The Nilesh Files 1

If a certain short, plain-looking female friend of yours comes over one evening with her awesome antique peace pipe, hoping you might be in the mood to fuck her after she smokes you out, and after passing it back and forth a while you suddenly hear the pipe speaking to you, distinctly saying, "I now belong to you.", well, you've no choice but to accept it. Because even if it appears you're taking advantage of your little admirer—who will doubtless be reluctant to part with a treasured heirloom given to her by her deceased grandfather—you know that just isn't the case. Rather, you simply musn't disobey the wondrous spirit of the pipe, lest it become angry and take vengeance on you both.

(Plus if you do fuck her she'll be so grateful she'll probably feel you deserve to have it.)

The Hatfield Files: Epilogue

You've got to be kidding me. She actually took her things and left, even having the nerve to call you a sleazy pornographer on her way out? Damn. That is rough. Then later she showed up again with a certain supposed buddy of yours who accused you of mistreating her and threatened to beat your ass? Man that sucks. Looks like you need to be more careful choosing your friends. And lucky for him you had the self-restraint to remain firmly planted on the couch while he was all up in your face talking that smack, considering how seriously out of your mind you must be at this point.

Anyhow, seems it is finally time just to face facts. She obviously can't overcome her fear of disappointing you once again, and now she's so angry at herself she's taking it all out on you—being horribly abusive even. Therefore, your best and perhaps only option is simply to end the relationship, painful as that may be for her. As for you, after all you've been through you should definitely try to relax and clear your head a bit, perhaps by cruising around town in your crummy little Chevette at all hours blaring the Smashing Pumpkins and getting totally stoned, or if you're all out of weed, calling on your friends at all hours to see if they'll smoke you out.

And if at home you get to feeling a bit lonely on the futon, you know you can always pop in that video and jack—oh wait, it got jacked. Nevermind. You might try searching for it online though.

Of course you will have to settle the score with that backstabbing little punk—oh what's that you say? You are willing to give him a second chance? My that is awfully big of you. Well heck in that case, you know he's always holding; if you stop by and forgive him he'll surely slip you a few buds. And who knows, he might even let you fuck him.

(Oh well. It was worth a shot.)

Great Zot!

(For some reason I just felt like saying it.)

Funeral Music

Spooky - Little Bullet (Live Version)

Rarely I'll discover a track with such an evocative, excruciatingly beautiful vocal performance I sometimes have to cry, literally, when I hear it. Yet more special, though, is a completely vocalless track that has the same effect. (Ditto for Hybrid's Symphony, by the way.)

Earth Nation - Liquid Desert (No Water Mix)

Eye Q Records (R.I.P.) is one of the sickest dance labels in history, and this has to be the sickest track they ever released—with it's rippling little melody and jumping bassline, infused with shrill, dissonant synth washes and thrashing peals of acid that rev like an engine; all merging, separating, colliding, breaking apart, almost dying, then totally coming back to life. It's soooo luscious.

Note to Dagon

Shut up bitch! As if you don't know EXACTLY where I picked up that shit.

The Hatfield Files 3

No luck with the gangsta? Sheesh. If I didn't know better I'd say she was, well, otherwise inclined. Fortunately, though, after flipping through your clinical psychology textbooK you've finally arrived at the correct diagnosis—that she's so fucked up in the head she can hardly comprehend her own deep, burning lust for you—and at last it's obvious she needs far more than just your unsurpassed expertise on the futon; indeed she needs you to make her whole with the intensive, nurturing sexual therapy only you can provide. So while you may be feeling slightly bitter given her seeming lack of appreciation for all your efforts thus far, you mustn't now let her silent, mournful cries for help go unanswered.

Of foremost importance in this endeavor, she will constantly have to be consoled with your explicit reassurances—to be ever reminded that while the fault lies entirely with her and not you, there's no need to worry because you're a compassionate man who will free her yet from the shackles of her confusion and self-doubt. Toward this end, she'll of course require countless hours of your wise, tender tutelage in the most arcane secrets of female masturbation—ways of taking herself far beyond any imagined limits of sexual gratification—that she could never possibly discover on her own. Likewise, you must impart to her the insight necessary to interpret her sexual responses by explaining to her, in great detail, what exactly it is she's feeling throughout each exercise. Naturally this will once again demand your unsparing patience and perserverance, but trust me, this time your efforts will not go unrewarded. Because in taking this guided journey of self-exploration she will finally come to understand the myriad intricacies and wonders of her body, which at last will enable her to experience the full majestic power of your own caresses.

