King Of All Text

Well, I think it's safe to say to fans of this page, that I've pretty much conquered the world of prose as evidenced by my semi-weekly writings. So now I've decided to make a bold move and strike into the world of poetry. Poetry is pretty much a forgotten, almost useless form. It needs a shakeup. It needs a fresh new voice. And the poetry world should buckle up for what's coming down Keats Alley. Look out Poetry World, John is calling you out one verse at a time!

I enjoy the Japanese form of Haiku most. That's where the first line is 5 syllables, the middle line is 7, and the final line is 5 again. I don't know why this arbitrary sandwich of syllables is held in such high regard--perhaps it's the Japanese "420"--but you don't have to worry about rhyming anything and that makes all the intellegentsia think it's more important than regular rhyming poetry. "Rhyming? Oh, my. How base and childish. Haiku! Ah, no rhyming and from the mysterious Orient. Ahhhhh!"

So that's where I'll begin my astonishing, scorching path through the lyrical world. Here are some of my first Haikus. Print them, because first editions are unbelievably valuable on Ebay:

Oh, my thin sister!
Why is it that you don't eat?
I want to feed you.
My mother has a stash
If she does not share with me.
Down the steps she goes.

"Hello, Fred," I say.
"Yeeeess!" he says back to me. Yes?
What the fuck is that?

Looks like I mastered that faster than I expected. But what sets me apart from most is that I'm one frog that doesn't settle for the same old lily-pad. No, siree! I'm hopping to get to the next level...of achievement, not lily-pad....oh, whatever.

Now here is a little twist of my own I've put on the Haiku form. This may shock the purists, but that's in keeping with my shock poet image. Here now are some poems of mine written with the first line getting 7 syllables, the second line has 5, and the last line has 7 again. I call this innovation, 7/5/7 Haiku. And soon, so will the world.

Beauty pageant queens are all cunts.
It doesn't matter how nice
they seem, they are all just cunts.
Love my new email address.
The spam is all gone!
How will my cock get bigger?

I enjoy picking my nose
It feels really nice
Don't like it? That's your problem.

Up next, how to get advertising into poetry

The Wedding Eaters

Many moons ago, and a few continents past, I’d taken quite kindly to a new watering hole in the Philippines. Mind you, it takes quite a bit of atmosphere, a very large whore-quotient and beer that costs mere pennies for yours truly to belly up at a new establishment and feel at home. This new place, called The OT, had it all. They had live music, better than average bar food, it happened to be owned by a fellow American and of course it had its share of wackos with stories to tell.

I was moments from falling out of my chair, drunk as a weasel, when three guys dressed in tuxedos walked in and sat at a table behind me. They looked like they’d just come from a wedding but the look on their faces told a different story. They began speaking to one another and each one of them took turns breaking out in tears. Tears. Since I don’t speak Tagalog, I had to wait for them to leave before asking the waitress who served them drinks to tell me their story.

She was hesitant at first but after a bit of prodding she gave in. It turns out that the three of them had, in fact, just come from a wedding. A friend of a friend was getting married and they’d all spent the day at the church and then the reception. During the reception a friend of theirs accidentally brushed up against the brides butt and did not apologize. Instead he laughed then stumbled off to find the bar. Shortly thereafter the groom, the wife’s brother and father found the guy, took him out back, beat him to death with their bare hands and chopped up his remains. They cooked up the man’s body and mixed it with the food that was yet to be served to the wedding party.

No one else in the wedding party, or any of the guests, found out about what had happened to the food until after the festivities had concluded. The guys behind me were friends of the man who was beaten to death and they had eaten his remains like the rest of the guests.

Had I found any of this out before the three of them left, I would’ve asked if their buddy tasted like chicken. Then again, given the consequence of an accidental-ass-brushing, it’s probably a good thing that I didn’t.

Personal Ad From Hell

Being the perpetual sex-starved bachelor that I am, in the past I have even gone the route to search for random, indiscriminate lovin' from random, indiscriminate women through on-line personal ad sites. You know the type, the ones that either cruelly guarantee a "soulmate", or better yet, the kinds that promise of a quick encounter with an STD ridden single mother of four. Sadly though, none have ever worked for me. Sure, I get my fair play of cooze, but it's almost never anonymous and never that easy. Me getting laid requires a hell of a lot on my part, for am I neither good looking nor rich enough to get away with being the perverted ugly asshole that I am in public. And a lot of that involves copious amounts of alcohol, as many of my ex-girlfriends can attest to. Damn it people...I'm looking for some strange and I want it NOW. So if any of whores out there are interested, you know where to find me. Let's make some magic, bitches.

In an effort to send my desires out into the weird wide web, I submit to YOU, the horny bitches of the world, my very own personal ad. Right click save as, you filthy whores, cause an opportunity like this only comes once in a blue moon. That's right ladies. John is single, young, and willing to lick a fat chick's asshole or two for a night of awkward yet impassionate lovemaking. Check my very own Do-It-Yourself e-profile, it's teh sechzie! :0 w00t!

