I had a root canal, a long, grueling, expensive, nerve-wrapping-around-the-drill-bit-like-spaghetti-on-a-fork root canal. The silver lining was a prescription for Vicodin. If I take a couple on the way to the bar, I won't technically be drinking on an empty stomach. Let the good times roll.
July 2007 Archives
Back in 1999, I went to the dentist for the first time in six years. Four crowns, multiple fillings and a root canal later, I decided enough was enough. A routine of brushing and flossing was adhered to diligently. I went in for regular cleanings and slept with a plastic mouth guard to keep me from grinding my teeth down to the gum line. I was a changed man, at least for a while.
Then came 2002, the year I lost my job and the dental insurance that went with it. I kept up with the dental hygiene for a while and still brush once a day, but the attention to detail began to slide as I eased into a new lifestyle of living on unemployment, drinking myself into a stupor every night, and sleeping till noon.
Eschewing flossing and seeing a dentist were problematic, though I didn't much care. Sure my gums were receding, but so was my hairline. If a chunk of plaque got brushed away, revealing an enamel breach and a new source of pain, not a problem. I'd just move the chunk back where it was, pat it into place, and make a mental note to avoid that spot in the future.
Short of taking up crystal meth as a hobby, I have done everything bad to the inside of my mouth one can do and it shows. My gums are horrifying and my teeth have taken on the color, texture, and structural integrity of Corn Nuts.
I have since procured both regular employment and a dental plan, but had put off going in for a checkup until the time was right. Yesterday, the time became very right when I bit into a burrito and spit out a big piece of molar.
I made an appointment for Friday with the same dentist I had back in '99. I remember him as a cordial chap who never berated me for the sorry state of my mouth and did his best to keep the procedures as painless as possible. But who knows? Maybe he has grown cranky over time. Lord knows I have. So instead of a reassuring demeanor and nitrous oxide on demand, he'll just hit me in the back of the head with a two-by-four, fetching loose those teeth that weren't worth saving anyway.
We shall see.
Then came 2002, the year I lost my job and the dental insurance that went with it. I kept up with the dental hygiene for a while and still brush once a day, but the attention to detail began to slide as I eased into a new lifestyle of living on unemployment, drinking myself into a stupor every night, and sleeping till noon.
Eschewing flossing and seeing a dentist were problematic, though I didn't much care. Sure my gums were receding, but so was my hairline. If a chunk of plaque got brushed away, revealing an enamel breach and a new source of pain, not a problem. I'd just move the chunk back where it was, pat it into place, and make a mental note to avoid that spot in the future.
Short of taking up crystal meth as a hobby, I have done everything bad to the inside of my mouth one can do and it shows. My gums are horrifying and my teeth have taken on the color, texture, and structural integrity of Corn Nuts.
I have since procured both regular employment and a dental plan, but had put off going in for a checkup until the time was right. Yesterday, the time became very right when I bit into a burrito and spit out a big piece of molar.
I made an appointment for Friday with the same dentist I had back in '99. I remember him as a cordial chap who never berated me for the sorry state of my mouth and did his best to keep the procedures as painless as possible. But who knows? Maybe he has grown cranky over time. Lord knows I have. So instead of a reassuring demeanor and nitrous oxide on demand, he'll just hit me in the back of the head with a two-by-four, fetching loose those teeth that weren't worth saving anyway.
We shall see.
There were a number of power outages yesterday, but not enough to warrant management cutting us loose and letting us work from home. This was probably all for the best. Given my mood at the time, working from home would have meant surfing amputee porn until the Argus opened.
By 3 pm, electricity had been restored with no further interruptions. The outage had affected tens of thousands of people citywide. There was a follow-up from my company's facilities dude that relayed the official explanation, an equipment failure of some sort.
I dismissed this of course and put the blame on a vast right-wing conspiracy. Dick Cheney, you see, was feeling extra ornery so he put in a call to his energy cronies, demanding reprisals against those San Francisco pinko liberals who hate America in general and him in particular. "Do it," he snarled, "or I'll come out there and shoot them all in the face personally."
Usually, this type of fanciful thinking brings enough joy to my heart so I can get on with life and maybe even accomplish something. Not so this time. I sank into a hindsight-depravity psychosis that all but killed my productivity for the rest of the day.
"Pant pant, gurgle gurgle," I mused. "It's too bad the lights were never out long enough for me to crawl under some woman's desk unnoticed. There are worse ways to spend an afternoon than watching an upskirt matinee. The feature might have even been First Blood if it was Take Your Daughter to Work Day."
Man, I sure hope nobody at work reads this.
By 3 pm, electricity had been restored with no further interruptions. The outage had affected tens of thousands of people citywide. There was a follow-up from my company's facilities dude that relayed the official explanation, an equipment failure of some sort.
I dismissed this of course and put the blame on a vast right-wing conspiracy. Dick Cheney, you see, was feeling extra ornery so he put in a call to his energy cronies, demanding reprisals against those San Francisco pinko liberals who hate America in general and him in particular. "Do it," he snarled, "or I'll come out there and shoot them all in the face personally."
Usually, this type of fanciful thinking brings enough joy to my heart so I can get on with life and maybe even accomplish something. Not so this time. I sank into a hindsight-depravity psychosis that all but killed my productivity for the rest of the day.
"Pant pant, gurgle gurgle," I mused. "It's too bad the lights were never out long enough for me to crawl under some woman's desk unnoticed. There are worse ways to spend an afternoon than watching an upskirt matinee. The feature might have even been First Blood if it was Take Your Daughter to Work Day."
Man, I sure hope nobody at work reads this.
Last Friday, my friend Alex visited this site, clicked on an ad, and was traumatized. No, the link didn't whisk him off to RetardsRomancingRottweilers.com or anything of the sort. While that might have been distasteful, or even stomach-turning, he could at least get through the experience without fear for the contents of his wallet.
Not so with Why Mommy Is a Democrat, a website promoting a children's book of the same name. I went to visit the site and it didn't take long to see what all the fuss was about.
The section featuring sample pages shows Mommy Squirrel and her blue-state brood leading a considerate existence while the text on the page tells us "Democrats make sure we all share our toys, just like Mommy does." For contrast, two selfish people, presumably Republicans, seem not to give a shit as they walk by some guy, presumably homeless, hunkering on a park bench and lamenting his sorry lot.
I can see how this might cause my friend concern. He owns his own business and due to a combination of brains, talent, and the willingness to work to the point where it nearly kills him, he has managed to amass a fair chunk of change. The sight of indoctrinating a future generation to want to take it all away from him when he's too old to defend himself can't be pleasant.
My objections are a little different. I actually favor social programs as long as the safety net doesn't turn into a hammock, though the real reason I side with the Dems is that they pose a lesser threat to our inalienable right to fuck and get high.
The problem I have is that the author has unwittingly written propaganda for the GOP. Drug-addict endomorph Rush Limbaugh has already pitched a hissy over the book. There will be more to follow and I know exactly what line they are going to spew: "Big-government Democrats' agenda has always been to take control of people's private lives. Vote Republican. We respect the individual."
Yeah, unless the individual doesn't get a stiffy for Jesus, wants to marry someone of the same sex, or has a problem supporting an unwinnable war sold to the public with a heaping helping of lies.
