Santa squeezed down the chimney and when he turned around he was surprised by two little children standing below him, 5-year old Sarah and her little brother James.  “You scared the shit out of me!” said Santa.

“Santa, my mother says you shouldn’t use those kind of words,” said Sarah.

“Maybe your mother should stop fucking her co-worker Bob before she starts doling out ethical advice,” snapped Santa.

“What does ‘doling’ mean?” asked little James.

“It means your mother’s a whore,” said Santa.

“We have these cookies and milk for you, Santa,” said Sarah excitedly. James immediately joined into her excitement.

“Are these homemade?” asked Santa.

“No, they’re Chips Ahoy,” said Sarah.

“If you think you’re going on the ‘Nice’ list giving Santa store-bought cookies you have another thing coming,” said Santa, dropping the plate of cookies, which shattered into a dozen pieces. “Hope I don’t wake up your mother,” he added almost to himself.

“She’s passed out drunk, saying that she was mad at my father not being able to take us kids this weekend. She did that before dinner and we haven’t eaten since lunch,” said Sarah.

“Oh really?” said Santa. “James, take those cookies and take them to your bedroom and eat them. Sarah and I are going to have a little talk.” James excitedly gathered the cookies up from the floor and couldn’t wait and took a bite out of one on the way to his room. Santa now alone with Sarah knelt down to get to her level. “So you’re mother’s a drunk, huh?”

“I don’t know about that but she definitely drinks more than I like. She says it’s to settle her nerves from taking care of us kids,” answered Sarah.

“How would you like it if I made it so your mother no longer drank?” asked Santa.

“I would really like that!” exclaimed Sarah. “That would be the best present you could give me!”

“Where’s her bedroom?” asked Santa. “I have to spread some magic fairy dust on her to stop her drinking problem.”

“It’s up the stairs, second door on the left,” instructed Sarah and Santa went on his way.

It was about 15-minutes and Santa still hadn’t returned. Sarah figured that maybe he had gotten lost on the way and so she ventured up the stairs. The door to her parent’s room was slightly ajar and Sarah pushed her way into it. What she saw was her mother lying on the bed with her nightgown pulled up to her waist and Santa with his red trousers around his ankles pushing himself against her repeatedly in a bumping sort of motion.

“Santa, what are you doing?” asked Sarah. “Is my mother alright?”

Without stopping his bump and grind Santa said,“She has crossed into Heaven, my dear, and Santa was stuffing fairy dust in her so that she would come back to you and your brother. Just give Santa another—oh yeah here it comes—another few seconds and he should be finished with his work. Magic fairy dust I summon you to heal this woman—OH YEAH! OOOOHHH, JESUS CHRIST!”

“Are you alright, Santa?” asked Sarah concerned.

“I’m fine. It’s just that this resuscitation work takes a lot out of Santa.”

“Is my mommy going to be okay?” asked Sarah, now starting to well up with tears.

“She’s gonna be fine, kid. She’s alive. Santa saved her. But I’m afraid Santa couldn’t work on her drinking issue this time as more pressing issues were at hand.”

“Thanks, Santa! This is the best Christmas ever!” said Sarah.

“Now why don’t you go to your brother’s room and see if he’s left any of Santa’s cookies for you,” said Santa. “Santa’s got a lot of other children’s houses to go to and your mother needs some alone time to recover. After a good night’s sleep she will be just fine.”

“I will Santa.” Sarah, unable to control her emotions, went to Santa and gave one of his bare legs a hug.

“You go now, honey. You have to be at least 18 to get any of Santa’s fairy dust—16 in Nebraska—and I’m sure it’s way past your bedtime,” said Santa pulling Sarah off of his legs and then his pants up.

Sarah ran through the door and just as Santa was cleaning himself off with the bed sheet she popped her head back inside the room. “Merry Christmas, Santa!”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ—I mean, Merry Christmas, dear.”

It was a Christmas night that Sarah would never forget…and her mother would never recall.

A common fantasy for a man, besides the one involving a donkey and a gallon of lube, is to have a woman who is a angel in the outside world and a complete whore in the bedroom. A few years back I met Carny and from all outward appearances she seemed to be an angel on the outside, so I figured that I was halfway to Hetero Heaven. It wasn’t until we were in the bedroom one night when I was on top of her that she opened her mouth and removed all doubt that I had finally arrived to the Promised Land and I didn’t even have to strap a bomb vest to myself like my Muslim faith dictates as a passport to virgins and rivers of wine.

I had just said something like, “I really care about you and would like to take care of you. Would you like me to rub your feet or prepare a bath for you?” to which she replied, “Spit in my mouth.” I never had anyone say this to me besides the man in the trench coat who used to sit next to me at the gay movie theater, which showed double features on Sundays to which half the audience would leave midway through the second film and they had to get to prepare the final touches on their sermons for church that day. As this was my first intimate salivary experience with someone who was not a pedophile priest, I wanted to make it memorable.

I cleared my throat and nasal passages with the biggest snorty, coughing throat clear I could and spit a thick, yellow goober right into her eye; this was more the result of poor aim than it was due to any lack of anatomical understanding.

“What the fuck are you doing?” she shouted as she pushed me off of her. Thankfully my Sobakawa buckwheat pillow that I got through an infomercial was there to break my fall. It really is quite supportive and a much better purchase than that Pube Wacker that was supposed to be able to style my groinal region as well as trim the hedges of my yard.

“You said ‘Spit in my mouth’ so I was just—“

“I said ‘in my mouth,’ moron, not in my eye!” she sweetly explained. “And by ‘spit’ I meant the saliva that was in your mouth, not the darkest, grossest gob you could cough up from your lungs! Why not just pick your nose and flick it into my mouth?”

She seemed a tad irate and so I wanted to be careful with my response. “Okay, so we don’t have any confusion: are you asking me to pick my nose and flick it into your mouth or was that just a metaphor of sorts?”

“You’re unbelievable!”

“And by ‘unbelievable’ do you mean that I am an incredible guy or that I am an idiot, because I rather not thank you if you are calling me an idiot?”

“The latter.”

“Great. I think I’m getting you. Just one more: by ‘latter” do you mean one of those things firemen climb or—“

“Just shut up, Jesus fuckin’ Christ!” she interrupted and while I have a problem with someone using the Lord and Savior’s name in vain, I decided to be the better man and let her comment slide without commentary. I decided I would later go to church to atone for my sins of goobery and visit some of the old crew from Sticky Seats Theater.

