Friday, October 31, 2003
Dressed as Aunt Jemima and dragging my candy-filled pillowcase through block after block of suburban-Philly row homes, my skittish youthful mind was bedeviled with tales of razor blades in apples and rat hairs in Reese's cups. The kids were swapping stories about fat old dirty crippled pervert psychos who were poisoning our candy, and there was no telling when one of us would turn green from a cyanide-laced Nestle's Crunch or bite into an Almond Joy and be spitting blood from glass chunks.
The idea that children are perennial victims of tainted Halloween candy is part of American folklore. But professors in Illinois and Delaware who've devoted their lives to substantiating such allegations can find no evidence of a child's Halloween candy ever being poisoned by a stranger. There is only one documented case of a Halloween candy-poisoning fatality, in 1974 when a Texas man filled his own SON's Pixy Stix with cyanide, killing him. Ironically, the idea of Halloween candy-tampering had already become such an urban legend, the man thought he could avoid suspicion amid a slew of random poisonings by other perps.
I guess it's a good thing that it's largely a myth. And yet I'm reasonably sure that somewhere out there, there exist other lonely men capable of such ugly acts. And I wonder why they've behaved themselves all these years.
Posted by jg @ 11:32 PM PST []
Thursday, October 30, 2003
I believe in the innate, undying goodness of humankind.
I believe that it is wrong for people to do harm to one another.
I believe that God made us all, and God doesn't make junk.
I believe that we need to teach our children NOW in order to start building a better future.
I believe that some things are never funny and that some things should never be questioned.
I believe that race and gender are destructive social myths rather than immutable biological verities.
I believe that sex can be a wondrous, bountiful thing, so long as coercion and degradation are not involved.
I believe that everyone is born with special gifts and abilities and that each of us contributes a stitch to the giant Quilt of Humanity.
I believe, O Gentle Soldier who crosses my path in the night, that even though we may appear to be different, deep down we're really the same.
I believe that justice wins in the end.
Posted by jg @ 11:22 PM PST []
Wednesday, October 29, 2003
Seeing as I didn't ASK you to start flapping your gums, I'm now TELLING you to shut the fuck up.
What the fuck makes you think I'd want to hear anything you'd have to say? Who pumped you full of so much false self-esteem? Who reinforced the idea that your Precambrian brain had original thoughts which deserved to whistle through the air and bite me on the ear? Which one of your parents is guilty of teaching you to speak?
I hate your voice. I despise your lips. I loathe the words that issue from your fat piehole like foul winds blowing from a sphincter.
And yet your motormouth drones onward until I feel like yanking out your tongue and bitch-slapping you with it.
SHHH!!!—not another peep out of you.
Posted by jg @ 11:24 PM PST []
Tuesday, October 28, 2003
I'm in such a bad mood, I wouldn't blink at the thought of:
• Kicking the shit out of a small gang of Cub Scouts
• Stealing an old lady's steel walker and taunting her with it
• Making a doo-doo atop a complete stranger's head.
I know I'm forbidden to be in bad moods anymore—it scares people, and if I so much as raise my voice these days, someone might freak out, call in the Nut Doctors, and I wind up getting electroshock therapy, which would suck—but as sure as my Listerine Pocket Pak-enhanced breath rattles in my rib cage, I'd love to smash something to dust right now.
Except for the fact that I was able to urinate and take a shower—and, truth be told, urinate while taking a shower—EVERYTHING WENT WRONG TODAY. Old problems. New problems. Old and new problems fusing together in a Fudgy Problematic Swirl. Major disappointments. Minor annoyances. Hungry as fuck and the only place open is Taco Bell, and after waiting five minutes for some high-school retard service worker to finally appear at the cash register, she coughs and gobs repeatedly into her food-molesting hands and asks me what I'd like. I walk out into the cold windy darkness, hungry and ready to step on someone's toes.
It's partially my fault, I know. But it's also everyone else's fault. It's YOUR fault. And YOUR fault. And YOUR fault over there. I've made a list of all your indiscretions, and it's available for a small fee.
Posted by jg @ 11:09 PM PST []
Monday, October 27, 2003
'Tis a blessed thing to know nothing, to be unaware your ignorance and hence untroubled by it. To be dumb is to taste heaven while still upon earth. I've never seen a depressed retarded person.
But when you know a little, you become mildly anguished, suspicious that there are worlds beyond your grasp.
