Urination Nation

As I sit here, bored out of my skull, I’m penniless, drugless, and womanless. My mind keeps wandering back to the memories that refuse to die. I can do little else then sit here and cringe at those times that cemented my very being with disgust and repulsion. What to do? Why, the answers quite simple. I’ll have to share them with you all!

First off, let me explain something. I've always been a big fan of the act of urinating right after having an orgasm, whether it’s in a toilet or in some $20 crack whore's toothless maw. There's something primal about it, something very relaxing, and somewhat erotic at the same time to me. Hear me out. I'm a clean freak when it comes to personal hygiene. The thought of someone ELSE pissing all over me turns my stomach and if a significant other ever asked me to piss all over her on my or her bed, I would have to flat out refuse and maybe ask her if we could re-convene to the shower or bathtub. I'm all for exploring one's own sexual deviances but I need to be able to sleep it off in a nice clean bed, not one soaked in waste. While I've never had the opportunity to perform a golden shower on some poor hapless girlfriend, I must admit something though. Whenever I take a shower with a woman, I act innocently and start to caress her shoulders, maybe lather up her hair and give it a nice shampooing. I then move on to kissing the back of her neck and whispering sweet nothings into her ear. I then proceed to piss all over her ass, thighs, and back. Not out of some erotic perversion, mind you. It's the trickster in me, the coyote, the proverbial jester inside that makes me do it without her realizing it. And I laugh inside. Believe me, thinking about it right now is making me teary eyed. So to make it perfectly clear, I like to piss ON, not get PISSED on.

So the night in question took place a couple years ago when I sharing an apartment with 4 other friends. Anyone who has ever shared a place with more than ONE person knows that any sense of normalcy goes right out the fucking window when you add in 3 more people's opinions and nuances into the mix. One roommate in question, who I'll call Junior for the sake of his anonymity, had a penchant for getting extremely drunk and winding up pissing on things, all without realizing it. It's like he goes into some sort of booze-hound trance and his bladder takes over his mind, forcing him to give golden showers to anything that stands in his way. We've witnessed him piss on his guitar amp, the bathroom rug numerous times, the kitchen sink, a full-sized keg, some dude's leg during a concert and even inside of our refrigerator. Of course, afterwards, we’d all make him clean it right up but there's no stopping the boy when he needs to take a piss. But one night, he committed the ultimate act of free form pissing. God help him, he pissed on me.

I had just brought back a sweet, innocent (yeah, right) and fresh faced young woman whom I met on the boardwalk back to my place for a few drinks. While my apartment was never clean, you could always be guaranteed that it would be filled with booze and drugs. My roommates were already committed to the act of intoxication and welcomed her without open arms and lecherous eyes. She was a good sport, I'll give her that. She never once left my side, NOR did she run screaming out into the street begging for law enforcement to take us down. That's a keeper in my eyes. Junior was already 18 deep into a 24 pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon and I could see in his glazed eyes that SOMETHING was getting pissed on. I just didn't know what.

I finally take her into my room to show her my "collection of rare and priceless water-pipes" and proceed to get down to business. Needless to say, the sex wasn't very memorable. But hey, it was sex. So we start to pass out in each other's arms, and I must have been a bit TOO intoxicated because I forgot to lock my door. Now living with 4 other scumbags such as myself, you learn early on to lock your bedroom door at night for fear of being tea-bagged or, like in my case, getting pissed on by a drunken hillbilly. Now my bedroom sits right next to the bathroom, not the greatest architectural choice, but I didn't fucking build the damned thing so I learned how to deal with the ever present scent of ass that would emanate from it early in the morning after my roommates would empty their diseased bowels into the toilet after a night of hard drinking. So with my fist firmly and snuggly planted inside my my girl's cunt, I passed out for the night.

Like some terrible and carnal beast, Junior stumbled out of his room, his mind still sleeping but his body on beer fueled auto-pilot. Not bothering to put on any clothes, I guess somewhere in the deepest recesses of his mind, he felt it was ok to stumble out into the apartment buck assed naked. Hell, I've done it. Anyway, he drunkenly stumbles into my room, yet somehow NOT MAKING A FUCKING SOUND TO ALERT ME. Then he proceeds to stand next to my bed and piss all over me and the girl. I was so passed out, he could have shit in my eyes and I still wouldn't have woken up. He did his business on both of us, then gets into my bed and starts to snuggle up next to my urine soaked date. This wakes her up, she starts screaming bloody fucking murder! Junior wakes up in a fit of realization and starts screaming like a little girl jumping out of bed with his cock flailing about and still leaking piss all over the place. This finally wakes me up, and the stench of urine floods my nostrils and the girl proceeds to slap and punch the shit out of me, screaming "You fucking pervert! You fucker! Pervert! etc..etc....". Junior runs out of the room and into the bathroom, my date put her clothes on faster than anyone I've ever seen and runs out of my apartment. All the while, there I was, soaked in another man's urine, lip bloodied from being punched in it and my self-dignity...crushed

...and I didn't even have to pay for that.

An Ode To My Left Hand

The weather in New Jersey is a fickle bitch, which reminds me of my love life.

Afflicted with some sort of terminal bronchitis for the last week, an array of various causes were proposed by those who know my habit and habitat. Perhaps it was the massive amounts of blended Peruvian medicine powders I inhaled in the Nevada desert not too long ago. Or the hacking illness passed back and forth between my bartender and myself, not unlike that horrible pestilence of penicillin-resistant gonorrhea last spring when we inadvertently infected all the bar-whores with pus death. Myself, I blame the inclement climate of this desolate place, the only state in the Union where you can leave the house wearing Bermuda shorts and sunscreen, and walk home shivering in a spring blizzard.

