Since that last post was such a riproaring success, ya bakeheads, I thought I'd share this recipe with y'all.
Back in the day I knew a group of four orphan brothers who had inherited a huge estate. Money and housing taken care of for the rest of their lives, they all decided to live off the grid and go completely alternative, and so they did; the fact that they lived in the middle of an upscale suburb notwithstanding. They ripped out all the landscaping and planted corn and other *ahem* vegetation, cut off the electricity and phone lines, set up several distilling operations for things like fuel grade alcohol, booze grade alcohol and 'et cetera'...tore out the central heating and switched to wood heat and cooking, bought an old gasoline generator and used it to run their amps (they had a band!) and keep the plumbing thawed out in the winter, had honeybees, made mead, wine, vodka, brewed beer, made bread...these guys were like fricken' GODS.
One of the things they made was something they called 'keef'.
Now with a name like that you kind of already get the feeling its going to fry a few braincells, right? Well, it really wasn't keef, it was a kind of homemade cut plug made out of geraniums. They'd knock a chunk off and smoke it through a hookah. Delicious? Oh my God, it was absolutely sybaritic. I've never smoked anything as enjoyable...not only for the effects but also simply as a smoke. If you've ever smoked a fine tobacco through a hookah you have some idea of what I mean...this stuff was just WONDERFUL.
As best as I can remember, the method went something like this:
Large mature leaves, washed, separated into 'fingers', dried flat and cured (in other words, let to dry until they get kind of leathery)
Homemade dry blackberry wine...specifically, the bottom 1/4 of the fermentation with the dregs in it. (Stay with me, it doesn't end up tasting like candy at all.)
equipment:
cheesecloth,
a wooden butter press with lid, (oh look it up)
1 brick,
broad, shallow baking pan
-all of this should be surgically clean, including the brick, which can be scrubbed off with bleach water and then baked for a couple of hours to sterilize it.
Method: soak the cured leaves in the thick dreg blackberry wine (how long I don't know. Presumably at least overnight.) You can up the alcohol by tipping in a little vodka. This is just to help sterilize the mixture and sharpen up the taste. The alcohol burns off.
Your butter press should be sitting in the broad, shallow baking pan. It MUST be scrupulously clean. If you're using a wood press, this will turn it purple and flavor it permanently, so be forewarned. Do NOT use an aluminum press.
Line the butter press with cheese cloth.
Take the leaves out of the wine. Let the excess drip off, then lay flat in the bottom of the butter press. Continue this process, alternating the direction of the layers, until all the leaves are used or the butter press is filled.
Place the top on the press and set the brick on top of that.
Set this all aside to a very dry, warm place with good air flow. The brothers used the top shelf of their woodstove. Cover the whole operation with another single layer of cheesecloth to keep dust and bees out.
In a couple of days, lift the 'cake' from the butter press using the cheesecloth liner. In the meantime, dump out any collected juice in the pan and wash it out. Turn the cake over and return it to the butter press. (You can now switch out and use a clean cheesecloth to line it if you're worried about it; and if the stack falls apart, just re-stack it. You don't have to, though.)
Replace the lid, the brick and the cheesecloth covering and let sit for another few days.
Once it has stopped weeping fluid you can take it out of the butter press and just let it sit in the clean, dry pan, wrapped in cheesecloth, with the brick on top. Turn the cake over every day.
This is done when you have a nasty looking black block of hard ick. it will look like old leaves that have been sitting in a pile for a few months, only drier, and it will smell like blackberries (and be kind of pliable, as I recall.) If the cheesecloth sticks you take a damp rag or clean damp sponge and dab it on the stuck places until it loosens.
To use, cut a corner off and set it on fire. I mean, please. You know.
It sounds nasty, but it smokes GREAT. I would go so far as to say it's an epicurean experience, in fact. The brothers would sometimes mix this with fine smoking tobacco, opium, honey oil or hash, and truthfully it was best with a little bit of fine tobacco.
I can't vouch for the complete accuracy of this method, although I'm 90% certain I've got it down here. The brothers always said that the method is the same as for making homemade cutplug chewing tobacco. I wasn't able to find a 'recipe' for that online but its gotta be out there. If you have the straight 411, please, don't Bogart that info, my friend! Share it with us in the comments lounge!
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Hey kids! Do you have any favorite geranium recipes? Please leave them in the comments lounge! Maybe we can do a 'Flatbutt Tribal Party Cookbook'!
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
Harvesting Geraniums with FirstNations!
One of the onerous tasks associated with growing geraniums is stripping and grooming. Now by that I do not mean what you think I mean; no, I mean getting naked and actually taking a bath instead of spritzing on a half gallon of Chanel and calling it French. Actually no, I really mean getting the product market ready. For most people this means getting naked and calling a Frenchman to harvest your geraniums for you, which doesn't make anyone happy and is not sanitary. This is where technology can help you.
Anyone with access to a machine shop and scrap steel can make this simple, elegant and highly effective tool which can handle everything down to the daintiest bud:
This highly technical tool is called: a piece of metal with some holes in it.
The one I saw was made out of 1/4 inch thick stainless steel angle stock. The draw holes had first been bored on a drill press, and then the guy had taken a mandrel and gauged them out wider by whamming it through from the back of the face plate (he made four different sized holes.) Using a mandrel also makes the burr on the outer side crown up nice and high, which is what you want. To finish he simply took a rat tail file and filed the crowns nice and sharp. And there you have it!
You can clamp this to a table, or use nails or screws to attach it to your work surface. It cuts off the leaf material like a knife; you get very little waste. (Hint: to be really effective, the stems should first be de-budded and then drawn through top first, against the curve of growth.)
The tinier holes stem the buds neatly. Feed them through stem end first; duh. The lower portions drop off and the top pops off in one piece.
An unexpected side benefit of this tool is that you can periodically scrape off the face of the draw plate with a razor or exacto and collect honest to crap hash. Yeah, it will be harsh because of the chlorophyll and frag. Knock a couple bucks off the price. It's still bonus cash, and it has the added benefit of not having passed through the hands of a nine year old kid who wipes his ass with his fingers.
I hope this has been helpful. I know I've spend many an hour bitching and clipping hunks of skin off the sides of my fingers wishing I had a goddamn clue, so I offer this as a public service to those of you who labor in ignorance as I once did. You'll still have to do a little scissors and clippers work, but nothings perfect; and there won't be any Frenchmen involved. Yay!
Anyone with access to a machine shop and scrap steel can make this simple, elegant and highly effective tool which can handle everything down to the daintiest bud:
This highly technical tool is called: a piece of metal with some holes in it.The one I saw was made out of 1/4 inch thick stainless steel angle stock. The draw holes had first been bored on a drill press, and then the guy had taken a mandrel and gauged them out wider by whamming it through from the back of the face plate (he made four different sized holes.) Using a mandrel also makes the burr on the outer side crown up nice and high, which is what you want. To finish he simply took a rat tail file and filed the crowns nice and sharp. And there you have it!
You can clamp this to a table, or use nails or screws to attach it to your work surface. It cuts off the leaf material like a knife; you get very little waste. (Hint: to be really effective, the stems should first be de-budded and then drawn through top first, against the curve of growth.)
The tinier holes stem the buds neatly. Feed them through stem end first; duh. The lower portions drop off and the top pops off in one piece.
An unexpected side benefit of this tool is that you can periodically scrape off the face of the draw plate with a razor or exacto and collect honest to crap hash. Yeah, it will be harsh because of the chlorophyll and frag. Knock a couple bucks off the price. It's still bonus cash, and it has the added benefit of not having passed through the hands of a nine year old kid who wipes his ass with his fingers.
I hope this has been helpful. I know I've spend many an hour bitching and clipping hunks of skin off the sides of my fingers wishing I had a goddamn clue, so I offer this as a public service to those of you who labor in ignorance as I once did. You'll still have to do a little scissors and clippers work, but nothings perfect; and there won't be any Frenchmen involved. Yay!
Monday, October 06, 2008
Quaint Vignettes From My Charming Rural Idyll
This year, because of the mild conditions, the farmers around here have yet to harvest the feed corn. I guess the upside of that is that I haven't had to put up with the truly godhorrid stench of silage being trucked around-and I have no idea what that shits about either; it seems like they make it, and then they drive it around the county for a couple of weeks for no good reason that I can figure out. Maybe it likes to go on car rides. Maybe driving it around for a couple of hours is necessary to the whole silage process. What I do know is that the stuff smells absolutely disgusting. Worse than pig shit, worse than rotted liquid pig manure even, worse than whatever that Parmesan-foot-ass stuff is that they spray on the fields in July. And if anyone could identify just exactly what that stuff is for me I would appreciate it. But anyway....
The smell of silage defies description. It smells worse than the dump. Really. You know how if you spend enough time at the dump you eventually stop smelling it? Not so with silage. Its one of those smells that you can taste, and if you get a strong enough whiff of it you gag-not even as a disgust response either; you don't get the chance to register disgust. Its involuntary. You're driving along having a nice chat with your buddy and then a truck goes paHEURGK! HUAAARP! *BURP* ...yeah. Men dig that.
Around here a kid can drive farm equipment on the street. I suppose there's a special permit involved or something; all I know is that I envy these kids. Maybe the Fates conspired to keep me out from behind the wheel of large equipment, though, given what I was like when I was younger (i.e. EVIL) and Lord only knows what I would have got up to with a corn auger under my command. Actually I know what I'd have done; I'd have headed straight toward my grade school. Drove that mother right through the parking lot; grind through all those Datsun subcompacts and Toyotas RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRkshhhhCRUNCKCRACKGADOON! SSSSSSBOOM! SCREEECHcrunchmangledestroy! Then hammer down straight toward the main office, locked on target, lasers charged and ready; and bury that bitch full speed right up to the rear wheels. Hop out of the cab at the last minute, of course, before it goes up in a huge ball of flames FOOM! with all them big freakyass pointed things flying off and then aw fuck, man, here they come all twirling down back out of the sky eeeeeeeEEEEEWOOOOOOOOOOM!
Right through the main boiler! DIRECT HIT!
Meanwhile I would stand across the street and watch it all go stern skyward...take a majestic half turn...and then silently sink beneath the chill dark seas. And I would laugh a grim and icy laugh- heh heh heh heh heh!-light a panatella, turn, and ride my horse off into the desert.
AYIAYIAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! wa wa waaaa...
(that's The Good, The Bad, And The Ugly music. keep up.)
So yeah. Better off that I don't get a corn auger for Christmas this year.
I keep trying to talk my husband into getting me one of those little mini backhoes like landscapers use? But he says that all I'd do is go around digging holes. Well, duh, yeah, that's what they're for.
"In the middle of the night. At random," he adds.
But here again; duh, that's what they're for. If you had a mini backhoe, wouldn't you? Who'd complain? Someone wakes up because their dog is barking and you're out in their front yard in your mini backhoe digging a hole, what? Like they're going to even call 911? "Yes, hello, 911? It's 3:am and there's a native American in a mini backhoe digging up my landscaping?" Please. No way. Especially if it was modified so that flames shot out from underneath it, and had big telescoping spider legs that would unfold out of the sides with pinchers on the end that had black poison dripping off them that would hit the ground and stuff would dissolve into glick and smoke would come up? See, no. You'd have to be pretty stupid to try.
The smell of silage defies description. It smells worse than the dump. Really. You know how if you spend enough time at the dump you eventually stop smelling it? Not so with silage. Its one of those smells that you can taste, and if you get a strong enough whiff of it you gag-not even as a disgust response either; you don't get the chance to register disgust. Its involuntary. You're driving along having a nice chat with your buddy and then a truck goes paHEURGK! HUAAARP! *BURP* ...yeah. Men dig that.
Around here a kid can drive farm equipment on the street. I suppose there's a special permit involved or something; all I know is that I envy these kids. Maybe the Fates conspired to keep me out from behind the wheel of large equipment, though, given what I was like when I was younger (i.e. EVIL) and Lord only knows what I would have got up to with a corn auger under my command. Actually I know what I'd have done; I'd have headed straight toward my grade school. Drove that mother right through the parking lot; grind through all those Datsun subcompacts and Toyotas RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRkshhhhCRUNCKCRACKGADOON! SSSSSSBOOM! SCREEECHcrunchmangledestroy! Then hammer down straight toward the main office, locked on target, lasers charged and ready; and bury that bitch full speed right up to the rear wheels. Hop out of the cab at the last minute, of course, before it goes up in a huge ball of flames FOOM! with all them big freakyass pointed things flying off and then aw fuck, man, here they come all twirling down back out of the sky eeeeeeeEEEEEWOOOOOOOOOOM!
Right through the main boiler! DIRECT HIT!
Meanwhile I would stand across the street and watch it all go stern skyward...take a majestic half turn...and then silently sink beneath the chill dark seas. And I would laugh a grim and icy laugh- heh heh heh heh heh!-light a panatella, turn, and ride my horse off into the desert.
AYIAYIAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! wa wa waaaa...
(that's The Good, The Bad, And The Ugly music. keep up.)
So yeah. Better off that I don't get a corn auger for Christmas this year.
I keep trying to talk my husband into getting me one of those little mini backhoes like landscapers use? But he says that all I'd do is go around digging holes. Well, duh, yeah, that's what they're for.
"In the middle of the night. At random," he adds.
But here again; duh, that's what they're for. If you had a mini backhoe, wouldn't you? Who'd complain? Someone wakes up because their dog is barking and you're out in their front yard in your mini backhoe digging a hole, what? Like they're going to even call 911? "Yes, hello, 911? It's 3:am and there's a native American in a mini backhoe digging up my landscaping?" Please. No way. Especially if it was modified so that flames shot out from underneath it, and had big telescoping spider legs that would unfold out of the sides with pinchers on the end that had black poison dripping off them that would hit the ground and stuff would dissolve into glick and smoke would come up? See, no. You'd have to be pretty stupid to try.
Thursday, October 02, 2008
Purple Manta A Terrible Eye Power Shooting Out
All over the world women are paying big bucks to buy brand new boobs. Generally speaking, significantly bigger boobs.
Do any of these poor women realize that once they have their brand new gazongas in place that they will no longer be able to find a decent place for them to live?
Because welcome to the real world, my darling. Now you HAVE to wear a bra. It is not a prison sentence. Its just that those honeys get a little unruly and its distracting for everyone involved. But hey, though, wasn't that the point? That's perfectly OK. Big boobs are GREAT. They are friendly. If they were people they would lend you money probably, or feed your dog while you go on vacation. They're nice. That's why peopleuniversally agree on the superiority of large breasts like them.
Tell ya what, though, gone are the days when you can expect to to waltz into the Jr. Miss department at K-Mart and grab the first thing you see that appeals. And no more 'buy three get the 4Th free!' No, now you will have to take out a bank goddamn fucking loan simply in order to purchase ONE bra. ONE.*
And what will this lonely, sad, AFFORDABLE bra look like?
No slinky, pretty fabric, or colors other than white, tan and black.
No more lace. No more bows. No more satin, ruffles, embroidery or prints.
Generally speaking it WILL NOT BE any larger than a 44DD. Not and look human, anyway. No, anything you purchase from about 38C on up in your typical retail outlet will look like a surgical appliance.**
It will not be comfortable.
...hickory? HICKORY? bad enough it went around blinding midgets and children; egad. i suppose we should praise Jesus they don't make them out of wood any more too.
