Sunday, June 11, 2017

Axis II

brash, smart, magnetic
i ate you up with a spoon
too good to be true

friends questioned my choice
"this is fine," and it was fine--
 things were that good.

i accepted you
for who you already were
gave you all my heart

gave you family
asked for nothing in return
overlooked your flaws

i let you be you
i made excuses for you
i let you crush me

i am defeated
my spirit, worn and wary

oh, the boundaries
you've crossed, exacting revenge
for slights you've perceived.

chip on your shoulder
albatross around your neck
blind spot a mile wide

you like setting fires
drama and polarity
then, you play victim.

crying "loyalty!"
demanding that i take sides
while you betray me.

the havoc you've wreaked
amongst family and friends--
it is all on you.

why won't i let go?
caught in a loop: hope, despair,
anger, bargaining.

i am waking up,
getting off this crazy train.
no, this is not fine.

but...i will be fine
and i won't harden my heart
while keeping it safe.

Tuesday, May 23, 2017


Drizzle sifted in unapologetically through the gazillion duct-taped crevices littering the expanse of Kimmy's double-wide, moistening the already warped paneling within as if to distract her from the task at hand, which literally was to rub one out before Jerry Springer started while simultaneously trying to flick the glutinous booger she'd just rolled from between her free thumb and index finger into the welcoming orifice of the gleaming Simple Human knock-off trash can she'd recently purchased at Big Lots. Having succeeded at the latter, she hastily attended to her own orifice(s), climaxing as the first ratchet baby mama was being introduced, eyeing a bag of Doritos as she purged herself into twisted redemption.

Sunday, November 8, 2015

Ham Planet (Part III of Syrinx)

Source: TeePublic
Back in the day, Doris aka Biggie Dee was the hottest hamplanet ever to cruise The Strip. Yessiree, that dame was 420 glorious pounds of cornfed horndog scooterbeast to be exact, replete with a voracious appetite for pocket sausage and baby batter in addition to an already steady diet of KFC, BK, and McD's. That was just before the smiley-faced orbs began their visits, back when she was still shacking up with Sanjeev Patel.

Sanjeev was a bearded Pakistani speed freak who bore an unfortunate resemblance to Rasputin. Possessed by a disabling fear of hippopotamuses, he sported crotchless panties and a butt plug whilst tending bar at The Peppermill, his dream in life being to secure his very own DQ franchise so that all manner of slackers, crackers, trailer trash, and whores might continue to be nourished by Brazier Burgers and Oreo Blizzards. Alas, his dream was never realized, being wholly eclipsed by Biggie Dee's mega-celebrity.

Everyone who was anyone in Vegas knew about Biggie Dee. Her notoriety came not just from being O.G. as fuck, but also because of her legendarily elusive meat wallet which had recently been designated as a geocache location. Best of all, the contents of her cache were muggleproof, a lurid holy grail buried so deeply within musky skin folds and yeasty pudendal crevices that even the most experienced of pelt pie plunderers was rendered impotent in defeat with notsomuch as the faintest whiff of pungent victory. So, basically, her hoo-ha inspired a fan club of deranged admirers whose chances of actually glimpsing her mystery bits were slim to none. Well, that is until Skeeter set his sights on pillaging that raunchy village.

Skeeter caught wind of the fact that although Biggie Dee's geocaching fame was exceedingly profitable, her largesse transcended her corpulence in that she routinely donated the entirety of her massive weekly earnings to the local Vegas chapter of Tweakers Anonymous in the hope that Sanjeev might one day clean up his act. Seeing as how she was a do-gooder, Skeeter figured she and Faith would get along just fine, giving him a clear shot at snagging that dusky treasure.

The first step in any tweaker's recovery is to immediately replace meth with incessant self disclosure and caffeinated refreshment. And who better to lend both a solipsistic shoulder to cry on and an endless supply of Amway's premium antioxidant and probiotic-infused 100% fair trade organic coffee than Charity Faith Crenshaw?  She was, after all, Vegas's self-proclaimed redeemer of miscreants and lost souls, having resided there amongst the decaying filth for all of six months now. Skeeter gleefully obliged Faith in her fantasy, blinding her to the true design he had on her as an accessory in his snatch-snatching scheme. Once Skeeter got done with them, poor ol' Sanjeev and Biggie Dee were gonna need all the help they could get.

