Tuesday, August 31, 2004
It has come to my attention that certain persons might not be happy with the way it's been going, nor the things I've been doing, or even perhaps what I've been saying.
I have a message for you, and you know who you are: If you don't like it, you can SUCK MY DICK.
Are you unhappy? Dissatisfied? Disgruntled? Discontented? In other words, don't you like it? Then drop to your knees, wrap your greasy lips around my harpoon, and start sucking like you're trying pull the thing out of its socket.
The fucking nerve of people like you complaining about anything. What gives you the right? Where do you get off? Who do you think you're dealing with here? Other people liked it. Funny—those other people don't have to suck my dick now. You should have just kept quiet and liked it, too. But you didn't, so make like the wind and blow.
Hell, even if you do like it, you can suck my dick. Either way—just suck it.
Posted by jg @ 10:47 PM PST []
Tummy problems, you know?
Maybe it's all for the best, because I was going to write about my sexual fetish for sadistic Iraqi-torturing Army grunt Lynndie England.
Plus—waa waa waa—I've been really busy lately, with my dick being pulled in a dozen different directions. Martin, I swear to the thunder gods that I'll have your thing for you later today. And all you other people, I'll have your things for you at some point after that.
For now, here's a PDF of two short things I did for Exotic a couple years back: The Herbal Date-Rape Drug and Priest Turns Confession Booth Into "Erotic Lingerie Modeling Booth for Boys." I have a bunch—maybe even a bunch and a half—of these old articles sitting around, so if you all behave, I'll toss up a new one every week.
Posted by jg @ 12:41 PM PST []
Sunday, August 29, 2004
It must be true that women are closer to God, because they're always talking to him and receiving messages from him.
Nearly every woman I've ever known, no matter how brilliant in other fields, is an imbecile when it comes to superstition and religion. Every one of them has been blessed with the gift of prophecy, the ability to chat with dead spirits, and full knowledge of their exciting identities in previous lives. Almost all of them believe in astrology, a system so patently stupid it offends the sensibilities of the lowest ocean-floor-scuttling crustaceans. The ladies might not know how to change a spark plug or check their e-mail, but goddamnit if Ramtha isn't calling them on their cell phones every fifteen minutes.
And I'm sure they've been this way for a hundred thousand years. While the boys were out there clearing rocks and killing mastodons, the gals were stuck inside their caves, stuck inside their daffy heads, spinning implausible cavewoman fantasies all the livelong day.
And this, fair damsels, is the reason you're "oppressed." It's the same reason that Third World countries are "oppressed"...because they're dumb and superstitious and have...at best...on a sunny day...a meager grip on how things work.
When was the last time a woman invented anything besides imaginary illnesses and false rape charges?
Posted by jg @ 09:07 PM PST []
Saturday, August 28, 2004
Holy Bajeebers, baby, I blow my top with joy when I consider that you—out of the THREE BILLION VAGINAS which smear their twat slime over this earth like so many unique, cuddly snails—are the only one who TRULY understands my soul and knows the "real me" as I really am.
Oh, sure, I act like Mr. Good Time Charlie and put on a happy face and toss anonymous women up and down on my hobby horse like I'm running a day-care center, but like Smokey Robinson sang, it's easy to trace the tracks of my tears...or was it the tears of a clown? Did you know he had an alleged crack habit during the '80s? Doesn't that make his name "Smokey" really funny? Did you know that Bob Dylan once called him the greatest poet in the English language? Isn't it great that a crackhead named "Smokey" is our greatest poet?
These other girls, darling, they don't EXPERIENCE me way down deep to the ocean floor like you do. I don't taste nearly as zesty to them, nor do I smell as pungent. My balls don't hang nearly as low, nor does my cock push in nearly as hard on their kidneys.
They don't see the loneliness like you do...the sad, tragic clown who weeps over his Ben & Jerry's Chunky Monkey and decides he'd rather masturbate than make an effort to look nice and answer his cell phone once in a while.
They don't see the tenderness, the hurt little boy done wrong by so many women, the sad, wizened man betrayed and crushed by his own doomed quest for love.
They don't know what's best for me like you do.
Really, it's a miracle I haven't killed you.
Posted by jg @ 09:29 PM PST []
Friday, August 27, 2004
'Twasn't it less than a week ago that I was sitting home alone, working like a bumblebee on another one of my gay "creative" projects, limply offering that as an alibi for why I didn't have any fresh material for you? This evening also finds me slaving away on my newest CD release, which concerns a bizarre series of voicemail messages and prank calls involving a female-to-male transsexual obsessed with Mick Jagger.
