|Posted on Thursday, April 25, 2002 - 11:08 pm: |
I'm heading to Taos, New Mexico in the morning. The head prophecies will continue when I return.
peace and out, mc
|Posted on Wednesday, April 24, 2002 - 6:33 am: |
...He said too much, the men in black probably got him...
|Posted on Wednesday, April 24, 2002 - 1:09 am: |
Marc, please dont leave us hanging any more. We are waiting for our next installment of head!
(hmm. that came out all wrong!)
|Posted on Saturday, April 20, 2002 - 10:56 pm: |
these are a blast, more please...
|Posted on Saturday, April 20, 2002 - 10:42 am: |
|Posted on Saturday, April 20, 2002 - 3:21 am: |
The heavyset dyke at the end of the bar triggered Big Mike's fag sensors into overdrive. There were alot of things that Big Mike had come to understand about the universe and its myriad of manifestations, like a broad doin' a broad,
but this particular lezzie had a warp all her own.
She looked like the hellish crossbreed of Tammy Wynette and Haystack Calhoun, with a little dose of Angelfood McSpade thrown in. The USDA grainfed dyke sported a halfassed tuft of facial hair on her sneering
mug framed by a pink puckered scar that ran along the bottom of her chinny chin chin like a small fragment of route 66. When it came right down to it, she was the very definition of coyote ugly. She was one repulsive broad....except she wasn't. Appearances can be deceptive. Eyes lie. California Dreaming giggled as the dyke leaned over and whispered in her sweet tender ear "its me, head".
to be continued
|Posted on Friday, April 19, 2002 - 7:57 pm: |
come on marc, read us a story... please?
|Posted on Friday, April 19, 2002 - 7:53 pm: |
I've got my popcorn (kernel teeth)
my 24oz drink (of Mickeys Malt Liquor)
my Sugar Daddies (chillin' next to me)
and my juju bees (kickn' Superflys ass)
I'm ready for the next installment...
I feel like PeeWee Herman in PeeWees Big Adventure! I'll keep my trench coat buttoned though...
|Posted on Friday, April 19, 2002 - 5:40 pm: |
"Keep in mind that even the "actual" head is a creation"
That's true. I have met the 'man' himself, and it turns out he's really a heavyset lesbian with a motorcycle and a tattoo of a dikey betty boop on her ass.
|Posted on Friday, April 19, 2002 - 5:26 pm: |
the truth is out there...
|Posted on Friday, April 19, 2002 - 5:01 pm: |
you're like the jerk that always sits behind me at the theater and talks thru the entire movie.
the know-it-all who constantly interrupts a conversation with irrelevant bullshit.
The head Prophecies is a mythic quest involving a fictional character named head prosthesis. The real head has given me his blessing in concocting
this story, knowing that I will use some actual elements from head's life. It is up to the reader, if he/she cares, to determine what is myth and what is reality. Call it magic realism, fantasy or bullshit, its designed to entertain.
Keep in mind that even the "actual" head is a creation.
|Posted on Friday, April 19, 2002 - 2:31 pm: |
Darn, Marc, I posted my apology in the wrong thread. We have to agree to limit our fights to one thread, otherwise it gets confusing.
So, this should have been here:
"Marc, I'm going to apologize.
I took this seriously. I've been advised it's all in jest.
|Posted on Friday, April 19, 2002 - 2:20 pm: |
Flow it man, Flow it!
|Posted on Friday, April 19, 2002 - 11:09 am: |
don't fuck with my flow.
please keep your petty bullshit to yourself.
|Posted on Friday, April 19, 2002 - 5:30 am: |
Are you getting another bottle of Jade for this one, Marc?
|Posted on Friday, April 19, 2002 - 5:01 am: |
the head prophecies will resume in 13 hours.
