And once again, the wet-dream humidity of August is slowly giving way to a tempestuous Autumn. Yeah; tempestuous. It used to be that Autumn was a time of repose and reflection; a time for long walks and leaf-turning. It was the season that poetry invented when all the poets ran out of metaphors for spring. Because you know that a poet’s never happy unless he’s got his cock stuck in a tomblike glory-hole. Kind of like having sex with a Republican.

And you know, it might be autumn. But the thing is, Autumn’s not what it used to be. Global warming isn’t just a tsunami or the Category 4 of soundbytes; it’s a state of mind. It’s a perfectly natural thing that Autumn jumped the shark. Because if August is the wet-dream, Autumn is its spread-eagled reckoning, its well-fiddled-with g-spot ready to squirt. These days the butterfly is flapping its wings electronically – and look the fuck out when it does.

‘Cause it’s like Dylan sang: “a hard rain’s-a-gonna fall”.

And bring it on. Because nobody reads poetry anymore, and why should they; Autumn’s all about excess. It’s Always Inamorata.

Programming note: I just received an email from Xandra the Honorably Marked Slut of Mjolnir:

(lowers eyes)

Greetings, Lord Misanthrope;

I trust this humble missive finds you well.

(lowers eyes)

It is with a heavy heart that this little one must inform you of some sad news. Master Mjolnir, the Honored Master and Ruler For Life of this unworthy one is in the hospital. The Honored Master had an accident at work in which a pallet fell on top of Him. Honored Master has suffered a great many injuries, many of them to His Spleen, His Ribs, and His Whipping Arm.

(falls to floor and kneels; lowers eyes)

Unfortunately, Honored Master will not be able to provide this week’s Ask A Gor Master column for You and Your Readers as He is still in ICU, and He is quite drugged-up at the time of this little one’s humble writing.

(lowers eyes)

It is the Great Hope of Honored Master that He will be able to write for You again soon. But for now He requires several additional surgeries, as well as a formal investigation both by the police department as well as Target, who are claiming that Honored Master’s accident was no accident at all; that He purposefully toppled a pallet of toys onto Himself, and in doing so, pierced His Perfect Spleen with a GI Joe action figure. i think it was a Snow-Job. But i am not sure.

(weeps profusely; lowers eyes while weeping so the tears can travel further)

i am very sad. But the upside is that when i drink the pee from Honored Master’s bedpan tonight, it will be laced with morphine.

(smiles weakly)

In Honored Service,

xandra the Honored Slut of Mjolnir

i.e., crap to do when you know you won’t be getting laid for awhile

Without going into the sordid details of it, let’s just stick with the basic irrefutable fact of the situation. I will not be getting laid for awhile. At least not until my significant other’s vadge grows back. This leaves me, a sex-blogger and undisputed Sex-God, to contemplate a fuckless weekend.  So until I do indeed get some again, I’ll be providing a valuable public service to the blogosphere, and even the world, as I detail all the ways both nefarious and multifarious of how a boy can entertain oneself without pussy.

Thing to Do Number 1:  Explore the Wonders of Polyamory.

If John Edwards has taught us anything, it’s that the best time for you to experiment sexually with new partners is when your primary partner is convalescing. It works out well for everybody – she’s too doped-up to mind/realize that you’re sticking your dick in every gloryless hole this side of an RNC fundraiser; and you not only get to stick said dick in said holes, but do so without looking over your shoulder the entire time.

After all, isn’t that what polyamory is about?

To that effect, I have written and posted an ad on Craigslist’s Casual Encounters board. Here is the ad for you in its entirety:

Hi there! I thought that instead of employing the art of deceit as is so common here on Craigslist that I’d just shoot straight with y’all. So here goes:

I am a professional sex-blogger. I am one of the 10 most famous people on teh internets. (The other 9 are a motley collection of porn stars, drug addicted chanteuses, and whomever’s got the top-rated viral vid on YouTube this week.)

Anyway, I’m in something of a bind here. You see, my significant other is feeling a bit under the weather, and thus cannot have sex with me. And with me being a sex-blogger, I quite frankly cannot exist without sex. Fucking is my job – as well as writing about it.

So what I’m looking for is a woman of extraordinary taste (and tastiness) for a good old-fashioned NSA throwdown of the sexual variety. Any and all applicants should enjoy at least three of the activities listed below:

- fellatio

- cunnilingus

- anal sex

- spanking

- bondage

- exhibitionism

Yes, I am going to write about it. I won’t use your real name, of course, so no worries there. I will rate your sexual prowess and proficiency; and quite honesty, you’ll probably learn a lot about yourself this weekend.

What you will gain from spending a weekend fucking me:
- you will get to have sex with one of the 10 most famous people on teh internets (starfuckers rejoice!)

- you will have at least one post on the world’s finest sex-blog dedicated solely to you in all your sexual luminescence, making you somewhat famous by proxy (at least anonymously)

- you will get to spend time around a man who is, well, kind of a dick. But it will be a character-building experience. And it will keep you from wasting yet another weekend in this shithole of a town shopping on Wendover or Friendly. This will be even more enriching for you both intellectually and emotionally.

- I am one of the finest lays on the east coast. Granted, my penis is quite small; furthermore, I am not what one might consider ‘attractive’ (in fact I am quite trollish in appearance); however, I deliver where it counts the most. In your vagina. Also, you will learn hundreds of new sexual techniques this weekend, which will serve you well for the rest of your life.