No wonder all the people here are crazy.

And speaking of crazy, let’s get back to that love life I mentioned. Though many decades have passed since Sigmund Freud presented his psychological treatise, certain phrases have weathered well over time. Such as the fact that some unfortunate fellows are stuck in the Genital or Anal phase, doomed to spend long late night hours trying to fuck themselves. Other lucky ladies are still struggling in the Oral phase, sucking strange cocks under the neon lights the way quitters bum cigarettes. Oh, don’t mind me, I only do this when I drink. I haven’t had a dick in my mouth for nearly two weeks now. Quite alright, I say. Gladly, I feed their addiction, as they feed mine. But perhaps Freud’s most significant contribution to Head Medicine was the notion that all people short and tall are subconsciously attracted sexually to their parents, and actually seek out individuals with similar traits in pursuit of love.

Now it gets interesting.

Because while I’ve probed the depths of a few foreign fish holes in my time, the truly troubling relationships are those I’ve attempted to maintain longer than five minutes. As you good people know, I would never intend to disrespect any person or elected government official with my prose, as this is a very public place where many Sick Fucks spend quality leisure time. Therefore, should I say something off color like My ex-girfriend is a diseased siren cum dumpster with no logic or gag reflex, all I’m really trying to do is illustrate her shortcomings in the game of intimacy and compromise. However, never failing in hypocritical judgment of my adult life, nearly every female figure I’ve dated has received the red flag for one reason or another. In fact, I can’t think of a single girl in my life who wasn’t instantly despised and condemned to die for my mere acquaintance. And with just cause. Between the drunken she-devils, bipolar bitches, and cock-sucking cunts, I’ve scarcely had time to stand and zip my pants before tripping over another six-month travesty of arguments and broken dishes. In fact, my addictive involvement with head cases is so rampant; I can’t even stand next to a sane, grounded woman without going completely flaccid.

The first step to recovery is admitting the problem.

So I’ve turned my back on the bright lights of Vegas callgirls and shadows of New Orleans stripjoints, walking past the single mothers and codependent college girls on the way home to my most faithful lover. Because my true love doesn’t mind if I wake her in the wee hours with a bit of beer buzz. She doesn’t bitch about the dishes in the sink or my unrestrained profanity in public places. Never a word is spoken to the contrary of my wishes, as she exhibits only obedience without question. No questions about where I’ve been or where I’m going, always willing to perform that simple service in any toilet stall or crowded highway. In these selfish days of FCC regulation and the 30 second mpeg, I am hard pressed to find a more economical and timely satisfaction than that which the Good Lord placed at the end of my left arm.

And if any of you fuckers can figure out the psychological semblance between my hand and my dear mother, you be sure to drop me a line.

The Hormones In Beef Theory

Sorry it’s been a while since I’ve written anything descent for you sick fucks. The confines of New Jersey hath somewhat sapped my creativity. Why should I feel any better hanging out in some shithole state, than in an overrated stretch of beach in South America?

Maybe it was a safety issue.

New Jersey is boring. Geddy Lee was right when he said “the suburbs have no charms to soothe the restless dreams of youth” or maybe Jersey was just not dangerous enough to inspire a jaded New Yorker like myself.

Or is it?

One afternoon, a couple weeks ago, I went to my favorite taco shop right around the corner from my house. I see these two curvatious porn star-looking chicks walking toward me. They had tits hanging out everywhere, big asses, half shirts, heavy makeup, and I noticed that they are kind of checking me out…

“DAMN LOOK AT THESE SLUTS!” I think to myself and stroll into the taco stand. I wasn’t even finished saying, “I want three steak tacos and a whore-chata” when I noticed that the two girls who walked in are next behind me in line. I look around and see more girls, with more tits, all dressed slutty, and then I realized what was going on: It was 3’oclock, high school just got out HOLY FUCK! THESE GIRLS WERE ALL LIKE 13 YEARS OLD!

So I sit down at the table and my palms began to sweat. Maybe I should just get this food to go? I could feel the handcuffs forming around my wrist already. Maybe the judge would go easier on me if I just turned myself in now. I had to remain calm, calmly breathe, and try not let the blood flow from my brain to other bodily regions. But seriously…

Since when did the chicks in high school start looking this hot and slutty?!

I sit here at home chewing on a gnarly chuck of fried pork trotter pondering that very thought. Surely, foreign chicks didn’t grow up this fast. What was different here? The answer seemed to be right at my fingertips or maybe my tongue. You hear it a lot when you travel abroad, “If you want to find good meat you have to find a place that serves American beef.” That because the USA has the best agriculture system in the world. We give our cows hormones to grow up quicker; so we can kill them younger and fatter for juicer delicious meat products! Now, these nutrients are getting passed along to the youth culture and manifesting themselves in bubble-butts and bazonga-boobs!

I’d like to THANK the farmers for the hormones in the beef, which directly leads to the growth of teen boobies, but please have mercy…

Then I thought some more. How else was this influencing my life? Like, this past summer, I found myself at an Offspring concert…wait a fucking second…I hate The Offspring! Why was I going there? Because I knew there would be scantily clad sluts everywhere, but why did they keep coming up to me wanting for me to buy them beer! Holy Christ – I must repent now!

I’d like to WARN the farmers for the hormones in the beef – it makes underage girls look like 21 to me!

