Author Archives: agentleman

Filed under Farm

April 26, 2016 · 01:46

Raising a Man

First of all, you need to understand something. I am a man. A full bearded man. This doesn’t mean I can’t cry at a sad movie or feel shame for acting a fool when drunk. It just means that I don’t. Hell, I ain’t no automaton. I cried in 1968 when I had to put down my dog, Chuck, with my pistol. It was more of tearing than sobbing woman cry yet I get accused by my wife and son of being insensitive. You see, I have been having some trouble with my boy.

Jake was born in 1971. My wife Ann, who is a saint of woman, gave birth to him suddenly 8 and a half months into her pregnancy. And boy do I mean suddenly. He flew out of her faster than a mule kick. I worked for the local electric company which I still do to this day. It’s honest work and pays the bills. I did the best I could as a father. Better than my father. He was tougher than grits and knew how to use them. I can’t tell you the number of times I had warm to mildly hot grits poured down my britches as punishment. Even for the smallest infraction such as not finishing my grits or not putting enough grits on my steak. However, as he got older his drinking increased and it calmed his demeanor. I guess some men just need that liquor in their system to keep them steady. Walking to school with pants full of grits is a smooth yet embarrassing experience. I wasn’t a trouble maker but I could take care of myself and on occasion I would get into fights on the way to school with some of the local boys. When it was all over we would be covered in grits due to the fact my father had filled my pockets with them. This would absolutely baffle them. It was strange enough to keep them from challenging me too often. I thought my father didn’t know what he was talking about like all boys do at that age I remember him saying things like “BOY! You best remember that grits could one day save your hide!” Or “Grits ain’t then enemy son, things that are not grits are the enemy.” Or “That’s one small bowl of grits for a man, one giant tubs of grits for mankind.” This was usually said as he served our dinner grits.

My mother was a portly woman who cared deeply for her children. She came from a time when you supported your husband no matter what. As I got older I began questioning some of his grits based philosophy but my mother was quick to remind me that his work in the grits factory is what puts grits on the table. One time she did admit that a man in that kind of work environment is bound to have a few scars. I wouldn’t know what she meant until years later. I would ask her to explain but she would tell me to just finish my grits and not to worry about my father and he was a good man. She was right. He had served in the Army in world war 2. He didn’t talk about it ever, even when he had more than a few too many. Perhaps that was part of it.

I was a rebellious teen. My beard was starting to sprout so it was to be expected. I was listening to rock and roll and letting my hair grow over my ears. There was nothing too bad until one summer I asked to borrow his truck to haul some old furniture for the church. What I was really doing is moving about 100 beers and a few stolen bottles of booze to the lake for the weekend. Also I was getting head from a young female in my class who was known to be a bit loose with her morals. Unfortunately, I hadn’t left the driveway when he walked up. He immediately spit out his grits ripped open the car door.

“What the in the sweet name of grits is going on here he shouted as we scrambled to get ourselves together. Marci, the girl I was with ran off in horror and shame as my father grabbed me by the collar. He tore off the tarp I had covering the booze in the bed of the truck and gritted his teeth with some grits he had in his shirt pocket. He asked me where I got the booze and I told him. We drove and he made me return it to its rightful owner then we drove home. Silence the whole way. It was worse than a beating. Later that night he sat me down in the parlor and told me a story.

“When I was in the Army there were times when we had to ration carefully for the men. You see, I was part of the supply chain that tried to get hot meals to the men on the front. You can’t imagine how important it is for moral. We were away from home for years and…you miss the little things…the small comforts…Hell, unless you were there I can’t expect you to understand. You see, we were cut off in Bastogne. Surrounded by the Hun… for weeks and…” My father trailed off and stared into a memory somewhere far away and long ago. I could see the pain and sorrow behind his eyes. Those eyes which until then I had seen as the eyes of a simple grits man now seemed both beautiful and scarred with life experiences I couldn’t imagine. After a moment he spoke.

“You shouldn’t take what isn’t yours. You shouldn’t try to deceive your parents. We only want the best for you. You are going to keep fucking up. That is the nature of things but please try to remember that when you take what isn’t yours, you hurt someone else. I don’t expect you to understand but just give it a thought.” Then he stood up and slowly walked away. He never mentioned any kind of punishment and in fact never mentioned the incident again. That simple moment changed who I was. I think that was the day I understood what it was to be a man. A few years later I told him I was being shipped out to Vietnam. He shut his eyes, took a deep breath and simply said “come back”. I never heard from him while I was over there. I never got a single grit from him although occasionally there would be a few in a letter from my mother but it was just grit debris from the amount of grits in the house. When I got back he gave me a firm handshake and congratulated me on “…killing a slew of those slant eyes half Jap fucks” and welcomed me home. I washed the grits off my hand looked up in the mirror. I wiped off the grits and saw a bearded man looking back. The boy who grew up in this house was gone. I rubbed some drying grits on my hands and went to have dinner with my family. I have to admit I had been yearning for months for grits casserole and the Crème de la Grits I could smell from the porch.

Listen to me. I was going to tell you about my fuckup son but I ended up doing nothing but tell you about my own self. I must be getting old. I guess my own problems as a father will have to wait. Maybe they aren’t so bad after all.

Greg Gritman

December 1988

Filed under Uncategorized

April 17, 2016 · 17:23

Tex

Cowboy boots.

Hat.

Denim britches.

A belt buckle with a human butt in the shape of Texas that says “TexASS” underneath.

This has been my getup for the last 42 years and I don’t intend to change a thing about it. If I got a couple dollars in my pocket and a couple whiskeys in my belly I am a happy man. You have to keep life simple. That is the key. I am a simple man who married a simple woman. I met Carla in high school. At the time my nickname was “Tex” being that I was from Texas. Since we were actually in Texas this was problematic since every male in the school had the same nickname. Except for Stephen “The Steve” Stephenson and Bigmike “Slim” Fatthins.

Carla was an attractive woman with a dynamite figure. In those days women kept themselves decently covered. If you wanted to see some skin you would get yourself one of them girly books from the drugstore. Old man Schleppy kept them in the back. You would give him a wink and kiss on the lips and he would quietly slip a magazine to you. It was a different time when women were ladies in public and animals between the sheets but no one had to know about it besides their men. Of course we all told each other wild tales.

“Oh boy. You might think Mable is a lady by the way she acts in public but she is a real animal between them sheets.” One of us might say.

“Oh yea. I could say the same thing about Darlene. Real lady like when about town but boy, you get her between those sheets and she’s a real animal.” Someone else might say.

“Funny you guys say that because I thought Mary-Bethany was such a lady on account of how she carried herself when in the company of others but when I got her between them sheets it was like she was some kind of wild animal.” Another would add.

It would get repetitive after a while and we would stop and silently wonder why the women all seemed so similar. I would say the only difference would be the ladies of the night who hung out at the truck stop down the way. Feisty animals in public but once you paid for their time between the sheets they were very proper ladies.

Carla was different. She was…off I guess some would say. Her mother said it was because she was born during a full moon. Her father more accurately would say it was because she got kicked in the back of the head by a mule when she was a child. I was 18 years old in my senior year. I had a 1972 Ford pickup truck that me and the fellas would sit in and down a couple of tallboys before the day started. One day Carla came and say down in the bed of the truck and asked if we wanted some porridge. We looked at each other confused then she delivered a quick and accurate round house kick to my friend Tex who was instantly knocked unconscious. She then shouted “I WILL NOT BE RAPED!” and ran backwards to her group of friends. Full speed too while keeping eye contact with us. It was more impressive that the kick. I was instantly smitten. I ended up asking her to the senior prom. She slapped me in the face and said yes. Luckily I had a full beard at the time which absorbed much of the force but it still stung. I hardly noticed because I she had said YES! I hollered and threw might hat into the air which then fell into a mud puddle and I questioned why I had just done that or why it seemed like a good thing to do in celebration in general. I picked her up in my truck and she looked as beautiful as the day we met which was 3 days prior. She slapped me and gave me a quick peck on the cheek. I learned quickly she didn’t have much of a filter on account of the mule kick.

“I have to tell you Carla, I am real excited for tonight.” I said. She shifted uncomfortably.

“Sorry I am moving all around and for the smell. I got the nervous butt toots and the way I am sitting is sending some of them into my vagina parts which I am trying to avoid and not mention.” I admired her honesty. We danced and laughed all night. We were both a bit overserved when she said she wanted to make love to me. She asked if I had a couple of sheets in my truck she could get between to show me what an animal she could be. Luckily I did on account I had been at a klan meeting a few night prior. It was a wonderful night. I felt like a real man. We continued to date and then one day she slapped me and told me she was “pregnant as all fuck.” And that I was going to be a father. I had to tell the guidance counsel, Tex Hodges, that I was going to take my responsibilities seriously and I was dropping out of school.

“What the hell are you talking about.” He said “There are three days left and then you graduate. That would be ridiculous.”

“Sorry. My mind is made up. Time for me to be a man.”

“But you have a full academic scholarship to Harvard!”

“Well, you know what they say. ‘College school is for sissy men and queer faggot gay men boy men.”

“No they don’t. No one says that!”

But I was already walking out to marry my sweet Carla. Her father owned the feed store and offered me a job. I took it. Six months into the pregnancy we were devastated when the good Lord above decided it wasn’t time for us to be parents and took our baby boy home early. The doctor man said it wasn’t the good Lord as much as it was Carla’s use of handfuls of diet pills but in her defense she was developing a bit of a gut on account of all the drinking she was doing so we didn’t know what he expected. Carla was so distraught that she couldn’t drink for months. That is when she got pregnant and gave birth to my boy Tex. It was one of the happiest days of my life when she brought him home. My dog, Tex ran up and immediately started licking him in the face. It was a wonderful time. The start of my life as a family man and a feed man. The start of a new day in Texas and new life for Tex.

Tex “Tex” Texman

August 2015

Filed under Uncategorized

December 7, 2015 · 01:05

Hot Hogs

I always had a fascination with motorcycles. No defining moment like watching Easy Rider or having family members that were into them, it was just always there. I got my first bike when I was 17 years old. I don’t even know what it was. Some kind of mishmash of different parts that I picked up over time. It didn’t last too long though. In 1965 I joined the United States Army. I was just a boy. I did my four years and then moved back home a man. Got some honest work down at the mill where I would be for the next 20 years. When I was 38 I quit and rode across the country in search of adventure. I guess that entire time was an adventure. Hell, in some ways my whole life has been adventure. Sure it doesn’t sound like it when you spend your first 20 years as a working man in your hometown but it seems like every time I rest my balls on the seat of his hog, shit gets interesting real fast.

I picked up my 1979 Harley Electra glide at the end of 82. Over the years I had made quite a few modifications and that bad boy took me all across North America. I don’t want this to turn into some kind of bike a retrospective. I might lose the casual reader. I may throw in terms that only us bikers know. Everyone knows a term like “hog” or “crotch rocket”; but how about “taint piece” or “dick wiggler”. Yep, both completely acceptable terms for a motorcycle. That is if you are in the scene. I was in the scene. I rolled around town every weekend with my gang “The lone band of individuals”. Our slogan was “United together in nonconformity”. It was great. Our bikes were all the same color. We wore the same clothes and jackets, shared the same women, and drank the same beers. I guess it was part of me rebelling against my time and the military. I spent four years in the motor pool working on olive drab trucks, in my olive drab uniform, eating, sleeping, and working with the same people every day. Fuck that. Maybe that’s why my gang was so rebellious and so hell-bent on conforming to nothing. It was me and nine other guys from the mill originally. There was Matt “Skids” Mahoney, Jeff “Wheels” Patraka, Morty The Cock, Reggie “Muffler Ass” Makay, “Blind” Artimus Jackson, Willie “Dribbles”, Jonathan “Hand Jobs” Vilks, Gay Mike Reardon, Straight Mike Frontmore, and myself. That was the group. Tearing around town on our dark green bikes with our dark green jackets and with whatever women we happened to find. Those who don’t ride can’t imagine the freedom. Riding around with those guys on your taint piece made you feel like there were no rules just the open road ahead of you. We had our bar we would all meet at on Saturday night. We would measure our beards as one of the rules of the gang was that they all had to be the same length and style. If someone’s beard wasn’t like the rest of ours we would beat the living piss out of them with bike chains and tire irons.

Dusty McKillip ran the bar. He was a good man. He had owned the place since 1949. You would always give sage advice such as “try building a campfire by using evenly spaced logs stacked on top of each other in a perpendicular fashion as an alternative to the standard pyramid.” Or “don’t use too much detergent in the washing machine. If it doesn’t rinse out it just attracts more dirt.” Or “a woman’s orgasm has contractions spaced approximately .8 seconds apart followed by a general red flushing of the chest. If you don’t see these things she may be faking it.” He had some kind of mental disorder where he would just say these things. None of us minded and we all learned a lot. We would drink beers until late into the night as it was a requirement to be in our gang and yes, things would get rowdy. I hate to perpetuate the stereotype of motorcycle gangs but we were troublemakers. We would play pool and stand around yelling and shoving each other and occasionally you would hear a bottle break. Again, I hate to perpetuate the stereotype but it was like a scene out of a movie. For hours. Now that I think about it was really weird just yelling and shoving about nothing in particular and drinking. And I never once saw a broken bottle but I would hear them break. At around 2:30 AM we would stumble out of the bar and fire up our dick wiggler’s. Looking back I would say that was our downfall. We would lose an average of one man every other month to some alcohol-related accident. Someone else from the mill would step in and take his place but that didn’t last too long as the town was just running out of men. By 1985 it was just me and Gay Mike. Gay Mike, as his name implied, was the happiest sonofabitch I’ve ever met. Nothing could bring that guy down. He would tell me these horrible stories about being raped by another man behind the warehouse at the mill. Or sometimes by a few men at a rest stop. Did he let it get to him? Hell no. He would just say things like “It wasn’t rape. I wanted it. That’s what I’m into. That’s my thing.” I always admire that. I would never be able to be that positive. To just shrug it off like that and look at it in such a way. I would tell him how much I admired his strength and he would look me dead in the eyes and say “You know I like men right? My name is Gay Mike. You do understand that I have a sexual preference for men rather than women don’t you Mark?” The crazy thing is he would say it was such conviction. Yes, I could joke about liking men in a queer way but I would probably start laughing. This guy could say it as if he was serious to take power away from those who had hurt him. That is real strength. That’s a man’s man. Sadly, he died later in 1985 from AIDS probably because he had sex with so many women.

