Secularprophet's Blog

Forget Eat, Pray, Love…..

secularprophet — Sun, 24 Oct 2010 17:29:58 +0000

WARNING:

This article contains offensive material. It was not created to diminish the horrible nature of some of the things it describes and is not intended to glorify these experiences.

Forget Eat, Pray, Love….

Are you unsatisfied? Has an excess of money and time made you question the boundaries of your existence? Has the stability and comfort of your life sent you spiraling into a tunnel of destruction and self-hatred?

Say no more! You have come to the right place. Join us and the hundreds of satisfied customers before you on a journey of self-discovery and epiphany that will take you to the borders of revelation. Our carefully organized, custom tours have been especially designed for people just like you! We guarantee that you will come back a changed person; never again will you deliberate the insignificance of your life or take anything for granted.

Stage One: Eat

Team Russia welcomes you to the frozen plains of Siberia! Your spiritual journey begins here in our very own Gulag, where you and 29 others will be greeted by your camp coordinators and provided with your very own personal pick ax and straw blanket. After a short opportunity to change into the camp uniform, you will be guided to the frozen tundra to begin the program. Now you can begin to enjoy a daily routine of 14 hour perma-frost hacking, before being led to your very breezy quarters for a six hour session of nocturnal relaxation. All 30 participants will have the luxury of sharing 6 specially made bunks designed for maximum human contact. Our camp relies solely on environmentally friendly forms of energy such as body heat, so you can cuddle with a clear conscience! It is our policy to recycle all forms of waste, so don’t worry about leaving anything behind! You’d be amazed at what can be used as a heat source or added as a delicious spice to your food. Oh yes, speaking of food! If you previously suffered from overindulgence, our specially rationed, traditional Gulag cuisine will teach you a new appreciation for food. Our program has been designed to instill a new attitude towards food in each and every participant; through our Two Lessons in Food Program, we guarantee that your outlook towards the quantity and variation of your diet will never be the same again!

Lesson One: Food is not everywhere at all times. As a western person belonging to the upper middle class, you are probably used to simply opening the fridge or stopping off at a restaurant for a meal – basically, a daily ritual of culinary excess. Food is always there, when and where you need it; your thoughts concerning food have probably been reduced to a simple selection on a menu. Well, we are here to help! Food is not a gratuity. Food is to be appreciated and enjoyed as an integral part of the living process. Our specially trained camp coordinators are here to help you learn to make food reception a part of your whole through the “Work=Food” system. You will learn to tie your eating habits into your daily work schedule and earn “Food Points” for each successful square meter of hacked perma-frost. Once you have gathered enough points, you will be able to redeem them for a small pot of food, specially portioned just for you. And just to make sure that you never forget how important a meal really is, we have organized a surprise schedule of food-free days just for you!

Lesson Two: All types of food are edible. Chances are that your lifestyle has turned you into a bit of a food snob. You have begun to reject certain diets or forms of nutrition due to trends and western conventions and have completely lost touch with the true nature of food. Once again, we are here to help! Our delicious, vegetarian Gulag cuisine consists entirely of barley porridge and will always stay the same. Four months of our diet are designed to make you curious about other forms of food, including types of nutrition you’ve never dreamed of eating before! Our camp counselors will assist you in discovering new culinary frontiers through special “Food Posters” they will display around the camp, teaching you about new dietary delights from all over the world. You will never wrinkle your nose at anything again!

Congratulations! You are now ready to move on to Stage Two of our program. We hope that your newly developed eating habits will stay with you a lifetime and help shape the way you plan your future.

Stage Two: Pray

(Note: Due to logistic reasons, our program War Zone in Iraq has been indefinitely postponed. We apologize for any inconvenience and hope you enjoy our new itinerary!)

Team China welcomes you to our Clothing Sweatshop! Your spiritual journey begins here in the heart of industrial Shanghai, where you will be greeted by a specially trained team of gurus and guided to your own personal chair and sewing machine. Here you will embark on a daily tantra of 18 hour sewing, designed to bring you closer than ever before to your inner self! Once again, you will be lodged in environmentally friendly Body Heat fueled chambers, where you can enjoy the physical comfort of your 29 new friends! If you are still suffering from spiritual emptiness, you are about to embark on the journey of your life! Through careful meditation and special exercises, our Spirit Finder Program will put you in touch with the inner recesses of your soul, enabling you to once again feel the presence of the greater whole.