Personal Information

Name: John
Age: 26, give or take a few years
Weight: fat
Height: short
Penis size: same as weight and height
Sexual orientation: I like to bang chicks, I swears it!
Marital status: Hell no.
Which ethnicities describe you the best?: Greek
Political stance: Anarcho-liberal socialist scumbag
Smoker?: Three packs a day. *cough*
Drinker?: I only drink when I want to numb the pain of existence. Which is constantly.
Occupation: Shitty writer; Professional alcoholic; Drain on society
Religion: Taoism. Or Discordian...sometimes I get the two confused.
Have Children?: Depends on who you ask. I still say it ain't mine.
Want Children?: To go away? Yes.
What factors are most important to you when looking for a sexual partner?: First, and most importantly, my partner MUST have a vagina, preferably shaved and created at birth, NOT by some backalley Tijuana doctor. Secondly, she must realize that I'm a very sensitive and caring human being. So when I give you a black eye because you forgot to cook me dinner after a hard day's work down in the coal mine, it's because I love you. Third, you must be reasonably attractive; I like sex with the lights on. All STDs welcome.
The five things I could never do without:

1. Booze
2. Booze
3. Cigarettes
4. Amateur Japanese amputee fisting porn
5. Booze

Favorite sexual act: It's a toss up between the "Blumpkin" and the "Rusty Louie". One on hand, there is nothing, and I repeat NOTHING more relaxing than sitting on the toilet, taking a shit, and receiving a blowjob all at the same time. Take it from me, guys, it'll be the most memorable shit you ever took. But on the other hand, the sheer hilarity factor of pissing inside a loved one's ass, then plugging it all up with their own thumb and making them run to the bathroom so as not to get piss all over the bed cannot be understated. When you watch them waddle to the bathroom, thumb firmly planted into their pissy asshole, I don't care what anyone says. THAT'S fucking comedy. About my mate Smoker?: This is preferable, but only for purely selfish reasons. It just means more nicotine for me when I run out of cigarettes.
Drinker?: Also preferable. I like em' loose and sloppy, boozed up beyond the point of self-awareness. Besides, alcohol just makes ME seem funnier, and chicks love a guy with a sense of humor, right? Right?
Kids?: Hmmm...this one is a doozy. Now, I don't mind if you do have kids, it's just that, well, I hate them with a passion that almost matches my unbridled hatred for Haitians. So if you DO have kids, don't expect me to try and become a father figure to them. It just ain't gonna happen. Sure, I'll teach them the more important skills and lessons in life like ATM machine fraud, how to smoke freebase out of a broken light bulb, explaining to them what a "Rusty Louie" is, and the fine art of donkey punching, but don't expect anything more. Those are YOUR kids, not mine; no matter WHAT Child Protective Services says.
Anything else?: Yes. Like I said earlier, you must be well shaven. That includes both pussy AND upper lip. You must be willing tobe subjected tothe terrible and dark perversions that spring forth from my Caligulan desires, and you better enjoy it like the filthy whore I want you to be. Expect to get banged like we're the last two people on earth, then thrown to the gutter like a john's used rubber the next morning. Remember this ladies: I probably won't ever spend any money on you, nor will I probably ever take you "out", but what I will provide you with is a bruised cervix and a broken heart. C'mon. You know you want it, baby...

Thaidal Wave

PHUKET!

I'd like to give something to help those tsunami victims, but I've been played for a sucker too many times. It started back in the early 80's when I was touched by the Sally Struthers ads. I sent her a box of diet pills. She never got thinner.

I'll stick to what I know best: Giving advice and commentary, because I'm certain my monetary donation will be put down a sewer pipe to be sucked up by some bottom-feeding warlord or UN flunkie to be spent on teenage girls, black market oil and cocaine. I'd rather shell out some money to our military to take over the country and install a US government. We need to go over there and takeover several countries with Western sperm and know how.

It's not cold-hearted to read the lip we get from redistributionist schemers like this asshole from the UN and draw some conclusions:

The Bush administration yesterday pledged $15 million to Asian nations hit by a tsunami that has killed more than 122,500 people, although the United Nations' humanitarian-aid chief called the donation "stingy."
"The United States, at the president's direction, will be a leading partner in one of the most significant relief, rescue and recovery challenges that the world has ever known," said White House deputy press secretary Trent Duffy.
But U.N. Undersecretary-General for Humanitarian Affairs Jan Egeland suggested that the United States and other Western nations were being "stingy" with relief funds, saying there would be more available if taxes were raised.
The death toll still amazes me. No way any amount of money is going to make life there any better from now until the next disaster. Poverty and totalitarianism have metastasized there and only a takeover can end it. 120-something thousand people is now the latest estimate of the death toll and that sounds low after disease, mosquitos and stray animals go to work in the coming weeks. And the news media conveniently omits Stalin, Viet Cong, Mao Tse Tung, East Paki vs. West Paki in their accounting of worst human tragedies so that no one may detect a pattern and stop forking over their hard earned buck. It doesn't matter whether it's at the point of a weapon or tidal wave, that hemisphere really knows how to wipe out huge numbers of citizens.

San Francisco Earthquake, 1906: 3,000 deaths
Chinese Earthquake, 1976: 600,000 deaths

The pattern follows for virtually all comparable disasters in the western hemisphere and the eastern. Here's a translation of an article about the decision-making process from meteorological experts in Thailand as the tidal wave was about to hit:

Just minutes after the earthquake in the Indian Ocean on Sunday morning, Thailand's foremost meteorological experts were sitting together in a crisis meeting. But they decided not to warn about the tsunami "out of courtesy to the tourist industry", writes the Thailand daily newspaper The Nation.
The experts got the news around 8:00 am on Sunday morning local time. An hour later, the first massive wave struck. But the experts started to discuss the economic impacts when they were discussing if a tsunami warning should be made. The main argument against such a warning was that there have not been any floods in 300 years. Also, the experts believed the Indonesian island Sumatra would be a "cushion" for the southern coast of Thailand. The experts also had bad information; they thought the tremor was 8.1. A similar earthquake occurred in the same area in 2002 with no flooding at all. We finally decided not to do anything because the tourist season was in full swing. The hotels were 100% booked full. What if we issued a warning, which would have led to an evacuation, and nothing had happened. What would be the outcome? The tourist industry would be immediately hurt. Our department would not be able to endure a lawsuit...