When you know a lot, you are routinely tortured by the gaps in your awareness.
And when you know 99% of everything, you have no choice but to kill yourself, smart enough to realize you'll never know that other 1%.
Thankfully, for right now, I only know a lot.
Posted by jg @ 11:22 PM PST []
Sunday, October 26, 2003
It's a fact: Only women and gay men enjoy the sight of animals in costumes. The rest of us are very, very disturbed by it. That includes the animals.
For years I've consorted with female intimates who've enjoyed stuffing my furry surrogate children, both canine and feline, into "cute" outfits and creating anthropomorphized personae for them. I'd grit my teeth as the squirming animals had their limbs forced into one barfy-cute get-up after the next, imploring me with their eyes to intervene. And there I was today, watching Cookie cavort in a Halloween "witch" ensemble designed, but of course, by a female intimate.
LET THE BONDAGE END. The reason I love animals is because they aren't like humans. The last thing I want is for them to start dressing like us or resembling us in any way. Pretty please, O Loving Christ Child, let there be no more animals in costumes.
Posted by jg @ 10:51 PM PST []
Saturday, October 25, 2003
CRACK! BANG! KA-CHUNG! This diary entry is the first composed on my sleek, all-new compensatory cock, a Macintosh G4.
It replaces a wheezing, obsolete Power Mac 8600 and its mood-killing beige Juicy Fruit-gum-colored old-school computer pigmentation. The ancient workhorse was so sluggish, it used to take me an hour just to Photoshop one of the darling little pictures I post here every day. Now it takes about three minutes.
My new digital phallus, received as partial payment for designing someone else's website, is a bold slab of silver and blue. It boasts more than 10X as much RAM as my old one ... the moist jungleosity of Mac's OSX ... and it doesn't make loud scratchy sounds like an antique record player whenever I access a file.
Yeah, I know they have G5s now, and I'd probably fetch only about $500 if I had to sell my "new" machine...but it's by far the fastest (and sexiest) computer I've ever owned. I hate techgeeks and 99% of techspeak, but I love the power this hard-plastic box bequeaths upon me. Now I can do the Flash versions of ANSWER Me! I promised a while back. And I can record my own tracks and edit my own movies.
Since I'm still not permitted to go around guns, this is the next best thing.
Posted by jg @ 11:41 PM PST []
Friday, October 24, 2003
I beseech thee, Great Spirit, to grant me a peaceful death—allow me to quietly slip away in my sleep, or at least let me be so fucking skagged-out on pain medication that nothing matters anyway.
Perhaps due to an all-encompassing sense of personal guilt and a queasy foreboding that divine retribution is imminent, I've often pondered what would be the worst sort of death God could possibly plot for me.
Being buried alive—tossed in a ditch and packed down with hard dirt that fills my nostrils and mouth and wracks me with a deathly panic although I'm unable to move my limbs, slowly blacking out while knowing it's the end and I'm settling into my tomb—would be near the top of my list.
So would being burned alive, watching my own flesh drip from my limbs until my eyeballs explode. The torment is impossible to conceive, further out in Painland than anything I've ever felt.
Drowning wouldn't be a treat, either, especially if, while I was drowning, I happened to be eaten by a giant sea creature.
Freezing to death while stalled-out in a car somewhere in the Rockies, shivering until it hurts my muscles, ice crystals forming on my eyelashes, slowly transforming into a Goadsicle, holds a special terror for me. I'm a complete cold-weather pussy. Anything under 40°F, and I'm screaming like a woman.
I think that I could conceivably be tickled to death.
But the worst way to go, of course, is to be forgotten.
+++++++++
Trucker Fags in Denial will finally be published as a comic book in March by Fantagraphics.
Posted by jg @ 11:35 PM PST []
Thursday, October 23, 2003
Today, after an ordeal lasting nearly five-and-a-half years from start to finish, I'm finally free of the corrections system.
My three-year stretch of "post-prison supervision" ends today, exactly three years after I emerged from the giant grey crypt.
I am now, as the cons say, "totally off paper." I still have two felonies on my record ... and in thirty-nine states, another felony would win me life imprisonment ... but in terms of being "under arrest"—from handcuffs to jail time to parole officers—the system no longer has its claws under my skin. I'm not being monitored or forced to attend classes or pay fines or fill out a monthly status report.
And I'm not behind bars.
