Tuesday, April 28, 2009

How Would You Describe Me?

This is interesting. Click here and pick five or six words that you think describe me.

You can do it anonymously, so don't be afraid to be a total cunt about it.

If you do it, start your own and let me know so I can pick a few words that describe you too.

Monday, April 27, 2009

John Mayer's New Girlfriend?

On AOL Entertainment News, I noticed this alarming article.

Apparently John Mayer has a new girlfriend and she's way below his league, or PopEater really can't find a decent picture to show.

Thursday, April 9, 2009

Mr. Hart

This is a continuation of the The Pregnant Hooker story I started a couple days ago. It's pretty gritty.


Mr. Hart

“I never knew pregnant chicks could be so good.”

            “Shut the fuck up and finish. You have five minutes left.”

            He had been sneezing when he came in. Blowing his nose. She thought Oh great, I’m going to get sick on top of it all.

            He moans. He is not an attractive man.

            She sits on top. She gyrates back and forth. He has no clue of what to do. His nostrils flare open, he clenches his lips tight. He breathes in huge snarls, teeth grinding, air rushing up his nose and blowing back out. No snot. He finishes. His mouth hangs open, gargling.

            He calms down. She rolls off of him, and next to him on the bed. He looks at her, his ugly face lights up. She knows his face. She’s known it since she was a child. She leans away and stares out the window.

            “You were amazing.” He says, panting.

            “Thanks. You too. Now go.”

            “If I pay for another hour, will you talk to me?”

            “I would have to.”

            He thinks. “Would you want to?”

            “If you paid, yes I would.”

            “What if I didn’t pay?”

            “Then I’d suggest you leave.”

            He growls and rolls back over. He dresses. He pauses, pants halfway up his legs, shirt hangs unbuttoned, “If I paid for another hour, would you fuck me again?”

            “I’d be obligated.”

            “And if I didn’t-”

            “You know the fucking answer, Mr. Hart. Either pay or leave.”

            He hesitates. “Who is taking care of you, Maggie?”

            I am. Are you ready to go, Mr. Hart?”

            “I never thought I’d ever have sex with you.”

            “Thanks. Looks like our dreams finally came true. Bye.”

            “You know I switched schools just to be near you.”

            She rolls to look at him. She matches his gaze for thirty seconds.

            He continues, “You were always beautiful. I always knew we’d be compatible, you know, sexually. I just knew it.”

            Her face is frozen. She sits up, resting her back on the headboard.

            He has finished dressing. He looks nervous. “I fantasized about you every night, Margaret.”

            “It’s Maggie.”

            “That’s Classic You, Margaret. Always selling yourself short. You’re better than that. You’re better than all this.” He motions around the motel room.

            “Thanks, Mr. Hart. You can go now.”

            “How long have you been pregnant, Margaret?” He pulls the chair out from the desk, flips it around and sits down. His eyes are wide and serious.

            She tries her best to stay calm. Her left arm goes behind her back, as if to itch. She reaches under the pillow and grabs at her cell phone. She regrets not replacing her can of Mace.

            “How long has it been, honey?”

            Her mouth hangs open. “Ummmm... five months tomorrow, I believe.”

            “Well oh well. And the father?”

            “I, uh, I don’t know. I always use condoms and I’m on birth control. It could be anyone.”

            He shakes his head. “Poor girl. Always selling yourself short.”

            She feels the outline of the buttons. She struggles to remember the number.

            He goes on, “You know, when they kicked you out of school, I was your sole defender. I know it doesn’t matter much now but I fought the decision tooth and nail, believe you me. I, I, I loved you.” He breaks into a cry. He sobs in short gasps. He continues to speak, his voice both higher and grating, “I always did! And I just wanted what’s best for you, you need to trust me on this, Margaret. I saw so much potential in you, and I can’t bear to see it so wasted in this, in this shithole!” He wipes tears from his eyes. His face burns red.

            “I appreciate that, Mr. Hart. Are you sure you don’t want to leave now?” She has entered “Sos! Tis gyu is a psycoh” into her phone. She presses send. She hopes he gets it soon.

            “No, don’t push me away, Margaret! I refuse to be like everyone else! I can help you, I promise.”

            “I don’t need your he-”

            Don’t feed me that bullshit, Margaret! It’s obvious you’re in way over your head right now. You need help. I can take you in. I can give you a place to sleep, and purchase everything your child would ever need.”

            “That’s really not necessary, Mr. Hart.”

            “I don’t care, Margaret, muh, mah, Maggie. I would, Maggie. For you, I would.”