If it is comfortable, it will not fit correctly. In this case it will be either 1. a cupless, vestlike 'sports bra' and as such will function so as to compress your luscious orbs into one large sweaty amorphous loaf of boob, or 2. a sports bra with what is jokingly described as 'shaped cups' and one hundred million seams that will flatten your yummies into big fat round manhole covers and allow them to bloop out from underneath when you reach up high.
An affordable bra will have seams. Yes I know they make moldable synthetic fabrics with multidimensional stretch. I know that this material even comes in graduated dernier and can be woven to accommodate complex curves and varying degrees of stress. This rare, scarce, high-tech miracle fabric is called Spandex. Bicyclists get it. Swimmers get it. Other women get it, even...women with tiny little motionless nubbins stuck on their chests like postage stamps. They get it with lace. In colors.
You do not get it.
You get one-way stretch, immobile satinized foam yamulkes, or heavy percale. And it has to have seams. You need SEAMS. Enjoy your new FRANKENBRA.
Your new affordable bra will be pointed. Oh yes! Because all boobs are pointed. Everyone knows that. Hell yes. Particularly the big ones. If you have boobs they are POINTY. It is a LAW.
...pick one: is this a 1. porcupine 2. group shot from the republican national convention 3.a sea urchin 4. a lot of sea urchins and porcupines at the republican national convention, or 4. woodstock
If yours aren't, too bad ya fuckin' mutant. Your bra is made to either accommodate the boobage of NORMAL
women (the ones with 1950's danger tits or that extra little miniature yurt on the end there) and to TRAIN THE BOOBAGE OF THE ABNORMAL INTO THE PROPER POINTY SHAPE. Refusal of your boobs to comply with this mandate means that you have to run around with two empty crumpled up little strangenesses on either side of your chest up under your shirt that make you look like you got into an unfortunate chemical accident. But see, if you had NORMAL POINTY BOOBS this wouldn't happen ya freak.
The reason for this is simple: The cups of your new giant bra have been designed to house a species of giant clam.
... boob clam! nana nana nana nana, boob clam! nana nana nana nana, boob clam! boob clam! boob clam! BOOB CLAAAAAAAAM!
Large boobs look like giant clams. Its true. They do. Go look. Large size affordable bras (I'm talking to YOU, PLAYTEX) are apparently designed by people so grossed out at the though of anything over an A cup that they figure that anything bigger can just live in a grocery bag or a phone booth, or fuck it just go live a doorway like a wino or something; who cares. Ew. At any rate the closest the designers were able to bring themselves to 'big boob' was 'giant clam.' Deal.
Science has shown that giant clams don't need lace, or colors, and they like lots of fabric. Actually they NEED all that extra banding to restrain them during their frequent fits of GIANT CLAM FRENZY so they don't go all crazy and eat scuba divers. Notice how you never see any scuba divers near the plus-size bras? They are SCARED.
Because masses of flesh are not rigid, big boobs need something called 'side support' in order to keep them from kicking back with a beer and a newspaper and relaxing into your underarm region. This is not fatness; this is physics. Do not become alarmed. No salesman will call at your home. But then too; don't get all upset because when you're driving your car you have to steer with your elbows held out to your sides like airplane wings either. Not that this would happen if you had a bra with side support; but no, you do not DESERVE side support because if a woman with fritatta-titties does not need side support then YOU DON'T EITHER.
Oh OK fine. Here. Here is some side support.
There. Isn't that better? What we've done is sew a kind of a pockety thing in the side there and then stuck a bendy little strip of plastic in it so that when you sit down it bores a hole up into your armpit. THAT IS SIDE SUPPORT. REALLY. IT IS. YOU LOVE THIS AND IT WORKS PERFECTLY. LALALALALA WOOOOOO ICANTHEARYOUICANTYHEARYOU WOOOOO
Oh, and here...scaffolding. Because we can't have them things all going buttwild crazy shootin' up the dern town... So here. Have two pieces of metal shaped like the letter 'C' that aren't really attached to anything and serve no structural purpose whatsoever. That rust, and twist into weird shapes when you sit down, and set off metal detectors at security checkpoints, and make huge blisters underneath your arms, and abrade giant 'smiles' of raw skin beneath each tit when you sweat. What, are you mentioning moldable soft synthetics again? You heartless big titted cow. Do you know how many six-year-old bra wire inserters you'd be putting out of a job???
Remember: when you have big boobs, you are fat. Oh, you might not be able to see it. You might not even be able to get all that fat to register on a scale...but its there, honey. Every affordable bra you buy has also been designed to accommodate your presumed hippopottamaic girth. You will be able to invite a poor friend with big boobs in with you and you can wear it together! Tell everyone you're conjoined fraternal twins.
Because elastic is made from an endangered species of petrochemical which can only come into contact with the skin of the flat-chested, your shoulder straps have to be constructed from either steel pallet banding or a delicate scrap of shiny ribbon with a vicious little jagged dealie halfway up the middle masquerading as an adjustment thingamawhatzis. It will not stay in place. Don't go expecting it to because it won't. As soon as you sit down; ZOOP right down over the shoulder. You should never sit down. Or bend over. Or reach for something in front of you. Or overhead. Never, never do any of these things. Expect to spend the balance of your life hoisting at one side or another like Loobie May Cornpone, which is both attractive and sexy.
The most difficult part of this for me to get my head around is that you'd think most bra designers, being men, would kind of have a vested interest (get it? HA!) in keeping boobs happy. Honestly. Really. Tell me how the same sex that designed this:
...also designs this:
Give me a fucking break here. Please. I mean PLEASE. The next time any of you swingin' dicks starts in whining about women just remember it's your fault for designing crappy bras. That's right. Throw me a decent foundation garment that fits right and doesn't look like something your grampa had to wear after his rib fracture and maybe I'll be a little easier to get along with *tug, shift, yank*
And I'll tell you what: Don't you even have the goddamn gall to whine when no boobs want to live in substandard housing like that and they start migrating south! You would not live in a house designed the way a bra is designed! Oh no! You now what a person would look like who lived in a house built the way the average bra is designed? That person would be shaped like a giant clam, and the house would be shaped like a tepee, and the giant clam would be so big that it would have to lie curled up in a ball in the bathtub with one foot in the toilet. No wonder the boobs are migrating! They want a better life! Save the whales? Fuck the whales! SAVE THE TITS!
__________________________
*and you'll end up, more than likely, in a specialty shop. Here in America, expect to pay an average base price of 35.00 for something you wouldn't be ashamed to be caught in. Not any miracle of fashion, either...just something that looks like your average Bali b-cup, maybe with a little lace, in lavender. And if you want something truly designed with your shape in mind? Internet, honey. PLUS SHIPPING. And pray to God it fits like they said it would when it gets there. Honestly, what the fuck? They can bodymap someone as butt-ugly as Gene fucking Simmons and make a miniature doll-thing of him that's photographically exact down to the hair on his ass - and yet we're still having technical difficulties designing a stretch garment for a couple of complex curves?
**ok now. you gonna come up on me with "well, at wal mart you can buy up to 145 WW and they're reasonable and they come with hello kitty on them too so HA." because a. bullshit. seriously. go take a look at the percentage of large bras in stock there at wally world. how many companies? warner and playtex you say? uh huh. and how much do those cost? um, about 5.00 MORE than the next size down, huh? apparently us awesome gals are taking vital textile resources away from the more deserving with our big ol hooties. PROVIDING you find any in stock. PROVIDING your local wal-mart even carries them because lemme tell ya babe, the one in bellingham DON'T. in eastern washington? yes. three of them. I am not going to make a goddamn 200+mile pilgramage on the off chance that the tard in the bra department has done her stocking the night before, just in order to purchase a cheap bra, because that defeats the whole cheapness concept, fucks with my carbon footprint and YOU STILL END UP WITH A FRANKENBRA DESIGNED TO HOUSE GIANT CLAMS!!!!!! HELLO KITTY IS NOT ADEQUATE COMPENSATION HERE!!!
Do any of these poor women realize that once they have their brand new gazongas in place that they will no longer be able to find a decent place for them to live?
Because welcome to the real world, my darling. Now you HAVE to wear a bra. It is not a prison sentence. Its just that those honeys get a little unruly and its distracting for everyone involved. But hey, though, wasn't that the point? That's perfectly OK. Big boobs are GREAT. They are friendly. If they were people they would lend you money probably, or feed your dog while you go on vacation. They're nice. That's why people
Tell ya what, though, gone are the days when you can expect to to waltz into the Jr. Miss department at K-Mart and grab the first thing you see that appeals. And no more 'buy three get the 4Th free!' No, now you will have to take out a bank goddamn fucking loan simply in order to purchase ONE bra. ONE.*
And what will this lonely, sad, AFFORDABLE bra look like?
No slinky, pretty fabric, or colors other than white, tan and black.
No more lace. No more bows. No more satin, ruffles, embroidery or prints.
Generally speaking it WILL NOT BE any larger than a 44DD. Not and look human, anyway. No, anything you purchase from about 38C on up in your typical retail outlet will look like a surgical appliance.**
It will not be comfortable.
...hickory? HICKORY? bad enough it went around blinding midgets and children; egad. i suppose we should praise Jesus they don't make them out of wood any more too.If it is comfortable, it will not fit correctly. In this case it will be either 1. a cupless, vestlike 'sports bra' and as such will function so as to compress your luscious orbs into one large sweaty amorphous loaf of boob, or 2. a sports bra with what is jokingly described as 'shaped cups' and one hundred million seams that will flatten your yummies into big fat round manhole covers and allow them to bloop out from underneath when you reach up high.
An affordable bra will have seams. Yes I know they make moldable synthetic fabrics with multidimensional stretch. I know that this material even comes in graduated dernier and can be woven to accommodate complex curves and varying degrees of stress. This rare, scarce, high-tech miracle fabric is called Spandex. Bicyclists get it. Swimmers get it. Other women get it, even...women with tiny little motionless nubbins stuck on their chests like postage stamps. They get it with lace. In colors.
You do not get it.
You get one-way stretch, immobile satinized foam yamulkes, or heavy percale. And it has to have seams. You need SEAMS. Enjoy your new FRANKENBRA.
Your new affordable bra will be pointed. Oh yes! Because all boobs are pointed. Everyone knows that. Hell yes. Particularly the big ones. If you have boobs they are POINTY. It is a LAW.
...pick one: is this a 1. porcupine 2. group shot from the republican national convention 3.a sea urchin 4. a lot of sea urchins and porcupines at the republican national convention, or 4. woodstockIf yours aren't, too bad ya fuckin' mutant. Your bra is made to either accommodate the boobage of NORMAL
women (the ones with 1950's danger tits or that extra little miniature yurt on the end there) and to TRAIN THE BOOBAGE OF THE ABNORMAL INTO THE PROPER POINTY SHAPE. Refusal of your boobs to comply with this mandate means that you have to run around with two empty crumpled up little strangenesses on either side of your chest up under your shirt that make you look like you got into an unfortunate chemical accident. But see, if you had NORMAL POINTY BOOBS this wouldn't happen ya freak.The reason for this is simple: The cups of your new giant bra have been designed to house a species of giant clam.
... boob clam! nana nana nana nana, boob clam! nana nana nana nana, boob clam! boob clam! boob clam! BOOB CLAAAAAAAAM! Large boobs look like giant clams. Its true. They do. Go look. Large size affordable bras (I'm talking to YOU, PLAYTEX) are apparently designed by people so grossed out at the though of anything over an A cup that they figure that anything bigger can just live in a grocery bag or a phone booth, or fuck it just go live a doorway like a wino or something; who cares. Ew. At any rate the closest the designers were able to bring themselves to 'big boob' was 'giant clam.' Deal.
Science has shown that giant clams don't need lace, or colors, and they like lots of fabric. Actually they NEED all that extra banding to restrain them during their frequent fits of GIANT CLAM FRENZY so they don't go all crazy and eat scuba divers. Notice how you never see any scuba divers near the plus-size bras? They are SCARED.
Because masses of flesh are not rigid, big boobs need something called 'side support' in order to keep them from kicking back with a beer and a newspaper and relaxing into your underarm region. This is not fatness; this is physics. Do not become alarmed. No salesman will call at your home. But then too; don't get all upset because when you're driving your car you have to steer with your elbows held out to your sides like airplane wings either. Not that this would happen if you had a bra with side support; but no, you do not DESERVE side support because if a woman with fritatta-titties does not need side support then YOU DON'T EITHER.
Oh OK fine. Here. Here is some side support.
There. Isn't that better? What we've done is sew a kind of a pockety thing in the side there and then stuck a bendy little strip of plastic in it so that when you sit down it bores a hole up into your armpit. THAT IS SIDE SUPPORT. REALLY. IT IS. YOU LOVE THIS AND IT WORKS PERFECTLY. LALALALALA WOOOOOO ICANTHEARYOUICANTYHEARYOU WOOOOO
Oh, and here...scaffolding. Because we can't have them things all going buttwild crazy shootin' up the dern town... So here. Have two pieces of metal shaped like the letter 'C' that aren't really attached to anything and serve no structural purpose whatsoever. That rust, and twist into weird shapes when you sit down, and set off metal detectors at security checkpoints, and make huge blisters underneath your arms, and abrade giant 'smiles' of raw skin beneath each tit when you sweat. What, are you mentioning moldable soft synthetics again? You heartless big titted cow. Do you know how many six-year-old bra wire inserters you'd be putting out of a job???
Remember: when you have big boobs, you are fat. Oh, you might not be able to see it. You might not even be able to get all that fat to register on a scale...but its there, honey. Every affordable bra you buy has also been designed to accommodate your presumed hippopottamaic girth. You will be able to invite a poor friend with big boobs in with you and you can wear it together! Tell everyone you're conjoined fraternal twins.
Because elastic is made from an endangered species of petrochemical which can only come into contact with the skin of the flat-chested, your shoulder straps have to be constructed from either steel pallet banding or a delicate scrap of shiny ribbon with a vicious little jagged dealie halfway up the middle masquerading as an adjustment thingamawhatzis. It will not stay in place. Don't go expecting it to because it won't. As soon as you sit down; ZOOP right down over the shoulder. You should never sit down. Or bend over. Or reach for something in front of you. Or overhead. Never, never do any of these things. Expect to spend the balance of your life hoisting at one side or another like Loobie May Cornpone, which is both attractive and sexy.
The most difficult part of this for me to get my head around is that you'd think most bra designers, being men, would kind of have a vested interest (get it? HA!) in keeping boobs happy. Honestly. Really. Tell me how the same sex that designed this:
...also designs this:
Give me a fucking break here. Please. I mean PLEASE. The next time any of you swingin' dicks starts in whining about women just remember it's your fault for designing crappy bras. That's right. Throw me a decent foundation garment that fits right and doesn't look like something your grampa had to wear after his rib fracture and maybe I'll be a little easier to get along with *tug, shift, yank*
And I'll tell you what: Don't you even have the goddamn gall to whine when no boobs want to live in substandard housing like that and they start migrating south! You would not live in a house designed the way a bra is designed! Oh no! You now what a person would look like who lived in a house built the way the average bra is designed? That person would be shaped like a giant clam, and the house would be shaped like a tepee, and the giant clam would be so big that it would have to lie curled up in a ball in the bathtub with one foot in the toilet. No wonder the boobs are migrating! They want a better life! Save the whales? Fuck the whales! SAVE THE TITS!
__________________________
*and you'll end up, more than likely, in a specialty shop. Here in America, expect to pay an average base price of 35.00 for something you wouldn't be ashamed to be caught in. Not any miracle of fashion, either...just something that looks like your average Bali b-cup, maybe with a little lace, in lavender. And if you want something truly designed with your shape in mind? Internet, honey. PLUS SHIPPING. And pray to God it fits like they said it would when it gets there. Honestly, what the fuck? They can bodymap someone as butt-ugly as Gene fucking Simmons and make a miniature doll-thing of him that's photographically exact down to the hair on his ass - and yet we're still having technical difficulties designing a stretch garment for a couple of complex curves?