So now I’m back in Jersey at the taco stand, I see the little girls giggling when I’m not even through saying “Excuse me, I would like to get that food to go now!” when one of the girls approaches me…

“Me and my friend think that you are cute and you look like the guy from Limp Biscuit, hehe…”

“Yeah, the guy in Limp Biscuit wishes!” I thought to myself as I wandered off into a daydream about my future in a prison cell:

If I ever get out of here and paroled by 2022
I’m calling up my lawyer and were gonna sue
Burger King and McDonalds
For serving the beef that caused my crime
If teenage chicks didn’t look like that
I wouldn’t be sitting here doing time…

Before anything could happen I grabbed my tacos and got the fuck out of there. Sure, I had done the right thing -- but why would God give me the urges if I could not give in? Either way, the delicious beef we enjoy today does not come without its inherent dangers. I don’t want to join a new generation of filthy perverts getting cased up like R Kelly. Now, even as we speak, guys who were once young horn-dogs now will have daughters of their own and with the increased dosage of hormones to the cows; these girls will probably wind up looking like Jenna Jameson by the time they are nine – but, fuck it, I’ll have to admit that it does feel good to have a couple of way-too-young hotties on your jock…despite the legality.

To close, I guess it’s all good…

I’d like to THANK the farmers for the hormones in the beef – because hot young girls still want to have sex with a guy like me…

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to poop out that balloon full of heron that I just smuggled in!

The FCC Can Blow Me

Poised on the brink of becoming a Nazi-like babysitter, ready to punish us ALL for fear of...dear god no...hearing or seeing something "dirty", the Federal Communications Commission is now seeking to expand its powers to encompass pay-for-cable television, satellite radio, and yes, even the internet. Once thought to be an untouchable fairyland of beastiality, amputee porn, beheading videos, and the home of the Holy Grail of Free Entertainment, the FCC seeks to wrap its slimy moral tentacles over it all and make it "safe" and "wholesome". Fuck that shit. The REASON I frequent the internet is to get my daily dose of sick and perverted material. Without that comforting dose of perversion, I fear my sanity would slowly unravel and the only thing that would prevent me from walking into a Burger King armed with a 12 gauge is the comforting thought that the internet exist unhindered by censorship.

The national tone is becoming completely out of wack ever since Janet Jackson unleashed her 40 year old wrinkled raisinette onto the world at large during the StuporBowl. But personally, I don't feel the blame should land squarely on Janet's shoulders. No, the man (and I use that term loosely) who should be strung up and sodomized by the entire Carolina Panter's defense line-up is Justin Timberlake. If it wasn't for him, that son-of-a-bitch, if not for him and his desire to unleash Janet's chocolate flapjack to the world at large...then the FCC would still be a mockery of what it has become today. Ever since then, it seems that our very moral standings have reversed back to the days of the Puritans. One has to only listen to talk radio, where fear of even slipping up has gripped once mighty speakers of freedom with the insane urge to curb their tounges. All it takes is ONE fucking complaint...one little complaint and the FCC will investigate. Take for instance, the Veteran's Day debacle over "Saving Private Ryan".

"Saving Private Ryan"...how the fuck can anyone consider this truly patriotic and inspiring film about the sacrifice our very own troops made during D-Day? Well, one pussy ass did. And because of that person, a large number of ABC affiliates refused to play an uncut version of the film. It boggles the mind. Fuck, even PBS...the one station I wouldn't watch even if every other station dropped off the face of the earth and the only option for television entertainment was PBS or Lifetime? Damn right, I'd be watching Golden Girls on Lifetime. But even PBS had to heavily censor a documentary on a Puerto Rican poet for fear of the FCC cracking down on them. So all 14 of PBS's viewers had to go without hearing a few innocent expletives.

But soon the fight for freedom of speech and expression may be all for naught. A large majority of Republicans AND Democrats alike now are pushing for a more aggressive approach towards "cleaning" up what we read, what we see, and what we hear. I'm not going to sit here and try to put the blame on our current President and his administration, for that will only bring about more bullshit from their supporters. No, I blame YOU. I blame the majority of you fucks who sit back and let this type of censorship happen without batting an eye or getting in contact with your state's Congressmen and Senators and asking them "Why?". I don't blame the Moral Majority, NOR do I blame the fanatical Christian Right. I blame US. I blame the sick fucks and perverted freaks who just sit there and allow the afore-mentioned to fuck us right in the ass without so much as a handshake or lube.

What can we do? I certainly don't have the answers, people. I've tried, believe me, I've tried but my letters and phonecalls to my Congressmen go unanswered. And now with Conservative Republicans and the Christian Right dominating both State and Federal government, MY right to watch an amputee midget sucking a retarded donkey's cock will soon go the way of the dodo.

Furiously downloading as much fucked up porn as I can before it's too late,

Doing The Right Thing

Most of my “ex’s” are dead.

What’s this, another fumbled attempt at a witty remark? Sadly, no.

Unfortunately for me, it seems as though a tangible portion of my romantic life has been more than slightly dark (And, no, I’m not talking about your garden variety darkness here, I’m talking about “impenetrable shadows dwelling beneath hanging willows in neglected corners of forgotten cemeteries on moonless nights” dark. That’s a very dark, dark.)

Which brings me, in a roundabout way, to the issue at hand. The issue, which is…oh yeah! Me unburdening myself upon the masses simply for the sake of my own comfort. Here, here! (pardon me or something)

So here’s the thing:

I’m in love. I’ve been in love for several years now. The woman that I’m so completely enamored of is not, unfortunately, the woman that I’ve been romantically involved with for the past three years.

Hmmm…yeah, I know. Don’t make sense, eh? Well, sometimes the world finds us at our weakest. Sometimes dreams don’t completely coincide with opportunities. Sometimes loneliness gets a little too lonely to bear, or physical beauty encourages us to forgive too many shortcomings for far too long. Sometimes, sometimes, feh… Sometimes there’s simply no excuse for being a world-class prick or making a selfish (foolish) decision.

