Sunday, January 24, 2010

My Super Bowl Picks

For my bookie, Stephen

My early favorite for a win this Super Bowl is the team that scores the most points. But, you might say to me, what about that other team, don’t they have the “fire in the eyes” (enthusiasm to win the game)? My answer is, yes, but not as much as the team that scored the most points: witness the fact that they scored more points. This above all, establishes their desire and ability to win the game.

Other predictions: the game will continue to be played with an oddly shaped “football” by primarily human beings on a planet called “Earth. ” At the end of the game, a trenchcoated detective will not appear to reveal the “football” as being filled with a mixture of diamonds and cocaine and the whole NFL franchise as an elaborate scheme to smuggle both “under the eyes of a million people.” Objects on the field (players, cheerleaders) will not significantly fluctuate in mass or volume in the game without cause. No new species will emerge during the course of the game. Neither team will completely eat the members of the other team, and the spectators will not eat the winning team “to honor them.” Nor will injured players be allowed one tearful phone call to their families, projected on Jumbotron, before being “refurbished.”

Neither team will play entirely naked. Neither will use fire or rocks to better their advantage. No new inventions, or “superweapons” will be created by either team, during a huddle, allowing them to win the game. Both teams will possess a common human language and use bipedal locomotion to play the game. The thumbs of the losing team will not be severed, demoting them to “five-finger men” to “four finger animals” who can now be hunted for sport. Though every member of each team knows how to drive a car, not a single player will demonstrate this skill during the course of the game. Neither team will be discovered to be playing the game entirely asleep, under the direction of a master hypnotist that instructs them through their helmets in the voice of a little girl.

When scoring a winning touchdown, the quarterback will not remove its pants, revealing itself to be a divine huntress hermaphrodite that then inspires an impromptu orgy. This is why this Super Bowl will not be afterwards known as “the Super Bowl of the Mysteries.”

The theme of the half-time show will not be “the unexamined life is not worth living.” Wardrobe failures will not reveal sexual characteristics unknown to contemporary biology. Children will not become obsessed with what they saw, drawing it over and over again in preschool classes and unable to have natural congress later as adults. Nor will the half-time theme be “Las Meninas” by Velázquez, featuring the dwarf from “Twin Peaks” and full-size actors that have elected to become dwarves for this special event. Men will continue to worship the same god, despite his obvious indifference and unwillingness to influence space/time events.

Giant puppies will not invade the stadium revealing the Super Bowl and Puppy Bowl to, in fact, be the same event separated by a thin veneer of false perception. When scoring a winning touchdown, the puppy quarterback will not remove its pants revealing itself to be a divine huntress hermaphrodite that then inspires an impromptu puppy orgy. This is why this Super Bowl will not be afterwards known as “the most incredible dog food ad, ever.”

Monday, January 18, 2010

New Sodom, New Gomorrah, Part I

This would be the last series of injections into my penis before the orgy. Watching the three large needles go in I regarded the latest modification to my glans. The head now had an acute alien shape, like an African mask. I felt myself becoming aroused and blanked my mind, withdrawing into meditation, though aware of a heavy velvety sensation in the shaft, as though it were being pumped full of lead or mercury, held up by the penetration of the three needles. Though the room was white and cold, I felt a small sweat break over my naked body.

There were eight locations on my body where poisonous spines had been secreted: the left heel, the right elbow, the shaft of the penis, the urethra, the nape of the neck, the spine, the anus, the roof of the mouth, each tucked in a sheath of engineered smooth muscle that would shoot them out at the moment of orgasm, which I could control wholly at will. The spines were translucent, the poison a blackish purple. The scent was very faint and not unpleasant. It was not lethal: it only caused paralysis. Once the twins were paralyzed I was to begin work.

The Sex Wars were not about sex. Like all wars, they were about power. The Blue Revolution had intended to save industrial civilization by marrying it to an inexhaustible and organic power resource. Orgone radiation, however, had sexualized and perverted most of the earth’s animal population, which now lived in a constant state of preorgasmic arousal. Orgasm, however, was now possible only under the most extreme circumstances and usually led to death. Most cities had large spectacular torture centers in an attempt to channel the near constant outbreaks of sexual violence and orgies that now made daily life almost impossible.

Castration had absolutely no effect. The orgone radiation acted directly on the brain. The most marginally effective treatment combined heavy sedation, sensory reduction and an electroshock collar. People were told the collar was designed to help them redirect their thoughts by administering a corrective shock in response to sexual ideation. In reality, the collars simply shocked randomly; however, since most people could think of little else, people believed in them. X awoke, as always from frightening and violent sexual dreams. He realized, vaguely, that he was crying and playing with himself. The first morning shock brought him to the floor.

