my conception: an unerotic love story

it was a late night. my father was intoxicated with the fine taste of a 40 oz beer. he was poor as his first child, a daughter, wasn't planned and he was either too kind or stupid to kick his wife down the stairs. as he stumbled into bed, his wife had on a tattered negligee. their daughter was sleeping or passed out from the nyquil that she was given to her so she would shut the fuck up.

as he crawled into bed, he looked over at the thing in his bed. something was uttered to him by the thing that may have been sexual but thankfully he was too drunk to understand. darkness soon came over him thanks to the 8% beer.

he woke up later and felt his ribs getting crushed... what's happening?! he woke up to see thing on top of him, raping him. he was paralyzed (or too lazy) to push it off of him. being a lazy fuck, he was also too lazy to pull out. "whoops," he thought, "it's her problem anyways". drunk logic isn't good.

a few months later he can't understand why this bitch is puking every morning and getting fat. he thinks that she's eating too much. when 7-8 months comes around and it's too late to vacuum the fucker out, he realizes that she's pregnant.

maybe this is why my dad and i have so much animousity towards one another...

The Conception of Sariel Thrawn

How was Sariel Thrawn conceived?

How indeed!

Some say that men such as he are not conceived, but spring up, full grown from the Earth. Others would tell you that his very existence defied all the laws of God and Man and Nature.

I tell you now, they are all wrong.

The conception of Master Sariel Thrawn is a tale that defies all explanation. It is exultant in its mediocrity. Luminous in its monotony. Ubiquitous in its sterility.

You will not laugh. You will not cry.

You may, however, yawn.

I realise that it is difficult to image that such magnificence could have be spawned by such utter vacuity, but nonetheless, it is so.

So how was he conceived? What were the circumstances under which he came to be?

Well the simple truth is that he was conceived in a rather non-descript and ugly shack on the outskirts of a rather non-descript and ugly town.

His mother was a frigid, cold-hearted, victim. Raped and beaten until she was nothing but a corpse that still managed to walk and talk, but had just forgotten to die.

His father? He was a pestilence on humanity and a broken human being.

One met the other on a dark street. There was a transaction. There was conception.

Here ends the tale of the Conception of Sariel Thrawn.

As bleak and lifeless a tale as one could hope for. His conception was rather a non-event.

His birth, however, now that’s a different story.

The Joyous Cruelty of Children

I learned to read at an early age, cementing within my skull a feeling of superiority over my fellow human beings. For Christmas during my fourth year of life my mother (or Santa, the thin lie she spooned into my head that I never could swallow) gifted me with a read-a-long Disney tape set. I devoured them. Phonics had not seen a resurgence yet, Sesame Street only offended my young sensibilities with its trashy production values and pedantic overacting, while the Letter People held only a slight and bizarre allure for me, but in general, I had no outside help when it came to learning the alphabet. My mother did not read to me, that is why she bought the tapes.

Somehow, I managed to use those books to teach myself literacy. Reading felt easy and natural. One day a red stop sign looked like gibberish, the next it made sense. I finished the tapes, and went on to hard science fiction. The first two novels I ever read were Fred Saberhagen's Bezerker Wars and then Colleen McCullough's Thorn Birds. I was only five.

See, I have always had this psychotic theory that I have lived my life before, everything I have learned only a remembrance of the past, and déjà vu was but a symptom. Somehow I don't think I'm doing any better than the previous run through.

Regardless, I was a sharp youngster that would develop into a brilliant child that would blossom into a mentally retarded adult…but still, I will always cling to my superiority over all humanity. If I am full of shit, I am full of the most valuable and precious shit imaginable.

On the surface I was a good kid. I never needed a spanking, and even though my mother was a definitive authoritarian of the draconian camp—as she was quick to discipline my siblings, I was quick to conform to what she wanted, or make it appear that I did.

There was always an undercurrent of subversion boiling in my brain. It washed through my veins and manifested itself in how I treated my young playmates.