OY!

Anyone who does decide to give money through Amazon.com and other sites funneling to the Red Cross and other relief agencies should at least be able to put a note with their money that says: "Last chance, dude. Get out of there before your government gets you killed." Living in those countries is like playing football without a helmet or pads. I'd rather invite someone over there to be my live-in than send money. Where are those agencies? Save the children? OK.

Songs In The Key Of Eh?

Long ago there was a song called "The Booty Up" and lo, it was good. This song sang about who can do the Booty Up and how you can do the Booty Up. It was melodic and it had a bit of a bump. It had the back beat from that song The Double-Dutch and it was witty, charming, ghetto and worthy of turning up. …And I cannot remember who the fuck sang it.

There’s a Saturday Night Live commercial on one of the networks here and in it they show clips of musical acts from the past year or so. In this montage they spent a bit of time on our favorite person named Marshall, Eminem. They stay on his performance long enough for him to get out the words “cum on your lips and some on your tits” from his ditty song Without Me. And I’m the only one who seems to have noticed.

I remember when I was living in the Phillipines, and I was asking my girl at the time (she was a local, they're easy, don't question it) if the song "Informer" by Snow ever made it over here. By title alone, the song was completely unfamiliar to her. Though when I sang the melody her jaw dropped open and she stared at me like I’d just shat a chocolate cat. Apparently everyone in that country thought that he was saying “Embalmer”. Yes, the entire country. I asked her if it ever occurred to her that none of the other lyrics support the song being about an “Embalmer” to which she replied an annoyed “No, Ameican music isn’t supposed to make any sense anyway.”

Following some time in Asia, I took leave to go back home (Mississippi at the time) and I found myself reorganizing my CDs and found a nugget of gold. In 1988 a go-go band in Washington D.C. recorded what is probably the most inspirational collection of measures and notes known to human kind. EU’s "Doing Da Butt" not only told of legendary doings of "Da Butt" but it also spoke of a new way of living.

“Ow! Sexy, sexy! There ain’t nothing wrong, if you want to do Da Butt all night long”

Again, no one in the Phillipines had a clue what the fuck I was talking about. These people didn’t know what they were missing and as the resident American I felt it my duty to force my way of thinking onto others.

Too bad "Doing Da Butt" was misinterpreted to sound like "Screwin My Butt".

The Year Of The Elephant

Sweet Jesus on a breadstick, this new year is already shaping up to look like one big ass fuck. Already, the collective dicks of the Federal Government are ready and primed to invade our tax paying butt holes with the upcoming Presidential Inauguration. Good Ol' Texas Boy Dubya plans on throwing the biggest kegger we done ever seen, and thumbing his nose at the rest of us who are just too damned poor to be invited.

Already, donors have supplied him with around $18 million for the party proceedings, which is fine when I think about it. They support him, and they have every right to throw away their money towards a party that will most likely end up with Dubya snorting lines of coke off of Jenna's tits while everyone else looks on in amazement at this incestual haberdashery. Someone's fallin' off the wagon, people, and I can't fucking wait to see the aftermath.

But the thing that squeezes my balls in a vice is the fact that the White House is INSISTING that Washington, DC subsidize the corporate cash financing Dubya's "little" shin-dig. According to one of the Capital Rags which suspiciously rhymes with Pashington Wost, Bush and his cronies are REFUSING to reimburse the District for most of the costs for next week's inauguration. Better yet, as if it isn't audacious enough to proclaim this, the White House wants the District's homeland security money to be used instead.

My mind is officially boggled.

Correct me if I'm wrong, folks, but since when has an administration in the past taken OUR money and used it to throw a lavish inauguration party DURING A TIME OF WAR? That's right. Never. FDR delivered a brief speech during his re-election inaugural party and got back to bombing those dastardly Nazi-Krauts into charred schnitzel. No party. No over-the-top giant chocolate pair of cowboy boots paid for with our tax dollars. And to top it off, it's money intended to protect our citizens from potential terrorists attacks.

So let me get this straight: We, the American taxpayers, have to pay for a party to which none of us regular folk are invited, that will most likely be the perfect target for a terrorist clusterfuck, using the money that would instead protect against that same fucking scenario? Have we suddenly slipped into Bizarro World and nobody told me? Now I could easily ignore all the political mishandlings that our leaders are thrusting up our asses, but you see, I'm a glutton for punishment. A political masochist, if you will, and I like to be in constant pain. Sure, I could just as well strike all that info from my memory, but it's just not in my nature. I get off on political unrest. While my friends prattle on and on about which Dixie Chick they'd like to cornhole, I'm the one boring them to death with the latest news of whatever political scum-fuckery happened to happen that day.

So in closing, let me just say I'm praying to Kali that something goes tragically awry while televising that inauguration, because watching our dictator squander our meager earnings on Bible-beating drunkards would be enough to strike me blind.

PS: I would cornhole the chubby one. She looks like she would be interested in that sort of thing.

Macho Man

Here's a cold hard fact that you must now chew and swallow: If you are reading this, you are not macho. Period. Case closed. Real men do not read anything other than Guns and Ammo, Sports Illustrated, or Shaved Beaver.