I'm just like you again, except I could never really be just like you again. Incarceration changes you so dramatically, it's almost as if you've been dyed a different color.
If you've been locked up, even for a day, you know how I feel. But if you've never even been handcuffed, you have no idea. You're over there, on the other side, one of those people.
I'm going to take Cookie for a long walk today in the rain.
I'm going to take a long hot shower by myself, instead of with fifty other guys.
I might even buy my ex-parole officer a dozen roses. She was cool with me throughout, a buoy of sanity in a heartless system bent on crushing everything human within you.
Alive. Ha, ha—still alive.
Posted by jg @ 02:37 AM PST []
Monday, October 20, 2003
I am not a normally socialized male. I am a weirdo loner narcissist who stays clear of the pack. In my early teens, I withdrew into myself and walked away from sports and the Boy Scouts and all other males-only social rituals. I didn't abandon my musky maleness—if anything, I continue to grow more Butch with each new day—only the practice of sharing and celebrating male stuff with other males. I resigned from the Brotherhood of Dudes.
Not counting the tense, smelly, male-hormones-only agony of incarceration, I've willingly spent most of my adulthood exclusively in the company of women. Misogynist this, woman-beater that—I'd still rather hang with the girls. Unlike the guys, who are mostly dinosaur-simple, the ladies are nearly as complex as me. Compared to the fascinating, multilayered madness of most females, the fellas are boorish, leering, burger-fueled Instinct Robots. I understand why women hate them.
Still, it would have been nice to have gone to a Stag Party at least once. It would have fulfilled some still-unmet social need of mine to fraternize with a bunch of hairy, sideburned buddies as we celebrate a friend's matrimonial shackling by drinking beer, watching pornos on an 8mm reel-to-reel, and having a junkie stripper pop out of a phony cake. We'd all get too fucked up, beat the shit out of each other, go to a late-night diner where we'd sexually harass the waitresses, and then retire to our miserable homes, horny and hostile.
I feel deprived.
Posted by jg @ 10:47 PM PST []
Sunday, October 19, 2003
I am happy that black people commit crimes against other blacks. I am not happy for the victims, nor even the perps, but for what it all proves.
When black people kill, maim, rape, rob, and assault one another in small African villages ... or in some rusty Midwestern slum where there aren't any white people for miles ... they reveal themselves to be fully, truly human.
Nowadays, it is considered racist for a white person to infer that any nonwhite anywhere is capable of malice and malfeasance. But I consider it highly patronizing ... in the way one might patronize a retarded person, an infant, or the elderly ... to infer that a black person is incapable of plummeting into depravity all by their lonesome.
It is the rankest form of racism to suggest that any human tribe has a monopoly on either noble or vile behavior. But to embrace the obvious fact that blacks can be JUST AS BAD AS US is to welcome them into the human herd.
Black-on-black crime is the surest proof we have of racial equality.
Posted by jg @ 01:10 PM PST []
Saturday, October 18, 2003
While searching the word "rectum" online (more innocent than it sounds, but I'll leave it to your imagination), I encountered a sinister culinary-sexual underworld of hot sauces which celebrate anal pain so intense, it might as well be a jail rape. These sauces do more than burn your palate; they shred your anal membranes.
Lest you think I'm joshing yet again, go to this site or this one or this one and realize there are dozens more like them, touting spicy condiments with names such as:
Screaming Sphincter • ANALize This • Buttplug Relief • Holy Shit! • Colon Cleaner • Flaming Coon Ass • Rectal Revenge • Red Rectum Revenge • Bubba's Butt Blaster • Screaming Sphincter • Rectal Rocket Fuel • Rectum Ripper • Hot Roid • Pain In The Ass • Red Rupture • Ass Blaster • Ass In Hell • Ass in Space • Colon Blow • Crapper John's • Meggasoreass • Anal Agony • Butt Twister • Hemorrhoid Helper
The word "rectum," as well as the organ it describes, is one of the ugliest things there is. And you expect me to splash some Rectum Sauce on my Prime Rib and then put it in my MOUTH?
I enjoy spicy cuisine as much as anyone...right up to the point where the concept of ASS is introduced.
Who are the devotees of this spicy ass cult? Who enjoys curling up to a nice bottle of Butt Twister, savoring the savage anal spraying which is sure to ensue? Who would buy a product that promises only anal pain?
