Wednesday, June 19, 2019

New Work from Jennifer S. Chesler


There is a splendid new piece at the blog of my beloved wife, Jennifer S. Chesler, a tragicomic tale of noses & the loss thereof, identity confusion, the terrible pressure of nasal conformity, diarrhea as hair colorant, the surprising compassion of bikers, & diverse perversities - asphyxiation by mommies, & the scalpel that slices out superfluous organs. As a tribute to homoerotic American masculinity, female sanitary products are not displayed in bathrooms. Neither organs nor orgasms matter more than money does. 

Here is the piece.




Monday, June 10, 2019

New by Chesler, & other news


One tremendous new piece by Jennifer S. Chesler linked here at her blog, entitled "I'd Like to Show You His Semen, Mother".

EDIT: A further piece, "Dear Lesbian Mother", linked here, is one of the funniest pieces recently

EDIT 2: Another addendum, "Mother and Daughter Walk in Park", delves deeper into the sleazy mysteries of stupid & abusive families.

As noted down below, there is a spotlight here for Nickel Hole Press, with older books by me from other publishers, collaborative work by both of us from Nickel Hole, & Fragments the first published novel by Jennifer S. Chesler. I have written many pieces about this masterpiece, all posted elsewhere on this blog, all these pieces linked here below. Otherwise these books are all on Amazon, linked elsewhere.

Here are the sleazy, disgusting, & brilliant collaborative works on Amazon, see also the Lulu link. We naturally prefer purchases from Lulu, since they are not stupid scumbag thieves like Amazon. 

Here is too much human, my manifesto in prose poetry about deep ecology & antinatalism. I have two other books of poetry available from Black Editions Press, as well as four books of nipple-oriented* poetry & two crappy jizz-soaked novels from Oneiros Books.

* I do not now have, & have never had, inverted nipples, excuse my French, as Jen-Jen, the best wife & daughter that a scumbag could wish for, implies.



Saturday, June 1, 2019

Three more by Jennifer S. Chesler

Presumably from the forthcoming memoirs by Jennifer S. Chesler, about PTSD & CSA, there are three further pieces at her blog.

Of the protestant work ethic here, gone all ecumenical, The Manager at Wendy's Says I Make the Best Burger Patties in the World.

Another piece about the forcible sexualization of female infants to satisfy the prurient desires of deviants, "All good clean fun, honest" Are you Dancing too, D&K?

Thirdly & most seriously, of kittens & stink finger: Dear Parent Whores.






Thursday, May 23, 2019

New by Jennifer S. Chesler

Here's a new piece at the blog of Jennifer S. Chesler, from her forthcoming memoirs. Dear Mother

Saturday, May 18, 2019

Song for Shit


By Jennifer S. Chesler

Doopy Do Doody, Doo Doo Doo…
When I was fifteen years old, my mother came into my room. She said, “Jen, pick a diet. Your father and I don’t care how much it costs.” Thus, out of terrible humiliation, I chose Nutrisystem. They advertised on TV. Otherwise, I’d have had no idea what diets existed.

Of course, I knew there was a diet that barred me from eating Josh’s food, cookies and other stuff a kid would like. He was, at that time, my brother. I couldn’t eat with the family before the diet, because my alleged father was sickened to see a pig, like his fat alleged daughter, eating.

The monitoring of my weight began before I was in first grade. Nana made rocky road fudge. My alleged father said my grandmother would make me fat. Nana threw the glass bowl on the floor and that was that. No fudge. I have seen pictures of myself around the time of this incident. I was not overweight, and certainly not fat.

I developed body dysmorphia at a young age. In St. Thomas, I sat on the floor of the kitchen in our Burnett Towers apartment, looking at what I thought were my obese legs. I had shorts on, and felt, once again, horror at what I perceived to be my deformed body.

I saw freckles on my legs, and believed they were signs of ugliness, you know, like how my alleged father checked babies for incipient signs of ugliness, one such example being attached earlobes.

Well, gentle reader, can you guess what came after I chose a diet? I became anorexic. Before I got to ninety-six pounds, there was much work to be done, both at home, the track, and at Nutrisystem. Nutrisystem, in the ‘80s, provided most of the diet’s food. But it was all freeze-dried. For a year, I ate this dog chow.

Then, I would go weekly to Nutrisystem and strip naked. The “nurse” wanted my clothes off, so there wasn’t an inaccurate reading on the scale. She then tape-measured my body, while I was still in my underwear.

I also went weekly to group meetings at Nutrisystem, ones that taught dieting and being slim should be the focus of one’s life. I was the only teenager at the meetings.

