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

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 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

Tuesday, September 4, 2018



My name is Julius. I'm 5-years-old. My dad died a few years ago. He got run over by a car. Last night someone from the Army came over. He told us that my brother got killed in some country. His face was blown off, he said, so we couldn't look at him. That made me sad, about his face being destroyed, probably because we looked alike, and now we don't anymore. I thought it was stupid for him to join the Army. I told him to play Army video games instead, but he wanted to fight in battles, he said, and couldn't do it on a computer screen.

So now I don't have a father or a brother. I have a mom and step-dad. My step-dad is nice, except for when he wants me to clean or take medicine. He told me to go to college instead of joining the military. He said, "Now you see your face can be blown to bits," and shook his head side to side. "But they won't let me look," I told him. "Yeah, good," he said. Then he went upstairs and cried. Sometimes at night he wakes me up because of his screaming. One of his feet had to be cut off during a war in Asia, and, when he dreams about it, he says it's like his foot is being amputated all over again.

Saturday, September 1, 2018

"too much human"

Here are three poems from my antinatalist manifesto, the Black Editions chapbook too much human. & here it is at Lulu. You can also find it on Amazon.

nowhere enough 

nowhere enough is memory eternity not the genuine retention; we have confabulated days & slow torture, world is what we put there a greasy smudge over the innocence earth is, tiny animals & everything living

nowhere enough is the flesh absent, or adequately present. it is a great gray wall, world is, written over it is lies & gibberish, ideologies where the dead pretend to live

words weak 

memory is just words & weak its ineffectual not even forever. here was recollection ineffective they confabulated their baby it was sexless their heaven was, blood & dust & things forbidden or permissible, a duty not to be

& memory lives their last idiot religion in case it mattered much – the last believer will crawl an idiot face-fucked fish into his oblivion, their everyday sexless heaven does not matter much; they are cripples with nothing left to touch or love

on the balcony  

on the balcony is no big Louise & no angels. there are no more ashtrays, no faces, sweat & a memory

here expands land around us it is a green wait the expectant grass the absent dead that grow the soil like a tiny orgasm

under us could be anything as long as it is possible, logically or metaphysically, but nothing where we are looking for meanings

on the balcony extension & a minuscule dose of being


Here is the blurb by A.D. Hitchin:

A beautiful hand grenade of a book that would probably serve as effective population control for the hysterically reactive and weak of heart. Throw into a crowd of SJWs and watch them die.
A.D. Hitchin, author of CONSENSUAL

Thursday, August 30, 2018

Pussy Mushrooms

An old one by Jennifer S. Chesler & myself. It's in a book, no idea which though. I think in II.
Pussy Mushrooms
Daddy raped me last night. I’m not sure what rape is though. He just said, there’s your rape soda. Here’s your ginger ale. It’s a rape soda for my darling Jennifer. I get so many rape sodas now that I’ve gained a pound in a week, and these are diet ginger ales. I can’t see the screen right now.  Daddy is standing in front of me with his thing out. It’s all big and scary. It’s getting bigger. Please, Daddy, I’m typing a story, I said. I’m going to make you earn that soda tonight, he says. 
Filthy salacious little whore, all these protests written with a sick grin all over her face, I don’t pin her hands down to hold her in place, but to stop her frenetic rubbing of her clit. I make the little slut come, when and if I choose - Daddy, if you don’t want to rape me again you can rape my mouth so you get big and then put it in my bottom, I need to do a poo anyway. Can I have two sodas then? I want it in my womb, Daddy, I want it harder, I want you to fill me. We can watch My 600 lb. Life if you need to, Daddy, see all the big ladies cultivating pussy mushrooms, Daddy, please hurt me.
Daddy, isn’t that called a fat fetish? I ask him. Are you a lard-licker, Daddy, huh? Little girl, he says, I only love you. You like the show as much as I do, especially when the feet are cloven. I start drooling, but I don’t know why. My little button starts to get all big. Daddy says it’s like a grape and starts to press it into my special place. I feel all tingly inside. Why are we watching this show? I am so big now.
Poor girl doesn’t know she drools the mouth lube because she’s retarded, my palsied little angel. I put on the YouTube video of Judge Adams and another retarded little whore and unbuckle my belt. Now she really starts gushing as I thrash her all over her sexy little crippled body. Her clit is big but my dick is its full nine inches, I throw her down, slap her face, ands tell her to take it like a grown woman, as I pull my engorged cock out a few minutes later her pussy really does look like a grown woman’s, the cum pouring out of it. She gets her two sodas, as she had asked. Jennifer, I am most pleased with you, I tell her.
I don’t care, Daddy. I didn’t want it in me tonight, not while the TV is on especially. You wish Brenda, the last patient, was your daughter, don’t you? I start to cry. Brenda means nothing to me, Daddy says, but he gets massively erect, maybe because I’m crying like last night. I’ve got to make the white stuff come out, he says. No, Daddy, not more white stuff.