Not so with Why Mommy Is a Democrat, a website promoting a children's book of the same name. I went to visit the site and it didn't take long to see what all the fuss was about.
The section featuring sample pages shows Mommy Squirrel and her blue-state brood leading a considerate existence while the text on the page tells us "Democrats make sure we all share our toys, just like Mommy does." For contrast, two selfish people, presumably Republicans, seem not to give a shit as they walk by some guy, presumably homeless, hunkering on a park bench and lamenting his sorry lot.
I can see how this might cause my friend concern. He owns his own business and due to a combination of brains, talent, and the willingness to work to the point where it nearly kills him, he has managed to amass a fair chunk of change. The sight of indoctrinating a future generation to want to take it all away from him when he's too old to defend himself can't be pleasant.
My objections are a little different. I actually favor social programs as long as the safety net doesn't turn into a hammock, though the real reason I side with the Dems is that they pose a lesser threat to our inalienable right to fuck and get high.
The problem I have is that the author has unwittingly written propaganda for the GOP. Drug-addict endomorph Rush Limbaugh has already pitched a hissy over the book. There will be more to follow and I know exactly what line they are going to spew: "Big-government Democrats' agenda has always been to take control of people's private lives. Vote Republican. We respect the individual."
Yeah, unless the individual doesn't get a stiffy for Jesus, wants to marry someone of the same sex, or has a problem supporting an unwinnable war sold to the public with a heaping helping of lies.
Saturday's picnic, despite being a two year-old's birthday party, turned out to be downright pleasant. I give a round of applause to the kid for being well behaved and a standing ovation to the adults who were who were instrumental in ensuring that behavior.
The parents, as well as the father's sister, took turns escorting the birthday girl to a nearby playground where she could whoop it with the other screaming hellspawn. That kept us old folks free from the outbursts of a bored and cranky youngster as well as providing the kid a chance to enjoy herself in her element.
If only such arrangements could be made all the time.
I remember what it was like being a kid in the company of grownups. Not at the age of two, of course. I'm referring more to elementary-school age, but the same dynamic still applies. Instead of doing what I wanted to do, I had to sit and politely endure mind-numbingly dull adult conversation, usually between my Mom and some other equally bored housewife she was visiting.
Fortunately for me, I was older than two. I was old enough to fight back. My preferred tactic was harsh, almost terrorist in nature. Since I was a good kid, I would only unleash this form of retribution if the situation became intolerable. Intolerable, in case you were wondering, meant the conversation was dragging on long enough for me to miss part of a favorite TV show.
What I did first was to ask to use the friend's bathroom. Permission attained and now perched on the toilet, I would shift my weight to one side and then let fly with as much force as I could. Due to skill attained through sheer repetition, not to mention the high-bran breakfast cereal my mother made me eat, I was able to achieve the hit-and-slide on the dry porcelain more often than not. A single flush afterward did little to censor my statement. Vindication was mine.
I am positive that a similar battle, in some bathroom out there somewhere, is being waged today. Mothers, and I suppose fathers too, really should think twice before yammering on about some piece of crap they bought on sale. To kids, it's not as interesting as a rerun of "Star Trek" and it never will be.
The parents, as well as the father's sister, took turns escorting the birthday girl to a nearby playground where she could whoop it with the other screaming hellspawn. That kept us old folks free from the outbursts of a bored and cranky youngster as well as providing the kid a chance to enjoy herself in her element.
If only such arrangements could be made all the time.
I remember what it was like being a kid in the company of grownups. Not at the age of two, of course. I'm referring more to elementary-school age, but the same dynamic still applies. Instead of doing what I wanted to do, I had to sit and politely endure mind-numbingly dull adult conversation, usually between my Mom and some other equally bored housewife she was visiting.
Fortunately for me, I was older than two. I was old enough to fight back. My preferred tactic was harsh, almost terrorist in nature. Since I was a good kid, I would only unleash this form of retribution if the situation became intolerable. Intolerable, in case you were wondering, meant the conversation was dragging on long enough for me to miss part of a favorite TV show.
What I did first was to ask to use the friend's bathroom. Permission attained and now perched on the toilet, I would shift my weight to one side and then let fly with as much force as I could. Due to skill attained through sheer repetition, not to mention the high-bran breakfast cereal my mother made me eat, I was able to achieve the hit-and-slide on the dry porcelain more often than not. A single flush afterward did little to censor my statement. Vindication was mine.
I am positive that a similar battle, in some bathroom out there somewhere, is being waged today. Mothers, and I suppose fathers too, really should think twice before yammering on about some piece of crap they bought on sale. To kids, it's not as interesting as a rerun of "Star Trek" and it never will be.
From tomorrow forward, I'll be posting Monday through Friday only. You'll have to amuse yourself elsewhere on Saturday and Sunday. I sure will.
Betty and I are going to Golden Gate Park today. Friends of hers are are throwing a party there for their two-year old daughter. There might be other small children attending.
Now here's the tricky part. How much should I drink? It needs to be enough to make the afternoon tolerable but not so much that I wind up making a complete ass of myself.
I'll see how I'm doing after knocking back my first forty.
Now here's the tricky part. How much should I drink? It needs to be enough to make the afternoon tolerable but not so much that I wind up making a complete ass of myself.
I'll see how I'm doing after knocking back my first forty.
What seems to be all the rage, at least among conservatives, is to portray the former vice president as an eco-hypocrite. "An Inconvenient Truth," of course, is what started all the brouhaha.
First, there was the matter of his $30,000 annual energy bill, high enough to suggest he left the light on after leaving a room at least once in a while.
Then, there was that incident with the Patagonian toothfish served at his daughter's wedding. Early reports pretty much had him slapping his expansive gut and saying "Extinction never tasted so good." Well, this turned out to be bullshit. The restaurant has documents proving that the fish in question originated from a well-managed and sustainable population, and may have even liked the idea of being killed and fed to a fat rich hillbilly.
Stay tuned for a report of him parking his SUV on top of nest full of ducklings and draining oil all over them.
But is he a hypocrite? Yeah, probably. We all are to some degree and career politicians are more than most. But unless I'm missing something, shouldn't a reasoned debate about global warming and the environment concern itself with science and facts rather than all this ad hominem neener-neenering?
Or perhaps not. After all, his wife Tipper was a total pain in the ass during her PMRC glory days. If he couldn't persuade her to shut the fuck up, how is he going to get me to give up my two favorite pastimes, dynamite fishing and Styrofoam bonfires?
First, there was the matter of his $30,000 annual energy bill, high enough to suggest he left the light on after leaving a room at least once in a while.
Then, there was that incident with the Patagonian toothfish served at his daughter's wedding. Early reports pretty much had him slapping his expansive gut and saying "Extinction never tasted so good." Well, this turned out to be bullshit. The restaurant has documents proving that the fish in question originated from a well-managed and sustainable population, and may have even liked the idea of being killed and fed to a fat rich hillbilly.
Stay tuned for a report of him parking his SUV on top of nest full of ducklings and draining oil all over them.
But is he a hypocrite? Yeah, probably. We all are to some degree and career politicians are more than most. But unless I'm missing something, shouldn't a reasoned debate about global warming and the environment concern itself with science and facts rather than all this ad hominem neener-neenering?
