A Hooker With A Veiny Pulsing Penis

      Well, I'm sure you won't find a hooker with a veiny pulsing penis in the Hairy Putter movie.  Jenna Jamison's reputation rubs the wrong way too when it comes to a hooker with a veiny pulsing penis.  She might add some quality to Harry Potter.  Like every boys substantial sexual fantasy from a very young age until the age of Harry in the movie.  If I were Emma, I'd need a fantasy Jenna Jamison to continue to return to the set of this lengthy, droll, boring job.
     I saw a hooker dude, dressed like a hooker dudette, walking down the strip with a rack in his hands.  I stared, as I watched him strut by me.  I wonder if he appreciated the irony.  Then I thought no, cause he thinks of himself as already having a rack, a set, of lovely breasts, in his mind.  I turned around, and followed this crazy and perfectly happy inside that crazy mess of his, or his head someone might call it.  He turned right on Virile Street, at the same time making the sign for executing a right turn on a bicycle. He giggled.  I overtook him.  I said "dude, what the hell are you carrying?"  "What's it to you sweetie?" "Well it looks heavy, thought I'd help you with it." I lied lied lied.  "It's a spice rack honey."  I couldn't stop myself.  "Is your name Spice?"
In the news  
A Hooker with a veiny pulsing penis held up a liquor store last night.  He whipped out his penis, and a pistol and pointed both at the store clerk.  He got away with $100 and some odd change in cash and all the miniatures.  The clerk didn't see his face.  He just saw his veiny pulsing penis.  The clerk is giving a detailed description to a sketch artist of the penis.  If you recognize this penis, please call 555-8008.
 

The Holidays?

I wonder what the Oxford English Dictionary says about the history of the word ''holiday".  I imagine it might relate to "holy day." Just a theoretical swan dive backwards into the annals of a history that speaks more and more meaningless volumes to the vertical peeps that drag their feet on the pavement daily.  I denounced all the holidays that people celebrate today at a local coffee shop and my friends shot the idea into tiny, but I consider them, powerful pieces.  I'm now reassembling them.  No religion escapes scrutiny.  Let's eradicate all of this silliness.  Holidays might now demarcate the day the first laptop was sold to a consumer at Walmart.  What about the XBOX?  It continues to ruin a generation, and plans to ruin another one.  The first cell phone sold (at Walmart), Sirrus radio (first purchased at Walmart), flat screen High Def (sold at...) Jesus, (nothing to do with holidays or Walmart).  I'm sure techno junkies totally jive with some of the bullshit I just slung.  Tradition disappeared when families disassembled themselves because they no longer could live in the same 40 room 15 bathroom house.  So they dispersed, and morphed into a artificial clan that thrives on superficial sincerity of emotions.  The emotions, they found on the Internet, with instructions on how to convincingly evince them. 
Me, I'm prepared to celebrate the changes in the earth's seasons.  It's only natural.  Like Winter Solstice and so forth.  I'm a spiritual junkie who could kick a techy junkies flabby ass.  C'mon, I dare you throw the first tech thing at me.  I'm all punches and kicks, plus I'll run your ass into the first firewall you hit.  Oh, god, even I'm afflicted.  Firewall.  What the hell is that anyway?
So happy fucking thanksgiving to you lost losers.  If I could mess with your electronic life I would.  I suppose I should buddy up with my enemies.  Hell no, I have a few books  to finish. 

I'm Thirsty For What Quenches Your Thirst

Let's get one thing straight.  Let's allow no clumsy hole in whatever philosophic dogma I purport in this silly piece of written nothing.  I in no way thirst for Christ's love, or for an athletes first pick to ward off thirst, Gatorade.  I at one lousy time or another sought Christ's love with fervor and a hint of failure around every turn.  I drank a couple thousand yards full of orange and fruit punch Gatorade while engaging in hardcore competition and after that finally (thank god) it dried up.
So if any of You out there, in cyber space at different cyber junctions, express thirst with any and all of the five senses, I'm asking for Your input, help, suggestions, ideas, on what quenches the most ravenous thirst currently unanswered because of a blip in Your plans, life,situation, circumstance.  Names not necessary.  What quenches my thirst?  Writing ccreatively and going to college.  Currently exp. some health problems, so no school and limited writing.
Please I beg you to perch on the edge of a limb, or stand at the end of a high board, or bungee jump off a very high bridge and let me inside your club head. Thanks, me

Meditation for the Mentally Disturbed (Dialectical Behavioral Meditation)

Leader: Technically take the mindfulness out of this excersize, because as I take you fools through this pointless feat your minds will only stay mindful on my sultry voice.  No relaxing.  Mindfullness, even of my bad hot self, requires action, and concentration.  So, Let's proceed my favorite crazy ho's.

