Monthly Archives: November 2012

November 27, 2012 · 19:26

Interview with a Ferris Wheel operator

(Click here for audio if blind)

Conducted by Nathan Druson (age 8).

Question: Ok first I am suppo …(interrupts)

Answer: My name is Zeb. I’m a Professional Ferris Wheel Engineer Operator.

A lot of people ask me why I do what I do. They want to know why I chose the Ferris wheel over the merry-go-round, or how come I don’t guess peoples’ weights or draw funny pictures.

Tell you what. If you wanna bore yourself to death on a merry-go-round, be my guest. And if you wanna pay to have someone draw how ugly you are, go right ahead. Knock yourself out. But if you wanna travel in a slow, jerky, circular motion up kinda high and then back down and then up and around again a few more times…then guess what? I’m your man.

Yeah, I hear people talking, saying things like, “Operating a Ferris wheel doesn’t take a lot of skill,” or things like, “All you have to do is press a button,” or things like, “What kind of creep works at a carnival?” or things like, “Your beard has cotton candy stuck in it.” or things like, “Stop looking at my friends feet and touching yourself.”

Yeah, I hear ’em. But you know what? I don’t do this for them.

I don’t do this for my momma, and I don’t do this for my daddy.

I damn sure don’t do it for the money. That wouldn’t even make sense because I get paid mostly in Zippo lighters. I have over eleven Zippo lighters. Eleven and counting. How many other people do you know who have that many Zippo lighters? I don’t think the President of the United States even has that many Zippo lighters. Commander in Chief? Yeah. Sure. He ain’t commanding anything with a crappy little plastic piece of shit that couldn’t light a goddamned birthday cake. Ahh, the Zippo. The cling of the metal as you open it. The scrape of the flint you have to load yourself. When a lady sees you light her cigar with this it’s a statement. And that statement is “I am as serious about lighters as I am about getting a look at those midget feet.” Plus, these bad boys are windproof. A tried and true companion of the carnival man. Or so I am told when I ask for money instead.

I don’t do this for the fame. It’s true: having my hand on the controls of the Ferris wheel does make me the unofficial “King of the Carnival” and hence I am literally drowning in tail. By that I am referring to women, but those girls don’t do a thing for me. Hell, a guy who’s been around as long as me don’t even get turned on by regular old, straight up “sex with chicks” anymore. I mean, I have worked in a carnival or circus since I was 8 years old. I have done just about every hole known to man or of a man. So, no, that ain’t why I do it neither.

So why do I do this? I’ll tell you why. One reason and one reason only.

 

Because I play for keeps.

 

-Zeb Emanuel Craw

Sep. 2003

Submitted By R.N.

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November 23, 2012 · 17:34

Lumbering

I love wood. Always have. When I was a kid they called me “Whittling Joe” due to my preoccupation with whittling and the fact my first name is Joe. When the depression hit I lost my job and headed to the pacific northwest in search of work. I heard they were looking for sturdy men to work with their hands. I couldn’t even afford a ride so I snuck onto a locomotive and road dirtyface the whole way. It wasn’t so bad. I wasn’t alone that is for sure. Seemed like the only person not heading out to find work was the guy driving the train. Fast forward 3 years and I am still out here and never going back.

I have no complaints. The pay isn’t much but I get three squares a day. Maybe I am just a simple man. I don’t see any need for a fancy new automotive or a fedora. I just need the outdoors, an ax, and a cheek full of tobacco. Boss Mcreedy is different from me and the boys. I don’t think can even swing an ax. A slight man with a nervous way about him. He is always harassing us about our lack of fedoras and not shaving.

“Boss,” I say in my deep baritone. “If I shave what happens to Young Henry?” Young Henry is the name of the small chipmunk that lives in my beard.

“That damn thing is just addicted to the tobacco spit that dribbles into your beard everyday!” Shouts boss Mcreedy in his warbling falsetto of a voice. “If you had a nice shave like me it wouldn’t be an issue and maybe the ladies would call you a ‘handsome fellow’ as well.”