There are a lot of sometimes’ we’re wont to use when explaining away our failings, partner. There’s always one constant that you can count on however: At some point down the road, you’re most assuredly going to end up reaping what you’ve sown.


I’d like to briefly explain the progression of this horribly defunct relationship, though I’m well aware that I run the risk of offending you or, at the very least, diminishing your opinion of me (if such a thing is possible), with the details of my dalliance. You see, the relationship started out rather normally. I mean, there were the requisite romantic moments, the passionate and unbridled sex, the shy, glowing admiration of one another. I did, at least initially, hold out a very strong hope that our seemingly minor differences might work themselves out, leaving a purer, cleaner emotion behind. Maybe…love?

Of course, I was mistaken. I usually am. In all fairness, I should have known, however. All the signs were there. I mean, in the beginning there was the whole “being attacked” by the giant, apelike, formerly incarcerated for acts of violence, previously undisclosed, jealous boyfriend thing. Naturally, that progressed into the whole “police manhunt” thing, which ultimately culminated in the “going to ground” of the aforementioned yeti, and his subsequent lurking return lo these three years later. There was that. But hey, we all have our skeletons, don’t we?

Then, there was that whole “getting’ hauled off to jail for stealing eight grand from the workplace thing.” A lot of people might have soured to the relationship somewhere around there, I think. But, hey…forgive and forget, right?

It wasn’t the whole “scandalous affair” with the personal trainer that bugged my fucking eyes out of my head for the final time (although, admittedly, that came close), or even the suddenly developing need to “rush to the ER because I’m having abdominal pains” thing that started coming up more and more frequently as our relationship had begun to grind to a halt.

I even forced myself to be stoic through the unexpected development of her mood-swings, bouts of unrestrained shouting, and demeaning and abusive diatribe, offering my shoulder to cry on at the end of it all where many would’ve offered the back of their hand at the very beginning. Despite my inability to comprehend this strange reaction to my Christlike forgiveness of her past transgressions, it wasn’t this that finally broke me, either.

What finally quashed the relationship for me, I think, was my quiet realization that somewhere out there was a lady whom I loved; a lady whom I’d never been able to convince myself to stop loving after three long years of trying very hard to distract myself. We get one go through this world, you know? One spin. As you get older, there’re doubtlessly going to be some world-class regrets that cloud your quiet reminiscences. I really doubt that there’s a lot you can do to prevent that. Lord knows, it’s far too late for me to be trying to play cleanup. I’ve got a mess stretched out behind me that the superfund couldn’t make a dent in. But, lifting my head for a moment and looking at this…this crime I’d been committing against the two of us. I don’t know. I just couldn’t allow something this profound to cast its shadow over the remainder of my days. So, I left. I up and left just like that.

And that’s when the crop came in, baby. Boy, did it ever.

(And I know, I know…anyone out there who has any shred of character whatsoever is looking at this and thinking: “Jesus, you asshole. Where the fuck is your self-respect? I’d have been out of there at the first fuck-up. Whatsamatta you?”

Well, you’re right. I probably ought to have been. I could rationalize and tell you that I stayed because the good times were good, but although they were certainly good…I’d be lying. While no honest excuse exists for the aberrant mishandling of this relationship, I did have a reason. Underneath the thin patina of threatened loneliness that we all grow loathe to face as we age, down deep beneath the corpse of our mutual affection, dwelt a very real and profound love for a delicate little angel of a girl who I’d come to protect from all manner of hardship and threat in this pitiful world, and who’d come to regard me as her father…my paramour’s daughter.

Her, I love.

She really is all sunshine, smiles, and everything good that’s promised but seldom delivered in this harsh, usurious existence. To spend a day with her, playing and laughing at the park or at the beach, is to learn one’s place in this world. As the sunlight begins to fail and the twilight descends, she comes to me and falls into my lap seeking comfort from the chill or anything else that might threaten her fragile security. As we sit wordlessly and watch the sun fall into the west, her perception of me is as unshakable as Gibraltar, all solace, comfort, and love. And for a moment, and least, I’m beknighted by that. Her innocent trust inspires me to be the best man that I’m able, and in a world where the cruelest and most ruthless among us are often at the head of the pack, I guess I need that. I prostrate myself before that in the way that avowed heathens helplessly crash to their knees before the presence of the holy. To me, at least, it’s not surprising that I’d become so easily addicted to the presence of such a beautiful living argument against mankind’s rampant predaciousness. I’m getting older now and I don’t really seem to see that sort of thing so often anymore.

And, more than that, I never ever wanted to take that illusion away from her. I never wanted to be the reason that she’d come to lose faith in the enduring nature of the good things in this world or in the permanence of my love for her. But I guess some camels are weaker and some straws far heavier than they ought to have a right to be.)So, as I said, amid much shouting, raving, and crying…I left. I examined the situation as best as I was able and decided that leaving was the only right thing left to do. So, I excused myself from all the abuse and fallacy, and mustered the courage and resolve to finally walk away.

And here I sit, two days later, having just gotten the word that she’s found out that all those late night trips to the ER weren’t the result of ulcers, nerves, or anything else that I wish so desperately they were.

I guess the doctor who first saw her in the ER some months ago spotted a small adnexal cyst on her right side, but he thought it relatively normal and not worth following up, so he wrote the whole pain-thing off to stress. Well, today the CAT scan showed something a bit different. Whether the ultimate spread of the cancer might’ve been preventable had it been recognized for what it was or not is hard to say. I like to think that it wouldn’t have made a difference, but what the fuck does that matter anyway? I’m not the one with it scattered all through my organs now. I’m not the one who’s dying.

