Adventures with Baby

{Adventures with Baby is a monthy installment that allows us to look deep inside the consciousness of one of America's own. The strained, waste-strewn box is this modern culture and he is the man-boy, only to allowed to grow as much as this life will allow.}

The child awoke to a bad case of the bends. Grasping the night before, a night of revolution, holding the choice laser of destiny ... the old ,shoot first and ask questions later. It wasn’t so much the daily exercise of swimming in his oblong fish bowl full of scotch that brought the destruction of his machine but more the long exhausting adventure through the no-name roads of conversation. Her name was Shit Dick, Veronicolin, or something. She held a cup of skull which made him think she was a real Viking of sorts, wearing a blood stained shirt and crushing her breast into a big, tamed beast she named, ‘my man’.

-Main stream hip-hop is destroying Africa with all the cocaine drug trafficking going on.

-Where did you learn this?

-It’s a fact.

The child stared into his empty cup while his companion conversed absurdities to the Viking. He kept taking sips of his ghostly drink so not to speak. The Viking could tell he was hiding something. She attacked. While on her rampage of belittling the child he stared deeper into his cup. He could see his reflection in the stubborn droplets of vodka and realized why God was doing this to him. He first thought it was because of his appearance. The childish face full of childish stubble. Damn, baby forgot to shave again, you fucking baby. Short soft hair that hadn’t fully come in yet.

-Why don’t you like Ol’ Dirty Bastard?

-Because he’s old, dirty, a bastard, and he’s dead.

The child left the room and went on his way home. It was a dark fuzzy night. He relied on his cigarette to guide him through the streets. When all had fallen silent he dreamt of Russell Jones screaming and clawing at his coffin, crawling from the depths to fight Vikings. Scratching the surface. The woman who was sworn in to take care of the child, to watch baby, placed the little man in the shower. The water was hot.

-We listen to intelligent political rap.

-Shit dicks.

Getting more annoyed with his memory he tried to get his mind on to better things. In the shower, he looked down noticing his new friend. An oddly shaped fellow. He wished that he had the same powers that this friend had, the power to grow into one strong large muscle. Thinking how it would have helped earlier that night, during the ongoing Viking blaze of mayhem. If only I could do that! What would she say then! He finished.

That day he had to work a double shift of mindless running back and forth, holding burning plates in his palms while entertaining the anonymous. How can these people allow a baby to work this many hours? I wish my mind had the narrator’s voice from the wonder years, I don’t even hear anything. Whatever happened to Fred Savage? Whatever happened to Winnie? God damn my allergies are killing me. He sneezed throughout the entire day. Why doesn’t anyone say bless you? I’m always on top of it, for all I know Millhouse might be right and my unblessed sneeze has erased everything that’s good and everything I’ve achieved. He was picked up by his caretaker who drove him to their neighborhood bar.

3 Rumpelmintz and 6 Papts later he could be seen 360 degrees around the bar dancing and singing Ol’ Dirty Bastard’s return to the 36 chambers. He noticed he was being watched but did not care for these people did not get it, but he realized a character was paying close attention to him. An oddly looking fellow: a man in makeup, a she with Captain America’s jaw line, a sausage smuggler in a skirt. He approached the man-her. Throughout the one sided flirtatious conversation, he cornered the decision to employ a science experiment on his two buddies who had joined him for drinks.

-What’s your name?

-Janet.

-Would you like to smoke some weed Janet?

-Yes.

Leaving the pissed stained walls and the origins from which they came from, the child was immersed in an argument with his friend.

-I don’t know if this girl should come over man, Ryan’s kind of freaked out about bringing people over he doesn’t know.

-I understand but think about it this way, you’ll have a cute girl to smoke weed with.

-Yeah, well I’m putting this in your hands and anyways you have a girl.

The child laughed to himself. It’s not even on that, man. His friend placed him in the child seat and they were off. Shit dicks.

