Writer. Poetry & reviews by David C. McLean & texts by his wife Jennifer S. Chesler, including collaborative work with McLean. Chesler writes avant garde, postmodern and innovative texts that explore the social & psychological preconditions of modern life. Collaborative work focuses on comedic philosophical topics combined with deviant sexual expression.
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
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
the sky was blue this afternoon, and that it stayed light until . 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.
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.
Freud said, marvelously: the death drive works in silence in the uproar of Eros. (Lyotard) we have never expected things like resurrection, the slow dive insecurity nipples we are memory wakeful, the esurient apple, the grotesque ghost slow & homeless. in me, Jennifer, is unsubtle answer we are burning. this is emo night, instead of poetry, here is thin skin a night on fire.
memory is pea protein a grotesque, cats made of the absurdity of words & the blood the skull. we have forgotten things like resurrection a memory is, we never knew what vinyl was absences.
under the god the great grotesque, you know it is you i carry like a wait inside me, here i am burning for you flesh & innocent we wear skin like an embarrassing omission like a silence a nighttime, it is only you & me make this relevant make memory skin & a murderer. night waits here for us to live it warm we lie together wrapped in expectation an anxious, your blood is time all of the loving.
mourning comes every corpse that means nothing the empty & the skeleton, fatuous Cadaver & ghost the homely; we have torture to wear it is exciting like night is & you are pinned under me writhing this nighttime i like to hit you & so do you, here is where the dead we are nipples & a slow suicide, nipples & all the rest of the night everywhere, cock is words. here, Jennifer, i have loved you until time returns it is a dreadful imposition, a posit & a pointless, nipples & proper position, the appropriate optimist a corpse is murder & world there, Gus walks night an insolent cat all the gods forgotten the marauders maundering, nausea & the idiot American sentimental makes us want to vomit improbable makes us dust & monsters are hiding in closets forgotten there are gods within us where truth conceals itself to protect like pain & fingernails.
here is this one answer you, Jennifer, the smoke is rising timeless like there were battlefields here already, like there was resurrection, it is just us living again, happiness coincidental is breasts & the silence of knives; i love you, Jennifer, forever, & it is time.
there was cat
there was cat a night to becoming absence we are words on a table a face impossible & the cat walking his tiny pain implacable it was growing a body to fail the abject debility carried like a tail untold, a homeward.
there is these things today it is not a project a prospectus just possible worlds & a little cat he is so fragile trotting through them to see what the best of them might be, being or not being stoic freedom;
it is not a better void to sleep in unreason just what there might be a burgeoning torture there & better not to touch nothing more, not to be being. Rex walks walls a slow mouse, a reflexive ritual listen. there is speech a sidewalk we are to answer apparent, here the cat is not much living left him to fall a kidney failure a lifetime is expenditure, a light like Fafner is flying his glowing wake over the sky night a memory a stretching in us to fiction or to forcing words to breathe again a meaning nothing to explain.
nor is this for this quieting cat he has nightmare to explicate for smaller beasts who do not remember the pathways to where being lives her clearing. the claw is suffering like the fang of a wolf the flesh is not hospitable the victim.
Rex tells me i woke at one a.m. i am changing water too early cleaning the obvious he says that here is cash the unsubtle answer brains here is not the biggest ever & everything really should be judged differentially & with extraordinary strictness some of us are better at things like thinking or deserving to exist. they do not do that here or elsewhere really except where there might be a tower on a mountain an ancient temple in a clearing in a forest where the mad goddess remembers Ethiopia she is gray as once was a memory a cocoon to fallout of happy is our madness & Rex said nothing matters much he had noticed we belong together & world one Clorox resurrection left yet, ants might live where sinks is & Rex felt he said that there was nothing to be different, nothing he needed to forget & love is not some sort of contract, it has no objection to finality to death – it is memory flesh, blood a claw a sort of temporary red.
frankly not happening
If there is a secret, it is this, its own: how does the impossible juxtaposition of intense singularities give way to the register, the recording? (Lyotard)
here it happens we are wrapped in flesh sexless, probably impossible bodies like bumble bees fighting lighttime, here we fall words a murder, a place we have written in. here, Jennifer, incessantly world.