In the meantime, may I suggest you sit quietly
and visualize your own death.
|Posted on Friday, April 19, 2002 - 4:38 am: |
head was banged-up, blown out, beamed up and brought down like Hugh Hefner's prostrate. poetry is a cosmic case of blue balls, yearn all you like, the result: nothing. head had an inner dialogue, no doubt, but
it was in a language he didn't understand. Imagine if God talked to you in some arch mumbo jumbo
and the only God to English dictionary you possessed was printed in invisable ink. God talk is the sound of the space between hic and cup.
head had to jockey jock back to Earth. The girl of his dreams was about to be Turtle Waxed in Big Mike's
Car Wash Of Absolute Reality.
to be continued....
|Posted on Friday, April 19, 2002 - 4:11 am: |
THE GEE SPOT
My aunt Lindy called me Pepper because she said I was spicy, like a Spice Girl. When aunt Lindy died
(she was only 27), my mother bought me a horse to help me adjust to the unfathomable pain and stuff that comes with the death of a luvved one. Lindy died because she had a cancer on her kooka (vagina). I know we all got to die, but I'm doing my best to not have that happen. The wheatgrass
and hydro-therapy helps. Ha ha. Hydro-therapy means I do 20 laps at the olympic sized pool at the local health club. I'm a survivor.
I can't believe I'm finally going to meet head.
He's so cool. I met him on this cool website that talks about a green fairy and sex and some guy in Tieland that whips people. I'm starting to feel like a woman. Or something.
to be continued...
|Posted on Friday, April 19, 2002 - 3:34 am: |
BIG MIKE'S CRI du COUER
The young chick at the end of the bar smelled West Coast, sea salt and patchouli, New Age.
Big Mike had been in the night club business long enough to know you don't mess with the teenybopper set. Anyone under 18, fuck em and yer fucked for life. So, Big Mike just meditated on California's bra-less topography. The bitch was fine. A little too fine. She was ripe material to be sportin' a pearl necklace. Yeah, a slo-mo cum shot lacing that pale neck and dripping down into that tender cleavage would be enough to make a grown man weep. A veritable cri du couer.
Somewhere in outerspace, head ached to go home.
After all, he did have a date and the Jim Dandy was starting to wear off.
to be continued...
|Posted on Friday, April 19, 2002 - 3:14 am: |
HARD BOILED LEGS
Whathefuck? Finger in my asshole. Chemical smell.
Is that me? Who said that?
Do you love her?
What? I haven't even met her.
But do you love her?
How can I love somebody I've never met?
Do you love God?
Yes, I guess.
But, you've never met God, have you?
You bet yer ass I've met God! God is everywhere.
Here, now. In this cold chrome room with its electrical hums and chemical stench. In my fucking shrivelled cock and ulcerated bunghole. God is fucking everywhere!
Are you hungry, head?
What would you like to eat?
Some toast, a glass of Tang and some hard boiled legs.
to be continued....
|Posted on Friday, April 19, 2002 - 2:43 am: |
I have this great mental picture of the strains of "Tie Me Kangaroo Down" echoing through the dank, stone-clad underground passages of Chateau Jade...
|Posted on Friday, April 19, 2002 - 2:25 am: |
CELESTIAL STRETCH MARKS
In his highly regarded (though occasionally ridiculed) study of alien abduction, Celestial Stretch Marks, Dr. Von Spelding discusses the case of a Michigan man named head prosthesis.
Mr. prosthesis was the victim/recipient of an alien visitation while en route to a romantic rendevous. In preparation for his date, Mr. prosthesis had saturated himself with a product known as Jim Dandy. Jim Dandy was a product sold over the internet that contained highly concentrated amounts of pheromones (http://www.pheromones.com). While these pheromones had little or no actual effect on human beings, they drove extraterrestrials wild. A sensitive alien living as far away as Uranus and possessing a fairly large scent receptor could, if the wind were up, detect
and respond to Jim Dandy like a blood hound to a fine piece of well-groomed poodle poon. On a night in April of 2002 Mr head prosthesis would regret the day he had ever heard the word "pheromone".