- I will not bother you again after this weekend. Once Sunday comes, it’s over. Kaput. Buh-bye. Seeya. So if you too are already in a committed relationship, you needn’t worry about a questionable aftermath, as there will not be one.

I’m hoping that the ’small penis’ thing isn’t going to keep all the Totally Hot Chicks away. Maybe I should’ve posted a picture of someone else’s giant cock…

Either way, I’ll keep you updated as to the results. Keep your fingers crossed!

PART III. ENCORE: I’ve seen my future and I’m scared to close my eyes *

A few bed-ridden days later, and there was a Drive-By Truckers show to attend. My genitals were still a mineral-rich deposit of, well, stones. It felt as though my cock was a rickety Pez-dispenser. But the rest of me was well-lubricated with equal parts Vicodin and bourbon.

But, you know, fuck it. I was hell-bent on going – I hadn’t missed a DBT show in years, and besides – if anyone deserved to rock out with his cock out (pejoratively or otherwise), it was totally me.

We – we being me and my then-girlfriend, a lovely girl who was sort of a vanilla girl Friday to my sexually carefree Cary Grant – went to a crummy little rock club called Ziggy’s. Now to call Ziggy’s a shithole is to insult anuses everywhere. Let’s put it this way. If you took CBGB’s, converted it into a chicken coop and then peed all over it, well…Ziggy’s would still be far, far worse. Which made it a perfect venue for a Rock Show.

They opened with “The Tough Sell”, which seemed entirely apropos for my physical state. I spent much of the show hanging onto the third-tier railing for dear life. That is, until Dr. MacKenzie and her husband strolled over. I noticed with a trace of sadness that Mr. MacKenzie had a somewhat bow-legged gait.

“Hey!” yelled Dr. MacKenzie, handing me a beer. “Feeling better?”

I slurred something incomprehensible, grateful to be consuming more alcohol in my quest to feel no pain. She laughed, and proceeded to tell Girl Friday all about how I took it in the ass several days prior. This tale was met with an explosion of guffaws, belly-laughs, and gasping for air. It was such a hit that it began to draw a crowd of its own, drawing attention away from DBT, who were throwing down a mighty gauntlet of rock which was going unheeded.

“Isn’t there a little thing called doctor-patient confidentiality?” I asked.

“Yeah, but who’s paying any attention,” laughed the good Doctor.

“Well, the band, for one.”

It was so noticeable in fact that at one point the band stopped playing. Mike Cooley threatened to come back to where we were situated and kick our asses. Which he totally could, regardless (or perhaps aided by) the degree of his shitfacedness. Then Shonna gave me a look that said I was about to be scrawled onto her shitlist.

Let me again state that when the Drive-By Truckers come to town, they do so without pretense, pomp, or circumstance. They come to kick ass. In bulk, by gross, by the pound, and by the foot. And then drink all the liquor and kick the asses of all the stragglers. And then, like smoke – they’re gone.

It just wasn’t a very good week. In the span of three days, I had to deal with
1. the possibility of dying from ball-cancer
2. getting cornholed by my nice lady-doctor friend
3. the worst pain EVAR
4. a starry-eyed re-introduction to my ages-old painkiller addiction
5. and now the Drive-By Truckers wanted to beat me up for fucking up their totally awesome Rock Show

So I did what any reasonably inebriated fan would do were they in my shoes. I started calling out set-list suggestions.

“Steve McQueen!” I shouted, jumping up and down.

The band was not impressed.

So Dr. MacKenzie and my Girl Friday took matters into their own hands. Or breasts, as it were. They flashed the band. And suddenly everything was all right again with the world. Because nothing diffuses a tense situation like titty. To which the band responded with a polite round of applause before launching into “Heathens”. It seemed kind of apt.

Well, at least it wasn’t “Buttholeville”.

And then I felt the earth move. Not under my feet – I felt a sickening surge moving up my penis like I was going to pee-vomit all over the place. So I quickly skedaddled to the men’s room. Which was when things really went downhill.

Ziggy’s is one of those old shithole rock-clubs, that, having apparently grown tired of cleaning up broken toilets and defaced urinals, decided to treat the Patrons of the Rock in the way they probably deserve. By installing pee-troughs. Three of the four walls were lined with giant pee-gutters, and nearly every space was occupied by a large southern man.

Oh, and the floors are wet, too.

Yeah, I’m a libertine in some ways; but in other ways I’m pretty old-fashioned. For instance, I like to pee in toilets whenever possible. And I really prefer doing it in private. And when I’m trying to pee-vomit a giant rock out of my penis, I’d totally like some privacy.

Wasn’t happening. So I sidled my way up to the starboard pee-trough, elbowed my way in, and surveyed the scene. The troughs were ostensibly obstructed with some foreign object, because they were approximately two inches from spilling onto the floor as well as onto the pee-ers themselves.

And I was ready to drop a rock in there.

Which I did, with a mighty ker-plop.

And that sucker was big, too. Big enough to shoot out of a gun, big enough to put an eye out, and big enough to cause every other pee-er along my pee-trough to bring to a standstill their own pee-streams. Roughly thirty-two penises hung in mid-air, frozen like sausages in a blast-chiller. And roughly thirty-two heads all turned to me as one. And not a one of them looked the least bit pleased.

