I wanted to post the entire Twitter book that I’ve been writing and to those who’ve been reading it nightly I thank you. I’m going to try and write an entire novel. Here is what we have thus far: I can’t drive her any further from what she doesn’t know, the woman locked in the trunk and she won’t stop screaming and her husband sitting…next to me in the seat and he is equally as disturbed as she, my pistol to his temple and his money in my pocket and therein the youth I’ve lost…what youth was left inside me, the two begging and screaming and it’s all but disturbing and the desert sun won’t set, my wound weeping…and bleeding and the seat is blooded through and McDermitt, Nevada is in the headlights, what it is absolute delusion, snow as is…on the side of the highway and I am dizzy to be sick but I have to tend to them and that is when the back left tire explodes and the pistol…goes off in his face, click, click and click, firing three more times, and he’s begging for the life that I give him, saying…”if you’ll slow down and pull over to the side of the road I’ll gladly change the tire, yet I consider it a good idea for you to not blow…my head off. And perhaps it might be best to let mama in the back there pee. She’s been in the trunk now all of six hours and if she isn’t…covered in her own smelly urine, she’s liable to cut loose soon. The Lord she drank a half-gallon of water and mama’s kidneys ain’t…what they were. They hooked her goofy ass to one of them machines, what went whir! Mutha! Whir! Whir! Whir! And I’ll be damned if…she didn’t piss blood and make the poopy in her brand new drawers. I bought them sexy kind what with the gone crotch and her toot as ancient…as a forest, though it’s the only toot I know, since the beginning of time it seems.” I looked at the man inside of the cab and I’m…astounded, I tell you, astounded! I’m dizzy from the loss of so much blood but the tire has to be changed and mama in the trunk isn’t…

And there you go. Up to date. Thank you for following along. I was walking my swamp trail two days ago and had a recollection of an incident from my heavy drinking days a decade or so in the past. I was in one of those skanky-delicious side o’ the road porno places that sells sexy subject items looking for nothing in particular and reveling in the excitement of still being able to smoke indoors. I stood over the bargain bend perusing hotsy old VCR tapes for three dollars when I saw that they had THE FIFTY-TWO INCH RUBBER FISTS for sell as clearance items. Yep, fifty-two inches. I got a measuring tape out of my pickup and had Donello Perveroso the sex attendant hold it up so I could measure it, and it was, to the knuckle, fifty-two inches even. Here was our conversation:

“So these don’t really fly off the wall I guess?”

“We ordered twelve and sold one. I wouldn’t want that up in me and I’ve done some crazy shit. There are dogs that’re smaller than that.”

“Are they really half off?”

“You can have that electric blue one if you’ll just get it the hell out of the store.”

“Really. Wow. Thank you.”

I was drunk in a bar in Vicksburg, Mississippi a few days later and used the rubber fist as a weapon. I was trying to get a son of a bitch off me in the parking lot and it was available. I tagged him across the shoulders and he stopped immediately and the following was what we said:

“Is that a huge rubber fist you just hit me with?”

“It is indeed. It was given to me.”

“You use it?”

“No. That arena I’ve yet to step inside of. It’s fifty-two inches long.”

“I thought it would go over four feet. I think you broke my shoulder. Damn, hit with a rubber fist.”

“I’m sorry. Forgive me. I don’t think I’m covered for this.”

I let him swing it around and hit a few rocks. Right handed, not with his left. I pitched them to him and he swung away and then I took my turn. That bastard still sends me Christmas cards with photos of his wife and family. Beauty is often in the sewer. Get on your knees and search. JBS

 

 

 

 

I wanted to post the entire Twitter book that I’ve been writing and to those who’ve been reading it nightly I thank you. I’m going to try and write an entire novel. Here is what we have thus far: I can’t drive her any further from what she doesn’t know, the woman locked in the trunk and she won’t stop screaming and her husband sitting…next to me in the seat and he is equally as disturbed as she, my pistol to his temple and his money in my pocket and therein the youth I’ve lost…what youth was left inside me, the two begging and screaming and it’s all but disturbing and the desert sun won’t set, my wound weeping…and bleeding and the seat is blooded through and McDermitt, Nevada is in the headlights, what it is absolute delusion, snow as is…on the side of the highway and I am dizzy to be sick but I have to tend to them and that is when the back left tire explodes and the pistol…goes off in his face, click, click and click, firing three more times, and he’s begging for the life that I give him, saying…”if you’ll slow down and pull over to the side of the road I’ll gladly change the tire, yet I consider it a good idea for you to not blow…my head off. And perhaps it might be best to let mama in the back there pee. She’s been in the trunk now all of six hours and if she isn’t…covered in her own smelly urine, she’s liable to cut loose soon. The Lord she drank a half-gallon of water and mama’s kidneys ain’t…what they were. They hooked her goofy ass to one of them machines, what went whir! Mutha! Whir! Whir! Whir! And I’ll be damned if…she didn’t piss blood and make the poopy in her brand new drawers. I bought them sexy kind what with the gone crotch and her toot as ancient…as a forest, though it’s the only toot I know, since the beginning of time it seems.” I looked at the man inside of the cab and I’m…astounded, I tell you, astounded! I’m dizzy from the loss of so much blood but the tire has to be changed and mama in the trunk isn’t…

And there you go. Up to date. Thank you for following along. I was walking my swamp trail two days ago and had a recollection of an incident from my heavy drinking days a decade or so in the past. I was in one of those skanky-delicious side o’ the road porno places that sells sexy subject items looking for nothing in particular and reveling in the excitement of still being able to smoke indoors. I stood over the bargain bend perusing hotsy old VCR tapes for three dollars when I saw that they had THE FIFTY-TWO INCH RUBBER FISTS for sell as clearance items. Yep, fifty-two inches. I got a measuring tape out of my pickup and had Donello Perveroso the sex attendant hold it up so I could measure it, and it was, to the knuckle, fifty-two inches even. Here was our conversation:

“So these don’t really fly off the wall I guess?”