how does the feeling i am poised over you pressing a weight into oblivion the burden borne to squash a night out of thighs timeless? satin staining a skin is blood & lips mistress my material, my matrix, memory is bitch a blood in us touch it my lips is your cunt a mouth a murderer stains & faceless, cunt & cum this coma is, listless is this little living, children, Jennifer victorious we tie us up in our skins outside us, nipples a sufficient love, bands above us bondage love us, time a maybe lover drugs. it is not happening here patent this reverse, a letter written is, time a thing to live us in we have worlds a coil copious, perfect a referral drugged like memory a nipple mother a loveless i cum a time to touch us, look.
what we have forgotten nothing is constructed from hairy zero, not this exigency being is, nowhere is there a more originary zero world; the wait here is seed a paper sweaty semantics madness above us lover – memory their amphetamine highway maybe we are burning here, memory a world. i need you this meaning, Jennifer superior, i have forgotten it, medium idiot fishes is & inside you only meat a me a freedom, being & to be, memory a meaning a motherfucker here world where socks to fit us better forgotten, foggy a probable freedom maybe, world & the turning, it is freaks & their freedom blunt is an innocence to feed us, the dealer he is staring innocent wide an eye is his fridge he stands there a word - he means to empty the whole fucking thing.
here is this, bitch, cats & everything missing, the kids all dressed in tactical absences & everything is insistent as clitoris it is sister mistress we are nipples here live.
it is voluminous a body: "your cost will depend upon your utility rates & use" rating is a memory incredible here we are dancers are. "your cost will depend upon your utility rates & use" there is never this much room yet, love much forever, nothing here left us, lover, to forget, death forever, maybe sex.
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.
Here is the description of The Philosophy of Extremism, Vol. III, by myself & Jennifer S. Chesler. It is on sale here at Lulu, and forthcoming from Amazon etc. It is our best and most extreme collaborative book, the working title was Fisting Fiesta.
This concludes the trilogy The Philosophy of Extremism by Jennifer S. Chesler and David C. McLean. It describes various scumbags, child-rearing methods, precautions against juvenile hypothermia, and more. It gives more delightful details about backsplash and the smarmy fascism of religious shrinks. Some parts of this book are fictional.
Clap-Along Shirley, that's who we are; you want more of M: -- she's such
a ham. Well, here she is, looking in the mirror doing a jig. Maybe you
see her; maybe you don't: try to remember, this isn't a joke. One day we
left her, calm as can be, sifting through shells in a sand-sieve
clocle. “Clocle” isn't a word; we tell you that now. But it looks like
“clock,” and here that's what counts. (We're making this easy so you can
see what we said; maybe you won't read this until after we're dead.)
The vowels were long; no diphthongs would do. Maybe you think these
phonics aren't for you. Phonics aren't for everyone, but that doesn't
mean they go away. We wanted a rhyme to follow the house, something
snazzy to wear with our blouse. But sometimes fashion isn't what you
make of it; it makes something of you. Sure, most people would say it's a
two-way street, but not when you want a hasty retreat! Cuts and stumps
-- they took all of who I am. Who? The characters Fortune sent our way.
No surrey bob, our carriage came a tappin'. We spotted a waiter bringing
some bread: “Leave it in the basket, or we'll tie you up dead.” M: got
the rope and looped some simple knots. That sure got him; he was off in a
flash. Next time we saw him he was paying us the cash. There was my
mirror, glinting with gold, reflecting my features, not leaving me cold.
But someone who wrote this doesn't live anymore. I took her away and
put her to rest, gave her something to read, which was not her only
request. The pills didn't take long, one hour tops; then, nothing, a
word like “so” at best.
Another by Jennifer S. Chesler & myself. This will be in Fisting Fiesta. Note for the retarded reader: We aren't actually into "footing".
Today Daddy was so angry. When I did the last bam-bam I told to you in this diary, he washed the special protective sheet Tammy had before she died. The special sheet was drying so we had to borrow a dog from next door to lick the mattress a little, but the dog got sick, Daddy says it was a shit bull. Anyway, now he flipped the mattress over and got all sweaty. Then he sat me on his lap to yell at me and he was so angry he was really big and the big knob wouldn't go in my little pie, not until he hit me round the head a few times and it felt nice and wet and I slid down his big fat rod. Then he liked it but I almost fell off he was jumping round so much.