Step One: Monotony is the Key. Chances are that your western lifestyle has subjected you to sensory overload on a daily basis, making it impossible for you to concentrate due to your to adaptation to distraction. You may be jittery, unfocused and overstimulated, unable to maintain the necessary calm for meditation and prayer. No worries! That’s what our gurus are here for! It is their job to provide you with an environment of complete repetition and uniformity – the optimum environment for successful prayer and spiritual development. You will be required to sew the same type of clothing for the entire duration of your daily session, seated comfortably in the same position on the same chair for 18 hours of uninterrupted reflection time. Say goodbye to multi-tasking! The melodic hum of the sewing machines will set you into a trance in no time!

Step Two: Restraint opens the Door. You are probably used to being able to satisfy every whim and fancy without any difficulties. You have forgotten to consider anything a PRIVILEDGE and tend to take things for granted. You can’t remember the last time you thanked a greater power for the things you have been given in life and you have never done any penance. Consider this problem solved! It is our duty to make you aware of the small things in life and weave this newfound appreciation into your daily prayer ritual. Our “Work=Toilet” Points System will teach you to practice restraint, starting with the most primitive of human bodily needs. The amount of prayer time and its resulting work determines your admission to the facility bathrooms. Learn to enhance this experience by coordinating it with a liquid fast on alternating days to maximize the sensation of restraint and penance. The feeling of unfulfilled need and ultimate control will inspire you to separate body from soul and journey to a new plane of consciousness!

Congratulations! You are now ready to move to the Final Stage of our Program! We hope that you will be able to integrate your lessons in spirituality into your experiences with food. Always remember – everything is part of the greater whole!

Stage Three: Love

Team Thailand welcomes you to Bangkok’s Patpong Red Light District! You will be greeted in the harbor area by your own personal pimp who will then guide you to your very own, private quarters in a container that opens up to an ocean view! Here you will be able to indulge in many hours of perfect solitude, where you can deliberate on all that you have learned and look forward to the last segment of our program. Here, you will once again learn to love yourself and appreciate the value of true love from others.

Step One: It’s Only Physical

As a special introductory experience, your pimp will join you in your private quarters for your very own welcome rape. Chances are that you are suffering from a lack of appreciation for all of the affection you experience at home due to family and friends. You take your lovers for granted and consider emotional intimacy a given, which can lead to very demanding expectations and dissatisfactory relationships. No worries! Our crew has been specially trained to allow you to experience a complete void of love from others. Through your exciting street work as a prostitute, you will discover a world where people exist purely on a physical plane of consciousness. Combined with a regular treatment of degradation and abuse from your pimp, this regiment is designed to make you understand what it truly means to be misunderstood and unloved. You will never take your spouse for granted again!

Step Two: Learn to Love Yourself

Once you have completed the first stage of this experience, your pimp will leave you to the comfort of your bare environment. Chances are that you are accustomed to a daily ritual of chats, phone calls and dinner with more friends than you can make plans for. Do you feel as though you have spent too much time and energy pleasing others, instead of catering to yourself? Are your superficial friendships making you feel worthless without them? Then you’ve come to the right place! Once your personal pimp has guided you to your domicile by the ocean, you will be left alone in complete darkness to finally devote the necessary time required to yourself. For one week, you will be confined to your quarters and given the chance to combine everything you have learned during the past two Stages of our program. No food will interfere with your deliberations and only a minimal quantity of water will be left at your disposal. Now it is time to face yourself and learn to love your own company. By the time you are finished, you will never have to make a personal phone call again – you will be able to have fully functional conversations with yourself! Remember – the key to truly loving others is being able to love yourself!

Congratulations! You have now completed each training segment of our program and should be able to return home a more humble, spiritual person, ready to deal with the gruels of daily western life. We hope that you have learned your lessons well and are able to integrate your new found values into your old environment. Everyone will be stunned by the new person you’ve become! If you have friends suffering from the same existential crisis you once had, you know where to send them! And perhaps you will have learned the most valuable lesson of all:

SHOCK!………..YOU NEVER HAD IT THAT BAD TO BEGIN WITH.

So…. just stop whining already!!

The Species Called Fatma

secularprophet — Wed, 16 Dec 2009 18:19:27 +0000

The Species called Fatma

(from the diaries of the Anti-Guru)

Ah, the creatures you meet on Facebook. You don’t even have to add them as friends for them to come flocking, filling your inbox with comic inspiration all year long. This particular source for alien encounters offers a great variety and abundance at very low maintenance, often presenting you with opportunities to discover new internet life forms by virtue of your membership alone.

Just recently, I had the honor to converse with a young Australian “lady”, who was obviously in the process of confusing Tupac Shakur with Hemingway. I know that my English is far from perfect, but after this little display of linguistic ingenuity, I was feeling pretty close to Hemingway myself.

