Hope Springs Infernal

November 28, 2015


If you are underage, or in any way forbidden by your government or religious laws from viewing X-rated subject matter, please do not go there. If, however, you are not restricted by any laws in your geographical location, by all means click on the image above, to read my salty tale.

Larkin Squarepants

October 18, 2015

The following five postcards to Larkin were all sent in the Halloween spirit, starting on the 15th. Showing first the front, then the smaller-image address side. Since I don’t have a working scanner or camera at this time, I can only display the printouts I’ve pasted to this generic, SF tourist schlock. Please realize that I am posting this article in advance of the last four postcards shown herein.

[ Braxilous Reader: just at the moment I completed the paragraph above (this afternoon on the 14th), I suddenly heard Larkin Kelsey’s voice below my 2nd-story windows call to whomever: “You have a very nice evening!” So I went to the left-side window, saw His Gracious Self just below, and hollered: “You have a very nice evening too, Larkin!” To my surprise he did look up when I expected him to ignore me. Thus I expounded:

“You look ready for Halloween, what with that Grim Reaper expression on your face!” He responded by spitting up in my direction which, of course, did not even get near my window, but landed in a tiny splat near his feet. I rubbed it in:

“You’re the Queen Bitch of Castro Street!” He then bellowed his infamous “Aargh!” and marched away.

I believe he intentionally showed up right at the moment I began to prepare my series of Halloween missives to him. Yet one more piece of evidence that he is indeed telepathic. And that–in spite of his frequently crude behavior towards me these past 2.8 years–he actually harbors great affection towards This Silly Supplicant. Now, on with the postcards. ]

15 October (postcard #1): the friendship quote at postcard’s top is something Larkin said to me in May of 2014. And is the sweetest thing anyone can say to someone, in my opinion. Another thing to note is that, while he loves Scooby-Doo, he totally despises Spongebob Squarepants. Something which I learned about two years back. So I decided now–because of his latest BS–to start sending him Spongebob themed postcards and letters, in lieu of Scooby-Doo stickers, printouts and gifts. Though it has occurred to me that, being clairvoyant (as well as telepathic), he set me up to avenge him with Spongebob pics by pretending he hates that particular cartoon character. As I’ve indicated in many previous tales, he is a Brilliant Playwright of Life…and as My Guardian Dragon, he expertly paves my path with surprises laid down in future scenarios. Actually, my initial salvo of Spongebob attacks began in my blog entry just previous to this one. Jump to the end of that piece, to view it.

17 October 2015

Dear Sid,

This is funny, as the “Pearl” image above is reminiscent of your “Moby’s Dick” illustration. I ran across it while looking for Halloween themed Spongebob pics. So of course I had to send you a copy. This is the second meaningful coincidence involving your illustrations. The first, of course, is that Scooby-Doo/Peanuts pillowcase.

I’ve been sending you mail recently, because the contents give strong indication that my breakthrough as a global power is nigh. This is not an ego thing, for I am highly cognizant of being sure to keep my feet on the ground. (And explains why Larkin treats me like a POS: to keep me from falling over the edge in ecstasy.) Yet when such an incredible destiny is intended regardless of one’s wishes otherwise, you must learn to accept this role while maintaining a humble position. Anyone associated with yours truly in any significant capacity–during these past 10 years or so–will likewise become a major celebrity. Not the least of which is one excellent soul who provides the illustrations that complement so well, my tales.

I just saw Larkin again at Twin Peaks Tavern a short while ago (around 5:30 PM). He continues to behave towards me like a royal asshole, because that is what he must do a bit longer. He stepped out for his usual cig, and approached me with reprimands that I will wind up in jail if I don’t quit stalking him. Of course I pointed out that this is my neighborhood too, and I hang out here to meet my homeless buddies, as well as provide him with a space to talk with me, should he so wish. And that the police will laugh at him for using the cops for his own manipulative foolishness.