Forget that I asked. I don't want to know.
Posted by jg @ 06:05 PM PST []
Friday, October 17, 2003
I think you're a total asshole for calling me an asshole, even if I called you an asshole first. But you acted like an asshole first—you were behaving in an assholish sort of way, and simply because I stated this fact, because I brought words and truth together, that doesn't make me an asshole. I would have to do something asshole-like in order to earn the title "asshole," not merely point out that you were acting like one.
To be honest, I didn't really even care that you were acting like an asshole. As long as I could state my feelings about how you were acting, I was fine. But then you had to go and act like a Double Asshole just because I called you an asshole.
That's when you started calling me an asshole. So I said, "Fine, go ahead and call me an asshole—I don't agree with you," and in your eyes, that made me an even bigger asshole, when in my eyes, it only made you look like the real asshole in this situation.
The way I see it, only one of us can be the real asshole, and that asshole is you. I didn't want you to be the asshole. I have nothing invested in your being an asshole. So why you got to be an asshole about this?
Posted by jg @ 11:12 PM PST []
Thursday, October 16, 2003
I've only gone skiing about a half-dozen times in my life. My toupéed brother-in-law would take me back when I was twelve...back when Happy Days was a racy new TV show that mentioned hickeys, back when Aerosmith's "Dream On" and Tom T. Hall's "I Love" were jukebox songs at the rinky-dink suburban Philly ski-resort restaurant where I sat munching a hamburger, nursing my wounds, and staring at the snowy hills with awed contempt.
I love
coffee in a cup
little fuzzy pups,
old TV shows
and snow
And I love you, too.
Small-time ski lodge—just a small hill and a big hill—little one about a hundred feet high, big 'un about five hundred—and a creaky old ski lift servicing both hills. I loved smashing down the hills at top speed, icy wind shaving my face, riding a pure thrill. I'd wipe out on the hard snow about half the time. By the end of each day, all cut and bruised, I'd swear to never go skiing again. It was exhilarating, but too painful.
And the next chance I got, I'd be smashing down the hill again. And wiping out again.
Posted by jg @ 11:22 PM PST []
Wednesday, October 15, 2003
My turkey-jerky-textured heart has been tugged to the point of near-emotiveness at the torrential outpouring of well-wishing and corny folk-medicine tips which have flooded my mailbox since yesterday's entry about having pain in my legs.
The good news is that my suffering has mostly abated, and I am able to walk around, do jumping jacks, and practice swing-dance steps like I always do. But though the pain is gone, the culprit remains elusive. Readers suggested that my condition was caused by:
• a kidney stone
• a urinary tract infection
• a blood clot in my leg
• sciatica
• arthritis
• an allergic reaction to medication
• a bite from a brown recluse spider
And yet as I struggled this morning to zip up and close the button on my size-32 Lee black jeans, it occurred to me that yesterday's howling pain may have been caused by nothing more sinister than tight pants. My weight is always fluctuating, and lately my vast wardrobe of black and blue jeans—all of them size 32—have been strangling my waist, gnawing at the excess flab ribbon around my midriff. My pelvic and leg areas—the same regions which are constricted by a snug pair of pants—were exactly the parts where I felt pain. It's possible that a tight pair of pants...or a series of expeditions whilst wearing tight pants...has crushed my internal organs, or at least bruised some muscles or pinched a nerve.
I cannot—I WILL not—abandon size 32. It's been my size since high school, and it's a matter of personal valor to wear this size until I'm stuffed in a pine box. I just need to make a few lifestyle changes, that's all. A few more situps and a few less visits to Krispy Kreme, and my trousers will cease to cause me a level of pain that makes me want to die.
Posted by jg @ 11:25 PM PST []
Tuesday, October 14, 2003
The searing pain in the back of my legs—feels like I'm being roasted over an open flame from my ass down to my ankles—started this morning and has only let up for moments. I had twinges of pelvic cramping yesterday, as if a giant praying mantis had pinched my genital area with its mandibles and bruised a few vital nerves, but the pain shot down into my virile stovepipe legs this morning, so intense at times that I had to shut my eyes.
I was lying there in bed thinking, "Great, now I have polio or something."
I look at someone such as Annette Funicello, a man-eating, boulder-boobed hellcat back in her post-Mousketeer prime, and how multiple sclerosis has rendered her a bony, nonambulatory human scrapheap in leg braces. The truth is sad and final: Being a cripple renders you much less fuckable. I don't want multiple sclerosis. One sclerosis I could handle—two at the max—but when they start multiplying and spreading, it becomes overwhelming.