I invite you to venture with me into the world of written anarchy:

(Names have been modified to protect the identity of the participants)

Between You and Fatma

Fatma December 11 at 2:38am:

yyu like this yya dog cum sux/mii ass yuu will luv it more

Me December 11 at 10:41am

Where are you from? Your English needs a little work, but I’m sure it will improve with practice. If you need some help, just let me know.

Fatma December 12 at 7:49am

shut the fuk up yya bacon

Me December 12 at 10:13am

Wow, that’s really sad – you can’t even spell “fuck” properly.
Like I said, the offer still stands. If you need help in improving your English, I would be happy to provide my assistance!

Fatma December 13 at 5:58am

maybe yuu should learn that its called abrevation yya fat ugly slut yya mole

Me December 13 at 9:38am

Lesson number one:
The word “you” has three letters. So does “yya” or “yuu”. To abbreviate, you are required to shorten the original length of the word, which you obviously didn’t.
You simply spelled it wrong.

If you require any more assistance, please let me know!

Fatma December 13 at 9:45am

fuck upp yur really doing mii head in get over ya self slut muffin yya dog

Me December 13 at 9:53am

Now that was barely literate, my dear.
Please try again and make more of an effort to construct your sentences properly. I seriously advise that you add some punctuation.

I know you can do it!

Fatma December 13 at 9:55am

fuk uur sad yur really doin mii head in fuck off yya wanka sls

Me December 13 at 9:59am

I am sorry, but you did not complete the assignment as planned. Please try again and focus on providing your sentences with structure using punctuation. Once you have learned to apply this skill, we can move on to the next challenge.

Don’t give up! You’re almost there!

Fatma December 13 at 11:14am

fuck uur mum yya slutt…fuck uur sad

Me December 13 at 11:21am

Wow! Great work! Your effort to structure your sentences and spell the word “fuck” correctly is noted. The word “fuck” is now part of your active vocabulary. Keep up the good work!
Lesson number two:
Let’s try the word “you”. Please repeat after me: y-o-u

Now let’s try applying it!

Fatma December 13 at 11:29am

now lets try and apply this ima going to cut you and yur family up and put you in a bag and feed you to yur dog yya ugly mole how is that for yya now fuck off and try to remane calmt

Me December 13 at 11:35am

Good job! You have successfully spelled the word “you” correctly three times.
Don’t give up! With practice, you will eventually spell it right every single time. Don’t let yourself get frustrated by minor setbacks; at first, it is normal to make mistakes when you start learning a new language!

Let’s try again and don’t forget that punctuation!

Fatma December 13 at 2:43pm

go fuuk uur self yya fucken devill

Me December 13 at 4:44pm

Uh oh. Check your spelling; you seem to have slipped back into your old habits. Could it be that you are not feeling up to it today?
I suggest taking a break and trying again tomorrow. You’ve worked very hard and deserve a little time to recover!

I’m looking forward to our next lesson!

Fatma December 13 at 11:10pm

yya dumb kunt shutt tthe fuck up yya slut…….fuk uur sad gett a life yya wanka…

Me December 14 at 5:05pm

You know what’s sad?
All this time I was waiting for you to write back in English, telling me what a fool I was to have fallen for such a silly prank.
I refused to believe that someone living in AUSTRALIA could be so intellectually deprived and illiterate; I was sincerely hoping that you were just kidding with all this pseudo rap garbage. Unfortunately, it seems that I was wrong.
You can’t read and write proper English, can you? Are you even capable of writing a real sentence or spelling correctly with any consistency?
Do you even read books?
If not, you have my condolences. I seriously suggest you get some help and find someone to teach you properly. It’s never too late to learn, particularly when it comes to something as fundamental as your country’s official language. Don’t be ashamed to get help; you’ll thank me one day, trust me on that. Being ignorant and illiterate is NOT cool.