Tammy was such a good sister to me and such a good mother to Jennifer, that it pained me when she died from swallowing her dentures during a nice face-fuck. We were able to retrieve the dentures from her lower intestines, but they were so eaten away by stomach acid that they were more yellow than when she had her morning cups of coffee. Yes, it's true. i had wanted her to get up to 800 lbs., but only to save her life. I knew that the only way to get Tammy the weight loss surgery she needed to save her life was to get her on the TV show My 600 lb. Life. Jennifer and I always have fun watching that show, and Tammy would rest her back on a foam cushion to be able to masturbate to each episode. I sure do miss my first wife and sister, but my wife and daughter is way tighter.
Daddy is bored with all the fisting, so today we did footing. He even changed his socks afterwards. He's such a good Daddy. I couldn't remember the fisting, and nor could he, but it happened anyway.
Another by Jennifer S. Chesler & myself. Daddy's Big Poopy Plunger
Damn child got at my mature cheese and ate two pounds of the stuff, along with almost a whole loaf of bread. Now I don't mind giving her an enema, I'll slip anything in anywhere on her tight and hot little body. But before I thrashed her with the heavy sex belt I asked her, "Now what were you thinking, child? Does the palsy really make you fucking retarded?"
"I love cheese, Daddy. I hope I'm not in trouble. I know the Vermont aged cheddar is your favorite. Anything but the sex belt, if you have to punish me."
"Well, I'm going to help you, my child. You know Daddy's love wand, in his big pants? That works as a poopy plunger too. It will unclog you straight away."
"No, Dad, no. I don't want my poopy plunged. My back hole is so little and tight and you're such a big man."
Sometimes I think she does it on purpose. I pulled her granny's nightdress up around her waist and the cum was already drooling from the snarling head of my stiff rod. "Don't scream, my sweet little whore, you need this now." I thrust it straight into her. If we needed Dulcolax later, I had no intention of wasting lube. I'm not made of money.
"Oh god, please no. You're so hard and your rod is already crying the white stuff." She starts to cry. Tears stream down her round pink cheeks. She looks like a rouged balloon.
She screamed as I slammed it in. The mixture of tears and a scream of pain did the trick and I shot a huge load about two inches up her shitter. It solved her poopy problem. We hadn't fucked for hours and I was full of the stuff, the brown turds floated out on a sea of white jizz. After she sucked me clean, I told her I loved her, and wiped her mouth after wiping her ass with my cum-stained jocks.
She stopped crying and felt so much better after having her bowels emptied. "Oh, Daddy, you really are the best Daddy in the world. Can we go for a ride in the Silverado?"
I agreed. I had started to get hard again when she sucked the cum and shit from my cock. I would have a nice surprise for her during the drive.
In "Four Propositions on Psychoanalysis", Deleuze does not consider psychiatry as such, but some arguments hold true of it in modified form, & relate to Chesler's book.
Firstly, psychoanalysis stifles the production of desire. Psychiatry attacks the brain's chemistry to render desire an achievement. As a victim of mismedication, Chesler writes of the mental hospital in "Down and Out in Muncie, Indiana" - as an artist, we do not want to stifle & conquer the alleged unconscious, we must produce it - & it is not easy to create this infantile world, but it is our duty. Fascist psychiatrists may believe that they mean well, but as Bukowski notes: there are no good cops. Chesler's desire was stifled before then, deviated & suppressed, but it sought itself in art, it found itself in me. In the story in question, she is seen as surrounded by pointless ciphers, each of them barely human, vermin. The mentally ill, the Herr Doktors, & the fascist camp guards on the medical staff all played out their allotted roles, like all the unintelligent they were unable to be outside of their clearly delimited borders.
Secondly, psychoanalysis abuses language, it keeps people from speaking, it takes away the conditions of true expression, & thus it stifles utterances, that strive to be indefinites, infinitives, proper names of becomings. Psychoanalysis separates the expressing subject from the subject of the utterance, Chesler does not try to speak her "I", except in the meta-level excerpts alluded to in the previous analysis of the work. She even masquerades this alleged "I" through the character "I" – she subverts the entire psychiatric/psychoanalytic subversion of thought by assuming the "I" as a proper name. The establishment uses personal pronouns as weapons; they are part of its rape kit. The psychiatrist sees the patient as part of an anonymous group categorized, in this case, as "bipolar I" – this is horseshit. Each of them, these various victims, is a unique name, indicating a haecceitas.
