Jack the Ripper was probably DICKLESS, and faggots deserve equal rights

Rumor has it that Jack the Ripper, contrary to the popular belief that he was a ladies’ man, was actually dickless,(Note 1) or at least suffered from a pretty severe case of microphallus.(Note 2)  A little ironic, maybe, but, then again, maybe not.  It seems that the Ripper’s ill nature against women was probably due to his inability (despite his immense desire) to fuck them physically, and therefore grew frustrated with them, particularly the whores. (Of course, he may have singled out the whores because they’re not real people anyway, and therefore open to killing without serious moral repercussions.)

However, the Ripper’s anxiety was caused by his physical inability to throw anything more than a night-crawler into a box.  There are also mental anxieties caused by social standards, particularly associated with gender roles.

Of course, I’m talking about faggots (Note 3) and homophobes.

Check out this link: http://www.sodahead.com/united-states/study-proves-homophobes-are-nothing-more-than-closet-homosexuals-what-do-you-think/question-140910/

In short, it says that homophobic men who go out of their way to prove they’re straight, often at the bashing of queers, are more likely to be turned on by homoerotic pornography than are straight guys that just don’t give a shit about homosexuals. (Of course, this link may not be the best source, as it was apparently written by a gay, but fuck it: OJ Simpson got off (no pun intended) on his own word; maybe we can overlook this queer’s bloody glove, too.)

This is an issue that will have to be addressed at one point or another, because while I’m not comfortable with the thought of two men fucking, (Note 4) I’m also not comfortable with Congress or the Church telling me how I should or should not fuck. (Note 5) Let’s assume for a minute that these gays are real, live people (not like the aforementioned whores), and deserve the same rights as we do. (Note 6) Would you want a gay guy telling you where to put your dick? Not me!  So why should straights, clearly the majority, have any say over where a gay guy should stuff his mutton?

So let’s clear up a couple of things:

Marriage.  Fuck it, let ‘em get married.  If being gay is just another demographic (in that it is largely something that gays are naturally (I don’t understand the chemistry, but I don’t have to: I choose to fuck what I want to fuck; let a gay guy or gal choose for themselves)), than is it not discriminatory to permit same-sex marriages?  Fact is, we’ve got other shit to worry about.

Gays in the military.  I’ve met some smart queers, and I’ve met some dumb military folk.  Hmmm… who would I prefer defending the country?  The smart guys, regardless of their orientation.  Fact is, you don’t have to be straight to be a good soldier, just hard-working, conscientious, and, hey, being smart would help, too.  Being gay just doesn’t matter. (Note 7)

Before you go thinking I’m a little light in the loafers, though, and that I swing my bat into the foul zone, I do have to say this: Gay pride parades are bullshit, largely because if there were a straight-pride parade, the faggots would be up in arms about it.  I believe that one of the reasons there is such a distinction now between a straight guy like me and blacks and gays is because the blacks and gays keep reminding me and the rest of America of that difference. (Yeah, I think the Million Man March was bullshit, too.) You are born black, or become gay, or whatever: Why be proud of something you had no control over? Let me ask it like this: Why be ashamed of something you had no control over?  Be proud of the choices you have made.  Be ashamed of the choices you have made.  Near as I can tell, being black or gay has little to do with the cosmically big life choices you’ve made, and if they do, you’ve probably made a fucked-up decision somewhere, and allowed yourself to be defined by your color, your orientation… demographics.  Congratulations: You’ve become a statistic.

Now, although I can accept that there are those that are different from me, and that they lead different lifestyles in one facet or another, that doesn’t mean I am curious about that lifestyle.(Note 8)  It’s almost like being nice to a fat girl: She hardly ever gets a guy to talk to her like she’s a human, so when she does, she assumes he’s interested.  Gays are kind of like that: If you accept that they putt from the rough and gargle semen, they assume that you’re in their club, and that you want to fuck them.  Don’t get me wrong: It’s flattering in the same way that a fat girl dropping the drumstick for just a moment is, but it does nothing for me.  If God could come down and make all gays into women, that’d be great, because not all women would use their pussies like a change purse: Opening it up when they want something.

Note 1: In Patricia Cornwell’s book “Portrait of a Killer: Jack Ripper, Case Closed”, one of the theories written on the Ripper was that he was “badly disfigured… possibly had his privy member destroyed, and [that he was] now revenging himself on the sex by these atrocities.” (I’d probably want to kill somebody, too, and jump rope with their intestines.) It was also amusingly annotated that one of the Ripper suspects, Walter Sickert, was probably incapable of a hard-on, and had to squat like a woman to piss.  I’ll say that: Ted Bundy was one sick fuck, but at least he had a dick and fucked lots of women.

Note 2: I was looking up the word microphallus to make certain I had it spelled correctly, and learned that microphallus is “defined as a stretched penile length of less than 2.5 standard deviations (SDs) below the mean for age.” (http://emedicine.medscape.com/article/923178-overview) I also learned that treatments for the unfortunate condition are hormone therapy (testosterone) or gender reassignment.  I was unable to find a chart which indicated, by age, what an appropriate length should be, but can only assume that I suffer from MACROphallus (“An abnormally large penis”, http://www.medilexicon.com/medicaldictionary.php?s=macropenis), putting me at about 2.5 SDs ABOVE the mean.

Note 3: I tend to speak in profanities, so if the word “faggot” offends you, remember: Just because you suck dick doesn’t mean you have to be a bitch.

Note 4: I am VERY comfortable with the prospect of watching two women fuck, or perform cuntilingus (sic?), or even sling shit at one another from bras made up into slingshots, so long as they, for fuck’s sake, do it NAKED. (They can’t be fat, either, but possibly ugly with a GREAT body.)

