Wednesday, August 31, 2005

Poopy's mom is on TV!


I am so fucking embarassed. The bitch seriously needs to lose some weight.

PS. This link is not particularly disturbing or gory, though you may throw up in your mouth a little bit.

Tuesday, August 30, 2005

Speed Writing...


Goddamn I've been writing like a motherfucker lately. I guess I'm starting to annoy people. Time to pull back a bit...

You have to understand, I work alone all night and have nothing to do besides post on K5. I AM NOT A TROLL AND FUCK ANYBODY WHO SAYS DIFFERENT.

Plus, I've discovered the joys of methamphetamine. It gets my mind racing and I have to just write, write, write...

I know I've been venomously anti-drug in the past, so let me explain...

The Lazy-U Motel attracts a pretty sleazy crowd. Lots of streetwalkers, drug addicts, and homeless wastrels. Tons of crime goes on here and we, for the most part, turn the other cheek.

One thing we don't turn the other cheek on are assholes who try and cook meth in our rooms. It's a fire hazard and the business is barely insured. Sergei doesn't like us to call the cops, since the Lazy-U is already under pressure from people in the community who consider it a blight on their property values (keep in mind, this is the fucking Barrio, so the Lazy-U must be pretty bad to piss these people off.) Typically, I just call Sergei and he sends some of his buddies over to rough up the occupants and throw them out on the street (I am beginning to suspect that Sergei has ties to the Russian Mafia.)

Anyway, some numbnuts set up a meth lab in room 214. I don't know how he thought he could keep it secret since I could smell the fucking hydrocholoric acid a block away. I call Sergei and he says he'll be right over. I fall asleep behind the counter since it's incredibly difficult for me to stay awake at night.

I don't know how long I dozed off, but I wake up to Sergei kicking me in the ribs. "Wake up you deformed fool!" he yelled at me in his Russian/wigger English. "Go and clean up room 214! Throw all the trash into the ditch behind the hotel, dawg." He stalks out of the office with his gold chain swinging. "And if I ever catch you sleeping on the job again, I'll be talking to your parole officer!"

Fucking wigger. Anyway, I go over to 214 and the place is trashed with boiler plates and broken beakers everywhere. The place smells like a chemical plant and I get woozy and it feels like my face is melting. I notice a few dime sized drops of blood splattered against the wall, and find a hole in the plaster with a tooth imbedded in it. Guess Sergei and his boys really did a number on those rednecks.

Anyway, as I'm cleaning the place I look in the nightstand and notice a lunch bag next to the Gideon's Bible. I open it up and it's full of folded pieces of paper with brown rocks wrapped up inside which I assume to be meth. I toss it in the trash with everything else.
I'm still tired as I clean the room. Even though the bed is full of glass and some blood, I wanted to do nothing more than lay down in it and take a nap.

Well, you know what's coming next...

I retrieve the bag of meth rocks and unwrap one, leaving it in the palm of my hand. I figured I would just do one to get me through the rest of the night. After all, they give this stuff to pilots right?

I have no idea how to do meth though, so I just pop the rock into my mouth and chew it up. It tasted like shit and I had to wash my mouth out with water I drank from the sink with my palm.
I didn't feel anything for two minutes, then suddenly I felt super sick. My body was shaking uncontrollably. Was one rock too much? Was I overdosing? I ran to the bathroom and puked up the Del Taco I'd eaten earlier. I sat at the white throne for ten minutes, consumed with dry heaves.

Something happened though after my body calmed down. The shakes and shudders began to feel pleasurable. It was almost like my whole body was having an orgasm. Laying on the dirty bathroom floor with vomit dribbling down my chin, I pulled my dick out and jerked off right there. I didn't even bother to clean the nut off my pants afterwards (I haven't washed them in two months, so it doesn't even show.)

The shuddering, orgasmy feeling subsided after awhile, and suddenly all I felt was this incredible energy. I leapt off the floor, washed my chin off and got back to work on cleaning the room. After an hour, the place was spotless. I mean glimmering clean and smelling of Pine-Sol. I marched out proudly and tossed the hefty bags full of toxic materials into the ditch, just as Sergei had directed.

I did, however, keep the lunch bag full of meth rocks.

Now, I despise tweakers and still do. The problem with them is that they do meth all the time. I find of wanted to eat another rock after that, but I didn't do it. What I despise about all drug addicts is the fact that they have no willpower, especially when it's not THAT hard to control yourself. I decided I would limit myself to doing meth only when I was really tired and in danger of falling asleep. I really needed to keep this job. After the horrors I experienced, I cannot go back to jail.

The only downside was that it was close to impossible to go to sleep when I got off in the morning. I raided my mother's bottle of Black Velvet and chugged about half of that bottle of vile Canadian whiskey before I even felt sleepy. This is probably enough to keep me from doing meth regularly.

Monday, August 29, 2005

Yet another Poopy video link...

This one will really fuck with your head.

Fucking Cindy Sheehan: A Love Story.


The "Peace Mom" really likes to use her teeth when she sucks cock...

Twenty-four hours ago, I was laying in her tent at Camp Casey while she sucked my cock for about an hour. I was amazed how she kept going at long after most chicks would have gotten a case of lockjaw. My heart was racing from the two Viagras I'd popped a couple hours earlier. Damn, this is the type of vicious blowjob I thought was only possible from right wing bitches (Ann Coulter comes to mind.)

I blow my load again; the third time in an hour. Christ, Viagra is great. I hear a gulp in the dark as Cindy swallows my load down her throat. "Fuck me now, Poopy," she whispered. Out in the farmer's field in Crawford, Texas, the only sounds I could hear are her breathing, some crickets, and the crackling of campfires crackling down to embers.

I sat up slowly and pulled my shorts all the way off. Cindy still laid face down on the sleeping bag. "My vagina feels chafed from last night," she said. "Is it okay if you just fuck me up the ass this time?"

Of course it was okay. I am convinced now and forever that left wing chicks are better in the sack.

As she got on her knees and I slathered suntan lotion all over my cock (the only lube that was available), I thought about what a strange assignment this was. Originally I had come to Camp Casey to discredit Cindy Sheehan for her protest of our president. Now, I was about to have anal sex with her. Life is strange. Selah.

I arrived at Camp Casey a week and a half earlier to cover the protest. I did it at the behest of several nagging e-mails from the guy who runs this right-wing blog I post on. "Since you're right there in Texas, you might as well go have a look at what these peaceniks are up to," proudeagle732 wrote to me, and I had no real reason why I couldn't. I lived about an hour away from Crawford and had two weeks worth of vacation at the gun store I work at to make a living.

The whole plan was to infiltrate the camp, kind of undercover like, and expose what the anti-war crowd was up to in besmirching our president. I quickly set up something on Blogspot with a bunch of "Bush Sucks" posts to establish a cover, then packed my camping gear and headed on down there in my sister's Prius, assuming that I'd look like a bastard if I arrived in the SUV I usually drive (plus the Prius does get pretty damn good mileage, even if it doesn't have power for shit. Still, it saved me about thirty-dollars on the drive down there.)

It turns out I shouldn't have bothered swapping the cars. There were tons of SUVs parked around Camp Casey. It was done up like a concert, with some people directing traffic to the area in the field designated for vehicles, with other passing out sheets on where to set up our tents. A little farther down the road, they were doing the same thing for the counter protest.

This amount of organization was necessary though, since hippies began pouring into Camp Casey when they heard Joan Baez was playing the next day. There was already a crew setting up a sound stage out in the field. This was done primarily to keep everybody here, since Ms. Sheehan was gone for the week, visiting her dying mother.

