1. society
2. sex

The
Passion
of the
Christoph
The
Passion
of the
Christoph
Christoph Paul, MA
Foreword by Rachel Thompson
The Passion of the Christoph
© 2013
ISBN-13: 978-0-9892278-2-7
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or
transmitted in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical,
including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage
and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the
author/publisher.
Cover and interior design: Sara Dismukes, cusp-studio.com
Published by Swift Ink Books with The Only Prescription Publishing
A
cknowledgments
I want to thank Jessica Swift for being my “homeadore” and helping this
book be a possibility; MFK for being my muse and my love; Sean Turner
for encouraging me and helping me be less crazy; Brad M. for being a good
bro; Rachel Thompson for being the most snarky, supportive, social media
savvy woman I have ever met; my family who is supportive as long as I use
a pen name; Jeff Talarigo and Stephen C. Mitchell for being awesome mentors and really showing me the craft; Chris Busa and Lenore Hart for being
awesome foundation teachers and helping me grow as a writer.
More thanks go to all the perverts from the porn store, you are
truly my inspiration; my teachers at Juno Beach who let me write about
rehab and read it; Frank K. for helping inspire “On The Cock”; Dr. Valentine for helping me during hard times; Johnny Temple for just being a
role model; Melissa Huie for always laughing and liking; Dr. Stockdale and
Dr. Crepeau for being fantastic history teachers; The Strippers from Teasers
Club Juana, and that one in Tampa that is not Mods Venus; Atom B for the
drive; Cold Fronts and The Gay Blades; David G for being supportive and
letting me write; Rachel A for the e-mails; the Israeli girl who gave me a
hand job in ninth grade that helped my self-esteem; and Dawne S. for being
a life raft in high school.
The Passion of the Christoph
v
Dedication
This book is dedicated to my journey.
T
able
of
Contents
xiii Intro
.
.
.
1 Part 1: On Art
Visiting Speaker’s Corner Infinite Jest of Picking Porn Titles
The Ship of Life When Can Rock Bands Use MacBooks?
DC Porn Store Classic Book Club: Anna Karenina Zen & the
Art of Selling Sex Massagers The Origin of Wet Pillow The
American Adverb Association Ghostwriting Snooki’s Second
Novel Protest Letter to Michael Bay for the TMNT Remake
Ol’ Dirty Bastard’s Rejected Self-Help Book Proposal The
Grunge Ghost of Love: A Paranormal Romance
.
. .
.
.
..
.
.
.
.
.
. .
51 Part 2: On Sex
The Good Kind of Hell Selling Spanish Fly at the Porn Store
Saint Valentine Reflects on Valentine’s Day The French Girl
Who Really Loved Birds My Second Failed Attempt at Paranormal Romance The Ghosts of Jerking Off: A Christoph Carol
You Gave Me Blow Jobitis The Stripper That Got Away How
Zen Masters Check Out Hot Chicks Wu-Tang for White Boys
DC Mandingo’s Pizza Party
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
79 Part 3: On Life
St. Francis on Absinthe Coming to an American Porn Store
How I Solve the Israel-Palestine Conflict Scalping and Sexual
Selection: Extra Ticket for the National Show Lessons Learned
in Rehab Military School Opposite Day in Teen Rehab The
Shit the Bed Blues My Dear Craigslist Girl All Fetuses Go To
Heaven: A Children’s Story on Abortion
.
.
.
. .
.
.
The Passion of the Christoph
.
ix
.
.
109 Part 4: On Relationships and Men
Single Again Post-Coitus Etiquette for Men Scientific Study
of What Male Actions Cause the Most Vaginal Dryness KarmaSutraSensei’s Dating Ad Cock Pic Etiquette Chris Isaak’s
Wicked Games Video Was Very Misleading Five Theories Why
Men Don’t Throw Away and/or Replace the Toilet Paper Roll
How to Masturbate Effectively at Boarding, Military School, and/
or Rehab Grey Area Guy Codes Moving In Together Rex
Ryan’s Sexy Love Poem to His Wife
.
.
.
.
.
..
.
.
.
139 Part Five: On Politics & Sport
Strippernomics What the Miami Dolphins Offered St. Louis for
Second Pick in the 2012 Draft Mitt Romney’s Post-Election
Diary A Liberal’s Erotic Poem to a Republican The Illuminati
Monthly E-mail: Operation Black Dress The Most Important
Political Slam Poem of 2005!!!! Watching the Miami Dolphins
at Hooters with Your Girlfriend Satan Loves Tebow, Too: Why
This Secular Humanist Loves Tebow On The Cock
.
x
.
.. .
.
Christoph Paul
.
F
oreword
The Passion of the Christoph is hysterically funny, honest and irreverent.
Christoph Paul’s prose will draw you in quickly as it offers a “male” take on
the world—sometimes full of bravado and ego, but also truly shedding light
and inspiration to those lost souls who have been seeking something. Paul
offers that something, and more.
From working in a porn store, where he encountered all manner of
human beings to the fellow inmates at rehab, Paul shares his wisdom based
on his—and others’—experience. Poignant like Jesus, poetic like Shakespeare, Paul’s book could become the definitive work of the twenty-first century.
—Rachel Thompson, Bestselling author, The Mancode: Exposed
The Passion of the Christoph
xi
I
ntroduction
This book will be a modern Leaves of Grass (Google that shit, Philistines);
I, the writer, will celebrate myself, my mistakes, and the Americans and
non-Americans I have met along the way that have showed me great knowledge. And with great knowledge comes great responsibility; I think Spiderman said that, or my teenage rehab counselor. Not sure, but both were wise.
It is wisdom that these highs and lows have brought me, from traveling and bouncing around in my early youth until I embraced myself as a
great artist and went for an MA in Creative Writing (I was too lazy to get
the “F” part of the degree) while managing a porn store in northeast DC.
Like my life, this book will be a journey, like Lord of the Rings but
there is no Mordor and I will have to explain that a personal massager is a
medical device. Yet this is a simple story of a young man making use of his
creative talents while making a living, even as he finds the great truths of
the humanities.
There is no target audience. Like Shakespeare I am out to reach the
intellectuals of high art, the common man, and the men and women who
just like dick jokes. What follows are my attempts to give and find knowledge of the arts of all types. Like Jesus I helped and hung with the sinners—
sharing their stories and my stories as I created art. My goal (which I have
achieved) when I started out was to grow into a great bard who can touch
and raise western and eastern civilization, answer existential questions, empathize with all of humanity, and, finally, not have to work at a porn store
to sneak in writing.
Here is The Passion of the Christoph.
The Passion of the Christoph
xiii
Part 1: On Art
The most beautiful thing
we can experience is the mysterious.
It is the source of all true art and science.
~ Albert Einstein
V
isiting
Speaker’s Corner
I can remember the carnival of sounds.
Speakers’ Corner in London, where anyone can talk about anything—except for the topic of the Queen, for talking about her, that would
be undignified.
On that particular Sunday, I heard the first speaker say, “God is
dead, we are all just gorillas, where the European apes have surpassed the
African ones.”
I asked him how he came up with such a stupid theory. He remained
polite, gave me a thoughtful nod, and said, “Nietzsche and science books.”
As a fan of both I felt saddened, but told him, “Well, you are the
first racist I’ve met who likes to read. I’m from Florida.”
He then told me he could see the strength of my Italian blood and
that Mussolini was “truly a great man.” I said, “Um, thanks, but that doesn’t
make you any less wrong or less racist.”
He responded in a dignified tone, “Well, we will just have to agree
to disagree like gentleman.” He then wished me a good day and gave me a
strange bow showing me that British White Supremacists are just as stupid
as the American ones—only way more polite.
I left the well-read racist and walked over to a tall blond man
preaching to a large crowd. He was holding a Bible and wearing Wrangler’s
and a cowboy hat, with a big cross around his neck.
He called himself the Christian Cowboy and had an American accent that sounded Texan. He said he was done preaching but wasn’t finished
with the Lord’s Work and he encouraged us all to follow him into battle. We
did, until we arrived in front of a group of Islamic Fundamentalists.
Three of them preached for the need for Sharia Law in England. As
they quoted a verse from the Qur’an, the cowboy started to laugh and heckle them, calling them Satan’s fools and terrorists. The young Muslim leader
with a prepubescent beard said the Christian was the fool and should feel
shame. The cowboy responded that the boy should be ashamed because he
The Passion of the Christoph
3
couldn’t grow a good enough beard for Allah.
I left the holy war and walked toward a short bald man waving his
hands and screaming about how sexism was good and he was a proud misogynist. He shared the wisdom that all men are stupid these days because
of too many female teachers. He said the worst thing was that American
lesbians had reached England because The L-Word was in syndication.
He ranted for another twenty minutes until he finally admitted it
had been a really long time since he’d gotten laid.
As his soapbox turned from misogynist to trying to get sympathy
sex, I left him for a more moderate-sized crowd where a clean-cut looking
man in his thirties praised the practice of being a vegetarian. He gave simple-to-follow solutions to ending world hunger, losing weight, and to stopping the harming of animals.
His speech was the most sensible one I had heard so far, but his
voice was very monotone and he lacked stage presence. While the small
crowd nodded and a few yawned, I noticed many of them kept looking to
the right, where a British black man was wearing what looked like a Burger
King crown, wearing the United Kingdom flag on his back like a Superman
cape.
As the vegetarian man continued to talk about the dangers of cow
flatulence, the small group moved away until we reached the self-proclaimed
Caped Conservative.
He welcomed us but said we were most likely ignorant peasants who
didn’t realize that the only way to restore England’s greatness was to make
George W. Bush prime minster of England.
He spoke with great passion on why “Dubya” was one of the greatest
leaders in the history of Western civilization and how England should make
him a dual citizen or even king.
Most laughed at him, but an older American woman gave me a concerned look, then grabbed my arm and said, “I’m really concerned for him . . .
I think he’s the craziest of them all.”
4
Christoph Paul
T
he Infinite Jest of
Picking Porn Titles
While getting my MA in creative writing I managed a porn store in northeast DC where the most important job was picking out which new releases
we would carry. To do this job well I had to make picks based on our clientele, who was 80% older African-American/African, 10% Hispanic, 7%
slumming gays from DuPont Circle, and a few old white guys who thought
the Internet had spies and/or communist rogues. To make this important
decision all I had was a fax paper listing the brand, theme, and title of the
movie, with no pictures of the covers.
Yet each week I would pick videos that ended up selling, leaving my
boss very impressed. So along with recommending we give out free watermelon gum (yes, we really did), he said he wanted me to create a report for
a new employee on why I chose or did not choose a new release video so the
uninitiated employee could learn the ropes.
As an aspiring writer, I took great pride in the assignment to show
this new employee that we were not just picking videos, but engaging in the
all-important subjects of the humanities. To finish the report I left the new
employee a bibliography to back up my choices and educate him on The
Infinite Jest of Picking Porn Titles
HOME MADE—MASTURBATION “SOLO
MASTURBATION”
I always pass on solo masturbation movies. Men do not enjoy
watching them; I think psychologically it plays on the male fear of being
replaced and unneeded1. More importantly, when it came to aesthetics, my
customers do not enjoy solo masturbation. One of our loyal patrons, Leroy 2,
an African-American in his mid-sixties, shared his thoughts on solo masturbation films, “I wanna see a dick up that girl, not some rubber; bitch ain’t
driving a car, she riding a dick.” Touché’ Leroy, touché.
The Passion of the Christoph
5
TREASURE ISLAND—GAY “IN THE FLESH”
I needed to include gay titles, but it helped if they involved closeted African-American men. Our best-selling title was Secrets in Da Hood.3
Many times the movies showed gangstas4 consoling each other with their
penises after they had committed a drive-by. Or they go to each other ’cause
“the hoodrats5 just don’t understand what a motherfucker needs.” The covers usually show alpha-male black men wearing bandanas, staring at each
other with a look of longing in their eyes. A definite yes.
CHANNEL 69 —OLDER “MATURE WOMEN”
Though I needed to pick a MILF title, and the movie below is a
hairy genre which is also needed in the selection, but the brand Channel
69 is very poor quality and by quality I will use the term used in Zen and
The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance,6 which states “‘quality’ has classical attributes (good camera work, attractive women, tight editing) and romantic
attributes (emotional performances, believable cock craving, and I guess
what the French would call “Je ne sais quoi”—that thing you can’t classify
but you like it). The Channel 69 brand lacks both and I would not purchase
it for my customers.
CHANNEL 69 — HAIRY “FRESH AND HAIRY”
I try to get at least one hairy but Channel 69 is a no-go. To add to
the statement above I will quote one of our regulars Ralph7, “Nuttin’ ever
good on channel 69 son; I turn that motherfucker off.”
HEAT WAVE—BLACK “BBBW”
This film would not be taken because the brand Heat Wave has
received many complaints: “Sloppy girls and sloppy camera work.” I had
one customer even complain that the “Heat Wave Hos” had ass implants8
and he could tell this because “they don’t bounce right, it ain’t right.” So for
quality’s9 sake I would refrain from getting the brand Heat Wave.
6
Christoph Paul
WHITE GHETTO—SHEMALE “MY GIRLFRIEND’S
GIANT COCK”
I will have to get at least one shemale video. Though this is a good
title; one of our most popular tranny series is Transsexual Prostitutes10. I once
received a call from a concerned customer’s wife worried that her husband
might actually be seeing transsexual prostitutes. I calmed her down and said
that this is a fad and men only watch these videos but do not act on them.
She cried a little and said something in Spanish11. I felt bad for her and tried
to comfort her saying, “It is very popular in the Hispanic community, but
I don’t know why.” She then said she married a maracone12, and hung up.
I am not sure why but the predominant customers who rent tranny
movies are Hispanic men, who I assume to be in the closet. I asked this hot
Hispanic girl13 who cooks hamburgers at my favorite establishment, The
Korzo Haus14 why this was, and she said it was because no one is thought to
be gay in the Hispanic community and if anyone asks he could say it wasn’t
that “Maraconeish” because she had boobs. That aside, a big penis on big
breasts is always a good transsexual movie. I will select this one unless Tranny Prostitutes is available.
ABIGAIL—LESBIAN “LONDON KEYES”
The actress London Keys15 is a quite possible lock; she is a special
combination of an Orientalist Fetish16, an hour-glass figure, and a generous
backside. She is also a fan of anallingus17 which can be appreciated in the porn
renting community. Though these are all positive attributes, the AfricanAmerican majority does not care for lesbian videos18 and she does not fit the
Caucasian Orientalist Fetish; I would have to pass on Mrs. Keyes. (Though
I appreciate her style and sexual proclivity; it is not about the writer—it is
about the customer.) Also the brand Abigail sounds artsy and like art films,
art porn is not appreciated by the general porn public. In the end, people
want to see Transformers over The Tree of Life.19
The Passion of the Christoph
7
CHEATER’S CLUB — CUCKOLD “CHEATING WIVES”
Cuckold movies20 do very well. There is a surprising amount of white
men that come in and buy these videos. They usually look like accountants
or the managers you would see at Bennigans who never excelled in sports
like Dodgeball. There are some interesting theories about why many men
would be into watching or getting cuckold: Evolutionary, male-to-male
competition or what Dr. Robin Baker coined the term “Sperm Wars”21 has
played a role in reproductive strategy. The theory is that we could be programmed to be turned on by infidelity to make sure to produce other fighter
sperm. This also plays into the idea of concealed ovulation and women liking certain types of men when ovulating22. Or it could just be the decadent
times we live in. There are no easy answers to this phenomenon but until it
gets figured out the writer would look for covers of dorky guys looking upset
while their wife is being banged by a big penis stud.
HUSTLER — SHEMALE “SHEMALE SUPERSTARS”
This would be the second shemale pick unless Tranny Prostitutes 74
is available. The Shemale Superstars Series has very much tricked the writer.
Every time the writer looked down at the face on the cover and found the
woman very attractive, then looked lower and enjoyed the breasts, and then
went lower to check out the vaginal area the writer saw a very large penis23,
being tricked every time. These men have such attractive feminine faces
that it fools everyone who looks. Another popular title is Tranny Surprise, if
that or Tranny Prostitutes are not available then I will select these two tranny
films and will continue to look too low when it comes to tranny covers; it is
very much porn store Groundhog Day.24
POWERSVILLE — CUM SHOTS “COLLEGE SPUNKFEST”
Now the owner suggested we get one blow job film but we officially
call them facials. Our customers would refer to them as “head joints.”25 If
you look on the back cover you will usually see a young girl with what looks
like Elmer’s glue falling off her face. The philosophy and symbolism of the
facial is quite a novelty and could appeal to the sense of power, as if to say,
“I have so many sexual options. Instead of leaving my semen in your vagina
8
Christoph Paul
for reproductive purposes I will leave it on your face.” On a side note the image I’ve seen for this certain sexual practice will always be a girl at a beauty
salon getting ready for a facial (the one for beautification purposes) looking
in a mirror and seeing a large cock with sperm coming out toward her face.
Not sure if it’s a lack of creativity or if this is the best way to advertise for
the genre26?
CABALLERO — GAY “THE 300”
Now this would be a good pick for gay men of all colors. The title
would suggest the men would be rather buff, have good-sized penises, and I
noticed gay men want a minor story they can watch after eating a good meal
or after they have watched a design show on Bravo27. Another definite yes.
EVIL — ANAL “OCCUPYMYASS (2 DISC SET)”
It is important to buy anal, the Evil Series had a very good reputation of being the Spielberg of butt sex. A good political pun is also a plus
because the shop is in DC and my customers—no matter what their level of
education—can appreciate a politically charged pun or movie. It is a sense
of DC pride, though the Obama Bangs Your Mama28 Series did not do so well
nor did Cash for Chunkers29, which had an Obama look-alike on the cover
giving money to larger women. But the one film where an Obama look-alike
banged Sarah Palin look-alike Lisa Ann30 was a best rental and seller.
JULES JORDAN — INTERRACIAL “PHAT ASS WHITE
BOOTY”
This is what we call a triple hit31 and I would be tempted to buy two
copies. Good brand, good title, series, and interracial. The brothas that shop
at the store are definitely fans of the large booty and though Caucasian men
do not prefer a good-sized booty, scientifically a big booty is much healthier
because an hour-glass figure and a generous backside mean high fertility rates
and less chance of getting diabetes32. Sir Mix A Lot33 knew what was up.
The Passion of the Christoph
9
BRAZZERS—BIG TITS “BIG TITS AT WORK”
Brazzers is a great brand; it’s cover-model-looking-women with fake
breasts wanting penises. The brand is very much a standard and echo of society’s views of female beauty and Brazzers caters to this standard of beauty
along with men with money. It is rich old men that don’t want their trophy
wives to see porn on their computers who buy these titles. The brothas
stay away from them while middle class white men usually use the Internet.
Brazzers is the most conscious use of class and economic disparity and from
a Marxist34 view Brazzers would be propagating the bourgeoisie view that
beauty is a product and big titties are stopping the proletariat revolution35.
Or, it could be that some people just like big fake titties.
BEAR FILMS — GAY “STOGLE BEARS”
Bear films are a specific gay genre which involves hairy large men.
This genre very much goes against the Apollonian beauty36 of men that
echoes from ancient Greece37. These are men you would imagine as lumberjacks or related to the producer character in Borat38. I do get older queens
who stay in DuPont Circle who like to come to the store slumming looking
to buy poppers39 and will buy a Bear film or two. One stylish homosexual
told me while purchasing a Bear film that poppers numb and stretch out the
anus and make things rock hard. I said that sounds pretty cool and told him
to enjoy his poppers and movie. The writer wanted to quote Yogi Bear but
remained professional.
ELEGANT ANGEL —SQUIRTING “REAL FEMALE
ORGASMS”
This is a good brand and I do need a squirt title. We have a section
just for squirting40 and the squirt fans usually buy squirt movies in bulk. The
writer will now put himself out on a limb and label squirting videos one of
the healthiest forms of Third Wave feminism41 in porn. It is a very powerful
image of empowerment and equality to see a man getting a squirt facial.
The idea of a woman doing a sexual act on a man that a man usually does to
degrade women is very poetic and shows that we are closer to equality. Unfortunately, though, there are now cheesy new age guys42 taking advantage
10
Christoph Paul
of this desire to teach techniques so their “yin lovers” can squirt. I do not
know if these techniques can work, but the writer will take a stand stating
that squirting could be a way to stop the battle of the sexes.43
3RD DEGREE—GANGBANG “MY FIRST GANGBANG 2”
How can there be two firsts? Porn titles do not really worry about logical thinking and can be very much reflection of Zen koans44. The gangbang is
another novelty that goes back to our more primal days of sexual competition
of sperm wars. There is also a pagan feel to them, as the book Sexual Personae45
argues that the paganism stamped out by the Christian Tradition tries to find
its way in pornography. Many male customers have been very staunchly anti-gangbang but I would argue that the act of gangbanging plays to the male
fantasy ideal: guaranteed sex while hanging out with their friends—there are
as many high fives as there are penises in gangbang movies.46
COMBAT ZONE — INTERRACIAL “MOMMY, ME, AND
A GANGSTER”
A good title will have me be able to picture the cover. There will be
a thirty-seven-year-old blond and a black man wearing gold teeth, a hoodie,
chain, and/or a t-shirt that says “I own dat pussy.” The story lines will be
something along the lines of: he is a drug dealer and needs to hide out and
she has never been with a black man before and he takes out his gun but
she can still see the package through his baggy pants.47 Banging begins. A
keeper.
HUSH HUSH—WHITE “MASSIVE”
I would only get this if it starred the porn star Whitezilla48—he
is quite a talent and is even respected by black customers. He is the Larry
Bird of porn and has helped promote (purposely or not) racial integration
as there was a nice porn moment when Whitezilla and Blackzilla teamed up
for a series on a mission to “stretch out the sluts.” Though stretching out
sluts is not a feminist activity, we must pick our battles in this world. Injustice and prejudice and at least two men of different skin color sharing their
God-given talents to achieve a goal together is progressive.49
The Passion of the Christoph
11
EVASIVE—BLACK “DRIPPING WET BLACK ASSES”
Now Evasive is a good brand, many of the older brothas would
always request it. Usually anything that involves the words “drip,” “wet,”
“black,” or “asses” I will probably take; porn titles in the end very much reflect Google50 searches. This is the era we live in, where it will not be about
sentences or titles but about details. Even disenchantment51 can find its way
to pornography.
ACTIVE DUTY—GAY “BATTLE CRY THE TRILOGY”
Now this sounds like an excellent gay film. Every once in a while
an ambitious director comes out and says “Hey, yes I am making a porno,
yes penises will be going into anuses but it can still have a story52, it can still
be art.” If it was just a regular straight porn film, the writer wouldn’t even
give it a second look but this is something slumming DuPont gays will buy
while picking up their poppers. So I would add this to the list. I can picture a
touching scene when two men come to terms with death and love and then,
you know, blow each other.
VOYEUR 4 HRS—BIG BUTT “BIG ASS SLUTS”
If it has the words “big ass” in the title, the writer will buy it for his
customers and might even watch it when not writing or watching ESPN53
or “The Gilmore Girls54.” It is also a good financial choice as any brand with
four hours on it is a mix, not a new release and therefore cheaper. We should
still charge it as a new release so I make sure to get at least one big booty title
that is the four-hour mix compilation.
Bibliography
The New York Times columnist Maureen Dowd wrote a book Are
Men Necessary? It is a provocative question because there is some validity to
it. Even misogynistic Lothario character Roger Dodger an early 2000 film of
the same title argues that once women figure out telepathy we will be pretty
worthless, except for our sperm. I apologizefor starting this bibliography on
such a sour note.
1. Leroy liked to gamble and always paid in quarters. He was old school
12
Christoph Paul
and liked the Red Skins and “ho’s that can keep quiet by having
my dick in their mouth—all day.” Leroy was single for both years
I worked at the store and though he had character issues he could
always make change for the writer and he should be appreciated for
his change and interesting opinions.
2. This would make for a good documentary l: Gay Gangbangaz. One
of the most riveting and interesting characters of this new century
was Omar Little of the HBO show The Wire.
3. A term originated from the west coast hip hop scene. The music in
these films usually echo early ’90s hip hop like West Side Connection. It could be west coast bias as most porn movies are shot in The
Valley. But I am sure brothas in Harlem and the Bronx have secrets
in their hood as well. RIP Tupac and Biggie.
4. A negative term for straight females who have high sexual proclivity and lack high character and self-esteem. Not to be confused with
a chickenhead who are just ho’s who lack the funds to get their hair
done.
5. Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance was a book written by a
man who had a mental breakdown and went on a motorcycle trip
with his son on a quest to find out the definition of quality that
would also become a spiritual guide for men that are divorced in
their forties.
6. Ralph is an old school black man that lives near the porn store. He
usually has a frown on his face complaining about a movie’s lack
of quality. Ralph is the unofficial porn critic of the store. The only
film the writer ever saw him say anything positive about was Big Ass
Stalker.
7. There is a philosophical code with some men who believe that a
women should be natural (makeup, weaves, shaving, and push up
bras are ok) but foreign objects inserted into the body are not in
good taste. Ass implants were too much for men that are titty and
booty naturalists. Though the writer can go with or without big fake
titties, the writer looked at the Heat Wave video and saw it was true:
girls with ass implants—they just don’t bounce right.
The Passion of the Christoph
13
8. The writer feels strongly that Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance is a very good philosophical book. Its biggest strength (besides
its definition of quality) is exploring the two rival belief systems:
classical and romantic echo another great work of philosophy The
Birth of Tragedy by Friedrich Nietzsche.
9. The writer is not sure why this specific brand of tranny movies is so
popular. I guess these men are finding constructive ways to live out
a fantasy they cannot act out on.
10. Not sure but I believe the word “gonyo” was used which means
fuck.
11. Homosexual in Spanish.
12. I have a good friendship with this hot chica. I eat at The Korzo
Haus and we talk a lot and laugh. The friendship is very much like
Luke and Lorelai from the enjoyable show The Gilmore Girls but
I do not see a season four happening because the hamburger girl
requires a “baller” and I am a poor writer.
13. My favorite eating establishment in the DC area.
14. An attractive curvy Asian girl, who both myself and my friend Baron
Apollo would enjoy having sex with.
15. Orientalism is a book by Edward Said with the following thesis:
western white people had created myths for the Middle East and
The Orient that have propagated unhealthy and many times unrealistic stereotypes. Porn capitalizes on Orientalism propagating
these myths of the subservient Asian women and harems in the
Middle East.
16. Licking someone’s anus, which is usually performed by the man on
the woman, but in the heat of the moment the woman can return
the favor. A woman performing a rim job is usually considered a
special act unless it is a specialty video like She Licks Ass.
17. The African-American community is not big supporters of lesbian
videos. Ironically there are more forms of homophobia in the black
community than the white community. Prop 8 was passed through
the support of the African-American community. I would like to be
an olive branch to the gay and African-American communities and
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say that each is not the enemy of the other—prude, uptight white
people are. One love.
18. A very overrated art film that involved home videos of Brad Pitt
spliced with a PBS special about dinosaurs and Sean Penn reflecting
on life after he learned Bush got reelected.
19. Movies that involve married men having their wives cheat on them.
It is usually against their will but they concede out of fear of their
wife leaving them. These movies are nihilistic and racially charged
and usually the dude she cheats with is either black (sometimes he
is white), but the “Bull” always has a very large penis. These movies
are pure Darwinism as women talk about getting impregnated by
the bigger man. Yet there is always a twist as the cuckolds get very
turned on by this. It could be a form of slave mentality, to quote Nietzsche, where the weaker finds meaning in “submissive behavior.”
Or it could be the man lacks self-respect and self-esteem and plays
out his insecurities in a Freudian sexual manner. The writer is not
sure if we should feel sorrow or laugh at the cuckolded. Maybe both.