If your idea of entertainment is to sit home alone on Friday night and listen to a nearly nine-minute snippet featuring alleged entertainment lawyer "Morty Feinberg" talking to Mick's stalker, click HERE. If any of you tekkie homos know how to sweeten the sound, e-mail my ass.
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Speaking of CDs, we're STILL trudging through what has become an absurdly complicated process for re-releasing the Big Red Goad CD. Should be soon, though, my precious brood of electro-chipmunks.
Posted by jg @ 09:38 PM PST []
Thursday, August 26, 2004
CAIRO, EGYPT—Islam is the world's strongest social meme, yet its angry God and strict moral code have prevented it from swallowing up the Western mind like it has spread plaguelike over dumber, less-developed continents.
Now, a student youth movement of self-described "Lite Muslims®" may change all that, offering a version of Islam that is at once mellower and sexier than Westerners have come to expect.
"As depicted in the Holy Koran, Allah has a bit of an anger problem," chuckles Mazin Sami (second from left), an Egyptian graduate student in Islamic Studies shown here sporting some of his "Unisex Muslim Urban Wear" with a group of Arabic runway models. "The Lite Muslim® version of Allah isn't angry—he's perturbed...he's just a little offended by the way things are, that's all. But he's not a hothead, and he definitely doesn't lash out like the old Allah did."
Sami says his new 'n' improved Islam isn't nearly as anti-Semitic as the classic model. "We don't want to kill Jews," he assures me. "We just find them really annoying sometimes. Doesn't everyone?"
Perhaps the biggest selling point for Lite Muslims® is their embrace of Western-style carnality. "Let's put it this way," Sami tells me with a twinkle in his eye, "we don't believe that you should have to wait until you're dead to bag seventy virgins. And women don't have to cover their faces and ankles in public—just don't go wagging your gash around, and we're cool with it."
Sami's watered-down Islam makes its Initial Public Offering on Wall Street next week, and tastemakers predict that the West is finally ready to give Allah a fair shake. "We aim to put a Lite Muslim® mosque in every mall, alongside Starbucks and Hot Topic," Sami beams, "and the whole world will rejoice in the fact that Allah is beneficent, merciful...and pretty darned rad, too."
Posted by jg @ 11:03 PM PST []
Wednesday, August 25, 2004
For me, the Internet exists solely to search for the phrase Jim Goad. Since I'm so unforgettable, it also helps schoolmates and relatives from a distant past in a land far away to search for my name. Every couple of weeks, a blurry personage from thirty years ago will emerge like a ghost hitchhiker as I careen down the Information Superhighway. They'll tell me about their job as an administrator at a toilet-paper-packing company and how their first kid just had a kid, and how they're still in touch with everyone else from childhood, and all of their kids' kids, too. When I apprise them of my life since forcibly ejecting myself from Delaware County, PA, their response is always similar:
You are nuts...you've always been a little "out there"...well, I see you're still crazy.
Many online pundits say similar things...the boy ain't right in the head...he's absolutely insane...psychotic...psychotic psychopath...psycho-psychotic sociopath...Mr. Kookypants.
Much of it, undoubtedly, is tethered to the violence, the death threats, and the lifelong fixation on all manner of unsavoriness. Point taken. Point, set, match.
But I've never thought I was crazy in the sense of being irrational. To the contrary, I'm hyper-rational in an obsessive way that borders on its own kind of crazy.
I feel that if you give me five minutes and a cold interrogation room, I could dismantle nearly anyone's most cherished beliefs. Most people inhabit fantasy lands which my "crazy" mind would never be able to accept. I might be crazy, but most of you don't make any sense.
I think I'm perverse, but in a good way, and only because I dance the mazurka with the Thunder God and have been caught French-kissing the God of Fire. Perverse isn't the same as crazy, unless you're boring about it.
The psych tests they gave me in prison and during parole both suggested that your humble narrator is afflicted with Antisocial Personality Disorder and/or Narcissistic Personality Disorder.
Yeah. Tough ones to figure out, guys.
Lately there have been murmurs that my 100% self-absorption may be a sign of creeping autism, and I'm cool with that. I'd be absolutely happy in a Jim Goad world.
One thing's for sure: I know how to look crazy.