**ok now. you gonna come up on me with "well, at wal mart you can buy up to 145 WW and they're reasonable and they come with hello kitty on them too so HA." because a. bullshit. seriously. go take a look at the percentage of large bras in stock there at wally world. how many companies? warner and playtex you say? uh huh. and how much do those cost? um, about 5.00 MORE than the next size down, huh? apparently us awesome gals are taking vital textile resources away from the more deserving with our big ol hooties. PROVIDING you find any in stock. PROVIDING your local wal-mart even carries them because lemme tell ya babe, the one in bellingham DON'T. in eastern washington? yes. three of them. I am not going to make a goddamn 200+mile pilgramage on the off chance that the tard in the bra department has done her stocking the night before, just in order to purchase a cheap bra, because that defeats the whole cheapness concept, fucks with my carbon footprint and YOU STILL END UP WITH A FRANKENBRA DESIGNED TO HOUSE GIANT CLAMS!!!!!! HELLO KITTY IS NOT ADEQUATE COMPENSATION HERE!!!
Sunday, September 28, 2008
UPDATED: Shock the Monkey
UPDATE: awwwww, too long? thats ok! i'll just leave it up for a NICE LOOOOOOONG TIME so everyone can enjoy it when they have time. We aim to please here at Paul!
kids, you want fast thrills go hit an amusement park. you want pseudoscholarly discussions of sweat, botanical neologisms and men in turbans then sit down and keep your hands inside the car while PAUL is in operation.
this one goes out to the recently married Chaucers' Bitch! Congratulations my darling! Here is a lovely tale for you to read together on your wedding night.
CAUTION: CONTAINS ADULT SITUATIONS, LANGUAGE, DUFFEL BAG
______________________________
DR. EMMANUEL BRADY: private notes, fat soluble lipids
Despite the findings of quantum physics certain phenomena related to the human mind can in fact be explained by mechanical processes. For example the human sexual response is largely due to a simple, mechanical process which occurs in the brain. You see, certain neural receptors are shaped in such a was as to admit only a certain molecule, and nothing but that molecule. Very much like a key in a keyhole, amusingly enough, given the titillating Jungian associations that the image conjures. Ha!
In the case of the sexual response this particular molecule is produced in the human apocrine glands. In a condition of arousal, or at least, a condition of just having come back from the gymnasium after their lunch break without having showered first, these compounds fill the air in a cloud, much like a blizzard of fruit flies around a bowl of overripe bananas and oranges and whatnot, waiting to stuff themselves right up the nose of any passing inhale-ee who will then experience an embarrassingly ill-timed boner and have to hide it behind a sheaf of files and walk about bowlegged for the balance of the afternoon.
The sexual response in also partially a learned behavioral response. It is! Its all conditioning, you see. An organism first primed into expectation of certain stimuli by the receipt of the proper chemical 'hint' learns through trial and error that a particular activity or activity set will more that likely lead toward an erotic reward. After a few repetitions of same there you have it, that organism is trained. Reproduce the stimuli and ding! The bell rings and Pavlovs' dog ejaculates, and should at that point in the proceedings be hit with a rolled up newspaper to make sure he doesn't do that in the house again. In the case of a human subject it means that the approach of the clock hands ever closer to the 'twelve' and 'one' positions causes a sudden increase in blood flow to the groin region irregardless of whatever activity that subject might otherwise be engaged in. Hypothetically.
As was my mentor Dr. Gordon Wasson, I too am a firm believer in the controlled use of psychotropics. Purely as an aid in making those sudden intuitive leaps of creative reasoning that so often propel the willing explorer of the mental frontiers into Nobel Prize territory, of course. However unlike the good Doctor I eschewed the mycological path, and was instead an acolyte of the poppy.
It was during one of those dreamy interludes spent lapping at the perfumed bosom of Madame Yen Shi that I first evolved the following hypothesis: a person who could control the precise regimen needed to incite the brain might evolve a method whereby he (used editorially, of course) could produce all kinds of interesting effects without having to raise the least bit of..shall we say...sweat.
My assistant Ms. Phail was a lovely girl. Entirely uninterested in me whatsoever. No, I was simply the beige gent in the lab coat who signed the check that made it possible for her to purchase highly indecent items of underclothing, such as the delightfully scanty balustrade of lace which forced her bosoms up into to delicious vanilla orbs which jiggled like kittens down the front of her lab coat whenever she moved suddenly, such as, when another person happened to brush up against her in an entirely inadvertent fashion.
Repeatedly I sought the embrace of my papaveracaeian beloved in hope that my supplications would earn me the necessary inspiration and finally, after a prolonged bout a' soixtante-neuf with my stern Yellow Mistress it did indeed. It would be a relatively simple task to capture the necessary cerebrostimulant compounds and render them into a concentrated state. The introduction of this solution to a selected subject would no doubt inspire an overwhelming subconscious biochemical response. If one were to use that preparation in conjunction with a ritualized series of operations aimed toward training the already- susceptible subconscious mind, the outcome could be tailored to whatever the operator desired. In this case 'outcome' being equal to 'show me her beaver'.
Unfortunately any further development of this idea was brought to a halt as I was forced to spend some weeks in hospital with an uncomfortable case of epigastric paralysis requiring an unfortunate, painful and rather humiliating surgical procedure. Furthermore, the notes I'd taken turned out to be an indecipherable mass of hieroglyphics. Nothing quite dampens the urge to translate same than an inflamed rectal incision.
Finally intellectual curiosity overcame my native reluctance to experience another bout of peristaltic inactivity. And so, stitches removed, all systems go as it were, I armed myself with three quarts of vegetable juice cocktail and a gramme of black resin, raised my lighter high in the direction of the Mystic East and chased the dragon once again...this time directly to the Rosetta Stone. Excelsior!
I had a fine collection of state of the art equipment that I'd liberated from the clutches of my academic overlords tucked back in an unused corner of my apartment. Soon I was turning my every private hour toward the development of what I amusingly christened my 'Ms.Phail cocktail'. Ha!
My first efforts were based on the theory that the fastest route into my assistants knickers would be to concoct a solution in which our amorous secretions were already combined; priming the pump as it were. One readily available source of half the necessary compounds would be found in the ladies room, although sorry to say, after an incident back in my second year at university there wasn't going to be any more of me lurking around those environs. Then I hit on the idea of raiding the contents of her purse. Certainly ladies carried all kinds of things about with them loaded down with their charming by-products...? And so, one afternoon I sent her down to the Administration annex on some routine task and, armed with a nail file and the unquenchable spirit of scientific inquiry I jimmied the lock on her desk drawer.
This provided me with a few things; a lipstick I didn't think she'd miss, a few crumpled tissues...but no. No, it simply wasn't enough and I certainly couldn't stand about waiting for the silly cow to remove her diaphragm, not after the incident in the airport at Brussels. No, I'd simply have to secure a larger supply of the necessary organic lipids someplace else.
Ah, but then I remembered. My charming assistant belonged to the local gymnasium, didn't she. Of course.
Once I'd crunched the electronic lock on her car I was able to open the boot and there was her gym bag pretty as you please. I took a fast look around and then drew the zipper down carefully.
The sudden vision of her that rose like a tormenting flame in my mind was enough to render this simple operation into very potently charged terms, as well as to cause me to pop an almost instantaneous log.
I buried my face between the canvas flaps. I felt the coarse plastic edges of the zipper as a kind of delicious 'duffel dentata' that my imagination described in shades of scarlet, caressing the sides of my face in an inviting way as I inhaled the delicious, womanly perfume of her unlaundered sweatclothes.
This had the most aggressive effect imaginable on my now-rampaging libido and in a moment I had drug the unsuspecting bag over the front edge of the car boot where it dangled invitingly, its slattern, wanton gap a lascivious 'v' of invitation. "There, you filthy bitch," I snarled, inserting two fingers roughly into its aching depths. "Now moan like you want it!"
Clumsy with need I hurriedly released the furious demands of my turgid manhood from the confine of my trousers and thrust it savagely between those canvas lips. Immediately I groaned in orgasm, spewing the viscous yogurt of my man-seed; jet after jet of superheated lava emerging triumphantly from the earths very core; deep, deep into the quivering, greedy chasm of her sweatshirt.
"Doctor Brady?" I heard a stern male voice at the far end of the parking garage calling. "Sir? Can I help you?" Hurriedly I did up my flies and scurried away.
It looked like I was back at square one: collection of my own product. Ah well. Setbacks are to be expected, I suppose.
The first thing I did was purchase the services of a very nice Asian lady who depilitated the entire surface of my body from the neck down using some kind of adhesive. I found this a uniquely painful and humiliating process but one which I gladly suffered for the sake of the outcome.
For the next week I wore a garment made from a deionized hyperfabric comprised of a chemically inert substance which absorbed and preserved within its weave every particle of my precious secretions. Before I donned this erstwhile cocoon I purified the surface of my skin with a dilute solution of iodine. Then into the garment through the long slit up the front, on with the suit and tie and over it all a nice clean lab coat and within a matter of minutes I was sweating like a large and very foul boar hog.
Of course during this time I avoided introducing anything into my system that might adversely effect my scent. I lived for the next week entirely on distilled water and rice cakes, one of the most horrifyingly awful things I have ever put into my mouth I might add, forgetting a certain regrettable episode involving the neighbors dog.
After a week of collection the garment was finally removed-much to my sudden regret; I had become quite fond of its moist embrace- placed into a steeping chamber filled with a therapeutic-grade carrier oil and heated to 79 c . I checked and checked again, desperate to make certain that each element was precise and in its proper order. Yes, perfectly and precisely yes; down to the special container fixed in place beneath the tappet, sealed against the contaminating atmosphere, waiting to receive the first precious, wanton droplet of my primal pong.
Studies showed that certain compounds contained in frankincense, myrrh and cloves produced a marked increase in the oxygen content of the brain, and that in turn gave rise to an increase in the output of neurostimulants which homed in on the centers of gustation and pleasurable response. I set to work concocting a melange of these ingredients, and after some experimentation I arrived at a combination that wasn't too terribly ecclesiastical. Quite nice, actually, in a Tutankhamenish, Valley of the Nile kind of way. I then added a hefty dollop of my own homonid essence, my personal stock as it were, and set to work surreptitiously perfuming her environs.
Some on the receiver of the telephone at her desk...a little on the back of her chair where she'd rest her hand as she drew it out...a bit on each armrest...a wipe down the length of each pencil and pen in the holder...the handles of the drawers...aaaaaaaaaand a few daring droplets on the seat of her chair, just because. I also treated all the surfaces in her work areas and sprinkled a bit inside the first few pairs of sterile gloves in the box nearby.
"Are you wearing some kind of aftershave?" she asked the next morning. I ignored her, although inwardly I rejoiced. Excellent!
"I'm going to go check and see if the night crew changed the animals bedding..." she continued, heading toward the next room.
I looked after her retreating form wearily.
-No no no no no good heavens NO, man; she's keying on an animal level. This is a limbic response! Precisely what you intended! And here's you not providing the necessary positive pleasure ritual. You idiot, of course. You have to reinforce the aroma with positive stimuli. But what?
"I've put your samples into the separation unit for you," I said cheerily when she returned.
"But they weren't' meant to go in yet," she said, hurrying to the chamber and looking worriedly at the readout. "Well there's that batch fucking spoiled," I heard her mutter.
Hm. "Well now no matter," I said, struggling to inject a hearty, cheerful note into my voice. "That's easily remedied. What's a few more bits of whatever?"
"The deceased was sent to the crematory last week, Dr. Brady" she replied. "I don't expect we'll be getting many more gastric samples from that quarter."
"Well. I'm sure...." I decided a change of subject was in order. "Did I happen to mention that you....your work, that is....its quite, you know...satisfactory."
She looked at me quizzically.
"...yes. Well. I've been....considering giving you a raise, you know," I continued. "Say, oh, another dollar an hour, hm? Yes, just the thing! A dollar an hour!That's another..."
"...forty dollars a week," she said.
"Yes yes I know that. So then. Would you like to....go out to lunch to celebrate your raise?" I said. Excellently played, Brady, excellently played! "...I'll pay of course. Of course! Its my, I invited, well yes. So then! To lunch!"
_____________________
" Did you know," I said, leaning in across the table conspiratorially, "That the vomeronasal organ of the dog is capable of detecting over seven million different molecular compounds? Imagine that kind of information being fed directly into your brain every time you inhale! The implications are staggering actually," I continued. "No wonder dogs never developed much of a cortex; they hardly need it."
"They certainly wouldn't back at the lab," Ms. Phail murmured, taking a sip of her coffee. Inwardly I smiled. I'd already taken the liberty of dosing it with a pure form of my special concoction and as I watched it pass her lips my imagination took flight on scarlet wings. Yes, dear lady, take it. Take it all. And swallow. Good girl.
"Yes, but what I mean is, with that much visceral, actual molecular material being fed directly into the limbic regions you'd simply be in a continuous state of analogue response to your surroundings," I said. "There'd hardly be any need for higher cogitation. That is of course if the necessary chemical precursors were in place, you know," I laughed. "Of course."
"Of course," she said, glancing down at her watch. Ah, I thought, now there's an opportunity missed; the back of her watch would've made a perfect application site. "Isn't that how ants work?"
"Yes yes, quite right, exactly. A perfectly ordered miniature society. No internal strife, none of your angst ridden teenagers running about dressed like Victorian corpses....no no no." I smiled down at her. "You know,that's a very acute observation. Yes, quite incisive."
"My parents bought me an ant colony for Christmas one year," she said. "That was on the box it came in. All about how ants communicate. " She looked around and sighed.
"Delightful. Of course we as humans have the ants put to shame when it comes to mank...we're capable of producing someplace in the range of 5665 different aromatic combinations in our sweat. Now of course all that has first to be distilled through the decompositional labours of our friends the Staphylococci. That's what produces the dreadful foul, rank stench you notice when you've been exercising. Activity raises the body temperature of course and that rouses our microscopic passengers into an absolute frenzy of activity, which is all to the good considering the subsequent increase in waste secretions oozing out of our pores, particularly in the axillary and genital regions. By the way, did you know, you have the most remarkable eyes?"
She turned both of them upon me and blinked several times rapidly.
"Oh yes, quite," I continued. "Tell me, have you ever tried drugs? I mean illegal ones, of course. A little MDMA at a rave party perhaps? Smoked some 'grass'? Hm?"
"Now really," she began. I held up my hand. "No no no no no, now Ms. Phail I assure you we're all adults here. I myself am not adverse to the occasional 'trip'. Oh no. Do you find that shocking?"
"Actually not in the least," she replied.
Earlier I'd taken the liberty of tipping the waiter heavily for turning his back a few seconds while I poured a few grammes of my 'elisir d'amor' on her order. Now I thrilled as he placed the steaming plate before her. My face displayed no trace of emotion, of course. She gazed down at the plate and I saw her brow furrow. "Whats this?" she asked.
"Fettucine alla beurre", I replied.
She took a hesitant bite and chewed thoughtfully. I watched her mouth, that splendid mouth like a strawberry. A lush, wanton, trollopy little strawberry aching to be filled with my
"Is this something Greek?" she asked. "It tastes like goat."
I gestured at her plate. "Don't lets be provincial. Eat up."