Without my gang I had nothing but my bike so I took off and headed west. I left my job of 20 years. I left my trailer that I called home for the same amount of time but my home was the road and I felt that for years. That day in 1985 was when my life really began. When I left for the Army in 1965 I thought I knew it all. In 1985 when I climbed on that beautiful grundle rumbler and headed for the sunset I was SURE I knew it all and then some. Life in your hometown can teach you things. Life in the Army can teach you more but life on the road is a university degree. A day and a half after I left I pulled into a truck stop outside Memphis. Four hours later I had caught the worst case of VD I had ever had, swallowed all the ‘black beauties’ the truckers would spare, and was the most wanted man in Tennessee. That story is going to have to wait. It’s 7 PM and it takes this old man a little while to get through an entire bottle of whiskey so you will have to excuse me while I concentrate on the drinking. Ride on my friends.

Mark Cressman

June 2002

Filed under road life

January 30, 2015 · 01:25

I love New York part II

Click here for part I

Audio link for the blind

It was hot in the city. I was used to the heat though. Being a bearded New York gay in 1982 was when I was in my prime. Clubbing at night. Working in a bookstore by day. “Reed’s Reads” it was called. The owner, my boss was Charles K. Reed. He was a gentleman in every sense of the word. Smoked cigarettes from long cigarette holders. Enjoyed his brandy with a fine biscuit and was always wore a top hat when walking around town. He had owned the store for 15 plus years. I had been employed there for about a year and a half. This was before the days of the big chain stores. It was a more intimate setting. We had a reading area next to a fireplace, a small coffee bar, and a consistent customer base. Charles had been around. He was in the Navy in World War 2. “There was a lack of women around you know?” He would always say while telling a tale of one of the many ports they visited. He would tell stories of being a gay in the 1950’s. A much more difficult life than it is now. They had their underground establishments that would get busted up from time to time.

I remember he was told me about the downfall of “The Hole in the Wall” which was one of the more popular spots. It mascaraed itself as a jazz club but the only thing being blown there was men. And horns as they did have live jazz. The cops came in on a Tuesday. The bathroom stall walls looked like Swiss cheese from the number of glory holes back there. Some of the cops had been in there for the last 3 hours collecting evidence. A well-played move. You see, you don’t worry about what is on the other side of the hole. It does its job and you get off. Simple. How could they know it was the eager mouths of New York’s finest?

“All right you queers! Up against the wall!” One yelled. “You think you can live your lives of sin on my watch?” Of course everyone denied they were gay but the cops were good.

“If you aren’t gay then you won’t like this at all!” Said the leader. He then roughly grabbed slim young officer and planted a deep kiss on his lips holding him roughly by the hair. The bastard! He looked up with a sneer. His tough cop beard hugging rubbing against the soft boyish cheeks of his ‘victim’.

“No? Doesn’t turn you on?” He then ripped open the top part of his uniform revealing a rugged and muscular barrel chest. Dropping to his knees he unzipped the young officer and took out his sizable night stick. He began slapping himself in the face with it to get it hard which appeared to be working.

“Fuck yea.” Whispered one of the patrons.

“Ha I knew it!” Said the head cop. He had them. The embarrassment. The lost jobs. All it did was push the movement more underground. They would shut down one spot and another would spring up. All those guys and girls. Forced to live life in the shadows.

I don’t know what Charles was up to in the 60’s and 70’s. He never told too many tales about those days. I would frequently compliment him on his style and he would always reply that style is developed over time and he was once a much rougher fellow before he found himself. I could never really get that story out of him. I always like to hear about people finding out who they are. That is important to us friends of Mary so to speak. Not all of us ‘knew’ we were gay. It is a tough thing to admit to yourself. We have a strong community but that is partly a side effect of the ostracism and rejection from straight society we feel. Kind of like how a gang looks out for its own members when everyone else seems to have abandoned them.

A short while before closing that day a tough looking biker walked up to me as I dusted off a copy of The Midwife.

“Excuse me” he said with his voice rough from road dust. “Do you have book on bike repair?”

“That depends” I said. “You looking to handle it yourself or just trying to learn a little more about how it all works?”

“Oh I know how it all works. And believe me friend, I am used to working with my hands. I don’t need help to get the job done.” Bikers. Always have to play the tough guy. I have to admit this particular fellow had an air of confidence and self-assurance that emanated from his near foot long beard.

“In that case we talking Harley’s or jap bikes.” I knew I shouldn’t have asked. His baby blue eyes penetrated me.

“Look man. I don’t do japs. You understand me?” I nodded. “Now if you have something for a man like me; a bearded New Yorker who loved to hear the rumble of an engine made in the U.S. of A, then tell me. Otherwise I’m going to grab my hog and hit the road.”

“Sorry man. Just trying to be thorough. Back section under automotive.” The biker glared at and uttered a low growl. I felt my beard sag a little. I’m not the best with conflict. I kept a strong face but had to head into the bathroom to get myself together. I went into one of the stalls. I was mildly hyperventilating. And I leaned against the back wall in the corner as I calmed myself. It was there I saw it. Small. High up and almost behind the wall of the stall. It was etched into the concrete by someone who had been here for a while. They took their time. It read “Officer Charles K. Reed. July 1957”. It took me a minute to understand what I was reading. I sat on the toilet to wrap my head around it when I heard the door open. Slow, heavy boots stepped across the floor and into the stall next to me. His boot began tapping. This snapped me out of my thoughts. I tapped back. A book on bike repair fell to the floor. I heard the tape being pulled off the glory on his side. Then his feet moved out of my view. I knew what that meant. We all did.

You never can know who or what is on the other side of the glory hole doing work. Maybe it was a man. Maybe a woman. No way to know for sure but that day the thing on the wrong side of the hole did a bang up job. I walked out of the stall and looked at the clock. One more hour until closing. What club tonight? ‘Big Luke’s’? ‘The Gravy Train’? ‘Open Seasons’? ‘The factory’? ‘Bull DoRams’? So many choices. An hour later Charles was locking the door. Top hat on. Cane extended. “Headed home Mr. Reed?” I asked.

“Not yet. Think I will go for a walk.” He paused. “I used to walk these streets a lot more than I do now.” With that he clacked his roller skates together and headed down the street. I watched him fade into the distant fog of the night. I turned to begin the long walk to my apartment as a motorcycle roared down a far off boulevard.

Jim “Bear” Bearman

-July 1993

Filed under New York Gay, Uncategorized

November 13, 2014 · 19:15

Remembering Papa

Audio Link for the Blind

I love my father? No. I love my father. (?) I can’t even say it without questioning myself. You see, my father was a cold man. He was bearded to the hilt and as tough as an iron bag of railroad spikes. When I say bearded I mean it was like his hair just became his beard. I think he had head hair for facial hair. Some kind of small genetic error that would have made him a God among Vikings. In fact that is where I think he belonged. A man born in the wrong time in the wrong place. He was poor growing up. A child in the great depression. He worked in a coal mine to help feed his family but when he was 8 his mother forced him to find other work as she felt 3 years without sunlight was damaging his body. He worked as a lumberjack for a few years but then after the bombing of Pearl Harbor he felt his duty was to fight in the war. He lied about his age and joined the Army. When he was 11. He was already about 6 feet tall and could grow full mutton chops and a mustache. After the war he got a job at the steel mill and worked there his entire life making an honest living for his wife and kids.

I was the oldest of 4 children. Born in 1950, I was at the perfect age for the counter culture movement in the 60’s. This is something my father didn’t understand or care about. I don’t even think he knew about it. We were in an argument one time when I was 18. My hair was getting long, I was smoking weed daily and was active in war protest about the growing conflict in Vietnam. The argument started with the length of my hair. I insisted that times were changing and was going into a tirade about how I am my own man when he effectively stopped my speech with a punch to the gut.

“You know. I think you have a point.” He said as I was doubled over in pain. “You do have a right to make your own choice about the war.” I don’t know what he meant by that because he grabbed me by the back of the shirt and dragged me down to the local recruiting office. There were a group of a dozen or so protesters out front chanting the typical slogans at the time. He plopped me down in the office as I was still recovering from the punch. He went outside and I heard the strangest thing. Imagine the sound of someone singing but then being choked. Now imagine that happening to 12 people all at the same time. It is a strange, gurgling chorus sound. He came back inside and shoved the papers in front of my face. The recruiter spoke up.
“Um, sir you can’t force your son to…” He stopped talking as my father stared at him with those cold eyes. Eyes that had been repeatedly burnt by hot steel because of his refusal to where any type of eye protection at them mill. I heard another strange sound as the recruiter’s pants made a rustling sound as his penis shrank between his quivering legs. I signed the papers as my father’s beard flowed on the desk.

In all honesty the military was a breeze. My father had instilled great discipline in his children. Even the toughest drill sergeant has nothing on my towering father with his deep gravelly voice telling me to get my shit together. Hints of smoke left over from his job at the mill, which he left hours ago, coming out of his nose like a dragon but with far more anger. I distinctly remember the day he picked me up after I got out of the military. It was 1975. His beard had a bit more grey in it. There were more scars on his face, hands, neck, shoulders, and arms than when I left. “Your mother has missed you.” Were his first words as he greeted me with a hearty handshake. I knew he did too. He was cold but he was still a human. I knew this because he was picking me up instead of telling me to “toughen up my feet” by walking home the 5 miles from the bus station. As we drove he attempted to change lanes but there was a sizable blind spot in his truck. He never was one for using mirrors either. The car he cut off beeped and he quickly corrected himself and waved to indicate he was sorry. However, at the next stop light the guy pulled up next to us. He began to shout at my father with colorful language. My father rolled down his window. “I apologize sir, I didn’t see you I hope you weren’t startled.”

“Fuck you old man! Open your fucking eyes and watch where you are going!” shouted the man in the car. I could see two others in the car with them. They were not small men either. They looked like the kind of people you wouldn’t want mad at you. I could see empty beer cans in the car. Surely starting a night of partying a little early. My father was confused.

“I apologized. I made a mistake. This incident is over.” My father said sternly. He turned back facing the light preparing to drive as it changed when a beer can hit in the head.

“Bullshit this is over! I tell you when it is over!” yelled the other driver. My father didn’t flinch as he put the car in park and got out. As the three men who were looking for a fight did the same. The light had turned green but no car behind us had dared move except for the few that recognized my father and had quickly pulled out of line to drive the other way. Impressively, there was very little trash talking from the three men as almost immediately one of them threw a punch hitting my father on his cheek right below his eye. My father didn’t even blink as the man’s hand shattered and the skin was ripped off his knuckles. I imagine it would be like punching a brick covered in rock salt.

Thinking about it now I there are a number of sounds I associate with my father that I haven’t heard anywhere else. There was the incident at the recruiting office for sure and this was another one. You see, he never had much respect for men who couldn’t control themselves or their drinking. After the first man threw a punch I had turned away. Even with everything I had seen in ‘Nam I didn’t want to see my father’s reaction to being punched. But I heard everything. I heard the trunk open. I heard the head honcho swing a bat. I heard the bat being caught mid swing by my father and then snapped in half along with a few of the man’s fingers. I heard the screaming. I heard the pleading. I heard my father tell them to shut up. And they did. Then the silence broken by the sound of empty beer cans being shoved up the rear ends of the three men. The sickening sound of metal crinkling and grunting men. A loud slap would be heard as he would remind them to shut up. Then just the crinkling and shoving. I guess you could say their punishment was equal to their drinking. They had made the mistake of having about 6 beers each. The whole process took a good 8 minutes or so. He had put the keys to their car in the first can telling them that they were allowed to drive again when they could get to the keys. He got back in the car and we continued on. I was queasy but tried not to show it. “Your mother has missed you” he said. I mentioned he said that when he picked me up.
“Sorry son, the old man sometimes forgets what he says I guess. Look at me rambling on. I guess I am just excited to see you. Tell me about the east. Tell me about oriental whores and war.” We drove on with me telling him about Vietnam. He just laughed the entire ride home. Nothing I said was funny.

John Kilmore

August 1983

Filed under Uncategorized

Tagged as Beard, Vietnam, war

November 12, 2014 · 01:32

Cop a Feel 2

CLICK HERE FOR PART 1

AUDIO LINK FOR THE BLIND

Why am I so fat? I know why. I eat so much. I move so very little. I guess I should be asking why I let myself get like this. There is a reason I don’t have any full length mirrors on my house. More than once I have shown up at the station and one of the boys has to tell me to zip up. I can barely fit in my uniform much less see my own zipper. I try to blame genetics but genetics doesn’t put pizza in my gut 4 times a week or go on desert binges. Jenny leaving me certainly put the process into over drive but I was already a good 280lbs when she took off. Don’t get me wrong. She was no slouch herself but I had at least 90lbs on her. For a while I would get warnings about letting my weight get too high from the captain. After I added another hot hundo in 6 months I think I am now a combination of a lawsuit and liability. Everyone sues everyone for everything these days. I wish I could say I am self-conscious and that is why I grew my beard. You know, to hide my chins. The real reason is I just stopped caring. Jenny not only took my heart but also my soul. She was everything to me. No. That is also something I wish I could say. She was good enough and put up with my laziness for a while. God, I suck. I think this as I polish off a “big gulp”. I mix diet and normal Coke to make myself feel better. But then I add sugar. One of those strange behaviors that only the obese can understand. Some kind of weird rationalization that you are starting to change. You aren’t. You are fat.