In conclusion, I was psyched to be involved with someone who was both an angel and a whore but I felt her communication skills could have be improved.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V-fQ32qz4d0

My subway arrived at the 34^th Street stop at about 6:30 a.m., giving me time to arrive early to my 7:00 kickboxing class where I would guide people in using kicks, punches, knees and elbows to solve all their domestic issues. My heart melts a little every time I receive a testimonial like the following:

“My wife and I got into an argument over dishes being left in the sink. I threw the jab-cross-knee combination we worked on in class and after she got up off the ground, she washed not only the dishes but also the puddle of her blood. Thank you not only for your kickboxing instruction but also for helping me maintain my marriage!”

As I was rounded the corner to the final stairwell up to the street, I jarred into a freeze as I saw a black man standing on the stairs with his erect penis sticking out of his pants and finishing what looked like his morning toss-off. I saw a few drops of liquid fall from his penis to the ground and in my innocence I thought he must have just finished up urinating. Looking at the steps, I didn’t see any puddle of piss and thought to myself, “If it wasn’t urine what in God’s name could it possibly—Jesus Christ!”

Elisabeth Kübler-Ross talks about The Five Stages of Grief that one goes through when experiencing a grief-inducing event, such as the death of a loved one. The five stages include Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression and Acceptance. I discovered that when witnessing a penis at 6:30 in the morning one also undergoes various stages leading, but not ending in, acceptance. And thus was born The Five Stages Of Seeing A Penis, soon to be released in book form.

The first stage is Shock, where you are startled to a point where you are like a deer caught in the headlights. There have been many cases of people who have been sodomized while completely catatonic. I myself have woken up from the dentist’s chair to a facefull of semen. Needless to say, I insisted that I would not pay any extra for the facial.

The second stage is Justification. You can’t accept that a man would just have his meat hanging out there blowing in the wind, to use Bob Dylanian terms. “He must have had to urinate really badly” or “Perhaps his zipper is broken and he needs to do laundry and was forced to go commando and the combination of broken zipper and no drawers has led to this unfortunate situation,” are common responses.

Unlike the five stages of grief, Acceptance is not the last stage of The Five Stages Of Seeing A Penis.” After the initial shock of seeing the penis and the subsequent desperate attempt to justify why the penis is making an appearance in order to maintain your current worldview that in this world men keep their penises in their pants, especially in public places, you have to accept the fact that in front of you stands a man and protruding out of his pants stands a penis. If by this point you can’t accept this as a reality, you might have gone into complete cognitive dissonance and the following stages may not occur until much later.

After Acceptance comes Anger. “Why the hell should I be subject to witnessing this man’s penis—especially before 9:00 a.m.?” A subtle aspect often denied in the penile viewer is the anger that this man has his cock exposed and you would also like to pull out your pud but are too afraid of the consequences, from legal to laughter.

The final stage of The Five Stages Of Seeing A Penis is Desire, where you have gotten through your initial shock and anger and now want to experience that schlong firsthand. This often expresses itself in reaching out to the appendage or dropping to your knees and opening your mouth or the spontaneous dropping of your panties and spreading of your legs. In the incident in question I experienced all of these common manifestations of desire.

There were two things I took out of this incident, besides the development of The Five Stages Of Seeing A Penis. The first is that I will most probably refrain my barefoot walking to places that are not hotspots for the morning wank, such as subways and Starbuck’s restrooms. Secondly, I have committed myself to cover my penis from view until at least 9:00 a.m., realizing a sighting of this sort could result in a traumatization of the viewing victim.

With having a penis comes a tremendous responsibility. One must wield his organ with this awareness, especially if you plan to use your penis as a tool for Self-discovery.

I have been accused of being a racist—which is totally not true. While I find blacks to be mentally inferior, I acknowledge that they are superior athletes. While I find Chinese to have small penises, I acknowledge them to excel in math. While I find Jews just plain annoying, I acknowledge that they’re great in matters involving money and plots to control the world. And regarding Dominicans, I don’t consider them human, so the fact that I think that every last one of them is scum is not racism—they’re not a race, they’re vermin.

FOR FULL PIECE GO TO:

http://rebelyogi.com/ace-of-hearts

(Comments can be left here–unless you’re Dominican!)

It was Friday night and I went to GYNO (Get Your Nuts Off), a monthly party at a yoga studio organized by a girl I met at a Native Ritual weekend where we all drank ayahuasca and got naked and bumped uglies. I’ve gone to this party just about every month for the last five months or so because it’s a good time for not too much dough, a cheap bastard who wants to take a break from watching South Park every night’s dream.

For $20 there are a bunch of sort of healthy snacks, drinks including coconut water and kombucha. My first activity on arrival is to stuff my bag with as many free nut and berry bars as my back can support before I store my extras in the lockers they have with these cool electronic make-your-own-combination locks. I have learned my lesson of stuffing the food into my bag and not my mouth at the start of the party, as the few times I stuffed my mouth instead of my bag, I nearly spilled the container when dancing and whirling later in the night.

The last time I blew something that big I was kneeling in front of a black man nicknamed "Big Johnson"!

Also at GYNO is The Didge Project, which is a group of didgeridoo players and last Saturday a tabla player and couple other musicians joined in, blasting the methodic melodies of this Australian aboriginal instrument. That just sounded like a CD review, no? “The methodic melody of decapitated heads crackling over the fire of the head hunters of New Guinea was lacking nothing but marshmallows on a stick.”

The first time The Didge Project as added to the line-up I was like, “Who needs some lame mellow crap that sounds like an old man clearing his throat of a build up of mucus at a dance party!” But a couple of parties ago, after having my fill of dancing, I went into the didge room and meditated—or rather, pretended to meditate while I tried to cop a feel of the cute girls with their eyes closed—and it was pretty cool. Another time I showed up early because I kind of screwed up the two adages: “The early bird gets the worm” and “Only fags arrive right at the start of the party” and came up with, “If I show up early I may be able to suck some fag’s worms.” Needless to say, when the clock struck 8:00 p.m., I was barreling through the door looking for worm.

At the last party, they added some talk about ecological stuff. I went in and after about 30-seconds was like, “Dude, how can a guy feel any chicks up when their eyes are open!” and left. I filed a complaint with the organizer and was informed that feeling up girls with their eyes closed was not permitted. What the fu—? I guess I would have to be an exclusively dick and balls copifier.

I just love beating-off!

