Showing posts with label David C. McLean. Show all posts
Showing posts with label David C. McLean. Show all posts

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, 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.


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.


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.

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, 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 24, 2019

Poop Tarts, Continued

This is a continuation of the last by Jennifer S. Chesler and David C. McLean.

Later, maybe 100 years

Daddy:  Thank you. Thank you. We’ve worked hard on converting our words into action. My daughter and I base all of our teachings on the northern ward of the hospital, the sacred teachings of the women with dead babies, not wanting to hurry from the hospital, but rather stay under the strict guidance of a nursemaid.

Jen-Jen: Our daughter, Dorito, is scared and she runs so fast, away from daddy’s throbbing love, as I lurch, drooling and giggling, after. I fart, hoping this angers Daddy. I so want him to drag my insolent ass over his sweaty lap and spank me into submission, cursing as he raises weals over my salacious ass. “I’m covered in poopy, Daddy”, I whimper and I feel him grow harder and drool, where his huge cock presses into my skinny hips. I know he will fuck me brutally soon with his huge rough ramrod. I start to tingle all over and can smell my own sweat and pussy juice.

Daddy:  Darling, Dorito wasn’t born alive. You were in the northern ward.

Jen-Jen: If that’s true, why do I hear her whimper in my throat when you fuck me real good, Daddy? Your screensaver is a picture of poor Jen-Jen eating Doritos I found on the bed after you fucked me in my sleep. It was so gross, I was sitting in a pool of white stuff.

Daddy: I’m hard again.

Jen-Jen:  I get that the shark attack, naked in the ocean, makes you afraid of being nude. I want to lick fruit out of your nipples.

Daddy: Poopy fruit? Sweet poopy fruit out of my nipples? Will I have shitty nipples then? Oh dear. Better go rinse off then, Jen-Jen. Run along and rinse away the stink where I stick things in.

Jen-Jen:  But at the ward, they examine my holes now, Daddy. I get swabs in all of them. Tomorrow I will apply for another day out. I must go now, though. My bus is here.

Daddy: OK, go to hospital.

(He leads her into the bedroom. He leaves and swiftly returns wearing (only) an open lab coat. He strips her, puts her flat on her stomach on a soiled mattress. He says he is taking her temperature, then sodomizes her for twenty minutes while she screams, whimpers, and is then racked by a huge orgasm for a whole minute.)

Daddy: Fuck, I cummed good. Now you need to be spanked sinless, you depraved little slut.

Jen-Jen:  Daddy, I have something to tell you.

Daddy:  Okay.

Jen-Jen:  You might not be the father of Dorito. It’s been weighing on me that I didn’t tell you my doubts about your paternity. Dorito says she’s a chip now.

Daddy: Oh, Jen-Jen. Dorito was aborted. You know that. We stole her and ate her, didn’t we? She was all dried out. She looked like a Dorito, so we called her that. You ate her pussy parts too, like a little lesbian. No carpet, though. Too young, all the crack and smack made her a bit slow, if she’d have been born, I mean.

Jen-Jen:  That’s not true! Daddy, take it back.

Daddy: No. You must remember. We got caught. I slipped away, but you were so slow. If I’d carried you as I ran away, I’d have had to assume an odd position for carrying either of our bodies. You’re in a home for the mentally ill. Instead of sending you to a detention center, the court recommended an institution, you know, for your medication needs and all, as you say. (Laughs and pinches Jen-Jen’s cheek.) I’ll take your clothes off now. Come on. Lie over my lap.

(He pulls his penis out of her and wipes himself off on her skort. He sneaks out into the other room, where the actual Dorito, his daughter and granddaughter, is crying. He grows very erect as he approaches the crib, grinning lasciviously)

Poop Tarts

Apart from my having finished Poems for Jennifer IV, due in March, Jennifer S. Chesler & I have slowly started the Philosophy of Extremism Vol IV. Earlier volumes can be found here by clicking the link. Below is a new story.

Poop Tarts

Today Daddy said that I would get breakfast in bed. I already have had two sodas, and my pussy is itchy and sore. Then he comes in the bedroom dressed as Nan, and he had his horrid Perry Ellis boxers on with his big willy hanging out and it was all hard and horrid. His new underwear look like skorts, the shorts/skirts my friends’ mothers buy them so their parts don’t show.

