Orgasms and Weed!
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Posted:Apr 12, 2015 6:39 pm
Last Updated:May 13, 2015 6:27 pm
18279 Views
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That's the first campaign slogan for the [post 3615824] candidacy! Mac tasked me as Minister of Misinformation to come up with a campaign slogan, but these inspiring words from his own drug addled brain and reefer stained lips say it better than any deranged bullshit I could come up with.
A chicken in every pot and pot in every chicken. Then we'll eat the chicken while it's still high. It's the only humane thing to do. Men may suck at eating pussy but they can power eat some chicken, now! An interesting variation might be to let the pussy eat the chicks and then scarf down the pussy. Not that there's anything right about that- in fact it's actually pretty sick and depraved. Just remember, you herd it here first.
So.....................it's:
Orgasms and weed!
Cum to where the flavor is! McManiac Nation!
All graphics used in promoting this candidate have been stolen and are being used with out the express written consent of their creator. It's the American Way!
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McManiac for President!
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Posted:Apr 11, 2015 8:05 pm
Last Updated:May 9, 2015 11:23 am
16643 Views
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mcmaniac has tossed his hat in the ring. I've never seen him wear a hat, and this might be why. It's in the fucking ring. Christ only knows whose is pissing on it right now, even as we speak, but there are worse things than having your hat pissed on, and one of them is actually BEING President of the United states of America. But mcmaniac is willing to bear this burden for us, as long as he gets to fuck Sandra Bullock as his primary duty to his country. I'm not any too sure fucking Sandra Bullock is worth the cost of the shit rain that will surely befall him, but the man is thinking with his dick, and at least he's thinking with one of his own body parts and not someone else's. I'm calling on Swapfinder members to get behind mcmaniac. Behind him is a good place to be, because if he pulls out early and shoots for her tits you might just get squirted, and none of us want that. Ok, maybe some of you DO want that. If so sign up here for a front row seat- there WILL be a waiting list, and no one is certain just how much he has in reserve. Myself- I'm cool with a Doppler shift to the red, so I like the rear view. You can video record the blue shift from your position in front- just remember lens cleaner.
Yes, this got disgusting in a big fucking hurry. Sometimes I even surprise myself. But think about it. Which disgusts you more:
1. Bombing brown the world over just because they're brown
2. Forking over billions in taxpayer dollars to fabulously wealthy corporations who rant and rave about welfare cheats
3. A semen and pussy lube cocktail shooting into your eye while stoned on some killer reefer
The choice is yours. For details visit [post 3615152].
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blindluv
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Posted:Apr 8, 2015 2:00 pm
Last Updated:Apr 11, 2015 8:10 pm
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There's a new blogger here I want to welcome to the site. She's [blog blindluv] and her blog is named "be patient i am having issues". She wasn't born blind but she lost her sight a while ago. She uses a screenreader and she figured out how to post her first post today. I have trouble writing and posting sometimes myself, and I have the use of both eyes. She didn't give up. Her first post is brief but I hope it's the first of many. You might want to pay her a visit and congratulate her- I'm proud of her and she should rightly be proud of herself!
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Photos from our hikes...
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Posted:Apr 2, 2015 6:22 pm
Last Updated:Nov 8, 2015 8:37 pm
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It's been a couple of weeks...spring is coming, but it comes slowly here at times.
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A couple of weeks of walking...
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Posted:Apr 2, 2015 6:08 pm
Last Updated:Nov 9, 2015 9:42 am
15723 Views
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I haven't posted about our hikes for a couple of weeks. We've walked nearly every day, but spring is on hold. The temperatures have been up and down, and there have been some cold windy days, and snow on the twenty third of March.