            The phone vibrates. She can’t see what it says. “Mr. Hart, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

            He jumps up and kicks the chair against the wall. “You’re stupid, Margaret, you’re a stupid cunt! You don’t even see what’s right in front of your fucking face, you stupid bitch!” He punches the mattress.

            Maggie starts to cry. He climbs back onto the bed, also crying.

            “Oh Maggie I’m so sorry! Come here, honey-pie!”

            Maggie screams, and kicks his face. He falls backward off the bed and hits his head on the desk.

            You stupid fucking bitch!” He screams, standing back up.

            The door busts open. “Get away from her right now, fuckwad.”

            The man in the doorway points a gun. Mr. Hart flies backward, raising his arms behind his head. “Uh uh are you a cop?”

            The man smiles. “Nope. But I’ll fucking shoot you if you don’t grab your shit and leave. ASAP.”

            Mr. Hart looks to Maggie. Tears stream down her face but she is too caught up in the moment to weep. He sobs. “Why, Maggie? Why?

            The man in the doorway whistles. “I’m over here, pal. I’m going to ask you to not address the lady.”

            “Fuck you!” yells Mr. Hart.

            “Good for me. Have you paid?” The man asks.

            Mr. Hart looks back at Maggie. He sobs. “Yuh-yuh-yes...”

            “Good for me as well. Now get the fuck out, asshole.”

            Mr. Hart looks to Maggie. “I would have treated you so good.”

            “Count of three, dude!” yells the man.

            “I would have paid for everything...”


            “... I would have held you at night...”


            “I WOULD HAVE RAISED YOUR CHILD!” Tears well up in Maggie’s eyes.


            Mr. Hart wipes his eyes. “Please, Maggie! Tell him to leave me alo-” BOOM! goes the man’s weapon.

            Mr. Hart hits the floor, feeling his body for blood. He pants heavily. He looks to the ceiling. Particles float down from a scorched hole. Mr. Hart looks back to the man.

            The man smiles. “The next one goes into your skull.”

            Mr. Hart scrambles across the floor, picking himself up near the doorway and rushing out. He brushes past the man, who watches him until he has entered his car and driven away.

            Maggie sits. Her pillow is on her lap, and she hugs it tight to her stomach. She looks at her phone. The message says “I’m outside rite now. Dont wry.

            David walks over and sits on the bed. “Rough night, doll?”

            Maggie breaks into tears. “Yeah,” she moans.

            “It’s all over now, babe. The motherfucker’s gone.”

            She snorts, and weeps some more. “Thank you.”

            He looks at her and smiles. “Thinking of quitting yet?”

            She wipes her eyes. “What else would I do?”

            He chuckles. “I don’t know, something legitimate? I would completely understand if you left. Especially tonight.

            “I’m being serious, Dave. I have nowhere else to go. And even if I got a good job it wouldn’t pay. Not like this.”

            He stares out the window. “I’m worried ‘bout ya, Mags.” He is the only one who calls her this.

            “I’m saving up, Dave. I have over three thousand already. I’ll stop when I’m closer to the delivery. I’ll get a job after that, I promise. Just let me do it until I’m ready. Until I have enough to get by. Please, Dave.”

            He looks at her. He sighs. “Okay, but take a couple off, babe. Promise me that, at least.”

            She smiles. “Promise.”


Twenty-four hours later. Her tongue runs up and down his member. Her lips apply pressure. She has no gag reflex.

            The lucky gentleman is drunk. He leans against a brick wall. He drifts in and out of consciousness. He laughs when he’s awake.

            He looks down and smiles, revealing yellow, rotted teeth. “Yer pretty good fer a preggo bitch!”

            She looks up in disgust, still working him. He comes hard, shooting it down her throat. She chokes for a moment. She spits out what she can cough up. The man pushes her over onto the cement, and stumbles toward the street. She stands up, hocking and spitting one more time.

            “You promised fifty. I want it now.”

            He smiles again, showing off his yellow graveyard. “Fresh out, hun, maybe next time.” He starts onto the street. He feels her rush behind him. He feels something sharp poke into his back.

            She whispers into his ear: “Listen, I’m in no fucking mood to be jerked around tonight. Either you pay me or I leave you to bleed to death in this alley. Decide now.”

            “Fuck!” He breaks into laughter. “You’re a nasty one, ain’t you bitch?” He pulls out three twenty dollar bills and throws them to the ground. “Keep tha change.” He hiccups. “Cunt.”

            She eases off and waits until he reaches a safe distance. She slips her knife into her inside coat pocket. She crouches, collects the money, and stuffs it into her jacket.