Or perhaps not. After all, his wife Tipper was a total pain in the ass during her PMRC glory days. If he couldn't persuade her to shut the fuck up, how is he going to get me to give up my two favorite pastimes, dynamite fishing and Styrofoam bonfires?
Whether it's a furry blowout or "Magic: the Gathering" till dawn, the party never stops at Casa Polyamory, Mountain View.
I just thought you should all know that.
I just thought you should all know that.
I usually enjoy being a bleeding-heart liberal. Showing concern for progressive issues makes me feel better about myself and expressing contempt for President Bush is downright fun. If I stand in front of the mirror and spew socially conscious affirmations at myself ("Yes Dave, you DO believe that the plight of the downtrodden is a real buzzkill"), I can walk out the door confident that I am an enlightened champion of all humankind.
Then I get panhandled.
If I were richer, I wouldn't have to worry about people begging. I still wouldn't give the bums any money, mostly because they would be nowhere to be found. I'd live in a neighborhood where a little police brutality goes a long way toward keeping the property values high. The only poor folks would be on the TV screen, half a world away, flashing cute toothless smiles as flies crawled around the corners of their mouths.
Instead, I approach the BART station at 24th and Mission where I am set upon by a surly alcoholic with psychiatric problems, a pant load, or both. The path of least resistance, and the one I invariably choose, is to avoid eye contact and pretend I don't notice the scumbag shaking a paper cup at me with a few coins of primer change clanging around at the bottom.
This daily ritual makes me guilty not of only being a selfish bastard, but a cowardly one as well. If am so intent on hanging onto my money, I should least have the requisite pluck to say "Get a job, lumpen dude. Haven't you read Max Weber's The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism? Neither have I, but I did take a peek at the Cliff Notes and so should you."
Then I get panhandled.
If I were richer, I wouldn't have to worry about people begging. I still wouldn't give the bums any money, mostly because they would be nowhere to be found. I'd live in a neighborhood where a little police brutality goes a long way toward keeping the property values high. The only poor folks would be on the TV screen, half a world away, flashing cute toothless smiles as flies crawled around the corners of their mouths.
Instead, I approach the BART station at 24th and Mission where I am set upon by a surly alcoholic with psychiatric problems, a pant load, or both. The path of least resistance, and the one I invariably choose, is to avoid eye contact and pretend I don't notice the scumbag shaking a paper cup at me with a few coins of primer change clanging around at the bottom.
This daily ritual makes me guilty not of only being a selfish bastard, but a cowardly one as well. If am so intent on hanging onto my money, I should least have the requisite pluck to say "Get a job, lumpen dude. Haven't you read Max Weber's The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism? Neither have I, but I did take a peek at the Cliff Notes and so should you."
I can't wait for Paris Hilton to start driving drunk again. She needs to put one wine cooler too many down that deep throat of hers and start running red lights in her Porsche. Her last stint in the slammer was nothing but a tease but this time she'll be going down, on her cell mate if I have anything to say about it...Angelina "Womb Raider" Jolie keeps adopting third-world babies. By outsourcing childbirth to women who have that as their core competency, she keeps that part of her I think about every night free from the ravages of squirting out pups. You're a hero to me, Angelina. Call me...Venus Williams just won at Wimbledon. You rock, hot lady jock. Care to trade in that match point for love?...Dakota Fanning has three new films in the works. She's still a little too green on the vine for my liking but she'll ripen and I'm a patient man...Which brings us to the girls of Prussian Blue, speaking of jail bait. Those little heiling honeys need to erase the hate if they expect Uncle Ames to ask them for a date...And let's not forget my favorite golden girls, those luscious lasses from days gone by...We haven't heard much from Julie Andrews since that botched throat operation gave her a voice like a whoopie cushion. She stole my heart as Mary Poppins and I still care for her deeply. I hope that over the years, a spoonful of sugar helped the calcium go down so she won't have to pay a lot of do-re-mi to treat her supercalifragilisticosteoporosis...And finally, I give a big Ames C. Pacer shout out to the Sunshine State for the former US Attorney General and avenging valkyrie of Waco, the lovely Janet Reno. Hey Parkinson's Lady, you can shake it one time for me.
Betty came to my house yesterday morning. After a yummy brunch at The Last Supper Club, our bellies were too full to flop down on the couch and let digestion run its course. I reflected upon the problem of obesity in this country and found one detail puzzling. While I could certainly stand to lose a few pounds, why are most of the serious fat asses found in parts of America where the food sucks? This paradox made my brain hurt so decided to numb it with television.
I subscribe to basic cable, nothing fancy, but one nice feature is the on-demand free movies. There are plenty to choose from and some are even watchable.
The first choice was Six-String Samurai. I had high hopes for this one. World War III happened in 1957, Elvis became king of Las Vegas, and after his death 40 years later, a sword-wielding Buddy Holly lookalike travels through the post-apocalyptic wasteland on a quest to assume the throne. An awesome premise, right? Yes, and that's all it was.
There were a few entertaining moments thrown in to make the trailers look enticing, but overall, the movie was a bland exercise by the filmmakers in trying to impress the viewer with how cool and edgy they were. Unfortuantely, they were neither. For one thing, sword battles and a PG-13 rating should not go together, not for the discerning patron who demands a flash flood of gore out of this genre. Then there was the annoying child who did nothing but scream. If his character were an altar boy in a movie called "Father McBugger," he would have had pretty much all the same lines.
Next came Lifeforce, a Golan-Globus Production directed by Mr. Chainsaw himself, Tobe Hooper. The movie is about this hot naked space-alien vampire chick who comes to earth to...who cares, she's a hot naked space-alien vampire chick.
Actually, there's a lot more to this movie than her, ahem, charms. Though technically science fiction, it plays more like a Hammer film set in modern London. There is the same kind of tension and dry humor between scientists and figures of authority. There are also murderous zombies running amok. And have I mentioned the hot naked space-alien vampire chick?
I often ask myself how the eighties, that Reagan-era lung oyster of a decade, could produce such great splatter horror such as Lifeforce and Re-Animator. I have no definitive answer. Flashes of brilliance are better enjoyed than explained.
I subscribe to basic cable, nothing fancy, but one nice feature is the on-demand free movies. There are plenty to choose from and some are even watchable.
The first choice was Six-String Samurai. I had high hopes for this one. World War III happened in 1957, Elvis became king of Las Vegas, and after his death 40 years later, a sword-wielding Buddy Holly lookalike travels through the post-apocalyptic wasteland on a quest to assume the throne. An awesome premise, right? Yes, and that's all it was.
There were a few entertaining moments thrown in to make the trailers look enticing, but overall, the movie was a bland exercise by the filmmakers in trying to impress the viewer with how cool and edgy they were. Unfortuantely, they were neither. For one thing, sword battles and a PG-13 rating should not go together, not for the discerning patron who demands a flash flood of gore out of this genre. Then there was the annoying child who did nothing but scream. If his character were an altar boy in a movie called "Father McBugger," he would have had pretty much all the same lines.
Next came Lifeforce, a Golan-Globus Production directed by Mr. Chainsaw himself, Tobe Hooper. The movie is about this hot naked space-alien vampire chick who comes to earth to...who cares, she's a hot naked space-alien vampire chick.
