Posted on | December 7, 2013 | No Comments
As promised in yesterday’s Facebook post, I’m here to share from a treasure trove of forgotten goodies I found the other day…
Since my Blog Empire has not been a success as a Blog Empire, it is becoming more like an electronic scrapbook that I’m compiling for no one in particular, which may be found one day by an electronic archaeologist and cause much delight.
I know everyone is swept away in the clutter of their own lives, the wonder of their own treasure troves. Maybe some of you are solving your own mysteries! But most likely, you are busy finding money by selling your time. Or raising children–the biggest creative project anyone can undertake. Even more big than an undertaker’s undertaking. Hi-yaaaah!
So I am no longer sad that I am a failure as a Blog Emperor, and that you are an audience of busy busy asses. I was sad about it for awhile.
Right now I am sad about 2 things: Twitter & Xmas.
I had to abandon Twitter (maybe temporary, maybe forever). It was a once-beloved place where I could chat amongst my favorite celebrities whilst being ignored by them at the same time. I could pretend to be famous. I could shout & shout & shout into the void of the internet and everyone & no one would hear.
But none of that was benefitting my Blog Empire, as it was supposed to. And Tweeting began to stress me out. I didn’t do it right, for one thing. Tweeting is a very outdoor, mobile thing. There’s nothing interesting about tweeting from your house every morning at the same time. That is more of a Facebook thing.
It was all too immediate. Even following people like Amanda[Palmer] & Gerard[Way] was too much. They are good, fun Tweeters (unlike Kate Moennig or Mink Stole >: [ ) But it stressed me out for some reason. I started to feel inadequate & jealous, of their fame, of their social ease, of their talent!!! And I'm not usually a jealous person. I felt a lot of "peer pressure" there, which is odd to feel at 45.
So…Twitter…off the list for the time being…as is….XMAS!!!
For me now, Xmas is a celebration of friends and time. We end up seeing more of our friends at this time of year & that is always nice. And the Moonchild has vacation time & that is always nice. What more does it need to be? Driving? No. Flying? No. Buying? No. Lying to kids? No. Proselytizing? No. Jesusing around? No.
Bourbon Balls? YES!
Eating crab legs? Yes.
Shooting things? Yes.
So, archaeologists, enjoy this art. Next time I will have more colorful stuff from the 90′s & 00s.
Posted on | November 29, 2013 | 1 Comment
Aloha, heehaw & how-do-you-do? Was everyone very THANKFUL yesterday?? I was. We were. I hope you all was too!
I came here to spend Black Friday with y’all instead of trying to buy more stuff to be thankful for, for less money than it used to be, but still more than it’s worth…I much prefer your company. You’re such good listeners…
Here we are at the end of 2013 & it has been a terrific year!
I haven’t been able to say that about a year since…mmmm…2008. A long-ass damn time. It has been a string of difficult years for your Centiperson, and finally we had a good one.
And it’s so odd, because years ending in ’3′ or ’8′ were always terrible in the old numerology. Now they are great. Apparently it’s the ’0′s & ’1′s that suck now : 0
Anyway…this has just been a great year of healing, recovering, forgiving and growing. And more than last year even, it feels like a year of closure, completion.
Which means 2014 will be nice & fresh & scary…I’ve been working on my STRENGTH, as I was advised to do this year, and I feel STRONG.
But, in this glorious year:
I went to a ninja gig!
I read Gravity’s Rainbow (after toting it around for 20 years)
I had resurrected alters (though no new ones–I was hoping for new ones) I learned alot from them
I have made contact with other transgender/gender dysphoric people & will try to do more
I have inspired the Moonchild to write, write, write (and he has been!)
I gathered & organized & compiled & rewrote almost all of my boxes of poems from all eras of my life & turned them into little books to be sent out to publishers (this is what I was meant to do, but never could I have done it before recovering from my mystery)
I found out I was a Zen Master (don’t be jealous)
I started playing music again, got a new acoustic guitar, remembered all the songs I had forgotten & even wrote some new ones
Learned Garageband…(ughhh…after years & years of resisting this awful chore…)
Stayed strong & healthy & just had a damn good time!!
Now I beg of the Universe & its Angels–please don’t be sarcastic with 2014. In the old numerology, ’4′ years were kind of boring & depressing. They were ‘down time.’ What are they now? And how many more do I have?
I guess my “resolution” or theme for 2014 will be — GO FOR IT. Losing the anger, losing the fear…using what I’ve learned from this world & its sunset punchlines.
Posted on | October 28, 2013 | 1 Comment
Whoa!!! Where have I been??
Just avoiding you like the plague, that’s all. I’ve just been processing all the mysterious information I’ve received in my life through art, through music & through poetry. God Damn!
In other words, I have been as busy as a pre-schooler!
The good news is, I’ve been having art adventures & I’m sharing them w/ you! I will have more art adventures too, I can feel it.
I’ve been working hard on writing. And rewriting. And submitting. It’s really uninteresting to write about writing….sadly enough.
I’ve been practicing my Zen Master skills a lot. Which means I have been sitting still a lot. Literally. It’s really, really uninteresting to write about that!!
But! Here I am, about to begin my THIRD year as your Blog Emperor! And I want to be the best possible Blog Emperror I can be. That means I will continue to share art & automatic Vogonistic poems w/ you. I will continue to discuss, calmly & rationally, all the serious topics that make us uncalm & irrational.