By the way, it will surely behoove you to capture each of her lessons on video so you'll have a complete record by which to more rigorously scrutinize her progress. Just make certain you remove the tape before you, say, take the camera to a party and get so stoned you accidentally leave it behind and have it stolen.

Lament for the Day

It boggles my mind there's no widespread popular support for a total ban on Microsoft Internet Explorer—the one web browser guaranteed to make your computer think it's being gang raped.

Note to Reader

I suddenly realized my Blogger™ profile has a glaring omission that must be rectified:

In addition to being a 31-year-old male Sagittarius who resides in Austin, Texas, I'm also a filthy, disgusting, disease-spreading skank who should not be touched with a ten-foot pole.

Just so you know.

The Hatfield Files 2

If after months of fruitless toil on the futon, having covered the entire Kama Sutra and The Joy of Sex, you still haven't the slightest clue how to bring your girlfriend to climax—well, that's gotta suck for her. But do not despair; there is in fact a very simple solution to your problem: Instead of all that silly human pretzel nonsense, you'll just have to give her what you know she really wants—that is, to be held down by the nape of her neck and forced to fixate on some filthy gang bang porno while to the deafening laments of the Smashing Pumpkins you give her a good hard rear-entry ramming with a gigantic black gangsta-dildo—one with a shiny, oversized metallic gold tip—and loudly, repeatedly demand to know if you're the best she's ever had. Plus she'll absolutely love it if you don't even bother to let the dog out, because trust me, being attacked in midst of your petting by a howling, growling, frenzied canine will indeed take her to soaring new heights of sexual excitement.

The Hatfield Files 1

When attempting to return a used vibrator, be sure to inform the dyke behind the counter that you were unable to get your girlfriend off with it because the uneven seam between the shaft and tip caused her some discomfort.

Note to MnkyGrl

Get your sweet ass down here.

Word of the Day

(Each time I've come out to someone as a blogger, I've made a point of qualifying that all the whiny adolescent angst I post is purposely exaggerated—that I'm poking fun at myself for indulging in this sort of melodramatic, attention-seeking behavior, and thereby ridiculing all others who indulge in it without likewise acknowledging their crime. Yesterday, however, when out of boredom and curiousity I went scrolling for the very first time, I discovered just how badly I've been sucking at this. I mean, having previously read but a half dozen or so other blogs, I honestly had no clue.)

blog·o·sphere

[blog-uh-sfeer]

-noun Vast, online wasteland of self-parody so artless and brilliant no actual parody could ever possibly be made of it.

Note to Dagon

(Warning to other readers: You're but a click away from the most shockingly offensive smut on the entire internet.)

Seriously now, assuming it's true, how could the untimely demise of Mr. Cool Ice possibly be explained by any non-violent scenario? To me it's a simple question of cause and effect.

Addendum 7.1.07: By the way Dagon, I'm not saying if he showed up at my door right now and demanded I suck his cock I wouldn't ask whether he'd like his ass eaten before, after, or both.

Addendum 8.1.07: Though not what I had in mind, being splattered by a truck is indeed violent. Plus in all likelihood it was no accident.

Electron Waves

My definitive "account" of the opening salvo:

Week 3

I was all wired up and sedated for treatment number six when my doctor inquired about the recent state of my memory. I assured him I was just fine—that there had been some forgetfulness the first week, but that all was back to normal as far as I could tell.

At this point he reminded me I was about to undergo treatment number twelve.

(Ooops. Week 6)

Then I was fast asleep...

Note to MnkyGrl

In spite of my being a bratty little punk? Uh-uh kiddo. Because of it.

You can't pull a fast one like that even at 8am.

Moment of Weakness

I have to confess, in total breach of resolution 16.11.06-5.12.06, I did make another desperate attempt to gain the attention of a certain sexy hunk of a Buddhist monk in the big house. It was my final shot at making a complete ass of myself in 2006, and sadly, I think I managed to pull it off. But please believe me, this was again a transient loss of equilibrium, nothing more, and I've since redoubled my resolve (for 2007) to accept the fact he truly does not want me in his life. Because let's face it, he's so high above us all in his lofty state of nirvana there's no way a needful, craven, earthly wretch like myself could ever hope to reach him. Indeed I'm simply not worthy. And I know I never will be, not in this life at least.

Oh well. Poor me.

I can only pray that in my next incarnation I too will be a divine, mystical guru-convict.