Showing posts with label The Philosophy of Extremism III. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Philosophy of Extremism III. Show all posts

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.


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.

Wednesday, August 22, 2018

The Philosophy of Extremism III

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.



Sunday, August 5, 2018

Lyotard says

The wisdom of nations is not only their skepticism, but also the “free life” of phrases and genres.
(Lyotard) 


Lyotard says that maybe prose is impossible. He points out that it is “tempted on one side by despotism, and on the other by anarchy”. The despotism is achieved by trying to become the genre of all genres (“the prose of popular Empire”), the anarchy by becoming an attempt to produce a disparate blob, an “unregulated assemblage of all phrases”, like a vagabond or, maybe, like Gertrude Stein.

Now I wholeheartedly agree. I hope that this applies to prose poetry, and in fact the only canonical influences I now have are Lyotard himself and Ms. Stein herself. I regard her pieces as basically poetry, revealing the glorious repetitive variability of phrases. Coffee and everything.

Every time I am polysemic I want to say every possible want-to-say. Language should be tested to destruction, on a semantic level. Syntax can go fuck itself.

Prose, Lyotard says, cannot become the unity of all genres, like despotism wants. Nor can it become their zero degree. Prose needs to try to be, he says, the multitude of genres and the multiplicity of their differends. I say that this applies to prose poetry, not just the trashy prose poetry of Baudelaire, but real prose poetry too.

Still, the zero degree is cool too. (He goes on to mention narratives, of course.) Ultimately, prose proper itself should tend to the “deritualized short story” where differends are not dissipated but neutralized. They persist in their contradiction. For (this) “prose is the people of anecdotes”, & thus the oppressor – everything from the cockwombles who produce television shows to the cockwombles who produce psychiatry, nationalism, and religion - will always come up against the free life of phrases and genres in the prose that is the people. The oppressor will come up against revolutionary and innovative prose like that of Jennifer S. Chesler.

Language is not a unity, nor should it be.



Sunday, July 29, 2018

Jesus and His Huge Willy




Jennifer S. Chesler & I have produced this paper about some theological conundrums.

Jesus and His Huge Willy

Daddy, who's Jesus?

He's a man who was the perfect man.
 

Did he have a big hard willy like yours then, Daddy?
 

Yes, Jennifer, it was fucking huge. The veins along the side of his throbbing cock were as thick as your fingers. Maybe as thick as Daddy's thumbs. When he came there was so much white stuff that little sluts would drown.
 

Did he take away our sins, Daddy?
 

Yes, he sucked us off and swallowed all our thick creamy sins. Always think "What would Jesus do?", Jennifer. Because that old queer would suck on any cock he saw, take it right down his throat and swallow the sins of man. When he used to gargle with his Daddy's cum, then that's how rainbows and angels were born. If you don't suck Daddy good, then Jesus rapes and kills a kitten.
 

No, Daddy, really?
 

Have I ever lied to you?
 

Well ...
 

Shut your mouth, you little whore. Don't you judge me! Don't you fucking judge me.
 

No, Dad! Not the poopy pie hole! No!!
 

Take off your pants, and get on all fours.
 

[crying] Why are you being so mean, Daddy?
 

[pulls cock through zipper of pants, pulls Jennifer's pants down, rubs some petroleum jelly on his cock]
 

Ow, Daddy, Ow.
 

See if Jesus helps you now. What would Jesus do?
 

[David grins and pulls his dick out of Jennifer's ass. Jennifer assumes a crucified posture, drops to her knees, and opens her mouth as wide as possible. A mixture of shit and semen fall from his cock down her throat. She turns her head to the side, spits it out]
 

Daddy, that was gross.
 

[He slaps her hard across the face]
 

[Crying] Why did you do that to me, Daddy?
 

You're sleeping in your own bed tonight. A good Christian never spits out anything that comes from a cock. OK, you can sleep with me but keep your bottom lubed out nicely.
 

[smiling bravely] OK, Daddy. 

Thursday, July 26, 2018

Another Bam-Bam

Another by Jennifer S. Chesler & myself. This will be in Fisting Fiesta. Note for the retarded reader: We aren't actually into "footing".