One room has a D.J. Truthfully, I have never gone in that room and danced. This is not because I once slept with a woman named D.J. and got the clap, although that incident has strangely affected my ability to order O.J. at a restaurant or bar. It is because I am always dancing in my favorite room: THE LIVE DRUMMERS. Dude—drummers banging away beats, jumping and spinning and dancing and sweating—seriously, is there anything that one could think of that is better than this? I hear you, jerking-off with an elephant’s ear is pretty darn delightful but even that doesn’t really compare to the grooves in the live drumming room, not to mention that dancing to the drummers beats won’t result in you being banned for life from the African Safari at Disneyworld.

It was two GYNOs ago where I met Rose Petals. I was coming in to get my ovaries checked and she was the doctor on duty. “Left ovary…right ovary. Well then, it looks like you have a few reproductive years left in you, old girl!” and while I didn’t appreciate the “old” comment, she had hands of magic that even the cold steel of the vag spread clamp couldn’t keep my labia from heating up. She was working the desk and I was working the macking. My relationship with Rose Petals spanned from lip-locking to “Swami X who?” in a matter of days [See http://rebelyogi.com/getting-my-groove-on].

So at the last GYNO I attended, I wondered if I would see Rose Petals there again. I didn’t, probably finding some other venue that was easier for her to break the hearts of guys who fell in love with her. Until last Friday. Unfortunately, I had already had my ovaries checked and what had concerned me at first ended up only being a lost Lifesaver from the last guy who had gone down on me. I talked to her and smiled in that charming way a gal does when she wants to convey, “You see, I’m still doing just fine without you!” while stifling back the flood of tears.

"Nah, it's not a problem. Just one more swig, honey. You can do it."

Later in the night, Rose Petals asked me if I could bring her a cup of organic wine. Knowing she is somewhat of a boozer, I thought that if I plied her full of liquor, I might be able to “Get My Nuts Off” on her inebriated body. Instead I settled for just dropping a pube into her drink. I had a vision of them performing the Heimlich Maneuver on her, as the whole party grinded to a halt to watch the unraveling. And then when she finally coughs and breathes easily again, an EMS guy announcing to the crowd, “Nothing to worry about here. Just a pube went down the wrong pipe.” Nice. I’d teach her for leaving me at the altar in my imagination! She’s even the star of my imaginary movie called Runaway Imaginary Bride. I’m thinking of replacing her with Julia Roberts, as in ImaginationLand I can afford to pay star wages for anyone I want. I’m thinking of casting Tom Cruise as the gay best friend. Oh wait, that’s for My Imaginary Best Friend’s Wedding.

Rose Petals was mostly trapped behind the front desk but later I saw her walking around and practically dragged her into the live drumming room and forcibly danced with her. I would probably have to plead guilty to dance rape had I been taken before a judge. I don’t particularly like going to court, as my experience with men and women in robes, from priests, nuns and judges, is that while they act all high and mighty, all they really want is for you to suck their dicks—and let me tell you, some of the biggest cocks I’ve sucked were attached to nuns and I am not just talking about the ones in their asses! Regardless, we both had a good time on the dance floor. She even complimented my dancing. Being she is a trained dancer, I tried my best to receive it modestly but instead I blushed like a schoolgirl, tilted my head a little and said, “Go on.” Not my proudest moment but a moment nonetheless.

So she was about to go back to desk duty, as apparently someone had taken a dump during the last Pap Smear and there were always new sets of ovaries coming in waiting to be fingered. She apologized for being a bit aloof at her last dance show that I showed up for and was completely ignored [See “Another Way” at http://rebelyogi.com/another-way.html]. She told me that she was dealing with her then boyfriend who was there at the time but that now they are no longer together.

This is so weird--I wore the orange suit at my Bar Mitzvah and the blue one at my high school graduation! Come to think of it, maybe that is why I didn't get laid.

Wasting no time I said, “So does that mean you’ll get back to me now when I call you?” She said, “Perhaps” and I felt like that scene in Dumb And Dumber when Jim Carrey asked the beautiful girl what the chances for him and her to end up together and she said, “One out of a million” and he shouted excitedly, “So you’re telling me there’s a chance. YEAH!” [See http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qULSszbA-Ek] With just that single word from her I was ready to make phone calls and send text messages that in most likelihood would remain unanswered. Ah, the power of delusion!

When I looked down at her groinal region, I saw a neon sign that read, “OPEN FOR BUSINESS.” It became clear that she was a whore and wanted her ovaries checked by a special instrument, if you know what I mean, and if you don’t, I mean my penis.
Near the end of the night, I saw her on the steps coming down from the second floor and she asked me, “Do you have a bottle opener?” In my day I’ve had many things shoved up my ass and even more things lost up there but at the moment I wasn’t really in the mood to go searching. “No,” I said. Later I saw her bleeding from the mouth. Being a total boozer, she had smashed the wine bottles neck against a wall and was drinking straight from the broken bottle. I considered taking her immediately to Alcoholics Anonymous but then thought that this would probably lessen my chances of fucking her while she was passed out and so I didn’t. “Ethics always before safety” is my motto. In my case, even bad ethics go to the front of the line.

"Self-Service"

Before leaving, I was going to send her a text message, as everyone knows how much I love text messages [See “Text-Messaging Douchebag” at http://rebelyogi.com/the-text-messaging-douchebag.html] but realized I had deleted her number. When I finally saw her I told her this. At the door I asked for her number again and she was like, “Your really deleted my number?” I said, “You never called or texted me back. Why would I keep it?” She was unable to formulate an answer, partly because my logic was impeccable and mostly because no blood was left in her brain for cognition as all the blood was pooling in her vag.

"Anchorman". I'd say that's some "anchor"!

by Idyllicmollusk, my new favorite artist

I just realized that if she were a guy, that joke would have made perfect sense, indicating an erection and keeping the comical sexuality alive. But as a woman, it just makes one think she’s on her period, and now everyone is thinking about bloody underpants and are a bit sick to their stomachs. If you want, I would suggest using an editing program and going back and changing her name to Rose Thorns and make her a guy so that you can appreciate this joke. It really is a good one. You can substitute “his ass” for “her groinal region” to help the neon “OPEN FOR BUSINESS” joke a long as well. You see, we work together and we’ll get the laughs!

She inquired about my future plan to call her, “So what do you want to do?” I said, “Fuck you.” She laughed and I smiled back, although I didn’t really get the joke.

