By Tom Miller
A lighthearted romp through the seedy
Underbelly of that horrible experience we call life.
© April 1996 Ė FREDInk Productions
Revised and edited by Tom Miller
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
I smell something.
Do you smell that?
What is that
God, that smells something awful. Whoo! Smells like somebody pulled the cork off a bottle of rot. Oh man what a smell. God. You smell it? My god, does that smell. Did someone light a bag of shit on fire? Oh, man. Whoowee! Whoo! Smells like a dead yak. Smells like somebody blew up a blimp full of shit. Whoo, what a smell. You smell it? Smells like someone cut open a dead bloated cat. What a smell that is. Man, this shit is going into my lungs. The smell is inside me. Iím breathing the shit. What a disgusting funk. Whoo. I feel like I got my head in a gorilla butt. Smells like something I let loose in the toilet the other day. Someone has laid some seriously dead fart in here. Whittikers! Holy man oh man, thereís a stench in here like someone rubbed an onion in their armpit and left it there for a week. Itís like sniffing a winoís balls. Where is it coming from? What could that horrible smell be coming from?
Oh, why itís me.
The Restaurant / Hair Replenishing Shop
†††† Three days ago, the strangest thing that has ever happened, happened to me. I was sitting on a park bench minding my own business when this lady sat next to me. She looked fairly normal, like somebodyís grandmother, but wait Ďtill I tell you what happened next. She reached inside her dress, rooted around, and pulled out her placenta. I thought that was so sick of her to do such a thing, but then guess what happened. She turned to me with a look on her face I will never forget, and threw her placenta at my face. She kept yelling that it was good for my hair, but I didnít think so. To me, it was just a big bloody mess. What are you afraid of, she asked me. Babies eat it, why canít you? But I had to get away from her and wash off before I threw up. Iím telling you, this was really gross. But hereís where the story gets strange, like I promised you. She got up and took off after me. Sheís running after me and Iím thinking, this lady just threw her placenta at me, whatís she going to do now? You would never believe it and neither did I when she opened her purse and pulled out another placenta. She threw it on my back. Stop it lady, I shouted. You got placenta on my back. It was so revolting and I felt humiliated. I hoped she was through throwing placenta at me but to my surprise, and hereís where the story gets really weird, she opened her mouth and there and the back of her throat was, thatís right, you guessed it, placenta.
†††† She spit placenta at me as I tried to get away. Iíll tell you, this was so strange to me, this old lady producing what seemed like infinite amounts of placenta and then throwing it at me and spitting it on me. By the time I outran her and made it home, I was covered in placenta. I ran straight for the shower and rinsed off. Boy, it sure felt better to not have placenta all over me. I noticed, however, that my hair indeed felt healthier then ever before. Maybe thereís something to this placenta after all, and then I remembered her prophetic words: Babies eat it, why canít you?
†††† Well Iíll be, the old lady was right. If my hair felt better, maybe I had better go back to the old lady and eat some of her placenta. So I got my bowl and I got my spoon and walked six blocks back to the park bench searching for the old lady and her infinite supply of placenta. Here is where the story gets weird. When I finally found her, she would not give me any placenta. No matter how I pleaded, the old lady would not give it up. You had your chance, she said, and all you did was run from me and resist the placenta. Now youíll have no placenta. Never before had I begged for placenta in my life, but if I was going to taste it, I had to stoop to begging. Please, lady. Please let me taste your placenta. No, she replied. No placenta for you. Soon I began to get irritated, then agitated, and finally, angry. And thatís when I pulled out my gun. All right lady, give me your placenta or Iíll kill you. You should have seen her shake with fear. Now it was I who had the upper hand. Reluctantly she reached up into her dress and produced, thatís right, you guessed it, some placenta. Now put it in the bowl, I commanded. She followed my command and placed the placenta into the bowl. I got my spoon and got a spoonful of the placenta. Its rich red and beige color appealed to my new appreciation for placenta.
†††† I held the spoon above my open mouth and allowed the coagulated blob to flop off the spoon and onto my tongue. When I closed my mouth and pressed my tongue against the roof of my mouth, the blob of placenta popped releasing a tasty yellow nutritious pudding. I savored the unique flavor of this new experience. Lady, I said, you sure do have some tasty placenta.
†††† We got together and with my money, her placenta, we opened a combination restaurant / hair replenishing shop.
