For once, I agree with the Vatican

I wasn't even aware that the Catholic church was officially against capital punishment- haw haw! Go figure! Hoo-boy. Times sure have changed.

Anyhow, check this shit out:

"An execution is always tragic news, reason for sadness, even in the case of a person who is guilty of grave crimes," the Holy See's spokesman, Rev. Federico Lombardi, said in a statement released by the Vatican press office.

Earlier in the morning, Lombardi made similar comments on Vatican Radio.

"The position of the Catholic Church — against the death penalty — has been reiterated many times," the spokesman said in the statement, referring to the Vatican's overall opposition to capital punishment.

"Killing the guilty one is not the way to rebuild justice and reconcile society," the spokesman said. "On the contrary, there is the risk that the spirit of revenge is fueled and that the seeds of new violence are sown."

In other words, capital punishment is UN-PIG. I couldn't agree with you more, Reverend.

Duty calls

Satan: Tony.

Tony: Umm....yes?

Satan: It's Satan. You know tom, don't you?

Tony: Tom? Sure. Why?

Satan: Well, I was wondering if I could ask a favor of you. I need-

Tony: Well that's rude.

Satan: What?

Tony: You didn't even give me a chance to consider whether or not I should help you out, before you start blathering about what you need! I hate that!

Satan: So sue me. I'm Satan.

Tony: Fair enough. Continue.

Satan: It's just that lately, he keeps complaining about his life, hee-hawing about this or that. It's like he wants me to solve all his problems! I mean, on one hand, he's giving me the best press I've had in years, but then again, it's just not my gig! I don't help, I hinder!

Tony: So you're saying you don't want to help.

Satan: Not quite. I feel that I've helped too much already, and besides, I need to get back on track with my "buy your soul" shtick. Any ideas for some openers next time I see him?

Tony: Well, why should I help? I mean, before you came along, I was Tom's go-to guy for lifes little problems. What's in it for me?

Satan: Hows about this huge bag of weed?

Tony: Awesome! I say offer him infinite volume. That'll get him interested. If not, try the weed.

Satan: HahahahahahHahahaha! Jokes on you! That weed is cursed!

Tony: Weed's weed. Fuck you.

Satan: Awwwww......

Tune in next time for a careful analysis of my motivations in "Am I Lazy"!

Homeless, but not pornless.

I'm riding the trolley this morning, and as we pull away from the civic center, I see a man walking down the sidewalk, with an optimistic rythym to his walk. Obviously homeless, he wore a slightly dirty beanie, topped with a fitted baseball cap stylistically cocked to the side, all the while precariously hanging on his head. His mouth was a jokers smile, held in company with a cigarette that wasn't daring to become any shorter. he looked relatively healthy for his economic state. A few sweatshirts found their way under a few more coats, and I couldn't help but feel a bit jealous of how warm he must be under all that. Numerous pairs of pants didn't keep him from displaying white underwear, and only about half of the pants were anywhere near the waist. The most stunning detail, however, was his reading material. he had what, at a moments notice I could only deduce as a "cheri"(a particularly middle of the road porno mag, nowhere as good as "score") folded cover in, so that anyone seeing either side was gifted to a viewing of semen covered pussy, or face. He also had a cd player in the same hand, but that seemed to pale in comparison. He kinda looked like flava flav. Public enemy is coming to the house of blues. I kinda wanna go, but I also know I'll wanna leave right after I get there, cause I feel anxious in public places where I know few people.

San Francisco Moment #4

Sometimes when I ride the N car in the mornings there's a guy on there with Down's syndrome. He's often interested in one of the ladies on the rain and will strike up a pleasant, boring conversation. One morning I saw him trying to talk to a young lady seated near one of the doors. Then a rough, really down on his luck Farmer John looking homeless guy sits down next to the girl. It's about all she can take. After a few seconds she gets up and hurries to the other side of the car. A beat goes by before the guy who was sitting next to her looks up and says to the homeless guy, "Jesus dude, take a bath!", then walks off to the other side of the train. The homeless guys mumbles a few disparaging, unintelligible remarks to himself and settles in for the ride. Another beat goes by and he notices the guy with Down's syndrome.

"You ever take an I.Q. test?" the homeless guy asks the guy with Down's syndrome.

"Shut up!" says the Down's syndrome guy. "I'll slap your mouth!" The homeless guy mutters a few more disparaging, unintelligle remarks, this time with a smile on his face. He gets off at the next stop, the guy with Down's syndrome one stop later.

I turn to the lady sitting next to me. "Man," I said, "That was something. I just watched that situation go from bad to worse." The lady looked at me. She nodded her head and smiled. She still had her headphones in.

Our gay cats

I've watched an interesting thing unravel for the past few months: my cats' burgeoning homosexuality. I never thought I'd be the proud father of two gay cats, but then again I never thought I'd one day hold degrees in music and French and work for a life insurance company.

I've left them no alternative. For better or worse, they're indoor cats. They only have each other. And Cutus... Cutus was clearly taken away from his mother too early. He also looks and acts like a runt: awkward, clumsy, badly proportioned, his face permanently plastered with a look that is equal parts vague fear and profound bewilderment.

One evening, Cutus began sucking on Army's mantits. It was unexpected and unnerving. The loud, incessant slurping sound was the most disturbing part of it. Once we got used to it, only the slurping continued to bother us. On a moral and ethical level it's still alright wth me, it just pisses me off when it's so loud it wakes me up out of a dead sleep.

An open letter to Taylor Rain and Lexington Steele

Hi guys,

You two are like, my favorite pornstars in the whole world. I was wondering if maybe you'd like to come and have sex at my next birthday party? I mean shit, I already got a drunken mobility scooter ride for my birthday this year- where the hell do I go from there? The only thing I can think of to top this year's celebration is a kickass house party feature a live performance by the porn industry's two brightest stars. Of course this wouldn't be a money-making venture on my part. It's just that you both seem to exemplify the good qualities about porn: your partners always seem to have a good time, you give believable performaces, and you push the sexual envelope. Perhaps in the future we'll see sex in movies as frequently as it happens in real life. In the meantime, keep making that great porn and remember: you have the power to make a young man's dreams come true.

Thank you,
Tom Amans

Happy Birthday to Me

I think, as a b'day present to myself, I'm going to kick everyone else off of this blog. No one contributes anymore anyways. Hell, I don't think anyone even reads it. Baron von Puerco may have been here a while ago, but he's in France trying to get back together with an old girlfriend, so fuck him. I'm jealous about the France part.

But that's not half as fun as the birthday present Kendra's going to get me. You know those motorized cart-thingies that really fat old people ride around on at the grocery store? I believe two of the brand names for them are Amigo and Rascal. They rent them by the hour down at Fisherman's Wharf. I've asked Kendra to get me a fifth of good bourbon and one of those carts for a few hours.

Pictures will follow.

Lord Nasty - R.I.P.

Lord Nasty is dead. The band, not the singer. Last month we had a good show up in his hometown of Ukiah. A couple of bands rented out a hall and hired us on as headliners, since Lord Nasty has something of a following up there. It was an all ages show and the kids loved it. The Lord came out in his choir robe and they started bowing down to him. They were bumping and grinding through the whole show, even made us play an encore. Yeah.

Last Monday I was supposed to play my first show in the city with them. Lord Nasty never got on the Greyhound bus from Ukiah. He didn't even call anyone to say he wasn't going to show up. Instead he left a message on his answering machine saying that he had renounced Lord Nasty and the past nine years of filth that had been spread in his name. Singing absurd, XXX-rated lyrics was no way to thank God after surviving a near-death experience. Apparently he has some issues.

So that's it. You can still download the tunes on myspace. Oh well. Us survivors might start a funk band called "Astroglyde". We'll see.

San Francisco Moment #2

I caught the N-Judah heading towards downtown. I didn't even see the guy when I first got on. I was standing up reading my newspaper and I felt "the stare". The guy was about two feet in front of me and the train was crowded. I looked up and saw him looking right back at me. Rough looking, obviously homeless. "How ya doin?" I asked. No reply. He looked away. A good ten seconds later he says "Fine, thanks." Then he starts singing metal tunes. I couldn't tell you exactly what he sang but I knew by the high-pitched delivery and fantastic lyrics that it was 80s hair metal. He went off for a good five minutes or so, looking at people as he sang and gestured. Like I said, it was a crowded train, but people still found space to move away from him.