Posted by jg @ 06:08 PM PST []
Tuesday, August 24, 2004
Dearest Lord Jehovah, God of Israel, O fluffy-bearded Father in heaven who was too much of a punk to come down and be crucified himself so he sent his only-begotten Son:
I'd like to retract that prayer from the other day asking you to do something about the heat wave in the Pacific Northwest. I thank you for responding to it, because I know you're very busy. Though I'm not sure what your normal procedure is for retracting a prayer, I once saw on an episode of Matlock that writing my request down like this is considered legal and binding, even on you.
Not to be rude, but I think you overreacted. It's been cold and rainy for the past three or four days. I've even had to turn the fucking HEAT on—in August! WHAT were you thinking? Is this your idea of a joke? Very funny—must be that "Jewish humor" they're always talking about.
I was thinking more along the lines of "sunny and in the upper 70s" rather than this gloomy, blustery "Cape Cod October" shit you've been trying to pawn off as weather.
I figured that, since you're God, you understood what I meant when I asked for an end to the heat wave. I didn't think I'd have to spell everything out for you. I won't make that mistake again.
Posted by jg @ 08:53 PM PST []
Monday, August 23, 2004
As a young boy, an unlaid boy, a bottle-fed ex-baby boy, I'd often find scraps of 60s and 70s porno mags strewn through the mossy woods near our tract home. Having led a tit-free youth in a titless world where tits were even more oppressed than Negroes, these soggy paper boobshots were religious documents to me. Tits fascinated me. The bigger, the better. Down to her knees—the best!
But then my testicles descended and my groin sprouted hair like a Chia Pet. My voice got deeper and I was able to shoot applesauce from my wiener. Like they say in the Jewish religion, I became a man. I got myself some pussy and realized that tits were for kids. It's not that I dislike them, it's that they're about as sexually useful as kneecaps.
With an adulthood pockmarked by scandal and infidelity, I've often had gals—with their boobs jutting toward me in the post-coital motel-room haze—ask me why I don't pay more attention to their breasts. Don't you like them? Are they misshapen? Should I get a boob job? Should I get another boob job? Should I get a breast reduction and then get yet another boob job?
No. Shut the fuck up. I don't want to suck on your boobs just like I don't want to wear a diaper. I bang you like a jackhammer and go down on you better than a dyke—you don't need me to slap your tits around.
Funny how they're never so hung-up on their vaginas, which is where most of the aesthetic atrocities occur.
Any adult male with a breast fixation still wants to suckle milk from his mother's teats. You have a problem with that? Take it up with your mammy, titboy.
Posted by jg @ 10:36 PM PST []
Sunday, August 22, 2004
BROOKLYN, NY—The mostly Hasidic neighborhood of Borough Park is like a time capsule of an Eastern European ghetto from a century ago—Orthodox Jews walk the streets singing Jew songs, eating Jewish biscuits, and sporting those curly Jewish sideburn things.
Unlike most other parts of the world, the name Adolf Hitler is greeted here with scorn and derision. Hitler left a bad taste in these Jews' mouths a half-century ago when, in a fit of anger, he up and killed 6 million of their kinfolk.
So a nasally tinged collective gasp rattled through this quiet Jew 'hood last week when Hitler and a posse of Nazi brownshirts appeared in a Borough Park playground and challenged a bunch of Jews to a game of street hoops.
"At first, I really wanted to bop him on the bupkes and kick him in the schmeckel," says Hyman Schlumlord, a 58-year-old rabbi and the Jews' best three-point shooter. "But when we started playing, I had to admire the Nazis' organization and discipline. If we can get along on the basketball court, maybe we can avoid another Holocaust, too."
"Those Jews played admirably," Hitler said at a press conference held the day after the game. "It was really hard to get shots off against them in the paint, and they didn't smell as bad as I thought they would. Maybe I shouldn't have killed those six million Jews. All right—I still would have killed Feldstein. I always hated him."
At game's end, realizing the story of their historic summit could be exploited for mutual profit, the Nazis and Jews decided to keep quiet about who won this battle on the playground.
"We're saving that juicy tidbit for the Hollywood movie," Hitler said to a throng of reporters.
And who's going to produce it?
"The Jews," Hitler said with an impish grin.
And we all laughed and laughed.
Posted by jg @ 07:56 PM PST []
Saturday, August 21, 2004
It's Saturday evening and I'd write more, except I'm slammed on deadline with a piece about the super-hot teacher-student rape-love story of Mary Kay Letourneau and Vili Fualaau.