Actually, there's a lot more to this movie than her, ahem, charms. Though technically science fiction, it plays more like a Hammer film set in modern London. There is the same kind of tension and dry humor between scientists and figures of authority. There are also murderous zombies running amok. And have I mentioned the hot naked space-alien vampire chick?
I often ask myself how the eighties, that Reagan-era lung oyster of a decade, could produce such great splatter horror such as Lifeforce and Re-Animator. I have no definitive answer. Flashes of brilliance are better enjoyed than explained.
I really do need to install a breathalyzer lock on my keyboard. I came very close to writing something disgusting on my blog, which would be fine but I prefer my stuff to be the ramblings of a complete wing nut rather than those of a retarded drunk.
The bartenders at the Argus cannot be trusted. They have been puring huge amounts of liquor into my drinks, no doubt at the behest of the Global Managers who want to see me silenced. They may have succeeded temporarily but my liver will prevail, at least this time.
I'll give you a full report tomorrow morning.
I'll give you a full report tomorrow morning.
I said I wouldn't post until Monday. I lied. Deal with it.
Right now, I'm cooped up at the office, waiting for a process to complete so we can launch the latest and greatest version of the software. It'll be another hour before we can jump in and start making the magic happen. For now, I sit here and cut the cheese, living a life of silent-but-deadly desperation.
Since noon, I've brought myself up do date with my friends' blogs, read a few op-ed pieces on Yahoo News, and learned that Jim Mitchell had died. Poor Jim. I admire his contributions to my local sleaze community but can't bring myself to mourn his passing. He did murder his brother after all. My own brother Gordon has shown admirable restraint in that department and I applaud him for it.
I'm not sure when I'll get to blow out of here. My guess is that it will be about eight this evening. Whatever time this happens, I'll be at the Argus shortly thereafter. If you see me there, offering your sympathies would be greatly appreciated. Please remember that sympathies are most effective when offered in liquor form.
Right now, I'm cooped up at the office, waiting for a process to complete so we can launch the latest and greatest version of the software. It'll be another hour before we can jump in and start making the magic happen. For now, I sit here and cut the cheese, living a life of silent-but-deadly desperation.
Since noon, I've brought myself up do date with my friends' blogs, read a few op-ed pieces on Yahoo News, and learned that Jim Mitchell had died. Poor Jim. I admire his contributions to my local sleaze community but can't bring myself to mourn his passing. He did murder his brother after all. My own brother Gordon has shown admirable restraint in that department and I applaud him for it.
I'm not sure when I'll get to blow out of here. My guess is that it will be about eight this evening. Whatever time this happens, I'll be at the Argus shortly thereafter. If you see me there, offering your sympathies would be greatly appreciated. Please remember that sympathies are most effective when offered in liquor form.
Woe is pitiful me. There is a release tomorrow so I have to work. I suppose I should feel grateful for even having a job. A few years ago, it was grim. I hadn't had a permanent job since 2002 and the gigs I was able to pick up were just enough to cover rent.
So how is this blog entry working for you? It sucks, doesn't it. I couldn't agree more.
My recent emphasis has been to post something to the blog every day, even if it's drivel. I managed to pull that off at the expense of content quality. Something needs to be done if I want Poison Spur to be anything more than another blogosphere unreadable.
There won't be any posts until Monday. Between now and then, I'll be down at the tracks waiting for the clue train. I'll report back what I find.
So how is this blog entry working for you? It sucks, doesn't it. I couldn't agree more.
My recent emphasis has been to post something to the blog every day, even if it's drivel. I managed to pull that off at the expense of content quality. Something needs to be done if I want Poison Spur to be anything more than another blogosphere unreadable.
There won't be any posts until Monday. Between now and then, I'll be down at the tracks waiting for the clue train. I'll report back what I find.
My brain is a bit frazzled so I can't come up with any fresh material today. Just so I don't leave y'all completely in the lurch, here's a poem I wrote a couple of years ago making its Poison Spur debut.
~*~**~*~***~*~*~*~*~**~*~*~**~*~**~*~
Edward Scissorhands at the Petting Zoo
Pools of fresh blood
With fur afloat
Sliced-up llama
And lamb and goat
Punctured bladders
Are spewing piss
His friendly touch
Has gone amiss
The bleats of pain
Have made him weep
Arteries gush
And organs seep
"There there," he says
And pats its head
Which comes clean off
Another dead
O woe to him
With scissored hands
Now caked with gore,
Sinew, and glands
Do not assume
A spelling error
When reading this:
'Twas shear terror
~*~**~*~***~*~*~*~*~**~*~*~**~*~**~*~
~*~**~*~***~*~*~*~*~**~*~*~**~*~**~*~
Edward Scissorhands at the Petting Zoo
Pools of fresh blood
With fur afloat
Sliced-up llama
And lamb and goat
Punctured bladders
Are spewing piss
His friendly touch
Has gone amiss
The bleats of pain
Have made him weep
Arteries gush
And organs seep
"There there," he says
And pats its head
Which comes clean off
Another dead
O woe to him
With scissored hands
Now caked with gore,
Sinew, and glands
Do not assume
A spelling error
When reading this:
'Twas shear terror
~*~**~*~***~*~*~*~*~**~*~*~**~*~**~*~
As I've mentioned before, I'm not much into sports. I'm not rabidly against them, much in the same way I'm not religious but don't run around blowing up churches. I simply choose not have them affect my life. This works pretty well unless the All-Star game is being held locally and I work spitting distance from the ballpark.
Yesterday afternoon, I ducked out of the office and walked to the nearest corner store, about a block away. Security was heavy and the cops had blocked off several streets. Despite the increased police presence, scalpers were still in full force. I have no idea how much the tickets cost, but seeing that event parking was going for $45, they must not have been cheap. It was hours before the game started but the streets were packed with sports fans, milling around and buying knockoff hats and jerseys to show their support for their team.
This struck me as odd. It was the All-Star game. There were no teams in the usual sense of the word. Perhaps one was supposed to root for their favorite league, but I doubt many people have much of a preference. They like the Giants or Red Sox, and hate the Yankees, but that's about it. The event is all about the individual talent, as evidenced by the the Home Run Derby the day before where top sluggers got pussy-pitched to see how many balls they could knock out of the park. This provided all the thrills of actual home runs without the inconvenience of there being any real challenge.
After work, the game was on as I sat in the Argus having an evening cocktail. One of the leagues was winning, but I didn't pay much attention until the seventh-inning stretch. Two women took to the field then. One played an Uber-Casio keyboard thing while the other sang. The sound on the TV was off so I couldn't tell what was going on. I hoped that since this was San Francisco, it would be some sort of performance art where the vocalist showed her disdain for the patriarchy by eating her own tampon. No such luck. The song ended and the camera cut to an outsized Old Glory blowing gently in the breeze.
This was way too wholesome for my liking so I ordered another drink.
Yesterday afternoon, I ducked out of the office and walked to the nearest corner store, about a block away. Security was heavy and the cops had blocked off several streets. Despite the increased police presence, scalpers were still in full force. I have no idea how much the tickets cost, but seeing that event parking was going for $45, they must not have been cheap. It was hours before the game started but the streets were packed with sports fans, milling around and buying knockoff hats and jerseys to show their support for their team.