20. The sperm war theory is a thesis by Robin Baker that states sperms
are not just there to impregnate but that there are sperms born only
to fight with another man’s sperm. That in our more primal days
women would copulate with multiple men and have a sperm war.
With the theory of Kamikaze sperm, it would make sense for men
to be very turned on by another man sleeping with his mate so he
could have his fighter sperm protect the egg. Orgasm also leads to
more sperm being absorbed so if he’s not getting the job done he is
at a disadvantage. Rousseau’s idea of nature and the noble beast being benevolent falls short next to cuckold movies. In the porn store
Hobbes and De Sade win the battle of what it means to be human.
21. It could be why human women concealed ovulation. Cuckolding
could be historical reproductive strategy. Yet, the writer does not
want to promote such a negative view of humanity and believes
that spiritual growth will be human beings outgrowing the negative
behaviors of our caveman ancestors.
22. The writer has looked at 38 tranny penises accidentally.
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15
23. An excellent movie by Bill Murray that all spiritual belief systems
support for its living each day message. I wish I had figured out what
Bill did but in the end I always see a nice pair of tits and then a big
dick.
24. “Head joints” is a slang term for oral sex that involves the female
sucking the penis to climax. Though in real life the male preference
is to have the sperm be swallowed but in porn it is preferred that the
climax winds up on the woman’s face.
25. For now the porn industry keeps using salons for facial covers. It
could be the old saying: if it ain’t broke don’t fix it.
26. A television channel that features design shows and the hit The
Millionaire Matchmaker. I would watch it at the store but many of
the customers did not share the writer’s enthusiasm for the show.
My theory for their hating is men on the lower economic scale are
not going to root for a protagonist who should be “up in some bomb
ass pussy after taking ho’s to the Cheesecake Factory.”
27. America is a patriotic country, even our perverts are patriotic.
Though the covers are very amusing most men do not want to
watch the president have sex. The black community very much has
reverence for Obama. So his Obama Bangs Your Mama Series was
not popular.
28. Cash for Chunkers was political-driven porn celebrating Keynesian economics and large women. The cover involved an Obama
look-alike giving dollar bills to a chubby blond woman. Though
the writer shares a libertarian philosophy I must admit the Cash for
Clunkers was moderately successful or maybe I am just comparing it
to the Cash for Chunkers Series which wasn’t successful.
29. Lisa Ann is the porn version to Tina Fey’s Sarah Palin. The video
was very popular, of Obama having sex with Sarah Palin because of
the strong dislike of Palin and the symbolism of Obama putting his
penis into Sarah Palin’s anus.
30. A term used for a video that is guaranteed to sell.
31. There have been studies to show it is healthy to have a big booty
and even prevents diabetes. Many black men do not fall prey to
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Christoph Paul
society’s standard of beauty and instead appreciate a girl with some
curves and a good-sized Gluteus Maximus. The writer shares the
ideology of the booty and was coined by six black men at the porn
store as an “honorary brotha”—word is bond.
32. A great hip hop song celebrating the love of good-sized booties.
33. Marxism would see Brazzers films of blocking the utopia of equality. Fake breasts are a form of capital controlling the minds of the
working class from revolution. Though if Marx saw a Brazzers movie
he might have just masturbated instead of writing The Communist
Manifesto.
34. If we all had equal sized penises, butts, breasts, maybe the revolution would happen. But until then it is sexual desire that will stop
Marxist Utopia.
35. I am using the definition by Camille Paglia in the book Sexual
Personae.
36. In Ancient Greece men slept with younger men and the beauty
they preferred was skinny, feminine, hairless, and a small penis.
37. For those who haven’t seen the movie it is with a man who is very
hairy and overweight. The opposite of what is referred to as a twink:
young, in shape, pretty boy.
38. They are sniffed and are very popular with the gay community. The
most popular brand was Locker Room.
39. Squirting is quite a mystery. Some girls can squirt, some can’t. The
theory is that hitting the G Spot leads to female ejaculation. The
fluid is not urine but can be labeled “lady love drops.”
40. Though the writer very much supports the ideals of Third Wave
feminism.
41. “Ideagasms” squirt instructor video. Google it.
42. The writer roots for equality and understanding from both sexes.
Love is a choice of deciding to be equal with the other. If we can
focus more on being equal and less on power we might all have
more fulfilling relationships where squirting is not required but not
denied.
43. Zen religious word plays to bring you closer to not thinking and
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18
finding enlightenment.
44. A very provocative book that argues pornography is art and
paganism, though not in religion anymore, finds its way in art or
skin flicks. Though this is the writer’s favorite nonfiction book, the
writer did not share Paglia’s negative view on Lady Gaga—she is an
Appolian revelation with a pop melody.
45. There is never any competition with the boys. It is usually cooperative and if there was not a girl with a penis in her mouth, anus, and
vagina it would be a like a night at your neighborhood sports bar.
46. The style of baggy pants originated in jail to try to not show their
figure to male rapists.
47. A rising star in the porn industry with a penis over nine inches with
coke can girth. He is the twenty-first-century John Holmes.
48. Though their goals are anti-feminist they do promote racial integration. In the goal of equality the writer sees race first, then sex,
and finally sexual orientation.
49. We do live in a time where we are led by our Google searches where
buzzwords will lead us instead of quality.
50. Disenchantment is prevalent in the modern age. It is a feeling lost
in the modern secular world: it is something we fight but also accept.
51. The best screen writing is gay male porn. The writer wrote one “On
the Cock” and is very proud of the piece. He hopes it will be made
one day into film and it was featured on The Homo Sex Blog.
52. The writer watched First Take in the morning and enjoyed the debates between Skip Bayless and Stephen A. Smith while restocking
returned videos. The writer shares Skip’s views of Tebow but not his
Prince James message.
53. The writer watched every episode of The Gilmore Girls at the porn
store on ABC Family. The brothas gave the writer much jabbing
for being a “pussy ass nigga” but the strength of the writing came
through and many patrons of the porn store later agreed and got
emotionally involved with two plots of the show: “That little nigga Jess belongs with Rory, fuck that herb nigga Dean.” Also “That
Christoph Paul
nigga Luke needs to man up and give Lorelai the good dick. Them
motherfuckers are in love. Niggas don’t make special pancakes and
shit unless she is his boo. For real.” Their love was very real and
the writer feels there should be a movie to show that love and the
wedding between Luke and Lorelai.
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19
T
he
Ship of Life
One of the greatest and worst things of getting an MA in creative writing is
that you get to TA, which means you input grades online for your professor
and read a lot of freshmen papers. While working at the porn store, I read
many students’ papers—and most of them sucked in their own unique ways.
But there was one student’s paper that was so brilliant, I had to share it in
my own book to give its greatness its due.
Charles “Chug Life” Donaldson
AML 2042
Dr. Lennon, Wilkes University
Moby Dick: The Ship of Life
Moby Dick was way too long and talked way too much about whales
(like, real ones, not the chicks in Alpha Phi), but it had an awesome theme
I could relate to—brotherhood. That ship all those guys rode on, the Pequod, I’ve been on that ship too, but I call it “The Ship of Life.” My ship’s
official name is not the Pequod, it’s Sigma Chi—Rush brother of 2012. Like
Ishmael, I, too, have met great men who taught me how to ride “The Winds
of Life”; I totally relate to the story because Ishmael’s life echoes my own.
Moby Dick begins with this guy named Ishmael, who like me is just
this totally awesome guy that is probably misunderstood by his dad and was
told by his parents, “Hey, Ishmael, do something with your life. You can’t
just play Call of Duty and smoke marijuana all day.” So he says, all right and
leaves and goes aboard a ship, scared—but ready to become a man.
After his parents drop him off from like their horse and buggy or
whatever, he is on the ship and he meets and dorms with this cannibal man
named Queequeg. I could relate ’cause my rush brother and roommate was
Asian. His name is Ronald though. And check this—he even hates Chinese
food, but that could be because his grandma is from Thailand. Like Ishmael,
though, I learned right away that Asian people are like totally different from
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other Asian people. That is what happens when you step aboard “The Ship
of Life”—you learn stuff. Important things that only “The Ship of Life” can
teach you.
When they set off to sea, that was totally like Rush Week; Dr. Lennon, I know you talk all the time about that war book that Norman Mailer
guy wrote, and I’ve played lots of Call of Duty so I know war is bad and I am
not trying to be insensitive to our fallen soldiers, but Rush Week is pretty
up there with war: our first day we had to memorize and sing the Sigma Chi
Fraternity Song while standing naked as our older frat brothers threw sushi
at us. They were extra apologetic to Ronald and said it wasn’t racist. Ronald
cried, but only because he got green stuff in his eye.
At night, Ronald and I would go back to our room and talk about
how we miss our families. It was very Queequeg and Ishmael sharing a bed
but probably not as gay. Ronald told me that he wants to bang hot Caucasian (I learned that was a fancy word for white people) Tri Delts. I said, “Me
too, I am in this thing to party and bang lots of Tri Delts also.”
We both smiled and I realized Ronald was a true friend and totally
like me. I gave him a serious look and said to him, “Sorry you got green stuff
in your eye but I must tell you dude, I was impressed—for an Asian dude
you are packing pretty well. It is total bullshit about you guys being small.”
He looked at me, touched my shoulder, and said “Thanks, that is a
stereotype that hurts my soul.”
And that is what happens when you stay aboard “The Ship of
Life”—you get to see into another dude’s soul.
The next morning as Rush Week continued, we were woken up and
told to grab our tooth brushes and start cleaning the kitchen. Ronald and I
met two other cool seamen on the Ship of Sigma Chi—Will and Brad. They
were kind of life Starbuck and Flask. We each got assigned nine tiles and got
to scrubbing when Will said, “We are doing it for a party tomorrow. I hear
it is going to be huge.”
“Hopefully as huge as the Tri Delt titties that will be bouncing
around. I heard there is going to be a special DJ,” said Brad.
A third year went into the kitchen to get some orange juice and
pop tarts and said, “You don’t know shit, Freshmen. President and Leader
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21
Cody of Sigma Chi has special plans for this party and it is not just about
getting some poontang. It’s about much more. Cody has a mission and we
will follow it. Sigma Chi till I die!”
The third year left us and we wondered about Frat Leader Cody; I
guess he was kind of like our Ahab—the Captain of our ship. We had yet
to meet him, but we heard rumors about him: that he could do fifty chin
ups and that he banged every Tri Delt except one because she was with the
leader of The Pikes—they were our rivals and—to use a “metaphor”—our
Moby Dick.
More men walked into the kitchen talking about later that night;
I could sense something in the air, and it wasn’t just one of Brad’s bad farts.
“The Ship of Life” was going to get bumpy and I was ready for the ride.
That night was the official ceremony where we would no longer just
be seamen, we would be brothers—it was official initiation. As we stood in
the basement I held Ronald’s and Brad’s hands as we sang the Sigma Chi
Fight Song while the other members sat behind us throwing lunch meat at
our heads. I felt the salami fall off my neck as Frat Leader Cody walked in
and we all went silent.
He stood six feet high but walked with a limp and he held an iPad.
He looked pissed as he held up the iPad showing the website of the local
Pikes chapter. Their leader was with a beautiful blond with major boobage
and they had a dog in the picture. He pointed at the screen and screamed,
“Do you see this! They were voted number one frat, and do you see this dog?
It’s fucking cute as hell and should be sleeping on my bed with that blond
with the tits. But the Pikes, their leader Tyler, they take it all. They even
beat us in The Games, fucking twisted my ankle doing the forty-yard dash
and they rubbed it in. Tyler walks the dog with her, grabs her ass, and gives
me the finger.”
The third year from the kitchen said, “Do you give him the finger
back, sir?”
And, Dr. Lennon, he went all Ahab and said, “I don’t give the finger! I am the leader of Sigma Chi! I’d whip my dick out at the sun and tell
it to suck it! And no lie, I whipped my dick out in front of them right by the
reflection pond and jerked it at them. The cute dog freaked out and they
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walked away—all shocked and shit. Sigma Chi for life.”
“Sigma Chi for Life!” we screamed back. The boys then laughed
with pride and cheered.
There was an awe to our leader, he was a cool dude but underneath
the cheers I could feel the rage of the other members that they we were voted second coolest frat and how they felt the Pikes were super dicks.
Leader Cody waited for the cheers to stop and then looked at us, “I
know why you joined: ’cause we are awesome, we fuck Tri Delts, and Rothmen over there can get us free beer from his dad. All logical and awesome
reasons to be a Sigma Chi. But tonight boys, we are about to be more. We
are going to put the Pikes in their place and reclaim our glory. Tomorrow we
set a trap and show the Pikes who they and their leader are—evil fags who
are number two. They are the shit the Tri Delt’s cute dog makes, that bitch
I am going to bang tomorrow night and complete my list of Tri-Fucks. New
recruits, are you with me?”
“Yes!” we screamed.
But minutes later Ronald and I then looked at each other with a
little worry as Cody told us his plan how to catch the Pikes: a house party
that he knew the Pikes couldn’t resist because Skrillex and a Dead Mau5
tribute DJ would be there—and it would be a trap.
That night Ronald and I became official members of Sigma Chi,
with new names—mine was Chug Life and Ronald’s was Ronnie Dangerwang, but before we crashed he told me, “It’s awesome that we are in Sigma
Chi but I worry Charles . . . I mean, Chug Life. Resentment is a bad thing
man, and Cody has a lot of it at The Pikes. It can block you from getting
your boner wet. My grandfather said something like that, he was a wise old
Asian guy, you know what I mean.”
“Oh dude, I wouldn’t worry, we got a party tomorrow and Tri Delts
are coming and DJ Skrill Mau5 will be there, and we will catch and make
our rivals look like tools and be the number one frat again. It is going to be
awesome.”
“Ok, you are probably right. I hope I get to motorboat a Tri-Delt.”
“Me too, man. Me too.”
We then crashed, and honestly there were some moments while
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23
reading Moby Dick where I just crashed too. But I do remember in the book,
Queequeg or some other Asian getting a bad feeling and Ishmael just rolling
with it. There is something about Asian people; they have good wisdom.
But, you know, like my kindred brother Ishmael, I didn’t listen to Ronald’s
wisdom and instead dreamed about what I planned would be the party of
the ages.
And it was. So many Tri Delts came and DJ Skrill Mau5 was spinning the dopest Dubstep I have ever heard. It was awesome—I even motorboated a chick before 9:00 PM. The vibe was so cool and “The Ship of Life”
felt right, but I felt the “winds” change when the Pike’s leader Tyler walked
in with the Tri Delt hottie and her dog. President Cody was hanging near
DJ Skrill Mau5 and called over to Ronald and I who were dancing with two
c-cup blonds.
We left the hotties and went over to our Captain and he greeted
the Pike’s leader and said, “We have had our differences but tonight is about
good music and a good party. Veronica, you look hot, sorry for jerking my
cock off at you. It was not respectful. We are all Greek and for tonight we
should have peace. These are my two newest members, Chug Life and Rodney Dangerwang. They will grab you beers and show you the special smoke
and XTC spot we have in the back.”
“Oh, show us now. I love rolling to Dubstep,” said Veronica as her
boobies bounced with each syllable she spoke.
Cody smiled and said, “We will all go together—peace offering. I
shouldn’t have flashed my cock. This is my way of making amends.”
The Pike’s leader said, “I don’t roll, that’s for fags, but I’ll smoke up.
Asian kid, show me where there is a good blunt.”
We brought them around the party into the room with the trap;
right when the Pike’s leader walked in, the other pledges came out from the
closet and jumped him and trapped him in our net! Dr. Lennon, we had
our Moby Dick in our net (we got it at Sports Authority along with some
keggers), totally like the book, but it is never that easy. The hot chick ran
out and screamed for help.
Tyler then pressed something on his iPhone; it was like an alarm
and thirty seconds later other Pikes came rushing into the room and Cody
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said, “Now drop the banner around him and take the picture and Instagram
it and beat these Pikes’ asses.”
A huge fight broke out, Chi versus Pike. I was throwing fists as the
banner came down , but it got Cody too; both leaders were trapped together
in this banner that said “I Heart Sucking Sigma Chi Cocks” and Ronald,
following orders and being the Asian guy, took the picture and Instagramed
it for all of the world to see.
“No!!!” Cody screamed as the fight stopped. Boys from both sides
watched their leaders trapped with the other with in the “I Heart Sucking
Sigma Chi Cocks” banner like they were getting gay Mummified.
Moments later, the campus security came in for the fight and
laughed at our leaders. One reported “I got fight-disturbance, could be a
hate crime. I got two boys here engaging in gay sex.”
The cops took photos and so did a kid from the school newspaper
and, like Ahab, Cody was netted to his Moby Dick, running out of coolness
as our ship went down that night. Our Ahab died, in a way, as he transferred
to community college the next week out of shame.
Sigma Chi was already on probation so the house got shut down
and was turned into a halfway house for, like, battered women or something.
And like Ishmael needing a raft, I grabbed onto Ronald. Ishmael used Queequeg’s coffin and I had Ronald’s dorm room where we carried on the legacy
and brotherhood of Sigma Chi—without a house.
We never got to bang any Tri Delts but Ronald introduced me to
his cousin Ananda; she was like the ship Ishmael found named Rachel. Her
boobs aren’t that big but she’s pretty hot; we go to movies and bang on Saturdays and she makes this food called Pad Thai—it’s awesome, way better
than any other Asian food I have ever had.
To conclude, I will say I am wiser for being on “The Ship of Life”
and like Ishmael I have ridden the Ship of Sigma Chi and learned lessons
that have turned me into a man. I probably am better off than Ishmael
’cause there probably weren’t any hot Asian chicks on the Rachel, but I
carry his spirit of adventure as Ronald and I look into getting a house next
year and getting a new crew to join on us on “The Ship of Life.”
The Passion of the Christoph
25
W
hen Can Rock Bands
Use MacBooks on Stage?
Along with being a writer and dabbling in academia I am also a rock musician (YouTube “The Only Prescription”—that’s me shirtless in the vest),
though rock ‘n’ roll is a dying breed. That is, some of us are trying to remain
pure and badass, which has led to much debate in the rock music community on whether or not we should use MacBooks on stage to give the music
more layers. After much meditation, experience, and discussion with other rock musicians (indie-rock bands don’t count—if you like Beach House
more than Black Sabbath you are probably indie-rock), here are the four
situations where it is ok and even a good idea for a rock band to use laptops
during live performances.
1) Skyping Chicks in Other Cities While Performing
You met a hot chick on Twitter and/or Facebook and you are eventually going to play in her town. You will need a place to crash and someone
to have sex with the night you are there. Her watching you perform via
Skype on your computer will increase the likelihood of you achieving those
goals as the MacBook on stage serves the purpose of future security and sex
for up-and-coming rock bands. Also the audience, not hearing any beats
or samples, would assume you are recording, which is acceptable for a rock
band.
2) Keeping Track of a Playoff Game on CBS’s “SportsLine”
If you are sports fan, sometimes your favorite team has a playoff
game the night of a show. Now, if you are the singer, the lead, or the guitar
player, you can’t do this, but the bass player (if not singing back up) can
have a laptop in front of him (if there are no TVs) to check the score or
watch it online. Once again, the audience will assume you are recording
when they see the bass player looking intently at the computer every two
minutes, which will make the audience think he or she is checking the
levels.
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Christoph Paul
3) Looking at Pictures of the Girl Your Ballad Is About
Every rock band should have one ballad, and it is important to be
heartbroken and emotional when singing it. This is a time when the singer
can have a laptop to look at rotating pictures of the girl/guy who the ballad was written about; picture suggestions would be to find the most heart
wrenching photo of your ex-girl and her new boyfriend on her Facebook
page, then literally sing to the Facebook picture. You can even say you are
singing to her right now—the audience will find that interactive and enjoyable.
4) You Are Really Drunk and Can’t Remember Your Own
Lyrics
This instance is applicable to all members of the band, because
back-up vocals are important. You drank too much before the show and
can only remember melodies. Have a lyric cheat sheet on Microsoft Word
and use it. Tell the audience you are recording or playing to a third world
country—they will be moved.
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27
D
C Porn Store Classic
Book Club Meeting: Anna Karenina
Halfway through working on my MA in creative writing, I was also writing a
novel/thesis called Prophet. I reread the classics for inspiration for my thesis
while simultaneously managing the porn store during the day. When it was
slow, many of the regulars (a couple African-American men in their early
fifties) would come in and ask me about the books I was reading. Through
these encounters I started the unofficial book club for the DC Perverts/Literary Curious. Here is a recollection of our meeting when we reviewed the
merits of the Russian literary classic Anna Karenina.
Perv #1: That got a Oprah sticker on it. It’s got to be good and shit. Oprah,
she smart.
Christoph: Yeah. It’s good writing. It really is a classic. It is like the Deep
Throat of novels.
Perv #2: So, who is this Anna Karenina bitch? Does she like the D?
Christoph: She does; that is the problem and the plot. She has a man, but
she likes this other one.
Perv #2: He probably got that big dick.
Perv #3: He getting cucked or does he not know? What is the name of the
guy she is fucking on the side?
Christoph: Count Vronsky.
Perv #1: Motherfucker’s named Count Vronsky! Yeah, he definitely got that
big dick. Bitches, in the end it is about giving them that good dick
and hitting it right. It just the way it be.
Perv #2: It’s true (he holds up a DVD of Blackzilla 18).
Christoph: Well, you might be on to something because back then cheating
and divorce were things you just didn’t do. So, Anna must have really needed some Good D; Tolstoy never says it outright, but Anna’s
man Alexi probably does not deliver good penis.
Perv #3: Her nigga’s name is Alexi? What kind of pussy name is that? No
boy named Alexi is gonna hit it right.
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Christoph Paul
Christoph: Um, sort of, but there is more going on. It ain’t just about Anna
Karenina, there is like a whole ’nother story going on with this guy
named Levin who is really into and wants to marry this girl named
Kitty. He keeps trying to get her to marry him while Anna keeps . . .
trying to get the cock from the Count.
Perv #2: That Count Vronsky a straight player, can’t hate on that motherfucker . . . But Kitty sounds like some virgin tight pussy, he needs to
lock that pussy down. What’s up with Levin; he not a baller?
Christoph: Um . . . I guess he is medium pimpin’?
Perv #3: You know, that ain’t right. Medium, that should be good. I bet’cha
Levin is a good man.
Christoph: You know, he is; he’s got character. Definitely old-school values.
Just wants to work the field and have a good woman.
Perv #2: Damn, that should be enough to get some quality pussy. Bitches
want too much; ain’t nothing changed. Shit ain’t no different with
them Russian motherfuckers. Pussy is the same everywhere.
Perv #3: That is true, I feel that shit; you work hard, you stable, but that
ain’t enough—bitches be acting stupid. I swear I see them either
wanting broke ass niggas or ballers, but us middle men—we up in
here buying and renting this bullshit (he holds up AssParade 38).
Christoph: I hear ya, but in the book it takes some time for Kitty to see it but
eventually she sees that Levin is the right man and they get married
and he ends up happy.
Perv #3: That is good.
Perv #1: So what happened to the Anna Karenina ho?
Christoph: She kills herself.
Perv #1: Another bitch killed by the dick.
Perv #2: Ain’t the first, ain’t gonna be the last . . . Hey Christoph, ring me
up.
The Passion of the Christoph
29
Z
en & the Art
of Selling Sex Massagers
We did not have dildos at the porn store because of the zoning laws: due
to us being near a library we could not have obscene material (porn, apparently, is not obscene and I guess a library is considered holy grounds), but a
dildo was considered an obscene device, though penis pumps were not because they are medical devices. Yes, the Obscene Laws of Washington, DC,
were not only misogynistic they were also stupid and, more importantly,
they messed with my artistic groove.
My boss (pretty much like most bosses these days) worried about
one thing—the numbers. If we had a certain amount of money coming in,
he never bothered me and I could use my porn store hours to get writing
done so I could work on my music at night. It was a pretty sweet deal, but
the problem was the Internet, which made porn accessible. So porn DVDs
were not flying off the shelves which wouldn’t have been a big deal if we
could make up the loss with the sales of dildos. But this anti-zoning law
made things difficult to stay “in the pink” (that was the economic term we
had for “black,” ’cause we sold porn and liked pervy puns), but we couldn’t
sell them. In the porn store sales world, dildos and dick pills (either to make
you bigger or make you last longer) kept stores afloat.
The boss started to wonder what I was doing at my computer so
much, why profits were down (he was older and in denial about the Internet and I was working on my literary novel). I told him I was “researching
product.” But he started calling me more and my writing groove began to
suffer—something had to be done, but I did not know what.
One day while I was selling a $100 penis pump to an old man, it hit
me—massagers are medical devices! If I can sell five “massagers” a day, I can
get my boss off my case. I went through the catalog we ordered out of and
bought a ton of the G Massager: they looked like skinny pink bananas with
a little tip at the end. Then I came up with a sales pitch. I told my boss that
we should see if the device helped the numbers.
Now, I must tell my male readers, I bet you think it would be really
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Christoph Paul
cool to sell a woman a sex device, but it is a very fine art—you are a gynecologist, girlfriend, The Oxygen Channel Old Lady (shout out to Sue), and
salesman all in one. It takes great focus and Zen mastery to sell a non-dildo
sex massager.
Basically, your average woman would come in, nervous and a little
creeped out by the pervs giving her looks. I have to make her feel very comfortable, be moderately flirtatious, yet still have to come across as their gay
best friend who knows a lot about vaginas. In the end after looking at the
“massager” section the women would always ask me, “What do you recommend?”
And I would say, “Well, in purchasing a ‘personal toy’ you really
want to achieve two goals of getting off. I think both ways to get the job
done are achieved by the G Massager because you can use the outer tip on
your clitoris—and, let’s face it, there’s where all the good stuff comes . . .
literally and figuratively.” (I’d playfully wink and they’d laugh in agreement.)
“But what’s even better is you can also use it for vaginal insertion and the
design is able to specifically hit your G Spot. For the price you are basically
getting two vibrators in one . . . This is what I’d get my girlfriend.”
Purchase. Every time. It was my add-on sale, it got my boss off my
case, and I was able to finish a really shitty draft of my literary novel. Working artists, we do what we got to do to find time for our art. And we find
some odd jobs to make sure that need gets met.
In the end, I’ll sell massagers, penis pills, tranny tapes, etc., if it
gives me time to be an artist and not starve. Looking back on selling those
G’s—that act was an art unto itself.
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31
T
he Origin
of Wet Pillow
Before I moved to DC I lived in Orlando, where the music of choice was
Emo. Some guys really believed in the music and some just listened to it to
get chicks. Below is a transcript of how the band Wet Pillow was formed.
The source is Trevor’s little brother who recorded their conversation and
sent me the tape in exchange for a free pass to the porn store.
The year is 2005. Trevor, nineteen, and Bradley, twenty, are community college students at Valencia College. They are at Trevor’s parents’ house
watching the music video “Sugar We Are Goin’ Down” by Fall Out Boy.
Trevor: Dude, we so need to start a band! You’ve played guitar for at least
three months and I got my drums, and, Dude, I can play bass drum,
kick snare, and high hat . . . at the same time!!! And we’re smart;
we could be like Radiohead!
Bradley: That sounds good but, Man; I don’t want to have to find a keyboard player.
Trevor: We don’t need one . . . yet! We can start using keyboard on the
third album because we will be so fucking huge by then we can hire
somebody!
Bradley: All right, but I don’t want to sound like Coldplay.
Trevor: No dude, we’ll play fucking power chords! They are easy and chicks
like them—there’s something primal about them. They do something to the clitoris. It’s evolution.
Bradley: Damn, Dude, you’re right; we can get, like, a ton of pussy. We are
gonna have to, like, steal your dad’s Viagra for after the show.