Thirdly, psychiatry, like psychoanalysis, destroys utterance & desire by a machine that interprets, & a machine that subjectivises its subjects. They, this enemy, tell you who you are. Chesler defies the process by the representation of an irreducible intensity, though this book is full of placeholders, wasting space while an equal awaited her unknowing, so the irreducible intensity is a failure & a sense of despite, of disgust, spitting arrogant hatred at eyes that are full of junk & nothingness.
Fourthly, psychoanalysis involves power relationships. Now this is doubly true of the psychiatric institution. Chesler's current psychiatrist, whom we call Dr. Bunghole in our texts about him, is a moron who actually boasted that his IQ was 130 to her, as if this were impressive. This ludicrous arrogance stems from the fact that the branch of the police called psychiatry is a medium of social control. It exacts an enforced docility from the unruly bodies of the insane by the brutality of the anti-psychotic. Chesler narrates in the story in question of a cretinous nurse who behaved like a camp guard, a scumbag.
Art should reveal truth, should indicate it & engage in the strenuous activity of thought, says Heidegger. This Chesler does. The book is on sale here:
Fragments is the third written, but first published,
of Jennifer S. Chesler’s four novels to date. Fragments has the form of
but functions as a sort of aleatory novel, in that Chesler randomly
texts when she first wrote them, & I, who ultimately edited the
book, reordered it & added new pieces from her archives. The
interconnection of the pieces is both thematic
& linguistic, & unifies the novel regardless of the
reordering was particularly necessary, by the way, since the book had
been massacred by a worthless agent & was not in its first form. I write this since I am, according to the author, the only person who knows the back story to every piece.
book is brilliant & deserves recognition for
its innovative nature. Among many topics covered in the book are dog sex in the
the stupidity of the average American, the patriarchal nature of
society, the worthlessness of almost all sexual relationships, &
mental illness & poverty (caused by an upbringing in a hostile
family environment &, later, a life among worthless scumbags as a
consequence of a low self-esteem & "political correctness" in
the sense of thinking that all humans have equal value, which they
The book portrays the effects of defective child-rearing & a dysfunctional attitude to sexuality. A character in the book, for example, portraying male sexuality, assumes the form of a non-human mythological creature who is without language or intelligence, & exists solely as an inhuman form of generalized homosexual desire. He is totally without value, & this reflects upon the early experiences of the author with predatory & abusive males with a low mental status, the death of one of whom is described in the book.
There is an emphasis on nausea & anxiety & a description of how
societal values together with familial pressure actually validated
anorexia, giving vomiting a higher value than might be usual in more well-regulated households.
The effects of prostitution are portrayed, along with the fact that most marriages in the wealthier strata in the USA are basically a form of whoring. Some pieces are basically included to offend, & speak of prostitution as though it were acceptable on any level, although feminist consciousness is retained in the underlying tone of sarcasm, describing degrading & disgusting practices in a way that seems to normalize them. The people are egoistic & the fault with prostitution is the fault with much sex nowadays, according to Lyotard - everything & everybody treats what should be an incommensurable & invaluable intensity as though it were a unit of exchange.
The author uses direct quotes, & in every case the speaker is barely human: they are stupid, selfish, & without any redeeming features. The reported speech is full of colloquialisms & non sequiturs.
Among subjects ridiculed are the American obsession with veterans, dog masturbation (apparently used as a dog training method), the general stupidity of any pretense to knowledge in a country where dysgenic fertility is rampant & idiocy reigns everywhere supreme. Chesler was told as a child to conceal the fact that she was more intelligent than others, perhaps in case she would not be able to get a man. The
men she encountered were so worthless & bad in bed that she became a
lesbian, but the women were such scumbags that they were worse. One
character, The Narcissist in the book, had a micro-penis to which he never alluded, such is American arrogance.
