Friday, September 5, 2008
Please tell me if at 1:42 the big oafish perv with the red shirt says what I think he says. It's also worth checking out their myspace and listening to their other smooth jams. They really have a handle on how to make the ladies wet. I'd link it, but they show it enough times in the video.
I'm pretty sure that both of these fools are virgins. I also wonder what they paid their 8th grade little bro to edit this video on his Commodore 64.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
You can get them by searching for Buncocky in the itunes store, or you can just listen here: http://www.switchpod.com/f66704.html?puser=none
We encourage and appreciate any and all feedback.
Regarding my lack of updating this shitpile, I am about to graduate from college and will have plenty of time to wax all philosophical and hypothetical for you all, but until then I'm going to busy doing shit that I'd rather not be doing. However, there is always Buncocky Cast: your rock in the choppy ocean.
til another time,
Thursday, March 13, 2008
On this episode of Buncocky Cast Mike and I celebrate the loss of Gary Gygax, dork extraordinaire, some more netflix, beautiful poetry, Gravedigger Jay,and five more questions.
I want to take some space to add to the dorkery conversation in this piece,
First Person Shooter Roleplayer= A dork who wears rollerblades and drinks lots of energy drinks, hence seeming cooler to the other gamers than they actually are.
Computer generated Roleplayers= Roleplayers who are playing games on the computer that are essentially the exact same shit as the people who are playing them with dice, only they can visually see what said dice dorks can only imagine.
D&D Roleplayers= The heart of the Role playing universe. The king dorks. Not to be mistaken as dorkier or less dorky, but as dorky but original in their intent. Some people just like to kick it pen and paper style and roll dice.
Record collectors= to MP3 collectors what D&D Roleplayers are to World of Warcraft players. No exceptions. Some people just like to kick it with vinyl and needle.
On another note, I'm sad to say that Bruce Springsteen is still alive. My curses were for not, but hopefully he'll shit the bed this week and make up for burning me.
Also, Buncocky Cast is starting a petition that should be signed by anyone in the world who happensances by it. It takes about half a second and it is intended to free Parker Lewis Can't Lose from the deathgrips of Fox so that I can own it on DVD. Please, do the right thing, and tell your friends to do the right thing...for the childrens. Petition
You can reach Mike and myself at Buncocky@gmail.com with any suggestions (except you Brien), or feedback that you may have for the show. Being as to how we're dorks ourselves, we're always looking for ways to make the show more Bad News Brown, so feel free to tell us why we suck.
Also, you can visit us on myspace at myspace.com/buncocky and we should have a website up and running soon, as well as some kind of Parker Lewis Charity thing for the childrens.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Buncocky Cast Episode 3: Adult Contemporary
This week we learn a little about Hey Dude, a lot about Jordan Catalano and Jason Statham, and Jay & Mike get Adult Contemporary all over your asses. Plus, ever so much more!
Also, be sure to vote for us, as we are number one on Switchpod and would like to get world famous.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
New Buncocky Cast! Episode 2! Treat yourself to an hour of:
Special appearances by Dauber from Coach and Bull from Nightcourt
Interview With Satan J, Gravedigger Extraordinaire
This Week On Our Non-Netflix
The Devastating Conclusion of the Nutrament Diet Experiment
We’d love any and all feedback, be they suggestions, love or hate mail, or naked picture of your mom. Also, When you click on the link to listen to our podcast (which I know you will, because it was a gift, and only bad people don’t accept gifts) be sure to rate us however many stars you think our show is worth.
I haven’t been writing much lately because college weaseled its way into my mental and zap fried all my creativity. Plus, the Nutrament has me weak and feeble. Actually, it’s kind of hard to find time for more than one project right now, and the Buncocky Podcast is the soup of the day. I am going to recruit the help of some underground crazy holed up fucks so there’s more content on this garbage. So, if you would like to contribute I will put an email address at the bottom of this post and we can work some shit out.
You can email Buncocky Podcast at firstname.lastname@example.org
You can submit to this site at email@example.com
And, you can check my Buncocky partner, Mike Dikk, at dumpin.net
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
This is the new Podcast I made with Mike Dikk from dumpin.net. It's our first episode so we have some kinks to work out for the next one, but we hope you all dig it. Rate us or give us feedback if you're feeling saucy. If you have something you'd urgently like to discuss, or passively want to send to us you can email us at buncocky@ gmail.com.
Buncocky Cast Episode 1: Chad Allen
Introduction to us
The great Nutrament diet experiment
This week on our Netflix
Friday, February 15, 2008
There’s a black lady who comes into the gas station where I work. She drives a silver Honda SUV. Her name is Wanda. She is fifty years old, but looks a wretched thirty-five. Her skin is leathery and cratered and her eyeballs pop from her head and dance around as if looking for something to go horribly wrong so that she can unleash her pent up rage that regenerates itself at superhuman speed. She wears shiny jewelry whether she’s in her going out mini-skirt or her going to work scrubs. She comes to the gas station because she refuses to pump her own gas.
“What the fuck do I look like? You pump gas, motherfucker. Pump my motherfucking gas,” she said to me one day when the gas had run out and I told her that the truck was late, so she’d have to go somewhere else and pump her own gas.
I love Wanda. She is one of my favorite people in the world.
I first met Wanda when she pulled into the gas station at seven-thirty on a Friday evening. She was playing Prince so loud that the bass crashed against the glass of her SUV. I danced my way over to her car in my Sunoco blue work shirt, my shoulders and head loosely bobbing to and fro, my bottom lip snug between my teeth. I arrived at her window, let loose a smooth improvised spin, and with a shit eating smile I said, “What could I getcha?”
I saw the rage in her eyes as I had crashed her personal dance party. Then, my smile steadfast, I saw that rage melt into a bewildered grin. “What the fuck do you know about Prince?” she asked me, gripping the ledge of her window as if to keep her balance.
“What the fuck do you know about me?” I said.
She gave me the warmest smile I had ever seen, as if she thought her entire life that she was the last human on earth and then, fifty years in, she stumbled upon me, one of the living, the breathing, the bleeding, the fucking. As Wanda’s gas pumped we shot the shit.