Note 5: I do not think that fucking a woman in the ass is akin to fucking a man in the ass.  My buddy the Orangutan one time said that he would never sodomize a woman because then he’d know what fucking a man’s ass was like.  I have this to say: Tits.  Balls.  Hairy assholes.  A mile-long taint versus a centimeter.  Oh, and, IT’S A WOMAN.  His argument was like saying he’d never take head from a woman because her mouth had a tongue and some teeth (“Easy, bitch.”), just like a man’s does.  NONSENSE.  I would also titty-fuck a woman, but that doesn’t mean I’ll be thinking about fucking a fat dude’s bitch-tits. (Of course, the Orangutan is now a sexual deviant, and would probably fuck a pork sandwich if it were warm, had enough condiments, and no one was looking.  I one time had to say that I’d fuck a cow for $20 just to get him to quit asking me if I would.  Of course, this sick fuck starts stopping by pastures, so I had to recant my previous statement, but he still brings it up.  What a sick bastard.)

Note 6: I think that being gay is just another demographic, like gender and race, and is not something you choose.  There are those that think being gay makes you an instant sinner, (Fuck you, Catholic Church: Father Bad-Touch has given you enough on your plate without you casting your own aspersions.) which, to me, is kind of ridiculous.

Note 7: The “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policy is arguably in defense of gays in the military; I happen to think that it is as much bullshit as affirmative action is.  Both have their roots in discrimination, and although they are both in place in order to assure greater freedom of action for gays and minorities, they imply that discrimination is an accepted part of the system; they counter discrimination, but do nothing to fix it.  Gays are still not allowed in the military, but if nobody knows about their gayness, then that’s okay; meanwhile, Private Duke knocks his wife up for the eighth time, and he doesn’t have to conceal it.  Don’t tell me it’s progressive; it only accepts the discrimination and makes it a more solidified part of the system.

Note 8: I one time dated a New Age chick that was into horoscopes and signs and yoga.  She had tremendously big tits, so I went with it, but at the end of our first date, after talking about this hippie shit and that hippie shit, she took me to the shop she managed, a yoga/fortune teller shop.  Because I didn’t say that I thought astrology was a bunch of shit in the first place, she then proceeded to have me read a chapter on my birthday and what sort of person I was.  I read it, and sure enough, it sounded like me.  Then I picked some arbitrary date, and read it.  Guess what?  It sounded like me! (The way those things are written, you’ll see vague descriptions that could be you if you stretch them far enough and believe them hard enough…) At any rate, I did wind up fucking her.  Now she’s married and doesn’t look so hippy-esque, but what’s that matter?  I stained her cervix; that’s all I care about.

On Friendship as Defined in Modern-Day Computing

Facebook MAY have its disadvantages, like the willingness of it users to aid Big Brother in his Orwellian endeavor, but one of its most interesting facets is its offered use of the word “friend”.  In Webster’s online dictionary, a friend is defined as “one attached to another by affection or esteem; one that is not hostile; a favored companion.”  As my father has defined it, a friend is someone whom you would trust behind your back with a loaded gun… a little grave, sure, but he was raised in a time when men weren’t pussies.

My definition of a friend, I suppose, is fairly strict, as well, in that it starts with an inherent loyalty, and implies a kinship.  Don’t get me wrong: I’ve certainly, over the course of my whole life, been a shit-ass to some of my friends; in turn, there have been several occasions during which I wasn’t all that impressed with my friends’ level of chumminess towards me.  However, you live, you learn, and unless you’re one of Darwin’s fatalities, you improve.

I do have a Facebook account, and I do have several FB “friends”, most of whom actually do know me (i.e., they could pick me out of a line-up on a clear day if they aren’t too drunk), and just a few actual friends that would die for me, or at least try to encourage the gunman to shoot to wound, not kill.

Among the former group of “friends”, narrowly defined as such because FB doesn’t have an “Acquaintance” category is an ex-girlfriend we’ll call, for the sake of brevity and libel laws, Floppy-Tits. (If you need an explanation as to how she emplaced the effigy to earn this pseudonym, I can only assume you have to periodically remind yourself to breath.)

Floppy-Tits I dated as a senior in high school; she had big tits.  She also had impressive bras that actually molded the fluidity of those gelatin sacks into something that looked fun.  Not to be a complete dick to her, though, she was silly, and fun, and was the first girl I’d ever gone down on and did the 69 with. 

However, silly and fun only lasted so long, and this girl quickly grew boring, clingy, and into a major drama queen.  Not only did she more or less abandon all of her friends in order to focus on me (something I not only discouraged, but also did NOT reciprocate), she made it pretty fucking hard to enjoy time with her. (I couldn’t even tease her about her huge tits without her getting all in a tizzy: I once made a joke about her jogging and coming home with black eyes.  What’s the deal? I would love it folks made jokes about how huge my cock is, and perhaps suggesting that my balls could be loaned out to knock buildings over, etc…)

At any rate, she fucked me, so I stayed with her for about six months. (In addition to my father’s insights about friendship, he also ejaculated this pearl of wisdom: “She’s not the only woman with a pussy, son.” (Somehow, that sentiment seemed so much more eloquent than the written word can do justice, which is a shame, because although I understood the wisdom, I didn’t grasp it until years later.)) Unfortunately for her, in addition to being a complete moron in the book smarts arena (she graduated high school in the winter before the rest of her class, but don’t be fooled: summer school teachers will pass even the most imbecilic of students to get it over with and start drinking), she also failed to realize what I thought about friends.  To wit, it was the 4^th of July, and instead of spending time with her, I thought that spending time with friends, drinking beer and blowing shit up would be time better spent.

Floppy-Tits disagreed, and with gusto!, showing up in her nice, shiny-black Mazda 626, pulling in front of Martin’s house yet refusing to get out of her car. (The sight of my drunken droogs and me having fun may well have made her forget diplomacy and decorum, but the fact was, in recent months, she hadn’t exactly ingratiated herself among our lot; largely melodramatic and very much her father’s little girl, her antics, which she found amusing or which amused her, had started to lose even me in that cocked-dog-head-curiosity.)

Long story short: She wanted me to choose between her and Martin.  Now, I’m no gay, nor am I necessarily a “bros before hoes”-type fellow, but I am autonomous and willful (read “cheeky and defiant”), and this twit of a twat had just about run her course.  The conversation went like this:

Her: “Me or him?”