Serious Movie Reviews

Title, Dialog Contribute Next To Nothing
-A serious movie review by
Pissenger Padgeins-

“Rear and Pleasant Danger,” the first installment of Cory Elon’s three-film threadbare-arcadia serial, is densely peppered with random acts of coitus, pulpy money-shots, and painfully obvious hotel-room scenery. The human struggles of connection and acceptance are staples of American culture––evidenced by the last six years of ‘The Gilmore Girls’––but Mr. Elon’s character’s tap into something different, acting more like sex-crazed zombies with endless slews of crotchal moisture.

The film begins in medieval England, at least that is what one is led to think when Paige Patella––the only female lead––appears wearing a corset gown and tiara. She is told of her father’s stress in dealing with the defiant rouge factions in Ireland. Worry is splashed across Ms. Patella’s face like paint, heavily and deliberately glob-like. The young male messenger who brought the news ends up having to catch her from fainting; obviously the stress levels of the father of Ms. Patella’s still-nameless character affect her deeply. Next you know, the messenger is naked, standing with eyes closed, while Ms. Patella, now very conscious, seems to have found a cure for her worry in the form of swallowing again and again the young man’s machismo. How this strong connection came to be, how their clothes mysteriously disappeared is part of Mr. Elon’s elaborate trickery. While the camera focuses on more buttal and tittal angles, it’s almost like the story already doesn’t matter.

Next we find ourselves in what looks to be a modern-day apartment, if today was 1985. The couches are screened in plastic; the art looks like Max Headrum just sneezed on the wall. But Ms. Patella is there, this time dressed in nothing but a Mickey Mouse t-shirt. The plumber shows up, which she seems to be expecting. What happens next can only be described as elbow-pit copulation, with the bearded plumber repeated asking, “You want my pit slice?” or “Are you watching that flesh wrinkle?” Yes, Mr. Plumber, many of us are watching, and wondering. Ms. Patella’s character can only respond to such metaphysical questions with a very poignant, “Fill my trapper-keeper with your college-ruled!” Education is indeed flexing itself here.

It can be hard to keep track of everyone within such an intricate plot, but things start to almost make sense when, for whatever reason, Ms. Patella visits an apparently near-by quarry. She watches the men work away at the limestone, in their plaid working shirts and hardhats, while thoughtfully chewing her upper lip and, in a moment of self-reflection, warms her hand in-between herself. Here we get the only real insight to Ms. Patella’s character’s motivations: natural landforms and the harvesting of rock remind her of her own sexual valley and the work she’s put into forming it. She is obviously proud and as the scene proceeds to fade out, we are left with a small sense pride ourselves having pieced together some aspect of plot and character drive.

We fade back in to Ms. Patella, obviously high from her introspective trip to the quarry, engaging yet again in genital activity while holed up in a very sterile hotel room. This time she’s quiet, just throwing looks of confusion-mixed-with-inattention back at her now-sixth partner of the film. He’s the loud one this time, deploring her to enjoy his “Mendous Member” and to be affected by his “Mazing back-u-puncture” technique. These words (Tremendous and Amazing) are obviously said wrong to show the audience that this partner has trouble, like some of us, expressing his inner thoughts and feelings. Unfortunately, Ms. Patella’s character doesn’t seem to care and we are left to ponder her all-too-realistic choice of just exchanging bodily fluids with the random man and not helping his phonics. She leaves him deflated and sleeping.

The crescendo of the work occurs after this random-room encounter. Outside of the hotel Ms. Patella’s character runs into two little people. Referring to themselves as “honest, vage-loving midgets,” and after an exchanging of very bare and basic dialog, we find out that they are on the run. Ms. Patella, possibly making up for the lack of compassion in the hotel room, seems to be over flowing with empathy in the parking lot. She’s obviously affected and motions them behind a car were we are led to believe that Ms. Patella’s character somehow stuffs them inside of herself. She stands up, straightens her skirt, and walks casually away. In a moment of directorial genius, Mr. Elon then shows us the two little people, tucked away in Ms. Patella’s character’s neither-regions. They are all smiles and happy, relieved to thwart the threat that plagues them. So jubilant, in fact, that they themselves begin to engage in sensual action, right there surrounded by the pink and soft of Ms. Patella’s supposed birth canal. This, of course, affects Ms. Patella and while she is standing in line at what looks to be a Subway, she collapses to the floor in mysterious ecstasy. Their hidden love-making has brought about similar results upon Ms. Patella’s character. The metaphor here is a touch forced, but still relevant: She can harness any love she wants, but the inner love is what swings the heaviest hammer.