The Bridges of Friendship

secularprophet — Wed, 15 Jul 2009 11:58:53 +0000

Kevin wanted to commit suicide. He was “trapped in a theater, watching a movie that he did not want to see the end to.” Suicide was not actually his term for it. He was just planning to remove himself from the picture.
I had known him for over two years; he lived alone in the cramped basement of an old dump, in an area infested with drugs and prostitutes. Roaches aside, Kevin kept an immaculate apartment; his frequent scrubbings had left his quarters permeated with the reek of disinfectant. All of his belongings were neatly stacked and labeled and his papers were filed categorically in folders lining his walls. Once, years before, he had been a math major in university, these days he barely ventured from his room.
I was the only person he talked to anymore, so naturally it was me whom he came to for advice on the various methods of ending one’s life.
He appeared suddenly one day, as he always did, and explained his intentions to me in a quiet, rational manner, his hands neatly folded in his lap and legs firmly pressed together.
“Well,” I suggested, “you could buy a shot gun and blow your brains out.”
Kevin did not possess any firearms.
I sighed. “Well, there are other ways of committing suicide, I suppose you don’t have to do it with a shot gun. Would be the easiest way, though.”
He visibly cringed at the word suicide.
“Please don’t say that. Suicide implies something wrong. This is not wrong. Let’s call it something else please.”
“Like what?”
His hands twitched and for a moment he looked at me as though he was expecting something. . Then, he spoke.
“Let’s call it schlooving.”
“Schlooving?!”
“Yes. A nice, generic, undefined word. A non word , to be precise. Very appropriate.”
I leaned back in my chair and stretched my legs, a smile playing on my lips.
“Okay, schlooving then. You should schloove off a bridge, like Fourth Narrows. Very effective.” An image came to me of a cat, lying inert on the rail tracks below the bridge in the glow of moonlight, every bone in its body shattered. “Not a chance of survival.”
Kevin looked uncertain.
“You are sure?”
I smiled knowingly.
“I’m sure.”
He fidgeted some more, smoothing down the front of his shirt with long, slim, pale fingers. Then he looked up.
“Would you take me there?”
I chewed my lip, feigning uncertainty.
“I will pay you,” he said.
I agreed to show him the bridge.

We went the next day, braving traffic as we edged our way along the narrow walkway lining the side of the bridge. We paused over the railroad tracks. The wind whipped at our clothes as we peered down at that wide open space, gaping before us like a hungry mouth. Traffic roared past. Kevin was frowning.
“It’s not high enough.” His voice was swept away with the rush of traffic.
“Whah?”
“It’s not high enough!” I could barely hear him over the drone of automobiles. I sighed with annoyance and explained the conditions of the cat after death. He knew me well enough not to ask where I had gotten the information.
“It’s not high enough.” He repeated firmly. I could see his eyes blinking in rapid succession as they skirted across the rail tracks below.
“Okay. Okay! What do you want, a goddamn cliff?” I was tempted to stamp my foot, but settled for putting my hands on my hips. I glowered at him. Kevin lowered his eyes.
Did I know of any cliffs?
I considered it as cars roared by, ripping at my jacket.
I knew of a giant mine pit in the interior near Ashville. Provided he rented the car and paid for motels and food, I would gladly accompany him.
Kevin seemed pleased as we headed for home. He agreed to my terms and promised me the savings in his accounts as an added bonus.

Neither Kevin or I had a driver’s license. The only person I knew with driving abilities was my roommate, Mickey. Mickey had recently been laid off for the summer at his factory job and was currently working construction on and off. He was sure to have time on his hands. It seemed I had no alternative but to coerce him into the trip. Cornering Mickey the next day as he came through the door after work, I explained my intentions to him and reluctantly promised him half the profits.
His eyes flew open in mock horror.
“You sick freak!” he exclaimed.
Good old Mickey, the guy with the righteous front.
“You have to be kiddin’ me.” He kicked off his muddied boots, keeping his eyes on me. I suppressed the urge to cringe at the sound of his slang and explained Kevin’s worth. I saw something flicker in his eyes.
“You have credit card debts, don’t you?” I pointed out.
The amusement left his face and he cocked an eyebrow. My eyes narrowed.
“You leave your statements on the kitchen table,” I flashed him a wry smile.
The corner of his mouth twitched, but he remained silent.
“There’s not a chance of trouble. We simply drop him off in a restaurant with many witnesses after he withdraws his accounts. Then we head home and he can do what he wants.”
Mickey crossed his bulky arms over his chest and leaned back. I could see the sweat glistening on his chest hair. My nose began to twitch.
“It’s easy money…”
“Half? No games, no cheating?”
“Most definitely. Plus all expenses.”
His resolve was melting. I had him.
“Okay,” he feigned reluctance. He grinned, “You’re so evil!”
Yeah, Mickey, I wanted to add, but I’m so very necessary at times, aren’t I? He was, after all, the guy who had commissioned me to dispatch of his girlfriend’s cat.

