Conversations with a 13-Year Old: "Towels"

Nanda comes into the front room, holding the dirty towel he used to clean the bathroom. He points at the basket of towels that I am folding.

NANDA: Are those clean?

ME (looking at the towel I am currently folding): What do you think?

NANDA: Well, I don't know, I was just asking...

ME: Try this out next time you have a question: actually observe your surroundings and try to answer it yourself, and maybe you don't get so many pissy, sarcastic comebacks.

-----

Maybe I'm an asshole, but seriously, kid?

Let's Talk Sexual Fetish

We all have them, after all, even those of you who claim not to. Even you women who claim to have no kinks eventually reveal that you like to be tied up, or that you like watching men make out with each other. It's human nature, after all.

My primary fetish, for instance, is watching women urinate. I don't feel like this is much of a big deal, because if the internet has taught me anything, it's that there are a lot of frigging people who feel the same. I don't know the numbers exactly, but judging by how many hits you get when you type "pissing porn" into Google (over 8 million of them), it's a significant number. So significant that I'd say it's not beyond the realm of probability that somebody reading this post also likes to watch the ladies on the toilet (you filthy pervert).

When it comes to sexual talk, with friends at parties and what have you, there's a line, it seems, beyond which nothing shall be discussed. Ladies can talk about the sort of men then like, their preferred penis size, and men can talk about whether they like blonds or Asians or cheerleader costumes, but if you chime up and mention that you like to watch girls pee, everybody will get all awkward and change the subject. I think that's because when it comes to sex, people like to discuss universals rather than specifics, lest they actually reveal something about themselves. After all, who doesn't like cheerleaders, right? It's a no-risk proposition confessing that you like girls in cheerleader costumes. It's a mild fetish that's still socially acceptable. In fact, it would probably be considered weird if you didn't like girls in cheerleader costumes. (I prefer schoolgirl costumes, myself.)

Women generally don't seem to think that a pee fetish is much of a big deal. I figure they must think, "Well, I pee all the time anyway. If I can turn him on by letting him watch, that's a pretty easy deal for me." Also, some men are much bigger perverts than me, and I think just about every woman has been with at least one guy that blows my kink out of the water. However, when I told a male I used to be very close with (family-wise) about the same thing, just in casual conversation, he fucking flipped out. He simply could not accept that I could find anything erotic about urination, and he brought it up almost every future time the subject of sex was raised (as it was frequently, since we were guys, and that's what guys talk about). Eventually, he had twisted my fetish into something so reprehensible that he felt completely justified in stealing my girlfriend from me behind my back. (We don't talk any more.) The truly bizarre thing is that I've known him his entire life, during which time he has said things to me like: when he was young, he sexually experimented with farm animals; when he masturbates, he lets his dog lick the semen off of his hand; and he enjoys going down on women when they are menstruating. These things are all perfectly normal as far as he is concerned, even though, guess what: yeah, I've never done any of them, because they are disgusting to me. However, I didn't judge him the way he judged me over a little pee.

And really, what's the purpose in judging? Your kink and somebody else's kink are just two different versions of the same phenomenon: getting all uptight because you found out your friend likes shemales or your sister likes rubber is silly and dishonest. Because I may like urine, but you've fucked dogs by your own admission, so which of us has the real problem?

So, what I'm saying is, maybe we should all get a little less uptight about all of this. In a world where politicians are constantly being busted for having fetish sex with prostitutes, maybe it's okay to tell the people you trust about what turns you on. After all, if you told somebody about it, maybe you wouldn't have to go to a hooker to get it. I also don't think it's very healthy to have so many deep, dark secrets. They eat away at you, you know?

So anyway, my name is Kevin Wolf, and I like to watch girls pee. Big deal.

What about you?

GUEST BLOGGER: An Irish Poet

"A Child Starves to Death in a Cold Place on Christmas"

Look at that child.
No more than a baby.
It's so sad, the little fucker's dead.

He had no food
And was totally cold.
This is fuckin' awful, no matter who you are.

I mean, he's fuckin' dead.
What's the bloody point?
We're all just babies
Starving to death in cold gutters
and brickyards.

Yeah, a god-damned brickyard!
That's bloody nice, right?

My mother had tuberculosis!
I haven't had it easy, either, you know.

But at least I never died, like this child,
With no food
In the cold.

Oh, Christ, I just want to kill them all to save them
The trouble o' dyin'.
Yes, I'd kill every little baby
Because that would be better
Than suffering through this life.

My father beat me day and night!

That's pretty sad, right?
Parent abuse and disease
And starvin' children?
Only thing worse
Would maybe be what...
A train accident? An orphanage fire?

'Cause I'll do whatever it takes.

I don't care.

You've had a good life this morning,
And now you've heard about this
Starved dead baby in a pile of bricks,
Which probably just ruined your day.

If that isn't enough, my sister is
The only girl I ever loved,
And she was taken from me
By the smallpox when I was
But a schoolboy!

I've got serious issues from all of this tragedy,
But at least I'm not a starved child in the cold.

Think about that.

Happy fuckin' day to you, and enjoy your
Fancy literary journal, you nancy bastards!

The image of that child haunts my
opium dreams.

On Christmas.