I am not a good cop. Never was. I just wanted to feel powerful. I felt powerless against my appetite and laziness. It made me feel good to have power over people. I never understood “protect and serve”. Well, I guess I mean I never thought about it. That is until I was in court for tazing a kid for mouthing off to me. Like he knew the laws better than me? Like he could quote his rights better than me? I am a police officer. That is something that deserves respect. It turns out he DID know his rights and knew WAY more about the law than I did. Did you know there is such thing as a citizen’s arrest? I didn’t. When an angry mob arrest you for smacking the kid in the mouth with your stick you learn what it is real quick. The only reason I kept my job is because I think people felt sympathy for me as the local news played footage of me sobbing uncontrollably on the ground in my own cuffs as a little girl called me a cry baby. I claimed I was on anti-depressants and it had altered my mood and judgment. They quickly proved that this wasn’t due to a blood test but they did show my estrogen levels were sky high due to my obesity. After that I fell into the groove of just being your average lazy cop. I clock in and clock out. I try to turn the other way if I witness something that will require paperwork.

One thing I am really good at is chasing people down in my squad car. You see, a man of my stature doesn’t do much running. I even get kind of winded when driving fast so I am really good and knowing the shortest route between two points in this town. I am also really good and timing myself coming around a corner so that I will knock down a perpetrator with my car instead of having to chase him on foot. That way I can claim it was just and accident but I know what I am doing. One time a young punk snatched some lady’s purse. I actually saw it happen down the street as I was in my squad car. He ran right towards me. I looked the other way pretending I didn’t notice but people started knocking on my car and pointing at the kid. At this point the kid had seen me and changed directions down an alley. I took off after him. The Doritos I was eating spilled all over me. I wish I could say I stopped eating them during the chase but I didn’t. I came around the other side of the ally in time to see the kid climb a fence. I quickly backed out using only mirrors as I don’t/can’t turn around in my seat. I cut around the block and behind a 7-11. The kid landed on my car as he was coming over the other fence. He was stunned but only for a second. He dropped the purse and ran thinking I wouldn’t give chase which was a good bet but this day was different. I didn’t want to let this one go. Rounding the corner he I saw him jump onto a motorcycle. Some kind of Jap bike. He headed straight for the highway. I disengaged and headed east knowing that the highway simply arched around downtown and he wasn’t going to dare get off at the downtown exits. I crossed town with lights flashing and got on exit 14. I could see him as I headed up the ramp. I keep my spike strip in the passenger seat so I opened my window and hit a quick turn so the force of the turn would allow me to throw them out the window instead of getting out of the car. He hit them going well over 90mpg and that lucky son of a bitch crashed and rolled right into the lake. I threw a flare out the window so other drivers could see the strip and drove down to the lake. “Help! I can’t swim!” he shouted as he struggled to stay afloat. Dammit. What am I going to do? Maybe I could act like I don’t see him. I can’t believe I think like that. Let a man die instead of get out of a car. Jesus! Plus there were people on the bridge shouting at me to help him. I rocked out of the car and got my rope from the trunk. I threw it out into the water and tied the other end around my waist. Once he had the rope I began to pull him in. However, due to the Doritos grease on my hands and general lack of physical ability I found myself fatiguing fast. My solution was to just start spinning and act like a human cord reel. Sadly this worked great and soon he was on shore. He gasped for breath on the shore but recovered quickly. I on the other hand did not recover quickly and was gasping for breath as I had wrapped myself up with rope. He walked over as I yelled at him to stay where he was but both of my arms were clearly pinned. I tried to get my fat, greasy fingers around my gun but instead just pulled it out enough to finger the trigger and shot myself in the foot. This wasn’t the first time. I fell to the ground and flopped around like an out of shape walrus. He looked like he was going to make a run for it or steal my car. I couldn’t tell which. I looked him right in the eye.

“Kid. Don’t do this. Don’t throw this away. This is the precipice where a life filled with pain can only get worse or you can choose a second chance. A chance for change.” I saw his eyes start to water. I saw a young man without guidance, without discipline and who was for the first time hearing the words he had been waiting to hear. What he didn’t know was that I was referring to myself. I meant didn’t want him to steal my car and get me fired throwing my job away. But he didn’t know that as he helped me out of the rope and surrendered. He cried in the backseat of my car as I tried my best to think of a story of how the arrest went down. It turns out someone on the bridge had a video camera so I wouldn’t have to. Once again I was on the news flopping around all fat and sweaty in a knot of my own doing. There was no audio on the video but you could see me talking to the kid and he would for years tell the story of how I changed his life. I became a hero of non-violence. The headline read “Bumbling blob cop ties himself up to arrest street tough with just words.” I was the symbol in town of what a cop should be. This was when Rodney king was still fresh in everyone’s mind. I was invited to speak at schools and give seminars on how we can influence the teens of our community. I turned them all down of course as I wasn’t looking to get off my couch any more than I already do. I thought about how Jenny might see me and I could use her as motivation but as it turns out that really wasn’t motivating. Instead I rewarded myself with a cake. Actually telling myself “I deserve this”. I fail as a cop, get an arrest due to a misunderstanding and have the balls to convince myself I deserve a treat? Wow Frank. You are truly a piece of shit.

Sgt. Frank Molleni
June, 1994

Filed under Cop a feel

May 27, 2014 · 17:48

On the Down Low

The biggest mistake I ever made was getting my beard tattoo. I thought beards were cool and at 18 years old I wanted one so bad but just couldn’t grow one. So I paid handsomely for a full beard tattoo. It looks like shit. The tattooist told me I couldn’t shave for a week after I got it. It was only then I realized that to grow a beard you couldn’t shave. Yea yea. I know. But I just never associated those things. Big fucking deal. Turns out I can grow a full, healthy dark beard which I promptly did to cover up the terrible beard tattoo and have kept it ever since. A question people always ask me why I never aspired to be anything more than a dishwasher. Two reasons. One: I hate dirty dishes. Really. I don’t obsess about dishes being clean. I just hate it when they are dirty and I am a doer. I take action. So this is what I do. Reason two: Aspiring about a job is for losers. A job? A fucking job? Who gives a fuck. I work to live, man. I don’t see myself as an extension of my job. That is just what I do to make some scratch so I can pay the bills. Plus it is easy hours that allows plenty of time for band practice. You might be asking what is a 42 year old still doing in a band? He’s living. That is what he is doing. He’s making music. Making art. Trying to inspire the world. Getting blowjobs by drunk 20 something’s and sober 40 something’s. Maybe you have heard of us? Rickshaw? Named after our twin lead guitarist/lead singers Rick and Shawlington Rackmaninov. We have only been a thing for a little while. There is Mark on the keys, Rick and Shaw on vox and lead guitar, Steve Marijanian on Rhythm Guitar, “Puddles” Murphy on Sax, and Vasily Ruslan on percussion and backing vocals. You might say it is a lot of people for a local Rhythm and Blues band that is just starting up and you are right. We split shit pay too many ways and honestly we suck. I never claim to be the greatest bass player in the world but I have been playing for 25 years and been in twice that many bands. I can play. The twins have incredible stage presence but that is all they have. They are terrible people and the most narcissistic pricks I have ever seen. They look like the Nelson brothers from the band “Nelson” in the 80’s. We haven’t played a single show where they haven’t gotten in a fight on stage. The audience loves it because they can’t fight at all. The problem is they always end up rolling around on the floor then making out. Yep. Two twin brothers making out. They claim it is their cultures way of saying they are sorry but we are pretty sure they just like to kiss each other on the mouth. This has led to a very strange following we have. The hard as fuck bikers show up to hear some good music and get to drinking. These wannabe tough guy MMA dudes show up knowing they are going to see a fight and a bunch of homosexual men with brother fetishes show up knowing they will see two brothers make out. The bikers and MMA guys go nuts when the fight starts cheering and egging them on. “Use your fist like a man!” one of the bikers will yell. Without fail one of the MMA douchbags will yell “ARMBAR HIM!” at some point every single time. Then the making out starts and the gay guys start yelling and egging them on. “Use your fist like a man” one will yell. I don’t know much about gay subculture but I don’t think they mean the same thing the bikers do. The night ends and half the bikers leave with one of the homos on the back of their bikes. “Just giving this guy a ride home that’s all!” they say out loud to anyone who will listen. The MMA guys are left hanging because no self-respecting man or woman wants to go home with some dipshit who thinks “tapout” is a cool kind of clothes to wear and thinks taking fighting lessons is a good use of time.

I have played with pretty much everyone in the city. Vortex, Klown Kollage, Big Pete and the Glory Holes, Gary Delamore and the Hand Jobs, Hand Job and the Gary Delamores, Delamore and the Big Pete Gary Jobs, Matelika, Gams and Hoses, Writers of the Porn, The Dashing Blumpkins, Hank E. and the Codes, Labia, Uncle Touches and the Secrets, Mr. Brownstain, Tempest Fugit, Gary Busey and the Pew C’s…the list goes on. If they mattered l laid down the bottom end. Even if they didn’t matter. Most of the time they didn’t. I can’t say one band stood out really but my best work was playing with a drummer known as Alabama Slims. I don’t even know his real name. He was a 350lbs man who was about 5’7 in boots. We were the hottest rhythm section in town. We just had it man. He had a heavy ass foot and really came down on that bass drum. We could just feel each other and dance all night locking that groove in for the show offs trying to play a half decent guitar solo. We had a running joke about him trying to take home the underage girls. Just some inside ribbing. Turns out he was an actual pedophile. He got busted on that Chris Hanson show. Didn’t do himself any favors by trying to talk Mr. Hanson into some kind of double team scenario.

So here I am. Washing dishes by night and rocking by other nights. It’s hard to keep a band together. I give this one another few months. I have a side gig with ‘Plick Feinstein and the Accountants’ and a twice a month thing with extreme metal ensemble ‘The Retards’. I was upset that it took me 4 months to realize they were actually all retarded. I just thought they were on drugs. Turns out I was the only one on drugs. I am not an addict or anything. It’s just part of the scene. By that I mean part of both the music and dishwashing scene. As you can imagine washing dishes is rather repetitive and boring. Imagine what that is like 8 hours a day. Now imagine what it is like if you only remember ever going to work twice in your life. It’s like getting a free paycheck. The only evidence I have that I have a job is that I get a paycheck and I walk in the door and no one kicks me out. Quick huff of the whipped crème, a shot of booze to get ready for work and down go the pills. 16 hours later I wake up somewhere and carry on with my life. Life is perfect.

Tom “Dish” Washington

May, 2012

Filed under rock and roll

May 26, 2014 · 15:11

Truck the Establishment 2

Audio Link for the Blind

The year was 1988. I had been trucking for almost ten years. There is a celebration little known to the public when you get your first decade in on the road. You go to a truck stop and get a $5.00 blowjob from a truck stop hooker. Of course this is the same as most days but on your decade celebration you don’t spend 2 hours talking her/him down to $2.75. So that’s a real time saver. Of course they always made more than $2.75 total as most of the money they made was from selling you drugs. The BJ was just so they had some walking around money. Coke was too expensive for the trucking man. Sure it wakes you up but it doesn’t last long and that is no good for work purposes. I mean we are professionals after all.

A lot of people don’t understand that you don’t have to start drinking before you get to the truck stop for the night. You are going to have to get some grub, fuel up, buy drugs and head, maybe shower if you need to take off first thing. So you have plenty of time to get your buzz going. I had a perfect system. I could time the drugs so that they were wearing off as I was refueling. Then I would down a couple swigs of jack and a brew. At the diner I would take a valium to take the edge off and a roofie when I was done. That way I had some food in me and I had enough time to negotiate with some stop-gap, slang for truck stop whore, before it kicked in and put me down for the night. I would set my alarm for 30 minutes before I had to get up and as soon as it went off I would toss down 10mg of Ritalin that would kick in so I could make some coffee. Once I got some breakfast in me I would get to driving. Once I got to driving it just depended what I had on hand. All I know is that I was going to get where I needed to go.

This particular morning I popped in Hysteria by Def Leppard and was rocking the fuck out tearing down the highway at breakneck speeds. I had scored some Dexedrine and some kind of bluish pills that seemed to be doing the trick. In my lap was the bobbing head of some 21 year old down on his luck trying to get to San Diego. I was heading east to Miami. I dropped him off outside Chicago after I dropped a load off in him. I’m not gay or nothing but road head is road head and no one rides for free. Plus with his long hair a clean shaven face he looked like a chick anyway. You have to remember this was they era where looking like a chick was ok for a guy. Hell, I thought poison was an all girl band at the time. I can’t count the number of times I cranked my gear shift to that album cover. I saw the cop car facing the other way on the side of the road obviously checking the speed of those passing by. Well I didn’t see it until I clipped it as thy peyote had unsteadied my hands a little. All I did was knock a little paint off I was sure. No biggie. 10 min later the flashing lights of two cop cars were gaining on me which was impressive given the speed I was going. I didn’t pull over for a bit because I was rocking out to the seventh track on hysteria which was ‘Gods of war’ I think. I finally did and three cops came running up to the cab guns drawn screaming for me to get out. Two males and one pretty smoking hot female. I took a swig of jack and slowly opened the cab door. I stepped down but kept one boot on the first step and stood in an open crotch stance with my arms crossed, sunglasses still on, beard blowing gently in the wind, and a ball cap that simply said “ASS”.

“Oh shit.” Said the first male cop as he lowered his gun staring in awe.

“Fuck yea” Said the second. The lady cop seemed to look at them confused for a second then got back to me.

“Sir, I am going to ask you to put your hands up and turn around and put them on the truck…” she was cut off.

“No no. Don’t listen to that broad. We are all good sir.” Said one of the male cops.

“uh no Pete he hit my car, failed to stop, was traveling at over 100 miles per hour and we saw him drinking before he got out of the cab!”

“Lucy! Look at that man!” Said the second male cop. I hadn’t moved yet. The lady cop looked at him with her mouth open then moved towards me.

“BITCH, PUT YOUR FUCKING GUN DOWN!” screamed the first male cop. This scared the lady cop because she was a girl and she dropper her gun. It discharged when it hit the ground and the bullet grazed the side of my boot. I slowly looked down at my boot then back at the lady cop.