The boys and I erupt into deep belly laughs with our axes slung on our shoulders. The sounds echo throughout the forest. Mcreedy looks angry. He storms off before I can explain that the last time we tried to shave the razors broke beneath our whiskers. Plus, our bears provide insulation and protection from the elements and mine a home to an orphaned chipmunk. Of course Boss Mcreedy wouldn’t know this as he has no reference as to real work. He only driving up to hand out our measly pay or to convince us what a ladies man he is. Well, he doesn’t do that latter any more. One time he brought his mildly attractive sister to the mountain and tried to convince us she was his best girl. She had obviously agreed to play along.

“KISS HER!” We shouted. They fumbled for excuses but eventually they kissed.

“MORE TONGUE!” and they did as he was desperate not to lose face in front of us men.

“MAKE LOVE TO HER!”

“GET HER PREGNANT AND RAISE THE CHILD THUS HAVING TO HIDE YOUR RELATIONSHIP AND LIE ABOUT THE ORIGIN OF YOUR CHILD PRODUCED BY INCESTUAL INTERCOURSE!”

It was too easy. But the stress of having to hide his sister/wife and raise his nephew/son keeps him from trying to brag about the ladies.

So I go about my days chopping trees, fighting bears, spitting tobacco and drinking a sap based alcohol beverage that we make ourselves called “Mouth Fuck”. It takes a while to make but he have time. Only certain trees can produce enough sap. I walk up to a new one. I silently offer my respects to the tree and I rub my calloused hand along the shaft of the hard wood. It feels full like sap just wants to erupt from it. I call the boys over for confirmation. Everyone crowds around rubbing the tree up and down. Our beards and bare chest intermingle and we shove for better position, each wanted to show his abilities and feeling for sap. My mouth is watering thinking about the sweet nectar we will have later. Everyone stands back as I wack off a few drain slices into it. Sap pours out and some of it hits me in the face. I let out a yell of victory and we collect our prize. Someone jokes that with this much sap the amount of Mouth Fuck we would drink could make us fancy each other as if we were ladies. We share in a hearty laugh and go back to work. Imagine that? These men. Epitomes of masculinity into relationships with other men. What is this New York City, or Cleveland, or any organized community? I don’t waste time on the thought and I swallow the wad of tobacco in my check and replace it with another handful. “Its going to be a good day, Young Henery.” He squeeks in agreement and offers me an acorn then retreats into my beard. Depression? The rest of the world can be depressed. I am doing just fine.

 

-Lumberjack Joe Steelington

July 1932

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November 22, 2012 · 02:43

Memories

There are no men anymore. No real men. I’m sitting at what I consider was the best bar in town. The beer is cold and the women are well, good enough. Bruce Springsteen belting out his latest hit “Born in the USA” on the jukebox.
“I had a brother at Khe Sahn
Fighting off the Viet Cong
They’re still there, he’s all gone”
Damn. That brings me back. It’s been over a decade now since I was there. Vietnam. That is where I grew my balls. That is where I became a man. And Khe Sahn…damn. First time I killed a man. Wouldn’t be the last by a long shot. My beard smelled like the cigar I was smoking. Back then it smelled like gun powder and then stench of the unwashed Viet Cong. Those fuckers didn’t even have the decency to bathe before dying on you.
I was distracted by a loud commotion. Four fraternity brothers getting a little rowdy. Kate ask them to calm down. Kate always kept a cool head behind the bar. Mid forties but looked to be in her late 50’s. Running a place like this ages you. Fucking kids. Two beers in and they are already causing trouble. Probably trying to get their dicks wet for the first time. When I was their age I had the blood of men on my hands. Men who were willing to die for a belief. All these idiots believe is that wearing matching jean jackets looks good. Where I come from jeans are for strapping down your dick. Not keeping your nipples from leaking.