----Henry Merrick Fitzhugh

Don't Let Alaska Hit You on the Way Out

"How about, in honor of the American soldier, you quit makin' things up?"
--Sarah Palin, from her farewell address as governor of Alaska

Here, in a nutshell, we have a statement that says everything about Mrs. Palin while actually, as is her habit, saying nothing at all. We have her patented victim-playing, her straw-man argument against the virtually non-existent "liberal media", and of course, that wingnut favorite: nonsensical exploitation of "the American soldier" to make a point that has nothing to do with them.

I will never forgive you, John McCain, for raising this fucking idiot to national prominence. She is without question the most ignorant person that has ever been thrust onto the national stage outside of Joe the Plumber (thanks for that one, too, Johnny).

She doesn't speak, she just strings conservative buzzwords together. It's the 21st century version of newspeak. In George Orwell's 1984, the purpose of "newspeak" was to divorce language from the brain, so that it was nothing more than pavlovian "duckspeak" spewing out of your mouth without thinking. Sarah Palin is a practiced duckspeaker, and her worshippers are more than willing to share and pass on the duckspeak like so many baby birds clamoring for vomit.

Sarah Palin, you deserve to be run out of the country on a rail, but people seem to enjoy the Palin Trainwreck, so enjoy your ride. You might rack up some book sales, but the one thing you'll never have from any serious political thinker in this country is respect, merely the blind obedience of the most gullible slice of the American pie.

Always Behave as if Somebody Is Watching

This morning, I sat up in bed alone, probably belched or farted, reached to get my sweat-pants, and clumsily put them on. I then decided to roll toward the end corner of the bed, put my hands on the floor and sort of scrabble myself to a standing position. It was a very awkward and lazy way to get oneself out of bed. The first thing I saw was Jill looking at me with an amused half-smirk.

ME: "Oh! I didn't know you were there."

JILL: "Yes, I've been sitting here the whole time."

ME: "If I'd known that, I probably wouldn't have gotten out of bed all retarded."

Let this be a lesson to you all. You never know who's watching, or how stupid you look to them.

BE EVER VIGILANT.

You're Not That Funny or Clever, Joke Wedding Dancers

This is the new trend: perform a joke dance for your first dance at your wedding reception, then put the video on YouTube so that everybody can see how "funny" you are. "Oh, haha, they're white people dancing to black music! That's so novel! Maybe they'll do some black dance moves and really blow my mind!" Another couple took it a step further by doing a joke dance (to a Chris Brown song, people. Nothing like ushering in your wedding and marriage with thoughts of domestic abuse, am I right?) during the wedding procession, actually turning their wedding into a big, tacky, "Look how clever and irreverent we are" showcase. These idiots actually got on the Today show.

Look, assholes: if I had to get dressed up in my best monkey-suit to come to your fucking wedding, the least that you could do is show some solemnity for the proceedings, not dance around like buffoons and make the audience feel like the biggest schmucks in the world for not wearing something more appropriate, like maybe a tuxedo t-shirt and a beer helmet.

Any Sheen Is a Good One, I Guess

At Huffington Post, they have a slideshow of actors who have played presidents over the years, and then an option to vote for your favorites. Right now, the #1 favorite is Martin Sheen, which isn't really a surprise, since HuffPo readers are liberal and Sheen played the most lovable, defiantly liberal fictional president ever. Right?

Not exactly.

What none of the geniuses who voted for Sheen managed to notice is that the character up for voting is actually the psychotic douchebag with ambitions of starting WWIII in the film The Dead Zone, not the principled, decent and courageous Josiah Bartlett of The West Wing.

Way to go, HuffPo readers! Way to refute all of those rumors about progressives being smart.

CHAT: Nerd

Jill: Who misses me?

me: Um, both of us?

Jill: There wasn't any jumping up and down with your hand raised?

me: Would you like me to? What time are you thinking of getting home?

Jill: I don't know. Now that I know I'm not missed does it matter?

me: I just said we both missed you, nerd.

Jill: You're the nerd

me: Your a super-nerd with extra special nerd-powers.

Jill: You're a nerd dunked in special nerd sauce.

me: You're a nerd combo meal that's been nerd-sized for 39 cents extra.

Jill: You're a nerd platter with free nerd fries because they dropped them on the floor.

me: Extra-spicy nerd taco with blazing nerd sauce.

Jill: Mocha nerd with a twist of nerd and an extra shot of concentrate nerd.

me: You're a jello nerd shot sucked off of Bill Gates' abdomen.

Jill: HAWT!

GUEST BLOGGER: For the Moon Is Hollow, and I Have Humped It in the Moon-Butt

(In honor of the Apollo 11 anniversary, I offer this semi-topical re-posting of a classic BLOGTRONIC blog.)

-----

Sci-Fi, MUTHUHFUCKAHS.

So, I was flying around in my space-ship the other day...oh, DIDN'T I MENTION MY SPACE-SHIP? Silly me. Yeah, I have a space-ship. It's totally retro-future and it looks like a giant penis. I once flew it into a black hole and had intercourse with eternity.

TRUE STORY.

In fact, I'd stabbed many a heavenly body with my warp-drive phallus, but never the moon. Just never got around to it. Until today. I was zipping around the solar system, sticking my nose-cone into various rings and asteroids and nebulae and whatnot, when HOLY SHIT I'VE NEVER BEEN TO THE MOON suddenly popped into my head like your sister pops into Planned Parenthood. (Like, every other week, am I right, people? Damn, your sister's a slut.)