The whole familial & societal analysis bears traces of Deleuze & Guattari; prostitution represented
a failed line of flight from the static familial constellation, this
first line of flight was actually a flight to degradation that
transformed into a retreat into perversion that was actually a retreat
into intellectualist & literary perversity that became a successful line of flight - leavingthe city, the family, the social to assume a nomad existence in a fictional world. Several pieces reflect this, the author writes on a meta-level, & gives advice to the readerin variousfashions, each of which reflects the construction of an alleged identity.
A writer whom Chesler once interviewed is included, although the interviews
were never published since they were so abusive & dismissive of the
writer, who had written a childish book about BDSM featuring "advice" about "safewords" for people who don't know what they're doing. The short pieces in fragments are classic dismissals that mock the interviewed writer's defective grasp of English. Chesler never met a real dominant, since there are almost none of us around,& the work in Fragments related to BDSM is funny in that the feeble nature of the egos of the participants is exposed.
One of the best pieces, written high on meth, describes dental work on, & sexy dentures for, stillborn babies in a dialog piece that resembles Plath on mothers in form. Elsewhere rhymed prose is used, some pieces have the form of doggerel poems, & the pieces have been ordered to reflect the structural peculiarities of the texts, & thus of the book.
I am a patient at The Anderson Center in Indiana. I have been seeing the same psychiatrist to medicate me for bipolar I since 2011. In 2016 I was told by my psychiatrist that I basically had to be medicated for my mania, with either lithium or Depakote. Since Depakote causes hair loss and weight gain, and being somewhat vain, I chose lithium. I have been on it since then. My mania is now under control. I have not been depressed in seven years also.
In the latter part of 2015 (though I have no memory of why this occurred) Bukkkles, my psychiatrist, put me on a second antidepressant, Prozac. I became completely manic. As the gentle reader may know, antidepressants cause or exacerbate mania in bipolar patients. As my mania increased with the use of Prozac, I felt a great need to smoke pot, most likely as a way to self-medicate for the manic state I was experiencing.
I had no way of procuring pot, and joined Tinder, the phone app for hookups, to find someone to get pot from. I was contacted by a man whose name I don’t remember. He said he would sell me some pot. I have night blindness. He lived 45 minutes away. I let him pick me up. He tried to drug me with an unknown substance, a powder of some sort, and took me to his house, all under the assumption that I was buying pot.
Once in his house, it became clear he had no intention of selling me pot. I said I wanted to leave. He had said he’d call Uber for me, but this did not occur. He picked me up and carried me into his bedroom. He ripped my clothes off me and raped and beat me. I said I’d call the police, but he said he’d throw me out of his house, which was in a somewhat unknown and remote subdivision, without my clothes on. It was cold and late at night by this time.
I told Bukkkles about this when I went in to see him next. He said he would be willing to testify that I was too mentally ill to have given consent, having received numerous crazed phone calls from me on the center’s medication line.
I never told Bukkkles that he was responsible for mismedicating me, throwing me into a worse manic state, so that I ended up bruised and bloody at an unknown location, by a man whose name I have still repressed.
Bukkkles said it was not the fault of two antidepressants that I became so manic that I was raped. He did tell me to go off Prozac immediately. He obviously knew it was his fault and was eager to exculpate himself.
I had no option but to continue to see the same psychiatrist, since there is a dearth of psychiatrists in my town, even though I know him to be a rape-enabler, since I take medications that it would be very dangerous to quit cold turkey.
book contains diatribes against various scumbags, a depiction of bad
parenting styles, which are legion, and diverse perversities. For
roughly the price of two frozen pizzas, the reader can sicken herself
with these stories. It
contains elements drawn from the real lives of the authors, these are
the grossest parts. We would like to inform the reader that Tammy is a
real person, and she is very upset by the first book. It is our hope
that this slim volume will please her more. We finally reveal her true
weight, varying though it may be.
It is a book of singular virtue, curing as it does impotence & male pattern baldness. Rites invoking the aid & protection of Baphomet have been conducted, & the results are most auspicious. This book will make you hard, wet, or both.
Gummy denture blowjobs The psychiatrist was obviously anti-Semitic, since he did not refer to God but Jesus in his version of Pascal's Wager that he used to boggle Jennifer's mind and make us laugh. But the sun went down over Shadyside as squirrels masturbated, dental vaginas, and turtles engaged in self-harm like the BDSM cranes. There were nipples everywhere and night an abject lavatory.