Gracie spotted sandhill cranes in the marsh for me that day. She stood stock still and when I urged her ahead she sat down, still and pointing. It took me a long time to spot what she smelled and then saw, hunting for something to eat in the marsh. If you look closely in the third photo of this post just below center there is a brown smudge, and another off to the right almost to the tree trunk. They are that hard to spot in the marsh too. If Gracie hadn't seen them I'd have missed them for sure. We'd been hearing them calling and seen them in flight but except for that red head they're nearly invisible in the marsh grass. I stared at the spot she was pointing and I still couldn't find them til they moved.
On the twenty fourth we hiked the long way to the north shore of Atwater pond- it's about six miles round trip and we spent a couple of hours at it. We bought Fitbit devices- a pedometer, step counter and calorie counter. My estimates of distances were pretty close, but off a bit on the long side. My guesses were adding about a quarter to a half mile to the actual distance. I mostly wanted them for the pedometer- PD wears hers all the time. I asked her why and she said she wants credit for every step!
Club moss, sometimes called ground cedar, is spring up along the south Atwater Trail.
We hiked that trail, about four miles, on the thirtieth.
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Ten Question Tag
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Posted:Mar 31, 2015 3:06 pm
Last Updated:Apr 3, 2015 4:08 pm
16975 Views
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[post 3609453]
OK- I've been tagged by [blog kathynj]. I'm supposed to answer ten questions about myself and tag three more people to play.
1. Do you have a crush?
2. What’s your middle name?
3. What’s your height?
4. What’s your shoe size?
5. What’s your eye colour?
6. When’s the last time you cried?
7. What’s your biggest fear?
8. What’s the last song you listened to?
9. Who was the last person you texted?
10. What’s your relationship status?
1. Do you have a crush?
Yes I do.
2. What’s your middle name?
Lynn
3. What’s your height?
Five feet, nine inches
4. What’s your shoe size?
Nine and a half or ten
5. What’s your eye colour?
Hazel
6. When’s the last time you cried?
When my Rocky died.
7. What’s your biggest fear?
Heights- I'm scared of heights. Actually, I'm scared of falling from them.
8. What’s the last song you listened to?
"You're the Cream in My Coffee" sung by Ruth Etting
9. Who was the last person you texted?
My wife PD
10. What’s your relationship status?
See number nine above.
I'm gonna tag:
[blog mature_951]
[blog intendadiversion]
[blog SassyGigi]
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Gail
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Posted:Mar 21, 2015 6:34 pm
Last Updated:Aug 7, 2019 7:23 pm
21296 Views
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Odd Then, Fantastic Now Is The Topic For The Sixth Virtual Symposium
Gail, by PD
My first voluntary sexual activity was with a girl. I was fifteen.
At the time, I did not think of our love for each other as sexual. Neither did my friend, who had more experience with these activities than I did, and sort of initiated me into what she considered to be the wonderful world of female 'freebies'.
The idea behind this (and at fifteen this made sense to me) was that sex is something men do to women. Sex requires a penis. Without a penis, no sex can happen, and since girls do not have penises, that means that anything girls do with each other is free. A bonus!
This logic had some odd corollaries. One was that 'queers' were guys who had sex with other guys, but there could be no such thing as a 'queer' woman or girl, because, duh, women could not have sex with each other.
Our family experience seemed to confirm this. While my parents worried incessantly that my brother might masturbate and turn himself 'queer', it never even occurred to them that I might masturbate, or that girls or women could be queer. If I ever heard the word 'lesbian' before adulthood, I do not recall it, but I definitely recall the jeers and persecution aimed at boys and men who did not conform to the 50's and 60's ideal of masculinity.
The girl I fell in love with was my Aunt's neighbor. She lived 1,000 miles away from me in Denver, Colorado, and my Aunt thought we would enjoy corresponding. We did enjoy it, and when she came to visit and I saw how beautiful she was, I fell head over heels.
She was blonde and curvy, with fair skin and light freckles. Every boy who saw her slobbered all over himself, but she was unimpressed. She did not care for boys. When she was molested by a friend of the family, her father, a policeman, had had the predictable meltdown and kept her safe from any further abuse until he was ready to marry her off.