My heart was now positively hammering against the walls of my chest. I watched her as she devoured her portion.
Soon, Ms. Phail, you will be devouring mine.
"So as I was saying....yes. Drugs. Recreational drugs. Controlled substances. Did you know, for instance, that as we speak I have a quarter ounce ball of raw opium up my jacksie?"
She grasped for her napkin and began to cough.
"Not to worry dear lady, I am long acquainted with Madame Dragon. I can assure you you have nothing whatsoever to fear from me inasmuch as I would much rather roam the fertile, perfumed oases of my inner landscape during these interludes than engage in any coarser delights. Although I admit to having given more than a passing thought to...oh what do they call it nowadays..." She looked at me anxiously through the light of the candle that flickered between us. "Oh dear. A hallway? A strip mall? A....a landing strip,that's it! Your taco. Oh now don't blush; you shouldn't wear a skirt around the lab if you don't want people dropping things on the floor and looking up it. Or sit at your desk all splayed out as though you were about to take a run at the pommel horse ," I gestured in an illustrative manner "...wearing those kite-shaped little scraps of cloth that pass for girls pants nowadays. Heaven only knows what your father would say if he knew you were dressing like that; I'd thrash mine within an inch of her life if I had one. In fact I wouldn't mind reddening your bottom for you, Ms.Phail."
"Please put your hand down, people are looking," she hissed.
"And what pray tell is exactly wrong with my hand Ms. Phail?" I asked, leaning close, feeling the heat of the candle like the flaming breath of a dragon. Small crumbs of eyebrow fell to the table as she reached out and pushed me back into my chair.
"Actually its not so much your hand as you flicking your tongue at me from between your fingers," she continued in a whisper.
I felt a surge of blood infuse my nether regions. The experiment was working better than my wildest dreams had anticipated! "You are indeed a woman of rare discernement; a woman of many parts; all of them eminently suited to being painted a la Motherwell with the product of my loins; my love-custard, if you will. Tell me, Ms. Phail, have you ever had a wine bottle inserted up your
Suddenly I found myself in the back of a cab.
"Good Lord would you please stop licking the windows," Ms. Phail muttered, pulling me back from the glass. "You don't know whose been licking them before you. Please just sit back and try and calm down."
"Madame, I am unable to calm down when my very atomic structure rages in a violent maelstrom of lust," I announced. "Sir, attend your driving," I added, and the cabbie turned away. "He wants me," I whispered. "It's the heat of the East that rages in their blood. These turbanned Lotharios will penetrate your ringpiece quicker than a rat up a drainpipe."
"Please be quiet," Ms. Phail pleaded. "Honest to God. What do I have to do to get you to shut up?"
I announced my intentions by tearing aside the twill that hid my glory. "There is your Golden Fleece Ms. Phail!" I exclaimed. "Ignore that! I can find another button! No don't scrabble about on the floor after it its only a button! Ms. Phail, I command you to stuff my weenie up your hooha!"
"Oh dear," she said.
"Miss, please. We have a cop on horseback directing traffic up here," the cabbie said. "Please find some way to keep him quiet. I can't have him screaming about his weenie like this in public."
"Oh dear," she repeated. And with that she took me in her delicate hand.
I howled like a war-dog, a dire wolf, some distant primeval ancestor of the savage male species triumphantly braced against the hindquarters of its mate!!
"Please, sir, just shut up and let me wank you off," she muttered, pulling at my love muscle as though she were hauling anchor out of the black muck of Rangoon Harbour. "Just sit back. close your eyes and for the love of heaven SHUT YOUR GODDAMN PIE HOLE."
"Evoe! Your resolve is but a dialectical hymen concealing your throbbing need for my ding dong! Ope wide your piscine portals to the hammer of my sex, Ms. Phail ere I impregnate you with a glance of my eye! Join me in coition! Let me ravage the ridges and vales of your oral sanctum! Let me fling the hollandaise of my love against your vaginal vault!! Let me "
"Miss, please! I cannot remain employed if I receive another chit against my operators license," the cabbie pleaded.
"Oh God help me, alright...move aside you lummox. I can't..."
Her lips descended, fell, drew closer, and finally closed around my peepee!
VICTORY AT LAST!
Suddenly my throat closed and I struggled to draw breath. A wave of venomous heat rose up my chest, up my neck and over my face like a thousand stinging ants. "I.....I can't seem to...."
"Oh fucksakes, what now," I heard her mutter as I faded into black.
__________________________________
"I'm afraid you've had a mild heart attack," the doctor informed me. "You seem to have experienced a massive anaphylactic response to your own sweat, as far as we can determine..." the doctor shook his head and sighed down at the chart in his hand. "We don't see this type of thing very often, I'm afraid. I must say I've never seen a case of urticaria this extreme either. You came in covered in actual blisters. Hopefully you heal well; there shouldn't be any permanent scarring associated with the event....although I see here that we've had to sedate you nearly to the point of coma to keep you from mastu....hm." He looked up at me quickly. "...and I see you're going to need a skin graft. Well then. Hm." he looked around awkwardly, handed the chart to a nearby nurse and hurried out into the hallway.
When I was finally able to return to work I found a notice of transfer waiting for me. Under the circumstances I was not entirely displeased.
Until I read it.
I was being moved completely out of the forensic research department. I was, in fact, to be relocated to another wing entirely.
It seemed I was the new head of Egyptian Antiquities.
Oh dear.
kids, you want fast thrills go hit an amusement park. you want pseudoscholarly discussions of sweat, botanical neologisms and men in turbans then sit down and keep your hands inside the car while PAUL is in operation.
this one goes out to the recently married Chaucers' Bitch! Congratulations my darling! Here is a lovely tale for you to read together on your wedding night.
CAUTION: CONTAINS ADULT SITUATIONS, LANGUAGE, DUFFEL BAG
______________________________
DR. EMMANUEL BRADY: private notes, fat soluble lipids
Despite the findings of quantum physics certain phenomena related to the human mind can in fact be explained by mechanical processes. For example the human sexual response is largely due to a simple, mechanical process which occurs in the brain. You see, certain neural receptors are shaped in such a was as to admit only a certain molecule, and nothing but that molecule. Very much like a key in a keyhole, amusingly enough, given the titillating Jungian associations that the image conjures. Ha!
In the case of the sexual response this particular molecule is produced in the human apocrine glands. In a condition of arousal, or at least, a condition of just having come back from the gymnasium after their lunch break without having showered first, these compounds fill the air in a cloud, much like a blizzard of fruit flies around a bowl of overripe bananas and oranges and whatnot, waiting to stuff themselves right up the nose of any passing inhale-ee who will then experience an embarrassingly ill-timed boner and have to hide it behind a sheaf of files and walk about bowlegged for the balance of the afternoon.
The sexual response in also partially a learned behavioral response. It is! Its all conditioning, you see. An organism first primed into expectation of certain stimuli by the receipt of the proper chemical 'hint' learns through trial and error that a particular activity or activity set will more that likely lead toward an erotic reward. After a few repetitions of same there you have it, that organism is trained. Reproduce the stimuli and ding! The bell rings and Pavlovs' dog ejaculates, and should at that point in the proceedings be hit with a rolled up newspaper to make sure he doesn't do that in the house again. In the case of a human subject it means that the approach of the clock hands ever closer to the 'twelve' and 'one' positions causes a sudden increase in blood flow to the groin region irregardless of whatever activity that subject might otherwise be engaged in. Hypothetically.
As was my mentor Dr. Gordon Wasson, I too am a firm believer in the controlled use of psychotropics. Purely as an aid in making those sudden intuitive leaps of creative reasoning that so often propel the willing explorer of the mental frontiers into Nobel Prize territory, of course. However unlike the good Doctor I eschewed the mycological path, and was instead an acolyte of the poppy.
It was during one of those dreamy interludes spent lapping at the perfumed bosom of Madame Yen Shi that I first evolved the following hypothesis: a person who could control the precise regimen needed to incite the brain might evolve a method whereby he (used editorially, of course) could produce all kinds of interesting effects without having to raise the least bit of..shall we say...sweat.
My assistant Ms. Phail was a lovely girl. Entirely uninterested in me whatsoever. No, I was simply the beige gent in the lab coat who signed the check that made it possible for her to purchase highly indecent items of underclothing, such as the delightfully scanty balustrade of lace which forced her bosoms up into to delicious vanilla orbs which jiggled like kittens down the front of her lab coat whenever she moved suddenly, such as, when another person happened to brush up against her in an entirely inadvertent fashion.
Repeatedly I sought the embrace of my papaveracaeian beloved in hope that my supplications would earn me the necessary inspiration and finally, after a prolonged bout a' soixtante-neuf with my stern Yellow Mistress it did indeed. It would be a relatively simple task to capture the necessary cerebrostimulant compounds and render them into a concentrated state. The introduction of this solution to a selected subject would no doubt inspire an overwhelming subconscious biochemical response. If one were to use that preparation in conjunction with a ritualized series of operations aimed toward training the already- susceptible subconscious mind, the outcome could be tailored to whatever the operator desired. In this case 'outcome' being equal to 'show me her beaver'.
Unfortunately any further development of this idea was brought to a halt as I was forced to spend some weeks in hospital with an uncomfortable case of epigastric paralysis requiring an unfortunate, painful and rather humiliating surgical procedure. Furthermore, the notes I'd taken turned out to be an indecipherable mass of hieroglyphics. Nothing quite dampens the urge to translate same than an inflamed rectal incision.
Finally intellectual curiosity overcame my native reluctance to experience another bout of peristaltic inactivity. And so, stitches removed, all systems go as it were, I armed myself with three quarts of vegetable juice cocktail and a gramme of black resin, raised my lighter high in the direction of the Mystic East and chased the dragon once again...this time directly to the Rosetta Stone. Excelsior!
I had a fine collection of state of the art equipment that I'd liberated from the clutches of my academic overlords tucked back in an unused corner of my apartment. Soon I was turning my every private hour toward the development of what I amusingly christened my 'Ms.Phail cocktail'. Ha!
My first efforts were based on the theory that the fastest route into my assistants knickers would be to concoct a solution in which our amorous secretions were already combined; priming the pump as it were. One readily available source of half the necessary compounds would be found in the ladies room, although sorry to say, after an incident back in my second year at university there wasn't going to be any more of me lurking around those environs. Then I hit on the idea of raiding the contents of her purse. Certainly ladies carried all kinds of things about with them loaded down with their charming by-products...? And so, one afternoon I sent her down to the Administration annex on some routine task and, armed with a nail file and the unquenchable spirit of scientific inquiry I jimmied the lock on her desk drawer.
This provided me with a few things; a lipstick I didn't think she'd miss, a few crumpled tissues...but no. No, it simply wasn't enough and I certainly couldn't stand about waiting for the silly cow to remove her diaphragm, not after the incident in the airport at Brussels. No, I'd simply have to secure a larger supply of the necessary organic lipids someplace else.
Ah, but then I remembered. My charming assistant belonged to the local gymnasium, didn't she. Of course.
Once I'd crunched the electronic lock on her car I was able to open the boot and there was her gym bag pretty as you please. I took a fast look around and then drew the zipper down carefully.
The sudden vision of her that rose like a tormenting flame in my mind was enough to render this simple operation into very potently charged terms, as well as to cause me to pop an almost instantaneous log.
I buried my face between the canvas flaps. I felt the coarse plastic edges of the zipper as a kind of delicious 'duffel dentata' that my imagination described in shades of scarlet, caressing the sides of my face in an inviting way as I inhaled the delicious, womanly perfume of her unlaundered sweatclothes.
This had the most aggressive effect imaginable on my now-rampaging libido and in a moment I had drug the unsuspecting bag over the front edge of the car boot where it dangled invitingly, its slattern, wanton gap a lascivious 'v' of invitation. "There, you filthy bitch," I snarled, inserting two fingers roughly into its aching depths. "Now moan like you want it!"
Clumsy with need I hurriedly released the furious demands of my turgid manhood from the confine of my trousers and thrust it savagely between those canvas lips. Immediately I groaned in orgasm, spewing the viscous yogurt of my man-seed; jet after jet of superheated lava emerging triumphantly from the earths very core; deep, deep into the quivering, greedy chasm of her sweatshirt.
"Doctor Brady?" I heard a stern male voice at the far end of the parking garage calling. "Sir? Can I help you?" Hurriedly I did up my flies and scurried away.
It looked like I was back at square one: collection of my own product. Ah well. Setbacks are to be expected, I suppose.
The first thing I did was purchase the services of a very nice Asian lady who depilitated the entire surface of my body from the neck down using some kind of adhesive. I found this a uniquely painful and humiliating process but one which I gladly suffered for the sake of the outcome.
For the next week I wore a garment made from a deionized hyperfabric comprised of a chemically inert substance which absorbed and preserved within its weave every particle of my precious secretions. Before I donned this erstwhile cocoon I purified the surface of my skin with a dilute solution of iodine. Then into the garment through the long slit up the front, on with the suit and tie and over it all a nice clean lab coat and within a matter of minutes I was sweating like a large and very foul boar hog.
Of course during this time I avoided introducing anything into my system that might adversely effect my scent. I lived for the next week entirely on distilled water and rice cakes, one of the most horrifyingly awful things I have ever put into my mouth I might add, forgetting a certain regrettable episode involving the neighbors dog.
After a week of collection the garment was finally removed-much to my sudden regret; I had become quite fond of its moist embrace- placed into a steeping chamber filled with a therapeutic-grade carrier oil and heated to 79 c . I checked and checked again, desperate to make certain that each element was precise and in its proper order. Yes, perfectly and precisely yes; down to the special container fixed in place beneath the tappet, sealed against the contaminating atmosphere, waiting to receive the first precious, wanton droplet of my primal pong.
Studies showed that certain compounds contained in frankincense, myrrh and cloves produced a marked increase in the oxygen content of the brain, and that in turn gave rise to an increase in the output of neurostimulants which homed in on the centers of gustation and pleasurable response. I set to work concocting a melange of these ingredients, and after some experimentation I arrived at a combination that wasn't too terribly ecclesiastical. Quite nice, actually, in a Tutankhamenish, Valley of the Nile kind of way. I then added a hefty dollop of my own homonid essence, my personal stock as it were, and set to work surreptitiously perfuming her environs.
Some on the receiver of the telephone at her desk...a little on the back of her chair where she'd rest her hand as she drew it out...a bit on each armrest...a wipe down the length of each pencil and pen in the holder...the handles of the drawers...aaaaaaaaaand a few daring droplets on the seat of her chair, just because. I also treated all the surfaces in her work areas and sprinkled a bit inside the first few pairs of sterile gloves in the box nearby.
"Are you wearing some kind of aftershave?" she asked the next morning. I ignored her, although inwardly I rejoiced. Excellent!
"I'm going to go check and see if the night crew changed the animals bedding..." she continued, heading toward the next room.
I looked after her retreating form wearily.
-No no no no no good heavens NO, man; she's keying on an animal level. This is a limbic response! Precisely what you intended! And here's you not providing the necessary positive pleasure ritual. You idiot, of course. You have to reinforce the aroma with positive stimuli. But what?
"I've put your samples into the separation unit for you," I said cheerily when she returned.
"But they weren't' meant to go in yet," she said, hurrying to the chamber and looking worriedly at the readout. "Well there's that batch fucking spoiled," I heard her mutter.
Hm. "Well now no matter," I said, struggling to inject a hearty, cheerful note into my voice. "That's easily remedied. What's a few more bits of whatever?"