Older ladies are sexier fatter and master the art of zombie dentistry, the vaginal prosthesis is wood or steel, but old ladies who prostitute themselves will wear vaginal dentures made of fiber gummies. Young boys need it special, as Burroughs said, though affecting to speak of something else sexual.
Nan wears fiber gummy dentures and what head she gives, both to women and men. Look at her fibers, one man says, when she smiles at him on a crowded San Francisco street that panders to men wanting old tranny whores. She wears her cream colored rose-trimmed tunic that day so that her long white legs are exposed in all their glory. I go up to her and say, hey, Nan, he picked me up the other day, good payer, take him. So Nan gets in his car, but he has this aversion to fiber due to a medication that gives him awful diarrhea so he punches her in the mouth, knocking the gummies out. Oh, Nan, I'm sorry, I had no idea, I say when she comes up to me without her gummy dentures, crying.
Fragments is, the third written but first published
of Jennifer S. Chesler’s four novels. Fragments has the form of an anthology
but functions as a sort of aleatory novel, in that Chesler randomly ordered the
texts when she first wrote them, & I, who ultimately edited the book, reordered it & added new pieces from her archives. The interconnection of the pieces is both thematic
& linguistic, & unifies the novel regardless of the exigencies
This reordering was particularly necessary since the book had been massacred by a worthless agent & was not in its first form. The book is brilliant & deserves recognition for
its innovative nature. Topics covered in the book are dog sex in the Phoenix area,
the stupidity of the average American, the patriarchal nature of society, the worthlessness of almost all sexual relationships, & the author’s
mental illness & poverty (caused by an upbringing in a hostile
family environment &, later, a life among worthless scumbags as a consequence of a low self-esteem & "political correctness" in the sense of thinking that all humans have equal value, which they obviously don't).
The Philosophy of Extremism, Principle 2: Extreme Sex
Jennifer complained today that I, David, fucked her very intensely, and that the power of the pressure on her clitoris therefore led to considerable cursing and protests. Basically, fucking is done by taking one's huge cock and using it with tremendous force and expertise. Jennifer tells David that she appreciates the atavistic bellows and roars, just as he feels that this is the point of the exercise, to surrender focus on utility, the exchangeable unit of measurement, the unit of pleasure or whatever, and exist the intensity of which Lyotard writes in his "evil book", the absolutely unique irreplaceable.
Part of the point of the stories earlier about the deplorably inadequate exes is to demonstrate that none of these had mastered the art of fucking, or of general humanity, but got by through exploiting mental illness. This is why they were never loved. For example, French Little Billy Blond, who assiduously reads these blogs, can go fuck himself, and sleep with dust and memories. Jennifer tells us that he uses a form of Fleshlight. But these are for lonely, pathetic, older men, so we naturally ask ourselves why does Mr. Blond have one? In fact she now tells me that he has more than one. He has three, one for each orifice that he recognizes
It should not be forgotten that, in nature, it is not necessarily an animal's right to fuck. Jennifer says that Blond once abused a frail gay man and was bottled, he phoned the police: that's just weak. Low quality males, or females, are often rejected, and this is no problem to the better animals, since, let's face facts, what the fuck are the rejected specimens going to do about it? The best should fuck, the rest can fuck off and die. Dysgenic fertility is already a huge problem. Scumbags breed most readily.
I, Jennifer, mistook Principle #2 to mean that constant complaining during sex was not only good, but a turn on for David. I would say no, stop, you're hurting me, when inside I was gushing with vaginal fluids. The more excited I got, the more biting the complaints became, such as saying, oh, you asshole. I came to learn over time that complaints were not necessary to keep this particular male member erect and that, indeed, almost the opposite was true. The more excitement I expressed, the more passion I felt, the more I continued to complain. One time David told me to shut up and slapped me across the face. That really excited me, so much so that I instantly stopped complaining. Indeed, he was harder than ever, a true lightning rod of unbridled pleasure.