Dog bites me
I bite dog
Dog is mad
Cat sees dog
Dog sees cat
Dog chases cat
Dog bites cat
I hit dog
For biting cat
Dog bites me
I hit dog harder
I pet cat
Cat doesnít care
I bury cat
Dog digs cat up
Dog chews cat
I hit dog
Dog bites me
I hit dog harder
I bury dog and cat
I buy new dog and cat
Same thing happens
Again and again
One day, I was sitting on a park bench minding my own business when a long hair hippie with a beard sat next to me. I had the feeling this bum was going to rob me, so taking the initiative, I pulled out my handgun and shot him dead. Little did I know, I had just killed Jesus.
A little girl named Mary Mac
Was carrying a little paper sack
Which did contain a little snack
For Mary to eat when she got back
From visiting her grand ma ma
Who lived in West Virginia ya
In a cottage in the forest...
Fuck me on a stick
Mary Mac was on her bike
Pedaling by the railroad track
She heard the train toot toot its horn
So Mary Mac was clearly warned
She did not heed the signal
Across the tracks did Mary go
The train cut Mary Mac in two...
Suck my fucking dick
Thereís No Such Thing as a UFO
†††† I know UFOs donít exist. But Iíll tell you this: There is an all-powerful omnipotent being in the sky and he created everything in six days and then took a break on the seventh day. He has three manifestations called the Father, the Son, and the Holy Poltergeist. His name is, God. You may have seen a picture of him on the Sistine Chapel. He sent his only son, who was completely perfect by the way, Jesus, to the earth to die on a cross. When they nailed this guy up, he died on the cross specifically for our sins. Then, when they entombed him, he came back from the dead and haunted his followers before shipping out to God knows where. And guess whatÖ heís coming back. And weíll all be in trouble if we havenít accepted His truth. But if we have, weíre all going to go to a place called Heaven, a place in the sky where everything is beautiful and little cherubic boys with no genitalia fly around with wings and play harps. If we have sinned however, and do not believe, we are going to Hell where a horned man makes fire that will burn us forever.
†††† But UFOs? No fucking way.
One Million Cows
†††† To kill one million cows, you must disassociate from the sentient beings and view them as objects. You must see the body as clay and the blood as paint. You must view the objects in two dimensions and then you can begin the slaughter. You must also become two-dimensional like a painting of a machine. You must not allow feelings of guilt, shame and remorse to get in the way. With practice, to kill one million cows is easy, just like the Holocaust was.
Everyone Deserves to Die
†††† Why have counseling and therapy? Why stop drug addicts from killing themselves or others? Letís legalize killing. Arenít we overpopulated anyway? Why work toward longevity? Arenít people starving because the one- percent with ninety-nine percent of the wealth are greedy bastards? Hey, man, thatís
†††† Capitalism. Thatís freedom. Thatís the strong survive and the weak die. That one- percent knows where itís at. Fuck it. Who gives a shit. Why give a shit? Everyone deserves to die, and everyone will. Mortality has a 100% success rate. You canít stop it. Youíll die too. No matter what you leave behind, youíre gone. And guess what else? The ozone layer is becoming depleted. Resources are drying up. People boil down to war monkeys, even if they have degrees. The sun will burn out in ten billion years. We are vicious, violent, stupid animals.
†††† Live, eat, fuck and die. All the rest is negligible.
†††† Hi. Iím a happy person. Love me. I love you. Live to make other people happy. Live for love. Love your neighbor. I do. Have a family. Go to the ball game. Take in a movie. Walk in the forest. Watch a child pet a cat. Look in the eyes of a baby and see the innocence and wonder of it all. Iím a happy person, all right. Now if youíll excuse me, Iím going to fuck your mother.
Return of Fido
†††† I saw the faggot first, coming around the corner from that bar where the queers are. Bubba and I had a plan. We was going to pop them faggots with a bat, and kick the living shit out of them. I remember laughing between sips of beer about how they was going to pay. We canít have them queers molesting our kids. God told me to stop them, but he didnít tell me how much fun it would be. I remember yelling out to him like I was a friend. He trusted me before I cracked his head.
†††† "Hey, come here. I got something to show you." Little faggot could have run, but lucky for America he came over, probably to get some dick. He wasnít counting on a stick. The first crack went from the top of his skull to his neckline. Thatís when Bubba joined in and kicked the shit out of him. We was hoping his friends would come around and we could get some more, but I guess this one didnít have no friends. So we kept kicking him. I had steel tips in the ends of my boots, and getting blood on Ďem was just making me madder. "Donít you bleed on me, fucker. Donít you get AIDS on me, faggot."
†††† Then Bubba must have kicked his face clean off Ďcause he stopped moving. "Come on and fight, faggot." No fight left in him. We ran back to the truck and tore out of there, screaming victory, punching the window. We showed him. I heard on the news the next day, that boy didnít make it off the sidewalk alive. But the news that really made me think was the feel-good story about a dog that found its way back home from all the way across the country.