“I’m on my way to the motherfucking liquor store to get me some Coronas and Hennessey. It’s Friday, motherfucker. I’m about to get my drink on and find me some men.”
“Well. you have fun” I said, admiring her liberal use of the word motherfucker and her unadulterated bluntness. “I’m stuck here until eleven.”
“Shit. If I get to the liquor store I’ll come back and drink a
“Hell yes,” I said, lying but unwilling to break our bond over semantics. Besides, it’s not as if I wouldn’t drink Hennessey. I choose not to because anything that’s not cheap whiskey tastes like vomit, especially cognacs.
And so it would go. Wanda would come by the gas station on random nights and drink a
One day Wanda came in for gas. It was still day time but clouds painted the sky grey. She was parked at the pump, her car facing the entrance because she came in through the exit, as was her style. As her gas pumped, a blonde-haired white girl in her early twenties drove up in a red Taurus and edged past Wanda so that she could get to the pump just beyond her SUV. She drove with care and made it to the pump safely, no real chance of collision.
I went to her gas tank and opened the door, and as I did so the pretty white girl got out of the car and walked over to me so she could tell me what she wanted. I began pumping her gas, and out of the corner of my eye I saw Wanda get out of her SUV.
“You think you’re cute, don’t you. You think that was some pretty driving. Well I’m gonna fuck you up. Say I won’t,” she said, marching over to the white girl, rolling up her sleeves, the devil in her eyes.
The white girl looked over to her, then back to me, unsure of what was going on. She said nothing. I said nothing.
Wanda marched forward until she was within an arm’s reach of the girl and began to wag a finger in her face. I watched, smiling, completely thrown off guard, but smiling nonetheless.
“If you’da hit my car I’d rip your fucking face off, bitch,” she shouted in her face.
The girl began to shake and, near tears, slid out of Wanda’s reach and into her car. Wanda stood there for a moment, watched her retreat, and then went back to her car cursing the whole way.
I finished up the pretty white girl’s gas and collected her money. She gave me a two dollar tip, but neither of us spoke of the event. It was all in her eyes and she was clearly happy to leave.
As she pulled away I went over to Wanda’s car to finish up her gas.
“Damn. You’re ready for a fucking fight today, huh?”
“Stupid bitch thinks I won’t do it,” she said, pulling an unopened bottle of Hennessey from the backseat. She opened it, took a swig, and held it out to me. “Here, baby. Have a little something.”
I took a swig of the nasty liquor, collected her money, and bid adieu to my white hating friend who, for some reason, found a reason not to white hate on me.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
If you want to read more about it I am going to post some links somewhere over to the left.
Riphouse 151: Could've Been's & Wanna Be's Documentary Trailer
Add to My Profile | More Videos
It's a great doc and if he ever becomes famous you can brag to all your friends about how you went to the indie theater and saw the movie before it got big. That might get you some pussy, but at the very least it will make you seem cool while your at the coffee house drinking a frapalatte and smoking a Misty.
Or you can take a date, probably a first date would be best, maybe one who likes to write poems and shit, and blow her fucking mind with all of the underground shit you know, and then take her back to her dorm room (or your mom's basement), and tell her that she's the most prettiest girl in the whole world and that her poetry is reminiscent of Emily Dickinson and that if she were a flower, she'd totally be a rose, because she's beautiful and her poetry pricks you heart with sweet fragrances.
Or, if you are a girl, you can show off how you don't need a man to be metal. You can make shit happen. And honestly, metal chicks, you guys need that shit. Stand on your own two feet. Round up the girls, throw on some chaps, and get lessoned on the power of metal.
Show some support.
Riphouse 151: Could've Been's & Wanna Be's
WORLD PREMIER SCREENING
Thursday March 27th, 2008 7pm
(Riverspace) Helen Hayes Theater
119 Main Street
$7.00 (All Proceeds go to Charity)
Saturday, February 9, 2008
My daughter is a Brownie. Every other week she goes to the meeting in the art room of her school. I always figured that they did shit like I used to do in the Cub Scouts: make wooden phalluses on wheels and have competitions to see whose could go down the plywood ramp fastest, pretend to learn how to tie knots, drink fruit punch, stuff that eight year olds could do when dressed in fruity little uniforms and left under the supervision of someone who likes the company of children enough to seek out a way to be around them in closed quarters. That’s usually one of three types of people: pretty young women with high-pitched voices who like to make popcorn ball Christmas tree ornaments and wear long flowing skirts, perverts, or soccer moms under some kind of social pressure to give back to the childrens despite their hatred for their own offspring. My daughter is stuck with the latter, just slightly more preferable than the perverts because the after-effects could be washed away with a little bit of TLC.
These two haggard women hated their children for making them big and fat, as if the prettiness of their high school years fled out of their vaginas with the amniotic fluids and placentas, and not through the self administered Twinkies and Big Macs (just a number one. No, maybe a super-sized number one, and plus a cheeseburger because the number one just isn’t filling enough. I swear for dinner tonight I’m going to eat a Weight Watchers. Isn’t The Biggest Loser on tonight? I’m going to join that show and lose a bunch of weight, and all the guys are going to want to eat me out just like in high school. How come we never go out to dinner anymore or have sex? Is it because I’m fat? Well, you’re not exactly Tom Selleck yourself. SHUT UP AND CLEAN YOUR GODDAMN ROOM! I’m making a kielbasa. You want a kielbasa?). The taller of the two was a stout blonde woman with the type of pretty face tainted with the ugliness of being a bitch, while the shorter one (more of a Brownie sidekick) was a pork-nosed brunette who brought her younger child (maybe 5) to the meetings and could be heard yelling “Shut up, Katie! Leave me alone!” at constant intervals throughout.