Leader: Ok, Let's begin with finding an alert but comfortable position on your chair and close your eyes.  Carrie, not under the damn chair.  Put your stink ass, fungi riddled, pointed toenail, feet flat on the ground.  Now, place your twigs either on each side of the chair arms or put them on the table in front of you  if you can support your huge ass head.  Don't flatter yourself, your head's comprised mostly of manure and methane bubbles.  Be mindful of your butt sitting on the chair.  Your ass is growing exponentially with time.  How huge might your ass be in 2013?  Picture the ripples of fat that exist on your ass at this moment.  Embrace this picture.  Move upwards to your arms.  Feel their useless dead weight hanging off your fucking body.  Stay mindful.  Know one day wrinkles and arthritis will aflict them.  Be self assured in your mindfullness.  Now, it's time to become mindful of our breath.  Of your stomachs hitting the table you sit a foot away from when you out breathe and of your stomachs not moving when you in breathe.  Feel a chocolate cream filled donut slide down your throat, with a gulp of milk.  Feel it bottom out in your stomach.  I know what your mindful of now.  Another fucking donut.  This mindfulness experience is not a diet program.  If necessary repeat the act.  If not open your eyes and admit you sit with the same losers that you sat with when you began this venture.  Please be mindful that nothing changes except everything, so get a grip and move on to mindlessness.  A fool's playground.  

Welcome Mat; A Picturama of Another's Presence

Hello. Let me warn you, I'm certified; but I swallow pills that absorb the crazies bunking inside my head twice a day, so I'm good.  Better than most.  I always dreamed of taking that magic carpet ride that song promised every time I heard it, but finally, recently, I discovered something so much better, a super find, if you will indulge me!
I arrived home from my favorite hang place, the library, but forgot the code to enter my house, really the god damned lock. (Serves me write.  I pushed the envelope, and stayed an hour extra today.  Bad, bad Girl)  As I relish the extra hour with a crooked grin on my hopelessly ugly face, I look down and notice my Welcome Mat.  Good God, might there sit a key under the mat?  Before I bent over to peep under this atrocity, I noticed the mat's otherwise dull brown, rough surface, now contained a picturama, like when I sit on a smelly bus for the long haul and I stare out the window.  Looking at The Welcome Mat created a similar effect, of looking out a window to escape the absolute hell hole in close quarters that threatens me.
This, though, I knew, belonged to someone else's artillery.  This picturama  begged to help a certain individual, not I.  I live in an ungodly, unlivable part of a big city.  I replace my locks monthly.  The only safe place I can go is the library, a rather long ride from my abode.  I see ghosts while I'm looking out the bus window.  I see houses literally fall down, at times, I see the cruelest outcome of Derwin's Natural Selection Theory.
In this pictuarama, the snow is ample.  It's fresh not black and mutilated by traffic.  This one also provides sound.  I hear the crunch of a heavy pair of boots walking on the snow.  A dog barks, a child cries out "Mom!"  and suddenly I hear shortness of breath and notice the picturama changes to an incline.  I know the lady speaks with herself, because she tries to remember what she forgot at the store.   Oh god, she remembered.  Her little girl, sits in a changing station in the women's room in the back of a little grocery store!  Dear God, she needs her picturama.
Then I remember, picturama's maintain a life of their own.  One way they live, is to fuck with the minds of the suckers.  I never claimed I was not a sucker.  So I looked under the damn rug, and found a key.

If Jesus Had A Knife

If Jesus held a knife
while walking a
dead man's path

If the Pharisees
underestimated
Jesus's will to live

To guide and show
An entire generation
shared will, spiritual progress-

But...

If Jesus owned
a knife
and hid it in his hand

With a wreath
around his head
and bloodied to hell

Jesus would ask
for a pause
and give his captors

The damn knife.
The Pharisees no doubt
would plunge the knife

Into Jesus' body
as Jesus feels at peace
soon the knife breaks

The blade stuck in
Jesus' back
Can anyone say Judas?

A Semi-Automatic Headache

Talk about it, remain silent, it shows no mercy.  The tightness of the headache hits the target each time. In the front of my cranium, tense and pulled tight, nothing fucks with a semi-automatic headache.  7 months of consistent drilling in the front of my worthless skull. It bears no oil to the surface.  The Migrainatory Headache Rogues  founded by a Head master of a prominent, very classy, very affluent high school, uses the weapon on people he perceives who have an easy life, of fun and wonderment.  He refrains from acting out on his students, for they earn his bread and butter.  So he walks around the city, very tall and very thin, practically invisible, in a long black wool coat and pretending as if he sees nothing, yet observing the finest detail.  I enter into this when one day I walked towards him down the sidewalk with my blond locks recklessly flowing, and a smile on my face feeling as if I were on the moon.  He looked at me, and it took one wrecking thought.  The headaches started overnight.  I heard of this man, later on a social network.  They showed a picture of him.  He reeked of badness.  I heard only he possesses the ability to afflict me with a semi-automatic headache, and as it stands, no one not even him, has a cure for this affliction.  I inject myself with a potion that provides perhaps minutes of relief...but a semi- automatic does what it does best; it begins to fire again.  I believe the semi-automatic headache happened to be a bystander in the Head master's artillery, and sitting alone, it wishes no harm.  If you go to http://www.bullshit.com/ you will find his picture.  Be sure to look forwards and look depressed and mad at the world. 

the end   J.