He kept looking at me while he was singing, so during a pause I asked him if he knew any Judas Priest. He hesitated. "You know," I said, "Hellbent, hellbent for leather!" That was all it took. For the rest of the ride downtown it was all about JP. Judas motherfuckin Priest.

About halfway through "Breakin the Law" he paused and a look of great pain came over his face. It was emotional pain, like he was going to start crying or something. "I can't..." he said, "I can't... No. No I can't." Look of pain again. "That's why I'm gonna drink this." And with that he pulled a tall can from his coat pocket and took a swig. Then he went right back into it. People kept moving and looking away. I did the only thing a person can do when a sad nutty drunk guy is singing you Judas Priest all the way to work on a Tuesday morning- I banged my head right along with him.

San Francisco Moment #1

I am currently really really pissed off at Earthlink. I'm not going to get into it here. I was on a payphone attempting to convince Earthlink to stop taking my money and not providing me with phone service. This homeless-looking black guy walks up to me with a Fex Ex package under his arm. I notice him trying to get my attention and when I look at him he gestures to me. "Hold on," I say to the Earthlink representative. "What do you need?" I ask the guy with the package.
"You wan' buy this?" he asks me in a drunken, slurred voice.
"Um, no," I say.
He gives me a dirty look and then, realizing the utter, absolute stupidity of what he's proposing, his face goes blank and he walks away. Yes that's right dude. You are an asshole. You got mad at me because I didn't want to pay you money for a stolen FedEx mystery package. Sure there could have been something good in there. There could have been a million dollars in there but I will never know. No thanks, fuckface.

Weedy Fun

I walked in the front door and to my right there was a one-way mirror. I slipped the piece of paper that the physician had given me into the slit at the bottom of the mirror and someone on the other side took it. After a few seconds a friendly-sounding voice asked, "Is this your first time here?"

"Yes," I replied.

"Come on in," it said.

I walked into a small lobby and down two flights of stairs to another door. On this second door someone had written the words "Welcome to Heaven". I rung a doorbell and was buzzed in. I stepped into a typical stoner lounge area, with couches and chairs and tables upon which rested several large glass bongs. I could hear reggae in the background. I walked up to the counter and was shown all of the merchandise, informed of the differences between indica and sativa, and given a free bottle of water.

It reminded me of the coffeeshops I've visited in Amsterdam. There are, however, a few differences between buying legal weed in San Francisco and buying legal weed in Amsterdam. One difference, which struck me as soon as I got to the counter, was the selection. There were many different kinds of weed, brands if you will, of varying degrees of potency, as well as all sorts of hash and baked goodies. But then there was also the hash oil and the hash honey and the hash ice cream and the hash oil lollipops and the hybrid plants for sale. And the kief. Sweet precious kief.

Although Europe has it's version of the pothead, it seems to me that Americans take their smoking to a higher level of indulgence (or ridiculousness, depending on your opinion). I think part of this is simply because WE LIKE BIG THINGS, and when we do things, WE LIKE TO DO THINGS BIG. And QUICK. Why waste time rolling a joint every time you wanna smoke pot when you can just pack the four-footer, take a rip, and get ten times higher? In America, it seems, the tendency among most stoners is to smoke until you trip the fuck out.

The second difference involves what you have to do to get legal weed. In Amsterdam, you walk into a coffeeshop and buy as much as you want. In San Francisco, it seems to be tied to the medical profession. To get a medical approval for cannabis, I went into the office of a doctor who specializes in medical marijuana evaluations and complained of ongoing shoulder pain from a motorcycle accident I was in five years ago. It really does still hurt, which I thought would justify me becoming righteously indignant if accused of trying to con my way into legal weed. Since I hadn't been seen by a doctor for my medical problem for over three years, I would only be getting a three-month card and a referral to a local chiropractor. After I saw the chiropractor I could come back and be "re-evaluated" for no additional fee.

Wait a minute here- Are the guys who run the medical profession a bit smarter than we think? Could they really have convinced big government to look the other way for the sake of making everyone A LOT OF MONEY?

And yet, despite this vast socio-political conundrum, pot dispensaries in SF are pretty sweet.

Hypocritical Pigs

"Hey baby. My names Corrine. I checked out your profile and you are SOOOOOOOO hawt. If you want you can check out my page. Or you can visit my website to see naughty pics that myspace won't let me post."

Anybody who has a Myspace account has received a message like the one above. Similarly, anybody who has an e-mail account has received porno-spam. Hell, even our e-mail account here at work harbors larger penis ads and whatnot. The point being: everyone is bombarded with this shit all the time.

Being completely comfortable with my piggery, I'm perfectly willing to admit that I surf my way over to these sites on occasion- just to check out the goods. Well, while I was staring at "Corrine's" ass and willing the lump in my pants not to stir too magnificently, I began to wonder, What Would Jesus Do? Seriously.

It's common knowledge that I'm supposed to believe some dude, who was also God, lived about 2000 years ago in the Middle East. He did a bunch of stuff and then got nailed to a cross because I'm an asshole- or something like that. All of that is a bit difficult for me to swallow. But what I find absolutely impossible to swallow is the idea that Jesus, a man-god, would not also appreciate Corrine's nice ass. I find it even more impossible to believe that Jesus' little followers do not gawk at Corrine's rounded rump. Oh! but they'll claim they don't.

It's no secret that most Christians are raised to hate and fear sex. Who else could create all those wonderfully painful and embarassing chastity devices from the Middle Ages on but devout Christians? Who else would blame the fall of the American Empire on short skirts and big tits but Christians? Who else but loving, forgiving Christians would have the audacity to suggest that the "sanctity of marriage" and the "future of the family" are in jeopardy because dudes who put it in each others' butts want to get married? And who do you think the majority of people furtively stroking their respective naughty bits to Corrine's junk and other porn are? My guess: Christians.

Yes, Jeezo-boy. I know you jack off. You know how I know you jack off? Because you're a strapping young male in the prime of your life. You're horny and virile. And since you've been trained to hate women and fear sex, you're only outlet is to spank it to BangBus. While I might be the epitome of everything you are trained to think of as evil, I do have at least one thing over you. I don't have to feel guilty when I spank the monkey. I like women. I find them quite attractive and stimulating in many ways. On occasion, I even talk to them as if they were my equals. Then I spank it to the thought of doing wonderfully horrible things to them in all sorts of exotic positions. Some of them have even let me live out my fantasies in the flesh.

My point being, don't try to suggest that I'm some sort of scum for touching my dick because of Corrine's beautiful booty. And don't think for a second that I believe you don't do the same thing. Live your life. I'll live mine. If you're right, I'll be judged accordingly. If I'm right, we both just die. But at least I had some fun along the way.

Play one more!!

Prayin for the Lord

The other day I woke up, ate a bagel, got in the shower, kissed my girlfriend (who I think of as my wife) goodbye, and went to work at my office job. Am I going to start coming after thirty thrusts pretty soon? Chronic bad breath? Balding? I've already begun ripping those wet, old man froggy farts. My cock leaks sometimes after I piss. Dammit.

If I have to be stuck in this con, no matter what form in which it manifests itself- chasing animals around all day so I can kill them and eat them, or working in a goddamn office building in downtown San Francisco (actually one of the softer gigs I've ever had), it's good to take advantage of the situation as much as possible. Better to encounter a busload of scared, middle class drones with a fresh high going and Eric Dolphy piped into my ears. Maybe if I could play flute, alto sax, and bass clarinet I'd avoid the rat race too… only to die alone in Germany, the cops thinking I'm a junky because of the needles I use to shoot insulin.

These two black kids are talking so loud I hear them over my headphones. No one else on the bus says anything. "You're so retarded," says one of them, "That all you say is 'Duh…' You know how retarded people say that all the time? People ask you what time it is and all you say is 'Duh…'" She pauses. "You get it?"

Everyone on the bus groans and looks away. The kids are in their own world and all the adults wish they could be too. "Wait a minute," I say, "If you have to explain it, it's probably not that funny." They both look at me, surprised. "Just say it, you know?"

They look at each other sort of wide-eyed. Then the one who wasn't talking says, "Mister, you crazy."

"Maybe," I say, laughing, "Maybe." They can tell my laugh isn't mean and they laugh too.

In all seriousness, I'm not too worried about being a total tool. I just joined a band call Lord Nasty and the Seekers of Perversion and the first practice went very well. The singer, Lord Nasty, has been in the hospital for the past two weeks with double pneumonia, but he just had his breathing tube removed and we've got gigs scheduled for next month. Who'd have thought I'd ever be prayin for the Lord and really meaning it?

