‘I’ve always believed in love.’ Said the apprentice as the cold barrel of a rifle touched his scalp.

‘Do you like bitters in your whiskey?’ Asked the Master of the young apprentice.

‘You think I’d take a drink from my enemy?’ Said the leader of the gang.

‘This is about honor.’ Said the Master.

‘Then let us drink!’ Said the head Marauder, sheathing his weapon, and placing a thick wad of cash on the bar.

‘CUT!’ Said a mustachioed director in a black beret with a chalkboard sign.

‘This does not feel real. I want real.’ Said the director. ‘Do you want more money? Is this why you are acting so bad?’

‘I’m just sick of the taste of your wife’s pussy on my breath. I’ve tried two different kinds of mouthwash.’ Said the Marauder.

‘Nobody talks to me like that.’ Said the director.

‘And her asshole.’ Said the Master.

‘Did you get that?’ Screamed the director at the camera crew and his assistants.

‘Yes sir. Caught it all’ Said the Producer.

‘This is real. This is perfect!’ Said the director sitting back in the chair with a smile.

remember when

Harry Styles

needed a haircut

and now he needs

to get off daytime radio

driving over the

Golden Gate Bridge

pressing random buttons

to stop this mayhem

they say the

easiest solution

is often the right one

what takes us to

the next station

the song changes

to something nostalgic

One Direction

What Makes You Beautiful

life always comes

full circle

enjoy the journey,

well, what if the journey sucks?

it only sucks because you resist change in your mind,

how can I stop resisting and be fully alive?

ask yourself how do you feel right now -

if you feel sad, or bored, it’s OKAY -

accept being sad, tell yourself ‘I FEEL BORED.’

if you’re happy, or content in all things,

and these words are flowing off the paper like bird wings in the sky,

accept being happy, tell yourself ‘I AM CONTENT.’

who am I?

I don’t know,

that’s the magic

What sordid queries! Filth and grime!

A rapiered simian? Shock sublime!

But...

To own my addiction,

(Since this is non-fiction)

...I'd take cock in the car every time.

First and raw draft.

The narcissist was nice to me today. She initiated correspondence. She had a sort gift offering for me. Nothing too unusual. Her initiating, her being nice, and, more than anything, her apparently being truthful and cluing me in on her plans for the next year was the surprising part. She’s got big plans. Big changes. She wanted to let me know. She was behaving like someone who even cared—a bit.

I’d better watch out.

Still. It was good news, I think. News that strongly implies that she’ll be taking the kids and relocating far away in order to escape this communist-Covidian shithole. I am the only husband in the world that actually WANTS his ex-wife to abscond with the children and flee the state. You go, my kids’ biological mommy. Go! Go! Get them out of here! I don’t want my children raised in a marxist cesspool. She won’t ever cooperate. Narcs never cooperate. But if she just takes them and goes, I will follow as soon as I can. I am her withered anglerfish appendage until the children are a little older. Ha. Things are so marxist-rotten in this region, if it got much worse, I WOULD go without them, male anglerfish or not. The women here are 99% marxist-feminist misandrists. One-third of the masktarded, TV-believing people in this region are STILL DRIVING AROUND WITH MASKS ON IN THEIR CARS. These marxists are lost. They rebelled and spat in God‘s eye one too many times. God has given them over to their government gods.

Eerily, my ex-narc has just about all my values and beliefs. Narcs are hollow vessels. They don’t really have any important core values, other than feeding their narcissism, unless they absorb those values from those around them. No one will ever get “closer” to her than I did, so she apparently absorbed my values. Her values now are very opposite of what they were when I met het. Like virtually every other woman in this area, she used to be something of a marxist new ager type. But not very strong into that even. But now she is rather hardcore into what I believe, and it is what is causing her to hate this government-worshipping place and want out also. She seems to have absorbed my worldview and core values rather strongly for a typically empty-vesseled narc.

I say, Praise the Lord. I was able to protect my children in a most unconventional way: through an empty narcissist’s value-osmosis process.