The end of the movie is confusing, but I think so on purpose. As we fade out from Ms. Patella grinding a bag of Sun Chips against her pleasure-pot, we fade into the future, 45 years from now. The Earth is barren, the moon broken into shards, and people seem to have morphed into marsupial-human-mix-type creatures called at one point “Kangavites.” Two of them hop toward each other and proceed to massage each other’s pouches until plastic fruit explodes from their furry honches. Humanity has lost, sensuality has abandoned. And we, the audience, are left understanding: Ms. Patella’s nameless character, a presence more then a person, wanted all the love she could get. She was a prophet and knew the future was effete and bleak. Neither the dialog nor the title contribute to this only-possible conclusion, which is a testament to the director’s aptness, but still leave you a bit confused. Which, if you think about it, is how life portrayed as art framed through life made with artistic tools really is.

Elevendy Twelven presents...

You may remember them as love songs. Not so much this week.

Fu*k Me Tender – Elvis Presley, 1956
It's Only Fu*k – The Beatles, 1977
And I Fu*k Her – The Beatles, 1964
I Will Always Fu*k You – Whitney Houston, 1992
Endless Fu*k – Diana Ross & Lionel Richie, 1981
That's The Way Fu*k Goes – Janet Jackson, 1993
P.S. I Fu*k You – The Beatles, 1964
I'll Make Fu*k To You – Boyz II Men, 1994
Best Of My Fu*k – The Emotions, 1977
I'd Do Anything For Fu*k (But I Won't Do That) – Meat Loaf, 1993
It Must Have Been Fu*k – Roxette, 1986
I Need Fu*k – LL Cool J, 1987
Fu*k To Fu*k You Baby – Donna Summer, 1976
I Want To Know What Fu*k Is – Foreigner, 1985
Baby, I Fu*k Your Way – Peter Frampton, 1976
Stop To Fu*k – Luther Vandross, 1986
How Deep Is Your Fu*k – The Bee Gees, 1978
All Out Of Fu*k – Air Supply, 1980
Fu*k Will Keep Us Together – Captain & Tennille, 1975
I Can't Make You Fu*k Me – Bonnie Raitt, 1991
Because You Fu*kd Me – Celine Dion, 1996
Words Of Fu*k – The Beatles, 1964

Unsolved Ejaculations of Mystery

I dreamt of a pitched tent nagging at my sexual campsite. I wondered, Should I throw dirt and smother it? Or wrestle it like a sedan-sized bear, using every once of my strength and guile to keep my food stuffs safe.


But then awake, I noticed it wasn’t morning.

The other side of the bed, my bed, was cold.

Where was she? Did she leave?

Earlier tonight. Yes. She came over. We talked, mostly about nothing: my quiet habit of picking the seeds off of a strawberry before eating it, her compulsion to lick salted meats and collect coats of all kinds. It was nice. The food was nice. I made a fantastic salmon smothered in a cheesy dill sauce with a side of buttered-broccoli.

I was sure then that night was at full tilt. Even the drab talk of the weather and coming cold could not deny it. Nothing less then sex was left. Her eyes and bare nipples made that clear.

Then she dipped into her purse. A bizarre thing, it was. Like the neck of an alpaca; furry, slender, somewhat annoying, with straps. She brought out two blue hexagonal pills. Ecstasy, I thought.

“I want you to suitcase these,” she said.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“No. I want YOU to suitcase these.”

She had a firm grip on my wrist by then, reaching across the table. Her naked chest was covered with dill the salmon missed. She must have seen the confusion in my eyes. Suddenly, we were standing and my arm was wrenched behind my back and she was fumbling with my belt.