This struck me as odd. It was the All-Star game. There were no teams in the usual sense of the word. Perhaps one was supposed to root for their favorite league, but I doubt many people have much of a preference. They like the Giants or Red Sox, and hate the Yankees, but that's about it. The event is all about the individual talent, as evidenced by the the Home Run Derby the day before where top sluggers got pussy-pitched to see how many balls they could knock out of the park. This provided all the thrills of actual home runs without the inconvenience of there being any real challenge.
After work, the game was on as I sat in the Argus having an evening cocktail. One of the leagues was winning, but I didn't pay much attention until the seventh-inning stretch. Two women took to the field then. One played an Uber-Casio keyboard thing while the other sang. The sound on the TV was off so I couldn't tell what was going on. I hoped that since this was San Francisco, it would be some sort of performance art where the vocalist showed her disdain for the patriarchy by eating her own tampon. No such luck. The song ended and the camera cut to an outsized Old Glory blowing gently in the breeze.
This was way too wholesome for my liking so I ordered another drink.
Mandy St. John, varsity cheerleader and homecoming queen, woke up in her bedroom located on the second floor of her parent's affluent suburban home. The wallpaper depicted unicorns and rainbows and a portrait of a blond, blue-eyed Jesus hung above her bed.
"It's my eighteenth birthday," she said aloud. "I sure hope Daddy buys me a car."
At that moment, the door was kicked in and a shirtless fat man in leather pants and an executioner hood entered, leading a huge stallion by the reins. Hot steamy breath shot from the animal's nostrils as one of its front hooves pawed at the hardwood floor.
"Time to party, bitch!" the man said. "I'd like you to meet my equine friend, Ball Lightning. He's going to pop your little Christian cherry."
"Eek!" she screamed. She stared with horror and disbelief at the beast's huge, erect...
We interrupt this blog entry to announce that an About Dave page has been added to the site. Thank you for your attention and keep reading Poison Spur.
"It's my eighteenth birthday," she said aloud. "I sure hope Daddy buys me a car."
At that moment, the door was kicked in and a shirtless fat man in leather pants and an executioner hood entered, leading a huge stallion by the reins. Hot steamy breath shot from the animal's nostrils as one of its front hooves pawed at the hardwood floor.
"Time to party, bitch!" the man said. "I'd like you to meet my equine friend, Ball Lightning. He's going to pop your little Christian cherry."
"Eek!" she screamed. She stared with horror and disbelief at the beast's huge, erect...
We interrupt this blog entry to announce that an About Dave page has been added to the site. Thank you for your attention and keep reading Poison Spur.
I go to Playa Azul
You know I dance like a fool
And then I drink and then I pass out
In a puddle of drool
Playa Azul is a restaurant on Mission street, about a 10-15 minute walk from my house. It specializes in mariscos, including a yummy seafood cocktail and their signature nachos with crab meat and melted cheese on a bed of ceviche. They also have a full bar.
Despite the allure of these dishes, I usually go there for breakfast and order my usual huevos rancheros, served with rice, beans, and plenty of jalapeños in the sauce. It's a little early to do any drinking so perhaps the above ditty I penned in honor of the place is a bit misleading. Going there is one of life's joys though, even if I limit myself to coffee and food.
Since breakfast is the most important meal of the day (or so I'm told), I should, as a good nutritional citizen, get comparably excited every morning. But let's face it. The pastry out of the vending machine or bagel I eat most mornings just isn't going to get the same reaction. The same goes for bigger meals. A "Grand Slam" at Denny's, while filling, is really nothing to get worked up about.
Not everybody shares my love for desayuno dyspeptico and that's fine. There are plenty of breakfast options in San Francisco. We are not limited to Denny's or iHop. Every time I waddle home from Playa Azul chewing antacid tablets and clutching my gut, I feel blessed to live in a town that has something more to offer than strip-mall America.
You know I dance like a fool
And then I drink and then I pass out
In a puddle of drool
Playa Azul is a restaurant on Mission street, about a 10-15 minute walk from my house. It specializes in mariscos, including a yummy seafood cocktail and their signature nachos with crab meat and melted cheese on a bed of ceviche. They also have a full bar.
Despite the allure of these dishes, I usually go there for breakfast and order my usual huevos rancheros, served with rice, beans, and plenty of jalapeños in the sauce. It's a little early to do any drinking so perhaps the above ditty I penned in honor of the place is a bit misleading. Going there is one of life's joys though, even if I limit myself to coffee and food.
Since breakfast is the most important meal of the day (or so I'm told), I should, as a good nutritional citizen, get comparably excited every morning. But let's face it. The pastry out of the vending machine or bagel I eat most mornings just isn't going to get the same reaction. The same goes for bigger meals. A "Grand Slam" at Denny's, while filling, is really nothing to get worked up about.
Not everybody shares my love for desayuno dyspeptico and that's fine. There are plenty of breakfast options in San Francisco. We are not limited to Denny's or iHop. Every time I waddle home from Playa Azul chewing antacid tablets and clutching my gut, I feel blessed to live in a town that has something more to offer than strip-mall America.
I don't like it when pandas die. I know this may not be a popular position, but I have never been one to shy away from the tough issues. Several weeks back I read an article about a panda who was released back into the wild, and died shortly thereafter. I wrote song lyrics about how this tragedy affected me on a deeply personal level. I would like to share these words with you now so that you too will see how important it is for cute animals to survive. Enjoy.
I just polished off another cold beer
I get in my car and I put it in gear
Plowing through pedestrians, I feel quite ecstatic
Got my hand on the stick though I drive an automatic
Get drunk, beat off, and kill
By Jove, I think I will
I'm just that kind of guy
But dead pandas always make me cry
Take albino from the bar to the tanning salon
I lock her in the booth and turn the power on
Some onanistic lovin' as I'm laughing at her plight
She is not the only one who is bubbling white
Get drunk, beat off, and kill
Your holy water's swill
I answer Satan's call
But dead pandas always make me bawl
Chugging down a 40 in the pediatric ward
If a machine saves lives then I'm pulling out its cord
And if you haven't guessed, it's not just happenstance
That I'm doing all this with my hand down my pants
Get drunk, beat off, and kill
I'll never get my fill
I am the one you scorn
But dead pandas always make me mourn
Get drunk, beat off, and kill
Indulge me this one thrill
Forgive my homicide
For dead pandas show my tender side
They do!
I just polished off another cold beer
I get in my car and I put it in gear
Plowing through pedestrians, I feel quite ecstatic
Got my hand on the stick though I drive an automatic
Get drunk, beat off, and kill
By Jove, I think I will
I'm just that kind of guy
But dead pandas always make me cry
Take albino from the bar to the tanning salon
I lock her in the booth and turn the power on
Some onanistic lovin' as I'm laughing at her plight
She is not the only one who is bubbling white
Get drunk, beat off, and kill
Your holy water's swill
I answer Satan's call
But dead pandas always make me bawl
Chugging down a 40 in the pediatric ward
If a machine saves lives then I'm pulling out its cord
And if you haven't guessed, it's not just happenstance
That I'm doing all this with my hand down my pants
Get drunk, beat off, and kill
I'll never get my fill
I am the one you scorn
But dead pandas always make me mourn
Get drunk, beat off, and kill
Indulge me this one thrill
Forgive my homicide
For dead pandas show my tender side
They do!