I like to take it a step further, though, and be a bit more specific and carnal. Just like how I used to brag about why our children look so much more like me than her, I am gonna go ahead and declare that the way she also absorbed MY values, why this narcissist who once parasitized and exploited me is now walking around touting, defending, and espousing MY values, is because of the awesome, overwhelming potency of the sperm inside my manly balls. Yes, Honey, remember how I used to joke and boast about the likeness of our kids to me and not to you? Remember when I would joke to our friends that “My sperm asserted itself!” Damn. I didn’t even know you were a narcissist then. That must have driven you covertly crazy with rage. Oh, but I’m sure you got me back in some secret, petty, plausible-deniability way. Of course you did.

You absorbed my sperm, my ever secretive, ever boastful matri-narc of our “home.” Maybe you were right in denying me sex all those other multiples of times. You felt the overwhelming power. You felt the loss of control to me inside you. The oh-so-few times we ever did it, considering how long we were married. And you narcs CANNOT STAND to give up control and be vulnerable, not even for an instant.

Too late, narc woman. You tried to dominate me a decade and a half, but in the end it was YOU who were dominated.

Yes, prideful, boastful, domineering woman. My sperm asserted itself. It took over your entire belief system. My amateur lumberjack ejaculate knew it would be the only way to protect my children. MY children—did you hear that, narc? Mine. God gave me power over you. By way of my manly balls. You’re beaten, bitch. You just don’t realize it; and it’d probably kill you if you did.

I live on a farm. I live on a farm because I love my husband, Charlie. He loves growing things. I'm allergic to everything so I'm not much help with the animals, the orchard or the garden. I work in the city. It's a three hour commute round trip, but I really don't mind the drive. I love my job.

Arnie, not so much.

Arnie, our resident rooster, thinks I am one of his chicks. Every single morning without fail he is waiting for me by the car, ready for battle. Doesn't matter if the sun is below the horizon or well into the sky, if I am heading to work, he is waiting to crow at me and peck my toes. I can't even bribe him to leave me alone.

If Charlie is with me, Arnie is off chasing his hens. But if I'm alone, better be sure my feet are covered. I actually have scars from the early days before I realized who was boss.

You might say, why don't you just get a new rooster. Well, first and foremost, Arnie, loony tune that he is, is family. You don't just replace family when they get on your last nerve. Much as the idea might appeal. No, family is for keeps. More importantly, though Arnie saved my life not long ago.

It was June, and a traveling circus had come to town. They did one show, Saturday night and then were supposed to go on to the next town Sunday morning. Except their star attraction, Ollie the Orangutan in Shining Armour, escaped. The whole town was put on alert, searching for Ollie.

Clearly, I must attract nature's nuttiest creatures because Monday morning, as I was heading to my car, what did I see but Ollie the Orangutan wielding his not so innocent looking sword as he toppled toward me in his medieval armor, helmet askew.

In the same moment I noticed Ollie, Arnie came into view, full speed. He started squawking and pecking at Ollie's non-armor covered feet. Ollie slowed down, waving his sword inelegantly at poor Arnie, spinning and tipping this way and that. I jumped in the car and called the local sheriff, Andy, to tell him we had found Ollie.

By the time the deputies showed up with the circus trainer, Ollie was on his his back, defeated, Arnie on his chest alternately crowing and pecking.

All that to say, Arnie is both family and our hero. He's a keeper.

I just don't wear sandals to work.

She hand-picked him. Spotted him out of the small crowd of her acquaintances. She could tell by his fleeting glances that he had wanted to approach her but he was a little too shy to do so.

Shy. Nice touch.

His appearance was just right too. You see, she now definitely had a "type". A few years older, dark hair, broad shoulders, killer smile.

Yes. Oh yes. He will do quite nicely...

So in an action totally unlike her, she made an advance on him. And it blew his mind. He was initially floored but wholly receptive.

She discovered early on that he was a gift-giver. A car. Lingerie. Jewelry. Jewelry that she was uncharacteristically careless with. She lost a couple of pieces thoughtlessly. Perhaps subconsciously shedding those tokens of affection. She was not interested in any of those things, not in the slightest.