Wednesday, April 8, 2009

The Gardener by Stephen Dobyns

I recently purchased Stephen Dobyn's Cemetery Nights and there is one poem thus far that has just blown me away. It's called The Gardener. It's such a unique view of things. It's extremely inspiring.

The Gardener

by Stephen Dobyns

After the first astronauts reached heaven
the only god discovered in residence
retired to a little brick cottage
in the vicinity of Venus. He was not
unduly surprised. He had seen it coming
since Luther. Besides, what with the imminence
of nuclear war, his job was nearly over.
As soon as the fantastic had become
a commonplace, bus tours were organized
and once or twice a day the old fellow
would be trotted out from his reading of Dante
and asked to do a few tricks—lightning bolts,
water spouting from a rock, blood from a turnip.
A few of the remaining cherubim
would fly in figure eights and afterwards
sell apples from the famous orchard.
In the evening, the retired god would sometimes
receive a visit from his old friend the Devil.
They would smoke their pipes before the fire.
The Devil would stroke his whiskers and cover
his paws with his long furry tail. The mistake,
he was fond of saying, was to make them in
your image instead of mine. Perhaps, said
the ex-deity. He hated arguing. The mistake,
he had often thought, was to experiment
with animal life in the first place when
his particular talent was as a gardener.
How pleasant Eden had been in those early days
with its neat rows of cabbages and beets,
flowering quince, a hundred varieties of rose.
But of course he had needed insects and then
he made the birds, the red ones which he loved;
later came his experiments with smaller mammals—
squirrels and moles, a rabbit or two. When
the temptation had struck him to make something
really big, he had first conceived of it
as a kind of scarecrow to stand in the middle
of the garden and frighten off predators. What
voice had he listened to that convinced him
to give the creature his own face? No voice
but his own. It had amused him to make
a kind of living mirror, a little homunculus
that could learn a few of his lesser tricks.
And he had imagined sitting in the evening
with his friend the Devil watching the small
human creatures frolic in the grass. They would
be like children, good natured and always singing.
When had he realized his mistake? Perhaps
when he smiled down at the first and it
didn't smile back; when he reached down to help
it to its feet and it shrugged his hand aside.
Standing up, it hadn't walked on the paths marked
with white stones but on the flowers themselves.
It's lonely, God had said. So he made it a mate,
then watched them feed on each other's bodies,
bicker and fight and trample through his garden,
dissatisfied with everything and wanting to escape.
Naturally, he hadn't objected. Kicked out,
kicked out, who had spread such lies? Shaking
and banging the bars of the great gate, they had
begged him for the chance to make it on their own.

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

What Does It Mean?


She is screaming at him. Through him. She’s pretty sure he isn’t real.

“What does it mean???” She screams again. It doesn’t register.

“What does it mean?” She screams a final third time, leans over and tugs on his dress, or robe, or whatever you call it. This tug finally registers. He looks down at her with his icy blue eyes. His pupils are wide, his skin is milk-white, and at that moment she decides he’s real, just not real in the natural sense. Somewhere, somehow, he exists, but not on her Earth and they definitely don’t share a plane of existence.

“Yes?” He asks, but she knows he knows what she wants from him. His gaze penetrates her worse than anything. Worse than any man ever could.

She is sitting, naked from the waist down, ass mushed on the cold hard rock. Blood leaks from her, flows down and pools three feet away. She contracts again, but right now his gaze is all that worries her.

“What... does... it... mean?” she moans.

He gives her a look she knows too well. A look she loathes. Pity. He pities her.

This is a dream, she decides, but this man is definitely real. Somewhere, somehow, he is definitely real.

“Shh, Margaret. They are listening.”

She contracts again, letting out a moan. “Who?”

“Them. They don’t want it born.”

“But why?”

He looks at her. The stare is angry, and it gives her chills. “What a stupid question, Margaret. What a very stupid question for you to ask.” He looks back out into the woods surrounding the temple.

She contracts again, and she starts to cry.

“Do you want them to find us?”

Tears are streaming down her cheeks. “I just want it out of me,” she moans.

He looks at her again, and bends down. He makes eye contact.

“The child will come out soon enough. Stop complaining.”

“But why me?” she sobs, startling him.

“Why not you? Why are we chosen, Margaret? Why is anyone chosen? If not you, someone else. Doesn’t matter how or why, just that it is. And it did. That’s the problem with you, Margaret, this has been a problem your entire life. Always wondering why and how instead of the all-important ‘What Do I Do Now?’ Let me clue you in, Margaret: that last question is pretty fucking important.” He stands back up, unsheathing his sword.