The Chronicles of Phil

Egad! I have received word from the reverend! Here's what I came across in my mail the other day, faithfully transcribed and totally unedited.


HELP!

Wow, this is a lot of work, and I've only gone ten miles! It took me awhile to find the beginning of the trail, but once I latched onto the smell of fresh college grads who want to prove something with their lives, I knew I had it. I was on my way.

The beginning of the trail was peaceful and serene, just as it had always been in my dreams. My first night was also peaceful, except for the stupid animals I drove away with my latest acousti-metal guitar stylings. Yes, I have indeed brought my guitar, but I find it also comes in handy as a hatchet, more so now that I've filed the edge down with the bit of stubble I've grown over the past few weeks. My dream of the deforestation of the Appalachian trail is at hand.

The food is alright, as far as charred chipmunk and drinking my own urine goes. Speaking of food, the other day I met my first fellow hikers! I came upon their camp while they were sleeping, so I took the opportunity to raid their camp. I had all their spam and jerky snacks in my bag, and was just gaining the trust of the family dog when they woke up. Well, in times of danger, we must improvise, so I beat them to death with their own pet. I call him dillinger, and between him and my trusty axe, I always have a weapon at hand.

Well, back to the grind. I hope to make 100 miles by the end of June. How is Ray? Has he left the house yet? Say hi to Dominic for me. I think he was trying to mentally communicate with me, but he was probably just being a weirdo stoner and making shit up. Is Tom still in San Fran, or has he moved somewhere else in an effort to evade any sort of post college responsibility? Send my best.

I'm totally gay,
Phil


Wow. I'm amazed. Only 10 miles and already he seems to be having an amazing trip. Stay tuned, space piggies!

Out of body or out of mind?

So today there was a watershed moment in my existance. I left my body or at least part of my mind did and I had control over "my"* movements including going through objects. While I was able to acieve this I decided to try to contact Ray. Well I may have and possibly saw out of his eyes as I saw him dial my phone number, put the phone to his ear then my phone rang. ESP or bullshit? I can't tell you what it was but I definitely experienced something. I'll try to be as detailed and I hope, as objective as possible.

I have been reading "Cosmic Trigger 1" by Robert Anton Wilson In which the topic of drug induced illumination and ESP are widely discussed. I am fully aware that after reading about this that I could have tricked myself into thinking I left my body. I gotta tell ya, I didn't think this up. I've never done or felt this.

It started with a gravity hit. Then I put in Samuel Barber's "Agnus Dei". I always feel something inexplicable (peace?) when I listen to this particular piece of music. I called Ray, and left a message for him to call me, listened to one version of the song then skipped to the choral version got on my couch, sat cross legged and closed my eyes. I got up and walked into the music room to tidy up figuring I wasn't going to hear from Ray anytime soon. As I got to my small hallway I stopped moving just as the choir peaked and just stood there immobile for a while and saw and felt light, both in weight and feeling its presence around me. Then "I" started to move unhindered around Me, through walls, the whole deal. "I" didn't percieve anything the way I would with my 5 sences, and I remember distinctly that I could not smell anything until my experience was over. The only sounds I heard was the music in my living room and it was obvious that I was still in contact with "I". The "I" experienced things as a visual signal but nothing like normal sight. It was more warm energy than sight. I can describe the way "I" saw as translucent light, like looking at information traveling through fiber optics with out the fibers. Seeing without the use of my eyes. Everything I would normally see was there but there were flashes of images going by that seemed translucent like luminous watercolors. (damn, the rest of the post got deleted at this point so I'm re typing now, damn spacetime...) "I" assumed that these were other conversations or entities passing by as they looked like what "I" was experiencing.
I decided "I" had to try to contact Ray. "I" went up, it was that easy. Just go there. I went up through the attic, looked at my car a bit and then went over the alleyway at a height of about 25 feet or so. "I" got to Ray's went in through his celing and looked at him while just to the left side of his monitor. "I" decided to see if I could inhabit the same space as Ray and I moved over and saw through his eyes. He was playing warcraft with his character Aylcebiedes (SP?) on a green and blue level (it turns out his charachter was underwater) and "I" concentrated on getting Ray to call me. So now "I" was looking out of Ray's eyes and he got up to walk to the phone. "I" left his space briefly and returned when he picked up the phone. "I" saw him dial my phone number in great detail then he put the phone to his left ear and voila, my phone rang. "I" snapped back to my body and I simply answered the phone "Ray?" even though I knew that he was the one calling. I told him about "my" experience and everything "I" saw him do checked out.

There were lingering effects for a while after the experience. Later on Ray came over to pick up his drumset. I noticed that not only did I not need to look at the drum as I manuvered it precicely through my narrow hallway but that the drum felt lighter. After getting all the drums loaded we agreed that it was time for a smoke. I quickly thought about Kate at a sunset (I'll try to confirm if that was where she was) and then my phone rang. "This is Kate," I said". It was and I was not expecting her to call at all.

I don't know what it was that I experienced. I am skeptical, but like I said I have never done or experienced this before. It was too real an experience for me to simply discount. Answers are out of my grasp. Will they ever be within reach?

* In an attempt to describe this event I noticed that I would have to have a way to define the physical me that is consious goes to work and poops and stuff as well as the non-physical "me" that appears to be able to travel with light. For what it is worth both me and "me" were in contact the whole time even though the physical me was unable to move. They were in contact but they were also independant of each other. People have defined what I described as "me" as a soul for millennia. I make no such assumptions. I don't think I can ever again.

Say I want a revolution

Sometimes I couldn't help but think that maybe most people liked things the way they were. They didn't mind the arrangement. What else could account for things being the way they were? If enough people were of the same opinion that life basically sucked for most people most of the time, why didn't we talk about it that way at parties? At work? At school?

Jesus, why the fuck are rebels so hot? Because they're alpha, that's why! They weren't born into wealth, but the doesn't stop them from aspiring to the uppermost echelons of the human socio-economic hierarchy. The nerve!

Spitting on chicks during sex and the sacred feminine

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A couple of ideas that need to be shot down

Hello there fellow porkers. After my sudden departure from my last place of employment (See "My Bosses Leave Town For a Week") I indicated that I intended to find a new job deep within the crusty bosom of a large, faceless corporation, eschewing the outright slavery that one is almost always subjugated to when working in a ma and pa shop for the glories of employee break rooms, downtown office buildings, and vending machines. Since I no longer have to spend my workday trying to appease a megalomaniacal CPA cum gym bitch or his fake-titted, thrice-married golddigger of a wife, I've had the excess brain power to turd out the following idears:

Captain Cochon's Piggyland!

How about a wonderful new theme park dedicated to all that is pig? Can you imagine what the attractions at this place would be like? Holy shit. Feel free to throw out some ideas in the comments section. And I know what you're thinking. This is basically what Las Vegas already is. Which leads me to...

The First Annual International Drunken Pig Convention

Of course Vegas is the perfect place for the First Annual International Drunken Pig Convention. I was thinking sometime in February. Anyone game? I'll make T-shirts...

Cinco de Puerco

This last Friday, May the 5th, was the feast of Cinco de Mayo. Cinco de Mayo is an American holiday that centers around getting drunk from Hispanic-influenced alcoholic beverages and shitting all over the Mexican culture. There are a lot of misconceptions about the feast of Cinco de Mayo concerning its origin and meaning, so Von Puerco will take this opportunity to educate you, the teeming masses.

Many believe that Cinco de Mayo is Mexican Independence Day. This is a fallacy adhered to by elitist white assholes eager to spout significant dates from round the world in an attempt to further their dominant Aryan intellectual terrorism. Others believe it commemorates the defeat of the French by the Mexicans on May 5, 1862. This is a common but understandable mistake, as this event happens on the 5th of May and "Cinco de Mayo" is Spanish for "5th of May", but this is merely a coincidence.

Despite the obvious aforementioned implications, don't be fooled by this ethno-historical babble. Cinco de Mayo is a uniquely American holiday. Ancient texts dictate that Cinco de Mayo was established in 1972 by Frank Wisnieski, a sociology undergrad at San Diego State University class of '74. One day early in the spring semester, Frank was poring over the university's academic calender trying to decide which days to skip class so that he could stretch his Spring Break in Rosarito beyond the usual week to an unprecedented 13 days. He noticed that between the Monday and Friday surrounding Easter and the end of the semester in late May there were no officially-recognized holidays that would lend themselves to binge drinking for a cause. Frank made it his duty to find a day, official or otherwise, that would be a nationally recognized day of inebriation and belligerence after Easter but before finals.