I told her that I wanted a kiss before I left. She took me to the hallway and we kissed, with tongue and everything and by everything I mean uvula and tonsils as well. I am a big fan of “I’ll do whatever I want to do regardless of who’s around” but even I thought this might be inappropriate for a staff person to be swapping spit with some gorgeous hunk while people were walking out of the facility. In case there was any confusion, the role of the Gorgeous Hunk was being played by me.

I figured she was so slutty that I could probably lift her dress and do her right there and save myself the ten-cent charge from a cell phone call. But I also considered that I would like to come back to the next GYNO and wouldn’t want a repeat of the Elephant Ear Masturbation Incident happening all over again. So instead I just slapped her on the ass, winked while I pointed at her and made that cool clicking sound with my mouth and walked away, coolness that would have made even The Fonz offer me a desk in his office, which was the bathroom at Arnold’s or Al’s Drive-In, whether we are talking early or late-season “Happy Days.”

Being a civil libertarian and a champion of the individual’s rights, I generally let all my un-blog readers’ comments go up without editing them out, even though the comments are only a hair’s width more intelligent than the postings I see at the conspiracy website prisonplanet.com, which seems to require the phrase, “I’d like to kill all those Zionist Nazi bastards!” to be included in every posting.

Just the other day there was an article there about how Christian missionaries in Haiti were stopped trying to take Haitian children across the border and the Haitian authorities are seeking charges of kidnapping against them. Glancing down at the comments section, sure enough—an article about Christian pedophiles—has comments like, “Well at least they’re not as bad as the Zionist Jews!”

I’ve received a few spam comments at Enlightening Nonsense and a few from blogs that obviously have a computer program that lets them know if anyone writes certain keywords so that they can “ping” them and ask to cross-link in the hope of increasing traffic to their site. I’ve accepted a few of those, finding it amusing that, for example, a golf site would ask me to cross-link because I used a phrase to describe my ass as looking “as if someone had given me an ass-kicking while wearing a pair of spiked golf shoes.” [http://rebelyogi.com/not-brad-pitt.html] Some I’ve rejected.

And then there was some comments from “Chad,” an early stalker of mine, which were just so vile and stupid that I not only blocked them but I had to jump in a cesspool just to feel clean after reading them. [See “Mein Kampf” [http://rebelyogi.com/mein-kampf-2.html]

So the other day was the first time I blocked a comment from a reader who is neither unknown nor a complete moron like Chad. It was posted to my piece “The Anal Sex Debate” [http://rebelyogi.com/the-anal-sex-debate.html]. They posted a link to a webpage that contained funny, dirty cartoons.

I went to the site and, personally, I liked it. But as much trash and filth as you may perceive me to utter, it is all nonsense designed to entertain, to shock you out of your stupor, to reclaim ALL of the words and thoughts and feelings and emotions that the yoga posers have told us are not “spiritual” and therefore off-limits, and because it is fun for me. But I don’t particularly care nor intend for this un-blog to become a place where a group of derelicts gather to share their latest deviancies and foul-mouthed antics.

And sometimes I even find it sad when people think that they have to talk like sewer rats in order to “keep up” with me, especially when that is not their authenticity. For those of you who have taken a class with me or heard me speak in person, I rarely curse and have only used the phrase, “As dry as a nun’s vagina” when I was speaking at the 10 million person Gathering of Pedophile Clergy at the Vatican and even then it was only based from my personal experience of sleeping with nuns and not used frivolously.

I want to emphasize that the poster was not “bad” for posting the link and that I actually liked what I saw on the site; I think I laughed out loud three times and blew two loads, the second of which cost me $300 to get my keyboard cleaned.

But as much as I like to support free expression, this is not a democracy—this is an anarchical dictatorship, which means that I make the rules and I break them, too. This is in contrast to the United States of America, which is a dictatorship, disguised as a Democracy, supposed to be a Republic.

Oh no, looks like that line will get me on the terrorist watch list! I wouldn’t mind if it were the old days, when that would translate into full body cavity searches at the airports, which has resulted in my laughing out loud three times and blowing two loads, the second of which has caused the zipper on my carry-on to always stick.

But in today’s day and age, it means accumulating disease-causing radiation in my body as I am forced to stand in a full-body scanner which will produce completely naked pictures of my body and result in my being forced to drop my pants as, what always happens, they mistake my 14” cock for a shotgun and then having all the workers print out a copy of my naked scan and ask me to sign it, thinking with a schlong that big that I must be some famous porn star.

http://www.prisonplanet.com/exposed-naked-body-scanner-images-of-film-star-printed-circulated.html

It was a simple statement, “Bend over and take it in the ass, bitch!” I couldn’t understand why Duck got so pissed. After further reflection, I realized why this had upset her and modified how I submitted my request. “Bend over and take it in the ass, slut!”

Now contrary to what Bark Mecker, the organizer of the New Life Expo and the Yoga & Raw Food Expo, would say behind my back while smiling and putting his hand on his heart like a cookie-cutter yoga poser to my front, I rarely talk this way nor approve of this kind of talk, unless of course it is some role-playing dirty talk between one consenting adult and another tied up and being forced against her will. I don’t really disapprove of it either. I guess I’m Switzerland on the issue: I don’t care either way what you do to the Jews, just as long as I can feign neutrality while putting their Jew gold in my bank accounts.

http://www.southparkstudios.com/clips/155015

I’ve only done anal sex a few times in my relationship career, one time due to bad aim. And I liked it. And the girls I did it with liked it. For me, I don’t know if it was the tightness factor so much as the taboo factor. For them it was because they were whores.

I’m into taboo. For instance, I would never really want to have sex with my sister—unless by “sex” one means “to hit her in the face with a brick”—but I like the incest fantasy because it is oh so unthinkable. And I would never have sex with an animal, unless I was really drunk and horny on a lonely desert and an antelope with a shapely derriere was bent over a muddy puddle having a little slurp, but when I’m in fantasy mode even Abandon leaves the room a little freaked out.

As the consummate student, I studied up on the topic by ordering a “How To” anal sex DVD and reading the bestseller, Anal Sex For Dummies, which was informative but in my opinion devoting the first 90 pages to “Finding The Anus” was overkill. I learned a lot from my studies, including the fact that in and around the anus is located one of the most highly concentrated area of nerves in the body. In practical terms, this means it is a very sensitive area and if you don’t just haphazardly jam a finger or penis up there, it can be utilized for extreme sexual arousal.