He then whipped out his latest cell phone and took my photo, while I smiled and waved. He smugly declared:

“Every time you appear in my presence, I’m gonna take a picture in order to build up a record of your stalking.”

So I pointed out that since we live in the same district, our paths cross frequently. And of course I heckle him now and then, for fukking up my life with lies about me…which has nothing to do with stalking.

“Have fun with that,” I chuckle. “You will only implicate yourself further, as a bully and a wing nut. The cops will get fed up with you.”

“You want me to put a restraining order on you?” he threatened. “Then you can’t come to my spot here at Castro & Market.”

“Oh go right ahead, dufus. I’ll then put a TRO on you, and if I’m at Twin Peaks before you show up, then you will have to go elsewhere.”

There was a subtle grin behind that poker face: his way of assuring me this is just a game, and he admires my spunky bravado. He then declared:

“Most of your letters I haven’t even opened. I can present them to the police, to show them how relentless you are, in spite of my wanting you to leave me alone.”

Well this is ridiculous, I thought, since he gave me his P.O. box with the specific request that I send my mail there. All they’ll see from reading those missives, is a story of a good friend towards another. Though I know he’s read every single one of my letters, and appreciates each one immensely. Plus, his telepathy voids the need to open any mail. He’s just twisting the knife in my back, to test my faith. Easy peasy, I can deal.

“Don’t be such a clown, Larkin,” I warned. “This is a matter for a civil suit, and the police can’t do anything about it.”

“That’s what you think,” he threatened. “You’re a stupid, stupid man.”

“Right, Larkin, you can read my beads like nobody else. You have me totally figured out.” He then snuffed his Camel 99 before adding:

“Just stay outta my space, when I’m here!”

“It’s my space too, asshole. You can’t bully me and think you can get away with it. But have fun trying.”

Anywayz, other macho exchanges occurred between us for a while longer, during which time I refused to depart as he tried to smoke another ciggie outside my view. But that didn’t work out too well, as I repositioned myself every time he tried to hide behind some shrubs, a lamppost, or a passing streetcar. He finally marched back into Twin Peaks as I goaded:

“Go ahead, get back into that glass coffin where you belong! And have fun hitting up lonely old queers with fat wallets.”

“Leave me alone!” he hollered for the fourth time in our latest confrontation before disappearing into the social mix of vodka-guzzling dipwads.

“I’m not bothering you at all, you are harassing me for standing out here and enjoying my people watching at this most historic corner!”

With that, I wandered a while longer back and forth by the picture window where he could see me. Then I meandered on home to type you this letter. Now that I am done, I shall step back out once more, to be a thorn in My Kimono Dragon’s side. He may have left by now, but one can always hope for another bout of feather-flying before the night wears on.

I am not phased in the least, because his crude regards serve the higher purpose of my playing his long-suffering hero. And as a result, shall lead shortly to the perfection of This Querulous Soul. All signs indicate that My Ultimate Breakthrough will align with the upcoming winter solstice.

Your friend and artistic associate,


18 October (postcard #2): quite self-explanatory. Thought I’d start introducing him to additional characters in the Spongebob Squarepants cartoon franchise.

19 October (postcard #3b): Alright, the following postcard was mailed in a fit of passion, well after I set up my schedule of Halloween bon mots. Please read carefully.

21 October (postcard #3): a little more sophisticated here, during this Spongebob Indoctrination of My Adorable Archosaur, Larkin Kelsey.

24 October (postcard #4): just more Spongebob foolishness with a gay/Halloween twist! Enjoy.

27 October (postcard #5): yet more Spongebob themes with a gay/Halloween twist! Enjoy.

My Halloween Epiphany

October 9, 2015


If you are underage, or in any way forbidden by your government or religious laws from viewing X-rated subject matter, please do not go there. If, however, you are not restricted by any laws in your geographical location, by all means click on the image above, to read my salty tale.