That weekend we took off in a bright red Ford Taurus station wagon. Whistling a song of anticipation, I loaded my things into the car and popped a tape into the stereo before anyone else had the opportunity. I blasted the music the moment the car pulled away from the curb and rolled down my window to feel the wind on my face. The sound was clear and full and the speakers did not crack. Mickey had slipped behind the steering wheel in a wave of cheap cologne, wearing tight, faded jeans and a shirt left unbuttoned half way down his hairy chest. He’d glanced at the stereo and said nothing, just giving me a look, much as he always did. I wasn’t going to let him monopolize our playlist with macho tunes from the seventies and eighties. It was enough to have to endure ten minute guitar solos on the stereo system at home; Mickey was the primary reason for my recent purchase of ear plugs. I made a mental note to continue scratching his cds when I got back. For his part, Kevin wasn’t one to complain. We had made him take the back seat and he sat there in silence, straight as a rod, hands folded in his lap.
We attempted to escape the city at high speeds, but found ourselves stalled by traffic. Mickey grew restless and annoyed at the other cars, occasionally rolling down his window to make a rude remark.
“Asshole!” He would bark. I could see, almost feel Kevin flinch in the back seat. He despised obscenities.
Once, a car cut us off abruptly and Mickey grew livid with anger, a flush of red creeping up the tips of his chest hairs to his neck. He told me to reach into the glove compartment and hand him some of the eggs he’d stocked up on.
“I bet it’s a Chink,” he mumbled. I did as I was told and watched silently as we pulled up beside the offending vehicle.
“Asshole! Chinks!” Mickey screamed and smashed an egg into the passenger side window. The occupants, an elderly Chinese couple, were visibly startled, giving us surprised looks of confusion.
Micky prepared to launch his next missile.
“Stop this!”
It was Kevin, his voice shrill. His face was bright red and he looked simply horrified.
“I want to get out. Now! Let me out!!!!”
Mickey withdrew the egg and turned to me.
“It’s okay, Kevin, he’ll stop.” I shot Mickey a look of warning.
In the next lane, the other car had already disappeared.

Our first stops were Hampton and Boston Bar. I sung to myself as the car streaked along the highway, lush mountains of green rising to either side of us. Music pulsed from the speakers. I felt hot; the late afternoon heat had penetrated the car and I implored Mickey to turn on the air conditioning. Kevin noticed a bridge on the side of the road and sorely demanded to be let out to take a better look. Mickey and I were hungry, so we offered to drop him off and fetch him later, after we had grabbed something to eat.
“What’s with ‘im, anyway?” Mickey questioned me as we sat in a cool Dairy Queen eating hamburgers.
I tried to find the words to explain Kevin, but discovered I could not.
Um.. he’s just, um…. he’s very moral.” I fought with my burger, snapping at falling onions with my teeth. Sauce dripped on the table and ran down my hands. I wiped them on the neighboring seat.
Mickey surveyed the restaurant, lingering on women in tiny shorts. Eyes firmly fixed on a scantily clad brunette, he grunted.
“Moral, eh?”

We found Kevin standing at the edge of the bridge, still as a statue, as though he had not moved since we had left him. His tall, slight frame was clearly outlined against the trees, his head held high as he spotted us through the thick lenses of his glasses. He greeted us eagerly, already restored to his usual spirits.
“Much too low,” he informed me. I didn’t bother to look.
Our next bridge stop was a group thing. We all got out and gauged the drop, focusing on the sharp, jagged rocks below. I dropped a penny and we all gathered round to see it disappear into oblivion.
There was no walkway, so when a car came on our side, we were forced to scramble to the opposite side in a small herd. Awaiting us there was a putrid, dead opossum ground firmly into the curb. It radiated the hot, pungent stink of rot. Kevin approached it and bowed his head. Mickey hooted with laughter.
“Awww, how sweet, your friend is bondin’ with road kill!” He cackled and slapped his knee.
Kevin turned to me, his face serious. “We should bury it.”
I stopped laughing.
“Get real,” I sneered. Mickey snorted.
Kevin looked hurt. I tried to lighten my voice.
“Anyway, Kevin, what do you think of the bridge?”
He paused, eyes to the ground.
“I don’t think it will do,” he whispered.
I sighed and turned to Mickey. He arched his brows and shrugged. The drop on the bridge had been at least one hundred feet.
“To the mine pit then.”

Darkness descended upon the open highway like a cloak, draping the hills and fields in shadows as we continued to follow the road by the glare of our headlights. I yawned and stretched my legs, glancing at Mickey illuminated by the light of the dashboard. His eyes did not meet mine. Stretching my arms, I could see Kevin’s solemn face reflected in the rear view, his prominent nose looming from the darkness of the back seat. I closed my eyes.