“Dude,” one of them murmured to another. “Did he just pinch one in the trough?”

Before I could answer the charges leveled against me, my kidney stone did the same thing to the pee-trough that it had done to me – i.e., it gummed up the works. Suddenly a cascade of urine began issuing from the trough, onto the floor; and in some cases onto the pee-ers themselves. Fortunately for me, DBT fans are generally loud, lurid drunks, meaning that it takes them an extra few seconds to figure out just what’s happening to/around them. Which gave me just enough time to beat a hasty retreat out of the men’s room and back to my Girl Friday and the MacKenzies.

Or so I thought. The men’s room followed me out as an angry, beer-rich, pee-soaked mob intent on vengeance. Dr. MacKenzie was the first to note my impending destruction.

“What’d you do?”

“I shot my kidney stone out into the pee-trough.”

“Ohhh…and they think you pinched one off?”

“Yeah. And pee got everywhere.”

“We should go now.”

And thus we collectively beat a really fucking hasty retreat as the pee-mob pursued us. Meanwhile, the Truckers seemed to be serenading us on our way out.

Sometimes I’m lower than the company I keep

On the ride home I received a thorough talking-to from Girl Friday about why I should not cause riots. As if this was a recurring problem throughout our relationship. Well, not a constant problem, anyway.

I made a full recovery from my kidney stone, and as a bonus, I still had a handful of Vicodin left for future merriment.

I changed doctors, and as such I never again saw Dr. or Mr. MacKenzie.

Girl Friday, after my inadvertent causing of yet another Rock Show riot, unceremoniously dumped me in between sets at a Tragically Hip concert. Fortunately, Tragically Hip shows are rife with cute drunk Canadian girls, so it can be said that I rebounded both safely and quickly.

And as for the Drive-By Truckers…well, they’re still out there, kicking ass by the pound and the foot, and keeping up their rep as the best rock ‘n roll band in America.

Regrettably, they do send me a cease-and-desist order each time they play within a 100-mile radius of my whereabouts, meaning that I can only go to their shows in disguise. So the last time, I went dressed as one of their old guitar players.

I got my ass handed to me pretty good for that.

But that’s okay.

After all, it’s just rock ‘n roll.

Morals to be gleaned from this tale:

1. kidney stones suck. Carol Burnett once said that having a baby is a lot like ‘taking your bottom lip and pulling it over your head’. A kidney stone is a lot like that as well. Except that in addition to pulling your lip up over your head, you are simultaneously being whacked in the nut-sack with a hammer.

2. ass-fisting sucks too. Boy howdy, does it ever. Aficionados, your Kink IS OK, but seriously. Ow.

3. Vicodin however does not suck at all.

4. do not under any circumstances piss off the Drive-By Truckers, because they will fuck your shit all up. This one should be somewhat self-explanatory by now. If not, I’ll offer up another example: I attended a particular DBT show, where, toward the end of a song, a fight broke out in the crowd. Mike Cooley, the singer of this song, paused both playing and singing to offer his own special brand of Jim beam-fueled commentary on the fisticuffs: ‘kick his ass! I don’t care who done what to who; I just wanna see somebody get his ass kicked!’ at which point Cooley cleverly finished his song with this too-good-to-be-coincidental line: ‘I ain’t got no good intentions’…

5. avoid embarrassing situations at your neighborhood pee-trough whenever possible

6. if you are a man, be nice to those who let you fuck them in the ass. Seriously. Believe me on this one. Karma is not only a bitch; karma is a bitch with a really thick forearm and no bedside manner whatsoever.

* “The Company I Keep”; the Drive-By Truckers

The internet loves me. It really, really loves me.

 Thanks, Dee!

Can’t get enough TSM? Of course you can’t – I can’t get enough of me, and I’m me.

And if you do need more me, then click-clack over to Eden Fantasys and read part one of my epic new essay Sex-Ed in the 1960s. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry; you’ll find out where all your sexual hang-ups came from. That goes for you too, sex-positivist polyamorists.

Yeah, it’s true – Eden Fantasys, those fine folks who bid you to reDiscover Sex, have teamed up with yours truly, the Most Powerful Name In Internet News Politics Sex Humor Gossip Douchebaggery – and the result is pure magic.

So what’re you waiting for? Go on, now – read it. And let the love flow.

Are you a go-getter? Are you wise, technically proficient, and comfortable with your own subservience? Then Junkbuzzed wants you!

I – your darling Snarling Misanthrope, am looking for Naked Interns. That’s right – Naked Interns. This is a wholly unpaid position, but O! what a position it is!

Applicants should be proficient in:
- programming. WordPress and HTML, and possibly some good hacking skillz.
- editing skills. Because I kind of treat language like a soccer match between sufferers of Restless Leg Syndrome – it’s sorta messy, and there are always balls in play.
- coffee-fetching. If you are too good to keep caffeinated my brilliant personage, then please do not apply.
- patience. I am kind of a dick. You must enjoy being around a dick.
- nakedness. When I say Naked Intern, I mean Naked Intern. Your ass is naked. Because nothing fuels my creativity more than watching naked people padding around my hut. So be comfortable with your body; also you should be comfortable with ogling, pinching, random ass-smacks, and all other forms of ‘sexual harassment’.
- cooking. I like it when naked people cook for me. It helps me relax. And when I’m relaxed, I write better.