Duffel Bag Swagger

September 21, 2015

September 15:

About one week after my latest face-off with My Duplicitous Diplodocus, I stepped out by 9:30 PM to discover him exiting Twin Peaks Tavern with a dark blue duffel bag slung over his back, and so enormous it was more than half his size. And Larkin is a large dude by anyone’s standards: 6-foot-4 and tremendously strong. (He is also most handsome: thick shocks of wavy auburn hair, irises of fiercely red-gold, and a skinny frame so nicely sculpted you’d think he was one of Queen Boadicea’s Own Mighty Warriors!)

He hobbled a bit–the rucksack was that heavy–as he stepped onto the sidewalk and saw my approaching form. He looked like he just got off a turnip truck, considering his overall, sloppy appearance (dirty white shirt stuck out over the waist and flapping in the breeze, and light brown floodwater pants that have seen better days). I grew alarmed:

“Larkin! Are you homeless? Did that idiot Zachary kick you out?”

He looked towards me and heaved a sigh.

“Do you need a place to crash, no funny stuff?” I pleaded with utmost sincerity as I stood just ten feet from him with imploring arms. (I couldn’t imagine how we’d ever get along, what with bed bugs still infesting my building one day before the exterminator’s subjugation, sleeping on the hard floor with barely any cushion…and my darling Louisiana boy, Zach–same moniker as Larkin’s housemate, no relation–who always showed up whenever, for our next torrid tryst. But Larkin is my dawg, no two ways about it.)

“Fuk you, Zeke,” he hollered, glaring at me like I was The Potato Famine Banshee Herself. “Get outta my face!”

[ I didn’t buy it for a moment, Perineal Reader, but remained in stolid grace before His Stunning Visage. I am hopelessly entangled in the DNA of that dude’s soul, and there is nothing I can do about it even if I so desire unto my very last breath. ]

He then rushed back into the tavern to implore the bartender while pointing in my direction: “That’s my stalker, right over there!” I stood calmly outside and lit a Fortuna as if I were a stranger to The Castro. “Sure, Larkin. You have a good night,” assuaged the barkeep.

And so Larkin reemerged in defeat while I stood nearby, relishing the Schadenfreude of tables turned. I heckled:

“Your get-outta-my-life rant last Tuesday was hilarious! One thing I can say about you, Larkin,” I paused for a satisfying puff, “is you sure know how to put on a good show!”

Well that did it. He came right up to me and shoved This Good Gay Soul; not so hard as to be a real danger, but firm enough to tic me off.

“Cut that out, Larkin!” I ordered in no soft voice.

“Yeah, that’s the way to go,” he declared, and pushed me once more, eyes glazed over like Charles Manson.

I could’ve easily run behind and pushed him over with my pinky, he was that burdened by the duffel bag (and probably a little more than slightly drunk). Instead, I reached for the pepper spray usually located in my right-side pocket, only to discover I left it home! So I hurried to the small triangle of potted shrubs on Market & Castro, which 3-foot high concrete wall kept me safe from his attack, so long as I kept on maneuvering to my left or right. We played This Musical Chairs Parody (Larkin doddering from the rucksack’s weight), twenty or so seconds before a large and obese gay fellow with a ponytail stepped up to Larkin and stated:

“You can just walk away, you know!”

I looked at his bloated jowls as if to say: “No pudgy geek’s gonna be my hero!” Instead, I addressed:

“It’s okay, he’s my boyfriend. He just loves a good brawl.” (Consider his true nature: a fighting Irishman.)

Larkin gently opposed: “I’m not his boyfriend.” (As if it hurt to say that.)

“Yeah, goofball, just walk away like the man says. I will not harm you then,” said Yours Truly with bravado.

The Wannabe Knight In Shining Armor summed up the situation, blushed and disappeared down 17th (thank gawd), seeing as he was nothing more than a pawn in Our Divine Chess Game.