to be continued...
|Posted on Friday, April 19, 2002 - 1:55 am: |
THE KANGAROO GOES DOWN
With the Jim Dandy in his breast pocket and a car salesman's smile slapped on his bloated mug, head nosed his Corvair toward Big Mike's Restaurant and Car Wash. This was the rendevous point he had agreed to with Miss California Dreaming. He was as nervous as a priest at a Cub Scout meeting. He kept assuring himself that failure was not an option. All systems were go. He had the details taken care of: the music, plenty of booze and a pocketful of ribbed Rough Riders. The booze and jimmy caps had been easy. It was the music that had required alot of thought. He wanted to make sure that the car's cassette deck was spewing out the right soundtrack for an evening of epic poon pounding. He had been up all the previous night
putting together his foolproof "sex mix" (brother you gots to buy your own), 90 minutes of seriously seductive, sweat-inducing, soul wrenching, cunt stretching rock and fuckin' roll.
Well, it wasn't all rock, there were some ballads and shit, afterall the broads love the corny stuff. But, it was a monster mix, segue waying from Color Me Badd's "I Wanna Sex You Up" to Aerosmith's "Judy's Gotta Gun" to Rolf Harris' immortal and surprisingly sexy (if you're into bondage) "Tie Me Kangaroo Down". head was grooving on the sounds as he tooled down the highway toward Big Mikes. Thats when the unthinkable happened.
to be continued....
|Posted on Friday, April 19, 2002 - 1:12 am: |
A full moon hung above the doublewide. It radiated the night a milky white. Sitting on the porch, head started to wax poetic. The moon looked like a big peppermint lifesaver he thought. Or a giant beach ball. head had never been to a beach but he could imagine, couldn't he? shit yeah. Though poetry was a fag's game, head had come to terms with his feminine side, a little poetry didn't bug him out, he knew who he was: a 5 foot sausage in a pair of khaki shorts and a tye-dyed t-shirt, with a flair for poesy and a delicate turn-of-phrase. Actually 4 foot nine, but who's countin'. head was feeling tall in the saddle tonight, flush with high grade testosterone and a serious love jones. Tonight was the night. No more inflatable fuck dolls and cum-encrusted issues of Juggs. No more Debbie Does Hogtown or Teenage Hookers From Hoboken. Tonight was the night that head would finally meet that sweet piece of cyber poon he met on the internet. The bitch that liked horsies. The over-achieving white chick who lived in a place where the sky was big and blue and the birdies went cheep cheep allfuckingdaylong. This was finally it, d-day for the h-man.
head had laid out his suit on the bed earlier that
afternoon. He wanted to look sharp, like the dude in that ZZ Top song: Sharp Dressed Man. The suit was powder blue polyester with a white piping on the pockets and lapels. He chose a pink shirt with a floral motif and a pair of matching pink patent leather loafers. The loafers had brass buckles that glowed like tiny slabs of sunlight. Perfect.
They matched the buckle on his big black bikers belt, the one with the western tooling and gold braiding on the edges. Shit, he was gonna look good for this California babe, this big-titted bimbo with hungry thighs and a tight steaming snatch. head had hit paydirt. No more
nights of quiet desperation staring into the cathode ray of loneliness and despair. Tonight, with the help of some well-chosen words, a jug of chianti and the magic cologne he bought online, head was gonna finally get his rusted, creaking pipes cleaned. But fuck, hee hee he said buttfuck (late 20th century television pop culture reference), where was the magic cologne? The elixir called Jim Dandy, a magic potion chockablock with male hormones and shit, irresistable to women, and a great mosquito repellent as well. Where the fuck is the Jim Dandy? Had to find the Jim Dandy. Without it he was lost, just another video lothario,
a computer Cassanova with a limp prick and a bad case of carpel tunnel syndrome.
to be continued...