I sat on a table in the room. It was my wife’s turn to bring the snacks and stay for the meeting (all the parents take turns. Molester proofing, I think), but she was at work earning the money that I’m not man enough to earn for her. So there I sat, Vincent Van Gogh’s “Starry Starry Night” painted onto a tile on the ceiling next to the flat fluorescents. Drawings of insects and birds were taped to the walls and three large tables stood in the middle of the room, all of them covered in speckles of paint and magic marker. A stack of papers were next to me and I looked over at them. They were disciplinary reports meant to be filled out by the child gone wild. They said something to the effect of:
“While I was sent to another place (I’m guessing this meant time out or sitting in the corner) and reflected on what I did, I realized that___________”
and a bunch of other foofoo questions that no kid in their right mind would answer honestly. Then I heard the door open accompanied by the march of little feet, the clamber of little voices. The Brownies had entered the room dressed in their brown vests and followed by Bitchface and Porknose. I sat on the table, trying to remain low-key, but my daughter saw me and smiled. I smiled back, and wasn’t offended when her attention was diverted. She had business to take care of.
“Okay, everybody circle up into The Triad,” said Bitchface through a heavy breath.
What’s I triad, I thought to myself, worried about the cultish name of the circle they formed. Maybe it was in some ancient secret Brownie lore that a circling of little girls was to be called a triad. Still, it wasn’t a triangle, and there weren’t three of anything, so what did it all mean?
The little girls circled around Bitchface and Porknose, throwing their bags and jackets onto one of the tables beforehand. I remained the silent observer atop my table. When all the girls were seated, Bitchface addressed them with a scowl across her heavily made up kisser. “I want you all to say the Brownies credo, both aloud and in sign language.”
Sign language? My daughter knows no sign language.
But what I did not know would shock me. All of the girls, in a drab and possessed monotone, joined in a unison chorus of sign language and chanting. “I promise to serve the
A chill ran down my spine. The
“Katie, shut up and sit down,” Porknose yelled over the chant when her little daughter tugged on her shirt and asked for a piece of paper to color on.
“Okay,” said Bitchface when the kids were done, empowered by the chant as if she had just sipped on the blood of those she had killed. “Now,” what did we talk about last week?”
One of the little Brownies raised her hand, and in a voice that I can only relate to that of a robot ninja, said, “Nutrition.”
Nutrition? Was my daughter learning about nutrition from a woman that seemed to force feed herself Doritos and Hohos? That’s why I swear no allegiances: hypocrisy and misinformation. Plus, I hate being told what to do.
“Nutrition. Right. Now, what I want you to do this week is to cook a healthy meal for your family. Can you tell me what’s in a healthy meal?”
I pulled myself away, fished out my Moleskine and began to take well detailed notes of what had gone on thus far, just in case I had to take action, or at the very least forewarn as I am now. Bitchface saw me take out my notebook and shot me a dirty glance, as if I was bootlegging her movie. I did not back down, though. I kept scribbling within the black confines of my notebook. I knew my daughter would not be completing that homework assignment, as she was eight and did not know how to cook. But then, she didn’t know sign language last time I checked and there she was, not 5 minutes ago, signing away. I will teach my daughter how to cook so that she will be able to feed herself without relying on anyone to do it for her, and I will be more than happy to teach her how to cook well if she shows the love for the craft that I have. I will not, though, let her cook because some piece of shit Bitchface Brownie head molester thinks that little girls should learn how to cook nutritious food for their family. That’s the exact kind of bullshit that I am trying to help my daughter avoid. I do not want her falling into any kind of stupid shit gender role. If she is a fuck up, I want it to be her fault, not the world’s. If that means that my daughter may turn out to be a dyke, at least I can be assured that she will live a dick-free life, which is perfectly fine with me.
“Katie, shut up!” yelled Porknose as Katie stood and whispered in her ear.
Anyways, The Triad broke up and Bitchface had them all go to a table and make coupons promising to clean some shit for their family members. Fuck that. I can clean up after myself if I wanted to. I don’t want my daughter learning how to clean for other people, to become a cog in the white man’s socialization machine, damned forever to work as a teacher or at a customer service job and never knowing the what it feels like to tell somebody to fuck off and have them wonder whether or not you’re all business or just another poser, but not willing to risk it because you have something a little bit off in your eyes and your clothes are kind of ratty. I want her to have that. All of it. All of the shits that I get to do because I’m a guy. If someone ever looks at her tits, I want her to tell him to get his bitch eyes off of them or else she’ll fuck him up. I don’t want her to grin and bare it. Fuck that.
The little girls sat around the table making coupons out of precut construction paper. They chatted it up about the things they were going to promise to do, and about how the lunch lady was a total bitch that day, and about how the latest episode of iCarly was so funny. Bitchface and Porknose were off to the side talking about how great the new BJ’s was, and how Porknose bought a whole case of Slim Fast on the super cheap. Then Bitchface left the conversation to check on the girls, asking them what they were making coupons for.
“I’m gonna clean up the guest room where my daddy sleeps,” said the little red haired Irish girl.
“I’m gonna promise not to fight with my sisters,” said the girl with long brown hair and
I had brought in some Capri Suns and Chips Ahoy for snack. I was amazed that the little girl found a way to get
“And what are you doing,” Bitchface asked her daughter who seemed exuberantly proud to be a Brownie.
“I’m going to clean up my sister’s room every day for a week,” she said with glee.
“How are you going to do that when you can’t even keep your own room clean,” snapped Bitchface, contempt all over her face.
Sick burn. She put her daughter on front street while her little Brownie friends watched. Bitchface’s Karma was soaked with the frustration of her lot as a housewife, surely engrained in her as a child, probably when she was a Brownie herself. I could hear it in Porknose’s voice every time she told her daughter to shut the fuck up, as well. I wanted none of that for my daughter.
The meeting eventually came to a close. The cookie sales slips were handed out so that my daughter could be whored out by the Girl Scouts. I took them, and we left, me all the wiser.
