Poor Leo

(Authors note: Today, I decided to let someone else give me a topic to write about. My friend Colin Sanderson chose "Ventriloquist Dummy Fetishism". Fucking wonderful Colin. Here goes.)




He didn't have to fuck it. It just had to be around. On a desk, or a chair. Somewhere Gil could see it. I came across this interesting bit of information wholly out of annoyance one night, after a few bottles of wine, and a couple of hours of having the fucking thing staring at me from across Gil's living room.

"What's with the doll?" I asked. "Why's it always around?"

He looked over at it, sitting on the couch. "Leo?"

"I don't know. The fucking doll."

"Yeah," he smirked. "That's Leo, and he's a ventriloquist's dummy. He helps me jerk off."

I took a drink. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." He was smiling.

I sort of wanted to leave at that point, but there was still a half bottle of wine left, and really, what the fuck else was I going to do? At least this seemed like it could be interesting conversation.

"So... you fuck it?" I asked.

Gil had been looking at Leo, but broke his gaze to answer me. "No. You probably couldn't fuck one of those. The bodies are mostly fabric and dowels. No grip anywhere, except the jaws I guess, and who wants to risk splinters?"

"Fair enough," I said, as I took another swig. My glass was empty now, so I reached across the coffee table, uncomfortably close to Gil, and took the bottle. I pulled off of it, and held it in my lap. I needed it now more than him. The image of Gil squirting half a tube of astro-glide into the block mouth of Leo and going to town on it just refused to leave my brain. He said he didn't actually fuck it, but that didn't mean that at some point, in the dark, alone, he hadn't tried.

"Am I making you uncomfortable?" He asked.

"No. Just strange, is all."

He nodded. "Yeah, I never said it isn't. Can't help it though, you know? It's a fetish."

"A fetish for Leo, or dolls in general?"

"Well," he said, "again, it isn't a doll, it's a ventriloquist dummy. And almost any would do, I guess. Leo just happens to be the one I own."

I suddenly felt bad for Leo. Not only was he the victim of some degree of sexual abuse, but he also wasn't truly loved. I hoped he wasn't the kind of dummy that came to life at night to run around the house, performing mischievous deeds and staring at you from the end of your bed. I'd hate for him to awaken, expecting a night of fun only to have to scamper off into the bathroom to wipe the cum from his face and cry into the toilet. Poor Leo.

I pulled off of the bottle.

"So, you have a thing for ventriloquist dummies, but you don't fuck them... What do you do?"

"You want me to walk you through it?" He asked.

I didn't. "Sure," I said.

"Well, basically, I just set it up on a chair, and kind of stare into it's eyes, and..."

"Okay. Never mind. I get the point." I finished the bottle.

We sat in silence for a moment.

"I can put it away if you want," he said.

"Please."

He got up, and grabbed Leo by the arm.

In my mind, I saw Leo mouth 'help...' and cringe as he was dragged back toward Gil's bedroom. I heard the door open, a thud, and the door close. Gil came back out.

I didn't think I was going to hang out with him for a while after this.

Gil sat back down. "So, I mean, you don't have anything like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like Leo. You know, your own 'thing'?"

"Just women."

Gil smirked again. "You'll find your thing someday man. It will sneak up on you somewhere wholly inopportune, and you'll think about it all day, and the next thing you know, you'll be racing home to lock the doors and jerk off to the memory of some unsuspecting manhole cover or some shit. You watch."

"Is that what happened to you?"

"Yep. Pretty much," he said. "I saw a ventriloquist act about five years ago in Brooklyn, and something about it, the hand inside it, the personality, something, just set me off. It was all I could think about for months. And it's not just me," he added. "People like me are out there everyday man. Not just dummies either. Anything."

"Anything?"

"Anything. Pick something. The most mundane, boring object in the world, and I guarantee you there are twenty separate webpages all about fucking it. Paperclips, fire hydrants. Go nuts."

"Bowling shoes?"

"Oh, fuck man, anything to do with feet. People love feet. I don't, I mean, I don't get it. Feet are ugly, but, a lot of fucking people do, so yeah, shoes, feet, toenails, all kinds of shit man."