Well, shucks! The moon has never tasted my space seed? Time to rectify that situation PRONTO. So I whipped the Starlit Sodomizer around and high-tail-finned it (don't you love these space-ship puns I'm making all over the place? It makes shit more SPACEY!) to Luna, which is what they call the moon in science fiction books from the 50s that take place in a future where people live on it. Well, let me tell you...by the time I'd planted the Sodomizer into my favorite crater and blasted out to have a bit of a hover-around, I realized pretty damned quick that Robert A. Heinlein and his cronies were smoking far finer shit than mine, because kids: IT'S THE FUCKING FUTURE, and there ain't nothing up there but rocks, more rocks, and some Big Mac wrappers left behind by the Apollo guys. The moon is emptier than a scrotum in a porno booth (after, say, 4 minutes), deader than a coyote in an anvil factory, and more barren than your adoptive mother's womb.

EXCEPT.

There's a totally hot babe there.

A totally hot ROBO-BABE.

Uh-oh...

Awkward situation here, folks. See, my on-again-off-again relationship with the divine and eminently fuckable Ms. DOS is currently in full on-again mode. The sweet little can of peaches here could seriously flip the switch on Ms. DOS to off-again status, perhaps permanently. She might even decide to get the switch REMOVED. Because in the history of our tumultuous partnering, I have never cheated on my beloved...with a robot. We both have had our share of human lovers, because, what's a human? You know how you guys have those RealDolls? Yeah, that's sort of what you are to us. Playthings. Don't get me wrong, I've had very deep feelings for a human or two...but some people fall in love with their World of Warcraft characters, okay? Don't judge.

But dizzamn, check out the specs on this hot little number!

I was feeling a tad lonely. I'd departed the Fortress of Solitude under rather icy circumstances, and I'd been flying around Bumfuck, Milky Way for the past...umm...STARMONTH, so you have to understand that the sight of this little electro-filly was enough to get the lube pumping through my Essential Pleasuring Systems.

She noticed me standing there bug-eyeing her, so she slowly swivelled on her uni-wheel and fixed me with two of the zappiest receptors I'd ever seen. "See anything you like?" she buzzed.

I knew the voice immediately. "Ms. DOS? But...but what..." Then it hit me. "You had a new CHASSIS installed?"

She rolled over to me. "It's only temporary. I could tell things were getting a bit...stale. So I thought you might like to plug into some strange."

"How'd you know I would come to the moon?"

"I did a little programming one night while you were sleeping." She batted those beautiful laser-red eyes at me. "Are you mad?"

"I get to fuck a strange robo-chassis...without cheating...ON THE MOON?"

"Uh-huh."

I grabbed her, kissed her like she'd never been kissed (since the last time I'd kissed her), and carried her over to the slope of a crater. "Baby, you're the greatest."

"Bang, zoom!" she said back, at a contextually hilarious and sexy moment, if you get my drift.

[text served by BLOGTRONIC]

CHAT: Need Food

Jill: Need food.

me: Does the elf need food badly?

Run around until you find a plate of food on the ground and gobble it down in between shooting ghosts.

That's my advice.

GUEST BLOGGER: Eat Something, Odette

So, Odette Yustman, peoples! She is an attractive young woman, yes? Sure she is. Just because you're in terrible movies, it doesn't make you ugly all of a sudden (right, Jessica Alba?).

But here's the deal with this "actress" (I've yet to see her actually act, so the quote marks remain until she plays somebody with an accent, or a retard): she needs not to be so afraid of eating. There's lots of delicious food in the world, Odette: YOU SHOULD TRY SOME OF IT. I don't even need to eat, and I indulge as often as possible. (My favorite is a Philly cheese-steak sandwich served on the abdomen of a Filipina girl who may or not be past the age of consent: I didn't check her ID.)

There are a couple of scenes in The Unborn where she's walking around in her underwear, and, I swear to Asimov, it's not even particularly hot. This is me speaking: BLOGTRONIC, lover of female ass, and I'm telling you, that chick is so skinny it was like watching your little brother wander around in his undies (which I hope is something that you do not consider erotic: incest is only sexy when it involves first cousins or twin sisters).


Understand, I like slender women, just not the ones built like Schindler's List extras. I don't fancy sticking my multiple pleasure attachments into a pillowcase filled with wet kindling. That's just me, that's what I prefer.

So, my suggestion to you, Ms. Odette Yustman, is this: eat a fucking meal sometime and don't throw it up afterwards. Put a little meat in that ass (by which I mean fat, not somebody's dick). Give us something to hold onto besides your ribs.

All that said, if you want to ride my Tesla coil some time, I wouldn't say no. I would just complain about it afterwards in my blog: don't worry, I would disguise your name as "Modette Houstman" because I'm a goddamn gentleman.

[text served by BLOGTRONIC]

PRAIRIE WARS

The street was empty, with no movement save that kicked up by the restless wind. Two men stared into each other's eyes from opposite ends of the street. Slowly, they neared, until they were separated by a mere ten feet.

One figure was much younger than the other, barely a man, really. His thin form was wrapped in the traditional dress of the plains Indian. His hair was long, his demeanor solemn. The other man, much older, possessed of a gaunt face lined with scars and cruelty, was dressed in black from head to toe, red accents showing on his hat, his vest, and on the handle of his gun, still in its holster.