We had a black and white cat named Toby; I named him that, possibly after the fox or hound from that Disney movie about the fox and the hound, or perhaps after the protagonist from Roots. Both names would be fitting. And while I loved that cat, I couldn't help but to torture that poor thing. Not physically, mind you, but mentally. Well, sometimes physically. For example, I knew that he could swim, and I had to prove it to Jerome, the neighbor child a year younger than myself. When the poor cat begged to come inside and shook slimy green kiddy pool water all over my mother’s clean towels, I blamed Toby’s condition on Jerome. It was an easy sell.

Jerome was not a smart child, although he was probably a normal child. I could feel the banality and mediocrity that dripped off his psyche and could already envision his possible futures, which involved either manual labor or prison. He was my plaything.

I often lied to him. With my lies, I generated falsehoods within his mind with the sole intent of humilating him. It wasn't difficult, Jerome wanted to impress me so badly.

“Have you seen the new GI Joe?” I would say.

“Yes,” he would lie.

“He’s dressed like clown.”

“I know! My mom got him for me yesterday. And a Babe Ruth rookie card.”

I always wondered why he took the bait. He probably wanted me to like him, for me to accept him--to impress me. It could never be, for I was a mean child.

“Show me.”

“I can’t, I’m grounded from it.”

That was the extent of his ability to think on his feet. He was the only child my age that lived close enough to play with, so it was either his company or soul crushing loneliness. I always felt superior to him, though, in every way.

Take for example the time when we were in the back yard playing He-Man; I was Skeletor, and he was that lame battering ram guy. I had him by the shirt, just about to banish him to the netherworld (the small space between the duplex and the garage) when two Rottweilers trotted around the corner. I suppose they were menacing enough—one of them had more mass than both of us put together, they were not friendly. When they started growling Jerome fell to pieces. It might be a lie to say that I was not scared, but I certainly held my composure. While Jerome devolved into a blubbering mess I calmly led him inside, and neither of us were torn to little bits.

My self-esteem is probably so high today because I had someone like him to compare myself to when I was so young.

Toby, the poor cat that I both adored and punished for next to no reason had been missing or several days. Jerome’s single mother, my own mother, my brother Matt and I ventured out to look for him. My job, as well as my mom’s and Jerome’s mother was to call out his name from the backyard as loud as possible. My brother had reconnaissance duty, and explored the local neighborhood. He found Toby behind the house in an empty parking lot. The poor thing looked as if it had just curled up and bled hideously to death in its sleep. My little brain, though advanced for its age couldn't handle that trauma, so I began to cry, which is of course a perfectly natural reaction to such a loss. Toby was my true best friend, while Jerome was the human meat bag that would do what I say and respond when I spoke to him. Mathew was too old and too cool to play with someone so young.

Jerome had an entirely different reaction to my loss. In a glorious show of callousness, he had the nerve to ask his mother why I was crying. At his age, which was about five, he should have been able to empathize. I boiled with hate. While I was developing out of the concrete operational stage, he would probably never work his way out of the pre-operational. I wanted to teach him a lesson. I HAD to teach him a lesson.

Now, rational thinking might lead you to think that I would talk to him and explain why I was hurting inside, and how he would feel the same pain were he in my shoes. However, if you can piece together the clues from my early childhood nature you might conclude that I would do something nasty instead. And you would be right.

I talked him into shitting his pants. When I tell people this story, I am always asked, “How can you talk someone into shitting their pants?” And the answer is simple: kids are stupid. That is the objective truth.

All I did was talk it up a bit. I told him how I did it all the time, and how great it felt. It was so warm and soft, just carrying it around like that. He always believed everything I said, for the most part, and swallowed this as well.

After a week of prompting he came to me stinking and proud, boasting that he had finally done it. I told him that I did not believe his story and went inside to watch Transformers.

He was spanked, and grounded, and forced to wear a diaper for a time, probably turning him into a future criminal or sex pervert, but I felt vindicated. He blamed me, for what little good that did him, but I had my revenge, and a growing hunger for malice and deviance. Thus an evil genius was born.

how i'm a rotten bastard

i am a rotten bastard by using this as this month's post much like it's a contractual obligation. i have nothing to say that has any merit.

oh yeah, kill whitey.