This is going to be brief. After a few gripes (thanks Betty!) about how the site has pages marked "Under Construction" for over a year, it's time to do something about it.
I'll be adding a Dave's Page section, which is a bit silly because most people who read the blog know me personally, but what the hell. I'll also add a links page to whisk you away when you're sick of my nonsense, and a page for those who don't know my email addy to send me messages.
There will no doubt be improvements in the future and I'll get to them when my drinking schedule permits.
I'll be adding a Dave's Page section, which is a bit silly because most people who read the blog know me personally, but what the hell. I'll also add a links page to whisk you away when you're sick of my nonsense, and a page for those who don't know my email addy to send me messages.
There will no doubt be improvements in the future and I'll get to them when my drinking schedule permits.
Scribbled into a spiral notebook last night about 8 pm
It's the kind of summer night I expect in San Francisco, low clouds clinging to the hills to the west, ready to roll over the Mission district as soon as darkness falls and the temperature drops. We do have our hot spells that keep the marine layer at bay and the temperature balmy long after sunset. Fortunately, those don't happen too often. They make tempers run short and you end up with husbands beating wives, wives beating husbands, and wives beating wives. OK, the wife-on-wife violence is pretty hot but they seldom, if ever, let me watch.
But I digress. I have just been poured my third drink and the jukebox is playing some old jazz, the sort one hears in the background of any bar scene in an old "Twilight Zone" rerun. Life is good, at least clear enough, and my mind is still plenty clear to plot my next move.
I like that I'm writing more now. It allows me to confront my own mediocrity as a wordsmith and through the sheer power of repetition, have some of that mediocrity give way to genuine competence.
It's the kind of summer night I expect in San Francisco, low clouds clinging to the hills to the west, ready to roll over the Mission district as soon as darkness falls and the temperature drops. We do have our hot spells that keep the marine layer at bay and the temperature balmy long after sunset. Fortunately, those don't happen too often. They make tempers run short and you end up with husbands beating wives, wives beating husbands, and wives beating wives. OK, the wife-on-wife violence is pretty hot but they seldom, if ever, let me watch.
But I digress. I have just been poured my third drink and the jukebox is playing some old jazz, the sort one hears in the background of any bar scene in an old "Twilight Zone" rerun. Life is good, at least clear enough, and my mind is still plenty clear to plot my next move.
I like that I'm writing more now. It allows me to confront my own mediocrity as a wordsmith and through the sheer power of repetition, have some of that mediocrity give way to genuine competence.
It had to happen. Sooner or later, I was going to cop a snobbishly superior attitude and post about how I don't watch much television. That time has come. Lucky you.
If you think I spend TV prime time in a cafe reading Camus and wearing a beret, think again. I am no intellectual, pseudo or otherwise. I am an alcoholic (hi Dave!) and choose to pass those hours perched on a barstool. While my local does have a TV, a big plasma-screen monstrosity in fact, it is usually tuned to a ball game or the like. Not my thing. Unless a sporting event consists of two women battling it out (preferably with vibrators), I tend to focus my attention on my one true love, my drink.
One of the reasons I don't save money by staying home and drinking there is that I might find myself having to watch TV. As much as I like think of myself as the kind of serious boozer who can amuse himself by drinking Old Grand Dad straight out of the bottle while sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor, I do need distractions. In a bar, conversation and eavesdropping fill the void. At home, there is the idiot box. And what gems await me if I turn the damn thing on? I am treated to stuff like David Caruso on "CSI: Miami." For those of you who are unaware of what effects prolonged exposure to this drivel can have on the human psyche, check out this video on YouTube:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_sarYH0z948
For the true couch potatoes, that's years of wasted existence condensed into just over seven minutes. It's a miracle they haven't all hanged themselves.
There was a movie that came out when I was a kid called The Barefoot Executive, starring a pre-Snake Plissken Kurt Russell, who discovers a chimpanzee with the talent of predicting which television shows will get the best ratings. The film teaches a valuable lesson. No, I don't advocate letting a prescient primate pick the fall line up. From what I've seen, the networks have been doing that for years. The point I'm trying to make is that as idiotic as that movie was, it provided and entertaining viewing experience by virtue of its hairy co-star.
So what I propose for "CSI: Miami" is to get rid of David Caruso (he's used to career setbacks anyway) and replace his character with Sheriff Bobo, the meanest law-enforcement chimp to ever don a cowboy outfit. While we're at it, toss all the pseudo-science sleuthing as well. What was an hour of tedium and cheesy one-liners becomes five minutes of pure entertainment. Bobo runs onto the set, flings his excrement all over the crime scene, and beats a confession out of the prime suspect.
I would gladly stay home to watch that.
If you think I spend TV prime time in a cafe reading Camus and wearing a beret, think again. I am no intellectual, pseudo or otherwise. I am an alcoholic (hi Dave!) and choose to pass those hours perched on a barstool. While my local does have a TV, a big plasma-screen monstrosity in fact, it is usually tuned to a ball game or the like. Not my thing. Unless a sporting event consists of two women battling it out (preferably with vibrators), I tend to focus my attention on my one true love, my drink.
One of the reasons I don't save money by staying home and drinking there is that I might find myself having to watch TV. As much as I like think of myself as the kind of serious boozer who can amuse himself by drinking Old Grand Dad straight out of the bottle while sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor, I do need distractions. In a bar, conversation and eavesdropping fill the void. At home, there is the idiot box. And what gems await me if I turn the damn thing on? I am treated to stuff like David Caruso on "CSI: Miami." For those of you who are unaware of what effects prolonged exposure to this drivel can have on the human psyche, check out this video on YouTube:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_sarYH0z948
For the true couch potatoes, that's years of wasted existence condensed into just over seven minutes. It's a miracle they haven't all hanged themselves.
There was a movie that came out when I was a kid called The Barefoot Executive, starring a pre-Snake Plissken Kurt Russell, who discovers a chimpanzee with the talent of predicting which television shows will get the best ratings. The film teaches a valuable lesson. No, I don't advocate letting a prescient primate pick the fall line up. From what I've seen, the networks have been doing that for years. The point I'm trying to make is that as idiotic as that movie was, it provided and entertaining viewing experience by virtue of its hairy co-star.
So what I propose for "CSI: Miami" is to get rid of David Caruso (he's used to career setbacks anyway) and replace his character with Sheriff Bobo, the meanest law-enforcement chimp to ever don a cowboy outfit. While we're at it, toss all the pseudo-science sleuthing as well. What was an hour of tedium and cheesy one-liners becomes five minutes of pure entertainment. Bobo runs onto the set, flings his excrement all over the crime scene, and beats a confession out of the prime suspect.
I would gladly stay home to watch that.
Happy Fourth. Blow shit up. I'll be back tomorrow.
No one ever called Seymour McGraw "Grandpa" unless they were yelling at him for driving too slow in the fast lane. Neither did his own grandchildren, who never even knew he existed. Nocturnal visits to his daughter's bedroom when she was a girl and her reluctance to be a good sport about it later had seen to that.
But that was a long time ago. An overactive libido was not much of an issue for him these days, as his loins had retired from active duty years before. However, this did not keep his wife from making periodical advances that he summarily rejected each and every time.