At the time, Nutrisystem had a promotional offer: if you stayed within five pounds either way of the goal weight the Nutrisystem experts found appropriate for your height, you got half of your money for the diet back, which was $500.

As I have stated, I became anorexic. After a year of eating freeze-dried food, I couldn’t process regular foods. I’d have to eat two hours before I left the house, as each time I ate “regular” food I’d have awful diarrhea. I gave up on eating. Unlike my alleged father, I did not enjoy spending two hours on the toilet. I was also too weak to continue my Jane Fonda workout twice a day, and I could not run.

I caught a glimpse of my elbow in the driver’s side mirror. I thought I was hallucinating. My arm looked like tautly wrapped skin over a bone, which was visible though my skin. I was upset. I hadn’t realized how badly my flight from food affected my body, not to mention my mind.

I looked up group meetings for anorexia. I didn’t know how to get better. My parents thought I looked great. How could they help? My father is still anorexic.

I found a meeting at a hospital. Everyone there was an adult. When we introduced ourselves, saying why we were there, most people had become anorexic from coke or speed. They thought I had it pretty good, not being a drug addict in high school, already getting accepted at college.

“Oh, you’ll get over it,” one woman said to me, regarding the anorexia. “Things are going good for ya’.”

That was the only meeting I went to. The Nutrisystem meetings were mandatory, so I had to attend them to get the $500 back for my parents. I had stopped going to the diet-or-die meetings, because I felt they were injurious to my mental and physical health.

My parents did not know I stopped going to Nutrisystem meetings. They also did not know I weighed fourteen pounds below the accepted weight for the $500 refund. I was only allowed five pounds of leeway with my weight. I’d try to stuff myself, but it rarely stayed down. I couldn’t gain the fourteen pounds to get the money back for my parents.

When my parents found out that there would be no refund because of anorexia and failure to attend “diet class,” they were very angry. I was a junior in high school then. My parents felt ripped off and lied to. “She’s skinny, but she didn’t earn anything from her new body,” I imagined one or both of my parents saying.

Once I got out of college, I realized that these people were pimps. They still felt betrayed by their worthless whore of a daughter, who had failed to perform adequately.


Tuesday, May 14, 2019

Ken Sotheby's No Molestation Jogging Time

By Jennifer S. Chesler
 

At 2:00 a.m. in the morning, my alleged father would stuff himself with Ex-Lax and espresso. He had to shit constantly, which was made easier for him, since he began running around the same block for ten miles. Not wanting to wake my mother up by using their bathroom (he took loud shits), he, instead, used the bathroom I shared with my dwarf-like brother.

The doors of the bathroom opened, closed, toilet running almost the entire time he jogged, front door closing, quickly coming back, shit, jog, shit, jog. Flush. Then, back to the copious farting he expelled from his skinny white ass. I know what his ass looks like because he didn't wear underwear or a bottom garment. This follows an unfortunate incident during which he had diarrhea on himself on the street, behind the middle school where I had gone.

My mother picked him up at a payphone behind the middle school athletic field, a call he made with his sole shit-covered quarter. I didn't see him, but the odor stayed around, so I got a sense of what it was like. At that point, he ran at 8:00 a.m. Of course, there were children outside waiting for the bus at that time. Then he talked about the diarrhea incident the gentle reader may recall recounted here. He said,"What is there to see in Plantation, Florida?" I certainly did agree with him.

Then he said something odd. "I run early so the kids aren't out, waiting for the bus. I don't want to, you know, have some kid say I molested him or her." Later in my life, I found out from my dwarf brother's giantess of a lesbian wife, his first wife, that he would not let her touch his ass at all. Okay. Maybe my alleged father had a small dick, but it's still wrong to molest children, your own or not. Anyway, I saw his dick quite a lot, mostly semi-tumescent, as he performed the various stages of his poopy procedure.


Monday, May 13, 2019

Abusive Donna and Ken Sotheby Rein in Their Desire to Fuck Me.

By Jennifer S. Chesler


When my mother got pregnant, she was twenty years old. As I grew older, never wanting children of my own, I asked my mother, Donna, if she had considered an abortion. “Not for a second did I think of aborting you,” she’d say. I questioned her again. She said, “I always knew you’d be special.”

I’m not sure who my birth father is. The first page of my baby book has a blond-haired man with my mother in Israel. My “father,” Donna Sotheby’s husband, wasn’t much of a man anyway. He tried to be by taking coke for five or six years. He’s a real asshole. But, as my alleged parents always said, assholes marry assholes.

My alleged parents began to abuse me early on. The first story of my childhood is living in a detached house, one night crying for so long, so loud, that the neighbors could hear and called the police. I do not know what happened. I may have been as young as one-year-old. I did not get taken away from these beasts and placed in another home.