On the way home my daughter looked at me, her blonde hair falling in her face, unable to hide the wry smile that I gave her from my DNA, and showed me the coupons. My daughter knows to question shit, and she knows that most things are pretty much bullshit. She still has the unabashed optimism of childhood, but she is not one to be duped. I was happy to see that she promised nothing more than was expected of her. She would clean her room. She would feed her cats. She would take care of the shit she had to take care of anyways. I was proud. I don’t know why I worry.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Among his many other talents, my friend Mike Dikk is an underground top secret photography ninja. He's a maniac with the camera. His fame as a secret underground photography ninja had him taking pictures at a nightclub event held by the Food Network after hours when the shit gets salty. What was supposed to be a regular evening of snapping shots of the most famous chefs in the world turned all kinds of hairy and, well, Mike will keep us all posted on the saga of Food Network underground.
Go visit Mike Dikk and friends for all kinds of tomfoolery at dumpin.net
Saturday, February 2, 2008
This is a new segment I am trying out. I've worked about twenty five different jobs in my life, and as any journeyman knows, some wacky ass things happen when you need money and have little moral fiber and even less integrity. Comment with any fucked up thing you've had to do. The only rules are you could have only made twelve dollars or less on the job.
I used to work as a cook at a restaurant. It was a TGIF type of deal, only it wasn’t a chain. It was owned by a tall, grey haired, Lincoln Continental driving Italian guy named Mickey who was teetering the line of insanity. To me, he was in one of the most beautiful stages of mental collapse. He had a strong moral sense that worked in great contradictions, a product of years of power, of getting what he wanted because he was the man in charge. His mind was so fucked from lack of any formidable authority that he was able to do (or in most cases, have done for him) whatever crazy idea popped into his head, no matter how backwards it was. In this particular instance, he had heard of a guy who bought a shitload of rabbits to feed to his snake (snakes?), and all of a sudden he got all animal liberation and shit, despite the fact that he owned a fucking steakhouse and had me cook him a
Mickey knew that I was a hard worker and needed money, so he used to give me extra work to do when I wasn’t at the restaurant. He had me breaking down sheetrock with a sledge hammer in a club he was opening, or helping him move from his office above Taco Bell to the office in a shoddy ass mansion he just bought. The usual side-work type shit for the most part. Occasionally, though, he’d have me do some wacked-out shady stuff. I didn’t really care. He kept me on the clock while I was working, which was fine with me. Twelve dollars an hour was pretty good for a twenty year old, dirt-stained, perennially stoned punk with his seed blossoming inside his would-be wife’s belly. And besides, I liked Mickey, and completely respected his liberal insanity. It was charming as fuck. I hope that when my mental shits the bed, it does it the same way Mickey’s did.
And so, I agreed to help steal the rabbits.
There was a bitter chill in the air and a round Halloween moon lit the autumn night as we drove through town, looking to free the rabbits that our boss had commissioned us to save. They were to face inevitable doom in the lockjaws of a giant snake, and that actually intrigued me more than it triggered any kind of disgust. Can a snake really fit a whole rabbit down its gullet? If it could, well then why would I want to stop such an impressive feat? It would be like clipping the long-toenail lady’s nails, or shaving the bearded lady. But, fuck it. My wife was pregnant and out of work, and I had to pay rent for our shitty apartment (a 2 bedroom above an Italian deli).
Mick had paired me up with a fifty year old dope junkie who had just gotten out of jail. His name was Bobby. He wore a brown leather jacket to cover up his fat body and his salt and pepper hair was combed back in the faux-slickness popular amongst the Italians that crowded around Mickey at the restaurant. We cruised the back-roads in Mickey’s beaten maroon Ford Ranger, Bobby behind the wheel, running his mouth about how he never wanted to go back to “the joint,” and about how Mickey had looked out for him, and a bunch of other sappy garbage that made me wish that Goodfellas had never been made—that people like Bobby had no stereotypes to immerse their otherwise crappy personalities in. The classic rock station was playing on the radio and I would have much rather been listening to Billy Squire try to smooth talk girls into stroking his wang than this fuck tell stories about prison. Maybe the stories would have been a little more interesting if I knew they were true. But the truth would have gone something like, “Big black guys passed my ass around like a hookah in a hippy dorm room, and all I could do was pray that Rico the angry Mexican had some dope to ease the pain.” That would have been a good story—gory, but honest, like all good stories are.
We finally found the house and parked in front. I was a little surprised about how unsurprising it was. It was a little shack with crudded up wooden siding, dead weeds along the lawn, and a gravel driveway. It was the type of place where you would expect rabbits to get fed to snakes, amongst countless other heavy metal dreams come true. Bobby reached in the backseat and grabbed a pair of bolt cutters from the backseat. As we both got out of truck and walked up to the porch, lit by a lone bulb hanging from the ceiling, he handed them to me. They were big and heavy. The rubber grips were black and the metal was red, cold, and worn from years of use. He told me to go around back, open up the gate, and wait for him. He had obviously scouted the place out or something, because he knew there would be a gate, and he knew that the job would be made easier with bolt cutters. Or else it was just criminal instinct, which I could also believe. Either way, I walked slowly to the gravel driveway, trying to see what Bobby was up to.
He rang the doorbell. A skinny man with a longish brown hair opened the door. He was topless and his torso was tattooed. He seemed surprised enough. I couldn’t hear what Bobby said to him, but as he opened the screen door and pushed the man into his own house, I no longer thought of his ass as a hippy’s hookah. It was his hookah and his alone, passed along in prison because he liked to share, not because of the mannerless greed of its abusers, and also maybe for dope.
With Bobby and Snake Guy inside, I walked down the short gravel driveway in the dark, clutching the bolt cutters as if they were a ray gun and I was about to megablast seedy green aliens to hell, Shatner style. I arrived at the gate that led into Snake Guy’s back yard and curled the snapping turtle lips of the cutters around the arch of the rusted up gym lock that kept the chain that held the gate closed. I put some strength into the squeeze, wiggled it a little, and just as I got the lock free, the backyard light came on. Bobby came walking out of Snake Guy’s sliding glass doors and onto his splintered deck. Covering the far end of the back yard were dozens of wood and wire cages stacked next to and on top of one another, all of them filled with rabbits. Bobby came down into the backyard and I joined him once I got the gate open.
“Where’s Snake Guy?” I asked.
