Friday, 14 May 2010

R.I.P. Richard B. Cheney, 1.3.41 - 5.11.10

Dick on wheels: how the deceased would like to be remembered.

What follows is the previously unpublished retirement diary of former U.S. Vice President, Richard Bruce Cheney.

A desperate and often moving account of his final few months, each of the 36 entries will serve as a lasting tribute to one of America's greatest, most celebrated statesmen. So for those neither privileged nor white enough to have known the man behind the myth, take a moment and enjoy a little taste of Dick...

Friday, 7 May 2010

Day 472

Dick lives! Yep, despite last week’s horrifying internal injuries, and against seemingly insurmountable odds, life prevails!

This miraculous resurgence suggests it’ll take a sight more than manic depression, compound anatomical dysfunction and a duodenal hematoma the size of a decapitated baby’s ass to stop The Chenenator.

That’s not to say i’m completely invincible, mind. I dare say if you were to forcibly insert an industrial air pump up my slopper and inflate my bowels to bursting-point, for instance, that would almost certainly do the trick. A good dose of AIDS would probably seal the deal quite nicely, too. Nobody walks away from Big Plague. Not even John Wayne. Though, knowing my luck, they’d only go and find a cure, so i’ll leave that shit for the New York Jewish gay intellectual quadriplegic black lesbian Islamists and concentrate on my own game for now.

The stark and hurtful truth is, since leaving office, the rot has set in. Once dynamic, vital, a loaded gun; the scourge of DC prostitutes and ageing Texan attorneys everywhere, i used to hold court with kings and start wars just to see how much money i could make. Now the only company i keep is my own, and these days, when i feel the urge to kill, i have to slum it with the OJ’s and damn well do it myself. A real plate of cold turds.

What’s done is done, though, and the past is a cancer – it’ll eat your soul and felch it back up your sphincter, and you may need to cut your own balls and/or tits off just to get away from it – so it’s high time i let go and set my eyes on future’s healing horizon.

Talking of which, by the looks of things downstairs, it appears my penis is starting to grow back – either that or i’ve got a host of hungry maggots feasting under the skin. Regardless, it’s still a major fillip, and if the stinking, undulating lump maintains its current rate of growth, this time next week i should have enough of a workable bulge to finally enjoy Brazilian fart porn the way god intended.

Amen to that.

Thursday, 29 April 2010

Day 464

I was all set to kill myself today. Made my peace at sunrise and committed mind and body to swallowing 140 regular base A-19 light bulbs without breaking them then belly-flopping off the kitchen counter onto the sandstone tiles below. It seemed viable at the time.

When i reached the four or five mark, for no reason at all, i suddenly remembered a really hilarious "shit happens when you party naked" t-shirt George used to wear for his mid-morning naps. Charisma to kill for and a wardrobe to match. What presence!

All of a sudden life had worth once more.

And that’s how deliverance came, the road to Damascus encapsulated in a single joyful image: our dear departed Commander-in-Chief emerging dazed from his basket; hair all knotted in clumps and sweaty as a hobo’s ass crack; saliva glazing chin, cheek and brow alike; that wonderful cock of his stood proud to attention, all bulging veins like it was on steroids (history would prove it was) and set to a quirky off-centre angle, listing in increments like a toy crane lowering an invisible load (he found it impossible to sleep unless he was naked from the waist down and spoonsing Coochy the Mongoloid, his ultimate sleepy-time pal).

For some it may be rehab, chemo, or Christ; but me? I was dragged back from the brink by a goofy jizz-smirched t-shirt and some wonky Texan meat.

Sadly though, my redemption was only fleeting. Just as i’d turned my back on darkness and headed toward the light, my chuckling abs constricted, shattering the 40 watt cargo beneath and lacerating my tummy plumbing to bold fuckery.

As i sit here typing out what could well prove to be the final entry in this most prized of stately diaries, vomiting great gobs of congealed blood and glass into a garbage bag and barely able to keep fucking myself in the mouth with this pig’s trotter, i have seemingly marked my own card for a two-step with Death after all.

Time's up, world - looks like Jesus wants his Dick back.

Tuesday, 20 April 2010

Day 455

The tears are back with a vengeance. So much so, last Friday night i cried all the water from my head. With nothing in reserve, my eyes had no choice but to start siphoning moisture from the rest of my body, and pretty soon i was weeping neat piss. Within an hour or two my face began to smell like a truck stop urinal, which i found both highly distressing and a major turn-on.

Lost within a labyrinth of vexing emotions, i felt compelled to open a can of minced Lynne, spread my legs like a pregnant sow, and smear her pulped remains all over the archipelago of putrid scabs i’m forced to call a groin.

Though briefly satisfying, the whole sorry escapade back-fired when a tiny sliver of diced back fat migrated up my flummoxed urinary tract, inducing bellyache and a chronic fungal infection. Even in death my beloved leaves her mark, foisting yet another dose of thrush upon me as she did so often in life.

The mackerel salad stench now burping from my cloaca grows stronger hour upon day, and it burns like white-hot asbestos each time i pee. Luckily, though, with most bladder waste being ejected through my tear ducts of late, if i do need to take a leak, i can just stick Beaches on and let nature take its course.

All i need do now is figure out a way to sneeze shit and all that time wasted to bathroom visits will be a thing of the past.

I march on.

Wednesday, 14 April 2010

Day 449

To those not holding, the language of drug dependency can appear a little cliquish. So in case you’re unfamiliar with the process of ‘speedballing’, it’s an intravenous piggyback cocktail of cocaine and heroin rarely administered by a qualified medical practitioner. Preferable to just one or the other, it is often associated with crippling paranoia, increased threat of needle embolism, complete physical and mental degradation, homelessness, despair, and the ever-present spectre of fatal respiratory depression.

Don’t be fooled, though; it does have its downsides too.

Addicted as much to the rituals of injecting as the drugs themselves, i’ve noticed the recent onset of dark and disturbing hallucinations. And these aren’t the playful apparitions you might associate with acid or solvents. These visions are always terrifying and usually involve being attacked by an unrelenting army corp of tiny robotic frogs. Frogbots, if you will. They squeeze in through the cracks in the door frame and come at me with murderous conquest in mind.

It’s not even remotely funny. I’ve had three heart attacks this week already. And any one of them may’ve proved fatal if i hadn’t become so adept at self-administered CPR.

Necessity being the over-bearing pimp of absolute mind-bending recklessness, i’ve constructed a jury-rigged defibrillator out of a souped-up Numax lawnmower battery and some wires i ripped out of a fully-functioning defibrillator i stole from a paramedic i think i may’ve murdered. Your average mower is only supposed to kick out about 12 volts, but a little tweak here, a little tweak there, and all of a sudden that bad boy’s packing enough punch to blast a 2-week-old lamb backwards through a plywood door.

My original intention was to try my new rig out on a human child first, but i’m finding it increasingly hard to gain the trust of minors since a nail bomb with Jon Stewart’s name on it exploded prematurely under my chin, leaving large portions of my skull either exposed or missing. So i had to make do with whatever i could jack from a nearby farm. And though electrocuting infant livestock may sound borderline questionable, rest assured i was humane enough to sedate it first by hitting it repeatedly in the face with a rolling pin ‘til it lost consciousness. Animals: they’re a weakness of mine.

Thursday, 8 April 2010

Day 443

Finally located Lynne's missing eyeballs: lighting a fart (not even showboating this time - strictly for my own amusement), they emerged at pace from the heart of an impressive flame, drawing a smoking arc from one side of the room to the other and coming to rest on the bookshelf where i keep all the underwear i stole from John Ashcroft's gym locker*.

Like a rock star, a beautiful model, or a Jesus, i never truly get to appreciate what other people see when i walk in a room. Luckily, being justifiably vain and ever-keen to correct god's oversight, i've starting filming everything i do so i can watch it all back later, and that's how i ended up catching the whole thing on camera.

I've viewed the footage close to 304 times now. It really is miraculous. I once saw an amazing little 6-year-old Malaysian stripper fire a pool ball over a badminton net and into a beer glass (with her vagina) and it even out scores that. No shit, the flame from my ass was about as big as a banjo and when you see it in slow motion, the eyes look like two toasted marshmallows blurting from the barrel of an anus-shaped shotgun. It was so erotic i had to finger the hole where my cock used to be just to stop myself killing again. I recommend you do the same.