And, right now, the “right thing” doesn’t feel so very right at all.

Ol' Dead Bastard

It all started on Friday night. Jay arrived the night before and had already found a deep love for this fine smelling town. All that was left was for the night that would surely shock the world was for Paul to touch down at Newark International Airport. Little did we know Big Baby Jesus had less then twenty four hours left on this Earth.

I walked into the beat up motel room dressed in my finest linens (read: jeans and a t-shirt). After exchanging pleasantries with my long lost jew, we threw him into a motorcar and whisked him off to the land of the live nude women, better known as Nardone's (one of the sleaziest and yet pleasant "exotic dancer" establishments in Jersey City).

After sitting less than 7 feet from the man for the better part of a year, I can say with a degree of certainty that I know when he’s having a good time. The disgustingly pleasant look on Paul’s face as his shirt was opened and his jew-belly caressed by a legion of strippers was my first clue. I’d feel remised if I failed to tell how the visage of Paul and Jay surrounded by dozens of Jersey's finest mid-priced professional dancers moved me. It was as if I’d witnessed the second to last supper of Christ and his disciples and yea, oh yea, this penultimate supper was good.

I’d procured a dancer of my own, who’d scored some dank, and dipped for a while to fill my head with smoke in order to elevate my enjoyment of this already splendid evening. Interesting side note: when buying small sacks of weed here in Jersey City, the cellophane bag is sealed shut but it also ALWAYS includes 3 rolling papers. Had I thought of including means with which to smoke the lord’s giggle-weed years ago I could’ve cornered the market on customer satisfaction among drug addicts. Hell, here I was thinking that my buddy including a chip of hash in every quat (quarter-ounce) was cool.

But I digress…

I got back to the strip joint and Jay was at the bottom of a pile of dancers. I think he actually lost consciousness but it bothered him not. This man snapped out of it and wanted to dance again. Like a mighty super powered being from some long forgotten Marvel comic Jay burst forth from the dog-pile of strippers with the force of a god and yea, oh yea, he strutted his stuff on the dance-floor once more and put John Trevolta to dirty, arthritic shame. My man was doing splits, cartwheels, backspins, handspins, I even think I saw him do an elbow spin once and when he popped back on his feet to relish in the admiration of all those present….he made foul comments about everyone’s mother and took a bow.

The applause were thunderous.

It made me smile a wide and toothy smile to see my friend enjoying himself so well. But I had to find Paul and make sure he hadn’t partied himself to death like our most-loved member of The Wu was soon to accomplish.

I found Paul outstretched across two booths in the VIP section. His shirt was tied around his head like a turban and he was speaking in Aramaic. Many a fallen woman suckled upon his nipples and toes and I, high as a kitten, demanded that my stripper teach me Aramaic before we left. And so it began…

Rather, that’s when it all became cloudy and the drums and tambourines began echoing in my head. The world began to swirl and faces pierced the cloudy mist that surrounded me. Faces of the strippers, Jay, Nick the Dutch Lumberjack, Paul, the strippers again then Ol’Dirty Bastard. “Ol’ Dirty Bastard?” I remember asking aloud.

I woke up and found myself sprawled out on my own living room floor on my back looking up at the television. CNN was reporting that ODB was dead and I wasn’t quite sure if my trip from the previous night was over. I actually had to explain out loud to myself what was happening.

“You’re at home. You’re hung over as shit. You’re watching a CNN report upside-down about Ol’Dirty dying in a recording studio and it feels like you’ve soiled your pants at least twice...”

I guess Paul’s first 24 hours in Jersey could’ve gone worse.

I Am Not A Pimp

Ever since I was of the age to discover how my penis worked and where and where not I should stick it there's been two things in life I always wanted to be. One was being a writer, the other...a pimp. Obviously, the writer thing isn't working out too well. My grammar is atrocious, my form is akin to a retarded 4th grader on crack, and I can't even SPELL Spell-chehck. So maybe I could be a pimp? Well, I actually had the chance to meet up and have a few drinks with a real life pimp, Pooky Ladson...aka Big Pook, aka Big Nigga Figga the Pookman himself, aka...my new hero. I had come to meet Mr. Pooky a couple weeks ago while making the strip club rounds. I find going to the strip club at least once a month clears the mind (AND the wallet), allowing for all types of wonderful creative thoughts to make their way into that crack-addled brain of mine. What can I say? It's my very own personal form of meditation. So after meeting Pooky Ladson that night and getting shitfaced with him at the bar over shots of Old Crow, he actually agreed to do an interview with me...on one condition, no pictures of him, and he'd call me when he was ready to do it, which he said would be in a couple days.
So after waiting for about 3 weeks, the Pookster FINALLY calls me up, sounding high off his ass and wanting to meet up at one the skankiest strip clubs I've ever had the misfortune of spending money in. It was a typical "dirty south" strip-club...the kind where all they play is shitty rap, stretchmarks are the norm, and it's BYOB. But this place has something else going for it...it's behind a seafood restaurant, so when you pull up, the entire club smells like fish. Nothing like the sweet stench of rotten fish to get me in the mood for staring at pussy. Ugh. So I roll in, trying not to look TOO white, armed with my trusty mini-digital recorder, a pack of Newports, and a Black & Mild...just in case I had to make an offer of friendship to my new-found jedi master of pimpin'. He waved me over to the back of the club, looking less a pimp in his average clothes but still his swagger and demeanor shined through it all. Pooky Ladson is a big fucking black man, probably about 6'3", 320 pounds. He sat there, flanked by two of his "bitches" who also happened to work at said club (which I later discovered) and told me to sit down. I tried to give him what his kind call "dap", but like every other white man in the world I fumbled through the secret handshake like a kid with Cerebral Palsy trying to figure out a Rubiks Cube. His bottom row of teeth were capped in gold, and coupled with his forever bloodshot eyes, he looked strangely like a fat, black Jaws from "Moonraker". I offered him the Black & Mild, lit up a Newport, and the transcripts of the interview are as follows:

Me: *turning on recorder*....just gonna turn this thing on, and you just tell me when you're ready man. Ok?