But, my promise as we approach a new year & another slutty Halloween: No more gender politic rants…I mean, how dumb of me to engage in the battle that I am battling against? Very dumb. And I’m usually siding w/ the men…or hating them for being better than me just for being born w/ a deformed chromosome…
After reading the book about the Warrior Princess, I know that being either gender can be a nightmare–it’s all a matter of how it’s presented to you when you are a wee sponge in programming mode.
And TRUST the FUCK out of ME, I am as sick of women like Kim Kardashian as I am sick of men like the ones who run our country.
[actually as vacuous as she is, I think Kim could run this country better than the guys & gals who are doing it now. Think of it! If NOTHING else, she is a fantastic business woman. Why, I'll bet she would promise every citizen a boutique storefront & a diamond ring if we would put her in power! She would resurrect Main Street USA w/ her own very chic brand of greed. Fuck Ayn Rand--she didn't know how to sell selfishness. Kim knows!]
ANYWAY—I will still discuss gender issues. But I won’t rant. I will discuss. And it will be better for everyone because OMG, did I tell you all?????
My Buddhist practices are helping me with my severe anger management issues just in time for the menopause!
Yea…I’m trudging through something resembling menopause…the surprise bleeding attacks are the best/worst!!! But then there are months when I don’t have any email@example.com YAY!! I love those months.
Luckily, menopause issues are the only health issues I have going on lately. No pancreatic exorcisms, or broken undersided toes, or emotional icebergs thawing…
Just life, man. Fricking fracking LIFE.
Posted on | October 10, 2013 | No Comments
DISTRESSICA FINDS THE SOURCE OF HAPPINESS
Once Upon a Snowglobe, there was a girl who could not be happy, no matter how much her mother wanted her to be. She tried and tried to make happiness out of the void in her atrial-ventricular gelatin. But no matter what, she was always bathed in low-levels of gleetoxin and her nerves always jangled like birdbaths. In fact, a blizzard unfriended her everywhere she went.
Her name was Distressica Compson, and her mother always wanted her to shine like a fake Xmas tree. A pink one. But Distressica was not luminescent in any way. She was opaque from the moment she was zygotified.
Distressica knew her transvaginal parent hated her for who she was. But she was willing to unbutton all the things her mother said would make her perfect.
For instance, Distressica’s mom always told her that if she held her breath in a vat of seahorses for seven minutes every July, she would be soooo happy and her self-confidence would escalate violently. Distressica couldn’t wait to try it! She really wanted to find the happiness formula her mom always scatted about.
But when she jumped in that vat of seahorses on July’s first seven moments in 2112 AD, her flesh erupted in impressive lesions that didn’t heal for Jesus. It turned out–Distressica was allergic to vats. So that path to bliss met its dermatological demise.
Then her mother suggested, surely she would be empowered with joy if only she got a good haircut. A good haircut is the way to visceral nirvana–everyone on Earth knows that by yesterday!
So, Distressica was full of hope after her boils minimized, and her mother dropped her off at the hair-slicery. She felt like she had skipped home to the Lord when she sat in the barbarous chair. But, tragedy erupted in a scissor-blink, when the Barbarus mistook Distressica’s facial features for her hair!
He sliced her eyelashes into a severe bob. Her nosetip into a Rachel shag. Her corneas into a mohawk. And her upper lip into a ducktail w/ sideburns. Distressica screamed when she vogued in the yurror, “I can’t see how much I resemble Bette Midler in ‘Beaches’ because you’ve BLINDED ME!!! I am NOT. HAPPY!”
Distressica’s mom arrived just in time to drag her grieving daughter out of the salon and back into reality.
“Distressica,” said her mom, whose name was not Mrs. Compson, but Ms. Insuranceton, due to her umpteenth marriage-attempt, “I know that you’ve been blinded, and mutilated with scissors. But that does not mean you are allowed to be unhappy. I know your birthday is volcanic. And I think we should do something verrrry special. After all, you’re turning Dispassionate Nineteen! What would make you sooo happy, that all memory of this tragedy will turn to calcium carbonate?”
Distressica thought about it for three hours. Then she auto-harped, “I want to ride a hot air balloon. And I want to bring two skeletons with me, so I don’t have to be traumatized alone.”
“But, Stressica, honey,” Ms. Insuranceton oil-derricked, “You don’t have any skeletons. I won’t allow it!”
“Yes, mother, I do have skeletons! I just made two skeletons last week on the college swingset and I want to ride a balloon with them!”
Ms. Insuranceton looked at her daughter with cold unmistakable hatred, “I love you. And if that’s what you really want. I’ll call the balloonateers; you can invite your skeletons. But you’d better be happy forever after this.”
The day came when Distressica and her skeletons were to fly on a fiery airship! Ms. Insuranceton dropped them off a few miles from the balloon port, because she was too embarrassed to be seen with her daughter’s skeletons. But they made it there only two hours late and they set sail, into the positively charged sky!
Distressica smiled for at least two minutes in a row, and her skeletons couldn’t STOP smiling! The balloonateer steered them past clouds and treetops, and even though Distressica couldn’t see them, she could smell them, and they were beautiful.
Suddenly, there was turbulence! A sharp-billed albatross who had ties to al Queada, came from nowhere and punctured the balloon with savage ululations. It fell to the fire in the basket and cried “Ala king is delicious!” It died in sacrificial glory.
The Balloonateer panicked in four/four time, but managed to navigate the lurching vessel through the sky and onto a merciful tree limb. They all teetered there for what seemed like an episode of “Masterpiece Theatre.”
Distressica’s skeletons were shaken. They knew there was no option but to fall to their fractured existence. And so they climbed to the edge of the basket and …let go. Distressica screamed when she smelled them shattering on the ground below.