“Don’t worry about it,” Bobby answered with a contrived badass dip in his voice that made me want to smack him upside the head. “Let’s get these rabbits to Mickey.”
I rolled my eyes and did as I was told. We tripled up the rabbits into the cages so we could fit them into the truck. Snake Guy was nowhere to be seen. I tried to imagine what Bobby did or said to him, but I couldn’t. The only thing I could think about was how weird it would have been to see a fucking snake eat a whole rabbit.
We drove the rabbits to Mick’s mansion and unloaded them into the basement. He opened the door in the bathrobe that he always wore around the house and told us to bring them into the basement. Bobby and I did as we were told, and that’s the end of the story for right now.
Next time on “The Weirdest Things I Have Done for Twelve Dollars an Hour:” Mick, Bobby and me hunt the basement and backyard of the mansion for the loose rabbits and their childrens.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
I was at the gas station on one of the few days where my shift has me actually pumping gas. Sunday’s are never really busy, so most of my day was spent in the warm booth save the few times I had to go outside to serve someone. In the early afternoon, a relatively new white Hyundai Santa Fe, maybe an ‘05 or ‘06, pulled up to the pump. The paint was dusted brown from the dirty winter roads. It had a bumper sticker on the back that read “One Woman + One Man= Marriage,” but other than that it was unscathed by any adhered messages. I don’t give a shit about peoples’ hate declarations. As far as I’m concerned, everybody’s got to hate something, so if it makes you happy to express your anger by fucking up a paint job, then by all means, be my guest. It was obvious that the lady driving the car was big into fag-hate, so I just let her be her. The sight of that sticker should have clicked the switch in my brain that tells me I’m dealing with one of the saved. However, on that cold Sunday afternoon, it did not. Whether it was the frigid January air numbing my fingers or the stale smell of spilt gasoline frozen to the ground, my mind was dull and unreceptive.
I went up to her window and asked her what she wanted.
“Fill it up, regular,” she said.
I took a few steps over to start the gas and heard her mutter something from her window. I returned to her window figuring she wanted me to check the oil, and I asked her to repeat herself.
“How are you?” she said with a furrowed brow. The ‘how are you’ had a deeper intention buried inside of it, kind of like a drunk guy spotting out a hot chick at a bar, walking up to her, and drunkenly (but smooth in his own clouded up mental), dropping the line.
“Fine,” I said, raising my eyes to return her pleasantry. She was about fifty and her face was caked with concealer. Her lipstick was the deepest bright red I had ever seen. Her hair was dark brown but salted with long grey strands. She wore her Sunday best, a navy blue power-dress with a tuft of white protruding from her frigid bosom. She had a small, weathered, pocket bible opened up in her hands which had whole passages highlighted yellow, overpowering the grey-white pages. She must have been in the middle of a great passage when she left church and just couldn’t wait to get home before rereading it for the hundredth time.
Then I looked into her eyes. Oh, friends of the Latchkey, even my enemies, what I saw there I wouldn’t wish upon any of you. I saw the intentions of a Jesus sorceress and I will never be the same.
Her eyes started with a barrier of glassiness that quickly turned soft to sucker me in. I became lost in the black of her irises. I saw a beach-ball comet flying through outer space at hyper speed, then crashing onto an endless ocean where it was swept up by the wind and current, forced to bounce atop the waves until it landed onto pointed rock jutting out from the water and exploded. Behind the debris of falling multi-colored plastic lie my fate if her hook caught my jaw.
It was me. I was walking up to her car, just like I had already done. I started to pump her gas and she beckoned me over with a ‘how are you.’ Only in this vision, teardrops fell from my tortured green eyes. I was a sheep who had wandered too far from the flock. I looked at her and said, “Save me, Jesus Lady. Save me for I have sinned.”
A malicious smile crept onto her gooey white face. She put a hand to my cheek and wiped a tear away with her thick thumb. “Get in and be saved,” she said.
I got into the car.
We drove back to her house, me in the backseat. Hymnals recorded from her day at church played over the stereo, the baritones of the choir booming through the speakers. Her route took a lot of twists and turns and before I knew it I had no idea of my whereabouts. Finally, tucked behind a forest, was a small Colonial house, the white paint faded grey and chipping off.
She brought me in through the front door and I was met by a dozen or so guys, my age, who had been saved just like I was about to be. All of them wore black dress pants and white, button down, collared shirts. Some of them held feather dusters, others wore latex gloves on their hands. Her little house was filled with Precious Moments knick-knacks and wooden models of windmills. The wall paper was faded white, but had a floral design along the top trim. The whole place had a smoky flavor to it which I attributed to dust and old books she had on an oak case by the stairs. When we went to the staircase, I looked to see what she had. They were all bibles, the bindings on all of them worn through.
She brought me up to her bedroom and put some soft chanting on her phonograph. I looked to her double bed. It was made well, the corners tight. Then she sat in a rocking chair and began reading the bible. I stood before her, my hands clasped in front of me, the signature of my shame. I didn’t know what the words meant. She could see in my eyes that I was confused.
“Let’s take a break from the lesson for now. It’s time I cleansed you of your sins. Take of your clothes.”