“Here’s your poop tarts, little Jennifer,” he says, “yummy poop tarts”. But it is just pop-tarts where he had cut out a hole to take his morning poopy in. He made me eat it all, and it was nasty so I did a sick. “You eat all this, you goddamn little whore”, he says, then sticks the big thing right down my little throat, roaring and bellowing, and that makes me poopy too, and the last bit looked like white stuff.

“Daddy, daddy, Jen-Jen make bam-bam,” I say feeling the brown, white-tipped doody under me.

“Daddy loves Jen-Jen’s poop-tart today, tip of come the most. Oh, that white stuff went into you quickly. I’ll have to fix that later, you know, fuck your ass after for a long, long time, until I’m spent, as one says,” Daddy says.

“Spent?” I ask.

“You’ll learn what that means when you’re older.”

“What? The golden rule, Daddy? The golden rule, Daddy? Tell me, pleeeaaase,” I was taught the golden rule in school last week.

“Don’t worry yourself, my poopy penny dream. Daddy will explain it all when you are more developed. Why don’t you turn around now, and let me get inside?” Daddy says.

“Okay, Daddy,” I turn around on all fours so my ass is facing Daddy’s willy. “Daddy, will you finger my hole first?” I ask.

He puts two fingers in me. It’s all squishy.

“Oh, oh, Daddy, Daddy,” I say, “isn’t it squishy?”

 “Yes, my little girl, squishy your hole is. I know how you like being full,” Daddy says.

“But I haven’t eaten,” I say to Daddy.

“Don’t you feel it now, sweetie?” he says, slowly edging himself into my hole.

“Oh, Daddy, poop-tarts and sticking yourself into me. You’re the best Daddy ever,” I say.

Sunday, December 9, 2018

Fragments at B&N

The 2nd edition of Fragments by Jennifer S. Chesler is now at Barnes & Noble at this link. Several pieces are on view at her blog. I edited it and am very pleased with V2.

Saturday, October 27, 2018


By myself & Jennifer S. Chesler


My husband, Daddy, has recently succeeded in losing 450 lb., and has even started to shit in what was left of the lavatory again.

Sadly, after thanking everybody for their most generous donations, Daddy was arrested yesterday at Shadyside Park. This is an egregious miscarriage of justice since I am pregnant with our future daughter, little Dorito.

Poor Daddy is charged with aggravated buggery of common snapping turtles and/or other aquatic animals. He risks confinement in the State Home for Retards and Scumbags unless I can pay his $5 000 bail so we can flee to Ohio, where bestiality of all sorts is actively encouraged. Ohio is, sadly, many days away, at least by VW 98 Golf hatchback. The entire state was relocated after the mathematicians were startled by an attempted suicide in their approximate vicinity.

What a pain in the ass. I wonder: should I keep Dorito?  

EDIT: It is, however, a '98 VW Golf GL. The GL makes all the difference; it is slightly worse.


Thursday, October 25, 2018

Help My Husband Save Turtles Again

An impassioned plea by my wonderful wife, Jennifer S Chesler

Help My Husband Save Turtles Again

On October 24th, my husband and I went to the park, the lake now partly frozen, for our usual turtle photographing bonanza. You see, in the spring, how many turtles rest on logs in the water. Well, we did not see turtles from the paved path through the park.

My husband decided to get close to a fallen branch in the now partially frozen lake because he wanted a fall turtle picture. And what a fall he got... He broke his leg very badly. We have no insurance. His leg was set at the emergency room, and having no insurance we are unable to pay the emergency room bill, and nor can we afford crutches. He is a large man, so it is hard for me to get him to the bathroom, and he has to, as we call it, "poopy in place." We do have a mat under the sheet, which should preserve the mattress.

All in all, we got pretty lucky that in time he will be able to walk unassisted. For now, he lies in bed playing with himself and farting. I can't take anymore, seriously. Please help me get him crutches, so he can be mobile again. 