I found a place fairly remote to pitch my tent, then went to the ditch by the side of the road where most of the protesters were hanging out. I found a discarded sign on the way that said, "BUSH MEET WITH THE MOTHERS OF THE CHILDREN YOU SLAUGHTERED". I felt a profound sense of embarrassment as I waved this sign, but fuck it, I was undercover. There was the infamous line of white crosses, each bearing a fallen soldier's name. The ground was loose since these crosses had been planted and replanted several times. Across the road was the counter-protest, waving their signs. "CASEY WULD BE ASSHAMED" or "SUPPART OUR TROOPS--SHOOT PROTESTING TRATORS ON SITE". The crowd all got extra hyped when a black "presidential" looking SUV or a Humvee would drive down the road to the ranch.

Both sides dwindled off around sunset, and everybody went to start their campfires. I brought a Coleman stove and threw on some hamburgers I had stuffed in my cooler. I smelled a lot of pot being smoked over by the main campsites. Typical, I thought. Some jerk off was playing an out of tune acoustic guitar, doing his best to mangle "Blowin' In The Wind". He played it all night while all the hippie chicks around him swooned. I used to like Bob Dylan, but if I hear that song one more time I will strangle someone.

The next day was more of the same. Around the campsites, there were several people reading political lectures to whoever would listen. The absolute worst had to be the person doing political "slam" poetry. Keep a faux beatnik voice in your head while you read the next line: "They oppress us with their pharmaceutical drugs/and their reality TV/while American thugs/die by American slugs/ and we care about who gets voted off the is-land/the is-land of MIND."

Yep folks, it was that bad.

Anyway, the crowd at Camp Casey pretty much peaked with the Joan Baez show. I imagine most of the hippies wanted to see a free concert and then scurry back to their hemp clothing shops. There was a small influx of people when a bus full of Wiccans Against War came to the camp to do a "cleansing." About thirty fat lesbians in (no shit) pointy witch hats walked around the camp chanting and pouring "magic sand" around the place. I had given in and decided to smoke some weed with the hippies, mostly out of boredom. I was quite stoned when I witnessed this and I nearly pissed in my pants. A fat dyke witch saw me cracking up and gave me a dirty look like she wanted to eat me. I was so stoned I didn't care.

So, a few days ago I was sitting around a campfire with a bunch of other bloggers from Dailykos. We had our laptops out and were eating S'mores. We had just gotten word that Cindy Sheehan was returning to the Camp the next day.

"I wonder how we should frame the Mother Sheehan issue with the MSM," NoBloodForOil99 said, sipping on his Fresca. "Should we be demanding Bush speak with her, saying that is the main reason for the protest. Or should we concentrate on the fact that she's bringing up such important issues?"

"We should be demanding a meeting," KerryF@n04 said. "The issue we started on was demanding that Sheehan get to meet the president; that is the issue we should press. The MSM already sees liberals as wishy-washy. We need to convince the public that liberals are as uncompromising as Bush."

"Isn't that meeting Bush on his own terms?" said HarryWilkesofWashington. "I think one of the strengths of liberals is that we are compromising? I think we should use Mother Sheehan to bring forth the human costs of the war. Fox News is too busy showing people pictures of schools being painted or soldiers handing kids candy."

"Yeah sure," said KerryF@n04. "Being a flip-flopper sure helped us in the last election..."
"I think that the basic message here is Bush Kills Children," NoBloodForOil99 popped in. "Cindy is a mother and every human being comes from a mother, therefore Cindy represents everybody. That's what the message should be. Give me a half hour to type it up. Where's the nearest wi-fi access so I can post this?"

"There's a Starbucks if you go about fifteen miles south from here..." HarryWilkesofWashington said.

"Perfect," NoBloodForOil99 said. "I could use an iced vanilla latte. Anyone want me to pick them up one while I'm there?"

Everybody raised their hands. "Make mine a venti," KerryF@n94 said.

The next day when Cindy arrived, everyone treated her like she was the Pope (the one that just died, not the Hitler Youth one.) "Cindy, I'm so sorry for your loss..." was what most of the chicks had to say to her. She immediately went to the picket line. A little bit afterwards, it was announced she would begin doing interviews at four o'clock.

Now to interview Cindy Sheehan you had to jump several hurdles. First putting your name on a list, along with what media organization you were with. MSNBC, CNN, The New York Times all got first priority. Bloggers naturally got shunted to the back of the list, and we had to give a list of our questions (no more than four) to a MoveOn representative to review. The major media outlets didn't have to do that, but they were only going to softball her anyway.

I got my name on the list, and found it would be THREE DAYS before I'd get to ask her any questions. Naturally, I wasn't going to ask her the ones I turned into MoveOn. I didn't see it as any of their business anyway. So I spent another three days smoking dope and listening to Dailykos eggheads talk about politics around a campfire before I got to speak to Cindy.

I arrived at her tent with nothing but my notepad and a tape recorder. She was inside with a representative from MoveOn called Chuck who reminded me, "The interview can go on no longer than seven minutes. Ms. Sheehan is very tired."

"Thanks," I said, trying to ignore Chuck. "So let's get started. Cindy, your statements about Israel and Palestine have come under scrutiny. Would you like to clarify your position towards that situation?"

Cindy was about to answer when Chuck jumped in. "Ms. Sheehan has already explained her position on the Israel statements and will not be answering any more questions regarding them."

Who the fuck was this guy? I hate interviews with PR people around. Anyway, I plowed ahead.
"Okay, then we'll, ahem, move on. Ms. Sheehan, do you really think there's a chance in hell the President will meet with you, or are you doing this as a PR stunt?"

Cindy looked stunned. Chuck jumped in again. "Sir...the sole intention of Ms. Sheehan's protest here is to speak with the President regarding the reasons he sent her son to war in Iraq. She is not doing this for publicity, and neither of the questions you have asked were on the list you submitted to us."

"Hold on, hold on let me just keep going," I said, scribbling furiously in my notes. "Ms. Sheehan, do you protest and put yourself in front of the media as a way to replace the hole in your heart left by your dead son?"

Cindy started crying. "This interview is over!" Chuck said, unzipping the mosquito screen. "I hope you feel happy that you wasted your time, Fox News..."

Through her sobs Cindy said, "Chuck, could you please leave us?"

"What? Ms. Sheehan, this reporter had misrepresented himself. He is obviously a correspondent of Fox News or Sinclair Broadcasting or some other right wing element of the mainstream media. He is looking to assassinate your character..."

"Chuck," she said. "I'll handle this. Just please leave."

He looked at her and saw she was serious, then looked at me and stepped out of the tent silently. When he was gone, Cindy said. "What's your name son?"

"Poopy."

She giggled through her tears. "Well, Mr. Poopy, are you a parent?"

"No ma'am. Not that I know of."

"Obviously you are not," Cindy said. "If you were, you would know that there's nothing in this world that can replace the death of a child."

She said that with shuddering conviction, but I wasn't buying it. "What about another child? Wouldn't that replace having a child die."

She shook her head. "Mr. Poopy, my husband just filed for divorce. How on earth could I have another child?"

I was still a little stoned from smoking up with the Kos bloggers earlier, so I did something stupid and pulled my dick out. Cindy gasped.

I was pretty sure she was going to have Chuck and the MoveOn posse nail me to fence. I nearly gasped myself when she leaned forward and started sucking it. That was my first experience with Cindy's rather toothy blowjobs (it wouldn't be my last though).

The supposedly seven minute interview lasted a full hour while Cindy and I fucked each others brains out in that tent. It must have sounded like to wild dogs stuck in a sack from the outside. I have never had sex with a woman of her age, and she wasn't much to look at, but I was extremely turned on by her passion. I don't think she'd had a dick in quite a long time. I finally blew my load and we lay there in that hot tent, exhausted.

"I can feel your sperm inside me," Cindy said. "I just want to lay here and feel it trickle down my thigh."