Yes, he could also finesse her body to new heights. Who knew there were pleasures such as these? She surely had not known before him. Their coupling had left her completely engulfed, enthralled, enraptured. And empty. So, so very empty.

She soon found that there was no pleasure, no gift, he could afford her that would excise the pain of not being with HIM. Jake could make her feel a lot of things but he didn't make her soul sing. She was ruined for all others. Tainted.

Yes, by THAT one. The one that just recently, coldly told her he was getting married soon and couldn't be in contact with her any longer. She tried to email him on several occasions after the brush-off but they kept bouncing back to her. It pierced her like a hot knife each time but she kept doing it. Like some conditioned lab animal pressing the button repeatedly for the highly anticipated reward. Only, no reward came. Only pain. Waves of it. Apparently, her sweet Galahad had even closed that email account-- her only means to contact him.

Wow. Okay.

Move on.

And she did.

But something else was bothering her so badly (besides her own atrocious behavior). Did Jake not even notice she was trying to drive out the memory of someone else with him? It bothered her even more if that he DID in fact notice and chose to acquiesce in order to keep her. She didn’t want a man like that. Someone content with the ingenuine. That would be... repulsive. Wait--

It was at this time that she realized what a huge, fucking hypocrite she was.

Sshhh, handsome. Just be quiet and c'mere.

And also, what a lowly, vile monster she had become.

oh this is a tricky one.

"would you rather fight a chicken on a daily basis or an orangutan with a sword once a year?"

as for chicken, i have no sympathy for the birds, they are infibetely more intelligent than a turkey but the are also far superior in taste. i have been around farm animals and have no qualms about a good protein the source. i have never needed to kill a chicken but am fairly confident it would be doable. esoecially if i had a daily encounter with one of these fowl . i have had the 'pleasure' of learning to butcher a chicken when one whole bird was delivered to me during the covid lockdown (at a great expense...). it is therefore quite acceptable for me to be assailed by a chicken on a daily basis. fresh meat is expensive after all.

now we get to the urangutan. here we have a zeugma of sort; i should fight an orangutan with a sword?!

it can mean either being presented with sword withwhich to defend myself from an orangutan.

it could also mean that the orangutan would be the one who shall wield a sword as he takes revenge against my kind.

both of these latter possibilities are not appealing.

i consider the obvious sinister manipulation of orangutans, as they pierce my consciousness with hypnotic precision. they have within them great evil, it is clear, and they shall inevitably triumph over us, when our day will come. having said that, i know all too well the legendary prowess of an adult bull, and know that it equalls only their relentless presecution and torment of all who have wronged or harmed them. to be attacked by an ornagutan is an almost gurenteed death sentence, even if they were never presented with a sword. in the unlikely possibility of survival the attack, it is still very likely that other orangutan shall vow vengence. in the end there will be no escape. better to relinquish unto them all that they demand, and beg for clemency .

on the other hand they will not forgive the fact of choosing the chicken over them...

i conclude with a short list of chicken dishes which i constantly welcome:

sweet and sour chicken.

sicuan chicken.

gongbao chixken,

chicken soup,

chicken tanduri

chicken curry,

chicken brianni,

chicken marsala,

fricasse of chicken.

chicken kiev

schnitzel,

chicken cordn bleu,

grilled chicken,

chicken maqlube,

coq au vin

harrisa chicken,

chicken pilaf

chicken tajin with couscous

chicken tika

chicken satai

chilli con pollo

green Thai curry chicken

chicken in honey mustard,

chicken in coconut and lime

chicken in coke,

cajun chicken,

chicken pot pie

chicken 'n dumplings

chicken fajitas

chicken parm

chicken skewer with pineapple and mango

buffalo wings

George Orwell sighed exasperatedly from his perch on a gaudily opaque Cumulus, tweed jacket more askew and bewrinkled than usual, ruffled, like his wing feathers, by the cyclotron effect of spring breezes. "Animal-farmers" was what they were calling themselves. the new craze among the Earthlings. Orwell's harp clanged as he reached into his pocket for some of his dwindling supply of tobacco. (It would be helpful to understand at this juncture, gentle reader, that we are speaking not farm-animal farmers, but of budding intellectuals and their cultish enthusiasm for certain philosophical trends.) They now fell into two distinct groups: Animal Farmers and Animal Right's Activists.