Larkin then wobbled across Market towards Noe, boisterously greeting anyone walking towards him, embracing each receptive male or female with the darling hugs that are his trademark. But which he’s denied me since January 2013. I knew he was intentionally fukking with my head by this display of affection toward strangers, while I followed just 11 yards back, unrequited. So I taunted in booming words:

“That’s it, Larkin! Be nice to everyone but Zeke!”

This Inestimable Excuse Of A Delinquent Guardian Angel turned his ruddy head in my direction and groused:

“Get outta my life, you idiot!”

But I would not leave my orbit encircling him, like the moon to earth. So he stepped onto Market Street itself, where the cars veered away so as not to cause an accident. And I followed right behind, safe in the wake of His Resolute Gravity. Of course he kept hollering, “Leave me alone!” which did not influence me one whit.

As we both meandered down The Asphalt Paved Byway of Life–each screaming epithets at the other–I finally arrived near my apartment building. At which point I realized I could dash to my room, grab that pepper spray, and catch up with him. So as I unlocked the gate, I called back:

“Good night, Larkin!” to which he cussed:

“Fuk you, Zeke!” and swaggered off into the arms of Nyx.

With urgency I entered my hovel, snatched the pepper spray canister from the second drawer of Desk #1, then snagged my keychain on the doorknob upon exit. (Actually not a chain at all, but a long, pink shoelace purchased at Muhamet’s Dollar Store where everything’s no less than two GW’s and some items higher than five.) Thus losing 10 seconds as I gathered up the scattered keys and ran back downstairs to give him a piece of my mind.

So PO’d was I, that I was ready to spray him like a cornered polecat. I ran up Market all the way to Church Street, but nowhere could I find The Bastard Behemoth. Thus with a feeling of loss, I returned to my SRO and spent another sleepless night atop a plastic tarp softened with nothing more than two yoga mats gifted me by Laundromat Lady Linda.

The next night I saw my houseless friend, Hollywood, and asked: “Have you seen Larkin lately?” He said no, he had not. So I described my recent encounter, and added: “That may have been the last time I get to see him.”

I could not bear the thought of his disappearance, thus prayed for mercy in a drunken stupor that granted me the respite of a solid sleep (finally). The horror of such an outcome would shatter my soul into many irrecoverable pieces: a jigsaw puzzle of diabolical intent.

Upon awakening, these new thoughts brightened my heart: “No, he has not left the city, or even this neighborhood. He did not catch public transit: he just walked down the sidewalk instead, as if he only had a short way to go. Larkin has a fastpass, so if he were to leave, he would’ve proceeded to the underground, instead of remaining above.” More revelations quickly followed:

“The reason you couldn’t catch up with him on Market Street, was because he turned down 16th and onto that alleyway where there’s an apartment building which houses that little white doggie he walks every day. That’s where he moved to! And why you saw him with a large duffel bag filled with his meager possessions.”

Greatly relieved at this insight, I sent him a postcard, on which front I stated (in a hand printed missive taped to it):

Of course that was a joke, as he is highly intelligent and got his masters years ago in Forensic Science, being the superb private investigator that he is…and I his unconscious (though willing) assistant.

I want so badly to relieve Hollywood of his concerns over me, but I don’t know when I’ll see him again. For I have learned an important lesson of “hope” as a result of this latest crisis:

[ Hope is a lack of total faith in God’s Good Blessings. I garnered this from street artist Julia who sells her extraordinary mini-paintings at the Embarcadero, where I go every morning for breakfast at The Posh Bagel. For when I told her my story, and that Larkin most likely just moved to another rental in The Castro, she interjected: “You hope!” So I thought upon this, and concluded: “No, to have hope for one’s wishes is to grant God less than His ability to answer all good prayers with absolute finality.” I don’t “hope” that Larkin has not left my world, I “know” that he hasn’t, or ever will! With such faith in God’s kind remission, there is no way He would not answer such a heartfelt plea. Else She could never live with Herself. ]

So two nights later (Sept. 17) I espy Larkin seated at Twin Peaks Tavern, shooting the bull with his former roommate Zachary. All seemed quiet on the western front as I lit a cigarette by the tavern’s Castro Street window, in such a position that Larkin could clearly see me. Zachary turned his face in my direction for a moment, indicating to Larkin that I was nearby. (Interesting that he did not glare menacingly, but retained a calm demeanor.)