"See," I said, desperately wanting a cigarette. "Maybe you'll get pregnant and then you'll have a replacement for Casey."

She let out a sad sigh and said, "I've already been though menopause. There will be no more children for me. I still like to feel your essence inside me. It makes me feel like a woman again."

We cleaned up, and when I stepped out of the tent, I got dirty looks from Chuck as well as all the other bloggers I'd kept waiting for an extra hour to ask their questions. I immediately went to my tent and started up the Coleman grill for some hamburgers. I wanted red meat and a cigarette so bad right then.

I think word got around from Chuck and his MoveOn buddies that they didn't quite trust me. I could see I wasn't invited to any more Kum-Bay-Ya pot smoking sessions around campfire, and I was fine with that. I was sick of marijuana and really wanted a shot of whiskey. What kept me from being excommunicated from Camp Casey was Cindy Sheehan's insistence that I remain present.

I didn't bother going to the picket line anymore, no sense in keeping up pretenses. Every night though, after Cindy had returned an finished up with her interviews, I slinked back up to her tent for some more fucking. One night, while I was grinding on top of her, she licked her finger and stuck it up my rectum. I yelped.

"My husband liked it when I did that to him," Cindy giggled. "Just going with it in. You'll like it."
I did like it. Then again, I figure that a woman who has been around as long as she has probably knows a few tricks.

Anyway, my two-week vacation from the gun store was over. I ended fucking Cindy up the ass and when we were finished, she told me "I've never come so hard in my life. You really know how to drill my pooper, Poopy." I kissed her on the forehead, and went back to my camp where I took down my tent and packed up all my shit into the Prius. It was the middle of the night, and I tried to be as quiet as I could.

As I was driving away from Camp Casey, I suddenly took the Prius into the ditch and ran over all the crosses those anti-war traitors had set up, knocking them all down. This woke up a bunch of the hippies at the camp, who immediately started screaming and throwing water bottles and trash at my car. I flipped them off, then peeled out over the Texas highway with Hank Williams Sr. blasting on my stereo.

Cindy Sheehan might be awesome in bed, but I still think she is a shrill bitch. In my two-week vacation, I proved once again that all any woman needs is a good deep dicking.

Thursday, August 25, 2005

Ask Poopy: Black Power Homos.


HI POOPY, ITS NIWS LOL

I HAVE A SERIOUS PROBLEM. I MYSELF AM AN AFRICAN AMERICAN HOMOSEXUALMALE AND HAVE JOINED A GROUP OF FELLOW AFRICAN AMERICAN HOMOSEXUALMALES. WE TAKE TURNS FUCKING EACH OTHER IN THE ASS AND SUCKING EACHOTHERS DICKS AND HAVING MASSIVE ORGIES, LMAO, EVERY WEEK OR SO.

LATELY I'VE BEEN WONDERING WHAT ITS LIKE TO FUCK A WHITE GUY. NOW WEALL HAVE AIDS, BUT THAT'S NOT A PROBLEM BECAUSE I WON'T TELL WHITEYABOUT THAT, OMG ROR. BUT I'M AFRAID THAT THEY WILL FIND OUT ABOUT MEFUCKING A WHITE GUY. IF THEY DO, I WILL SURELY BE BANNED FROM THEIRFINE ORGANIZATION AND NO LONGER BE APART OF THEIR PERIODIC ORGIES. OMGWTF. THAT WOULD CRUSH ME BEYOND WORDS.

SO PLEASE TELL ME, LOL, WHAT SHOULD I DO? FUCK A WHITE GUY OR PLAY ITSAFE AND STICK TO MY FELLOW NEGROES.

K THX LOL LOVE NIWS

(if you post this please identify me as niws)

Dear niws...

You are obviously not an "African-American" person. If the fact that your e-mail address is attached to an obviously Polack last name didn't tip me off, then the fact that "African-Americans" hardly ever refer to themselves as "African-Americans" would have (they usually just call each other "nigga" or "cuz")

I doubt you're even a fag. See, most queers aren't racist. They don't really have to be, since their form of sex won't dilute any gene pools or pollute their racial purity.

Also, I don't see why you're coming to me with this gay shit like I'm some kind of expert. I can't fathom how anyone would be a queer by choice. I was raped numerous times in prison. Rape is not an act of sex, it is an act of violence, and all that shit. And my turning out a prison bitch was done because society represses me, making them ultimately at fault.

But I digress, your problem niws...getting kicked out of the gay black AIDS orgy group for lusting after white men.

I think you have to have a long hard talk with your butt buddies there (off-topic--is it easier for black people to hide shit stains on their cocks?) It sounds as if they hate white people, not that I blame them. If you all have AIDS, then you can use this to get back at The Man.

It's really a matter of how you phrase it. You're not just fucking a white man, your striking back for centuries of oppression by injecting him with your diseased sperm. When your fellow gay negroes hear this, they will probably be delighted and may even help you with your systematic eradication of the White Man.

And personally, I encourage you. I do believe that homosexuality is genetic, and the more you spread AIDS, the easier it is to wipe out those genes once and for all.

Anyway, Adios Infected Dick Sucker,

Poopy

Ask Poopy!


First things first, let's go straight to a compliation of some of Poopy's favorite video clips.

Also, I am thinking about starting an advice column, you know. I'd like to change my image a bit and become like the Ann Landers of K5. The topics can range from anything from manners, dating and relationships, in-laws, spouses, cooking, politics, etc.

Keep in mind, you are getting advice from someone who still lives with his mother and is horribly disfigured. E-mail me with your problems.

poopypeanutz@gmail.com

Here's a starter, plucked from the "Ask Amy" column in the Washington Post by K5 user Claes:

Dear Amy:

For two years I have been in a wonderful relationship with a beautiful lady whom I adore. After the first five months, we have pretty much lived together. I am 50, divorced with two school-age children. She is 45 and has never been married.

Two months ago my job sent me out of state for two weeks of training. When I came back, my lady told me that she is having trouble sleeping, and asked if I would mind staying in the other room.

Everything else about our relationship is the same. We spend our time together, share a great sex life, and there's no fear that there's someone else. She just wants to sleep alone.

I have tried to understand, but I'm at the end of my rope. I have tried to explain how I miss the intimacy and closeness, but she just shrugs it off.

Amy, I love her with all my heart, but I cannot help but feel that I am missing something truly important.

Any advice? I don't want to end the relationship, but this is something I feel I really need.


Dear Loser,

First of all, no woman is beautiful at age 45, unless you consider beauty to be crow's feet, and saggy tits. If you had any pride, you'd get yourself a really insecure nineteen year old, YESTERDAY.

Do you know what your *ahem* "beautiful" girlfriend was doing while you were away on your two weeks training? She was letting every crackhead nigger in your neighborhood pull a train on her. Do you think she needs you after she's had fifteen black dicks in one night?

No wonder she doesn't want some peckerwood wimp in her bed with her. You can't dream about Mandingo while laying next to George McCracker.

But you've come to Poopy for advice, so here it is:

Smear yourself in greasepaint, buy some gold chains, get yourself a gangsta rap CD and a basketball. Wait until your girlfriend comes home from work and jump out and rape the bitch.
You will probably have to get a big twelve inch strap on to complete the illusion since all white people have small dicks, but this is about her, not you! All white bitches fantasize about being raped by black guys.

After your done, smoke some crack and tell the bitch to fetch you some watermelon and a forty of OE. I GUARANTEE YOU, after all that, she will want you back in her bed forever more...

And if she doesn't, kill her before she can press charges.