†††† How do you suppose a dog does that?
Danís Adornment Palace
†††† I wasnít willing to settle for common adornments. I was a unique individual who was willing to deal with some pain to stand out in a crowd. I had seen it in the nose, the ear, the cock, and the pussy. I had seen branding and scarification, tattoos, but this was all sissy stuff compared to what I was going to do.
†††† Danís Adornment Palace was the place where I would come into my new reality. Dan himself, and nobody but nobody gets Dan personally, had been preparing all day to do me right. I had a fifth of Jack Danielís in me just to get me going. Dan was going to put a hot steel rod, two feet long by three-inch circumference, through my butt cheeks to pin them together. Then he was going to stretch my cock around to my asshole and pin them together. Next, my ears were coming off. That would show them sissy earring boys what a real statement was. Finally, knitting needles through my body, from the front to the back, and a ring pierced into the dead center of my right eyeball. Just for fun, Dan told me he would throw in the chiseling of all my teeth into vampire points. I loved every minute of it.
†††† Dan got so into his work that he flayed my back open and left a square foot of skin dangling over my ass. "Thatíll dry into leather.: he told me. "Then we can sew it into a bag and you can keep your stuff in there." Right on, Dan! This guy was an expert. When he was done, I took a good look at myself in the mirror. Man, I really fucked up. What was I thinking? I couldnít live with myself like this. I threw myself out of the window. Me, and about one pound of glass, hit the cement twenty floors below.
†††† Everyone in the crowd really noticed me, but I was way too dead to care.
†††† In an attempt to add new ideas to art, an artist man got himself a live Rhesus monkey and stabbed it in the neck with the pointed end of a wooden stake. He stuck the stake into the ground with the struggling screaming monkey hanging off of it and video taped the event. He also took 35mm photographs of the suffering animal. When the poor animal reached its conclusion, the artist man allowed it to dry up on the end of the stake over the course of the next several months.
†††† Birds chewed on it, pieces fell off of it, decay set in, there were smells, transformations of shape and texture, color and form, and ultimately the thing just dried up and resolved itself, artistically. At this point, artist man began a sketch: Monkey on a Wooden Stake. He sketched it in many different angles. He wanted a real multimedia event.
†††† He then fashioned a press release for the media and opened his display to the public. He was subsequently arrested for animal abuse and put into jail where he was raped, beaten and stabbed. Years later, he was released and began work on his next big project: Puppy in a Blender.
†††† Some folks never change.
†††† When I look at my wife, I want to fuck a hooker. Not because my wife is bad, but because hookers are so good. Just the thought of it; the taboo nature of a one night stand with a stranger. It excites me in ways my Christian wife could never understand.
†††† All my wife and I do is perform intercourse in the missionary position. Am I the only man that wants to be fucked by a hooker while sheís standing on her head? Am I the only man who wants to be sucked and felt up and twisted around, with ropes and whips?
†††† How am I going to ask my wife to do that for me? Um, honey, can we try something new? I bought this whip here and I thought that, wellÖ if you could just whip me with it and explore a few kinky possibilities? No way, brother. Itís the missionary position, and only for procreation. Honey, can I put love beads in your ass? Darling, would you blow me instead of that boring thing you do with your hand? Sweetheart, would you consider turning over for a rear entry? Nope. Itís the missionary position, and only for procreation. So I have to have a hooker. I have needs. It will make me nicer to my wife.
†††† I went out to SW 13th Street to find the object of my lust. There on the side of the railroad tracks was a hot number with a set of tits like two eight pound bowling balls. She was the one for me. I invited her into my car and drove her to the Suck My Stuff Hotel. We went to room 4-A and we removed our clothing. What was I to say when to my horror, my hooker had a dick.
†††† "Lady, you got a dick." I said.
†††† "Thatís right," he replied in a deep voice. "And I can bench press two-hundred pounds. And if you donít shut up, Iím gonnaí fuck you."
The streets are dark
Glistening wet with moisture
Footfalls echo off terra-cotta walls
I feel the need to become
Part of the whole
Memories of childhood
Lonely times spent
Locked in the closets
Sometimes kitchen knives
Looking into your window
I want to be you
Jealousy, fear, hunger, rage
Peace comes to those
I Like Being a
Being a dog
Around the yard
Digging up bones
Being a dog
Like you do
Slimy yellow cup
Hit me with
I donít mind
I kind of
When itís cold
I would like
To join you
By the fire
Will stay out here
Being a dog
My chain tied
To the tree
And I go
ĎRound and Ďround
until my chain
Being a dog
Being a dog
Being a dog