As much as I don't want to become an unsexy cripple, it would also be unfair to the world were I join the legions of the disabled. I'd be one of those old men who'd chase after rowdy kids in my wheelchair, swinging a baseball bat at them. I'm crabby enough—please, Precious Savior, let me have my legs.
Posted by jg @ 11:28 PM PST []
Monday, October 13, 2003
SEATTLE, WA—The rock-music and military-intelligence worlds are both abuzz this week with news that fugitive terrorist Osama bin Laden has teamed with former members of grunge supergroup Soundgarden to form an even-more-super supergroup called Soundladen.
"I'd describe our sound as a killer combo of Eastern mysticism and kick-ass, in-your-face rock 'n' roll," Soundladen lead singer Chris Cornell explains in a halting, yo-dude kind of accent. "Osama's guitar playing shows a restraint and tasteful phrasing you wouldn't expect from such a notorious figure, but notoriety is really what rock 'n' roll is all about. He's just another black sheep just like all of us are deep down, man."
Rock critics are already heaping praise on Soundladen's debut CD, There's a Hummus Among Us, on which Osama delivers a heart-rending guest vocal on a cover of "Choices" by George Jones. They're already tossing around the word "Grammy" for bin Laden's tear-jerking admission that he's made some awful mistakes in his life. It's bin Laden's only vocal on the CD—for the rest of the album he delivers a torrent of searing Middle Eastern hot licks on his Rickenbacker guitar, drawing numerous comparisons to Clapton and that guy in the White Stripes.
"I was wrong about the West," bin Laden says warmly while changing a guitar string. "Western culture has allowed me to reinvent myself as an alternative musician. While I love the Islamic world, it never allows you to reinvent yourself—you're just kind of invented once, and that's it. But now I've been reinvented, and I'm READY TO ROCK!"
Posted by jg @ 11:48 PM PST []
Sunday, October 12, 2003
Women's sporting competitions are forever hampered by the fact that, whatever the event, men can do it better. Girls may kick ass, sure, but boys kick ass harder. Boys are stronger and quicker, and the fact that "women's sports" exist at all testifies to the fact that the girls can't compete with the boys. Women's sports become a patronizing sort of booby prize for the congenitally disabled, a Special Olympics where the handicap is a vagina rather than a slow brain.
The typical female athlete is a bony-shouldered, cabbage-faced, lumpy-boobed carpet-muncher who hates men and enjoys the company (and sexual companionship!) of females exclusively. She violates our most cherished taboos and is often seen wearing suspenders and smoking cigars on public street corners in full view of normal families.
I've never met a normal man—you know, the kind that sits around all day masturbating and thinking about women—who finds female sporting events interesting, nor who finds female athletes sexually alluring. Real men desire sexual intimacy with weak, clumsy women, not someone who can beat them at bowling. Lesbians may like to wear flannel, chug beer, munch on bean dip, and watch these all-girl sporting events on cable TV, and I say, "More power to 'em!" But I speak for most of the Brotherhood when I say that I don't want to see you tossing balls around, unless the balls are mine.
Posted by jg @ 11:38 PM PST []
Saturday, October 11, 2003
I'm always disturbed to see black people speaking Spanish. I am likewise unsettled to see black people with Spaniard-sounding names...you know, things like "Chico Enriquez" and "Pepe Garcia." I am shocked, taken aback, and mildly abashed when humans with clearly Negroidal ancestry start acting Spanish all of a sudden.
Splicing the words "Spanish" and "Negro," I have concoted the term "Spanegro" to define such persons. It's pronounced "spuh-NEE-grow." I was thinking of adding a tilde accent over the "n," in which case it would be spelled Spañegro and pronounced "span-YEGG-row."
Yes, I realize why such a class of persons exists. More African slaves were sent to Brazil than to America, and etc., etc., zippety-do-dah, all the livelong day. This fact doesn't prevent me from being very, very frightened by them.
