Hookers or Cake

A Charlie Bronson Thanksgiving (aka Death wish VII)

(Source: hookersorcake)

In the future God was just a computer program that some pervert down at the YMCA created so he could spy on women. It worked really well. So well in fact that when God, the program, was discovered it was taken over by a secret federal agency. They were all pretty amazed by God, the program, and used the technology they found therein to drive the world into all devouring singularity.  Luckily when all of consciousness merged into one, it just realized “Whoa dude, like cool” and then bounced back inversely through itself into the big bang gang of reality again. It was a close call.
In the subsequent reordering of our universe God got made into a reference point of that, “Whoa dude, like cool” moment and then some other dudes wrote some really shitty fan fiction.

In my fan fiction God never leaves the YMCA and the ladies. A zombie plague hits and all the women become zombies who have communion on our dear sweet God. And they just don’t rip him to shreds, they have a great elegant feast where God is served in several courses with music and jugs of wine and dancing. In the end God says grace and is devoured completely.

I watched some TV tonight and I was appalled at how grotesquely arrogant it had all become. Maybe it was always this way and I never noticed because I don’t watch much TV. Why do salesmen need to scream at me about cars and cheeseburgers while being overrun by a marching band? I muted it and put on a opera for audio, that seem to help a great deal, but I still felt anxious.

Why was I watching TV in the first place? Perhaps it was because I owed a ham sandwich a lot of money and I didn’t want to think about it. Whatever the case the TV wasn’t helping, opera or not it all just felt so desperate, so I turned it off and got drunk. In my drunken stupor I accidentally ate the ham sandwich. So in a way, my problem was solved, but then I felt terribly guilty. I guess the only thing left to do was to set my drinking setting to guilt and turn the TV back on. It was either that or wallow in self despair for a few hours.

I watched an old episode of Three’s Company. Jack was up to some crazy scheme with Larry and an airplane stewardess. There was some confusion where everyone was listening in on everyone elses conversation. They spoke in hushed tones about love and death. I was all so beautiful that I began to cry. Maybe I was still listening to the opera, but I distinctly remember a laugh track. A laugh track and the death of more ham.

A story inspired by greed, love, redemption, transformation, and a lewd picture I found on the internet.

The dildo tree was a kind of mutant tree that grew large banana shaped fruit that was hard as a coconut and it just so happened to grow in front of Karl’s Uncle’s convenience store. Over the years The dildo tree became a little bit of a tourist attraction and one day it was featured in the TLC reality show Midget Clown Whores of Atlanta and then it really took off. People came from as far away as Japan just to have their picture taken in front of the tree and too buy a t-shirt or perhaps a even a real piece of the rock hard dildo fruit.

The owner of the Dildo Tree Gift shop, Karl Hendrix, had been a lot of things in life, but he never imagined that he’d take over the shop after his Uncle passed. In fact Karl, being a man of God, would’ve walked away from the shop tomorrow if he didn’t need the money. And Karl desperately needed the money. The story of his life. After the war Karl had become such a hopeless drug addict that he was a hired thug and even became an underground knife fighter. He’d maimed several men and probably even killed a few, all because he needed money for his drug habit. And when Karl found God and became born again, he became a preacher and discovered that he needed to hustle even harder than when he’d been an addict, just to keep the church running. Now it was his wife Beverly who needed the money, she was deathly ill and the treatments were expensive.

Karl had actually almost closed the store a few times though because he worried that The Dildo Tree shop was an affront to God and maybe God wouldn’t heal Beverly because of this particular transgression. Bev always laughed when Karl told her that. She always told him the same thing, “The Lord works in mysterious ways, my dear. God don’t punish people for love.”

“Open the Dom! On my way home!” was all Lydia Wesson’s text to her husband said. Lydia was a scientist who’d been working for a large charity foundation in the effort to discover a cure for a deadly disease. Her husband Cliff, smiled as he pulled out the 12 yr old bottle of Dom Perignon his wife had put in the fridge the night before. She wanted to perform a second and third test to make sure that the cure was real. Maybe drinking ridiculously expensive champagne would now become a normal thing in their life, along with the articles and personal appearances… Cliff shook his head embarrassed, how could he even think of their life when the cure would literally save the life of thousands. It had been years of hard work. The foundation would be thrilled. Finally a cure! But the foundation was not thrilled and the champagne went flat.

