Eliot and I were convinced That there was a time vortex To the 1990s At the Target on Ohlen Rd. There was some weird energy In the freezer section That extended out to the street Where you could feel that Just on the other side of Some cosmic membrane Tupac was blasting From low riders.
We went to investigate. For some reason we went to The Arboretum To get money And then we bought booze From the Twin Liquor by the HEB. We bought wedding cake flavored vodka Because it was on sale. We needed the booze to properly Investigate the vortex.
Eliot was going on about gemmatria. He said it was the secret to everything. But it sounded to me Like a way to drive yourself mad.
We found a patch of woods To drink the vodka. It was a beautiful spot Next to a creek.
He was a very sad man. I was not as I used to be. I was living with the woman I live with now. He was battling literal demons In the forest of the green belt Where he lived.
We drank the whole bottle And never made it to The Target That day.
Soon he would accuse me Of conspiring with the spirits In his head To try to kill him. I never heard from him after that.
WARNING! DO NOT READ THIS STORY! IT’S ABSOLUTELY DISGUSTING AND THE PRODUCT OF A DISEASED MIND! I’M NOT JOKING. NOBODY SHOULD READ THIS FILTH. I’M ONLY PUTTING IT ON THIS BLOG BECAUSE IT’S MY BLOG AND I CAN DO WHAT I WANT WITH IT. IF YOU READ THIS ANYWAY, I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR ANY RAMIFICATIONS! YOU READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!
Baroness Jasmine Hovel, in more than a few ways, resembled a hot bag of mayonnaise left out in the sun. Her scent, her personality, her general demeanor, and excretions all bore a vile resemblance to the sweltering condiment.
She spent her days investing heavily in housing derivatives, according to what the tarot cards read, watching old reruns of surgery footage, and smoking about 10 packs of Benson & Hedges a day.
The Baron Anthony Hovel of Bologna resembled a skeleton stricken with rickets, with the dermis of a patchwork quilt made of discarded foreskins.
They were cousins of some remove and neither changed their names in the marriage. Both of them bore the pustules all over their body which had been the trademark of the Hovels for three generations.
He hated her smoking. And what’s worse, she insisted on smoking indoors.
“Darling,” he timidly began, “It says in the Bible that it’s a sin to smoke.” He pulled a bible from behind his back and began to read. “‘For thy lungs are my lungs. And thou artest not to inhaleth thine smoking sticks. For it createth a great mustard in my lungs which is super gross. And people have been talkingeth, sayingeth that they don’t wanteth to hangeth outeth with thou anymore. Because thy acrid smoke which billows from thine mouth is unappealing.’ Ablutions 420:69.”
The baroness didn’t look up from the television, which was displaying a surgeon hacking away at a gallbladder. “When did we become religious?” She exhaled smoke and hot mayonnaise scent into the atmosphere.
The baron, defeated, quietly stomped off. In his spoiled, anemic, inbred heart he was stomping. But he didn’t want to disturb anyone. So he was quiet about it.
The greasy egg yolk of the sun slipped down the skypan, giving way to a bacon splatter of stars.
The great dining hall was illuminated by fireplaces on either end of the hall, and several candelabra. The portraits of inbred relatives lined the walls, with eyes that flitted around the room according to the whims of the flames. The heads of two-headed bucks and super-rhinoceroses loomed.
On either side of an absurdly long dinner table, the baron and baroness were dressed in their dinner attire. The servants dart about without names or faces, trying their best to be non-entities.
“I was examining,” began the baron, “the skulls of Greek Orthodox cretins today, and found a new devious ridge with my calipers.” He had a sip of orphans’ tears, which was his usual before-dinner beverage. “I will present my findings to the Gentlemen’s League of Phrenological Discovery next month.”
The baroness had filled halfway the dinner ashtray. She picked at some fresh pustules on her arm. The ooze of the pustules looked like cold mayonnaise. “That’s lovely dear,” she mumbled, eyes downcast.
“When do you,” queried the baron, “think we may have sexual coitus again? We did it that one time, before the war, and I thought it was really great.”