Another Bam-Bam

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.




Tuesday, July 24, 2018

The Bam-Bam

By myself & Jennifer S. Chesler.

The Bam-Bam. 

Daddy, I have a poopy problem.

Oh, honey. What happened?

Jen-Jen made bam-bam in the bed.

Oh, sweetie. Come, let Daddy hold you and make sure that your body is alright.

Daddy, I’m scared. Why did I poopy in bed?

It’s natural for a girl your age, sweetheart. Come let Daddy help. I'll clean your little bottom, spank your bottom dry, and rub your special place.

Oh, Daddy, I’ve never made poopy in bed before. Why did this happen?

Well, when a young girl gets excited by her Daddy, she will often poopy where she sits. It’s called pooping in place. It's like Aunt Tammy when she shits where she sits. You're a big girl who can take Daddy's big love, but Aunty Tammy is way too big. The show on TLC "My 600 Lb. Life" wouldn't buy her, they thought we were lying.

Oh, Daddy. You’re the best. I want to ride in the shiny Silverado!

Okay, but you’d better get in the bath first.

But then the poopy will still be on me, you know, if I sit in the tub.

Oh, honey, Daddy loves you anyway. We’ll go for a nice long ride in Daddy’s shiny red truck. Now get in the tub. I can make wee-wee over your bottom to get it really clean, and we can lick each other clean then, so we know that we love each other and you can always sleep in Daddy's bed. Maybe we can drive to Walmart for a new mattress cover? You can have mashed potatoes.

Oh! Can I have a pizza square too?

If you do tricks and lick under the head of Daddy's willy. You know that you promised, little Jennifer, don't you?

I love you, Daddy. You’re the best Daddy in the world.

Wednesday, July 18, 2018

Daddy's Big Poopy Plunger


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.

Monday, July 16, 2018

Two new extremisms

Here are two new pieces from our forthcoming The Philosophy of Extremism III - co-written with Jennifer S. Chesler.

Oh, little Jennifer 
In the differend, something asks to be put into phrases, and suffers from the wrong of not being put into phrases right away.(Lyotard)
 

Daddy, my pussy burns from the cheap medicine.
 

It's called "inexpensive", and you need to get Daddy off faster to deserve the good stuff.
 

(What makes demands upon us is not the child as such, it is the words expressing themselves into a sense; she is the referent, the burning pussy is the referent, but there exists as given a disparity in power, an imbalance, where some are used. It is this that is the essence of which every haecceity can be seen to be a fraction. That about which the child remains silent is her desire, is the slow passage of time and her becoming. Daddy is never silent about nothing.)
 

Oh Daddy, where are the answers to my test?
 

Which text, little Jennifer? Look around my balls, ruffle the sac with your little tongue.
 

My pussy burns, I just peed again in the bed.
 

Oh, little Jennifer, I love it when you are special and hold your wrists all twisted and palsied.
 

I know, Daddy, it's sexy. I'm a big girl and I am sexy and I know joined-up writing too.


Ice cream comes after come
 

When I went to school today, I told Sally how I drank Daddy's pee from his big willy. She said that the last family that owned her would loan her out to their friends. One time they rubbed sick in her hair.
 

Daddy! Here was Daddy, in his brand new shiny red Silverado. He looked so handsome.
 

Is that your Daddy? Sally asked me.
He sure is, i said.
 

I went running up to the truck. He opened the door, slid over on the seat, and put me in the truck with him. I felt proud. I have the best Daddy in the world.
 

Jennifer, you know when we get home we can't eat dinner without some white stuff first.
 

From your hard thing? I asked. 
 

Yes, my rod. You can swallow as much as you like, if you're very good.
 

As a reward, Daddy?
 

Yes, little Jennifer.
 

I can't wait to get home.
 

Can I get an ice cream before we go home, Daddy?
 

You drink the white stuff first, and then we'll see. It's a waste if you get sick from gobbling my big rod and lose all the ice cream, isn't it?
 

We got home very quickly, and sat on the couch. I was on Daddy's lap. He put his arms around me and squeezed me around the waist.
 