It wasn't until Frank's journey to Rosarito that Spring Break that he finally found a day fitting for an impromptu holiday. On day 10 of his 13-day binge, Frank found himself passed out on a table in a low-rent taco shop. As he came to consciousness he found stuck to his face a plastic placemat. It seems the combination of salt, lime and cheap beer makes an excellent adhesive on the spot. After tearing the placemat and a patch of flesh from his face, Frank saw that this placemat was in fact a Spanish calender highlighting all the Mexican holidays for that year. There in bright red was the number 5. It fell on a Friday in the month of May, and was exactly 2 weeks before finals and the end of the semester. Next to the red 5 were the words "Batalla de Puebla" but at that point Frank could not be bothered with details, for he had found his holiday, Mexicans be damned.

And so before returning to the States to proclaim this nationally-observed day of alcoholism, Frank loaded his VW shaggin'-wagon with several cases of Cuervo and Tecate, a stack of sombreros and a few pinatas featuring the characters of Scooby Doo. Late in April, when the premonitory fears of finals began to gather among the students of SDSU, Frank began to distribute flyers proclaiming the newly-established feast of Cinco de Mayo. "Come one, come all!" the document proclaimed whilst it elicited images of beer bongs and wet t-shirt contests with a decidely Hispanic flair. And so, amidst watered-down margaritas, drunken white kids in semi-traditional Mexican garb, mariachi music and Spanish-influenced ravings a la Speedy Gonzales, the feast of Cinco de Mayo was born.

And now, over 3 decades since its genesis, Cinco de Mayo has become what every holiday aspires to be: a good excuse to get drunk. So it was written, so it has come to pass.

It's about time I ripped one of these to shreds

I ran into this on a dirty joke website. I think it's about blowjobs. I've had shit like this forwarded to me too many times to count. This time, however, the thought of some sad, frigid little shrew taking the time to post this shit on a website made me want to respond.

1. First and foremost, we are not obligated to do it.

Of course you're not obligated to suck cock. If you feel obligated to do it, you're probably snorkeling the wrong sausage. Either your boyfriend is a variation on the meathead weightlifter asshole theme, or he's so disgustingly void of personality that you don't really even want to get near his penis.


2. Extension to rule #1 - So if you get one, be grateful.

I am always grateful when I get head. But if you weren't doing it, someone else would.

3. I don't care WHAT they did in the porn video you saw, it is not standard practice to come on someone's face.

Perhaps, but when you're consistently denied something, after a while you get fixated on it. I'm convinced this is the only reason why anyone eats Peeps.

4. Extension to rule #3 - No, I DON'T have to swallow.

Of course you don't HAVE to swallow. As I said earlier, you're not obligated to do anything. You can just lay there like a Mormon bride while I penetrate you with all the passion of a proctologist performing a colonoscopy.

5. My ears are NOT handles.

Again, you're probably blowing the wrong dude.

6. Extension to rule #5 - do not push on the top of my head. Last I heard, deep throat had been done. And additionally, do you really WANT puke on your dick?

Maybe sometimes I do want puke on my dick.

7. I don't care HOW relaxed you get, it is NEVER OK to fart.

Do you mean during a blowjob or in general? I agree, the thought of someone's ass gas forcefully shot into my nostrils is one of the most unappetizing things I can think of (that's not to say I look down on those of us that enjoy it, ahem, Bob), it's just one of those things that's probably going to happen sooner or later, and it's really not that big of a deal. See my post "Hot Beer Farts" for more on this.

8. Having my period does not mean that it's "hummer week" - get it through your head - I'm bloated and I feel like shit so no, I don't feel particularly obligated to blow you just because YOU can't have sex right now.

Wait, wait, wait, who said I can't have sex during period week? It's really easy; you just stick it in like you normally do. In my experience, it's the ladies who have the biggest problem with fucking during menstruation. But then again I'm one of those dirty fucks who doesn't mind going down on a woman during period week. See that little thing that's sitting WAY up above the hole where all the blood and stuffs coming out? That's the clit, and that's where all the action is. There probably isn't even any blood on it because she cleaned herself off beforehand. Now lick it. That tastes good, doesn't it?

9. Extension to #8 - "Blue Balls" might have worked on high school girls -if you're that desperate, go jerk off and leave me alone with my Midol.

How bout I jerk off on your tits, you pill-popping harpy?

10. If I have to pause to remove a pubic hair from my teeth, don't tell me I've just "wrecked it" for you.

Are you blowing a total wuss or what?

11. Leaving me in bed while you go play video games, smoke a cigarette,watch tv...ect.... immediately afterwards is highly inadvisable if you would like my behavior to be repeated in the future.

Oh shit, what do you want me to do? Cuddle? Talk to you? No you don't. You want me to wash your feet and lick your butthole clean. And that's okay. I want it too. But let's be honest about it.

12. If you like how we do it, it's probably best not to speculate about the origins of our talent. Just enjoy the moment and be happy that we're good at it. See also rule #2 about gratitude.

Hey honey, just because you do it doesn't mean you're good at it. Guys lie too.

13. No, it doesn't particularly taste good. And I don't care about the protein content.

I don't think it's designed to taste good. Kind of like how girl juice probably wasn't designed to taste good either.

14. No, I will NOT do it while you watch TV, smoke a cigarette, drink, ect....

Of course you wouldn't. That would make you as cool as my girlfriend.

15. When you hear your friends complain about how they don't get blow jobs often enough, keep your mouth shut. It is inappropriate to either sympathize or brag.

If you were good at it and didn't feel like a slut for doing it, you wouldn't mind me bragging about it.

16. Just because "it's awake" when you get up does not mean I have to "kiss it good morning."

So a I'm guessing a morning rimjob is out of the question?

Flea sucks.

I am a big chili peppers fan. Love em to death. But I just read that the new album was leaked to the internet, and here is Flea's response:

if you down load it now off one of these file sharing sites
you will be getting a pale imitation of the record
it will be of the poor sound quality of the technique they used to
get it on there

What the fuck? The chili peppers have songs on both napster and i-tunes, and both of those use file formats that are not as "comprehensive" as a cd recording.

Whatever.

As much as I love the music of the chili peppers, they are corporate whores, charging $39.99 for their "gold" fan club membership(not a member). They seem to make every effort to make money off their fans, including a box set of their new album that comes with a bunch of useless crap.

Flea has forgotten why we make music.

Hear My Enthusiastic Piggy Squeal

It's Friday. The government finally gave me my money back. To celebrate I bought a bottle of good vodka. Now I plan to get sloppy drunk, chain smoke in the house, eat pepperoni, play video games, and touch myself incessantly to naked photographs of some poor bastard's daughter. Oink! Oink! Oink!

Fuck Motivation

(Author's note: Typing this was very hard...) I have taken a brief creative hiatus. The music room is a shambles, stuffy from not being opened in ages and thusly smells like a community gym. Work has been quite stressfull as my company is merging. In times of upheaval and stress I can't sleep. I get to a point where the only way to survive is to just react and not get any deeper into it. Your day gets filled with dumb awkward moments without conversation like; step aside and let that lady at work who always gets your name wrong go by; duck, that cabinet door is open and type, type, sip coffee repeat until daily job requirements are done, then leave. I'm saving my mindpower to exploit later. I'm getting plenty high tonight and letting somebody else entertain me. For now I've got Pink Floyd talking about themselves and playing amongst the ruins of mankind's ignorance in Live at Pompeii. Agnus Dei is next on my playlist. I have been so absolutely focused on making music that I forget to just stop and apreciate it. I have to be alone with my mind and some great music for a while. Gotta go, I've got a lava lamp to stare at and LP's to accidentally scratch. If I have any revelations I'll let you know. Nighty night boys 'n girls.

the new school!

t's time! the road to world domination starts with satisfying one simple "modern" need: to feel as if you a part of something bigger than you and that you have something to contribute. we need to start an institution however stupid that will meet this need and then people will fall in willfully. tom colege i'm your first graduate! audience participation bitches!!