Trevor: Fuck yeah we are! We are gonna be, like, full-moons fucking with
the ocean, just the ocean is going be eighteen-year-old vaginas.
Bradley: Wait . . . what? I don’t understand.
Trevor: You need to stop smoking so much weed. I am clearly gonna have
to write the lyrics. It was a metaphor that means we are gonna get
chicks supersoaker wet.
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Christoph Paul
Bradley: Oh ok cool. But hey, no girlfriends, Man; we can’t have some Yoko
shit. Look what happened to Kurt.
Trevor: Of course man! I know this shit; I watch Behind the Music!
Bradley: Good.
Trevor: We’ll have to tell the bass player that, too! We’ll just find some
shitty guitar player, it won’t be hard.
Bradley: I got a guy in my English Comp 2 class. He wears Metallica shirts
a lot.
Trevor: First we got something even more important to figure out—what
our band name is going to be.
Bradley: Um . . . Ugh . . . Oh, Dude, I got it: The Full Moons like you were
saying before!
Trevor: No fuck that, it sounds too much like ass or the sandwiches you like
to eat at Denny’s.
Bradley: Well damn, Dude, that’s all I got. We need a name, it’s, like, important. What do you think the name should be?
Trevor: Something badass! But you know, smart and stuff. Come on, Bradley, you were in gifted classes in middle school. Think of something!
Bradley: All right, Dude. We got to, like, combine names . . . Something
badass . . . hmm. Dude, I got it! Moses De Sade, ’cause, like, we are
prophets but, like, offensive, cool, and stuff.
Trevor: No Dude, no weird religious stuff; I saw that movie where he wrote
with poop. Chicks don’t like that stuff. We need something sexy . . .
something that hot chicks are gonna see on a flyer and say “I have
to see this. Screw my boyfriend, let’s go see this band.”
Bradley: We could call ourselves The Johnny Depps.
Trevor: That’s not bad, but there are dumb hot chicks that could get pissed
that we aren’t cloned Johnny Depps.
Bradley: How ’bout something with, like, cool abbreviations that mean
something but, you know, means something else.
Trevor: You know what, Man, you’re onto something. We got to find a way
to use the evolution angle, something scary and sexy and fucked up.
Bradley: Isn’t there some new disease people are scared of; disease and sex
go hand-in-hand man. I took Health Class.
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33
Trevor: Fuck! Goddammit, Man, you are such a fucking genius sometimes!
I got it! Sexy American Rock Stars! We’ll call ourselves SARS.
Chicks will fucking love that shit!
Bradley: Good, ’cause I want chicks going to the shows right away. I haven’t
gotten laid in seven months.
Trevor: It’s been fucking eight for me! But wait, we gotta think like longterm. We need them to keep coming to shows. We gotta write
catchy fucking songs that chicks will, like, get stuck in their heads
so they keep coming back.
Bradley: Dude, you said you could do lyrics, that shit is hard for me. I am
getting a D in English Comp 2. Hey wait: Didn’t you write something after we saw that movie?
Trevor: Yeah, but it was about Lord of the Rings!
Bradley: Dude, just take the lyrics about the ring, but, like, have it be about
marriage instead of Golum.
Trevor: Fuck, Man, that won’t work! That’s too hard! Fuck! This is too
much pressure! Help me out, we gotta co-write. Give me a chorus
hook and I’ll do the rest.
Bradley: How do I do that, Dude?
Trevor: Just take a fucking kid song, take out the melody, and put words a
chick would like into the chorus.
Bradley: Umm . . . uumm. All right. I like doing dishes and cuddling, after
we are done with awesome fucking.
Trevor: Are you a fucking moron? That won’t get radio play and it will
scare off chicks unless we are rappers. We need lyrics that are gonna
attract chicks. Like, we need to find the reason they like those WB
shows and put it in a song.
Bradley: We could write a song about supporting Roe versus Wade.
Trevor: No man, no fucking way! No politics; I don’t want any feminist
chicks—they never put out.
Bradley: Damn Dude, this is hard. Um, well, what genre gets the most chicks?
Trevor: Fucking rap music, it sucks, they have all the fun. But we can’t be
rappers, we’re from Orlando not Detroit. What can white dudes
from the suburbs do that chicks will like?
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Christoph Paul
Bradley: Oh, Dude! Look at the TV. The answer is like, right, in front of
us. This Emo thing man; I bet you the fat guy singing gets laid and
gets free cheeseburgers.
Trevor: Holy fucking shit! You’re right! The chicks in my Intro to Statistics Class wear their shirts all the time. They like some Academy Is band, too.
Bradley: I heard them, they suck but I can actually sing like that; I don’t
even need to be kicked in the balls.
Trevor: Fuck, Man, that shit is easy to play. We could even do it! It’s just bad
pop punk sounding extra gay. Even the pop punk gets lot of chicks!
Look at the singer in Sum 41, he looks like a Mongoloid’s ball sack
and he fucked Avril Lavigne and Paris Hilton!
Bradley: Agh! Dude, I want to bang chicks like her. I’ve jerked off to her sex
tape, like, eight times.
Trevor: Shit I know! Oh, I got it! Here, let me see your laptop.
Bradley: Are we putting on her tape? I’m not into circle jerking Dude.
Trevor: No fucking way! I’m doing something better than putting on her
tape. I am going to MySpace.
Bradley: To find the bass player? What about the Metallica kid in my class?
Trevor: No, Man, I am fucking registering our band.
Bradley: Oh cool, are we still keeping Sexy American Rock Stars. I like it,
Man, but it sounds more glam than Emo.
Trevor: No fuck that, I got something way better. Best Emo name for a band
ever! Are you ready?
Bradley: Yeah, Dude, what is it?
Trevor: Wet Pillow!
Bradley: Wet Pillow? Fuck that really is Emo. Damn, Dude. Damn.
Trevor: Fuck yeah! And soon we will have a million hotties going to
Myspace.com/Wetpillow friending us and sending titty pics.
Bradley: I can’t wait!
Trevor: Fuck yeah! Pretty soon Wet Pillow will be leaving wet spots in freshmen female dorm sheets!
Bradley: Sweet Dude. This is going to be so awesome.
Trevor: This shit is on! We are going to be the next Fall Out Boy!
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35
T
he
American Adverb Association
While I continued getting my MA in creative writing, I got really passionate
about the craft of writing and signed up for all types of writing newsletters.
I even found a newsletter by a group called The American Adverb Association, which was pro-adverb. But for school we read On Writing by Stephen
King, where he basically asserts that the use of adverbs equals shitty writing.
This group took great offense to King’s statement and I am reprinting its letter in my book as a way for The American Adverb Association
(who really passionately embody the use of adverbs) to get their message out
there and challenge King’s assumption that adverbs equal evil.
They really like adverbs.
Subject: Letter to Stephen King
From: The American Adverb Association
Dear Stephen King,
We read your book On Writing. It wasn’t bad, there was some useful
stuff in it, and for the most part we enjoyed it. But then we got to THE
CHAPTER! You know the one! Let’s just say right off the bat that we are
deeply disappointed! Yes, us! And yes, “deeply” is the right word—it works
to show exactly how disappointed we are.
Sir, we are extremely, completely, and utterly fucking pissed off! Not
a little pissed, but not every drop of urine in the world pissed, just enough
to fill up an outside port-a-potty, or, as we like to say, extremely fucking
pissed! But no!!! The word with the “ly” at the end should be thrown out.
In your world, you’d have us eaten by one of your slightly scary monsters.
Maybe you’d feed us to the brown goo in the “Raft Episode” of Creepshow
2, which was awfully scary. Huh, is that an adverb or an insult—you decide,
Mr. King!
But guess what, Stephen? Do you know who we are good enough
for? Who loves us endearingly? Tolstoy. That’s right! Go read Anna Karenina. It’s terrifically awesome writing, and guess what? He uses us! He uses
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Christoph Paul
us amazingly! He leans on us, and his sentences stand strong because of us.
Speaking of The Stand—wasn’t that your one and only truly good book?
Ooooh, does that burn majorly or slightly?
Your attacks on us have made us intensely enraged! We cannot hold
back our rightfully resentful emotions! You owe us and the American readers a deeply felt apology! You have ignorantly dismissed the “Ly’s of Life”
that light up the lines of all white pages.
For we are the common man’s gray areas!
The smart man’s time savers!
And the fast reader’s running start!
We belong on the page, we most certainly do!
For we are The American Adverb Association!
And we will not go quietly!
And you will certainly hear from us again!
Definitely!
Absolutely!
Positively!
Sincerely,
The American Adverb Association
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37
G
hostwriting
Snooki’s Second Novel
As I progressed on my journey toward becoming a writer, I looked for any
type of writer’s gig in an effort to get my name out there and make some
money.
What follows is my failed/successful attempt to help ghostwrite
Snooki’s second novel. As a future great writer, I accepted this challenge to
develop a more well-rounded appreciation for “Low Art.” I’m still waiting
to hear back from Snooki or J-Wow, but I believe I captured Snooki’s true
voice.
Chapter 1
He fist pumped like a mezza fanook, but he had a smile as bright
as my grandmother’s chandeliers, and that was when I knew I would fall in
love with Sal “Stu Gotz” Talatizo. I thanked God for making such a beautiful meathead and then took my Valtrex with a vodka and Red Bull. The
vodka tasted so good and DJ Middle Fucking Finger was spinning some of
the dopest jams.
I started shimming and we caught eyes; he smiled and my vagina
felt hotter than my grandmother’s spicy meatballs.
Sal stopped mid-fist-pump and stared down at my c-cups and I
thought of what a good ma I had for buying me this fancy push up bra from
Marshalls.
My face turned red and I turned away from Sal; my heart was pounding faster than LMFAO’s song that DJ Middle Fucking Finger put on. I felt
scared and worried: what if Sal just wanted to titty-bang me like all these
other guidos do?
I wanted more with him. I wanted romance, someone to take me to
the P.F. Chang’s and shoe shopping. Someone to treat me like a lady, but I
felt scared as I could see the other bitches checking him out, too.
Especially Tamara Calabraiso; I could smell her baccalà-spoiledfish vagina from across the room. She was dancing and smiling at him and
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Christoph Paul
he fist pumped and smiled back. Her tits were bigger than mine but I had the
bigger heart to give to Sal.
I looked over at DJ Middle Fucking Finger; he waved at me and like
a true genius DJ he knew what song to put on—as I walked to Sal I heard
Akon start to sing “I Want To fuck You.” I shimmied up to Sal, but so did
Tamara.
Sal stopped fist pumping and said, “Maraone, y’all look so fucking
hot. Y’all want to do some X and have a three-way?”
His confidence made me hot but the idea of him touching Tamara
made my lady parts feel like lemon Italian ice. I gave that twatarina a death
stare and she stared right back. Then that bitch put her arm on Sal’s juiced
up shoulders and smiled at me. I gave her the evil eye and spit right in that
cuntalooza’s eye.
The loogie dropped on that bitch’s nose and then she swung at me;
I ducked remembering that my guardian angel Pop-Pop was a boxer. I said
a short prayer to him and punched Tamara in her stupid bafangoo face. She
fell over and the bouncer came running over to us; Sal grabbed my hand and
we ran out of the club and made our way to the Jersey shore.
We made our way to the tide and I looked at him in the moonlight;
my lady parts felt more wet than my grandma’s fresh buttered noodles.
He was so tall and went to the tanning salon at least two times a
week but he also hit the gym every day. His muscles were as big as bowling
balls and my mind was in the gutter.
I put my hand down his pants: his thingy was turkey sausage thick,
but his balls were small like most of the meathead juicer’s, but I didn’t care;
the balls I loved were his two brown eyes that looked like sweet Sunday
pancakes.
He grabbed my boobs but I stopped him and said, “Sal, I want to
make love; I want you to finish on my stomach, not my chest or face.”
He looked at me with those tomato mulch brown eyes and said,
“You are the kind of girl I want to do missionary.”
I felt weak in the knees and he took me right there in the sand. Our
clothes around our ankles and sand in our ass cracks but it didn’t matter.
Our bodies were like sand castles of sex with crabs—I’d tell him afterwards
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39
it just felt so good as he pounded me like I was uncooked veal.
He went faster and faster until he said, “Ah fuck, Maraone…”
He couldn’t pull out and I felt the white sauce start to stick to my
eggs; he rolled over and passed out but I knew at that moment, I swear on
my mother eyes, that I was going to have Sal “Stu Gotz” Talatizo’s baby.
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Christoph Paul
P
rotest Letter to Michael Bay
for the TMNT Remake
“Fans need to take a breath and chill,” Bay said in a statement posted in
response to people’s concern about the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle remake.
Disgusting, Michael Bay is a true philistine bastard; as a young man
I would not let his greedy gold bugger hands touch my beloved childhood
icons The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Like Martin Luther and King and
other great men before me, I was left with no other choice but to write a
protest letter, which I include here.
To Michael Bay,
No, Mr. Bay, we will not chill! We are done with you causing Armageddon to our childhoods. You have Pearl Harbored our imaginations too
many times. You cannot transform the damage that has been done. For all
that you have created has been bad for all boys.
We let you have horror; we let you remake every horror movie
our generation loved and make them mediocre. You took our Nightmares,
Leatherfaces, Hockey Masks, Hitchhikers, and Amityvilles and shit on
them all. Not even a scary shit, it was like the shit of a poodle or Chihuahua
or some other small dogs that hot chicks like to carry around.
But now you have crossed the line—you have hijacked our beloved
turtles who exposed us to Renaissance painting, karate, a love of pizza, and
how awesome it would be to be a teenager. But the worst thing is we can’t
stop you. For all we know you are going to cast Ben Affleck as Shredder. But
you know what?!
Your remake hubris is going to haunt you now; you have pissed us
off too many times—a group of boys who are now men with Twitter and
Facebook accounts who can impact the Box Office. This is revolution Mr.
Bay and we will not go quietly. I, the Christoph, will not let this indecency
stand. We are fed up and we need to be appeased and amends need to be
made. You have pushed us too far and we can only pay “Diablo 3” and “Call
of Duty” for a certain amount of hours before we break.
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41
So, in order for us to sit through your piece of shit movie and not
start a global boycott, we have one demand: make porn star April O’Neil
the newscaster April O’Neil. That is the only way you can make amends,
get our support, and make us interested in this travesty that is soon to be
in production. She would make a great April, and as she explained she is
of Hispanic descent which would fit for the twenty-first century. She could
be like a Carmen Sandiego with red hair. Let’s be honest, Transformers was
tolerable not because of Tyrese but because it had Megan Fox. You needed
a hot chick to save your piece of shit film, so you hired a hot slutty girl like
Fox. Well, with Turtles a hot slut is not gonna cut it! You need to go fullwhore and April O’Neil is perfect. You can even save money on credits
just using her name once—with the money saved you can put in an extra
explosion.
If we do not see April O Neil’s name next to April O Neil’s name
you will lose the coveted male eighteen to thirty-five-year-old audience.
Your move Bay . . . your move.
—Christoph Paul
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Christoph Paul
O
l’ Dirty Bastard’s
Rejected Self-Help Book Proposal
While working on my thesis in grad school, I realized that I needed to learn
how to write a book proposal. In my research I was able to find the selfhelp book proposal of the deceased rapper Ol’ Dirty Bastard, which I am
reprinting below—I was inspired to emulate this true bard in my own book
proposal writing. May he rest in peace.
INTRO
Wooga wooga, Big Baby Jesus, Rain Man, it’s O Cyrus son, natural
knowledge dropping like boogers on school desks; I am a Brooklyn Tea Party
sent from Russia. Nigga please, this is for the Children.
WELFARE
Welfare is everything; it is your cough syrup and Thursday night
pussy. Stay on it; even if you rich. You rats collect them checks and make
sure your roast beef sandwiches got mustard on them. Hot dogs, too.
BITCHES
Ugly bitches and pretty ones; I fuck ’em. They got street pavement
and roof tops . . . ain’t after my Egyptian straw hats. They like gold and silver
teeth. Popeye’s dinner date, I make her ice cream cole slaw.
CHILDREN
They are angels eating Dunagroos. From Australia to Brooklyn, it’s
all for the children. Wu-Tang teaches the children to dig to China. WuTang is for the Children.
COMMUNITY
Shit on the ground and piss on it; that is what I do for the community. Flowers are the sun’s pussy drops; make sure to not step on them.
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43
Weeds and drug dealers; they give turkeys and jobs to the Children. Thirtysix chambers with crack rocks.
EDUCATION
I bring rotten apples and throw them at the teacher’s neck. I read
the bible of Wu-Tang. The RZA is a garbage can of knowledge; dive into
that nigga’s brain. I only read titty sizes and percentages on beer cans. I know
how to use my right hook instead of the left, motherfucking fish brains.
SAFE SEX
Gonorrhea burns; your dick is hell’s ice-cube. Penicillin and the
twelve steps. Climb to Osiris and let the sun suck your dick and cum out
stars.
EXERCISE
Alimony checks make a nigga run. Love the Children but don’t trip
on the hamster wheel. A slim waste equals good piss; PO’s are push-ups with
your collar bones.
BUDGET
Quarters are pubic hairs that need to be trimmed and dollars are
limousine toll booths. Make sure you got both; give to the homeless ’cause
they are the farts of God.
FAMILY
Share your turkey legs with those who have the same vagina blood.
Blood is thicker than cookie dough and sugar rots your grill. Barbecues with
the RZA and GZA are Sunday church crack rocks.
LOVE
If she licks your ass you have given her Cupid’s dildo. Love is chicken salad that never spoils, but your heart must be ice cubes that polar bears
stick their dicks in to keep warm.
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Christoph Paul
T
he Grunge Ghost of Love:
A Paranormal Romance
Being a writer is tough, as is the act of writing itself. One of the hardest
things about being a writer is making money through publishing books that
are marketable. One of the most popular genres of the twenty-first century (besides mommy porn) is paranormal romance. In an effort to get away
from the porn store and make money writing, I hopped on the paranormal
romance train but the fans and agents were unresponsive. It is with my
Christophian brilliance that I share my story and end this section, On Art.
.
. .
He comes in during the night, a spirit of sadness. I can feel his presence. I
am not sure what he is—a vampire, werewolf, psychic ghost, or shapeshifter.
I don’t know but I feel his restless soul.
I am just a virgin high school senior with a-cups. I’m really good at
algebra, and I love awesome music like Justin Bieber and One Direction.
But the song I hear in the spirit’s heart, I don’t like it . . .
I can feel the spirit’s song in my bed sheets! Oh my God! He is here!
I can feel his energy! It is vibrational whispers; I can make out the phrases,
“come as you are” and “heart shaped boxes.” I don’t know what they mean!
His vibration gets stronger—it excites but scares me. I feel . . .
funny, like when you see a cute boy or sit on the dryer.
But I want to feel safe. Distracted yet comforted I reach for my
iPhone to watch a Justin Bieber video—he calms me. The lingering energy
screams as the song plays; once Justin says “baby baby” my bed shakes and
the energy forms into an image. It appears in front on my bed. He is beautiful! The energy-ghost-shapeshifter appears as Justin Bieber.
He looks at me with his awesome hair and beautiful eyes but growls,
“I am not who you think I am. Change the YouTube Video to One Direction.”
His voice is hypnotic and so swaggie; I obey and play One Direction and he shapeshifts into the One Direction singer with the awesome
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45
flat-ironed hair. Feeling scared but yet so turned on, I ask him, “Who . . .
What . . . are you?”
He looks in the mirror with disgust and says, “Get me a flannel shirt
and I’ll tell you everything.”
I look in my closet and find one of my dad’s. He puts it on and says,
“Can you put on the band Bush, the spirits let me look like Gavin Rossdale—it is the lesser of the evils.”
“Who is Bush?”
“They are a crack whore’s Nirvana. Just put it on!”
“Agh, Nirvana! I hate them; I can’t even understand what he says.”
He then looks up at with me hatred like I said something truly terrible; I turn away from his judgmental glare back to my iPhone and play this
Bush band.
I look back at him as the video loads to see what the spirit does and
he says, “Damn it you are the one; it is why I am drawn here. It’s why you
can see me.”
“I am your soul mate?”
“No, you just have really bad fucking taste in music.”
His harsh tone and making fun of my music taste make me angry
but slightly turned on. The song “Everything Zen” plays and he turns into
the man I now know is Gavin Rossdale.
“I still hate Gavin Rossdale but he is better than that other garbage.
Music has only gotten worse; if only Kurt kept the revolution going and I
didn’t have the car crash.”
“I don’t understand; who is this Kurt, car crash, and what revolution?”
“Sit back and listen. I’m going to tell you all of it. You’ll be the only
person on Earth who will know my story. Are you ready, teeny bopper?”
“My name is Jessica.”
“Well here is my story, Jessica; my name is Charlie Raven. I was in
the up-and-coming grunge band Honey Vault. It was around ’94, months
after Kurt died and we were struggling to get noticed; we weren’t in Seattle—we were in Minnesota and Prince said we sucked. I needed my music
heard and I made a deal with the Devil. Lucifer himself heard my plea, came
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to me, and said if I played this show in Minneapolis I’d take Kurt’s place and
continue the grunge revolution. I made The Deal, but I got in a car crash on
the way to the show and died. Since my Devil Deal didn’t go through I now
wander the Earth as a ghost punished by the spirits of Heaven to take the
form of any shitty musician when bad songs are played. It’s like a purgatory
with bad chord progressions. My spirit is drawn to shitty music.”
“Ok . . . I think I understand now. But why me, why are you here? I
have felt you for months now.”
“You have the worst music collection of all; you like Creed as much
as Bieber. But you are also the only way to help my soul finally rest and go
to Heaven.”
“What is the way?”
“My only way to heaven is to write a shitty pop song that makes a
young girl with horrible taste fall in love. It’s the only way my soul can suffer
without having to go to Hell. Because singing it would be my actual Hell.
The soul slate then goes clean as I’d suffer equally for the sin of selling my
soul. The song would be my contrition.”
“Contrition. I know that word, it was on my SAT word list. I think
I understand. So you are going to write me a love song like Justin Bieber.”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
I blushed feeling the excitement of a restless ghost ready to write
me a love song.
“Yeah, it really fucking sucks. Hand me that pink Hello Kitty guitar
near your desk.”
He then transformed into a man with gross hair who is not famous;
he looked in the mirror and shed a tear, “This is me. The real me holding
this piece of shit guitar. Here is my chance . . . Shit . . . I . . .”
“What’s wrong?”
“I couldn’t even write a good grunge song and they are easy; you just
use power chords. How can I write a lame pop song about love?”
“Just look at me and be inspired by my beauty.”
“But you are a chick that bass players won’t even want to hook up
with.”
What he says hurts me; I feel unattractive and start crying, upset
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47
that even the ghost of grunge love doesn’t even find me hot.
“Hey don’t do that; don’t cry. Don’t cry. That is . . . oh wait that was
done by Guns ’N Roses. Shit . . .”
I wipe my tears away and say, “You know why I like all those songs
you say suck? Because all those boys do the same thing I want: A cute boy
to say that I am beautiful. That is why I like them but they are lies, I can’t
even get a guy with gross hair to think I am pretty. I am going to die alone,
and be miserable.”
He looked at me and said, “You feel ugly and alienated.” Then
he smiled. I feel confused as he continues, “That what’s grunge music was
about, that feeling and what was awesome about it was grunge took that
feeling and made it beautiful.”
My make-up smeared as I wiped my tears.
He took a step back. “Whoa . . . You look really beautiful right now,
you look like the chick from the Hole album cover. I am going to write you a
song now. I feel it. You need to hear it. I remember now why I started music
in the first place. Just sit and listen Jessica.”
He strummed my guitar and started to sing like that Kurt guy. I
don’t understand anything he is saying but I like how it feels; I know it is
about me as he says the name Jessica in the chorus and that is all I ever
wanted—a boy to pay me attention and sing me a song.
He screams during the chorus and I feel it in my stomach. I don’t
know what he is saying, but it feels good; I haven’t felt this touched since
Josh Bieberman fingered me junior year.
When the song ended I felt sadness waiting for his soul to disappear
to Heaven, even though all I want is for him to come and kiss me and then
show him how to shampoo his hair. But his soul does not leave to Heaven.
“I didn’t sell out. It was just a song from the heart and the rock
spirits respect me for it. They are giving me something even better than
Heaven.”
“I’m just happy you are still here. The song was so ugly and so beautiful. I loved it. So what is going to happen now? What is better than Heaven, My Love?”
“I get another chance. The song was real, and the spirits decided
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Christoph Paul
I can live a real life again and earn my way into Heaven by writing more
songs. ’Cause now I have found my muse.”
“Me?! Does that mean I’m going to be your girlfriend?”
“Yeah, and my bass player. So put on some Alice in Chains. We are
going to make love and then I’m going to teach you how to play bass.”
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49
Part 2: On Sex
“I will tell you a thing that you may
not know. The most highly sexed beings
upon the planet are the creators: the poets,
sculptors, painters, musicians—and so it has
been from the beginning. And among them
sex is always beautiful, and it is always shy.”
~ Kahlil Gibran
T
he Good Kind of Hell
Sometimes attraction is everything—it is mutual: I am a white boy needing
a Magnum, she is something from the east that George Harrison would approve of looking like an extra in an MIA music video. She likes that I am
a musician; they all like that I am a musician. I like her body, she eats well,
tastes good and smells perfect; scent is something you can’t fake—pheromones have ruled us since the days of pharaohs.
I bury my face in her; take her in. I don’t need Lexapro, or Prozac,
or Transcendental Meditation—I just need this moment to keep going. I
put the Magnum on—the Olympic gold medal for men—drop the trophy
wrapper and take her from behind. It is purposeful, it is why we are here, it
is Zen, TV dinners, and getting over ten likes on my Facebook status and
so much more.
She talks dirty and screams; I soak in her words and sweat. Summer
Sex is Pagan but we switch to missionary until she cums. I take the condom
off and place myself in between her Cs. Our sweat is the perfect lube; it feels
so good until I look down and see a cross resting above her breasts, judging
me.
Christ stares from the cross shaking his head. I wince as I almost
touch him but my body is stronger than my spirit. I cringe and close my eyes,
hoping not to get any on Jesus.
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53
S
elling Spanish Fly at the Porn Store
Around 2:00 PM one day when I was working at the porn store a group of
Spanish men came in. I thought (managing a porn store makes you become
very stereotypical–don’t hate), They’ll probably get some tranny tapes. But the
four men only browsed around until one of them left the group and walked
up to the counter.
He said (in a Mexican accent), “I want to get something to make
girl hot. Something I put in drink?”
This particular question got asked a lot and I felt the normal ethical
dilemma that always came, but I responded, “Oh, that’s simple. Spanish
Fly.”
“I can put it in her drink?”
“Yes, you can; we have cola flavor.”
“Gusto, ’cause I meet girl; we hang out. I go to her house, but she
just want to drink soda and watch movie. I make move and she say no. No
good. No sex.”
“Gee, that . . . sucks.”
“Yeah, that why I need this to work.” He held up the cola flavored
Spanish Fly and looked to be in deep thought, “You know what I’ll do to
make sure it work?”
“What is that, sir?”
“I’ll test it out on my Grandma. Then I’ll know if it really works,”
he replied with a normal look on his face, like it was the obvious answer.
Shock hit me but a loud laugh escaped; I bit my lip hard and asked,
“Um, your . . . grandma?”
“Yeah, Homes, my grandma. Then I will know for sure.”
“Your grandma???”
The brothas in The Black & Full Figure Section looked up at me
with huge smiles; all of them started laughing their asses off while I controlled every facial muscle I had so as not to laugh as well.
He shrugged his shoulders like it was no big deal and answered, “Of
course. I can trust my grandma, she honest; tell me truth. If work I go to girl
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Christoph Paul
house and put in drink.”
