Jilted on a Lonely Creekbank

I first saw her along the bank of some unnamed tributary digging up mollusks with a flat-bladed screwdriver. I watched her, mesmerized, from behind a screen of willow branches as she bent to her task, grunting contentedly, her breasts swinging bralessly ‘neath a threadbare Metallica T-shirt. Small beads of perspiration dripped steadily off her heavy brow ridges, falling harmlessly to the sand below and evaporating like leaking coolant on hot asphalt.
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I disrobed, and moved quietly toward her through the willows. Her ears twitched as those of a frightened mule deer. Her head turned quickly in my direction. She rose abruptly from her position on squatty, muscular legs, dropping the mollusks but firmly clutching the screwdriver. Her dull, expressionless face framed a pair of yellow eyes that sparkled like Listerine™ in a Dixie Cup™. We stood there, suspended in time, staring at each other for what seemed an eternity. Finally, I offered her some cattail root and grub worms. She disappeared quickly into the bushes, leaving me standing there with a handful of grub worms and a broken heart.

The Road Less Traveled

Alabama is a long state north to south. I jumped off the superslab around Greenville and drove county roads the rest of the way. Woods and hills in the north give way to empty fields where cotton once grew, then further south to lumber plantations thinly dotted with corrugated shacks and decaying automobiles, the side ditches empty save the carcasses of sharp-boned roadkill dried and blackened on the rough pavement, eyes wide open, but seeing nothing.

Had to stop for a band of grim-faced men in rusted pickups probing the underbrush with sharpened sticks, and bloodlust. Their truck beds bore packs of caged hounds, red-eyed and ravenous, their slatted ribs showing through thin and scarred hides, eager for the hunt. I drove on.

Around dusk we pulled off into a nondescript hobo jungle. I entered a building marked “Campground Office” ringing one of those little bells on a coiled spring that hung over the doorframe. A man was seated behind the counter watching a fishing show on an old-school television. He was an older man, big-bellied with a mottled complexion, and greasy hair the color of tossed bathwater. He wore thick-lensed glasses with frames made from antelope bones.

 He barely glanced as I entered, but continued to watch his fishing show. A small poodle at his feet, with a coat of dirty lamb’s wool, stared at me with pink and runny eyes. I cleared my throat and asked if he had a site available for the night. He peered out over his glasses at me with a look of vile contempt and turned back to the TV. After a long, awkward pause he finally said, “Twenty-fi’ dollah’s cash.”

I pulled out my wallet and laid my money on the counter like Doc Holliday and waited for him to raise or call. After another pause, and with great effort, he lifted himself from his chair and approached the counter. He quickly folded the cash into his dirty shirt pocket and pulled out a crude printed map of the campground and said, “Site eighteen, checkout at eleven.”

 I quietly thanked him, and as I turned to leave, looked down at the dog who was sniffing my pant leg. He looked up and growled a soft disapproval, but allowed me to pass.

Nigerian Princess

Sometimes I fancy myself a Nigerian Princess sitting upon a throne of jackal skeletons and wearing a flowing robe of stone-washed Cape buffalo hides. There'd be be eleven pigmy house servants hand-feeding me seedless grapes and a pair of matched hyenas tethered to my bedpost. Balanced upon my regal head would be a five-gallon bucket of latex house paint and a pasta strainer, because my posture would be impeccable and my nipples in a constant state of stimulated readiness.
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Sometimes, on the other hand, I just sit alone in the dark, drinking warm beer, and wondering if I left my phone in the truck.

Demons

Some rapper cuts off his penis; blames demons
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Demons can be real motherfuckers. Demons force us to live in crowded, greasy communities rife with abandoned automobiles and bacteria. They make us to eat fried foods and inhale the toxic fumes of dry-wrapped vegetation. They weaken us with fermented grain and whisper sweet sonnets of lust into our ears, then deliver stinging urination and open genital warts. They gently subvert us into identical vinyl-clad boxes over a stinking labyrinth of subterranean rivers which run red with the blood of Juicy Juice and bloody feces. They will compel us to eat an entire package of Fig Newtons when a single serving would meet the daily nutritional requirements. Yes, demons are a disruptive nuisance, but we learn to live with them.
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But, when your demons instruct you to sever your wang and jump off a two-story building, it’s time to get some new demons.
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Just one man’s opinion.