I wished I had more wine.

"I feel kind of vanilla now," I said.

"Because you don't have a thing?"

"Yeah, I suppose."

"You can borrow Leo if you want. Try it out."

"No thanks man. That's like borrowing another man's porn. You just don't."

Gil laughed. "Okay."

I stood up. "Listen, I'm going to head out. We're out of wine, and I want to get more before the shops close up."

"Okay man. And hey, don't worry, you'll find your thing."

"Thanks." I left and couldn't stop thinking about Poor Leo. what was probably happening to him as I walked away, into the darkness. His face, staring involuntarily at something I would claw out my own fucking eyes over. Poor Leo, I thought.

By the time I got back to town, the shops were closed, and I couldn't sleep that night.

Ted, the Piss Cat.

She has a lot of names. So many, in fact, that she doesn't even recognize them as anything meaningful. Just sounds humans make. She called herself Ted, after her first (and only) owner a few years ago. She missed Ted.

She's a long haired cat, sitting in the bushes beside a brick house as the dawn creeps in. She wheezes as she breathes and her left eye is leaking a sort of gel. She's old, and she smells like piss. We'll get to that in a little bit though.

Right now, she's hungry. Usually, she steals whatever she can find in the garbage, but the Orange Cat (some of the humans call him "That Orange Fucker"), was following her around, and she didn't feel like getting clawed to shit just yet.

Her body ached.

She gazed at the porch of the brick house. Sometimes, the Girl Human would put food out for her, and sometimes, Ted would be fast enough to get it before Orange or any of the others did. Sometimes, she didn't even have to fight for it. There was no food there this morning.

She sighed.

Behind her, a twig snapped. She jumped up and ran up to the porch and looked around. She didn't see anything, but that didn't mean much. She couldn't see that well as it was and most of the strays around here had gotten fairly good at being seen only when they wanted to. She listened.

"Hello?" she called.

Around the corner of the house, she heard a step.

"Hello?"

"Ted." It was the young cat. She couldn't ever remember his name. The brick house Humans had given it to him, but it was weird and long. Started with an 'S', she thought.

"What do you want?" She asked.

"You know what."

"Leave me alone. I just want food."

"This is my house," the Young Cat said. He came around the corner. He was smaller than most of the strays, but not scrawny. He was grey and white, and a dick.

"No." Ted backed up against the railing, and felt a wave of nervousness pour over her. Some days were better than others, and maybe today, this would be her only confrontation. Maybe today would be a good day. She hoped. "That isn't right. You don't own these humans. They feed me sometimes."

The Young Cat came around the porch and stopped at the bottom step, glaring up at Ted.

"They don't feed you bitch. They just put food out for any of us. First come, first serve. You think they give a shit about an old dying piss-cat?"

Ted backed further up against the door of the house, her hair standing on end. "Leave me alone," she hissed.

"Get off my porch." He took a slow step toward Ted. Ted cowered, and hissed again.

"Hiss all you want you old bitch, but this is my porch, and this is your last warning. Go."

Ted thought for a moment. She knew she needed to take a stand someday. She knew that this porch was as much hers as anyone else's. She knew she shouldn't let the Young Cat or The Orange Cat bully her, but she was so weak, so old...

She began to try to creep around the Young Cat. He kept his eye on her. "That's right bitch, get off my PORCH!" He dashed toward her, and screeched. Ted jumped into the air as The Young Cats claw tore into her side. She felt it immediately and yelped, losing control over her jump and tumbling down the steps, into the driveway. Without looking back, Ted darted across the street, wounded, and hungry.

She could hear The Young Cat on the porch, clawing at the door, and mewing for the Humans attention. The fucker.

Ted walked into the grass of the Yellow House across the street. They never fed her here, but sometimes they left the top off of their garbage can. She hoped they had.

She turned the corner around the back of their garage, and no, they had left the top on. Her heart sank a little. She was running out of options, and the last one, was not good. She decided to wait a few hours, before she would have to ask for help.

Ted curled up under the wooden porch behind the Yellow House, and decided to try to sleep, hoping no other cats would see her, at least for a little while.

