recent things i found out

HOOOOOOO!!!!

When I was young I had really bad asthma. In fact, I had such a bad asthma attack when I was two, I was taken to the emergency room and given some odd drug. My parents said that when we got home from the hospital, I started running around like a crazed fuck. I couldn't stop going crazy and for hours i ran around the house (luckily i kept my clothes on, HOOOOO!!!).

Anyway, I had a heartrate of 130 bpm, and for a two year old, that's fucked. My mom thought I was going to die, which would have been hilarious (for me, not for her).

My parents called the emergency room back and asked what to do. They said to give me benadryl, and after three more hours, I slowly began to fade fade fade...

I think this fried some shit, hopefully.

Three or four years later, while at a gas station in rural georgia, my brother was pumping the gas into the family car. He was about eight or nine. He took the nozzle out of the intake, but left his hand on the trigger. He pointed it into my face. WHOOOOT!

I was taken to the hospital and they shoved charcoal into my stomach to sop up the gas. They also put glow in the dark eye drops into my eyes to search for signs of gasoline damage to my retina. WHOOO! Talk about a sweet halloween costume! GLOW IN THE DARK EYES!

I asked my dad over dinner if he could score a bottle of glow in the dark eyedrops next time he was in the emergency room. He said FUCK YEAH because we're the coolest family in smyrna, ga.

When i grow old and have kids, i'm gonna fuck them up, and they're gonna be great artists.

Scope Hamptons <3

Scope Hamptons opens today: who better to ask about the long and forbidden history of the event than Richard Gere? I met up with him after a publicity shoot for Pretty Woman 18 years ago.

Tip Tuddley: Any plans for this evening, Dick?

Richard Gere: Well once I get out of these sweaty clothes (Mr. Gere removes his shirt, flexing his abs when it gets stuck over his head) I was going to hop in the shower and do a little meditation. Maybe catch a tea.

TT: Sounds like a good night to me. So you’re not planning on heading out to the Hamptons for the vernissage?

RG: No, you know, I was thinking about it but the scene last year was pretty slow. Plus I did tons of pretty bad coke.

TT: I’ve been meaning to ask you about that: does the hypocrisy of a drug-addict Buddhist ever bother you?

RG: If I had my leg-pit tickled for every time I was asked that…well you know it does turn into an interesting conversation almost inevitably. It’s all about destruction of the ego, Tip. It’s like Rimbaud said, “I often enjoy getting drinking blue wine in the bowels of the cocaine vessel.”

TT: Oh Arthur, you had so much to teach us!

RG: So I don’t think I’ll be heading to Scope this year. The art market has really become a chance for…(continued next page)

I had a large monk friend named brother Raphael who loved soda to the point that it makes me sick to remember him. He used to shit these great lumps, and when they plopped into the water below his balls, they would fizz like antacid tablets due to all the carbonation stuck in his gut.

I remember walking into his room once (the door was always closed) and I found stacks of soda cases (cases!) from the floor to the ceiling. The bottles were not empty, but filled with cigarette butts, and his desk was rotting because of the sugar in the air.

Europeans were singing american songs outside, like YMCA, but they have no idea how to pronounce the letters so it came out "YAYYYY MA CEE YA! la la la la la la YAYYYYY MA CEE YA!"

It was actually an amazing medley, with air guitar to the tune of ode to joy and beethoven's fifth, and under pressure, but they only knew the refrains that we all know, so each tune lasted fifteen seconds, and then they stopped clapping and things got awkward. not for them, for me, because I was trying to sing with them, and not being drunk or european I became incredible shy and withdrew from the window back into my raphael's room with the bottles of Coke and cigarettes.

The singing was mainly done by men, but the talking afterwards was done mainly by the women (girls). Had I killed myself then, I would have missed all the stuff that happened now.

I require a tug: zulu

John Bolton's first foray into politics was for the failed campaign of Barry "call me betty and slap my tits" Goldwater of nineteen thirty three. A few years later the stock market had "failed" and we were in a "depression". But here's the rest of the story:

While trekking (as in star trek) through the wilderness of arizona (maybe his home state?) Big Barry came across three large naked men approaching. The men were coughing up red foam, but did not look pained or in discomfort. Goldwater began scribbling down notes which were to later evolve into his epic "The Conscience of a Conservative". By 'notes' I mean, he wrote down the title "conscience of a conservative".

"Ahoooooo," said one of the naked men as they walked up to goldwater's carriage.

"hello good fellow, may i offer you some of my libido?" responded Goldwater.

"That is kind, but not kind enough. We want more - we always do - but we are willing to let chance decide whether we put you into a vegetative state so that your family and friends will have to battle over whether to pull the plug or let you live, constantly dribbling like we do," answered the man.

"but you dribble red foam from your mouths, and you walk and breathe like ordinary people." said Goldwater.

"Yes, but we are even more ordinary, and for this we have been cursed by the great Native American Gods: Utu and Lenorammamamamamamamama. They ride on the shoulders of white men and negroes alike, making love to whomever, whenever," said the man.

"I have no idea what's going on," said Goldwater

There was a pause in the talking as Goldwater looked at the three men standing in front of him, became slightly aroused, then slightly less aroused as he thought that he did not size up to any of them - not in the penis, but in the sassiness and areola size.

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Whenever typing John Bolton I want to type John Roberts instead, maybe baby?

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John Bolton is the greatest statesman to ever have liver.

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Tickly my snatch

Here's a fun section: a newly-minted list of people or things it would be pleasurable to have your leg-pit tickled by.

And the inaugural tickler is.....A TABBY!!!



He's so darling!!!!

An Explanatory Node

Where Buttter introduced himself with concession I will introduce him via parable: a short tale of a young colt in fevers ashore.

Some four years ago, while resigning himself to his afternoon routine of trot, banter, shit, reflect, a certain Category III stallion faltered: a carriage had arrived, rare for this time of year. The air had become suddenly still. Birds stopped chirping, rabbits receded into their dens. On the side of the carriage was painted an oyster, of the worst type of kitsch, surrounded by matte foam. The door to the carriage opened and out of the shadows emerged a flank the likes of which he hadn’t seen in years. The ass continued, followed by a ribcage and shoulder sublime. There were dots where he had seen lines, hooves where there would be dirt. This alien vessel was treating him to a nee parfaite and he was all too happy to play the Paphosian oarsman. A whisper – peeeee – escaped his anus. In his tunnel vision Boundary (the horse) finally caught a glimpse of its head, the most perfegg of all. He didn’t have to look down to know his reveries had left him with something of a horse’s boner.

The days that followed were spent on a cloud, floating over the river. His trainer had arranged for an introduction. Sparks flew. Dreams were of love and piqued with sorrow. Before long he inserted his gigantic dick in her vagina for about fifteen seconds. It was harmony unseen since that rabble of pre-Caelusian chaos, when dark was light mixed with moisture-semen.

Almost one year later Mien (the mare) gave birth to a crumpled little package, wet. It stumbled at first, as most foal do, and went nose-deep into a heap of father’s newly-placed shit. And this is where it got its name, Big Brown, executor of the biggest flop in horseracing history.

The next few years have been consumed and regurgitated and as such aren’t worth your or my time. It seemed fit for some light to be shed on the genesis of a life misinterpreted and dismembered, questioned and cajoled. Crescent. Crisp. Big Brown may have failed his Triple Crown foray, but does that discount the rare souvenir his father deposited deep inside his mother? Will our modern times relinquish its bloodthirst for meaning?

With these words I bid you remain attentive to the insightful whore residing in these pixels. His services are yours, his cavities agape.