Part I: Syrinx
Part II: Vegas

Sunday, October 18, 2015

Vegas (Part II of Syrinx)

Now, Skeeter's wiener hadn't actually pounded a human orifice since prior to the new millennium; strictly speaking, he was all talk no action. But believe it or not, even hairy balled flaccid tube steakdom does have its merits, especially in a glittery cesspool like Vegas that's teeming with opportunists, converging and multiplying like flies feasting on gilded shit. So from that perspective, Skeeter's impotence was an attribute, not a flaw.

Vegas. What better place on earth to fulfill his dream of opening the world's first Cunts, Punts & Blunts, a sex shop/sports bar and medical marijuana dispensary all rolled into one? The only chink in the armor was Faith and her moral uprighteousness. Where there's a will, there's a way.

 "Wives, submit to your own husbands, as to the Lord."--Ephesians 5:22

Miraculously, manipulating Faith into leaving her day care job at the Reformed Church of the Perpetually Unworthy had required only a modest degree of effort. By exploiting her devout and unwavering belief in the subservience of women to their husbands, Skeeter managed to convince her that peddling Amway in Vegas would permit her to serve not just him but the Lord our God, assisting them both in disinfecting and detoxifying mankind through bio-friendly detergents and phytonutrients. Any way you sliced it, this situation was a win-win.

Faith's zeal for meddling, martyrdom, and self-aggrandizement was a convenient foil for Skeeter's sleazeball business venture, allowing him and his limp dick to sponge effortlessly under the radar, milking the tit of human kindness and shitting out gold bricks (albeit mostly fake ones). And let's face it. Faith was an epic bitch, a real buzzkill who was so inherently unlikable that nobody really paid much attention to Skeeter anyway.

"A night in the arms of Venus leads to a lifetime with Mercury."--Elizabethan saying

Not everything that happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, the open sores Doris Patel acquired on her twat after an evening of oral tomfoolery with Skeeter being a prime example. Only Doris was convinced that it was Rasputin's evil spirit, and not Skeeter, who'd visited this grave psychic and bodily harm upon her. The smiling faces within the orbs she frequently attempted to photograph told her so.

Part I: Syrinx
Part III: Ham Planet

Sunday, October 4, 2015


From A Martyr's Perspective (collage by my father, WP Mazur)
Charity Faith Crenshaw was a woman of her word. Whatever her word was, it became her deed and her crusade, and by Jeebus, she never went back on either one. She sure as hell was no Indian giver where words or deeds were concerned. In her mind, anyone and everyone needed a helping hand, whether they realized it or not. Whether it was forcibly presenting a welcome-to-the-neighborhood batch of her prize-winning peanut butter and jam thumbprint cookies to the only household on the street whose kids had multiple food allergies or reporting suspicious individuals and events on a daily basis to the neighborhood watch, resistance to her tireless efforts was futile. She was a helper and a giver who liked to stay busy by minding everyone else's business.

What Charity really got off on, though, was the self-sacrifice--no, the martyrdom--involved in extending her hand to those in need, especially when her services were completely unsolicited. Now, this wasn't meddling: it was her Christian duty. She took her name as seriously as her word, and of course, the word of the Lord. Well, maybe except for the apostle Matthew's word who in his self-titled bible chapter 6:1-4 had this to say about charity:

"Beware of practicing your righteousness before men to be noticed by them; otherwise you have no reward with your Father who is in heaven... So when you give to the poor, do not sound a trumpet before you, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your giving will be in secret; and your Father who sees what is done in secret will reward you." 

Back in the day, Matthew had been a tax collector, and since Charity eschewed paying taxes on the grounds that her tax dollars were preferentially funding bling, such as cell phones and fancy basketball shoes, for the burdens of society who were too lazy to work, she felt it behooved society to disregard Matthew's word. The passage which said "Work makes you free" resonated with her the most. Only, she never could seem to locate that verse in her dog-eared copy of the King James bible. Anyhow, 2 Thessalonians 3:10-12 justified this aspect of her self-righteousness quite nicely: "Anyone unwilling to work should not eat." That was more like it. After all, hard work never killed anyone, did it?