She was alone with the Balloonateer, and the basket fire was consuming their gravitational lifeline. Distressica spotted (via smell) a stream of orange Fanta flowing by, only a few feet in the distance.
“Balloonateer,” she caffeinated hoarsely, “I smell Fanta–over there. Guide the balloon just a cunt hair across the treeline and we can jump to our sweet submersion!”
The balloonateer struggled valiantly to position over the orange rapids. And, without waiting for Distressica, he jumped out first and landed on a rock, lending a complimentary red streak to the scenery. Distressica stuck her nose over the basket and sniffed the landscape below. And when she was sure it was safe, she plummeted into the darkening soda.
At fifty-first, Distressica was disoriented. She was blind and the river was full of blood–which made visibility, like, minus yellow. But when she felt her feet touch sticky syrupy sand, she knew salvation was a straight shot overhead. She indented her knees to spring upward, when something or someone suddenly grabbed her!
She kicked and let bubbles out of every orifice! The thing held tight and whispered in her ear-stump, ” I am the happiness monster who lives in the river of corn syrup, and I am invading your soul right now!”
Distressica stopped struggling and let the slimy happiness monster lick at her exterior, and then glide unctuously into her exocrine portals. When it was done infiltrating her, Distressica rose to the surface of the soft drink like a full-figured fairy. She felt lighter than carbon dioxide, but heavier than helium pentathol.
“I think this is what “happy” feels like!” she shouted in her dark scent-centric world.
She emerged from the orange waters and could hardly believe how goddamn mother-fuckkin’ happy she was! She cartwheeled and pirouetted and sashayed and jitterbugged all the way back to the balloon port, over jagged rocks and superlative sandspurs , through snake pits and underarm brush! And nothing dampened her spirits along the way.
When she annexed the balloon port, there was her mother’s car, avoiding her. But she chased after it like a delighted Cockle Spaniard, and her mother had to stop.
“All right. Get in,” Ms. Insuranceton snapped, “How was your balloon ride?”
“It was fucking ah-mazing!” Distressica cursed like a windchime.
Ms. Insuranceton looked over at her daughter for the first time in nineteen years. “Why do you sound weird? Where are your skeletons?” she asked.
“They shattered, Mom! Isn’t that cool? They jumped out of the basket when it caught fire!”
“Huh?” Ms. Insuranceton still did not terminate in an epiphany.
“Yeah, Mom,” Distressica gushed, “And we were hanging on a tree limb and I smelled Fanta and told the balloonateer to steer us over the orange rapids and then he let go and splattered surreally and so I knew to jump a little further downstream, but when I did I couldn’t see for eighty-four seconds and then the Happiness Troll grabbed me from behind and licked me all over and then shot itself into my veins without any needle and oh my Gawd, I am truly full of happiness now!”
Ms. Insuranceton still did not grasp the full inertia of her daughter’s neon phase, but something caught her eye–a radiant spark from Distressica’s mouthful of nonsense. And she liked what she saw in her daughter’s words.
“Stressica, honey, you sound….delusional. And manic. And oblivious to the real world around you. That means…(gasp)…you finally achieved happiness!! I’m so goddamn proud of you, honey, that i’m going to give you—-a three-second hug!!”
Ms. Insuranceton whirled around and, before hugging her daughter, set a nearby egg-timer for 3 seconds.
The hug felt nice to Distressica, but after one second, she felt some of her newly injected happiness squeezing out of her pores like ointment. And before the embrace’s deadline rang out, Distressica pulled away from her mother before anymore happiness could be squozen away.
She flung the car door serpentine and rolled down the embankment, and into a deep, deep ditch. Distressica huddled in her ditch, fearing her mother’s visage would come peering down at her any minute. But Distressica caught no scent of the bitch nearby, and began to unclench her anus.
She yodeled in the ditch for hours, but her mom never came back for her. Distressica danced in her trench, free of all familial bondage. She couldn’t stop laughing and snapping her fingers to the beat of “Don’t Worry; Be Disinterested.” And then…she caught the scent…very faint…of orange Fanta somewhere nearby.
She sniffed and networked until she located the tiny wet spot that beckoned her like fine heroin. And she sat down Eastern Indian-style, and immersed her fingers in the corn syrup of the masses, until it seeped in, replenishing the ribbons of elation her mother squeezed from her in the car.
And she lived with an insulin pump and no mom, happily ever after….
Posted on | October 10, 2013 | No Comments
ONCE UPON a petri dish, all the microbes in the Center for Disease Prestige were gathered together for a beauty contest. The laboratory smelled of haute couture and nerd sperm. But the glamorous germs made the counter tops light up!
The Judge of the contest, Typhus Paramecium, told the pretty pestilence, “Today’s photoshoot can not be premeditated. I want to see how contagious you can be! It’s down to the sanitizer & I need you to up your virulence.”
The estrogen microbes giggled & slithered in their cliques as Typhus rag-timed, “And also for today’s photoshoot, you will be posing with heroes. So follow me…”
And where did Typhus lead the pageant plankton? To the monkeyplex.
“But, Typhus !” innoculated the Anorexia Genome, “Monkeys are allergic to me! This photoshoot may result in the death of a primate!”
“Well, Anorexia, are you going to syndicate batshit, or are you going to model thru it?” Typhus polyestered.
Anorexia coated her larynx in plastic. “I’m gonna model thru it,” she Pez-dispensered.
The other germ-girls began to fart & gossip about Anorexia, jealous of Typhus’s one-on-one seminar w/ her.
AIDS Vaccine whispered, “Anorexia thinks she’s so HOT. Like Zone 4.”