The question lingered in the air just long enough for social discomfort to set in. Then the main course arrived to the dining hall. A 5 foot long roast centipede was for dinner again. The baron’s favorite.
“Centipede again,” said the baroness. “How original.”
A nameless, faceless servant cut into the great beast, revealing the gooey, gelatinous inner parts. The baron always claimed the head for its delicious brain meat.
The baroness lit another cigarette while the last one still burned in the tray.
“Must you smoke at dinner, my love?”
“I’m clear across the room. I doubt you can tell the difference.” She popped another pustule and smeared the mayonnaise on her newly-arrived bug meat.
“I can barely see you; there’s so much smoke.”
The baroness’s eyes narrowed, and said through gritted teeth, “I will have sex with you right now on this table if you will never mention my smoking again.”
The baron was torn. He hated the smoking, but his balls were so backed up from 25 years without sexual congress. He agreed to the arrangement.
The baroness was so out of breath from hoisting herself onto the table she popped a lung pustule and coughed up some mayo. “Alright, let’s get this done.”
When the servants registered what was happening they all ran to their quarters. Nobody wants to see that.
The baron eventually reached the other side of the table. He was going to kiss her, but she lit another cigarette and thought better of it. He lifted her skirts and pulled down her bloomers to reveal her pustuled underparts. Then he pulled down his own pants.
The baron had two penises. One was 3 feet long. The other was 3 inches long. Both were covered in pustules. The longer one was more for show. It had never had an erection. The shorter one was the business end.
He tried to put his little pecker in her hole, but it wouldn’t go. The baroness rolled her eyes. “You have to lube it up, dummy.” She stuck her fist into the centipede steak and pulled out a fist of goo. She rubbed her cunt fiercely with the goo.
Still he couldn’t get his pecker in. He tried t vigorously that he popped a pustule. This allowed him to get the head inside. Then a realization came to him. He slowly ran his hand down his bigger cock, popping every pustule along the way. He applied a fist of mayo to her vagina, which allowed smooth entry.
He pumped three times and that was enough for him. As he came, the baroness blew smoke in his face. His little cock did a little spurt and he thought that was the end of it. But then he felt a great rumbling in the big cock.
Suddenly a great spray came from the monster cock, which splattered everything in the vicinity. Then an even greater spray came with such force that it rocketed the baron’s frail frame around the dining hall. He broke bones and damaged organs as he hit the ceiling, then the wall, then the floor. Then he was projected to the far end of the hall, where he was impaled from the back by the horn of a super-rhinoceros.
The baron slowly died in agony; his giant floppy cock still spraying cum all over, like a firehose without a fireman.
The baroness wiped herself off with the table cloth. She pulled up her bloomers and had a seat. Thankfully, the cum hadn’t ruined he cigarettes. She pulled out a new Benson & Hedges and lit it. She took a long, luxuriant drag.
The problem with epiphanies Is they wear off. By definition Their magic Must dissipate. The overwhelming delight Of understanding Eventually gives way To the dull thrum of living. And you wonder Is it better to know The epiphany’s fleeting ecstasy Knowing the hollowness Once it’s gone? Or is it better To live in ignorance Of that which Now evades you?
Why do I feel the need to commodify my every thought? Why do I seek the validation of likes for my work? I hate this part of myself. I want to create for the sheer joy of creation. What would I make if validation didn’t matter?
The most annoying part Of the pandemic Has to be The cloying Saccharine commercials Speaking in earnest Vocal fry With stock piano Chords Fuzzy montages “We care about you. Don’t get out the guillotine. Buy a Toyota In these hard times.” And then the viewer Presumably damp-eyed From all the corporate love Buys a thing Because “we’re all in this together.”
Oh to be a philosopher before Kant. You could just say whatever you reckon And be lauded for it. You didn’t even have to think too hard. Just say stuff in an authoritative tone And BAM You’re a philosopher. This tradition persists in American Conservative thought. From Locke to Rand to Peterson Reckoning out loud Is the same thing as intellectual rigor.