“Holy shit! I am so sorry sir. You have to understand we have to hire women. It’s a new policy.” Stammered the second male cop.

“I…I didn’t mean to drop…” again she was cut off.

“Lucy. I want you to look at what stands before you and look good.” Said the second male cop. By now a Bald Eagle had landed on my shoulder and was preening my beard. “That is a Goddamn American trucker and I will be buried deep in the Georgia clay before I let do anything to this man that he doesn’t want done!” Lucy was all shook up. Hands shaking. The cop continued. “This is the man who makes sure beer gets where it needs to be on time. He makes sure your maxi pads are delivered and dry and by God, he is everything this country stands for. Freedom. Power. Drugs. No condoms. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if he bled red white and blue.” He said as he looked at me with tears in his eyes.

“But he hit my car…” the lady cop whimpered.

“Don’t worry” Said the first cop. “Just look at his truck. Its fine. Hey man, you get any road head ever driving that thing?” He asked.

“Of course. In fact some dude just blew his way from Rockford to Chicago.” I replied

“Fuck yea!” shouted the cops as they high fived.

I could see there was a lot of tension in the air so I reached into the cab and threw a couple of cold beers to the boys. They smiled like kids and immediately opened them. I looked at the lady cop and spoke. “I can see you are upset young missy. So why don’t you take the day off and hop in this rig and finish this run with me down to Miami.”

“What? No, I couldn’t!” She answered. I reached up and peered over the top of my sunglasses. She stared back and my bloodshot eyes. “Well, I guess I could use a break.” She said as she smiled and bit her bottom lip. She undid her hair bun and her dirty blond hair cascaded down over her shoulders. She was hot from all the tension in the air and undid the top two buttons on her uniform causing her cleavage to burst forth.

“Hell yea” Said one of the cops as I squirted the lady cop with the water hose on the side of the truck. She giggled and pushed her tits together and the water came down on her in slow motion. She hopped in the cab and threw her panties out the window. I tipped my cap to the two cops and got in. I shifted the truck in to first and started back heading south and so did the lady cop. It was a good run. Keep on truckin’ Amigos.

-Buck Crimson

July 1990

Filed under Buck Crimson, road life, Road Whores, Trucks, Uncategorized

January 21, 2014 · 23:45

On the road

The kid can play. He is not the best ever heard but he ain’t the worst either. I can’t say the same about his bandmates. The hotel bar will have better musicians than these kids. I guess that’s music these days. Everyone uses computers to correct their mistakes no one learns the art of their instruments. Listen to me. I’m the old man I never thought I’d be. Hell, in reality I’m better than I thought I’d be. 32 years as a roadie. 32 years of rock and roll. 32 years of living the dream. I’ve seen it all. I watch AIDS get invented. I watched cocaine, come and go, then come again. I’ve seen orgies that you wouldn’t believe and some you would but shouldn’t. I have no regrets. Well, I have a few regrets. They mostly involve the eighties. And booze. And mescaline.

This band will never make it. You can tell by how they take the stage. You can tell before you even hear their first song. It’s how they carry themselves, It’s how they hold their instruments. Sure, the guitar player is good. Better than he should be at his age. But these guys are half drunk already in the show is barely started. And they had what three beers each? I watched Slash drinking a fifth of Jack in the morning just the wake up. Plus if my beard doesn’t vibrate with the first note, then you suck. These kids ain’t shit. Normally I wouldn’t take a gig like this. But I of the month before the next tour starts with a real band. And money making band.

I remember my first tour. AC/DC 1981. I was 15 years old and a high school dropout. I got hooked up through a friend of a friend. I went from absolutely lost in my life to discovering exactly what life was. Bon Scott had died from drinking too much. You want to know what the boys in the band did to handle his death? They didn’t cry and give up that is for sure. They got themselves and use singer and drank twice as much. Fuck yeah. I’ve worked with everyone. Aerosmith, Megadeth, Def Leppard, Bon Jovi, Pearl Jam, Poison, Bruce Springsteen, you name it. If they matter, I toured with them. I remember working for Bon Jovi in ’87. He was a handsome guy. Hell, the whole band was. And the girls would do whatever it took to get to them. What I mean by that, is that they would suck their way through us to get to the band. What I mean by that is that I got blow jobs from groupies. And when I didn’t need blow jobs, I got drugs. Free drugs. When I started I told myself I when I started that I didn’t want to be one of those guys that spends his life using drugs and drinking. Two days later I was one of those guys who spends his life using drugs and drinking. I remember bringing one girl in for the band. She had given me about ½ pound of cocaine and some of the best mouth love I had ever had.

“Look what I got here boys. Two tits and a shit ton of Yeyo. They misunderstood me. The whole band and the girl ended up doing lines off my bare chest for half the night before I clarified what I meant. It was all good though because Tico Torres gave me a coked up hand job half way through it.

Jon Bon Jovi looked up, “Livin on a prayer mother fucker!” his face covered in white gold. “This is some Bad Medicine.” A lot of people don’t realize how often front men talk about their own songs. Eddie Vedder used to always talk about how “Alive” he felt after a show. He would emphasize “Alive” and kind of pause so we would get it. He would also love it when someone was named Jeremy and would always talk about how at his wedding he won’t have a best man but will have a “Better Man”. It’s just part of the life. I remember in ’88 I had just scored some weed and vodka for the boys in Def Lepard.

“Thanks, mate. Let me get a “photograph” joked Joe Elliot. But he wasn’t joking. He would take a picture then go around bragging he just took a “photograph”. “I’m just “foolin” everyone. Don’t mean to give you “hysteria”. Now tell that whore to “pour some sugar on me” specifically, my balls”. He would shout as he laid down and took out his balls waiting for coke to be poured on them. This is why I hated being around lead singers.

One time I was hanging out with CC Deville from Poison and we were seeing how many baby shoes we could fit up a groupies ass. It seems like a sick thing to do but when you are on heroin and coffee laced with acid and shrooms, it seems like the right thing to do to bring you down off the Adderall crushed up with the Valium that you took earlier. All of a sudden Big Tom Thomson, head of security kicks in the door. “Some dude out there is claiming that a bearded roadie made him finger his butt for a backstage pass.” Lucky for me 15 of the boys had beards and all of them had fingers in their butts at some point in the night. I was too out of it to care at the time. Another time when touring with Aerosmith a mother had come backstage saying “Some filthy member of the crew just had sex with my 16 year old daughter and told her she could meet Steven Tyler. I am taking legal action when I find out…” she stopped and looked around at all of us loading gear silenced with disgust. I think the last time I had showered was three days earlier. The last time I shaved was 1979. That would be about the same story for most of the crew in those days. “Look lady. We say a lot of things. We do a lot of other things. But if there is one thing I know for sure is that none of us EVER had sex with any underage girl. On this tour. This week.” I jumped down from the truck. If your daughter got herself in trouble then I see that it is your fault for poor parenting. What kind of person thinks they can have sex with a roadie and automatically meet Stephen Tyler? Who could be manipulated that easily? Now, if you want to talk to Mr. Tyler about this and let him hear your complaints then that can be arranged.”

She stammered her response. “well, yes…he’s here? Like I could actually meet him?”

“Yes, if that will help the situation then I am sure he would be happy to of course, nothing is free now is it mam?” I said while adjusting the buckle on my pants. Me and the boys would have a good time that night. She never got to meet Stephen Tyler because he was getting a rim job from her daughter. Road Life.

-“Swampy” Jim Sorgan

March 2013

Filed under road life

Tagged as living dreams, playing for keeps, roadie, rock and roll

· 17:20

Santa’s Lap

Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry easy money time of the year. I don’t know why it took me so long to figure that being a mall Santa was the way to go. There I was sitting in my living room watching my VHS tape of “Thar she blows!” which is my favorite nautical themed adult movie, when it hit me. Children. Why am I not taking advantage of children? Well, not the children really but we know that parents will open their wallets when it comes to their kids. Especially at Christmas time. Enough of sitting on my ass collecting retirement/disability from the aglet plant. I was going to make some real booze money this year. That was 15 years ago and the rest is history.

Well, maybe it isn’t that simple. Let me tell you a little about me. I am a big man. I very big man. I don’t know how much I weight but I have trouble fitting into most seats. That is one problem with being Santa. I have the beard. That is for damn sure. I have the rosey cheeks, due to the booze. And I am usually jolly when properly liquored up unless I am pissed off then from what I gather from the police reports I can be more than a handful. That is all great but I look unhealthy. I sound unhealthy when I breath. I feel fine but parts of my body spill out from under the Santa costume so it is a bit unsightly. I have tried exercise and diets but they just don’t work for me. By that I mean like I tried skipping a meal one day and I thought about exercises one time. Look, I am fat. That is me. All of me. Everywhere.

The first gig I got was at the local mall. Their Santa was a joke. An old skinny guy with a beard who would make cute excuses like “Ms. Clause put him on a diet”. Pussy. When my ex wife told me to diet I would smack her and tell her to bake me a bigger pie. This doesn’t sound good in court when you have to repeat your lines. She easily won the house and kids. I didn’t have to wait long before the previous Santa moved into a retirement home and I stepped it. Lucky me they didn’t have much choice as it was already November when they caught him taking a dump the mouth of the Hamburgler at the McDonalds playground thinking it was his wife. Yep. You heard right. Apparently they had some serious scat play back in the day based on the things he was saying while doing the deed. So I walked into the mall managers office and just said, “I know you don’t like what you see but you got no choice. I am your mall Santa. Deal with it.” So there I was. They had to reinforce the Santa throne because I am a fat fuck. Just a disgusting fat pig of a man. I rely on the thick Santa suit to keep a majority of the smells in and the booze to make my body in hospitable for most bacteria.

People don’t understand how tough it is to be a mall santa. All day. All fucking day you listen to these little shit monsters tell you how good they were and they want all these bullshit toys. Mom and Dad trying to take pictures with cell phones instead of paying for a picture from a professional like
“Two Eyes” Burt who was the photographer at the time. We called him that because he wished he had two eyes like a normal person but somehow in the fetal process something rather cycloptic appeared to have happened. He scared the living fuck out of the kids so we use to try to draw a couple of normal eyes on him but it only seemed to make things worse. He deserved to make a living like anyone else so when I lost my shit on some sexless high pantsuit mom and smashed her IPhone the cops were called and I was ejected from my first gig. Too bad you may be thinking but this is not the case. It turns out most mall Santa’s are pedophiles working under false identities. I would just walk into another mall. Walk up to the Santa and say “Beat it pal or I tell them everything.” Those sick fucks wouldn’t even blink. They would just get up and leave. I would sit down and Christmas would continue.

I think one of the worst parts about being a mall Santa is who you have to try to hide the drinking and remember that you are face to face with some kid who is going to tell you that “your breath smells like angry Daddy”. The cool thing is you can just chase with mouthwash AND get fucked up off mouthwash. Not knowing how to pace myself on the job is what led to me losing my second job. A smoking hot Milf brought her kid to see me. I hadn’t noticed her until she was up to the front of the line. Tight jeans, cut off shirt and a three year old kid. Yep. Had to be a stripper. Now I was half in the bag and by that I mean flat out drunk. She didn’t look like she was doing to hot either. Having trouble balancing in her pumps. After her kid was done being shy I asked “maybe Mommy wants a turn on Santas Lap.” She played along and I stuck a $10 in her waist band and instinct kicked in. Turns out she was a stripper and started giving me a lap dance in the mall. The smell of money and a fat guy boozed out of his ass along with her own buzz triggered her to think she was at work. The police report said that I had stated in a loud “Santa Voice” that I was going to “Cum Kris Cringle Style” and that is when mall security had stepped in. However, being that is was near Christmas time and people were spending all their hard earned money a number of the fathers who came with their families were also a bit liquored up and had begun throwing singles at us and arguing who was next. Which of course led to couples fighting and some of the fathers battling mall security for trying to stop us. Meanwhile mommy stripper was licking the vodka out of my beard and I don’t even know where her kid was. Regardless I missed a few days that season but I miss days every season. Still had a good haul. The next year I learned to dress Two Eyes Burt up like an elf so he made more sense and then we worked as a team. Since then it has been smooth sailing. Easy gigs. Easy money. Easy women. Strippers go for guys dressed as Santa. I keep the outfit on for the clubs after. I don’t go for strippers as much as to get a whore. Strippers and whores. Same shit.

-Harvey Patterson

-Dec. 2011

Filed under Santa beard

Tagged as Beard, booze, Christmas, Santa

December 11, 2013 · 17:54

Grandpa

Audio Link for the blind

I love my grand kids. Well, all of them except Peter. That kid is a world class dipshit. I have 2 children. Michael and Jessica. I wanted to name Jessica, Edith but my wife, Caroline thought Edith was too old fashioned. It was 1962. I felt old fashioned. Kennedy was President. The space race was in full swing. Marilyn Monroe died. I can’t tell you how many times I tugged myself off while inside Caroline while thinking about that broad. It wasn’t her complete lack of intelligence or her overflowing tits. I think it was the respect I had for DiMaggio that made her that much more interesting to me. No wait. It was the tits. I was always more of a leg man but when needed I could easily be a tit monger. I met Caroline in 1958. I was 28 years old and 5 years out of Korea. They say it’s the “forgotten War”. Fuck you. I haven’t forgetting one round I fired, one man I killed, or one whore I fucked while firing rounds to kill those fucking slants. Sure, we didn’t have the glory of World War II. We didn’t have a bunch of hippies trying to fight in Vietnam. We had stand up, hardnosed fighting men who had been groomed fighting in Europe and the God forsaken Islands of the pacific. I lost my left eye in that war. Lost one of my nuts too. The ball was bitten off when I refused to pay for the services of an aging Korean lady. The eye was lost in a bar fight when I refused to pay for a tab I didn’t create. I learned later that I did in fact start the tab. I also learned that I had dared the barkeeper to stab me when I refused to pay. I was young. Stupid as a Mississippi cock hound. I wasn’t just unbridled youth though. I looked up to my staff Sargent like a Carolina Prick dog looks up to a Virginian Hump Hound. Ignoring Army regulations at the time, he was the proud owner of a full thick beard that said “I have more dick in these fucking fatigues that your wife will ever see in her life you goddamn pussy.” Every morning we would have PT. He would have us line up outside the barracks and walk up and down the line real slow. I still remember the smell. It was like old leather being smoked out of a cigar while someone mixed motor oil with cheap brandy. He would stop in front of someone at random. Maybe he could smell the fear. Maybe they would make eye contact.