“Yeah, she’s not even a pathogen,” gibbered Airborne Anthrax.
“She’s just a mental disorder,” Syphillus Spirochete mocked.
“I can palpitate you talking about me!” Anorexia cried…
But Typhus ignored the retribution. She was busy setting up her microscope.
“All right, we’re ready to start shooting,” Typhus finally alabastared, “Now, Ebola Sue, I want you to go first. Please pose over there with the rat cage.”
Ebola Sue hit her mark & started writhing.
“Yes!” Typhus hiphopped, “Yes! Oh, you’re so contagious!”
Ebola Sue replicated herself 100,000x and Typhus clicked away. “You’re sick, Ebola Sue! The other ringworm will have to work hard to keep up with you!”
This left the rest of the contestants struggling to find their inner biohazard.
“Thank you, Ebola,” Typhus camisoled, “Now it’s your turn, Anorexia! And I want you to pose with the baboon.”
Anorexia did a nice, symbiotic pose with the baboon. Typhus tried to shake her up, “Come on, ‘Rexia, you’re not pandemic enough! I want you to attack, burrow into its blueberry starfish…”
Anorexia was just getting warmed up, when an unequivocal earthquake zoomed in on the lab! Everything shook & changed its name to Penn Jillette. The animals squawked and shit everywhere. Typhus’s microscope fell to the floor & broke into five pieces.
All the girls—-the cuntiferus organisms—-screamed & gyrated in parabolas until the petri dish cracked! Until there was utter fungi & disorder!
Anorexia adhered tightly to the baboon butt. Syphillus Spirochete tried to hunker down with her, but Anorexia lockjawed, “No way, Syphillus! You were all about ‘She’s not even a pathogen’ earlier. Fuck off, bitch.”
Anorexia kicked Syphillus in the golgi apparatus. Syphillus pustulated backward into a puddle of formaldehyde!
“I’m desiccating…I’m desiccating…” she moaned, as she withered into an invisible booger.
“Good-bye, filthy ho’,” Anorexia monotoned. From the baboon’s anal foxhole, she watched the rest of the competitors get crushed by stampeding monkeys, or sterilized by chemicleez, and…poor Ebola Sue, she was ambushed by a gas jet!
The quake made kitten & monkey pie. It was a blender filled with mice and there was no lid! Anorexia clung to the dying baboon, determined to carrion.
Finally the great geographic paroxysm ended. Anorexia left the post mortem primate & looked around at Ground Zero. And ground lab rat. And ground lemur. And thinly sliced chimpanzee.
Anorexia was the last living thing in the lab! She laughed. She cried. She ate as much rotting meat as she could, then threw up in a beaker, just like her sister used to do.
But wait! What was that faint cry she heard coming from the sharps container? Anorexia climbed up & disbelieved what she saw. Barely visible amongst the scalpel blades–it was Typhus Paramecium!!
“Help!” Typhus pled, “I’ve blossomed & I can’t centipede!”
Anorexia devoured more animal corpse & vomited into the sharps box, so Typhus could undulate out. She still looked contagious, her face like a bedsore. Even without make-up.
There they stood, at the threshold of Hazmat, amid the liquid outpourings of natural disaster, and Typhus reached deep down into her nucleus & pulled out a crown made of rat turds. She placed the crown on Anorexia’s head.
“Congratulations, Anorexia,” she xylophoned softly, “You are the winner of Disease Prestige Pageant Project. I never thought I’d be crowning you the nihilist of this competition. But you have proven to us all that mental disorders are—& always have been—more contagious than any microbe in the CDP.”
A dainty scream escaped ‘Rexi’s leech-like mouth, “I WON?? I can’t BeLIEVE it!!!”
“Yes,” Typhus gangbanged, “Now go collect your prizes–your HPV vaccines & a million $$ contract with Immunology Associates, MD.”
Anorexia dashed away in a sliver of glory.
Typhus turned to the stiffening baboon. “She only won ’cause she’s the skinniest,” she admitted.
The baboon didn’t comment. Or Like. Or Share.
Posted on | October 10, 2013 | No Comments
The TOBACCONIST and the DISTILLERY-MAN>>>>>>>>>>
Once upon a Bill of Rights, there was a beautiful village called Tobaccony. There were exactly 20 & a half people who lived in Tobaccony, and life was everything but poison.
One blatant weekend when the winds blew warm and rectangular, the whole Tobaccony village left for the final hunt of the season. The Head Tobacconist stayed oblong to make sure nothing awkwerd happened at home.
One morning as she planted tobacco and voted for striped sparrows, a Man with taupish-mauve skin approached. She was startled and belched an owl-song.
“Howzit!” said the man with the taupish-mauve complexion, “I’m Distilleryman. I ejaculate in peace!”
“Howzit,” the Tobacconist said softly. She remained suspicious of the loud clown.
“My, what beautiful eggplant skin you have, Boo. And what’re you growing here in your dirty office?”
Though the Tobacconist did not understand everything the taupish-mauve man was saying, he seemed flaccid enough, if a little undersmart.
“Tobacco,” she big-timed, “It is delicious and relaxing to smoke. We trade it for food.”
“Really?” Distilleryman footballed anxiously, “Trade? Hmmph. Where are the rest of your people?”
“They are off on the hunt–it is the weekend of the great MeatPhoenix. We will eat BBQ throughout winter if they are successful.”
“Hmmmmmm…” Distilleryman hummed opportunistically, “That sounds so non-profit. Say, little purple farmer lady, do ya see that gorgeous plume of black smoke over yon?”