She slept.

When she awoke, the day was bright. The cut on her side burned. She licked it, hoping it would stay clean, and not cause any more problems. Hoped it would heal, and stop hurting before someone else decided to give her another. She hoped for a day of peace.

She couldn't fight it anymore. It was time to ask for help. She didn't want to, and she hated the price, but it was time.

Ted went to go find Lucky.

Lucky was another long haired cat. Brown, and never hungry. The rest of the strays (Young Cat excluded), always hung around him. He kept them fed. Entertained. He lived at the bottom of the hill inside an old doghouse in the woods. Ted hated going there.

She made her way down the hill, following the treeline behind the houses. She tried not to go out by the road as much as possible. Some humans were very mean to strays, especially old strays in her condition. It was better to just avoid being seen sometimes.

After a few minutes she found the path to Lucky's. Worn down by the dog who lived here however long ago, it was a narrow rut leading from the backyard of the old white house here, almost to the river, where, as legend has it, Lucky drowned the dog. Ted had her doubts about the story.

She could already hear the mew's and chuckles of Lucky and his friends. In her head the image of the oncoming night only amplified them. Turned them into nightmares. Ted shuddered. She was so hungry.

She could see the doghouse. A cat moved inside, but she wasn't close enough yet to see which. She mewed to announce herself, and the chuckles stopped. Something about that bothered her more. After a second, Lucky wandered out of the doghouse, and sat down, attentively.

"Ted. How nice of you to drop by," he said. Snickers came from inside the doghouse.

"Hello Lucky." Ted dropped her head, not out of respect, but shame.

Lucky smiled. "Don't do that, beautiful. Look at me."

It was nearly impossible for Ted. Her entire being told her it was better to starve than, this. But, she raised her head. "I'm hungry, Lucky."

"I know you are beautiful. It's a tough world out there. Come closer."

Ted meandered up to him. Her joints aching, her tired old fur standing on end.

Lucky leaned into her. "The usual spot?"

"I don't want to Lucky. Please. Not today."

"Oh, Ted. You must not be very hungry then. You know the price for my help. Don't you?"

"Yes."

"And you come to me, expecting me to waive it?" Lucky asked.

Ted dropped her head again.

"Listen, Ted, I like you. Sure. You are a fine cat. You've had hard times. But so have we all. Every one in that house there has had a hard time. We've all lost humans, and cats alike. We have all starved. We have all fought for scraps. You know how hard it is to find a smile these days. Don't you?"

"Yes, Lucky."

"And you want us to smile, don't you?"

Ted fought back tears. "Yes. Lucky."

"And you are so very hungry, aren't you?"

"Yes Lucky."

"Then I ask you again," he said, "the usual spot?"

"Yes Lucky." She could barely get the words out. Was it worth it, she wondered? Was this, this mark worth the meager bites Lucky would allow her? Was her pride worth surviving into more days of this? Could another human ever love her, smelling as she did? A tear mixed in with the gel in her dying eye, and she decided that, good or bad, she must survive. There had to be just one more good day waiting for her. There had to be.

"Right this way then," Lucky said, and then, as he and Ted began to walk toward the river, "Boys! Ted's here! Let's have a good time!"

From inside the doghouse came laughter and words Ted didn't want to hear. Cats strolled out, and walked beside her, looking her up and down. A lanky black cat said, "Fuck, you are one nasty old cat." Another called her "his territory." "Another yet called her "fresh scent."

Ted was crying.

The reached the edge of theriver, and the cats circled Ted.

"You hungry Ted?" Lucky asked.

Ted nodded.

"Then I'd close your eyes, and earn your meal."

Ted closed her eyes. Without any more warning, the circle of cats began to mark her. The scent was unbearable, and the piss burned her wound. She cried and cried, and soon, the warmth of it all disappeared as the cats all finished up, laughing and joking, calling her names and kicking dirt on her. She laid down in the mud and put her paws over her head and wept.

"There ya go, Fresh Scent!"

"Nasty Bitch!"

"Piss cat! Ted the piss cat!"