The Reverend's Eastern Crusade

Just last week, our good freind Phil(A.K.A Revered BustaPheara) left on a journey that we admire and envy. His quest is noble(maybe not as noble as making $100k by the time your 27, but not every one can reduce themselves to corporate prostitution in that short time). He has decided to walk the entire Appalachian trail, an arduous journey taking him through 14 states and over 2,000 miles. Why does he do it? Well, I don't really know. I was too drunk to remember to ask him the last time I saw him. Having known Phil for quite some time, I can only concede this: The birth of a new music.
Phil has always been known in our circle as quite the electric guitarist, performing lightning fast runs at the drop of a hat, with note for note perfection. I believe his quest, originating in Georgia and ending in Maine, will be a that of a musical sponge. The great Phil has finally found his limits with hardcore metal, and wishes to expand. He feels pity on those who know nothing else but folk, bluegrass, and other such arcane music styles. He will forge a new music, one of electricity softened by the woes of the country folk.
But, I must digress. Whatever the reason for phils daring, if not pointless journey, he has entrusted to me, Tony "the animal" Schmitt, the telling of the tale. Whenever and however he can, he shall send word of his adventures. I shall, without bias or editorial, recant his story to you.

until then, dear piglets, until then.

My Bosses Leave Town For a Week

It is 8:32 a.m. on Monday morning. I am in San Francisco, very close to Ghirardelli Square. I am stoned out of my mind. Bobby Brown's "Roni" just came on my internet radio station. In the office kitchen I have a bagel waiting to be toasted. I have whipped chive-flavored cream cheese, tomatoes, cucumber, and alfafa sprouts to put on my bagel. While I am toasting it to perfection, I will cut up my vegetables with great care. On the bus this morning I was cured of the collective neurosis that afflicts all humanity. It has just begun to rain. I love the rain more than almost anything else in the world. Now Ella Fitzgerald is singing "Why Was I Born?" I am a master of the universe.

Judge me not by my actions, but by the curl of my piggy-tail.

It’s come to my attention that piggery, and indeed being a pig, has a negative connotation. Rightfully so, I suppose. The human conception of swine is that they are filthy animals that mill about in their own shit and gorge themselves on troughs full of spoiled scraps. Even the conception of a pig as portrayed on adrunkenpig.com can come off as negative, though it shouldn’t.

The term “chauvinist pig” has become commonplace in disparaging men who indulge in a rousing bachelor lifestyle, thanks in good part to that frigid ice-bitch Jessie from “Saved By The Bell”. How that insipid and venomous twig would scold Slater just because he was born a pussy magnet! Blasphemy!

It’s about time we brought the dignity back to being a pig, whether it be the actual animal or someone living a hedonistic lifestyle. Sure, swine exist in shit and decay, but I’ve often seen dogs, our beloved house pets, licking ass (their own and those of other dogs) and genitals, and eating fresh piles of crap off of the ground. Are they really better than pigs? No! So get off of Porky’s case, bigot! They’re no more disgusting than any other animal.

And as for pigs of the homo sapien influence, leave them alone too. They are revolutionaries, in a way. They are perpetually bringing about the demise of “moral” society, of this insidious worldwide superior/inferior witch-hunt, by living pleasurable, guilt-free lifestyles. They reject the indentured servitude endured by their fore-pigs by avoiding marriage and procreation, and indulging in self-reliance, responsible sexual gratification, and the pursuit of pleasure in all facets of life. There are men who start off with good intentions of piggery but end up as sexual perverts, drug addicts, sociopaths, criminals, etc…. these are not pigs. These are men who couldn’t conduct themselves responsibly and are shameful disgraces to true pigs. Let these pariahs be forever exempt from the realm of the pig. They are antisocial beasts, whereas the pig is a remarkably social animal. He has several close friends, he commands a good deal of attention wherever he is or whatever he happens to be doing, and he is successful in locating consenting women who also indulge in piggery.

Women, fear not the pig. The pig is not a predatory sociopath. He is merely a person in pursuit of happiness, supplementing his good fortune with casual encounters with the opposite sex from time to time. A pig probably won’t buy you a fancy dinner. A pig might not call you after he’s been with you (but that depends on you). A pig will enjoy spending time with you but won’t wanted to be in a committed relationship. A pig will always show you a good time, because your good time is conducive to his. A pig will understand if you choose not to associate with pigs, provided it’s for the right reasons. A pig is harmless and avoidable, but endlessly redeeming if you get to know and understand him. Pigs should be embraced and not shunned. Pigs are a vital part of our incestuous social ecosystem. Pigs are beautiful.

I am pig. Hear me squeal.

The Case for the Existence of God

Feel free to add to this in the comments.

Exhibit A: Old black couples

They dress well, they're mellow, they've probably had a ton of cool experiences, and they probably still fuck (ewww).

Exhibit B: Marijuana

Event the shitty stuff will temporarily turn down the volume on life's bullshit. The good stuff will turn you into a raging nine-foot boner humping everyone you'ver known in your life.

Exhibit C: Cool beautiful chicks who love you

Okay, never mind whatever sick emotional game is tying her to you; just run with it. Wear that thang out and take her to every party. After all, the only downside is that these women are about as rare as a virgin whore.

Silly bitch, tricks are for pigs!

Von Puerco here, back from a brief hiatus of smoking tons of pot and finding things to be angry about. I've got a whole hatful of rants and I'm going to go on at length about each and everyone, even if it means absorbing all the bandwidth of this blog and forcing my co-contributers to defer their posts to myspace.

Low times in the world of Von Puerco. As often happens after a dozen or so unsatisfying rolls in the hay, I have lost yet another warm hole. This one was doomed from the beginning for sure, but I was disappointed that the sexual humilation levels were relatively low at the time of disbandment. I commend her for putting up with my piggery for so long, and as a tribute I will refer to her as Piglette in this post.

Piglette and I became acquainted via the World Wide Clusterfuck; I, an uninspired but extremely horny recent college grad, and she, a young and optimistic artsy-type female. I happened to catch Piglette at the tail end of her latest hetero relationship, and she was at that point where she'd been so exhausted by those maliciously endless break-up scream-fests that she wanted to sleep with someone else as a sort of "fuck you" to her recent ex. I, being an opportunist, was well aware of how advantageous this arrangement was and indeed went out of my way to facilitate the "fuck you". So our unholy coupling was consummated and continued for a couple of months without a problem.

After a while I came to notice that the gratification was becoming less and less instantaneous. I found I had to coerce Piglette for a good while before the wheels really got moving. I came to realize that the gravy train was about to run out, and I knew I had to plan an exit strategy that avoided any fallout or extraneous conversation about "the place I'm at right now.. how I'm feeling". The signs were clear, though: she had her fill of vengeance sex and slowly came to realize that I am a remorseless asshole on the neverending pursuit to satisfy my lurid primordial desires. That was all well and good, except that she seemed intent on preserving this illusion of "friendship" that was nonexistent as far as I was concerned. Honestly, I lost interest in her intellectually and emotionally the moment I saw her naked. I found the time that we were together and not getting busy nearly intolerable. So when the sex began to taper off you can imagine my indignation. Still, the 30% chance of sex was still enticing to me and I silently tolerated the situation.

Over time I saw less and less of Piglette, much to my delight, yet she was still insistent on maintaining contact and keeping this alleged "friendship" intact. She even went as far as to accompany me to a party, got flat drunk, and proceeded to tell me that she was going of her birth control and wouldn't be "active" for a while. Rest assured, friends, that was the last goddamn straw. I didn't call her, made no active attempt to contact her or acknowledge her existence for weeks.

She called me this last weekend and asked me to meet her for coffee. I figured and hoped this would be the "I can't see you anymore" confession, to which I would respond that I was only in it for the nookie and had no interest in the relationship otherwise. But no, I wasn't even given the dignity of being written off. Apparently this was the first installment of us hanging out as friends.. Like fucking hell. First I lamented the loss of $1.30 on crappy house coffee, then the loss of my time - a whopping 35 minutes on a Friday night. The whole point of showing up was that she would terminate the relationship and take the blame for it not working out, a few pleas for forgiveness, a little self-loathing... bada-bing bada-boom, it's done. Yet here I was, being barraged with boring personal accounts of the utmost frivolity. I slugged my crappy coffee with haste and excused myself. As I left the establishment she had a look on her face that seemed to acknowledge that I had decisively excised myself from her life for good. She looked a little relieved, and seeing that relief made me feel INCREDIBLY relieved. I think she knew what she was getting out of our relationship, which was nothing, and that I was destined to drop her as quickly as I picked her up. These are the ways of the pig. I have no control over it, nor can I feel guilty for things that are merely pig nature.

Fuck you. I'm a pig. Deal with it.