It was also recommended to use lubrication because the anal area doesn’t produce lubrication like the vagina. I couldn’t help but to think of all the dry vaginas out there and how now I could use the phrase, “That vagina’s as dry as an asshole!” and leave the poor Catholic nuns alone.

If it weren’t for being blindsided by the section in the DVD where some dude was lying on his stomach while his female partner was ram-rodding his ass with a dildo, I might have left my education unscathed. This little backslide resulted in one of the many scars on my forehead as I passed out from shock and banged my head on the edge of my desk. Another undesired side effect was that I was unable to get hard for the next three weeks, except for the time I was watching the National Geographic Channel and they were showing two sibling animals having sex.

“Straight” guys always act like they can’t even understand how homosexual men can take it up the ass. Usually after I illustrate it on myself with an organic cucumber and some olive oil I learn that it is not the how that they don’t get but the why.

Besides having the same anal enervation that a woman has, the man also has a prostate, that is, unless he has allowed the medical doctors to hack it out of him with their surgical machetes or burn it away with their mini-nukes, likely leaving him with a forever floppy dick drive which constantly dribbles urine onto his keyboard. When stimulated, this little peanut can make him shoot his load farther than Jesse Owens can jump; I learned this the hard way when I had to go in for emergency eye surgery.

So I told Duck I’d like to do anal with her. I guess it wasn’t really much of a debate after all. I asked. She said no. I cried like a little bitch. But I was a little mad and by “mad” I don’t mean like the time after I ate a bowl of cow brains with prion sprinkles and caught a mild case of Mad Cow Disease. This was before the pharmaceutical companies lied about the “coming Swine Flu Pandemic” in order to increase their sales and so the sheeple were not throwing elbows, clamoring their way to inject their children with untested toxins. So I was lucky that I was able to get a mercury-laden vaccine that cleared it up right away, leaving me only partially brain dead in the process.

For me, I would probably do just about anything that would turn my partner on, as long as it didn’t involve slaughtering animals or shitting in each other’s faces. Speaking of shitting in faces, I once went into a porn video place and saw a whole section of German Schiezer porn where people were dropping dookies in each other’s mouths. I thought to myself how this showed how if you take away an innocent hobby from a group, like killing Jews, they’ll become totally depraved.

I would wear a Little Bo Peep outfit. I would pretend I was a little schoolboy and she was the pedophile math teacher. I would be a black slave to her whip-carrying plantation owner. I would be a Gitmo prisoner to her U.S. abusive guard. I would be the geisha girl (I’ve just been dying to pull that outfit out of my closet!) to her Japanese emperor. I would be the Jew to her Nazi and if her nipples got hard when she barked the command, “Into the oven, Jew!” I would be all the happier.

After watching “Pulp Fiction” and the scene with “the Gimp” twenty three times in a row, I am a little freaked out about those S&M leather masks with the red ball in the mouth. We could probably add that to the slaughtered animals and soft serve butt-cream in the face category.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ejeW00YcZIc&feature=related

I’ve had some girls say things they want to do to me that even my free willy loving self was like, “Damn, girl! That’s some nasty shit!” But I was always like, “Look, if that’s something that would really turn you on, then I’ll consider doing it. But if it is just to degrade me or some power trip, I’m not in.”

When you think about it, it’s ridiculous for us to make moral judgments on what should or shouldn’t turn someone on. That’s like losing sleep over the fact that someone likes vanilla more than chocolate, if such a degenerate human being even exists. If the goal is getting off, then as long as you don’t hurt anyone or violate someone else’s free will, as the prophet Eric Cartman would say, “What’s the big fuckin’ deal, bitch?” And if I loved someone, or didn’t love them but wanted to treat them to a grand ole opry, who the fuck am I to start playing priest and talk about how this other person is going to be in eternal damnation for liking to stick knitting needles in their nipples and winding them up and letting them whirl like helicopter propellers while I’m getting blown by altar boys in the confessional booth?

On a more serious note, if one will even be able to be heard amongst all this ridiculous noise, if I loved someone I would do anything to bring her joy. Whether that meant searching out little trinkets that she collects, washing the dishes if their accumulation would make her anxious, sitting with her boring friends so that she could use me like arm candy—or taking it in the ass—I would do it. I felt that Duck wasn’t “taking one for the team,” so to speak, the team being us. And there’s no “we” in “team,” unless that we is one’s wee-wee and the “team” is the other’s ass.

Please write your comments below this piece. If enough of you write to the effect of, “Just let him stick it in your ass!” then perhaps this could be the lubrication that will help get Duck and me through this sticky situation. As a side note, I will be deleting any comments that are not Pro-Anal.

http://www.southparkstudios.com/clips/150506

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To avoid confusion regarding the title of this piece, “Brokeback Swami” is not going to be a story about how I went to an ashram in India seeking self-realization and the next thing you know I’m fucking some fellow swami in the ass. This happened but that’s not the story I’m going to tell now. Let’s just say his name was Bindu and his ass was as tight as a 5-year old Arabic girl who can outrun her father.

I never saw the movie Brokeback Mountain but I quickly grew tired of closet queers praising the movie as a modern “War and Peace.” Now before you call me homophobic—I’m not. Homo comes from the ancient Greek, “Homonus,” which was the name of a tailor in ancient Athens who was famous for his ability to fix one’s cuff length with expertise, as well as sucking a mean cock, and means “faggot.”

Phobic comes from the Roman Phobiathus, who was a pansy who was scared of his own shadow—like the government-created pussies of today who if they see an unattended piece of toilet paper on the floor will throw their arms in the air and scream like they just saw a mouse until the Great Protector, the government, will come and not pick up the piece of toilet paper but make them go through toxic full-body radiation scanners and have TSA perverts look at the image of their naked bodies and laugh at the size of their penises or wack-off to the pictures of their young daughters—and means “afraid.”

So homophobic means “afraid of faggots.” I’m not afraid of them. I hate them.

I don’t hate poofs for what they choose to put in their mouth or ass. I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about that. Speaking of rodents, I just rented Pretty Woman and, inspired by Richard Gere’s real-life antics, at the moment I’m writing this, I have a gerbil up my ass. I hate butt-munchers because they’re pussies.

When I say they’re pussies, I’m not referring to the fact that if you comment on their pink silk ascot not quite matching their red socks that they will burst into tears. That’s just funny. I hate them because if they valued expressing Authentically what they do—which is interior decorating, fashion designing, acting on film and stage, sucking dick and taking it in the ass—then we could all just get over it and actually see Who They Are, which is more than a collection of limp-wristed cocksuckers.