Tuesday, August 23, 2005

Chicken George


Don't believe the hype. Don't believe the carefully planned celebrations or the partisan pundits, or the protests that derided it all as the next coming of Sodom and Gomorrah. Last week was nothing more than quiet fart in the political world; an election that was decided almost two years ago. You would think the election of the first female President of the United States would be a grander statement; the progressive values of our nation confirmed for the whole world to see. For me, it was muted by the fact that it is Hillary Clinton who was voted in. It is creepy to think that since I was eight years-old, the President of the United States has been named either Clinton or Bush.

An upside can be seen in the fact that it is unlikely we will ever have another president named Bush again. The scandal that has dominated his last term was so disgusting, grotesque, and just plain bizarre that it must have made the electorate nostalgic for Clinton's sexual appetites. Though like Clinton's troubles, Bush's were not sufficient to have him removed from office, they have completely destroyed the Republican party as we know it. As well as the Presidency, the Democrats now are firmly in control of the House, and are only two members short of a majority in the Senate as well. Champagne bottles were being cracked in the offices of a party many had written off for the past decade.

The dominance Republicans held through most of this decade has evaporated in the space of only two years, and many in the party think that this may be the best thing that could have happened. $100 per barrel oil has finally caught up to the economy and all indicators point to us being in the start of a long downward spiral. It is pointless to keep our token force of 50,000 soldiers in Iraq any longer, especially since the Green Zone is being hit with at least two suicide car bombers daily. Any notion that this fight can be won is only espoused by crackiest of crackpots on right wing podcasts. Clinton will likely withdraw them in her first one-hundred days, leaving it to the Democrats to officially lose the Iraq War. It will also be up to Democrats to honor our commitments to Japan and South Korea and deploy a carrier group to thwart the planned PRC invasion of Taiwan. This will not be a popular move. The US public is in no mood for saber rattling abroad and the Dow loses one-hundred points every time we fart in the direction of China.

Yes, not being the party in power right now might be a good thing, and to that end, Dubya's sudden and glorious flame-out may have been the best thing to happen to Republican Party. American politics is rife with stories of a sudden rise to power, followed by an ungracious fall. McCarthy and Nixon are forever etched onto our national memory. Yet, they all pale when compared against the story of the disastrous collapse of George W. Bush.

Within a year of taking office, he had risen from being a mere politician to being a cultural icon, adored or despised depending on your side of the aisle. Despite a drab economy, constant pandering to the cultural conservatives, and a rising chorus of questions about the Iraq War, Bush was indomitable and uncompromising in his first term. If someone hit the United States, they were sure that Dubya would swing, even if he swung at the wrong guy.

Like all Republicans though, his strengths lay primarily in foreign affairs. When he began pressing his domestic policy at the start of his second term the cracks began to show. His social security reform was blocked even though his party held both houses. Even people who voted for him began to get nervous that he'd given too much red meat out to the religious right, especially when the PRC officially sanctioned unlimited stem cell research and billions in venture capital went once more abroad. It finally dawned on people that the war in Iraq might not have been a such good thing to get into in the first place.

Still, by the end of '05 things were looking up for Bush. He got his Supreme Court justice confirmed without any reasonable opposition. In early '06, polls showed that the public viewed his tax reform policies much more favorably than they had his efforts at social security reform. The Iraqi insurgency went into a lull after the execution of Saddam Hussein, and Bush began to reduce the number of troops deployed in that country resulting in feel-good photo-ops of soldiers coming home--Mission Accomplished. His approval ratings, which in the winter of '05 had hit a low of 32%, had bounced back to within a statistical error of 50% and the Republicans looked like they would be able to hold onto even the House in the midterm elections.

Then "chickengeorge.mpg" hit the Internet.

No one can say for certain where "chickengeorge" originated from. The file was spread through peer-to-peer networks for at least three days before it finally got hosted on a few shock web sites. The five-minute video contained a disgusting scene of a man who bore a strong resemblance to a younger George W. Bush wearing lipstick and a pink bra and panties while jamming his phallus into a live and squawking chicken. By the end of the video, the chicken was no longer alive, and the man in the video, his crotch now covered in chicken blood grunting "I loves goin' chicken huntin'" into the camera. It could have been mere coincidence that his voice sounded a lot like the president-to-be as well.

Within the first week of its becoming public, chickengeorge.mpg was one of the most downloaded video clips in the history of the Internet. It was popular, but few people thought that it REALLY was the President of the United States performing such a vile act. Most people chalked it up to advances in video altering technology, a sort of real-time cut and paste. That is, until a forensic video expert named Phil Fletcher began researching the file.

He downloaded every version of the video he could find. Many versions on the web had been edited down to just the gory parts, had their site's watermark attached, or had music dubbed to it (a particularly popular version of the video was dubbed with "My Sharona" by The Knack.)
"It was hard to look for the normal signs of video tampering with these images," Fletcher says. "They had been transferred to create the digital file, and the digital file had been compressed several times."

There was very little that could be gathered from just straight analysis, so Fletcher looked at shadows and ambient light sources, and could find no inconsistencies. The next step was to analyze the color spectrum in the video. "There was not a single frame where color spectrum used changed drastically from the rest of the frame, which is a clear sign that a video has been tampered with, or has had other elements spliced in. Also, the range of the colors in the video is very narrow, which is consistent with the commercial 8mm film stock of the time. The frame rate is also consistent with commercial camera from the mid-sixties to early seventies cranked at standard speed," Fletcher says. "Of course, it is impossible to tell for certain without having access to the original source, but I can only assume that the first chickengeorge.mpg that first arrived on the Internet was no more than two generations from the source."

After three weeks Phil Fletcher published his findings in his blog ("Could Chicken George Actually Be Real?" August 18th, 2006) which set off a firestorm in the politically charged blogosphere of '06 elections. Left wings groups--particularly PETA--were incensed that the president was a chicken fucker. The president's defenders on the right saw it as a smear campaign, in all likelihood orchestrated by the special effects wizards in "Liberal Hollywood."

But the shitstorm really hit when Osama Bin Laden released a tape on the five-year anniversary of 9/11, directly referencing the "chickengeorge" video. "People of the west, the perversion of your infidel leaders is now obvious to the world. With this act, the Defiler has shown himself to be truly an enemy of Islam," said OBL from his (presumed) Pakistani safehouse. To this day, clips of "chickengeorge" are a staple in nearly every Al Qaida recruitment video.

Worse, the mainstream media could no longer ignore this bizarre scandal. Bush became even more reclusive and the White House stayed quiet on the "chickengeorge" affair. "The administration refuses to dignify this obvious forgery with a response," is all the White House press corp could get out of Scott Richter regarding the video clip. Even more video experts began to analyze "chickengeorge", each side either confirming or debunking the authenticity of the tape depending on which political think-tank they were being funded by.

It did not help that in October, the Iraqi insurgency that had gone dormant for most of the year flared back up with a vengeance. The fragile new government began show serious cracks. Almost every Sunni in the government resigned. A growing faction of Shi'ite separatists were officially backed and sanctioned by Iran. Turkey began to express fears about the Kurds in the north, who were creating militias, stockpiling arms, and began identifying themselves as "Kurdistan." The next month was even bloodier, the Coalition suffering more casualties in November than in any month since the fall of Saddam. There was also mounting pressure for our last ally in the Coalition, Britain, to withdraw their troops.

That November, the Republicans held onto a majority in the Senate, losing only two seats. The battle for the House, which had previously been at even odds as to whether or not the Republicans could hold it, was finally won by the Democrats with a three seat majority, which was two seats more than they were expected to win before "Chickengate" exploded.
Emboldened, the Democrats now demanded an independent investigation of the video, citing that they believed such behavior from our Chief Executive had "emboldened our enemies." This was tricky political waters, and there were few voices on the other side of the aisle protesting the creation of the investigation.

