|Posted on Wednesday, April 10, 2002 - 12:19 pm: |
You're gonna wash his back while he cleans his colon?
|Posted on Wednesday, April 10, 2002 - 2:46 am: |
It was just an Anne Rice way of saying "Well done!"
I just read "Merrick" you see.
As long as you are kicking the asses of these dweebs and laboring to restore this degenerated forum to its former glory, I'll be watching your back, old friend.
|Posted on Wednesday, April 10, 2002 - 2:32 am: |
You're almost there.
|Posted on Wednesday, April 10, 2002 - 1:55 am: |
I'm not sure what you just said, but its got a beat I can dance to. Stick around motherfucker.
|Posted on Wednesday, April 10, 2002 - 1:46 am: |
Well done, Dr. Campbell. St Peter aka Papa Legba has truly opened the way for you to see. Absinthe spat at the altar probably helped. Praise to you from your distant houngan member, and confusion to our enemies, with fear going before as always.
|Posted on Tuesday, April 9, 2002 - 10:59 pm: |
having been a former lover of head's, you would know.
|Posted on Tuesday, April 9, 2002 - 10:53 pm: |
marc, that is UNCANNY
|Posted on Tuesday, April 9, 2002 - 10:48 pm: |
I have tried to imagine what you might be like outside of this forum. "head prosthesis" is a creation. Thru this creation, I get glimpses of the creator, but only glimpses. I see a small, rotound man in his late 20s, early 30s. He is starting to bald. His skin is pale, though red around the cheeks and nose from a life of habitual drinking. His teeth are yellowed, jagged and small, like a row of popcorn kernels. He wears faded blue jeans that sag in the ass and t-shirts emblazoned with phrases like "jockeys jock" and "CHONGER" and the logos of beer companies and adult magazines.
He lives in a double-wide trailer on the outskirts of a small Michigan town. The trailer is filled with computer equipment,Atari gaming consoles, comic books and the manifestos of Andre Breton and the Unabomber. His video collection consists of low-budget splatter flicks and foreign films, among them Luis Bunuel's An Andalusion Dog and Herzog's Even Dwarves Started Small. The double-wide is cluttered with empty booze bottles, rubber sex toys and bean bag chairs. The walls are covered with black velvet paintings of big-eyed children, big-eyed dogs and cats, and Elvis.
The place smells of mansweat and pressed ham.
The television is constantly on, tuned to a channel that specializes in soft-core porn involving stuffed animals and drill bits. The radio is also on, vomiting hip hop beats into the stale air. In the bedroom on a mattress covered with a black polyester sheet lays head's prize possession; a lifesize inflatable fuck doll with a lifelike snatch bristled with nylon pubic hair. Her name is Jill. She's from Ohio. And she's developed a slow leak. Her arms, legs and chest are deflating, slowly receding into the mattress. Her head is flattened out and her mouth has the shocked "oh my" expression of television's Mr. Bill. The only part of her that still has the shape and curve of her flesh counterparts is her round belly and her luscious latex mound of Venus. A three dimensional snatch
attached to a body gone 2D. This is only a temporary disaster. Later that night, head, using his booze-blasted breath, will return her to her full polycarbonate glory.
to be continued...
|Posted on Tuesday, April 9, 2002 - 10:10 pm: |
Someday my friend
|Posted on Tuesday, April 9, 2002 - 10:07 pm: |
"you don't know me very well"
ain't that the way you like it?
|Posted on Tuesday, April 9, 2002 - 9:56 pm: |
I wanna beat the hell outta most
of these folks here. I swear I'd
beat the hell outof 'em with a corn
cob and a hub cap. That'd show 'em.
But yah know what? I don't care...
Shit. Fuck it. I know who my friends are.
They know who they are.
Players play and Jockeys Jock.
I ain't changed Marc. I haven't changed
one iota since I got here...
You just don't know me very well.