Unwelcomed Guest

A big-boned gal from my distant past stopped by, uninvited, and before I could shut down the lights and feign absence, she let herself in without even a courtesy knock. She was always a brash and vulgar woman, loud and self-centered, obscene. The kind who’d fit right in on the set of The Jerry Springer Show.
After the usual catching up on who was dead or in jail, she started going on about her failed relationships, how much she hated her work, the foul weather, bad traffic and her struggles with depression and foot odor. My thoughts drifted as she spoke and I pretended to listen, noting her enormous girth and remembering how annoying her non-stop prattle was. She droned on, me nodding my head occasionally and noticing that, without missing a beat, she was ripping open the box of Triscuits^® I had carelessly left, unprotected and vulnerable, on the kitchen counter. On and on she went, throwing down mouthfuls of Triscuits^® between whining about inconsiderate boyfriends, broken washing machines and her latest existential crisis.
For kicks, I mentioned that I’d just finished up some undercover work for the Bulgarian Secret Police, and was considering a sex change operation. She paused briefly, then asked, “You got anything to put on these crackers?” I smiled as she went on about her old car and new shoes, and silently wondered how Liquid Drano might work as a condiment.
She looked at the clock, said, "Oh shit!" and left the house hurriedly, muttering something about picking up her kids. For a few horrifying moments it sounded as if her car wouldn’t start, but mercifully it coughed to life and she sped off down the drive.
I sat for a few moments after she left, feeling used and dejected, shaking the crumbs of a once-full box, and wondering what the hell I was going to do with two tins of sardines and a full jar of olives with no damn Triscuits^®.

Tender Moments in a Plastic Pool

From a now semi-defunct site I infrequently frequented <---------click here


At a party, long ago, somewhere in an impoverished part of my imagination, just east of suburban Omaha Nebraska I dropped some powerful acid with an obese, but thoughtful, Native American woman who looked just like the woman pictured above, except much fatter and uglier. We shared several bottles of strawberry wine while waiting for the drugs to take effect. We parted company, but later I went outside to piss and found her squatted in the prone position in plastic kiddie pool with about two inches of stagnant rainwater sloshing lazily on the bottom wearing nothing but a pair of yellow, rubber boots and a look of deep confusion. Not wishing to alarm her, I went back into the house and found a bottle of Dawn dish soap and a longhandled scrub brush, the kind often used to wash busses and large trucks. I began scrubbing her shoulders while applying long green stripes of the dish soap, creating a fine lather which pooled in the dirty water about her knees and elbows. She would voluntarily raise her arms, first right then left, so I could scrub the stubble ‘neath her underarms, as she moaned with pleasure.
I asked her to flip over, which she did obediently, soapy water sloshing over the sides of the pool like the Orca exhibit at Sea World. She lay there, looking up at me with those dark, pleading eyes, black and deep as puddled motor oil. Out front on the darkening road cars sped past, distressed drivers returning home from their toil, unaware.
I continued to work her torso with gentle, scrubbing motions, her large brown breasts swaying, nipples glistening. I deftly scrubbed her round generous belly in gentle, circular motions, moving slowly down to her cavernous gash. She had a protruding set of vaginal lips, the color and consistency of calf liver, which pulsated regularly to the rhythm of her beating heart. At the slightest touch of the brush bristles, these protrusions would suddenly retract like a pair of frightened eels, emerging again, however tentatively, only after several minutes of persuasive coaxing.
At this point I went behind the bushes and vomited a purple stream of strawberry wine into some freshly placed mulch, held my hands to my head and wept.

Digestive Problems and Young Love in Small Town Amërïkä

I often have a difficult time evacuating my bowels in mid-January. I say this not in an effort to gain sympathy, but as a matter of stark, digestive reality. I don’t attribute this condition to a lack of dietary fiber. I suspect it is due, in part, to my lifelong affinity for contemporary Latvian Folk Music and government cheese.

Some years back I was involved in a brief, consensual, relationship with an orphaned Holstein calf who we shall call, in the interest of discretion, Rene. Sometimes, even now, my thoughts return to those romantic, Summer nights Rene and I spent together, both of us very young, and very much in love. Drinking fortified wine under the light of a Harvest Moon, the sound of country music carried across the fields from a distant farmhouse radio, and the odor of moist, fermented oats as the contents of her bowels tumbled to the Barn floor with a satisfying thump.

I am down to two beers, so I won’t bore you with further details, but I will render this one small piece of advice:
If you find true love, seize it, without fear, and never let it go.

Outdoor Music Festival: The Zappa Years

Many years and countless brain cells ago.







Fill the tank with a suction-cup siphon hose
Larceny is The Mother of Invention
Load the cooler and check the oil
Canned beer and stale sandwiches
Swimming in a sea of dirty ice

Roll down the windows
Roll down the highway
Sixty-eight Chevy, three on the tree
Chuggin’ orange juice and Dark Eyes from a plastic milk jug
Jack Daniels and blotter acid


Hippy redneck microbus
Dashboard hula girl and half-a-pack of smokes
Zippo spewing fire and brimstone
Love beads swinging from the rear view mirror
Loaded revolver ‘neath the seat

Shut it down in the parking lot
Radiator steaming disapproval
Bottlecap-scarred bare feet
Crossing black-hot pavement
Tortured souls on scorched soles

Festival seating
On the banks of the retention pond
White trash mermaids sing their siren song
Strumming mandolins


Reefer smoke hangs in stagnant air
Butt cheeks and Daisy Dukes
Lewd indiscretion in the tall grass
Love in the afternoon
Tube tops leaking lizard milk
Jazz isn’t dead, it just smells funny

Don't Try This at Home

A brief treatise on this wild roller coaster ride we call life. (And why is there a Pringles can mounted on his handlebars?)