“Um . . . um . . . is there anything else you need, sir?” I asked as I
looked away from the brothas who were pointing and laughing at the young
Mexican man.
“Yeah, Homes, do you have China Brush for Penis? Must last long
time too so she want me back.”
“Yeah, here,” I said, handing it to him.
After he left the brothas and I laughed till we cried.
Spanish Fly Guy never came back. That whole week I checked the
news and the obituaries to see if any old ladies with Spanish sounding last
names had died but none had.
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55
S
aint Valentine Reflects
on Valentine’s Day
While on absinthe, I have been able to channel the different saints (St.
Francis is one of them—just keep reading). Single on Valentine’s Day many
years ago, I depressingly did some absinthe and channeled Saint Valentine,
finding the truth of his life and the real truth of Valentine’s Day.
.
. .
You know what, you can be in Heaven and be pissed off. Not always, Heaven is pretty awesome, I’ve been here since 280 AD: Jesus is cool as shit
(we can swear here, it’s a dope reward) and because I’m a martyr I live in
the good section and get free angel rides. (They are like beautiful horses
who recite poetry—it is pretty ballin’). Lately, to pass the time, I have been
hanging with Tupac and Biggie, learning the art of hip hop. I should be really happy but it’s that day again (SMH y’all, SMH) the day named after me,
“San Valentino.” For all you gringos that means Saint Valentine. I’m pretty
awesome: Top Five Saint Material.
You know why? Getting beheaded for my love of God (Go to Wikipedia and look at The Golden Legend: I even pulled a Helen Keller healing
before my beheading, ’cause I’m cool like that—total martyr). But you know
what my legacy is: a shitty Gary Marshall movie, bad poetry from Hallmark,
and dudes going broke to get laid.
But you know who didn’t get laid while on earth?! Me! I was a little too busy, I don’t know, being a saint, spreading the gospel, making sure
Western civilization would have a pretty dope religion. But does that get
known? Does my hard work and sacrifice get the proper celebration? Hells
no! I look down and hear my name in phrases like, “But it’s Valentine’s Day,
how could you forget chocolate?” or “You are such an asshole Jonathan” or
“C’mon, Baby, we never done this before. It’s Valentine’s Day, it won’t hurt.
I swear it will be special.” I am glad my sacrifice for the Church is now being
used for girls to have an excuse to start fights with their boyfriends, and for
men to try and get anal.
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Christoph Paul
The last seventy-five years have been rough on me. I have even
been having therapy sessions with Freud and Jung who tell me I shouldn’t
even look down from Heaven during My Day, but I have to (I’ll get to that
crazy shit later). Freud tells me I am into sadomasochism and I told him,
“No shit, I’m a martyr!”
I finally had a double session with both shrinks and Freud said that I
feel under-appreciated, let down by my father, and by God, for not stopping
this travesty done in my name. But Jung said I feel regret, that for all the
great sacrifices I have done I missed out on a lot of things when I was alive.
Freud silenced him and said, “Yes, for once Jung you are right. Saint Valentine, you missed out on sex and feel resentment.”
I felt pain I hadn’t felt since I got beheaded and screamed, “If we
could have sex in Heaven, I would tell each of you to go fuck yourselves and
then each other. This is bullshit! I’m done with this!”
I stormed out, grabbed an angel ride, and now I am just chilling on
my favorite cloud watching Earth people.
I like to watch the East Coast (sorry Tupac) as I see different humans from NYC to PA. (I must say there are a lot of nooners going around
right now.) All this sex, it really looks enjoyable, it’s just that—damn it—
maybe those old douches are right.
I never got laid on Earth. It sucks. We can’t have sex here in Heaven. It really is my one regret; can’t even front, it feels shitty when people
celebrate you, not for your greatest act but for your greatest regret.
I feel like a scrub just sitting here now and watching these sex
acts—the foreplay alone looks so gnarly: making out, copping a feel, motorboating, hand jobs, blow jobs, titty fucking (chicks always look bored
during that one), rim jobs, finger banging, and cunnilingus (chicks don’t
look bored during that one). And I just wonder how it all feels.
I never cared until the last century or two when My Day Name Holiday went crazy, each year getting worse. In the present year of 2013, I have
just totally lost my swag. I used to feel fulfillment for being a great martyr
but now my story is all watered down. I fear that any year now The Lifetime
Network will make a movie about me but instead of showing my head cut
off, it will just be some bad actor getting implied head. I think they’ll get
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57
Zander and Cordelia to play me. Buffy is God’s favorite TV show—don’t ask
me, He is God.
SMH man SMH. My cloud seat grows cold while I keep watching
my legacy get tainted as the repeated algorithm (Einstein taught me that
word, homeboy is smart) Happy Valentine’s Day + Gift = 30 Seconds to
23 minutes of Sex. It just keeps playing as I hear my name shouted all day,
in all time zones, in all languages. (In Heaven, we can hear our name extra
clear—something God’s been testing out since the Dark Ages).
A couple of years back, I asked God what to do and, you know, being God and stuff, He said, “My Son, the answer is in your day. Your peace
will come. You will understand in time, just watch and you will understand.”
Well, that was during the ’80s and this year it’s just the same thing:
suffering for others’ pleasure—holy shit, G-Dog, you are genius.
I get it now! I feel my swag returning.
The true martyr suffers in anonymity and sacrifices his pride for others’ pleasure. St. Francis (Saint Number One) taught me that, but damn,
that is what I am doing and probably will be doing for all eternity. Maybe
I’m the best saint and martyr of them all—I died a beheaded virgin so people could have good sex for a day. That is a pretty dope legacy. Damn yo, I
got the most Saint Swag of them all. For real.
I’m gonna tell y’all something I have never said and thought I never
would . . .
Happy Valentine’s Day—on the real.
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Christoph Paul
T
he French Girl
Who Really Loved Birds
Once when I was staying at a hostel above a porn store in Muenster, Germany, I wanted to go clubbing so I could hook up with a foreign girl. For
the last four days I had been getting drunk but not hooking up. It was day
five of my visit, around 10:30 PM and I was drunk-bicycling to some Euro
trashy club.
From 1:37 to 4:52 I ended up making out with an English teacher
and then two others who barely spoke English but I wasn’t able to go home
with any of them. Frustrated, I wondered if it was because I looked too Jewey
or maybe too Italian—I regretted not wearing my cowboy hat to give more
of an American appeal to the German girls.
I was disappointed, drunk, and still really horny as I biked back to
the hostel. I arrived as the sun was coming up and I saw a cute blond girl
eating a croissant. I locked my bike and stumbled over to her.
She smiled at me and I said, “Hola. I mean hello,” in German.
She rolled her eyes and said, “I’m French not German you fucking
American. You and your country are such foooools.”
She sounded like a feminine Pepe Le Pew but her bitchy Frenchness
was really hot. I responded, “Hey, I voted for Kerry.”
“Fuck him and fuck President Bush; he is destroying the world and
you Americans don’t care—you eat hamburgers and stay stupid.”
“Hey, listen hot French Girl; we are not that bad of a people. And
I’m not as stupid as my country. I have read Rousseau and Camus.”
I smiled at her and could tell she moderately liked the flirting.
She responded, “Please, American boys like you are all the same.
Puritan and foolish. No idea what woman wants.”
Annoyed but turned on I asked, “All right, Cherie, tell me what you
want. I’m all ears.”
She stepped forward and said, “You could not handle; your Disney
World brain would be destroyed.”
“Look, I’ve read a great French author named Marquis de Sade. 120
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59
Days of Sodom so, I know what’s up.”
“You know nothing; you have no idea what to do or what I want.
You couldn’t handle.”
I stepped closer, locked eyes with her, and asserted “Well then tell
me . . . and I will do it.”
“All right, American. You want to know what I want.”
I smiled and inched closer, “Yeah.”
“You and me we kiss. Feel passion. Then we go find a bird, capture
it, take it to your room, and then I fuck the bird.”
I paused. I assumed this was drunkenness or a language barrier and
said, “I’m sorry, I’m drunk; I think I misunderstood you. It sounded like you
said fuck a bird? Wait! Is that slang for ‘dick’?”
“No, you stupid foooool! An animal! I want to fuck a bird and then
fuck you. Come on, let’s go fuck a bird.”
I stood still, silent. I stared at her, looking into those crazy Parisian
eyes and saw she was fucking serious.
I went into drunken shock; it was like a Heineken coma and all I
could think was How does someone even fuck a bird?
Does she use the wings? Is it a clitoral thing? Wouldn’t the beak get in the
way? How is this even possible?
My mind couldn’t take it; it all started to sound like a terrible version of that Prince song about doves crying.
I snapped out of my coma when I felt her bird-fucking fingers touch
my face as she gave me a hard long kiss. I could only stand there until she
stopped and said, “I have to find someone who can handle me and a bird.
Goodbye, American. Too bad.”
She walked away and the word “deflowered” took on a whole new
meaning; I remained still and shocked, trying to collect my soul.
I wiped my lips and then felt nausea when a panicked drunken
thought came to me, Fuck! She probably just gave me the bird flu?!
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Christoph Paul
M
y Second Failed Attempt
at Paranormal Romance
So my ex and I decided we should try “Dead Sex.: What is dead sex? you ask.
I’ll get to that later. I will say it is not lousy sex; we had great sex–she was
pretty damn good in bed. Out of respect I will not use her real name and refer to her as the Hot Tall Redhead Virgin. (Well before I hit that—high five!
Right bros! Give me some props on that; a proud accomplishment up there
with getting Dean’s List my sophomore year in college.) We partook in great
banging in a Baudelairean manner, but even when you are getting Grade A
virgin vagina it can get a little monotonous when you are in a monogamous
relationship. You just have to mix it up and try new things.
I think the seed of the idea to try “Dead Sex” started with a previous
girlfriend.
Out of not wanting to be sued I will call her Machiavelli with Better
Tits. I only had good sex with her when we would park near graveyards and
do it in the back of my car.
We’d leave the car door open for room and I liked the way wind felt
against my testes. I would thrust and stare ahead and count the graves (a
good way to keep from climaxing too soon, fellow bros). It was in Winter
Park, FL, not that far from a Cheesecake Factory. A few times we went to
Cheesecake Factory, and then afterward we’d go bang in the graveyard—it
became something we did for special occasions as the idea of having sex
around death was a strange but potent aphrodisiac.
When we broke up I traded up for The Hot Tall Redhead Virgin.
Let’s fast forward: it is a year later and she is very deflowered. (High-five
again bros! I took her virginity Gilmore Girls style like when Dean finally
tapped Rory, though I think she should have let Jess be her first—they had
a true connection and Dean was just a dork with good hair.)
I believe the “Dead Sex” happened on a Wednesday or maybe a
Thursday. Yes we were done watching The Office and we were both horny—
but we were stuck in a routine: You cum twice, and then I’ll cum, and then
we’ll watch The Daily Show.
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61
So, on the specific Thursday she got all ready for Einstein (the name
of my penis—let’s put it this way: I got an awesome circumcision, L’Chaim!)
and smirked at me. I cozied up to her and felt like this was the day to try
“Dead Sex.” I said, “Let’s do something weird. Let’s try something different.”
She smiled and said, “Yeah. What?”
“Can we have Dead Sex?”
She paused and said, “Wait, what the hell is that?”
“Well, basically, you would lay there and pretend you are dead and
I would just do what I want, like I’m violating your corpse. It’s like a form of
romanticism like Poe or something. And I promise I won’t, you know, put
it in your butt.”
She laughed and said “It’s kind of weird but, strangely, a little hot.
All right. So I just lay here?”
“Yeah, with your eyes closed. Motionless. Like, totally dead.”
“Ok.” She took her clothes off and laid down on the bed nude, her
head tilted to the left, her eyes closed.
It was hot but I requested, “Hey, can you put your tongue out so you
look extra dead?”
She slid her pink tongue out to the left of her mouth touching her
chin, then her arms went out in a Jesus pose.
She was dead and I had a pretty big boner.
I climbed on top of her and enjoyed her deadness. It was cool; I
lifted her arm and she played along as I dropped it and it fell down lifelessly.
Her tongue still hung out to the left of her mouth; I touched her boob and
she remained still.
This was pretty awesome; I felt young again with the excitement of
something new. When I was thirteen I wished I could have a blow up doll
like I would always see on The Howard Stern Show and here was one with
way better boobs.
Out of habit I was ready to do some foreplay but I stopped, thinking,
I probably wouldn’t finger a dead girl. I probably should just put it in.
I did. Not worrying about my performance I just went slow, lackadaisical, and did a slow unsexy stroke that would be the sexual equivalent
of elevator music. But, hey, she was dead so it didn’t matter and after a few
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Christoph Paul
minutes I went faster and out of habit did her favorite move, the one that
usually makes her moan but no sound came out of her mouth. Don’t get mad
at me Feminists, but it was erotic to have this body here just for my pleasure.
But after I hit the five-minute mark I gotta say it just got really boring. I
mean she just laid there and did nothing. What a letdown.
Seriously Necrophiliacs, how do you get off on this? I liked it for a
few minutes for the kink factor and, you know, French cool stuff like death
and sex, but then it just was a dead fuck. Figuratively and literally.
I stopped thrusting and said, “Open your eyes, I am going to bring
you back to life.” I woke her up from her death sleep with a kiss like she was
Snow White and I was Prince Charming.
I restarted coitus but my fantasy changed. I pretended she was dead
but my penis and sexual skills were so awesome they brought her back to
life. As she moaned and said “Yeah” Li’l Jon style for those final moments,
my cock was not named Einstein but Lazarus as I infused her with life. We
did it doggy and then she rode me as we came together, finishing just in time
to watch The Daily Show. It felt good to be alive.
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63
T
he Ghosts of Jerking Off:
A Christoph Carol
.
This totally happened. Might not have been sober . . .
. .
My laptop positioned perfectly on my bed I looked at Tubegalore.com, not
sure what topic to pick when I heard a ghostly voice echo in my studio
apartment, “Chrisssstoppph, Chrissstoph, do not jerk off. For I am the ghost
of jerk off past.”
Annoyed because I was interested in jerking off to Big Natural Tits I
told the ghost, “Can you wait ’til I’m done? This is really uncool.”
The ghost appeared in physical form. He was an early twenty-something in a wheel chair. He rolled up to my bed and said, “No. Christoph.
I am here because you have wasted too much time jerking off. You have
missed key moments in your life because you were masturbating instead.”
“I highly doubt that, Ghost.”
“It is true. I will show you. For I am the Ghost of Jerk Off Past.”
“You already told me. Shit, all right. I don’t have band practice and
I got Louie being recorded.”
The ghost rolled to me and said, “Sit on my lap, it is OK. Unlike
you, I don’t get erections and waste time playing with them. I can’t.”
“Sorry man.”
We were then transported to the day I first jerked off; I was humping
the bed with scrambled late night Showtime. I finished and saw the happiest
look on my face.
The Ghost of Jerk off Past said, “This would change things for you,
Christoph; you would now like to smoke marijuana and masturbate instead
of play sports. But what you would not understand is that you would miss out
on living a healthy teenage life, and it would affect ooooooothers.”
“Dude, I was jerking off and smoking pot. That is like the least
harmful thing in the world.”
“Not truuuuuue!” protested the ghost, “You were an excellent
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Christoph Paul
defender in soccer; as you had the soccer nickname ‘The Wall’ for your ability to make defensive stops, but you gave up on sports. On a weeknight after
you smoked a bowl and masturbated to the brunette on Sabrina the Teenage
Witch, a Jewish boy from Boca Raton played defense in your usual spot and
when I was going to beat him and get a good shot he tripped me and now I
am paralyzed for lliiiiiiiffeeee.”
I felt sad; I was good at many sports but jerking off and smoking
pot was more fun. I looked at his wheel chair. “Dude. I am sorry for your
accident. I truly am, but that wasn’t my fault man. Hell, maybe I would
have head butted you and you’d be brain-damaged. My nickname was also
‘Concussion Christoph’.”
The ghost rolled backward and said, “Look forward, Christoph, I
will show a collage of what you missed during your teenage life as your masturbation time equaled two months and three weeks.”
The soccer scene changed and I saw a picture show of me doing
healthy and fulfilling activities: learning to cook pasta with my mom, helping my Grandma in her garden and I even won a debate for the debate team
because I studied the questions instead of masturbating the night before,
fantasizing about the girl, Dasha, on the debate team. That win impressed
her so much we ended up making out and I got a hand job.
Then the screen went away and I was back in my bed looking at
Tubegalore.
I shook my head wondering if I had been getting enough sleep and
clicked on Big Natural Tits, then heard another ghost who sounded less lame
and said, “No, Bro, get the dick out of your hand and grab a guitar!”
I looked up to see the diseased singer from Drowning Pool. Well, I
didn’t know that at first ’til he said, “Let the bodies hit the stop, don’t hit
your body. For I am the Ghost of Jerk Off Present.”
“Oh, hey dude, you know, I wasn’t that into that nu-metal shit but
I thought Bodies was a catchy song. Wait, why would you be against jerking
off? You guys seemed like you did a lot of jerking before Bodies took off and
you got a lot of chicks.”
“It’s true Bro but I am going to tell you right now what I wish someone told me. You could be playing guitar and coming up with an awesome
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65
song instead of jerking off.”
I looked at the Drowning Pool front man ghost and said, “Dude, I
work a full-time job, bust my ass song writing, and write prose. Sometimes
I’m just too tired to go look for pussy. I do this to relax.”
“Yeah, me too. At least when I was alive. Nu-metal girls, Man, they
had stuff, like herpes. But all right. I see that I am not the ghost to teach you
to jerk off less. I must bring in The Ghost of Jerk Off Future . . .”
The Drowning Pool front man disappeared and once again I was left
to myself. In my bed with Tubegalore. Suddenly the room shook and before
me was the porn actor John Holmes. He adjusted his penis and said, “What’s
up, Christoph, I am The Ghost of Jerk Off Future.”
“Wow. It’s an honor, Mr. Holmes. When I managed the porn store
people still came looking for your movies in the classics section.”
“Fuck Ron Jeremy. I’m the original.”
“Yeah. Respect. So what’s up, John?”
“I’m a fucking ghost man, it sucks. You can’t do coke, but when you
got a dick like mine you can’t complain. Getting ghost pussy.”
“Cool. But wait, so you are really The Ghost of Jerk Off Future.”
“Yeah, for now.”
“I don’t understand Mr. Holmes; why would you be against masturbation.”
“Well, it supported my drug habit but know, Christoph, in the end
it all leads to your dick in your hand. So sit back and let me show you your
future.”
The setting changed and I was back in Boca Raton. I was an old
man living solo in Century Village. There was a special device on my head
and my dick.
John Holmes told me, “In the future after you have had great artistic success, all you will have left is jerking off, which will be better than the
real thing in the future. They will have special jerk off devices. I predicted
this back in the ’70s but no one took me serious as a thinker, you know.
Instead of enjoying the fruits of your labor and having hot tantric sex with
Boca Gold Diggers you will just sit and watch reruns of Louie and jerk off
or watch old band videos of yourself. It’s a pretty fucking sad way to live.”
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Christoph Paul
“Damn, I will get old and just jerk off all day. I don’t want that.”
“Yeah, Man, so basically hold it, get out more. Have a wet dream.
When I was doing my porn days I’d never jerk off or even bang chicks ’cause
I would have a bigger load. Also I was so coked up I would need that extra
primal drive to get me through the scene.”
“Damn, John Holmes. I think there is a message here; jerking off
should be something you just do every once in a while. Like an emergency
or a special treat like going to a music festival.”
“Yeah, Man, take it from a junkie like me. Too much of one thing
is always bad. If I only did coke every once in a while I would be way better
off. So, go save it for your lady and/or groupies. Life is good, Christoph, do
better things with your hands.”
“I will John Holmes. Thank you; you are a great American and role
model. I will heed your advice.”
“That’s the spirit, Christoph. Let’s hang when you get up here.”
“I’ll see you in Heaven John Holmes.”
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T
he Stripper
That Got Away
I wish we met at Borders instead of Teasers, but it was under the pink
strobe lights I saw a booty and a smile that Bel, Biv, and Devoe warned me
about—da-dada-dada-da-boom . . . I should have taken precaution but you
put your breasts in my face and I heard a voice that made the Dubstep sound
not as bad as you smelled, like evolution’s perfume. The song ended, but in
my heart I heard T Pain’s ballad, “I’m in Love with a Stripper.”
You left the stage, your fingerprints still on the pole and a smile still
on my face as you cozied up to me. I let my cleverness match your cleavage,
telling you that you’d make more money dancing on nights you ovulate. You
found me interesting and I already wanted to write about you. Even in the
strangest circumstances people click and get comfortable.
I made you laugh explaining why we were a Jungian Match—if it
was four-minute dating, we’d be each other’s easy pick.
Yeah, I got what we both wanted—a lap dance, as you not only
dropped it like it’s hot, but I dropped my guard and let myself enjoy how
good your body felt. I believed what you said. “I’m not playing you—I really
like you.” And I said I did, too. Eyes don’t lie and we liked looking into each
other’s; we couldn’t hold back our smiles. The song ended and I knew it was
time to go. You said to sneak my number in a $20 bill and you’d text me. I
said I’d write about you and put you in a book.
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H
ow Zen Masters
Check Out Hot Chicks
In dealing with the hardships of sexual desire, I sought counsel with a Zen
Master and we collaborated on this poem to honor the great Zen Master
Thich Nhat Hanh from Vietnam.
How Zen Masters Check Out Hot Chicks
Sit.
Breathe.
The sun
not good
nor bad.
Birds
chirp.
Park,
duality of
nature & man.
Be at one
with both.
None are
infinite,
all is
timeless.
Feel breath.
Look forward . . .
Stripe
bikini.
Colors.
Sense
perceptions.
Breasts.
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69
C-cups.
Letters
lies.
Sizes,
judgments;
but to
not judge
is falseness.
See boob.
see both
boobs.
Joy.
Boobs
good,
of Tao;
desire,
let flow—
no attachment.
Yang
yells
but
not hear.
Focus on
breath.
Match
her breath.
Boob go up;
boob go down.
Boobs
not good;
boobs
not bad.
Boobs—
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Christoph Paul
universe.
Boobs—
nothingness.
Look.
Lower.
Bottom.
Camel toe.
What is camel?
what is toe?
Vagina.
Life.
Life good.
Life bad.
Death certain.
Know both.
Noble Truth.
Emptiness.
Vagina,
empty.
Feel self,
below—
Erection.
Want,
Not need,
to fill
vagina.
Focus on
breath.
Make
belly
full.
Empty
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71
belly.
Like
belly,
vagina
full.
Vagina
empty.
Attach—
to neither.
To be
in vagina
is only
to be.
There is not.
There is
only . . .
Everything.
Nothingness.
Vagina is
both.
Breath is
all.
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W
u-Tang
for White Boys
When I worked at the porn store, an older black who looked like The RZA’s
grandfather man would always come in wearing a Chinese Ninja hat. I never knew his name but referred to him as Wu-Tang for White Boys.
He had a specific fetish for seeing black women having sex with
white men. He shared with me, “When they get that white dick I go crazy
for it.”
I’m not sure if he meditated or practiced Zen or why he liked the
Ninja hat or seeing black women fuck white men. But he was consistent in
his selection, outfit, and was always well-mannered and humble.
Maybe his way is the future, where globalization and racial integration will be the norm and even embraced and we are all in Zen peace with
our fetishes.
The other customers look at him and his video choices and would
tell me, “That is one strange motherfucker.” Maybe. Or maybe he was just
ahead of his time.
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73
D
C Mandingo’s
Pizza Party
It was around 2:30 PM one day at the porn store when an average-height
young African-American guy came in with a short, chubby, large-breasted
black girl. They were looking around the Non-adult Section where there
was a poster of the film Precious; the well-endowed girl looked at it and said,
“I am an actress, I’m black, and I am fat. I should have gotten the starring
role in Precious. I could be sad and fat. Shit ain’t hard; I could have gotten
paid and I could have been the one on Ellen and Oprah. Instead I’m getting
titty fucked and sucking Spanish dicks.” Then she turned to me. “You Spanish? You look Spanish; I like sucking Spanish dicks.”
“I am Italian.”
“Whatever. Where the skin-flicks, Pisano?”
“Through the wooden doors. I need to see both your IDs”
They showed their IDs; both were twenty years old. She walked
through the doors to the adult side and the Precious Doppelganger went to
the Spanish Section. The young guy chilled by the counter near me. He
was nodding his head to the song on the ’90s hip hop and R&B station and
said, “Me and her, we both in the porn biz, too. She does big titty flicks and
I am in the DC Mandingos. But I am branching out. I want to get involved
in other avenues.”
“It’s good to branch out.”
“Word. You been working here long?”
“Yeah. A year. It’s cool and I can write here which is my thing.”
“Damn, writer, a year, you must have seen some freaks.”
“Yup.”
“She is a freak but she’s talented. Sucks awesome cock and when
dudes finish on her tits she licks it off without even having to be told. Total
natural.”
“We all have our gifts.”
“Word, I like acting; I’m just working my way up the porn ladder.
You ever do porn? You see so much of it you’d probably be good. Me and the
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Christoph Paul
DC Mandingos are doing a gangbang later tonight. You should come out;
you could be like our honorary Italian . . . the race thing—it doesn’t matter
anymore. Obama, you know what I’m saying.”
“Yeah, Obama has— Wait, what?”
“Me and The DC Mandingos we got a gangbang going on tonight;
it is with some white woman in Bethesda. We’re gonna film it. You should
come, Man; there’s going to be pizza.”
“Um . . . I really appreciate the invite and I do love pizza, but I just
wanted to watch some Glee and chill out tonight. Gangbanging is more of a
weekend thing, you know.”
“I hear that man. All right, that’s cool; I got to check that Glee show
out—I heard it’s funny.”
“Yeah, it’s pretty good.”
“I’ll Hulu it. So, you got any good pills for your dick?”
“Stiff Nights.”
“Word. I need it for the gangbang. I’ll get two. Titties, come here,”
he yelled to his woman.
She came up and gave me a piece of paper with her name and number on it, “Yo, Pisano. Give this to the Spanish dudes and say to them:
mucha tittas suckka el pingas.”
I took the paper and the DC Mandingo paid for the Stiff Nights.
I wished him good luck with the gangbang. He said thanks and that he’d
bring the tape when he visits again.
He came back a month later and said “What up, Pisano! I’m online;
you got Internet on your PC?”
“I do.”
“Word. Let me show you. You must be like that fat white movie
review guy but for porn. I need your critique, Man.”
“Ok. Is this the gangbang?”
“No, something new
The Google screen came up and I typed in the web address the DC
Mandingo gave me. He gave me a password and a code. I typed it in and saw
him and another black man standing naked and smiling in a freeze frame.
“We are both over seven inches but he has a little more girth. Good
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75
sizes though, right?”
“Respect.”
“Thanks. I would appreciate some, what’s it called? Constructive
criticism.”
“Ok.”
I hit play. The two young black men walked over to a naked blond
woman. She was petite, in her mid- to late-forties lying on a queen sized bed
with bed sheets that looked like they had a nice thread count.
“We shot it at her house while her husband was at work. But it’s
cool; he knows. Cuckolds, I don’t get it but whatevs. She was really nice
though; made us food. You ever have a cucumber sandwich? She hooked us
up, that shit was delicious.”
“Yeah, my ex made some for me, they were . . .”
I paused in sharing my mutual enjoyment of cucumber sandwiches
when I saw both boys take a strange position. I was used to seeing one man
enter the vagina and the other man enter the anus—usually decided by
girth—but they weren’t doing that and I shared, “Wait, it looks like you
both are going too . . . oh man . . . ouch!”