* I've amassed so much over time, about 2 years back i had to take all the books out, stash them in the trunk of my bullet-proof limo and have a black guy whose name i never bothered learning drive me across town so i could throw them really hard at Harry Whittington's face. An unsavoury incident, but at least the daft old cunt had the decency to apologise.

Wednesday, 31 March 2010

Day 435

Time slips by unnoticed like a nigger on a moonless night. Still waiting on delivery of that damned canning machine. Thank god for Tupperware, that’s all i can say. With most of my beloved Lynne now at rest in a multitude of burp-seal containers, i can finally begin the grieving process. Though with a busy couple of weeks ahead, it looks like i’ll probably have to reschedule.

Meantime, i’ve got all kinds of everything to tend to: a compound fracture to my right arm, for one. Seems my humerus has snapped clean in two and is currently poking through my bicep. Humerus?! It’s fucking hysterical! Honestly. I haven’t laughed this much since 9/11. Sometimes i can’t stop. I have to grab hold of the protruding bone and give it a good shake just so i can pass out from the pain and get my breath back.

Still not sure how it happened, but the last thing i recall is trying to stash Lynnne’s eyeballs up my ass with the adventurous end of a senior league baseball bat. When i came to, my arm was completely gorked and Lynne’s eyes had vanished.

Not being a man of medicine, i was unsure how to deal with such a bad break. I tried running it off but it turns out exposed bone ain’t exactly like a stitch. Four laps of the local park is all managed before the shattered edges nicked an artery and the whole show went off like a garden sprinkler. Thinking on my feet, i packed the wound with dogshit and a dead bird – that stemmed the flow long enough for me to make it home. Cauterizing the wound was a cinch: i drank a half gallon of lamp oil and cooked my arm in the microwave for 63 minutes. Panic over.

With the flesh on my arm all dead and rubbery, i was forced to downsize treatment and opt for a lower impact cardio-vascular remedy instead: took myself to the local swimming baths for an easy dip.

I’ve always looked hot in a Speedo, and with my bloated arm as crooked as a half-closed Z-bed, i cut quite the striking figure. Heads turned to applaud the best way they knew how: by bringing their lunch up. Some were so enamoured they didn’t stop there, dry-barfing till the blood vessels in their cheeks ruptured. I felt like a movie star.

As i stepped into the pool, elegant and sassy, i realised i needed to pee quite urgently. We’ve all done it so let he without sin cast the first stone, and i’m not about to apologise for relieving myself in a public recreation facility. Only problem was i hadn't waded in far enough before letting rip and just ended up looking like an old guy pissing his pants in shin-deep water.

More material for that autobiography, though – working title:

"Untold Dick: Get Some!"

Wednesday, 24 March 2010

Day 428

We live in an age of lazy convenience; a truth much exploited by smart-ass comics, communists and keep-fit Nazis. I work out as much as the next guy – my body is a finely honed (if prone to the odd choke-start) machine – but that doesn’t mean i can’t sit around on my fat, watery caboose, worshipping hour-upon-hour at the altar of Nicolas Appert, patron saint of canned goods.

You can get all snooty and organic, preach to me about fresh fruit and vegetables if you like, but we all know the best things in life come in a can – beans, beer, Zyklon B – and that’s exactly where i’ll be stashing Lynne’s body parts when she eventually stops breathing.

I didn’t mean to do it but her pneumatic snoring finally got the better of me. Too much, too long. I just reached over, picked up the 3-wood (i’m still having to sleep in the garage till i prove my remorse is genuine), marched upstairs, put on some of her make-up, birthed a runny, sputtering beer-tap of a turd into her sock drawer and practiced my swing off her skull till both her ears were stuck to the wall with the rest of her face.

I assumed she was well and truly dead so i just went ahead with my business; mowed the lawn, returned a faulty CB radio to the patrol car i jacked it from, set fire to some cats, not thinking for a second she was still sucking air in through her ruptured trachea. What i fighter! I love her so much.

The plan is to buy a secondhand DEMACO canning machine, put her ankles, elbows, hip and knee joints in separate cans, mince her entrails in the tub with some garden shears, can the slop in as few as possible, tan her skin in the attic like a cowhide and if i can’t iron out that slice from my long game, close the clubface, tweak my stance and shorten my back-swing by half a percent.

FORE!

Wednesday, 17 March 2010

Day 421

I awoke to swirling red and blue lights this morning. Panicked, i assumed i was in the grips of another psychotic episode but it turned out our next door neighbour had called the police on account of his doorbell being stolen. It wasn’t till they arrived that he noticed the mirrors off his Lexus LS 600 had been swiped too.

Hybrid-driving pantywaist seemed pretty incredulous: "The mirrors i can almost understand but what kind of asshole steals a fucking doorbell? Damn thing was broken anyway."

I offered up an opinion, told Smokie my money was on the Hispanics: "I’d normally try and pin it on the Powder Burns but they’d at least have the good sense to check something works before stealing it... Your Border Hoppers, however, less with the smarts."

Officer Hernandez had clearly left his sense of humor back at the station and jammed his night stick right in my eye socket.

"Sorry, Columbo," he said. "Did i catch your glass eye? I meant to get the good one." And with that he poked the other twice as hard.

As my head snapped back my gown fell open and, not being one for pyjamas, treated everyone to a box seat view of my mauled undercarriage. After four minutes of screaming and puking, i gave up trying to explain and stormed off in a huff. Figured if they were going to treat me like a circus freak they could damn well solve the mystery of the missing mirrors without my expertise.

Truth be told, it was me all along. I took the mirrors to snort some heroin off; the doorbell was for ringing my dealer – it’s hard to think any way but abstract when you’re nose-bagging the Butu.

Ho-hum. Another day, another dime bag.

Wednesday, 10 March 2010

Day 414

There are forces in nature that cannot be denied: the power of the ocean, the march of time, the vocals of Peter Cetera – unassailable authorities, compelling, humbling in their intensity and might.

Now add to that list ‘the carnal allure of Dick Cheney’.

Hypnotic and irresistible as any tide, it sways erotic before you (i see you looking). I defy any human being not to wilt to its majesty. And wilt is exactly what she’s done, my beloved Lynne. I knew she’d break. She’s so pathetic.

Despite everything that’s happened, everything i’ve done – knowingly deceiving a nation on the command of my Lord Apollyon, shooting old men in the face, jerking off inside the dishwasher, relenting to the brutal sexual deviancy of a known criminal, the murder of a made guy, public sex acts with stray animals and the unanaesthetized destruction of my own reproductive organs – ain’t nobody strong enough to live without Dick forever.

The past few months have been a slow-burning war of attrition. I just had to hang in there, bide my time, wait for her to let her guard down. And the fact that i super-glued my naked body to the kitchen window in a desperate bid to win her pity certainly expedited my victory.

To her credit, she tried to ignore me there, floating in mid-air every time she got up for her morning coffee and cigar. Sometimes she’d stare right through me like i wasn’t even there, going eye-to-eye with my botched groin, pretending she was watching blue jays cavorting on the lawn. But you stand too close to that thing, sooner or later the magic’s gonna get ya! Moth to a flame. And making up has been out of this world. The sex? Forget about it! We’re like a couple of mentally unstable teenagers with Dependent Personality Disorder.

Improvisation has been the dish of the day, what with me being short of few vital tools at present. I’ve had everything inside her in a bid to sate her libidinous whim (broccoli, an antique bone china shepherdess, a live Chihuahua, a dead one) but i settled on going at it furiously with my feet.

She cums so hard nearly all the veins in her eyeballs have ruptured. It’s a disturbing sight but she won’t relent, keeps screaming for more, so i keep pumping the pistons like i’m treading grapes. I’ve got thighs to rival Lance Armstrong. "Pain is temporary...quitting lasts forever." Damn straight. Though next time i might take my wing tips off before we start. I’ve lost half of three pairs up there already. A few more like that and it’ll be like fucking the bargain bin outside Foot Locker.

Not nice. If i had any cock left i’d puke on my boner.

Wednesday, 3 March 2010

Day 407

Wow! Can you see my hands from there? See those trails? When i move them like that? I can feel every part of being alive. My heartbeat, my veins, the tiny hairs on the stretch of skin between my ass and where my balls used to be. And the light looks amazing too. Street lights and stars. I’m catching their glow in my hands!

My god, how good is ecstasy?! I’ve never taken it anally before. It’s so much more enjoyable than ketamine. I feel like if i had one, i’d be able to pull my soul out through my mouth and rub its feet with my mind. I wish i was allowed back in the house – i’ve got some great albums and i’d kill to listen to Screamadelica right now. Higher than the sun? Tell me about it, Bobby.