No, Daddy, I said, and giggled.
 

He picked me up and put me on the wood floor facing his willy in his big pants. I knew what to do and started sucking like it was a popsicle. I was really in the mood for ice cream. He made some noises like he was dying and a poopy smell with a big fart too.
 

I had puked in my mouth, and swallowed it when his white stuff came out. I wanted to sit next to him but didn't want him to smell it because he had warned me about it before, and I really wanted that ice cream.
 

Well, little Jennifer, wanna go to Dairy Queen?
 

I sure was happy. What a great daddy I have.

Monday, July 9, 2018

Incest & Piss

Jennifer S. Chesler & I wrote these, because we are such awesome people.

Little Jennifer's Perverse Preferences
 

In all honesty, little Jennifer admitted to herself that she enjoyed vanilla incest. She loved it when Daddy rolled his gross body over hers in bed, grunting and farting, and drove his stiff rod straight up into her tight little pie. She wished he weighed much more, since it felt so good when he pinned her down, smothering her and mumbling that she would always be sleeping here now, she could forget both Mommy and Tammy: they were no longer welcome in Daddy's big bed. His sweat would mingle with hers as she whimpered in ecstasy. "I don't care about mommy", she said, "I want you in me, Daddy."
 

I don't know what vanilla incest is, but Daddy says it's the opposite of what comes out of our bottoms. I think that's kind of gross and not at all like chocolate, because it's poopy. But if Daddy says I like vanilla incest, I want to know what kind of bug tastes like vanilla. He says he doesn't mean insect, but he doesn't tell me what he really means. He just takes his big willy, puts it between my legs, and squirts some kind of jelly in me and sticks himself up me. Lately he has been doing the insect thing every night. He is so heavy I can't breathe but this makes him get more excited so that he sticks his tongue in my ear.  He says I prefer when he gets on top and lies flat but his breath is so bad I have to turn my head to the side and think about flowers.
 

Jennifer is growing older and sometimes dreams of freedom, but she forgets to mention her whimpering groans, she forgets to mention the prison she cherishes, weighted down by Daddy's brutal flesh and impaled on his length. She dreams that Daddy will eat so much that he weighs four hundred pounds so she can sleep under his pendulous tits, and call him Nan. He would dress like whores did, centuries ago, in a nasty ancient tunic with a rosette trim at the top, and there would be more orgasms, more torture.

Nocturnal Showers
 

Daddy, I'm cold again.

Oh my god, little Jennifer, you're blue!
 

What's wrong with me, Daddy?
 

Quick, let me stick it in you. I like it chilled and I'll lie flat on you so you get warmed up. The pee in my willy comes out very warm too, and I can pee some over you if you're very good.
 

Really, Daddy, will you do that for me? Is that a golden shower? Are you going to make me pay?
 

Oh, little Jennifer, my golden showers are always free to my daughter. You're such a good little girl.
 

But Daddy, why am I blue?
 

Let's not worry about that right now. Take your nightgown off.
 

But I'm cold and blue.
 

I'll make you warm. Be a good girl now.


Sunday, July 8, 2018

Not Being Dead Yet

Here's a new piece from our next & third volume of The Philosophy of Extremism, Fisting Fiesta.Until then, gentle reader, you are free to purchase the first two volumes of TPoE, Fragments, the masterpiece first novel by Jennifer S. Chesler, as well as various tomes of poems about her by scumbag scrivener McLean. They can be found at this link. Fragments is also available here at Amazon.

Not being dead yet

Chesler and I would assume the forms of flapping skin, night a pizza and Tammy, the sound of Daddy running his fingers over little Jennifer's skin sleeping as she squirmed waking up and asking who mommy was and why she was dead forever and Jennifer sleeping every night in her bed.

"Daddy, she asked me, why is it big and swollen and makes my tummy slosh around inside me like it was sad?"

She would never be old enough to understand the obvious answer that it was because she would never be old enough to understand the obvious answer.


Friday, May 25, 2018

Bungling Psychiatrist as Rape-Enabler

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.