"Allright boys," Lucky said. "We've had our fun. Back to the house."

Ted could hear the other cats walking away. Something hit her on the side. She looked up. It was a bird corpse, only a few days old.

"Eat up," Lucky said, and turned to walk back to the house.

Ted looked at the bird, laying alongside her in the mud, and wondered who suffered the worse fate. Who was the lucky one?

Ted ate.

I Dream the Apocalypse

I love the way people act and reason. The way they squirm under the light. I like to theorize. I like to analyze. Sometimes, to the very ends of the wits of people around me. I find myself obsessing over the tiniest of details. Someone's slip of the tongue. A glance in an awkward direction. What did that mean? What is really going on here?

The fucked up part is, after a little while, I usually come to an accurate conclusion. It can be maddening for some people around me, and worse for me. I have come to trust my analysis and intuition well beyond what a person probably should. In intense scenarios, it leads me to jump to wild conclusions, filling in the gaps as I go. But, I have to breathe. Slow down, and SEE. See what is really there in front of me. What is really going on, not what I fear or hope is going on. Once in a while though, the two thoughts will meet. The terrible fear or great hope, wild and impossible, comes true. And then, I gloat.

In the ashes, I smile. Breathless, black and broken. I was right.

In perfect happiness, I become too obsessed with my deductive genius to take in the moment. Sometimes it saves me from a hammer of pain. Sometimes, it robs me of great experiences.

I keep leaving the positive option there. The things I hope for coming true. As if I've ever analyzed a series of events and come to the conclusion that I'm about to, and then do wake up in a pile of silent, half naked Asian chicks feeding me Michigan dogs and running their fingers gently through my hair (P.G. rating for the anonymous, ageless dwellers of the internet).

I fucking love a good Michigan dog.

As I was saying, I keep leaving that option there, but ninety nine times out of a hundred, it's negative. I dream the apocalypse and wish it into existence.

I see you start to get agitated more frequently. I see you become defensive. I see you over compensate. These things build and build in my head. I sleep, and my head constructs an outline, through nightmares and insomnia, draining all life from me. All joy. But I keep going. I keep thinking, obsessing, analyzing. I look for more clues, more truth. Deeper, and deeper, I dig for subtleties. I see you blink when you see a word on T.V.. What does that mean? What's so special about that word? Is it a place you know? A name? Is it a lyric in a song? (Note to self, pay attention to any songs that may be played frequently, or in private.)

I'm a fucking mad man for disaster.

I refuse to play the fool. To be blindsided. Instead, I kill everything in my path in my pursuit to KNOW what is going on around me. I kill everything. Everyone. Myself. But, in the end, I know. As I said, smiling up through the ashes. Because I was right.

I. Was. Right.

It's a terrible way to live. Constantly second guessing everything. The people I love, the world around me, complete strangers. Is it paranoia? Maybe. But I am so often correct. Is it genius? Fuck no. I'm an idiot. Is it madness? Surely.

I recently had the opportunity to shovel one of these great fuckers off of my shoulders. After years of it's weight breaking my bones, building rage and hate, I was convinced that I was a volcano. That I would erupt and smother and burn everything in my path, consuming all, unstoppably.

But when it came right down to it, I only spoke. Simply, clearly, and let it out. Like a winter breath, it was gone, and I was lighter. Astounded, and clear.

Is that a side effect of my hyper-active brain? That I am able to see the bigger picture in all things? Conflict and solution? That I can look at something so haunting, and realize that truly, none of this really matters? Is that balance? Is that a fair price?

Or should I be dumb, oblivious, and ready to pounce for no good reason, all the time? What do you think? What is a man to you?

Then again, I guess I don't really give a shit what you tell me. I already know what you're thinking.

Why You Should Draw Dicks on Things

The weather sucks right now. It's been raining and grey for days. You're feeling down. Perhaps only a little, but you've noticed it. The forecast isn't looking to clear up that much any time soon, and all you know is that you need a little relief. Let me offer you a fool-proof method to smiling soon.

Draw dicks on things.