I don’t own too many long players but the quality of my purchases is undeniable. There’s Screamadelica; Face Down, Ass Up by Andrew Dice Clay; Color Me Badd’s debut; and a 13-disc box set of Strom Thurmond’s legendary 1957 Civil Rights Act filibuster, featuring all 24hrs 18mins of his black-baiting opus as well as 3 hours of previously unreleased race-hate soundbites:

"I wanna tell you, ladies and gentlemen, that there's not enough troops in the army to force the Southern people to break down segregation and admit the nigra race into our theaters, into our swimming pools, into our homes, and into our churches!"

Get’s me every time. 1948, that one. An absolute classic. And the guy went on to serve in the senate till 2003. That we can gift such views a seat of great influence for over half a century is one of the few things that makes me truly proud to be an American. That and Easy Cheese – none of the taste, texture or nutritional value of real cheese...in a can!

If only everything in life could have all meaning extracted from it before being sold back to corpulent morons as an aerosol spray. We can dream, though.

Tuesday, 23 February 2010

Day 399 (Is it? I'm losing count, here)

I really resent the insinuation that having lived a life of sickening privilege i must automatically be a racist. I’m no racist – some of my best friends have hired black labourers to tend to their lawns after the stupid wetbacks they hired in the first place went and got themselves deported. An inconvenience at the time but the way i see it, the more of them get carted off back to Juarez the better – less competition for me now i’m chasing the self-same transient worker-dollar as old Pedro there.

I’m up out of my dumpster 0-dark-thirty to be the first on the corner when the job pimps swing by. Sat in the back of a pick-up, knees up by my ears and some sweaty beaner’s ass crack in my face on our way to god knows what – could be construction, could be farm work, maybe snuff porn if we’re lucky. It’s hard living. Yeah. But as i roll up to the Dunkin Donuts parking lot way before sunrise, half asleep with chopped lettuce and garbage stuck to the back of my neck hoping to make a buck or five, i feel a little like a character from a Kris Kristofferson song (one that got left off the album because it was basically shit, but with some super-croaky vocals and a chorus about beer and trucks and a failed rape attempt) so its all aces really.

I’ve also decided to put my rise to stardom on the stand-up circuit on ice for now. Since my first night at The Chuckle Pit things have gone steadily south. I’ve done 6 shows since and they all blew. It’s not my material – that’s hot shit, for sure – it’s peoples’ attitude that stinks. I’ve been opening each night with my trademark "For the most part, i don’t mind black people, i just can’t stand the way they greet each other – it’s needlessly flamboyant and they have massive lips too" crowd-pleaser, but reactions have been mixed to say the least. I was booed off stage the first night and shot in both feet the next. And it only got worse. One promoter even had the balls to say i’d never work this town again because my act was, quote-unquote, "abhorrently racist". There it is again! Where do people get off with accusations like that? Besides, it’s not racist, it’s fact: black people have big lips. Hack a pair off and drop them in a glass of water if you don’t believe me; the laws of displacement will prove i’m no bigot. Ask Archimedes, he'll back me up. Though you’d have to be some kind of dingleberry to trust a Greek. They’re all oily-haired butt-fuckers, you know?

Friday, 12 February 2010

Day 388

Stand-up comedy! Jeepers, what a buzz! I’ve not felt this alive before. Never. Well, not since i chewed my own sex organs off, anyway. And the funny thing is, before today, i’d have said trying to make a room full of complete strangers laugh takes a huge pair of balls, but i’m living proof that that’s no longer the case. Seems one’ll do you just fine.

Don't get me wrong, it was still a testing proposition, flying on one engine or otherwise. I vomited six times before i took to the stage and twice on it. The second time i retched so hard i shat down my leg. It was brilliant – biggest laugh of the night! All those people falling about the place, the sound was so addictive i had to have more. So i threw caution, sense and soiled clothing to the wind, abandoned my meticulously rehearsed routine and went full-tilt into some topical improv, smashing myself in the mouth with the mic and inviting people up from the crowd to punch me as hard as they could in the face. With shit and broken teeth all over the place, blood pouring from my savaged gums and painting a bold crimson flash right down the front of my naked body, it brought to mind GG Allin in his absolute screaming pomp. It was carnal. Unhinged, but in a good way. The way the air feels just before a murder or the sexual assault of a tethered pony.

The slumbering beast inside us all grew proud and hungry and the people – my people – goaded me to push the envelope further, shake the walls of decency to their very foundations. Like Samson at the temple of Dagon, i took down those Doric columns (metaphorical) and lead a march through the ruins, pulling one of my eyelids till it ripped away in my hand and severing both my Achilles tendons with a broken beer glass. As my feet flapped redundant at the end of my chubby little legs, four drunk college students lifted me above their heads and carried me like a deity around the venue so the thrilled crowd could pay homage and thumb $5 bills up my godly butt. $300 in greenbacks and 10 bucks in change – s’all about the Benjamins*, baby.

Through the mayhem, the thrashing blur of contorted faces, bellowing, lost to hysterical cachinnation, i spied a single unmoved spectator. A stony glare i recognised from a former life piercing the barbarous tableau: Gingrich. What the Jesus hell was he doing at The Chuckle Pit?! On a Thursday? Thursdays were titty bar night.

I held his gaze for a second. Then he was gone. High-brow satirical theatre just ain’t everyone’s cup of meat, i guess. Now i know how Lenny Bruce felt.

* That's Franklins, not Netanyahus, in case there was any confusion.

Wednesday, 3 February 2010

Day 379

Have you ever noticed how people on TV always cum at the same time? Writhing around on satin sheets like hot lizards, all heavy-breathing and simultaneous orgasms. It’s not real, apparently. Don’t want to ruin it for you but, by all accounts, they’re faking it for the cameras. I decided to get my own back on Tinseltown by being the only one to ejaculate during an episode of Matlock. Sadly, what’s left of my penis barely even qualifies as a stump, protruding no further than the esc button on a standard qwerty keyboard, so the task was a daunting one and nigh on impossible. Still, i’m never one to fold, even when up against such suicidal odds, so i put on my game-face and went at it like a freed negro, frantically buffing what’s left of my crotch with a flat hand till the manager came over and told me he’d call the cops if i didn’t pull up my pants and fuck off back to the sewers. I’ll never shop at Radio Shack again. Ever. Not even if Johnny Buzz-Kill over there offered to pay for penile reconstructive surgery (on my penis) out of his own jerkaphobic pockets.

I love hanging out at the mall. People leave all kinds of stuff unattended, momentarily distracted from reality as they gawp in awe at the new iSponge or whatever. I just strap on my rollerblades, swoop in with all the grace of a mentally impaired condor and – yoink! – help myself. Easy pickings. Yesterday i made off with a half-drunk thick shake, a make-up bag, some refuse sacks full of used sanitary towels, and a 7-year-old boy. I stuffed his mouth full of maxi pads, dragged him into the woods and made him sit through my entire stand-up routine till i felt like i’d properly nailed it (FYI: i’ve booked myself in to an open mic next Thursday – super-nervous, by the way...eeshk! – and wanted to get some constructive feedback before i did it in front of a crowd). He didn’t laugh once so i put on some eyeliner and fucked him with sticks.

Kids these days – no respect.

Thursday, 28 January 2010

Day 373

Homeless, penniless, cockless and only one last testicle to speak of: i feel freer than Huckleberry Finn himself, i really do! Living on the streets, a simple, hermetic existence; surviving day-to-day on food found and scavenged, or, rarer still, bought with the few nickels i raise while busking. I say busking – god blessed me with many things but a talent for song and dance isn’t one of them. I’m actually sucking off stray dogs on a patch of waste ground behind Terrell Junior High while an ever-enthusiastic crowd of sixth graders pelt me with coins and take pictures of my debasement on their iPhones. Still, show business pays like any other and you’ve got to earn it while you’re hot, i guess. Just ask Andrew McCarthy.

A fall from grace, maybe. But on the upside, dog semen has less of a bleachy after-taste than yours, mine, or my father’s. And canines don’t get all post-coital clingy either – cold little bastards don’t give half a ball-hair whose mouth it is just as long as somebody’s blowing them. It’s one of two traits they share with politicians. That and a willingness to literally shit anywhere.