Me: (laugh) “See you later.”

(Of course, we fucked later that night, and she told me that it was the best sex she’d ever had; I didn’t know at the time that, during the last sex you’re having with a woman, she’s supposed to let you put it up her ass.  This may not be a commonly known ploy, but I can only come up with two reasons for a woman letting you make her backwards-shit during the last time she ever fucks you: Either she wants to show you the awesomeness that is the Stench Trench and forever make you long for that wondrous colon-hug, or she wants you to episiotomy her asshole so horribly that she never wants to see you again, hence, no broken heart.  Whatever the reason, Floppy-Tits never gave me her farewell asshole (although we were one time enjoying the miracle of Kentucky Jelly when I overdrew and re-slammed it home right in her ass; dirty bitch let me put it back in her cooze without so much as a wipe-off).)

So Floppy-Tits is done, right?  Not by a long shot.

Before cell phones were commonplace and a welcome monthly expense of, in some cases, $100, people carried pagers.  Now, why anyone would carry a pager now at all is beyond me, but when I was 18 years old and it was a $7 expense, it was a perfect means of communication, and through the use of the phone’s numbers and their letter equivalents, messages of about 25 letters or less could be sent.

This was how she made my life Hell.  I couldn’t answer a pager the way I can a cell phone, and I certainly didn’t call her home phone or pager back, but it was her relentless and non-encouraged electronic pursuit (I didn’t even discourage her; I gave her NO feedback) that started to initially irritate me, eventually exasperate me, and finally drove me into a mild fury.

I would be out with my friends… “381”, meaning “Three words, eight letters, one meaning”, or “I love you.”

I would be in a class: “2774653” (Asshole)

Taking a shit: “2255-63-753273” (Call me please)

Trying to fuck another girl: “3825-968-2774653” (You figure it out, Reader.)

This went on for months. MONTHS.  We were both 18, and should’ve been out fucking and drinking and partying into a wild frenzy, and instead, this dastardly cunt kept calling. (Question: Is it still alliteration if you have two hard c’s and a k?) Fuck it: This corrupt cunt continued calling.  We had broken up, and she still kept tabs on me through a complicated network of subterfuge and social engineering: Her best friend MaBelle talked to one of my “close friends”, Douche.

(Note: “Douche” and I are still on friendly terms to this day, but if you’ve ever seen that show on MTV where the guys have a way too over-inflated ego for their offerings, you would see why he’s kind of earned this name. (Remind me sometime to cover Douche’s Destiny.))

(Note 2: I was 18 and liked to party; Douche was and did, as well.  While he doesn’t fit my strict definition of “friend”, now or then, we did have hobbies in common.)

Now, this was before Facebook and MySpace and all the internet sites that enable stalking from the comfort of your own home, so Douche and MaBelle (Floppy-Tits’ best friend, so named for her conduit of information or shape… you pick!) ran a pretty effective communications chain / rumor mill for no other reason than, they were bored and fairly pathetic at that time.  Therefore, Floppy-Tits heard quite a bit about my goings-on, and, as if to close the circuit, would page me things like:

“343-968-3825-437” (Did you fuck her?)

“2774653” (Asshole)

“3825-968” (Did you get it, Reader?)

“384--968-273-3862” (DUI? You are dumb) (So, one night, Douche and I were out drinking, went to a movie (Last Man Standing; we were only 18 and had no clear idea where to scavenge for pussy on a Tuesday night) and pissed in the corners of the theater; we then went looking for a titty-club, then a whorehouse, and wound up getting pulled over.  DUI.  Great.  Since then, I’ve learned my lesson, and Douche has had two or three DUIs.)

“4-5683-968” (I love you) (I would get this one sent to me several times a day.  Wow.  A NOTE FOR WOMEN 1: Do NOT be this woman; there’s a reason behind the saying, “If they didn’t have that hole, there’d be a bounty on them”… and this is it.)

One night, Douche and I are out eating at our favorite franchise, enjoying half-priced appetizers and the like, and the now ominous buzz of a pager goes off.  My heart rate immediately goes up; I don’t even want to check it.  I was sick and tired of THREE MONTHS of pages.  Let me give you an idea of how much I’d endured at this point:

My monthly pager bill was supposed to be $7 for 300 or 350 pages throughout the month, or around 10-12 pages a day.  This lonely yet audaciously tenacious bitch had paged me so much that my bills were cresting well beyond $30 for each of the three months since I’d dumped her.  I don’t know what the phone/pager company charged for each page over, but if the rates were consistent, I was getting well over 20 pages a day from her.  No encouragement whatsoever, and I was still being “381”-ed to death.

I was officially done.  Perhaps a wiser man would have let this continue until it petered out and she found a new cock to pole-vault, or be wiser still and kill her.  Me, being 18 and cheap and at the end of my rope, went to the grocery store with Douche.

(Legal disclaimer: This next line in no way has anything to do with this story.)

Eggs were bought; a shiny black Mazda 626 got it sunny-side up.

The next day: “968-273-3323” (You are dead); “3825-968” (Fuck you; did you get it, Reader?)

As fate would have it, I didn’t die the next day, nor did she send me any pages of love or enchantment.  She did page me throughout the day, though, and as many militant philosophers past might concur, the tides of war, once unleashed, are hard to stop.

To wit, two days or so after the egging, there was a horrible snow storm in the area; Douche and I were hanging out, and I got a page.  From Floppy-Tits.  The snowstorm was entirely too bad for anything other than foolhardy 18-year-old boys to drive in.  Somehow, a shiny black Mazda 626 was egged a full 15 miles from where Douche and I were.

