The Jesus Sorceress

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.

Let Muppet-Fucker Retire to Bonerhole Crest

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 California. Shit-Eater may run into Foot-Fucker in the communal Laundromat, while Huge-Dong Man lies by the pool with Shoves-Bottles-Up-Her-Ass Lady soaking up the rays and sharing a pitcher of mojitos. And every night all of the deviants have a bonfire, cocktail, key party under stars that twinkle just for them. Then, they reach into the glory bag, pick out the keys to one another’s condos, and then retreat inside where they explore every pimply crevice of each others fucked up sexual perversions. I call this gated community “Bonerhole Crest,” and it’s a wonderland of buncocky.

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.

Let's Get Deep on Xanax and Chamomile

I was cruising down New Haven Avenue in my black Mazda 626, a dented up stick shift that could only be loved by me. I was listening to The Beach Boys, and loud, but more on that later. It was night time and the street lights were sparse, the avenue long and full of odd turns that forced me to keep ready to downshift. Brick apartment buildings were hidden by should-be-leafless trees. I passed a small hamburger stand. Its lights were out but in the shine of my headers I was able to make out the words “Pastrami Bomb” on a hand painted sign. I thought on that sign for a second, but only one. I was on a quest both physical and mental.

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.

Emergency Interruption

Hello,

This is Jason's friend Mike. Jason is currently busy getting into monkeyshines with Larry "Laurence" Fishburne. He will be back in a few days.


Your friend and mine,
Mike Dikk

Dork Fight

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 8^th 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.

Buncocky

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 28^th 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:

1. 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.

2. 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.

3. 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?”

Me and Laurence Down by the Schoolyard

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.