By Jennifer S. Chesler

Monday, May 21, 2018

Nocturnal parenting


Nocturnal parenting
 

Daddy! Daddy!
 

Daddy, help me get up. I’m stuck in bed.
 

Stuck?
 

In bed, Daddy, I can’t get up.
 

Is that why you woke me up at midnight?
 

Yes, Daddy. I’m cold too. My pajamas are too thin.
 

Oh, okay.
 

(He gives her a hug.)
 

Are you going to get me up, darling?
 

What do you mean, Daddy?
 

Oh, you know what I mean, Jennifer. You know very well.
 

Not that, Dad, not a second time.  I already played with it once.
 

That’s not enough when you wake Daddy up in the middle of the night.
 

But I’m cold.
 

Here.
 

(He hands her a bathrobe hanging on the door.)
 

That was your mother’s robe, Jennifer.
 

But I don’t know where Mommy is.
 

She’s in heaven, Jennifer. Put your lips there. That’s a good girl. Lick it with your tongue under the head of it, darling. Yes.
 

I don’t want to wear Mommy’s robe.
 

No talking, Jennifer. Be quiet now.
 

Okay, Daddy.
 

(She keeps sucking. He moans in atavistic pleasure.)
 

Yes! What a good little Jennifer you are tonight.

The Philosophy of Extremism, Principle 2: Extreme Sex



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?

Sunday, May 20, 2018

Tight pussy slut, Part II

#vanillamakesmeSICK

Tight pussy slut, Part II
 

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. 



Wednesday, May 16, 2018

Forthcoming work at Nickel Hole Press

In 2019 we shall publish the forthcoming collaborative work between David McLean and Jennifer Chesler that will constitute the third part of The Philosophy of Extremism, which is naturally to do with the arduous task of creating & manufacturing the unconscious, as Deleuze defines it in "Four Propositions on Pscyhoanalysis" - the assemblage that desire constructs is what Extremism supports. "The shred of placenta that we smuggled out of the womb" only creates well when it creates extremely.

Jennifer Chesler has written four novels, one of which we have already published, Fragments, here at Amazon. She plans to release the remaining three through Nickel Hole Press in the future.

There will be forthcoming collaborative works as well, quite possible a novel about something or other.


Tuesday, May 15, 2018

Steve Tweet

This particular asshole is the most disgusting of them all & the one she hates most, Jennifer informs me. He thought he was schizophrenic when he was actually bipolar. How retarded can you be?

Steve Tweet

I had a fiancĂ© once who was born with the name Steve Tweet. He changed his last name because people made fun of him. He was worthy of the mocking though. I had just gone on psychiatric medication for bipolar disorder. We got into a fight one night after going to his parents’ house because I praised James Joyce, a man his moronic parents found too high-brow a writer for me to mention.

“Do you know how you sounded?” he screams at me. “James Joyce wouldn’t write a book called An Honest Day of Blowjobs.

An Honest Day of Blowjobs was the second novel I’d written, a book that Tweet had not even read.

“Fuck you,” I say to him, enraged partially by mismedication.

“I’m calling your parents unless you take Zyprexa,” he says.

“Fine, call them,” I retort.

My parents had fallen in love with his athletic body and ordinary good looks. Not to mention that he was a lawyer and accountant, though only working for his father as an accountant at the time. Little did my parents know that his cock was broken by using a penis pump to lengthen his large penis but was unable to finish a fuck and had to stop before he came. Though my parents would have had no problem with my marrying a freak or moron like this, they only cared about appearances and money.

I was desperate to get out of prostitution and only got engaged to this man, who was stupid and boring and whom I actually despised, since my parents treated me better when I was in a relationship. I would have dumped him as soon as I was in law school. He had actually been a john when I worked as a whore, so I knew what a piece of shit he was. I was just using him until he was no longer necessary to propitiate my parents.

He picked up the phone and started telling my parents that I was out of control, even lying about me hallucinating, and said that I would never pass the mental fitness part of the California Bar Exam, which he had not even taken himself. Oh, did I mention that he was schizophrenic? He showed me the Hollywood potboiler A Beautiful Mind to break it to me that he had this mental illness.