Pooky: Yeah, yeah, let's go nigga...I ain't gots all night.

(on a side note, a black man called me "nigga". Ain't intergration grand?)

Me: Sure thing. I'm just going to ask you a couple questions, and if at any time you want me to turn off the mic, just so say, ok? (He nods and whispers into one of his bitches ears. She giggles and looks at me, making me feel wholey inadequate.) Uh, yeah so, what's your name man and how long have you been, uh, you know...a pimp?

Pooky: Sheet man, Pooky Ladson, son...aka BIG POOK! Aka that Big Nigga Figga the Pookman himself, son! Tell em' bitches.

Bitches: UmmHmmm.

Pooky: Yeah. Nigga, I been pimpin' since BIRTH, son, ya'kna'mean? Sheeeeeeet, bitches been comin' to me for inspiration and financial propagation before my ma'fuckin' black nuts dropped, that's my word. How long you been a fuckin' cracka'?

Me: Heh, I just started last week. (All three of them just stare at me) Oooof, so yeah, um, ok, so you've been doing this a long time then. How old are you?

Pooky: Thirty fo'.

Me: Cool. That's cool. Ok, how many girls do you...

Pooky: Bitches. These tricks you see here definitely AIN'T girls, son. I don't traffic in ma'fuckin' girls, I traffic in the game of bitches.

Me: Yeah, of course, I meant "bitches". So how many "bitches" you got under your wing right now?

Pooky: I got 28 ho's, from downtown King St. all the way to Spruill Ave. back to ma'fuckin' Broad St. And every motherfuckin' one of them, you damn well KNOW they goin' to get me MY money. I got em' working on the clock 24/7 son, rain or shine, snow, hail or sleet...my bitches goin' be WORKIN' that street! Ya'kna'mean? Haha! Tell em' bitches!

Bitches: MmmmHmmm...you right daddy.

Me: Which brings me to my next question, Pooky. How much do you charge for their services and what kind of cut do the girls...bitches, excuse me....the bitches get?

Pooky: Nigga, you must have me confused for a ma'fuckin' sucka, son. What kind of "cut" do MY bitches get? What kind of "cut"? Haha! The only ma'fuckin' "cut" those bitches get is when they don't fess up with the ma'fuckin' cheddar and I pull out my switch, bitch. Fuck that sheet, ya'kna'mean? That's MY ma'fuckin' money, those are MY ma'fuckin' dollars. That's MY shit. And they know that. See, I ain't no ma'fuckin' chili pimp, son. I KNOW the game. You give them an inch, they'll take a ma'fuckin' mile Johnny. It's like this, see? They pay ME to take care of their stankin' ass. Who else they got in life? Nobody. Mommy don't want them, Daddy done left a looooong time ago, ya'kna'mean? So I'm all they got. I take care of them. Clothes, food, drink, smoke, all that shit. A place to sleep. A place to shower and freshen' up and shit. I don't put limits on my bitches, son. They want some fancy shit? Fine, I'm a buy it for them, that's kool and the gang. But you damn know better they goin' be WORKIN' for that shit, ya'kna'mean?. Cause if a bitch ain't workin', or ma'fuckin' sleepin' on the job and shit, I'm a bust her head to the white meat cause I ain't got NO time for fuckin' games.

Me: Oh, I hear ya. So, like, what? Do you ever have to, you know..."put em' in line"?

Pooky: You fuckin' funny man. I like you, you my nigga. You mean, like "stomp a bitch"? Play "Whack-A-Ho"? Man, that's gorilla pimp shit, ya'kna'mean? Yeah, you know, if a bitch done fucked up or starts acting out a line, HELL yeah...you gotta put your foot in her ass. This shit's a game Johnny, it's all a game. See this shit? Quatrell, show this nigga my brand...

(One of the "bitches* stands up, turns around, bends over, and pulls up her mini-skirt. Tattooed right on her black as midnight left ass cheek it says "Pooky Made Man" in old english. Pooky grabs her ass cheek and gives it a jiggle)

Pooky: See this shit? That's MY shit. I OWN that shit. I known her since she was a fuckin' little raggamuffin runnin' around K-town, suckin' dick for change. Now I got her dressed in the finest linens and shit, her hair did all nice, smellin' like a million bucks, ya'kna'mean? Without Pooky, she'd be smokin' sherm somewhere, probably with about 10 fuckin' kids, living off of ma'fuckin' welfare. But she stuck with me now, and with that comes all kinds of fabulousness, ya'kna'mean?

(I was hesistant to tell Pooky that "fabulousness" isn't an actual word, but I'm not THAT dumb)

Me: So...you ever been locked up man? What about the girls?

Pooky: Me? Yeah, you know, back in the day and shit. Small shit. They ain't got shit on me, ya'kna'mean? And yeah, you know, Johnny fuckin' Five always scoopin' up the bitches...but thats what I'M there for, to make sure they don't STAY locked up. It's give and take, nigga. Poh-leece don't really give a fuck what niggas do. They just don't want us "savages" fuckin' runnin' wild and shit in front of the good, decent white folk, ya'kna'mean? But you know, every now and then, they get a bug up they ass trying to fill quotas or some shit. But it don't stick. Shit never does.