Like any performer though, when the crowd leaves the stalls and i’m left with just my thoughts, an empty stage and dreadful jaw-ache for company, the night shines a savage beam of moonlight on my loneliness. Sated, the dogs no longer care for my company, and i wander the streets trying to keep mind and body occupied till i tire and blackout in a graveyard or under a car. Yesterday i found myself in my old neighbourhood, way past midnight, just a few saddened steps from a life long forgotten and a wife i’d trained my heart to yearn for less and less. Skirting the boundaries of the property, i noticed the bedroom light still on – she loves to read late into the small hours, devouring her fantasy novels with a fat one on the go. Unable to hold back the tide, i let go and sobbed for three unbroken hours with my one remaining gonad thrust through the catflap. I just needed to be near her. Close as i could get. I swear at one point i could feel her breath rolling down the stairs and sweeping gentle through my ball hair. I’d forgotten what a heavy breather that lousy bitch was. Snore?! Shit, it was like sleeping next to a 747 with tits. Good God, it’s only a miracle i never succumbed to the urge to stomp all over her stupid fucking face with a pair of golf cleats on, the miserable sack of piss-shitting cunt-wheeze. FUUUCK! I WANT HER DEAD.

Hey-ho.

Wednesday, 20 January 2010

Day 365

A year to the day, and who’d have thought gnawing through my own erectile tissue would prove so cathartic? Yep, i did it – chewed off my penis and set myself free. The process was undeniably gruesome but the line between pleasure and hellish, broiling agony is a blurred one at the best of times, and i found the experience so inspiring i even bit one of my testicles off too for good measure. Crunching through spermatic cord and cremaster muscle was a stomach-churning sensation, i have to be honest, and i brought my savaged gonad back up three times before i actually managed to keep it down. Welcome sustenance though, and the litre and a half of vomit and bile i sucked off my sweater felt like a good meal too.

As i scuttled down from the eaves, ever fearful of capture at the massive hands of Big Nikki, i was careful not to waste time with stairs or fire escapes, charging head-first through a plate glass window instead, plummeting two floors and landing less than gracefully on the sidewalk below. I never really saw the point in teeth anyway and was frankly glad to be shot of them. Stupid assholes.

As i wadded my bleeding crotch with newspaper in an alley two blocks from Dino’s, i noticed the headlines – somehow those Democrat fucksacks had pissed Massachusetts away! Boom! Happy anniversary, Mr President! Lose Kennedy country to Scotty the Hotty, all but sticking a fat one right in the eye of healthcare reform? Yes we can!

Under normal circumstances, the black face of American communism taking a very public bullyramming would be a source of unbridled jubilation for a man of my stoically self-serving disposition. But having been more than a mite dilatory regarding payment of my astronomical health insurance premiums of late, and with my butchered loins looking angry and unlikely to scab over any time soon, i could really use a little universal healthcare right now.

I don't know if that qualifies as irony or not, but it's certainly one helluva shitfuck in a pissbucket, i can tell you that much.

Thursday, 14 January 2010

Day 361

Firstly, let me start by issuing an unequivocal apology to my many devoted readers from the gay community for the scurrilous insinuation in my last post that bird flu is the sodomite’s plague. It isn’t. AIDS is.

Good. Now that bullshit’s out the way, down to business...

It’s now only a few days shy of a year since i had to clear my desk and vacate the office for that Obiden prick. What with all my nunchucks and Brazilian fart porn, there were 43 tea chests full of shit needed shifting – with my back, it’s little wonder i ended up being wheeled out of the place like Christopher Reeve. In the end i had to admit defeat, leave behind the army of Thai-boxing midgets i kept for training purposes inside some dog crates. They were like children to me. I’d feed them pens and bits of old carpet through the bars, and once i’d gained their trust, i’d sew their eyelids open so they couldn’t sleep. Once a week i’d get them all riled by burning their feet with a magnifying glass then i'd let them scamper round the office all wired and half-blind while i took liquid ecstasy and pelted them with ninja death stars. Quite a workout. Rummy and some of the other guys would pay five bucks just to watch through the window – said it was even more fun than thumbing hot coins up a duck’s ass (White House fad at the time). Rumour has it Obiden had them all gassed (the midgets, not my former colleagues) because they’d become quote-unquote "feral, psychotic and irreparably disturbed...a danger not only to themselves but also to civilised society" (again, the midgets, not my former colleagues). That guy's some fucking animal.

So as the 1st anniversary of my untimely eviction approaches, i’m determined not to spend it eating insects with my dick stuck in hole, so i’ve hatched a plan. Unless something miraculous happens between now and January 20th, i’ve decided to man-up and do what Jesus would do: chew through the base of my penis with my teeth and spend the rest of my life dickless. Stupid thing’s more trouble than it’s worth anyhow, so i’d be doing myself a huge favour in the long run. Maybe once i’m out of here i’ll offer a service. I mean, who in their right mind wouldn’t want to pay Dick Cheney $100 to bite their cock off? Money in the bank.

Friday, 8 January 2010

Day 355

Do i have fears? Sure i have fears. I’m terrified of zippers, for one. Tiny steel teeth set close against a man’s body, housing those parts most private behind a faceless metal mouth. Ungodly things. So i set my trust in the humble button as oft as always.

I fear the oceans too, and all that dwell within. Solid ground and dirt is where i come to life. That’s where Dick prowls – a prairie dog, sharp and keen. Can lick my own balls, likewise, but more on that later. For now, be informed: the hunter has surely become the hunted. I can feel her, hear her; smell her, even: a cocktail cloud of ruthless ambition, beef and crotch sweat. Nikki! Dread bitch of musclepower and greed.

Stealth is of the utmost if i am to prevail, a step ahead of my super-ripped bi-curious predator. Even the gentle tippy-tappy of my stumpy little fingers against this very keyboard could give away my position, furnish a sexually experimental nemesis with vital battlefield intelligence, the spoils of war for her simple taking.

So, what news from my festive period? Well, fearful the attic would not keep my earthly form safely hidden for long, i retreated further as night fell Christmas Day, burrowing deeper still inside the building’s skeleton till my fat rump became wedged in the crawl space twixt ceiling and rafter. Days passed, and as the year turned to the next, there i lay, eating feathers and drinking the few droplets of urine i could milk from my arid bladder just to stay alive.

I shan't dulcorate the bitter truth, dear reader: existence has boiled down to its basest principles, and remaining conscious has become this warrior’s singular concern. It would be all too easy to give up and slip away, lost to history till the hum of blowfly and the appalling stench of decomposition alerts the neighbours to my lofty grave.

But no such wilt for Dick. Determined to forge a viable exit strategy, as dawn broke on January 3rd, i poked a hole through the rotting eaves and thumbed the nearest part of my anatomy through the tiny aperture. Feeling the chill but welcome wind of sudden liberty against my stinking, unbathed penis was joy unbound. I shed a tear in triumph. Hope at last, i granted myself reward and fell into a brief but welcome sleep.

Leaving my pecker exposed to the elements overnight, when i woke, the morning dew had clung to its wrinkled lagging like steam to a bathroom window – and that’s where the talent for reaching my genitals with my mouth came into its own. A welcome source of hydration (my bladder had refused to yield anything other than an undrinkable paste for the previous 5 days), i lapped at my moistened sex organs like a Bedlington Terrier with chronic ball itch, quenching my thirst, reinvigorating my will to fight and paving the way for victory.

The system was going gangbusters...then yesterday happened.

With my goink poking out through the guttering, calamity struck when a short-sighted Pine Marten mistook my weenie's pathetic husk for an acorn and sank the full length of its incisors clean through my glans. The resultant tug-o-war left my normally modest-sized wand disproportionately swollen and, even as we speak, wedged cork-tight the wrong side of a rainhead. I’m trying not to panic but, not only is my predicament an absolute cock-pinching disaster, it’s also transformed my ingenious rehydration technique into an impromptu glory-hole for gay pigeons. What the fuck am i going to do? My poor balls could catch bird flu, here.

Wednesday, 16 December 2009

Day 332

So, friends, another decade draws to a close. Best so far, in my estimation. I mean, if you’d told me back in 2000, after waging one of the most privately profitable wars ever contrived for privately profitable reasons, i’d see in 2010 running a Hades-themed S&M booze-lounge surrounded by muscle-bound shemales in fluorescent g-strings, i probably would’ve had you drowned as a witch. Apologies if i did, by the way – turns out you were spot on.