"The deceased was sent to the crematory last week, Dr. Brady" she replied. "I don't expect we'll be getting many more gastric samples from that quarter."
"Well. I'm sure...." I decided a change of subject was in order. "Did I happen to mention that you....your work, that is....its quite, you know...satisfactory."
She looked at me quizzically.
"...yes. Well. I've been....considering giving you a raise, you know," I continued. "Say, oh, another dollar an hour, hm? Yes, just the thing! A dollar an hour!That's another..."
"...forty dollars a week," she said.
"Yes yes I know that. So then. Would you like to....go out to lunch to celebrate your raise?" I said. Excellently played, Brady, excellently played! "...I'll pay of course. Of course! Its my, I invited, well yes. So then! To lunch!"
_____________________
" Did you know," I said, leaning in across the table conspiratorially, "That the vomeronasal organ of the dog is capable of detecting over seven million different molecular compounds? Imagine that kind of information being fed directly into your brain every time you inhale! The implications are staggering actually," I continued. "No wonder dogs never developed much of a cortex; they hardly need it."
"They certainly wouldn't back at the lab," Ms. Phail murmured, taking a sip of her coffee. Inwardly I smiled. I'd already taken the liberty of dosing it with a pure form of my special concoction and as I watched it pass her lips my imagination took flight on scarlet wings. Yes, dear lady, take it. Take it all. And swallow. Good girl.
"Yes, but what I mean is, with that much visceral, actual molecular material being fed directly into the limbic regions you'd simply be in a continuous state of analogue response to your surroundings," I said. "There'd hardly be any need for higher cogitation. That is of course if the necessary chemical precursors were in place, you know," I laughed. "Of course."
"Of course," she said, glancing down at her watch. Ah, I thought, now there's an opportunity missed; the back of her watch would've made a perfect application site. "Isn't that how ants work?"
"Yes yes, quite right, exactly. A perfectly ordered miniature society. No internal strife, none of your angst ridden teenagers running about dressed like Victorian corpses....no no no." I smiled down at her. "You know,that's a very acute observation. Yes, quite incisive."
"My parents bought me an ant colony for Christmas one year," she said. "That was on the box it came in. All about how ants communicate. " She looked around and sighed.
"Delightful. Of course we as humans have the ants put to shame when it comes to mank...we're capable of producing someplace in the range of 5665 different aromatic combinations in our sweat. Now of course all that has first to be distilled through the decompositional labours of our friends the Staphylococci. That's what produces the dreadful foul, rank stench you notice when you've been exercising. Activity raises the body temperature of course and that rouses our microscopic passengers into an absolute frenzy of activity, which is all to the good considering the subsequent increase in waste secretions oozing out of our pores, particularly in the axillary and genital regions. By the way, did you know, you have the most remarkable eyes?"
She turned both of them upon me and blinked several times rapidly.
"Oh yes, quite," I continued. "Tell me, have you ever tried drugs? I mean illegal ones, of course. A little MDMA at a rave party perhaps? Smoked some 'grass'? Hm?"
"Now really," she began. I held up my hand. "No no no no no, now Ms. Phail I assure you we're all adults here. I myself am not adverse to the occasional 'trip'. Oh no. Do you find that shocking?"
"Actually not in the least," she replied.
Earlier I'd taken the liberty of tipping the waiter heavily for turning his back a few seconds while I poured a few grammes of my 'elisir d'amor' on her order. Now I thrilled as he placed the steaming plate before her. My face displayed no trace of emotion, of course. She gazed down at the plate and I saw her brow furrow. "Whats this?" she asked.
"Fettucine alla beurre", I replied.
She took a hesitant bite and chewed thoughtfully. I watched her mouth, that splendid mouth like a strawberry. A lush, wanton, trollopy little strawberry aching to be filled with my
"Is this something Greek?" she asked. "It tastes like goat."
I gestured at her plate. "Don't lets be provincial. Eat up."
My heart was now positively hammering against the walls of my chest. I watched her as she devoured her portion.
Soon, Ms. Phail, you will be devouring mine.
"So as I was saying....yes. Drugs. Recreational drugs. Controlled substances. Did you know, for instance, that as we speak I have a quarter ounce ball of raw opium up my jacksie?"
She grasped for her napkin and began to cough.
"Not to worry dear lady, I am long acquainted with Madame Dragon. I can assure you you have nothing whatsoever to fear from me inasmuch as I would much rather roam the fertile, perfumed oases of my inner landscape during these interludes than engage in any coarser delights. Although I admit to having given more than a passing thought to...oh what do they call it nowadays..." She looked at me anxiously through the light of the candle that flickered between us. "Oh dear. A hallway? A strip mall? A....a landing strip,that's it! Your taco. Oh now don't blush; you shouldn't wear a skirt around the lab if you don't want people dropping things on the floor and looking up it. Or sit at your desk all splayed out as though you were about to take a run at the pommel horse ," I gestured in an illustrative manner "...wearing those kite-shaped little scraps of cloth that pass for girls pants nowadays. Heaven only knows what your father would say if he knew you were dressing like that; I'd thrash mine within an inch of her life if I had one. In fact I wouldn't mind reddening your bottom for you, Ms.Phail."
"Please put your hand down, people are looking," she hissed.
"And what pray tell is exactly wrong with my hand Ms. Phail?" I asked, leaning close, feeling the heat of the candle like the flaming breath of a dragon. Small crumbs of eyebrow fell to the table as she reached out and pushed me back into my chair.
"Actually its not so much your hand as you flicking your tongue at me from between your fingers," she continued in a whisper.
I felt a surge of blood infuse my nether regions. The experiment was working better than my wildest dreams had anticipated! "You are indeed a woman of rare discernement; a woman of many parts; all of them eminently suited to being painted a la Motherwell with the product of my loins; my love-custard, if you will. Tell me, Ms. Phail, have you ever had a wine bottle inserted up your
Suddenly I found myself in the back of a cab.
"Good Lord would you please stop licking the windows," Ms. Phail muttered, pulling me back from the glass. "You don't know whose been licking them before you. Please just sit back and try and calm down."
"Madame, I am unable to calm down when my very atomic structure rages in a violent maelstrom of lust," I announced. "Sir, attend your driving," I added, and the cabbie turned away. "He wants me," I whispered. "It's the heat of the East that rages in their blood. These turbanned Lotharios will penetrate your ringpiece quicker than a rat up a drainpipe."
"Please be quiet," Ms. Phail pleaded. "Honest to God. What do I have to do to get you to shut up?"
I announced my intentions by tearing aside the twill that hid my glory. "There is your Golden Fleece Ms. Phail!" I exclaimed. "Ignore that! I can find another button! No don't scrabble about on the floor after it its only a button! Ms. Phail, I command you to stuff my weenie up your hooha!"
"Oh dear," she said.
"Miss, please. We have a cop on horseback directing traffic up here," the cabbie said. "Please find some way to keep him quiet. I can't have him screaming about his weenie like this in public."
"Oh dear," she repeated. And with that she took me in her delicate hand.
I howled like a war-dog, a dire wolf, some distant primeval ancestor of the savage male species triumphantly braced against the hindquarters of its mate!!
"Please, sir, just shut up and let me wank you off," she muttered, pulling at my love muscle as though she were hauling anchor out of the black muck of Rangoon Harbour. "Just sit back. close your eyes and for the love of heaven SHUT YOUR GODDAMN PIE HOLE."
"Evoe! Your resolve is but a dialectical hymen concealing your throbbing need for my ding dong! Ope wide your piscine portals to the hammer of my sex, Ms. Phail ere I impregnate you with a glance of my eye! Join me in coition! Let me ravage the ridges and vales of your oral sanctum! Let me fling the hollandaise of my love against your vaginal vault!! Let me "
"Miss, please! I cannot remain employed if I receive another chit against my operators license," the cabbie pleaded.
"Oh God help me, alright...move aside you lummox. I can't..."
Her lips descended, fell, drew closer, and finally closed around my peepee!
VICTORY AT LAST!
Suddenly my throat closed and I struggled to draw breath. A wave of venomous heat rose up my chest, up my neck and over my face like a thousand stinging ants. "I.....I can't seem to...."
"Oh fucksakes, what now," I heard her mutter as I faded into black.
__________________________________
"I'm afraid you've had a mild heart attack," the doctor informed me. "You seem to have experienced a massive anaphylactic response to your own sweat, as far as we can determine..." the doctor shook his head and sighed down at the chart in his hand. "We don't see this type of thing very often, I'm afraid. I must say I've never seen a case of urticaria this extreme either. You came in covered in actual blisters. Hopefully you heal well; there shouldn't be any permanent scarring associated with the event....although I see here that we've had to sedate you nearly to the point of coma to keep you from mastu....hm." He looked up at me quickly. "...and I see you're going to need a skin graft. Well then. Hm." he looked around awkwardly, handed the chart to a nearby nurse and hurried out into the hallway.
When I was finally able to return to work I found a notice of transfer waiting for me. Under the circumstances I was not entirely displeased.
Until I read it.
I was being moved completely out of the forensic research department. I was, in fact, to be relocated to another wing entirely.
It seemed I was the new head of Egyptian Antiquities.
Oh dear.
Friday, September 26, 2008
The Beast of Bournemouth: part deaux
When last we left I was but a youth of 22 years, member of the popular pop vocal combo The Ladybirds.
...yours now on Ebay for only 7.95
At first life was simple. Papa sang bass, momma sang tenor, me and ol' Holler Log would join right in there, our voices raised in the innocent joy of popular music, bringing happiness to the drab, dismal, and, most of all, British world around us. But soon we were driven far from the public eye by the vile and vicious violence of a Beast!
We were followed...hounded one might say...daily...nightly...afternoonly...over hill and over Dale (who subsequently sued) relentless in his pursuit, , his hot breath in our ear, dogging our very footsteps!!
...get it? dogging? footsteps? and they're outdoors, see, and he's...yeah.
Late at night I could hear him beneath my window...panting. Growling. Licking the siding. I swapped bedrooms with Marion Davies but it didn't help. Like the Beast that he was he soon picked up my spoor!!!
...'Don't leave your spoor lying about all over the place! cried the beast. "People could trip!'
In desperation we assumed a disguise for our next performance!
...The American Nuns 'Let Freedom Ring' tonight live all ages 6.78
But after our very first show under our new identities, as we raced down the alley at the back of the theatre, headed toward our limousine in an attempt to avoid the shrieking hordes of fans waiting out front, there, blocking our path like a path blocking blocker of paths was...
...oh noes
We froze in horror!!!
Shock-instant, heart freezing fear-took hold of our hearts! A shock more horrifying than finding a small peevish owl in ones toilet!!!!
...english toilet owl
In a trice we were bound and gagged!!
..interior view of trice, bournemouth uk. other Ladybirds out of shot left occupy a row of theatre seats modified as enema chairs
"What do you want from me fiend!" I shouted, struggling against my bonds. "I will not go gentle into that good night, sir! I tell you I will die with the words of Patrick Henry on my lips-'Give me liberty or give me..."
...defiance defined: the few, the proud, the under-dressed
"...give you what?" Said the Beast, saliva dripping from his flews.
"Well I forget. Something. Honor? Probably something like that. Honor or Victory or something."
"Dinner? Give me liberty or give me dinner? Sort of a last meal scenario thing? He could have been hungry. I would have been."
I lowered my steely gaze to his.
...hangin' tough, stayin hungry; just a man and his will to survive
"And are you hungry, foul BEAST?" I asked, daring him to show me his fangs, baring my lovely throat, determined to go down into death with a sardonic smile playing about my cruel yet sensuous lips.
"NO no no no no nooooooo, good heavens no." He looked down in sudden chagrin. "Oh and I meant to say I'm sorry about your mate Johnny Jones by the way but I asked him what he was doing and he said 'Your momma' and I lost my temper a bit. I have a touch of gastritis you see and I'm afraid it makes me somewhat vexatious at times."
...vexatious: it's not a word
Well. Color me stunned. I gazed in wonder at this prodigy before me. "What is it you want then, Beast?" I ventured.
"Well, I don't know." I said. "We can't always be running off down to the pet store for fresh shavings and bags of kibble. What kind of nourishment do you require?"
"Bananas," he replied, the saliva now flowing in a copious stream from the corners of his mouth. "Bananas are lovely. I always keep a bowl of them on my kitchen table. They're such a decorative fruit, you know...very long...and yellow....and, you know, long and yellow."
...bournemouth beach earlier this year during the annual spring banana festival. crowds of locals gather with buckets to capture the masses of schooling bananas as they lay their eggs in the sand
He twisted his handkercheif anxiously. "And you know, I can do this one trick-actually its very popular at parties- you see, I take a handful of vegetable shortening and ask one of the younger boys to go bring me a banana from the bowl, right? And then I unbutton my "
"Yes, that's wonderful," I said. "I'm afraid ocarina virtuosity, vacuuming and louche party hijinks aren't enough to earn you a place with the Ladybirds. Do you have any other talents we might find useful?"
"Allow me to demonstrate," he said.
...because the only thing sexier than a man with an eight inch tongue is a man who licks his own bone.
And so it was that the Ladybirds gained a new voice.
______________________________________________
If you'd like to book an appearance of the popular british vocal combo 'The Ladybirds Plus One' You can reach us at our website here: 05780O4UJ5.COM
or contact Robert Plant at:
Suite 55, Upton Sinclair, Liver Fluke, Finister Bar Sinister-on-Whipweal, UK, NORTHERN HEMISPHERE, EARTH 3BM 9G7
...yours now on Ebay for only 7.95At first life was simple. Papa sang bass, momma sang tenor, me and ol' Holler Log would join right in there, our voices raised in the innocent joy of popular music, bringing happiness to the drab, dismal, and, most of all, British world around us. But soon we were driven far from the public eye by the vile and vicious violence of a Beast!
We were followed...hounded one might say...daily...nightly...afternoonly...over hill and over Dale (who subsequently sued) relentless in his pursuit, , his hot breath in our ear, dogging our very footsteps!!
...get it? dogging? footsteps? and they're outdoors, see, and he's...yeah.Late at night I could hear him beneath my window...panting. Growling. Licking the siding. I swapped bedrooms with Marion Davies but it didn't help. Like the Beast that he was he soon picked up my spoor!!!
...'Don't leave your spoor lying about all over the place! cried the beast. "People could trip!'In desperation we assumed a disguise for our next performance!
...The American Nuns 'Let Freedom Ring' tonight live all ages 6.78But after our very first show under our new identities, as we raced down the alley at the back of the theatre, headed toward our limousine in an attempt to avoid the shrieking hordes of fans waiting out front, there, blocking our path like a path blocking blocker of paths was...
THE BEAST!
...oh noesWe froze in horror!!!
Shock-instant, heart freezing fear-took hold of our hearts! A shock more horrifying than finding a small peevish owl in ones toilet!!!!
...english toilet owl
..interior view of trice, bournemouth uk. other Ladybirds out of shot left occupy a row of theatre seats modified as enema chairs "What do you want from me fiend!" I shouted, struggling against my bonds. "I will not go gentle into that good night, sir! I tell you I will die with the words of Patrick Henry on my lips-'Give me liberty or give me..."
...defiance defined: the few, the proud, the under-dressed "...give you what?" Said the Beast, saliva dripping from his flews.
"Well I forget. Something. Honor? Probably something like that. Honor or Victory or something."
"Dinner? Give me liberty or give me dinner? Sort of a last meal scenario thing? He could have been hungry. I would have been."
I lowered my steely gaze to his.