I'll bet you didn't know this, but Letourneau's surname means "fucks her students" in French, and "Vili Fualauu" means "big dick, long tongue" in Samoan.
Tomorrow's entry will be funny, I promise, but I don't have the time tonight to do the appropriate Photoshopping to really make it come alive.
It's raining outside for the first time in months. Nice. Wash all the dirty away...
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A five-minute promotional piece for the Shit Magnet movie, replete with sexy footage of me walking the LA streets in a wifebeater, should be finished early next week. I'll upload it when available.
Posted by jg @ 07:09 PM PST []
Friday, August 20, 2004
I was trying to hop on a bus in the ball-moistening heat this afternoon, but a pruny greyhaired woman stood in my way. She was futzing and fumbling for pocket change, nodding and doddering, blocking my entrance for what seemed like ten minutes.
I was made to stand in the heat because of her sluggish senility. I was forced to suffer for something which, in a sane world, should make only HER suffer.
I felt like shoving her out of my way. Not hard enough to cause injury, only hard enough to permit my passage.
I often feel the same way with people in wheelchairs, old men with walkers, and all limbless freaks who don't have the good sense to vamoose. Yes, I understand that your life has been hard. I realize that you roam the Earth half-alive, a pitiable Limbo Creature stuck smack-dab between a human and a garden snail. But these aren't my problems. To me, you're just a roadblock. Get out of my way. I don't give a fuck if you're on disability. I don't care if you fought in the Korean War. I have things to do and places to be, and I'm much too important to feel sorry for you. So when you see me coming, clear a path if you don't want to get pushed.
Posted by jg @ 08:25 PM PST []
Thursday, August 19, 2004
While I've never made the faintest amorous advance toward anyone who hasn't given me a BIG FUCKING GREEN LIGHT with both body language and verbal suggestions, I have, sadly, been subjected to unwanted sexual assaults by at least three women.
These tragic attacks all happened within the space of a month in the Spring of last year, at a time when I must have been leaking Goadomones from every pore like a salty sexual nectar with just a hint of honeysuckle.
Two of them happened one the same night while I loitered at a downtown Portland bar. One insanely soused overweight cowbeast shimmied up to me and jammed her unwanted tongue down my throat and made all sorts of lewd comments that made me feel like a cheap piece of street trash. Barely an hour later, a woman who had bad teeth and enough body piercings to stock a fishing-tackle store did the same thing—crammed her filthy girltongue down my unwilling esophagus until I had to push her away.
The third time was with a big-boobied peroxide blonde who pounced upon me as we watched a film featuring a VERY dark-skinned actor named Wesley Snipes, undid my belt buckle as I protested, and began sucking my horrified wee-wee as I kept telling her to stop. I finally hoisted her hefty bulk from atop my shriveled body and walked home alone.
Three sexual assaults within the space of a month. OK, maybe one real sexual assault and two forcible French kisses.
And I've never pushed myself on anyone sexually. And yet I have the rep.
Cry with me, won't you?
Posted by jg @ 11:58 PM PST []
Wednesday, August 18, 2004
This morning, after one of my four score and seven trips to the latrine to purge my kidneys of the keg of coffee I drink daily, I caught my zipper on the bottom of my dickhead. The steel apparatus bit into a pinkish morsel of cockflesh, breaking skin and causing me to shriek in womanly agony. Although mostly healed, my glans penis still has a pimplish bump on it from the collision with my zipper.
The pain was momentary. But the wisdom I gleaned from it will last a lifetime.
I allow myself an inordinate degree of self-pity because I feel isolated in this world. I sit home alone, eating bon-bons and sucking my thumb, a big stony moat protecting my heart from the dragons who wish to slay it.
But after waxing my bikini area this afternoon, I went online and realized that there are people like me out there...people who've caught their cocks in their zippers. Like this guy, who pretended he had his cock caught in his zipper so he could expose his genitals to women. Or this guy (search for the word 'zipper') who was exposing his genitals to women and actually got his cock caught in his zipper. There's even this line in the film There's Something About Mary: "...it turns out that getting your dick stuck in your zipper was the best thing that ever happened to you."
I couldn't agree more. I don't feel so alone anymore. I share things in common with sexual perverts, um, other sexual perverts, and the screenwriters for brain-damaged Hollywood comedies.