Yip, after a week off, old Dicklegs is back in the saddle; rested, recuperated and all the better for a little quality myself-time and the long overdue purchase of my very first pair of ugg boots. A triumphant look on a portly 68-year-old heart attack enthusiast, if the laughter and ceaseless barrage of human excrement is anything to go by. A new me, hot to trot, sharp as a rape knife, ready to take Dinos over the threshold of a brand new year. Exciting times. Only down side being, with the King now restored to his rightful throne, Big Nikki’s set her crosshairs on His Majesty (that's me, in case you missed the reference), making a genuine alpha-dog power play for absolute supremacy amongst the pack.

Going toe to toe with her would be nothing short of cock-fiddling madness. With her superior firepower, conventional warfare would only end in humiliating defeat and a series of debasing oral-themed sex-chores. So i’ve decided to reach for the smarts instead, think her out of the game. To quote Miyamoto Musashi, 15th century samurai warrior and author of the ultimate battle strategist’s vade mecum, The Book of Five Rings: "You must look down on the enemy, and take up your attitude on slightly higher places." Wise words for a dink, and exactly the reason i’ll be spending the entire festive period hiding from her in the attic.

She doesn’t stand a fucking chance.

Friday, 11 December 2009

Day 327

Things at Dinos have gone from bad to worse since The Nikkster opened Bonny’s scalp up like a pedal bin. Nasty vibe lingers. How nasty? Let’s just say, if i were to tape a razor blade to my weiner (and i have had cause to do so in the past), i could probably cut the atmosphere here into small pieces and force it up an Arab’s* ding-dong. Not good.

Fight-or-flight took over and i just had to get away from there for a day or two, recharge my batteries. So i just – Boom! – pulled the shutters up and took some much needed R’n’R. Road trip. And it was all going so well till i hit Flo-Town, got caught up in the magic and had a major Bob Allen-sized lapse in focus. And it seems the old 'racist panic' disclaimer wasn't going work for Dicklips either; no sir. Thank god for Tiger Woods, then, that’s all i can say. If it weren’t for his freewheeling attitude to fidelity, the media may’ve had more time for my little indiscretion.

Now i realise, on the surface at least, the ex-Vice President of the United States (of America) being caught masturbating in the Regency Hospital oncology ward may sound inexplicably sick, but it was all perfectly innocent i assure you. Basically, since leaving office, i just really miss the day-to-day contact with death and unimaginable suffering, that’s all. Add the intoxicating stench of hospitals into the mix and chuck in a dash or two of bereavement, nausea and hair loss – forget about it! – i was just too weak to resist a little sip.

Temptation, man. Me and Tiger may have little else in common but it sure seems we’re both suckers for a bite or two of forbidden fruit, only difference being i prefer my peach with a little less fuzz, if you catch my drift.

Hmm. Having read that last sentence back, i have to admit, it could be construed as the final confessions of a convicted pederast. So just to reiterate, though my libidinous urges might take me ‘off-road’ once in a while, I DO NOT FIND CHILDREN SEXUALLY ATTRACTIVE. Unless they’re on chemo, of course.

*Pending legal action, the word Arab will doubtless be redacted, to be replaced by ‘typical Muslim asswater’. Don't want to end up offending someone. Least of all those maniacs.

Sunday, 6 December 2009

Day 322

Before we start, is there anyone out there able help me with a faulty fuse box? Something’s amiss and i’m rather embarrassed to say i don’t know thing-one about sacrificial overcurrents, configurations of split-load 12-way consumer units, blanking plates, or ambient temperature derating and how it effects the basic operational parameters of your MEM husks; not to mention terminal cable connections, insulated B cups, teet-current characteristics, independent bott relays, competetive ID boing-metasmas and spring-bound 30mA RCD ralph spoilers. I know! I feel like such a stupid rapist. And, as if that weren’t embarrassing enough, if you were to challenge me for an opinion on the whole Lucar spade-type vs. Wylex-coc domestic’ debate, i’d probably stare straight through you with cold, dead eyes, descend into a murky abyss of paranoid panic, lock myself in a man-size safe for 36 hours with nothing but a dreamcatcher and some snuff porn for company, emerge partially-pixellated (for security purposes), strafe your face with wayward buckshot, make some shit up about Scotland stockpiling depleted uranium, then bomb the tits off the Irish by mistake (well, they all look the same) just to distract your one remaining eyeball from my own innumerable shortcomings. It’s one of those endearing character flaws that make me the living, breathing, child-murdering work of homicidal freak-art i am today.

I should add, the power supply issue isn’t as pertinent as you’d think, but if you’re a whizz with such things, please don’t hesitate to get in touch. For now, though, i’ve carved a temporary trench, 8ft deep, in the middle of the bar with a pick axe and filled it with kerosene, roadkills and a few old people. A spectacular sight once lit, though hardly a long-term solution to the problem, it provides all the heat i could possibly wish for, and the glowering inferno adds a hellish, Miltonesque quality to the heaving requiem of muscle provided by my chorus of brawny dancers.

Talking of whom, i don’t know what those girls are on but, just between you and me, their clits are huge! – like a cow’s tongue poking out of a pitta bread. And when they get angry – BOOM! – they make those Blackwater psychos look about as menacing as Coldplay’s knicker drawer. Roid Rage’ they call it. Like watching bikini-clad baboons pulling each others limbs off. Highly erotic. That’s how the fuse box got trashed. Long story, but Big Nikki (major league bully from Crawford, always pushing the other girls around, breaking into other people’s lockers if there’s something there worth having – you know the type) one day her and Bonny, a fiery little Persian dyke with a thicker beard than Greg Evigan, went nose to nose after old Jefferson Hairface caught Nikki helping herself to a bottle of her homemade posing oil. I didn’t witness the brutality first-hand but the official line is Bonny lost her compass completely, twanged Nikki’s stars ‘n’ stripes bikini and yelled, "Hey, Uncle Sam, how about getting your own fucking oil, you theiving Texan cunt!" before flexing her artillery, ready to throw down. It probably would’ve come to nothing if she hadn’t then taken exception to Nikki’s sneering insinuation that she’d seen bigger guns on a dead swan’s cock. One thing lead to another and, well, let’s just say that smashing a human head against a semi-enclosed electrical junction box till the scalp comes off in ribbons may seem like the ideal way to solve a dispute but it’ll only end up costing major-major money in the long run. So if you need to coerce somebody into swallowing something they don’t want to, take my advice and bounce their melon off something a touch more sturdy than the plastic housing of a basic Hager RCD – a Chrysler 360 engine block, if you have one to hand, or, failing that, a life-size marble statue of Bobby McFerrin should suffice.

You know, i thought i’d been thorough, cleared up all the piss, teeth and gristle, but i’ve just clocked some slivers of meat and hair extension caught under the wiring cartridges, smoldering away, and i have to say, it’s making me feel more than a little queasy. But, you know me – never really had much of an appetite when it comes to displays of wanton aggression. Particularly not for the sake of pride, vanity, and malicious greed.

Wednesday, 25 November 2009

Day 311

Inspired somewhat by my previous post’s closing rumination, i foraged through eBay and snaffled all 11 seasons of Cheers on DVD for less than the price of a three-way nut-bust with a couple of desperate and vulnerable street urchins. Not as good as i remember (the show, not the log-tap). Shame. Danson’s hair was just as spectacular as recollection had painted, but no matter how hard i searched, i couldn’t find the episode i saw around the June ‘83 mark where Coach morphs into a giant talking serpent that slithers out the screen, whips across the floor, and darts head-first up my yawning burrow to hiss explicit instructions from His Infernal Majesty directly into my blackened flax seed of a heart. Must be on the extras.

Business at the bar has been worryingly slow. The regulars continue to veto my hospitality in favour of the welcome offered by regional barrelhouses less burdened by the stench of decaying human flesh. Oppressive though it may be, i remain hopeful that the strategic use of Little Tree car fresheners, along with the troupe of fat-free muscle chicks i’ve hired to dance on pedestals, will address any long-term commercial concerns.

Jeez, i love how those girls look! So powerful, masculine. But with vaginas, so it’s ok to peek through the keyhole and watch them peeing like racehorses. Wow! The way they make me feel – I’m fairly sure it’s the closest you can get to full-blown, butt-hair-chewing homosexuality without actually having two or more gristly dongers in your mouth at once. Best of both worlds. It still leaves just enough questions unanswered though. An erotic mystery. Like a drugged-up chimp in Speedos or phone sex with a toddler.