Perhaps Floppy-Tits had another fan base.  Nevertheless, she blamed me, and a police report was filed.  It amused me, actually, that this poor woman of only 18 years, having already gone through so, so much, (the boyfriend she had before me, according to her, beat her; somehow, I doubt that, and if I’m wrong, she probably deserved it anyway) was turning the coppers onto me over what is none other than a childish response to an awful and tormenting onslaught of ritualistic harassment. (I have a friend that’s a cop that one time arrested a woman after she was hit by her husband; when asked why he hit her, she responded, “Because I hit him.”  Did you get that, feminists?  You want equality; you got it.)

(TANGENT 1: I actually have no issue with women being equal, and being treated like men; what I hold in contempt is the tendency of “feminists” to cherry-pick what they want from a man’s plight.  I’m not too manly to change a diaper; she better not be too feminine to pick up a fucking check.  Capiche? (Feminism is NOT strictly about EQUALITY.))

And, so, I had to lawyer up again. (DUIs are expensive, but fighting them can be downright bankrupting; a diversion later, and that was expedited well enough.  Perhaps I should tell you about me and my buddy Grant’s pal “Steve” from Washington State, whom we announced dead at an AA meeting.  Some nice alcoholic tried to console me, mistaking my tears of laughter and aching stomach muscles for sobbing uncontrollably.  Shit, my friends and I are assholes.) My lawyer was actually a friend of the family, a neighbor, and he must have been a little disappointed to see me not once, but twice, in the same three-month period, for drinking and vandalism. (NOTE 3: Just because I’m telling this story doesn’t make me all-out proud of it; remember, this is an observation on friendship, not propriety.)

However, a no-contest plea to a DUI criminal case is quickly and easily expedited; a civil case that is being taken to trial is slow, and it wasn’t until about 10 months later that I got my day in court.  But of relevance to this story is what occurred during that 10 months.

MaBelle, Floppy-Tits’ “best friend” (there’s that word again: friend), and I started hanging out.  A lot.  No, I never fucked her, but I’m sure she’d’ve let me take a toss if I wanted to.  We started doing everything together, her, Douche and I.  Drinking, bullshitting, talking on the phone.  There was a lot we did, and while Douche and MaBelle aren’t exactly what I’d call friends, because they were both, after all, social piranhas and cannibals, we did develop a kinship, of sorts, and MaBelle, really a pretty girl, modeled as a big women’s model, and would always have me around these good-looking women. (Had I not called one a cunt after she bit me a little too hard on the back (seems women HATE that word!), I’d probably have bedded her right proper.) (NOTE 4: Read “The Truth about Cunts”, by Alison Kooistra.  That will help clarify the etymology of the word, ladies, and possibly help you to not be cunts any longer.)

(TANGENT 2: The first time my mother found out I used the word “cunt” against my sisters, she was disgusted.  It is soooo funny to think back to her chiding me, stating sharply (as if it spoke for itself), “To speak of cunts!” HILARIOUS! (I have since outgrown use of the word, and reserve it solely for my wife, and, even then, only when she needs to be put back into her cubby, next to religion and engine degreaser.))

So MaBelle is now feeding me information on Floppy-Tits.  Could I be sure she wasn’t running info on me back to Floppy?  No, of course not, which is why I continually and ardently stuck to my story of having been nowhere even in the vicinity of Flop’s house during the Great Egging of the 90s. (NOTE 5: A true friend is someone you can tell everything to, with the exception of the wife: You can tell her almost everything, except for the things that you put into other women and strippers.  If you want to stay friends with her, learn how to suck it up, shut the fuck up, and handle your own guilt, shitbag.) Here’s the kicker: Douche told me that MaBelle was starting to have a crush on me.  Well, no shit.  That was kind of the point the whole time; I wasn’t being much of a friend either, because of that agenda.

Also during that 10 months, Floppy came by my work to see me, and we talked for a bit.  I just wanted to get her to knock her bullshit court case off, and maybe get some head.  She invited me to her territory, where she worked retail at some Akia-centric universe that guys just don’t give a fuck about; on the night I went to try to finagle her into dropping her charges against me, who should be there except her mother Lardass and her father Thimble.  It was almost amusing, Thimble coming up to me, threatening to rip my head off and shit down my throat, for what I did to “[his] little girl”; truth be told, I was more daunted by Lardass.  The female is the deadlier of the species, and not only does this apply to humans, it certainly applied to this behemoth.  Shit, was she a big ‘un!  Needless to say, after Thimble huffed his little way out of the Akia-mart, there was no way Floppy-Tits could back down.

It was nice, though, that first time in court, Flop coming in with her mother Lardass (those big bags of tit came from somewhere; sadly for Floppy, those big tanks of ass were also en route) for support.  My support group was not so small; I had three witnesses: Douche and my sister for an alibi, and MaBelle as a character witness against her best friend! (Jerry Springer missed the ball on this one.) This was when I realized MaBelle hadn’t said anything about her acquaintanceship with me to Floppy: Floppy and Lardass both gave plastic smiles that said, “I don’t know what else to do, so I’ll just sit here smiling.”

So here were the damages: Paint damage to the tune $2000; damage to the driveway to the tune of $3000. (I don’t know how fast you’d have to throw an egg to damage a concrete driveway, but I would bet that the little white fucker’d have to be hard-boiled.) The trial (the word “trial” sounds too formal for what this debacle really was) was set for a couple of weeks later: Neither of us was going to opt out at this point.

Two weeks comes and goes without much to-do; I drink, I fuck, I party.  La-dee-da.  Then the big day comes, and who should appear with Floppy in court but MaBelle’s ex-boyfriend!  He looks me over like he intended to do something, but, really, he was just there as an intimidation factor, and he failed miserably; in fact, his presence was so uninspiring that I can’t even devise a name for him.

I won’t bore you with the details of the trial (since this is a writing on friendship, and not due process), (except that MaBelle’s testimony was an integral blow to the prosecutor’s case; she testified that Floppy-Tits had said that, in the snowstorm, she couldn’t really make out who was throwing the eggs, or from where; if I were a big enough asshole to say, “BURN!”, here’s where I’d say it…) but the last thing the judge said was something akin to, “… And while I won’t say that [Gentleman Dick] is innocent, there’s not enough to deliver any verdict other than not guilty.”