I had a personal training client who on our first session, almost nonchalantly said, “I’m meeting my boyfriend later and we want to go to dinner in the area. Do you have any recommendations?” He was not a total fembot and didn’t act like my non-obviously gay clients who never used pronouns when describing their social activities, “I went out with my significant other and when they saw the menu they didn’t know what to order so my partner then looked at me for a suggestion.” Nigga, please! With this client, it just was what it was and that was it. No ponderings, “I wonder if his ‘partner’ is a man or a woman…” because it was said straight up, pardon the pun, and not apologetically. And the result was that it was a complete non-issue, other than me wearing a bathing suit when we hit the steam room together.

Instead gayblades value their careers and social standing in a repressively phony society and so we have gay men like Tom Cruise jumping up and down on Oprah pathetically pretending to be straight. It’s fine to be an actor on film but, for god sakes, in real life it’s time to be you and not a fake character that is created and directed by society.  [http://www.southparkstudios.com/clips/155090]

While the term “Islamo-fascists” was created by the New World Order Scum (NWOS) to further their agenda of, speaking of taking it in the ass, bending us over a table and having us cry out, “Thanks for the protection!” because we have become terrified of a term created by ripping off the candy Bit-O-Honey, there are still many who swallow the jiz of Muhammad with bad intentions towards the “infidels,” which they define as anyone who doesn’t wear a diaper on his head, abuse women and preach that the only problem with the world is Israel.

But where are the “moderate Islamos” speaking up and saying, “Yo nigga, I don’t know what the fuck these towel heads are practicing but it sure ain’t Islam”? We mostly hear silence from these “moderate” pussies. Why? “Oh, they’re scared of being killed.” Why? Then they can float right up and swim in the rivers of wine in Muslim Heaven. Of course they won’t get any of that young, virgin poon that is reserved for the ones who blow themselves up because being a brainless idiot is apparently rewarded in the Muslim faith.

In the same way, the whole “gay” issue, while created by Puritan hypocrites who slaughtered Indians, raped slaves and preach gospels that would have Jesus deresurrect if he listened to them instead of ignore them as the fools they are, is perpetuated by fruit loops hiding like rats from the light, instead of prancing around gallantly in their ballet tutus like they have a pair.

If all the fudge-packers came out of the bakery and said, “We’re here, we’re queer—now suck it!” what would all the straights do? Maybe a few would take the sticks out of their asses and put a dick in it instead. But when their lawyers and their doctors and their florists (no shit?) and their gyno (figures—only a gay man could enjoy staring at a fish taco all day!) and their friends and Tom Cruise boldly took off their masks and proudly showed their faces, the straights would have no choice but to suck it. And besides an increase in sales for the knee-pad companies, it would become a non-issue and we could move on and focus all that energy creating an issue out of nothing into finding a cure for cancer or, more likely, onto something else to hate and oppress.

I remember my annoyance in my theatrical days of what were considered the “gay plays,” how instead of being about real relationships—regardless of whether it was between a man and a woman or two men—they became about flamboyance and prancing and sex. How shallow. I thought gay men to have a lot more depth than the gay playwrights were depicting them.

I once got a role in a show called, “Cute Boys In Their Underpants” (I shit you not!) I have a feeling I booked the role more for how the directors imagined I would look in my underpants than from my ten plus years of training as an actor.

As irony would have it, I was playing the token “straight” role. But when I got the whole script, there was one scene where I would have a dildo shoved in my mouth and another where I would have to lick some brown substance off one of the other character’s fingers and I said, “Fuck this!” and quit. They were pissed, as they had already printed up promotion cards with my name on it. But while admission into the Actors Equity union was waved in my face, there was too much dick going around and the whole thing smelled like dick cheese.

"I'll tell ya', besides loving dick, the best part for me about being gay is the pants-optional parties!"

I would love to play a homosexual character in a play which is about a real relationship, with all its joys and struggles, it laughter and tears, and not about dicks and asses and dialogue like, “Oh, I’d like to see you wearing a thong, hot pants!” That’s just gay and I mean that in the “not cool” way. I like to believe there is more to being gay than just being carnal with people of the same sex. Maybe I need to write The Great Gay Play. If I do, don’t call me a sell-out if I keep in the “hot pants” line!

So now instead of going into a restaurant and making goo-goo eyes with the host and overdramatically throwing my napkin down and announcing that I am going to the bathroom, where he will meet me and we will proceed to blow each other like two leaf blowers, that is, if the “leafs” were Leif Garret, we instead have to wait until I leave with my date and clandestinely leave my card on his desk as I facetiously thank him for a lovely evening, the implication being that if he calls me later that evening, when we meet it will be a lot more memorable than an overcooked piece of dead, tortured animal and an overpriced bottle of wine sitting across from a woman that I am eating with to give the false pretense that I “fit in,” when the only thing I want to fit into is his ass. I would answer the hosts, “Table for two?” with, “To eat, yes. But the only straw I need is if you and me are felching later.”

LEIF GARRETT circa 1976, before going bald, being arrested and on VH1's "Has Beens: Where Are They Now And Why Do We Care?"

But this Garden of Eden will only be possible if we all grow a pair of testicles and live Authentically, not “asking” for our rights but demanding them and if they are not given to us—then taking them. I’m just waiting for the “fair and balanced”—which means fair-skinned and able to walk the police line test after downing a bottle of scotch—Fox News to announce, “The New Al-Qaeda—faggots.” At least gays won’t complain when they are given full-body cavity searches at the airports. Hell, they may even find a few lost golf balls up there and a statue of Dick Nixon!

This piece was intended to be about my broke ass, which is a stone throw away from eating out of garbage cans, but I have to go with the flow and apparently the flow took me to the fruit tree instead of the vegetable garden. But the “serious” part of all this, for those morons out there who either have no sense of humor or preach “laser love,” which means, “As long as you believe in the way I do I’ll love you,” until each one of us lives Authentically, we are always going to be subject to bullshit, whether imposed by government, employers, society, neighbors, family or ourselves. Of course it reads like a gay piece but, then again, so do I.

What has it been worth for you to sell your soul to the Devil? To the stupid Christians who believe in fairy tales, by “the Devil” I am not referring to the make-believe being that your church manipulators created because they couldn’t accept that God created it all—which includes not just “light” and “love” but “dark” and “evil” as well—but the lie that you live and pretend is real, which can only be a living Hell.