I watched as the two penises went inside her vagina and felt this
feeling of observing a car crash or when athletes fall incorrectly and their
ankle or knee bends in an unnatural way—it looked wrong and painful, but
I couldn’t look away.
“Yeah, Man; we’re hardcore. Pushing boundaries.”
“How . . . the two of you . . . I didn’t even know that was possible.”
“Man, just some lube and she was pretty blown out. You know what
though? It felt pretty good; it was tight sharing it with Rodger. He’s a good
dude. Professional, you know.”
I did not respond as I watched him and Rodger make the Bethesda
MILF make sounds that reminded me of The Miracle of Life video I watched
in Health Class. It was like watching a wounded animal being attacked—I
still wanted to look away but couldn’t.
The attack stopped as both penises ejected out of her vagina and
the DC Mandingo gave a play by-play, “Ah, here it comes; this is some AVN
Award type shit. Double cum shot.”
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Christoph Paul
And it was. Her botoxed face was in the crossfire of what I can only
describe as a snow ball fight on a very hot day.
When the last “shot” came out I decided that I was not going to eat
for the rest of my life.
“So what do you think?”
“I am honestly speechless.”
“Thanks, Man. I know, it was a powerful scene. That means a lot.”
“I have seen some shit; but that was . . . new,” I stuttered.
“Do you think I got what it takes to be in the big leagues like Bang
Bros.?”
“I do.”
“Really?”
And for a moment, seeing the need for validation and encouragement I realized the DC Mandingo and I were really no different, just young
dudes with a dream, “Yeah; if you got talent and a dream, go for it. That’s
what I’m doing.”
“You’re right. Dreams man, it is what it is about. Sometime we
should chill and get some cucumber sandwiches and go fuck some Bethesda
MILFs.”
“I’ll have to check my schedule.”
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Part 3: On Life
I can’t tell you if genius is hereditary,
because heaven has granted me no offspring.
~James Whistler
S
t. Francis
on Absinthe
When I was in London, I tried absinthe for the first time. It tasted like licorice
ass dipped in balls, but balls is what I tripped. I thought I was a man who I assumed had great big balls, but a bigger heart—I became St. Francis of Assisi.
I felt his soul merge with mine and I was his reincarnation with licorice
breath who would speak from The Lord.
Being St. Francis is a lot work though. I had to listen to everyone
and give them all my attention, and other drunk people are really hard to
listen to or to seek to understand, or even worse—to love.
But I found love. I told a fellow exchange student who looked like
the Clueless version of Brittany Murphy that she was my soul mate and I was
St. Francis. She seemed pleased to hear that, but then I blacked out for a
little bit.
When I came too, I felt no Spiritual Enlightenment nor any sign
that I got laid. Just a throbbing mark on my forehead like I used to get at
mass on Christmas—but it was from the pavement instead of a priest. I
stood up wanting to touch more souls, but then I threw up and St. Francis
left my body.
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C
oming to an American Porn Store
I miss the African men who walked into the porn store with their Prince
of Zamunda smiles. Many were from Ethiopia and other countries Sally Struthers visited. They were the only customers who took advantage
of the free hot dogs we’d give with any purchase of $9.95 as they’d buy
two for $4.95 because none of them were able to do a credit check that enables you to rent, and the other movies were too expensive to buy.
We bonded during the World Cup as non-African black people
thought that “niggas not using their hands was stupid.” But the Africans
and I shared the story of Ghana, as they used the word “soccer” out of respect. Most of the men were taxi drivers, cooks, or janitors who were single
and had a traditional way of thinking, which was part of why they were very
single.
They always looked confused as unemployed young men with
“swag” and good haircuts came into the store with their girlfriends to buy
lube. Some told me they didn’t understand American women; most just said
they wanted to find a good wife but they didn’t know where to look. I said to
try dating sites online, but most did not own computers and instead bought
more $4.95 flicks as I made them their free hot dogs.
Only one woman from Africa ever came in. She was from Ethiopia
in her mid-thirties, very beautiful, very married, and very sexually unsatisfied as she confessed to me she was circumcised and could not have an
orgasm. I felt for her; she was lonely and lost in America in an arranged
marriage to an angry sounding husband who did not know how to communicate or have sex well.
She said he worked in the day and she would to come to visit me at 1:30 PM. I taught her what American Idol was and how to masturbate, explaining that she had a bean two inches inside her vagina
and the toy known as “The G” would hit it leading to orgasm. Truthfully, I
would have been happy to do the act myself, but her trust felt special and I
didn’t want to betray that or have her or I get killed by her Kony-sounding
husband.
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Christoph Paul
I rooted for her to have happiness—or at least an orgasm. I suggested to bring the toy to their lovemaking and have her husband use it on her
so they could bond and become intimate. She smiled and said she would
and I felt a weird joy for helping her. I looked forward to hearing how their
marriage improved.
She never came back; she called only once and said he found it and
yelled at her—she cried and hung up defeated. I still think about her: bored
and scared and resigned to the fact that she is in this new land with no new
chances—living in America, for better or for worse.
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83
H
ow I Solve
the Israel-Palestine Conflict
Evangelicals would often come into the porn store, but wouldn’t talk about
Jesus (it is hard to represent Christianity when you are renting Black Anal
Sluts 14).They would give me Zionist arguments and talk about the glory of
Israel. I also met Palestinians who felt slighted about not having a country
even while staying in America. Having a background in political science
and history and embracing the humanities as I do, I came up with a solution
where both groups could find peace and harmony. For I am but a man looking to create harmony in the world and create peace among all, whether
Zionist or Palestinian. It has been circling many think tanks in the DC area.
.
. .
How do you solve the Israel-Palestine Conflict? A situation, no, excuse me,
a problem that gives power to that fretful word “quagmire”—a sticky situation like sharing an awesome NYC studio apartment with your deadbeat
drummer or being a white guy in love with a Kardashian.
Israel has had some damn good real estate agents. Land promised
by God, then promised by the British. In a sense, God was an English man
without the good manners, but also a people pleaser who had way too many
chosen people and, unfortunately, there is no devil to make a deal with.
The Palestinians just want a home again and the Jews finally found
one, just it is in a really shitty-ass neighborhood. If only the Jews could find
a true land of peace, because it appears God is holding back on a Messiah.
No offense, Jesus, but I don’t think there’d be a Holocaust or pogroms if
you were really the Prince of Peace. But I digress. Israel is free of Hitler and
might not have pogroms, but they have been replaced with suicide bombs.
If only the Jews could find somewhere else, because Israel is no longer God’s National Park. But then it hit me stronger than all The Messages
that Abraham and Moses got.
Send the Jews to Montana.
Oh yes, that Montana.
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Christoph Paul
The one near Idaho?
Yes. Hear me out . . .
The plan is we do this like one of those espionage Tom Clancy novels, where Harrison Ford plays the lead character in the movie.
We make up false historical documents to be found in Israel. Buy
off the top scientists, archaeologists, and a few rabbis who will say that
it was the lost writing of Moses—no, no, even better, Abraham, who
said that a day will come where the Jews will have a new Israel called
Montana, in the land of prosperity where they will be safe and some other
spiritual bullshit.
There’s plenty of space there. It can be like St. Thomas, with mountains. A commonwealth of security and there can be slogans like: No More
Gaza, Move to Montana. No Hamas, Just Wolves.
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S
calping and Sexual Selection:
Extra Ticket for the National Show
When going to a concert alone with two tickets for one of your favorite
bands you face the harsh truth of Darwinian sexual selection or what some
call “game theory”: you want to get your money back for the extra ticket (I
invited this hot chick Justine but she blew me off for a drummer), but you
want to share it with someone who you will get along with and who will also
really share your passion for the show. But if you don’t sell it, you are out of
money and you go alone next to an empty seat. It’s the Savannah Principle
(Wikipedia it) and it’s pretty brutal, as you are waiting and searching for the
right one.
After a good thirty minutes of trying to scalp my ticket, I finally met
this one dude who wanted it but for half as much as I paid for it. I had to
stick with my standards and said, “No, sorry, Man. I’m going to hold out.”
I waited another ten minutes and found this one dude around my
age; I got a good feel for him and I could tell he was into the band. But there
still was the price at hand. We haggled for a little bit and I ended up getting
$5 less than what I paid for it.
I gave up a little but it was worth it; the dude was cool as fuck,
another writer, and even knew the damn lyrics (an important quality for
seeing a concert with somebody). We became friends, exchanged numbers,
and we will hang again.
So yeah, for that night in the brutal Hobbesian world of ticket
scalping I did pretty well. Is there any moral to the story? Yeah there is: give
a little bit but keep your standards, even if it means you might lose it all.
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L
essons Learned
in Rehab
I got kicked out of ADD boarding school because my friends and I couldn’t
find any pot and I thought huffing guitar cleaner would be the best way to
get high. I got caught. It was a poor decision to make at fifteen years old,
though huffing inhalants feels really good because your high is hearing this
wah-wah-wah sound that can only be described if Skrillex Dubstepped a
Jimi Hendrix solo.
I found out later in Teenage Rehab Group Therapy that it was just
your brain cells dying from lack of oxygen.
I stayed at the rehab in Louisiana for a year; I went to a private
school during the day then after school “The Druggy Buggy” would come
and pick me and drop me off at the center just in time for group therapy.
My first month in rehab I was the subject of the therapy sessions.
I got confronted for lying: I wanted to fit in with the other drug addicts/
alcoholics and be cool, so I said I did harder drugs than I actually did while
I was in gangs that I really wasn’t in. This real gangsta dude Barrett who was
a drug dealer with Folk Nation Love said I was fronting and called me out.
Embarrassed, I said he was right and then the whole group talked about how
I lied to get people to like me and that was the reason I did drugs.
After that session Barrett and I bonded over our love of southern
rap music and he told me cool stories about gangbanging and drug dealing.
I looked up to him and liked that this badass from North Carolina was becoming my friend.
We sat and smoked cigarettes after group, talking about the hot
druggy chicks at rehab. We agreed the hottest ones were the crystal meth
addicts because they had nice bodies from not eating but were young enough
so their teeth were not yet rotten yet.
One day in one of our after-group convos of chicks and cool rap
songs, I took a drag off my cigarette and said I liked Kristen V whose drugs
of choice were liquor and Ecstasy. I asked him if he liked Shelley a brunette
sixteen year old in our group and he said, “Hell no, Dogg. That bitch looks
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87
like Skeletor and she’s got a snaggletooth.”
This pillhead Bobby finished a smoke and laughed and said, “I heard
you like her ass, too.”
“Why would you think some bullshit like that? I only want to fuck
the coke and crystal ho’s up in here not that mushroom taking Skeletor.”
“Then why did you write a love letter to her?”
“What?! I didn’t write her shit. Why you frontin’; making shit up?
Wait . . . Yo Dogg, on the real—you relapsing?”
Pillhead Bobby laughed and said, “Na, Man, damn. Then that bitch
is crazy because she showed us a letter and she said you wrote it to her. She
even signed your name!”
“That fucking crazy bitch! What did she say in the letter?”
“That you love her and always think about her and in your prayers
you ask God to grant you her love after you ask Him to keep you sober.”
Barrett threw his cigarette on the ground and stared at the female
dorm, looking at it like it was a rival gang that had stolen one of his shipments. Seconds of silence went by as he stared forward, then he smiled
supervillain-like and said, “I’m gonna ask Ann if I can confront her in group
and this bitch is gonna get it.”
Pillhead Bobby and I started laughed hysterically; I thought of our
drug counselor, Ann, who was a Cajun female Stuart Smiley that was always
quoting books like Co-Dependent No More. We knew her and Barrett having
a conversation alone would be funny as hell; we lit up another smoke and
continued to laugh our asses off.
The next day after The Druggy Buggy dropped me off I walked
straight to group therapy to get a good seat. Our group of eleven—five boys
and six girls—was there sitting in our usual circle. Counselor Ann smiled
at us and led us into group saying The Serenity Prayer. After prayer, we did
our “feelings circle” of what we were feeling that day: I was excited, Barrett,
righteous, then Shelley looked at Barrett and said, “Enamored” (she had
been studying hard for the SATs).
Ann nodded her head and said she was feeling “reserved and proud.”
Ann smiled, looked at Barrett, and said, “Before we help Tommy with his
second step, Barrett wants to say a few things. I am happy that Barrett is
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Christoph Paul
going to use the group in a constructive way to deal with anger. Ok, Barrett,
you have the floor.”
“Word. Thank you, Ann. A’ight. I’m gonna do a confrontation and
the subject is Shelley; the issue is dishonesty.”
Shelley’s mouth dropped and her face went red. Barrett shook his
head at her and said, “Yeah, you messed up; you know it. So I’m confronting you Shelley ’cause you a crazy bitch. Writing letters and saying they’re
from me; probably diddling your skittle as you Red Shoe Diarying me these
letters—”
Ann held up her hand and said in her Louisiana accent of love and
tolerance, “Barrett, I understand your anger and you feel betrayed and made
to feel foolish by this letter but let’s not use profanity, sexually offensive, or
hurtful words. You are attacking the behavior, not the person.”
“A’ight. Well Shelley, your behavior tells me you’re a crazy ass, with
ho-like behaviors. I think her behavior deserves electro-shock therapy or
just a kick in the ass.”
“Barrett, please do not use words of violence. Let’s focus; how did it
make you feel when you heard she wrote that?”
“Angry. Stupid. It affected my self-esteem knowing my boys thinkin’
I’m writing love poems to Shelley.”
“Why do you feel that way Barrett?”
“Because Shelley’s lack of positive dental behavior and her boyish
figure and face has her look like Skeletor, the He-Man villain.”
Shelley started to cry and Ann said, “That is enough, Barrett. Let’s
stop right now—”
“I don’t feel bad; she asked for it. It’s karma, right Ann. Spiritual
truths, Wu-Tang stuff, yo.”
“Please sit down now, Barrett.”
He sat as Shelley hid her head and Ann realized letting Barrett do
confrontations was not good for group therapy morale, though most of the
group was laughing. I was too but I looked at Shelley and heard a whimper
and saw a tear coming down through her hands.
It was pretty funny but I had been in the confrontation seat before
and it feels shitty. I thought of my high school crush, Dasha, who didn’t
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89
want to do me and felt the empathy of learning that when you are not found
attractive by someone you really want to have sex with you just want to get
really high and or drunk.
I raised my hand and Ann said, “Yes, CP.”
“I’m CP and I’m an alcoholic and a drug addict. I would like to
share my experience, strength, and hope with Shelley about dishonesty.”
I cleared my throat.
“First, I was a huge fan of He-man and I have to respectfully disagree with Barrett and say that, Shelley, you do not look like Skeletor.”
Barrett shook his head and said, “He lying; he just doesn’t want to
hear a girl cry. But she does. Straight truth.”
“Barrett, that is enough. I will write you up and put you on cleaning
duty if I hear another derogatory statement toward Shelley. Now let’s listen.
Please continue, CP.”
“Well, dishonesty, lying ,whatever you want to call it; it just sucks
and I don’t mean any disrespect, Ann, but being in rehab sucks, too. You
know what, though, lying sucks more because it makes things that suck,
suck even more. Like Shelley, you like Barrett but you remind him of a HeMan villain so he is not into you. Which sucks, but instead of accepting that
and moving on, you lied about it and got caught which makes the truth suck
even more.”
“CP, what are you trying to say? And please don’t use the word
‘suck’.”
“That we probably should just accept the crappy truths like that
Serenity Prayer says instead of creating lies to cover them up. Because when
we don’t things just get crappier. I guess we should just live in reality and
just accept it even if it sucks—sorry, I mean, that is why we’re all stuck here,
because we don’t like reality and lying makes us feel better just like drugs
and drinking did.”
Ann nodded at me with approval and pride then said, “CP, that is
insightful but you are good at talking a good game even when using poor
word choices. Shelley needs real support not platitudes so why don’t you
share where you have been dishonest and accept those punishments so
Shelley is not alone right now.”
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Barrett gave me a look that said, “That is what you get, Son. You
got to be hard.”
But I wasn’t hard, I was just some kid who didn’t want to see people
cry; Shelley did kind of look like Skeletor but she wasn’t mean like him, so I
gulped and started my confession. It was all stupid stuff, I can’t even remember what the lies were but I can remember saying one that made Shelley
laugh. She was then able to show her face for the rest of the group.
In the end it was worth it; I did get punished and had to rake leaves
for a week but Shelley moved on and ended up doing really well on her
SATs. From that day on I became a leader and example for the other druggies, the shaman for all the strung-out junkies. I liked the role of the pillar
of the rehab community. Rehab was good for me. Even though it didn’t
get me to stop drugs completely, it taught me how to be authentic, how to
help those who need it, and to feel at home with those who share the same
struggles.
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M
ilitary
School
Before I went to rehab, I went to military school. If I had to guess on why
my drug use increased I wouldn’t need to be Dr. Drew to figure out that going to military school made me want to use lots of drugs. Military school is
like a zoo of fucked teenage boys. You have every kind there; every kid with
“issues” is there with a crew cut and a sock to either jerk off in or put soap
in to make it a weapon.
My first roommate was not violent but he was a chronic-masturbatingkleptomaniac from northern Florida who needed new “sex socks” every
week. There were supposed to be five people to a room but no one wanted
to live with him and my parents shipped me there during the middle of the
semester. I got the luck of the draw when the first night I escaped getting a
sock-filled-with-soap beating (that is how they welcomed new recruits) but
saw my new roommate, Countryman, literally beating a sock with his penis.
Yet, I was lucky to have this roommate because the shaved head
psychopaths were squeamish about going in our room because they might
step on something, as Countryman would do only a few things when not
reading The Bible (yes, he was a Bible reader but I wondered if he just used
the Old Testament for sex material because we had no porn hook up). He
would jerk off, talk about our science teacher’s vaginal elasticity, and/or steal
things except my stuff. (I guess since it was already in the room, there was no
challenge in the theft. He had already gotten in trouble twice for stealing.)
I should have been appalled that I was living with a shaved head
sperm bank but I felt grateful having learned at thirteen-years-old the adult
lesson of trade-offs—I accepted the safe-truth that people found Countryman so vile that his chronic masturbation kept them from sneaking into
my room and beating me up. I was safe due to Countryman’s arms. As long
as I took quick showers, I was not going to get beat up or get sexual things
done to me. Military school is like your parents paying for you go to juvie
and learn how to march while befriending teenage felony records/asylum
seekers in progress.
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Countryman and I had interesting conversations during the night;
I learned that he very much wanted to have sex with his cousin and the hair
stylist (a.k.a. the head-shaver) who would come in on Thursdays to make
sure we looked like dicks with ears. He bragged to me that he could smell
her vagina through her jeans and was able to rub her boob with his elbow
twice—there was less Bible reading on Thursday.
Unfortunately, Countryman could not jerk off all day and there
were complaints that people were missing things: clothes, toothpaste, underwear, Japanese Anime, and Spanish novels (we had psychopaths from all
over the world).
Word of the thefts got to Major M, a fifty-something vet the military school hired to be in charge of the middle school squadron. He hated
the Vietnamese but he hated thieves more and decided that there would be
room searches. He made this redhead senior with high rank put on gloves
and help him with the inspections.
After ten rooms were searched, Major M walked into our room with
a stone-faced presence of toughness that would make even Chuck Norris
pause. The redhead senior lackey followed behind him making a squeamish
face like he was stepping into a quarantined area. Countryman had a look
on his face of fear but was also very relaxed—I assumed this paradoxical
emotional state came from jerking off in the last five minutes. Masturbation
was his coping skill, while some of the other kids would huff shoe polish or
switch their meds.
We got out of our beds and stood straight at attention. Major M
looked at us with disgust; I never saw him smile or laugh but there was a
rumor he smiled once when he talked about hand-to-hand combat.
After he was done giving us looks of death he had the senior go into
my closet first; there was nothing in there but disorganization and Major M
told me, “Your closet is as pathetic as you are. Fix that now.”
He then looked over at the redhead senior. “All right, inspect
this piece of garbage’s closet and tighten your gloves.” Major M looked at
Countryman and shook his head, “Something is wrong with you, Son. Very
wrong.”
Countryman’s face reddened when they opened the closet. The
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senior shook his head and said, “I don’t even need to touch it, it’s all there
in the bottom corner.”
The redhead senior then leaned back against the wall but suddenly
made a squeamish face. Major M, myself, and Countryman watched him
pull himself forward but his shirt was stuck to the wall. We all knew what
was going on. He looked horrified; his facial expression screaming, “I just
put my back against Countryman’s semen.”
He screamed and took his shirt off. I couldn’t help myself, for a
split-second I fought it. I bit my lip as hard as I could but I couldn’t stop it
and I started laughing. I felt fear as I laughed and looked toward Major M
expecting him to be pissed but he started cracking up too. Even Countryman was laughing—everyone was laughing except for the redhead senior
who ran to the showers.
Even in a hellish place like military school you find ways to laugh,
and no one is too tough to laugh about body fluids. Even Major M. No matter how bad it gets, you got to find shit to laugh about.
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O
pposite Day
in Teen Rehab
The kids that were really screwed up in teenage rehab were the huffers.
Now, I know I’ve admitted to huffing, but that was because we couldn’t find
any other drugs in boarding school and/or military school, but if inhalants
are your drug of choice then you’re riding the gasoline-filled-white-out-turpentine-crazy train.
A good example would be Milo: he got sent to the rehab because he
was helping paint his parents’ new house when they noticed that the paint
cans would all go missing. Then one day his parents found twelve paint cans
and a blue beard on Milo’s chin and sent him to our rehab center in the
Cajun area of Louisiana.
Milo was African-American and looked very much like the rapper
and star of Loiter Squad: Tyler the Creator (quick shout out: Tyler, the show
is dope and Yonkers is still my jam yo; guest spot on your next album?). He
was around fifteen, skinny, and had an Alzheimer’s look in his eyes. His first
few days at the rehab center he didn’t talk, but when our counselor, Ann,
finally got him to speak in group therapy I thanked my Higher Power that I
didn’t huff anymore—because Milo was fucking crazy.
He spoke in brain-damaged haikus. When Ann asked him how he
felt he said, “Good, but bad is good. It’s Opposite Day.”
We all paused at that moment and Ann responded, “What is Opposite Day? Is that how you deal with people and your feelings, Milo?”
“Na, Wednesday is just Opposite Day.”
“Why Wednesday?”
“’Cause this is not Wednesday.”
“When does this start? I’m interested,” Ann inquired.
“Oh, he means end and bored. I get it,” said Pillhead Bobby.
Then Milo said “I’m not going to take a nap. War on.”
He closed his eyes and didn’t respond to anything Ann said for the
rest of group—it was awkward and awesome.
I had been in rehab for six months before Milo appeared; you can
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only make up funny songs and flirt with so many druggie chicks before it
starts to feel like purgatory. Milo was a morale boost for me and some of the
other lifers. He was entertaining: like a walking surreal painting combined
with Ol’ Dirty Bastard.
He brought some life to the monotony of rehab as one day would
be Opposite Day, next he would talk about farts having souls and no matter what Ann did she could not get him to act normal in group—it was
paint-huffing punk-rock pandemonium.
Not everyone felt the same, though. Milo did not live in the same
dorm area as me but in a smaller apartment with three other people: two
coke heads, and a heroin addict. They kept saying how fucked up he was
and were tired of hearing his crazy shit, especially at two in the morning.
A few days later he proved how Pollock Painting his mind had become as
he picked up the lone pay phone near the Rec Room (meant for emergencies and rewards for special behavior to call your non-drug/alcohol abusing
friends) and called 911.
I was sweeping near the Rec Room when I heard him tell the police,
“Yo, it’s Milo. You have to come quick; there are people living in the wall!
They trapped! Marty and Simon, they trapped in the wall, Man. They are
Indians, they are scared. You got to save them. Come to the rehab, save the
Indians five-O.”
The cops came to the teen rehab center to realize Marty and Simon
did not exist and Milo was sent to live in the Rec Room (where we would
get to watch PG movies and sports events) because he kept telling Marty
and Simon he was going to rescue them and that he would help them find
their Native American tribe in the Bayou. This was the only solution as
the two coke heads and heroin addict complained they would relapse if he
stayed with them and heard anything else about Marty or Simon.
Milo started staying in the Rec Room Sunday afternoon when our
chores changed; my new chore was to clean the inside of the Rec Room. I
was excited because Milo had been watching March Madness and I am a big
college basketball fan. When I walked in he did have on NCAA basketball.
He smiled at me and said, “What up, CP?”
I replied, “Hey, Milo, how’s it—” but stopped because he was
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masturbating underneath his bed covers.
I stood there and paused, existentially. Milo was not gay, I knew
this because he would awkwardly stare at druggy girls’ boobs during group
and say “they good” (unless it was Opposite Day, then “they bad.”) This was
behavior on some other level I didn’t understand as he looked back at the
game and said, “Multitask. Two things. Beat meat, basketball. You clean
room and watch game. It ain’t Opposite Day. It’s March Madness. Duke is
Satan; they must lose.”
I stood there and saw some white guy on the Duke team make another three pointer and accepted that this kid had just huffed way too much
paint and then I walked the hell out of the Rec Room to feel some sense of
sanity.
I am not one for snitching but I told the R.A. Counselor “I’m not
cleaning up the Rec. Room because Milo is masturbating to the Duke basketball game.”
The counselor had worked there for years, but even he paused as he
took in these words.
He said solemnly, “Ok. Fair enough . . . Is Duke winning?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
“Too bad, I really hate Duke. Um, your chores are done?”
“Yeah.”
“I need to make some phone calls about Milo.”
I went and had a cigarette and told my roommates about Milo; they
all laughed their asses off. Myself and the other lifers realized there hadn’t
been someone this crazy in rehab since Crack Head Pete who liked to perform One Act plays that involved him being a pimp and the kitchen mop
being his ho—she would give him fellatio for not having his money and
then he would slap “her” for giving him teeth. Crack screwed up Crack
Head Pete but paint huffing made Milo something much worse.
Three days later he was sent to a mental hospital and for the next
month my druggy dude friends would ask if I want to watch basketball with
them and laugh. That was rehab, people relapsed, went crazy, and all you
could do was make a joke about it and laugh so you didn’t go crazy yourself.
For the rest of my stay in teen rehab we would share the stories
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of Milo as he became a strange folk hero of the center. We even used the
phrases “What Would Milo Do?” and “Go for the Muff, Don’t Ever Huff.”
We had random Opposite Days, and when we were all faced with the difficult hardship of being stuck in teenage rehab we would say The Serenity
Prayer and add to it, ‘It could be worse; I could be as screwed up as Milo.”
It was then that I decided I need to find other ways to enjoy life
besides getting high (all the time) when I got out of rehab.
Luckily I found writing and music and had something to say at even
a young age.
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T
he Shit
the Bed Blues
In high school my first experience playing music was doing rap rock with
this guitar protégé I will call Joe. I would stay at his house after school
and practice combining Nirvana and Pearl Jam riffs with me saying high
school rhymes. When we cut back on drinking and smoking pot we realized
nu-metal was lame and on its way out so we went back to grunge and altrock and started making cool rock songs.
Musicianship was in Joe’s blood as his dad (who I will call Sam)
was a ’70s blues/soul guitarist/singer ex-musician who supported this style
of rock music; he was cool and became more encouraging when I started
singing instead of rapping (though he admitted he liked “Walk This Way,”
but that was an exception to the rule).
He let us practice in his studio and let us drink beer. It was pretty
sweet. He was a single dad who pretty much let us do what we want as Joe
and I went to a one-on-one tutoring school so we were each other’s only
friend.
We did not have much sex options and it sucked but it fueled our
practice sessions because we knew the only way we were going to get laid
was through bringing chicks over and singing our awesome songs. But we
weren’t good at social media so it was slow getting the word out.