Do not mention Fire in the Belly. Do not clutch your copy of Iron John. Sit your soft little ass down and listen up. Understanding macho means that you don't possess it. I have proven myself to be the pussy that I am by writing this piece. (I'm wearing a powder blue cotton print shirt and peach panties as I type) Ernest Hemingway, you say? Wrong. Ernest lived a very macho life and wrote some very macho stories. But Ernest threw it all away by blowing his head off with a shotgun. Very unmacho. Real men do not commit suicide. Real men know just how much life sucks. Real men grit their teeth and take it bill after bill, war after war, tumor after tumor. You don't greet Death, you punch him in the throat repeatedly as he drags you away. I think John Wayne said it best when he said, "Fuck Death and the lung cancer he rode in on."

Macho is a very slippery thing. You don't read about it, you don't write about it, you don't even know the correct spelling of the word. In a vain attempt to keep some semblance of masculinity, I didn't research the roots of the word while writing this article, but I can only assume that "macho" comes from "machismo," which sounds a hell of a lot like machine. Being macho implies a tough, hard, block-like approach full of pistons and rods and axles and other big steel-type stuff.

It's hard to live by the old macho code these days. They've chipped away at it over the years, slowly but surely. Drinking has been reduced to a few beers or a couple of whiskeys, if that. Otherwise, your AA friends begin to stare across the table with that "I personally think you have a problem and that all alcohol should be banned so that I won't feel the urge to drink myself into a naked stupor but I'm not gonna say anything," look on their faces. No mess, no mauling, no mistress, no mass.

From time to time, people try to use macho as an image builder. Bush tries to make himself seem like a card-carrying Mace Club member. He's not. The last macho president we had was FDR. FDR, a man stricken by polio, stuck in a wheelchair, fighting the Nazis all the while smoking 3 & 1/2 packs a day. "The only thing we have to fear is fear itself!" Yeah, and staircases, of course. And soccer and dancing.

I think the death of macho is easily located on a very recent map. Sometime in the late '70s-right around the time the Village People released Macho Man and Barry Manilow sang Copacabana and Robby Benson was mewling his way into the hearts of teenage ultra-virgin, men made a serious mistake. We started TALKING to each other. We stopped punching each other and began discussing why we wanted to punch each other. I'll bet my right nut that if I had done some research, I would have found a dramatic decline in facial cuts and brain contusions starting in 1977. Now we're supposed to be sensitive. We are supposed to share our feelings and cry at funerals and care about our hair. We're, in short, supposed to be women. Hello, my name is Shirley. Touch me in the morning.

I believe in equal rights. I believe that women should get equal pay for equal jobs. I believe women should have control of their bodies and be in positions of power. I believe we should have the same size shoulder pads in our suits. But I also believe that men should be men and women should be, well, women. Women should be soft and smart and mysterious. And men should have their own tools. I pine for the sheer stupidity of the old macho days, when men would brandish hammers and build huge, bulky cars that sucked up gas and tore open the ozone layer and crushed small animals beneath totally useless but totally cool-looking tail fins. When men were apes with good shoes and a dental plan. John Wayne, John Huston, Bill Holden, Bob Mitchum, Clark Gable, Babe Ruth, Lee Marvin, Sam Peckinpah. Men who drank and fought and puked and ate raw meat right off the bone and drank some more and fought some more and puked again and kept on drinking. Men who died of massive heart attacks or sudden brain seizures or who just plain fucking blew up. Men who had cancer six or seven times. Men made out of leather.

My dad was one of these men. My dad once cut off his thumb with a power saw, duct-taped it back on, and drove himself to the hospital smoking a Camel un-filtered on the way. My dad's theory was simple: no pain. No fucking pain. My dad smoked 5 packs a day, worked 3 jobs 7 days a week, ate beef for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. One night in 1985, he ate a big steak dinner with a side order of bacon and extra steak fries. He ordered some coffee, sat back, lit up a cigarette, and exploded.

I don't wanna hear about Arnold Schwarzenegger. Even Arnold caved in. In Terminator 2, he was all of a sudden Mr. Caring Guy, protecting the kid and hoping the earth wouldn't end. Bullshit. There was even a sequence at the end of the movie where a huge truck full of flammable liquid tears down a highway for about 3 minutes and then doesn't blow up. A sign of the times if ever there was one. Every real man knows the 1 golden rule of macho movie making: if you see a truck onscreen, blow it up. In Thelma & Louise, the women saw a truck. What did they do? Susan Sarandon pulled out her gun and blew the truck way the fuck up. Another sign of the times. Arnold's tromping around praying for the earth to save itself and Ms. Davis and Ms. Sarandon are drinking and shooting and screwing their way all over the macho west. Citizen Kane? A masterpiece. But every real man knows it would have been better if a huge mack truck with the word "Rosebud" emblazoned on the trailer drove through the front gate of the mansion and then KAA-POWWWWW!

Another movie matter I'd like to get off my girly little chest: asses. Part of this new male code has men baring their butts onscreen the way women used to do. Mel Gibson, Kevin Costner, Michael Douglass, and of course, Arnold. Hey if I wanted to see Kevin Costner's ass, I would've married him. You never saw Bob Mitchum's ass. You will never see my ass on any screen but if you do, it will not be shaved. It will be hairy and hoary and very, very white.