Good Times

I've seen a man blowing a dolphin.

I've seen a girl lay down in a bathtub, lift her anus skyward and then rain down fecal matter in a fountain onto her head.

I've seen two woman defecate into one cup and then proceed to ingest the contains whilst making out with one another.

I've seen woman do the same with vomit.

I've seen people deliberately pass gas in other people's faces as part of a sex act.

I've seen people defecate on each other. In each other's mouths. All as a part of a sex act.

I've seen a woman tied to a pole and another woman kick her in the cunt.

I've seen a man fucked to death by a horse (he died later in hospital, so the story goes).

I've seen people fellate dogs.

I've seen men deliberately slice open their own penises. Cut off the heads. Open their own ball sacks and remove their testicles.

I've seen what can only be described as remnants of human beings strewn across roadways. Their skulls crushed by tanks. Their limbs torn off by bombs.




What's worse? The things we do to ourselves? Or the things we do to each other?

Fucking Gringos

(Another masterpiece from Mr Goosekirk. If you want to know more go here - http://www.myspace.com/goosekirk)

I'm not racist by skin color. That doesn't even make any sense. I'll use 'racist' here like we're talking about national culture, because sure enough, there's big differences. Aussies, Scandinavians, Brits, Americans, Irish, Germans, Japanese, we all got our thing. So I'm not racist, but goddamn, I wouldn't trust a Colombian to walk my dog. Even if he didn't try to steal it or fuck it, he wouldn't be competent enough to walk it anyway.

It's not even that they're such shitbag weasels. Sure, I'll give them a smoke or buy them a beer when they ask, even though they already have their own smokes and more money than me in their pocket. I understand it's just their nature to lie, cheat, and scam at every opportunity. Good for them.

What I can't abide is how they hate us with a smile.

This drunk douche in the bar the other day. He's trying to pick up any girl who gets within ass-grabbing range. My gringo buddy and I comment on it. He's already pissed off because the previous night, a guy who works with his girlfriend was touching her face, calling her "mi amor" and aggressively trying to pick her up. "I don't even mind that if it's on the job," my friend says, "I know how it is at work. He just shouldn't be doing it at the bar, right in front of me. And she shouldn't let him."

"Got a point," I say, "but look at 'em. They literally don't know any better. It's just how it is. Look at this guy," I say, nodding at the drunk douche. "Fucking pathetic by our standards, but whaddaya gonna do. Can't potty-train 'em all, and they're too lame to kill each other off in big numbers. And as far as I know, nobody at the Pentagon is working on a neutron bomb that only kills males, so they're going to be infesting what would otherwise be a paradise for the foreseeable future. But on the bright side - this is partially why their women prefer us."

Which is true. Get a Colombian woman who knows better to talk freely, get her to cut out all the pumped-up nationalistic underdog pride (you thought Americans were jingoistic, lemme tell ya, nothing gets old faster than the constant, ignorant, overcompensating, overbearing patriotism of Colombians - every day is September 12 for them), and chances are she'll say terrible things about her countrymen. And it's something sometimes discussed among the long-term foreigners here. Nobody has real Colombian male friends. Stay here for years, and you may make a few pals, but they're still not your boys. In four years, I know exactly one Colombian who I'd count as one of the boys, and that's because he's lived outside the country and he's not like the others. Many Colombian guys will be nice to our faces, mostly because their culture is to be courteous but also because they don't want any trouble, and then they'll talk smack about "fucking gringos" as soon as we leave. Xenophobia and racism are in no way regarded as negative traits here.

Later, the drunk douche leans over our table and yells at us, flecking spit - "WELCOME COLOMBIA! Eh? WELCOME COLOMBIA!"

Yeah, that's great, thanks. Maybe this reads like a friendly gesture, but what this guy really wants to say is: fuck you, foreigners. I'm hoping the douche gets distracted by some unattainable, for him, piece of tail and goes the hell away.

But douche won't stop. He's talking mostly at my buddy, until he realizes my friend doesn't understand much Spanish, especially when it's yelled in a drunken slur over too-loud Judas Priest. My friend asks me to translate.