(I notice Pooky's gold pendant of Jesus Christ around his neck)

Me: Do you believe in Jesus Christ? Like, what I mean is, are you religious at all?

Pooky: Fuck yeah, I believe in ma'fuckin' Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ my nigga. What else black folk got? Nothin' but church and chicken, nigga...without that shit, ya'kna'mean, we just slaves. Shit, most folk STILL slaves, they just don't know it. White OR black, they STILL slaves. Jesus Christ frees you, nigga. THAT'S why I do what I do. Cause the fuckin' bible says, if a sinner dies confessin' his life and shit to Jesus Christ...he goin' be saved and live it up in heaven with the rest of his folk. So fuck yeah, you know? Why not smoke, why not drink, why not ma'fuckin' PIMP BITCHES? Ah-ha! Jesus Christ my nigga, ya'kna'mean?

Me: Eh...what are you gonna do, you know? I gotta couple more questio...

At this point, Pooky tells his bitches to go up and make some money, instead of "sittin' on your fat asses lookin all pretty and shit". He asks me if I have a blunt to smoke, I say no, and he calls me a "fuckin' bitch" and laughs his ass off, slapping me on the back. I still to this day, don't get the joke. He then tells me he's got to run and "take care of some bid'ness" so this interview is going to be cut short.

Me:...really, it's fine. How about you just say some parting words, you know? Like something inspirational or, I don't know, whatever the fuck you want to say dude.

Pooky: A'ight...(coughs, clears his throat)

...holla back nigga, if you want that GOOD pussy! Ah-ha! Stay white foo', you a good nigga, Johnny. And I'm out!

And with those parting words, Pooky Ladson left, stealing my lighter and cigarettes. Truly a man living the life of countless others before him, plying away in the second oldest profession in the world...a manager of the first oldest profession in the world. Can we really judge this man, though? Is what he does really a wrong thing? I know one thing for sure, though...none of YOU can, nor can I. I mean, seriously now, you're reading this on a fucking blog. Your morals just flew out the window the moment you got on my website. So I guess, what I really learned is that I definitely don't have the stomach to go out and start pimping "bitches". It seems to be a terrible life to lead, indeed. A pimp can never, EVER fall in love, and a life without love is a life without a soul, and my heart's just too big for that.

Ya'kna'mean?

Tuesday Was A Great Day

What a great day Tuesday was! A wonderful thing happened in our fine country. Nothing I have heard about in the last four years made me as happy as when I saw that Attorney General John Ashcroft was calling it quits!

How's that for a consolation prize for the anti-Dubbya folks? I'm not a flag-waving Bush fan, but I can handle another 4 years of him. The single biggest reason I voted against him was because of Ashcroft. People, if you don't know about this guy you should. There is no single person in this country that is scarier.

Lets look at this guy's history:

Johnny-boy grew up in Springfield, Missouri where his dad was a Pentecostal preacher. Ashcroft was raised in a VERY strict religious tradition and he started young writing and performing gospel songs. It's not surprising that as senator he proposed the "Human Life" amendment which would abolish abortion, even in cases of rape or incest. Further, it makes perfect sense that as Attorney General, he wrote inspiratational songs and forced his staff to sing them daily. It's not a surprise that his father anointed him with holy oil "in the manner of King David," when he took office.

Ashcroft learned all his "values" from Assembly of God: a ultra-conservative offshoot of Christianity that espouses such beliefs as:

- Christians should not socialize with non-Christians.
- "Sexually suggestive forms of media and entertainment" are dangerous.
- Mixed-gender dancing is a gateway to evil behavior.
- Homosexuality is an evil practice and spreads disease.
- Governments and their laws should be based on the words in the Christian bible.
- The Practice of speaking in tongues is a necessary to achieve salvation.

With an upbringing like that, who can blame the guy for being offended at the statue of Lady Liberty in the Justice Department's press room? That salicious slut surely must be trying to subvert our youth by, GASP, showing a bare nipple! I can see where this guy thinks he's working on a mandate from God Almighty. How else can he explain the fact that he became Attorney General because he lost his 2000 bid for re-election to US Senate to a DEAD MAN and was miraculously called up by Dubbya to run the Department of Justice?
The bottom line is that the guy far worse than some nut-job religious fanatic. He's extremely intelligent and absolutely dedicated to his beliefs. For the past four years he's led a brilliant attack on the porn industry. Back in the 80's the conservatives utilized obscenity charges to try and stop you fine folks from having something to jerk off to. For the most part, this failed miserably. Johnny-boy took a whole new approach and I must give him credit. He started off by going after child pornographers.
Of course, no one can argue against this action. But he utilized every conviction to paint a picture to the American public that these perverts' actions were representative of the entire porn industry. He waged and all-out Public Relations smear campaign against porn.
Not content with emptying out the wallets of lube manufacturing companies' shareholders, Johnny-boy found a new way to impose his beliefs on America: September, 11th 2001. Ashcroft played on the fears of terrorism to do more damage to individual's rights than we've ever seen in our history. It all began in November of 2001 he announced huge changes to the Justice Department. No more menial tasks like protecting the rights of US citizens, holding up federal law, or protecting consumers. "Defending our nation and defending the citizens of America against terrorist attacks is now our first and overriding priority," he said. He was in such a hurry to do this he didn't even consult with Dubbya about it. When questioned about whether or not Dubbya had signed off on this new focus for the Justice Department, he said "I don't want to say that the president and I have conferred about every aspect of this".
On October 24, 2001 the USA Patriot Act was born. Here are some new powers that Ashcroft got at the baby shower:

- The right to freely monitor the activities political and religious groups without a criminal pretext.
- New restrictions on open hearings and the public's right to receive information through the Freedom of Information Act.
- The ability to stamp down on the dangerous menace of librarians who tip off the media to federal subpoenas of borrowing records.
- Permission to monitor conversations between lawyers and suspects, on those increasingly rare occasions that suspects are allowed to have lawyers.
- The ability to detain Americans in prison indefinitely without trial or criminal charge.

