered the leaf in my hand. We were to press it at the den meeting, earn merit points or some such nonsense to get a merit badge, but I feared it would all be futile, as my communist den mother would not give out merit badges unless everyone in the group earned one.

Why was I tied to everyone? Was I not better? Was I not superior to the obese boy with the chronic wheeze? I was always shocked when he lived through each meeting. The other cubs would drink their soda and throw things at one another, while I would listen to the den mother drone on about her life in Georgia, not the hick redneck infested shithole down south Georgia, but the backward irradiated nothing in the former Soviet Union Georgia. She was happy to be in America now. She had lots of food. Her son was only mildly retarded. She got to be a den mother.

I watched the wheezy boy drink his cough syrup. It never worked. Why did he bother? He could not jump so we could earn no physical badges. I doubted he could even press a leaf. He was dragging our den down. She probably pretended to have us all advance at the same pace out of sympathy for him, but it was probably to protect her son, who was a spaz without the wheeze or the excuse of obesity.

One meeting when I was smoothing the edge of a Tomahawk I made she asked me what page of the cub scout handbook that was on.

I looked up at her slowly. "Communism doesn't work you know." I stuck my Tomahawk in my belt. "Mao was fat and stupid." I looked at the wheezy boy. "People are selfish and stupid."

She walked away from me and poured more soda for her stupid son.

The greater cub scout meetings were such a source of shame. All the other scouts from rival dens had uniforms adorned with medals and merit badges. Our troop may as well have been naked.

"How come you don't have any badges?" The other boys would ask.

I would grit my teeth. "Marx really didn't get it."

"Who's Marx? The fat kid?"

I stood in the pile of leaves and thumbed through my cub scout handbook. We were only on page 9, after months, it was ridiculous. I thumbed into the hundreds, past merit badges I knew I would never attain under her chains. Could there be a merit badge for murder? Could there be a merit badge for a coup d'etat? Was the cub scout founder so far-sighted as to see my plight, and reward the enterprising boy who overthrew his dawdling den mother and lead his troop to glory?

There was something about building a tent. And a compass. Then I hit the index and lost hope. I could hear the wheezy boy's gasping in the distance. I couldn't bear the thought of being at his funeral. My uniform so pathetic. I crumpled my leaf and cursed Lenin, dropping my book in the gutter and heading for home.

Death by Coconut

I saw a man on the television who had won the lottery the other day. He said he was going to keep his job. Why was he not immediately shot? Is that not what our government is for?

Others say things like were they to win they would eat steak three times a day. Are not such sentiments worthy of death?

I would not limit my diet to steak, but instead would spend my winnings on a wide variety of foods, and whores.

What if I were married of course? How unfortunate that would be. I'm glad I turned that Turkish girl down. She would have payed me to marry her too, but she was no longer in her teens, and that meant that when i was 60, she would be 58 or so, and that seems unpleasant. Would I want a 58 year old to watch over me as I approach death?

She didn't even own a camel farm. On my deathbed I'd like to be regaled with stories of camel races in days past, while gazing upon someone beautiful. I'd like my wife to move my deathbed to the sea, but I doubt such an old woman would have the strength for that, even if I slept on an air mattress and was emaciated with disease.

Hence my refusal to marry her. I need a strong woman, or at least one pretty enough to convince stronger people to carry me as I lay dying to the sea. With my last breaths I can cast my eyes to the sky and see the palm trees silhouetted against the deep blue expanse, the sun warming my body. I'd have some coconut milk brought to me by my young wife/concubine, who would smile at me, cause although she might miss me, soon she would inherit all I had.

Was I poisoned? It was worth it.

The milk is sweet on my tongue and I lick my lips as I gaze upon her brown skin dappled with ocean spray.

Jan Michael and the Nuns

I think I saw Jan Michael Vincent on the bus today. He looked tanned, rested and homeless. I'm pretty sure it was Jan Michael, as amazing as it seems to have a mega-legend like him on the bus. Maybe mega-legend is an overstatement, but I don't want to use the phrase washed up degenerate. He looked kind of filthy, but not so bad.