Because of Charity's devout faith in her own virtuousness and piety, she felt blessed. Blessed with the knowledge that she was one of God's elite chosen few, uniquely poised to inherit His kingdom and its abundance, what with all the saints and angels and manna and precious jewels and pearly gates, although she was a bit worried about how she'd get along with those heathens who'd been grandfathered into heaven by default. Jesus's infinite mercy really kind of annoyed her. As did Skeeter, that slothful womanizing tub of lard sperm donor Charity begrudgingly referred to as her husband.

Ironic as her sham marriage was, she'd stuck with it, being a godly woman and all. That's precisely why she disagreed so strongly with Matthew about how one's good works should go unrecognized publicly. If the left hand didn't know what the right one was doing, how on earth would a marital martyr like her receive acknowledgement for enduring such a sorry excuse for a man? Perhaps even more troubling was the fact that she'd become increasingly unable to feel her hands anyway. So yes, she needed to pay attention to what her hands were doing.

Verily, God had given Charity an extraordinarily heavy cross to bear in this pestilent pox husband of hers, but suffering his scourge in silence was no longer an option. She'd permitted his rottenness and evil to besmirch her steadfast convictions long enough. In contrast to the smoldering syrinx that was covertly hollowing out her cervical spinal cord neuron by neuron, Skeeter was 265 pounds of inert wasted space, the momentum of which had to be stopped.

Part II: Vegas
Part III: Ham Planet

Sunday, July 19, 2015

Misadventures of a Middle-Aged MILF: The Sampling Error

On Tinder, I'm Betty. Don't ask.
Oh, the joys of online dating when you're a newly single 52 year old MILF. Match is riddled with serial messagers and dirty old men, Coffee Meets Bagel isn't serving up much of either, and Hinge is total crickets. So far, the only luck I've had has been with Tinder. But, after last night's date from hell, I've concluded that Tinder's like a box of chocolates: you never know what you're gonna get.

Since separating amicably from Spartacus a month ago, I've been enjoying an extremely active social life, meeting tons of interesting men and having a lot of fun. I'm trying to learn how to do conventional dating, which is something I've never tried in the past. Testing the waters of serial dating, so to speak. I'm a confident, intelligent, independent, sexy woman who doesn't take myself or anyone else too seriously and, perhaps most importantly, isn't looking for a relationship. NSA* all the way, baby. What's not to love about that, amirite?

Welp, it pains me to report that my little social experiment in dating, which had actually been progressing along quite swimmingly--with mad props to Tinder, Uber, and awesome intown Atlanta life--hit a major sampling error snag last night. I'm still trying to get my head around the sheer awfulness of it. Where to begin? 

It all started with a swipe. On Tinder, you review photo profiles, swiping left if you aren't interested and to the right if you are. Needless to say, I spend the vast majority of my time swiping left. What is it with guys my age? Even most of the ones in their early 40s look worn and haggard. Maybe I'm just too picky. I am, as you know, a freak of nature who can still pass for someone in her late 30s or early 40s *sigh* Believe me, it ain't easy being a hot middle-aged MILF, LOL. 

Anyhow, Richard aka Douchebag Dick or D2 for short was reasonably physically attractive with nice teeth and his tagline, "Relax...Nothing is under control," seemed kinda groovy. Based on our Tinder convo, we shared a few things in common, namely being self-professed free spirits. "I'm most interested to hear what people mean by free spirited," he'd declared in one of our message conversations. Seemed benign enough, so I agreed to meet him Friday night for dinner at a nice restaurant on Krog Street. Unbeknownst to me, that statement actually heralded the first of many red flags.

Ecce Homo (Behold the man), y'all!
After sweltering outside for 7 minutes in this godawful Atlanta mid-summer heat because my Uber driver needed to stop and pee before coming to pick me up, I sent D2 (name obscured by wiener sausage) a text message to let him know I was running late. For some reason, I only saw the text portion of his photo response which indicated he was already at the restaurant having fun. "Cool," I replied. Even if I had noticed the accompanying photo at that moment, it still wouldn't have made any sense until now.

He seemed surprised when the hostess showed us to our table. I guess he forgot that I'd made reservations and even emailed him a confirmation. Whatever. I've certainly had my share of blonde moments. Once we were seated, I must admit, the conversation flowed remarkably well. Both of us have adult kids, so we traded parenting misadventures and talked superficially about prior relationships, you know, the stuff you usually talk about when you're first getting to know someone. We placed our orders for food and wine, deciding to share a foie gras appetizer and The Luminary's signature seafood tower. So far, so good.