And while this is a wholly unpaid position, I do offer some other benefits:
- valuable experience. Employers will be impressed by your ability to both be naked and fetch coffee, while simultaneously cleaning up all my goddamned messy code.
- whippings. Ask my friends; my way of showing gratitude or affection is through a good, sturdy whipping. If you’re not a pain-slut (or at least a pill-addict), you might not want to apply.
- being in the presence of greatness. Watch the master at work. Observe his moods. Learn from his carefree usage of the English language and its grammatical imperatives. You just might learn something.

So join the Junkbuzzed Family. It’s a lot like the Manson Family, without all the killing and Satanism and swastika-carving. Because those things just aren’t hot. But a single recluse with three cats, a near-encyclopedic knowledge of all things pop culture, a pronounced sadistic streak, and a messianic complex –  now, that’s hot.

I’ll be waiting.

In case you missed part one (and shame on you if you did), you can play catch-up here.

PART II. And I’m Scared Shitless of What’s Coming Next*

It was at this time that my life began to flash before my eyes. My life of being a master of all things Ass, that is. It had been noted to me many thousands of times by scores of women that I was not the kindest of men when it came to the act of anal sex. It had been explained to me that there were a series of unspoken but sacred anal imperatives that must be strictly adhered to. These rules included, but were not limited to:
1. please use lube, as the alternative is just not very pleasant and will probably necessitate a lengthy hospital stay
2. please be generous with the lube, because most girls don’t want to end up looking like the Goatse Man
3. please observe the Three-Second Rule: upon initial entry of the dick-tip into the ass, wait for a period of three seconds for the girl to catch her breath, relax, and physically/emotionally prepare herself for the anal rampaging that is about to commence
4. by all means, enjoy your stay – but please don’t stay for too long, because it gets kind of hurty after awhile

Of course I had spent much of my life playing fast-‘n-loose with all life’s rules and regulations, particularly the anal imperatives. And now my reckoning had come two-fold:
A. I was about to die
B. before I died, I was going to get a taste of my own ass-flavored medicine

When your ass is sticking up in the air and you cannot see what is transpiring back there, your other senses are suddenly heightened. The sound of Dr. MacKenzie unscrewing the cap of the lube-jar was like the movement of the earth’s plates. The sound of her fingers (fingers???) easing into the lube-jar was like a fat kid belly-flopping into the community pool.

“So,” she said, mack-grabbing one butt-cheek for leverage, “what song do you think the Truckers will open with?”

“Um…” was this really the best time to nitpick over set-lists? I was pretty sure that it wasn’t. “I dunno; I hear they’ve been changing the opener every night. It’d be pretty cool though if they opened with ‘Ronnie and Neeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee –“

Insertion. Collision. The capsizing of my masculinity. I gasped sharply – no – it wasn’t a gasp; it was every bubble of oxygen being sucked out of my body as if my ass had been jacked up and dropped into a zero-g vacuum. And then blowed-up but good by a devastating series of photon torpedoes.

My thoughts at that precise moment were exactly as follows, and I quote: ‘O heavenly God, even though I am an atheist and a really huge dick – please, O God, please make her follow the Three-Second rule…’

She didn’t. I completed my sentence in a fashion that was less voluntary than yelping response-reflex.

“’eeeeeeeeeeiiiiiiiilllllllllllllllllll!!!”

“Yeah, that’d be pretty cool,” she said rather nonchalantly. Like fisting some dude’s ass while talking about the Drive-By Truckers was an everyday occurrence. At this point, I was pretty sure that I had become the Goatse Man, with the flaps of my freshly-violated anus pooched out and flopping around like daisy-petals waiting for a gentle breeze to blow them away.

“Patterson Hood is a really fantastic songwriter,” Dr. MacKenzie continued, digging a bit deeper into my cavity. “He should put out more solo stuff. Did you hear Killers & Stars? Epic, man. Just epic.”

“Yes, I thoroughly enjoyed it; especially ‘Uncle Disney’,” I sniffled, trying to keep my man-weeping to a bare minimum. Meanwhile, she seemed to be enjoying herself a little too much, as it felt like she was punching me in the liver.

“Hmm,” she mused, as if she’d just found something funny in there, like a traveling garden gnome or a stray LOLcat.

I decided that now would be a good time to man-up. I mean, if I was gonna die, I might as well do it with my boots on, irregardless of the fact that my pants were still wadded up around my ankles. “And I think Shonna really adds a lot to the band dynamic – her bass-playing is fucking wicked – “

And then she started to sing. Now I’m no expert on these matters, but I’d like to think that when butt-fisting a dying patient, decorum calls for there to be ABSOLUTELY NO SINGING WHATSOEVER. To make matters worse was the song she sang – “Steve McQueen”:
Steve McQueen, Steve McQueen
When I was a little boy I wanted to grow up to be
Steve McQueen, Steve McQueen
The coolest goddamn motherfucker on the silver screen

I of course took her choice of song as an unforgivable slur on my already teetering sense of machismo. Because if you’re going to break into song during an anal imposition, it shouldn’t be a song about what a man Steve McQueen was. It’s like kicking a guy when he’s down. And then setting him on fire. And then dropping a tank on him. It’s just bad form, is all I’m saying.

