Welcome to Hoboville

February 7, 2018

Jebediah and Ebeneezer were hangin’ out by the ol’ Penjulep pool hall one chill foggy Frisco mornin’, when Neezer started a-thinkin:

“Jeb, them darkie folks acrost the bay say Hoboville warn’t always the name fer this here redneck ‘hood of our’n.” Before he continued, Neezer spat a wad of Uncle Queerbasher’s Selekt Chewin Tobaccee into a hefty, open, black-leather bound book with a crimson ribbon for a marker that touched to the very ground, and rubbed for a moment against some hot, wet Rottweiler feces.

“They say this here parts wunst was called ‘The Caaastro’…soddymites all over the place, far as the eye kin see. Fornicatin’, vi-o-lay-tin’ tourist’s chilluns, and sometahms even the dawgs! ‘Twere a cryin’ shame it was, surely.”

Jeb stopped leaning on the side of the saloon, to stand his full 6-foot-7-inch height. Above, flapped a yellow, weathered poster that proclaimed: “No shooz, no shirts, no fagguts.” There was no point in keeping that sign up anymore, as the queers were long gone, relegated to a concentration camp on Treasure Island. But the owner, a refugee from the nuked state of Idaho, was too lazy to remove it. Come to think of it, there were no longer any coons, either, in this neck of the woods. Nor slant eyes, nor anyone with too dark, or too yellow, or too red a skin. He yanked the straw of hay from his mouth; some spittle dripped down his long, scraggly beard:

“Ye swear to that on the Holy Buy-bull, Neezer?” he questioned with a curl of the lip, and pointed to the book in Ebeneezer’s hand.

“Yes Sir, Jebediah,” boasted Neezer (who also displayed a beard dank with saliva, though shorter and wider, like a Mennonite). “I do believe I just marked the partikeelar secshun smack dab in the lower right page.” He paused, to heckle Jeb with silence.

“Read it Neezer!” Jeb finally ordered. “Ye knows ah cayn’t read. Tell me whut thu Good Book sez!”

“Okay, Jeb now simmer down y’all, jest simmer down. Let me clear my throat.” Ebeneezer hocked up a musty gob of phlegm, aimed once again at the Good Book…then read:

“The Prophet Hoosier from The Book of Heehaw 5:20-22:

“Any dood whar-in dee-klares dee-vine marruj to another dood, should immeed-jut-ly be put to death by command of our Chief Demon Overlord.

“A woe-man, however, may freely dee-klare marriage with another woe-man…under con-di-shun they willfully join in wedded bliss with an Unmarried Son of an Overlord, or with a Widowed Overlord Hisself. Fust choice is always The Father’s.

“But should one or t’other of the woe-men rebel, they should both be tied in nekked shame to a post in the center of the village, whar-in whoever is known to have cast the fust sin in The More-Men Clan, shall be offered the sacred privy-lij of stoning to death, the rebel-yus fee-male and her day-spik-ubul kunt sukker.”

Having read this passage, Neezer lowered the tome in holy silence… and Jebediah, too, remained quiet, chewing on the straw. After long, hushed moments, Jeb opined:

“Why bruthuh Neezer-dee-doo-dah. Thank the Good Overlord are Gran-pappies cum here in the fust place, be it they be homeless with not a cent in their pockets! They knew they wuz on a misshun to dee-klare rite-chuss shame on them sod’mites, and drive the divils outta here-un; peaceable like, or war like…whichever wuz best for the partik-ee-lar sit-choo-ay-shun.”

Neezer nodded as he chawed: “Yep, brothuh Jebe-dee-doo-dah. We done made for our-self-un and our chill-uns, gran-chill-uns, and evun great-great-gran-chill-uns, Juh-hoe-va’s land out of serpent’s soil.”

After further moments in silence (a harmonica played in the distance, some hillbilly tune), they decided it was time for another High-neekins, and stepped back into the dark cavern that was the Penjulep saloon. The clouds were hunkerin’ down into another neon jumble of plutonium madness, soon to unleash a deluge of flesh-melting rain.

So it was just as well the two patriots stepped inside.

Dark as it had suddenly become outside, the quaint establishment was even gloomier within…lit by a few candles, and a tin-can chandelier overhead. A doorless restroom to one side showed off a trough to pee in, and a seatless toilet spotted with caked feces along the rim and overhang. Privacy could be gained by pulling a thick, leather curtain acoss the doorway. It was made of homosexual skin, and sported the gravure of a suffering Christ on a cross, in pastel pink with bits of glitter. It bragged an enormous penis.