Things started getting weird when D2's response to my question regarding what he did for a living was, "I live a life of leisure."

"Oh?" I replied, "How'd you swing that?"

He then proceeded to fill me in on how he's been on "walkabout" for the past few years. Yup, you heard me right.  So, this sojourner on a globe-trotting mind-expanding voyage of self-discovery loves everyone and everything indiscriminately--especially women--because we are all connected and part of each other in some way, does a little business here and there, pops in and out of different cities, and laments the infrequency with which he encounters like-minded individuals. "I'm extremely comfortable with who I am as a human being," he concluded. It's worth noting that prior to this transformation during which he supposedly divested himself of all attachments to people and material possessions, yet still posts Instagram pics of expensive cars and bottles of booze, he described having been a successful wealthy conservative Fox news-watching suburban businessman. And, he's at a point in his life where he feels he's ready for a relationship.

Douchebag Dick aka D2
I began to get the distinct impression D2 was sizing me up to see how I fit. Like, as we were talking, he'd favorably approve of any like-minded responses I delivered as "beautiful, beautiful" while furtively radiating a condescending aura of intellectual superiority. At one point, he even inquired why I pretend to be so dumb. Wait, WHAT?? "Because I've read your blog and you're obviously highly intelligent." Me...dumb? For serious? Did he really just ask me that?

For realz, don't ask me how I managed to overlook that last comment. Like I said before, I really don't take my own opinions or anyone else's too seriously. Our conversation finally shifted to a discussion of what it means to be a free spirit with specific regard to how that influences one's major life decisions. For me, most of my major life decisions have been intuitive and spontaneous, based in action and doing what I wanted to do, not rumination and introspection. I mean, shit, if I'd put too much thought into becoming someone's mother or going to medical school, I'm pretty sure I would have talked myself out of those things.

I mentioned the fact that I was a good student in high school, and how I don't remember any teachers taking an active interest in mentoring me like they did the smart male students. Back in 1979, girls were still supposed to be nurses and secretaries. I wondered aloud how my life might have been different had I been encouraged to explore the same options as my male counterparts, adding that although I've done whatever I wanted to do in life as a woman, I've had to learn to fly under the radar to accomplish certain things.

What's so intimidating about my jugs?
This immediately prompted D2 to launch into a largely unintelligible diatribe about how "none of that mattered then and it doesn't matter now" because according to his supreme wisdom, I was mired down in the past and gender inequality is a social construct that only exists in our minds and since he doesn't practice it or believe in it, he is exempt from acknowledging that it's still a problem for certain other individuals. In other words, sexism, classism, and racism are all just figments of my imagination. That's right about when the psychobabble shitstorm hit.

"OK," I asked, amused. "So, here in Atlanta, GA, guess which one of us is gonna get arrested for walking around in public without her shirt on? How is that not sexism? It's just basic common sense that this is how our laws work."

He countered indignantly, "Oh, you're one of those," implying that I'm a bitter, angry woman who feels she's been wronged by white male-dominated society. Bitch please, gimme a fuckin' break!

Only someone with Play-doh for a brain would deny matters of common sense experience. Such as how, in the state of Georgia, it's against the law for women to bare their breasts in public, which is why I have to fly under the radar when I want to go outside without my top. Just because I disagree with that law and find it completely outrageous doesn't mean it's not real with real consequences. It's also a well-established fact that, for every dollar a man makes, women with the same level of education and experience still make about 76 cents doing the same type of work, a statistic that hasn't changed much in the past 20 or 30 years. But, yeah, this guy's gonna sit here and argue with me that the gender gap in equality simply doesn't exist!

Dumb li'l ol' me
This tit for tat exchange went on through coffee and dessert. I kept calling bullshit on his bullshit and didn't let him get away with his slew of ridiculous denials, all of which were clearly based in some sort of phony new age philosophy. In a nutshell, I rendered him incapable of mounting a compelling argument. Predictably frustrated at having been outwitted by a woman, disgruntled by his failure to impress me with his vastly superior intellect,  he leaned back in his chair, folded his arms across his chest, and proclaimed whilst shaking his head, "Wow, you're really uptight!" Then, he pulled himself back up to the table, leaned forward with his hands clasped, and asked me very seriously, "Do you have any idea how hard it is to be a tall white male in our society?" Oh no, he did-n't!

