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

Syrinx

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 streets...do 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