Upon recovery he made his way to the bathroom. Brushing his teeth, he recalled the details of his dream and vomited. Collecting himself as best he could, he rezipped his anti-sex suit and anti onan mittens, pouring into his pockets the rattling doses of sedatives he would need for the day, fighting the urge to lube the shaft of his toothpaste tube with toothpaste and shove it in his urethra. He vomited again over breakfast, but this was a normal effect of the drugs. He was glad he lived alone now. Before he would awake to his wife’s clawing kisses.

She would gnaw at him like a sick maddened animal and then rub at him furiously through their heavy padded anti sex suits, crying and screaming obscenities. They would grapple with each other from the moment they came home like trapped animals, finally collapsing in the early morning hours, their heavy wool suits torn and soaked with sweat and streaked with blood. Her face was now always bent in an expression of insane lust, indistinguishable from agony as she battered against him. He realized she had become dangerous when he awoke to find her masturbating with a pair of scissors.

He did not have the courage to report her. He still loved her. Sometimes, when the heavy evening downers were still working, he still loved to hold her tenderly, wrapped in a thick comforter. Her sleeping face was soft and childlike and held all the personality he remembered of the girl he had loved. He would fall asleep listening to her heavy drugged breathing, reminding him of their life together before sex had ruined everything. One day she finally cut herself out of her suit entirely. She stood there naked before him covered in sweat and blood like something just born.

She gave him a single look and then ran away like a fleeing animal into the city. He knew he would never see her again. She would be dead in a few hours. He locked and barred the door and began weeping and masturbating for three days at the end of which he had to go the hospital as he had skinned and bruised his penis beyond recognition. The waiting room at the emergency room was a nightmare. The man next to him needed to have a folding table removed, but could not restrain himself from attempting to pleasure himself with it further, until he disemboweled himself.

The twins were the alpha and the omega of eros. Small children usually could not be restrained from chewing pictures of their faces out of magazines. They nearly identical, with strange subtle differences that were complimentary. They were the faces and figures that had launched a thousand masturbating ships.

Monday, January 4, 2010

Blacula vs. Caligula vs. Asslicula, AD 1973, Act I

Act I

Scene One: Open

Darkness. We hear heavy labored breathing and the sound of stalking. Some leaves move. We realize we see the killer’s POV: we are the killer. Strange music is heard. We come upon the open window to a house. We hear women's voices.

Hurry up, we don’t want to be late.

We see into a girl’s bed room on the second floor. GIRL#1 in her bra is struggling into really tight stretchy pants. Her butt is really enormous. Really. She’s like a queen bee. The author objects to the objectification of women and other human beings, particularly in cinema and is really not a “butt man” but this is all part of the genre. This is important.

The killer is excited. We hear this from his breathing.

He looks around and finds a door. He gently tries it. It is locked. We hear more voices and movement; his glance darts around and he scuttles to cover. He finds another door. He tries it. It is unlocked.

He is inside. He skulks around. Looking both ways down corridors, his breathing rapid, but stilfed. He listens. He hears a door open and footsteps. He shoots upstairs.

We come into the girl’s bedroom. Clothes lie on the floor. There is the sound of returning footsteps. The killer retreats into the closet, closing the door, peering through the slats. The girl returns with more stretch pants. She is about to put her top on, when she drops an earring. It falls into the bright yellow shag rug that is deep as a mod prairie. She bends over looking for her earring. Her butt fills the screen like a H-bomb cloud. By the killer’s breathing we can hear he is excited by this. Unlike the scriptwriter, he is obsessed with butts. He has other problems, too, this much has already been established.

GIRL #2 enters.

What is taking you so long?

I dropped an earring.

(Sighs in irritation) I’ll help you find it.

GIRL #2 bends over with GIRL #1; her butt is even more enormous. It’s like twin beanbags pregnant with beach balls. Again, that’s no reflection on her as a person, or people with large behinds because there is a great deal of normal human variation. But if you’re really into this sort of thing, well, it’s incredible. It's a big day for our voyeur. His excitement increases terrifically, as both GIRLs root around in the shag rug that comes up to their ankles and wrists.

(Offscreen) Hey, where is everybody?

GIRLs #1 & #2
We’re in here.

GIRL #3 enters. Explanations are made. Soon all three are bent over rooting in the shag rug. GIRL #3 behind is bigger than the other two put together. There’s no way she can sit down unless someone stretches out a fishing net, or topples over a soccer goal. She bends over. The screen is filled with three enormous suns bobbing and stretching: the killer’s breathing reaches a violent, surely audible pitch.

Maybe this would go more quickly if we took these constricting pants off.


Hey girls, I thought everyone was ready to go. What’s everyone doing in here?

Oh hi, Mr. Seacrest. Girl number one here lost an earring.

Hmm, I’m actually pretty good a finding these sorts of things. Let me have a look.