Jennifer writes as though I don't slap her around pretty much all the time, as one does, and as I just did a round dozen times while bruising myself around the os pubis, and producing a symphony of sluttishness from her frail form. She writes as though she would not be enormously pissed off if I refrained from so doing. Anyway, if men with small dicks breed, we will ultimately see an accursed race of humans who develop midget wangs. The clitoris will become insufferably arrogant, and Jennifer will be able to crush me (I, Jennifer, am related to the Incredible Hulk, which enables me to wind David quite severely when I lie flat on top of him); whereas now, with my use of the techniques of extreme sex, I am able to lift her by the goddamn snatch with one hand and hold her up in the air, which really does provoke cursing, even if my grip gets all slippery on account of the enhanced flow of secretions.
Again, with extreme sex, Jennifer is obsessed by showering before i eat her out, since the vagina is assumed to smell and taste funny, which it doesn't. There is no particular pong attributable to the snatch. I attribute that particular piece of bullshit to religions, even influencing atheists such as Jennifer, since it influences the whole of society. The Christian pedo rapists, and other practitioners of retarded voodoo, disapprove of the snatch as being a residence of devils and general naughtiness. She also seriously believes that I give a shit if she happens to be bleeding like a stuck pig. As a vegan, I appreciate the nutritional supplement, and am not obliged to chew coal for iron.
Really, it is impossible to be more extreme than I have been. But I've never met a man who would eat me out and earn what used to be called their "red wings" by lesbians, the term having been used once by Hells Angels, though the latter are more advanced than the lesbian community. Maybe this is because I was a lesbian for a while, women shying away from blood like most straight men. However, it is common practice for lesbians to perform oral sex on each while one, or both, has a yeast infection. No, the cottage cheese discharge is no breakfast treat. Some lesbians even put their yeast discharge into glass vials and display them on the mantelpieces in their homes. The scent emanates from the vials like a sweet perfume in the nicer homes of such cities as San Francisco. I have turned my nose on the whole mess, and tell David he can lick me anytime. We were going to ask some lesbians in the grocery store, but David bottled out when they stared at his trousers, licking their lips and giggling inanely. The excitable one started running round in circles.
Extreme sex, it must be noted, does not require an extreme cock or extreme pussy, but we do not really know what women with gaping vaginas and men with small cocks do to get off in an extreme fashion. Quite frankly we don't want to know. It's like whether the crack babies are laughing or screaming; who cares?
Little whore thinks she's a big girl, she's not a big girl at all but when i come into her Daddy's a big boy and she's gasping and grunting and groaning so I tell her, you like that don't you, you can scream for help, nobody gonna hear you, nobody gonna care. I'm running it in and outta her so she's pushed around, legs flapping like branches in a hurricane. Look in daddy's eyes i tell her as she lies there whimpering, so i pull the ass all the way up and bang her, moving her round like a rag doll and driving the jackhammer in hard. Where's mommy, I want my mommy, she whines so I tell her she has no mommy now and she can sleep in daddy's bed all the time. She gets real excited and the juice is squirting out of her covering my dick and stomach area she gets so goddamn wet. I love that little tight pussy slut.
Ginger Ale is the best, Canada Dry Ginger Ale is my favorite, diet of course. When Daddy fucks me in my sleep he wakes me up to rinse off, a big grin on his face between my legs, and a soda in his hand. Daddy's hands are so big. He can hold a can in one hand. O, Daddy, what's the white stuff between my legs? Why aren't you doing this to mommy instead? Then he gets angry – I told you mommy's dead.
I shoot my load deep in her, she says I'm pushing her womb up into her stomach so i yell what the fuck you know about wombs, you little whore, what they been telling you in school?. Jennifer lies there later, waiting for her rape soda. It makes her so happy.
Fragments came today, the third written but first published of all Jennifer S. Chesler's novels, This has the form of an anthology but functions as an aleatory novel, in that she randomly ordered the texts originally, while I, who edited the book, was obliged to reorder and add new pieces. The interconnection of the pieces is both thematic & linguistic, & unifies the novel regardless of the exigencies of ordering.
This reordering was particularly necessary since she wasted 18 years with a literary agent who was most definitely not a writer, & seems to have been very poorly suited to his job.
The book is a splendid piece of work & deserves recognition for its innovative nature. Topics covered are dog sex
in the Phoenix area, the stupidity of the average American, piss fucks, & the
author's mental illness & poverty (caused by a dodgy upbringing in a hostile family environment &, later, a life among worthless scumbags).