Tuesday, August 28, 2018

Daddy's Icky Thing

Due soon on Amazon, this is in Philosophy of Extremism III. Until then it's on sale at this link.

Daddy's Icky Thing

Daddy makes me do one bad and icky thing that i really don't like. He does lots of bad things and they hurt sometimes, but they all make my special place tingle and get all warm. But sometimes he cooks me special food that he calls "Tammy food for mommies". It's all black beans, black-eyed peas, red lentils, onions, garlic, and other things that make poopy in my tummy.

Then he calls me into the room with his big bed he says is mine too now, and he's lying on the brown quilt all naked and it's standing straight up. I start crying and he says, "You know what Daddy wants, Jennifer".

I have to squat down over him and he says "Let it come now, let the noises come, grunt that poopy out of you, little girl" and I scrunch up my face and close my eyes and feel a big stinky poopy come, first with lots of noises of gas so Daddy smiles and licks his lips grinning, while his willy jerks up harder and a glistening drop of daddy's love juice comes out of the head. It looks so tasty, even though I hate the poopy game; it's so disrespectful to Daddy, who has a big willy and a shiny red Silverado.

Tonight he gave me something called Smooth Move herbal tea. It made me have diarrhea all over Daddy's chest. He almost vomited while he was shooting out his white stuff. Poor Daddy. Maybe it's worse for him than for me. He says mommies have milk and daddies have white stuff, but that daddies always have white stuff, and even if mommy were still alive, her milk would have dried up.

Daddy has some extra weight on him that gives him little fat puffs on his chest. Some of the diarrhea pooled in his inverted nipples like yellow soup.

"Drink from my nipples, little girl," Daddy said.

"Daddy, I need to wipe," I said.

"Stop whining and slurp," he said.

"Oh, I guess so," I said, knowing I had no choice.

I sucked up the soup and then I vomited like Daddy had.

"That's my girl," he said, rubbing the hair on my head, and getting it slightly damp with the liquid poopy.

"Can I shower now?" I asked him.

"Run off to bed now," he said, "you can't sleep with wet hair now, can you?"

I love my Daddy. He's so thoughtful. We'll be washing the pillow case this Sunday, anyway.

Sunday, August 26, 2018

Family Fun

This is available in our latest, The Philosophy of Extremism III, at this link.

Family Fun

I love my little girl. She doesn't know what fisting is. She's lying on the bed, her lithe legs spread, and I slip my index finger into her little vagina, move it in and out, around and around, then slipping in my middle finger and going in the same motions as before, until she feels all sloshy inside with her female fluids. I add my ring finger and make one thick finger out of the three, in and out, up and down, around and around.

"Daddy, what are you doing? I'm cold," she says.

"You're always cold my dear," I say, with no break in the motion of my fingers.

I slip in my pinky.

"Ow," she ejaculates.

"Shh," I say, same movements, a bit faster.