Our macho movie idols have changed forever. No wonder they end up baring it all. Listen to the names--Mel, Kevin, Michael, Arnold. In the old days movie stars had real names: John, Bill, Duke, Buck, Chuck, Rip. Kevin sounds like your skinny Irish cousin with the big Coke bottle glasses and a heat rash; Mel, the guy in charge of aisle five at Woolworth's. ("Excuse me Mel, where are the light bulbs?")

It's getting very bad, boys. We don't blow up trucks anymore. Hell, we don't even drive trucks anymore. We drive simple little Japanese cars with air bags. In the old days we used to rip out the seat belts and fly through the windshield ready for action. "Thrown from the car." Remember that phrase in accident reports? Always the sign of a very macho driver.

We seem a little more sorry, a little more plump, a lot more ladylike around the edges. If you really want to reclaim your macho self, if you really want to be a macho, macho man, stop reading this article.

If you are still reading, you probably need a little more help. Forget Robert Bly or Fire in your Prostate. Don't go on a Male-Bonding Self-Discovery Weekend, which is just another term for "Circle Jerk" as far as I'm concerned. Here, instead, is a guide:

BALLS, A.K.A. COJONES: You should have several. Preferably brass or steel. Extra large.

CRYING: Never. Ever. Over anything. Not death in the family, not a bullet in the chest. You may tear up ever so slightly in one eye only when watching a favorite sports legend retire. You may tear up in both eyes only when kicked, accidentally or on purpose, in the COJONES.

KISSING: see "SPORTS"

HUGGING: see "SPORTS"

SPORTS: Once all men within reach are dressed in a team uniform, it is perfectly acceptable to kiss and hug and grab each other's ass. This is probably because all men are latent homosexuals and prefer male company to female company. But if some guy points out this fact to you, punch him directly in the throat. (Optional retorts: "Prefer this!" or "Fuck You!" or "Shut the fuck up!")

HEALTH: Never go to the hospital or visit a doctor. If you have a stroke, keep drinking and act like you prefer to use only one side of your body. If you cut off a limb while using a power tool...so what? That's why there's duct tape and staple guns. If someone tries to drive you to the hospital after a heart attack or maiming, punch him in the throat. (Optional retorts: "Drive This!" or "Fuck you!" or "Shut the fuck up!")

DIET: Meat, cigarettes, meat, booze, meat, and coffee. In case of aneurysm or alcohol-induced coma, see "HEALTH."

FIGHTING: At all times, over anything. Never hit a woman. Or a child. Or a bus. Never hit a priest until he takes off his collar. (If it's the pope, wait until he removes the large hat.) Clergy will often provoke a punch in the throat with their "violence doesn't prove anything" pontifications. (Optional retorts: "Prove this!" or "Fuck you Father!" or "Shut the fuck up, Padre!")

DRINKING: No falling down. No puking...unless to empty the stomach in order to continue drinking. No slurring of words. Tell a few war stories: "See that scar? I was in 'Nam and I ate a grenade and it blew up in my colon". If your aim is off due to alcohol, it's acceptable to punch someone in the head or solar plexus.

SEX: You're probably too drunk or just plain stupid to even get it up, but pretend you get a lot, i.e. "You should've seen me last night, blah, blah, blah, blah."

Absorb this info and you should be on your way. If you have any further questions, call 1-800-COJONES. Remember: We're men. Big, boxy, sweaty, ignorant men. We have penises. Well, we used to have penises.

It's about time we got them back.

The Cosmic Bitch Slap

OK, fine...I'll admit it. Behind this carefully constructed veneer of indifference and coldly calculating pimp mackery, my heart still stings from romance gone sour. Dare I say it here in this of all places, but as the days become weeks, and the weeks stretch out into months, I find myself still longing for HER. She invades my dreams like a phantom succubus, echoes of her laughter catching me off guard at times, and the lovely stink of her musk wafts in and out when I lay my head down to sleep. To be perfectly honest, it's quite disheartening, especially when I'm out trolling the bars for a random whore to spray my cock shaft with her quim for the night. This kind of longing makes that kind of thing sort of disheartening. Hence my penchant for actual prostitutes.

I've always prided myself on being able to distance myself both emotionally and physically from past "conquests", for lack of a better term. Women before and, regrettably, after HER, have always bored me; mere pleasures of the flesh offering me no emotional growth. More oft then not, they've amounted to long-term escorts, like prostitutes on lease with the option to buy...i.e. marriage. So I quickly learned to play the Game. Say the right things. Offer a cold hand under the guise of a comforting touch. I was never bothered when we would part ways, the majority of the time on my own insistance. And when I was the being dumped...well, I've never been dumped. I always chalked it up as the great proverbial "It's her, not me," mantra we repeat so often in the face of rejection. Show me one man who hasn't repeated to himself, "Fuck, that bitch was KER-RAZY! Thank god she's out of my life now. Well, time to hit the titty bar!" and I'll show you a virgin. Or a fag. So why must this one continue to haunt me so?

We met under the strangest circumstances. She, a young gypsy hitchhiking her way across the states, unable to be chained down and fiending for her next fix of any kind of experience. Me, the anti-social deviant you've all come to know and love. A chance meeting at a bar, the offer to sit down and drink, and maybe it was overwhelming indifference to her blatant flirting, but by the time the bartender made Last Call...she was mine. We drunkenly rampaged through Walmart at 3 in the morning, looking for a box of Trojans to pilfer. We ran down the aisles singing Irish drinking melodies that I didn't really know the words to and screaming obscenities at the underpaid worker zombies stocking the aisles, finally getting escorted out of the store because they witnessed the most horrible sight they could possible imagine...me chasing her down the toy aisle with my cock out, armed with a Super Soaker. We groped each other in my car while downing warm beer, even as the police pulled me over for running a red light, drunk off my ass and still getting away with just a warning. And we fucked. A savage, filthy, animalistic first fuck. Punk fucking rock, by God, and that's really the only way to describe it. Two drunken tattooed anarchists fucking to the sounds of the Clockwork Orange soundtrack. I never once so reveled in the fact that I was sticking my dick in a dirty gutter punk, but by the beard of Odin...it felt damned good.