Posted by jg @ 09:36 PM PST []
Tuesday, August 17, 2004
It is with great pride that I announce the formation of Negrowth, a positive new organization designed to foster black capitalism and breathe new economic life into blighted urban areas.
Negrowth will be entirely funded by private donations from citizens interested in racial healing and black self-sufficiency. It will use these donations as seed money to fund projects designed to raise black self-esteem and black racial awareness, as well as to break the cycle of black dependence on government-sponsored handout programs. It will encourage blacks to embrace their blackness and work toward a blacker future.
But we need money to make this dream come true.
Those interested in making a tax-deductible donation to Negrowth can send funds via PayPal to jg@jimgoad.net.
Posted by jg @ 10:14 PM PST []
Monday, August 16, 2004
I got the strangest phone call this evening from a woman with whom I've shared carnal intimacy. She'd been experiencing pain in her hip area for the past month and finally saw a chiropractor when it became unbearable. After some X-rays and a rudimentary round of questions, he concluded that her displaced hip bones could have been caused by only one thing:
ROUGH sexual intercourse.
My first instinct:
Wow! I fucked her so hard, the bitch's femur popped right outta her hip socket! I'm a badass ding-dong diggity-daddy! My cock is a deadly weapon! Weeeee!
And then I was reminded of some interracial-rape story from Manhattan in the 1980s where the culprits sat in the courtroom and giggled as a forensic technician detailed all the damage their schlongs had wrought on their victim's dainty bits. I thought they were reprehensible savages then, and I feel a bit savage now.
This girl is in pain, it's my fault, and I feel HORRIBLE about it. REALLY. It's not funny, so KNOCK IT OFF. It's not a good thing to be such an awesome powerfuck that BONES get displaced. This is NOT an injury that most men WISH they could have caused.
I'm not even sure the chiropractor is right in this case. I'm only sure of my deep shame for HOPING he's right.
My cock is going back into its holster until I learn to use it safely.
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Turns out that most people who had problems loading the site were using the retarded AOL browser. My advice: Stop using the retarded AOL browser.
Posted by jg @ 07:42 PM PST []
Sunday, August 15, 2004
Posted by jg @ 07:31 PM PST []
Saturday, August 14, 2004
DATELINE PORTLAND, OR—As the sadistic August sun beat down upon his freshly shaven head, giving him a lobsterlike hue and an embarrassing case of skull freckles, local recently-switched-to-boxer-shorts homophobic-comic-book coffee-mug vendor Jim Goad walked his beloved female pug Cookie (pictured here with dangling eye booger) to a local coffee shop and ordered himself a Carmilla Java milkshake.
In response to this news, stock exchanges in New York, London, and Tokyo remained relatively unchanged.
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I've uploaded an mp3 of my "Celebrating the Jew" track on the Let's FIGHT! CD. It's a big file and won't be here for long.
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I'm getting complaints, mostly from people with AOL accounts, that they're having trouble accessing the site. Is anyone else having problems? Any corroborating testimonials and/or suggestions will help...then again, if you're able to read this, you're probably not having problems, so what's the point, right? It's like those "BLIND-ACCESSIBLE" signs they expect blind people to see. Just doesn't make SENSE.
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I've reached a compromise with myself: As long as I continue posting, I'm allowed to take a dozen pictures of my cock daily.
Posted by jg @ 09:36 PM PST []
Friday, August 13, 2004
Jim Goad spent most of last evening in bed, curled tightly in the fetal position and howling about how "weird" and "unattractive" yesterday's candid bathroom photo made him look.
"It's just...hideous," he sobbed in between hearty bites of his screamingly homo vanilla lo-carb "rice cream," confiding to me that he wishes he'd never posted the offending photo. "My mouth is hanging open like I'm some kind of retard, I have this weird ham-roll thing going on with my forehead, my nostrils are abnormally prominent, and in real life, my shoulders are much beefier than that. It simply doesn't do me justice."
When I admitted that I hadn't read his website yesterday, we rushed from the bedroom into the living room and called it up on his computer. When I saw the photo, I instantly agreed—it failed to capture his smoldering sensuality, epitomized by his patented "steely grey eyes," which are at once menacing and captivating.
We snapped over fifteen hundred shots as Goad sat in front of his computer. After a few hours of deliberation, Goad finally chose the image you're looking at now. "I really don't want people to think I look like the less-attractive shots of me, because I don't," Goad reasoned as we hastily uploaded the newer, comelier jpg to his server. "I want them to know the truth, which is that I look like the more-attractive ones."