And as if that's not scary enough, Johnny-boy had his crew working on the Patriot Act Jr: Domestic Security Enhancement Act of 2003. Check out the highlights in this little gem:

- Dramatically loosening restrictions on secret government surveillance of citizens, including on phones, e-mail and bank accounts.
- Adding a "deport at will" option allowing the Justice Department to circumvent inconvenient immigration laws.
- Expanding terrorism investigations to allow the Department to revoke the rights of anyone within about six degrees of separation of an actual terrorist act.
- Criminalizing the use of encrypted e-mail.
- Increasing the list of federal death-penalty crimes.
- Allowing the government to desecrate the graves of deceased victims of terrorism without permission from families.
- Restricting the public's and local government's access to information about corporate pollution and environmental crimes.

Here is the scary part, folks. We've given up so many rights. What have we gotten in exchange? How many convictions have we seen directly related to the September 11th attacks? ZERO. The guy that sold the fake ID's to the hijackers was convicted but he plead guilty. Richard Reid, the shoe bomber, also plead guilty. The so-called 20th hijacker, Zacarias Moussaoui, is representing himself. His trial has been indefinitely postponed because he called witnesses who are being held federal government (which will not let them communicate with the outside world but has NOT charged them with any crime.
It really does suck that the one politician in Washington who truly believes in what he's doing has such whacked-out beliefs. But the good news is he's calling it quits. In his resignation letter he said that "the demands of justice are both rewarding and depleting" and that the Justice Department would be well served "by new leadership and fresh inspiration." Lets just hope for someone better than Ashcroft. I doubt even Dubbya could fuck that one up. He'd be hard-pressed to find someone worse. Thankfully, now that the President doesn't have to worry about re-election maybe the Christian Coalition won't have as much sway over his personnel choices.

WWJD?

So Dubbya won. I'm no fan of Bush but at the same time I thought Kerry was a fucking wus. We should be proud. We as a people have perfected the art of choosing the lesser of two evils. Frankly, I'm not gonna bitch. I'm just glad that we had a clear winner this time and that there were no terrorist attacks trying to influence the election.

I was chatting with a buddy today and his theory on Dubbya winning because of fundamentalist Christians was pretty funny. Well, technically the funny part was his "solution to the fundamentalist Christian problem". Anyway, I'm not a religious person but it got me thinking. What if all this Christian stuff is truly accurate? What if Jesus Christ really is coming back? Worse, what if he already has? Honestly people, how many "nutjobs" are locked up in a loony bin somewhere right now because they swore they were the messiah? Seriously, what if our Lord and Savior is sitting right now in a padded room somewhere strapped down to a bed and dosed to the gills on lithium? Work with me like you're watching a movie: use temporary suspension of disbelief. Assume Jesus really was he son of God and really did come back to Earth tomorrow. What would it take in our jaded, cynical world to convince us that he really is the son of God? I've gotta bet that it's simply impossible.

"Hello my child, I am Jesus. I have returned to save your soul."
"Shut up asshole, I'm not giving you any money."
"No, it is I, the Son of God."
"Whatever man, I gave at the office."
"I do not need your money. I only want to spread the word of my father, the almighty God."
"Listen you crazy bastard, I've heard this a million times. You're going to have to turn water to wine or something if you want me to believe you. If you're really Jesus then perform a miracle!"
"Miracle? How else do you think you got re-elected?"

Heh, sorry couldn't resist. But you get he point. When I see people out on the street pimping their religions they're just being ignored or ridiculed. It's just second nature to think of them as quacks. Who can blame us? This chick in an old beat up VW bug broke down in front of our office a few months ago. Paul and I were about to start pushing her car across the street into the parking lot to get it out of the road when two hardcore bible thumpers walked up. I had to fuck with them. I couldn't resist. The best way I've found to infuriate this type of person is with calm and intelligent discourse. It drives them nuts. After a couple minutes I hit them up to help us help this woman get her car out of the street and into the parking lot. They said they would only do it if I prayed with them. I swear this is the actual conversation:

"So you're trying to blackmail me into praying with you?"
"Um, no. I just think you should pray with me."
"So you're not willing to help this woman? She's in need of a hand. Isn't that the Christian thing to do?"
"Why won't you pray with us?"
"Tell you what, if you're willing to help this lady out I'll stand here next to you with my eyes closed while you pray. How's that?"
"Will you actually pray?"
"Honestly, no, but it will look like I am."
"No, God will know. That won't work. I won't help you move the car. We have to go now."

So they left with me screaming/laughing at the top of my lungs "HYPOCRITE!" I couldn't resist. Honestly, this is my typical exposure to Christianity. Can you blame me for thinking these people are insane? That chick was so damn brainwashed I couldn't get her to concede that a fundamental tenet of her religion of choice was helping those in need. With experiences like this, what would I do if some guy came up to me and insisted he was Jesus. I'd ignore him. If he persisted, I'd tell him to fuck off. If he still persisted I'd either kick his ass or call the cops depending on the mood I was in. What would you do?
So the way I see it, if Christianity is right we're all going to hell. Either JC has already come back and we've locked him up or when he does come back we're going to lock him up. Either way we're fucked.
If I go before you, I'll be the one with the bellows stoking the fire...