The intrepid rider is sized up and strapped in for the long pull upward through the dark tunnel. Nine cogs on each gear click loudly and echo off the blood-moistened walls ‘til he breaks through into the light and is sent plummeting between electrically charged steel rails on decomposing cross ties of dubious character. Time and space collide into a singular, spinning cyclone of swirling colors, like a box of Fruit Loops in a cosmic food processor.

As he nears the bottom, time slows and the cross ties become soggy with moss and wood rot. Needles pierce his liver and spleen and rust creeps into his joints. The steel rail serpents rise up and spray their electric venom, laced with toxic reproof and barbiturates, causing stomach-cramps and blindness. He slumps over the tank and topples to the ground, coming to rest on the dirty carnival floor amongst discarded cotton candy and empty boxes of circus peanuts.

Uniformed officers and stretcher bearers arrive, their skin scraped pink with the jagged lids of pickle jars, to haul him away on a flat bed ambulance. He’s cited for improper eye protection, loud pipes and failure to use turn signals. After a summary trial, he’s sent to the State Mental Hospital where he spends sixty days in a windowless room, lying on a piss-drenched mattress, staring at the claw marks etched into the plaster walls. Wondering where it all went wrong.

Witch in the Kitchen

Not sure if she's in the kitchen. She can't seem to get off the ground, so she obviously has the wrong kind of broom. Not really feelin' this one. No cat or cauldron. I'm not even sure which witch is which.

It's Halloween, so someone's gobblin' that goblin.

Beer Run

Yesterday, a cold front moved through Small Town Amërïkä. Refreshing north winds brought higher barometric pressure and clear skies. Perfect weather for baling hay and drinking beer. Every small town has a liquor store within walking distance of the surrounding trailer parks so the bitter residents who’ve lost their licenses can make their way on foot to purchase the necessary vodka and Slim Jims. In Jerkwater we have Lenny’s Liquors. A second generation establishment where the friendly gal behind the register happily bags up your purchase while calling you handsome.


The rooms above the store house a brothel by night and an illegal kidney transplant center by day. All made possible with payments made to the local constable. From the open windows a combination of stale perfume, cigarette smoke and chloroform wafts down to the street and mingles with abject desperation and discarded pizza crusts.

Last time I documented my trip to this establishment I cooked the tender skin of my right calf on the scorching hot tail pipe of my ratty big twin. Still bearing the scars from that incident, I took the Intergalactic Wart Hog with its catalyst exhaust covers, liquid cooling and plastic mud guards. I transported my precious cargo safely to the shop fridge in my aluminum top case. A true dual-sport adventure.

Risks and Benefits of Restrictive Dress Codes in Small Town Amërïkä

The grocery store in Jerkwater Junction has a strict code of ethics and conduct which doesn’t extend to out-of -date milk and the shelf life of meats and meat byproducts. A malodorous place with small, narrow aisles and a surly, nine-fingered butcher who spews out profanity from behind his blood-strewn counter as he wields a vicious meat cleaver with total autonomy.

I recently made my monthly sojourn into this establishment to stock up on Fig Newtons and Nyquil. I saw the sign pictured above and registered a complaint with the clerk, as I often go shirtless and barefoot while grocery shopping. I paid for my purchase and explained to her, as clearly as I could, that the human body is a beautiful thing and should be displayed and celebrated.

As we spoke, I was soon aware that she knew my thoughts before I did. She stood there dissecting my words with a straight razor, her unblinking eyes bored holes into my soul as she lazily leafed through the latest edition of The National Enquirer. Without a word, she pointed outside to a group of misshapen women standing on the cracked and broken sidewalks of Hometown Amërïkä, and shot me an expression which made me feel small and insignificant and utterly defeated.

Now I understand fully why bikinis are not allowed in the Jerkwater Junction grocery store, and from here forward, will try to remember my shirt and shoes.

Labor Day

Nobody knows labor like The Octomom. She drops babies like a bred cur dog whelps pups under the front porch of an Arkansas trailer. Her hyperactive reproductive system melts condoms under a withering assault of enzymes and destructive juices and spits out diaphragms like an angry ATM machine.

Meanwhile. Labor Day means summer is drawing to a close and I reflected upon the Holiday weekend as I sat observing life in a convenience store parking lot. The patrons were largely disenchanted lesbians and failed divorce lawyers picking up antacids and last minute items for cookouts, as Amërïkä slowly fades into oblivion, and prepares for another round of peacekeeping in the Middle East through the use of nerve gas, cruise missiles and bluster.