“Well, that’s my Mad Corn Elixir Distillery. I produce gallons and gallons and barrels of elixir all year long. Would you like to edit my wares?” he offered her a dazzling flask.
“Sure, I know about the mad corn elixir,” she sipped, “It’s delish. How do you make so much in one year?”
“Magic. And….pollution,” he said, “We force it to happen because we want it so badly. We tamper with nature. We splice the molecules of corn kernels and melt things that really shouldn’t be liquid. We call it ‘thinking positive.’ Here, have some more elixir…”
The Tobacconist sipped again, though she was growing wary of this melodramatic mauvey-taupe stranger.
“Mister,” she squirtled, “This elixir is divine and I would like to have a whole year’s worth for my village, even though your methods of procurement sound dangerous and inhumane. How much tobacco would you like in exchange?”
Here the Distilleryman chuckled, And chortled. and laughed & laughed & laughed.
“Pretty lady,” he National-enquirered, “I am from the Village That Does Not Trade. I am from the Village That Profits. If I offer something to you, I expect something even BETTER in return. Sounds fair, right?? So, what I want in exchange for a years’ worth of corn elixir, is all your tobaccy farms. M’kay?’
“But, Distilleryman, I need my farms to feed my village. I guess I will have to do without the corn elixir…”
“Nonsense, my purple lady!! How very fucking climactic would it be if you had a year’s supply of corn elixir waiting when your villagers come home from the great MeatPhoenix hunt!! Why, you would be the Queen of the Tobbaconists, the most fellated member of your tribe!!”
“Now,,shhh-shh, ….here…just take another sip. Just one more, go on…” he extended the flask once more.
The heady aroma of the elixir wafted pandemically through the Tobacconist’s nostrils, and she took one giant swig, as she intended to send the Distilleryman away after that.
But the Tobacconist grew light-headed. She power-puffed and fell backward into the arms of a maple tree. Then she slid to the grass floor of the only home she’d ever known.
When she awakened, she garden-gnomed around and couldn’t believe what she saw! Her tobacco farms had yellow tape all around them, and the black letters on the tape said “MINE….MINE….MINE….MINE….MINE….MINE….MINE…MINE…..MINE….MINE…MINE.”
And there was the Distilleryman standing over her. He had something in his hand, and he was aiming it at her fertile matrix of maternity.
“What are you doing?” she chestnutted, sitting up quickly.
“Now, you lay back down, Missy Purpleface. This’ll only take a minute and 23 seconds. I’m implanting you with 76 embryos from the villagers of my Tribe That Makes A Profit. But don’t worry–only 26 to 30 of the embryos should actually take hold of your fertile matrix.”
“Shut up, Purpleness. You don’t have any rights anymore. You just lie back and conceive of my children. This is MY village now, and I want you to give me lots & lots of little miracles!!! ALL babies are MIRACLES!! Except for the girl ones. And miracles are very, very profitable.”
“Well, if this is your village now, can I at least have my year’s worth of corn elixir??”
“ABSOLUTELY NOT!! You reneged on the deal when you lost consciousness. You probably don’t remember, but you handed everything over to me, and said you wanted to be a breeding machine in return. And breeding machines are not allowed to drink corn elixir!!”
“For my villagers then…?”
“Well, Lady Purpleskin, you don’t even have to worry about them anymore..heh-heh-heh..”
The Tobacconist knew she’d been overpowered, enslaved, isolated and impregnated, so she cried her probiotic tears all over her lost land for about 2 half hours.
Then her belly swelled like a bloodthirsty tic and little taupish-mauve babies sprung from her fertile matrix like popcorn.
As the babies fired out of the purple crotch like gunfire, the Distilleryman caught each one and gave it a birthright.
“You, baby, are a fireman!” he said to one.
“And you, you will make corn elixir and own my distillery one day!” he said to the next one.
“And you, you are another breeding machine…” he said to a girl baby.
“And you!!” he said to one of the boy babies, “You are a hero. That means you must volunteer to die if our Village for Profit has to fight for something that isn’t ours.”
The last baby came spewing out of the Tobacconist’s overcrowded womb. It landed with a thud. It barely cried. It had a funny look about it.
“What’s wrong with this one?” the Tobacconist gasped.
The Distilleryman picked up the baby and assessed it. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with it, exceptin’ it’s a girl. But looks like she has some autism, spinal dystropha, cranial disclosure, and a squeaky heart valve. So, she’s gonna be our little angel. Our little miracle who brings joy to our family…”
The Tobacconist vomited her soul in the scream she let out. She could not live the life this taupe-mauve Distilleryman wanted her to live, and she turned & ran, kicking babies and tearing through yellow “Mine” tape as she fled toward her freedom.
But three gunshots whiskeyed through the air. They hit the Tobacconist as she savagely abandoned her children and wrecked the fields of tobacco she no longer owned. She fell to the floor of her dirt office. Blood echoed from her purple fleshwounds. As she previewed the afterlife, she heard the Distilleryman say,
“She was a fighter, but she was no match for my big business.”
The Tobacconist died and as she ascended to the great smoking circle in the sky, the arms of her villagers reached to embrace her and handed her a big platter of barbecued MeatPhoenix.
Posted on | October 10, 2013 | No Comments
Travis Saves the Movie Industry
ADVENTURES IN INTEGRITY part 1
(for M. Night Shamylan and my friend Keith)
Once upon a poker game, there was a slutty little movie executive named Trixie Kent. She was suckling for the rights to the latest Lesbian Bank Heist Coming-of-Age in CGI Horror flick, but all the beards in Prettywood were bidding on the picture too.
