My Latest Band — SMOKING PENIS, Part I

This great band blends German Country Musik with Delta Tub-Thumping sex attacks to create a sound that leads most listeners to massive headaches and spontaneous diarrhea.  So why is this band my favorite despite its odd effect on human health?  Excuse me, I have the sniffles so hold on while I wipe the snot off my nose.

You can do without these “details”?  So could I.   Call my aesthetics “stark realism” or “gross writing” or “pig droppings”.  This hurts but I care; I care: Ooooo, do I care!  But I shall never show it.  Stew will bubble in my gut but wait for the spectacle of suicide at the Super Bowl on the 50 yard line!

Back to Smoking Penis.  The band consists of 11 musicians, a dancer, a comedian, 5 actors, a plumber and a corpse (usually my gramps).  All rappers are shot.  Mimes are castrated then shot.  Politicians are welcomed then degraded then shot.  Or is it shot then degraded?  I need to consult the manual.

No recording studio will allow them inside its building.  Generally, Gramps is the restrictive factor.  He is the band’s lyricist so the the studio people says he must stay in the hearse because he doesn’t play an instrument.  This not acceptable.  I personally informed Rolling Stone about this injustice and they were sweet enough to send us a card.

My career in rock’n roll spans seven continents, 23 time zones and 16 planets.  To complete the time-space construct, the “Career” has bounced around seven or eight centuries.  I played saxophone for JS Bach.  He could burn down every Lutheran organist in Germany, but what an asshole!  I heard he smacked around his wife.

Sooner or later, around World War I, I decided to shuck this beautiful music bullshit.  Why can’t music be ugly?  The war taught us how grotesque the human body looks after a mustard gas attack, or how hand grenade can blow away most of a man’s face but leave his jaw.  Ugliness needs to be heard, thus I founded the Stark Realism Movement.

Good night.  I’ll post Part II in the future.



If you’re a man and you want a relationship lasting longer than two months, consider becoming a homosexual.  It’s very easy to do; instead of sleeping with a woman, crawl under the covers with a man.  Turn off the bedroom lights if you like.  Shut down a power grid if that makes you feel more comfortable.

Homosexual relationships generally last two years.  Within that time, you’ll meet other intersesting homosexuals. Maybe you’ll develop a homosexual relationship with another homosexual.

Did you know you can reach orgasm while having sex with a homosexual?  And he can have an orgasm with you, too!  This is immensely satisfying to both parties.

You may be wondering how you sex it up with a person who has the same equipment as you do.  It’s easy.  First, count your body holes.  Forget what usually comes in or goes out of them.  Roll all this over in your brain for 48 hours.  If the “ah, ha!” moment fails to arrive, rent a movie.

Diary Dross

I am not one for jotting down mundane details of my life.  Either I forget the best parts or I trip over the proper order of the events or the names and occupations of the waitresses and parking lot attendants who make up my circle of acquaintances.  Sometimes I’ll fail to recollect the skin color of a person or his religion or his national sexual orientation.  Often, when I do remember to ask someone how much money he holds in total assests and cash offset by how much debt, I’ll neglect to note it in my notebook.

Wait!  HOLD ON, IDIOT!  Aren’t you supposed to keep the contents of a diary “private”?  So why would anyone care about you putting delicate data in your “private diary”?

What you fail to realize is I come of a long line of private diary readers.  Actually I am the first of the line in my family but here is to a new family tradition.  You would realize that if you’d correctly read my mind!  Anyway I have five sisters andd two brothers.  All my sisters kept diaries and one of my brothers did.  Don’t expect me to introduce my family.  Oh, Daddy and Mumsie are dead — they succumbed to a murder/suicide arrangement.

Four of my sisters lost their virginity not too long after they gained it.  Two girls lost their trapdoors when they were under 16: both submitted to congress with men over 20 years old who had big dicks.

My brother had a diary as well.  One day I walked past his bedroom and I saw him schlepping around his room with a stack of dirty magazines under his arm.  A small composition book slipped from the stack of porn and fell on the floor. He flung the stack of magazines on his bed, hurridly picked up the notebook from the floor, and stuck it back in the middle of the pile.

Five and a half days later I slipped into his room.  He was passed out on the floor, in his fingers was a lit cigarette: Camel, I believe.  Maybe a Kool.  He alternated between the two; you never knew what brand of cigarette he waas smoking, he was such an interesting man.  The position of this fire stick relative to the carpet boded danger to me.  Yes, it is advertised as fireproof but who really knows?  So as I was covering my ass by extracting the cigarette from his hand, the other hand was flailing away inside his closet searching for the pile of raw, naked filth.

I found the stack and I now had the ciggie in my hand, aching to lay it on my goddamn brother’s gut.  I dropped it in his open beer can instead, the ember creating a nice fizzle.  With both hands I tried to claw out the notebook — but after throwing magazines around with no restraint, I couldn’t find it; it wasn’t there.  Questions flooded my brain: did he actually see me when I walked past his bedroom door that time?  Were there real notes, or poems, or differential equations written in the book?  Or was it lost some place this feckless fool might wander?

This all happened three years ago and I know nothing more about the fate of my brother’s notebook.  I wanted to read it so bad because I’m sure in it he bragged about the sex he was having with all the dogs in the neighborhood, especially the male ones.

Seems I got off the track a bit.  I was writing about diaries and I went off on diaries of yore.  So let’s stick to here and now.

Today was December 26, 2011.  I did not leave the house today.  I didn’t even step out the door.  I slept, read, watched tv, talked to Carol. called my mother.  In my previous diaries, I would list all the times I went to the potty but since then  I’ve grown an inch or two INSIDE — O, my expanding soul!

I’m done for tonight.

Christmas By Palin

Can anyone out there design a Christmas card for Palin featuring Faith, Freedom and Family in a foundational American setting? I tried it — Family was pretty easy, but Freedom and Faith? They are usually represented by Greek goddesses who aren’t wearing any clothes. I suppose you could have the girls hiding behind a tree hanging decorations.


Within the last couple months, two men high above their respectable tree houses found themselves in pickles of their own making, and let’s also grant them victims of bad luck — aw, hell, I lost my notes.  I actually copied down a few things off the Netberger about these two birds, er, pickles.  I’m trying better myself; maybe document my rantings — you ever try that?  Never mind, I screwed up: I grieve, I starve.  Why should you pay more than a dollar?  So send me a dollar.

You can read about these two men of who drank as much as Roman emperors, when I find my notes.  I want my notes.  Don’t forget me.  Why should I have to suffer?  All this damn legal paper looks alike.

Sloppy & Wet

Did everyone hear about Whoopi Goldberg-Cushion passing judgement on the world while hosting THE VIEW? Hitler had the same problem. Nazis sitting behind him while he was speaking often got a snootful of Adolf B’s breeze. Of course, any German mocking Hitler for running a fart factory would be shot.  One of our presidents, Herbert Hoover, ripped off a doozy during his inaguration speech and the crowd went crazy. No other shots were fired.  Thank God we live in a democracy!