We used to talk about how gross it would be when we 'had to get married to men' and leave this all behind.
I did not think of molestation as such a big deal, not like she did and her father did. As a I had to run fast down our alley if I had to go that way, to avoid being nabbed by older neighbor boys who would make us blow them if they physically caught us. This was a disgusting thing, but nothing we would have ever told our parents, assuming we would be the ones who would catch hell, not the boys. Plus, they were scary 'hood' type boys, and we did not want to piss them off.
Once when my brother was seven or eight, these same boys tied him up, pulled down his pants, and left him in the middle of the street. A neighbor called and my mother had to go fetch him home. Afterward she told me that under no circumstances was I to ever speak or this and that if I did I would regret it. Similarly, when it became clear that a girl I babysat was being diddled by her father , my mother said, "We don't talk about that kind of thing in this house."
And that was that.
Except, we did. Or, rather, my mother and her sisters did.
Which was weird. And confusing.
My mother had a funny uncle that they all talked about openly and laughed at. No one thought of it as damaging or horrific, just stupid. I remember one Christmas being told by two older female cousins they knew an easy way to get a silver dollar. I went along with this adventure, which basically came down to them sneaking off to the coat room to make out while Uncle Mel watched. I got the silver dollar for nothing though--I just sat there with Uncle Mel watching them.
That did strike me as kind of stupid.
I can't remember a time when, as a , I wasn't terrified of boys and I can't remember wanting to be around them either. Even by the time I reached my twenties, boys seemed a bad bet--They were always liable to do something awful or violent that I would end up catching hell for, not them.
So I fell hard for my friend, and when she went back home, we both hugged and cried our eyes out, making plans for me to visit out Denver. No one thought twice about it.
Eventually I did visit her, and while I was there I met her best girlfriend, who was clearly into the freebies as much as my friend was. This realization, that she was doing these things with someone else stung me to the core, like some big horrific wasp had slammed its stinger right into my heart. Her friend eyed me in a way that said my instant death was not nearly enough to settle the situation, and my pen pal, with big doe eyes finally said, "Stop! I want you two to like each other. I love you both so much."
Well. That wasn't going to happen.
A first broken heart is as powerful as a first love, maybe more powerful.
I didn't think about her after that for a long time. High school was horrible, and the years right after high school were more horrible, so horrible that having to blow teenage boys as a seemed like Disneyland by comparison.
But later in life, after I had had and several failed marriages I began to think of that time with my pen pal and wonder, "Am I gay?"
And here's what I think:
I'm not gay, I'm not anything.
The reason I believe I am not gay is that I think to be gay you have to have had a time for your sexuality to develop normally, uninterrupted by trauma or craziness or undue damage. I did not get to experience normal sexual development (whatever that is) and so, instead of being straight, or gay, or bisexual, I'm just Pam.
I wonder how many women are like me, but don't talk about it for obvious reasons. But really, sexual identity is just one facet of a whole human being, and I think most people make too damned much of it. I am so much more than sex. (Charles Blow of the NYT recently published a memoir about how his sexuality was affected by trauma, and he seems sort of in a similar place from my reading, though he might not describe it the same way.)
It makes me happy now, at 62, to know that there was a time when I was very young that even in the midst of horrendous confusion and (what today we would call) abuse, I recognized that women were marvelous and beautiful.
Because after I'd grown up and processed all the shame and trauma and fear and self-loathing from my odd and terrible youth, I remembered that I happen to be a woman myself.
And I am, no shit, fucking fantastic.
