REMOVE THE MOTION AND FOLLOW THE EASE.

Every morning I do my best to stay "normal." I think of Hemingway and tell myself that before lunch I will have chosen a foreign war to get interested in. I will plan for my first few wives and what sort of children I will have with them. My first wife, the bookish intellectual who never touches my balls during a blowjob. The charming social butterfly who freezes up when I finger her asshole. The woman in plain clothes with the belly laugh, she'll die with me at the point of old age. Ignoring numerous affairs with prostitutes and my penchant for repeated fucking even after my ejaculate has run dry. She won't love me but we will find a common ground of trust and friendship. She'll wear a bikini poolside and skinny dip when we are alone. We will never have children, knowing that the faults and poor qualities in each other do not need to be repeated in a child.

Yet none of these future women will get to see what I need them to. Certain conversations will never get finished and my need to accomodate others will leave me unsatisfied with life. I am on the path to chronic depression shadowed by a heavy heart that gives to those I love, or think I should love. I play my part because I wrote it. I want to see how it ends. Living life as an experiment, hoping that I'm right and in the end those around me will understand what it was I was trying to do. "What are you trying to do?"

Take control. Of everything inside of me. Swing my desire. Punish my timidness with abrupt bouts of over confidence. Designing a man for myself to become, and sculpting my being into that man. The Perfect Man. Undying and unflinching. The giver and the taker. The builder and the destroyer. The only living God amongst those that do not believe it is possible.

A lonely soul of fire.

WHERE WE REALIZE SEX IS REALLY OUR OWN.

Perhaps as we fish around our lived neighborhoods for common cuts of people, we find a suitable face, an appropriating body to link to. What is this? Dessertion of ourselves? Escaping to join someone else's world through putting skin to skin, flesh into flesh. This is called "fucking."

And then they leave. You leave. These bodies part ways, but then it happens again, now it's someone different. Freshly shaved pubic hair. Your breasts are different to him. His chest wider than the previous man. This happens and it goes. You leave. They leave.

On again. New person. New body cavity, new apendage. Then over and out.

At the end of the day, today, you look back and count (whispered, of course) and you think, "not so bad. It's a normal amount." The thing is, you carry this with you. This is not the benefit of experience, it is the detriment of the empty temple.

If on your death bed no one loves you perhaps it's because you never loved anyone enough to stay away, and wait. Your future started when you were born, and if you never dreamed of a unique love for yourself, you never worked for it, it never came. You're left with people, names that lasted awhile, but never dug deep into your heart and life. Don't just take what is in your arm's reach, this is not a standard bearing deserving of anyone.

It is better to have a perfect bubble than a fractured home. Protect what you have when all you have is yourself.

UNFORGIVENESS IS UNFORGIVENING

"LIFE WITHOUT PASSION IS UNFORGIVABLE. "

"Yeah, I'm so not unforgivable then."

"YOU GOT PASSION? THAT'S HOW YOU LIVE?

"Passion. Yup."

"TRY THIS NEW COLOGNE, UNFORGIVABLE."

"No, I live with passion, so I'm not unforgivable."

"IT'S MINE. I MADE IT. TOTALLY SMELLS HOW I LIKE TO SMELL THINGS TO SMELL."

"Sure."

"UNFORGIVABLE."

"I'm not though. I'm forgivable."

"ABSOLUTELY. UNFORGIVABLE."

"No, Puffy. I'm forgiven because of my passionate life. I do things. Manage. Control. Conquer."

"THAT'S RIGHT. JUST THE MAN TO WEAR UNFORGIVABLE."

Okay, Sean John Puffy Combs Diddy. When you say "life without passion is unforgivable," can't we gather that a person shouldn't want to be "unforgivable?" Who wants to be unforgivable if it means you've lived without passion?

So, question.

Why fucking name your cologne (fragrance of the fledging Abercrombie set) Unforgivable? What you are saying is a negative thing. You made the description, the word "unforgivable," a way of life no one should want because that would mean you lack passion for living. If you had to pull a word from your quote, wouldn't "Passion" be a wiser choice for a name?