She contracts again, but she has stopped crying. Tears still roll down her face but she has lost the will to make sound. She just sits, bleeding onto the dirty stone floor, staring up at the ruins, gulping every ninety seconds as another contraction comes and goes. All she can hear is the sound of her own breathing.

Lucius paces around her, eyes darting to and fro. Rustling. His eyes dart. He slides his sword back down and reaches for the bow and arrow on his back. He pulls it around slowly and aims at the woods.

Margaret looks in the direction of his arrow and sees nothing but darkness. Then, a blur. Black rushing forward. A panther? Monster? Ping! The arrow catches it.

There’s more, she thinks, They’re rushing him, we’re fucked! Shadows converge. They swirl around the couple; the half-naked prostitute in labor and her foul-mouthed angel guardian. The shadows rush in. Lucius screaming, his pale skin glowing gold. All she sees is darkness.

And Maggie awakes in a sweat. Her bed is damp, not from piss, but from sweat.

She gets up and walks to the bathroom. Her head thumps. She kicks back two aspirin and hopes they do the trick. She considers her face in the mirror. Her eyes are red, tear-lines streak down her face. “What a fucking mess,” she says, but she doesn’t get mad at herself for saying it. She definitely has to agree.

She lays back down. She stares up at the ceiling. She feels her very pregnant stomach, rubs her hand over the bump, waits for a kick. They come, stronger than ever before. She wonders if the child sees her dreams. She wonders why her dreams don’t fade away anymore. She wonders if she’s normal. She wonders why she didn’t get it fixed when she had the chance.

“How are you going to support the fucking thing?” He asks.

“I don’t know. They have, like, government programs or whatever, I’ll just sign up for some of those probably.”

“I’m not gonna fucking help you.”

“Jesus Christ, Paul, you’ve made that clear.”

“It’s not my kid.”

“You certainly seem to think so.”

He gets mad. Very mad. He turns around and knocks the lamp into the wall. It doesn’t break. He walks over and stomps on it with his boot. It breaks.

“Mature, Paul. Very fucking mature.”

He turns to meet her. “We always use a rubber.”

“Ah-huh.” This response enrages him.

“You were on birth control!”


He punches the wall. “How the fuck could this happen?!

“I don’t know. Immaculate conception?”

He looks at her with hatred in his eyes. “Why the fuck are you so nonchalant?

“Because you’re totally overreacting. You don’t owe me shit, Paul. And it isn’t exactly like you’re the only guy I’ve been with. I happen to fuck guys for a living, if you’ve forgotten. I have a whole list of potential baby-daddies. You just happen to be on top, you know, because we’ve had sex more than once.”

He exhales and leans backward against the wall. “It’s just, you know, really fucking frightening learning your girlfriend is pregnant.”

“Well don’t worry about it.” She says this without the doubt she’s feeling inside. The words flow from her perfectly. All the fear and hatred and doubt are left deep within her, where they belong.

“You sure?”

No, of course she isn’t sure. But she’s going to lose him, she’s certain of that. She doesn’t let herself know she cares deeply about this. She doesn’t let herself realize this bothers her. She needs to be strong for herself now. Strong for her child. Paul doesn’t figure into her future. Paul isn’t the father, she knows that for certain.

“I’m sure.”

“You sure you’re sure?”

“One hundred and ten percent, babe.”

Paul relaxes and slides down the wall, sitting on the floor. He exhales again.

“I’ll pay for the lamp.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

He stares at the shards of porcelain, the cheap wiring tangled inside. He looks back at her. “Are you going to switch professions anytime soon?”

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

Happy Birthday To Me.

Happy Birthday To Me

by Cracker

I was having a good sleep
in my car
In the, parking lot of the
Showboat Casino hotel

I say, "I remember you
you drive like a PTA mother"
You brought me draft beer
in a plastic cup

I'm feeling thankful
for the small things, today
I'm feeling thankful
for the small things, today

Happy, Happy Birthday to me
Happy Birthday to me
and to you

Happy, Happy Birthday to me
Happy Birthday to me
and to you-ah

I'm feeling thankful
for the small things, today
I'm feeling thankful
for the small things, today

I remember you
I crashed your wedding
With some, orange crepe paper
and some Halloween candy

A sometimes
I wish I were Catholic
I don't know why
I guess I'm happy to see your face
at a time like this

Happy, Happy Birthday to me
Happy Birthday to me
and to you-ah

Happy, Happy Birthday to me
Happy Birthday to me
and to you-ah

Happy Birthday baby, to me
Happy Birthday, to me
Happy Birthday, to me
Happy Birthday, to me

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