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The Oddyttey
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Posted:Mar 21, 2015 6:11 pm
Last Updated:Nov 8, 2015 8:36 pm
20227 Views
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Odd Then, Fantastic Now Is The Topic For The Sixth Virtual Symposium
The Oddyttey, by Bill
My own adventures do not strictly parallel those of Odysseus. However, taking the broad view, all our lives are something of an Odyssey, and I don't think Homer would mind us thinking this way. In fact, I think he'd be quite pleased that the universal theme of his poem had weathered these last two thousand seven hundred years and are still relevant today. Indeed, being Greek, he would most likely claim to have invented those themes. "Remember you! You heard it here first!" Do you know any Greeks? They not only claim the credit for inventing sodomy, but for sex and tragedy altogether, as well as democracy and the architecture of western civilization.
Strictly speaking, Homer would be right. The Odyssey is one of the oldest surviving epics in western culture, and is often seen as a sequel to the Iliad, the tale of the Troian War. Of more than passing curiousity to me is that the psychologist Julian Jaynes ("The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind") has pointed out that the Iliad and the Odyssey reveal a difference in perception by the poets who composed them. His claim is that what we call consciuosness, which he defines as awareness of awareness, is a relatively recent development in human history, and that it occurred between two and three thouand years ago. The ability to conceive of metaphor, to perceive that one thing is "like" another thing, although not identical, and not the same thing, is fundamental. We became able to make abstract comparisons in our minds. We became able to think about thinking and have beliefs about beliefs. It is Jaynes contention that the poet of the Iliad did not have this capacity, but Homer, as demonstrated in "The Odyssey", did.
There is an odyssey in this transition as well, and this does parallel the change in my own thinking. When I was a , I spake as a , I understood as a , I thought as a : but when I became a man, I put away childish things. I was as childish as anyone else. I think possessiveness and greed come naturally to us. Most are not like Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. The ones I knew were like the of South Park. We need to have those things civilized out of us, and some take to it more readily than others. But you can learn bad behavior too. We learn it from our families and our peers.
If you can learn bad behavior, you can unlearn it. This isn't just theoretical- we can do it. I did it. When I was a I overheard my mom bitching to my dad about my sister and how mean she sometimes was. It made sense to me! But my mom surprised me by saying that I on the other hand didn't have a greedy bone in my body- that I'd give the shirt off my back to anyone. This didn't pump me up anywhere near what you might think. I just kind of thought.."Well, yeah." I was a . I took insults and compliments equally in stride, not that I got a hell of a lot of compliments.
One behavior that I learned in time was jealousy and possessiveness. I don't think I ever really took the lesson to heart, but I learned that certain kinds of behavior in girls was not to be tolerated and that men exacted retribution. It never really made any sense to me. What's good for the goose is good for the gander, right? But I was taught how a man should react when slighted by a woman or when she proved faithless. I could never really pull it off, and I figured I was deficient somehow as a man. It isn't that I wasn't hurt- none of us likes learning that he isn't number one, or the one and only. But the anger that accompanies that slight and that jealousy…that never did me any good, and I couldn't keep it going.
It was odd then that I tried on that emotion and it didn't fit well. I knew how I was expected to act but I wasn't really feeling it. I was more than willing to move on. In pain or otherwise, there was no going back to the way it was. But harboring a lasting grudge just wasn't in the cards for me. My first two wives made a game out of trying to incur my jealous wrath…and I disappointed them. The games ended my first two marriages, but they were perfunctory endings. I told them each to get lost and helped them pack. No tantrums, no rages, no recriminations. Just get the fuck out, it's over. I wasn't traditionally jealous, even though I knew I was supposed to be.
What I was, was angry that someone who claimed to love me would play such games with my love and my feelings. I was odd, and they suspected that I never really loved them. It wasn't the infidelity, girls. It was the games. I've got to have honesty. Is it ironic that both my young wives later claimed that I had ruined them sexually for other men? That no one else could measure up? This infuriated me maybe more than anything else that had transpired. If true, then what the fuck were you doing? Playing games of jealousy and oneupsmanship. They showed me. And so I doubted myself and my wits that I had made such foolish choices.