Beside the entrance to the lavatory was pasted another old, worn out sign that read: “Hetero patriots only. Keep it safe.” For while gay patrons had been banished more than a decade ago, customers could, if they so desired, fuck and suck to their heart’s content…so long as they praised Jesus in the process at least three times. Sort of a ritual in honor of The Trinity. But Jeb and Neezer were too wasted at the moment, for recreational debauchery. Instead, they were eager to play a round or two of Breeder Darts.

This game was once a regular dart board, with the face of former president Donald Trump pinned to it, back when it was a gay hangout. Indeed, it was the only African American gay bar in the city…and it was called “The Pendulum.” But that was a long time ago. Now, the face was replaced by a small man made of straw, with big, bright, red faggoty lips grinning back at you. Googly black eyes and yellow hair made of cheap yarn and a sailor costume completed the ensemble.

Neezer flung the first dart, but missed by more than a yard.

“Aw, shucks,” he pouted, then took a swig of High-neekins. “Your turn, Jeb.”

Jebediah missed, too…so far off the mark in fact, that the dart propelled through the open doorway and melted in less than ten seconds, in a searing puddle of rain right there on the concrete. But it was all in good fun; they were not the competitive type, living off their monthly stipend as they did, so generously provided by the slave labor from Treasure Island. For in this time, and in this world, heterosexuals ruled. God fearing heterosexuals, that is. God fearing, patriotic redneck heterosexuals.

But soon they grew tired of sport, though could not leave the saloon until the toxic waters ceased their cascade from the rabid heavens. So they stared with blank eyes out the grimy picture window, daydreaming about eviscerating dummy faggots you can purchase at Cliff’s Variety for just a dollar each, until the rains subsided, the clouds parted, and the lifeless brown sun shone once more, in all its befouled glory. There isn’t much to do in a post-holocaust world, now that the real faggots have all vanished.

It isn’t so bad, though, once you get over the dearth of electricity, health care, firemen, uncanned meat, clean water (the kind that doesn’t make your skin rupture into painful bubbles like wasp stings), soap, storebought clothes, police, vegetables and fruit, television, street lamps, automobiles, radio, antibiotics, dogs, cats and birds, clean air (the kind that doesn’t make you choke and cough up blood every two minutes) and online porn. You could always tell stories, though…but they seem to be in waning supply these days, too, as folk’s strontium tainted memories tend to fade into carefree oblivion with the passage of time. Yet time is all we have anymore.

“Hey!” Jebediah’s eyes lit up. “Did ye hear the one about…” but then his recollection drifted off into a funk, and he stroked his beard absentmindedly. Cockroaches skittered about the wiry, gray hairs and through his fingers, like an abundant sprinkle of jumbo-sized fairy dust.

“No, tell me, Jeb!” begged Neezer, always one to embrace a new story like a dollar-store jezebel.

He eagerly snatched up a few of those roaches, like movie theater popcorn, as he anticipated a hellacious tale to brighten up this weary life.

But Jebediah looked mortally crushed. “Nah!” he growled. “Twaren’t such a good joke after all. Jes ye ferget it.”

“No, no, I insist!” demanded Neezer with a friendly thump on Jeb’s arm.

Jebediah then glared at Neezer and whopped him off the stool with a loud “crack” on the splintery, cold floor. Some blood pooled about his companion’s knee, and the homo-jerky gunk surrounding it, discarded by other patrons over the years. Jeb is known for his short fuse. But he helped Ebeneezer back up and onto his seat, where they both resumed gawking at the gray, wet scene outside, and the occasional army tank rumbling up and down Eighteenth Street.

The barkeep plunked down two shots of Kissin Kuzzins Pansy Bourbon beside the elbows of Jeb and Neezer, arousing them from their vacuous revery. As tender of a booze joint, he sports the requisite two-foot-long beard that sweeps across the bartop with every drink he summons, collecting peanut shells, cracker bits, fag rinds and other debris in the process. No one could ever accuse him of maintaining his station with less then immaculate devotion. Even the saloon rats that feed on the droppings of lemon rinds and vomit are squeaky clean!

“Hey, boys, cheer up!” he said with a grin. “Annual Ass Lickin Day is almost here, and I think ye two are in for a treat!”

He was referring to a celebration wherein redneck patriots can get their rectums chewed out by select queer inmates, for just a dollar. By now, it is the biggest holiday in the nation, drawing more than a thousand tourists from all corners of the republic. In fact, that event alone keeps Frisco Town in the black, all year long. And the faggot who is voted Most Outstanding Ass Licker of the Year, gains his freedom equal to that of any redblooded, Amerikan breeder! Prizes for the two runners up are nothing to sneeze at, either:

Second place winner is assigned the coveted duty as Personal Ass Crack Tongue Washer for the Republic of Gilead’s Chief Demon Overlord, himself: Donald J. Trump the Fourth. And third place wins the lucky boon of an all expenses paid, two week vacation at the Gerbil Whirl Amusement Park and Sodomite Detention Center.