My Loverly Lizard did not gush any sort of emotion, yet did not angle his view away from me either. So I backed up into the bus stop’s glass partition where he could still view me without any snoop’s pretension. I looked back at him with a kind face: neither angry nor pleading…allowing his gentle aura to wash over me. And these thoughts flowed from my cerebral cortex:

“I thought maybe you were homeless and had to leave town. So happy that is not the case. I could never suffer your vanishing from my world. I love you that much, Larkin Kelsey.”

I stayed looking at him long enough to inhale my Fortuna cancer stick down to the stub, then moseyed on to Walgreens to purchase a box of kitchen-size garbage bags. After accomplishing this goal, I returned to that bus stop in order to smoke another cigarette and gaze upon Larkin’s 3/4 profile. Again, he did not signal any recognition of my presence, nor did he turn away. (But I knew that he was comforting me, after such a trial that made me fear I’d never see him again…thus made his appearance at the tavern so I could enjoy gazing upon That Beauteous Face, and be reassured.)

Done compromising my lungs with nicotine, I tossed the butt and wandered on hovel. Hoping he would step out and call me to his side for whatever badinage (whether hostile or friendly) before I crossed Market Street.

But he did not.


I now refer you, Drupaceous Reader, to Chapter 9 of my online novel, “Free Me From This Bond,” which is entitled “Dragon Fire in the Hole.” And in which I conclude that the SF LGBT community harbors a secret organization that selects potential future leaders (such as myself), and grooms them for a great destiny. By creating various scenarios throughout their lives–some sweet, most challenging–without their intended subjects knowing anything about this group or their shenanigans.

Of course, part of this game is kinda like an IQ test…in that the subject will eventually conclude something strange is going on (and has been for many years now). Surmising that these amazing scenarios piled up over a decade or more are no coincidence, but form a deliberate pattern that can only be constructed by the conscious will of a large group of people who operate behind the scenes. As more time passes, the subject will also reason that his life is being shaped towards an incredible outcome, by others he doesn’t even know.

Once the subject attains this level of awareness, this hidden cabal starts to make itself known, bit by intriguing little bit. And the real fun takes off! But first, The Initiation:

A shamanic tradition of ancient origin, whereby the subject is dumped upon with all sorts of misery and impossible odds…to the point where he is convinced that all hope is lost, and his visions of an amazing future are dashed like the Titanic.

And this is why My Objet d’Amour plays such a tough game that makes me out to be a fool who shall never find happiness. This secret cabal attempts in every way possible to strip me of all hope…yet since I now comprehend The Game, there is no way they could ever trick me into Ultimate Destitution. For no matter Their Dark Curses, I will never succumb to anything worse than long suffering with a Heart Of Pure Liberation. I just know too much, at this point. Including that Larkin Kelsey is chief commander of This Clandestine Camarilla.

Now: after the initiation (which for me has lingered on for two months shy of three bone-crushing years) comes infinite joy and manifestation of all my sweetest dreams. Which includes of course, secession of Northern California to form the world’s first LGBT nation with myself its first president (or despot; I don’t give a damn). Among other good things.

So today (Sept. 19) I mailed him another touristy postcard, upon which I scrawled:

On the front I taped a rectangular snippet of looseleaf paper (over a glamorous photo of Chinatown at night) that declared in my own hand:

(Referring here to an article in the S.F. Examiner six weeks ago, that the San Francisco USPS will soon shut down their Hyde Street branch. Please forgive me for not showing the actual postcard, since my old flatbed scanner does not function on Windoze 10.)