Ah.

Wednesday, 18 November 2009

Day 304

It’s now almost 4am, best part of 19 hours since my audition, and i’m only just back from Dino’s. Long story, but to cut it palatably short, drinking solidly for 3 days prior to a major employment opportunity was not the stroke of genius i’d hoped.

Audition itself started badly, got worse, then, after a brief vomit-break, took a more promising trajectory, nose-dived sharply again, hit a tragic plateau, plummeted once more, and ended memorably but with three fatalities and a torn rotator cuff. Could’ve gone a lot worse though, and on the plus side, i do now own and run my own saloon.

After downing a bottle of fruit brandy in a doomed bid to medicate the pain in my shoulder (injury sustained dragging the bodies into Dino’s office), i removed the keys i’d embedded in the previous landlord's face, ran them under the faucet, and opened up as though i hadn’t just savagely dispatched a man with ties to the local mafia, his ‘security supervisor’, and a prostitute i killed across town as an after thought. Well, it’s so moreish, ain’t it?

With enough whore-kills on my cv to rival The Ripper, i regard myself somewhat of an expert in the field, and have no concerns that my trusted team of legal eagles will successfully distance me from the trail of semen-frosted offal once more.

Keen as always to keep hunt trophies, though, i couldn’t resist hooking this one’s uterus out with a claw hammer, and have every intention of placing it behind the bar as a conversation piece. Maybe even use it as a makeshift ice bucket while the real one’s keeping her head nicely chilled out back. Wow! I feel like the bastard son of Sam Malone and Geoffrey Dahmer:

"Norm! Suck my dick or i’ll cut your face off and wear it like a thong..."

God, i miss that show.

Friday, 13 November 2009

Day 299

It’s times like these you realise who your real friends are. Wife refusing my calls, old hunt buddies keeping their heads well below the tree line. Even the Puerto Rican pizza delivery boy i tip an extra five bucks to inject lamp oil into my scrotum till i faint from the pain has quit his job just to get away from me. Casper, Wyoming’s greatest son, now officially an outcast. Unclean. Boner non grata.

Thankfully, my pariah status does not appear to extend as far as the old Walker’s Point estate in Maine, where my ever-faithful partner in war crimes, George, now resides, having just moved back in with his parents at the age of 63. Always falls on his feet, that one. Home cooking; monkeyshines in the rumpus room with his siblings Jeb, Marvin, Lucifer, and George 3.0; slaves bringing him cheese all hours, rubbing moss all over his cock and balls as the fancy takes him. "That’s the dream, right there," i told him during our most recent web cam conversation. He seems so happy. Not a care in the world, nor a thought for the obscene wealth his family’s accrued through decades of congenital Machiavellian business dealings and political duplicity, the blood of their innumerable victims running through every last dollar bill like a gruesome watermark. Gotta love him. Or punch him repeatedly in the throat till his Adam’s apple pops out of his eye socket. Same coin, different sides.

He was super-excited to see me, if from a safe distance, and took great delight in sharing his new-found passion for nachos: "Ever heard of them? You gotta check ‘em out, dude. From the Spanish, meaning ‘tiny night-times’." He’s always been good with the languages. "Trustify me, i’m the decidernator...they’re butt-shockin’ awesome." That was me won over - heart, mind, lungs, loins and lower intestines. "Crunchy lil triangles, you can have ‘em with cheese, jalapeno peppers, anything you want. I ate some with a fistful of momma’s Menopace tablets last night and barely even puked that much. Woooooh! The future’s here, Dicklips, and you can put it in your mouth!"

Oh, how i adore that gimlet-eyed optimism most people mistook for incompetence, stupidity, arrogance, and pathological dishonesty. It’s a real fillip in these, the most fucked of times.

Wow! Looks like a little of that legendary Bush family good fortune finally rubbed off on old Dickwheel, here. Just got a call-back on that pianist vacancy i told you about last week. Boom! Gainful employment rising on the horizon like the Christ-given sun. Should be able to save up enough cash-money to finally move out of this car i broke into. Audition 9am Monday. Now if i can just get drunk enough between now and then, i might just pull this off...

Wednesday, 4 November 2009

Day 290

At long last, dear reader, the rocky road just got a little smoother. And not a moment too soon – my psychological shock absorbers are worn right down to their dicks, to use the colloquial, and my mind’s ass is numbed fuckless from the constant jiggle-bounce of recent events. If only the emotional turbulence had removed all feeling from my actual ass too. At least then the extensive tissue damage sustained in and around my ritually-visited anus would feel more like a mildly irritating paper cut and less like a grenade has gone off three inches shy of my colon. Though, with no photos or traditional keepsakes to remember him by, i hereby pledge each excruciating, blood-marbled bowel movement from here on in shall be coveted as such, a treasured testament to his broiling hot love. The flame shall not die, mi corazon. Not while i have blood left in me to shit.

Ah, but you move on, don’t you? Hit ‘em, quit ‘em, turn out the lights, and fuck off. You have to. Something i chanted, mantra-like, as i sucked it up, stapled a big old bath towel to my under-carriage and marched on out into the big wide world, dignity still in tact, dragging my hideously malformed leg behind me. A new beginning. Dick on the up. Even applied for a job: playing piano for patrons in a bush-league wine bar. Never played a damn note in my life but fancied the challenge. How hard can it be, anyway? I mean, Stevie Wonder managed it and that guy’s black, for chrissakes.

Didn’t let on about my novice status in the interview though – may smell like something a fox just gave birth on but i’m still sharp as a rape-knife. And Dino, the proprietor, seemed really impressed – said he’d never known a man turn up to a job interview dressed in a giant diaper. Guy literally couldn’t take his eyes of my breasts. Moth to a flame. Job’s as good as mine.

Tuesday, 27 October 2009

Day 282

I’d never really thought much about the epic levels of human suffering my admirably detached arrogance has caused in the past. The panoramic grief. And now that i too have felt the searching sting of loss, i think about even less.

Fuck everybody. Seriously. All the mothers and their dead sons. All the children left fatherless. All those Iraqi kids whose legs and arms and eyes i had blown off so my Halliburton amigos could lay some pipe through their backyards – fuck every last one of them. My Osbaldo has left his earthly seat, taking my notoriously philanthropic demeanour and ass-slapping bonhomie with him. I have nothing left to give.

Oh, why him lord? Why Osbaldo, you lousy butt-fucker?

He had such a big heart. Massive heart. Literally. Enlarged aorta, so the coroner says. Halfway through a dead-hander – POW! – thing ruptured like a frozen spigot. Years and years of substance abuse was the perceived wisdom. Sure he had an insatiable appetite for one-pot meth, but who ever heard of someone dying from it?! Ridiculous. Personally, i’d say he just loved too much. If you define love as a constant state of barbaric, drug-skewed sexual aggression. Which i do.

Must stay strong. Can’t... Must...

Night draws in. Though tears still draw steady lines from my eyes to my quivering chin, then on to my chest, down past my navel, coming to rest on or near my ballsack, i find comfort knowing a little piece of him will reside within me for eternity. Or at least till my next bowel movement, whichever comes first. Yes, some might call it cannibalism, but having devoured the best part of his left lung while i waited for the emergency services to extricate me from my flyblown hovel, i feel no shame in admitting i did what i did. And i did it ‘cause i had to. Desperate times, desperate meals.

And before you start casting judgemental stones at my battered, troll-like frame, there were precious little options at my disposal. Other than a giant bag of cool ranch Doritos, that is. And shit loads of jello...14 cans of diet sprite...as well as 12 boxes of Snackwell’s cookie cakes, enough crackers to choke a deer, and some tins of blackberry pie filling. But all that stuff’s pumped full of aspartame, and i wouldn’t even touch that shit with a dead dog’s dick, not since Rumsfeld told me what it does to you: epileptic seizures, chronic ball itch, peptic ulcers, brain tumors. Also, i heard it reduces your capacity to produce tears, and right now uncontrollable, snot-addled sobbing is about my only vice. If you don’t count finger-fucking stray dogs or watching The Glenn Beck Show naked from the waist down.

Wednesday, 21 October 2009

Day 276

It took a while to accept, but, lying there like an empty pyjama case all riddled with maggots and stinking worse than a vagina with trenchfoot, even i have to admit my beloved Osbaldo is almost certainly probably really possibly but not definitely very dead*.