Fuck wise, right? You made a celebrity cologne. When has that proven to be a smart business move, outside of the White Diamonds bathroom cabinet? Britney's Curious? Check Walgreens. Pretty well stocked. You'll make your millions, of course of course, but it won't prove your grammatical worth.

Whatever. Just don't try and write a book, but if you do, choose poetry please. Or a self-help book. Your brilliance is unforgivable.

No seriously, that's a good thing.

WHAT HAPPENS IN WAR STAYS IN WAR.

The news media can be mocked readily, as they tend to fail at bringing "news" but succeed in fabricating jumbled nonsense and then present it as important, all with that winsome smile of the amiable mentally ill. So relating a story that greeted me today, I've re-written the headline, draining the caustic sponge of excess and leaving what I would like to call the "news fat."

MEDIOCRE COMMUNITY COLLEGE GAL NAMED BEAUTY QUEEN.

Isn't that the true travesty? An example of failed human judgment? Some group whose official duty it is to name beauty queens in the Minnesota area gave this honor to 22 year-old Jessica Gaulke, who is nothing above (physically speaking) your average girl that the world would never miss.



First, there is a ton of bullshit in the story. The point the media is focusing on is that she is off to Iraq AND she's a beauty queen. Like it's mind blowing that well groomed vaginas could, or would, carry a gun in the desert and shoot folks they've never met. Okay. It might work, it might get packs of beauty queens to join the Army.

The thing is, this girl joined the reserves years ago. She's no Pat Tillman here, giving up a million dollar career out of sense of duty. She goes to community college and from the looks of her, this whole "beauty queen" position wasn't exactly going to land her any big deals in Hollywood or Milan.



You know, hey, she's all right. Kind of cute. Not pretty. Not adorable or beautiful. Not "double take" worthy at all, but who is? This is obvious, so why would the media use her story? Is it to drum up support for the war? To show that various walks of life find their way to Iraq? She's going overseas because she signed a contract with the Reserves few years ago while a senior in high school, not exactly inspirational. Is it because they know she's not attractive, so how in the fuck did she become a beauty queen? Is it a joke? A sense of humor amongst this nation's editors?

"Check her out. Fucking beauty queen."

"Heard she's going to Iraq. Reserves or some shit."

"No shit? But she's a beauty queen. Check out that nose."

"Pretty unremarkable girl."

"Fuck it. Front page."

Welcome to your fifteen minutes, Jessica. In a span of two weeks you will be on Good Morning America, The Today Show, maybe Leno, some CNN program. Fuck it, Larry King might talk to you, but not about you, because this isn't technically about you don't forget, it's about the war and it's coverage. It's about the girl next door, not some dumbshit blockhead, signing up for the Army. It's about watching innocence and apple pie getting fitted for a bullet proof vest.

There might be a Movie of the Week when you get back, or if you die, better if you die, but that's for the papers to decide. Someone much prettier than you will play you, and when this TV version of you is a beauty queen it will make more sense than how it actually happened to you. When she dies it will be more tragic. The scene at the grave, as the flag is folded and handed off, your TV parents will cry. Of course this will make your real world parents cry, but they will do it on CNN or Larry King now speaking out against the war, asking, begging for answers, why innocent beauty queens had to die in Iraq.

But by then beauty queens will have enlisted in swarms. Like with blacks before them, they will get their own unit, pink sashes and all, they'll get teased and raped and one of them will earn the Purple Heart for getting shrapnel in her arm.

And that will be you. This will be your day. You will remember it all and if it were to manifest itself you would use the memory while in Iraq to masterbate to and you will start to wonder if female ejaculation is just a myth and you will recall the rest of your first day in the news as well, what else happened that ran parallel to your own news worthy life.

And you will remember this.



You shared headlines with the opening of Happy Feet.

I SAVE ALL MY SEXUAL FRUSTRATIONS FOR YOU.

Dear War Torn Planet Earth,

This is gargantuan, this moment I am having. Are you having it too? (Too, in the sense of "as well." Welcome to the English language.) There is the constant (favorite word) ache to get the fuck out of here. Of course, there is the short ordered reason. A semi-glaze of short-handed language.