I did as I was told, figuring that Jesus would want me to be naked, you know, for purification purposes. Then she had me unbutton her power-dress. I guess Jesus wanted her to be naked so that we can double the purification in the room. And then she reached out her pale, icy hand and…
The click of the gas finishing snapped me out of the Jesus trance. I pulled my eyes away and finished the job. When I collected the money from her, I could see the lustful Jesus passion in her eyes, as if all of her sinful thoughts were tattooed on my pale, young skin. I walked away from the Jesus Sorceress with nervous haste and looked into the cold, blue, January sky, letting the bright sun blind me so that I could sneeze away her evil and remain one of the condemned.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
I’ve always been pretty liberal as far as sex is concerned. I think men should be able to put their dicks into whatever willing and age appropriate hole makes them happy (behind closed doors), and women should be able to insert things into their vaginas pretty much whenever they feel like it. If that means watching a lady play hide the butternut squash in the produce section of Stop & Shop, I can deal with it. I’m always game for adventure. I also consider myself sexually educated, insofar as I know that someone, somewhere, por ejemplo, likes to eat shit, and that Shit-Eater probably hangs out with a bunch of lesbians who have huge cocks. I always imagined that they all lived in a gated community of condos somewhere in
As full of knowledge and imagination as I am, I was still surprised to find out that not every sexual deviant lives at Bonerhole Crest. That right under my nose, at the very gas station where I earn my living, there is a true to life Muppet fucker. Muppet-Fucker is a forty-five year old gas pumper with a fetish for fat whores and Agent Cody Banks. I always let the Cody Banks thing slide because he is mildly retarded, although he still functions like a semi-regular human being. He is not mongoloid retarded. He looks like a regular short, fat guy in giant yellow galoshes, but his mental is a little bit slow. Mind you that I am not making this shit up. This is all true but for his name, which I changed in case he accidentally bangs his retard head on his keyboard and my website comes up (and yes, he is computer capable).
I see him every morning when the night shift is over and he replaces me. We usually shoot the shit for a minute and then I leave him alone to eat his breakfast of black bean burgers and milk from the 7-11 down the street. Sometimes he begins to tell me about his honeys (his name for his fat hookers), and I nod polite before slipping out. This time, though, was different.
MF came walking into the parking lot of the gas station, his step had a little extra hop in it and he had a huge, crescent moon grin. Maybe 7-11 got a new kind of Nesquik, I thought as he wobbled toward the booth. He saw me and waved. As he reached the booth I noticed that he was carrying a short stack of printouts. I figured they were dirty jokes he pulled off the internet so he could fling them at the lady customers with hopes of landing his boner their vaj’s. I was wrong.
“Uhhhh, hey Jay, guess what?” he said to me, almost bursting out of himself.
“What’s that?” I was tired. I had been up all night and was unprepared for happiness.
“I, uhhhh, I was on the internet last night, you know, looking at the websites,” he said, making a mock jerkoff motion with his hand. “And I found this.”
He laid the printouts on the counter of the booth. Depicted were life-sized, fuckable, plush dolls, all of them resembling Janice from The Muppets. I didn’t know what to say. Did he print these out to show them off to people? Was it a joke he concocted just for me so he could sneak in an early morning gag? “Awesome,” I said. I never really knew how to react to MF when he told me stories that involved his penis. I usually just walked away.
“I ordered one. Only seven hundred bucks. Should be delivered on Wednesday so I’m going to take the day off of work.”
I looked at the pictures on the counter, sure to keep from touching them, as if by holding them his perversion would creep off the page and infect me. I looked to Muppet-Fucker, his grin as wide as when he came in, and slipped slowly out of the booth door, into the morning that was my solace.
For the next couple of days MF would excitedly inform me that he was taking Wednesday off in lieu of his doll coming. I did not bother telling him that he already told me. He was happy, despite the fact that he was coming down with a pretty horrible cold, and I’m not one to be a buzzkill. Plus, it was early and I wanted to go home. I nodded and left.
Wednesday came and there was no MF as expected, his hours being covered by my boss’s son. I only imagined with what glee he unearthed his new lover from her stiff cardboard holding cell, freeing her with emphatic rips of tape, finally holding her in his thick embrace after their seven hundred dollar arrangement had been fulfilled.
Thursday came and as usual, MF arrived to replace me. Only, he wasn’t quite as ecstatic as I expected.
“Get the doll?” I asked him, strangely anxious for him to fill me in on this anomaly of human fuckery. How big was it? What was the pussy like? Did he actually fuck it?
“Uhhhh, yeah,” he said, his eyes to the floor.
“Well? What was it like?” I couldn’t keep the smile from my face. It was as if I was twelve and a friend was about to tell me about how he fingerbanged the neighborhood depository.
“Well, it’s great. It kept me so warm all night that I had to turn down the heat.”
Okay, he slept with it in the literal sense. Weird, but hey, isn’t everything revolving around a plush fucktoy? “What’s the pussy like?” I asked. “Is it realistic?”
His eyes were still on the floor and I knew something was wrong. “Well, I got this really bad cold and, uhhh, couldn’t get a boner if you know what I mean. So hopefully tonight…”
Then he told me about how the doll has a plastic bag you can take in and out of the vagina, and how you can also just rawdog it for some skin on plush action. Later days, he would tell me how he fucked it, and how he sits it next to him when watching TV, and how he named it Jessica Biel. MF had found a lover, and for that, I was happy for him.
MF lives in an efficiency apartment on a gas pumper’s salary, which is very little. For him to shell out seven hundred bucks must have drained his retirement savings. People of Bonerhole Crest, please take pity on my deviant friend. He is a poor man, but rich in boners. As I have stated, he is forty-five years old, which is like sixty-five in retard years. Please let the stars twinkle for him. Let him retire to your majesty, if not for his looks, then for his commitment to the craft.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
I was cruising down
My physical quest was to go to my cousin’s house where we were to barter our respective dork skills. He was to fix my computer which had been losing its war to the Giant Robot Spiders, and in exchange I was going to take a look at a story he wrote for some gaming website and give it a hardy once over with my dorky writing skills. Fair enough.
My mental ran a little deeper than that. I was in search of genius. I had recently watched a documentary called “The Devil and Daniel Johnston” which was, if you haven’t seen it, about a musician who is supposed to be the greatest songwriter of our generation. Daniel Johnston pounded away on a jerry-rigged keyboard and a microphone and wrote music that seemed to come from the mind of a slightly retarded kid who would prune out a silly melody before asking his mom for a fruit rollup and a juicebox. He was short in the head and super into Jesus and shit, and that led to some crazy antics and an interesting documentary, but his story is his and mine is mine, so if you’re interested, it’s worth renting.