I don’t want to live in your Hell anymore, even if you powder it with perfume and call it Heaven. If I were a pussy I would kill myself but I’m not. So all I can do is devote myself to destroying this Hell that you have decorated with curtains and flowers. I will piss on your candelabra and revel in the smell of urine over the smell of false “light.” I will proudly show my scars, not as another ego trip to wear as a badge of fake honor like the generals who wear all those faggy colored ribbons and medals and pretend that they’re anything more than directing men and women to the meat grinder, but to show myself proudly—with all my imperfections.

But there really will be no “imperfections”—because that very term is defined on the lie of an ideal way of looking or being or behaving. I will proudly show my “perfect” disfigurements—because I am not a “moderate” who apologetically asks for permission to raise his voice. And I am not a pussy who needs validation for expressing my juicy Authentic Self from a bunch of plastic fruit.

If for no other reason, join the Rebel-ution for the sole reason that we can shut people up about Brokeback Mountain. In my fantasy future, people will walk out of a movie like Brokeback Mountain and say, “What’s the big deal, two dudes fucking each other? The movie blew—and I don’t just mean with its representations of fellatio. Let’s get out of here and blow each other.”

"Brokeback Mountain" released in Europe under the title "Brokeanus Mountain"

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REFLECTION:

Look at what the routine is you go through every morning—brushing your teeth, showering, putting on make-up, putting on your costume of the day, be it suit and tie or a maid’s outfit with French lace stockings. Why? Don’t give me the bullshit reason that others have told you. Why do you choose to do it? Most probably you think that you have no choice. “My teeth will fall out…my body will smell…I will look ugly…they won’t let me go to work in sweatpants.”

What clothes do you wear when you’re sitting in front of your television set being fed propaganda from either fake news or sit-coms designed to make you think that all guys are bumbling idiots and all women need to be strong and dominating? Is it your power suit or business dress? If your answer is no, then your daily outfit is just a costume equivalent to a clown’s. If your answer is yes, unless you are too exhausted from your daily slave labor to take off the day’s costume, you are beyond any help.

What would your morning routine change if due to a nuclear holocaust there were no other people on earth? How much do you do because you choose to and how much do you do because you think you have to?

MEDITATION:

Imagine you are a dog and living in a dog’s world. Look around you and notice how when dogs approach each other, they don’t care whether the other is fat, thin, big, small, male, female, itchy, dirty, black, white, brown, or what species they are. They just smell them and explore them for the essence of Who They Are.

Walk around and explore this world of dogs and don’t get spooked if someone sticks his or her nose up your ass. Remember, you’re a dog—this is what you do!

[http://www.hulu.com/watch/98486/family-guy-pick-up-my-poop]

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My fantasy girl--until she opened her mouth!

I saw an interview with Iranian model Claudia Lynx. I didn’t really care much to hear what she had to say, but since I find her very sexy I figured a half-hour video with her would be like renting porn at a hotel: mission accomplished in 15-seconds and then you question whether it was really worth the $5.95 plus the funny look on the face of the desk person when they slide you the bill for “extras” which is itemized as: PORN RENTAL—“BIG-TITTIED TIE-UP.”

I used to wack-it with coconut oil but after attending the Raw Spirit Festival where Dr. Brian Clement [see “Dr. Brian Clement Is A Prick” http://rebelyogi.com/dr-brian-clement-is-a-prick] basically called coconut oil “Liquid Satan in jar,” I was too frightened to put that stuff anywhere near my body, let alone on my pecker. I kept having a flash-forward of me at the doctor’s office with an elephantitis puffy and him telling me, “This is very unusual. You have a tremendous cholesterol build-up exclusively in your penis. Do you have any idea how this could have happened?” in which case I’d have to confess that I’d been going through a gallon a week of intra-penile coconut oil and despite the fact that he’s stuck a finger up my ass on more than one occasion—most of the time being outside the setting of his office— I really don’t feel all that comfortable sharing my private perversions with anyone but the thousands of readers of my un-blog.

So I had about ten sheets of Seventh Generation paper towels at the ready, not because I was planning to blow a load the volume of legendary porn star Peter “Buckets” North, but because those crappy paper towels don’t really absorb anything, though I continue to buy them thinking I’m somehow saving the planet by buying used and recycled paper towels. I haven’t bought the Seventh Generation toilet paper yet, as the idea of recycled toilet paper is a little more than I can handle at the moment.

I also had a bottle of Baby Oil in place and ready to go. Granted mineral oil is probably not the best thing to apply to a human body but I was willing to risk anything to avoid walking around with the name “Fat Dick” stigmatizing me like the phrase “De plane! De plane!” did Herve Villichaize who played the midget Tattoo on “Fantasy Island.” Maybe he should have asked Mr. Rourke to give him the fantasy of being the size of an adult rather than a prepubescent. Just a thought.

As the video started, I saw the beautiful Claudia Lynx sitting with a white, cleavage-y top and a knitted skirt with her legs crossed and I prayed to Jesus, telling him that I’d go to church and bow down to a disempowering God like the rest of the mindless religious idiots if she would just pull a Sharon Stone from “Basic Instinct” and separate her legs long enough for me to see the golden palace of the Himalayas—and maybe get some of that great Himalayan salt, which is loaded with 84 different minerals, while I was visiting. This was enough to get my coconut oil-detoxed dangler flowing with blood and ready to prove that Rosie from the old Bounty paper towel commercials was probably right that the competitors made a crappy product. And then she opened her mouth and ruined everything.

She told a story about how she came home one day to see fire trucks outside of her apartment—which was burned to the ground— leaving everything destroyed except the clothes on her back. Being a former pyro, I was like, “Oh yeah! Burned down! Tell it, baby!” But just when I was ready to explode in a perversial pyromaniacal, mineral-oiled fit of nirvana, she said how in life many incidences arise, often very difficult ones, that provide opportunities for us to transform ourselves and our lives, to essentially “change form,” into something that is more developed and now able to climb out of the stagnant, stanky pool of old patterning and wash off in the clear, new freshness of a clean rain (I added that metaphor because I am so angry just thinking about her masturbatory sabotage that if I didn’t turn to flowery metaphor I may just do something stupid, like put those new hydraulic nipple clamps I bought on high and say goodbye once and for all, if not to this cruel world, than to my nipples!)