Out there, on the existence of foreign topography, are the "nooks and crannys" of this world's (yours, see?) body. The "Body Planetary" if you will. With your shape are the shapes of others, mainly the round and plump rear muscles of the human female.



My lovely female companion has one of these on her. Beautiful to the fucking teeth. Armed in everything a woman has. The shadowy crevice, is it were, that you, Wonderful Earth contains, so does a woman's body. Of course, obviously, I have a limp cock in my pants yet can still ejaculate at any moment, an "inner-erection" if you will. It's spiritual. This constant burr in my loins is on the edge of eruption whenever I see a fine slab of a woman's rear. The dove tail of her underclothes, the furrowed indentation at the head of her ass crack.

All I can say is, I am not above admitting I have a distinct desire to lick and suck on a beautiful woman's asshole. To have her rest her cheeks on my face, like mounting a bicycle, is what I desire most right now.

My dear sweet female companion would oblige me of this, I believe. Yet, I am not man enough to ask this of her. So you, My Planet Earth, I ask to swing things my way. Do your spinning moves around the moon and what-have-you, to sway her mind and emotions cosmically. And if you could, while you are at it, please remind her heart and mouth that it would be all right, and would down right thrill me, if she said "I love you" more than once a week.

God Bless.

AT THE POINT WHERE EVERYONE SPEAKS IN HALF JOKES.

The perpetual boner that is the male underthing is a difficult item to understand, especially in the midst of subtle depression. Desire is as desire does. It most definately needs to go unspoken, but showered in glossy mentionings of every female body that passes, we utter our agreement to ourselves with the choices God of Lordness has made.

The vagina? Picture perfect.

The breasts? No complaints.

The ass? Brilliant.

I do prefer the darkened pancake nipple myself, those found best in vintage magazines and pubic hair'd porno of the '50s & '60s, but that is simply the preference of a man born of the age of the Airbrushed & Shaven.

I do, as it were, have a female companion of my own who tosses my member about. In the mouth and in the vagina. Very good. Very good indeed. What I ask is mostly agreed to, and that which I do not ask - well, I will grow up to asking. It takes a daring and strengthened man to look a loved one straight in the eyes and say, "Turn around so I can stick it in your ass then pull it out to cum on your face. Oh yeah, don't forget to suck it clean as well."

Such a man is either a dense idiot or a well loved gentleman brave even for honesty. I an neither of these. Yet.

At the moment I would like to meet this young thing -



A few things I know about her are:

01. She's English, of the Great Britain variety.
02. She's a tad chunky (I like that.)
03. She refers to herself as a glamour model.
04. She appears different in profile than she does dead on.
05. There is no way to be sure that her myspace page is actually hers.

Beyond this it is all guesses and common vagaries of imagination.

Is she a slut? Who knows, but the best guess would be "yes." And here's why. She poses nude for money. This is a known fact, sex sells. She is selling her sexuality to us all, there it is, tada. This becomes her worth. She could make money other ways, for her dignities sake, but she does not fear for her dignity, perhaps she sees it differently. Very well. A harem is always built up of floozies, that is it's purpose.

Anyway. Point?

Exactly, none taken.

As much as I would like to romp and roll with this young woman is as much as I would not be too thrilled to roll around town with her at my ready to meet family and friends. Not the sort of creature. Tada. Instant asshole. First and foremost, honest and hypothetical for sure, as always the best bets are.

This still does not change the shape of the picture in my cranial theater of her round flab cheeks grinding in and around my lap as the littlest me digs deep into the well of her English skin.



Again, tada. There is no need to imagine her at the bank or flossing her teeth. It never really happens. Real women, those that pose as cashiers and station attendants, only mimic flesh & bone. Ethereal. Simulacra of Mother Fucking Nature. Nautical compasses on land, destinations for lost heroes, so on and so forth. Anything twisting of language to avoid two words:

01. "Goddess"
02. "Pedestal"

A world without men is a dreamlife of breasts and plush mounds of river water'd vagina.

God Bless.

(pictures stolen from the thighmaster.)