...hangin' tough, stayin hungry; just a man and his will to survive"And are you hungry, foul BEAST?" I asked, daring him to show me his fangs, baring my lovely throat, determined to go down into death with a sardonic smile playing about my cruel yet sensuous lips.
"NO no no no no nooooooo, good heavens no." He looked down in sudden chagrin. "Oh and I meant to say I'm sorry about your mate Johnny Jones by the way but I asked him what he was doing and he said 'Your momma' and I lost my temper a bit. I have a touch of gastritis you see and I'm afraid it makes me somewhat vexatious at times."
...vexatious: it's not a word Well. Color me stunned. I gazed in wonder at this prodigy before me. "What is it you want then, Beast?" I ventured.
"Ooo, I want very much to be a member of the band, please!" he replied. "I can play the ocarina! And I'm very handy around the house. I own two vacuum cleaners in fact. Yes."
...double your cleaning pleasure
"Well, I don't know." I said. "We can't always be running off down to the pet store for fresh shavings and bags of kibble. What kind of nourishment do you require?"
"Bananas," he replied, the saliva now flowing in a copious stream from the corners of his mouth. "Bananas are lovely. I always keep a bowl of them on my kitchen table. They're such a decorative fruit, you know...very long...and yellow....and, you know, long and yellow."
...bournemouth beach earlier this year during the annual spring banana festival. crowds of locals gather with buckets to capture the masses of schooling bananas as they lay their eggs in the sand He twisted his handkercheif anxiously. "And you know, I can do this one trick-actually its very popular at parties- you see, I take a handful of vegetable shortening and ask one of the younger boys to go bring me a banana from the bowl, right? And then I unbutton my "
"Yes, that's wonderful," I said. "I'm afraid ocarina virtuosity, vacuuming and louche party hijinks aren't enough to earn you a place with the Ladybirds. Do you have any other talents we might find useful?"
"Allow me to demonstrate," he said.
...because the only thing sexier than a man with an eight inch tongue is a man who licks his own bone. And so it was that the Ladybirds gained a new voice.
______________________________________________
If you'd like to book an appearance of the popular british vocal combo 'The Ladybirds Plus One' You can reach us at our website here: 05780O4UJ5.COM
or contact Robert Plant at:
Suite 55, Upton Sinclair, Liver Fluke, Finister Bar Sinister-on-Whipweal, UK, NORTHERN HEMISPHERE, EARTH 3BM 9G7
Saturday, September 20, 2008
UPDATED: Frilled Lizard Yellow Takes Many Servings Meatloaf: Greed!!!
UPDATE: new one up at UJ, pervs! and its short, too! yay!
Here are my glorious potatoes and equally glorious tomatoes. You may worship them. Seriously. You can.
Starting on the far left we have the little Andean blue potato. I planted these at the same time as the rest of the potato crop, but they took the longest to mature. It grew into a huge big sprawling plant and blossomed (pink) continuously for 2 solid months. The other potatoes were ready in July; had already blossomed (blue and white) and begun to fail a bit while this one was still throwing baby tiny little potatoes far out from the main stalk, so I left it in. Suh-PRAZ,Suh-PRAZ,Suh-PRAZ... the thing threw nearly half a bushel of little tates per plant!
When you cut these open there is an intense ring of purple blue surrounding flesh that is almost baby duck yellow, although some of them will be lavender blue all the way through. It is very sweet and nice, on the mealy side rather than the waxy side, and the flesh cooks white. It isn't a long keeper at all; it goes soft very quickly even though the skin is relatively thick.
Next comes the standard 'Roma' tomato. This is the tomato that I would grow if I had to choose just one; it has huge, huge flavor and really firm flesh thats easy to work with...not overly juicy either. The only drawback is that the plant itself doesn't run too terribly hardy, but it produces like a mad thing so I guess it all evens out.
The new red potato is the one with what's described as 'waxy' flesh, although thats kind of a disgusting way to describe a structure that's just very fine grained once cooked. You can't make mashed potatoes with this one because it starts forming gluten like bread dough; it has no structure at all once its crushed and lots and lots of carb-sugar. This is perfect in potato salads, cold potato dishes with a dressing, things like that. It doesn't keep very long because the skin is thinner than tissue paper.
The grapette is just your standard little oval-shaped tomato. I found it in a salad and thought it tasted really good so I saved the seeds and I've been growing it for about six years now; maybe longer. Its not icky sweet like a cherry tomato, and like the Roma it has huge, huge flavor. It's very juicy and the plant is quite vigorous. Never had a problem with any kind of blight or spots with this one. Its a heavy producer, so I always have more than enough. I like to dry and pack them in a good thick olive oil with garlic for a special treat in the middle of the winter.
The Early Girl tomato is a Burpee hybrid, and its supposed to be a beefsteak. What I get here is more of a saladette because I don't manure heavily or do any fussing, and the season is really short. Still, its a great tomato, firm like a Roma but much juicier, and running somewhat more acid than the Roma. The seeds are spread throughout the meat of the fruit, not collected in a central vault around a core like the Romas. The plant and the fruit are really succeptible to blighting off, though, although its super vigorous in early growth and it sets fruit enthusiastically.
Yellow Pear is really different. First of all, I have never seen a plant that grows like this; it grows rampantly, just goes totally apeshit,. It's the rankest smelling tomato plant I've ever smelled; and when you crush the plant it leaves a substance on you (and anything else) that turns yellow. The Yellow Pear is the tomato most likely to volunteer as well. The fruit is very sweet, citric and yet almost buttery; very juicy too. It still tastes like a tomato, though, which is what I was after. (I won't grow a standard cherry tomato like 'Sweet 100'. Whats the point? All they taste like is sugar water.) This is what makes my tomato sauce taste different and really good, this little guy here. It just transforms the whole mix.
White Rose potato is just a nice, basic, somewhat sweet potato. Not a very long keeper; it has the thinnest skin of all the potatoes I grew this year.
The Russet is simply the standard Idaho baker. Keeps damn near indefinitely; the skin is more of a hide and the cooked texture is nice and mealy.
I grew this combination of potatoes because, when cooked and riced together, they make the most heavenly, meltingly delicious combination imaginable. The dish I make with them is kind of fussy simply because you need to have special equipment (a ricer, which is essentially a big thing with two handles and a basket that looks and works exactly like a garlic press) and you have to hurry and get it to the table before it 'sinks', but its so very worth the effort. It needs no butter, no salt, no nothing. You've never had a potato dish that did this; it melts like snowflakes on your tongue. Mmmm!
The recipe is simply this:
-Equal weights of blue, white, red potatoes: the total weight equal to the same weight in Russets, (think of it as a ratio) peeled, chopped medium and boiled all together in salted water until tender, drained
-While still hot, squeeze through a ricer into a warm bowl and serve immediately.
Lets look at them again, shall we? Yes, lets!
And heres my recipe for perfect tomato sauce:
-Roma, yellow pear, grapette and early girl beefsteak tomatoes, washed, seeded and run though a food processor until smooth
Place in an 8 1/2 by 11, 3 inch deep baking dish and put into a cold oven on the middle rack.
Set the heat at 325.
Cook for several hours in increments of 45 minutes, stopping each time to stir the sauce thoroughly and checking to see that it is not bubbling..not even a simmer. If it is, turn the heat down to 300 or even 275. The sauce is done when it is reduced by 1/2 (less for thicker sauce or paste. As it thickens it will have to be checked and stirred more frequently to ensure that it does not burn.) This can take up to 4 hours, depending on the juiciness of the tomatoes and the temperature and humidity of the day. Use this time to have a cocktail...read a trashy magazine...give someone special a nice blow job. Or two.
Cool, then return to cuisinart or better yet a blender and blend until smooth; freeze.
When you thaw this out it will taste exactly like summer. It will simply fill the entire kitchen with the smell of fresh tomato and blow you away.
Here are my glorious potatoes and equally glorious tomatoes. You may worship them. Seriously. You can.
Starting on the far left we have the little Andean blue potato. I planted these at the same time as the rest of the potato crop, but they took the longest to mature. It grew into a huge big sprawling plant and blossomed (pink) continuously for 2 solid months. The other potatoes were ready in July; had already blossomed (blue and white) and begun to fail a bit while this one was still throwing baby tiny little potatoes far out from the main stalk, so I left it in. Suh-PRAZ,Suh-PRAZ,Suh-PRAZ... the thing threw nearly half a bushel of little tates per plant!
When you cut these open there is an intense ring of purple blue surrounding flesh that is almost baby duck yellow, although some of them will be lavender blue all the way through. It is very sweet and nice, on the mealy side rather than the waxy side, and the flesh cooks white. It isn't a long keeper at all; it goes soft very quickly even though the skin is relatively thick.
Next comes the standard 'Roma' tomato. This is the tomato that I would grow if I had to choose just one; it has huge, huge flavor and really firm flesh thats easy to work with...not overly juicy either. The only drawback is that the plant itself doesn't run too terribly hardy, but it produces like a mad thing so I guess it all evens out.
The new red potato is the one with what's described as 'waxy' flesh, although thats kind of a disgusting way to describe a structure that's just very fine grained once cooked. You can't make mashed potatoes with this one because it starts forming gluten like bread dough; it has no structure at all once its crushed and lots and lots of carb-sugar. This is perfect in potato salads, cold potato dishes with a dressing, things like that. It doesn't keep very long because the skin is thinner than tissue paper.
The grapette is just your standard little oval-shaped tomato. I found it in a salad and thought it tasted really good so I saved the seeds and I've been growing it for about six years now; maybe longer. Its not icky sweet like a cherry tomato, and like the Roma it has huge, huge flavor. It's very juicy and the plant is quite vigorous. Never had a problem with any kind of blight or spots with this one. Its a heavy producer, so I always have more than enough. I like to dry and pack them in a good thick olive oil with garlic for a special treat in the middle of the winter.
The Early Girl tomato is a Burpee hybrid, and its supposed to be a beefsteak. What I get here is more of a saladette because I don't manure heavily or do any fussing, and the season is really short. Still, its a great tomato, firm like a Roma but much juicier, and running somewhat more acid than the Roma. The seeds are spread throughout the meat of the fruit, not collected in a central vault around a core like the Romas. The plant and the fruit are really succeptible to blighting off, though, although its super vigorous in early growth and it sets fruit enthusiastically.
Yellow Pear is really different. First of all, I have never seen a plant that grows like this; it grows rampantly, just goes totally apeshit,. It's the rankest smelling tomato plant I've ever smelled; and when you crush the plant it leaves a substance on you (and anything else) that turns yellow. The Yellow Pear is the tomato most likely to volunteer as well. The fruit is very sweet, citric and yet almost buttery; very juicy too. It still tastes like a tomato, though, which is what I was after. (I won't grow a standard cherry tomato like 'Sweet 100'. Whats the point? All they taste like is sugar water.) This is what makes my tomato sauce taste different and really good, this little guy here. It just transforms the whole mix.
White Rose potato is just a nice, basic, somewhat sweet potato. Not a very long keeper; it has the thinnest skin of all the potatoes I grew this year.
The Russet is simply the standard Idaho baker. Keeps damn near indefinitely; the skin is more of a hide and the cooked texture is nice and mealy.
I grew this combination of potatoes because, when cooked and riced together, they make the most heavenly, meltingly delicious combination imaginable. The dish I make with them is kind of fussy simply because you need to have special equipment (a ricer, which is essentially a big thing with two handles and a basket that looks and works exactly like a garlic press) and you have to hurry and get it to the table before it 'sinks', but its so very worth the effort. It needs no butter, no salt, no nothing. You've never had a potato dish that did this; it melts like snowflakes on your tongue. Mmmm!
The recipe is simply this:
-Equal weights of blue, white, red potatoes: the total weight equal to the same weight in Russets, (think of it as a ratio) peeled, chopped medium and boiled all together in salted water until tender, drained
-While still hot, squeeze through a ricer into a warm bowl and serve immediately.
Lets look at them again, shall we? Yes, lets!
And heres my recipe for perfect tomato sauce:
-Roma, yellow pear, grapette and early girl beefsteak tomatoes, washed, seeded and run though a food processor until smooth
Place in an 8 1/2 by 11, 3 inch deep baking dish and put into a cold oven on the middle rack.
Set the heat at 325.
Cook for several hours in increments of 45 minutes, stopping each time to stir the sauce thoroughly and checking to see that it is not bubbling..not even a simmer. If it is, turn the heat down to 300 or even 275. The sauce is done when it is reduced by 1/2 (less for thicker sauce or paste. As it thickens it will have to be checked and stirred more frequently to ensure that it does not burn.) This can take up to 4 hours, depending on the juiciness of the tomatoes and the temperature and humidity of the day. Use this time to have a cocktail...read a trashy magazine...give someone special a nice blow job. Or two.
Cool, then return to cuisinart or better yet a blender and blend until smooth; freeze.
When you thaw this out it will taste exactly like summer. It will simply fill the entire kitchen with the smell of fresh tomato and blow you away.
666
yes! i lost your previous comments! thank you blogger! thank you so very much!
__________________________________________________
I've been trying to put this off for as long as possible but the truth is out there, clawing big holes in the screen door, plus it crapped out next to the back step and then walked in it and now its tracking it all over the place. Someone please go get a rag and turn the hose on and wash off the Truth before it comes in and tracks crap all over the rug, OK?
Many of you have written in asking "Why is it that you never visit the UK like you used to?" and "Why do my underpants feel all funny after I dry them with synthetics?" And to this I have one answer:
BEAST IS THE REASON.
It started many many years ago, back when Ronald Reagan was just a schoolboy parading around in his mothers bra and panties in the bathroom mirror while his uncle with the funny accent watched through the keyhole. Back in those days the rules were different. People were different.
Babies were different too.
"...congratulations, mrs. bournemouth! it's a....little... strange...thing!"
Some hinted darkly that his mother had been scared by an unknown assailant while she was out taking a pregnant, naked romp through the underbrush one day and that her offspring had somehow been marked by this trauma.
Everyone knows that's bullshit of course but its what people said and I'm not going to argue with them. Some people pointed a finger of blame at Winston Churchill. I like to blame things on Winston Churchill too. Winston Churchill would totally fuck with you. He'd do shit like unscrew the cap on the salt shakers and people would be like "Aw Jesus, Winston, don't be such a douche" but he'd just laugh.
The Beasts' early years are shrouded in mystery. Only this picture remains
...lady of spain i adooooooooooore you
...relic of a time when the Beasts parents had tried to foster a love of music in their growing boys' breast, despite the fact that it kept getting pinched in the bellows.
Back when I was making regular visits to the UK (or as we liked to call it back then "The UK") as a member of Led Zeppelin, we often found ourselves playing venues out in the trackless wastes of the English high desert...our only light the smouldering gypsy campfires; our only audience the smouldering Gypsies. It was a simpler time... a time when a middle-aged woman could lie about being a member of one of rock and rolls' most popular power groups and get away with it. I was happy as their lead singer. Happy save for one thing....
The BEAST.
Somewhere in the darkness you could hear him. Breathing. Panting. Lusting after the taste of rock and roll flesh and entrails and guts and hair and stuff.
In the mornings you would find the print of his huge...print....waiting for you just outside, like a hideous 'Get Well' card signed by a disturbed stranger in a public restroom.
"...and the mark of the beast shall be upon the hand and the forehead of those whosoever follow him, and upon the canvas lawn furniture of them also shall that mark be found" REV 5:33
He was out there.
Waiting.
Watching.
MAKING PRINTS.