Sunday, October 7, 2018

Drug Machine Mothers

Drug Machine Mothers

Jennifer S. Chesler

The mothers hate her with a push like labor, and then finally wet bloody shit, a slit perineum they blame her for. You made us shit on the table, our feces smells like decaying deer. Never do the mothers not blame their premature daughter. When they are alone in the hospital, they laugh, furiously first, then subdued, but still with the violence of furiously. They get their baby from her incubator. Aw, says one of the women. Then ‘aw’ in a chorus behind her, one mother holding a candle with a ring of paper around the base to catch the falling wax. One trades the baby for the candle. The woman holding the candle before crushes the baby’s hands so that the bones are broken. It cries raucously. She sticks gauze from between her legs in its mouth. After she passes the baby off to the next mother, that mother breaks the baby’s ankle bones so that hopefully it will be crippled there too. When she passes it to the next mother, the mother murmurs, it’s so broken, boo hoo. Shut up, a friend says, a night nurse might come by. What difference does speech make when the curtain is open, she asks. You’ve always been a whore, says the friend. But I’m not a prostitute, the original speaker says. Doesn’t matter, the accuser says, shoving her into the mother breaking the baby’s elbows. The mother handed the candle takes the baby again. She says, I will name her after the antipsychotic Saphris; that’s why she has all the birth defects; she might even be dead right now. Goddammit, Mildred, I wish you’d shut up about our condition; the baby is fine, just a little crushed looking. Okay, okay, Mildred concedes, she is crushed looking from her face being pressed against our bladder in the womb. Mildred snaps the neck of the baby, takes the gauze out of the mouth and puts the newborn back into its incubator. The mothers walk down the corridor, change into their street clothes and walk down 10th Avenue. Mildred is ahead. She trips and her face falls on a grate in the sidewalk. Lenny steps on her head, then kicks it a few times. Fucking whore, Lenny says. Mildred doesn’t move. They rifle through her purse and find antipsychotic tablets, a wallet, lipstick and keys. They take the wallet and move on, Hey, there’s $500 in here; what good luck, Lenny says. Let’s split it all ways, says the one who last kicked Mildred, Nell, Mildred says, knowing Nell is greedy. I pushed more than anyone, so the cash is mine, says Nell. She grabs the wad and takes a cab to a 24-hour laundromat with a good drug machine. She buys a sedating powder and shoots up in the bathroom. The remaining mothers find her. They break open the stall and feel around her clothes for the rest of the money. It’s in her purse though. When they have it, Lenny steals it and goes to another drug machine in Alphabet City. She buys the same sedating powder before the other mothers come at breakneck speed. I’ve got to piss; good thing we’re in a stall, Lenny says to the remaining two mothers. Yeah, haha, one says. Lenny lifts her skirt, pushes her underwear to the side and pisses on Nell’s face. Nell sputters awake, spitting the urine out from between her lips. Boo hoo, an unnamed mother says and spits in her eyes. Nell blinks and wipes off her face. The women are gone by now. One of them wants a new baby.

Wednesday, September 26, 2018

Piss Trumps Poopy

Written with Jennifer S. Chesler. From The Philosophy of Extremism IV. We lied about it being  a trilogy, or so it turns out.

Piss Trumps Poopy

Today, Daddy got very sentimental and practiced farting out sad songs. I couldn't understand any of them until he played Happy Birthday:

"Happy Birthday, little girl!"

He hugged me. I felt squishy inside and wished I could fart a song back. I could tell his willy was hard because his pants were tight there. I sat on his lap.

"Do I get cake, Daddy? Do I get cake?"

He pulled down his pants and scooped out a handful of poopy from the back.

"Do you want it on a plate or out of my hand or from my pants?"

"Oh, a plate, Daddy, a plate!"

I was so happy. Cake and a handsome Daddy with a Silverado and a big willy. I always get cake from Daddy on my birthday.

Sometimes I think that the sleepy love pills for little girls are too strong. Jennifer remembers this but I just remember holding the suppository in my teeth and noticing that there was a faded brown ring round her shitty ass. It felt rough under my tongue, but dissolved soon enough. I became very hard and could feel the precum oozing out.

"Oh Daddy, don't go too deep, please Daddy. It's so big, I'm scared," she whimpered.

"Why, Jennifer, you know that I meditate when you say these things to make Daddy cum too soon." I told her. Then I saw a glint of real fear in her eyes, and almost lost my load early. I'm happy to say that she whimpered and whined faster and louder for at least a minute after I pulled out and blasted my jizz from her navel to her face. She farted twice and came.

"Quite impressive farting, little Jen-Jen," Daddy said.

I was so embarrassed.

"Farting is natural. I love you, honey," Daddy said.