Mrs. McGraw might have been a real head turner back around the time when Kennedy was shot. These days though, she lived the kind of sexless existence one might expect from someone saddled with a weather-beaten pudenda and the decades-long onslaught of gravity. Of course, Seymour never mentioned his impotence when he spurned her.
"Get away from me, Myrtle. You look like hell," he would explain.
Such marital bliss might have gone on forever if Seymour had not, one day, acquired a priapism during an afternoon nap. His eyes opened and he stared at the thing with both elation and disbelief. His relaxed-fit slacks, waist hiked to the ribcage, were tented like he was a boy in his teens.
His mind raced, drawing up a list of things to do with it, none of them involving Myrtle. At that moment, she walked into the room and had other plans.
"Sweet meat of St. Peter," she said. "I sure hope that's for me."
"Go away."
"Come on, sugar. It's been so long. I'll take my dentures out."
"No, dammit."
Undeterred, she lunged at the turgid member straining against the polyester fabric. Seymour grabbed his cane and swung. The handle connected neatly with Myrtle's right temple and she crumpled to the floor. He had beaten her before, but never with his cane, and he liked the way it felt.
He got out of his chair, erection harder than ever, and continued the attack. Some of his blows hit her head and made blood well up in her ears, while the body shots made her twitch the most. It was all good.
After a while, his arm got tired and he stopped. He looked down at his wife and noticed she wasn't breathing.
"You're dead and I'm going to a titty bar. How about that?"
Out on Airport Rd. the tires of Seymour's Chrysler skidded on the gravel as he parked in front of the "Snappy Snapper" gentleman's club. The establishment was not known as the best strip joint in town but it did advertise a discount for seniors and easy-to-chew bar snacks. After paying the six-dollar cover, he walked in humming "Born To Be Wild," his stiffened rape rocket leading the way.
The interior was dimly lit and probably intentionally so. Whenever he got a good look at a girl on stage, she was often middle aged with a slack belly and dimpled thighs. The younger ones tended to miss a tooth or two and many had needle tracks on their arms.
There was one glorious exception though. A tall redhead was everything Seymour could ever desire in a woman. She had a wanton and mischievous smile, as well as a beautiful gym-toned body with an ass you could bounce a quarter off of. Given the amount of silicone in her breasts, you could probably bounce a quarter off them too.
"Come here, honey. I got something for you," he called out while pulling down the bulge in his pants as far as it would go and letting it snap back into place.
"My my," she said, walking over to where he was seated. "Aren't we the virile silver fox. My name's Bubble, Bubble Lynn Fudge. What's yours?"
"Seymour, as in I'd like to see more of you."
"Maybe you can. Do have any money?"
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sizable wad of cash he had taken from Myrtle's purse on the way out the door.
"Sweetie, that'll do nicely."
Bubble took Seymour by the hand and led him to the back of the club. They passed through a doorway and into a private booth with soft amber lighting. He remembered that his daughter's name was Amber and he smiled. She sat him down in a chair and started dancing. She ran her hands up and down her breasts then turned around, bent over, and started gyrating her rear end. She turned her head and winked at him.
"Do you like?"
"Ooh, baby."
"Want me to come a little closer?"
"Ooh, ooh, ooh."
She moved back and slowly lowered herself into his lap, first gently, and then with a determined, if playful, resolve. Seymour thought he would climax right then and there as his priapic tool felt the burden of her full weight upon it. Nothing doing. It weathered the attack without so much as a dribble and other than a few ruptured capillaries, his manhood was no worse for wear.
Her ass rose and was now up at face level. He looked over at her face and was about to tell her to keep doing what she was doing, but something was wrong. The look in her eye had changed to something malevolent. Malevolent and familiar.
"Hello Seymour," she said. "I'm glad you're having a good time, but perhaps you need a closer look."
With one hand, she moved her buttock floss out of the way. Then she reached back, grabbed him by the comb over, and pulled his face between her butt cheeks. Bubble's muscular glutes clamped his face and held it like a vise.
"Your ass is mine, or perhaps I should say that my ass is yours."
Her posterior shook violently as if it were a shark trying to tear a chunk of flesh from a hapless swimmer. Seymour thought that his neck would break. His bulbous nose was wedged in her sphincter, making breathing through it impossible. He opened his mouth and started gasping for air.
"I was waiting for that," she said. "Now the moment of justice has arrived. Odor in the courtroom, here comes the fudge."
She adjusted her position slightly and let loose with a fecal geyser that sent brown chunks and yellowish liquid down Seymour's throat. He gagged and spat, but there was no fighting the inhuman quantity of bowel movement that woman could produce.
"Drink or drown, sugar!"
Seymour put up a valiant struggle, but eventually he did both.
Later on, during the police investigation, some very interesting evidence came to light. Bubble Lynn Fudge swore that she remembered nothing of the murder. She also claimed to be a strict vegetarian and yet, not only prunes but Alpo dog food were found in the excrement by the crime lab. This was exactly what Myrtle McGraw ate for breakfast that morning. A coincidence? I shall leave that for you, the reader, to decide.
But that was a long time ago. An overactive libido was not much of an issue for him these days, as his loins had retired from active duty years before. However, this did not keep his wife from making periodical advances that he summarily rejected each and every time.
Mrs. McGraw might have been a real head turner back around the time when Kennedy was shot. These days though, she lived the kind of sexless existence one might expect from someone saddled with a weather-beaten pudenda and the decades-long onslaught of gravity. Of course, Seymour never mentioned his impotence when he spurned her.
"Get away from me, Myrtle. You look like hell," he would explain.
Such marital bliss might have gone on forever if Seymour had not, one day, acquired a priapism during an afternoon nap. His eyes opened and he stared at the thing with both elation and disbelief. His relaxed-fit slacks, waist hiked to the ribcage, were tented like he was a boy in his teens.
His mind raced, drawing up a list of things to do with it, none of them involving Myrtle. At that moment, she walked into the room and had other plans.
"Sweet meat of St. Peter," she said. "I sure hope that's for me."
"Go away."
"Come on, sugar. It's been so long. I'll take my dentures out."
"No, dammit."
Undeterred, she lunged at the turgid member straining against the polyester fabric. Seymour grabbed his cane and swung. The handle connected neatly with Myrtle's right temple and she crumpled to the floor. He had beaten her before, but never with his cane, and he liked the way it felt.
He got out of his chair, erection harder than ever, and continued the attack. Some of his blows hit her head and made blood well up in her ears, while the body shots made her twitch the most. It was all good.
After a while, his arm got tired and he stopped. He looked down at his wife and noticed she wasn't breathing.
"You're dead and I'm going to a titty bar. How about that?"
Out on Airport Rd. the tires of Seymour's Chrysler skidded on the gravel as he parked in front of the "Snappy Snapper" gentleman's club. The establishment was not known as the best strip joint in town but it did advertise a discount for seniors and easy-to-chew bar snacks. After paying the six-dollar cover, he walked in humming "Born To Be Wild," his stiffened rape rocket leading the way.
The interior was dimly lit and probably intentionally so. Whenever he got a good look at a girl on stage, she was often middle aged with a slack belly and dimpled thighs. The younger ones tended to miss a tooth or two and many had needle tracks on their arms.