Enter the Beach Boys. Among many others, Brian Wilson (to whom Daniel Johnston draws constant comparison) is heralded as a super-genius by the people who get to dub such things. He and Johnston shared so much: manic depressive behavior, a disconnect from the rest of the universe, and a certain simplicity about their art that, seemingly, runs deeper than the surface. I had downloaded a shitload of Beach Boy songs about a month ago on a whim, and had yet to really give them a full bonerfied listen. I will admit that I was pretty hard-pressed. The Beach Boys are cute, melodious, like an after school handjob. But genius? The dude wrote about Hondas, surfing, and puppy love, getting out of school and dancing. Still, I am committed if anything, so I got my Beach Boys on.
It was during “Then I Kissed Her” that I came to some sort of realization. As I passed an unspectacular white church that promised to save me, I realized that all of these songs, buy both artists, could have very well been conceived on the shitter. And it was with that thought that I realized what genius was. It was a viewpoint uncorrupted by popular culture, void of surface cynicism but deep with pain in an intangible way: the tone of voices, the chords of strings. It’s the type of pain that can be felt but not pinpointed. It’s the sound of a small child’s song. It’s music that you accidentally think of when you’re taking a shit. It’s a clean slate left to express itself.
I question this sort of definition of genius, just as I’m sure you do, but wouldn’t it be nice if we were older? Then we wouldn’t have to wait so long. I do not consider myself a genius—far from it. Nor do I think I know any geniuses, and I know some smart mother fuckers who could verbally rip you into shreds. I know people who have natural astroniony (sp?) who could twist the simplest of topics into a manifesto. I know people that can make you laugh, dance, or even just smile—all beautiful attributes in their own respects, but none of them genius. So be it.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Friday, January 18, 2008
I bought an air pistol today. It’s a Smith & Wesson. It says so on the gun. I’m sitting at the gas station where I work, and it’s almost midnight, and that’s when all the ghouls and crazies come out. It’s raining outside and through the fogged up bulletproof glass that surrounds me I can feel murder—the kind of murder that hides in the thick, black bean soup night. For the last hour I’ve been holding my plastic Smith & Wesson like it was my dick. I’ve been staring at it, admiring the nooks and crannies of the shooter, waiting for some fuck to try and rob me so I can shoot him in the eyeball.
I’ve never shot a real gun before, and only recently shot my first air pistol, but I can totally see why motherfuckers are dying all over the place. An hour ago, when it was still full serve (the gas station turns self serve at 11, so I have an hour of pumping before my rented free time becomes true rented free time), some old lady came here in a maroon Buick. I had the gun tucked in the back of my pants, renegade style. She asked for her gas, 20 dollars, and a little voice crept up my back and whispered into my ear, “Pump her wrinkled face full of plastic BB.” Not that she did anything wrong at all. She was actually real sweet. This was total bloodlust.
I am a very nonviolent person. You can check my references. I’ve only been in a few fights in my life and they were full of bitchslaps. They were dork-fights. If you have never seen a dork-fight, it’s when dorks fight for the sole purpose of being crowned the slightly lesser dork. Here’s what I mean:
One day in the 8th grade, I was in line walking out of the door of the gym, happy to be leaving because the yellow fluorescent lighting super-exposed my oily hair and zits. My denim was tight, my tail long, my body skinny and full of unsatisfied hormones. As I walked through the door I bumped shoulders with this dork who I sort of knew from other classes. We weren’t on any kind of speaking basis, but I knew that he got fucked with by the monsters of our school with their noogies and sleeper-holds just like I did. We were both the same size, but this kid had a super fucked up nose, like if someone had rigged a hook on a chain, stuck it up his nose, tied the chain to the back of a Jeep, and gunned it, leaving it all stretched out and wide. I have really big ears, but big ears are way less dorky than gigantor noses. His shoulder bump had some might in it and I was pushed back, caught on my heels.
‘How stupid am I?’ I thought. ‘Rule number one: never get caught off your toes.’
We ended up face to face on the lip of the gymnasium with our dork-pride on the line. The banners of school heroes from years past surrounded us along with the heroes of the present day, the hot chicks, the bowling kings, live in person. I saw rage in his black eyes, barely noticeable behind his mountain range of a nose. He had matted black hair and his marble-grey gym clothes were yet to be soiled by bombardment sweat. I raised my opened digits and slapped him on the top of the head. I did not think, I just reacted, a machine fueled by mad juices pumped from little glands in my throat. The noise of the crowd had escaped the forefront of my mental. I fashioned a look that said “What do you think of that shit, dork?”
I saw his open hand coming down on me, but I didn’t block it. Maybe it was because he had fast hands, maybe because I thought it was the tough thing to do, or maybe I didn’t block because I knew I deserved it. No matter the case, he landed his shot on my head.
His nostrils were a deep cavern of fiery fury. He hit me with a look that said, “That’s what I think of that shit, dork. What do you think of that shit?”
People don’t break up dork-fights. They whoop, laugh, try to get some bang for their buck, but never interfere. The fight is over when the combatants decide it is, and that usually happens when the dorks realize that they are dorks and dorks don’t win fights. Hence, dork-fights always end in a draw, usually after one hit apiece. We stared each other down for a moment longer. And then, as the clamber of the crowd resurfaced, we walked away in opposite directions.
I entered that fight a boy, a subpar boy, but a boy nonetheless, but I left it as a member of dork congress, proudly waving the banner of a battle not lost. Now, I sit in this dark and foggy night a man, a subpar man, but a man nonetheless. My dork banner is a black plastic Smith & Wesson that shoots little plastic balls at three hundred and fifteen feet per second. If somebody tries to rob me, I am going to shoot them in the eyeball and blind them.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
On New Years Eve my friend Satan J called me gay because I was wearing a striped shirt and a badass green vest I had copped on the cheap. We were standing on his porch smoking a cigarette, drunk from a long night of whiskey and Guinness. It was cold and the stars were twinkling with the endless possibilities of a new year. Slates were to be wiped clean, and resolutions were to be made, and I, on the dawn of my 28th year on earth, had just found out that solids and sleeves were essential to heterosexual manhood. I thank Satan J for that. It led me to question some shit, to probe deep into my consciousness to find out that if, despite my love for crazy sex with my wife and the fact that I have reproduced a child, I am actually gay.