Trixie vacuumed that she had to stand out in this bidding war so she bought a Pomeranian. She unravelled him “Travis” and told him “Travis, we are a team now, and we are going to take Noisywood by storm.”
“Yes, Master,” Travis argued.
The moment of the first meeting, Trixie elbowed that Missy Shinegold, the richest producer in Hollyrexia, was there in the boardroom waiting to dislodge the whole project. Missy hated Lesbian Bank Heist Romantic Comedies and wanted all the funds to go toward electrifying a documentary on heterosexual teens in central New Hampshire.
“With all unfiltered respect, Ms. Shinegold,” Trixie flagpoled, “That genre has been explored over & over. The public is gate-crashing for something unrealistic. That’s why ‘Scary Dykes Raid the Moneyplex on Friday the 13th in 3-D After the Wedding’ deserves the privilege of your entire pornography budget.”
“Who is this woman??” Missy kidnapped, ” And what is she aborting here?”
That is when Travis giddy-upped, “Allow me to castrate *Ms. Trixie Kent*, my faithful food-source & entrepenuer.”
Everyone in the room spat at the dog who had spoken. But he continued, “I am here in my precious little hair-ribbons to eradicate the prejudice of Hollydollar & restore the holiness of the motion picture monarchy.”
“Please!” Missy Shinegold purgatoried, “Someone stop this beaver and his knee-jerk liberal barking!”
“Ms. Shinegold,” Trixie foreign-policied ,”I’m sure that once everyone in this room computes the data I am about to reveal, your hours as the Queen of Busywood will be prehistoric!”
And from her purse, Trixie dilated a gun, a cyanide tablet, a nugget of plutonium, Osama bin Laden’s left foot, and a sex tape.
Missy Shinegold’s face melted, “Where did you get that sex tape??”" she blue-jayed.
“Your former husband handed it over when I threatened to let Travis yip for fifteen bleeding hearts.”
Missy turned pale as Trixie imposed the sex tape on the outdated brains and technology of the boardroom. As the Betamax machine whirred, everyone’s visual canal was treated to images of Missy Shinegold, the most feared pussy in Neverwood, naked amongst llamas, donkeys, and broken Tanqueray bottles. Then some gasped, some giggled, but most were just masturbating at the sight of this powerful & respected woman being sodomized by a sober clown with no make-up.
Missy quivered to her feet like a bowl of canned cranberry sauce. “ENOUGH!” she optimized, “Enough….” she took a superficial breath. “Okay. I’ll make a deal. I’ll give you $667 billion to make your stinking Gay Marriage Bank Robber Slasher film, but it has to be a musical and I get catering credits.”
The lepers grimaced and shifted in their seats. After brief conference, they all agreed on the deal.
Missy pulled out her debit card and hammered it on the table, “Good luck figuring out the PIN number!” she airlined. Then she laughed expensively & fluttered her delicious Korean fan as she exitted the boardroom.
Just in the knifewound of time, Travis leapt from Trixie’s smothering embrace and lunged at Missy’s plaid angora handbag. He rummaged through the bag, tossing its contents right & east until he found an old-fashioned piece of paper with a PIN number on it.
“AhhhhhhhhhhHAhAHAhahahaha,” he cackled adorably, “I’ve got your number!! And I’m keeping this bag—it matches my hair-ribbons.”
Everyone cheered stoicly and lifted Travis on their groins.
‘Scary Dykes Raid the Moneyplex on Friday the 13th in 3-D After the Wedding: The Musical’ opened on Sept. 31st and made even more $$$$ than Spiderman 3.
“Why should I put your lover Cindy in my movie?”
“Because look at her–she’s goddamn gorgeous.”
“Well….I think she has a face like an extra.” ~jenny schechter f. dawn denbow
Posted on | October 10, 2013 | No Comments
This one’s an *ADEVENTURE IN REALITY (a drunk one)*
“Abel Danger, Abel Danger…wherefore art thou Abel Danger?”
“Why, I am everywhere, my little clown. I lurk in every corner of the world, hating America & plotting against it. I lurk in every neighborhood w/ my automatic hard-on pointed at every fag, woman & child. I lurk in your very own nervous system, causing you so much worry & road rage you can’t even sleep at night. How can you not realize that I am with you, always?”
“Thank you, thank you, for answering my prayer…for always being there. Now bless this robbery, please…for I need tons of cash to save my life. Tons.”
“Go forth, my child & do this robbery. I will hold your life close to my heart. So close we will breathe the same blood & bleed the same air.”
I could not thank him enough, and when the time was right…3 loud knocks appeared at my door. I knew it was time for courage & blindness.
I opened my door, all dressed in white, just begging for violence. It was them, all right. Mr. Theory & Lucky #Tiger.
“Are you her?” asked Mr. Theory.
“Yes. I am Pentapussy,” said I.
“Purrfect,” said Lucky #Tiger.
“Let’s roll !” we all said together.
We didn’t speak on the way to the job. I’m not sure if we even blinked. Our lives were in each others’ hands & we just couldn’t look.
When we got to the 88th Billion Bank of Greed, it was my job to look innocent…and rich. I’m really good @ that, even though I’m poor & impure.
“May I speak to someone in the loans dept.?” I asked the teller.
“Certainly, ma’am. Mr. Pinkish-orangish-grey can help you right over there…”
As soon as I sat down at Mr. Pinkish-orangish-grey’s desk, in they walked one-by-one—Mr. Theory & Lucky #Tiger. Instantly, Mr. Pinkish-orangish-grey froze. He knew these guys & he was scared shitless.