We were both going through a major sexual slump when Joe’s dad
said he was bringing over a woman and she had a cousin and that one of us
had to make sure she had a good time. We asked if she was hot and he said,
“She is one of those Goth girls so if you like dead-looking broads then you
might want to bang her.”
I had never seen Josh’s dad with chicks but he boasted about all the
“hot road pussy” he got on tour. (Our science teacher actually liked him but
he said about her, “I wouldn’t fuck her with your teenage tubesticks. She
keeps calling me; I can’t go that low boys, I got pride.” That metaphor and
wisdom showed he obviously contributed some pretty cool lyrics and soul
to his old band.)
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We figured she would be a plastic ex-trophy wife in her late forties
and the cousin would be some sixteen-year-old overweight Goth chick who
would want to talk about either The Crow and/or HIM. We both said screw
it, let’s just practice and they can come watch us when they arrive.
Joe and I were halfway through the song “Heartless” when the door
opened and I swear I thought I heard the boner of Joe hit the guitar, making
the distortion pan out from his Boss Overdrive pedal. We both froze and did
not stare at what was a cute Goth girl with a weird haircut. No, we looked
at the twenty-something woman on Sam’s arm who looked like Megan Fox
pre-Transformers 2 with bigger boobs and a sweeter/prettier looking face. To
this day she is still the hottest woman I have ever seen in my life. (To my
lady readers it was like if Channing Tatum and Ryan Gosling combined, but
like in a chick. She was an eleven, Nigel-style.)
Speechless, I shook her hand and somehow stared at an equal combination of breasts and face meeting the gorgeous Samantha—the eleven—
and her cute Goth cousin. If Samantha’s hotness was not clouding the
practice space while doing a cobra flute dance of seduction on my penis I
would have been all about the Goth chick but it was like looking at a sunset
that God himself made. Except the sunset had titties. Basking in her hotness was a spiritual experience.
The three of them then sat on our practice space couch and said
they wanted to hear us play; Joe and I getting out of the hotness stupor
started to feel confused on how a fifty-something over the hill rocker landed
this angelic piece of ass. Was her mom an old groupie? Was Sam a hypnotist?
Was there a God or karma rewarding Sam for something?
We put all our sexual and existential frustration and played a foursong set that led to claps, boners, and then Sam taking the hottie and leaving us with the cute Goth cousin.
She looked at me and said, “You guys actually don’t suck. And you
remind me of Billy Corgan, but with hair. Do you have any pot?”
We took her to the beach and her and I smoked up and made out.
It was cool but in the ignorance of youth I did not appreciate the moment
and kept thinking about Samantha. I wondered if she was there back at Joe’s
home.
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I ended up getting the Goth chick’s number and kissed her goodbye
but my thoughts were all about getting back to Joe’s to see if Sam brought
her cousin back home.
We then dropped the Goth chick off and Joe drove back to his dad’s
place. We walked in and heard the laugh of Samantha coming out of Sam’s
bedroom. We couldn’t believe it; we laughed ourselves—still stoned and
still shocked. How the hell did the old fuck pull this off?
We passed out in Joe’s room and I woke up early and the idea hit
me, What if Samantha was lying naked on the bed? Could I live with myself if
I did not try to see the hottest chick in the world naked?
No I could not and I woke up Joe and said, “Dude, let’s peek, we got
to see if she is there naked. We have to. I can’t live with that regret.”
This was our chance to see something that we could only picture in
our dreams. We crept out of Joe’s room and I led the way to his dad’s door
and slowly opened it, ready to see Paradise, but when we looked at the bed
we did not see her or Sam . . .
Our mouths dropped as we saw the bed with puddles of shit spread
all over the sheets. We couldn’t understand, why, why in all that is holy
would we literally see shit in the bed instead of the hottest girl in the world?
It felt cruel and wrong.
But Joe laughed at the disappointment and said, “Dude, I think my
dad banged her in the ass and she didn’t handle it well.”
We started to crack up and then searched for Joe’s dad; we went into
the living room and saw Sam walking toward us. He was hungover wearing a
white robe with black poop stains on it and said, “Boys, boys, help me. The
bitch drugged me. The bitch fucking drugged me and made me shit myself.”
Sam continued. “It was too good to be true; you can’t date a stripper
from Rachel’s. You can’t, Boys. She made me shit the damn bed. She’s a
thief and a con artist.”
As we watched Sam shake his head, the shit fell down from his
robe. And we learned that no matter how beautiful the woman, if she is not
the right one and not with you for the right reasons, she’ll leave you literally
covered in shit and feeling like a fool.
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M
y Dear
Craigslist Girl
.
Below is my frustrated response email I wrote after my first attempt at trying
to meet someone special on Craigslist.
. .
Oh, Craigslist Girl, Craigslist Girl, my dear Craigslist Girl; you are my
crush. It has been twenty-four hours since you’ve responded. I know it took
me only sixteen hours to respond back to you but more than twenty is just
too much—twenty-four is telling me you are no longer interested.
Oh, Craigslist Girl, my dear Craigslist Girl. In these twenty-four
hours, I have not forgotten about your favorite band list, which was as enticing as your right side profile stare. Your understanding of the dark beauty
of Asian horror films like 3 Extremes matches your own profile.
Your opening under “women seeking men” whispered the sweet
words, “Beautiful Dreamer ISO A Man Who ‘Gets IT’ 27 NW/DC.”
Yes, I am a dreamer, too, and yes: I do get it, and I want to be gotten
as well. I enjoyed your response, it was sweet and your joke about spelling
shows you have a good sense of humor and made me want to meet and truly
get to know you.
For I understood your words; I was touched by them, and wrote back
and shared who I am as well, but, I fear that fifty other motherfuckers heard
them too and at least five—maybe eight—have sent you better profile pics!
But my Craigslist Girl, I whipped out my three aces in the hole:
My wax museum Madame Tussauds picture of me posing as a child with
Angelina and Brad; playing guitar at The Haven while in mid-motion on a
stage (showing my badassness/rockstarness. There was a lot of “ness” in that
picture! Including sexiness!), and last but not least me holding an adorable
fucking baby on my lap!
If that last one didn’t tug on your uterus, then you either found me
unattractive, which I don’t accept! Because, I was a decent eight (at least in
the Adrian Brody sense of attractiveness) in those pics (and I am not even
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photogenic), but the lighting was right, and my three paragraph intelligent
e-mail response makes me a good nine, maybe 9.79. No, the only thing I can
accept is the other guys must have showed you pics of them walking on water while holding a baby while still playing one-handed keyboard with The
National, The Kills, and/or The XX. Yes, I really like those cool bands too,
but not as much as I liked you Craigslist Girl, not as much as I liked you . . .
Goodbye my Craigslist Girl, goodbye.
Wait! Wait, my dear Craigslist Girl! Oh No! No!
That was not my kid!!!
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A
ll Fetuses Go To Heaven:
A Children’s Story on Abortion
There are a lot difficult things in this world. Looking back the one thing
that made this world much easier to understand were children’s stories, especially fairy tales. For my last piece in the “On Life” section, and trying to
grow as an artist experimenting with a different genre of writing I present a
non-ideological fairy tale and a difficult subject many young boys and girls
will face when they grow older. For life is hard and difficult but art can help
us make sense of the hardships.
I sent this piece to a publisher specializing in children’s stories asking for help finding an illustrator and they said not to write to them ever
again.
.
. .
Once upon a time in a magical place named New Jersey there was a young
woman named Jane. She had pretty blond hair and liked to drink magical
juice that made her forget how boring College was: a place where people
read magical books to make their brains bigger.
Jane liked College but her parents thought her major of Fashion
Design and the books she read about how to make pretty dresses, were not
the proper books to read. But Jane loved pretty dresses and when she drank
the magic juice she felt just like a princess and so she used her parent’s credit
card to buy dresses and magic juice. This card was a magical card where you
can buy lots of magical juice and dresses and someone else pays for it.
On one enchanted evening at a special place called The Green
Rock Tap and Grill, was a special ball called Ladies Night, where all the
girls get to be princesses and drink all the magical juice they want. Jane and
her ugly stepsisters of Alpha Pi loved Ladies Night. That night Jane wore a
pretty dress, but she felt lonely; Jane really wanted a Prince to talk to about
dresses with and how much she loved her favorite Princess named Kim Kardashian, who got money and pretty dresses just for being pretty and having
a daddy who made sure men like Robin Hood were always free to have fun.
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Many nights Jane wished on a magical star that one day she would
be like Kim, but in the end she would settle for just finding a great Prince.
At The Green Rock Tap and Grill Jane sat at a table with ugly stepsisters who were mean to her because she was prettier than all of them, but
Jane did not care because she knew that with her striking beauty and smile
she had the best of chance of meeting her special Prince. As she drank more
magical juice and heard her stepsisters talk about removing unwanted hair
in strange places she saw a handsome Prince walk in just as the clock struck
midnight.
He was tall, had a nice mustache and goatee, black hair that was
spiked just like a crown. She drank more magical juice and the more she
drank the more he looked like the special Prince she had always been waiting for since she was a little girl.
A magical song was picked by DJ FistBumpingToMars who, like a
pretty bird, could pick the perfect song and have it sing from his speakers
to make people fall in love. “Don’t Stop Believin’” put Jane and the Prince
under a love spell as he invited her with his pretty white smile to dance
with him.
She snuck away from her evil stepsisters and she and the Prince met
on the ballroom floor and danced like it was a special ball as they glided like
doves sliding front to back—dancing very close as the magic juice settled
in her stomach—it felt perfect. As the song changed, the Prince told her
how beautiful she was and said he had special pixie dust to make them feel
even more magical if she followed him to the bathroom. Under the spell of
the song “Call Me Maybe” she followed him to the back in the boy’s room
where they sniffed the pixie dust and then kissed—their love was instant.
Now, children, when two adults love each other so much like Jane
and the Prince did but don’t put on magical gloves to protect that love—
something special happens: a Love Tadpole flies out of the Prince and kisses
a magical egg inside the Princess and creates a special magical potion that
grows up to be a baby—it is called a Fetus. It only took two minutes for this
magical act to happen as the Prince told Jane when it was done, “That was
awesome. You are a cool chick.”
In most fairy tales after the act of Love Tadpole kissing Magic Egg
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the girl is supposed to become a Queen and the prince a King and they raise
their own Prince or Princess together. But sometimes the Prince decides
that he is tired and bored and leaves the Princess to go back to his castle he
shares with five other Princes to watch SportsCenter—some Princes are not
very nice, as this Prince was not. He left Jane all alone without any pixie
dust to help her feel better. But Jane was not alone as she now had a Fetus
living in her tummy. And that Fetus was a boy, we will call him Frankie—
Frankie the Fetus.
She continued to drink her magic juice that made her forget she
was not in never-never land but the magic juice was not good for Frankie
the Fetus, who continued to grow and she realized he was living in her stomach as the magical egg did not leave its monthly red yoke that feeds the grass
and makes flowers grow—instead it fed Frankie the Fetus.
Jane was not ready to have a little Prince and needed a Prince of her
own to help with raising a baby and she still had many books to read about
how to make pretty dresses and make people from a faraway land called China stitch and tie them. This was just not a good time to have a little Prince.
This disturbed Princess Jane as she was only twenty-one and did not
hear back from the Prince.
But sometimes, fair or not, the future Princess doesn’t find the right
Prince and is just left with Frankie the Fetus, which makes it much harder
to find a good Prince and go to Milan to study abroad for senior year, as Jane
wanted to.
She confided in her evil stepsisters about having Frankie the Fetus;
some said she could keep the Fetus and make sure it becomes a baby; some
said Rush Week was coming in a month and she needed to go see The Fairy
Doctor Parenty Pairwood to help the Fetus fly away.
It was very difficult for Jane to decide and she continued to drink
the magic juice to feel better. After many nights of tossing and turning she
realized she was not ready to be a mommy and did not like the idea of being
a Princess without a Prince to marry her. Jane decided to not listen to half of
her evil stepsisters. She decided to go to the Fairy Doctor Parenty Pairwood
where there was a magical tube to take Frankie out and send him to Heaven.
The next day Jane did not go to College to make her brain bigger.
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Instead she took a train ride to a land of many Fairies called New York
City. She walked out of the train and went into the Fairy Doctor’s house
that was made of metal and had a waiting room with other women with
Fetuses in their belly. As Jane waited she looked at the other women—they
were certainly not Princesses but Jane knew if she let Frankie the Fetus become a Prince without a King she was sure she would end up not a Princess
but a waitress or, even worse, cut off from her parents—and she definitely
couldn’t go to Europe senior year to study in Milan.
As she continued to wait and read her favorite magazine Cosmopolitan, Jane felt nervous but knew in her heart she could not take care of
Frankie the Fetus and felt he would be better if the Fairy Doctor sent him to
Heaven. And she didn’t like the idea of getting fat or having stretch marks
and then giving the Fetus away to a King or Queen who couldn’t have babies.
The special bell rang and when the door opened there was the Fairy
Doctor wearing white with magic glasses to help him see right and make
sure that all the Fetuses go to Heaven. He brought Jane to the special room
where they kept the magical tube.
As Jane sat near the tube and the Fairy Doctor prepared his magic
she wondered if Frankie should get a chance, but she thought she would
really not be a good mommy, and Frankie would probably end up doing bad
things like snorting pixie dust and then they would have to live in her parents’ castle where she would not be treated like a Princess. She also thought
of Rush Week and that she was so close to getting the scholarship to Milan
and finally thought: I’ll have a baby when I am ready, and Frankie the Fetus will
be better off going straight to Heaven and me going to Milan next year.
She closed her eyes and shed a tear as the doctor put in the tube to
take Frankie the Fetus out of her and into Heaven where puppies play and
ice cream is free and there are all the toys a little boy would want.
When they were finished Jane thanked the Fairy Doctor and walked
out of the metal house onto the street.
A meanie wearing a golden cross and holding a mean sign told Jane
she was not going to Heaven. Jane thought she wasn’t sure if she was going
to go to Heaven but she knew at least Frankie the Fetus was now there along
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with her grandpa and her first dog, Toby. She ignored the meanie and got
ready to go back to her ugly stepsisters. She was sad about Frankie the Fetus
but happy she could still be in College and one day meet her true Prince. . .
And Jane lived moderately happily ever after enjoying Milan and
meeting a Prince in Grad School at Rutgers University.
The End
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Part 4: On Relationships and Men
What is a real connection between people?
When the same knowledge opens a door
between them. When the same inner sight
exists in you as in another, you are drawn to
be companions. When a man feels in himself the innermost nature of a woman, he is
drawn to her sexually. When a woman feels
the masculine self of a man within her, she
wants him physically in her.
~ Rumi
S
ingle Again…
At the bar once again,
drinking red bull and vodka once again,
befriending the bartenders again,
looking at bouncing titties again,
looking for drunk girls again,
arching my shoulders again,
worried about my outsides again,
liking the idea of sluts again,
getting really buzzed again,
got to go buy condoms again,
have to deal with rubber dick again,
got to learn how to talk to ho’s again,
got to find a better place to drink again,
got to listen to bad club music again,
got to hear George Michael and say it’s gay but I like it again,
got to learn how to dance to hip hop again,
got to learn how to hold my liquor again,
got to learn how to read body language again,
got to learn how to scream louder than George Michael again,
got to learn how to like bars again,
got to start a band again,
got to jog and do sit-ups again,
got to learn how to flirt again,
got to learn how to look at her eyes not her tits again,
got to learn how to enjoy this miserable bullshit again.
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P
ost-Coitus Etiquette
for Men
I have been approached many times on the subject of what do after coitus
ends. Most of the men who asked me were at the porn store where they
could get tips on what to do during sex. But the movies never showed what
men and women do after the cum shot. The pervs who were desperate to
have sex with the girl again would ask things like “After my nut, do I get her
water?” “How long do I spoon with her?” “Can I get a chicken sandwich?”
With great thought, meditation, and personal experience I have
come up with an insightful explanation of post-coitus etiquette for men,
using how long they lasted to correlate with what actions they should take.
SEX UNDER 2 MINUTES: Apology, Get Cup of Water,
Back Massage
You owe her an apology and then you need to get her a cup of water.
You did not even earn the right to spoon and rest in silence. After she drinks
her water in disappointment you must give her a back massage and then ask
her questions about intimate boring stuff: family, friends, favorite TV show,
and/or what her favorite Bon Iver song is. While she talks to you, take the
amount of time you lasted and multiply it by six—that is the amount of time
the back massage and conversation must go on before starting sex again.
SEX BETWEEN 2-5 MINUTES: Compliment, Get Cup of
Water, Talk, Spoon
It wasn’t horrible but unless you are really talented she is left very
disappointed. Compliment her beauty, insinuating her hotness made things
go faster than they should and then go get her a cup of water. After she
drinks the water, push her hair back from her eyes and compliment her on
it (if she has very short hair, compliment on her breasts but do not touch
them). Then hold her and spoon; ask her intimate questions of things that
you would find boring: what were you like in high school, if you could travel
where would you go, and what should I get my mom and/or sister for their
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birthday? Listen intently, make up for your lousy sex skills with giving her
feelings of intimacy and spoon until you can go for another around.
SEX BETWEEN 5-10 MINUTES: Cigarette, Chest, Talk,
Spoon
Wasn’t terrible but wasn’t great though. Light her up a cigarette
and have her lay on your chest and let her talk and smoke. Ask the same
questions as if you lasted between two to five minutes and give thoughtful
sounding one-word answers: “True”; “Really?”; “Wow”; “Definitely”—positive and inquisitive adverbs are a good choice. After she is done smoking,
continue with the questions and answers in the spoon position until you are
ready to go again.
SEX BETWEEN 10-15 MINUTES WITH NO ORGASM:
Spoon, Talk
Decent time but still no orgasm for her. Your energy is low but she
did not finish and she feels some frustration. Hold her tight in the spoon position and give her adjective answers that lead to more talking. You should
moderately pay attention to her and wait until you are ready for the next
round.
SEX BETWEEN 10-15 MINUTES + 1 ORGASM: Silent
Spoon
Enjoy the silence; all you have to do is hold her tight as both of you
can enjoy the feeling of sexual satisfaction. You can go to sleep after fifteen
minutes of spooning.
SEX BETWEEN 15-20 MINUTES + 1 ORGASM: Silent
Spoon, Request for Back Massage
Good job! You left her satisfied and grateful you actually know what
you are doing in bed. Spoon her silently and then after a few minutes mention that “in the throes of passion” you got an ache in your back. Make a
painful noise and she will most likely give you a back massage or let you just
fall asleep in the spoon position.
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SEX OVER TWENTY MINUTES + 2 ORGASMS:
Request for Turkey Sandwich
Just lay there and do not move or talk. She will understand and will
not care. Due to the high amount of cardiovascular activity, your stomach
will most likely growl and you can reward yourself for your awesome performance by asking “Hey, can you please make me a turkey sandwich?”
If she says yes she did not fake it; she will let you rest and make you
the turkey sandwich. Split it with her and then go to sleep feeling full in
silent spoon.
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S
cientific Study of What Male Actions
Cause the Most Vaginal Dryness
Some men at the porn store just wanted to get sex and were frustrated. I noticed that there were clear turn-offs to women which the men talked about.
Based on this data and my own extensive experience I was able to deduce
what actions caused the worst percentages of vaginal dryness.
HOLDING A CAT: 35% Vaginal Dryness
Women do like cats but they don’t like seeing men hold them (unless it is their own cat). The Tumblr site: Cute Guys Holding Cats is an evolutionary novelty, and ironically a man walking his dog can increase vaginal
wetness up to 43% of its normal levels.
BAD JEANS WORN UNIRONICALLY: 42% Vaginal
Dryness
Ugly, crappy jeans looking sloppy and shoddy have a chilling effect
on the vagina. As far as jeans brand go anything bought at K- or Wal-Mart
are a no-go. Mostly these are blue jeans that are the uniform color of NCCA
power houses Duke Blue Devils or North Carolina. There is an exception
if she is a hipster, as hipster chicks find unattractiveness attractive. Hipsters
are another example of evolutionary novelties creating a philosophy of irony that overpowers biology.
DANCING SKILLS OF UNBEARABLE WHITENESS:
55% Vaginal Dryness
Bad dancing skills at a club can make the coldness of the ice in
a woman’s screwdriver or Bayberry Breeze travel all the way down to her
vagina. This type of dancing is difficult to describe but it involves movements of: stiffness, strange hand gestures, asymmetrical movements to the
left and to the right, and any Caucasian man doing The Dougie.
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SPECIFIC T-SHIRTS OF UNSEXINESS: 62-70% Vaginal
Dryness
A cool t-shirt can actually increase vaginal wetness up to 35%, but
certain shirts can cause extreme vaginal dryness. The first is anything to do
with wizards, which leads to 62% vaginal dryness (unless she is really into
Harry Potter, then 13% dryness); video game characters, 67%—this symbolically shows lack of style, laziness, and poor social skills; or any shirt with
the words “fart,” “blow me,” “chick magnet,” or “The Man,” with an arrow
pointing down, “The Legend,” which can cause up to 70% vaginal dryness.
READING BAD POETRY: 74% Vaginal Dryness
There is great polarity in reading poetry; if you read mediocre to
good poetry about love it can actually increase vaginal wetness up to 45%,
but bad poetry can cause 74% dryness. The author is a poet and can attest
to witnessing this as I have heard much bad poetry and have seen women
give the same facial expression as that of watching a white man dance badly.
MESSY, DIRTY ROOM: 79% Vaginal Dryness
A messy room is an unattractive thing; it kills the sexual mode and
no matter what the temperature of the room, the mess will make the vagina cold and dry. There is no denying it, a messy sloppy room will increase
vaginal dryness up to 79%. The only way this can be stopped is if you have
an acoustic guitar in the room and can quickly play a song in A-Minor or
B-Flat and use the words “love.” The author can attest to this.
ORDERING A SOY BURGER: 83% Vaginal Dryness
It is only 10% if with vegan, 25% with vegetarian, 83% if with a
herbivore. The author must state that this is specific only to soy burgers as a
black bean burger at the Korzo Haus Vegi is neutral. It is only the soy burger
that causes extreme dryness, which is also biological as soy causes men to
lose testosterone and grow man boobs, which could be sensed by the female.
The only time a man can do this is if he is 6’4”, extremely good-looking,
and/or a rock star then he can eat whatever the fuck he wants without any
ill effect.
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JOBLESS AND LIVE WITH MOM: 91% Vaginal Dryness
If you do not have a job and live with your mom there is not much
you can do to stop the dryness. If the man has a great sob story about being
recently fired or helping take care of his mother, and the woman feels slight
sympathy it can lessen the dryness to as low as 17%. Men excluded from
causing dryness: Tortured Artists, War Vets, and Drug Dealers/Gang Members with Swag on House Arrest.
WEARING A SNUGGIE: 99.3% VAGINAL DRYNESS
There is absolutely nothing sexy about a Snuggie. The Snuggie will
keep everything warm except for the vagina. Even if a man is at a baseball game drinking and is 6’4”, eating a steak, and is extremely good-looking and/or a rock star, it does not matter—the Snuggie leaves every woman
with a desert dry vagina.
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K
armaSutraSensei’s
Dating Ad
I met many sad and single people at the porn store. Some of them said they
were thinking of trying online dating and a lot of them knew I was a writer
so they asked me if I would write their profile. Still searching for ways to get
paid for writing, I agreed to this and was sent many sad rough drafts. Except
for this one and it was so glorious I did not have to change a thing.
Single ladies may I introduce you to the KarmaSutraSensei.
.
. .
KarmaSutraSensei
Age: 38
Height: 5’7”
Education: AA Degree
Kids: No
Looking for: Greatness or Enlightenment
Drink: Only Saki
Married: To my dojo, but you could be next.
Body Type: Athletic
Religion: Zen & Tantric Master
Race: Caucasian
Favorite Quote: “Because sometimes, what heart know, head forget.” Mr.
Miyagi, The Karate Kid
Smoker: No
Konnichiwas, beautiful ladies. You must be amazing because karma has
blessed you with finding me. I already know you what are thinking—you are
adjusting yourself because my words have caused an inner full moon forcing
water to move to certain areas of your body. Yes, listen to your body, it is
telling you that you’ve found your Yang Master.
Long nights of meditation have given me great empathy and knowledge of what women truly want: someone who can take them on a sexual
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journey but also makes them feel safe, knowing that when you walk the
street with me I can Crane Kick a rude man’s nose into his skull silencing
his brain. He would die, but your love for me would only grow stronger.
Yes, it is true you want a killer; I know this because I read great
books, like The Way of the Superior Man.
I am superior and you shall be my Yin Princess, but know, my love–I
am at one with the Tao of nature’s plans as children are my passion. After
years of great study and hard work I am now a sensei with a dojo in Silver
Spring, Maryland—it’s on South Street next to the Chuck E. Cheese and
the Dollar Tree. I am working with an undisciplined class of yellow belts; it
is a tough yet rewarding calling to make lambs into lions. It is also pays more
than even the greatest sushi chefs make in all of Tokyo.
Now that I have achieved true success and all my personal goals are
fulfilled, I am ready to find a special woman and karate chop the wooden
board that guards her heart from love.
Are you that woman? If you are, get ready because . . .
KEEYA!!!
That is the sound great ninja masters make before destroying all
that blocks the flow of chi (it is Taoism for sexual energy). Even if you have
stone around your heart, I will break it with great conversation and even
better saki.
My masculine presence and ability to eat sushi without ever dropping it will lead us to visit my timeshare two-bedroom, one-bath home overlooking the Concord Mountains in New Hampshire. I will then teach you
the art of tantric sex where a mere minute of pleasure is all you will need
with me and that is what I will choose to give you.
Now, I know what you are thinking, “An adult relationship is not
just about mind-blowing tantric sex; what will I do with you when I am not
having orgasms that give me visions of the Tibetan Book of The Dead?”
Excellent question. A superior man also has superior hobbies. Besides being reigning champion of the flag football team, The Silver Spring
S.T.U.D.S, I enjoy action movies of great quality involving the masters:
Norris, Segal, Chan, Li, and that balding English guy in The Transporter
movies. In the summer, I like to go lake fishing using only my hands, catch-
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ing trout unleashing the Zen bear inside me. For relaxation, besides meditating, I like to watch “Shark Tank.”
These are all activities you can be a part of: picture yourself rooting for me and The S.T.U.D.S, holding my hand on my IKEA couch as we
watch Chuck break a man’s arm with his stare, and you sunbathing naked by
the lake as I catch us trout using the vibrating palm touch of death that will
lead to a delicious meal of raw sushi. And, of course, tantric sex whenever
I want it. These are things dreams are made of, all you must do now is send
your Yang Master a full body pic and we will make it a reality.
Sayonara, my Sweet Yin Princess.
Sincerely,
KarmaSutraSensei
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C
ock Pic
Etiquette
With new technology and fax machines becoming obsolete we entered the
age of “The Cock Pic,” which leads us to the existential question: send the
cock pic or not, that is the question?
But how do you know the answer? Many men, from high school
students to politicians in the DC area, have gotten into trouble for not
knowing proper Cock Pic Etiquette. After much deliberation, discussion,
and pixel dick showing I have come up with proper guidelines for the when,
who, and how’s of Cock Pic Sending.
SHE REQUESTED THE PIC
The Cock Pic should not be a surprise. There should be stipulations
with the girl you are seeing that sending a Cock Pic would be appropriate.
The textual relations should not be her asking if you like Arcade Fire and
you answering back with your erect penis in your hand (though a pic with
a song attachment of Arcade Fire’s cover of Peter’s Gabriel’s “My Body is a
Cage” could be OK and very artful).