So that, as they say, was that.  I moved away to college and the rest of my life a few days later.

Which brings me to modern day and Facebook, and friends.  It’s amusing, and a little shameful, I guess, that I have as “friends” on my account both Floppy-Tits and MaBelle; Douche is on there, too.  What I find absolutely staggering is that Floppy and MaBelle are ALSO friends on Facebook, and that when I once made a comment about Floppy’s place being in the home, MaBelle chimed in with the comment, “Gee, [Floppy-Tits], it seems to be a good thing that you and [Gentleman Dick] never got married!”

Like it all never happened, the betraying testimony, the eggs, the pager stalking. *Poof!*  All gone.

I suppose that the word “friend” has a lot of different meanings to a lot of different people; I can count the number of friends I’ve got, true friends, on one hand, and although I may put people onto my “friends” list on some social site, that doesn’t mean I’d pull a knife out of your back or piss on you to put you out.

Fact is, I was curious when I maliciously friend-requested Floppy, but even then I’m not so sure she didn’t friend-request me first; I don’t recall.  What I do know is, she’s not apt to piss on me anytime soon.

But she also won’t be calling me.  Which is what I wanted in the first place.

All in The Family

I’m tellin’ ya, Chuck, both as your friend, AND an asshole, that dame’s just no damn good for you.  You like music; she likes acting.  And that director she’s datin’?  Holy Hell, boy, did you see the rings on his fingers?  Now THAT cat knows how to shine!  You, not so much, but, hey, your features are a little more… concealed, ya know what I mean?  You don’t need all that money, and all that panache, to get people to follow you.  You don’t get hung up on those petty things, man.  A nature boy like you, who's into the finer things, you could have any number of women if you wanted, man, ones that’d follow you into Hell if you were to ask that of ‘em.

You just need a place to get away from it all, Chuck; get out of town for a bit, clear your head.  Oh?  You’ve got a stead out in the boonies, eh?  Lots of camping room, a couple shacks… sounds like a real good place to cut loose, man.

You don’t say?  Chuck, if anyone else’d told me you were into that kind of action, I’d’ve called ‘em a liar!  But, just to keep things on the up-an’-up, if you ever need, boy do I know a dealer that can keep you hip-deep in the stuff.

Man, will you please forget about Sharon?  She’s nothing for you to worry about anymore, man!  I know you dig her, cat, but come on, already!

What do you think of when you read this sentence? (Comment, please.)

Her vagina was a repugnant scab on the asshole of humanity... but I ate it anyway.

The Night of the Stolen Tits! (or "BUST-ed"): A Work of Fiction, by Gentleman Dick

When one thinks of a bust, they picture either a marble or plaster head (with or without shoulders) of some figure of historical significance, or a pair of breasts.

I’ve the rare and enchanting opportunity to divulge a story of both, all in one perfect package.

I’d been out of town with work for about a month and a half in the fall of 2005, and had used that time to continue my self-issued and short-lived bout with sobriety; as fate and the calendar would have it, upon my return home, I had just passed the three-months-dry mark, and as fate would further permit, two of my closest friends Martin and Thai (and Martin’s begrudgingly sporting girlfriend Bianca) would help me celebrate my return home and my three month sabbatical from booze with several strong drinks at a place owned, ran, and frequented by Jews.  Not a biased slur, but a fact, and therefore, this dive shall be known as the Jews’ House.

The Jews’ House was a pretty awesome bar despite its looking more like an old inner-city warehouse with tables and chairs strewn about in no orderly fashion, and the old-style brick walls with mortar oozing out of the seams.  There was a small make-shift stage at one end for live bands and poetry readings on one night or the other, and there was a smoker’s patio out back on the roof of the adjacent building. (This bar was on the second floor of a building, over a shop of one kind or another, and getting to the bar meant finding the narrow doorway on a motley street and entering into uncertainty, climbing forty or so steps before finding your objective.) There were windows behind the stage for some sunlight, and the bar was well-lit at that time of day at that time of year; otherwise, the bar was lit by black lights and utility lights, and candles that were on each table, if they were lit and not blown out by drunken or privacy-seeking clientele.

The floor had a grime all its own.  Stained dark brown by either lacquer or several thousand (possibly million) city-treading bar-dwellers, or both, it gave the impression of a real denizens’ haven… and any denizen would do.  It’s not that the floor wreaked of piss or anything; but only the drunkest and most needy would dare lie down on it.

The one feature of this bar that made it unique, at least in my experience, was the many perfectly molded, designed, and glazed pairs of breasts over respective torsos (with nothing above the neck, below the waist, or beyond the shoulders), probably between five and ten at any given time.  They were all very nice breasts, and all very nice art; even the pregnant ones had an air of dignity and sex appeal.  There were several colors and varieties: Some were multi-colored in a camo-pattern of pastels and neons; some had silvery lace covering their silver, almost cosmic sheen; there were one or two flesh-toned torsos there, one of which had a tattoo of a heart, on the back wall.  There was even a couple, a man and a woman, tastefully done.  Very awesome atmosphere for an otherwise unremarkable bar.

Not too far into the afternoon, I was stoned-drunk heading for completely shitfaced. (The proprietor of the establishment sold drinks cheap, and the bartender was overly generous with his boss’ wares.  For my own part in the events, I was, let me remind you, drinking for the first time in a quarter of a year, and Martin and Thai were seasoned alcoholics and enablers, and my enthusiastic return to recreational alcohol absorption was probably a little overboard.)

Martin and his girlfriend, ever the killjoy, had to leave early for some other important function… at least, it must have been important, because Heaven forbid Martin and Bianca would leave because she was PMS-ing. (Note: Bianca’s pretty cool, actually; fact is, though, none of our girlfriends ever really thought much of any of the guys in our troupe other than the one they were fucking (read, “we’re all assholes that condone promiscuity and shun monogamy”), and, because light grudges developed from tedious animosity, it was an excellent way to ensure that the girls, once left for a new shrew or fresh air and freedom, would not miraculously find their way back into the Circle of Trust, becoming little more than a groupie and an annoyance.  This boundary has been tested only a few times, with friendships being the fatality.  In any case, Bianca and Martin are married now, so it’s just as good that I put something nice about her.)