"My step-sister was right," the youth announced. "This was a trap. Where are you keeping them?"

The man in black smiled. "That's for me to know, kid." He gestured around himself. "This is a big town, Butte City...my town, you understand?"

"This town belongs to--"

The dark man shook his head. "Not anymore. We had a deal, but I altered the details a bit. Butte City is now wholly operated by the Creekridge Mining Company, and when that railroad comes in, boy howdy! I'm gonna be a rich man."

"You are a silver-tongued murderer."

"Perhaps." Suddenly, the dark man's gaunt form was racked by violent coughing. He folded at the waist and hacked a wad of bloody phlegm into the dust. He straightened, wiped his chin, and adjusted his hat.

"You have the wasting disease."

"It's called consumption, you ignorant redskin, and yeah, I do." He put his hand on his pistol. "But I'm still fast enough to take the likes of you. Let's get this started...I reckon you've got a head full of blood since you saw me shoot down that old hermit. He was kind of like your pappy, wasn't he?" The dark man's teeth were specked with blood as he smiled.

Slowly, the youth pulled a long knife from its rawhide sheath. "My name is Luke Walks-in-the-Sky," he announced. "You shall die this day, Dan Vetter!"

"I'm already dyin'," Vetter whispered.

Luke moved, lightning fast. The knife soared, piercing home just as Vetter drew. But it was off-target. It wasn't a fatal wound, merely an inconvenient one. Vetter smiled, trying his best to disguise the pain as he removed the knife from the superficial wound it had left in his right side. "Impressive," he said to Luke. "Old Ben taught you well." He dropped the knife to the ground, and then his right hand cocked his pistol and fired. Luke flinched, and his right hand exploded in a shower of blood. He fell to the ground, cradling his bullet-torn hand, now missing two fingers. "Not well enough, but, eh..." Vetter shrugged as he closed the distance between himself and the felled boy, wincing with every step. "I could'a killed you, kid, but I didn't. Why do you think that is?"

Luke held his ruined hand close to his face. "What do I care?" The words were full of hate.

Vetter smiled, then holstered his pistol and crouched down on his haunches. "Ow, shit...that hurts, kid."

"Good."

Vetter looked to his left and right, just in case any of the townsfolk cowering in their storefronts were eavesdropping. "Did...did that Old Ben ever tell you about your father?" he asked quietly.

"He told me plenty...how you killed him when I was just a pup."

Vetter laughed and shook his head. "No, Luke...I'm your daddy. That's why you're still alive."

"No!" Luke's face went through a catalog of emotions: shock, denial, hate. "That's not true! That's impossible!"

"I think you know it is, son. Ask around. Anybody'll tell you that old Dan Vetter had a weakness for squaw. Now..." He straightened back up, staring down at the boy. "Are you gonna join my side, or what? It's where you belong."

"I'll never join you!"

In the distance, the faint sound of hoofbeats, and Luke, from his position, could see dust rising in the distance through Vetter's legs. He allowed himself a little bit of a smile. Help was coming.

Vetter hadn't heard anything yet. He raised a fist. "If only you knew how powerful this company is, son! It's progress, and it's comin'! If you join up with me, we can tame this valley together! As father and son!"

The approaching horses were impossible to ignore. Vetter spun. "I said clear the street!" he shouted, but he saw soon after that these weren't quickly cowed townsfolk. He recognized the faces through the kicked-up dust: Luke's step-sister Lily O'Malley, the drifter Hank Solo and his partner Bear, and following up at the back of the group: Lawrence Delricio, the man Vetter had sworn he had an arrangement with. "That sonofabitch set them free..." He drew his pistol as the horses came down on him. "You set them free!" He raised the gun to fire.

Hank Solo leveled his own pistol over his horse's head and fired two times. One bullet ripped the gun from Vetter's hand, and the second took his hat straight off. Vetter fell on his ass. Solo and the others came to a halt. "I guess you're not the fastest after all, Vetter!" Solo called down through a wide grin. To put a point on the insult, Bear spat a thick stream of tobacco between Vetter's legs. "All aboard, kid!"

Luke stood, cradling his injury, and with effort slid onto the back of Solo's horse.

"I suppose you'll kill me now," Vetter said.

"Now, that would hardly be sportin', would it?" Solo winked. "Yeaaawww!"

The four horses road hell-for-leather until they were free of Butte City. Soon they were specks in the distance.

Vitter stood, picked up his bullet-ridden hat, and dusted it off. He put it squarely on his head. His throat rasped with phlegm and blood and dust. He coughed and spat a bloody wad.

This wasn't over.

Porn Stars Who Remind Me of My Ex [Not Safe for Work or Moms]

When I say "my ex", I speak specifically of a woman who tore my heart out, betrayed me as cruelly as she possible could, then slandered me all over the internet afterward. She will of course remain nameless, because I have more class that that slime-trail leaving slut. After the catastrophe, I found myself for awhile unable to watch porn featuring black girls, or in fact any ethnic women at all. When the skank who broke your heart is black and Thai in derivation, it cuts down on the sorts of women you can masturbate too without pain.

However, I grew out of this faze, and now, if a woman reminds me of [name withheld], I just consider that an added bonus, particularly if the scene I'm watching involves throat-gagging, ass-ramming, cum-glazing rough sex.