And then, without warning (the whole thing was without warning), she shook her arm free of my colorectal calamity with what sounded like a balloon slurping out all its air in a bathtub filled with Crisco. She discarded her gloves and washed up while I wept softly into the plastic pillow of the exam table.

“The good news,” she began, toweling off, “is that everything appears to be in order…up there…” As if she’d expected to find me growing a vegetable garden around my pancreas.

“And the bad news?” I sniffled, slowly shuffling my pants back up.

“Well,” she said, and I braced for the worst. It’s totally going to be cancer.

“You have a kidney stone.”

“Huh?”

“Yup; it’s just a kidney stone. You’ll just have to pass it.”

“So I’m not going to die?”

“Uh…what?”

I quickly explained to her my testicular fears. Which she found amusing, as evidenced by the several minutes of uninterrupted laughter that followed.

“Okay, do if I have a kidney stone, then why do my balls hurt?”

Before we go any further, let me first caution you, dear reader (citation needed): when going to visit the doctor, it is a good idea to have at least an elementary grasp of your anatomy, so you don’t end up saying something that is going to make you come across as being a fucking retard.

“Well,” Dr. MacKenzie said, “your kidneys process URINE…” She nodded a couple of times for emphasis, as if to say ‘you get it, right?’

Actually, I didn’t.

“Wait – I thought kidney stones came out of your – “ I half-twisted, pointing to my ass, which at this point felt loose enough that I could probably pass a 27-volume set of Encyclopedia Britannica.

“Um,” she said. “Are you a fucking retard? You pee it out!”

“But how do get a stone to come out of…” I looked down, trying to imagine what sort of distress awaited my penis. “This is gonna be bad, isn’t it.”

“Yeah, probably,” she said, grabbing her scrip-pad. “They say that a kidney stone is the closest a man can ever come to knowing what if feels like to give birth.”

That wasn’t terribly reassuring.

“Don’t worry – I’m giving you a scrip for a boatload of Vicodin. So you probably won’t feel too much of it.”

Actually, I felt way too much of it. I swallowed enough Vicodin to kill half of Central Asia, yet I still spent the remainder of my evening in bed, shrieking like, well…a pregnant woman. I didn’t know what was worse – being forced to let my friend Dr. MacKenzie cornhole me with her arm, or my present predicament of having to pee a rock. My then-girlfriend was sitting with me, nodding along to the haunting dirge of my screams while she surfed the internet.

“Want some soup?” she asked.

“NO – I WANT YOU TO MAKE IT BETTER”

“Want me to call Dr. MacKenzie?”

And that’s when I passed out.

* “Angels and Fuselage”; the Drive-By Truckers

Tomorrow, the trifecta:  drugs, pain, and the Drive-By Truckers come to town.

Okay - I’ve been promising a piece on Little House/Nellie Oleson for awhile now. There’ll be another one in a week or few. But for now, sit back, relax, enjoy - and see if you don’t have an eerily similar tale…

I have a tendency – a first-hand second nature, a force of habit, a sharp inclination, a niggling necessity – a penchant, if you will, to dislike most nouns in the literal sense, regardless of propriety. Hence my nom de blog. And this isn’t a new thing, either. It goes right back to my childhood. Yeah, I was a Mikey-hates-it kinda kid.

Above all else, someone who hates things will indubitably reserve the most hatefulness of their considerable hate (yes, there are gradations) for those instances of Not Getting What They Want. This also applies to the Not Getting What You Want’s two most trusted henchmen, Not Getting What You Want When You Want It, and Not Getting What You Want the Way You Want It.

The gradations of hate for a little boy can best be summed up in three categories:

I COULD TOTALLY LIVE WITOUT THIS
Mom
English muffins
Falling off my bicycle
Poison ivy
Hagar the Horrible
Baths

I DON’T LIKE IT; PLEASE TAKE IT AWAY AND/OR MAKE IT STOP
Dad
Doctors
Clowns
Canadians
Large dogs
Marmaduke
Bedtime

OOH, I REALLY FUCKIN’ HATE THIS AND IT IS MAKING ME WANT TO DIE
The robot-dog from Battlestar Galactica
Granola
Vegetables
Falling off my bicycle when no one is there to see me fall or take care of me/feel sorry for me
Family Circus
Cleaning my room
Siblings

The problem with having siblings is that you never get attention when you want it; but when you just want to be left alone, you’re the star of the show: ‘Why is your baby brother bleeding from the neck?’

But perhaps the worst part of having siblings is the forced relinquishment of the family television. As first-born, I exerted my male dominance over the boob tube as much as I could get away with it, meaning that in my house there was a lot of Tom & Jerry action going on, along with any and every superhero-oriented show. But nothing exemplified sibling animus better than the precise moment each and every week (until syndication, at which point the moment happened on a daily basis) when my sister would snap herself out of her middle-child funk and exclaim, ‘time for Little House!’

Little House on the Prairie. An American institution; my family shaming. You see, I was (and am) a boy. And amongst the boys there were few rules, but the ones we did have were strictly adhered to:
1. girls kind of suck
2. Star Wars is awesome
3. Little House is for fags

Keep in mind that at our age, nobody in my peer group knew what ‘fag’ meant. All we knew was that being a fag, as well as its resultant faggery, faggotry, and faggothood, were things to be avoided at all costs.