The fallout of the '06 elections created the first true schisms in the formerly rock solid Republican party. Though the majority of religious conservatives who backed Bush did not believe the video was real, 99% of those outside the Appalachians also stated that if the video was determined to be real, they would withdraw their support. Critics of Bush within the party who had gone along to get along also began to openly criticize the President and his policies. Those who aligned themselves openly with the President began to see their poll numbers drop.

Silence from the White House on Chickengate was no longer an option. Approval ratings for the President dropped to a historic low of 23%. In December, President Bush held a tense press conference, where he fielded a few questions regarding the scandal. "This is a really strange thing for a president to have to refute. But I will tell the American people, absolutely and cater-geg-gorically that I have not had sex with that chicken or any other livestock at any time in my life."

His Clinton-esque denial did him no good, and the Democrats looking for some payback pushed the investigation forward. "Chickengeorge.mpg" was analyzed more thoroughly than the Zapruder film, with experts doing research on everything from the type of camera used in the filming, the method used to transfer the film to video, to attempting to find the location where the video was shot. After poring over more than 600 hours of testimony, the panel determined that "chickengeorge.mpg" WAS almost certainly untouched and authentic. From comparison of photographs of the President at the time, it was determined that "chickengeorge" was shot sometime during his sophomore and junior years at Yale.

The similarities to the Clinton scandal grew as Bush was called before a grand jury to testify to the commission under penalty of perjury. Like Clinton, the supposedly secret grand jury testimony was released to the news media. Unlike Clinton, he looked absolutely flummoxed and disheveled through the whole ordeal, stuttering most of his answers. He backpedaled from his previous statements and neither confirmed, nor denied the authenticity of "chickengeorge.mpg".

In April of '07, the House enthusiastically impeached Bush. He was saved from being removed from congress by the Republican controlled senate. Even though most of his own party wanted to hang the guy, he was saved through backroom deals, and there were several charges that Karl Rove blackmailed several members into not voting to remove the President. There were also plenty of thorny legal issues since, technically, it wasn't illegal for a sitting President to have had sex with an animal. Bestiality and animal cruelty was certainly illegal in Connecticut at the time, but the statute of limitations had run out on the crime decades ago. The Republicans, also certain that the Democrats were going to use this incident to take complete control of the government, decided to meekly rally around the President in order to prevent a congressional rout of their party.

Still, for the last year and a half of the Bush presidency, he was the lamest of ducks. Every ounce of political capitol he may have had was spent with extra loaned just to keep him afloat. World leaders refused to shake his hand, much less sign treaties with him. Dick Cheney became the de-facto head of Executive Branch, with the President hiding as much as he could out of the public eye in Crawford.

Bush had fallen off the wagon hard and was reported to be regularly drinking again, often sneaking out to roadhouse bars on the outskirts of nearby Waco to get his slosh on. That was where I met with him last week, merely by coincidence while I was doing a minor story on the fifteen year anniversary of the assault on the Branch Davidian compound for the MilitiasOnline blog. His Secret Service detail is careful to make sure the President isn't bothered when he's going on his benders. But he actually asked me meekly if he could buy me a shot that day and I accepted.

He was far from the raging drunk frat boy he had been in his younger years. He now had the demeanor of an older alcoholic, who can pace himself all day into stupor. Like the old alcoholic, he is also extremely lonely and extremely chatty. It was reported just last week that Laura Bush had filed for divorce, making him the first President to be divorced while in office. This scandal had isolated him. He was a broken man, looking for anyone to talk to.

We had done four shots of Jameson by the time I felt chummy enough with him to ask him any questions. "So, tell me...honestly. What's the deal with that Chickengate stuff?"

A Secret Service agent moved in to yank me off my stool and toss me out the door, but George graciously waved him off. "You want to know the truth about Chicken George? You really want to know the truth?"

"Hell yes. The whole world wants to know."

He smacked the bar with both his palms, and yelled "YOU CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH!" This made his SS detail nervous again, but they stayed back. They were used to this sort of behavior coming from their boss lately. "Did you ever see that movie? You can't handle the truth? I love it. It's my favorite movie."

I nodded. "Yeah, it's pretty good," I said, even though I was done with Tom Cruise after he barricaded himself in that Scientology compound in San Diego. Drink the Kool Aid, Tom. Drink the Kool Aid.

He was pretty drunk, but I got the whole conversation on tape, and got him to tell me all this on the record (which is on tape also for all you watchers of journalistic ethics.) Still, he was slurring pretty badly, so I'll have to paraphrase most of it.

It was long and it was wordy, but he basically said "YES YES! That was me fucking the chicken! I was drunk, had snorted about three grams of coke, and took a horrible dare at party! I lied to the American people! I lied to the grand jury! I FUCKED THAT CHICKEN!"

Like everyone else, I was disgusted at thought of anyone fucking a chicken, but it was hard not to have some empathy towards a man in this state. I asked, "Who on earth would dare you to have, um, relations with a chicken like that? Was it a frat thing?"

"It was a Skull and Bones thing," he said. "And no, I'm not telling you WHO."

"So they have something worse on you?" I asked.

It took him a moment, but then he shook his head. "No. They have something bad on everybody; it's a part of their initiation. I think that's the only thing they have on me."

"So I can assume that somewhere out there is film of say, John Kerry fucking a chicken?"

"A chicken, a goat, a dead body, an eight year-old Thai girl; they have something on everybody."

Of course I was curious: was the American government truly being influenced by this secret society?

"No, not really," Bush said. "They never directed the big decisions. The extent of their influence was like *hiccup* add this provision to this bill, be sure this line gets into the next budget and so forth. It wasn't about controlling the big picture; I have no idea what their idea of the big picture is or even who is in control of the society. It's a matter of them achieving their small ends, no matter what the big picture is."

"Where did you draw the line on them?" I asked. "I mean, you must have displeased them since they leaked the film."

"Fucked if I know," he groaned. "It's not like I have a hotline where I can contact them. Maybe they didn't even mean for it to get out. Someone left it out somewhere and it was leaked by a person not even connected with Skull and Bones. Whatever it is, I'm done with them. They can't do anything else they can do to me, so there's no sense in doing their crony favors any more."

The Secret Service man approached us holding a cellphone. "Mr. President, a call for you. It's the Chief of Staff."

He took the phone. "Karl? Karl! Where am I? Oh, I'm out at that place again...what's it's name...Lurleen's Roadhouse or something. Come down here, we'll have a Beck's. Oh, who am I talking to? I don't know?" He looked over the phone. "What's your name?"

"Poopy," I said. Time to get out before I was disappeared into a shallow hole in the Texas desert by Karl's handlers. I mock checked my watch, then gathered my tape recorder and threw a fifty dollar bill on the bar counter. "It was nice talking with you, but I gotta run. Gotta massage appointment. See you around."

"Oh, okay," the President said, looking surprised. "Why are you being so angry Karl? I'm just talking...there's nothing wrong with talking."

I stepped out of Lurleen's Roadhouse into the warm Texas air, acutely aware that I was in possession of some of the most valuable tapes in the country; the one's of the President CONFESSING to having sex with a chicken and implicating the Skull and Bones in the filming of it. I hopped in my car, didn't even bother checking out of my hotel, and drove straight home to where I could make copies and stuff them in a safety deposit box somewhere with an ominous note ("If you are reading this, I am probably dead," type stuff.)

Now, that this is written, I actually kinda feel sorry for Bush. He will not receive the usual perks of being an ex-President; huge speaking fees, inflated advances for memoirs etc. People are already joking that he shouldn't get a Presidential Library, but rather a Kentucky Fried Chicken.
At the bar, the look in his eyes was one of a man not long for this world. I imagine we will find him dead with a mouthful of half-chewed sleeping pills within months of the Clinton inauguration next year.

And so will end the strange and sick saga of George W. Bush. We will always wonder if it was he that fucked the chicken, or the chicken that really fucked him.