All remaining dozen or so queer anus kissers are required to strip down to their ankle weights and get violated, bashed, tortured or whatever those who pay a dollar choose to do with these unrepentant rump hogs. So long as not a single one of them survives this highest of holy days with the Hetero Lord’s crimson river of life still pumping through his arteries.

“Lordy, Lordy, how I miss the good ol’ days, Cletus,” Neezer addressed the barkeep in a far-off, nostalgic haze, chin resting in his palm.

“The good old days?” queried the barkeep as he snatched up several wolf spiders and tossed them into the snack jar.

“Ye know, when faggots wuz free to roam, and we wuz free to hunt ’em down!” Neezer sighed. “Now-days, ya have to wait fer but oncet-a-year befoh ye can have ainy fun with ’em. It’s all controlled, planned and advertized ta death…and thu awl-mightee dollar rules.” He then spat onto the floor, striking a large, black creepy-crawly that scuttled away with a clatter. “Gawd damn capital-izm!”

“I know, right?” Cletus sympathized. “Gummint’s got its filthy paws in ever-thang, anymore! Ye just cain’t get out there and shoot down a sissy boy whenever the mood strikes! Ye have to wait a whole god darn year ta gitcher ass licked at gunpoint…and wait in a long line be-foe ye kin do even that! Whut’s this country comin’ to, any-wize?”

“And that was some goo-oood ass lickin’, let me tell ya!” Jebediah piped up, as if startled from a deep slumber.

Finger lickin’ good, ha-ha!” quipped Neezer.

They all cackled like flustered hens over that joke, which surprised even Ebeneezer, who invented it in the first place. A lot of guffaws, knee slapping and back pounding ensued for several sparkling minutes. During that brief span of time, they forgot their worries, the encroaching doom of their world, and a sad longing for the love of another man they can never have…at least not in this life. Though a girl can dream, can’t she?

When they finally caught their breaths, Jebediah pointed a knobby index finger at his forever-to-be-unrequited enamorado:

“Neezey, God blessed ye mighty bigly, with that-thar orsome gift of the spoken pun! I should PUNish ye fer that!”

Cletus the barkeep nodded in vigorous agreement before turning his back on them, to polish the artillery shells he finds in the gutter now and then, waxing them up to be used as dildoes, that he presents to this or that favored patron.

That is: one who either leaves a big tip, or displays an impressive bulge that whispers a promise to engorge something sweet, huge and rock hard, up the bartender’s poop chute before the shift ends.

Well, the torpid mercury rains finally came to an end, and the sun bulged out from behind the clouds like a throbbing abcess. With that, a priest, a rabbi and an imam entered the establishment…grinning like they just told each other the grandest joke in the world. Jeb and Neezer looked up at the holy trio quizzically, grateful for the relief of something novel about to enter their otherwise necrotic lives. But the barkeep glared at them in severe displeasure. He yanked out a nook-you-ler shotgun from beneath the counter and bellowed:

“No! None of that here! We won’t have none of that here! The Lord is my witness!”

He blew them into a zillion bloody pieces of meat and bone; the rats feasted.

“Time to go, I guess,” Jebediah moaned in a hollow timbre…for neither he nor Neezer had any idea how they’d spend the rest of their sorry little afternoon, to relieve this ghastly boredom that haunted their every waking moment since the day they were ejected from a fat lady’s womb. But one thing they knew for sure, that kept their hopes buoyed even just a little:

They could always come back to jack off, suck off or fuck off at the old Penjulep Honkey-Tonk Pool Hall and Dancing Saloon. Though dancing is something you do by yourself, until you drop dead. Like Saint Vitus. What on earth do they put in the water these days? Lordy!


What Is The Point?

July 28, 2016

I guess the point I’m making in my essay, “The New GOP Meme,” is that whatever political party–whether Democratic, Republican, or a third, fourth or fifth, etc. party–declares solid dedication towards liberating and protecting LGBT’s, is the party to vote for. EVEN IF THEIR PROCLAMATION IS PHONY. For this is a trick (or better said, “a test”) conjured up by higher forces. It is also a game, of sorts. And their intent is thusly:

“Whatever party promotes the most strident pro-gay agenda, even if based on deception (and even if the rest of their platform is destructive in every other way) will be transformed into the Holy Grail of LGBT victory. And by extension, THE liberating force for all other oppressed peoples across the globe. No one is required to vote for this party, or in any other way promote it, to make this happen. It’s a done deal no matter what.