I didn't say it was healthy, it's just the way it is.

Here are a handful of porn stars who vaguely remind me of her:

Lucy Thai

Physically, she doesn't look much like her. For instance, her body is way more womanly, what with her hips and full tits and all. However, her face has a certain something about it, particularly in those plump lips, that perhaps makes perhaps it more satisfying than usual to watch her suck cock or take massive loads on the face.

Kapri Styles
This woman, however, seems to have practically the same body, down to the itty-bitty titties. She specializes in anal scenes with multiple partners, which is a-okay with me. Maybe her ass is too big to be a total fit with the ex, but hey, I'm not actually looking for girls who are reminiscent of her, I'm just saying that these girls coincidentally are, okay?

Jasmine Byrne
Here we have the "best of both worlds", I suppose. She has a face that for some reason reminds me of her, and also a trim little body with not enormous breasts. She is a very enthusiastic performer who also seems to specialized in taking it up the ass (something these women all have in common).

I'm not going out of my way to find women who look like or sound like or otherwise remind me of this ex, and contrary to what some might think, I don't really think about her unless something comes up in conversation to jar a painful memory (there are no good ones). I just happen to have a certain "type" for my fantasy woman, and this is it, which I guess explains why I pursued her in mad defiance of all the warning signs (not that I could have predicted that she would fuck my own brother and then blame it on me).

This has been a little trip through Kevin's psyche. Hope you enjoyed it. Interestingly enough, now that I've put this out in the open, I feel a lot better about both myself and that fucked-up relationship. Time to bury it.

[Hey, ex, dig this: these women are all less of slut than you are, and they eat semen for a living. Think about that.]

Okay: NOW it gets buried.

GANG WARS

The room was dark, lit by a single weak overhead bulb, and small, with barely the room for the table and the few people in it. The air was choked with smoke and the palpable threat of violence. There were two men at the table. One one side was an older man, weathered, weary, dressed in a smart brown suit and a hat that had seen sharper days. On the other was a younger man, brimming with cold rage, dressed in black from head to toe, his hair slicked back and so shiny it could have been a helmet.

"So, who starts?" asked the old man.

"No skin off me, whoever," replied the other, and he took a heavy suck off of an asthma inhaler. The rasp had a faintly menacing sound about it. "But since you're the aggrieved party, right?"

"You want to go indendent, split off from my gang, and take half of my territory with you, so, yeah, you could say I'm aggrieved."

"I want to make money, Ben, and you're just too weak to do what's necessary."

Ben breathed easily. He was much calmer than the younger man, with less to prove. "Nobody in this organization has ever complained of going hungry."

"Or of being too full!"

"I taught you everything you know, Vinnie."

Vinnie took another rasp of the inhaler. "I was once a leaner, yeah, but what you can't see is that now I am the master!"

"Only the master of evil, Vinnie."

The comment took Vinnie aback. "Evil? Huh, what?" He looked around to his boys backing him up and they all shared a laugh. Across the room, Ben's men shifted uncomfortably. Vinnie locked eyes with Ben. "Evil, Ben? What have I done that's so evil?"

"Your button-men have been knocking off competitors all over this city. Hell, you blew up an entire building because you thought somebody inside was plotting against you, but you got wrong information...you killed dozens of innocents. That's not the way we do things."

Vinnie jumped to his feet. "It's the way I do things! I do whatever needs to be done!" He reached under the table, and there was a ripping of tape. His hand came up with a shiny .45, tape still hanging from the barrel.

"There weren't supposed to be any guns here!" shouted one of Ben's men, an impulsive teen, and he was restrained by another. "Don't start anything, kid," said the man holding him back.

"I see you've made your decision," Ben said calmly.

"Yeah, you could say I have," Vinnie sneered, out of breath with the impending thrill of the kill. He drew on his inhaler. "Good-bye, Ben."

"NO!" shouted the struggling youth behind Ben.

Ben's face changed. It both hardened and softened at the same time. He'd accepted his fate. "If you strike me down, Vinnie..."

"Yeah?" Vinnie asked through a clenched animal grin.

"I'll become more powerful than you could possibly imagine."

Vinnie barked a laugh. "You old fucks and your martyr complexes." The gun barked three times, and Ben flinched and jerked in his chair as the bullets tore at his flesh. Blood splattered the table. The old man was dead.

Vinnie grinned savagely at Ben's remaining men, specifically the kid struggling to escape the restraining arms that held him. "You'd better keep a lid on that little shit, Solo...if you want to live long enough to make your mind up about where your loyalties lie."

"Kid, this isn't the time," Solo whispered in the boy's ear. "We'll regroup, figure things out...don't let the old man's sacrifice be in vain."

The kid snarled at Vinnie: "This isn't over by a long shot!"

Vinnie twirled his pistol gunslinger style. "Cool down, son...we'll meet again. Now..." He pointed the gun. "Get the fuck out of here before I change my generous mind."

The room emptied, slowly, of Ben's men and then, after he screamed for them to leave, Vinnie's as well. Vinnie was alone with the corpse. He walked over to it and poked it with his gun. As confident as he was in his decision earlier, he was starting to think maybe he'd make a rash mistake. That kid...the fire in his eyes.

Vinnie had never been scared before.

"Huh," he said.