To the right is a picture of Pedro Martinez, pitcher for perennial losers the Boston Red Sox, as he savagely throws SEVENTY-TWO-YEAR-OLD Yankees coach Don Zimmer, a Caucasian, to the ground today during a playoff game. Mr. Martinez, despite his name, is obviously a black man. And yet the cultural infusion of spicy Hispanic feistiness led him to this barbarous, unconscionable act. If he'd been merely a Negro or merely a Hispanic, this tragedy never would have happened. But Pedro is that most dangerous of all human subspecies—the Spanegro.
I fear the Spanegro because I fear both blacks and Hispanics, and to have these races combined into one body is too much fear for me to bear.
Posted by jg @ 08:23 PM PST []
Quentin Tarantino, I always had you pegged as the worst sort of film-school geek. Your movies are empty homages to classics done better a generation or two ago. And you can cram as many "F" words and bullets into your films as you want, but you're still a fake.
I've never been able to make it through one of your movies. I fell asleep while watching Reservoir Dogs on video. I know it had some guys in suits, and that's about all I can recall. And I walked out of Pulp Fiction about forty minutes in, when they're in the restaurant where "Buddy Holly" is the host and "Marilyn" is the waitress—a nauseating overload of empty pop references, all of them refracted off your greasy chin, Quentin, sent me running for the door. And now I hear that you have a new movie out, and I'm sure it's horrible, and I wish you'd quit playing around and pull a trigger for real...ONCE...please.
I saw you about six or seven years ago on Jay Leno, slobbering like a goony fanboy over a mint-condition Brady Bunch board game presented to you by Florence Henderson. I thought, "I don't like this Tarantino fellow. He rubs me the wrong way. I don't like his movies, and now I know why—because I don't like him, either."
I disapprove of you. I wish harm upon you. I summon the ancient Nordic demons to molest you as you try to sleep. I hope your coffee machine, blender, and toaster all break on the same day.
Posted by jg @ 12:01 AM PST []
Friday, October 10, 2003
BROWNSVILLE, TX—Proponents of a controversial sex-offender diversionary program here claim that everyone benefits when rapists sell ice cream—the sex offenders learn the positive glow that comes with bringing joy to other human beings, the taxpayers save money on incarceration, and the ice-cream fanatics among us can enjoy high-quality confections at a reasonable price.
But the plan's opponents caution against allowing dangerous rapists and child molesters to interact with ordinary citizens, going so far as to derisively refer to the ice-cream bars as "rapesicles."
Brownsville Circuit Court Judge Eldon Mollusk devised the plan three years ago after facing overcrowded jails and the unsavory prospect of allowing first-time sex offenders to walk free. He mapped out a six-month work-release program for novice offenders, "Ice Cream So They Don't Have to Scream Anymore," whereby newly convicted sexual predators can avoid incarceration by selling ice cream to ordinary citizens in the daytime, and at night engaging in an exhaustive, often physically coercive, psychological remodification program.
"The ice-cream sales pay one hundred percent of the diversionary program's costs," beams Mollusk. "And for every one-dollar bar of ice cream they sell, five cents goes to help defray the costs of their victims—things such as hospital bills, psychiatric medication, heavy makeup—stuff like that."
Lens Kverniksen (pictured) would be sitting in a prison cell right now if it weren't for Judge Mollusk's plan. In what he describes as "a simple bathroom accident," Kverniksen "allowed" a six-year-old boy to masturbate him to orgasm back in 2001, at a time when Kverniksen was 38. Rather than bleeding somewhere in a cellblock, picking up his teeth from the floor after another beating from hardcore convicts, Kverniksen sells ice-cream bars to Brownsville's downtown lunchtime crowd. "Everyone likes ice cream," he says, "and by selling ice cream to everyone, I can maybe get everyone to like me. And I like helping people. Kids even get half-price!"
"We shouldn't be allowing these dirty apes to be selling ice cream to our women and children," says Condoleezza Schwartz, a self-described "lifelong victim of sexual assault." Schwartz claims that she's suffered night tremors, cold sweats, and a mild chafing between her thighs ever since hearing of Judge Mollusk's ice-cream-for-rapists plan. "One night in 1993, I was cornered by a man in a dark alley, and he made me put something awful in my mouth," she says ominously. "Now every time I see someone sucking on a rapesicle, I relive the trauma again. Everyone who eats one of these things is, in effect, raping me all over again."