So it was up to Thai to babysit my drunken ass.  As revealed previously, Thai’s a very sublime character, but he can also be somewhat passive at times; had I chosen to be a complete and total prick during Phase I of my drunken stupor, he may well have let me grow deep into a rage of belligerent sarcasm and vulgarity (foreshadowed by the first hour of our drinking, certainly a solid prompt for Bianca to ensure Martin’s removal from Ground Zero) and left me for bouncers and cops (AKA, the protagonists of most stories) to handle.  Luckily, Thai’s radar was right on track (as it typically is during periods of inebriation), and he ensured my crash-landing was on a nice, comfy couch in the Lion’s Den.

The Lion of this particular Den was a self-infatuated wannabe peacenik named Chas.  Chas was a tool that pretended to be some laid-back retro-hippy that played the bongo in a band.  As he was short and not typically a threat to anyone, he had to add elements of panache to himself in order to stand out: to wit, odd little belt buckles, necklaces of hemp beads and pottery balls, flavor savors under his ridiculously large teeth, and rings and bracelets, etc.  While he boasted on about cultural awareness and sensitivity, in truth, he built his persona in a failing effort to get laid.  He was the friend of the girl who would never fuck him.

But he had a mean streak to him.  He would side with a prospective girl in belittling someone just to curry her favor.  I never could respect that sycophantic behavior, and absolutely abhorred it when he once mocked a mutual friend of Thai’s and mine in front of some not-too-impressive but equally self-absorbed girls that considered themselves “intellectuals”. (Note: I do not typically make allowances for cruelty based on social stature or looks, or even brains.  I’ve never liked snobbery, though I myself am conceited, (snobbery has an element of disrespect and elitism that I don’t particularly care for, and that I find pretentious) and do enjoy seeing those that are snobs brought down several rungs below dirt level.) Alas, Chas was not a genuine person, and would take advantage of any situation he could, no matter the cost in virtue. (Yes, I do feel like something of a hypocrite right now, considering this story’s theme…)

And I was passed out on this douche’s couch.

Yeah.  Not one of my prouder moments.  But Thai was friends with this poser; otherwise, I might have been resting on some sterile, stainless-steel bench in the county jail’s drunk tank, being fondled by some gay vagabond.  I was grateful to have avoided THAT.

Before evening fully fell and the night was a complete wash, however, I woke up to Chas shoving me.  Let me make this clear: I was passed out on this dude’s couch, there as a guest with Thai, and this little fellow, half of me, was shoving me, not because of anything of necessity, like his girlfriend was coming over to screw him at last and he needed that couch.  No, he was shoving me in some odd, playful manner, making me the butt of whatever joke he was making at my expense; this much was abundantly clear. (As I could have predicted, he’d taken advantage of my unconsciousness to assert a corporeal dominance over my sluggish mass, something a little guy like him couldn’t do to a conscious person.) (It later came out that he had also answered my phone during my oblivious state when a girl I was seeing called. (This girl, Nixon, was a bisexual stripper with family issues and a penchant for freaky behavior; she had asked me during my out-of-town trip to fuck her at gunpoint on camera, and suggested I treat the barrel as one might a speculum; rust forbade such atrocities, but I appreciated her enthusiasm.) Nixon was under the impression that I was still out of town, a fabrication that Chas disenchanted (much to her chagrin) during his unauthorized phone discussion with her; he also insulted her and told her to quit calling. (I might have done the same, of course, as Nixon was a fling and a nuisance; but I wasn’t quite done with her, at least not in that instance, and Chas was a prick, so what happened next was as much his own doing as it was mine.))

On auto-pilot and into Phase II, I stood up from the couch.  Thai may or may not have seen war in my eyes, but he did make sure that we left prior to a regrettable show-of-force; somewhere in between my bloodshot-eyed rising and my stumbling to the door, my phone was retrieved and delivered to me. (It is my belief that future generations will be born with a phone charger growing out of their asses; that is how much I rely on my phone: It’s the great enabler for precious commodities like delivery and ass, and whoever invented texting must have had a long-winded wife.  Coincidentally, my wife hates my cell phone.  Needless to say, I was pleased that Chas’ dwarf fingers didn’t finger-fuck my cell too much.)

Thai got me out of the house and made a few farewell pleasantries, during which time my gate became one of purpose and, out of Chas’ view, I grabbed off the front porch Chas’ bansai tree, on which he’d been pruning and shearing and dwarfing for two full years, and hurled it pot and all down the street.  The pretentious little plant hid the streets some 30 yards away, and I kept walking down the sidewalk, hearing in my leave, “Dude, did he just take my bansai tree?  Where is it?”  I walked on, and Thai caught up with me.

(Note: Some would say that, with karma and partying and drinking so much to excess that you pass out before you can even vomit, Chas’ fucking with me and making disillusioning comments to a hole on my phone was merely the chaos theory and justice at work, and no more blame nor punishment should be attributed to him than to a guy who writes profanities and draws swastikas on his friends’ faces while they’re passed out.  Some would even say that I deserved to be fucked with, that I had it coming for my over-doing it after three months of sobriety.  I don’t disagree with that in the least; a good time could be had by all, and that’s fine.  But with that line of reasoning, one could also make the argument that Chas was an opportunistic little prick who had his ever-so-vulnerable bansai tree in the open while begging for some retaliation. I just made it a win-win situation, was all. (Update: Seven months later, Chas was selling a 1987 Volvo wagon that ran, but that he had left sitting for several months; he wanted $300 for it so he and his band could record an album.  I gave him $100 for a lake car, and he was smiling and obsequious the whole time, as though there were no hard feelings, and everything was cool.  I got $500 on a trade-in, you tool.  How’s the CD?))