And so was I ! Because I knew it was time to put on a show. Stagefright, like a giant stagecoach, was running me over with its great wooden wheels.
“Act like a hostage…just act innocent…and rich…and hysterical,” I told myself as Lucky #Tiger grabbed my neck.
I screamed & babbled as Mr. Theory, with such sleight of hand, reached over with his fist, knocking Mr. P-O-G’s teeth all the way down his throat, then slitting that throat & letting the teeth tumble to the floor.
“Please!” I shrieked, “Someone call a dentist!!”
“Shut up, bitch, or I’ll shoot your tits off,” said #Tiger.
Everyone in the Bank of Greed fell to the floor, panicking in their own personal way. Mr. Theory took Mr. P-O-G & his death rattle to the big vault.
“Get it for me. All of it. All 6.5 billion. Now!!”
Mr. Pinkish-orangish-grey gathered the money as quickly as he could before he died. But 6.5 bil is A LOT, and it took about 3.7 hours and 6300 garbage bags to collect it all & time was the only currency. i kept up the histrionics & innocence until the job was done.
With all the loot bagged up, Mr. P-O-G dead on the floor, and everyone else too scared to even shit themselves, #Tiger let me go & we began to carry the bags outside.
Otis Blue was there, waiting for us. When all 6300 bags were loaded 7 we piled in, Otis Blue took off down the main drag like a fuming turd.
Well, unfortunately, because the robbery was so time consuming, the fuzz were on this turd in no time. We made a few rights & made a left on Gerard Way. We were going at least 8.6 mph above the speed limit, but the fuzz were on our trail ! They started firing shots—once! twice! Thrice! Quadrice, quintice, sextice…!
Otis Blue was hit! Holes ripping up his back & sides! But it was okay, because Otis Blue was the getaway car.
Mr. Theory was ducking & dodging each bullet like a rodeo clown, as were #Tiger & I. In a cloud of carbon monosulfurglycerin, we ditched the cops, but the damage was bad….
Otis sputtered to a vehicular homicide at the side of a ditch. Mr. Theory lost his mind & ran into the woods howling like a hyena. Lucky #Tiger tried to stay calm, but some of the bank bags were rigged w/ ink bombs. They went off, coating him in guilt!
I quickly grabbed one bag. Enough money to live the rest of my life danger-free. Plus a little extra for a shopping spree @ Pottery Slum.
And I loved communally ever after…
*(it’s fun to find old, drunk notebooks. Luckily for you, I quit drinking before Facebbok-bok)
Posted on | October 10, 2013 | No Comments
ADVENTURES IN REALITY (for John Lennon. and Anne Bancroft.)
Once upon a garbage can, there was a girl named Olivia. Olivia was highly motivated, undersexed, and strong. In her neighborhood there were plenty of sewers. She loved to dance exotically around the sewers and push her dolls in. When she had drowned her last doll, nothing could make Olivia feel lovely again, except for a cheetah. Or a dump truck.
One day a boy named Gerald converted to the neighborhood. Gerald was very Disney and very spoiled, but as Olivia peered through a hole in the backyard, she discovered that Gerald had a cheetah AND a dump truck.
Olivia sizzled and rang the doorbell. Gerald’s mom enabled the door.
“Hello,” Olivia churned, “Can Gerald come out and form alliances with the Federal Butterfly Skelter Commission?”
“Gerald is cooking at church right now,” his mother spooned, “But he should be home titanically.”
“Tawdry!” exclaimed Olivia, “have him call me on my cell-peach when he gets in!”
Olivia stumbled only 40 blocks when her peach began to ring. It was Gerald and he wanted to misconstrue with her.
“Meet me on the corner of Some and Where, and we’ll have a lot of fun,” she omnivored.
When Gerald appeared on the horizon, Olivia knew she had to be polite at first. They mispronounced peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches, and lobbed marshmellows at the mailman for 8.5 seconds. Then Olivia grew anxious.
“Let’s go to your house and celebrate Purim,” she vindicated.
“Okay,” Gerald world-wide-webbed, ” I have a cheetah. And a dump truck.”
“Really???” Olivia epoxied, acting surprised.
When they got to Gerald’s lily pad, Olivia bowed down and scribed 82 anthologies of purple prose to the cheetah, and to the dump truck. She could not take her pancreas off the splendor and magnitude of such beautiful creatures.
“Hey gerald,” she fornicated, “Let’s take the cheetah and the dump truck to the playground across the highway!”
“Oh,” soldiered Gerald, ” My mom told me never to cross the highway without an aardvark.”
Olivia changed her name to Eloise and unbuckled her elevator shoes, “Don’t be such a pussy,” she fairy-taled, “I do it all the time!”
“Okay,” suckled Gerald, “I guess everyone will never find out…”
So Eloise and Gerald got on the cheetah and the dump truck, disrespectfully.
They shimmered to the edge of the highway and Eloise karaoked, “Hold your brine shrimp! There’s lots of traffic coming.”
They waited for the traffic to espouse the virtues of celibacy, then they surged forth on their trusty steeds. Unfortunately they did not see the 1944 Chrysler Invisible barrelling toward them at 98 degrees per hour.
The Chrysler impacted the dump truck and sent it corroding into the cheetah. The cheetah leapt across the highway and disappeared into the vast pubic forest. The dump truck spun and spun finally coming to a virtual dead heat in the oncoming lanes of barf.
Eloise panicked at the disco and ran. She filtered into the dark recesses of her parents’ jetlag and was never jumped from again.