The next morning, amidst the soiled sheets, empty Steel Reserve cans, bloody lower lips, and scratchmarks gouged into both of our backs like tantric war-paint, we talked about whatever interesting subject our post-coital minds could conceive. Our pasts, our presents, our futures, fears, wishes, wants, and desires, and for the first time, I never had to feign interest. Life at that moment was so blissful, that when she told me she would be moving on in the next couple days, I just sort of accepted it by flipping her over on her belly and fucking the day away. Those days were gone in the blink of my cock stroke, and when it came time for her to leave, there was nothing I could do to stop her. She just looked back at me as I dropped her off at the bus station, and I saw in her eyes that this was just old hat to her. She had played me like I had done to so many before her. Like a Dianic devotee stalking the fields of Elysium, she was the eternal wanderer, hunting down her next prey in the form of a warm bed, leaving ME here, with you rotten people, wanting more.

Perhaps it's a lesson for me to learn, or maybe, just maybe, it was a punishment for all the times I so callously did the same to the women before her. I don't know, after all, I am just a man.

A man with a gigantic cock, but a man nonetheless.

Flying First Class With God

Like the rest of my office, I've been doing some pretty serious globe-trotting as of late, from barely escaping the tsunami in the Far East, to Vegas where Slayer rained blood on the Blue Man Group until they resembled four used tampons. I stopped briefly in the City of Angels before making my way back to Panama to the first annual Cocaine Olympics, in which a pair of two-man teams will be pitted against one another. The duo who first inhales of a half ounce of boogersugar shall win the Gold Medal and earn free plastic surgery to repair a deviated septum. Any team member having a heart attack or stroke results in immediate disqualification. Now I know what you are thinking, amateurs and professionals alike: That doesn't even sound like fun.

Of course not. It's competition. It's not supposed to be fun.

After the finals, we're off to the porn convention. I know - it's a tough life.

One thing I have realized departing all of these locales in various states of discombobulation is that the only way to travel is First Class. It's nice not to have your knees pressed into your face like you just got stuffed in the back of a cop car, or having motherfuckers sneezing bird flu in every direction, or have annoying kids screaming and whining all around. To me, flying First Class should be a period to convalesce between punishing your mind, liver, and soul in one city before the next venue.

ONE THING FIRST CLASS ISN'T, HOWEVER, IS A PLACE TO TAKE YOUR FAT ASS AND YOUR FAT WHINING KIDS THAT FLY FOR FREE SO YOU HAVE ROOM FOR ALL OF YOUR FAT FUCKING ASSES!!

So, I'm sitting there ready to relax when the fattest, dumpiest pair of Midwestern parents sits down around me with their three kids. The proud fat daddy wakes me up out of my pre-flight slumber:

“Hey man, do you mind if you move over so we can all sit together?”

I happily oblige and sit against the window, try to doze back off. Muffled underneath the screams of his bratty kids, though, I can actually hear him getting fatter. At the rate he was expanding, I gave him about six months to live - if he didn't take the plane down first due to poor weight distribution. I try, in vain, to doze back off but all I can hear is screaming kids, the revolting babytalk to these little shit and piss factories, and the feet kicking the back of my seat. And if that wasn't enough…

They break out the Bible and start reading holy stories to these little inbred mutants, but they are not the run-of-the-mill archaic Mad-Lib-sounding Isaiah 4:13 bullshit - it was “Jesus and the 12 Dudes” - yes, some newfangled hipified translation to brainwash today's generation with fear and guilt.

And they said Joe Camel was bad.

I agree with Jesse Ventura who says that religion is a crutch for the weak minded. Christians and Catholics are nothing but inmates, held in mental bondage in stained glass prisons - believing Burning Bushes, the Arc, and the days of miracles that have passed. Indeed, after all my travels, I can even tell you why Jesus could walk on water:

Shit floats.

It was time to bust out the iPod, at which point I proceed to sing aloud every word of Slayer, Bathory, and Venom while the Lard Family drones on about the Jesus and the 12 Dudes.

“Hey son, do you mind? I have kids,” quips the fat man.

“Hey man, do YOU mind? They don't make these seats extra-wide so you can sit your extra-wide ass on them and stack you bratty kids three high while you drone on about baby Jesus. I worship Satan and I find this patently offensive.”

He just blankly stared back. Maybe someday, Jesus will forgive him. But I won't.

The Sky Is Falling

No, the sky isn't falling, but seems like something funny is falling from above.

As our lecture topic today, I thought we might take a look at our fine American higher education system. After all, when you and I stand together under the waving flag and wave our hands at those less fortunate souls in other places such as, say, anywhere else, we have sympathy and pride. Pride in our capitalistic success, provided you have some cushy job like being a lazy over-paid engineer. Pride in our superior health care, provided you can afford it. And pride in our education, because only an idiot would choose to be born anywhere but the USA. Therefore, if your parents fucked here and introduced you to the world here, you must be better and smarter than the rest.