I’m not opposed to new things. I believe it makes me smarter, wiser, a better person. It might not be clear now where and in what ways my life will improve having experienced a stranger’s (albeit an attractive, top-less stranger’s) finger pushing two unknown pills up into my body from the back door, but I’m sure it will make itself clear in due time. I now at least know “suitcase” to also be a verb. Until this night, it was merely a sad, sad noun.

She called them “enhancers.” I was still thinking Ecstasy. But now she’s gone and my body is stiff and sore and alone in bed. A pinnacle of comforter rises from the middle of me, screaming with my heartbeats.

Quickly I do the math. Six, no five and half hours ago we finished dinner. No sex was had, that I can remember.

“Gwen?” I call, thinking maybe the topless blond I paid for “interesting fun” is still here.

The only answer I get is the familiar quiet of the walls and floors and carpet of my two-room apartment soaking up my sound. Nobody is here. Just me and my thundering erection.

I’ve never thought of using a male stimulant. Actually I still don’t. Not yet, at my age. But at the same time I never thought I would be afraid of my own penis either. Here it is, a fleshy flag pole fighting my boxers and the sheets above it, trying to blast off, break through the ceiling, explode into flashing glitter-balls the shape of a peace sign or the American flag.


I know what I have to do. Every man would.

Deflate the urge, manually.

I’m like a prize fighter who’s slept through the first eleven rounds to wake up hurting, eye swollen shut, cheeks slick and puffy with pain. There is one more round to go. This will not be graceful. This will not be set to pretty music. This will sting a bit.

I reach around under my bed for the magazined smut. Oh, it hurts to move. The stash that has been kept under countless beds since my adolescence has been a constant comfort, not so much in my use of it but more in the existence and the readiness of it. If the two or three magazines were any more accessible they would be on my bedside table, but that just isn’t the look or the comfort I’m going for. While feeling for the porn, I briefly picture a naked woman pouting her lips and twisting a nipple on the way to self-exploration with one hand, holding on with the other. She’s on a helicopter, banking in at some ridiculous angle to save me, hair all curls and wind.

I position myself. The magazine is open.

The pages are familiar, the faces and poses contrived. This won’t do. I close my eyes, try and settle myself, try to forget my member. I wonder whether my feet or hands will have to be amputated because my penis is hogging all the blood. Then, in my mind, my manhood becomes a hook, all that will be left from this horrible ordeal. Some sort of prosthetic grapple hook. I will be only able to mate with robots and cans of pineapple juice. But I will have a way to get into my car when I lock the keys inside.

See, there are upsides.

No. That won’t happen. It can’t. I just need to get on with it.

I fuddle between images of the suitcase-these-and-I’ll-leave girl smeared with dill, a co-worker at the microwave in the empty third floor lounge, a familiar yet random busty park ranger coming across my lone campsite, but nothing is holding, nothing enticing. My imagination–grown strong and vivid by the very practice of self-satisfaction on a weekly, if not daily, basis–is at a loss. Frustration ensues.

I try not to give in to the thoughts washing through my mind. That I am now welding a weapon, a billy-club of blood and vein; a battering ram capable of pulverizing the plastic cage of some nefarious hamster; a quarterstaff used to punish those that steal or use inappropriate language. This is not my gentle member. This is not my beautiful house.

Then my mind flashes. She returns, my Helicopter Girl. She is laying down this time, on the floor of the machine, arms and hair spreading down toward me, a sly smile on her face. She wants to save me, to send down a rope to bring me closer. And I will have it, have her. This will be my own Clancy novel, full of bad dialogue and military intrigue. And I will get in the helicopter, after just exposing some Russian covert operation for the greater good, on my own, under the radar of the United States Government. And she, my Helicopter Girl, is my prize. She won’t mind that I had to suitcase two strange pills. I had to, to save the country. And she’ll see that, she’ll know that, and be turned on. She’ll have no choice but to please me, tie me up right there in the helicopter with ribbons of bullets…

A few thoughts later I can feel the end approaching, my goal almost procured. I had to let my mind go where it wanted, trust my imagination. A healthy, flaccid me is soon here. A few moments left.