But wait, there's more. The pièce de résistance of this unbelievably terrible evening came when he finally revealed that he's an e.s.t devotee, and how he thought I'd really gain a lot of insight from such a program. I knew it!!! In case you're not familiar with e.s.t. (now known as Landmark Forum), it's a cult of narcissistic existentialism that employs brainwashing techniques to produce marvels of the universe who can't think for themselves like D2.

"Betty, you and I won't need to see each other again. I've learned so much about what I don't want in a relationship from you tonight."

Sorry loser, gtg, my carriage awaits!
Unbelievable. I reached into my purse for my debit card and phone, obviously ready to pay for my half of dinner and summon Uber and get the fuck outta there.

"Wait, Betty, let's move this over across the street to Krog Bar for a nightcap. I'll pay for dinner since I gave you a hard time."

Ha! "No thanks," I said, placing my Uber order. "I think we're done." Well, actually, I did allow him to pay for dinner since I'd endured his barrage of egotistical insults.

Thankfully, Uber was only a couple of minutes away. In what was to be the last awkward moment of this nightmare, D2 insisted unsuccessfully on driving me home. "Uh, no way." It seriously took him a minute to fully comprehend that he wasn't gonna get lucky with Betty, the dumb broad from Tinder, LOLZ.

Randall, my Uber driver, arrived just as we exited valet, whisking me away into the night like a knight in shining armor.  He listened enthusiastically as I recounted the various horrors of my evening, a dialogue which was punctuated generously with "WTF?!" and "You've gotta be kidding me!" Nope, you just can't make this shit up. It wasn't until the next morning that I noticed D2's photo text from the restaurant, featuring the female bartender posing in front of the drink she'd made him. Who the fuck sends their date a picture like that?! Anyhow, Randall earned 5 well-deserved stars that night. As for me, well, I earned perspective, a free dinner, and this awesome story.

*NSA: No Strings Attached
**name changed for creative license and to protect the guilty

Monday, June 1, 2015

Dark Horse Heroes

Part VI (Conclusion) of Opportune By Design

As usual, Pete was parked by the bar, sipping on his fancy imported mineral water. He was the first to witness Jackie's bizarro entrance. Springing from his stool to investigate, slipping and sliding in Jackie's bloody trail, Pete raced toward the now-occupied can. The door wasn't locked, but something or someone was blocking it.

Pressing his ear against the door, he could hear Jackie muttering and clanging around with water running in the background. The clamor was quickly followed by a blood-curdling scream and a sickening thud. Then there was silence. After a couple of minutes of yelling and beating on the door so hard that he bloodied his own fist, Pete started using his body as a battering ram, finally managing to budge it open just enough to peek through with one eye.

What Pete saw inside that shitter could never be unseen. There lay Jackie, collapsed in a pool of bright red blood which was already seeping out beneath the door, his head apparently having struck the toilet. Pete shouted at the bartender to call 911, ramming the door frantically until he was able to squeeze inside. The full horror of the remaining scene instantly made him retch. In a macabre display of ascetic self-mutilation, a rapidly exsanguinating Jackie still clutched a scalpel in one hand and his own meticulously excised testicles in the other. Evidently, he'd attempted to exorcise his own demons.

Once the paramedics arrived, Pete made his way through the resultant commotion to see if he could find Hillary. He was sure she'd want to know about Jackie. But Hillary was nowhere to be seen. She'd been sitting at the bar about an hour earlier, drinking heavily and chatting up a quiet shifty-eyed stranger.

Pete remembered seeing a strange van at load in, a big white one with tinted windows, out of state plates, and a conspicuously absent Confederate flag bumper sticker. It stood out like a sore thumb amongst all the muscle cars and Ford F-150s. Back in the springtime, he'd joined the search party when that poor girl, the one who'd gotten her head lopped off, went missing. Although there'd been reports of a similar white van in that area, her killer was never apprehended. Quickly putting two and two together, Pete bolted toward the parking lot.