“What…the…fuck?” he would ask. And he expected an answer. No one got it right of course and he wouldn’t really scream at you like the movies. He would just start beating your ass. You couldn’t fight back. You couldn’t really defend yourself against rage like that. The kicks were the worse. Once you were down just kick after kick. It was bad to get it but just to hear the kicks impact an already unconscious body. One time the Lieutenant was close enough to see what was going on. He made the mistake of trying to stop it.

“Sgt. Roddenthick! What in the hoot is going on here?” He would yell. Poor kid. He couldn’t have been more than 22.

“I’m kicking the shit out of this no named asshole. What does it look like I am doing?” He replied through yellow stained teeth that looked like that had seen hell itself.

“Stand down this instant! If you kick that man one more time I will court martial you faster than you can lace up your boots. And why haven’t you shaved that beard? That is a…” He was cut off when the Sargent grabbed him by the tongue. The lieutenant just made a kind of animal moan sound trying to talk or scream or cry.

“Listen to me. Calm down and listen to me.” Said the Sgt. “You are shit. Human shit. So is your whore of a mother, so is your limped dick father. Your rank is an imaginary title given to you by men who have never seen war, death, or suffering. I will kick and beat whoever I want and you will watch. I fight my way. I lead my way. I know what is best for my troops. I know what is best for my face. It is this beard. A beard I earned in the sands of Iwo Jima. You haven’t earned anything. And you never will because you are shit. Nothing. You don’t matter. You never will. You will either die here or die in a shitty job in your shitty town that your impotent father gets you. If you raise your voice to me again I will show you hell and you will beg to die. I’m going to let you go and you are going back to your office to find other ways to keep yourself off the front while real men stay out here and prepare for battle.”

Tears were streaming from the Lieutenant face. He had shit his pants during the ordeal. The Sargent let him go and he scurried away. He was soon sectioned 8 and the military was nice enough to write it off as shell shock but he had never even been in battle. I heard he made it back to his hometown with a job his old man had lined up.

Look at me. I was writing about Christmas with my family and I got side tracked by the war from all those years ago. Happens a lot these days. I think I was talking about my daughter Jessica. Well, she grew up and married a boring fuck then got fat and shat out two kids like a billion other daughters have. Fuck it.

-Dave Pelmore

Dec. 2005

Filed under Grandpa

Tagged as Grandpa, Korea, war

October 1, 2013 · 19:51

Predictions

My Dad always said I wouldn’t amount to anything more than a pot smoking unshaven loser who can barely afford to pay rent. Lets talk about all the ways my father was wrong with this statement.

Yes, I smoke pot. So sue me. I am a janitor. Custodial technician to the layperson. I like to relax at the end of the day and sometimes at the beginning and a little weed here and there helps me with that. And sometimes at work but NEVER when I am operating the floor buffer. Yes, I like to be high when I clean toilets. Big deal. I clean toilets. You would want to be high too.

Yes, I don’t shave. I have tried but it is something I often don’t think about so my skin gets irritated if I try. Plus I like the natural lifestyle and man was made to have beards or he wouldn’t have them in the first place. So far Dad is two for two but lets go a little further.

Yes, paying rent is not something I excel at nor is it that easy for me. My roommates don’t exactly keep “steady work” or stay “out of jail” so often I have to shoulder some of their expenses. It is a communal atmosphere in our small rental house and it works. I get paid back at times when they sell the items that they make/grow which may or may not be legal but to be fair Father was correct with the rent statement.

Ok. I am thinking the same thing you are. Dad is a pretty smart guy because these predictions began when I was 15 and that was a good 10 years ago. He also to his credit accurately predicted that my band wouldn’t “make it” because we “sucked” and didn’t “practice our instruments and songwriting” as much as “get high and make noise”. He also predicted I would only sleep with dirty hippie chicks. I thought this was unfair even though my first girlfriend was a dirty hippie. Overtime it became clear that I wasn’t going to have a chance with a “clean” looking girl if I kept myself the way I did meaning unshaven, and low/no income and high. But I still felt like calling all those girls dirty was unfair. But he was right. They were gross. It isn’t cool to not bathe. I am sorry. Tina, Jennifer, Mako, Dove, Hemlock and any of my other girl friends, you stink. Your lady parts stink worse. We live in a certain society. For the love of God bathe at least once daily. So he was right about that as well.

But a loser? That is debatable. Would a loser janitor get an offer to be groomed to run the company if he would just go back to school? I don’t think so. Of course most janitors don’t work for their father at his company so maybe that doesn’t count. But one time I unloaded 100 ecstasy pills at a Rolling Stones concert. Not a rave mind you. Lets see just anyone do that! Then there was the time at the Phish show in Connecticut I predicted the first three songs they played. Keep in mind they change their set list every night and they have tons of songs. How about the time I got my paycheck and did not buy acid right off the bat. It’s called self control. Losers don’t have that. On top of all of that this building is clean as shit. Sure, maybe I smoke a little weed after work. Full disclosure, maybe I drop acid before I clean toilets. Maybe I take some kind of dark red pill that I don’t know what the fuck it is but it makes me clean stuff good for a long time. Can I do it without these things? Of course I can. Well, I am not sure as I have never tried. So I maybe I can’t do my job without drugs. I can’t handle being a janitor without taking drugs every day.

Ok, I admit that my Dad is a smart man and good at predictions. I admit that now looking back I have made a few mistake and the good times were more drug based than good. I admit that the six times he offered to pay for school and if I could just get a 4 year degree from a college of my choice he would start me at 280k a year that maybe I shouldn’t have blown pot smoke in his face and called him “whitey”. Especially the last time when I dumped bong water on his head and gave him the finger. He didn’t even get mad. He just cried a little and said he just wanted me to be the man I could be and make my mother proud. My mom died when I was 19. She had fought off cancer like a champ but was allergic to some of the chemo meds so she needed to get certain drugs at exact times. My job for one night out of 120 when my father couldn’t be by her side was to make sure that happened. Yes, bad night to see how quick I could get drunk but I was bored. My Dad said what happened was horrible but he knew my mother wouldn’t blame me so neither would he. Looking back now I think he should have because it is pretty much my fault she died. In fact looking back now the “loser” category is pretty accurate. I think I would feel real bad about all of this if I wasn’t so high right now. Something deep in my subconscious is telling me I am a terrible son and person. All I know is that these blue pills with the little brown spots make those thoughts go bye bye.

-Chris “Tokes” Paulen

January 1998

Click here for Lumbering Part 1

Filed under Uncategorized

· 02:27

Lumbering 2

I sat around the fire that we had made to cook our pine chili. It had been a long day of lumberjacking. We would sit around fires like this whenever we were on an extended job. It was the best part of the day. Young Henry was on my shoulder sipping pine chili out of an acorn bowl. The boys were rowdy that night. Splinter face Pete was spinning yarns about his conquest of the ladies. How much of it was true I don’t know but knowing Pete there was more truth than fiction. Spitting Dave spoke up.

“Gosh Pete. With all these stories I think I am going to have to put new meaning to the term lumberjack. I guess more jacking and less lumbering!” We all laughed. “What I mean is I am going to rub my penis until I ejaculate. This is due to my current state of arousal which you, Pete, have gotten me into. That is to say not because I have any attraction to you or any other male but rather the stories you have been telling have aroused me and there are no women present to help satisfy this very natural urge.”

That was Spitting Dave. Always explaining himself. That is why for a while we called him “Explaining Steve”. We all retired to our sleeping bags but we called them “slumber cunts” which was the parlance of the time. I am not sure what woke me. It was the dead of night and all the boys were sleeping. I caught the scent in the wind. It was a gentle breeze that blew through my beard which helped filter out the scent. Bear. And he wasn’t far. Maybe he smelled the chili. Maybe he was just curious. Never the less I couldn’t take a chance. I put a fist full of tobacco in my mouth and walked away from camp towards the smell. I saw him standing on two legs against a tree. Arms folded. He was huge and he was waiting for me. I slowed my gait as I approached cautiously. Brian. Fucking Brian the Grizzly. My strong wood tempered hands tightened on my ax. Brian had a bit of a reputation. Stealing, lewd behavior, rape, murder, see-sawing on government land, mopery and extortion were just some of the crimes this bear had been accused of. The problem is townsfolk never believed a bunch of rowdy, unkempt, face down in the dirt drunk lumberjacks when we would drink our way into town for help. It isn’t easy for a woodsman to ask for help of any kind so maybe it was to settle our nerves. All I know is that three of my good friends had been killed by this bear and I am pretty sure he had touched me inappropriately as I slept one time. All I knew is that it would end tonight.

“Alright Brian. You fucking asshole. It’s just you and me. I’ll fight you like a man right here. No tricks. No bear traps. Just a man vs. a bear who has been acting like a dick.” He unfolded his arms and dropped to all fours. He stared at the ax in my hand. Then at me. I nodded and tossed it aside. It was then when the fear hit me. What had I gotten myself into? This bear had taken down Tough Michaels who was the toughest SOB I had ever me. I watched him clean his own penis with sandpaper. I had seen him choke out a tree. Brian had torn him to shreds. I rolled up my sleeves and spit out my tobacco. I told Young Henry to hide under a nearby log. As I got closer I saw what I was up against. He had to be near 850lbs and twice my height when he stood up. He let out a roar that shook me to the bone. Then he charged. Such speed! He closed the distance between us in seconds. Then I shot him in the face with my revolver and he dropped dead. Bears are so dumb.

-Lumberjack Joe Steelington

August 1935

Filed under Uncategorized

August 29, 2013 · 01:18

Tuesday Morning

Unnng. Shit. Another morning and I am still alive. 72 years old. I thought it would be over a long time ago. What’s the fucking hold up? Just end it. I have been smoking cigars since I was 8 years old. Drinking since I was 9. And here I am still kicking. I take a shot of my morning scotch and head out on to the porch. This is my spot. Most of my days are spent here. I have lived in this house since 1954. They built the whole town around me. I was married at the time. It was our first house. My wife, Helen and I raised 6 kids together. She was an amazing woman. Well, she was a woman. An adequate woman. Not particularly attractive. Not particularly nice. Why the fuck did I marry her? Oh yea. Tits. She had nice tits.

I remember how I used to come home from work and she would have dinner ready. We would sit as a family at the table where I had my dinner drink of milk and scotch. I was beardless at the time so I didn’t get the respect I do these days. The kids would yell. I would start swinging. They shut up. It was a different time. A time when you didn’t need to worry about the effect your actions would have on your child. It was about them behaving while you enjoy your drink. I remember one time when Helen thought I was giving it to Allen, the oldest, a little too hard. I also remember the night she wasted a good steak on her black eye. Must have been a coincidence it was the same night. I married her for her tits. Not her opinions. She figured it out eventually.

Dammit. The neighborhood teens took a baseball bat to the mailbox again. Punks. I was a teen once. I guess I would be doing the same thing wouldn’t I? No. One, because I have something called self-respect. Two, because when I was a teen I was watching my friends get their brains blown out all over the pacific. We had baseball bats but we made them from the legs of dead Japs. The only good kind if you ask me.

The smoke from my cigar infuses into my grey beard as I reminisce. Small pieces of my breakfast jerky find their home there as well. A car pulls up to my driveway and out gets three kids and an angry looking father.

“Sorry to bother you Mr. Brazen. I think these boys need to apologize for something.” Says the father. I vaguely recognize him. The boys apologize in unison and not one of them has the balls to look me in the eye. My good eye I mean. A crafty Jap took the right one with a bayonet in the middle of the night on Iwo Jima. I took his spine. I blow smoke on them. The kids shuffle back to the car. The fathers says something about them coming back to fix the mailbox.

“Kids these days, so much to occupy them and still causing trouble” He says. I notice razor burn on his feminine smooth skin.

“Damn right” I growl back. “No one knows discipline these days.”

“Oh I hear ya. With Marsha over my shoulder I can’t even raise my voice.”

“A quick belt to her mouth would solve that problem.” I say as I take a drink. He laughs and I don’t understand why. “What war did you serve in?” I ask trying to be polite.

“War? Well, Vietnam was going on but took some extra college courses so the draft wouldn’t get me and spent most of my time marching in protest and smoking weed. I mean what did they ever do to us? Just because they have slanty eyes it makes them my enemy? If they ever made me go I would fight on their side protest!”

Grown men will cry and beg when you shove anything bigger than a tootsie roll up their ass. Apparently this tree hugging fuck had trouble making room for just one of his shoes. His boy showed a lack of discipline and tried to intervene. I explained that his father was a no good commie prick but he didn’t seem to care as tears streamed down his face. Tears? The kid had to be 16 or 17. What kid of man cries after age 3? What has this world come to? That mailbox smashing fuck didn’t even get back in the car until I shoved my trusty 1911 in his old man’s mouth. So many nip bastards tasted that same barrel. At least they had the self-respect not to cry or beg.

The father stumbles towards the car. And drives off. He face rubbed raw where it had contact with my beard. I felt good about myself. Taught a teen what discipline was and taught a grown man that men without fight in them end up stuffed full of shoes and shit. The police pull up. 4 Cars. I take a drink and a long pull on my cigar.

“Ok Mr. Brazen. We are going to need you to hand over your weapon”

Well, it looks like I’m not done teaching for the day after all.