I remember when this beard smelled like something else. Pussy. Saigon pussy. Cheap, bad, and dangerous. The was sex should be. Best tour I ever had. Never wanted to come home. Pretty sure I have a few kids over there. Condoms and I…we never got along. Women these days. They want to talk and “spend quality time”. The way I see it if my dick is out… time is about to get pretty quality. For me at least. Sure I’m not the best looking guy. I’m no Michael J. Fox or Kevin Bacon but I got it where it counts. My pocket. 10 bucks. Good enough for at least a bathroom handjob from Kate. I order another whiskey. Excited by the prospect. Of whiskey. Kate slides it down the bar and I pour it back. Some drips on my chin conditioning my course whiskers. I’m jostled from behind as one of the frat boys playing grab-ass bumps into me.
“Alright boys, that’s enough. This is a bar, not a dick suckery for preppy school kids” I said trying to wring the whiskey out of my beard. Out of nowhere I am jostled again. No, this time I was pushed.
“Screw off scum bag! And why don’t you give that face of yours a haircut!”
At least I think that is what he said. I’m not listening. I stand and grabbed him by his stupid jacket and sent him face first into the bar. His teeth take most of the impact. One of his tough guy friends makes a move. He’s quick. Not quick enough. My boot makes quick work of his knee. He tries to catch himself from falling by grabbing the bar. I help him out by driving my knife though his hand and into the beer soaked wood. Now, it’s a good knife and I wouldn’t want him walking away with it so I break his other hand just to be safe.
“Now, if you other boys want to get rowdy we can do that. Or, you can be gentlemen and apologize to Kate here and be on your way.” One of their chins is quivering. Even if mine was you wouldn’t see it due to the thick bush of man that covered it. They try to stammer a response as they head out the door. So full of adrenaline they can hardly speak. First fight. Not used to the rush. Pussies. All of them. No real men left.
I take out my 10 bucks and throw it on the bar. “Kate, let’s go. This cock ain’t going to jerk itself off. “ She looks at me disgusted. I stare at her. She stares at me. Then the money. She quickly grabs it and heads towards the mens room. I love weekends.

– Sgt. David Garlson (Ret.)

August 1984

 

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November 21, 2012 · 18:30

Rough Seas

The sea was angry that day. I stood on the bow of my ship, the “Moist Wettener” as I stroked my greying beard. It had been about 4 days on the water. Three shipmates I hired as hands for what I felt would be the biggest crab pull this season. Hell, any season since Cpt. Mark Stedmoore hauled in what was known as the “ large amount of crab” in 1984. Mark was a good man. Died of the AIDS in ’92. They claimed it was a homo disease at the time. Mark was no homo. On land.
I looked back over the dipshits I had hired. God, I needed to stop being so cheap. These were just kids. The only one I trusted on the boat besides myself was my hound, Jessup. He was a good dog. He had seen his shares of hard times. Hard times indeed. My mind drifted back to Helen. My gorgeous Helen. Well, I don’t think any man in his right mind would call her gorgeous but she was a good woman. A big woman, but a good woman. Died during child birth. She had slipped on the placenta of some dumb broad shitting out a kid. New life they said. I lost her, my true love, the next day when she had an allergic reaction to the medicine they gave her to calm her swollen ankle.
“That’s what she gets for being fat” Said the doc. I stared at him coldly. “Oh…too soon?” I reared back and slapped him across his silky smooth rich boy cheek. With no beard to soften the blow the skin split and he screamed like a little girl.
“My wife is dead asshole. Go back to trying to cure that homo disease Stedmoore has” If only I knew then…
Jessup nudged my hand and whined. Brought me back to reality. I could taste the sea spray on my lips. She was a good ship and had seen her fair share of weather but nothing like this. It was going to get worse before it got better. To their credit the boys were doing their best. Why wouldn’t they? Two of them had new families. Mouths to feed. I just had Jessup and myself. A man. His dog.
The safe thing to do was to head in. The right thing to tell the boys to get down below but pride had me that day. One of them, I think Doug was his name approached me.
“Captain, this is no good. We need to turn back. This storm looks bad. Just to be on the safe side I’m going to…” That’s all he got out before my fist hit him square in his dick. I felt it shrivel beneath my knuckles. Not that much was there in the first place. He collapsed to the deck in pain. Jessup immediately mounted him and began thrusting to assert his dominance. Doug lay there helpless. Moaning in pain while being vigorously humped by a slobbering hound. I leaned down close.

“Fuck. You.” I said through clenched teeth. My beard brushed his smooth check also asserting dominance. “I came to fish. I came to catch some Goddamn crab. I came to put some money in my hand. And Jessup just came. Get your hands off your baby dick and get to your feet. Time to catch crabs like your sister.” He didn’t know it but I had fucked the snot out of his kid sister. Gave her $15 bucks, crabs, and whatever else I had going on down there. Who gives a shit.

-Cpt. James Brockton
Jan. 1997

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