We took a motel in Cactus Creek, in a clean, Spartan building next to a 24 hour convenience store. The proprietor was barrel shaped, with a hairy beard and booming voice. He greeted us with enthusiasm and gave us fresh coffee.
Kevin needed a new toothbrush, so I accompanied him to the store before bedtime. Once inside, I began loading a basket with items of interest, skipping through the aisles as Kevin compared the quality of toothbrushes. We approached the counter together and unloaded our merchandise.
“What’s all this?” Kevin asked politely when I made no motion to pay for my goods.
“Stuff I need.”
“But-”
“Tomorrow you will see the pit. It will be a definite.” I flashed him a broad smile. Kevin looked perplexed. He sighed heavily.
Slowly, he produced his bank card and handed it to the clerk. She gave him the key pad to punch in his code. I grabbed it from his hands.
“What’s the code again, Kevin? I forgot.”
Kevin reached for the pad, then withdrew his hands. He said nothing, his brows furrowed. The clerk sighed and tapped her fingers on the counter.
Tap, tap.
“Well? Kev?”
Kevin breathed deeply.
“The code, Kevin.”
He adjusted his glasses.
“94964”
I slowly punched it in, savoring the feel of each number. Satisfied, I handed the pad back to the clerk, then snatched Kevin’s card from her fingers.
“Thank you,” I smiled warmly, “Get my bags for me, Kev. I’ll be just a moment.”
Without hesitation I quickly made my way to the rear of the store and to the cash machine. Kevin watched with a forlorn expression as I withdrew eight hundred dollar and emptied his account.
“Here’s your card,” I tucked it into the front pocket of his Oxford shirt and headed for the exit.
“Have a nice evening!” The clerk called after us.

We returned to find Mickey engrossed in pay TV, nursing a beer and sprawled out on of the three beds. He had stripped to the waist and his skin glistened with the sheen of sweat.
“You give her money, Kevin?” he asked, eyeing my new acquisition. Kevin nodded and quietly proceeded to the washroom. Mickey sat up.
“My half. Come on, come on.”
I produced the bills and slapped them into his outstretched palm. I threw myself on the second bed, kicked off my shoes and lit a cigarette. Mickey grimaced, fanning the smoke away from his body. I chased him with it, blowing it in his face and laughing. He threw a pillow at me and covered his face with rough, calloused hands.
Kevin emerged from the washroom, his face contorted with dismay. I immediately ground out the cigarette, but his expression did not change.
“What’s wrong, Kevin?”
“The shower is dirty.” His thin fingers were fidgeting with the buttons on his shirt.
“Oh really?”
I heaved myself up and lumbered after him into the washroom to inspect the shower. It was spotless.
“There is no dirt, Kevin. You are imagining things.”
Kevin pointed to the rims between two tiles.
“Look – there is scum in there. I can’t shower in something like this!”
I bent to take a closer look, but couldn’t see anything.
“I can’t see it, Kevin. You’re imagining things – really. You are.”
“What can you expect from a place that expects us to use soap made from animal fat!!” he exclaimed, presenting me with a tiny square of standard motel issue soap.
“I can’t use this! And I am going to require disinfectant for the shower!” he proclaimed.
I groaned.
“So do it. Suit yourself. Just don’t ask me to satisfy your anal needs.” I turned my back and stalked off.
Kevin spent the rest of the evening scrubbing tiles after purchasing liquid soap and disinfectant from the store. Mickey and I reclined on our beds munching chocolate bars, watching the sex channel until Kevin finally emerged from his labor, head held high in silent protest. His skin was a curious hue of pink and his hair slick against one side of his bony scalp.
Mickey took a last swig from his beer can and belched. I wrinkled my nose.
“Bed?”
“Yep. ‘Bout that time.”
Kevin had not only forgotten his toothbrush; he’d forgotten his pajamas. He demanded I shut out the lights before he stripped to his underwear. Mickey snorted, stretched out on his bed in his tiny briefs. He had once told me that he preferred to sleep naked.
“Faggot.”
I obliged Kevin and crawled beneath the cool sheets. I could hear him scramble into the bed next to me and hastily dive under the covers. I suppressed a giggle and snuggled into my pillow. As I tried to get comfortable in my alien bed, I discovered that Mickey snored.