Unless, of course, you're an illlegimate product of the Mexican Olympic swim team, and the hands that fed you are scarred from crawling under the fence or cooking in my kitchen, you goddamned wetback.

That said, I have to furrow my eyebrows a bit when confronted with the news of Jacob Garro's death. Now most of you are probably asking yourself a question, like "Who the hell is Jacob Garro?" "Why am I reading this editorial?" and "What is Lexington Steele's real name, anyway?" None of that matters. What matters is that, drunk off his ass and under inadequate supervision, young Jake decided to lean a little too far out the third-floor window and met his maker in a most impromptu fashion about twenty feet later. And so, as perplexed witnesses and grief-stricken friends, we must wonder together what his roommates slurred to the Mrs. Garro at that late hour.

”Hey there, Missus G, it's Raze. Yeah, I'm real sorry to wake you, but your son just fell out the window, and he's not moving. Nope. Um, I dunno, I can't really see from up here. I mean, he might be breathing real shallow like, but I don't think so. Oh, shit, I gotta call beeping thru, I'll hit you right back, 'kay?”

Or something like that. Fuckheads like the recently deceased Jake and his lemming friends give the rest of us Americans a bad name. Sure, millions of Jews died during that whole “Holocaust” thing, but they werent' American. Sure, the Indonesian government is wishing they'd followed up that sales call from Swimmies, but none of those sun-baked water-swollen floaties were American, either. No, those are Somalians starving on yonder side of the world, Thai folks falling down to AIDS, and Japs making scat films. So, rather than fall victim to genocide, epidemic, or natural disaster, we choose to kill ourselves via sheer stupidity. Without the balls to commit outright suicide, we fall under Darwin's swinging scythe to drunkdriving accidents, drug overdose, and gravity-induced defenestration. Maybe some of you blame genetics, and hope that this tragic flattening at the tender age of 20 was a pre-emptive strike against young Jake's breeding. Very likely, his son would run out into traffic or, following his predecessor's precedent, fall off a taller building. Perhaps you would rather blame alcohol, and condemn our American breweries for producing such fine libations. Or, as a last resort, you point the gun at his colleagues, who furnished him with the booze and left him to his own devices. Myself, I would file my lawsuit not against the apartment complex for installing shitty locks, nor against the EMT crew for their untimely arrival.

I blame the schools.

Because amidst the stream of graduates who can't read, write, or drive, we let a young man through the system and into technical school who didn't grasp the basic premise that most of us got in the infant stage. If you drop it, it will fall, be it a ball, a girlfriend, or your own ass through the window. So before I issue my genuine condolences to Ms. Garro, I would like to lambast the irresponsible fuckers who guided this kid through our American educational system and into the grave. Thanks to your slack, we've all lost. My life insurance rates just climbed another dime, my readers sacrificed at least 60 seconds reading this shit, and Budweiser lost fifty years of a-case-a-day profit.

Ma Garro, to say I'm sorry just isn't enough.

I'm sorry your son was such a fucking idiot.

Predictions

Gather round, children, and heed these lessons well. Tis I, the great all-seeing Johndini, seer of the ages and keeper of the Akashic records. Take note, for I have seen the future of what will come to be in this, the fifth year of the 21 first century...and I bring grim tidings indeed. Shudder in fear at what I, Johndini of the Bukkake tribe of gypsies, have seen:

1: Quebec and Newfoundland will secede from Canada, and a massive civil war will occur.
Surprisingly, none of us here in the United States will pay much attention as hundreds of thousands of Canadians begin to fight tooth, nail and mullet against each other. The slaughter will be horrible, and bloodied hockey sticks will mark the graves of each soldier. Quebec will commit the most horrible atrocities of the war, completely carpet bombing the vast maple leaf forests of Canada, depriving us all of the sweet nectar that is maple syrup. Only then, as millions of American kids decry the move and Eggo waffle stocks plummet, will we take notice...but by then, it will be too late. The various provinces of Canada will retaliate with nuclear force, and millions more will die in a flash of radiation unseen since Hiroshima. The next day, we Americans will forget about it.

2: Plans to revive the corpse of Ronald Reagan will be successful
A dark and perverse cabal of Neo-conservative Republicans will accomplish the impossible sometime late 2005. Using a combination of advanced Area 51 nano-technology, ancient Babylonian magic, and good ol' American know-how...the rotted corpse of Ronald Reagan will be brought back to life in a bid to secure the GOP's stronghold on Congress and the Senate. Armed with liberal crushing pneumatic arms, a laser guided pompadour, and the entire Bible scripture downloaded into his memory banks, this uber-Reagan will successfully make his bid for the 2008 presidential election as the ONLY candidate left to chose. Why the ONLY one, you ask? In 2006, uber-Reagan will successfully pass legislation stating that affiliation with a political party other than the GOP is a crime punishable by death.

3: Mount St. Helens will explode; Washington and California destroyed
In the largest volcanic eruption since Krakatoa, Mount St. Helens will explode, flinging all types of volcanic doody up into the atmosphere, blacking out the sun and crippling our nation's heartland. Not only that, but the resulting earthquakes that will occur will cause tidal waves rivaling those of the Southeast Asia disaster, washing away Washington state and California in a deluge of frothy Pacific ocean water. Nobody seems to mind much.

4: Iraq will become one of the leading successful examples of Democracy in the Middle East The great Johndini has been known to be wrong sometimes, though.