Outside, the air was thick and dusk was closing in. In the waning twilight, Pete spotted the van backing out of its space. A sudden flash caught his eye. Lying in the gravel by the van's passenger door was one of Hillary's signature silver stilettos. Pete lunged reflexively, grabbing onto the door's handle with both hands, breaking off the side view mirror in the process.

Without warning, two police cruisers whipped into the parking lot, blocking the van's exit. Two cops jumped out and ran right past the van. They were there to restore order inside Junior's, and since they'd assumed whatever was transpiring over at that van probably involved liquor and a skanky bimbo, they didn't concern themselves with it.

Meanwhile, Pete smashed open the passenger window using the severed mirror. Inside, Hillary was slumped in her seat, looking as if she'd been drugged. In a fit of panicky rage, Pete hoisted himself up into the van through the shattered window, and went straight for the driver's throat. The van surged and halted, then surged again violently over a parking stop.

Pete's immediate instinct was to get Hillary and himself out of the van as quickly as possible. Temporarily stunning the driver with an amateur choke hold, he unlatched the door, kicked it open, and pulled Hillary out to safety. He squared her away, then charged back toward the van. The driver, who appeared mildly dazed but still cocky, gunned the engine and took off.

According to police, in a neighboring town that same night, a man driving a white van was found dead, the apparent victim of the elusive predatory tweaker, known as Waffles, whose calling card was a Dirty Cupcake. The man had seemingly lured Waffles into his van with a bottle of Robitussin and a bucket of Colonel Sanders. Surprisingly astute for a robotripping meth whore, Waffles suspected malfeasance the moment she spied the unsavory assortment of paraphernalia stashed in the back of his van.

Eyeing rolls of duct tape and plastic sheeting, zip ties, and a muddy shovel, she correctly pegged him as the Flint River Butcher. With great consternation, Waffles reached for her purse. Lucky for her, the killer was too distracted masticating his drumstick and boning her in the ass to take notice. "Here ya go, baby. Fuck me with this," she purred, brandishing a neon pink dildo.

In a single stroke, the Flint River Butcher went from pushing fudge to pushing up daisies. The million volt jolt he received was just enough to rupture an occult aneurysm buried deep inside his brain. The shock killed him instantly.

After making sure he was dead, Waffles calmly plucked a small turd from her rectal vault, pressed it firmly into his bellybutton, and decorated it with fried chicken sprinkles from the bottom of the KFC bucket. She then replaced the cap on the Eve's Ammo Super Deluxe Dildo/Stun Gun combo she'd received as a welcome gift at the women's shelter. Click. Big Wendy and Miss Dolly took their call to Christian service very seriously. This innovative new line of double duty defense devices, dispensed free of charge to all whores of Babylon, was their contribution to women's advocacy.

Despite EMS's attempts at resuscitation, Jackie was pronounced dead on the scene due to his self-inflicted wounds. Right before he died, he'd had a brief lucid interval during which he repeatedly murmured the word "eunuch." Unicorn, eunuch. Hmmmm. Given Jackie's nature, and the nature of his injury, he probably got what he deserved.

Hillary skipped town after her brush with death. Every once in a blue moon, she'll send a postcard to Junior's with a California postmark and no return address. The cards themselves are different each time but her one word message, inscribed in girly script with pink ink, is always the same: "Saved." The last card to arrive included her last name, Rutledge. Pete had no idea what Hillary Rutledge was doing with herself, but he understood her message. Wherever she was, he hoped she was happy and that her new life was as opportune and easy as she'd always been.

Perhaps Jackie's auto-castration was his singular act of contrition, his peanut-induced psychosis a metaphor for a penance gone terribly wrong. When you connect all the dots, Jackie's sacrifice was Hillary's salvation. Hillary and Pete were dark horse heroes, fearless and genuine, their flaws redemptive. Hell, even Big Wendy and Miss Dolly got in on that action, a tad self-righteous maybe, but righteous champions of the unclean nonetheless. Vice may be the spice of life but maybe life's the real vice. It takes a good heart to triumph over moral decay, but an even better one to live like there's no tomorrow. The down-trodden, the exploited, the so-called immoral: they're full of stories like that. And this was one of them.

Part I: Opportune By Design
Part II: Proclivity
Part III: Transgression
Part IV: Mayhem
Part V: When In Doubt, Cut It Out

Original artwork by WP Mazur, MD