It is also possible that Larkin remains shacked up with Zachary, and thus His Duffel Bag Scenario was orchestrated solely for This Queer Acolyte’s benefit. That I may sample the idea of his vanquishment like a draught of bitter treacle…and my appreciation of his dedicated guardianship be renewed. And taste more dulcet (like a rare truffle), as a result. There is no overestimating this clever man’s strategies, I assure you.

And there you have it, Plutonic Reader: my latest Station of the Cross which burden is Larkin himself. I am astoundingly blessed.

Oh, one more thing: on 22 September I sent him yet another postcard, with these words taped to the front:

And on the address side I wrote:

Hopelessly Entwined

September 18, 2015

Around 6-7 days ago I decided to sport my “I am not Larkin’s stalker, I’m his boyfriend” sign once more, in hopes of finding him at his usual Castro dive (Twin Peaks Tavern), and stirring up some more shit. Well whaddya know, he was there, and the fur flew before I knew it.

He stepped out like a disgruntled troll from under the bridge and demanded: “Get that sign off right now!”

“No, I won’t,” I countered. “If you want it removed, ya gotta do it yourself.”

So he grabbed that sign, releasing it from its fragile attachment to the cheap twine about my neck. But when he saw the cord still hanging there, he gingerly removed that, too.

I watched as he rent the sign in two, then tore it once more with both halves together. Then he combined the additional pieces into a layer of four, and tore once again as if they were tissue.

“My god, that dude is powerful!” I declared to no one but myself.

“Your tearing it up into teensy bits instead of just tossing it into the trash tells me something interesting,” I voiced my observation. (Of course what that means is: he loves me bunches, else would’ve not bothered to tediously mutilate the sign with such dramatic flair.)

“No, I’m doing it for me!” he blithely declared, then tossed the debris into my face, where it fell to the sidewalk like so much jigsaw scatter. I was quite charmed.

I can’t recall now, what other dialog ensued (save that for the upcoming blockbuster Indie film, I suppose, recorded by God’s Own Angels…and Larkin screeching “Get out of my life!” sporadically throughout our present get-together). I stepped back several yards while Larkin reentered TPT. Which allowed me time to fish through my pack to procure an identical sign, and fling it about this person. Like a featherweight albatross.

As I returned to the plate glass where Larkin could see me jiggling the duplicate sign with a mischievous hand, he stepped back out again to confront me.

“How many more ya got in your pack?” he queried, with a hand ready to unzip the bag and paw through it.

“Oh, just this one,” I replied with deft alacrity. “But I got seven more at home.”

He grabbed the sign betwixt forefinger and thumb, to declare: “Why are you wearing it?”

“Because it’s the truth!” I retorted. “So long as you keep telling people I’m your stalker, I shall wear this sign and do anything else required to defend my honor.”

“Go ahead, tear it off,” I finished. “If that makes you happy, so be it.”

Instead, Larkin let it fall back upon my chest, where it rested like a reverse Scarlet Letter.

“Stop sending postcards to the bars,” he demanded. “They’re ready to call the cops on you.”

“I know that’s not true, Larkin. If they didn’t really want my mail, they would’ve sent them back with ‘return to sender’ marked on them. And that hasn’t happened.”

[ To be honest, Impish Reader, two postcards were returned from a recent batch. But since the post office stuck a label over the addresses, I could not discern which bars they were. And nothing more has come of that…thus all 10 rules went through as planned. ]

I awaited his rebuttal, but it never came, so I embellished:

“Therefore I know I did the right thing. You, the bartenders–and god knows who else–are pranking me. You’re all pranking me. Maybe ‘prank’ isn’t the best word; perhaps ‘initiation’ is better.”