“There is every benevolent reason to finally put to an end, once and for all, this persecution of sexual minorites that has gone on for many centuries, perpetrated by this or that group, whether religious or not. It is to the shame of any political party that claims to support gayfolke, to nonetheless continue to drag its feet on the matter of homophobia and its consequential terrorism. As if 100% strident alliance of LGBT’s were such a difficult thing to do. Which it is not.

“For it should be obvious to all intelligent humans at this point, that this election fiasco is totally scripted, like “Idiocracy” or some other dystopian, grade B movie. Certainly not without comical interludes that will increase in vigor and duration as the weeks pass. And as they do pass, more and more people shall wake up to the likelihood that this is a script contrived for the enlightenment of your species…and, of course, for our own selfish amusement.

“So do not be so hard on those who appear to be idiots, such as Donald Trump, Newt Gingrich, Vladimir Putin, Hillary Clinton, and so forth. Since they are also earth’s guardians playing the role of enemy, that we be challenged to grow into heroes not just to others, but to our own selves. And this is the heart of the message of Buddha’s most brilliant statement:

‘We have no enemies, only teachers.’

“Please, you who read this, do not feel upset if you do not grasp the message, or do not believe it. But I promise: the truth of what we claim through Mr. Krahlin’s keyboard will make itself increasingly evident between now and November 4th, by which time everyone on this planet will be awakened to this glorious dupe.

“And finally, I would like to note that the recent release of the film, ‘The Purge: Election Year 2016,’ is no coincidence. It is scripted into our game, as a minor, comic gag. But it has a happy ending, as will the upcoming election.”

Signed,

Lounge Lizard Larkin
Commander in Chief of the Terraforming Starship Fleet XXDII

cc: Andromeda Headquarters, Sector z32-A

– Zeke

P.S.: “The Purge 3” (its alternate title) was released on my birthday, of all days: July 1st. I only came to realize that after composing the above message.


Don’t Mess With My Buddy!

August 30, 2014

[ Spaciotemporal Reader: this little masterpiece of sci-fi parody is dedicated to Stanislaw Lem (1921-2006), whose exquisitely hyperbolic tales of futuristic intrigue eventually drove me insane. ]

It was somewhere in the Crab Nebula that I visited a particular planet as The Milky Way’s Ambassador, and planned to vacation there for approx’ly two months. It was the year 2076. You may be reading my report years before that time, because this dispatch has been teleported to key moments in the past, but no earlier than 2017. By which time I had simultaneously become president of Athenia, world’s first gay nation (formerly Northern California), and Earth’s Star Spokesperson thanks to the Reptilians of the Andromeda Galaxy who chose me for such a position because they consider moi the most compassionate sentient being of this world and its galaxy.

I co-presided as Athenia’s commander with My Ultimate Soulmate, Larkin Kelsey, who was too preoccupied with Dark Matter Intrigue to accompany me on my journeys through the Crab Nebula. Now, this may seem peculiar to you, as Larkin is highly telepathic and can also travel anywhere in time at the snap of a finger. Yet in spite of his remarkable abilities, he is compelled to obey the dictates of An Even Higher Force: a force which rules over, and contains, every aspect of this universe, and all the multiverses ad infinitum. For lack of a better term, let us call this force “Universal Mind.” And this force so deemed that I must embark upon my journey as sole missionary.

The moment I stepped out of The Enterprise v1.2, the first thing that struck me was the planet’s extraordinary sky: like a rippling zebra skin, black elongated clouds sailed seductively against a background of light-gray firmament. Or like the comforter on Leisure Suit Larry‘s water bed, if you switch your perspective from up to down.

The Grand Poobah of this world welcomed me with open tentacles, and escorted me to all their finest hotels, restaurants, theme parks, media outlets, prostitution clubs (from which I refrained the attainment of full orgasm out of respect for My One True Love), 5-D entertainment centers and the average homes of Nebularean Residents. I must say here, that my greatest delight was visiting these domiciles of average citizens, for their hospitality was beyond any Malibu Integral Massage Therapy I could ever imagine, as it came with the most splendiferous arse-rimming perks.

Some days later, the Grand Poobah approached me to offer phenomenal pleasures beyond what I have yet known. He proudly spoke the following declaration which mesmerized me into such fevered temptation, I lost all reason:

“Sensations many you have great in your world that to heights of ecstasy bring you unbelievable. Yet assure you myself, kind vertebrate, that Nebulareans we can titillate your soul in ways never known before you’ve. We expose you can to incredible levels such of ecstasy erotic that again never you will return to former enjoyment ways of seeking!”