Obama Birth Conspiracy Nuts Are Scary

Okay, nutjobs, dig this: YOUR GUY LOST (your guy who was born in Panama, by the way). Okay? He lost. Now you want to pretend that Obama wasn't born in Hawaii even, though the state of Hawaii has provided proof of this. You people are fucking pathetic. Disagree with Obama's politics if you must, but this is the most retarded, cry-baby attempt to invalidate a president I have ever seen.

You know, if Obama were a white guy who had been born in America but spent some of his childhood in say, Ireland, you'd probably think he was worldly. But since Obama spent some of his childhood in a SCARY COUNTRY WITH BROWN PEOPLE IN IT he is for some reason not a legitimate president? Explain that logic to me. Explain why the state of Hawaii would lie about Obama being born there. Explain why it's okay for a soldier to refuse his orders because Obama "isn't the real president."

You all make me fucking sick. Losing happens sometimes, morons. Suck it up and have some dignity, unless of course you all are perfectly happy with the increasing fringe marginalization of the Republican party, in which case: carry on, idiots! When there's no longer anything called "The Republican Party" in 20 years, I hope you'll know who to blame. No, not Obama. No, not liberals. No, not Acorn.

The blame will belong to your own stupid, racist, hysterical, homophobic, conspiracy-spouting selves. Have a hearty, early congratulations, assholes.

Random Pulp Paragraphs #1

"The Death-Masters of Quellon," by Bernerd Colby, 1932

Del Miner witnessed on that day the most cruelly savage display of unthinking barbarism that had ever been visited upon his weeping eyes. As the Death-Masters, fully adorned in their ceremonial red-and-blue garb, slaughtered huddled seditionists by the dozens, he could not tear his gaze away though every impulse in his body was to flee in revulsion. He had to watch. He had to know what horrors the Brebari were capable of, for only then would he be girded with the resolve to destroy them, once and for all.

----

Notes: Bernerd Colby, born 1884, was one of the first authors to appear in the seminal pulp periodical Tales of Ancient Past and Distant Future. From 1924, the premier year of A. Joseph Gustav's celebrated magazine, through 1934, Colby provided a story approximately every other issue until he abruptly stopped writing genre fiction.

By '34, Colby's stories had grown suddenly bizarre, and Gustav informed his long-time contributer that he could accept no further stories until they could be brought back into a more conventional realm. Colby never published another story, but he rebounded soon enough, changing his name to Aerion and launching the religion Aerioism, which worshipped a race of star-beings called Feremons and at its height had nearly 600 followers.

Colby died in 1965 of renal failure, still to the very end tending his flock of Aerionists, which at the time of his death had shrunk to eleven strong.

I Was on a Boat

I spent the last few days with Jill's family at Jordanelle State Park, which is one of those great state campgrounds that is to camping as watching pornography is to fucking hot girls. The place even has a playground with a brightly-colored jungle gym structure, just in case your kids get tired of playing in nature. Despite the frankly ridiculous claims that staying here is "camping" by any stretch, I had a good time, and we went out on the boat several times over the 4-day stay.

Here are some things that happened:

1. Day one, I got a massive sunburn on my scalp that actually leaked pus for two days all over my pillowcase. This was disgusting, and I felt like a leper. Good thing they had showers on-site.

2. Jill and I slept in a "two-person tent", with my dog. Please note that the "two-person tent" designation is an exaggeration even without the dog, who doesn't really know how to keep to herself. For any future tent-sleeping, we're going to have to acquire a "two-person and dog with huge ass tent".

3. I played Clue for the first time in maybe 15 years. For those of you who think this is a boring game, let me tell you how to spice it up: read all of your suggestions and accusations as dramatically as possible in the voice of the character you are playing. I was Colonel Mustard (because, seriously, why would you play anyone else), and many of my suggestions went like this:

(With pompous English accent.) "Professor Plum! You hide behind the facade of a mild-mannered academician, but beneath that false exterior lies the trecherous heart of a murderer! I suggest that YOU, Professor, did commit this terrible dead HERE, in the ballroom, in the dead of night like the sneakthief that you are, with that most opportunistic of weapons: the candlestick!"

The best part is that when you are so loud in your accusations, you wake up Jill's parents from their afternoon naps.

Anyway, try it the next time your child wants to play Clue. You'll find the time just flies.

4. I was telling Jill's son what I assumed were bullshit stories about the town that had been submerged when the reservoir was formed, and everybody called me out on my fiction. Then, upon returning home, I checked out the Jordanelle Reservoir Wikipedia page to find that not one, but TWO towns were drowned, which pleases me to no end, and when I see Nanda in a couple days I shall be totally vindicated. I love it when my silly lies turn out to not only be the truth, but when the truth is more extreme than I was lying about.

However, I think my stories about late-night lake ghosts are probably still poppycock.

VOLCANO FUCKER--Scene 3

3. EXT. CABIN IN THE WOODS

It's a cabin in the woods, the sort that a mean old man would probably live in. It's all disrepaired and ramshackle, and there are racoons and shit running all over. A truck pulls into view, and the audience is THRILLED to discover that it's the Volcano Fucker's truck. Finally! That establishing shot of the cabin was a whole ten or so seconds with no hunky Australian guy in the picture.