So it was without fail each week that when my sister screeched ‘time for Little House!’ my ass was outta there. No big deal – I was not a fag; and besides, there were always wars to wage between my Star Wars toys. I’d lock myself into my bedroom and do the things that little boys do when they’re pretty sure nobody is watching:
1. play with Star Wars toys
2. read comic books
3. after reading comic books, practice drawing huge bulbous male musculature
4. look at the latest stack of porn mags you stole from your dad
5. playing with yourself
6. play the classic game of ‘hey, I wonder how many holes I can stick my finger into’

But invariably something very peculiar would happen each week during this cherished boy-time boobery. I’d hear a sound coming from the family room that was queerly enticing. It sounded like the sound of one thing hitting another with equal amounts of leather and ass-cheek. I’d pay it no mind; besides, I was usually up to too much no good to be terribly bothered with much of anything.

Nevertheless the sound kept reappearing most weeks. And what’s worse – the sound was manifesting itself both in my dreams, as well as in my sacrosanct playing-with-myself time.

One week it just became too much to bear. I had to find out just what was happening out there. So I crept out of my room, trying to be as stealthy as I could possibly be – because if caught watching Little House, even if only for the briefest of moments – I would find myself banished to everlasting faghood.  Right around the corner from the living room, I poked the top of my head out, getting a quick glimpse of the TV.

And then magic happened. A guy with big bushy black hair (Michael Landon) was talking to a balding shopkeeper about some matter of shenanigans between their respective daughters. The shopkeeper told the bushy-haired man not to worry; he’d take care of it right there and then. He grabbed a massive leather strap from the wall and started marching up the stairs, promising to whip the Holy Blue Fuck out of some chick named Nellie.

Chemicals within me began to churn; there were explosions, waterfalls, fire-falls, eruptions, and, quite frankly, one of the first boners of my memory. And a really insistent one at that. It was at this precise moment I knew that a large portion of my future would involve me administering as many spanking, paddlings, and whippings as I could possibly find the time (and acquiescent ass-cheeks) for.

So this is what it means to be a fag, I thought. Well, fuck it. If this is faggothood, then sign me up – because I am officially a total fag for whippings. I didn’t quite understand what all the hubbub was about = it seemed like a perfectly fit and fine thing to me. Nonetheless I felt it might be best for me to keep this wonderful new revelation under my hat, at least for the time being.

I sent the next several years watching Little House from behind the corner of the family room, carefully cataloguing each whipping – particularly those which featured everyone’s favorite blonde-tressed brat, one Nellie Oleson.

Nellie was – well, Nellie just was. She was less a character than the construct of an idea. In my mind’s eye she is the girl with the shimmering blonde curls, neat and proper blue dress, and a sly smirk that says, ‘yeah, I know I’m gonna get it. But I’ll make sure to get my money’s worth first.’ And she was unquestionably a gateway drug, it could be argued in hindsight. Because it was during this period that, in addition to my stolen-subscription to my dad’s by-the-numbers porn mags, I also began cultivating a deep and abiding interest in Penthouse Letters. Specifically those rare, Rosetta-like issues which contained an account of a good whipping.

Things I learned from Nellie Oleson:
- whippings are good
- always keep a nice thick strap around just in case
- blondes do have more fun, provided they enjoy a good whipping
- Willie was such a little shit
- Nellie was a bastion of feminism, as she never learned her lessons: that was the point, and why women everywhere admire her tenacity so; although, a closet full of pretty frocks probably does take the sting out of at least some of those whippings

But as I got a little older, certain things began to slide away. Nellie Oleson began to fade from my frontal memory banks, replaced with girls of greater availability, age-specificity, and costuming (namely big hair and UTI-tight jeans). Meanwhile, the whippings had already begun, and they were showing no signs of ever slowing down.

At the same time, I finally found out what a fag was. Turns out we were all wrong on that one. Not that it mattered much; a few years later, the word had been snatched back by Gay America and pleasantly co-opted into irony. Which is probably where it’s best suited, all things being equal and what not.

These days, my hairline has receded a fair bit back – not quite as far back as Nells Oleson, but it’s good enough for my regularly-scheduled re-enactments. And Nellie? Well, there’s a lot of grown-up Nellies out there. I have personally found and whipped 487 of them.

But I’m still searching.

Nellie?

PSI

n.

1. Porn-Star Injury: a wound to the genitals sustained solely through sexual congress

2. Pussy/Penis-Scene Investigation: the necessary follow-up to a PSI, where the PSI is so bad that its bearer has to take it to the doctor

3. Pounds per Square Inch: the relative force with which a man can possibly fuck, based on the size of his penis; also, the number of pounds/thrusts a man can deliver based on penis size, equating back to the adage the harder they come, the harder they fall

Will somebody get these motherfucking trouser-snakes off the motherfucking plane? We’re the flight attendants of American Airlines. And we are sick and tired of our passengers always looking at porn on their laptops in-flight. We want to see parental-control filters put into effect in American Airlines’ internet service because:
A. we hate it when we have to pause National Treasure 2: Book of Secrets because half of first-class is flinging their pud around to Fucking Machines
B. the children – what about the children???
C. stewardesses hate porn, apple pie, and America
D. we aren’t paid enough to clean up ejaculate from the backs of the seats