Posted by jg @ 12:42 AM PST []
Thursday, October 9, 2003
I wonder whether Bruce Springsteen still likes to masturbate. I say "still" because at one time in their lives, all boys like to masturbate, and at one time in his life, Bruce Springsteen was a boy, but I'm curious whether the fifty-something working-class musical hero sometimes sits around in his mansion flipping through cable channels, looks around to make sure the servants and the wife aren't home, then plops his rock-star cock out of his sweat pants and begins strumming on it like it's his beloved guitar. It's possible, right?
As much as he postured himself as a stubbly, pit-stained, danger-seeking rebel, Bruce Springsteen's main appeal has always been that everyone knows he's a dork. You can tell all those old songs about Jersey girls named "Jenny" or "Wendy" or "Cherry" weren't really about vadges the young Bruce had pierced—he looked too much like a gawky chimp to score much tail—but it's a sure bet that these girls were the fantasy fodder for many a Springsteenian self-pleasuring session. It's safe to assume that his Joisey adolescence consisted almost exclusively of self-administered hand jobs. By extension, it would be fair to say that his entire musical career is a reflection of the fact that he's an incurable jerkoff.
But when he became a famous man—even gracing the cover of Time and Newsweek in the same week, a feat equaled only by O. J. Simpson, Jesus Christ, and Jared Fogle—it became easy for the awkward masturbation addict from Central Jersey to score pootie-tang whenever he wanted it. Yet on absolutely no evidence, I suspect that throughout his professional career, Bruce Springsteen has retreated to the solace of carnal self-abuse.
That's all I'm suggesting. That he's a lifelong jerkoff.
And by the way, he's looking more a Jewish cantor the older he gets.
+++++++++
Here's the new Trucker Fags.
Posted by jg @ 12:07 AM PST []
Tuesday, October 7, 2003
"Las Vegas" means "The Meadows" en Espanol, and yet there are no naturally occurring meadows here. Whatever lush vegetation you'd find is by necessity artificial--designed, manicured, and fed by water pumped in from elsewhere. The only natural things here are the sand and the heat.
Bugsy Siegel and a few other entrepreneurial crooks turned this inhospitable valley of burning sand into a neon-and-glass cathedral to the Money God. And for every hundred fools who come here with dreams of making it rich, ninety-nine of them leave poorer.
A crowd of mourners is gathered outside the hospital where aging queen Roy Horn of "Siegfried and Roy" fame lies in critical condition after nearly being pawed to death by one of his beloved tigers Friday night. Though no one else dares mention it, there's poetry in the fact that a wild beast finally stood up and tore into something so thoroughly plastic.
Posted by jg @ 11:55 AM PST []
Monday, October 6, 2003
I've been stranded in a desert mirage called Las Vegas for the past few days. Vegas, the town that not only sucks your soul, it swallows. I didn't realize until today that there's a Kinko's only two blocks from my hotel.
Fat blobs in leisure suits keep feeding the slots with dollar bills, their faces blank whether they win or lose. Morbidly obese women with their tits hanging down to their ankles grab another plate and get in the back of the buffet line. The sun shoots down like a flamethrower from God's mouth.
And still, it's better than Portland. These days, everywhere seems better than Portland.
Posted by jg @ 02:15 PM PST []
Wednesday, October 1, 2003
If the penis is Tony Orlando, then the testes are Dawn—two background singers overshadowed by a hammy front man.
Phallocentrism's flaw is that it mistakes the penis as the true male genital—the giver of life—when the dick is merely a shuttle bus delivering the squirmy worms hatched inside the testicles. And for all the blibbity-blab one hears about women being the primary givers of life, a womb is a glorified halfway house inside which nestles a tadpole birthed in a man's nutsack.
Life starts inside deez nutz. Don't ever forget it.
And yet the scrotum, due in equal parts to its ugly name and its droopy, pachydermal configuration, doesn't get nearly the credit as do the aforementioned genitals. While women may worship (or ridicule) a man's ding-a-ling, you'll never hear them drooling over "That SEXY set of testicles!" No matter how hideous a man's yarbles may be, fellows never experience ball-insecurity. It's the same way that they aren't obsessed with the relative sex appeal of, say, their kneecaps. A man's family jewels, despite their primacy in procreation, aren't considered to be sex objects.
It's time to change all that. Let us reclaim our scrota, gentlemen. Let us bask in their mystical, sexually magickal allure. Let us shave, oil, and adorn them in the manner of the ancients. Let us beseech our partners to lick them and weigh them in their palms as part of foreplay.
Knock down the walls that shroud our balls!