Saturday, August 20, 2005

I just got a girlfriend.


This was the first pussy I've had in ages. It is shocking to realize that up until this point, I have pretty much only had sex with men this entire year. And I'm not even a fag!

Anyway, she works at the deli down the street. I hate the fucking deli because they always fuck up my gyro sandwich when I go in there. You ever try and get a refund from a goddamn Arab? Im-possible.

I don't see why they hate the Jews so much. I mean, they both eat kosher meat, and both are cheap as fuck. Anyway, I got my revenge on Ackmad. I fucked his daughter in all three holes, and now I'm posting nude pictures of her on the Internets.

This might be irresponsible of me. These sandniggers fly off the handle when you mess with their women. This should be fun.

Monday, August 15, 2005

Snuffy.


My first week working the night shift at the Lazy-U Motel has been a good experience. I am basically paid to sit on my ass all night and either read Barely Legal or watch infomercials on the TV in the lobby through the bullet-proof, Plexi-glass cage. If it gets too boring, I can take a nap since I never even see my boss, Sergei. Even if he did catch me sleeping, I doubt that Rusky wigger would even give a shit. The time I get to spend not doing anything more than offsets the fact that I get paid jack shit. What do they say...in the end one's greatest commodity is time? I agree.

Work does intrude though. Mainly it's a matter of counting the cash register, dropping the cash into the safe, and occasionally sending in credit card batches. Not that I have to do that very often since most of our "guests" couldn't get credit at the pay-day loan store. It is an endless parade of human misery walking in through my doors all night; junkies stumbling in, covered in infected sores, with only the most tenuous grasps on reality. Toothless crack whores looking for a place to give their johns a quick and easy gum-job for five dollars a pop. I get a ton of drunken derelicts come in looking for rooms. I can smell them from behind the bullet-proof glass. They are looking for some place private where they can drink themselves into a stupor and die after they pissed the last chunk of their liver away.

You think this would depress me, but no, not really. In fact it's kind of heartening to know that there are people in this world so much more desperate and pathetic than I.

Anyway, a truly bizarre thing happened to me last Tuesday. I was reading the latest issue of Shaved Beaver when I was startled by this pounding on the window. I looked up from the article I was reading called "Bald Snatch Tales" and saw this weaseley looking fuck with a thin mustache, a huge gold chain and a greasy comb over. "What the fuck do you want?" I said, pissed. I was really into "Bald Snatch Tales".

"Hey man. I got a favor to ask you."

"Fuck off," I said. "Look at the sign, it says payment in advance unless you're using a major credit card. No debit card bullshit."

"No. Hold up. I'm already a guest here." To prove this, he pulls his room key out and rattles them. "See, I'm in a bind and I need your help, BAD. Can you come to my room and help me out?"

I shook my head. "That's against policy. Can't leave the desk after midnight."

Comb-over boy didn't say anything. He just slapped a one-hundred dollar bill against the Plexi-glass. "Can you come to my room and help me out?"

"Are you a fucking fag?" I said. "Take that bill down to Baker Street if you want to get your dick sucked and leave me alone."

Comb-over boy just laughs. "Son, I'm no homo. What I want you to do is real easy. If you're not interested, I'll just get one of those bums sleeping in the park to do it for me. But I don't want to walk that far. So do you want to make an easy hundred bucks?"

Well, I thought, I could use the money. Living with my mom was becoming a nightmare. She had gained another fifty pounds since I got home and now she couldn't bathe because she couldn't fit in the tub. She had to clean herself in the living room with a rag attached to a stick. I had the horror of seeing her naked just the other day; her ass was like two purpled veined trash bags filled with cottage cheese. I needed new living arrangements fast, and one-hundred dollars would be a nice boost in that direction.

Still, as I locked the cash drawer in the safe and stepped out of the office, I wasn't convinced this guy wasn't a fag who wanted me watch him fuck his boyfriend or something. For a hundred dollars, I'd at least find out.

I followed comb-over down the walkway to our "Presidential Suite" (that was a laugh; the only President who would ever set foot in there would be Bill Clinton so he could fuck some fat Jewess with a piece of fried chicken.) He stuck his key in the door, then looked at me. "I hope you're not easily shocked," he said, then opened the door.

The scene inside wasn't so much shocking as just numbingly weird. There were eight people inside; four black guys dressed in Nazi uniforms, two white guys in Indian headdresses, one wearing this leather harness with raccoon hides attached to it and a gimp mask, and this other fellow laying in the corner on the filthy shag rug, cackling and repeating, "Just...meat" over and over again. They looked like Village People of Hell.

Both the beds had moved to the sides and propped up against the wall. In the center of the room there was a plastic kiddie pool with this chick wearing a cha'dor kneeling inside it. She was covered in this mucous like substance which I soon realized was semen. Holy shit, I thought, these guys are making a bukkake movie.

Comb-over stuck the one-hundred dollar bill in my hand, then shoved this digital camera towards me. "Here, I want you to video-tape my guys while they all jerk-off in this Muslim slut's face," he said. "She's not really Muslim, she actually from Venezuela, but I doubt many people will notice with those robes on. You cool with this?"

"Sure," I said. "I'm totally down with this."

"Good," he said, walking over to the guy muttering on the carpet. "I didn't want to just use a tripod. I wanted to give this movie a real `gonzo' feel. But our `cameraman' just couldn't wait to get into the drugs until AFTER we shot the footage, isn't that right?"

Comb-over kicked him right in the ribs and he started screaming, "WE'RE ALL MADE OF MEEEEAAAT!"

"Shut up," Comb-over said. "You just lost your cut of the profits, dipshit. Anyway, just press the red button on the side there, and try to get this from as many angles as you can. And don't worry if the camera gets splattered; it's water resistant."

"I think I can do that," I gulped. This was an unrealized dream of mine, being part of a porno-movie shoot. Too bad the chick was all covered up in robes, but I figured maybe they'd come off afterwards.

Anyway, I got my image in the viewfinder and waited as the other seven dudes started beating off. They must have had Viagra or something because it didn't take them long to get the juices flowing. Within eight minutes, all of them had blown a load into the chick's face, and went back to working on the next load.

Now, bukkake is much slower paced than most other porno. I spent a good hour just taping them busting their nuts on this robed chick. She didn't let out a sound beyond a similarly bored sigh. I was starting to get a mind to blow a load on her myself. I asked comb-over, "Hey, do you think I could bust one off on this chick? You think she'd mind?"

Comb-over looked disapprovingly at me. "Sorry fella. These guys have all been tested for sexually transmitted diseases."

"I swear to you I don't have AIDS," I said, even though after my prison experience, I wasn't one hundred percent sure.

"That's the problem," Comb-over said. "All these guys do. We're making a movie for the extreme porno consumer. You wouldn't believe how many sickos out there have a fetish for this, and will pay top dollar to see it."

"Whoa," I sighed, making doubly sure that I didn't get any AIDS infected semen on me as I filmed. "What about the chick though? Is she cool with that?"

Comb-over shrugged, "Doesn't matter. Mamacita no habla anglais, si?"

The girl looked at him and her eyes looked puzzled. I had no idea what her expression was since there was a cloth covering her face. Right then, she took a big load in her face from one of the black guys in an SS uniform. Oh well, I thought. Sucks to be her.

After another hour of taping, the bottom of kiddie pool was lightly covered in a layer of milky covered semen. "Okay, that's enough of that. Take five guys...smoke `em if you got em."

The chick stripped off her come soaked clothes. She was wearing a bikini underneath, and she didn't look all that hot. She had stretch marks all over her stomach, and was distressingly skinny. It looked like Comb-over had yanked her off the streets of some South American ghetto to get her up here. I turned off the camera.