Almost all of my relatives in the extended family commented on how my alleged parents were fucking me and my brother up, that he was going to turn out gay or something like that. They did nothing to help me or my brother, however. I do not know if he was abused as I was. He won’t speak to me. I do not know why. He’s a cunt, though.

Around preschool age, I began to barricade myself into my room at night. I’d slide the table over and stack it with all of my books. Every morning the table and books were away from the door, towards the wall. I do not know what happened. I believed the moving of the barricade was done by spirits and ghosts. Ghosts don’t exist, though. My alleged parents do. Yes, they are both still alive, unfortunately.


Monday, May 6, 2019

Deux, by Jennifer S. Chesler


This poem, by Jennifer S. Chesler, was previously in the zine Mung Being. It is in her Fragments, which I edited for our Nickel Hole Press, on sale at this link.

1.

Hateful Fuckface Family,
I hope you rot in hell.
I hope your gums are toothless
before, ringing, comes the death knell.
I hope you lose the dollars
you hold so dear to your hearts;
and I hope you like your portrait
in this fucking work of art.

2.

Lascivious Mother, Hypocrite Extreme,
wanting to make me a eunuch
so you could be whore queen.
I used to suck cock in your bedroom
when you were out of town; the boys
would come all over your sheets,
even before sundown.
 
 

Sunday, May 5, 2019

Crib Death


Every night I dream of you and what I believe is true about why I am Jennifer who is. I am awake all night. I can't eat. I am losing weight. As a result of the massive stress from my nightmares about you abusing me, David awoke when I started to hit him. I thought he was you. You were killing me.

By 
Jennifer S. Chesler


Friday, April 26, 2019

Out with the Old - More Divagations about Chesler's "Fragments"

At the top of her blog is this brilliant new piece, Drug Machine Mothers, by Jennifer S. Chesler, which is also in her phenomenal Fragments, which I edited, here at Amazon.

I see no valid reason not to buy this book. I have written extensively about it further back in this blog. I have not written these pieces as reviews of the pieces in the literary sense, since these are crushingly boring, but use the book as a source of inspiration to discuss teratology, taphonomy, decay, decline, & the intellectual poverty of the modern human - the freaks & scumbags that populate the world, & also, in slightly fictionalized form, her writings.

There are margins, borders, & interstices. Here we dwell. Rorty points out somewhere that being human is not a uniform achievement. The human is, allegedly, zoon logon ekhon, & some of us have more logos than others. The philosopher & the poet most of all, or so it is said, & Chesler's prose is poetic in nature.

There is horror in Fragments, but it is expressed with little emotion, & very effectively for that reason, if the reader is not emotionally or intellectually enfeebled. Until I knew Chesler, & she me, neither of us really regarded any of the people in our lives as fully human, in the sense that, on some level, they were all fucking morons. Thus the instinctive aversion that one feels for every single character that Chesler describes, in Fragments & elsewhere.

I exist within Chesler. She constitutes the limits of my world; she is my blood & being. Nobody else possesses a sufficiently capacious or unique intellect to accommodate my misanthropy. There is a nihilism that is very pissed off, there is also a nihilism that finds the fucking dregs that constitute humanity hilariously funny. Read her books - stabbing is too good for these motherfuckers; the ones based upon allegedly real alleged humans deserve her depiction of them - which they are, of course, too fucking retarded, or so she assures me, to understand.

Reading Fragments, one finds much concealed content, for it is a book that calls to thinking, in Heidegger's sense. What calls for thought was, for Heidegger, that "we" are not yet thinking. For us, what calls for thought is that almost nobody ever will think. Dysgenic fertility will see to that.

Friday, April 12, 2019

Fragments by Jennifer S. Chesler at Amazon

I am pleased to say that the expanded, revised, & edited version of the book Fragments, by Jennifer S. Chesler, is available now at Amazon at this link.

I edited this book & have written several reviews and so forth that were posted further down in this blog. For your convenience I link them all here as follows.

Fragments

Fragments, by Jennifer S. Chesler

More on Chesler's Fragments

Of Teratology

Lyotard Says

Nihilism in "Fragments" by Jennifer S. Chesler

Further Considerations on Nihilism & Teratology in Chesler's Fragments

How Much World? Poverty in World as Shown in Fragments by Jennifer S. Chesler

And there is a Fragments on Google Books. I strongly recommend this book. It is a brilliant exercise in teratology - in the shoddy ontology of the freak & scumbag, the sleazy world that confronts the mentally ill & the exceptional. Here it is at Barnes & Noble. & here again it is at Amazon.


Thursday, January 31, 2019