The foundation had raised over a billion dollars that year alone, a new record in their “Search for the Cure! ®” The powers that be were not about to let some idealistic scientist destroy that massive torrent of revenue with a simple antidote. Lydia was being followed home from the lab and would be intercepted and taken care of. The foundation would survive and the money would continue to flow.

Luckily for Lydia and all of humanity, she stopped at a store on the way home. The store was next to the local odd giftshop/tourist trap, The Dildo Tree. Old Karl was out in front of the store having a smoke when Lydia was jumped by four hired thugs. At first Karl didn’t know what to do, but his eyes landed on the fruit of the dildo tree and his old knife fighting skills took over.

Four men where fucked to death that day and Lydia’s life along with thousands of others were saved, including Karl’s wife Beverly who was sick with the same disease that Lydia had found a cure for. Proving of course that the Dildo tree was more than just a crude joke and that perhaps God does work in mysterious ways.

all you really need to know.

(Source: )

Are we not fucked? Slowly marinating in our own juices? The flesh isn’t weak, its just tender. A lifetime of regret, longing, and tears unspilled.

When I was older I used to break into churches. I’d fill the baptismal font with piss and leave a special offering on the altar. I’d paint the walls with goats blood. Well, really it was chicken blood. I went so far as to actually buy a goat but I became quite found of him. I named him Admiral Steve. We were kindred spirits. Admiral Steve ate whatever, shit wherever, and was always in the mood for a fight. What a blessed creature. So I used chicken blood to paint my pentagrams.

Perhaps I was mad at God, or maybe it was the Methodists.

Both had done me wrong.

These days no one cares enough to shit on a church altar. There’s too much to see, do, be in all those little electronic gadgets they hold in front of there noses. What are they looking for in those little things? Do they ever find it?

I wait in the thicket with my pail of chicken blood and fire, while the minister locks up for the night. He’s trembling, his eyes wide, furtively searching the darkness with each little twig I snap. Someday he’ll realize that I am giving him and everyone else a wonderful gift, finally a living form of darkness to fight. An admirable foe. Gods need devils. The little shits with their I-phones need to smell some real shit and rancid blood and witness for themselves the power and glory of life gone beautifully wrong. Oh, but it feels so right tonight, here naked in this church, raising hell.

I had been in Italy for a couple months. Nothing too glamorous, just working in a shipyard somewhere west of Venice. Once I got back in the U.S., I found out that Old Dirty Bastard had died. I immediately phoned my best friend.

Me: “Dude! ODB died?

F: “Yeah… you didn’t know?

Me: Dude I was out of town! Why didn’t you call me?

F: Oh I dunno, I figured you woulda heard.

Me: Like some Italian is gonna run up to me in the street and say? ‘Scuse! Sir! Americano? I so sorry for you loss… the… Aged Dirty Bastard… he isa dead!”

:::click to animate

This is my new favorite gif.

Follow this hot dog you will love it on your face

money shot, sans mustard

I just wrote perhaps the most epic tale ever, only I write everything here in tumblr’s little interface and when I hit “create post” it spoke to me of server problems and thus my post was lost. Weep hot bright tears over the loss my friends, but don’t get too upset, for we shall all laugh heartily with its ghost. It was/is hilarious, trust me.

I have been telling my phone to translate the names of poets from French into English and it has given me these translations:

:

Emily Dickinson: American pie

Walt Whitman: yourself

Langston Hughes: stencil

Guillaume Apollinaire: I have an intranet

Sylvia Plath: worry

Gertrude Stein: tab Paris

William Carlos Williams: weemove nothing

Marianne Moore: however

Marina Tsvetaeva: but puts out

William Blake: yeah dude

Harryette Mullen: not create or

Wallace Stevens: paresthesia

(This is my new favorite game.)

fun with robots!