"Here you go," Comb-over said, tenderly bringing her a syringe that was undoubtedly filled with heroin. Her eyes lit up when she saw it and she didn't look like she could stand to wait for Comb-over to wrap the rubber tubing around her upper arm and push up a vein. Not that it was hard since they were all dark purple and sticking up through the skin. The girl gasped as he pressed the plunger of heroin home.

The girl looked like she was in bliss for about ten seconds, then she started to shake. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head and foam started froth out of her mouth.

"FUCK!" Comb-over said. He kicked his cameraman on the ground again. "I told you not to cut that shit with strychnine you stupid fuck!"

"MEEEEAAAAT! MEEEAAT!" is all he got out of him.

The chick stumbled around. Her foot stepped in the kiddie pool full of cum and she slipped, her head hitting the corner of the nightstand that was propped up in the corner. There was this crunch that sounded like two ball bearings grinding together in a sock. She fell to the carpet, just twitching now, her head twisted back at an unnatural angle. I stood there in shock.

Comb-over threw his hands up in the air. "Great. Just fucking great. Stuck in a seedy hotel room with drugs, AIDS infected African Nazis with HIV and dead hooker! What the fuck are we gonna do?"

"Whaddya mean `we' peckerwood," one of the black guys sneered.

"Yeah, I gotta get back to the office dude," I muttered, edging for the door.

A lightbulb seemed to go off in Comb-over's head. "I know what we can do!" He looked at me. "Do you have like a fire ax or anything around here? Or maybe some knives?"

I could see where he was going with this. "We might have a saw in our maintenance closet..."

"Good!" Comb-over said, slapping two more hundred dollar bills in my hand. "Go get it. And bring some trashbags," he said, nudging the still twitching corpse with his loafer. "She's pretty small. It shouldn't take more than two."

I stepped outside the room, pretty much convinced that I was going back to jail and probably death row. My only real way out would be if I let him dismember the body and get rid of it. This never happened. Anyway, I got the woodsaw out of the maintenance closet along with two Hefty bags off a housekeeping cart. I returned to the presidential suite and noticed that the nigger Nazis, the Indians and Raccoon leather boy had left, hopefully not to turn us into the police. I handed the saw to Comb-over and said, "I have to get back to office, people are going to be checking out soon..."

"No! You can't leave!" he said. He put the camera into my hands. "The Chinese have a saying that every crisis is an opportunity of something. Well, you're going to tape me while I chop this bitch up."

"What the fuck!" I said. "No way. Why do you want to make photographic evidence of this?"

"Because including snuff into this pretty much quadruples the value of this tape!" Comb-over said, yanking a gimp mask off the floor and putting it over his head. "Seriously, this stuff is big in Eastern Europe and Canada. I'll make millions inside a week! And no one's gonna miss her. I mean, it's not like I brought this chick here on a visa or anything."

I stood there dumbfounded. He cocked his head at me, "Look, I'll give you a cut of the money if you help me."

I didn't know what to say, I just raised the camera up and started shooting and tried not to look. That didn't matter though, since the sounds were even more sickening. The skin and the muscle made a sucking noise as the teeth of the saw tore through it. Then it made a horrible scraping noise as it hit the bone, followed by a snapping sound as the last little sliver of bone broke off. The worst though, was when he hit split the stomach and her entrails spilled out onto the carpet. The steamy smell of her guts was permanently etched onto a dark place in my psyche.

Comb-over just groaned. "Don't worry about this bro. After we're done, I'll hit Wal-Mart, get some rags and some 409 and clean this place up like nothing ever happened."

After one interminable hour of this horror, the girl was finally disassembled and placed in the two Hefty bags. "I'll chuck these in an incinerator in a few hours after I've got this place spic and span," he said, taking the camera from my hands. "Just go back to your office, and act like you didn't see anything. What's you're name son?"

"P-p-Poopy," I stammered.

"Weird name," he said. "Anyway Poopy, I'll be in touch with you. Just remember, you didn't see anything here tonight. ANYTHING."

I walked out of suite and went back down to the office in a daze. The sun was coming up. I felt like I'd just spent my whole night in Hell. I probably deserved to be executed for what I just was a part of. There was a drunk sleeping in the lobby of the office. I didn't have the heart to kick him out, even though I knew I had to before Sergei got in.

I didn't think I'd be able to sleep that day, but I ended up sleeping so deeply not even my mother's religious shows could wake me up. I must have been at the edge of mental exhaustion. And I didn't dream. I'm not religious, but thank God I didn't dream.

I dreaded going to work the next night. I was sure there would be police all over the place, ready to jump out and arrest me on sight, but everything seemed normal. Distressingly normal. After a few hours, I got the master key out and went over to the presidential suite. I trembled as I put the key in the lock and stepped inside. Everything looked like it was in place. There was no blood anywhere, all the beds were put back in their proper spot. Even the Gideon's Bible was right back where it was supposed to be.

So I went back to the office. Maybe it was all a dream? God knows I'd been through some trauma in the past year. This must have been all that subconscious shit bubbling to the surface.

Over the next few nights, I was able to convince myself that it was all just some waking nightmare, a hallucination, and things started getting back to normal for me. Just nights and nights of sitting in my bullet-proof office alone, reading girl magazines.

Then, just the other night, I noticed a manila envelope slipped under the door of the office with POOPY written on the front of it. I opened it up, and there were ten crisp one-hundred dollar bills, a DVD-R, and a letter. It read:

"Told you I'd make a ton of cash off this real quick. Here's your cut of the money. Don't spend it all in one place. Sincerely, Fletcher."

I picked the DVD-R up by the edges. It was cheaply made and had a homemade label across the top of it. It read, "The Aristocrats."

Sunday, August 14, 2005

Mother of the Year.


It's shit like this that gives me "mommy" issues.

Also, I'm surprised no one else has contributed their own "Aristocrats" joke. Guess not many people went and saw the movie. I nearly shat my pants when I saw it.

Bonus link: an English speaking Al Qaeda fighter. I've always been curious what these Allahu Ackbaring fuckers were saying in their shitty vids. I am oddly sympathetic to what they are saying. We are truly slaves to our desires.

Thursday, August 11, 2005

Welcome to Poopy's farm...


The only place on earth where the cow milks you!

Monday, August 08, 2005

My life is complete and utter hell...

So my mom decided to get a boyfriend. His name is Bruce and she met him at a church barbeque. I didn't know it was possible, but the sonofabitch is fatter than she is and sweats even more. He's so fucking huge he has to carry around an oxygen tank (you know, the one with the tube that fits in your nostrils) and walking up the four steps to get on our porch makes him wheeze.

Despite this, he thinks he's a badass. He's always talking about how he's this poor Vietnam vet who was in like the Special Forces and "can't talk about the things he did over there" (read: I don't want to make up shit that can be verified to be untrue.) The bastard is 46 years old. From my understanding, we left Vietnam in 1975, meaning we'd been out of Vietnam for a year by the time he was graduating high school. I want to kick him in his gut every time he starts whining about Jane Fonda.

The worst is when they start fucking. I don't know how people as fat as that can fuck (both their bellies hang way over their genitalia) much less go into cardiac arrest during it. The walls in this shitty house are so thin I can hear every "moo" they make. It makes me want to vomit.

I called a lawyer to see if I could get exemption from the class-action suit against the jail nullified because of how they botched my plastic surgery. "Well, I read over the agreement and it didn't specify which part of your derma they would use for the surgery." He said there might be a possibility of suing the doctor himself for malpractice, but the lawyer wanted a five-hundred dollar retainer for that. I told him to get lost. I have not a single dime to my name except what I can steal out of my mother's purse when she's drunk.

I think what really happened is that the late Chad Van Hertzwelder's daddy slipped some cash to the plastic surgeon. I'll get that fucker for that someday.