The release is momentous. Memories even seem to leave with it. I forget for a second how this all happened, how my body came to ache. But that is no matter compared to what my casting loose brings about.


Parkas, rain slickers, down jackets, leather blazers; my bed is filled with coats. I just came coats.

The shock is numbing. And when a still-topless Gwen appears from my closet and gathers as many jackets as she can from between the sheets, then kisses me before leaving, all I can do is blankly watch.

Outside it is snowing.

Slipping Into Something More Confusing

After a night of wonder and romanticism, we went back to her place.

We strolled down her street, taking our time building the tension. My heart was racing as my thoughts bounced inside my head. How would it begin? What would we be doing right before, right after? Why did I have a pocket full of napkins? I was ready to take this mission on. I wanted her more than a fugitive wants to not be followed everywhere. We walked up two flights of stairs. She opened up the door. We walked in, and the standard drink was offered. I accepted.

Then she said, "Let me slip into something more confusing."

I said sure.

She went into her room. I took off my shoes. I slid into sex-mode.

She came out of her room wearing my clothes. It was going to be two of those nights. We maneuvered around each other's perimeters. She set off my pant alarm. My sexual searchlight spotted her prison break and my agents went to work. She offered the obligatory cavity search; I did the gentlemanly thing, and hammered an Out of Order sign on my backwater terrace, then placed the lobster bib around her flesh cummerbund.

She then found the conch meat I was hiding, and located it towards her nether-suburbs. I whistled, and my Clydesdales removed themselves from their stables, chasing a rabbit with pig-tails around an oval shaped coliseum of clumsiness. Needless to say, things were getting pretty eligible. I let her knead my loaf. She wore a smelting mask with a mirror with a picture of what she thought it would be reflecting taped to the front. It was spot on. Except for the discount flipper rack. I didn't see one of those in her apartment. But I could have been mistaken.

Then the main event.

The five-play was over and it was time for the regular programming to continue. She told me that she wanted me to own her notch. I remembered to her that I would only want to do that. She blushed and then winked at herself because at that moment I put on the mirror clad smelting mask. It now had a picture of her winking at herself. My hands turned to feet. My cold was hot. I was so eligible.

I couldn't control yourself, and I freed me. I freed me good.

This week

Let it be blown, elevendy twelven reader (singular), this week is all about filth-filthy-dirty-filth appreciation. However, this will be somewhat reserved.

No, not dirt. Not actual soil or mud; but the filth of the butt, breast, and crotchal areas. We mean the putrescence of private areas both real and imagined. Please believe. It is time.

March of Irony

May 1--
New York

As millions of people attempt to recreate last year's hugely successful nation-wide demonstration against the government's policies on immigration reform, many ran into small problems. Derek Harris, who owns a fair-trade coffee house in Lennox Hill, had hired several Hispanic Americans to create his picket signs, but due to the protest, no one showed.

"I should have seen this coming," Harris said as he scribbled his own signs. "Just goes to show it is hard to find good help."

Emily Franks has organized a way station along the 2nd Ave. parade route, handing out drinks and snacks to the brave marchers. This morning she stared at an almost impossible amount of drink mix, un-mixed due to lack of people of Puerto Rican hertiage. "This is insane." She said as she poured the cherry-limeade into a 5 gallon jug.

The irony was amazingly present in the march itself. Large numbers of protestors had extremely wrinkled shirts. Chris and Anna Northrop had dropped their "F*#k Bush" shirts at the dry cleaners on Thursday, and they weren't even clean when they picked them up.

"Whatever it takes. That mustard stain is more than just a testament to my clumsy eating habits," Anna said, expressing her disappointment at the dishevelment of her clothes, but added, "Those guys will be back tomorrow, and they're going to be playing catch-up. I just hope since we're here supporting them, perhaps a discount is in order? I don’t know."

In other news, the robot building cars in New Jersey shows up everyday for work and doesn’t yet want to smuggle his family across the border in a van. He just got a raise. March on that!