Mr. Seacrest, the Bus Driver bends over. His butt is ten times the size of any of the girl’s butt’s. It’s not even clear how he entered the room. There isn’t even room enough on the screen to show all of Mr. Seacrest, the Bus Driver’s butt; you have to access it under special features in the the DVD.

At the appearance of this fourth butt, the killer’s excited breathing climaxes into a groan of fury. The screen cuts to black and the sound of the closet door breaking and shouts of alarm are heard.

Scene 2: The Next Day

It is daytime. We fade in on the same door the killer came in. We hear the sound of police radio; police enter the shot, coming and going. The police have been over the scene all morning. We follow LT. JACK PETERS in.

We see GIRL#1’s bedroom again. It’s wrecked. The bodies of all four are strewn about. There is no blood.

This is goddamn masac-cree, like that, uh, Al Bundy guy.

There’s no blood.

So they were strangled?

No, there’s no blood at all in the bodies. They’re totally exsanguinated.

A horrible familiarity dawns upon Lieutenant Detective Jack Peters.

No blood.

No: they’re totally exsanguinated. Which means there’s no blood at all in the bodies.

Creepy recollection music plays.

No blood, no blood.

Yes, there’s no blood at all in the bodies. In other words they’re totally exsanguinated.

Sucked dry.

There’s only two wounds on any of the bodies.

Yeah. I know.

(Creepy revelation music plays. LT. JACK PETERS bends down to turn down the collar of one of the victims to reveal –nothing, unblemished skin.)

Not there, Lieutenant.

(LT. JACK PETERS is surprised)

Down there.

The FORENSIC EXAMINER points to the lower part of the victim.

(LT. JACK PETERS bends down to examine the crotch of one of the victims)

Not down there, Lieutenant.

Down there.

The FORENSIC EXAMINER points to the victim’s butt.

We cut to a shot of LT. JACK PETER’s horrified face.

Scene 3: The Secret Satanic Police Headquarters.

It is a meeting of the LAPD’s Secret Satanic Order of Satanic Satan Police (SSOSSP); all the police wear dress uniforms with ceremonial inverted pentagrams and executioner’s hoods, beneath a Satanic LAPD shield where Baphomet weighs the scales; in other words, a typical departmental meeting.

The Dark Prince, the Father of Lies, the Arch-Fiend has broken the covenant and his promise.

In the name of his Satanic Majesty and his Eternal Servant Samuel L. Williams, Death to Blacula!

In the Name of Satan and the LAPD: Death to Blacula!

Scene 4: Assault on Blacula’s Funky Pad

On a daylight assault, a SWAT team repels into Blacula’s high-rise condo, smashing through the great blacked out glass walls. They shotgun and then stake several guest coffins. Blacula’s boudoir is a purple canopied circular spinning bed –the cops slash it and the lining of graveyard earth spills out. They trash Blacula’s record collection and collection of bongs. They shoot up his collection of funky shoes. But Blacula is nowhere to be found.

Suddenly, there is the sound of a motorcycle revving: it is a helmeted Blacula on his black motorbike, Bikula.

Blacula charges at the SWAT team with his Zulu spear, taking several out. He swings around and runs at them again, and many crash out the groovy pad's windows to plummet to the street below.

They try and surround Blacula on the pulsating disco dance floor, but he rides up to a dance pole, grabs onto it and swings Bikula in a big circle into the air right into them .

Blacula is everywhere, with his blow gun and nunchucks.

A team storms the room Blacula is in –but he has vanished. Or has he? Above their heads, Blacula holds himself aloft, pressing against the walls with Bikula strapped beneath his legs. He swings Bikula down catching a SWAT team member in the face. They try and return fire, but Blacula is away, swinging back up and riding Bikula upside down on the ceiling. He rides upside down on the ceiling through the entire apartment, slaying them from above.

Finally there is only LT. JACK PETERS left. Blacula swings Bikula in front of him and stops. At the press of a button on Bikula, armored metal plates slide down to block the sunlight. Blacula flips up his visor. Bikula idles. The room fills with Bikula’s hellish exhaust. Blacula says nothing. He takes off his helmet. We see his terrible fangs.

(backing away) You broke the rules, Prince, you crossed the river. You killed a city employee.

LT. JACK PETERS fires his gun at BLACULA. It is, of course, quite useless. LT. JACK PETERS reaches for a crucifix, which BLACULA simply twists out of his hand. LT. JACK PETERS reaches for something, but BLACULA’s hands are ahead of him: garlic, vials of holy water and stakes spill out of LT. JACK PETERS’ coat onto the ground.

Why Mamuwalde, why? Look at his photo. He was only 47. He was a good bus driver. You sucked his ass dry.

BLACULA looks surprised, grabs the photos out of LT. JACK PETERS’ coat and throws him on the ground.

BLACULA looks at the photos.

Blacula don’t suck that, fool.

BLACULA throws down the photos in disgust.