Hot Beer Farts

So apparently it's up to me to rescue this fuckin blog. Ray's writing psycho-spiritual cyberbabble. All I've gotten out of Chris in the past few weeks are whiny work-related excuses and veiled promises of angry, hair-pulling sex-blogs soon to come. Where the fuck are they? Every time I chance a few minutes at work and pull up the site it's Bob's blog. Take nothing away from him, his squeal is necessary, but when I started this piece of shit I had another picture in mind. I want it to be the kinda shit that makes you stand up in the middle of your office, look at the other underpaid dregs around you in disgust, and proudly declare in your best Jesse "The Body" Ventura in Predator voice, "Buncha slack jawed faggots around here." You point to the screen and grab your woman. "This stuff'll make you a goddamn sexual tyrannosaurus- just like me." Or at least think about doing it. That'd be pretty cool too.

So I thought of a new game while I was blowing my old lady. If you've got any skill whatsoever at giving oral pleasure, it might be kinda fun to make your partner laugh right in the middle of an orgasm. Of course making her laugh would probably completely ruin her orgasm and most likely cause pearl necklace priveleges to be revoked for at least a week, but I've never actually heard of anyone doing it and if a hot chick was talking about it at a party I'd listen. I was thinking about what you'd have to say to make someone laugh at a time like that. You've only got like a one or two line timetable at most to work with. And your one or two liner has to be something recognizable enough for them to pay attention to whatever you're saying instead of their own orgasm. For Kendra and I, it's "Hot Beer Fart".

I was going down on her a while ago. (Yes that's right ladies, I've gone down on my gf at LEAST two (2) times. I am Casanova.) She stopped me all of a sudden and turned her ass away from my face so she could fart. I thanked her for her courtesy and ducked back down between her legs. The fart was still there and it attacked me. Nostrils first. I shrieked like a schoolgirl and dove under the covers. "Damn baby," was all I could muster.
"Sorry honey," she said.
"That's pretty bad," I said. "Ripe." We'd finished a 40 before getting naked and had both drank many pints the night before.
"Especially because it was a HOT BEER FART," she said.
And that's exactly what it was. A hot beer fart. Blasted in my general direction. I'd been done. Kendra shoots. She scores.

So maybe that's what I'll say the next time she's about to bounce a chickload off my chin. Fuckin' hot beer farts. You like that honey? Huh? That the spot? Mmm... Hey baby? Guess what? HOT BEER FART.

Bloggin's fer fages

if thare's one thang i's hates me mer than the fages... uh, it be fuckin' bloggin' fages.

Fucking Addendum

Extinguishing the self, communion with God, at oneness with Brahman, and whatever else one might wish to call it is a frightening venture. To attempt this feat in the context of a relaxed sexual environment with a person one knows and loves, or at least cares about, is an attempt to eradicate any lingering notions of fear and doubt. By denying the sensations one normally feels during an everyday experience, and attempting to experience that which one cannot, I mean to help put participants in a state of mind in which they cannot focus on the ever present "I." Plus, if it doesn't work, fun may still be had by all.

Fucking God

Within me is contained an entire spectrum of the human animal. What I mean by “entire spectrum” is, essentially, that which makes me human but without rigid borders. Specifically I am referring to masculine and feminine qualities. Obviously these are not concepts which are unknown; however, our societies have a tendency to bastardize such concepts until they become either meaningless or grossly misinterpreted. It is common to hear statements such as, “he’s getting in touch with his feminine side,” which generally means, on a colloquial level, “he’s acting like a pussy,” or “he’s acting like a fag.” Oddly enough, one rarely hears the utterance, “she’s getting in touch with her masculine side.” I wonder what this would mean in the colloquial sense mentioned above. “She’s being a dick,” or perhaps, “she’s a fucking pig?” Who knows? For now, I don’t care. My ultimate point is that I do not “get in touch with my feminine side.” I am already in touch with it. If I was not, I would be an incomplete human being. What I am suggesting is that I would like to become a vagina.

I have a dick. I enjoy it very much. It brings me trashcans full of pleasure which, of course, is why I want to use it to become a pussy. I don’t have one of those. I imagine they also facilitate intense pleasure. And I want both.

I have worked out a tentative process whereby, using my penis and my brain, I can become a vagina. Here’s how it works:

Step 1. Find a woman- preferably a woman who has an interest in becoming a penis.

Step 2. Take drugs. Lest someone automatically dismiss this process out of hand based entirely on this step, I would suggest that our minds are more malleable while under the influence of mind-altering substances. As such, certain suggestions which may violate our ordinary tendencies in thought are at least less likely to be automatically greeted with intellectual hostility while under the influence of some good shit.

Step 3. Create a setting.

Step 4. Ordinary foreplay. Because I like blowjobs, and women who aren’t lame like to get eaten out.

Step 5. Begin the sexual act.

Step 6. Sexual meditation.

Step 7. Success or failure.

Step 8. Repeat

Notes:

Step one is perhaps slightly less straightforward than it sounds. At the time of this writing, I have thus far suggested this proposal to one woman. Much to my chagrin, it was greeted less than favorably. If I remember her response correctly, it was along the lines of “that sounds stupid.” Suffice to say, if I ever find a woman willing to participate in this experiment with me, I might consider marrying her without hesitation.

Step two dictates the ingesting of mind-altering influences. I am highly dubious of the use of alcohol because one of its primary effects is that of “sloppy thinking.” Marijuana, on the other hand, seems as though it may be a likely candidate as it sometimes has a tendency to heighten physical sensations as well as the mental capacity to entertain new ideas. I do worry, however, that the effects of weed in this context might be very hit-and-miss. Cocaine will not suffice because where it heightens the senses and responses to physical stimuli; it can also amplify the ego and even lead to paranoia which would be quite deleterious as far as facilitating the experience. Heavy psychedelics I am not considering mostly because I’ve never tried them myself. I intend to correct that in the future. This brings us to ecstasy. This drug does truly seem like it was made for the experience. Its tendency to produce intense pleasure from physical contact as well as allowing the mind to maintain an honest discourse with the body suggests that its use in this experiment is almost necessary. But one must keep in mind that the use of drugs in this experiment is peripheral to the experience itself. If it works, its effects would be incalculably more fulfilling than any drug.

Step three demands the attention of the participants from a purely conscious standpoint. What I mean by this is that the setting should facilitate a relaxed sexual environment without getting in the way of the mind. A low lit room (candles), some soft music (preferably without lyrics), and a comfortable bed in an area relatively free from outside noise and distraction should suffice. The idea is to be relaxed in the setting without having one’s attention drawn to any particular aspect of it.

Step four is self-explanatory. Suffice to say, it should also facilitate sexual comfort and an overall enjoyment of and familiarity with your partner’s body. Just like it always should…

Step five simply suggests that the sexual act should commence once both participants are ready. It may be advisable to bring each other to orgasm, by whatever means necessary, in order to diminish the excitement and expectancy of coming.

Step six is sexual meditation. This is the hard part- especially since I’ve never done it. I imagine it should work something like tantra, but on a more “specific” level.

I suggest that the man should insert his penis into the vagina at different intervals of depth while hesitating for however long is necessary to attempt to actually feel his partner’s genitalia. For instance, with the penis completely removed from the vagina, place the head of the penis at the entrance of the vagina so that they are barely touching. Pause. Notice how the skin of the labiae feel against the glans. Next, insert the entire head into the vagina. Pause. Notice how the head of the penis feels at the entrance of the vagina. Continue inserting the penis into the vagina at whatever intervals of depth feel comfortable. Don’t forget to pause and catalogue your experience. Once you have attempted this process to your liking, begin the process again, but this time feel as the vagina. While all of this is going on, the woman should be doing basically the same thing. While the man is essentially dictating the pace, the woman should not be hesitant to suggest that he slow down if necessary.

There is no easy way to explain this; however, you know what your dick feels like when you insert it into some poon. Try to imagine what it’s like to be the poon. This is a bad analogy, but I can’t think of a better one: find a partner (it doesn’t have to be a female, but a male might punch you if you try this), create a small tunnel with your hand by curling your fingers into your palm and closing it with your thumb, have your partner slowly insert a finger into the tunnel (lube would help), notice how it feels. Now, change places with your partner and repeat the process. We are dealing with different body parts which produce different kinds of sensations. So we’re going to have to be very creative and liberal in our definition of “feel.” However, the way these body parts produce reactions to stimuli are similar to the way any body part does.

Moving on. Once you have completed this process to your satisfaction, fully insert the penis into the vagina and leave it there. Try to feel every aspect of the vagina encompassing your penis, from the base to the tip and all around.

At this point, the partners should change position to their liking, although I would suggest that the woman be on top. From there, she can dictate the pace of the same process. If both partners are in agreement that a change in position would be pleasurable, then a change in position is warranted.