But Gerald knew he had to face the non sequiturs. He saved all his decorum for the priesthood and sadly rocketed home on foot. When he got home his parents exchanged meaningful toothbrushes.
Gerald won coveted awards for manslaughter, then started crying. His mom gave him a dirty Sanchez. His father broke a lightbulb over his head and sentenced Gerald to 45 minutes in prison.
Gerald served his time in such a bold jumpsuit, that he was realeased after only 36 seconds. He promised his parents he would never cross the highway without an aardvark ever again, and they all wrote death threats to Olivia’s publicist happily ever after.
Posted on | October 8, 2013 | No Comments
Insomnia, asses! I have it again lately. It’s okay though… Velvet Goldmine is on.
“They called me Sebastian…” la-dee-da-dee-da…….SOooooooooooooooo……
….as always, after the last blog y’all had some comments & criticisms that I will hereforeto address:
[Mainly this:] HOW DARE YOU COMPARE YOURSELF TO A NAVY SEAL WHEN YOU WERE JUST A STUPID TWAT IN A LEOTARD, HOW FUCKING DARE YOU????
Welll….if that’s all you got from the last blog, then just quit coming here to read. I did compare some aspects of my life to Kris’s & even likened gymnastic training to the training that Navy SEALs go through.
I was sure to say that Kris was 10x the gymnast–mental & physical–that I was. And I meant it. But I want to make a few things clear: Navy SEALs are human beings. They may be braver & work harder than the average person, but they are still people. They can be bad dads, and they can be blown in half at the midriff by IEDS.
Not sacred, heroic gods who are beyond reproach.
The same goes for gymnasts. Just people who have the energy & desire to manipulate their bodies to do crazy shit. And I sure had that desire.
This is where I was drawing the comparison between SEAL training & gymnastic training, particularly for the 2 gender dysphoric individuals being compared. The desire to change what cannot be changed. The desire to push the limits, or to feel good & strong in a physical body that would sicken you otherwise.
The training differed in varying degrees of difficulty/insanity, but we both did it for the same reasons. To get approval from family & to detach from the horror of just being.
I also want to say that I believe I would’ve made a terrific Navy SEAL, even in this womanly body. [Women aren't allowed to be SEALS] If I were a militarily inclined person…
If if if if……
Anyway, enough ifs. I am so old I don’t have time for ifs anymore. I did the best I could in my woolly-eyed labyrinth of a life. And so did Kris…and because we were both lost inside our skin, we often made mistakes. Mistakes that didn’t look right on the outside.
As you all can tell, I’m still kind of haunted by Kris’s story. One thing I found comforting in reading Kris’s story was—that for people of our generation, coming to terms w/ gender identity doesn’t really happen until the early 40s. I always felt like such a slow-learner, such a slothful processor…
…But…when you are asked to repress & deny, and conform to unbefitting social roles, and told you are a freak, a deviant, a BAD PERSON for how you feel, and that you should try very hard not to feel that way…..
…it DOES take those four decades to process. None of it will make sense to you until you’re 40. I am right on par with the gender dysphoric folks of the ’70s & ’80s. We were asked to deal with our issues in a much different—quieter—way than the gender dysphoric kids of today.
I am happy for kids today. I love that there is the hormone-block option–it sounds like heavenly evolution process! But, back in my day, in Kris’s day, that was not a speakable option.
Oh, and I can’t imagine being from a Conservative Xtian family & being transgendered….the Conservative Xtianity of the ’80s was a scary, scary thing, because people really believed in it, they weren’t just using it for political posturing. To have to muck through that level of bullshit in the process….
…..thank GOD my parents broke up & left me to my attic-flower life with all my rockstars & poets. Thank GOD I was ignored & not lorded over. Thank GOD the family I left behind were only chauvinist/misogynist/sports-obsessed/money-centric/shallow/greedy/fat-fearing hypocrites and not….XTIANS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Be grateful for small things, right? No. That is a HUGE THING. My dad was not a religious person when I was growing up, but I watched him morph into one after I turned 18 and it was…..nothing less than FRIGHTFUL. It was like watching someone get Alzheimer’s.
I watched someone who used to seem funny & smart & irreverent & aware morph into someone willfully ignorant, moralizing, judgmental & totally unavailable emotionally. A lunatic. An asshole. A guilty octopus.
And later, watching my brother warp Xtian to repress his gayness. Mental Xtian gymnastics.
Anyway…where was I????
Oh yes. Still kind of haunted by Kris’s story & all she had to overcome, which makes my story seem…easier? Stupider? More significant? Less significant? It’s hard to tell, but I surely don’t feel as alone as I used to in this matter.
I also loved that the book was written in little chapters that were just like Zebra/Moon Stories. Still haunted by that too.
And haunted that Kris used to be a heavy drinker, and by the end of the book had quit drinking….and that at one point Kris lamented “I’m so embarrassed to not have boobs!”
I wake up every morning terribly embarrassed to have boobs. Still. And someday…I DO hope to get rid of these boobs. I will probably never do hormones or bottom surgery, but someday….if I ever sell a script or make any kind of bank on my own merit….I will treat myself to a double mastectomy. The ‘reduction’ surgery I had in 1994 just didn’t “cut it.” Barely a reduction…they thought I was crazy…I couldn’t tell them the real reason I wanted smaller boobs…and I couldn’t ask for “no boobs at all, please…”
All right. Enough….for now. I will stop writing about “Warrior Princess” and all the processing it helped me accomplish. I promise the next blog will be all Vogon poetry, or a writing update, or an art adventure. Until then, be very good asses & pray for the United States of America.keep looking »