DON’T SEND AFTER MIDNIGHT
It’s kind of like the film Gremlins. Don’t feed your camera a Cock
Pic after midnight ’cause that is when trouble will happen. Your motor skills
and judgment are slowing down and you can end up Tweeting or Facebooking a Cock Pic by accident, or even Instagramming it. A Cock Pic Send you
must treat like the cutting of a small bonsai tree—it must be done artfully
with a well thought-out plan, time, and design. Never send a Cock Pic recklessly.
COCK PICS SHOULD FEEL SPONTANEOUS
Never send a Cock Pic if you have not dated. If you text a girl a
Cock Pic without even having met she assumes you have Cock Pics saved
in your phone, which is a little weird and would also mean the Cock Pic
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has been sent to multiple locations and is not just a special image only for
her eyes. The Cock Pic should feel special and not like spam or that you are
Cock Pic fishing (unless you are on Craigslist’s Casual Encounters).
DON’T ASK “CAN I SEND YOU SOMETHING?”
When you say this, the average normal girl hopes it’s something
cute: you with a dog, dancing at 80s night, or something funny like wearing
a strange hat, or maybe even a picture with your mom—the last thing she is
hoping to see is your erect penis. Though a man would love boob or vajayjay
pics women do not care for private part pics until post-sex. So if you feel the
urge to say, “Can I send you something?” and you have your cock ready, put
it down and put a book in your hand instead and text “I’m reading this and
think you will like it.” I know it’s crazy but she would rather see a book in
your hand than your cock.
3 DATES
The Cock Pic should not be sent until post-third date (unless it is a
one-night stand that has turned into something purely sexual, then ignore
this and read below). Most likely after the third date she has at least given
you a hand job and is familiar with your cock and it is not an alien presence
but a part of who you are. If great flirtation and sexting happen and she
requests to see your cock then it is time for the Cock Pic to be sent.
Here are some helpful tips on how to take the ever-important Cock
Pic to garner the best results.
There is a fine art in sending the Cock Pic. The penis should be
erect and try to be at your best. A trick is if you put your thumb on the bottom base—it is going to keep more blood flow and make it look bigger. Angles are very important and you need to play to your strengths. If length is
your strength use that by standing up and pointing the camera-phone down
at your cock. If girth is your strength, lay on the bed and take a pic with the
camera-phone up close to your penis—it will show off the girth and the lack
of length will be less noticeable. If you are both just take the pic and don’t
bitch about anything in life ever again.
Now, if you have neither and are on the small side, don’t sweat it,
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Bro, you just have to use the right angle. You will have to go the length
route, trim your pubes but leave some of the top near your thighs, it will
add an inch. Then you take your index finger and put your penis through
the two of them as you push down–it will give you more length and it will
also symbolically look erotic as your fingers look like a vagina as your penis
is poking through it.
GOOD LIGHTING AND CLEAN AREA
She needs to be able to see it, use a flash or at least have decent
lighting in your room. Also, if taking a pointing-down at the cock shot
make sure there isn’t a sock, soda cans that have not been thrown way,
Maxim mags, etc. Underneath your cock should be your feet and an island
of cleanliness. Also you shouldn’t have shoes on unless they are nice boots.
Women can tell a lot by a man’s shoes but they can also tell a lot by your
Cock Pic Etiquette.
*Author’s Note These rules of etiquette do not apply if you are meeting
through Craigslist. If that is the case only follow the last two etiquette suggestions and send as many Cock Pics as you can.
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C
hris Isaak’s “Wicked Games” Music Video
Was Very Misleading
Author’s Note: Please Go on YouTube and Watch video “Wicked Games”
by Chris Isaak
This video screwed me so bad in the love department. I saw this at twelve
and it gave me a well-sized boner, but even bigger romantic expectations. In
innocence, I watched this video while eating my grandma’s delicious homemade pasta and I just assumed all dudes named Chris will meet hot chicks in
tropical settings and fall in love—that it was just the norm. That when you
get older girls just hold their boobs while you sing songs to them followed by
magic-soul-mate hot sex on the beach.
Not true at all! I was sold a bunch of stale coconuts by this video
director, and I wonder if I did not suffer from subliminal messages of this
video. When I listened to the song without the video, I could actually hear
the lyrics: it is about how we are all screwed, that none of us will find love,
but the images proclaim something else. Very misleading!
Now I wonder if my impressionable barely pubescent mind psychologically interpreted these lyrics to pick hot, screwed up, disinterested women where love did not have a chance as, “The world is shitty, but you are
not. When you like someone so much you do dumb things. I never thought
I’d find someone as amazing, and then that you would leave. Why did I have
to fall in love and get my heart broken?”
How did I not hear those lyrics the 200 times I saw this video???
And why did I watch this video as a twelve- and thirteen-year-old so much?
Um . . . well, this video was played in a time when downloading porn did
not exist so I watched it for non-musical reasons and I will leave it at that.
Can masturbation be bad for your mental and emotional health? It can
when you are connecting Chris Isaak’s romantic pessimism to the glory of
that brunette’s boobies.
Even though I am a song writer/writer/poet etc., I am honest enough
to know that imagery will always overpower words. But imagery mixed with
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words can mold a mind and heart. So to you twelve- and thirteen-year-olds,
just remember: Things are not always what they seem.
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5
Theories Why Men Do Not Throw Away
and/or Replace the Toilet Paper Roll.
For my female readers because of my generous heart, I am going to use my
great insight, gift of understanding humanity, and intellectual curiosity to
explain why men do not throw away and/or replace the toilet paper roll.
Theory 1: Behavioral Psychology—Forgetfulness
Men are lazy and in the bathroom we are focused on other stuff,
specifically, things on our phone: ESPN, CBS SPORTSLINE, Real Clear
Politics, Fantasy Football, Video Games, and Words With Friends. The laziness and forgetfulness is not out of malice; we end up seeing something
about Lebron, Drew Brees’s contract, a chance at a high score, a fantasy
football trade, and our focus goes to that moment and we literally forget to
throw it away.
Theory 2: Freudian Psychology—Something to Put Our Penis
Into
Some days we feel bad and we just want to accomplish something
to make us feel better about ourselves. Fitting our penis through the toilet
paper roll and seeing the head pop out the other side is a healthy and productive way to do that—it is like a physical affirmation that can be repeated
over and over again that boosts our self-esteem. (Assuming we are equipped
with enough size to pass the TP Test. This is only an activity for average
length to above average penis size length men. Also men with above average girth can enjoy not fitting into it in the same way.)
Theory 3: Feminist Psychology—Asserting Patriarchy through
Toilet Paper Roll
In a twenty-first century of women starting to receive “more” equality to men, which frightens those men who cling to Patriarchy and the leaving of The Toilet Paper Roll is a symbolic protest of the sexes becoming
more equal. The toilet paper roll, empty but still staying on the holder says,
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“You can get my job, but you can’t get me to throw away the roll—that is
your job, even if you take mine.”
Theory 4: Existential Psychology—Passive Aggressive and
Symbolic
Why should we have to throw it away? Why is there not a trash can
there? Why do we have to go to work today? Life is not fair and the empty
toilet paper roll is a symbol of the abyss we feel in our souls. It comforts us
to know another thing exists with an emptiness that mirrors our own. The
empty toilet paper roll is Fight Club, Tim Allen, and The New York Mets
in a five-inch cylindrical piece of cardboard; a work of art not to be thrown
away but to stay with us in our loneliest moment.
Theory 5: Evolutionary Psychology—Leftover Caveman Traits
Leaving the empty toilet paper roll could be a leftover trait from our
cavemen days when, not unlike animals, we marked our territory after we
did our business. We could have used dinosaur bones to tell other caveman,
“Don’t go one or two here, this is my spot and I will beat you with this bone
if you take my outhouse.” The cardboard roll could tap into this leftover
trait to mark territory and subconsciously we are following a genetic adaptation we have yet to outgrow.
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H
ow to Masturbate Effectively
at Boarding School, Military School,
and/or Rehab
Things like iPhones, sex, and Internet access are banned from boarding and
military schools as well as in rehabs, so you must get very creative if you are
stuck in one of these shitholes. I, having been shipped off to all three, will
lend my experience, strength, and a sense of hope just in case you end up at
one of these places and really need to masturbate.
1) Fee-Fee
A Fee-Fee is when you get a warm towel, wrap it up art class style so
there is a little hole, and you put lotion/lube in the middle. Then you get a
rubber glove (steal from the nurse) and a tight rubber band (steal from math
teacher/counselor). You put the towel the way it is in the rubber glove; then
put the rubber band around the glove, tie it, and bam–you got a special sex
toy. Add another loop of rubber band for tightness.
2) Female Volleyball Practice
This is specific to teenage rehab though could be at a boarding
school as well. The druggie girls (the fresh crystal meth addicts had great
abs from not eating) played volleyball behind our apartment many times
in the afternoon. Due to their drug use withdrawal and not used to getting
up before 2:00 PM many would forget to wear bras. The movement of arms
hitting the ball + lack of bra = great boner material.
3) Sell Your Adderall for Porn
At military and boarding school there were many people on medication because they were crazy. I was prescribed Adderall, which on the
Military School Black Market was a very desirable drug because most of
the psychopaths were on downers. I was able to pretend to swallow some of
these pills and then trade them for porn DVD/VHS (yeah, there was VHS,
whatever we could sneak in) that would be great masturbation material un-
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til I ended up trading the same porn for Chicken Flavored Ramen Noodles.
4) Watch Girls Eat Cookie Dough
Not only is cookie dough delicious but it makes for a great phallic
device (though do not compare your girth to the cookie dough or you will
feel very sad). At one of my boarding schools we could only get cookie
dough on our birthdays. There was this one chick who loved cookie dough
so much she offered oral sex for cookie dough–the writer never was able to
see or give her cookie dough but this was a good masturbation fantasy and
made me very excited for my birthday.
5) Teachers/Rehab Counselor
At rehab and the boarding school there were a couple MILFs creating masturbation fantasy variety when there was no porn to be found. The
fantasy usually involved either a teacher doing something involved in biology (our science teacher was pretty doable at military school) or at rehab
it involved the female counselor saying she will give you sex if it will help
you stay sober. These were hot fantasies that made 10:30 bedtime less lame.
6) Slipper Fucking
Sometimes you can be creative and kill two birds with one stone.
At the “Emotional Boarding School” a gentleman who will remain nameless decided he didn’t like this other boy and thought it would be good to
use the boy’s slippers as something to masturbate into. He was able to use
his resentment in a creative empowering way which is something Nietzsche
preached.
7) Steal a Workout Mag from YMCA
At the rehab we got to go to the YMCA for exercise, but there were
only male life guards at the pool. But in the workout area there were performance magazines that featured well-toned tan women smiling in sports
bras. They were easy to steal and all you need is a page. (Warning, though,
if you get caught, you are gonna have a group therapy session on replacing
one addiction for another and it is going to be boring, so don’t get caught.)
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8) TV/Computer Angle for Multiple Masturbation
Now, there are ways to do multiple masturbation without ever having to feel like some type of quasi-homosexual frat boy circle jerk and that is
by using certain angles in porn watching. The trick is to get an angle where
the TV is positioned so that you and your roommates do not have to see
each other’s penis and hopefully not hear their panting.
9) Toothbrushes (just for female readers)
There was a scandal at the teenage rehab when a group of bisexual
coke heads decided to use their vibrating toothbrushes on each other. From
that moment on we all had to brush our teeth the old-fashioned way, but
many of us druggie boys would get erections when thinking of toothbrushes.
10) Window Strip Show
At rehab, we convinced these two really hot chicks (an alcoholic
and X fiend) to strip in their window across from ours and show us their
boobs. We did not offer drugs but just thought it was something cool to do
after The Lord’s Prayer (later on we found out in group therapy they both
wanted validation because of their dads leaving early). Sad dad issues aside,
we got boobage and this image lasted for a good two weeks for masturbation
material and was the best moment I had in rehab. We also made nachos.
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G
rey Area
Guy Codes
Male friendships are one of the most important things in life, but there are
areas that can rock the friendship. What holds the friendship to its highest
(using the definition of Aristotle) is having codes between men. But even
codes have grey areas and I have answers to what is acceptable in the greyest
of grey areas among men.
MASTURBATING ABOUT BEST FRIEND’S GIRLFRIEND/FIANCÉ
There are only three appropriate fantasies that you can have without feeling loads of guilt toward your friend:
Fantasy A) Your best friend is now impotent after a bad accident at
work and asks you to fulfill his girlfriend’s sexual needs out of love. He tells
you he’s picking you out of trust. You say OK and that you will bang her
good because you are bros. You then should give him a DVD of his favorite
movie or tickets for him to see his favorite sports team and then give him
a high-five that turns into a hug; afterward he leaves you with her and you
have sex with her in the shower—not in their bed—out of respect.
Fantasy B) Your best friend has fallen into a coma and though he
can’t speak, you know in your heart he needs someone he can trust to handle his girlfriend’s sexual needs until he comes backs to life. You take his
girlfriend to the hospital cafeteria and say that you understand she has needs
and tell her that you are an extension of your best friend’s love—and it is
OK—he’ll understand and be grateful in the end. You two then leave the
hospital and go back to their place where you have hot sex with her and do
it in his honor.
Fantasy C) Your best friend’s girlfriend was kidnapped by terrorists,
nihilists, or just evil troublemakers out to do bad things. The bad guys injected her with a poison that will kill her in the next twenty-four hours, but
there is only one cure in the world—your semen. If you need the scenario to
be more plausible you can have a special gene on your grandfather’s side or
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your diet of pizza, pot, and fruit loops has affected your sperm in such a way
it can neutralize poison, but must be injected into the vagina. To not have
sex with her would be involuntary manslaughter as to not bang her would
also be morally wrong.
MASTURBATING WHILE CRASHING ON FRIEND’S
COUCH
It’s never really cool to masturbate on a bro’s couch, but it is a grey
area: if you come home from a club/bar and a really hot chick bumped and
grinded with you and you made out with her but then you either were: 1)
cockblocked by her friend or, 2) you just couldn’t close, then masturbation
on the couch is acceptable as long as it involves fantasies about the club girl.
If you are jerking off about someone else then the motives are more selfish
and rude to your friend and to his couch.
TALKING ABOUT RYAN GOSLING’S ATTRACTIVENESS
There needs to be a standard set to the bar of physical attractiveness
for what you are competing with. So let’s say you see a hot chick at a bar
but she picks another guy; to feel less loss of self-esteem you say, “Yeah, but
he looked like Ryan Gosling; even Mystery The-Pick Up Artist would have
lost to that guy.” Your friend agrees and says, “Yeah, but he was badass in
Drive.” Everyone feels better and then talks about 1) football 2) video games
3) music 4) which of the 2 Broke Girls you would want to fuck the most.
EXISTENTIAL GRENADE JUMPING
You both like the same drunk girl at the bar but neither of you want
the sober friend that is not very desirable in any form and has a clear case
of cockblockitis. This sets up a Negative Sum Game, as someone is going to
win big and someone is going to lose (stuck blocking the cockblocker and
maybe even having to make out with her and buy her drinks—this situations has high stakes).
There is only one way to go through this and keep the friendship
without any resentment and that is by leaving it up to the Fates (amor fati
as Nietzche would say: “love of fate”) and keeping it impersonal: in deciding
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who will jump on the grenade, a coin flip must be used.
As Harvey Dent showed in The Dark Knight we are all corruptible
and the only thing that is truly fair in this world is chance. Following the
existential laws of chance keeps the ego and friendship out of who gets
the hot drunk chick and who is stuck with the cockblocker—it is easier to
accept some days you will get no head or tail, just the annoying friend that
you must entertain for the greater good while maintaining a sense of fairness
in an unfair world. Some days we must be Batman, some days we must be
Robin—it is the balance of the scales and of the fates. If you flip and lose
then you must amor fati the cockblocker.
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M
oving In
Together
I became “we.”
The toilet seat came down and the blinds went up. The sunlight reflected off all my trash bags—my past all packed up and ready to be thrown
away. Our (I have to say “our” now) living room was starting to look like
a garage sale. Our new home was already crowded so I did my job (I’d take
out the trash and clean the cat litter; she would do the dishes) and lifted the
trash bags over my shoulder like Santa Claus, except I was throwing away
my own toys.
She had moved in yesterday but was still bringing valuables and other prized possessions in boxes and trash bags. I was throwing away what was
now “trash”: single man paraphernalia. I was happy, though, and I wanted
to make the place feel like our home so I cleaned with a vengeance, as men
have a way of turning off their hearts and minds and just doing an action.
Snuggling and flowers could wait; I had trash to toss. There was so
much of it, too. I couldn’t tell what was what: trash bag of old magazines,
old papers, mail. The only thing I could tell was a bag of old worn out
shoes because it was so heavy. I can remember throwing those shoes away
to make room for the forty to sixty pairs of shoes that she was bringing over.
It was the only trash bag that stands out, because it took extra strength to
Santa-Toss it in the dumpster; I even hurt my shoulder a little bit after the
toss.
As I rubbed my shoulder, I looked at all the stuff that was there; I
knew the things that were once mine would find a home because my neighborhood had a penchant for dumpster diving. By the end of the day I had set
up a treasure trove for the average to professional diver.
“Our” items replaced the ones that got thrown away, so in some
ways it looked just as chaotic and dirty. Our place looked like a shithole that
two twenty-somethings were squatting in, but we felt like royalty. It was our
shithole to rule: king and queen coming together to combine our customs
and ways of life to make something better.
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The next morning our newly formed monarchy got its first crisis
as my queen yelled, “Where the fuck are my shoes? No, you didn’t . . .
you couldn’t have!!!” She was no longer my benevolent queen in love, she
transformed into Alpha Bitch who commanded, “Follow me! Right now!
We are going to the dumpster!”
She led.
I followed.
As I passed the gates that guarded the dumpster, I saw my fate, and
smelled it, too: I always hated those gates but I prayed they protected the
shoes. She looked at me but used no words; her eyes only screamed, “Jump
in!”
Love will make you do awful things: it conquers the senses, conquers your fears, and makes you take blood curdling leaps into hot Florida
dumpsters.
I jumped in for her. But I jumped in to find nothing, they were gone.
The only thing left was the disappointment on her face. She was stuck in
the choices her brain decided. I saw in her facial expression that she could
go either way: she could condemn me or forgive me. She had the right to do
either. If we were characters in a TV sitcom, the audience would have told
her to curse me out, and then clapped their hands as she laid into me and
gave me a verbal slashing.
But she didn’t.
She saw how bad I felt, and told me to get out of the dumpster and
go get cleaned up. She stayed quiet, but her silence said a lot. Love makes
you do crazy things: it conquers senses, conquers anger, and makes you take
amazing leaps like forgiving your boyfriend for tossing away thousands of
dollars’ worth of shoes.
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R
ex Ryan’s Sexy Love Poem
to His Wife’s Feet
After I accidentally threw away my girlfriend’s shoes, I decided to take a
break and login to my favorite poetry website. While browsing, I encountered a poem written anonymously (though I knew it was by Rex Ryan,
the New York Jets’ football coach). His poem celebrated his wife’s feet and
I can’t help but include it here, as his artistry and elegance should also be
celebrated.
They’re fucking beautiful.
Size Five just like I like.
Better feet than Vinateri
has in the fourth quarter.
The way you paint those
sexy fuckers gold like the
color of the Super Bowl rings
Tebow’s gonna get me. I fucking
want them even more than those
damn rings. They taste better
than Buddy’s burgers. When
Your feet are on my thighs
it’s better than beating Brady.
I will Belichick you with my
eyes to get you to take your
fucking shoes off and get that
ass closer. That’s right. I will
touch each toe, like a trainer;
stretching them out and then I’m
gonna run a fucking 4 40 on them
with my tongue. My tongue is Revis
and your toes are the receiver. You
can move but my tongue is staying
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on those fuckers. I am the best. No
one can touch those feet any better.
I got confidence; I will lead with
my tongue and not be limp or soft
like Sanchez. I will blitz those
toes and close each gap with my
fucking tongue. I will get ten
sacks; there will be no Gholston;
I will always provide the pressure.
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Part 5: On Politics and Sport
This, above all, to thine own selves be true.
—Hamlet
S
trippernomics
As an American citizen who is concerned about the economic recovery
of this country, I feel very annoyed by all these economic nerds who don’t
really know what’s going on: dorks like Paul Krugman from the New York
Times and Wisconsin congressman Paul Ryan who has a massive boner for
Ayn Rand and looks like a Staples manager, are full of ideological booksmart blindness. Both of these men are philosophical extremists talking
about economics like they are Jesus on a mountain—Keynesian this, and
Free Market that, Ronald Reagan, John Rawls, whatevs. They are all ideologues out of touch with how shit really works when it comes to real world
economics and recovery.
Me, The Christoph, I am just a renaissance man of the people: I
like football, poetry, and eating hamburgers. I work my day job, play my
rock music, share my passion by writing. For relaxation I play basketball and
every now and then I listen to rap music and cock rock at strip clubs and
watch booties and titties bounce up and down. It is in these fine American
Establishments I have experienced and observed Strippernomics: the actions of strippers, their ethnicity, booty sizes, drug use, and the DJ’s morale
and vocals can determine the economic state of our country much better
than these nerds and politicians.
So, after personal research, I present my well thought out thesis:
Strippernomics.
Instead of using terms of micro or macroeconomics let’s just keep it
real using these four terms to rate our economic times.
A) Shit is Good
B) Shit is A’ight
C) Shit is Bad
D) Shit is Fucked Up
NUMBER OF NON-EUROPEAN WHITE GIRLS
WORKING, DRUG HABITS, & BOOTY SIZE
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A) Shit Is Good: In the strip club when the economy is strong you
will see that most of the Caucasian girls are from Eastern Europe/Russia.
The hot Caucasian American girls are finding jobs elsewhere and are not
resorting to stripping, leaving the jobs to Caucasian immigrants who can’t
speak English very well but are good at smiling, showing their breasts, and
saying the phrase “How ’bout a dance?” like a sexy Bond Villain. When
three out of five of the white girls are from Poland, Russia, Lithuania,
Czechoslovakia, etc., economically things are going pretty well—though I
cannot say from personal experience (I was told this was how it was during
the Clinton Years).
B) Shit is A’ight: The Eastern European white girls make up only
half of the white girls at the strip club and you have at least two American
born girls who are in college majoring in drama, liberal studies, or minor
feminist theory. The sistas working have excellent large booties and would
rather use their gift of Onion Booty than finish their AA degree in cosmetology. The Spanish girls look like a poor man’s Selma Hayek and/or JLO.
They have fun personalities, but not much book smarts or work ethic, and
they realized they make more money stripping than they would working at
Hooters. Lastly, at least half of the total number of strippers are alcoholics
and or drug addicts just wanting easier drug and drink money—many girls
are stripping by choice not by economic pressure.
C) Shit is Bad: Only one quarter of the white girls are from Eastern
Europe. You have at least five girls in college and a few of the sistas don’t
even have Onion Booties and can’t even afford student loans for cosmetology school. They just need some money and are getting by on charm and
hustle. Many of the twenty-something women working at the strip club
could have been secretaries, maybe even local newscasters, but they don’t
have enough education and have lost out to the competition in those fields.
The early thirty-something strippers are divorced, have bills to pay,
and student loans still hovering over them; using good American ingenuity
they have found a fake name and the use of sexual aggression (Fourth Wave
post-modern feminism) to get their lap dances. Many of the strippers might
have done ballet as children or were girls scouts, but lack of economic opportunities lessened their odds of staying off the pole—though they do find
hope and solace at night watching Flashdance (a DVD that sells more on
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Amazon and iTunes during bad economic times—that is another theory but
it correlates with Strippernomics).
D) Shit is Fucked Up: The Eastern European girls are barely there as
the stripper market is so flooded with college girls and humanities graduates
that they are now doing strange Craigslist ads like “Sexy Cleaning” and
some are just hooking. Most of the strippers are non-alcoholics and do not
even have drug problems. And if they do it is because stripping is depressing
them. These are young women faced with three choices: find a sugar daddy,
strip, or be a barista at Starbucks.
There are no jobs and these young women have too much dignity
and character to be prostitutes. Stripping becomes the lesser of two evils.
The sistas’ booties are of all types; looks matter some but charm and hustle
wins out over beauty as the strippers that keep their job are the ones that
can bring back the most repeat customers.
Theory Conclusion: In good economic times the strip club will be
filled by immigrants from Eastern Europe, drug/drinking problems, lack of
education, work ethic, and figures (Onion Booties) suited for working the
pole: this is the natural hierarchy in the strip club, and during strong economic times that hierarchy is stable. The worse the economy, the less the
strip club follows this hierarchy as it becomes Darwinian, unstable, and the
lap dances we will see in the next section of Strippernomics follow high
levels of sexual aggression.
ENTERING THE STRIP CLUB
A) Shit is Good: You pay your $5 to $10 cover fee; you walk in and
many strippers smile at you and give a wink but act with a lack of sexual
aggression. They let you grab a seat, buy a drink, and then five minutes later
they will subtly flirt with you and ask you if you want a dance. You do not
feel pressured and the strippers are letting the men be the pursuers of the
lap dance.
B) Shit is A’ight: You pay your $10 fee and walk into the club. The
strippers smile at you and make a moderate effort to talk to you and lie to
you telling you you’re cute (you might be cute but they are judging by your
financial stability not your physical attraction and by how desperate and
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lonely you come across). They say, “Make sure to save me a dance.” You
will be approached at least every four minutes and the strippers will give a
moderate effort to show they like you.
C) Shit is Bad: You pay a fee that is over $10 and when you walk in
the club right away a stripper puts her arm around your shoulder and says
you look like a celebrity that you really don’t even look like. She then gives
you a back rub and says how much she wants to give you a dance. She gives
you reasons for two songs that are logical and romantic on why you should
get a dance with her. By the end of the second song’s bridge you will have
agreed as she has put her fake breasts in your face twice.
D) Shit is Fucked Up: The fee to get in is over $10 and in the first
minute of walking into the strip club two girls come over: one rubs your
shoulders and the other grabs your penis and says with great sexual aggression, “Come on, we are going to dance; have you ever seen two asses and
four tits in your face? We will make out.” In a haze, you will look around
and see all the men near the pole only giving out dollars, using will power to not ask for dances making the strippers desperate to give one. The
hierarchy of men asking for the lap dance has switched and the strip club
has now become a stomping ground of female sexual aggression and Fourth
Wave post-modern feminism or in layman’s terms, “She drops it to till those
pockets.”
Theory Conclusion: The more aggressive the strippers are to give a
lap dance, and the more men who sit by the pole and only give out a dollar,
the worse the economic state. It is when the strippers act casual and less
aggressive and the men are the ones asking for the lap dance that we know
the economy is turning around.
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W
hat the Miami Dolphins
Offered St. Louis for Second Pick
in the 2012 Draft
Growing up in Florida I am a Miami Dolphins fan; I am even an insider
in the organization. Stephen Ross, the real estate tycoon and owner of the
Miami Dolphins, has recently become a big fan of my work after he read the
piece “Watching the Miami Dolphins at Hooters with My Girlfriend.”
He liked it so much he called me up and asked me to help ghostwrite
his biography Stephen Ross: How to Build a Winning Life (& Sports Franchise).
So far, it has been a great honor to work with Mr. Ross (I’m finally getting
that break as a writer) but he wants me to do one other job for him.
He confided in me during the 2012 draft pick that he wanted to
trade with St. Louis for the second pick in draft so we can get RG3 (one of
the most engaging quarterbacks ever). He does love Manning but he wants
a new quarterback and believes RG3 is the guy—the franchise quarterback
we haven’t had since Marino. But, he was very worried about Dan Snyder
and The Redskins because he thinks that they can offer better draft picks
and money to The Rams.