Wat Tyler scoffed in mock-delightitude from a nearby wispy Stratus.

"There now, ye see? Enter into it with the best intentions; free the serfs, nothing unreasonable, and what do you get?"

Orwell raised a commiseratory eyebrow at Wat. "yes I suppose this is what we get for expecting a halfway functional thought-process out of this lot. It's like biting into a delicious chili-pepper sandwich when you've grown the peppers yourself and finding out there's legos inside. Carnassials aren't meant to chew on plastic but they always end up doing it anyway. You make all this effort to put together the perfect metaphor against cultism, and what do you get out of it? a cult! that's what."

Wat nodded.

"Put out a piece of advice on anything; metermaiding, actuarying, how to avoid growing taller... doesn't even matter how specific the advice is, and soon enough people are on the railroad to wallpaperville; divining the future with shower curtain rings and making tinfoil hats to guard against mind control. They'd be better off in a one-horse-road dirt town. 'Least then they'd have a reason for staying benighted."

Orwell sighed again. "O'well, W'at ya gonna do. Can I bum a light?" George held up his hand-rolled cigarette in the universal sign of brotherly inquiries.

"'Course." Wat returned obligingly, searching his pockets with his tongue out in concentration, and finally producing a disheveled matchbook. (Which he had no idea how he got because matchbooks weren't even invented when he was alive. But every cloud has a silver hole in it's plot.) He lit a match and held it out to George, who puffed his fag alight then held it out to the other cloud-dwelling gentleman. "Don't mind if I do." Tyler accepted, eagerly taking a drag and returning the morsel of friendship to it's owner's stained fingers. The two men sat in silence awhile.

"I've been working on a poem." Wat admitted bashfully. "It's kind of my take on a play between acrostic and alliteration. I've written a few before, but I'm particularly proud of this one because it ignores the starting-letter rule and works phonetically if read aloud. Care to take a squiz?"

"Certainly." Orwell replied, passively intrigued by his cloudly compadre. "I could use a distraction."

Tyler held out the poem on a wrinkled piece of paper. "I'm going to title it UGLY EDITION" he explained.

George began to read, quietly muttering to himself, smirking sometimes through his puffs of cigarette:

Unpalatable ugliness unhorses upset unconventional urchins, unless

Guiled gaurdless; going gratefully groggy: gargantuanly gorgeously gifted gods

Let lower lifeforms languish logically; loving life's lonely longing lullabies...

Yet, yowling yon ubiquitous yogurty yellowbellies, yearning Euripides

Epistemologizes every equine-ebbing epiphany; emptying ethical empathy.

Dystopian diviners don delectably duplicitous dispositions, diluting discernible

Impetus in investigatory impartiality. Incredible, isn't it? Inconceivably intrepid.

To tell Ptolemy's treatise to tosstrot? Trapped tangibly to terrifying tasks; torn

Irretrievably; inexpungible indignation inexorably interfaced in idolatry inclinations.

Only Orpheus's opposite owns optimally ossified homages on omniscience;

Nullifying neophytic knowledges. No narcissist's necrotic nip nears nonsense.

"So... whadya fink?" Tyler asked nervously.

i think there

are demons in here,

residing in frilly homes

in this silly head

some days they tear me to pieces

i couldn't say a

word, but i'm crying

in the car, crying in the

car, crying in the shower,

crying into my pillow, crying

but not for help

the demons tell me

how weak i am, and they win.

but

i think there

are sunlight fairies out there,

just across the internet,

on the other side of my phone,

when i can't see you

you fill in the gaps, the holes in my brain that the demons made

i wrote to you

because i needed somebody.

so thank you

for reminding me

that i am not weak, and they will not win.