I started to cry because there was brown stuff underneath me and it smelled like poopy. I was afraid Daddy wouldn't do laundry that night and it would get in my hair.

"Please, Daddy, start a wash," I said.

When I plunge her in bed, I know what might happen, so I make sure that I have a full bladder. It only took a minute to rinse the sheet.

"Thanks, Daddy," she said, smiling happily and rubbing her face contentedly in the urine on the soiled and stained sheets. But she had cried and I was hard again:  if she can't take the cock, then she should learn to hide her fear better.

Sunday, September 23, 2018

Emond Strauss

Emond Strauss
Jennifer S. Chesler

The earth was soft the day Emond Strauss spit twice, but only one spit hit the dirt, the other time it landed on his shoe. I’ve sold shoes long enough. But you don’t sell shoes, you dig graves. They wear the shoes I put them in, my job is more than one. Special shoes for burial, with laces that withstand the worms, and soles fit for a king. You can imagine my surprise that the families pay so much attention to these details. I lined one pair of boots with aluminum, a soldier who walked with the dead. His name was like mine, but he hadn’t killed anyone. Once he pretended to when no one would have known the difference. And I would have done the same, pretended to kill the bodies already dead, kill the ones that are dead, shoot yourself and shoot them back.
Now I am certain there is nothing more still than the water, he says. There is a feast of flies on the window, fat lazy ones who don’t buzz. I get the broom and sweep them off the glass. At the warehouse next door there is a warehouse next door that has the strongest scent of vinegar. It wafts through the air. That’s the smell of cacao seeds, he says. Anticipation of the odor made me quicken my step when I walked past the brick walls. Next to me is an upside-down seahorse made of wood. Every once in a while two flies whiz past me. I cross my legs, and there is my root right to the left of me. Each word I speak estranges me even more.
They said the sky was blue this afternoon, and that it stayed light until midnight. Some simple sentence structures say more than epigrams. Click click outside as someone tests the lock on my door. A bag of bottles bangs against alternate sides of the hallway. It is possible to imagine the noises as thoughts themselves, moments of silence interrupted by substitutions for speech. I know where I am, but the sounds come and go. The closer I get to the violence, the more I am convinced it is drawn to me, almost to display with pride the jewels of the world, pearls chucked toward my mouth like candy, as if to say, taste this punch.

This piece is in Fragments, which is one sale from Amazon at this link.

Sunday, September 16, 2018

The Philosophy of Extremism III on Google Books

Now The Philosophy of Extremism III by Jennifer S. Chesler & myself has reached Google Books. Here it is at this link

Apart from the standard filth, it contains a series of articles/essays by myself about nihilism, teratology, & the writings of Chesler.

Sunday, September 9, 2018

Extremism III Reaches Barnes & Noble

The Philosophy of Extremism III, aka Fisting Fiesta, by Jennifer S. Chesler & myself, should reach Amazon in a day or two. Here it is on Barnes & Noble.

This books contains filth & teratology, plus all my reviews of Jennifer's writing so far, except the one I just wrote. We are hugely gratified by the unchristian foulness that is this book. It is our best collaborative to date.

Wednesday, September 5, 2018

Mrs. Ed

Mrs. Ed

Neighbors, non-neighbors, neighbors of neighbors, neighborless non-neighbors, people who ain't my neighbor, people not near a neighbor of mine, neighbors far from my neighborhood, don't ya' think "nay" and "boar" relate to animals more than to where one lives? "Nay," says a horse. That's a whinny, you know. But the boar and the horse are neighbors, in stalls, adjoining one another, not far from the goats. These goats though, they're not real goats. Nah, they ain't the type of goat birthed from other goats. These are cardboard goats, goats painted to perfection on the cardboard, their heads with horns like the devil. Nah, I ain't believin' in any horn-headed evil goats painted on brown board. They ain't no neighbors of mine. "Nay," says a horse. The horse knows too. The horse says she ain't seen no goat neighbors. "They just Mr. Talking Eds," she says, "not like me. I ain't no Mr. Ed. I ain't even talkin'. You's puttin' words into my mouth when I, uh, wanted carrots." But instead of carrot she says "garrote." "You've got to mean 'carrots,'" I say. "Nay," she responds, "'garrote,' … they gonna slaughter me."

by Jennifer S. Chesler