Through the open side door of a sun-faded mini-van I spied a legless dwarf perched upon the back seat like a grim-faced gargoyle. Strapped in to avoid contact with the public, she peered out at the world with bitter, gap-toothed ignorance. Her heaving breasts surged over the top of her cheap cotton fabric like sourdough bread rising in a yeast-laden oven.

I drove home sullen and dispirited, eating a Slim Jim^® and slurping a fast-melting slushy.

Paperback Classic

 

Behind every tempestuous life stands a wanton woman.

 

 

Kay might give you a fling, but looking through keyholes is a violation of privacy. You filthy pervert.

Click for------------>>>>>>>More info about a great American author.

Kind of interesting.

Hometown Amërïkä

I plan to do a comprehensive series of essays and reports on the small agricultural communities which dot the fertile landscape around The Compound. It will be much like Garrison Keillor’s tales of the fictional town of Lake Wobegon, only stupider. In this series I plan to explore the hometown charm and quaint Midwestern lifestyle of Jerkwater Junction, Indiana. The lovely shaded streets, the idyllic town square with its historic buildings, the domestic violence, chronic obesity, alcoholism and thriving, trailer park meth labs. I will include photos, taken surreptitiously, of the actual people, places and lifestyle exemplified in Small Town Amërïkä.

I also planned to eat better, exercise more and quit drinking, but none of these things have happened. So this may be the first and last in this series.

Paperback Classic

Hypodermic needles filled with tranquilizing drugs? Drowsy, naked women? A big-eared, sunburned freak peering longingly into a beaker filled with pre-menopausal urine? Undocumented Aliens?

Sounds like an Indiana trailer park on any given Saturday night.

Monday Badass

Sukiyaki Suzy was fast with an Uzi
She carried it most of the time

She was the knock-kneed Ninja Railroad cop
Who could break a man’s neck with a karate chop
On the Tokyo-Yokohama Line

She was quite the sensation on that small Island Nation
Her granddad marched the boys in Bataan

And though it rendered her infertile, she wore a tight Spandex girdle
And glasses just like Elton John

If a hobo should dare, hop a train with her there
He’d be beaten with a stout bamboo shoot

Suzy’d kick him and bruise him
Completely abuse him
With the toes of her black Go-Go boots

But Suzy was moody
Her demeanor quite gloomy
It seemed life had lost all its magic

She suffered and cried, feeling empty inside
And her demise was fitting yet tragic

With all her days filled with strife, Suzy took her own life
As she lay down on the tracks last September

When a fast moving freight, going ‘bout ninety-eight
Caused her head to be quickly dismembered.

The Old Man and the Bee

A Hemingway-esque study on man's eternal struggle with Nature

Carpenter Bees are plentiful and destructive around The Compound. These harmful pests bore holes in the unpainted surfaces of both hovel and chicken coop, causing untold damage and misery. These dangerous insects must be approached with extreme caution and cunning.

In this dramatic, never-before-seen video, with only the help of the staff cameraman, I combine the skills of ancient aboriginal blow-gun hunters with the stalwart, audacious bravery of Marlin Perkins to capture one of these elusive and insidious creatures alive and unharmed. All done at great peril with little regard for my own safety.

Chicks in the Kitchen

There's nothing I like more than a chick with a friendly smile, great personality and a sweet disposition.

With the possible exception of earthworm stew with centipede giblets in a sauce of white wine and egg whites.. 

Snakepit Memories

(None of these pics are mine, but look like the right era. My brother has a bunch of old, dog-eared photos but is totally non-digital and computer illiterate. Someday I'll have to grab the best from him and scan them.)




No one gives a shit about the Indy 500 anymore and it’s a damn shame. I live about thirty miles north of the Speedway and always wax nostalgic this time of year. I rarely missed a race in the eighties and nineties, always spent the day in the third turn of the infamous “Snake pit.” We’d get there about 6:00 am and would drop acid, smoke weed and drink screwdriver mix out of plastic gallon milk jugs. The snake pit was like the Wild West back then, largely un policed. Rape, sodomy, drunkenness and knife fights were commonplace. We always brought an old couch and placed it on top of a van or pickup to watch the race. At best all we could see were blurred views of the cars passing, but were too f@#ked up to care



After the race we’d traditionally shove the couch off the van , soak it with gas and torch it on the way out of the track. Cars and trucks would also be set ablaze as the spectators left the infield as well, giving it the appearance of the aftermath of a battlefield, a truly memorable sight, and a fitting way to end the Memorial Day festivities

Sadly, the Snake pit has been replaced with “Family Viewing Hills” and a f@#kin’ golf course!

Another Amërïkän tradition gone forever.