I thought my way out of this. I think that my two wives, in my youth, were not possessed of the same awareness that I was. I noted a distinct inability to conceptualize complex thought…and it ain't that fucking complex. They were reacting, and making bad moves by wrongly predicting my own reactions. Know thine enemy. But of course, this is a part of the problem. Marriage to me is not an adversarial relationship. It was not actually possible to explain what adversarial meant to either of those young women, let alone convey that I did not welcome it in any relationship with…anyone.
An act of sexual infidelty is as common as rain. Forget California- I live in Michigan and rain is common here. So is fucking around. Those young women were jealous of any past sexual liassons that I had before I met them, and they were each constrained to conceal their own from me. It occurs to me now as it occurred to me then, that this is setting the fidelity bar a bit high. But we are conditioned to it culturally. We're supposed to remain pure for true love. We are also conditioned to react with jealousy and rage and to exact revenge at evidence of cheating.
It took me a while to articulate what matters to me. It isn't that complicated. What matters is how I'm treated. Declarations of undying love are as common as rain too, and they're worth about as much as the paper they're written on. But how do we behave? I love a woman who has my back when it counts. Sex is just sex. We're human and animals and though we have the capacity to think ahead, make plans and carry them through, we fuck those plans up all the time. Anyone can make a mistake, due to loneliness or bereavement or simply to lust and poor judgement- and lust can make for remarkably poor judgement. But does she love me? Is she there for me when I need her to be? Does she not only listen to what I say but does she respect me? Even when she disagrees?
Odysseus, upon returning to Ithaca, learned that Penelope had not only been faithful to him but that she had struggled to make secure and safe their Telemachus' claim to Odysseus throne and had held off the many suitors for her hand out of loyalty to her husband and her king. Odysseus then slew the suitors who had been hectoring and badgering his queen. She had his back, and now he took his revenge. I can identify with Odysseus.
It was odd then, in the old days, that I tried to fit in a mold that didn't fit me. I tried marriages with women who didn't and never would get me. It's fantastic now not only that I know what I think and am free to express it without being doubted or misunderstood but also that I have found a partner who gets it. This is all academic between us- it's theoretical. We aren't swingers and it has never been an issue. But it's doubly fantastic to be able to lay out my wants and needs and to be understood, and not be doubted, and to know that a woman I love has my back. Which is of course why I love her.
Postscript: Sunday 22 March 2015 is my wife PD's sixty second birthday. She is if anything more beautiful to me than ever, not least because with her I'm free, not in spite of our bond but because of it.
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Atwater Pond
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Posted:Mar 17, 2015 9:16 pm
Last Updated:Jan 20, 2016 11:10 am
18419 Views
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Today was cooler- thirty six degrees- but brilliantly sunny and quite windy. We expected it to be cold hiking today, and we left a little earlier than we've been doing lately. In the forest, and in protected places, the wind wasn't much trouble. I hiked without a jacket some of the time and we both worked up some sweat.
Throughout our walk I was struck again by how beautiful the needles of conifers are when struck by the sunlight. They seem to glow from within as if the sun were in the leaves, and in fact it is. Little solar collectors, they soak up the light and its energy powers the pumping system that draws moisture and nutrients from the soil and converts raw material into the sugars that nourish the tree. All that food and water is drawn up the roots and into the trunk and out to the needles. You can think of wood as closely packed hollow cellulose tubes forming something like a rope, all glued together- a very hard stiff rope- because that's what it is. The stuff of life-water- has a seeming magnetic attraction for the staff of life- the sunlight. All those elements are essential but sunlight and water make it happen.
We haven't walked out to Atwater Pond for a long time. We've been hiking about three to four miles a day, and I've been wanting to increase that a bit. We both can use the extra work, and so can Gracie. I also just want to spend more time outdoors, and in the woods. The hike to the North shore of Atwater Mill Pond is roughly six miles round trip. It's only a couple of miles as the crow flies but even though we took the most direct route the trail meanders around swamp and marsh and skirts the hills.