As you’d imagine, sharing your living quarters with what is looking increasingly like a corpse does have its disadvantages, though i prefer to focus on the positives. After all, if it weren’t for the biblical swarm of flies, i’d have precious little to eat. Or talk to. Every heaving cloud of fat-bodied bluebottles has a silvery lining.

FYI: they really are the ultimate convenience food, should you ever find yourself in similar straits. So abundant (i can hardly see the opposite wall), all i need do is swipe out a wretched claw and i’ll harvest a happy fistful every time. All bloated and swollen from feasting on Osbaldo’s beautiful eyes and intestines, they’re like crunchy little meat-filled grapes.

So, ever the pragmatist, i’m set to make the best of a bad hand. Like Jonathan Winters once said: "If your ship doesn’t come in, swim out to it." And, with a few more helpings, i should have enough strength at my disposal to do just that. Maybe even jerk off a couple of times too.

*Yeah, he’s dead. The bottom of the cot fell out about 8mins 23secs ago (think the wood was rotten from the relentless deluge of piss and shit) discharging me from my sex penitentiary with a sudden and unexpected thud. Weak of limb, i dragged myself across the floor using my teeth, lips, and cock till i reached my darling Ossie. Checking for a pulse, his arm came off in my hand, so i tried mouth-to-mouth instead. Which probably would’ve worked a little better if his skull hadn’t collapsed like wet clay on a potter’s wheel the instant my face met his. Even with all the muscle wastage, decomposition, and butyric fermentation, he’s still the most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen. So i pulled what was left of his face off the floor and draped it over mine while i thought about my next move – i mean, who the hell do you call with this one?

Friday, 16 October 2009

Day 271

Things are none too peachy right now. Osbaldo won’t wake up and i’m beginning to get a little concerned. Don’t have a wristwatch, but i heard Carl across the hall leave, come back, then leave again, and i know for a fact he only ever goes out twice a week for more bird seed and to stare at kids. So – quick bit of mental arithmetic – that means Osbaldo’s been motionless for no less than 5 days, possibly as many as 9. Now, i’m no first-aider but i’m willing to bet he’s not well. And lying all folded up like that he won’t be doing his sciatica any favors either.

Consequently, i’ve not eaten for a while – him bringing me my strictly rationed meals and all. Starting to feel a little weak. I could barely raise a cry for help when those juveniles* broke in and ransacked the place. Osbaldo had left the door on the latch (he’s so trusting) so they just popped it open, stepped over him and helped themselves to the TV, his wallet, and pretty much all the tropical fish. They probably would’ve stolen our suitcase full of human lips too if the sight of a full-grown man locked inside a homemade sex cage hadn’t inspired a hasty and terrified retreat. Small mercies.

You’re probably wondering why i haven’t called 911, right? Well, i’ve no chance of reaching the phone from in here, and even if i could the thing’s not been working properly since we started using it as a bong. So if anyone out there is actually reading this shit, i could use a little assistance here. Not sure of the exact address, but if you follow the trail of blood-spattered BabyGap clothes, it’ll lead you straight to Carl’s place. We’re right opposite.

*No, they weren’t black, they were white. Good, honest, high-as-kites-on-shake’n’bake white boys, doubtless driven to rob people blind at knife-point just to fund their way through Jesuit Seminary ever since that fucking racist Obama and his deep-seated hatred for our people’s culture put the kibosh on Caucasians earning an honest living negligently pissing away other peoples 401k’s. He's some kinda cunt.

Wednesday, 7 October 2009

Day 262

Since my release from Sibley Memorial, i’ve been unable to attend my daily outpatient appointments, so if anyone from Dr. Lipshitz’ office is reading this, my apologies for any inconvenience caused.

By way of explanation, my mobility is severely restricted, as you’re doubtless aware, and necessity dictates i rely heavily on Osbaldo’s charitable nature for transportation. Unfortunately, jealousy has taken stout grip of his faculties, and in a bid to prevent me ever leaving his sight again, he has imprisoned me "for my own safety" inside an infant’s cot he stole from a recently bereaved couple.

At first i was scared witless, deprived of my liberty like that. But, as the hours drip away, i become more at ease with this most unconventional incarceration, to the point where i now gladly relinquish all notions of self and allow him to do anything he damn well pleases to me or my earthly anatomy. What delicious irony that such degrading internment should be, of all things, so liberating. Sweet miracles of the Christ-child! I could literally feel my wings spreading last night as he fortified my wooden cage further with chicken wire and an army of dog-skull gargoyles. Inner peace has never smelt so odd.

Living the dream, both, he feeds me cat food through the bars twice weekly, petting me gently and calling me his "ugly little Romanian orphan"; a part i play up to by coquettishly soiling my flea-ridden mattress and drooling non-stop like a mongoloid Plott Hound. At last, i no longer crave the unchecked omnipotence of my former life. Though i will admit, from time to time, i do miss all the pussy.

Monday, 28 September 2009

Day 253

In 1984 I blocked the allocation of much-needed federal money for the protection of battered women across America. In 1985, having already voted against a ban on the sale of armour-piercing bullets to civilians (thereby rendering all standard-issue bullet-proof vests worn by our police officers utterly fucking useless), I then voted twice against granting bonus payments to the widows and orphans of those cops dumb enough to get themselves killed in the line of duty. In 1986 I refused to endorse emergency food programmes for America’s most deprived children. In 1987 I refused to grant food support for the elderly, and in 1988, figuring our law enforcement agencies still had an unfair advantage over drug lords, psychopaths, and sleeper cells, I vetoed a ban on the sale of our arms industry’s most heinous categories of weapons.

But I’ve also done things I’m not proud of - my recent behaviour inside Lynne’s dishwasher, for example. It was unsanitary and, on reflection, nothing short of borderline inappropriate. I hopelessly misread the situation, and she is quite right to forbid me busting a nut in or near her white goods any time in the foreseeable future.

Time is a great healer though, and i’m sure enough has passed that she can laugh about it now. I for one can’t stop. And what a story - certainly one for the grandkids!

But for now I'll play safe and afford her a little more space while the anger subsides. At least Osbaldo has not forsaken me. For all his faults, he was still decent enough to pick me up from Sibley Memorial on the morning of my discharge. Not sure where he got the wheels, but, with the previous owner not even bothering to repair the shattered driver’s side window or remove the skull fragments and brain tissue spattered across the dashboard and upholstery, I do hope he didn’t pay too much for it.

Sunday, 20 September 2009

Day 245

Tuesday, just gone, brought fortune both good and bad. Lynne let me back in the house. Only briefly, though, and not to reestablish cordial relations or have vaginal sex – just needed some of my things from the loft (dreamcatcher, crossbow, my old Color Me Badd t-shirt) and she was kind enough to oblige. Wasn’t in when I arrived – didn’t want to see my "stupid little fuck-ass face", so said the note. Nor do i, to be fair. Wish it wasn’t there. Wish it was on my butt. At least that way i wouldn’t have to see it each and every day i don’t wake up dead.

With the house empty, i took the opportunity presented: stripped naked and had a quick masturbate in the best place i could find. Takes plenty determination to get your entire hunched frame inside a dishwasher, be advised, but the rewards far out-weigh the shame. Pretty painful exercise too. Mean struggle squeezing inside – had to dislocate one of my legs at the hip and fold it behind my back before i could even get my godforsaken faceless ass in there. Sure, a Zanussi ZDT40 will look awful roomy till you try and climb into one with a boner on the go. They don’t tell you about that in the handbook, do they? Shysters.

Anyway, the long and the short of it is, i got the door shut eventually but the lack of light and air freaked me out somewhat, and the mad, shit-peppered thrashing that ensued set the damn machine running, rinsing all the skin off my back and near-drowning me under a scalding-hot torrent that seemed to last an eternity – doubtless the kind of dehumanising act of hypersexual savagery that could’ve served us well in Abu Ghraib, had i had the foreskin foresight.

By the time Lynne returned from her Krav Maga class and freed me from my economy wash hell, my ravaged body more resembled a vile agglomeration of blanched afterbirth than human man, and she barely recognised me through the blistered flesh and screaming.

Mistaking me for a deranged intruder – understandable under the circumstances – she slammed the door shut again, stuck it on rinse hold, and swore if i tried to get out she’d shoot me "through the motherfucking neck" with her husband’s handgun. She’s so cute when she’s hysterical! And i don’t even own a handgun!! 2 Armalites, a WW2 Bren gun, six or so Škorpion VZ-61 7.65 mm submachine guns, an M16 1A assault rifle, two M4 carbines (one for best), a selection of new and vintage RPGs, some surface-to-air hand-held rocket launchers, and a respectable stockpile of outlawed nerve agents, yes; but a handgun? Don’t see the point. Always figured, if you’re getting tooled-up, may as well go large.

