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.