Given that most people walk about three miles an hour, our time seems to confirm the distance I'm guessing at. I suppose I could take a GPS device. I've thought about mapping the unmarked trails with one…but I'm not sure I'm motivated enough, or anal retentive enough, to do that. I kind of like that not all the trails are marked or mapped. People can discover them for themselves. Some things shouldn't be catalogued. We might not be Lewis and Clark, but we can imagine that we are, at least for a day.
We spent about an hour on the trail out to the North shore. The west end is mostly clear of ice except along the banks, but the east end is still covered with a porous rotting ice sheet, and there are Canada geese lounging on the ice shelves. The pond is longer on its east-west axis and I would guess it's maybe a half mile long. The eastern terminus is at Twelfth Street, not far from our house, but that end is inaccessible due to private property and a couple of homes along the road. I do wish we had an entry to the Preserve there- we wouldn't need to drive at all.
We took a short break before heading back. I told Gracie to take us home, but she dragged her feet and needed a lot of prodding to keep her on task. My Malemute Rocky used to do that too. When it came time to head home he would start to fuck around sniffing and wandering off trail- he didn't want it to end. That was Gracie's game. She was tired. The trek out was a day's work for her. She had done her three miles, but she didn't want to go back, tired as she was. She surprised us both by going all Batshit Gracie on us at about the three quarter mark. She wrapped her lead around us running in circles. She had been so excited about the new trail and all its scents that she forgot to go berserk earlier.
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Ten more....
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Posted:Mar 17, 2015 9:06 pm
Last Updated:Nov 8, 2015 8:35 pm
17677 Views
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I have a hard time selecting which photos to post and which ones to cull, so....
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The Swamp
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Posted:Mar 16, 2015 6:43 pm
Last Updated:Nov 8, 2015 8:35 pm
15587 Views
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Yesterday was sunny and fifty degrees. We hiked our old circuit at Al Sabo and I found the two little pine seedlings that I photographed last fall- both of them survived the winter and they just emerged from under the snow. They both look fit and healthy! It was Sunday so the parking lot was full, but we didn't meet so many hikers as to be crowded by them. The trails aren't fit for bikes yet so we had none to contend with...but there were a lot of girls!
The muskrat was busily swimming around the outlet and collecting food, but I'd only seen one swan lately, and too far away to get a good photo. On the way back we took a detour across a narrow neck of the swamp on a plank walk. It leads to a little wooded island in the marsh.
On the island is a beech grove and I found ironwood growing there a while back. It has a smooth grey bark and the wood underneath undulates like sinew- the little trees look like they have muscles. Sometimes it's called hophornbeam or blue beech. The wood is hard and tough as iron, maybe tougher. It doesn't grow real big and was used for wearing surfaces on old wooden planes. Insets and inlays were carved and fitted with ironwood where the plane came to bear on the work surface. Beech was a favorite wood for planes so that little island was a planemakers grove with both favored species growing there.
When we left the beech grove instead of re-crossing on the plank walk we headed south along the east bank of that island. The trail becomes a boardwalk of two eight inch planks and heads south out of the swamp into the marsh. The boardwalk is in bad shape in places, with missing planks and it's tilted precariously in places. There are a couple of bridges over deep spots and they were tilted at sixty degrees, making walking the plank an adventure. Gracie loved it. I couldn't keep her out of either the water or the black muck.
The cattails are so thick and tall you can't see very far but the boardwalk skirts the east side of a little lake and I found a pair of mute swans there. In a couple of places the plank walk was gone completely, but someone had been that way ahead of us and laid branches that you could crabwalk on to the the next section of sound plank. We climbed up out of the marsh and arrived obliquely at the boundary of the Boy Scout camp. The trail heads a bit southeast through a grove of fir trees and ends at the Lookout trail. That's where we found the plank walk repairman- a nice young man with his beautiful wife. He had been about ten or fifteen minutes ahead of us and he had laid the branches we edged across the gap on.