I'm ready for my thumb. I've got to work her up a little better though. She's drying up a bit and crying so I give her some lube. I put it on my hand and let it slide in.

After the thumb goes in, I clench my hand into a fist and push into her vagina.

"No, Daddy, no!" she says.

I slow clench and unclench my fist in her tight hole. There's a little blood. As I said, I love my little girl. But nothing is going to stop me.

Daddy put his hand in me to see if there was anything up inside me, he said. But it hurt so much that I started to feel all tingly and funny after a few minutes and something odd happened, I felt very tingly and his face got all wet and there was some bloody juice on his clean shirt. He slapped me so it felt good but then stuck his big willy straight up my poopy hole to punish me. He was only trying to find bad things in my little pussy, after all, so I deserved the willy in my bottom I suppose. I'm sorry about the shirt but I promise I'll make it up to him. He's such a good daddy.

The teacher at her school had alerted me to possible drug use, I remembered. Any respectable father would do a body cavity search. I decide to examine her asshole again.

"Roll back over now, and stop crying. I've got to see what's up there. You always feel sorry for yourself. You're always the victim. You know whose fault this is," I say.

"I know, Daddy. You're doing the right thing. Please don't search my bottom. I'll take the drugs out for you," she says.

The little girl crawls backwards on the bed and pulls some gummy bears out of her asshole, albeit slightly melted and shitty ones.

"Oh, darling," I say. "Daddy loves you. Come give Daddy a kiss." I always tell her that sweets are drugs, and lead to cavities, which is why the searches are called body cavity searches. I snapped a few pictures of the cum farting. They really look good in the family album.

Saturday, August 25, 2018

Further Considerations on Nihilism and Teratology in Chesler's Fragments

Dread reveals no-thing.

We are "suspended" in dread. More clearly, dread leaves us hanging because it brings on the slipping away of being. So it is that we actual human beings slip away from ourselves in the midst of being. For at bottom this is not uncanny to you or me, but rather "it" is like that. In the shuddering of this suspense, where one can hold on to nothing, only pure Dasein remains.

Heidegger points out that a thing can be worth nothing by being "null and nothing" itself. Nihilism, however, is thought of as a decline and a devaluation of values. In this sense, Chesler, in "Down & Out in Muncie, Indiana", writes "I know nothing. I am nothing. I am the inevitable consequence of my actions" & this relates both to the ontological nullity & the sense of devaluation. In a sense, nihilism is a general preoccupation for Chesler. Her books narrate a series of interactions with a world that is trashy and relations with humans who are stupid, no better than trash.

Nihilism is "the uncanniest of guests", says Nietzsche.  Heidegger feels that the essence of nihilism might rest in not taking the nihil, the nothing, seriously, seeing it as an illusion created by negation. The tiger that is not in the room is not a negative tiger, as it were. The heart of nihilism is a not thinking of the nothing, and Nietzsche became a nihilist himself since he could not see nihilism as anything other than axiological.

"Down and Out" - man is homeless as regards his essence, there is no unconcealment of Being, but exploitation. Being is need, and man has become needless. This needlessness is a great lack, itself a terrible need, a shortcoming so monstrous that it populates the teratology of Fragments. Pathetic unthinking freaks like the characters described in the book are not aware of Being, they do not think, they exist in a world populated by beings that they exploit. The freaks of this teratology are also devalued, nothings in the Nietzschean sense

Chesler, in Fragments, sought love in a needless world populated by freaks. The word "love" is scarcely used in the book in its usual sense, since the freaks and monsters that inhabit that sordid landscape cannot love in any meaningful sense. They do not know the need of Being, though they are sometimes needy, in the colloquial sense, but they are de trop, they are a futility. This shows a double nihilism, an axiological nihilism as well as a Heideggerean nihilism where Chesler is aware of the terrible question of thrownness in the brute facticity of the world, but nobody else is, where she, the only thinker among her alleged friends, all worthless scum, is seen as the freak.