Today in figure-drawing class, we’ll be concentrating on giant chalk penises: hi, I’m the Cerne Abbas Giant, from jolly old England. I am a giant crop-circle of a naked dude with a leviathan-sized cock and a big club for bashing those people and things who do not appreciate the monstrosity of my cock. Anyway, it’s been a really wet summer, and I totally need some re-chalking work done if I’m going to maintain my erection. You should come to England and help tractor out my jolly green johnson because:
A. it won’t make you gay
B. it will give you the sort of landscaping experience that fetches top dollar on the open market
C. I’ve had a constant hard-on since 1694 – do you want to fuck with that kind of streak
D. think of the stories you’ll be able to tell your grandkids

Obama eschews feminism for porcinism; pork-barrel industry is pleased: hi, I’m Senator and Presidential candidate Barack Obama. I finally got my blood up the other day, after a week of letting the Republicans run all over me with a nail-gun of lies. So in comparing the policies of Senator McCain to President Bush, I said “you can put lipstick on a pig. It’s still a pig.” Now the feminist wing of the Republican party (yeah; I’m shocked that they exist, too) is calling me out as a sexist, insisting that I said that comment about Governor Palin. Help! What should I do to combat this?
A. go all ‘WTF bitches?!?’ on their dippy asses
B. own it – ‘yeah, I called her a pig. Have you heard her talk?’
C. find my testicles and throw down like the badass I am
D. embrace my Democratic heritage by apologizing; then retreat home and have a good cry

First, a special thanks-for-the-assist to Ellie and Always Aroused Girl, for their round-the-clock haranguing me about why I don’t take it in the ass. If it wasn’t for you, ladies, I’d never have felt compelled to share the tale of my colorectal-testicular happy fun-times with the world. So this story is dedicated to them. And to Patterson Hood, for writing all those goddamned fine Rock Songs.

In this 3-act story, you will learn several never-before disclosed truths about me, and even the world, including:
1. why you should never let a friend fist you in the ass
2. why Vicodin is, like, totally awesome
3. how I almost got my ass beat by the best rock ‘n roll band in America

PROLOGUE: Punk Rockers Paid $12.00 to be Shit On! *

Now I am something of an adventurous boy. A quick inspection of my CDs, DVDs, books, or sexual travelogues will reveal this to be one of the constants of my life. And so it came to be that, sometime in 2000, I was bored.

Actually, me and my hetero life-mate the Lemur were both bored. We were dicking around on Napster one night, looking for new and exciting music that did not suck. For free, of course. (This is before the Lemur grew a conscience; I have yet to do so.)

We weren’t really coming up with anything interesting in our searches besides a lot of mislabeled pop songs and stupendously bad indie rock. Our conversation turned from Napster to punk music, specifically, the late, not-terribly-great G.G. Allin. For those of you who don’t remember, G.G. was a lovely chap, a tiny-dicked little punk rocker with a legendary reputation for onstage violence and defecation, as well as being a world-class junky. And those were his nicer qualities.

But for all the talk, neither of us could recollect ever having heard a G.G. Allin song. So we had our next search. I typed it in, and Napster hiccupped for a moment, as if to say, ‘seriously? No – seriously?’

The first song to pop up in the queue was titled “The Night G.G. Allin Came to Town”, by some band called the Drive-By Truckers. Giggling furiously, we had an inkling that there was greatness to be downloaded.

A few minutes later, and the song was ours. And it was…wow. Breathtaking. Funny, rocking, and yet strangely poignant. You know those all-too-rare moments when you hear something for the first time that sounds like it was made just for you? It was a lot like that. And just like that, I was a Drive-By Truckers fan. Later that week, I had picked up both Pizza Deliverance and Gangstabilly. And they rocked.

From that moment on, living in Chapel Hill, NC, I went to the Rock Show every time DBT came around. Which, fortunately for me, was pretty goddamned often.

* “The Night G.G. Allin Came to Town”, by the Drive-By Truckers

PART I. Tired of living in Buttholeville*

I am quite possibly the straightest man in all of America. I am so straight that the straightness of other objects and/or people is compromised in my company. Indeed, rulers turn into boomerangs in the presence of my straightness. When I am around other men, their penises suddenly develop a slight curvature.

Oh, and I don’t like having things put in my butt. It’s not an anti-gay thing or an anti effete boy-creature sub thing; it’s just that when it comes to butts, I prefer being the butt-putter-inner. Remember: I never said I was sex-positive; I’m just kind of a dick.

For those not privy to the bed-chamber of the sex-god, let me explain to you the enormity of my balls. Quite frankly, they are frighteningly huge. If you stuffed me into a pair of tights, I’d look like a couple of celery stalks with cauliflower heads on top. And naked I present the appearance from the waist down of two soccer balls which have been dipped in hair. With a sadly-not-in-scale penis smushed in-between. This at times makes sleeping difficult, as any crissing or crossing of my legs can result in testicular catastrophe.

And so it came to pass that on one morning like so many mornings before, I woke up with a pair of aching balls. But this ache was different. My balls felt as though they’d been pulled, stretched, tweaked, thunked, plunked, punched, and then shot by the Death Star’s superlaser. Yes, there was a tremor in the force. The voices of millions of sperm cried out in anguish, as if they’d been suddenly shot in the face.