I tried to grow a beard to cover up the COCKSOCKET tattoo, but unfortunately my ass wasn't hairy enough and had no hair follicles. When I want to leave the house now, I just put a huge Band-Aid over that part of my jaw.

My probation officer doesn't fuck with me much. He's got about sixty other files he has to deal with, so we only meet with each other for about ten minutes each week. He has been asking more and more about getting a job, and tell him I'm working on it.

And it's hard work. No place wants to hire and ex-con. I don't see why you've got to have a squeaky clean legal record to shovel shit in a ditch, but apparently you do.
Anyway, my whining is belated, since I actually did get a job last week and will be starting tomorrow. I'm now officially the night clerk at the Lazy U Motel, a shithole crack motel within walking distance from my house here.

It's owned by this Russian cat named Sergei, who interviewed me for about five minutes before telling me I had the job. It's kind of hard to take Sergei seriously. He drives around in this 87 Honda that has, get this, a spoiler bolted to the trunk. He's always wearing a white jumpsuit with a gold chain. Imagine someone with just a rudimentary understanding of English trying to speak nigger and that's what talking to Sergei is like.

Anyway, it's money. I'm gonna save as much of it as I can so I can move out of mom's place pronto. The other day, she called me into her bedroom where she was laying half dressed with Bruce, asking me to go buy a ten-piece bucket of chicken at Popeyes and bring it back to them to eat in bed.

I didn't get them the chicken. I ran out of there and didn't return until I could get the disgusting flashbacks of my childhood out of my head.

Saturday, August 06, 2005

Osama Bin Laden tries to assassinate GWB.


Click here to read about OBL's nefarious plot to wipe out the president and Young Republicans everywhere.

Friday, August 05, 2005

...and I'm proud to be an American...


...cuz' at least I know I'm FREE...

Thursday, August 04, 2005

Hey pig piggy pig pig pig...


All of my DREAMS came true.

Tuesday, August 02, 2005

The Jailhouse Diaries: Denoument

My mother is drunk again. This time she killed a twelve pack of Natural Lights in the space of an hour and half or however long the 700 Club is on in the early afternoon. She got excited when Pat Robertson started praying and sensed that "there is someone out there in the audience with back pain" and immediately called their 1-800 Prayer Line to say that she thought he was talking about her. Then, she passed out and promptly shat and pissed herself. I can see this large brownish yellow stain drying around the crotch of her stretch pants, and can smell it from across the room. I'd move her, but the bitch weighs three hundred pounds and I don't want to get any of her filth on me. It depresses me to know that twenty-four years ago, I emerged from that smelly brown stain she calls a pussy.

In the meantime, outside Mexican kids are running around and screaming profanities at each other in Spanish because their social leech parents have not bothered to teach them English. Zacatecas ice cream carts go by outside every fifteen minutes, ringing their bells and generally being a nuisance. Why does every low-rider out there have a huge system that has to be blasting Mexican accordion music at top volume. At this point, I wish they'd start playing some rap music.

Yes, my mother's house and this neighborhood truly feel like Hell. Yet though I am narrating this story from this place, I am not truly in Hell. This isn't some lame movie like American Beauty or The Sixth Sense where I've been telling you all this from the grave. In the end, for better or for worse, I survived my experience in jail and in the riot that ensued.

The third time wasn't a charm. I bit the bullet on the third pull of the trigger, which sent a .38 slug hurtling into my mouth. However, putting a gun to your head is a notoriously unreliable way to commit suicide because of the human tendency to flinch at the last second. Put a gun up to your temple, and you'll usually just end up blowing out both of your eyeballs and blinding yourself. Putting a shotgun under your chin, three times out of seven, you'll just end up blowing your jaw off and mumbling shit about how a backwards Judas Priest record caused you to do that to some church newsletter.

The blast from the gun eradicated most of my remaining teeth, the gasses literally cooking my tongue. To this day, the only tastes I have left are salty and sour, and those are muted. I could eat a sun dried dog turd now without retching. As unsteadily as I was holding the gun though, the bullet passed at such an angle that it exited at the top of my jawbone, shattering it and burning out a huge chunk of my cheek, before exiting out just under my ear.

That evil spic Armando, was not as lucky.

While holding the shank against my throat, his head was in such a position so that when the bullet exited my face, it passed right into his eye. The bullet had lost enough velocity at that point to not blow out the back of his head, but it had enough speed to ping-pong against the inside of his skull until his brains resembled gray scrambled eggs. He died almost instantly.
The trauma made me pass out, but got the rest of what happened from that child molester, Nathan.

Roughly the same time as I had inadvertently shot Armando, the SWAT teams decided to retake the cellblock. The Mexicans had gathered about five shotguns and a few pistols, but the SWAT team was loaded to bear with HK-5's, stun grenades, tear gas, AR-17's with steel jacketed rounds that could penetrate body armor etc. The prisoners had hostages, but apparently any one working or even entering our jail has to sign a waiver saying that they understand in the event of a riot, they are in a free-fire zone, and absolving the state from any liability. The only reason the SWAT team had taken so long was because the lawyers insisted they collect the forms from the hostage's files, just to be sure, before going inside.

Anyway, though Armando was out of the picture, the retaking of the cell block only sped up most of the hostages deaths. I think only two guards survived the whole ordeal, and they were quickly ferried out of state with huge settlements tied to non-disclosure clauses, so the press never heard from them again.

About twenty other prisoners were killed in the conflict too, since the SWAT team fired indiscriminately. Since I already looked dead, no rounds were expended on me. Once the jail was retaken, the entire place went into lockdown for two months while the ringleaders were removed and placed into solitary for the rest of their natural lives.

I was in the infirmary during all of that, with my jaw wired together and big piece of gauze covering the gaping hole in my cheek. The days there either felt like seconds or years depending on how much dope they pumped into my system. I feel a little more sympathetic towards junkies now, since that stuff really does feel good after awhile.

I didn't get any piece of a settlement, but the state did come with papers saying they would pay for some reconstructive surgery if I waived my right to sue them (apparently the ACLU was snooping around trying to put together a class action suit amongst the prisoners.) I could have been signing my soul away for all I knew with the amount of morphine I was jacked up on, but I did it anyway.

The plastic surgeons took me to a special clinic for the surgery. After breaking and resetting the bone, they grafted a piece of skin from my ass over the hole that was fried out of my cheek. I had to keep the bandages on for two weeks. By this time, I only had two weeks until I was to be reprocessed into the world. I was close to the end of my sentence.

I had recovered enough to be allowed back into general population for my last week. Almost all the faces seemed to have changed when I went back. The old gangs had been obliterated and new ones (that didn't have a beef with me) had emerged. There were a few old faces in the crowd, but they looked cowed, unwilling to speak of what had happened.

That week came and went, and most people were afraid of me because of the bandages all over my face. I wasn't a bitch, I was a deformed monster, an old timer who had been the only person to survive El Diablo's wrath. Most people talk about how they feel frightened to leave jail when their sentence is up; that the walls own them. That's some Shawshank Redemption horseshit. I couldn't wait to be the fuck out of that place.

I was to leave at noon on my last day in jail. That was also the first day I could take my bandages off. I woke up, ate breakfast (which was Eggo waffles and fruit cocktail that day), and went to my cell, staring at the mirror. I slowly started unwrapping the gauze from my face, gentle around the places where it had grown into the scabs.

At first, I was impressed. I was half expecting to see a completely different person in the mirror. I looked roughly the same as I had in past, though my skin was clammy and pale.
Then I noticed it. The piece of skin they had grafted from my ass conveniently was the part that Armando had tattooed COCKSOCKET onto. Only this couldn't be hidden in my pants. This was on my face for all of eternity.

I screamed. El Diablo had touched me from beyond the grave.