Please keep in mind that while I am attempting to explain this process to my “scientific” satisfaction, I am fully aware that different people like different things. Whatever works for the people involved should not be ignored at the expense of my words. Also, do keep in mind that I am not trying to remove the pleasures of sex from the sexual process. Kissing, petting, fondling, and playing should not be ignored. Who says one can’t have fun while trying to find God?

Step seven is merely evaluation. Talk to your partner and try to explain what you felt. Did it work at all? Did you get a hint of what it’s like to take a cock in the cooter? Do you now wish you had a penis? Discuss, and be honest.

Step eight is self-explanatory. Even if it didn’t work, and you’re both beginning to think that this is a really stupid idea, fuck more. Do it again, but ignore this crap. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. And then fuck again because someday you’ll be dead, and you won’t ever be able to do it again.

The Case for Monogamous Piggery: Part I

I walk into a convenience store. They got so many of those here in San Francisco. I walk into a convenience store and there's this sixteen year-old. Dark skin, latina complexion, and thick. Thick ass, thick thighs, thick still-ripening titties poking out of her tube top. Smooth creamy skin. You get the picture? I'm pretty tall, over 200lbs., so I don't usually get trouble from anyone, only the real crazies. Baby girl has a man with her but he's smaller than me, gives me a glance but I'm not afraid to look at the girl he's with. I'm a respectful man...

I think it was the sight of her bursting out of that top and out of those jeans that made something in me snap. I point my finger at her and all the world drops dead. Suddenly I am a sultan, a king in my desert palace, sitting on a pillow throne in a huge tent made of thick colorful finely woven strands. Inside my tent there is hanging silk and plush carpet so thick it curls around my toes. She is there sitting in front of me. She has pleased men before but she has never been abused. Her first time was only nine months ago with her seventeen year-old boyfriend. And even that first time, her body had caught fire.

I saw all of that as she sat naked before me in my tent palace. Her lips were thick and waiting. I enter her from behind, her thick ass pressing against my hips as we begin to move...

I open my eyes and Keisha is knelt before me with my cock in her mouth. I am stoned out of my mind. I have just come back to reality. Keisha sits up and smiles. Her hand is still massaging my cock. My eyes caress her perfect body, from the insides of her thighs, their smooth white flesh, to the tight triangle of her hips...

My Porcine Introduction

I'm new to this drunken pig thing- not in practice, but as an "intellectual" concept. As such, my literary contributions are, to this point, quite non-existent. Except for this:

Tom: We were discussing your brand of piggery as well. You're a master pig (Master P?).

Me: I was thinking last night, as I was sitting in my chair, cock in hand, masturbating to porn, cigarette in mouth, left hand alternating between potato chips and Jim Beam, that I too can play this pig game.

The Mars Volta rocks my fucking brains out

I love this fucking band. Some piece of shit kid stole my Francis the Mute CD while I was in Marseille. I'd like to be a good human being and forgive him, but I know I never will. I hate that piece of shit. And the worst part is, I'm sure he has no idea what he did to me. Anyone who would take another man's CDs is obviously a fucked-up, thieving philistine with no appreciation for the beauty of music. His action continues to deny me the aural pleasure of ROCKING THE FUCK OUT to my favorite band's second album. And I love this band in a very unrealistic, high school way. That's why it's okay for me to fantasize, occasionally, about flying back to Marseille, leaving some CDs out front of this kid's apartment as bait, catching him, and proceeding to kick him to the ground and stomp him into unconsciousness. Then I unzip my fly and shoot a stinking stream of piss onto his prostrate body. When his stupid whore mother comes out to protest, I turn my arcing urine sprinkler in her direction, quickly filling her open, yelling mouth with my opinion of her parenting. "Next time bitch," I say, shaking it a little bit, "Teach him some fucking MUSIC APPRECIATION."

An Introduction to Porn as Art

So many times I wipe off my cock, zip up, throw the toilet paper away, and stand there in a daze like I just realized I lost something. And so too appears to stand the current collective sexual consciousness of humanity. We complete the act of reproduction in a short, brutish ceremony so ashamed of itself that we are never allowed to step back and examine the act for what it could be. Our societies reflect this. Try writing a frank, unashamed psychological study of the pleasure-anxiety that results from our collective sexual neurosis and you'll see your office smashed and your books burned à la Wilhelm Reich. It is easy to abhor the sexual oppression of both sexes that occurred in centuries past, yet most people, even the most "liberal" among us, are are almost totally blind to the self-imposed oppression around us and the resulting neuroses. I say this because I imagine most people would have a problem with their son or daughter becoming a sex worker of any kind. I say this also because the prescribed sexual roles for males and females do not seem to make us happy. Let it be known that I neither advocate nor condemn sex work. It simply seems to me that, in considering the sex urge abominable, we repress a part of our humanity.

It is an act that we are compelled to perform along with all other animals. This is probably why humans first tried to ignore or supress it. "We're not really like them, those disgusting dogs humping in the park. Watching the monkeys do it. I act like I don't wanna watch. But I do." Same way a lot of people are with porn.

I watched Raylene sucking cock this afternoon and couldn't help but think that porn will come to eventually be regarded as "legitimate" art. Any connoisseur, when given a safe, shame-free environment, is easily able to make the distinctions between "good" and "bad" porn. Sure the plotlines are cheesy. Why invest in a plotline when your audience has been trained to expect nothing more than a close-up shot of a penis ramming in and out of a dry vagina? I enjoy imagining futureporn. Comparing porn of today with futureporn is like comparing Boticelli and Leonardo. As we continue to learn to accept sex as a natural instinct and strip it of all shame, we will begin to master sexual perspective in art.

Then, perhaps, we will see sex realistically portrayed in popular art, and we will see it completely within the context of each individual work of art which chooses to address a sexual theme. I imagine a movie that has a scene that begins at a bar. The scene happens to center around a stimulating, slightly drunken conversation between a man and a woman who also happen to love each other. They go home and begin to caress, only pausing to take several healthy rips from an impossibly ornate glass bong. Their clothes begin to come off and the camera does not cut to a scene taking place after they have had sex, nor are we offered veiled images of two body doubles feigning intercourse. Instead we are taken with them on their sexual voyage, from the moment he goes down on her and uses his tongue to caress her to an initial orgasm, to his impossibly hard stoned boner entering her, both of them feeling every agonzingly pleasurable inch of it inside of her, and finally to more orgasms. So what if you have a boner in your pants while you're watching? It's hot fuckin sex, not an impossibly tight shot of two male buttcheeks bouncing away in a piston-like fashion over a hunched female form. This is COOL REAL PEOPLE SEX, and not only will it look really damn good, it'll make you feel good too.

Flight of the Bachelor Pig: Ground Rules

I'm cynical to a fault ... and to such a fault that it prevents me from forging meaningful relationships with people who look like, act like, smell like, and are assholes. I'm really taken back by this ridiculous conception of love that people blasphemously profess ad nauseum. Love is just a euphemism for an unbridled fire in the loins, and love in practice is really just a complicated, booby-trapped means of having sex. At least that's the case for men... if you are a female with a boyfriend, he finds you sexually appealling and is willing to overlook your other obvious faults to violate you night after night. Every female thinks their man is the exception... so he's sensitive, sweet, thoughtful, devoted, blah blah blah ... These are all clever little guises that all men are aware of and use to their benefit, or at least to the benefit of their penises. Let's do a little translation.

"I love you, significant other" : "Let's fuck".

"You look great today, honey" : "Let's fuck".

"Happy Valentine's Day" : "Let's fuck".

"Let's never break up" : "Let's never stop fucking".

"Pass the salt, please?" : "Let's fuck".