As I left the scene handcuffed to the paramedic’s gurney – my irreparably borked leg still pointing counter-sensible, and leaving behind a sickening plug of boiled back-meat and tripe wedged in the filtration system – I feel sure, beyond her brave façade of extreme nausea, Lynne’s heart was secretly aflutter, and just between you and me, i think it may be back on.

Not sure how Osbaldo will take the good news...

Saturday, 12 September 2009

Day 238

Things are looking up: 50% off 10oz bottles of A1 Steak Sauce at Metro-K's. I could just drink that stuff all day. Which is lucky, as since Lynne asked me to move out (and with yours truly possessing no discernible culinary skills) I kind of have to.

Most times I just drink it cold and straight out of the bottle. If I can fight off the torpor long enough, I might treat myself once in a while and warm it on the radiator for a few minutes while I'm having a shit or pounding my face against the bathroom mirror. Then i'll just pour it on the rug and eat it off the floor like a dog or a black man.

Osbaldo thinks i'm hilarious. Did I tell you about him? He's my new room-mate here at the YMCA. He says the sweetest things, like, "your breath smells like your mouth has trenchfoot" and "hey, Dicklips, you're the best room-mate I've haven't killed".

Amazingly well adjusted considering he's not long out of Marion. Three counts of male rape, in case you were wondering, though it was reduced on appeal to the lesser charge of sexual heckling.

He recently introduced me to something called 'cystal meth'. A real blast, and it helps me forget all the horrific things I've done in the world. I smoke it most nights now (and pretty much every morning too) while Ossie pounds his balls off my 68-year-old ass and fills me with his nicotine-ridden ejaculate. The septic bite marks you can see on my neck are the cumulative effect of what is known in the business as an 'alligator fuckhouse'. Trick he learned inside. He says if I ever try to leave him he'll beat me unconscious with a nine iron, eat my genitals raw, then cut out my lungs and fuck them mushy right in front of me. The boy's a keeper.

Now i always knew there was something missing with Lynne and me, but I never would've guessed it was the ever-present threat of psycho-sexual execution. Only now do i realise how lucky i am to be out of there. Stupid bitch was suffocating me.

Thursday, 3 September 2009

Day 229

I don't understand what's happening to me.

Yesterday was spent wandering aimlessly round the Mazza Gallerie shopping mall in Lynne's wedding dress. I couldn't stop crying. Also a strong possibility i may've pissed myself; though, judging by the extent of the damage, i probably had help.

In a bid to cheer myself up, i bought a $3 steak knife from Villeroy & Boch and cut a hole in the front of the dress so everybody could see the face i'd drawn on my penis. The face was crying too.

Found fleeting mirth in its sorrow then went home and got drunk on my own again.

The uncontrollable sobbing kicked in again - with renewed vigor - around 11.49 p.m., and did not abate till roughly 113 minutes ago (sorry, cannot be more specific).

Instilled a renewed sense of optimism with the help of almost 48 minutes and 26 seconds of non-stop Whitesnake videos i unearthed on YouTube. Also checked out the official Mini Babybel website. After so much 'real cheese only smaller' hype, quite a disappointment, let me tell you. I've had more fun not shooting my friends in the face.

Next 13 minutes didn't go so well and are still a touch hazy, but the upshot is i don't appear to have the self-harming under control after all:


No to be too graphic, i found my foreskin on the bathroom floor lying next to the teeth i pulled out last weekend. I have no recollection of the impromptu Briss, but, if the massive pool of dried blood and excreta next to the can opener is anything to go by, the procedure can't have been entirely pain-free.

Though clearly in the grip of a heavy psychotic malaise, i did have the wherewithal to cauterize the raw end of my johnson by jamming it in the toaster, twice over. Good job too, as the blade of the can opener proved unfit for purpose, and the injuries sustained due to my imprecise and hasty tearing may've turned angry and septic within hours.

Bullet dodged.

Wednesday, 26 August 2009

Day 221

Jammed long and hard into the night with Broadsweat, my band.

Thank god for The 'Sweat. Keeps me sharp. George was on fire last night. Literally. Did a Pryor with some brandy and pipe full of ready rock. Didn't knock Farmboy off his stride though. Locked-in and ignorant as ever. Looked spectacular too. Rumster's all for throwing it into the live show. May need tweaking back a notch though - health and safety regulations etc. Don't want another Great White on our hands. Inclined to maybe play it safe and just set fire to his ball hair.

Super-tired today - face looks like a collapsed testicle. Didn't hit the hay till around 4.52 a.m. Restless night followed. Money worries'll do that to a man. Yep, like most everyone these days, even Old Dickfingers here is feeling the pinch. No job to speak of, down to my last $40 billion. May be forced to nibble into my bottomless European bond fund if i'm to keep Lynne in cashmere knitwear and inflatable butt-plugs. Gotta start bringing in the green or that famous wandering eye of hers may just pack a bag and up and leave me; take her face, hair, ass, jugs, central nervous system and prize-winning gams with it. Still, as long as she leaves her foof behind i reckon The Dick Machine'll do just fine.

That said, think i'll save dry-humping a fistful of disembodied vagina as my baseline. Until such a scenario arises, must get pro-active with the CV, work my contacts. Tapping up my old Halliburton buddies is bound to prove fruitful. Those guys are always bird-dogging the babes, so it's only a question of time before they'll need a paragon of purest evil to help sweep their latest cum-basted, rape-shaped PR disaster under the carpet. Cue Dick.

So i'm staying positive, and so should you, 'cause like the old adage goes: where there's oil-swilling, river-polluting, government-contracted sex criminals...there's hope.

Day 219

Out of bed and straight into my cardio: 4 sit-ups and a brutal fist-fight with my beloved Lynne. No rules. Kitty knows how to cut it, but caught her in the jaw with a tube sock full of quarters. Game over. Gloated heavily over ham and eggs.

Bored, bored, bored, bored, bored. A day to try something new. Mix it up. Challenge myself. Turns out it's actually quite hard to make your own porn, even harder if it's gay porn. But i'm a can-do kinda guy, big believer that persistence pays off. Keep chipping away at something, sooner or later you'll break its back.

This time round, though, i didn't have to blow up a school or strip someone naked and humiliate their balls with a cattle prod to achieve my goals. More's the pity. Anyhoo, me and 'Troy' (drafted in after a nod of recommendation from Larry 'Lewd Act' Craig) settled on some heavy petting, a little ass-to-mouth, and something called a Warm Trevor finale, which, as Lynne informed me, requires a certain amount of faecal matter and an appetite.

Not just a knowledgeable head when i comes to alternative lifestyles, the little lady also wields a mean camera, and undertook directorial duties while i was engaged on-set. Establishing shots in the bag, we turned to the narrative. All going well till T's penis got big on me real quick. Took me by surprise and agitated my puke-spot. FYI: regurgitating brunch down another man's urethra is one sure-fire way of ruining a shoot, not to mention his career. See, filling a set of balls with vomitus is kinda like pouring sugar in a gas tank. And no matter how hard you yank on the choke, ain't nothing getting that bad boy firing again, not for a long stretch.

A lesson learned. Onward.

Tuesday, 25 August 2009

Day 218

Woke early, around 10.33 a.m. That said, could easily have been p.m. Having trouble telling night from day in here. (Note to self: get window fitted in man-sized safe - south-facing, plexiglass).

After lengthy internal debate and massive clear-out (had three helpings of curried swan last night), settled on oatmeal for breakfast. Hopes dashed though: finished box yesterday and neglected to instruct Lynne (i love her so much) to replenish cupboard in interim. Unwilling to admit my own oversight, i held a Bosch 12V cordless power drill 3mm from her eyeball in the hope she'd shoulder responsibility for something she clearly never did. Sturdy bitch held fast. Reached for the big guns and threatened to rape our children. Lost interest after 40 mins butchery and ate half a jar of mayonnaise instead.

Gilmore Girls not on so watched Fox News for about 13 straight hours then threw carton of yoghurt i was masturbating with at christmas tree i can't be fucked to take down.

Overwhelmed by melancholy. Must be all the dairy.

Looking forward to bed. The night terrors, not so much.