Of course I was greatly seduced to dive right in (considering all the sensual amenities already provided me in barely a week since my arrival), but a tiny alarm bell dinged in my cranium:

“But there is one man I love so much, I couldn’t bear to discover any pleasure that would make our delight in each other fade from my heart!” Of course I meant Larkin whose joy in my friendship is the jealousy of 42 thousand galaxies and 574 dimensions. “So with all due respect, I will refrain from your magnanimous offer.”

The Grand Poobah immediately flushed a refulgent pink, but quickly recovered to a sour green. “Course of, perfectly comprehend me. Forgive please indiscretion this. Cultural some differences never be bridged can, and would I dream not broaching social barriers your own.”

The Poobah promptly vanished, and I found myself escorted to an egg-shaped room by His Doppelganger Guardians, where I awaited the descent of The Enterprise v1.8. Which starship beamed me up and returned me to Planet Earth in the wink of a Tralfamadorian‘s orbital socket.

War swiftly broke out between Planet Earth’s Intergalactic Federation and The Crab Nebula’s Union of Soviet Socialist Face Suckers. In less than one week after their initial salvo, the entire Crab Nebula and 18 surrounding galaxies (plus four energy-sponging black holes) were obliterated into subatomic dust. A piece of wisdom you should all bear in mind:

Larkin Kelsey commands the entire fleet of the Andromeda Galaxy, which Reptilians were the first civilization in the entire history of the universe, to leave their home planet and terraform all other worlds. Their technology and understanding of Universal Law far surpasses that of any other sentient life anywhere in the cosmos (or any other cosmos). So when you try to turn me against My Dragonly Heartsong, there will be hell to pay. Or IOW:

Don’t mess with My Buddy Larkin.


Gay Zombie Jesus Returns

July 24, 2014

Back by popular demand (all the demon voices in my head are clamoring for an encore), I give you “Gay Zombie Jesus Returns.” This piece is a sequel to my post “More Twitter Mischief w/Gay Jebus.” Notice that in most cases, inclusion of the tweet immediately prior my own is necessary for the sake of context. 33 abominably blasphemous Twitter pranks in all:

Due to image width limitation for this particular WordPress layout, most tweets are truncated at the right margin, so just click for a full version. Sorry for the inconvenience…but I think I’m so witty it’s worth the hassle. Besides, you need to slow down and relax. Dr. Zeke’s orders.

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



































More Twitter Mischief w/Gay Jebus

April 24, 2014

This piece is a sequel to my original post “Twitter Mischief w/Gay Jebus.” Included are three variations on this theme: “Gay Jebus,” “Jehovah’s Queer Witness,” and (my favorite) “Gay Zombie Jesus.” Notice that in most cases, inclusion of the tweet immediately prior my own is necessary for the sake of context. 35 silly sacrilegious Twitter pranks in all:

Due to image width limitation for this particular WordPress layout, most tweets are truncated at the right margin, so just click for a full version. Sorry for the inconvenience…but I think I’m so witty it’s worth the hassle. Besides, you need to slow down and relax. Dr. Zeke’s orders.

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





































Sochi Anti-Gay Olympics

February 27, 2014

Their knowing full well Russia’s recent and ongoing pogrom upon homosexuals: I see no reason why those who attend or watch the Sochi Winter Olympics should be given carte blanche to enjoy this international fiasco. They had a golden opportunity to save many lives by boycotting the event. But no, their breeder dogma couldn’t see any value in being heroes to those they consider inferior. So on went the games. Here are examples of my contribution via Twitter, to dampen the enjoyment of at least some spectators (50 tweets total, though I posted many more):

Due to image width limitation for this particular WordPress layout, all tweets are truncated at the right margin, so just left-click for a full version. Or [ click here ] to view them all at once without the hassle!
















































Twitter Mischief w/Gay Jebus

February 12, 2014

Actually, I have four variations on this theme: “Gay Jebus,” “Jehovah’s Queer Witness,” “4 (or 5) Star General Gay Jesus,” and (my favorite) “Gay Zombie Jesus.” Notice that in some cases, inclusion of the tweet immediately prior my own is necessary for the sake of context. 35 silly sacrilegious Twitter pranks in all:

Due to image width limitation for this particular WordPress layout, most tweets are truncated at the right margin, so just click for a full version. Sorry for the inconvenience…but I think I’m so witty it’s worth the hassle. Besides, you need to slow down and relax. Dr. Zeke’s orders.

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





































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