I should also point out the fact that I am something of a testicular hypochondriac. It probably has something to do with me being a pussy when it comes to the art of receiving pain. But for some strange reason I have an obsession with testicular cancer. Every time in my adult life when I have experienced ball-pain, this is the first thing that springs to mind. A minor ball-tweak in my pants? Gotta be cancer. A slight feeling of discomfort after a 10-mile hike? Definitely cancer. A swift kick to the jimmies? Oh no – cancer!

Yeah; I’m weird. Blow me. And be sure to cup my balls ever so gently when you do.

So I did a wide-legged waddle into the shower, where I conducted a thorough examination of my testes, which revealed nothing out of the ordinary, other than their Kobe-like tenderness. So I once again figured that I had cancer, got out of the shower, dried, dressed, and drove off to work, confident that the end was near for me.

Around midday things got downright weird. And by ‘weird’, I mean the commencement of freaked-out terror. A by-the-numbers trip to the restroom turned into a slasher film as I began peeing blood. My reaction was not what one would term ‘calm’, ‘reasonable’, or ‘rational’. In fact my reaction was the perfect antithesis of those terms, as I threw myself into a shrieking fit of ‘OMG I’m gonna die I got cancer in my jimmies fuck fuck fuck’.

I unceremoniously excused myself from work, explaining to the boss-lady that I had only hours to live, and that I needed to finish writing my will so that mom and dad would know what to do with my Star Wars toys. (They were to be melted down halfway and re-formed into a giant, ornate urn in which my ashes would be stored. I wanted the figures only half-melted as I thought it’d be a great gag to force my family to face daily an urn with little heads and arms and legs sticking out of it, like the Sistine Chapel of Star Wars. With, you know, me inside it. Because if you’re gonna go out, it’s only common courtesy to leave ‘em laughing.)

By the time I arrived at the doc-in-a-box, the pain in my balls had been met, if not exceeded, by a sharp stabbing pain in my side. It was totally cancer – it was attacking my – um, whatever’s in my side. In the waiting room, I tried to put the finishing touches on my Great American Novel, which I was confident would see publication shortly after my untimely demise. These finishing touches consisted of every character getting testicular cancer all at the same time. Even the women. Because I figured it’d be a powerful statement or something. That, and I was fucking dying, man.

It was with a modicum of relief that I found out my physician today would be Dr. MacKenzie. Dr. MacKenzie was a lovely woman, and an occasional friend of mine. She received me with a warm embrace.

“Hey – are you going to the Drive-By Truckers show at the end of the week?”

We were friends mainly because of our mutual adoration of the Drive-By Truckers. She and her husband would accompany me and my friends to their shows, and we’d all drink way too much and nobody would go to work the next day.

The Drive-By Truckers, for those not familiar, are usually lumped into the alt-country genre, but in all honesty they’re more of a southern-rock band with a whiskey-soaked punk ethos. Imagine 4 big burly dudes from Alabama (and one kick-ass chick wielding a bass guitar like a Howitzer), three of them slinging guitars, drinking to glorious excess and making a noise so righteous as to make one believe that Lynyrd Skynyrd didn’t actually suck. (They did, but DBT could make you believe otherwise, if only for a night.)

Another reason the alt-country label is a little tricky is because it borders far too close to the clutches of Twee. DBT, you see, are the sort of band, who, if they saw Twee getting anywhere near the stage, they’d kick his ass and torch his gear. All for rock ‘n roll.

“Yeah, I think so,” I said, before explaining to her the circumstances of my impending death.

“Well, let’s get a look at that urine of yours,” she insisted, and handed me a cup.

“Okay,” she said a while later, after having conducted a quick-test on my pee, “I think I know what it is. But I’ve got to make sure…”

Dr. MacKenzie then shocked me out of my deathly reverie with the snap of a latex glove.

“Do you have any family history of colon, colorectal, or prostate cancer?”

Oh no, I thought – it’s spread even further than I thought. I nodded my head sadly – while there were no occurrences of ball-cancer in my family, there was a long unbroken line of nearly every ass-related carcinoma known to man. So I was getting it from both ends. I just hoped that I wouldn’t suffer too long.

“I’m really sorry,” she said, re-snapping the glove.

Yeah. I was about to die. I was so young, so beautiful…

“I’m gonna have to check…” she continued, giving me an apologetic shrug.

“Check what?” I said. What else was there to check? I was a walking tumor – she herself was already confirming it.

“Your, um, prostate,” she responded, looking really uncomfortable.

Oh.

“Um…” Suddenly I was feeling a bit more spry. “Yeah…I don’t think that’s gonna be necessary,” I said, backing away slowly from her.

“Has to be done,” she said, pointing to the examining table. “I need you to drop ‘em and bend over.”

That was normally my line. This turning of the tables was not really working for me. I mean, I was about to die – and she wanted to poke around inside my butt? And besides that – how can you be friends with someone after they desecrate the sacred temple of your ass?

Reluctantly I complied. Dr. MacKenzie’s eyes momentarily popped as I unsheathed my giant balls. She blinked, looked down, and once again motioned to the examining table.

I bent over.

 Tomorrow, in Act II - well…you can probably take a big fucking guess as to what might happen next.

* “Buttholeville”; the Drive-By Truckers