5: Jay-Z will be shot dead in a hail of bullets
Millions will mourn the death of rapper Jay-Z, who will be shot to death by unknown assailants. He will be recognized as the greatest rapper of all time, and just like Biggie and 'Pac, his death will go unsolved. Mysteriously, every 6 months, he will release a new album with both 'Pac AND Biggie. In a bid to cement his popularity amidst the legends of Hip Hop, rapper Chingy will commit suicide and try to make it look like a murder. Again, no one seems to care.

6: "Sister" porn will become the new hotness
In a bold move, porn involving the lesbian acts of certified sisters will become more popular than any other form of adult entertainment. Congress will pass legislation that will make this beautiful act of incest perfectly legal and morally OK. Puff's Plus stock skyrockets as men the world over spank it to videos of Paris and Nikki Hilton wrestling each other in a tub full of K-Y and dildos, hopped up on ketamine and Bailey's. Not ones to be outdone, Jessica and Ashlee Simpson become the most successful incest/lesbian duo since Abbot and Costello, but it will be discovered shortly afterward that Ashlee was just using a stunt pussy instead of her own. For shame, Ashlee...for shame.

7: Jesus will return to his earthly form to reclaim his "kingdom"
...and promptly leaves in disgust after he see's what we've done to it.

So there you have it, faithful sick fucks, the gospel according to the great Johndini. These things I have seen, so too shall they come to pass. My track record for this type of thing is quite remarkable, I can assure you, so heed my words with great trepidation, or else etc...etc...blah blah blah terms and conditions apply see store for details. 4.9% A.P.R. for those with good credit.

Keepin' it rizzo, in the deuce dubba lo fizzo,

Happy New Year Vietnam!

If we were not in Vietnam, all that part of the world would be enjoying the obscurity it so richly deserves.
- John Kenneth Galbrath

Dien Cai Dau, as they say in the slanted land, motherfuckers.

During this busy holiday season, there has been more bad news than days in the week, forcing me to make difficult decisions about which topic to tackle in the daily discourse. Naturally, we must avoid the cliché at all costs, avoiding topic matter such as marketing inflatable floats shaped as Asian children, trading anecdotes about emaciated lesbian hookers, or nearly anything about myself. So on this fine Sabbath, let us forsake our wee prayers of serenity and take a little trip across those wavy Pacific waters to Binh Thuan.

In case any of you potheads or underage porn addicts don’t clearly recall, there once was a war in a land far, far away called Vietnam. Now I know this might be a big red pill to swallow, but contrary to popular belief and the rantings of your drunken father, we got our asses kicked over there. And how. In the somewhat truncated vernacular of DMZ Cliff’s Notes, this beating was suffered in part to incompetent military leadership, and largely to the fact we were facing a yellow-faced adversary who was better-armed, better-acquainted with the terrain, and had no qualm whatsoever about dying for the cause. Namely, the cause of sucking off, robbing blind, and killing every American on the wrong side of the ocean.

One of the many beautiful aspects of writing in America, in English, is the ability to fire high-power from the tower. While a fair share of our traffic flows from the far shores, the chances of any undereducated undernourished fuckhole rice-eater reading these words and coming after me in Jersey is remote to say the least. I mean, these people don’t even have metal-detectors to weave a safe path between the front door and the schoohouse, let alone find a fast internet drop into any computer capable of translating my jibberish into a series of confusing symbols and crazy clown sounds.

Perhaps it was a bit of foresight, seeking vengeance for that Tet Holiday bullshit. Perhaps it was a complete accident, akin to all those half-breed Cambodian bastards who fell out of any woman who was seduced by twenty dollars and a pair of camo fatigues around the knees. In any event, this Christmas Day apparently involved a bit of Baby Jesus and payback, as four children wandered from their cow herd and clustered around an unexploded mortar shell. God and Uncle Sam combined forces to deliver the Christian message to those saffron savages, sending infidel parts flying some 25 years after the fall of Saigon. In fact, between the carcinogenic aftermath of Agent Orange, the VXO scattered across the southern provinces, and strange antibiotic resistant strains of gonorrhea, we’ve wreaked far more damage since our hurried departure than before. If you’re born Vietnamese nowadays, you’re either born deformed or become deformed in short order, and if you don’t happen to blow off one of your legs on a forgotten Claymore, chances are you’ll probably have both of them wrapped around somebody’s waist for the foreign currency.

Happy day, maybe one of you fuckers can explain to me how our asshat government pushes our tax money into the Third World for drought aid, won’t write the check for food or condoms, then drops $350 million to help after the water onslaught? When tons of high-explosive munitions lie between our bootprints across the ‘Nam, Afghanistan, and Iraq? Oh, never you mind that depleted uranium or 155mm shell over yonder, just tell the kids to step higher, because you’re FREE, brother! And while we’re at it, did you ever wonder why Mattel didn’t market an Asian rendition of Barbie? Maybe because they’d have to sell four Ken dolls in tattered camouflage and a half-track to complete the set. Oh, look, it’s Gook Pop Barbie! Perfect for the dance floor and the alley out back, offering careful relief to sailors on shore leave, one soldier at a time! Dear God, just the word Hanoi makes my cock twitch. If there was ever a time to grab up Indonesian girl-children from a devestated country, my American friends, that time is now.

Honestly, I don’t know if I’m going to Hell faster for writing this editorial, or comparing those dead kids to the apes jumping around the monolith at the beginning of 2001: A Space Odyssey. I guess the train moves at the same speed, no matter where you sit.

I could make more sense of those fucking apes, though.