Morning brought harsh, glaring sunlight and the usual disgruntled feelings associated with waking up. Kevin had been the first to rise, already showered and dressed in neatly pressed navy polyester and oxford white. His fine, dark hair was wet, plastered evenly to his skull in a bowl cut.
“Good morning!” He greeted us with cheer, carefully folding his jacket over his arm.
Grunting, Mickey and I emerged from our beds as squinting zombies, cursing the motel’s “out by eleven” rule. Mickey grumbled all the way into the washroom. I waited impatiently for him to finish, licking at the fur on my teeth with a grimace.
“Hurry up, will you!” I called, clutching my new underwear to my chest as I rocked back in forth on the bed.
Mickey flung open the door and stomped out, a cloud of steam and cheap perfume wafting into the room from behind. I grabbed my things and padded into the washroom, gagging on the thick, humid air.
Before we left, I snatched a few clean towels and shoved them into my bag.
“What are you doing?” Kevin’s pale face was creased with anxiety. I laughed.
“Put them back!” he demanded. I stopped laughing.
“Just shut up, Kevin!” I snapped and slung my bag over my shoulder.
“Put them back,” he said more quietly this time. “The owner does not deserve that.”
I was now scowling fiercely.
“Why don’t you take up religion, Kevin? You’ve already got the fitting haircut. No, seriously, I think you’d be good at it! But just leave me the fuck alone. It’s none of your business what I do, all right?”
“If you’re going to take those towels, then I will pay for them.”
“Good. You do that,” I snarled.
True to his word, Kevin left a twenty on his bed as payment before we left, which I promptly snatched while locking up. Before closing the door, I surveyed the room. Kevin was the only one who had bothered to make his bed. It stood as an island in a sea of chaos.
Outside, we were surrounded by dry, dead land. The sky was cloudless and blue above mils of rolling, yellow hills sparsely dotted with skeletal brush. We loaded the car and headed off into the mouth of the desert, along a narrow, winding road that would take us to Ashville and the mine pit.
This huge, open “canyon” is the largest of its kind in North America. I had no idea what was mined there (nor did I care). We reached it by mid afternoon and stopped the car next to a promising drop.
“Wow.” Mickey used his hand as a visor as he surveyed the vast expanse of the pit. It was a deep penetrating chasm carved into the rock, ending in a reservoir of water. Tractors and machinery were visible below, nestled on sand banks. Heat swam like a river on the horizon and I could feel the scorch of the rock we stood on through the think rubber of my soles.
Kevin was impressed. He tentatively approached the edge and looked down. Slowly, he began to wander along the brink, his head lowered and eyes cast into the depths below. Further and further. Kevin kept walking until he disappeared in the distance, leaving me and Mickey to stand together by the car and wait.
And wait.
“I’m getting a sunburn!” I whined and wiped beads of sweat from my brow. I also had to go pee really badly. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other in agony.
Mickey said nothing and walked to the edge of the drop, where he unzipped his pants and proceeded to urinate. I ground my teeth.
“He’s comin’ back, see?” Mickey shook the last drops into the canyon and did up his fly. He pointed to a speck shimmering in the waves of heat. I sighed with relief. Eventually, Kevin approached us and the car.
“Good enough?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, then we’ll drop you off in a diner in Ashville. Okay?” I imagined a nice, clean washroom waiting for me.
He was quiet for a moment. “No.”
“What do you mean, no?” Mickey stared in disbelief.
“I want to go home first, then come back by bus.”
Mickey shot a look at me.
“Now wait a minute,” he protested. “We came all this way…… for nothin’?”
“It cost you nothing and you got free food.”
I interceded at this point, eager to begin my search for a washroom.
“He’s right, Mickey. Now let’s go. I am SO hot.” I flashed him an urgent expression and he nodded in acknowledgment. We got into the car.
Kevin was extremely talkative on the return trip. He blabbed continuously about attempting to schloove with a plastic bag over his head.
“It did not work. I ended up ripping it from my head during the final moments – I did not want to, but my will was not enough. What a failure; in the end I only managed to schloove brain cells, not myself.”
I cranked up my stereo and my beloved, mindless dance music, giving Kevin the occasional nod of understanding. Eventually he lost his wind.
In Hampton, I got him to clear another account. Nine hundred dollars. He was weary and talked out, in no mood to put up an argument.
The car was due back by four, so we had to hurry. Mickey took advantage of the opportunity to drive fast, often taking hairpin turns at dangerously high speeds.
As we reached the outskirts of the city, we came upon slow, congested traffic. I could practically hear Mickey’s teeth grind as he attempted to wave through the sea of crawling automobiles. An elderly couple ahead of us refused to let him pass. I could feel his anger boiling.
“Give me a bomb!” he commanded. Snickering, I reached into the glove compartment and produced a softened, stinking egg, putrid with heat and decay. Mickey pulled up to the car and rolled down his window, snarling like a vicious animal.
“Fogies!” The egg exploded across the passenger door, the spray of rotten yolk splattering the window. The view was rather obscure, but we could see the shock and horror on those people’s faces.
“Stop!” Kevin shrieked from the back as Mickey flung another egg out the side. I handed him two more.
“Let me out!” Kevin cried as the eggs hit their mark.
Mickey turned to me with a wicked smile and winked. At the next exit, he pulled off the highway and parked in the lot of a McDonald’s.
“Here you go!” He announced and looked back at Kevin, who stared at him in confusion.
“You wanted to leave?”
Kevin hesitated, then opened the car door and stepped outside.
“It’s a long walk home, Kevin,” I remarked. “If I were you, I’d stay for the ride.”
Kevin did not say anything. He looked puzzled and slightly hurt as he turned away from the car and began walking towards town. We watched him for a few minutes; he kept turning his head as if he was waiting for us to approach him.
We didn’t. Mickey turned the car back onto the highway and we headed home, seventeen hundred dollars richer.