For years we remained one step ahead of him, like some maniac game of Cribbage with life and death as the stakes, until Robert Plant would put one of the little marker dealies in his mouth and everyone would go "Oh Jesus Bob get that out of your mouth; are you six?" and he'd sulk, and nobody could remember what the score was.
THE BEAST KNEW.
...he does, too.
One fateful night he executed his fell masterstroke! In one savage moment reeking of blood and panic he leapt upon the prostate form of John Paul Jones and shredded his mortal coil, festooning his still-quivering flesh like icky bloody shredded stuff across the panicked landscapes of our shocked and shreiking brains!!!!! "EEEEEEEEEEEEE!" went our brains. Just like that!
...prostate form of john paul jones, enlarged*
We fled, we knew not where, deep into the dark blackness of the black British night.
AND THE BEAST LAUGHED!
Tune in next week for the further adventures of The Beast of Bournemouth! WHY? Because if I don't hit 'publish' this won't save for some demented reason! So yeah! Do that!
_____________________________________
* oh come on that's funny. get it? get it? enlarged? and its a picture of an enlarged prostate? because prostate sounds like prostrate, and
yeah.
__________________________________________________
I've been trying to put this off for as long as possible but the truth is out there, clawing big holes in the screen door, plus it crapped out next to the back step and then walked in it and now its tracking it all over the place. Someone please go get a rag and turn the hose on and wash off the Truth before it comes in and tracks crap all over the rug, OK?
Many of you have written in asking "Why is it that you never visit the UK like you used to?" and "Why do my underpants feel all funny after I dry them with synthetics?" And to this I have one answer:
BEAST.
BEAST IS THE REASON.It started many many years ago, back when Ronald Reagan was just a schoolboy parading around in his mothers bra and panties in the bathroom mirror while his uncle with the funny accent watched through the keyhole. Back in those days the rules were different. People were different.
Babies were different too.
"...congratulations, mrs. bournemouth! it's a....little... strange...thing!"Some hinted darkly that his mother had been scared by an unknown assailant while she was out taking a pregnant, naked romp through the underbrush one day and that her offspring had somehow been marked by this trauma.
Everyone knows that's bullshit of course but its what people said and I'm not going to argue with them. Some people pointed a finger of blame at Winston Churchill. I like to blame things on Winston Churchill too. Winston Churchill would totally fuck with you. He'd do shit like unscrew the cap on the salt shakers and people would be like "Aw Jesus, Winston, don't be such a douche" but he'd just laugh.
The Beasts' early years are shrouded in mystery. Only this picture remains
...lady of spain i adooooooooooore you...relic of a time when the Beasts parents had tried to foster a love of music in their growing boys' breast, despite the fact that it kept getting pinched in the bellows.
Back when I was making regular visits to the UK (or as we liked to call it back then "The UK") as a member of Led Zeppelin, we often found ourselves playing venues out in the trackless wastes of the English high desert...our only light the smouldering gypsy campfires; our only audience the smouldering Gypsies. It was a simpler time... a time when a middle-aged woman could lie about being a member of one of rock and rolls' most popular power groups and get away with it. I was happy as their lead singer. Happy save for one thing....
The BEAST.Somewhere in the darkness you could hear him. Breathing. Panting. Lusting after the taste of rock and roll flesh and entrails and guts and hair and stuff.
In the mornings you would find the print of his huge...print....waiting for you just outside, like a hideous 'Get Well' card signed by a disturbed stranger in a public restroom.
"...and the mark of the beast shall be upon the hand and the forehead of those whosoever follow him, and upon the canvas lawn furniture of them also shall that mark be found" REV 5:33He was out there.
Waiting.
Watching.
MAKING PRINTS.
For years we remained one step ahead of him, like some maniac game of Cribbage with life and death as the stakes, until Robert Plant would put one of the little marker dealies in his mouth and everyone would go "Oh Jesus Bob get that out of your mouth; are you six?" and he'd sulk, and nobody could remember what the score was.
THE BEAST KNEW.
...he does, too.One fateful night he executed his fell masterstroke! In one savage moment reeking of blood and panic he leapt upon the prostate form of John Paul Jones and shredded his mortal coil, festooning his still-quivering flesh like icky bloody shredded stuff across the panicked landscapes of our shocked and shreiking brains!!!!! "EEEEEEEEEEEEE!" went our brains. Just like that!
...prostate form of john paul jones, enlarged*AND THE BEAST LAUGHED!
Tune in next week for the further adventures of The Beast of Bournemouth! WHY? Because if I don't hit 'publish' this won't save for some demented reason! So yeah! Do that!
_____________________________________
* oh come on that's funny. get it? get it? enlarged? and its a picture of an enlarged prostate? because prostate sounds like prostrate, and
yeah.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Blue Bear Seasons With Garlic: Vigorous Shake
I've started reading a book called 'Writing On Drugs' , and I'm finding it to be really good stuff. Lady named Sadie Plant wrote it. Check it out, its worth a read.
It might be kind of obvious to some of you now that I have a fascination with altered mental states. This book goes into some depth describing the influence of voluntarily altered mental states on the creative process and I'm all over that crap, lemme tell you.
I have no future career as a professional opium eater, sadly. What Coleridge and Baudelaire and them'uns had to purchase at the local apothecary shoppe I seem to posses by right of genetics. Not that I travel around in a perpetual haze (despite what some might think); no, just that I have an inner landscape that I'm pretty well able to traverse at whim. Even the really freaky parts. Their quest seemed to be finding the entrance to Alladins' Cave in order to stuff their pockets with gold doubloons. Mine seems to be finding something in there I can use to peel the gold foil off with so I can eat the chocolate inside.
Really, that's the punchline. It looks like valuable treasure, all that fascinating stuff in your brain, but its just candy, really. If you have a poverty of emotion and imagination in your everyday life, then taking something that allows you to hold dark discourse with Nyarlathotep is going to be an enrapturing experience you'll want to return to...particularly if the alternative is unrelievedly banal. The problem is: Brains are fun*, but you don't get much vacuuming done. Everyday life and everyday things are important, despite what religion and fancy and imagination and everything else would lead you away from believing. Changing the water in the dogs' dish is more valuable than anything you experience or 'learn' while under the influence of drugs.
The first and last time I ever took LSD is a case in point. Oh my goodness was I wasted. Oh heavens to Betsy yes;. But the perceptive shifts were nothing different than things I experienced on a nightly basis, in dreams, or even all that terribly different than some of the things I imagined vividly in daydreams. Furthermore, it was not only 'induced' imagination, it was 'enforced' imagination. And you had to watch, little Alex, you had no choice. It was going to last as long as it took the chemicals to run out of your system.
The 'wastedness' part of the show was kind of fun at first, but got really old after five hours, and after ten it was a real pain in the ass. Being too intoxicated to perform simple tasks blows. Seriously, there's nothing more annoying than over-boiled peas come to find out, particularly when you have to chase them around on a plate and kill them individually, and your manual dexterity is suffering and every time you finally poke one with a fork it bleeds greenish, cloudy lymphatic fluids and makes a disgusting tiny popping noise like a ripe carbuncle finally cutting loose...you get the picture? Yeah. And for that I paid money? I really rather would have had the chocolate doubloons. Chocolate tastes good and you can do crafts and shit with the foil. I mean really.
This is not to say that drugs aren't fun, because they are. As long as you use them for the occasional holiday from reality and you know what you want out of the experience, they're a delight. They just aren't really a means to any other end than simple temporary entertainment.
I met a girl years ago* who frequently used the phrase 'people who'd learned a lot of things from using acid' with a great deal of heartfelt reverence, as though what you and I would term 'burnouts' existed in some perpetual exalted state (one that you and I would term 'brain damage'.) People suffering from a medieval lack of personal hygiene who live on kale and shit in public aren't living in an exalted state. Maybe that looks romantic from the vantage point of a sheltered little suburban teenybopper, but watch them going in to pick up their disability check at the welfare office sometime and see how exalted that shit looks, and take careful note while they shed that 'exalted state' long enough to cash the fucker and not get kicked out of the bank. Squatting to take a dump in public because they've 'forsaken conventional mores' or are 'trying to shock the Man into a moment of reality' is still taking a dump in public, idiot. But oh no, she was all starry-eyed over this supposed 'alternative wisdom path', one of these college freshman types fresh from mommy and daddys' house in the suburbs who'll get allllllll sanctimonious and start in with the 'now, just because it isn't your reality doesn't mean blah blah blah, we have to be open to alternative modes of blah blah blah' and I had to say no, taking a dump out on the sidewalk because I'm too goddamn wasted to remember where the public bathrooms are certainly isn't something I'll be making a part of my chosen reality. Now go join a cult, you retard.
Oh wait...she did.
*snork*
_________________________________
*particularly giant evil brains from outer space that drive flying saucers and kidnap women to bring back to their home planets for breeding purposes but then they get their tank that they float around in all shot up full of holes and all the gross fluid leaks out and the brain explodes and sick chunks of brain crud go flying around all over the place and some lands on the lady and shes all screaming and shit but the other guys rescue her and she falls in love with one of them but has an alien brain baby nine months later.
*one of my ex-husbands subsequent girlfriends. nothing gets you over the residual heartache of a broken marriage quicker than realizing that your ex is dating a self-inflicted revenge even sweeter than anything you could have cooked up on your own!
It might be kind of obvious to some of you now that I have a fascination with altered mental states. This book goes into some depth describing the influence of voluntarily altered mental states on the creative process and I'm all over that crap, lemme tell you.
I have no future career as a professional opium eater, sadly. What Coleridge and Baudelaire and them'uns had to purchase at the local apothecary shoppe I seem to posses by right of genetics. Not that I travel around in a perpetual haze (despite what some might think); no, just that I have an inner landscape that I'm pretty well able to traverse at whim. Even the really freaky parts. Their quest seemed to be finding the entrance to Alladins' Cave in order to stuff their pockets with gold doubloons. Mine seems to be finding something in there I can use to peel the gold foil off with so I can eat the chocolate inside.
Really, that's the punchline. It looks like valuable treasure, all that fascinating stuff in your brain, but its just candy, really. If you have a poverty of emotion and imagination in your everyday life, then taking something that allows you to hold dark discourse with Nyarlathotep is going to be an enrapturing experience you'll want to return to...particularly if the alternative is unrelievedly banal. The problem is: Brains are fun*, but you don't get much vacuuming done. Everyday life and everyday things are important, despite what religion and fancy and imagination and everything else would lead you away from believing. Changing the water in the dogs' dish is more valuable than anything you experience or 'learn' while under the influence of drugs.
The first and last time I ever took LSD is a case in point. Oh my goodness was I wasted. Oh heavens to Betsy yes;. But the perceptive shifts were nothing different than things I experienced on a nightly basis, in dreams, or even all that terribly different than some of the things I imagined vividly in daydreams. Furthermore, it was not only 'induced' imagination, it was 'enforced' imagination. And you had to watch, little Alex, you had no choice. It was going to last as long as it took the chemicals to run out of your system.
The 'wastedness' part of the show was kind of fun at first, but got really old after five hours, and after ten it was a real pain in the ass. Being too intoxicated to perform simple tasks blows. Seriously, there's nothing more annoying than over-boiled peas come to find out, particularly when you have to chase them around on a plate and kill them individually, and your manual dexterity is suffering and every time you finally poke one with a fork it bleeds greenish, cloudy lymphatic fluids and makes a disgusting tiny popping noise like a ripe carbuncle finally cutting loose...you get the picture? Yeah. And for that I paid money? I really rather would have had the chocolate doubloons. Chocolate tastes good and you can do crafts and shit with the foil. I mean really.
This is not to say that drugs aren't fun, because they are. As long as you use them for the occasional holiday from reality and you know what you want out of the experience, they're a delight. They just aren't really a means to any other end than simple temporary entertainment.
I met a girl years ago* who frequently used the phrase 'people who'd learned a lot of things from using acid' with a great deal of heartfelt reverence, as though what you and I would term 'burnouts' existed in some perpetual exalted state (one that you and I would term 'brain damage'.) People suffering from a medieval lack of personal hygiene who live on kale and shit in public aren't living in an exalted state. Maybe that looks romantic from the vantage point of a sheltered little suburban teenybopper, but watch them going in to pick up their disability check at the welfare office sometime and see how exalted that shit looks, and take careful note while they shed that 'exalted state' long enough to cash the fucker and not get kicked out of the bank. Squatting to take a dump in public because they've 'forsaken conventional mores' or are 'trying to shock the Man into a moment of reality' is still taking a dump in public, idiot. But oh no, she was all starry-eyed over this supposed 'alternative wisdom path', one of these college freshman types fresh from mommy and daddys' house in the suburbs who'll get allllllll sanctimonious and start in with the 'now, just because it isn't your reality doesn't mean blah blah blah, we have to be open to alternative modes of blah blah blah' and I had to say no, taking a dump out on the sidewalk because I'm too goddamn wasted to remember where the public bathrooms are certainly isn't something I'll be making a part of my chosen reality. Now go join a cult, you retard.
Oh wait...she did.
*snork*
_________________________________
*particularly giant evil brains from outer space that drive flying saucers and kidnap women to bring back to their home planets for breeding purposes but then they get their tank that they float around in all shot up full of holes and all the gross fluid leaks out and the brain explodes and sick chunks of brain crud go flying around all over the place and some lands on the lady and shes all screaming and shit but the other guys rescue her and she falls in love with one of them but has an alien brain baby nine months later.
*one of my ex-husbands subsequent girlfriends. nothing gets you over the residual heartache of a broken marriage quicker than realizing that your ex is dating a self-inflicted revenge even sweeter than anything you could have cooked up on your own!
Friday, September 12, 2008
Nutty people
Up until recently, my cousin-by-adoption M. Antony was the most gorgeous man I'd ever laid eyes on. How this happened was a miracle of random genetics because everyone else on his side of the family was butt ugly; all bones and knuckles and pocked with the most heinous shotgun collection of acne scars I have ever seen. M. Antony, in sharp contrast, was glorious....when I was younger I simply could not look at the guy because I'd blush so hard my hands would tingle. Think of a young Peter Frampton, only darker, somewhat more butch and really, really stoned looking and you have M. Antony.
Of course he married a raving nutcase.
At first, Kathee was a lot of fun. I really liked her and we were friends. She was from Florida and came from money; her accent was so thick you could spread it like marmalade. She was a pretty girl. She joked and gave her husband a hard time, and I was (extremely jealous) happy for him. The times we went out and partied together she was just as salty as the guys and could drink us all under the table.
And then she met JuHEEEEzuz.
Not Jesus, mind you. I'm pretty sure the guy she met was a thought emanation shed by Charles Manson, dressed in a bathrobe. It sure wasn't Mary's little boy. This guy was MEAN.
Overnight-literally- Kathee went from being a cheerful, fun, joking person to being a strangely rigid, completely literal tool of righteousness. I never saw her smile again. Not once. Suddenly her internal monologue simply disappeared. Totally gone. If she thought it she said it, and what she said was often thoughtless, cruel and horribly inappropriate...with absolutely no human malice powering it whatsoever.
Her kids became haunted looking little wraiths who never spoke and never looked an adult in the eye. She took to switching them or smacking them on the leg whenever they came within arms reach; ostensibly to 'beat the devil out of them', like a dose of preventative medicine. My cousin M. Antony, in the course of less than a year, went from being a handsome, healthy young man to a pot bellied, slouch shouldered furtive old man who mumbled and shuffled and pretended to fall asleep so nobody could hold him accountable for his wifes' behavior.