Mr. Ross, though, is not a man who likes to fold when the odds are
against him, so he said we just had to get creative and not only offer sports
trades but “life trades” that will help the entire city of St. Louis. He had
me write out a thirteen-point list (Mr. Ross likes symbolism, and thirteen
represents the return of the glory of Dan Marino) of what he and the other
minority owners of the Dolphins will offer the city, owner, and the people
of St. Louis. Though it did not work out, Dolphin fans can feel relieved that
we really made a great offer to St. Louis.
1) Flipper’s cousin, Philippe. Obviously Flipper has passed away but
we have his little cousin Philippe at the South Beach Aquarium and we are
willing to donate him to the St. Louis Aquarium—free of charge.
2) Reggie Bush’s Sex tape with Kim Kardashian. It exists! Reggie
owns the only copy and gave it to Mr. Ross with the stipulation that he
could only get it back if he showed he was a good running back. Reggie held
up his bargain that season but we are now willing to mail the tape to St.
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Louis and let it be shown at the finest adult theater in all of St. Louis.
3) Jimmy Buffet is a co-owner and would be willing to give 20% off
all Jimmy Buffet’s Margaritaville’s Calypso Coconut Shrimp and 30% off
the delicious Captain’s Calamari Rings for every citizen of St. Louis.
4) We will have our troubled wide receiver Brandon Marshall teach
mental health skill classes to St. Louis children during the offseason; he will
also teach classes on how to catch balls to the entire St. Louis Rams wide
receiver squad.
5) St. Louis owner Stan Kroenke will get one night with Dolphin
minority owner, JLO. It can be like that Robert Redford movie with Demi
More and Woody Harrelson. JLO will also do Wal-Mart commercials for
Mrs. Kroenke to show there are no hard feelings and it was just business.
6) Ace Ventura Pet Detective Part 3: The Return of Ray Finkle will be
shot entirely in St. Louis. Though some strings will have to be pulled, Sean
Young has agreed to sleep with at least 10% of the male population of St.
Louis.
7) Jimmy Buffet will let citizens of St. Louis have a free six pack of
his Landshark Lager. It goes very well with Captain’s Calamari Rings.
8) Minority owners Serena and Venus Williams will teach tennis
lessons, which will include a one-hour session just on grunting.
9) 2006 Naked Pics of minority owner Fergie and a free download
for all St. Louis citizens of the Black Eyed Peas upcoming album “Let’s Get
it Started . . . AGAIN!”
10) The Miami Marlins will throw six games a year when playing
the St. Louis Cardinals from 2012-2016 (Playoff games included!).
11) Free “Get on Your Feet” Gloria Estefan hosted dance parties
located at any St. Louis night club every Tuesday night.
12) We will play a song by Nelly and/or The St. Lunatics on Miami’s popular Power 96.5 radio station every forty-five minutes (not including “Hot in Herre (take off all your clothes)”).
13) Mark Anthony’s and JLO’s sex tape. It exists! It is locked up in
a gold-pressed vault in Puerto Rico under a special mountain named Silenco. It is their nest egg just in case the economy gets really bad, but they are
willing to show the sex tape to the city of St. Louis if it means the Miami
Dolphins can finally have a franchise quarterback like Dan Marino.
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M
itt Romney’s
Post-Election Diary
Being in DC and giving important people their pornography, I was privy to
a lot of political insider things. Here is a page of Mitt Romney’s diary after
his loss for the presidency.
Geez Louise, what did I have to do to get these people to vote for
me? Is it really the Mormon thing? I don’t even believe in anything! I really
wish I was born a regular Christian—it would poll so much better, but if that
was the case my dad wouldn’t be my dad and I wouldn’t have all this money.
I am loaded and it is the cat’s meow to be super rich and lower-class
lower-reading-level voters, I am still on their side: I hate socialists and class
warfare. We are allies just for the fact that I hate France as much as they do.
I went there for my Mormon Mission and saw if you do not believe in God
you just eat goat cheese and snails, drink wine, and blow cigarette smoke in
people’s faces when they mention The Latter Day Saints . . .
Jesus is better than Rousseau! I am pro-God; I love Jesus but these
Republicans love him so much they voted for Santorum in the primaries!?
I almost didn’t get to be the nominee. Now, that is just crazy stuff! Even
though I look like the Enzyte guy I am even hipper and way more electable
than Santorum.
But people think I am a robot, but I am not passionless. There are
things I deeply care about and you care about the same thing, too—money!
Let me state for the record I am not a big fan of Colored Man Music, but I
enjoy money so much I find the “money-money-money” song to be the bee’s
knees.
Show me the money! Right, that movie is still hip?! I’ll have to ask
Trip. Money, money, money that is my passion and that is what I wanted
to focus on in my campaign. As president, I had one goal and that is to get
us out of debt, that is what I want… ok, not really. Heck, I wouldn’t even
know how to do it.
I really just wanted be president because when you are Donald
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Trump rich you get bored easily and need something new to do every few
years. I have been searching for something after I realized I wouldn’t be
elected again to be governor of Massachusetts.
Yes, I am not that good at politics and we all know I wouldn’t have
been a good president but I could make a $10,000 bet that I would be adequately mediocre. President-wise I wouldn’t be Reagan but I could be as
good as President Taft, maybe a little better, maybe a little worse.
And my fellow Republicans should have known I am heartless
where I need to be—I’ll cut some entitlements, but Moderates, don’t worry,
poor people will still be all right. Seriously, I am not as out of touch or as
heartless as people think.
On the campaign trail, I even went to these food establishments
called “diners.” Damn we got it good here in America: they give you free
cream (dairy), ketchup and mustard (vegetable), and free crackers (grains).
Heck, most poor people are liberal so they can easily stay on their vegetarian diet—they do not have to worry about their carbon footprint when they
are not eating meat or much food at all. See, I have empathy for the poor, I
am a uniter, I care about the 47% and show leadership thinking.
Wait, I must admit that was a lie; in this diary I can be truthful. I
am not a leader and both sides know that. If I did not come from money
my greatest success would maybe be becoming the vice president of LA
Fitness or, deep down, I would have followed my childhood dream of being
a ballroom dancer—that is how I got the lovely Mrs. Romney . . . Well,
that, and having great hair and an awesome chin didn’t hurt either. But my
alpha male looks fool people; I am not a leader, I am just a manager. I’m
the office boss people don’t like but I still won’t screw up anything too bad.
I would have delivered mediocrity to America, which that is where we are
heading—I have seen how smart the Chinese and the Indians (the Slumdog
kind) are, they are going to kick our tushies but I would have been prepared
to deal with the blows.
Speaking of foreign policy, I really never had an opinion or cared
that much about it; I talk tough about Iran for the Republicans but I don’t
really care about it. I am not worried about them, either. They are as dangerous as John Huntsman was to my campaign. My official policy would be
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to let the desert people deal with the desert people. And, Israel: I know my
fellow Republicans love Israel but they’ll be fine on their own. Trust me; if
I’ve learned anything as a successful businessman it is that Jews are smart
and always get the better end of a deal.
Even though I still lost Florida, I still love the Jews; I feel a great
kinship with them, they understand that the world is about money. And
whether it would have made the debt worse or not I was still going to cut
taxes. This economy had a fever and the only prescription is more tax cuts.
My son Craig made that one up; he is the funny one in the Romney bunch.
It could have been viva la tax cuts . . . I should have picked Rubio.
So I guess this is me, Mitt Romney, the real one. Take it or leave it.
(Actually I wish people would have taken it, I really wanted to be president.
I’m bored.) But Republicans shouldn’t hate me or think poorly of me; with
me on the ticket instead of one of the other kooks they got to keep The
House and now in 2013 I can do something I have always wanted to do—
go on Dancing with the Stars.
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A
Liberal’s Erotic Letter
to a Republican
I wrote this to a hot Republican; she liked the mention of ACORN.
Your pussy is Texas and my cock is a Mexican family that is willing
to work hard and get our backs wet just to please you. I will do the dirty work
the others won’t do and feel amnesty in the taste of your pussy lips.
You will lick my balls like they are endangered squirrels hiding
ACORNS. Your tits are property, I am gonna seize them with my tongue;
my hands are the Department of Labor and I am going to pinch your nipples
till they hurt.
I’m going make you so hot you will see that global warming is real;
you will sweat so much you will have to turn off the lights and go green.
I am going to pound your pussy like an IRS agent knocking on your back
door as my cock is a sneak 6.75% tax that will force you to go to Planned
Parenthood and get on the pill.
I am going to regulate your market of desire as my dick is as long and
thick as IRS tax codes. Your family values will be corrupted by how good
my cock feels.
Your pussy is unpolluted mother Earth and I am going to ’frack you
like your oil-loving friends until I make you squirt all over my eco-friendly
bed sheets.
I am going to be like your buddy Bush and unilaterally fuck your
twat without concern; your pussy is Iraq and my cum is gonna surge all over
your face as I wiretap your pussy with my tongue; you will be so wet I will
be water boarded.
You will be fucked so hard you will feel the pain of the uninsured
and want universal health care because you won’t be able to walk right the
next day—you will beg for Obamacare.
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T
he Illuminati Monthly Email:
Operation Black Dress
A lot of the pervs who frequented the porn store were very much into conspiracy theories and would talk about the Illuminati and Repitalians. It all
sounded like bullshit until one of the brothas came in and said he was able
to find this e-mail after blackmailing a congressman in DC. Crazy stuff happens in the Capital, but this e-mail does show proof of a real life Illuminati
out to keep a power structure alive.
Greetings Fellow White Rich Male Followers,
We know morale has been low since the election of Obama and the
continuation of the NFL and the NBA; though our power and identity have
been safeguarded with the rumors of rappers being members of Illuminati
the world still has no idea that we are a White Male Anglo-Saxon Power
Group that runs Wall Street and all of global currency.
As for current events, The Greek Situation is going according to
plan. We have Paul Ryan planted, and most importantly we share terrific
news about Operation Black Dress that will lift our spirits and restore the
balance of Caucasian Psychological Power over the black man.
Since the growth of the Movie Industry we have been extremely
successful in our goal of emasculating strong charismatic beloved black men
by making them wear dresses: Martin Lawrence, Eddie Murphy, Bill Cosby,
Will Smith, the Wayans Brothers, Chris Tucker, Cuba Gooding Jr., Chris
Rock, and Jamie Foxx. We have been so successful that Tyler Perry has volunteered to wear the dress—he can only be successful if he wears the dresses
and acts like a female buffoon.
Operation Dave Chappelle did not come through but we got him
exiled and hidden in Africa losing his power, influence, and credibility
which was a minor victory.
Yet, we have struggled to get our two biggest targets: Denzel Washington and Morgan Freeman. This has been our goal for the past twenty-five
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years and we have found no success. But looking back in the past years at
this failure we have now realized how this important task can be easily accomplished.
Many years ago after the popularity of White Men Can’t Jump a dig
into our own athletic ability Operation Snipes was put in effect and we
hired The Jews to write a script “Too Wong Foo Thanks For Everything,
Julie Newmar” and we were able to get Wesley Snipes in the dress. Not only
did we punish him by emasculating him by wearing a dress next to Patrick
Swayze but in the present day we have gotten our friends at the IRS to cause
him havoc and financial ruin.
To get our biggest targets Washington and Freeman we must return
to what worked and that is why at all costs we will finance, produce, and
get Washington and Freeman to Star in Too Wong Foo 2. We can also get
a future black male of power Taye Diggs and make him a supporting cast
member. (We have taken care of Terrence Howard with Operation Small
Penis Shower Scene.) The film can be a period piece, very artsy, whatever it
takes to appeal to the three men’s artistic egos and senses of social justice—
we must use it against them to get them in their dresses.
Imagine, my fellow Illuminati Brothers, the man who played Nelson Mandela himself in a dress holding hands with Denzel Washington also
in a dress with their arms around a dressed Taye Diggs. The emasculation of
these men would be of great power and even if we don’t win back the White
House we can all enjoy the film and laugh at these black men looking like
fools in dresses while smoking cigars and drinking champagne. We can hold
our heads up high knowing that, in the end, we still have the power to put
all self-respecting talented black men into dresses.
Next Month’s Agenda: Operation Obama, Joe the Mole.
Until our words cross paths through this secret email: enjoy your
wealth, your whiteness, and dream of the day we see Washington and Freeman in funny dresses and wearing lipstick. We shall keep our power in one
form or another.
Sincerely,
The Illuminati
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Christoph Paul
T
he Most Important
Political Slam Poem of 2005!!!!
It’s time to take a stand!
People are being let down,
dreams are being squashed
and hopes are eroded by
false promises. It must end,
for all free men,
for all who have
high hopes.
This is about
the pursuit of happiness,
and knowing what is real and true.
That is why I request on Limewire
to see Anne Hathaway naked!!! God Damn it!
I wanna see Anne Hathaway fucking naked!
I wanna see some Princess Diary Pussy!
Not some random brunette with a bush!
Just because a girl is a natural brunette
and has cute tits does not make her
Anne Hathaway!!!
Why would you put that online!
Why!? The name of deceit!
You are evil people playing on
the hopes of the powerless!
I will not stand for these lies,
propagated on pusillanimous pussy!
She’s been naked in two films,
Brokeback and Havoc, my request
is not ridiculous, this is not Julia
Roberts. This is fucking Anne Hathaway
and these fraudulent fools and videos
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153
must be branded and destroyed!!!
We must start a revolution of massive
proportion, because free-pornography is
something you got to be willing to put
your life on the line for.
Chant with me!
1! 2! 3! 4! 5! 6!
I want Justice and
Anne Hathaway’s tits!
Repeat!!!!!
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Christoph Paul
W
atching the Miami Dolphins
with Your Girlfriend at Hooters
The owl boobs look at me, I must look away, but can’t. My girlfriend breaks
the spell, giving me the “you aren’t getting any pussy for a week unless you
stop staring at her boobs, like right now, and you are doing the dishes when
we get home” look. I look below the owl boobs at the Hooters girl’s legs that
are in beige color pantyhose with a few barbecue sauce stains. They are red
like my girlfriend’s bored angry face.
My girlfriend hates Hooters so much, hates the two (now three)
moments she caught me looking at the owls, but even she agrees the wings
are really good—even when the waitress can’t remember our order. The
Hooters waitress, Tiffany, fixes the round eyes behind the owl’s while apologizing for getting our order wrong; the more she speaks the less jealous my
girlfriend gets as Tiffany’s IQ is somewhere around the number of wings she
can’t remember we ordered. I pause and think philosophically that this is
probably a better way for Tiffany to make a living than stripping—I should
give her a decent tip.
My brain drifts away from Tiffany back to the TV to see the Patriots
score another touchdown on the Dolphins. I’ve gone to this stupid restaurant for many years because of this stupid team who always loses. Always.
Yet, I still show up, like a character out of Waiting for Godot, hoping for
hope, or even worse, hoping that they’ll lose so the Dolphins can get the
first pick of the draft.
Eckhart Tolle and followers of Zen Buddhism were clearly never
football fans for a team that went 1-15. The Power of Now, though beloved
by Oprah, is a lousy philosophy when rooting for a bad football team like
the Dolphins where the Hooters wings don’t taste as good when your team
loses. At 0-2 and playing the Patriots this week it is looking like a mediocre
wing year. But loyalty and purpose are what drive me to support my team,
even if masochistic.
There are worse things, like the mistake of eating a Hooters burger
which is worse than trying to get a date from one of their waitresses, though,
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either way you feel awful in the end for eating a bunch of crap that causes
you great pain in your mid-section. Watching the Dolphins win or lose,
(mostly lose) throughout the years at Hooters, I’ve seen many young male
fans of the Steelers, Jags, and Bucs drink lots of beer and fall in love by the
third quarter, but they never close at the end of the fourth. These Lebron
James dudes make me grateful to be with my (then) pissed off girlfriend,
because one of the great truths I understand is all Hooters waitresses flirt
with every guy.
The other lesson is men are at their most vulnerable when their
team is losing, their testosterone is dropping, and the Tryptophan from the
wings makes them sleepy but not any less horny; they put all their hopes
into being the guy who gets the Hooters girl’s number—the Hail Mary that
comes close but is always knocked down with “I would totally if I didn’t
have a boyfriend.”
As the game plays on, Tiffany gets us another beer but something
strange is happening: the Dolphins have the lead by scoring touchdowns on
these running back option plays. Even my girlfriend is impressed as Ronnie
Brown receives the snap and runs for another touchdown making BoobGate
feel like long ago. My girlfriend and I cheer and the announcer says this
running play is called “The Wildcat.”
My girlfriend says, “Aw, how cute, it’s named after that Goldie
Hawn movie.”
She is happy; so am I, and I tell her, “Um . . . yeah. I liked her in
Overboard. But baby, this is seriously major. We are gonna beat the Patriots
running this option play. You know, I’m not crazy about Pennington; if we
can draft a quarterback who could run this thing we could be go real far in
the playoffs.”
Tiffany stops by, smiles, and says, “I keep hearing about this Tebow
guy. He runs the option at UF. He’d be good right?”
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S
atan Loves Tebow, Too: Why This
Secular Humanist Loves Tim Tebow
This essay was written pre-Jets and I still stand firm on its thesis. If Rex Ryan
stopped focusing on feet and food he would have started Tebow and they
would have been a wild card team in 2012.
.
. .
I am pretty fucking secular. I’m cool and at peace with being a secular humanist. The only time I get really bummed for not being a believer is when
I meet hot Christian chicks because there are some Jesus loving hotties out
there I would suffer through a Creed concert for, but I’m already getting off
track now . . .
This essay isn’t going to be about hot Christian chicks (though quick
shout out to Kirk Cameron’s wife, if you are ever looking to cuckold him I’m
like a more attractive version of the Boner Stabone character on Growing
Pains–just putting it out there, you looked hot in Left Behind 2) or how much
Creed sucks. It is about the awesomeness of Tim Tebow and it is directed at
the non-believers talking all this smack and rooting against him. I am here
to bring the sword on you infidels and preach that you need to stop pouring
all this Haterade on Tebow.
Now, I know that anyone who uses the word “Haterade” probably
shouldn’t be taken seriously, but I am just going balls out so if I haven’t lost
you already I’ll probably lose you now—Tebow succeeding has nothing to do
with the glory of God but affirms the beliefs of humanism, Nietzsche’s idea
of the Strength of Individual Will, and dare I get all Byron on you bitches,
romanticism.
Why am I saying this crazy shit? And also to those alpha male football fans reading this thinking this guy Christoph is kind of a fag and what
the fuck does Tebow have to do with this gay shit like romanticism?
I answer that romanticism at its heart is a defiance of standards
and of hard science researched calculated truths (alpha football fans still
reading, realize that romanticism has nothing to do with bad Katherine
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Heigl movies, or doing “gay” shit with your girlfriend to have her stop annoying you, or doing Valentine’s Day stuff to just to get some pussy).
No, romanticism is the painting, the song, the singer who doesn’t
meet the critical “standard” of what is good, but yet it still succeeds in the
goal of winning the heart and mind of the viewer. OK alpha football fans
I am still using “gay” stuff as examples and leaving y’all in the cold. How
could the definition of romanticism relate to Pro-Football? I don’t know,
maybe not being able to throw in the pocket, being accurate, reading defenses, going 2-8 in passing attempts and still winning the game(s)?
Mr. Tebow has done that in his leading Denver to a playoff victory. He is the exception to the rule and the best looking beefiest virgin in
the world (which is poetic in itself . . . and that came off more gay than it
should; I’m sorry alpha male football fans I can’t dumb it down any more, I
am going to start talking about smart shit—if you don’t understand Wikipedia it), but yet he is the underdog and I know everyone sees a whole lot of
Jesus when observing Tebow but I see lots of Nietzsche—especially his slogans “Become who you are” and not letting “the tribe decide who you will
be.” His choice to play quarterback is not what he is suited for; he has the
best odds of success playing fullback/tight end but he is going against those
odds, against the set standard, because he wants to be a quarterback even if
it means redefining what that position means.
He is doing it! With his own desire and will he is finding success
while having the worst stats since Sexy Rexy played in the Super Bowl.
But if you look at the one important stat that matters he is—Winning!
While our mind now has fond memories of Charlie Sheen being the Übermensch the U-word fits Tebow a little more as he is a successful quarterback
where it counts the most—Winning! (It is still kind of fun). He is choosing
his own fate through great will power and desire which is humanism and Nietzsche-like philosophy at its best—it is not God’s will that enables Tebow
to succeed, it is his own.
Underneath all the Jesus inspiration is something that believers
and non-believers both want to truly believe: that even if we don’t hit
some standard (and Tebow certainly does not hit the standard of what a
QB should be) we can still be who we want to be, we can still go after that
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thing that gives us the most purpose, desire, and fulfillment. That our own
individual character, drive, desire, and hard work can make up for whatever flaws and weaknesses we have—that is humanism, individualism, and
self-actualization (philosophers bored by all this football stuff, I would argue
self-actualization was what Nietzsche was after) at its best, as we can give a
middle finger to all statistics and proofs and still find a way to achieve our
goals and desires.
Damn, I didn’t even see the self-helpy vibe coming but I like it (you
kind of like it, too). I’m feeling you pagans coming over to the Tebow bandwagon, and even you alpha male football fans are saying romanticism and
Nietzsche are not as gay as you thought.
You are because unless you are the 1% we all love The Underdog.
Why? Seriously, why do we have the existential ache and love for the underdog? Because it gives us hope. Gives us a choice. Gives us inspiration that
we are not stuck with whatever genetic and financial lottery we got. We
need somebody to show us we all have a shot to choose our fates.
Tebow is that symbol and I think his faith shouldn’t be what defines
whether we want him to succeed or not. (To the Christians still reading, I
give you major respect for being open-minded to keep reading this clearly Devil inspired douche-bag of a rant, but I must say if you really think
it is God leading to Tebow’s success, well you’d have a point looking at
Tebow’s shitty stats combined with his miraculous wins, but you would
also have to believe that God has some strange priorities to care more about
football over genocide and starvation.) I would argue that just maybe it’s
something else, something that has nothing to do with God at all. Something human. Something you can’t really define, but it’s there, and even
though we can’t name It—Tebow has It.
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O
n The Cock
When I moved out of DC to NYC to start a rock band, I got my break writing sports articles. One event I got to cover was the 2012 NFL draft. I got
a special pass and was behind the scenes on draft day and saw something
in the dressing room that was shocking but also made a lot of sense if you
watch ESPN. In this, my last piece, I leave you with a great piece of art that
is a culmination of all my experiences captured in prose.
Author’s Note: Any likeness of names or famous people is just a coincidence
and the reader should know this is a work of fiction because of not wanting
to be sued.
.
. .
Mel Kiper Jr. looked down at his notebook and turned to the page of his
“big board.” For months he had studied photos of young men, rating their
strength, agility, and size understanding that even a half of an inch could
make all the difference in the draft.
His rival Todd McShay sat across from him staring at his Top 32,
focusing on a picture of Ryan Tannehill’s broad shoulders and 6’4” frame.
He looked into the picture’s eyes and saw greatness. His heart told him that
Ryan was a special young man and any team would be lucky to have him
behind center.
The two men’s intense focus on all the young chiseled bodies
stopped when the green room door opened up, and the rivals looked up at
ESPN producer Sal Marino. He adjusted his headset and said, “Hey guys.
The makeup girl will be in with ya in like fifteen minutes; she’s doing Berman’s hair right now.”
“That won’t take long,” said a snarky McShay.
Kiper chuckled and said, “Yeah, tell Berman he is going to see Tannehill fall faster than his hair did in ’95.”
“LOL as these kids say. All right you two, don’t kill each other till
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Tiffany gets in here to make you boys look pretty for the bright lights. Gotta say guys, I’m really enjoying that promo song by Gary Clark Junior. All
right, we’ll be on the clock soon, take care.”
Sal Marino closed the door to the green room. The two men were
left alone with their thoughts. They sat erect in their makeup chairs pretending the other was not there. The hatred between the football analysts
produced silence and sweat fell off Mel Kiper’s perfectly gelled hair; his acne
scars were hidden but his disdain for Todd McShay was shown in the snarl
when the two caught eyes.
Kiper wiped the sweat off his brow and kept his eyes locked on McShay, “I hope the makeup girl can hide the red in your face when you realize
what a bust Tannehill will be.”
McShay stood up from his chair, “You are wrong, Kiper. You have
no idea what a great man is; Tannehill is a great young man. Just like this
guy right here.”
“You are telling me Tannehill is great; what is great about him? He
has no experience and lacks the It Factor. And he is timid in the pocket.”
“Bullshit! He is young, strong, and tall. He can grow into something
hard and toughened.”
“He is just a wide receiver playing quarterback, flashy and foolish—”
“Which shows he can take a hit; he can take a hard one and get up.
He’ll always be standing tall in the pocket.”
“He has no pocket presence! And I must say he doesn’t seem that
smart.”
“He majored in Biology!”
“He’s just some dumb kid who shouldn’t even be drafted before
Weeden.”
McShay jumped out of his chair. Kiper mirrored his action as both
stood in the alpha posture. McShay shook his head and screamed, “No!
That is insane; he is an old man, already on the decline.”
Kiper inched closer, his chest out and said, “You have no idea the
value of experience you fucking stupid kid.”
McShay got up in his face and said, “Well then show me old man,
show me he is not another weak Weinke.”
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“I’ll show you right here, you little fuck.” Kipper then grabbed his
shirt like he was going to punch him, but stopped; the men looked into
each other’s eyes and felt something they could not resist. All these years of
tension unraveled in this moment.
Kiper threw off his glasses, brought McShay to his chest, and kissed
him as hard as the erection he felt in his dress pants; he held him closer and
then brought him to the floor the way Matt Kalil took down big defensive
linemen. Kiper’s hair was now wild and messy like a 2011 Tom Brady. He
ripped off McShay’s clothes and tossed them aside like they were worthless
seventh round picks as both men traded up into each others’ arms.
Kiper grabbed his hard thick cock, put it on McShay’s face, and directed, “Take that cock the way The Browns are going to take Richardson.
Yeah, it’s thick and strong just like him; yeah suck it like that, oh yeah, in
and out. Faster! The way Richardson breaks after he goes in between the
tackles.”
McShay said, “Mentor me, take me! I can take it!”
Kiper smiled as McShay bent over and said, “Well, my little Andrew; you are in luck.”
Kiper parted McShay’s legs. There was a snap as he penetrated the
defensiveness of McShay. He started slow with screens and head fakes but
then he went deep.
“Oh yeah!” moaned Kiper, “Oh yeah this tight end is the highest
grade I’ll give this class. It is better than the ’83 quarterback class.”
“Oh yeah! Don’t stop, my ass is The 40 and your cock is RG3.”
He went faster and faster as seconds passed into minutes until the
end zone was reached and Kiper screamed “Oh, but I’m ready to bust.”
“Oh yeah, bust big. Give me a huge bust.”
Kiper took his cock out, turned McShay around to his erect throbbing dick, and screamed, “I’m going to Ryan Leaf all over your face!”
He then came all over McShay and once the last drop fell the door
flew open. The unsuspecting makeup woman walked in then stared in shock
when she saw the two naked men.
She said, “You are on the . . . cock!”
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Christoph Paul
Christoph Paul is a former porn store manager and was singer/guitarist of
the rock band The Only Prescription and is currently in a new band Moses
Moses. He graduated from Wilkes University with an MA in Creative Writing.
The Passion of the Christoph is his first book. His second book Psychoanalytic Celebrity Poems is a collection of satire/personae humor poems about
your most favorite and hated celebrities. His third book and collaboration
with Brody Thomas is Great White House, which they describe as SharkNado
meets White House Down by two guys who love politics, sharks, South Park,
and will be released under The Only Prescription Publishing. Finally, Christoph is a lover of The Arts, Thai Food, The Miami Heat/Dolphins, and
hater of both political parties. He is currently working on a bottom of the
ninth strike out or a home run of a book: Sports Center Poems.