-Paul Brazen

June 1994

Filed under Paul Brazen, Uncategorized

Tagged as combat, living dreams, war

August 17, 2013 · 13:49

Deep Freeze

Cold. The kind of cold you feel in your bones. Just a few hundred more feet to go. The wind is picking up. I can see the shelter now. My thick black beard is covered with ice and snow but my face is warm. I don’t ever wear a mask. Those are designed for women. Known fact. My beard doesn’t stop really. Line of thick bushy hair goes down from my neck all the way to my belly button where it explodes into a glorious splotch on my nether regions. Say what you will about my lack of “manscaping” or whatever bullshit word you want to make up from being to concerned with yourself. Trimming your pubic hair is for mens whose dicks aren’t big enough to burst forth from their cock afros. I haven’t paid a woman yet who has had a problem with being with me. A real man.

“Why the arctic?” they ask. Simple. Global warming. Sure laugh now at snow farming or icericulture as I call it but you will see. The world will have a shortage of those two things and who will they turn to? Me. Carl Hardstream. There were 6 of us to start. We didn’t know much about cold survival. We learned quick. Or I guess I learned from their mistakes as they died off.

Lesson 1 – Stay covered.

As a joke I took Jim Stevens clothes a locked him outside the prefab shelter we had flown in. He was dead by morning. I was still laughing when I opened the door. Saw his frozen body in a fetal position and it creeped me out a little. The others screamed at me. I screamed back. How would I know? I thought you could insulate yourself with snow. Lesson learned.

Lesson 2 – Killer whales mean business.

Even with a special wetsuit you can only last a few minutes underwater. I was a spotter for Kyle as he dove off the side of the ice shelf to see how deep it went. Seals were everywhere. I thought of an awesome picture. As soon as he came up I grabbed him and tied his legs together and there he was. Flopping around like a seal on the ice. “This will be great” you look just like a seal. I steadied the camera as he screamed to for me to untie him and something about the temperature dropping. All of a sudden the seals scattered from the shore.

“HOLY GOD!! WHALES! UNTIE ME NOW.” He shouted.

“You idiot!” I said. “Whales eat plankton and shit. Plus you are not even in the wa…” Then..fuck me. This wave came out of nowhere like something I have never seen. Out of it was a fucking KILLER WHALE. It was awesome. Right on the shore and swallowed Kyle whole! I couldn’t fucking believe it. It then occurred to me that my friend might be alive in there. I ran to the tent and woke up Peter and grabbed a fish spear. I told Peter to suit up and it was an emergency. He did without question. Kick ass guy that Peter. We got to the shore and I tripped him and tied his legs. No time to hear arguments. He flopped around going crazy.

“Killer whales are attracted to the flopping because you look like a seal!” I yelled to him as I ran away to get distance. “It will come up and swallow you. Like it just did to Kyle. Use the spear and fight your way out once you…” Then two whales came out of the water at once and tore Peter in half. Fucking crazy amount of blood on the ice. Lucky for me I got it all on film. I realized it was too late and went back to base. There was more shouting. Talk of sending me to prison or killing me on the spot but they just didn’t get it. To clear things up I showed them the film. They were horrified.

“See? It was the whales not me.” I said.

Matt lunged at me but I easily fought him off as he was starving because we didn’t ration properly and had been out of food for some time. This is what led me to my final lesson.

Lesson 3 – Ration food.

So Matt has carefully planned every meal for 6 months. More than enough because eventually we could hunt for seal and fish. However, I know how people are when hungry. I took half the rations and hid them and the other half…well just became kind of my midnight snack for a while. Until it was gone. Everyone was furious and demanded to know where I hid the food. See? Exactly as I thought. Trying to get to the rations. They threatened to kill me but I assured them if I was dead they would never find the rations. Regardless Matt and Ted died a few days later of starvation.

I just finished throwing their bodies into the cold dark sea. The bobcat ran out of gas on the way back so I had to walk through this storm for the last half mile. Took me almost an hour. Way too long. I was excited to get to the shelter and the warmth of the heaters and my seemingly endless rations. My gloved hand grabbed the handle. Now the worst part. Unglove hand. Reach into pocket. Pullout keys. Has to be fast or I am screwed. Already hypothermia is setting in and my skin can’t be exposed too long.

Glove off. Hand in pocket. Keys. Where the fuck are the keys? Oh, that’s right. I put them in Teds pocket because mine were full of candy bars I ate on the way to bury them at sea.

Fuck.

Fucking shit ass fuck.

-Carl Hardstream

May 1993

Filed under Uncategorized

August 16, 2013 · 13:17

Hard Times

It was 1979 when I first opened the hardware store. In this sleepy town it was a big deal. Now it’s a fixture and by God I am damn proud of that.

“Harold, why in the blue blazes would you open a hardware store I this sleepy town” they’d say.

“I reckon because there isn’t a hardware store here and it seems to be a need of this slowly growing town” I’d reply.

“Hmm, good call” they’d say as they went back to sleep.

It was tough at first. Didn’t know the first thing about running a hardware store. Or any store for that matter. I’d come to work freshly shaved every morning trying to serve my customers the best I could. I didn’t know shit. Who is going to by hardware products from some fresh faced 28 year old who is happy to see you?

“Hi Mr. Benson! Anything I can help you with today?” I’d say with a smile. He would grab me by the throat.

“Listen you little rat fuck! If I need help it ain’t from some happy go lucky asshole with a baby’s butt for a face!” He would say through clenched teeth. Needless to say sales weren’t so good. I sunk everything I had into the store. Everything I had and everything my parents had left me when they finally laid down for that final nap. I admit I didn’t take my failure as a business man the best I could have. I started drinking. I didn’t care anymore. I was screwed. I would be broke and up to my ears in debt in a sleepy town with no hope of finding work. I became a full blown alcoholic. I stopped caring. I lost my happy – go – lucky attitude. And that is how I became the man I am today. Now the hardware is thriving. It has been here for 25 years now. My beard has grown long and grey in that time. My overalls do the job of keeping my ass covered and the bills are always paid.

“Need any help Mr. Benson?” I say as he grabs me by the throat. I slap his hand away and hit him with a pipe wrench. “Keep your grimy little ass grabbers off of me you washed up piece of shit!” I shout as he picks his teeth up off the floor.

“You are a good man, Harold.” He pays me for a hammer and super glue and starts gluing his teeth back in. I take a swig from Jim Beam I keep behind the counter. 7:45 am and I already had customers. This sleepy town wakes up early sometimes I guess. My beard already had saw dust in it but I can’t say for sure that was from this morning or from last week. Hell, there is enough motor oil in this beard to preserve most anything I guess. Yep. The customers may come and go but I will always be here in this sleepy town. Drinking my drink, grinding axes to a sharp point, restocking the gaskets, shaking up the paint, drinking my drink, cutting down the wood, smoothing the dowels, drinking my drink, hunkering the clamps, prying the grommets and occasionally taking a drink from my drink. They may call this a sleepy town but I have no intention of leaving. When I go to sleep for that last time they can bury me next to my parents where they laid down for their final slumber many years ago in this sleepy town.

-Harold Crawly

March, 2004

Filed under Hardware, Uncategorized

August 15, 2013 · 21:27

Dust to dust

I stroke my beard as I stare across the vast plain and all I see is the dusty swirl of my lost happiness and the emptiness of my despair. It’s been 2 years since Rita died but I do miss her so. I can still hear her now.

“Get up, Walter. Time to milk the cows.” She would say.

“Come on Walter milk faster you Nancy” She would encourage. The payoff of course was when she would let me milk that bountiful Midwest bosom of hers. I do mean that as she had a lactation problem and had to be milked on a regular basis. However, since I have a milk fetish and she a getting milked fetish I guess you could say it all worked out just fine. Then came the dark times.

I had never seen a dust storm. My pappy used to tell the tale of a dust storm that reached the moon in his days a boy farmer in the last 1800’s. He would get all kinds of riled up spinning his yarn about the size of the storm and the amount of dust that it left behind. I found out later that he had a dust fetish so I am not sure where the truth lied. My mammy would say he could exaggerate from time to time but she had an understatement fetish so she was hard to read at times. I remember the first storm. I stared at it for quite some time. At a distance it looked like any normal storm. I say that but something just didn’t sit right. I went about working the farm and by the time I looked up again it was too late. I tried to corral the cattle and upswing the yarn spin before Rita could uncluck the chicken giblet. I yelled for my boy, Sarah (family name) but he was nowhere to be found. We barely made it inside when it hit. I quickly wrapped my beard to protect it from damage. In these parts a man without a beard is like a man who doesn’t have facial hair covering his cheeks and chin. The storm shattered the glass in Sarah’s room where he was unfortunately pleasing himself as teenage boys are want to do. The doctor said that the shattering glass happening at the exact moment of his orgasm is what cause his broken glass fetish that plagued him for the next year. That is until his death.

The farm fell on hard times. They all did. Most of the cattle died because there was no grain to feed them. The land was bare because of the drought. The preacher said it was Gods will but his fetish of having will imposed on him made him a bit biased if you asked me. The science men said it was bad farming habits. “Oh yea, well you have a bad farting habit!” yelled an enraged Ted Bannister to the science men at a town hall meeting. He later apologized as it turned out one of the men did have a bad farting habit but fortunately his wife was an eproctophile. It didn’t matter. It was what it is and wasn’t what it was not. My boy died in 1934 from an accident no one was clear about. It involved a carbide bucket a mule and a shit load of dimes. The boy around town seemed to know something but they weren’t talking. My lovely Rita was rocked with sadness. I felt for her. I missed my son but in all honesty I never liked him too much. The loss of the cattle was worse.

Rita died on a Tuesday. I buried her myself. No way I was going to let Paul Manfeld near my wife’s graves. He was the local grave digger with a digging fetish. I had lost my cattle, my wife, my boy, and my farm. I didn’t know what to do. The soil was useless. There would be no crops. Word was the entire country was in upheaval. There was no other work. That is when I made my decision to stay. Many were heading west. I knew they wouldn’t find anything better. This was my farm. A farm that had been in my family since my Grandpappy Sarah Lactosington had dug the first well with his bare hands.

I have 4 cows, 1 horse, and a carbide bucket I use for a thing now that Rita is gone. They say it will turn eventually. Well, it has too. I stare at the graves of my wife and boy. Rita Reeta Lactosington and Sarah Familyname Lactosington. This isn’t for me. This is for them. This is to keep the family farm alive. A tear rolls down my face and is lost in the tangled mass of my face crop. That tear finds its grave with so many others as I have stood looking on where my family is buried. But this tear will be the last. I smell rain in the distance. I look out and see it far beyond the plains as it blurs the sky. Flowing like milk from my Rita’s bosom. Its heading this way. Looks like things are turning around. Tell those nancy boys in New York to stop jumping. Walter is about to farm some Goddamn land.

-Walter Lactosington

April 1937

Filed under Uncategorized

April 28, 2013 · 19:02

Cop a Feel

It was a cold January night, but all the nights are cold in Howard, Wisconsin. It was a lonely night too, but all the nights are lonely for me ever since Jenny got sick of my shit. Maybe I wasn’t the best guy. Sure I have my flaws but I tried. Well, that’s not true. I tried to make it seem like I tried. I think that would be more accurate. Some women…they just can’t take “No” for an answer. “No we aren’t going to vacation near the beach.” “No, I I don’t want to meet your friends for dinner.” “No, I didn’t not screw your sister.”

I was working a night shift, and I was the only officer on patrol. I was hiding in the back of Merkle’s Supermarket and drinking piss warm coffee, trying not to mix it with the juiced up wad of Copenhagen that I had horseshoed around my lower lip. The coffee was warm enough where I couldn’t feel it as it dribbles down my chin catching in the wiry labyrinth of by beard, leaving that stale coffee smell that was always on my dad’s breath. I’ll never forget that smell. Or the look in his eyes as he bled out on the bakery floor. “Time to make the donuts!”, he’d always say…but it’s hard to make the donuts when a punk comes in at 4:00 am and slashes your father’s guts to ribbons in front of you for seven dollars in the tip jar. But he still said it. Literally as he bled out, he pulled me close and instead of telling me he was proud of me or that he knew I had fingered my sister he just whispered “Time to make the donuts:”

When Sally’s voice crackles over the dispatch and said that there was possible burglary in progress at Merkle’s it snaps me out of my reminiscing. I get the same feeling in the pit of my stomach as that day in the bakery. I slid the transmission of that hunk of shit Caprice into drive and slowly glide to the front of the building, I didn’t want that v-8 rumbling away and giving anyone the drop on me but I was way too lazy to simply get out and walk around the building. I am a big man. A real big man. I like to think I am the type of man that looks like he can take care of himself. But I can’t. I mean really. After Jenny left it was that much more apparent. I don’t even know how to work the dishwasher. Ok, I do but I just don’t do it. Bending over to unload that fucker is something a guy my size doesn’t do. I can’t even see my own dick.

I cut the engine and let it roll a little in neutral until it can’t go any further saving a few more steps. I got out and quietly pushed the door shut with a slight click, and pulled out my Mag-lite flashlight. That bastard was a foot long and weighed as much as lead pipe. It ended fights almost as fast as the six shot Colt revolver on my hip. Right away I could see a hole in the glass at the front of the building. Not too big, looked like someone punched it out with a rock or a hammer and slipped in. My big ass would probably slip and cut my neck trying to get into that hole. That’s what I tell myself so I don’t have to realize how far I am from fitting in it. I checked the glass door and it pulled right open, someone unlocked it after they got in through the window. I slipped into the building, but it was hard to see. There’s light coming in through the windows at front of the store, but the rest of store was pitch black. I heard a muffled voice coming from the back of the store in aisle three. I popped the snap on my holster and smiled, it reminds me of undoing the clasp on Jenny’s bra. I always took it off one handed, and she always looked at me and I would see her strain slightly as her giant floppy tits plopped out. I was starting to rub where I guessed my dick would be when WHAM! I hit the ground seeing stars.