I looked over to J. He is a grave-digger, his face permanently covered in dark brown stubble as if the dead had reached up from their already filled holes, like in Thriller, and caressed his cheeks, leaving long dirt smudges. He was wearing his navy grave-digging sweatshirt which was filthy with the dust of the dead (alliteration, bitch). I did not want to fuck J. I thought about my friend Mike who was inside. He’s round and Italian looking. I did not want to fuck Mike. I tried my hardest to think of a dude that I would fuck, some strapping lad that would give honest tribute to my good friend’s prophecy. I was hard pressed. The question haunted me for days. Did my penchant for broken up colors make me want to do unspeakable things to other men’s butts? Did free arms mean I wanted to cradle cock and balls? As I pondered the possibilities over the course of a week, maybe two, I was able to come up with three hypothetical situations that would make me gay. Here they are:
- If futuristic technology advanced to the point where I could get a robot clone of myself, I’d probably let it give me a hand-job. I mean, if we were kicking it on the couch watching Rachael Ray, just existing in the world of sloth together, and robot me reached over like he owned the shit, I think I might let him take a go at it. Nothing more than a hand-job, though. It could only be something that I could, or would do to myself.
- Rachael Ray makes me hot. I don’t know why or how, but I can admit that wanting to bang her makes me a little gay. The big smile, the flabby little boobs, the hoarse cackle as if her throat was burning with gonorrhea, it all works for me. She’s got sass, moxy, that special quality that is usually reserved for ugly girls who understand that they are not beauty queens—that they have to get by on personality, no matter how brash that personality may be. Sometimes the abandonment of pretense can be sexy. I’m not saying that Rachael Ray would be a great person to live with, even though after we did it she’d whip me up some fancy-ass quesadilla in like, three minutes. I’m sure she’d get annoying pretty quickly, as the novelty of her scratchy voice would probably wear off fast. I’m just saying that in a world where I was single and she was slumming, I’d totally throw her a shot.
- When I look at Tom Brady, raw jealous energy wells up in my gut and I want to lash out and strangle him. That happens because I know that he is perfect. All of the angels, fairy sprites, chocolate, and the Fonze got together, had an insane night of fucking, and nine months later the stork came fluttering by with a wicker basket. He flew extra careful and gentle-like, and laid the basket on a bed of Charmin and clouds that fell from the sky solely to cradle the new mega-human. That baby grew up, raised by the hand of magic, to be Tom Brady. I don’t think saying that makes me gay. It’s in the bible. It gets gay because if Tom Brady tried to fuck me, I’d probably let him. How could I not? He is superhuman. Better than human. His eyes probably shoot out some Dracula-style you-know-you-want-me-to-fuck-you super magic. And truth be told, he’d probably know how to do it just right. Why? Because he is Tom Brady, and I have no doubt that he is the perfect ass-fucker just like he’s the perfect everything else. I do not actively want to fuck him, but given that hypothetical scenario, I suppose it could go down and make me a gay.
So there you have it, Satan J, Internet People: the whole gay truth of the matter. But before you pass judgment on me, rummage through your closet, take out your finest striped shirt, your cruddiest vest, and put them on. Then ask yourself: “does this outfit make me like butts?”
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
My name is Jay Pud. I created this blog so I can wax all philosophical (which basically means talk about movies, books, and a bunch of other dumb bullshit) to the people who live inside the computer next to Laurence Fishburne, spider solitaire, and naked ladies who stick things in their butts, and maybe then in their mouths. Hopefully I can make this entertaining enough for the internet. I know the standards are high. I won't not say shit because it may hurt people's feelings. I also won't say shit for the lone sake of hurting people's feelings. If people's feelings get hurt, then they can stick things in their butts, and maybe then in their mouths.
I didn't come into this post with a game plan, so I guess I'll start by talking about Laurence Fishburne who is in my computer right now fighting Super Robot Spiders fueled by human brains and shit. I always thought of Laurence as the white man's ghetto pass. Or maybe the black man's suburb pass. Maybe it's because my lasting impressions of him come from "Searching for Bobby Fischer" where he helps a little white kid become a chess super genius, and "Boyz n the Hood" where he is a rock solid ghetto role model for his childrens. Whatever the case, Fishburne is tops in my book. He is the missing link in the chain of American race relations.
I think there should be a gated entry to every town. LB could be like that saint who stands at the pearly gates and lets people into Care-a-lot. We need that shit. He could stand outside the gates and give out ghetto and suburb passes based on the condition that the applicant is willing to chill the fuck out and relax when people walk in front of his house. No matter how far into the future of utopia we are, whenever a black kid walks on my dad's lawn, my dad stands on the deck, arms folded, half empty corona in one hand, and watches his every movement to make sure the little fucker isn't trying to steal shit. And whenever I walk my white ass down Sedgewick Avenue (black people live there), and I pass a house with a lot of black people in the front yard, I feel the eyes boring into me as if I had just stolen a bike from a ten year old. That's why the world needs Laurence Fishburne. He's the great medium. No matter what our differences are as cultures, we could all sit around and listen to Laurence Fishburne tell us how we are all ignorant fools, and how righteousness can only be achieved through togetherness, and how we need to unite soon because the fucking robot spiders are coming and they want to use us to fuel their hateful computerized bloodlust.
Why do I always envision my encounters with Laurence Fishburne to be about race? It's never like, me and LB kicking it on some splintered up dock smoking a joint in the moonlight while fat dudes in small shirts reel in bluefish. It's always me and LB meeting up at the corner store by happenstance where we're both there to get jojo's. We stand outside on the dirt and bottle laden asphalt eating our deep fried potatoes. Cars cruise by and everbody points because everybody loves Laurence Fishburne. We spend a few minutes talking about how dope "Cadence" was. Maybe he'd tell me some cool ass Charlie Sheen story, and then we pull out our mental machine guns and fight hard to bring down the racists.
So next time you see a Laurence Fishburne movie, don't think of the inherent suckiness that naturally comes along with it. Think about the fucking robot spiders. Think about the childrens.