Kathee became wide and stumpy and took to wearing gingham dresses. She would help herself to whatever was at hand; go through cabinets, look in drawers, wander into the bathroom while you were busy and use the mirror (I've done a post mentioning one episode here:
http://1hplovecraft.blogspot.com/2006/10/filet-of-doom-2-yellowfin-tuna-attack.html), casually ask to borrow a tampon while everyone was seated eating dinner, things like that. Now that last is tacky enough given an average social situation; imagine it happening during Thanksgiving dinner seated at a table full of Kelly green Catholics in full-on denial that people even had parts, let alone parts that needed tampons, and there you have the makings of a truly memorable holiday get-together.
Weirdly enough, my mom, Jesus' little sunbeam, hated the woman. Absolutely HATED her.
Years later I found out the reason. Kathee'd matter of factly informed my mom that the Pope was the Antichrist and that she was going to hell for acknowledging him as Jesus' appointed successor. "And here she's still a stinkin' Baptist married to a Catholic boy," my mom sniffed. "You oughta see the churches they got, talk about swanky." Church swankiness was a sore issue with my mom, as were wives who did not submit to their husbands (she kept hers well pickled in Canadian Mist; it did make him a lot easier to submit to.)
Still, the fact that everyone overlooked for whatever reason was that Kathee was STARK RAVING BATSHIT NUTS. Heaven only knows what she's like now; let alone her poor children. Let alone my poor cousin, if he's still alive; because if someone could run a person into an early grave it was that broad. Imagine riding in a car with this woman listening to the news on the radio and suddenly she pipes up with something like 'well you know they're going to hell for eternity because Mormons are pagans who worship a gold idol' or 'sodomites are all dying of the AIDS plague and I for one see it as the coming of the end of days; it's Gods' judgment on them for their sin and on us for allowing that sin' and other well-informed, thoughtful pronouncements like that and you can well imagine the wacky fun that even a quick trip to the supermarket could be. Again, there was no hostility in these remarks, not even that nasty little superior smirky thing that too many convicted religious do; it was just some strange joyless, blank thing that came echoing up from someplace. Kathee was gone.
___________________________
I have spent my entire life living next door to nutty people. Or with them. From the time I was 18 on I went through a succession of apartments and directly adjacent to every one lived someone with rabid weasels scrambling around in between their ears and a bald cat up their ass tuned to Radio Free Mars.
Always a screamer.
No matter what their particular flavor of brain drip, they always took to screaming at some point in the proceedings. Ordinary people can cut loose a racket when properly provoked; you lose a limb suddenly, a meteorite falls down the front of your pants, your average person will protest loudly. Nutty people simply haul back and let fly from the pancreas, apropos of Jack Shit. I never even knew human people could make noises like the noises I heard come out of some of these folks. And the provocation in their case was imaginary! Whatever lives in the human subconscious, whatever drives these folks to scream, is something so Lovecraftian that I'm really GLAD they have shit like Thorazine. If I was nutty I'd be chucking that shit down like peanuts at the circus. Screw these emo morons who romanticise insanity. There's nothing romantic about screaming gibberish at the moon and clawing bloody gouges down your face until you have to be hauled off in leather restraints so you don't blind yourself. I lived next door to that person; and that person was taken off; I stood out on the corner on 9Th and Pine and I could hear them screaming from inside the ambulance all the way to the river, huge suffering superhuman roars that echoed off the buildings.
Another variety of screamer is the ranter. Now a ranter will start off talking. Not always coherently, but there will be words. But at some point in the proceedings the diatribe will turn into rhythmic, singsong, increasingly loud proclamations until suddenly one word comes tearing up out of their throat like a top fuel dragster, right into the wall, flying apart, trailing flames. It seems like a sheer need to be heard, almost. The volume is astounding, and yet it's just wind and muscle driving it, over and over again like a maniac siren. I've lived near a lot of these people. We lived next door to one when my daughter was growing up. I live next door to one now, in fact.
_____________________________
Years ago I was living in downtown Portland and since I was on the third floor of a building I didn't always feel like calling the elevator and dicking around with that, so instead of night walking a lot of the time I just opened a window and sat out on the sill. I had a wonderful view straight down 5Th avenue, and although I was too close to street level to really get the whole effect of the lights and cityscape thing, still, it was nice. One night I was perched there out my front room window, having a bottle of beer and a smoke, when I heard someone yelling far off downtown. Nothing unusual in that at all; shit, it was Portland. Even though it was Sunday night, crazy knows no sabbath, right?
As I sat there and smoked I could heart the voice come closer; someone was walking slowly up from Burnside, someone calling at the top of their lungs in a long, drawn out singsong, 'Heeeeeeeeeeelp........heeeeeeeeelp me......." like that. Like a lost soul. Not crying, not in pain, not drunk or slurring, just...' Heeeeeeeeeeeelp meeeeeeeee....helllllllllllllllllp meeeeeeeeeee' over and over again. "Oh God...God heeeeeeeeeeeeelp meeeeeeee....'
I will never forget that. Sunday night, the whole town is silent, not a car in sight, not a bus going by, the only headlights moving across the river on I-5 and very few of them at that hour, and this lone voice chanting 'help me' in the night. I must have sat there for a couple of hours, lighting one cigarette off the ember of the next and listening to this person slowly walk up the hill and then pass some blocks up from my street until their voice finally disappeared into the distance as they crossed South Slope.
I feel strange to this day remembering that I even had a reaction to it. It was someone elses' private drama and I didn't have anything to do with it; but there I was awake, and there this person was, chasing something through town. It was like overhearing odd unexpected music from a passing car. It was like being all alone in a church and then gradually becoming aware of someone saying their rosary fervidly someplace far behind you. It was like the first time I ever came around a bend in the road up alone in the hills and found a bobcat staring at me.
________________________________
About a year later I was out walking one night in the lower numbers down on the East side of the river, in around the old Victorian residences and the remains of Mission bungalow neighborhoods all surrounded by autobody shops and warehouses. The sidewalk was broken and you had to watch your step; it was grown up in rank tufts of Johnson grass, and overgrown rhododendron reached out from the yards you passed. I came around the bow of one and found myself standing in front of an old, long, low Mission house with a deep porch and concrete steps leading up from the sidewalk. I stopped and lit a smoke to have something to do while I admired the place and wished that I lived there, and as I stood there I became aware of a person standing up on the porch. I almost apologized but I kept my mouth shut because something didn't feel just right, so I stood there and looked around for awhile, not quite knowing what to do all of a sudden, not wanting to look suspicious and probably looking suspicious as hell.
Meanwhile the person simply stood, somewhat back from the porch railing, near a window through which you could see a black and white television playing, and it was the light from this that revealed him there. An old, old man, older than Ramses III, thin to the point of starvation, standing very, very still. Intensity radiated off this man like heat. His face was like an oxyacetylene flame. He stood there in absolute silence, absolutely motionless, ramrod straight. Looking out into the distance, out toward the horizon, through where the huge rhododendron grew and obscured the view completely.
I started walking away. He never glanced in my direction. As I walked off I turned around several times to check but no, he was real, he was alive, and he was still there. Rigid as stone. Looking intently off into the distance, looking into the complete darkness of the leaves and shadows, just standing there in the dark. I can still see that so plain.
Of course he married a raving nutcase.
At first, Kathee was a lot of fun. I really liked her and we were friends. She was from Florida and came from money; her accent was so thick you could spread it like marmalade. She was a pretty girl. She joked and gave her husband a hard time, and I was (extremely jealous) happy for him. The times we went out and partied together she was just as salty as the guys and could drink us all under the table.
And then she met JuHEEEEzuz.
Not Jesus, mind you. I'm pretty sure the guy she met was a thought emanation shed by Charles Manson, dressed in a bathrobe. It sure wasn't Mary's little boy. This guy was MEAN.
Overnight-literally- Kathee went from being a cheerful, fun, joking person to being a strangely rigid, completely literal tool of righteousness. I never saw her smile again. Not once. Suddenly her internal monologue simply disappeared. Totally gone. If she thought it she said it, and what she said was often thoughtless, cruel and horribly inappropriate...with absolutely no human malice powering it whatsoever.
Her kids became haunted looking little wraiths who never spoke and never looked an adult in the eye. She took to switching them or smacking them on the leg whenever they came within arms reach; ostensibly to 'beat the devil out of them', like a dose of preventative medicine. My cousin M. Antony, in the course of less than a year, went from being a handsome, healthy young man to a pot bellied, slouch shouldered furtive old man who mumbled and shuffled and pretended to fall asleep so nobody could hold him accountable for his wifes' behavior.
Kathee became wide and stumpy and took to wearing gingham dresses. She would help herself to whatever was at hand; go through cabinets, look in drawers, wander into the bathroom while you were busy and use the mirror (I've done a post mentioning one episode here:
http://1hplovecraft.blogspot.com/2006/10/filet-of-doom-2-yellowfin-tuna-attack.html), casually ask to borrow a tampon while everyone was seated eating dinner, things like that. Now that last is tacky enough given an average social situation; imagine it happening during Thanksgiving dinner seated at a table full of Kelly green Catholics in full-on denial that people even had parts, let alone parts that needed tampons, and there you have the makings of a truly memorable holiday get-together.
Weirdly enough, my mom, Jesus' little sunbeam, hated the woman. Absolutely HATED her.
Years later I found out the reason. Kathee'd matter of factly informed my mom that the Pope was the Antichrist and that she was going to hell for acknowledging him as Jesus' appointed successor. "And here she's still a stinkin' Baptist married to a Catholic boy," my mom sniffed. "You oughta see the churches they got, talk about swanky." Church swankiness was a sore issue with my mom, as were wives who did not submit to their husbands (she kept hers well pickled in Canadian Mist; it did make him a lot easier to submit to.)
Still, the fact that everyone overlooked for whatever reason was that Kathee was STARK RAVING BATSHIT NUTS. Heaven only knows what she's like now; let alone her poor children. Let alone my poor cousin, if he's still alive; because if someone could run a person into an early grave it was that broad. Imagine riding in a car with this woman listening to the news on the radio and suddenly she pipes up with something like 'well you know they're going to hell for eternity because Mormons are pagans who worship a gold idol' or 'sodomites are all dying of the AIDS plague and I for one see it as the coming of the end of days; it's Gods' judgment on them for their sin and on us for allowing that sin' and other well-informed, thoughtful pronouncements like that and you can well imagine the wacky fun that even a quick trip to the supermarket could be. Again, there was no hostility in these remarks, not even that nasty little superior smirky thing that too many convicted religious do; it was just some strange joyless, blank thing that came echoing up from someplace. Kathee was gone.
___________________________
I have spent my entire life living next door to nutty people. Or with them. From the time I was 18 on I went through a succession of apartments and directly adjacent to every one lived someone with rabid weasels scrambling around in between their ears and a bald cat up their ass tuned to Radio Free Mars.
Always a screamer.
No matter what their particular flavor of brain drip, they always took to screaming at some point in the proceedings. Ordinary people can cut loose a racket when properly provoked; you lose a limb suddenly, a meteorite falls down the front of your pants, your average person will protest loudly. Nutty people simply haul back and let fly from the pancreas, apropos of Jack Shit. I never even knew human people could make noises like the noises I heard come out of some of these folks. And the provocation in their case was imaginary! Whatever lives in the human subconscious, whatever drives these folks to scream, is something so Lovecraftian that I'm really GLAD they have shit like Thorazine. If I was nutty I'd be chucking that shit down like peanuts at the circus. Screw these emo morons who romanticise insanity. There's nothing romantic about screaming gibberish at the moon and clawing bloody gouges down your face until you have to be hauled off in leather restraints so you don't blind yourself. I lived next door to that person; and that person was taken off; I stood out on the corner on 9Th and Pine and I could hear them screaming from inside the ambulance all the way to the river, huge suffering superhuman roars that echoed off the buildings.
Another variety of screamer is the ranter. Now a ranter will start off talking. Not always coherently, but there will be words. But at some point in the proceedings the diatribe will turn into rhythmic, singsong, increasingly loud proclamations until suddenly one word comes tearing up out of their throat like a top fuel dragster, right into the wall, flying apart, trailing flames. It seems like a sheer need to be heard, almost. The volume is astounding, and yet it's just wind and muscle driving it, over and over again like a maniac siren. I've lived near a lot of these people. We lived next door to one when my daughter was growing up. I live next door to one now, in fact.
_____________________________
Years ago I was living in downtown Portland and since I was on the third floor of a building I didn't always feel like calling the elevator and dicking around with that, so instead of night walking a lot of the time I just opened a window and sat out on the sill. I had a wonderful view straight down 5Th avenue, and although I was too close to street level to really get the whole effect of the lights and cityscape thing, still, it was nice. One night I was perched there out my front room window, having a bottle of beer and a smoke, when I heard someone yelling far off downtown. Nothing unusual in that at all; shit, it was Portland. Even though it was Sunday night, crazy knows no sabbath, right?
As I sat there and smoked I could heart the voice come closer; someone was walking slowly up from Burnside, someone calling at the top of their lungs in a long, drawn out singsong, 'Heeeeeeeeeeelp........heeeeeeeeelp me......." like that. Like a lost soul. Not crying, not in pain, not drunk or slurring, just...' Heeeeeeeeeeeelp meeeeeeeee....helllllllllllllllllp meeeeeeeeeee' over and over again. "Oh God...God heeeeeeeeeeeeelp meeeeeeee....'
I will never forget that. Sunday night, the whole town is silent, not a car in sight, not a bus going by, the only headlights moving across the river on I-5 and very few of them at that hour, and this lone voice chanting 'help me' in the night. I must have sat there for a couple of hours, lighting one cigarette off the ember of the next and listening to this person slowly walk up the hill and then pass some blocks up from my street until their voice finally disappeared into the distance as they crossed South Slope.
I feel strange to this day remembering that I even had a reaction to it. It was someone elses' private drama and I didn't have anything to do with it; but there I was awake, and there this person was, chasing something through town. It was like overhearing odd unexpected music from a passing car. It was like being all alone in a church and then gradually becoming aware of someone saying their rosary fervidly someplace far behind you. It was like the first time I ever came around a bend in the road up alone in the hills and found a bobcat staring at me.
________________________________
About a year later I was out walking one night in the lower numbers down on the East side of the river, in around the old Victorian residences and the remains of Mission bungalow neighborhoods all surrounded by autobody shops and warehouses. The sidewalk was broken and you had to watch your step; it was grown up in rank tufts of Johnson grass, and overgrown rhododendron reached out from the yards you passed. I came around the bow of one and found myself standing in front of an old, long, low Mission house with a deep porch and concrete steps leading up from the sidewalk. I stopped and lit a smoke to have something to do while I admired the place and wished that I lived there, and as I stood there I became aware of a person standing up on the porch. I almost apologized but I kept my mouth shut because something didn't feel just right, so I stood there and looked around for awhile, not quite knowing what to do all of a sudden, not wanting to look suspicious and probably looking suspicious as hell.
Meanwhile the person simply stood, somewhat back from the porch railing, near a window through which you could see a black and white television playing, and it was the light from this that revealed him there. An old, old man, older than Ramses III, thin to the point of starvation, standing very, very still. Intensity radiated off this man like heat. His face was like an oxyacetylene flame. He stood there in absolute silence, absolutely motionless, ramrod straight. Looking out into the distance, out toward the horizon, through where the huge rhododendron grew and obscured the view completely.
I started walking away. He never glanced in my direction. As I walked off I turned around several times to check but no, he was real, he was alive, and he was still there. Rigid as stone. Looking intently off into the distance, looking into the complete darkness of the leaves and shadows, just standing there in the dark. I can still see that so plain.
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