Thai and I went back to the Jews’ House to continue our drinking; my “nap” had rekindled my vigor and moxy, and I was at this point something between a ninja and Superman.  We were seated at the back of the J-House, left in the nominal darkness in a crowded bar, watching everyone but largely unseen.  There was some slight, nonsensical conversation, both of us feeling omnipotent and amused among the mortals, but otherwise the drinking was the goal and purpose of that night.  There was something brewing, though, in one or both of our heads, in this very moment, at this bar that was packed with witnesses that were too blind to see us.  Thai looked up at the tattooed breasts directly above us, and I looked up.  There was no stealth or chicanery involved, just drunken tomfoolery and the perfect moment where everyone saw nothing, and Thai and I were alone in that crowded bar.

I reached up and lifted the nicely skin-toned (lightly tanned Caucasian) bust off the wall, and concealed it in my quickly removed jacket.  Without speaking, Thai and I stood, entranced by the petty “borrowing” and the large amount of alcohol we’d each consumed, and left the Jews’ House.  A doorman almost stopped us, looking curiously at the wrapped package that was my coat, yet, seeing no more than two drunks in a daze, let us pass right out of there with a piece of art that would have gone for $500 or more to paying customers.

It was most nearly Thai’s birthday.  Happy birthday, Thai.

Two months later, Thai called me with some irritating news.  A friend of his named Kyle was visiting his house when Thai shows him the tits, perky and wonderful and temporarily housed in the back of his closet.  Seems one thing that was an essential fact was, Kyle was Jewish, and though Thai knew this, he didn’t know that Kyle was friends with the owner of the Jews’ House; Kyle was also a partier and a drinker, a real man-about-town, so it was natural that Kyle and the Jews’ House owner, who was also the creator of said tits, would have discussed the goings-on at the bar.  This was no shit: Thai and I found a flyer that very week that offered a reward for the tits’ safe return.  There is was, photocopied, tattoo and all.

But there was more, and this was what really hit home and made returning the tits essential: These were the breasts of a dead girl.  The Jews’ House owner/bust artist had made this particular set of breasts off of one of her friends; said friend later died.  The bust artist was very upset by the loss of her friends’ tits, and Kyle, knowing this, felt guilty in knowing that the tits were at Thai’s house.  Kyle was so guilt-ridden, in fact, that he returned to Thai’s house in order to talk about how guilty he felt, and asking Thai to return the rack posthaste.

There were a couple of elements at work here: The law was one, no explanation necessary.  But even if it weren’t abundantly clear that Kyle was going to snap, there was also guilt at having taken a cherished keepsake of a lost friend.  Lastly, there was a reward: The Jews’ House was offering a $100 bar tab for the safe return of the tits.  The avoidance of punishment and guilt, as well as the bliss of a bar tab, made a pretty persuasive argument.

Thai was reluctant at first, believing that great risk came with even bringing the bust to the Jews’ House, even if it was just to be left in a hidden corner for Kyle’s retrieval and returning to the proprietor.  But realizing the volatility of the Kyle Situation made returning it a must; Kyle was an acquaintance, but not a trusted agent, and certainly not one who could swallow a story no matter how heinous in order to cover for a friend, or at least not a casual friend like Thai.  As Thai had told him the story of how the bust was stolen in the first place, including my part in it, and Kyle had even less loyalty to me, it was at great detriment to me as well.  It had to become a non-issue.

We went to good ol’ Wal-Mart, bought trash bags, duct tape, bleach, and rubber gloves.  I did the clean up, removing fingerprints and detritus from the bust, and wrapped it into the plastic bags, snugly with the tape.  Thai’s gym bag was just the perfect size: The tits were returned that night, tucked safely behind a video game in the Jews’ House.

The next month, Thai and I went with Kyle to drink off of Kyle’s tab.  It was a little awkward, I guess, sitting there getting stoned-drunk off reward booze that wasn’t really earned.  It was also a little sad, looking around the bar, not seeing the returned bust anywhere; it was assumed that the owner had decided not to risk it again, and took the art home for safe-keeping.

A couple of years later, when we made it back to the Jews’ House during an unplanned and uneventful night, a group of us sitting against the wall was laughing and drinking, and Thai and I pointed out, in low voices, where we had been sitting when the Stolen Tits Caper began.  We recounted many elements of that night, mildly cursing Thai’s lack of discretion and Kyle’s forceful guilt.

We reached up to the nearest bust and found it anchored, securely, to the wall.  No one was going to be walking out with one of those anytime soon without buying it.

Which I hear you can do for about $500.

The Night of the Magic Trick

He never was a magician, but, then, I never was modest, so I suppose his naiveté was compensated by my drunken boldness.  A night of drinking had gotten us there, that tavern reeking of age and youth, wrought with drowned sorrows and precursory, frantic pillow talk and… well, everything in between.

It was a Saturday night when I was still single, or at least not seriously committed, just months before I met the woman that I would knock up and eventually marry.  Looking back at how wild I was, one might grow leery in regards to how domesticated I now appear.

What was odd was, Saturday, this town?  Surprisingly, it wasn’t a ghost town; the students should’ve probably been on winter break, though I can’t recall for certain whether it was November, or February, or anytime in between.  I only know it was cold outside, since I wore my knee-length black coat.  I suppose pictures could be found to verify the approximate date; in those days, I always toted a digital camera with me, both as a novelty and a diary, of sorts.  Those times with my friends were ones I wanted to remember.

So, I was brutishly intoxicated; my friend Thai was accompanying me, and I him, one another’s right-hand man were we both.  Perhaps earlier that night our comrade Ray was with us; perhaps not.  The benders on which we’d frequently been together run together, bleeding into one another to the point that the Night of the Stolen Tits merges into the Night of the Angry Injuns, garnished with the Night of the Livid Asian Flyswatter and chased down with the Night of the Flipped Foreign Ride, though approximations of times are possible here and there, life broken down, if not into nights, then phases.  My twenties were one long phase broken with sporadic peaks or valleys or cliffs to break the monotony of the nightly adventure-seeking that only vampires and we got to enjoy.