I try to roll to my feet, but the young tough with a hammer swings again. His aim is off though and he hits me in the neck. Hurts like a mother fucker, but I’m still in the fight. I reach down for the .357 magnum I feel it and I tighten my fist. Too tight. It goes off and the bullet grazes my foot feeling like thousand fire ants. This surprised my assailant and I see I have an opening. It isn’t the first time I have shot myself in the foot so I am not that thrown off. I think about my boot knife. There is a reason I put it in my boot before I put them on, because I am not reaching all the way down there. I catch a glimpse of a Snickers near the checkout aisle and I think about how I want to eat it if I live through this. What the fuck is wrong with me? I carefully grab my gun again and pull it out. The crack head is on me before I can cock the hammer. We fight for the gun. He struggles on top of me. He has trouble as my beard keeps getting in his face. He is forced to keep his head up and out of my beard that smells like God knows what. He tries to use his weight to pull the gun to the side but that gives me the momentum I need to roll over on top of him. Now it’s a waiting game. He’s already dead, but doesn’t know it yet. I just lay there and after a while he stops struggling. I stay for an extra few minutes to make sure he is out. I holster my gun and it accidently goes off again but luckily doesn’t hit me. I really should be more surprised when that happens. I climb to my feet knocking over 2 displays and a cash register in the 10 minute process. It would have been only 5 but I stayed on the ground to eat a snickers. I very slowly and carefully take my gun out and put a bullet in his chest. Really can’t bring myself to admit to the boys I layed on him to death.

I limp outside to use the radio in my car, we didn’t have any of those portable radio’s yet. I am still breathing hard but partly because I won’t stop eating the chips I grabbed on the way out. I feel sick. Not because of the situation, but because I swallowed that fat horseshoe of Cope. I looked into the passenger side of my glass and could hardly recognize myself. Then I realize it is because I have to stand so far away from the car because of my gut. God, I really need to do something about myself. I know what will happen. I will be disgusted with myself and use my foot injury as an excuse to put off exercise. I will use Jenny leaving me as an excuse to eat. I don’t know how I do my job. I stumble into success and lie my way out of situations. Can’t believe I was surprised when Jenny said she was leaving. I let a good woman go because I am a lazy fuck. The only woman who loved me. I just killed a man and I am still thinking of my failed relationship. I just killed a man and I am already trying to think of how to get out of doing the paper work so I can grab a pizza on the way home. A long, slow fart escapes and I snap out of it. I still have my gun in my hand and I go to holster it. It goes off and I lose another toe. Fuck me.

Sgt. Frank Molleni
January, 1982

Submitted by J.S

Memories Part I can be found here.

Filed under Cop a feel

Tagged as Cop, Fat, lost love

April 4, 2013 · 15:39

Memories 2

I had a dog. He was mean as shit. I snuck him back as a pup from ‘Nam. He was an Akita. I never thought of a name so I just called him Akita. Akita grew fast. He was well over 150lbs when he was grown but I never got a chance to weigh him. He wasn’t much for vets. Akita wasn’t the kind of dog that you took to the vet or did anything he didn’t want to do. He just didn’t take bullshit from anyone or anything, ever. He was a good friend. Well, maybe that is an overstatement. There was a mutual respect at least. We kind of kept each other in line. I might come home a little tired. He would nudge his food bowl. “Hold the fuck on, I’ll get to it in a minute.” I’d say. In a flash I would be pinned to the ground with his teeth in my throat slowly squeezing harder. My thick beard soften the points of his teeth a little but it didn’t really matter. I would reach up and grab his balls in desperation or at least as much of them I could fit in one hand. We would have a moment, testing the pain each other could take and he would finally let go. Then we would just stare at each other. He was right. No need for me to take out my day on him.

I tried to instill some discipline in him when he was younger. One time he took a steak off the counter so I hit him with a rolled up newspaper. He didn’t move. He didn’t even blink. He just looked at me with those cold eyes. The rest of the night that is all he did. Staring at me. Through me. The next morning the paper didn’t come. In fact it never came again. I found a single shoe in the backyard. The paperboys shoe. I didn’t even want to know where the rest of him was. Well played, Akita. Well played.

You don’t “discipline” a dog like that. You don’t expect obedience. You don’t expect submission. You just try your best to get along like civilized people and canines. He had my back. I had his. He just didn’t take any bullshit. I guess he got that from me. One time I was walking him through the park when some tree hugging hippie came up to us with a stupid grin on his face.

“Wow what a big boy! What’s his name?” He said.

“Easy there buddy. Akita doesn’t like strangers and these chains are just for show. He can snap right through them if he wants.” I warned him.

“Oh?” he said still smiling obviously not heading my words. “Not socialized huh? But he really is a sweet boy isn’t he? And I bet he loves giving kisses…”

Akita smacked him across the face with his paw knocking him and some of his teeth out. He was doing a weird twitch thing on the ground so I decided we should get out of there in case his neck was broken and he was dead.

I remember one time I brought home a woman. She was well out of my league. I guess she was just looking for adventure or someone that reminded her of her dad she probably used to bang. She couldn’t have been a day older than 23. We walked in the door and Akita came over to inspect.

“Oh my gosh! What a pretty dog! What’s his name?” She asked half drunk and annoying.

“Akita. But don’t address him directly. He hates that shit” I said. Akita started shoving his nose in her crotch taking big whiffs. She tried to push him away discretely but he shoved her against the wall.

“Umm, what’s he doing?” She asked nervously.

“The fuck it looks like he’s doing? He’s smelling your box” I said.

“Oh, um why is he still doing it?” She asked while forcing a smile

“Because that is what he wants to do so he’s doing it.” I said. I was getting sick of this broad and all of her questions. She was getting annoyed.

“Why is it smoky in here?”

“Obviously Akita was smoking a cheap cigar.”

“Why does your dog smoke cheap cigars?” She asked like she was better than me.

“Because he can’t afford the good ones you dumb bitch. He’s a dog.” I replied.

“Don’t call me that!” She screeched. “I’m going to go.”

“Good find your own ride.”

“I will. Your truck smells like wet dog anyway” She said as she stormed out. Akita had never been in the cab of my truck. She was talking about me and didn’t know it. Whatever. We didn’t need that shit. Akita and I had a few beers then went to bed.

Akita saved my ass a few times I have to admit. I was drunk one time and had apparently placed a bet with a local bookie on the super bowl and lost. I didn’t remember doing it and I certainly didn’t have the money to pay. I am not a gambling man so I didn’t want to be involved further. I told him to keep whatever I gave him and call it even. He made some threats or something but I had told him to call it even so I wasn’t listening anymore. About 2 weeks later I was watching some late night movie when out of nowhere my door was kicked in. In storms one of the bookies cronies. A big man with a baseball bat.

“I’m going to put this to you real simple. You made a bet. You owe money. I’m going to collect.” He said as he walked towards the couch. Fucking amateur. I looked back at the TV.

“You made a big mistake my friend. Akita, he just doesn’t like loud noises. And with such smooth skin on that clean shaven face of yours he might not be able to tell if you are a man or woman.” I told him. Not that it mattered. I never looked away from the TV. I heard the breath get knocked out of him as Akita jumped on him. I head the snap of the bat as half of it landed on front of me. Then I heard his struggle, the tearing of fabric, then his screams. His terrible screams. I had seen a lot of shit in my time but there are some things you can’t unsee. I didn’t even want to look at what was happening to that man. Akita had him bent over the other side of the couch so I felt every powerful thrust. His screaming stopped and I looked the other way at the clock. That is when I caught a glimpse in the mirror. Akita had him by the back of the neck. That is why he stopped screaming. His teeth were sunk into his flesh and Akita was holding the man’s head up making him watch what was happing to him in the mirror. They say mounting behavior in dogs isn’t sexual but it was with Akita. He kept at it for a half hour until he was finished with him. At some point in the night I guess the guy crawled out. I never saw him again.

You don’t just barge into a house like that smelling like aftershave and not expect that. What do you think is going to happen? He was asking for it if you want my opinion.

A few days later I saw the bookie with another of his toughs in the bar. I walked over with my beer. “One of your men came to my house to collect but I told you a few days ago we were even. Now you owe me money for my door.” I said. His man stepped in front of him.

“Mr. Bookie doesn’t owe you nothing!” He said as he poked my chest. As he did this it caused a single drop of my beer to splash out of the bottle and into my beard. What the fuck is this world coming to? I looked up at the soft cheeks of the two men in front of me. My leathery hand creaked as I clenched it in to a fist. I guess men need discipline as much as dogs do these days…

Sgt. David Garlson (Ret.)

October 1993

Filed under Sgt. David Garlson

Tagged as Akita, bookie, Dog, Vietnam

April 3, 2013 · 23:45

Special Forces

Afghanistan. I don’t even know how long I have been here. You lose track after a while. I was told when I got here that if I let my beard grow I would have better interaction with the locals as they prefer to see leaders as masculine. They were right. I was 5’8 when I got here. I let my beard grow out and now I am 6’2 and now have foreskin for some reason. On my scrotum.

I am one of the elite. Special ops. Delta force to the civilians. Specifically the 3rd out of . Most of the job is simple. We interact with the locals and try to facilitate cultural understanding and turn people to our side before the battle happens if it ever does. Also we kill everything. Sometimes though things aren’t so easy.

I remember the first time my unit was in combat. We were heading towards our mission being to . All of a sudden right into . I didn’t panic but I was a bit scared. We rolled out into a ditch. Safeties off, ready to go. On the radio we got word that was and was . “No way!” I said looking at . There were six of us in the ditch. Me, , , , , and Pvt. Tim Jenson of Roswell, GA 426 May Glen Way. I decided to make the first move. Sweat collecting in my beard. I threw a frag then jumped up and over the . was right behind and fired an At-4 into which caused to . We couldn’t believe our luck. But then all hell broke when opened its and .

! . “ , NO !” Shouted

I looked at . A woman somehow and . Goats milk.
penis undulating penis 3 RPG rounds. n
“ a bottom feeder literally!” Shouted Jensen. We laughed but stopped when . . None of wet and slick . “Farting is frowned upon by Clergymen” whispered and thank God he did because . not going to stop jerking off any time soon. “Indeed.” Said through his tears. “Vulvas for all!” . . . . I tried to tie closed with the left over pubes but that failed with the dog . but not before I saw ! “FUCKING CHRIST!!!!” Yelled through the trombone mute. at least 4 more technical’s with 12 or so in each. I unlatched my .45. Fuck that 9mm standard issue bullshit. I brought this from home just for this occasion. “Alright boys. I said looking at the rest of my unit.. “Time to and if up my ass, you know what to do.” I took a deep breath and thought of . “Here they come”.

cunt flame thrower Dan Severn! “ Mr. Severn but I “. like a pizza covered in shit. hungry enough “ IT HAS SHIT ON IT rocket to the left butt cheek. overhand grip as lube. brutally by Dan Severn who still hadn’t explained . like three of the Golden Girls “For the last time I’m NOT GOING TO BE BLANCH!” A crestfallen Severn. goat ass into the goat ass more effective than it should be “NO! Don’t ejaculate yet!” .50 cal mounted on it and just cut down the whole column and gave us time to move to the next building. “How the fuck did Dan Severn get here first?” “Not the time for group handjobs Mr. Severn.” Said I couldn’t count how many rounds before the barrel overheated. by hand. Not withstanding “AFFIX BAYONETS!” fuck toysyea not necessary because “My God, did you see the size of Severn’s “. “Confirmed. Whiskey Tango Danger Close! north of Orange Smoke. Repeat NORTH of orange smoke and somehow Dan Severn”. Four A-10’s over the mountains and opened up with those guns like warthogs from hell. smoke and rubble. Land of The Lost reruns mostly “it’s a shame she won’t live.”
“then again who does?” +++++++++++++++

Filed under Special Forces

Tagged as combat, delta force, severn

· 04:11

Truck The Establishment

Audio Link For The Blind

If you told me I would be a bearded trucker when I was 17 I would have called you a goddamn fool. If you told me that when I was 17 and a half I would have said “you know your stuff mister.” For most of my life I wanted to drive a rig. For a brief period in my youth I wanted to be a politician and make a difference. By difference I mean legalize weed because smoking grass is all I did. Of course back then we called it reefer. This caused a lot of confusion because one of the fellas I ran with was named Reaf Reeferman. He died in a fire from smoke inhalation so you can imagine the confusion and arguments about “Smoking Reefer” as we thought the other person was disrespecting Reaf. We eventually settled on calling it Mary Jane in honor of our dealer who was a woman named Mary Jane Deeler.

I didn’t start trucking in my youth but it was always there. I joined the army after high school. I worked in the motor pool of course. I loved driving those deuce and a halves. Just an engine with a big metal box strapped to it. I guess that kind of prepared me for the driving life style. I got out of the Army in ’74. I hooked up with a buddy of mine Hank Henson, who I knew from Ft. Campbell who had gotten out and started a beer delivery service in San Antonio. All I did was inventory. I didn’t drive the truck for over a year. One day Hank comes in laughing saying that some rich Texan was in Georgia and wanted some Coors beer which wasn’t sold there and he wanted it in 24 hours. He said no one could make that drive in 24 hours. I sat silently for a minute.

“I can do it” I said “I can make the drive”.

“Are you crazy?” Asked Hank. “You would have to drive like a bandit with Smokey on your tail that whole time. You know they don’t like bootleggers.”

I stood up “Fuck you Hank! You have been keeping me doing inventory for a year and you know all I want to do is drive a big rig.” I yelled. Hank got right in my face.

” I never liked you . I only gave you this job because you helped me find the asshole who got my sister pregnant” Said Hank between clenched teeth. I was taken aback.

” Wait. What? That wasn’t me. I didn’t even know you had a sister. “I said. Hank smiled.

“Now you are ready.” He said handing me the keys to the truck. I never understood him. But then he handed me some Peyote and everything started making more sense. Needless to say I made the drive and never went back because Hank was an asshole. I started with small jobs to make some money. Eventually my beard came in nice and full and by ’79 I was turning down work.