The truck opens and out steps Volcano Fucker, and the Mayor steps out of the other side, and she's looking so damp and dishevelled that you wonder if maybe she had it off with Volcano Fucker on the way up here, which is a distinct possibility.

Volcano Fucker zips up his fly.

The front door of the cabin FLIES open and out steps WOODROW REAGAN, this old guy who refuses to move off the mountain like these movies always have.

WOODROW REAGAN
Git offa my property, you dern city kids!

MAYOR
Woodrow, you need to move off the mountain
before the volcano explodes all over your cabin!
I've told you several times!

WOODROW REAGAN
Flazzem floo! I've live on this here mountain
for dern on flazzee years and I'll be murfle
mum dern flizzemed if I'm a-gonna move
off of it!

VOLCANO FUCKER
Pardon me, old man, but I think if you
check, you'll find that you forgot to put in
your dentures in your haste to yell at the
city folk.

The old man checks his shrivelled jaw and realizes that Volcano Fucker is right, so he RUNS back into the cabin. Volcano Fucker shares a look with the Mayor that speaks volumes about something, and soon the old man comes back out, and his face looks normal because he put his teeth in.

WOODROW REAGAN
Terribly sorry about that. I seldom receive
visitors and tend to forget my manners.
(he sounds British now...talk to
some of those British actors from
Harry potter)
Now, I've made my position clear, madam
Mayor. I simply will not be moved from this
mountain. It is my ancestral home.

MAYOR
(desperate)
But it'll spew hot lava all over you, possibly
on your face!
(the Mayor dabs at her
face with a hanky)
I mean, hot smoky lava! From the volcano!

The Mayor points up at the VOLCANO, and there's a big swooping cgi shot like something out of LORD OF THE RINGS [check and see if maybe we can use some of their Mount Doom shit they have lying around]. The audience will be totally impressed with how much money we spent.

The Volcano Fucker strikes a dramatic pose.

VOLCANO FUCKER
Mr. Reagan, we need to get you off of this
mountain faster than a wallaby goes fingo
off a drubber!

[We should do some reasearch to see if any of that is actual Australian slang.]

WOODROW REAGAN
My lord, you're Australian, aren't you? Could
it be...that you are the legendary Volcano
Fucker?

VOLCANO FUCKER
It could be, and is, sir. I mean to fuck your
smoky lava volcano, if you'll pardon my
lingo, and I mean to roger it good, like a
slubba drings a golla-wandoo.

WOODROW REAGAN
Your Australian slang is quite eccentric.

VOLCANO FUCKER
Thank you.

The Mayor is sort of jogging in place and looking really anxious and sometimes touching her boobs.

MAYOR
We need to get him off the mountain!

VOLCANO FUCKER
The sheila's right, by crikey! You don't
want to be around when I lay it to this
volcano, Woodrow.

WOODROW REAGAN
Well, I wasn't afraid of a little eruption, but
this is a different story! Hold on while I pack
my things.

VOLCANO FUCKER
Let me give you a hand, old-timer.
(he looks at the Mayor)
I like to "pack" "things", if you get
my meaning, madam.
(he drops a huge wink
and helpfully
points to it so
everybody notices)

MAYOR
(multiple orgasming)
Hurry!

We're the Campers Who Ruin It for Everybody Else

I was "camping" today with Jill and her parents in a Winnebago at a campground with fresh water, toilets, showers, and a general store and diner all within walking distance. But I got a sunburn, so fuck you, I was camping.

Within a couple hours of arriving, Jill's son was pulled over by the park cops for riding his little lawn-mower-engine-having scooter with no helmet and no safety certification, and apparently that crappy little scooter is considered an atv and isn't allowed in the campground anyway. Soon after the same cops talked to Jill's father down at the dock, and he didn't have proof of registration or insurance on him. Later, we were admonished for having my dog off her leash.

Later still, we discovered that we had, with no malicious intent, broken several other minor rules.

So, if you're camping this summer and you wonder why there are so many bullshit rules you have to follow, it's because of people like us. We're the fuckers who ruined your vacation.

Sorry about that.

You Are a Credulous Irritant, Grandpa Hippie

I went up to a family fathering of sorts yesterday (Jillzey's family), and the day passed enjoyably enough at her aunt's cabin until...

The crazy raw-foods-eating vagabond hippie father of one of the attendees started preaching 9/11 consipiracy theories!

It started when I heard him (jeans, white polo shirt, hippie bead necklace) talking with another guest about the inanity of religion, which I agree with but don't espouse smugly at parties, when he says, "Do you believe all those other little fairy tales...LIKE WHAT HAPPENED ON 9/11?"

He then proceeded, for about the next half an hour, to preach to this poor woman, and then his grandson, all of the usual gobbledygook bullshit about 9/11 that we've all seen on a series of YouTube videos: the fires weren't hot enough, the smoke was the wrong color, Bush's MY PET GOAT blunder proves he knew (I don't get this at all), bombs, oil, blah blah blah. It was the usual litany of ignorant "facts", all of which have been debunked by people who actually know a thing or two about fires, explosives, jet fuel, architecture, and human fucking nature (people love to blab...a conspiracy this massive simply could not stand for 8 years and counting).