Let's try it now;

First, go ahead a try drawing the basic globe/shaft/globe version. Doodle it on paper. Draw a few of them. There you go, you got it!

Now, get a little experimental. Add hair, maybe a vein or two. Give it a bend. A little squirt, be disgusting. No one is around to judge you, and you can destroy your evidence later if you like, so it's cool. Draw a big angry dick, right now.

Well, christ, would you look at that monster.

Let's draw a cartoonish one. Minimize the details, and add some eyes and a mouth. Maybe a Stetson. Stetsons are cool! Yee-haw! Cowboy dick!

One more, and then we will move on to phase two. I'll let you decide what type of dick to draw. Serious? Funny? Artsy? Photo-realistic? Go to town.

Okay, wow, that's a fantastic dick you have there. You should be proud. Now, however, it's time for phase two. Hopefully by this point you feel comfortable enough in your dick-handling capabilities to allow that to be secondary to this next step...

Draw a dick on something that ISN'T paper. Something you can't dispose of. Somewhere hidden, but only a little. Are you at home? Do you live with people? How about a small, but recognizable dick on the inside of the medicine cabinet? Or maybe on the hidden side of the fridge? Just out of view.

Are you in public? Well, don't put a dick where a kid might see it, but somewhere for adults. For stuffy adults to be disgusted, and for fun adults to laugh. Be creative, make your dicks worth the effort. Don't put it somewhere it could easily be forgotten, or cleaned away. You want your dicks to stick around, to make people smile for generations.

Now, why are you doing this?

To be happier. If you've followed these instructions, think back. You just spent a fair amount of time drawing and imagining dicks. Smile. Weirdo.

Steel Reserve (I'm an Idiot)

Not that I drink often, or even as much as a lot of people my age, wasting away every weekend in some smoky shit hole, but when I do, I tend to drink until the booze or the money runs out. And it usually seems (in retrospect) to be a race.

I also have a strong affinity for shitty beers. Especially Steel Reserve. It's cheap, and will fuck you up. If you have one, you will achieve a fair buzz. Two, and you'll be legally drunk. Three, and you will know you've crossed a line, Four? That's where I go. Where I tend to fall to, anyway.

Why is that? Well, I have a few defenses for it, but maybe not answers. First, I have led a very stifled life. Not unsatisfying, or bad in anyway (past a certain age), but just, boxed in. So, when I drink, I tend to let go completely. It becomes my eight hour vacation. When, for that period of time, I can smile, and laugh, and just not care because I have no other choice but to let go. Second, because I am shy. I don't particularly enjoy being around people, or small talk, or anything social really, but after long periods of time without it, I begin to crave it. An S.R. or two later, and I am mister social. Laughing, hugging, high-fiveing. It allows me to be the person I wish I was (sometimes). Third, it allows me to speak my mind. So often, I want to say whatever to whomever, but I don't, for fear of controversy. But I know that a few in, and I will be shouting it, begging for controversy. I am a happy drinker, but I am also an oblivious, and apathetic drinker. If a fight were to come my way, I would be in it immediately, although I probably wouldn't understand why.

The issue is, when I cross that fourth line, I tend to start becoming a fairly obnoxious shithead. All empathy for anyone around me goes out the window. I, apparently, become such a danger to myself that people around me feel the need to babysit me (whether or not I realize it). I start speaking much too loudly, and much too inappropriately. I have never been in trouble while intoxicated, but I can't ignore the fact that I have not only hurt feelings of people around me, but made myself look like a huge asshole.

People get drunk. People sometimes act poorly. It's cool. It's a forgivable, and often forgettable, offense. Maybe.

Sometimes though, one image, just one, could stick in someones head forever. One image of you standing up in a burrito bar calling people "Tel Aviv" at the top of your lungs. Laughs may be abound, sure, but maybe the one person that image sticks to is the one person you wish it hadn't. Could be a boss at a company party, or a friend, or family member out on the town. Could be anyone. And it could cast a terrible light on your person for much longer than you want.

That goddamn line.

I know where it is. Every time I pass it, I look down and see it. It says to me "Hey man, this is it. Are you sure?" And I say to it "Shut the fuck up." Because I'm an idiot.