One of the first things I learned when driving is to respect the road and the other drivers. A big Peterbilt like what I drive now can be intimidating and you need to keep in mind the size of your rig. But fuck that. I own the road. If you are in my way you picked the wrong day to drive. I get the job done no matter what. Fuck you in your mini van with your family. I’m hauling 4 tons of tampons that need to be in Detroit by Sunday or half the female population is going to bleed out. I stop for no one. I know what you are thinking. What about highway patrol? A joke. Maybe they would pull over the younger drivers. Or some rookie cop who thinks he’s big time might try to make a move. But you want to know what is really going on when you see a cop handing an experienced, bearded trucker a ticket? Exchanging names. A little list week keep on who are the “friends of the road” shall we say. Truck stop hookers. Hell, it’s a hard life out here. The cops get it. They are in the same boat. Sitting around all day doing jack shit waiting for a call on the radio. We have code we used to talk to each other. I’ll get on my CB and find his frequency.
“Hey pig. You got any good truck stops around here with some road worn whores for a road worn man?” I’ll say. Now that I think about it there isn’t much code. We exchange names of good road friends, have a few laughs, then I head out. I have never got a ticket. There was one time outside San Diego when I was high as fuck on black beauties and had been driving for 4 days straight at 96 MPH in a residential zone. I pointed to my beard and the punk cop didn’t even respect it. Started writing me a ticket. Only reason he didn’t take me in is I hooked him up with a handful of the pills. Those things were like candy to me. Shouldn’t even be a drug in my mind. It should be a Goddamn work requirement. You can call me an amphetamine addict if you want but I am addicted to amphetamines. And I also drive tripping balls on shrooms but that is just for entertainment purposes. People seemed surprised I haven’t gotten more tickets in my time but think about it. You pull over a big rig and out steps a 52 year old experienced driver with a grey beard, a cowboy hat a pair of overalls, and some of the shit kickingest boots you have ever seen. You know that man knows what the fuck he is doing. That man is a driver. That man is an American trucker. That man, is me.

-Buck Crimson

March 2002

Filed under Buck Crimson, Road Whores, Trucks

Tagged as Buck Crimson, Reefer, Road Whores, Trucks

April 2, 2013 · 04:44

Home is where it ain’t

Being homeless is awesome. You don’t have to worry about paying someone rent. You don’t have to worry about bills. You DO have to worry about stray dogs though. They hunt in packs.

I wasn’t always homeless. There was a time when I lived with a sweet young thing who also happened to be a first class whore. I mean that. A high dollar prostitute who was clearing six figures a year. I was working as a clown for children’s parties. My name was Squeaky Ben because I was always squeaking my horn. While I was doing that, unbeknownst to me my girlfriend of 3 years was squeaking the horns of anyone who had enough cash to buy her mouth for an hour. I should have seen the signs but I was in love. I had bought a ring with my clown money and was going to ask her to marry me while still in my clown costume.

I kicked open the door with my huge shoe and a grin on my face and a grin painted on my face only to find her elbow deep in some executive reading the wall street journal with his ankles by his ears. His pants were off but he still had on his coat and tie. He looked up from the paper and as soon as he saw me he said “Whatever the clown cost I’m in.” I was in shock. I was picturing slipping a ring on my fiancés finger and instead I saw that she had slipped past someone else’s ring.

Seeing that kind of thing burns you quite a bit. I turned around and walked out. Then I just kept on walking. When I snapped out of it I was in Chicago. I wasn’t sure how I got there. I was still in full clown costume and I didn’t know what to do next. I took a day to think now that I had my wits about me. She paid the bills. It was her apartment. I really didn’t have much to my name. I actually felt kind of free. I had taken my shoes off and sat down near a fountain in a park and noticed that I was accumulating quite a bit of money from passers by throwing in change. There must be something about a depressed guy in smiling clown make up that looks extra pathetic. I used the money to buy food and a few essentials. I sold most of my clown gear to other homeless people and I started learning the streets. You learn who to rely on, who to avoid. Stay away from the crackheads unless you want head. Don’t bother even trying to talk to the crazies. Most of all never interact with the Punky Brewsters. There were lots of people to avoid but most were normal chaps like me. Either down on their luck or they just chose the simpler life.

I hadn’t shaved since I left and as my beard grew so did my skills on the street. When I needed money I could find a quick job for the day like sweeping in front of stores or taking revenge shits on ex boyfriend or girlfriends cars. It is a huge business for us. I was never a big fan of panhandling. I earn my money. By four months I had a full beard and a full knowledge of how to survive. Then I discovered alcohol. And everything was perfect.

Well, there was one problem. Chicago is a great town. Fantastic town. People throw out so much good food. But the winters suck. So cold. So windy. There is no real escape for the homeless. I was warming my beard by a barrel fire with a few others. Sour Frank, Famous Ed, and Shitty Pete. Out of nowhere Shitty Pete says. “Damn, I wish I was at the beach right now.” It blew my mind.

“Guys, why aren’t we at the beach? What the fuck are we doing in Chicago in the winter?” I said.

“How would we get to a beach? Are you driving us Daddy Warbucks?” Said Sour Frank. Everyone laughed heartily which descended in to whooping coughs.

“We have so many options. We can jump on a train. Save money for a bus. Hitchhike. Hell, I still have the engagement ring I had for my old lady. I am going to sell it and get the shit out of here. For real. Right now. “. I said and started walking away. They just stared.

“I’m in” Said Famous Ed but he died on the spot of tuberculosis. The other two then got into a brutal fight over who got Ed’s girlfriend now that he was gone. His “girlfriend” was an empty toilet paper roll covered in motor oil. That is how I left them, rolling around in an ally trying to have sex with a toilet paper roll.

Now here I am. Venice California. Living the dream. Warm sun, hot women, and an incredible tolerance for the homeless. It is a different crowd here. More laid back, more drugs. Even the money making opportunities are better. Every other college retard thinks he need to go to the beach and play some crap song on his guitar that he wrote. The second he puts it down and looks away people basically throw money at the homeless to shit in it. Hell, I’d do it for free. So now I just sit back, take a swig of this Mexican made vodka and watch some wannabe Jimmy Buffet dump my hot, not well formed, malnourished, shit all over himself. I reach in my pocket and squeak my horn. The one thing I kept of my former life. Now it’s like my calling card. Next time you dump someone’s shit on you out of you guitar because you think that the world wants to hear your terrible music, if you hear a clown horn, you know whose it is.

What a perfect day. Not a cloud in the sky. I close my eyes and tilt my head up towards the sun. The sea breeze rustles through my beard. I take another swig. Chicago can suck my dick.

– Squeaky Ben

June 2008

Filed under Homeless

Tagged as California, Chicago, Clown Life

March 12, 2013 · 15:59

I love New York

I love New York. To me the city has a warm embrace that never sleeps. I don’t feel the emptiness or isolation people speak of. Maybe that is just me. Maybe that’s life of a bearded gay. Thinking back to the 60’s it seemed almost illegal to be gay in New York but now. Damn. This is our free love. This is our liberation.

I love the smell of the city in the morning. Stumbling out of a club be it ‘boy meats boy’, ‘the toilet’, ‘club 54’, ‘Beefy Steves’, ‘Manpole’, ‘the crowded butte’, or any of the normal spots, and smelling the sweat of men, the break of dawn and not condoms. I walk down the street to my apartment and pass a construction site. I stop to take in a few of the sites. So does one mustached worker. I could see his hammer in hit tight jeans from here. We both smile. This place is so gay. Gayer than a loading dock worker. By the way, every single loading dock worker is a grade ‘A’ fag. Don’t look any of them in the eye unless you want a fistful of man in you. Because they will get it in there. Believe me.

My father wasn’t as accepting of me as my mother. I remember the day I came out to him.

“Dad, I have something to tell you. I’m gay as shit” I said. My father was shocked and couldn’t believe it.

“I’m shocked and I can’t believe it!” he said “just because you grow a beard you think that you are a New York gay? Son, you are just confused. You aren’t gay. Just to be sure I’ll do some investigating for you.”

That was my dad. Telling me what I am and what I am not but always taking one on the chin for me. And take it on the chin he did among other places. He would come home stinking of whiskey and man. “No way you would enjoy that son. I was out all night at one of those gay clubs. Didn’t find it enjoyable in the least. ”

“but what about something like behind the bushes in central park?” I would ask

“Where exactly in Central Park?” He would ask while quickly changing and heading out the door.

This went on for months. Finally coming home at 8 one morning. He sat me down. Eyes bloodshot from booze and coke.

“Ok, I understand now. I may never fully “get it” even though it has been given to me so many times over the last few month but yes I accept that you are gay as fuck”. He hugged me and gave me tickets for free drinks at like 50 clubs. I left home the next day to seek my fortune and by fortune I mean gay dicks. 19 years old and bearded. I got off the bus and went into the bus station bathroom.

“Nice cum net” said some punk washing his hands. For some reason it offended me. I don’t wear my sexuality on my sleeve. That is if I had sleeves on my skin tight shirt that exposed a hint of chest hair and the trail leading down into my tight 70’s jeans which was visible because my shirt was cut off above my navel. Plus. I am and was well built. My dad had encouraged me to take multiple workouts with weights since I was a youth. I am not sure what possessed me that day. But I immediately shoved him against the wall.

“Fuck you. You think that leather makes you tough? You think that attitude of rebelling against everything you see makes you a boyish God?” I said. But he cut my words out of the air by pulling a switch blade.

“Maybe I think it does! Maybe you think that beard or that big dick straining and throbbing against your skin tight pants makes you desirable by a young tough like me. But you are wrong because…” I made my move.

I knocked the knife out of his hand and threw him against the wall. He was small but strong. He elbowed me in the gut and I doubled over in pain as he wrestled me to the ground. In all the commotion our shirts had come off. He shoved his cock in my mouth and began chocking me.

“Maybe this will shut you up faggot!” But I fought back. Eventually pinning him down on the bathroom floor and using my hips to pin his hips down. At this point our pants had torn off as well.

When it was all over he thanked me for some reason and I made my way out of the bathroom. I couldn’t believe stepping foot off the bus the first thing I run into was discrimination. It wouldn’t stay that way as eventually I would find my own. Sure it took a while. I remember being discriminated by the young Latino super at my first apartment. Boy did I teach him a lesson. Then there was the time the three Harlem blacks discriminated all over my face and chest in the ally. Or the time the muscular mustached motorcycle cop pulled me over paid me 20 bucks for a blow job and prostate release.

“That is exactly the kind of behavior I DO NOT want to see from you boy!” He snarled at me . “Make sure you meet me here (under the pier) next Saturday so I can show you what it would be like if you had knocked my gun away and got the upper hand in the situation and taught this motorcycle cop some of your queer street justice”.

Yea it would be a while but eventually I found my own. This is a great city. If you have 10 bucks in your pocket and a little cocaine in the other you can have a great time all the time. Nothing will ever change either. It will always be like this. Certainly no disease that changes the entire atmosphere of our subculture in the 1980’s. That much I know for sure.

-Jim “Bear” Bearman

February 1978

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Filed under Bearded Gay, New York Gay

Tagged as New York, Tom of Finland

March 5, 2013 · 20:44

Titanic Trouble part I

As I write this I have a shiver that keeps my pen from properly dipping in my inkwell. It has been 15 years now but the experience with that bearded nightmare of a man still gives me the feeling of a thousand sewing needles pricking my spine. That man of course is Edward Smith. Captain of the RMS Titanic. I had been around ships my whole life. My father was a navy man who would lose his life in the great war. I followed in the naval tradition but got out and began working for white star line in 1911. I thought I was the luckiest man in the world. I was assigned to the maiden voyage of her Majesties ship, the glorious Titanic! If I knew then what I know now, I would never have gone near that ship. Not because of its terrible fate, but because of the madman who commanded it.

I had never met the captain. We had been at sea for a few days. When his name was mentioned people seemed to stiffen. More than once a crew member would be shuffled by me with a broken nose or missing teeth. When I inquired to what incident had occurred I was told “You know, just Cpt. Smith being Cpt. Smith.” I will never forget the first time I met him. I had been on the bridge taking simple notes for the day when there was a ruckus outside. There was yelling and sound of fabric tearing and then a high pitched screaming. In through the door burst the captain who had a young seaman by the nipples and was twisting violently.

“I tell YOU if it is a nice day. I am the fucking captain of this goddamn ship!” Cpt. Smith yelled at the man. He then released him and delivered a swift kick to his back side. The man scurried out perhaps more embarrassed than physically damaged. The captain looked out to sea then suddenly shouted “Get that man back here now! Right the fuck NOW!” Half a minute later two men dragged him in. He was apologizing profusely and shaking. The captain walked over to him in a very calm manner and simply hugged him. A tender embrace not unlike a mother would to her own son. “It’s not your fault. You are a good man.” The man’s back was to me which allowed Cpt. Smith to lock eyes with me and whisper “Elephant Shoes” and I believe winked as if I was a lady that he fancied. I was so confused I didn’t really think of it in the moment. He released the man and cried out. “What is the fuel situation?” And immediately the first mate handed the captain what I believe was brandy which he consumed immediately. Edward Smith was a sturdy, bearded man who looked as regal as a captain should. I gathered myself stepped forward to introduce myself. Before I open my mouth to speak he struck me with the bottle in his hand. I hit the ground and was woozy. I could feel the blood dripping from the wound. I was immediately whisked away by two men to the infirmary. I could hear Smith shouting “The Queen sends her fucking regards. HAHAHAHAH!” It would be two days before I recovered and could work again. That first day back would be the worst in my life.

The night of the iceberg was a cold one. We had heard iceberg warnings but honestly Cpt. Smith preoccupied everyone’s mind. He was like rabid dog except you know when the dog will bite. The only time we were safe is when passengers were around. He would dine with them, tell stories of the sea, and generally be the most excellent host I have ever seen. Occasionally he would excuse himself from the table and go into the kitchen and touch himself until he reached climax into a glass of champagne. Now, I wish to be clear I never personally witnessed this behavior. The kitchen staff would tell me he would make them describe times when “they felt socially awkward but still in control of whatever situation they were in” in excruciating detail while he did this. He would then grab handfuls molasses and look at his hand disgusted. Absolutely disgusted to the point of making himself gag and in that moment is when he would expunge his male issue into the glass. The sickest part to me is that he would make sure only one person was served that glass. Himself.

To be continued