But I digress!  Thai and I were stumbling stupid yet superior, well-rehearsed in our smug way, the experience of the wino with soothed if unfulfilled ambition.  Brain high on booze, mind high on life, guts soaked in their amber formaldehyde… it suddenly occurred to me, in our rampant tromp from one bar to this, from its one level to the next, from this covey to that corridor, amidst this crowd of younger folks letting us enjoy a not-so-distant glimpse back towards our own, almost like we were wearing masks to conceal our agedness in a crown of similar-enough distractions, all the while distracting ourselves from our own slipping grip on lighter times and darker hairs, that I had to piss quite considerably.

There was that something, that je ne sais quoi, in the air that made all men feel like Cary Grant or Hugh Grant, charming or charmed, and all women feel entitled.  Drunk as we were, you’d think we were on a mission to drink the world dry, but I was still astute enough to realize that, in a line where the men’s room had always been, drunkards of the female persuasion were corralled, overrunning the men’s only haven for hiding or concealing vomiting rages.  When drunk enough, words like “chivalry” and “charm” are replaced by concepts like autonomy and stubbornness and righteousness, and, even in the wrong, I’ll sometimes make the banal and meaningless a crusade for my undertaking.  This was the MEN’S restroom; I walked in, past the women in line and, around the corner, the one hovering, squatting, over the almost certainly saturated toilet seat, a look of indignity on her face upon seeing my maleness, and pointed my flag into the neighboring urinal.  I pissed not three feet from the squatter’s face, reveling in my righteousness, and, just when I thought the best was beyond improvement… it got even better.

“What’s going on here?” A female voice, clear and initial, followed by others.

“Is there a guy in there?”

The Squatter: “Yes.  There is.”  The indignant tone was inspiring.

Oh, like I had the audacity?  I can’t recall her wiping before she pulled up her pants, but I was too far on to Plan B to really care.  Offended by the females’ affronts and protests at the use of a urinal by my dick’s stream, I made certain to shine them on by walking past them all, all ducks in a row, my knee-length black jacket open with my now-drained pecker sticking out far enough so that not only did they get a very clear view of its veiny grotesqueness, but that Thai, awaiting my emergence from this men’s room, could see my cock sticking out in all its distasteful glory.

My comrade laughed, and feeling I’d accomplished something, I started to conceal myself lest I get arrested or pummeled.  But Thai’s mission had just begun.

“Don’t put that away, yet.  Come here,” said Thai, and blame it on the trust I had, the conviction with which he spoke, or the booze and its symptomatic agreeability, but I left my dick sticking out, covered only by good judgment and that evermore useful black jacket.  I followed giddily, unable to anticipate the unknown.

Out onto the smoking patio, down the stairs outside, and through the crowded bar, Thai’s beacon was a dirty blonde and very attractive girl, probably twenty-two or so, and, in that grungy, dark tavern, easily the most attractive female.  I had no clue what Thai, normally shy around women, was doing, and I’d all but forgotten my schlong’s relative exposure to the elements, so enraptured by and drunk in the moment as I was.

“Excuse me,” Thai said to his audience.  She was with a guy, a taller fellow, if memory serves, but Thai and I were not in the mood to be adversely influenced, so his was a trounced presence before the fact.  She turned uneasily towards Thai, this unfamiliar fellow with a writer’s wavy and unkempt yet styled hair and philosopher’s observation; she wanted to be brief, but polite.

“Yes?” she managed.

“I’m a very shy fellow,” Thai continued, “and one thing I do to break the ice is, magic tricks.”

If it had been the Polite Thing to run away screaming in order to avoid this interaction, I’m certain that the Audience would’ve done just that.  However, on Planet Earth, the Audience stood there with that forced smile, warm in iciness.

Thai went on.  “Would you…” He paused.  “Mind… if I showed you a magic trick?”  His smile, astoundingly, was sincere.

Reluctantly, hesitantly, she almost just muttered, “Uh… okay.”

When Thai started, his oration seemed well-rehearsed and professional, although, like I said, he never has, to the best of my knowledge, been a magician.  But, then, he was never the most outgoing fellow either so, on this night, Thai was just full of surprises.

“Okay, keep an eye on my hand.  No matter what, do not look anywhere else.  Keep your head straight, moving only your eyes…” He began to wave his right hand, index finger extended, making invisible zig-zags and figure-8’s in the air, criss-crossing then up-and-down wavelengths.  “… Keep an eye on my finger,” he reaffirmed.  Had my wits been more about me instead of my joviality, I, too, would’ve been mesmerized.

As it was, for so averse an Audience, she seemed ensnared by Thai’s Magic Trick.  She kept her eye on his finger, captivated.  It was then, at their most magical and intimate moment together and ever, that his rhythmically moving hand strayed from its course laid between his eyes and hers, and his index finger, like a fishhook, yanked her eyes downward, downward, downward, until at long last its point was in my prick’s direction.

My knee-length black jacket, so perfect for flashing, flew open.

My cock was exposed, unexpectedly, unpleasantly.

“Oh, my God,” she almost screeched, turning towards her heretofore inattentive male companion, who remained ignorant for at least long enough for Thai and me to make our escape, chortling and giggling like mischievous scamps, no matter how the law may have viewed my exposure, his assault, out harassment.

--- 

Later, Thai and I tried retelling the story.  Weeks later, we tried reinventing the Magic Trick at the Orangutan’s cousin’s loft during a social event; it was met with a disturbed and disbelieving silence, and disgust hung in the air right next to my pecker.

Interestingly enough, this is just one incident of indecent exposure on just one drunken, flowing night where the cops seemed uninterested, preoccupied, or just altogether absent, and couth and decency have no welcome place or right.  No fights were had, no overwhelmingly strong sensations of dissention were present.  It was just another night in our crew’s archives, so one really has to ask, if this is average and normal, is there any hope for normalcy?

Domesticated, then, or caged, waiting for my next wild romp?