Shameful Advance Retreat

A handful of days past, I relinquished my pride so-as to hell of speedway out of a computer lab due to my downside eruption of a most foul fart that undoubtedly caused an equally foul reaction from the random female parked next to me. Her knowledge of my accurate guilt is undeniable. But damn man her awkward blank stare masking her obvious concentration on my worthlessness is much better to think about when it's not burning an additional hole in the 180 of my neck. And then there's the natural question of how phenomenal it would be if I slipped a shitgas out of my glare-sprouted neckhole.

Oh God man why do my farts remind passerby of the burning Holocaust piles they've only but read about.

O.J. Simpson; a Study, a Comparison.

O.J. Simpson, alleged decapitator.


Dorian Tyrell, a.k.a. "The [Foe-]Mask", bullet vomitor.

Note the striking similarities; the accentuated features of the latter, masked individual being a self-parody of the former. Let the green face do all but thwart your mind and give the finger to your soul, the bodies are one in the same.

In essence, these photographs ask of all individuals to question who we all are, who we all will become, and whether or not a black man can really stand a pony-tailed Italian nailing a teed golf ball with a nine-iron a total of 269 yards, according to a woman's voice on a computerized golf simulator.

A Story To Never Be Finished

This is the contents of a file on my desktop, wherein lies the beginnings of a that which will never be completed, for reasons obvious and unquestionably likewise.

Young, freshly-intrepid Tobias meandered into the kitchen with the determination much the same as a grandfather clock's to annoy the shit out of your houseguests at the stroke of midnight. In his left hand was an item most hidden, to be revealed at the most beneficial moment in time.

He spoke to his father for the first time as he believed a man would, ripe with demeanor and candidness, albeit sounding like a saucy tramp, as he had failed to succumb to puberty for what he would later describe to his first girlfriend and grope-partner as "the seventh in a long line of soprano years".

He announced loudly to his father, proudly, and with pectoral thrustingness, "I have made horror in your cabinet of tinycars."

Young Tobias then revealed the contents of his left hand to be a sliver of feces, most foul. The methane snake was worthy of no man's anus, lest it be the anus of a man whose sole diet contained the excrement of his own anus and nothing more, except the occasional drink, coincidentally from the same flowing source.

His father later described the following scene as "revealing, for the first time, that Hammurabi never anticipated shitting on your kid's complete collection of McDonald's Batman Forever Glass Mugs as a fulfillment of his code."

The file was called "poop.txt". In the spirit of its name, it's been sent to the Recycle Bin, where it was shortly-thereafter emptied.

I had made horror on my desktop. Thank you for allowing me to wipe my ass of it.

And likewise, in the spirit of Hammurabi, I invite you to make horror on this post. But not in the same manner as young Tobias; it is hard to type a comment when your hands are covered in your own shit.

Early Memories

I am convinced the earliest memories anyone has is after or during the time in one's life when the ability to not crap one's pants is ascertained and fundamentally mastered.

For example, my earliest memory is my father pissing into the toilet and announcing, "Doesn't that sound awesome?"

My answer involved a gleeful nod, the first in a series of uncomfortable pants-removals, and forceful rummaging.