Larkin remained silent to my declaration…then proceeded to the streetcar island, and I to the corner nearby and just across. Thus we were separated by about 20 feet. And the badinage resumed:

“Take it off!” Larkin yelled at me from a civilized distance, indicating the little placard dangling from my neck.

“Take it all off!” I countermanded (with a sly grin).

“Take it off!” he insisted.

“Take it all off!” I declared once more.

Yet again he told me to take it off, and I replied once more by demanding that he take it all off. By which time he finally got it, and struck a striptease pose, both arms outstretched at a clock angle of 10:15, and one leg raised up like a stork:

“Oh, you mean like this?” he parried.

I released a guffaw, then watched as he (concluding no streetcar was due to arrive soon) departed to take the underground Metro, trotting across Castro Street and down the steps. I suddenly realized I could heckle him further if I ran down those same stairs and onto the other side. So I did just that. Standing on the opposing platform where he didn’t yet see me, I hollered:

“I love you, Larkin Kelsey. Love, love, love!”

From across the recessed tracks Larkin did his best to ignore me, while other stranded riders looked about to see who I was calling to. Some caught on and giggled. Just before his train pulled up, I hollered the same words once more, then turned about to return hovel. Where, in my own private SRO, I wept.

The bastard sure knows how to press my buttons.

How You Can Save My Life

September 7, 2015

[ Spacefaring Reader: by “save my life” I mean that my living and financial situation is quite precarious at this point. See my piece, “Obamacare Defecates On The Poor” to understand. Has to do with Medicaid now demanding I pay $518 monthly share of cost on a sparse income of just $1,243; which will (possibly) make me homeless or starving in short shrift. Not to mention going blind because I can no longer afford checkups and treatment for my eyes. In addition, my living arrangement is on the line, due two extreme prejudice against Yours Truly for being a homeless advocate. Which includes having some of my street pals visit my SRO in a large apt. building filled with antagonistic residents. These selfish occupants have nothing better to do than scapegoat me, while enjoying their affluence often provided by coddling mommies and daddies with 6-digit incomes and up.

I recommend that everyone who supports My Noble Mission distribute far and wide, the following visual jokes which originally were posted to Twitter and Facebook. (Please keep in mind that every time you point a person to my achievements–no matter how humble–you make a major strike on behalf of LGBT Rights.) For these catchy memes include my name, and the URL to my gay-bible.org site. Which is one of my promotional tactics to get more folks to visit my home page, where they will see the image of my bookcover for “Free Me From This Bond.” Click on that image, and you will be taken to the online version, with links to purchase the book in paperback, hardcover, or ebook. One must be particularly innovative when one is barely a step above dirt-poor, and on the verge of passing on to The Other Realm, thanks to President Obama’s (and the Democratic Party’s) unprecedented betrayal of the poor and disenfranchised.

Necessity is the mother of subliminal advertising.

I certainly encourage you to share my joke memes as often as possible…for in so doing you are saving a life, literally. MINE! To download an image, right-click over it and select “Save picture as”…or equivalent command for whatever browser used. 16 jokes in all; there will be another batch comin’ down the pike in due time: ]

Gay Zombie Jesus Forever

September 5, 2015

This is the sixth “Gay Zombie Jesus” feature I have created, and it follows right after “Gay Zombie Jesus Never Quits.” You may consider me possessed by a demon who has nothing better to do in hell, than torture my gifted imagination into submission. He must be terribly bored. I wish Satan would assign him some real mission ASAP ’cause I’m at wit’s end. Notice that in most cases, inclusion of the tweet immediately prior my own is necessary for the sake of context. 40 heretical Twitter jokes in all:

Due to image width limitation for this particular WordPress layout, these tweets are truncated at the right margin, so just click for a full version. Apologies for this dilemma…but I know I’m so dammed funny that you’ll thank me for it later, when you’re sober.

[ Or you can simply click here to view them all at once without the hassle! ]


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