“We ordered twelve and sold one. I wouldn’t want that up in me and I’ve done some crazy shit. There are dogs that’re smaller than that.”

“Are they really half off?”

“You can have that electric blue one if you’ll just get it the hell out of the store.”

“Really. Wow. Thank you.”

I was drunk in a bar in Vicksburg, Mississippi a few days later and used the rubber fist as a weapon. I was trying to get a son of a bitch off me in the parking lot and it was available. I tagged him across the shoulders and he stopped immediately and the following was what we said:

“Is that a huge rubber fist you just hit me with?”

“It is indeed. It was given to me.”

“You use it?”

“No. That arena I’ve yet to step inside of. It’s fifty-two inches long.”

“I thought it would go over four feet. I think you broke my shoulder. Damn, hit with a rubber fist.”

“I’m sorry. Forgive me. I don’t think I’m covered for this.”

I let him swing it around and hit a few rocks. Right handed, not with his left. I pitched them to him and he swung away and then I took my turn. That bastard still sends me Christmas cards with photos of his wife and family. Beauty is often in the sewer. Get on your knees and search. JBS

 

 

 

 

 

Between the ages of seven and thirteen I hid in the hamper in my sister’s bathroom and watched all of their friends in the shower. It was a wicker hamper and I was undersized so even at thirteen when I was ogling the high school juniors and seniors I still had a good bit of room. Wicker is, depending on its use, often an inferior weave. I could see straight through it. At the height of my pre-pubescent and pubescent perversions I would stick my tongue through the wicker and make animal sounds. I did it once while a cheerleader was pooping and I can’t believe she didn’t turn me in. I mooed like a cow for her. With others I did a naughty elephant. And my silent giraffe, which was rotating the tongue, never even raised an eyebrow. Surmising and musing on those formative years I think about how many naked girls I saw. Thirty is a solid round number. It was probably more like ten. There were tons of repeats, over and over, and I was always excited when I knew they were coming, especially showing up dirty. I would always time it perfectly so it wasn’t a member of the family. Could you imagine the psychotherapy bill? In 2010 while I was thru hiking the Appalachian Trail (south bounder) I walked into a campsite somewhere in Virginia with a few inches of snow on the ground. I am not threatening at all. I am a pleasant fellow I think. Honest and mentally healthy, or I wouldn’t be writing this shit. There was a nice lady alone in the campsite, sixty-five or sixty-six. She was nervous about being in the woods, so I told her the hamper story, to calm her down a bit. She started crying and asked me “if I was going to rub naked up against her tent in the middle of the night?” I replied, “I hadn’t planned to. Perhaps there’s still time to bring somebody in. A familiar, if that’s your groove.” She said “would you do it for a hundred?” I replied “what? Dollars?” We began working out the details of the naked rub. Were there animal sounds involved? Did I need to yell at her? Call her missy? A cousin’s name? We ended up settling on a screaming naked sprint through the camp howling like a wolf. I passed by the tent three or four times and got my howl down pat. I’ve streaked a great deal in my life. Ran through a trailer park in Auburn, Alabama for five vociferous minutes. That having been said on that particular evening when I did my hundred-dollar sprint, I never asked if anyone was with her. Her husband was sitting naked in a tree.

One of my earliest and most profound memories reaches back to the Carter years. It has nothing to do with the president, anything he said or did. I tend to divide my life by presidential administrations. I think it was ’77, maybe ’78. I was eight or nine on a family vacation out west for as much as we could cover. We parked our cab over camper on the Juarez side to roam the Mexican streets. It was safer back then I suppose, not that we really cared. Safe was for pussies and we wanted adventure so into the streets we went. There were vendors abundant and one in particular was a hooker selling small daggers. I was tiny and blonde with Toughskin jeans and a shirt from Kiss’s first tour. I got erections a lot and wanted a blade to potentially stab some villain. Some bastard I’d yet begun hating. I said “fuck” quite often without getting beaten because I murmured the word like a secret. I also said “shit” and “dickbrain.” I heard a carnie say “dickbrain” and I really loved it so I threw it around like a javelin, or an atlatl, something like that. The prostitute had a table with an oilcloth cover and about twenty items. All of them would kill a human. Part of the allure was that she wasn’t wearing panties so I stared at her crotch for an hour. Standing directly in front of the table. Wow, this gal was great. She wore a mini skirt, the kind hookers like to wear, and her lawn chair was red and white. I don’t know why I was alone. Perhaps we divided as a family to cruise for whores and booze? After drooling until my legs were weak, I approached the stand and bought an eight-inch blade, which to this day hasn’t killed another. It has a jaguar upon it eating a lamb and on the blade is dripping blood. It was four dollars even and I tipped her a buck because I thought the lady was swell. The prostitute asked me in broken English if I had any interest in “muling brown dope” across the border in my anus. I thought she said “ruling through a periscope” and I replied, “I play first base. Would you like to go to the Fall Festival? The bouncy house is only a quarter. Hey, let’s be pen pals!” That shit was huge back then. She wouldn’t give me her address so when I got back to Dora I wrote her a letter about riding in cars and about my big green comb. It was the size of a tortoise. I mailed the letter to the PROSTITUTE in the MEXICAN, JUAREZ and the missive never came back. She never wrote and I hope she’s not dead. She’d be about 65. Maybe 66. I still haven’t stabbed anybody. I really don’t want to now.

 

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