Posted by jg @ 03:16 PM PST []
Thursday, August 12, 2004
A rare Northwestern heat wave—with five days in a row at 90°F or higher—has culminated in this afternoon's shocking decision by Portland nightlife fixture Jim Goad to fill his clawfoot tub with cool water and take a bath.
"First and foremost, I need to clarify that personal hygiene is very important to me," Goad told this reporter while reclining in his tub and sanding the balls of his feet with a pumice stone. "I'm an obsessively clean man—I take at least three showers daily and always make sure that my pits, sac, and booty-hole smell as fresh as a bowl of vanilla ice cream. But this—a cool bath in the afternoon when I should be writing, or at least jerking off—this is unprecedented. It just goes to show you how hot the weather has been."
As the cascading faucet momentarily drowns out the pumping jungle rhythms from his "Best of Rick James" CD, Goad pours some Epsom salts into the mix and reflects on current events. "It's tiring to constantly think about Jim Goad and write about Jim Goad," he sighs. "I just needed to get away from all that for a minute. Just needed some 'Jim time,' that's all."
Posted by jg @ 05:25 PM PST []
Wednesday, August 11, 2004
I use an invisible Perl script to track who visits my site, and somebody in Portland has popped by FIFTEEN different times over the last twenty hours.
It isn't me—the script is configured to not count my visits, plus the IP address is different than mine—but a WHOIS search revealed it's someone in Portland.
Why fifteen times, O gentle, wayward soul? What were you seeking? Why didn't you stop after five...or ten...or fourteen times? Were you hoping that upon your sixteenth visit, you'd find this message from me to you? Are you addicted to me, to the stenchy cloud of cybermusk which my online presence generates?
Is it possible that someone else is as into me as I am?
Posted by jg @ 09:03 PM PST []
Tuesday, August 10, 2004
My coolest friend, my best friend, the only friend I'll ever need again, is my new male mannequin which I've named Jim Goad.
He's the best, even though he scares me sometimes when I walk into my living room in the middle of the night and see him there. For a moment I think it's a burglar, but then I catch myself and say, "No, it's only my gentle, loving friend Jim Goad. Salutations, Jim Goad. I hope you're doing well. Can I pour you some sort of beverage?"
Jim Goad never raises his voice or talks back to me. Jim Goad understands my sense of humor. Jim Goad grasps what's important to me and what isn't. Jim Goad knows all my secrets and still accepts me. Jim Goad never babbles on and on and ON about things in which I have no interest.
That's why I've fallen dizzily in love with my new mannequin friend Jim Goad. He's a keeper. We close the doors, shut the blinds, and have fun—more fun than all of you, with your flashy credit cards and 50% cotton sports shirts, could ever comprehend.
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I apologize to all of those who were hoping for me to say something racist today. I'm sure some minority will do something soon to piss me off, though.
Posted by jg @ 06:14 PM PST []
Monday, August 9, 2004
wanna blow me?
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Ici est une roundup of my entire career written in Russian. And another review of Trucker Fags in which the word "brilliant" is used twice.
I promised myself I wouldn't say anything racist today.
Check back tomorrow.
Posted by jg @ 09:53 PM PST []
Sunday, August 8, 2004
SKOKIE, ILLINOIS—Professional exterminator Knute Girbsen and his son Thørsten received a strange call recently from a widow who claimed her house had been overrun with Semites.
"Sure enough, we get there and there are Jews just crawlin' all over the place," the elder Girbsen tells me as we share a strawberry parfait and stare into each other's eyes. "Jews in the cupboards, Jews on the ceiling, Jews between the walls—and you should've seen all the dad-blamed Jews down in the basement—just hootin' and hollerin' and runnin' around like the Dickens."
"Like the Dickens?" I ask, confused.
"Yeah, like the DICKENS," snarls young Thørsten Girbsen, moving toward me as if to strike.
"Leave the poor guy alone," the elder Girbsen counsels his headstrong progeny. "Yeah, like I was saying, them Jews was runnin' around like the Dickens and causing a major Jew ruckus. So we took out our squirt guns and went to work. You shoulda seen them Jews crying and screaming—and what's funnier, they were doin' that like the Dickens, too."
"You ain't a Jew, are ye?" Thørsten grills me, clenching his fist.