Come to think of it maybe it wasn't Jan Michael at all. Would baby jesus allow Jan Michael to fall so low as to ride the bus instead of being driven around in a Ferrari by some model who doesn't wear panties while she drives?

It reminds me of my high school yearbook quote. A lot of kids wrote something stupid like, "DRAFT BEER NOT SOLDIERS", or quoted some lame ass band, "Every rose has it's thorn...". I bet they looked back years later and thought, "Jesus I was so fucking lame. No wonder I had no friends and my parents got divorced and that kid hit me in the face with that brick. I could have put anything under my photo, and I picked something so unoriginal. Maybe I should have committed suicide as a sophomore after all."

Well I didn't want that to happen to me, so I made sure to pick something profound, and that would stand the test of time, and so I resorted to scripture. I was kind of busy when the deadline to submit quotes was coming around, as one of my neighbors was in the habit of sunbathing topless in her backyard, and so I just flipped open the bible and scribbled down a random quote.

"...behold now, I have two daughters, which have not known man, let me, I pray you, bring them out unto you, and do ye to them as is good in your eyes; only unto those men do nothing; for therefore came they under the shadow of my roof." Genesis 19: 7-8

I thought it looked kind of neat under my yearbook picture. Not that I believed in god or anything, that's pretty stupid, but I thought a bible quote was classy. My educators didn't think so, they were pretty upset and wanted to have me expelled, but how could they since I quoted the good book, even if the quote was about Lot wanting to pacify a bunch of dudes who wanted to sodomize angels, and he offered his virgin daughters to be raped instead.

It's a funny book the bible, after the controversy that surrounded my quote I actually went and read the next couple of pages of scripture, and found out that Lot's daughters got him drunk and took turns having sex with him until he impregnated them both.

The priests and nuns were kind of embarrassed when I asked questions about this.

They seemed upset when I said that I didn't think there really was a god either, cause I thought I'm not a god, but I could do a better job of making a world if I was.

"And how would you do that?"

"Well for one, you wouldn't be in it."

That was a pretty funny comeback, but man did it make those nuns and priests angry.

Pablo goes to rehab

I went to rehab today. I'm not addicted to anything, but I just felt like succeeding at something. So I walked in and sat on those crummy plastic chairs they had assembled an introduced myself. Everyone said, "Hi Sebastian!" back, real loud like. It felt kind of odd since my name isn't Sebastian, but I wasn't going to give that bunch of weak-willed degenerates my real name. The counselor, who was wearing a V-neck, and consequently immediately earned my distrust, started talking but I interrupted him cause I wanted to get home to watch Spanish television. I just started waving my hands wildly and saying I, "was gonna kick this shit cold!"

Everyone seemed real impressed at how fervent I was, and I can tell I was exuding confidence, even though I don't even know what "shit" I was referring too. A couple of the addicts even started to cry so I just stood up and yelled, "I'm kicking this shit! And it's because of your support brothers!"

I walked out hurriedly, vowing not to return til I was sure I would never foul my body with that shit again.

A week later I walked back in and they all fell silent and looked at me as I grabbed an empty chair and sat down. I smiled broadly..."kicked it everyone. No fucking problem."

They started to applaud and it made me feel awesome, and the counselor started to talk again but I put my hand up as if to say, "shut your fucking mouth asshole."

And I stood and looked down at my chair and said, "Now that I've kicked the shit that was doggin me, we should all do something about these chairs. These chairs are pretty crappy. We should get better chairs in here, even though I'm not coming back cause I've kicked my the shit that was holding me down. You addicts should have better chairs though."

They all looked at me and then one of the low-lifes said, "Yeah."

I walked over to him and pulled out a coupon from IKEA I had, thrusting it into his hand. "You be in charge...this gets you 10% off."

He stared at it as I walked away and then I stopped and said, "It expired 2 months ago, but if you start ballin' I'm sure they'll give it to you." I made for the door, "Hey, anyone know where the nearest Taco Bell is?"

The counselor started to give me directions but I gave him the finger and left.