My parents took his advice and did not give me the money they’d pledged for living expenses at law school.

The next day he broke up with me, ending our engagement. My parents said I could go to a lesser university in a state where I did not want to live, much less work as an attorney. I shouldn’t have even applied there.

I quit the straight job that Tweet had obtained for me at an architecture firm and went back to the sex industry. I couldn’t whore myself to an architectural firm for minimum wage any longer. I’d only had what’s considered a respectable job for the sake of the engagement.

My anger towards my parents grew exponentially. I blamed them for every trick I turned. I am obviously glad not to be a lawyer now. At the time I felt that it was my only option if I wanted to make a decent living at something I felt would be easy for me.

I got an email from Tweet a few years ago:  “I’m writing a book of quotes. Could you talk to your agent for me?” I have since ditched my agent, but, if I had sent him Tweet’s work, they would have been closer than bedbugs in a bed. I hope that each one has all of his fabric ruined by the pernicious beasts. There is nothing worse to curse someone with than bedbugs. You might as well set fire to everything you own.

In this text, Jennifer describes how superior people should not try to get along with, much less marry, inferior people. Until she met a superior person, like herself, she was constrained by the exigencies of the patriarchy in the USA and an upbringing that did not allow her to fully express her own essential identity. This happens to a lot of women, so the story illustrates a choice of whoring retail instead of whoring wholesale.  I agree with her diagnosis that the problem depends upon her never receiving any support whatsoever from anybody. Basically, this loser is no more than funny, but his behavior forced her back into prostitution, thereby qualifying him as a scumbag, and in fact the one she says that she hates most of all her actual exes.

Sunday, May 13, 2018

Transnan

This is the first piece from The Philosophy of Extremism III. See below for the other books we have done.

Transnan


Tammy’s mother had been weird. She had started as Tammy’s father, until she decided to change gender. She did absolutely nothing in the way of operations and so forth. She didn’t even stop shaving and was almost always to be seen masturbating on her porch, wearing only a tunic that covered very little, topped with a cute lace ruffle. I found it embarrassing to be her grandchild. At the age of fourteen, however, I found myself constantly wet whenever I witnessed her antics. She was convinced that i was a boy.

I guess by now you know that I appear in three volumes of The Philosophy of Extremism. Sometimes I think that it not my large body (I weigh between 520 and 840 lbs., or so they say) but my mother that got me into this horrible trilogy. The authors contacted me after reading about the dead firemen who had tried to carry me to the potty in my trailer. But I really think that they were only interested in Dan, my simultaneously disgusting yet beautiful Nan/dad. S/he did have beautiful long legs, it’s true, but her breath was dreadful. I couldn’t even speak to her without averting my head. She started to sit on the front porch of my trailer in her tunic, masturbating like it was Vegas, roulette never smelled so bad.

My Nan was Tammy’s dad. It was sort of exciting. She would call her huge penis her strap-on and tell me that I was a good girl. One time I rode it. But I’m a boy, Nan, I (equally confused) screamed. The report from CPS stigmatized our entire family as “retarded fuckwads” and they told Judge Adams that they “really didn’t care” what happened. So transfixed was the judge by Tammy that he said that she was just Jennifer’s mom anyway, and he would have both authors imprisoned for being naughty, but Harriet was reconciled with him now, took it like a really big girl, and was always wet. He declared them innocent, complimented David on his cock, and discussed spanking with him and Jennifer for six hours while the stenographer wept.

Jennifer was incredibly turned on as she had a fetish for spanking (Duh) that dates back to early childhood, when she did things to her brother that bode ill for her nieces. David was pretty much general purpose, and would get off on anything that did not involve backsplash, a strange phenomenon involving anal sex, poo-poo, and ending in not bothering to clean the sink, after all it wasn’t his fucking apartment and he didn’t make the sac shitty in the first place.

By this point we have no idea where this is going. Nan, and even Judge Adams, had experienced it too. Backsplash was everywhere. It seems like every book we read had taken our experience and sullied it even further. Without further ado, we encourage the reader to buy the previous books, where this story ends in Hermaphrodite Squares. (Daddy wants to fuck now.)