We were out about two hours and enjoyed every minute of it. The sun was warm and there was only a faint breeze, and we met some especially nice hikers. The plank man's wife was gorgeous...PD commented on it first. She had lovely olive skin and long wavy black hair. I'd follow her through any swamp!
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The Talking Asshole
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Posted:Mar 15, 2015 6:25 pm
Last Updated:Mar 19, 2015 10:06 pm
15427 Views
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Ladies and Gentlemen: For your elucidation and entertainment- a "Naked Lunch".
"Naked Lunch" was William S. Burroughs' second published book. He had written "Junky" in the fifties and had got it published as one of those lurid "true confessions" potboilers that came as two novels in one…you read "Junky" and flipped the book over and upside down and got the Confessions of a Teenage Lesbian on the flipside. But probably you'd read about the lesbian first…I know I would have.
Burroughs was experimenting with a cold, clinical "just the facts, Ma'am" style when writing "Junky". There was no moralizing or lamenting his fate. He simply presented it as it happened. This is Burroughs all over. He felt emotion but he understated it. His cry for help, if it could be called one, was sardonic, cynical and none too fucking hopeful. The facts of being here and being queer and an addict to boot spoke for themselves. He didn't wax poetic. And this stark prose has a horrific effect. It hits you cold and clear.
Burroughs continued this in "Naked Lunch"…it is what you have on the end of your fork when your illusions are stripped away and you see what you consume for what it is. There is suppressed emotion in "Naked Lunch". Burroughs' jaundiced eye reveals the horror that he perceives in America, in the world, in the post war world. It's a little bit Henry Miller's "Air Conditioned Nightmare" but expressed in a style like Jackson Pollock or Max Planck. Quantum physics.
The book wasn't written like a book, or to be a book. While living in Morocco Burroughs composed reams of vignettes- he called them routines, similar to an earlier work he'd done with Jack Kerouac titled "And the Hippos Were Boiled in their Tanks". An outrageous event told in a crisp and mechanical manner which portrayed the agony of that event far more grimly than hyperbole can do. The book has no real beginning or end. You can start with any routine and read in any order. You can begin in the middle and try to read your way out. But unless you put the book away you can't escape. If you read even a little, good luck putting the book away.
Characters are not solid, not static in "Naked Lunch". They won't stay where your brain tries to put them. They have a nasty habit of vanishing just when you feel you've gotten to know them and dislike them and then they magically and inexplicably re-appear later- sometimes as themselves, and sometimes as new entities. There is Steely Dan II the steam powered dildo, invented by a bull dyke…Steely Dan I blew up in a tragic and messy explosion. There is a grisly and perverse execution routine complete with ejaculating victims which exposes capital punishment for the perverse and grisly abuse of power that it is…and the sexual thrill that the powerful derive from it. Burroughs: "I feel that what we call love is largely a fraud- a mixture of sentimentality and sex that has been systematically degraded and vulgarized by the virus of power."
Burroughs: "Did I ever tell you about the man who taught his asshole to talk?" It was a sound you could smell. The guy was a ventriloquist with a carnival, and he invented the routine as a novelty act. After a while, as it caught on, he didn't even write material- he'd just walk on stage and talk back and forth with his asshole, and they ad libbed the whole act. But after a while, he couldn't shut the asshole up- it grew teeth and chewed through his pants and ranted and raved and bitched up and down the street. And it got drunk too. And the guy couldn't stop it, and couldn't control it. Eventually his own mouth sealed over and the asshole did all the talking, and pretty soon did all the thinking as well. But it needed his eyes. The asshole couldn't get along without his eyes. But it had shut off the brain and soon no signals were able to transmit. In the end the brain died and the light went out in the eyes. The act was finished.
It's a painful and disgusting book, lady, stark and unforgiving, but true. It's all a true story.
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