"Do I LOOK like a Jew?" I asked.
"Yeah," father and son chime together.
For this, dear readers, I had no answer.
Posted by jg @ 09:34 PM PST []
Saturday, August 7, 2004
WOONSOCKET, RHODE ISLAND—Fans of the world-renowned Eastminster Kennel Club Dog Show thrill yearly to the prissy preening of pampered pooches who compete in categories defined for Working, Sporting, Terrier, and Toy breeds.
"We've been highly successful, but we felt there wasn't enough recognition in our pageant for what you might call the 'nigger-scaring breeds,'" says Club representative Lex Affenpinscher, a bespectacled and obviously gay elderly man. "You know—the bloodhounds, the Rottweilers, the German Shepherds, and the pit bulls who've been traditionally used, especially in the American South, to frighten people of color and make them think twice about getting an attitude."
This year, at Affenpinscher's direction, the Dog Show will feature a new group—the Nigger-Scaring Group—to address such historical inequities. Dogs in this category will be judged not only according to the sheen of their coat and the gleam in their eyes—they'll be forced to chase a black man around the show floor, and, based on a subsequent heart-rate monitor, it will be determined which dog scared him the most.
Posted by jg @ 01:37 PM PST []
Friday, August 6, 2004
PORTLAND, OR—World-despised woman-beating racist jackhole and part-time teenaged cocksucker Jim Goad experienced an emotional, spiritual, and hygienic breakthrough recently when his pet pug Cookie, for no apparent reason, began licking his head.
"Today was gloomy for early August," Goad muses as we stare out his apartment window while the soft Northwestern rain pelts the tweakers and jogging lesbians on the slippery streets below. "Today’s weather made me really pissed off at all the usual suspects—you know, the blacks, the Jews, the feminists, and the fags, but especially the blacks." We continue staring outside as a black man starts raping a series of white women. "Did I mention the blacks?" Goad turns to me with a pleading look in his eyes.
Biting into a protein bar, Goad relates the incident which melted his heart and made him vow not to be such a meanie anymore. "I was sitting on the couch and, I’m man enough to admit it, I had just finished jerking off, and I was falling into that narcotic post-jack psychological Easter basket where I usually wind up snoring and letting the jizz dry all over me, but then Cookie jumps up on the couch and starts licking my head. Out of nowhere, I started crying. It just made me realize that nothing good can come from the negative path I’ve chosen in life. I decided right then and there to make amends for all the hurt I’ve caused. It might be hard, and I might slip up from time to time, but I’m going to really try and not kill any blacks, Jews, feminists, or fags. Not that I don’t think they deserve it, but it just wouldn’t be very cool."
Posted by jg @ 06:10 PM PST []
Thursday, August 5, 2004
I can't kick all of your asses, but I can kick most of them. I'd reckon I could kick 90% of your asses EASY, 5% of your asses with some trouble, and flat-out get my ass kicked by the other 5%. But 95%, you have to admit, is still pretty ass-kicking.
Here's someone who could kick both our asses until we didn't even have asses anymore.
Not much else to report except the fact that I wanted to prove to myself I could post something, however insubstantial, for two days running, plus to further illustrate the distasteful fact that I'll use any excuse to exhibit my torso.
Oh yeah, I'm out of Trucker Fags again. I went to my favorite downtown alternalitfag store to pick up more preordered copies today, only to be informed that big-small distributor Last Gasp and small-big distributor Diamond have blown through their respective stashes...apparently Blanchard and I have a hit on our hands. If you ordered it more than a week ago, you should already have it, or the item is somewhere on an Official USPS Pony en route to you. If you ordered within the last week, I just placed a call directly to Fantagraphics and should have more copies early next week.
Posted by jg @ 04:03 PM PST []
Wednesday, August 4, 2004
...I’ll start posting again as soon as I stop taking pictures of my cock with my cell-phone camera. Because, really, that’s all I do—sit around all day with my hard cock in one hand and my cell phone in the other, snapping away. I never figured I’d enjoy making pornography of myself, at least not THIS much.
But in case anyone asks where I've been or why I haven't been writing so much, that's the answer—I've been jerking off and taking pictures of it.
By now, almost everyone who paid for Trucker Fags should have received it. Here's an article in a local paper calling me a BIG FAG, plus reviews of Trucker Fags in Spanish and some Fjordic dialect. And behold the unveiling of a new portrait of me, this one by Kristen Cook.