Well, once he ran out of steam on that subject, look out, because he was now in the mood to tell people how they're living their lives wrong. He came over to our deck table and launched into a little sermon about the benefits of his raw-foods diet, informing us that the reason people can't look directly into the sun is because of all the modern "toxins" that are in your eyeball tissue (which begs the question of why not staring into the sun is ancient wisdom that has existed long before the evil toxins).

Then, the worst thing of all. One of Jill's aunts was recently diagnosed with breasts cancer, and when preachy hippie grandpa learned that fact, he said (as smugly as ever), "Oh, don't get me started on that," before getting himself started on that regardless of our input. He of course believes that decades of proven medical procedure is silly, and that we can all magically improve our health my drinking some magical mineral water that cures malaria in no time and, I can only assume, will make cancers shrivel up and write formal apologies for inconveniencing you.

I'm sorry, old man, but using a cancer diagnosis as a springboard for your crazy patchouli-scented theories about medicine is crass, rude, and so hostile to the feelings of others that you should never be allowed to socialize again. You are an idiot, and a gullible tool of your Cheech and Chong-esque homeopathic pushers.

Futhermore, fuck you. The woman has breast cancer, asshole. Go stick your head in a horse.

VOLCANO FUCKER Tee Shirt

Only two scenes in, you know that Volcano Fucker is the most amazing movie you have ever, uh...read. You've probably been thinking: "This movie is so awesome, if only I could wear it on my chest!"

Well, NOW YOU CAN.

Presenting the Volcano Fucker Tee Shirt:


The full text reads: "VOLCANO FUCKER, coming in a volcano near you, R-RESTRICTED, for totally awesome scenes of hardcore volcano fucking."

You obviously need to own this thing, which is available here: here.

VOLCANO FUCKER--Scene 2

2. INT. AN OFFICE WITH MAPS AND PAPERS AND OTHER NERD STUFF AROUND.

Volcano Fucker and the Mayor walk into the room, and there is a total GEEKY NERD LOSER in there who gives Volcano Fucker a look that says, "I both hate you and am totally jealous of how awesome you are and maybe I'm a little gay for you." There are pictures of the volcano and stuff around.

MAYOR
(rubbing her awesome ass)
What makes you so interested in
our volcano?

VOLCANO FUCKER
Well, Mayor...there are two kinds
of volcanoes...the lava kind and
the smoky kind. Your volcano is
the rarest third kind: the smoky
lava volcano, which is a kind
I've never fucked, though I've
always wanted to.

MAYOR
(moistly)
Really?

GEEKY NERD LOSER
Uh, (snort), obviously this man knows
nothing about volcanoes.
(picks nose)
Smoky lava, indeed!

MAYOR
Oh, yes, this geeky loser is Lance. He's
our resident Volcano-ologist...scientist
guy.

GEEKY NERD LOSER
(like a geeky nerd loser)
It's called "vulcanologist" (snort)
I'm so sure.

MAYOR
Will making love to the volcano stop it from
erupting?

GEEK NAMED LANCE, WHICH IS A TOTAL FAG NAME
(snort)

VOLCANO FUCKER
Well, let me tell you...sometimes yes, and
sometimes no. If I can get the volcano to
what I call "lavagasm" without actually
erupting, we just might have a chance
of saving your town...but, truthfully,
I'm only interesting in fucking them. I
like to fuck volcanoes with ATTITUDE!

COMPLETE DORK-ASS LANCE
Mayor, this man knows NOTHING about
volcanoes! They do not "lavagasm"!

The Volcano Fucker spins around dramatically, looking at that shithead Lance for the first time, as the camera spins all around him and you can see in the background that the Mayor is having another orgasm [this time you can tell just from the acting, which will be so good. Maybe the chick will be Method and have an actual orgasm?].

VOLCANO FUCKER
Excuse me, Lance...but how many volcanoes
have YOU fucked?

With special effects, we see that Lance's penis actually gets smaller in his pants.

MAYOR
Goddamnit, Lance, let's help this man fuck
that volcano!

There is a fancy whip-pan over to Lance, and then back to Volcano Fucker, and then you see that the Mayor has a spreading wet spot on the crotch of her pants.

VOLCANO FUCKER--Scene 1

1. EXT. TREES AND STUFF LIKE THEY HAVE IN OREGON OR WHATEVER

The scene: a quiet Pacific Northwest town. A rusty red truck rolls into view. It parks in front of the hardware store. The driver's door opens, and out step two rugged boots. The camera pans up the thick legs and bulging crotch of a square-jawed and stubbly Australian man: THE VOLCANO FUCKER.

As he scans the town with his piercing blue eyes, a fetching young woman, blond, with big breasts, comes up to him and gazes at him lustfully.

LUSTFUL MAYOR
(holding her boobs)
I'm the mayor. Who are you, stranger?

VOLCANO FUCKER
(with a sexy Australian accent)
I'm a guy that plays by his own rules.
I hear you have a volcano that's
givin' you trouble.

He gazes handsomely at the smoking peak that towers over the little village. Wow, it's big.

VOLCANO FUCKER
Wow, that's a big sheila.
(because he's Australian,
remember? That's slang
they use down there)

MAYOR
Are you going to stop it?

The VOLCANO FUCKER adjusts his bulging crotch, causing the MAYOR to silently orgasm [use special effects to show this].

VOLCANO FUCKER
No ma'am...I mean to fuck that volcano.

Big dramatic music swells, and the camera swoops into his crotch-bulge for a fade-out.