There was one glorious exception though. A tall redhead was everything Seymour could ever desire in a woman. She had a wanton and mischievous smile, as well as a beautiful gym-toned body with an ass you could bounce a quarter off of. Given the amount of silicone in her breasts, you could probably bounce a quarter off them too.
"Come here, honey. I got something for you," he called out while pulling down the bulge in his pants as far as it would go and letting it snap back into place.
"My my," she said, walking over to where he was seated. "Aren't we the virile silver fox. My name's Bubble, Bubble Lynn Fudge. What's yours?"
"Seymour, as in I'd like to see more of you."
"Maybe you can. Do have any money?"
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sizable wad of cash he had taken from Myrtle's purse on the way out the door.
"Sweetie, that'll do nicely."
Bubble took Seymour by the hand and led him to the back of the club. They passed through a doorway and into a private booth with soft amber lighting. He remembered that his daughter's name was Amber and he smiled. She sat him down in a chair and started dancing. She ran her hands up and down her breasts then turned around, bent over, and started gyrating her rear end. She turned her head and winked at him.
"Do you like?"
"Ooh, baby."
"Want me to come a little closer?"
"Ooh, ooh, ooh."
She moved back and slowly lowered herself into his lap, first gently, and then with a determined, if playful, resolve. Seymour thought he would climax right then and there as his priapic tool felt the burden of her full weight upon it. Nothing doing. It weathered the attack without so much as a dribble and other than a few ruptured capillaries, his manhood was no worse for wear.
Her ass rose and was now up at face level. He looked over at her face and was about to tell her to keep doing what she was doing, but something was wrong. The look in her eye had changed to something malevolent. Malevolent and familiar.
"Hello Seymour," she said. "I'm glad you're having a good time, but perhaps you need a closer look."
With one hand, she moved her buttock floss out of the way. Then she reached back, grabbed him by the comb over, and pulled his face between her butt cheeks. Bubble's muscular glutes clamped his face and held it like a vise.
"Your ass is mine, or perhaps I should say that my ass is yours."
Her posterior shook violently as if it were a shark trying to tear a chunk of flesh from a hapless swimmer. Seymour thought that his neck would break. His bulbous nose was wedged in her sphincter, making breathing through it impossible. He opened his mouth and started gasping for air.
"I was waiting for that," she said. "Now the moment of justice has arrived. Odor in the courtroom, here comes the fudge."
She adjusted her position slightly and let loose with a fecal geyser that sent brown chunks and yellowish liquid down Seymour's throat. He gagged and spat, but there was no fighting the inhuman quantity of bowel movement that woman could produce.
"Drink or drown, sugar!"
Seymour put up a valiant struggle, but eventually he did both.
Later on, during the police investigation, some very interesting evidence came to light. Bubble Lynn Fudge swore that she remembered nothing of the murder. She also claimed to be a strict vegetarian and yet, not only prunes but Alpo dog food were found in the excrement by the crime lab. This was exactly what Myrtle McGraw ate for breakfast that morning. A coincidence? I shall leave that for you, the reader, to decide.
A couple of weeks ago, I was riding home on BART. The train wasn't that crowded but I decided to stand near the door rather than risk sitting next to someone with a relaxed sense of personal hygiene. When we stopped at Civic Center station, I woman got on pushing a stroller by me.
I looked down and expected to see an infant or toddler. Instead, what looked up at me was some sort of retarded midget, old enough to have smile lines. This person grinned a mindless little grin, expressing a sentiment of "Hi, what's your name?" or possibly "I like to go to the pet store and eat mice."
I never found out which. Like most cowards presented with an uncomfortable bit of reality, I looked away and pretended he wasn't there.
One of the worst aspects of human nature is our tendency to distance ourselves from the misfortune of others. More often than not, it's completely unnecessary. That guy in the stroller was dealt a lousy hand but I'm pretty sure that whatever ails him isn't catching. Yet, we will spare no ugliness in convincing ourselves that catastrophic bad luck could never happen to us.
Some take the morally righteous tack and may react to the stroller guy something like "Only fornication could produce such a vile offspring. They have disobeyed God's law. Behold the homonculus, proof positive that contempt breeds a familiar."
OK, most people aren't that harsh, at least not out loud.
I usually deal with the situation by thinking up something comically grotesque. My coping mechanism in this instance was "To fight terrorism, we're going to need a lot of these mutants. Imagine a phalanx of them, drooling, gibbering, and armed with meat cleavers. Charge the enemy with that kind of fighting force and we'll convert every one of those rat bastards to Christianity (after they've finished pissing themselves with fear, that is). Praise Jesus!"
I can be a real shit sometimes.
I looked down and expected to see an infant or toddler. Instead, what looked up at me was some sort of retarded midget, old enough to have smile lines. This person grinned a mindless little grin, expressing a sentiment of "Hi, what's your name?" or possibly "I like to go to the pet store and eat mice."
I never found out which. Like most cowards presented with an uncomfortable bit of reality, I looked away and pretended he wasn't there.
One of the worst aspects of human nature is our tendency to distance ourselves from the misfortune of others. More often than not, it's completely unnecessary. That guy in the stroller was dealt a lousy hand but I'm pretty sure that whatever ails him isn't catching. Yet, we will spare no ugliness in convincing ourselves that catastrophic bad luck could never happen to us.
Some take the morally righteous tack and may react to the stroller guy something like "Only fornication could produce such a vile offspring. They have disobeyed God's law. Behold the homonculus, proof positive that contempt breeds a familiar."
OK, most people aren't that harsh, at least not out loud.
I usually deal with the situation by thinking up something comically grotesque. My coping mechanism in this instance was "To fight terrorism, we're going to need a lot of these mutants. Imagine a phalanx of them, drooling, gibbering, and armed with meat cleavers. Charge the enemy with that kind of fighting force and we'll convert every one of those rat bastards to Christianity (after they've finished pissing themselves with fear, that is). Praise Jesus!"
I can be a real shit sometimes.
I realize that my blog, like most, must come off like letters to the editor in search of a magazine. There is plenty of ranting but precious little cohesion. However, I did make that promise of writing an entry every single day and I'm not about to go back on that, even if all I manage to accomplish is trading quality for quantity.
That said, future entries should be interesting. I have given up my reviews of old pulps (they proved too awful to read, let alone write about), but will soon be chiming in on a work even more sleazy. You see, I got a hold of OJ Simpson's If I Did It in PDF form before it was even published. How did I come across such a treasure? Well, let's just say it did the electronic version of falling off the back of a truck.
There is also that damn pug story. I'll try to come up with new subject matter so I won't have to recycle old stuff that you wouldn't want to read anyway. Trust me, my old poetry is best consigned to an incinerator.
That said, future entries should be interesting. I have given up my reviews of old pulps (they proved too awful to read, let alone write about), but will soon be chiming in on a work even more sleazy. You see, I got a hold of OJ Simpson's If I Did It in PDF form before it was even published. How did I come across such a treasure? Well, let's just say it did the electronic version of falling off the back of a truck.
There is also that damn pug story. I'll try to come up with new subject matter so I won't have to recycle old stuff that you wouldn't want to read anyway. Trust me, my old poetry is best consigned to an incinerator.