This is all well and good in theory, since it revolves around guaranteed sex, but what many men don't know is that this is totally unnecessary. There are females that will submit to masculine pheremonal aggression without this pretentious "love" shit. There are as many females who are looking for pleasure and non-committal companionship as males, I believe, but men are so decieved and intimidated by women that they think they have to fall into a trap like a relationship to get the aforementioned sex. If you are a man dating a woman, chances are you first got to know this person because they were physically attracted to her, you found her personality bearable and not totally offensive, and you figured she could jerk your knob like a jackhammer. Let's not fool ourselves though... you know from day one whether or not you can see yourself with this person in any measure of time up to and including forever (marriage). Now women are starry-eyed and romantic to a fault, and will fall into and out of dead-end relationships repeatedly with nearly no recognition of the heinous dumping and heartbreaking they previously endured, so they will obviously submit themselves to this masochistic torture to no end. I would rush to say that this is the problem of women and women alone, not to disrupt men at all, but I've realized that if you make a commitment to a woman you are fully subsceptible the the irrational bullshit that is sure to come. My solution then is to eliminate the whole institution of dating, bf/gf, etc for horny, reckless young people everywhere. Let me take myself for an example: the last time I had a serious girlfriend was in high school. It was nothing but headgames, destroyed self-esteem, an inordinate amount of feminine clutter in my locker, and a stark lack of knob-slobbing. Despite this wretched cunt who really sapped the joy out of my last couple years of high school, I hadn't been totally opposed to the idea of having another girlfriend. Nonetheless I took some time off and avoided anything potentially leading to the word "relationship" like the plague. One innocent evening a really hot chick essentially raped me, much to my surprise. Prior to this there had been no talk of dating or "talking" or "seeing each other". I was very anxious about our next meeting and what I had literally and figuratively gotten myself into. I decided, the genius that I am, not to mention it at all. And I'll be damned, it worked like a charm. There we were in unholy consummation once again. Hallelujah! After a few months this arrangement had fizzled out but I had learned a very valuable lesson. Since then my "relationships" have been more or less like this one. Some who know me may cite my multiple-year long-distance European girlfriend, but rest assured, friends, that I was up to my usual tricks all the while, as was she. I'm not necessarily a sex-crazed hedonist, but I'm dead sure that I don't want to be married to anyone anytime soon, and my partners are generally in the same boat. Although my desire for companionship is dormant, my physical desires aren't. I'm never deceptive, however. I'm a likeable person and people enjoy talking to me (and I them), so I find myself in situations where the intellectual attraction becomes purely physical. When this turn of events occurs, I'm always sure to lay down my ground rules:

1. I'm not available for you.

2. This relationship is exactly what it is- no ambiguity, no hope for change, no exceptions.

3. I don't expect anything from you so don't expect anything from me.

4. I will see other people should the opportunity arise.

5. I will not accept fall-out, hyperemotional nonsense, guilt, or obligation.

6. If you decide this isn't the thing for you, you can get out, no strings attached. The same goes for me.

Despite the attempts of women to appeal to my emotional side, to discover whether I have a heart or not, if they are into me they will accept these terms. If they think I'm an asshole that's fine, because I feel being honest is the least I can do for someone else, and I wouldn't want to deceive anyone. I'm aware people have kindred desires. Unfortunately there has been so much proliferation of judgemental relationship propaganda that people are afraid to engage in non-committal coupling, for fear of being branded "ho's" and "players" and whatever fucking slack-jawed urban euphemism is used to describe a person of ill-repute. Why are people so afraid of these terms? Because building a reputation as a ho or player can be detrimental to getting laid, yet these terms are used by falsely-puritanical, frustrated asswipes who are who are just as horny as the next person and twice as angry because they aren't getting satisfaction. My friends might not condone my conduct in life, but they accept me for who I am and don't judge my practices, otherwise they wouldn't be my friends.

Let me disclaim that because I live by my rules of conduct doesn't mean I'm an oversexed, lecherous club rat. Nor do I find myself with constant and consistent companionship. The last several years of my life have been dedicated to me and me alone, as should the lives of all young people trying to figure out what they're going while they're waiting to die, and they've been the happiest times since I was a wee boy. I have little or no sympathy for people devastated by the end of a relationship, unless they came to that point by deception. You knew you weren't going to spend your life with that person, you know you wanted sex above everything (just admit it), and you knew it would end at some point. Big fucking surprise! Oh you poor baby, you have to endure pain that you totally set yourself up for and could have avoided. Balls to that crap. I don't doubt that I'll find myself in a relationship at some point, but my lifestyle has made me so acute to the things I like and don't like in people that if I do succumb it won't be just for sex. I want people to have fun ... I beg them to have fun. There's plenty of time to be a miserable curmudgeon... I understand that's pretty much life after 30.

Origins of the Drunken Pig

Teabaggg and Baron Von Puerco formed an acquaintanceship whilst frittering away the best years of their lives at a second-rate university in the same town that they had frittered away the previous years of their lives. Sharing common interests like procrastination, marijuana, cheap booze, loose women, and hygeine negligence, they soon formed an unbreakable bond.

Teabaggg and Von Puerco were also extraordinary narcissists and were consumed with the idea that they were brilliant artists. Knowing that two chauvinists are better than one, Teabaggg suggested that they gather two other low-lifes and form a low-rent, unoriginal blues quartet. Originally an excuse to smoke copious amounts of pot and play guitar, the quartet soon found itself with 5 or 6 semi-productive rehearsals and decided to document their aural blasphemy. Teabaggg enlisted the aid of a cohort he knew from his days as a white-trash dumpster-diving kit-shicker, and the group soon found itself recording in the music building of the same second-rate university at which Teabaggg and Puerco earned their useless degrees. Two hasty sessions later, a five-song, poor-quality demo was released, and the world hasn't forgiven them since.

Though the recording was abominable, it wasn't the most fetid, festering nugget of the session. The session was made tolerable by the presence of a case of Bud Light. Teabaggg, being a notorious consumer of toxin-based beverages, had more than his fill of the swill. There he was, clad in a stained white undershirt and equally stained jeans and Converse, stumbling about the campus of his discontented youth. Baron Von Puerco was ashamed of the sight, this 20-something individual, teetering and tottering like he had CP, spouting belligerent nonsense and wildly gesturing with a cigarette. Puerco felt it was his duty to make Teabaggg feel twice as ashamed as he himself felt. He tried to think of a clever or considerate way to break the news to Teabaggg, but, as if inspired by a higher and more loathesome being, the words fell from his tongue:

"You are a drunken pig."

A silence fell upon all who were witness. Puerco thought he percieved tears welling in Teabaggg's eyes, but was unable to confirm as Teabaggg's chin dropped to his chest in pure, unsullied, grade A shame. Puerco then commanded the newly-branded pig to add insult to his injury, shouting "Dance, pig! DANCE!" as Teabaggg feebly performed an uncoordinated jig. Thus the drunken pig was born.

Since then Baron Von Puerco and Teabaggg have had deep intellectual and philisophical conversations over the enigma that is the drunken pig, and each has arrived at a seperate but viable conclusion of what it is to be a pig. So consumed with this inconsequential nonsense were they that they launched a blog, soon to be upgraded to a full-scale, flash-and-pizzaz ultra-website the likes of which the cyberverse has never seen.

I was a drunken werepig

Human beings aren't really all that different from one another. We all like to eat, we all like to be loved, we all like to drink beer with our closest friends until we're painfully bloated and farty. The pig lurks in every one of us. Mother, sister, nun, patrician, I don't care who you are. Every one of us is, in their own way, a drunken, filthy, completely self-serving paragon of all that is peccary. We all go our piggish ways in our own pig fashion, and the good ones among us try not to fuck up anyone else's piggery in the process.

There are moments, however, when the normal order of the universe is dramatically interrupted, when an impossibly complex convergence of events rips apart the very fabric of consensus reality. Normal, everyday pig-reasoning is involuntarily cast by the wayside like a defective, shit-encrusted condom.

I am, of course, referring to those dark moments when our thoughts are not our own, when the beast inside us rears its head and lets forth from Cheeto-encrusted lips a primal, ear-shattering, beer-reeking squeal. I am speaking of those moments when we are seized with the inexplicable need to consume far beyond our human capacity. There's absolutely no reason why you should eat another plate of hot wings with ranch dressing. Why in the world do you need to smoke another bowl, you're already high as a kite? You've been drinking Pabst since nine o'clock this morning and the $6.11 you're waiting in line to spend for the next 12-pack will almost certainly overdraw your bank account. You've already fucked the woman laying next to you 5 times in the past 29 hours. Neither of you have seen the light of day or even gotten out of bed in that entire time. Your aching penis hasn't been washed off once. You began to fool around again. Why? WHY?

I was a drunken werepig.

We're all going to die someday. One day, everything will be gone. All the pretty flowers, all the birds, all the lampreys and the hagfish too. But until then I will live each day with the understanding that, when the moment comes, I will heed the beast's call. When my gaze turns skyward to a full moon made of fetid, three day old pizza, sticky, syrupy buds, neverending IVs of shitty domestic beer, and endless orgasm, I will feel no regret, no remorse. I will live, simply and beautifully, content in the knowledge that....

I was a drunken werepig.