"He's saying, '18 percent THC' and something about Colombia's the only place in the world to get it - y'know, the usual 'wooo Colombia number one wooo' bullshit. I dunno, I don't smoke, but if that's true it'd be a helluva thing - that would mean they're actually competent at producing something."

Douche realizes my friend doesn't speak Spanish. He switches gears. He tries to talk in English, and for fuck's sake, here it comes: "COME BACK," he says, "COME BACK TO YOUR COUNTRY."

"You mean, 'GO BACK,'" I tell him.

"COME BACK!"

"It's GO BACK, jackass. GO BACK. GO. GO. GO BACK. Christ, you stupid fucks can't even learn to insult us competently."

He thinks we're German, for some reason, I suppose because Colombians think Germans speak English. He leans into my friend and tells him he'll kill him. He doesn't care if we're German or whatever, he says we made a big mistake coming to his country and we should leave, because he'll kill us all. He's waggling his middle finger off to the side as he speaks, the passive-aggressive thing, and he makes a throat-slitting gesture. I've seen this plenty of times before - they must think their badass international reputation makes up for their inherent pussiness. I imagine it works, mostly, because gringos are nervous, but I know better. It's nothing but a sad little bullying maneuver. My friend doesn't understand what the guy is saying, but I can tell he's about to throw the douche off the balcony on principle.

But I'm laughing my ass off. I grab the douche by the shoulder and speak to him in Spanish. "You know what I love about your country? It's that the people are so friendly!"

This is what the newbie foreigners always go on about - oh, the locals are so gosh-darn friendly! I think it's hilarious. Douche doesn't get the joke.

Douche goes on about how Colombia is for Colombians. They don't need us here. The ground is stained with Colombian blood, it's their country, not ours, blah fucking blah blah. I jump in and agree with him. Goddamn, I've heard this shit too many times.

"Yeah, man, that's exactly right! All the wars, all the guerrillas and paramilitaries and narcos and constant killing, nothing but death death death, that's been working out great for you people so far, stick with it! The ground stained with Colombian blood, man, fuck yes, that's awesome! You guys don't need us, and no other country in the world wants you either, so you stay here alone and kill each other off. Excellent fucking plan! You should be proud to be Colombian, in your own little isolated pocket of killing! More death, man, more death! Go go go!"

My buddy gets up to leave. He's had enough. Douche doesn't know what to make of my rant - his attempt at being threatening has backfired badly, and he's left holding nothing. As I pass, I lean in close to him. "But you know what else? I'm not leaving your country, pal, until I'm done fucking all your women. ALL OF THEM." Smile. Wink. Slap on shoulder.

His head slumps to his chest and he gives me a desultory finger. I walk down the stairs and wave over a pretty girl I know to tell her I'm leaving. She comes over and kisses me. I tell her to walk outside with me for a moment and she puts her arm around me. I look back over my shoulder and the douche is watching us leave. I give him a little nod and a smirk - there he was, grab-assing any female he could and failing miserably, and there I am - snap my fingers and I walk out with one of the cutest girls in the bar. I've never felt like such an arrogant dick in my life, and it feels fantastic to do it to someone who deserves it.

I'm not racist, but fuck you all, you miserable, dumbass, useless, pathetic, stupid, lying, thieving, halfassed scheming scumbag pieces of shit.

- GooseKirk

enough with the political race card shit

I'm not a racist but enough with Barack Obama. It seems like everyone in the United States has hyped this man up to be the second coming of Jesus Christ. Remember, he's a politician. It's came to the point that people are voting for him JUST BECAUSE HE'S BLACK. Voting for someone just because they are black is as dumb as not voting for him because he is black. Some people are doing it just because they want the first black president of the United States. What's next? Voting for someone just because they are Spanish, Albino or a transvestite? Vote for someone because they have common values as you, not because you want to be around for the first of something. I might be construed as being racist or having a hidden agenda for saying this but I'll admit that I don't like John McCain. Want to know why? Because he's white.