Maybe I subconsciously force myself to ruin a good time. Maybe I am too apathetic to care. Maybe I need to start paying attention.

I Have Known Lunatics

I watched a woman burn down her trailer. I was fourteen, and sitting in her living room as flames crept down the hallway. Her kids were home, playing outside. She had been talking about it for months to my friends and I, and that day, out of nowhere, she lit a candle and dropped it onto a pile of dirty laundry in her bedroom and we all just watched. Panic never settled in for me. I just got bored, and left. I walked across the street, sat in the dirt, and watched. Some of my friends followed suit, and the fire department came. The plastic windows melted and dripped. The paint bubbled, the wooden addition burned away. Everything she and her kids owned, burned away.

She was an amazing actress, this lunatic. The cops and firefighters questioned her (and us) for hours. If I didn't know what was happening, I would have been convinced it was an accident.

RICH AS FUCK.

Osama Bin Laden is dead. Who gives a shit?

I've seen a number of people say that he was already dead. That he had been for some time. In fact, it looks like there was sufficient news coverage in Eastern parts of the world when it happened. In December of 2001. Ten years ago. So, if he died ten years ago (and it sort of looks like he did), then why are we saying he just died yesterday (complete with a photoshopped picture of his post-mortem head, and an unrecorded "burial at sea")? Is it to distract us? Is it to give the current administration a favorable push? Is it to shoot some patriotic adrenaline into the veins of Americans who have come to feel a deep, slow anger at their government?

It is a well known fact that Dick Cheney had said "What we (the Bush Administration) need is some catastrophic and catalysing event – like a new Pearl Harbor". A year later, 9/11. I'm not connecting any dots for you, but I am just saying, boy, that's lucky... What followed was nothing short of an all out rape of American Citizens rights, unprecedented tax law abuses, and a right wing media campaign more than a little similar to Hitler-esque propaganda (I'm looking at you FOX). All of these steps (possibly even 9/11) were taken to ensure that those involved came out of that eight year suicide run RICH AS FUCK.

Al Gore says "The planet is in danger, we should move away from oil". George Bush said "Fuck that! We're in danger! We need oil!" Somehow, that made sense to him, and to the majority of Americans. Just as invading Iraq was somehow related to 9/11. Somehow.

But, we got him out. After you know, his term expired. We got "our man" in. President Barack Obama. He's got an ethnic name, he's black, he's the best fucking orator since Kennedy, and he made promises like no other. He spoke to the intelligent, the generous, the young, and the worried. He was a welcome change.

An obvious change.

I will admit, I was an Obama man. I fell for it. "This guy is nothing like what we had before!"

Nothing like what we had before is the perfect disguise for someone who wants nothing more than to keep the same game going. In fact, he's TOO different. It really should have been obvious.

So here we are, nearing the end of his term. A nation full of fed up everyone. Republicans blame democrats and liberals, and vice versa. What they don't seem to realize is EVERYONE IS THE SAME. It doesn't matter who the fuck you vote for, you're getting the same guy.

So, how do we distract from that? We need a victory. America needs a victory, a reason to celebrate!

OSAMA BIN LADEN IS DEAD! all the newspapers say. The crowds cheer. "Yay Obama, God, Soldiers! Yay! We are so great! America is number one!"

Does this mean our gas prices will finally go back down to pre-9/11 prices? Does this mean I can take a plane across the country without getting six fingers in my asshole (hopefully one at a time, and not all at once)? Does this mean that we can pull the fuck out of the middle east and spend a little more on healthcare and education? Unfortunately, no, it doesn't.

It means nothing. Bin Laden has been dead for almost a decade. We still occupy a number of regions and countries. We are still making the rich richer and the poor poorer (and dumber). The announcement is only intended to get people to fly their flags, hand in hand, like we actually accomplished something, like we did on 9/12.

What I'm ultimately getting at here is this; We're getting played kids. We're being forced into uneducated poverty and slavery. It may not be this year, or in five years, or ten, but someday, you are going to look around and say "Hey wait a minute... I think we were lied to..."