What the hell was she thinking?? I didn’t need any deep thoughts to pull the blood from my nether regions to my heart and head, resulting in me thinking about difficult situations in my own life and how I changed for the better as a result of them! I just needed a hot mama to talk about her hot body and hot fires and maybe some jabber on the uses of elongated raw foods like cucumbers or carrots if she felt the inspiration!

I’m going to give you ladies out there one piece of advice, probably the only piece of advice you’ll ever need to advance yourself in this world:

Men don’t want to have to think about growing in any way other than in our girth from eating all the delicious food you prepare for us while wearing a French maid’s outfit or down below as a result of you bending over in that very same French maid’s outfit with a feather duster sticking out of your ass. “Feelings,” “sensitivity,” “learning from our mistakes,” “becoming a better person”—no interest.

I suppose those few people out there who feel it somehow “empowering” to move on a path towards better health and more awareness and to feel personally responsible while having the support of a community can check out Claudia Lynx at www.claudialynx.com. For the rest of you whose sunny-side up eggs and puffy biscuit turns into a runny, snotty, limp biscuit at the thought of “personal growth,” I suggest you tune into something less “deep”; Enlightening Nonsense may just fit the bill.

Be sure to check out Raw People’s interview with me, which is posted at http://www.rawpeople.com/radio/?p=527. And if you tune in just to jerk-off—light a candle, drink a glass of wine, play some Luthor Vandross and rest assured that I will say absolutely NOTHING deep to spoil the mood.

I guess the one good thing about me, and I assure you there is only one good thing about me, is that while I may on occasion bullshit someone else, I will never bullshit myself. I should have known it was trouble when on our first “date” we went to a movie screening and afterwards I asked her, “So what did you think?” and her reply was, “Didn’t like it.” It took me a monkey wrench, two sets of pliers and a ball-peen hammer to get her to explore her thoughts deeper. Speaking of ball-peen hammers, is it just me or when you hear that word do you giggle like a little schoolgirl and think, “That sounds like balls and penis”?

I started seeing that we could talk about current events or what book we were reading but besides a general overview of the “facts,” Sara really seemed incapable of chewing and swallowing down and processing and allowing to become her own anything other than semen. I dropped down on my knees, and after a little cunnilingus, I begged to my fake God in the sky, “God why? Why can’t you keep me unconscious so that I can just friggin’ enjoy myself here? What business is it of yours what I do in the bedroom—or at the movie theater, or in the hallway, or dangling from a skyscraper window?” He responded, “Do whatever you want. I’m not stopping you. Hell, I don’t even exist except for you to speak to whenever you have an existential question!” He had a point. I was going to write, “…and it wasn’t just his penis,” but my fake God is build like a Ken Doll—you drop the pants and are like, “Those cheap bastards couldn’t afford a speck more of plastic down here?”

Soon Sara wanted to stop engaging. I don’t know how much was me trying to help her to break out of her conditioning and how much was me just trying to get laid, but I challenged her assertion on all fronts—philosophical, political, sociological. I even made up a few “icals” just to sound smart. She wasn’t having it.

You see my philosophy is more tantric. I don’t judge the ethics of whether having non-committed sex is morally wrong or right, I say that as long as one understands what it is, then it’s all good. To make an eating analogy, I don’t care if you eat SnackWell’s low-fat cookies or not. Just don’t call it “health food” and pretend that processed crap is “good for me.”

Sara had a lot of conditioning from a traditional Indian upbringing and I did question how much of her pushing away the sex was because it was not what she desired and how much was the imposed guilt of a culture that thinks it’s okay to marry someone through arrangement that you never met and who may just have a Ken Doll cock but God forbid you enjoy some free-wheelin’ sex—it’s off to Hindu Hell for you. Blah, blah, blah…no sex for the Swami.

The last time I saw Sara, we had gotten together for dinner and a movie. She was paying for dinner and I had a free movie screening (one of the only remaining theaters from which we weren’t banned for life); it was living a Jewish fantasy for me: all the food, none of the paying. By the time the check at the restaurant came, the manager came with it and said, “I just wanted to shake the hand of the only person to ever order everything on the menu as well as food to go.” 

Throughout the dinner she talked about saving this money and using this coupon combined with this one and, once again, I had to pull out my ball-peen hammer <giggle giggle>, another influence of her conditioning as she told me that her family never really communicated and rarely even shared a meal together. I thought to myself, “I was raised in a Jewish family and this friggin’ dot-head is more Jew than any Hebe I’ve ever met!” But more important than realizing that compartmentalizing people by religion and culture limits one’s ability to call an Indian a “cheap Jew,” I realized that I was at a different place than I was the year before. It was now me who had she suggested we go to the bathroom and do the Porcelain Mambo would have been like, “Yeah, uh, not happening,” and only in part because I had eaten the equivalent of a hippopotamus’ daily rations and would probably puke on her and this would remind me of that Japanese puke porn video clip that my friend “Elks” sent me years ago which resulted in to this day me being dragged out of every Japanese restaurant I ever go to because I can’t stop myself from standing up and shouting, “YOU PEOPLE ARE SICK! YOU ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO EAT ANOTHER PERSON’S PUKE!” But I digress…

She told me how she had gone to a Chinese restaurant with a friend of hers and when they got outside he gave her a fairly nice Buddha statue that he had lifted from the restaurant. That part of the story I understood, as boys will be boys. But when she went on to say that she put it in a corner of her room and decorated it with flowers and incense because, “I heard that’s good for luck,” I was like, “Uh, I thought you dot-heads believed in karma. I’m kinda guessing that knowingly possessing stolen items might result in you coming back in the next life as a slug.” I offered to return the Buddha to the restaurant for her and she was against it. I even said I’d buy her another friggin’ stature of a fat chink if she really needed one. Incidentally, the term “rice dick” is not actually racist, originating in China when Chang Bo Zaq pulled down the pants of a Ken doll and placed a grain of rice where the penis should be located. “Chink” is racist.

I don’t make ethical or moral judgments. But I do question why someone would feel the need to possess something that would directly hurt someone else for some perceived self-enhancement. Then again, after spending five years trying to convince Sara that fucking me was a “moral obligation that surpassed her selfish need for feeling at peace,” perhaps I was attempting to “steal a Buddha” as well. Unfortunately, I got caught red-handed. In my defense, I swear I wasn’t aware that she was menstruating!

When you see the buddha in the road, kill him. Just don’t steal him from a restaurant.”

-Swami X, bringing an old Zen saying up to date