Too Lazy to Fuck

secularprophet — Wed, 15 Jul 2009 10:53:07 +0000

There comes a time, every once in a little while, sometimes at breakfast while chewing my Muesli, on other occasions catching me unawares while reading a book, when the sudden awareness kicks in that, for some inexplicable reason, I haven’t done “it” in a while. Just like that, out of the blue – the thought hits me, my brow furrows and I think “Man! It’s been at least six months…” Or longer. And I realize that somehow, amidst all the chaos and confusion, I just forgot to have sex.
Hmmm. The problematic! And now that the seed has been sown in my mind, I can’t seem to get rid of it anymore; regardless of what I do or where I go, everything suddenly reminds me of how sexually inactive and abstinent I’ve been. I turn on the TV to watch a thriller… half and hour into the movie, in spite of three unsolved murders and a killer still on the loose, the main characters have sex. I try to read a book about mountaineering…. Mt. Everest base camp at over 6000 meters – it’s minus 20 outside but hey! – two journalists are having sex. A friend of mine comes to visit. Guess what he did last night???
Yep, he had sex.
I start considering the possibility of joining a monastery or starting a little colony, with myself at the head as the Guru of New Age Asexuality. I will proclaim to all the world that I have set aside my primitive sexual ways and have started to practice intercourse with my index finger. I will preach to my followers about the wonders of “finger sex”, – “Genital sex is so messy!” I will call to the masses. “In an ideal world we will be able to reproduce through our fingers! No more leaking cum, no more impractical menstruation! Our fingers will be equipped with the necessary reproductive organs to execute painless and cleanly procreation – no one will ever need to suffer through another disgusting birth or walk around nine months with a bloated belly again. Our fingers will lay tiny eggs that we can leave at home until they hatch! Whoever said that live births were an evolutionary advancement?! Menstruating fingers don’t need tampons or large, uncomfortable pads – all you need is a little bandaid! ” Finger sex itself is simple and direct. Gone will be the days of clumsy attempts to unhook a bra. You just touch fingertips with your partner, anywhere, anytime. Fear of discovery, hidden sexuality – all of these elements will be a thing of the past! “Finger orgasms,” I will declare. “Are much more intense than those people now experience through their genitals.” I will take one of my followers from the crowd and demonstratively hold out my finger. “Come,” I will command him. “Let us do it!” He will, of course, hesitate at first, afraid as he is of this newfound world of modern sexuality. But his finger will rise to meet mine and then, slowly, gently, our fingertips will become one, on my face a look of utter ecstasy and gratification.
He will probably just stare at me, his expression one of utter confusion. “Did you not feel the waves of lust wash over your body?” I will ask him, pulling my finger away. “Uh,” he will stutter. “Um, no… I didn’t, um..sorry…uh”
“Did you take part in my seminar?” I will demand.
“Uh, um, no….”
“No wonder! How do you expect to experience the wonders of advanced sex if you do not believe? In my seminar you can learn the techniques of finger sex and all it has to offer,” I will turn to the crowd and raise my arms. “Yes! For only 1000 dollars, you TOO can delve into the world of modern sexuality and leave your primitive ways behind!”
And the crowd will cheer with approval.
Ah yes. In an ideal world….. But to get back to this one – here in the realm of primitive genital intercourse, I am left with only a few options. And so I resign. Yes, I am a slave to my instincts. At least to some extent. So I decide to be a little more vigilant the next time I’m on vacation, to keep my eyes open in the bars and clubs. With a few very interesting exceptions, it’s usually reduced to the same procedure. Hunting. Lurking and waiting for your prey until you’re ready to go in for the kill. Playing that age old game of cat and mouse. I suppose if I make it to be 80, you’ll find me hanging out at the nearest graveyard, armed with a watering can, prowling the graves while keeping a lookout for sexy widowers.
If they haven’t invented finger sex by then.

Interlude to the Dead

Zu Faul zum Ficken

secularprophet — Wed, 15 Jul 2009 10:28:49 +0000

Es kommt immer wieder die Zeit, irgendwann ab und zu, manchmal beim Frühstück und Müsli kauen, dann wiederhin erwischt es mich beim lesen eines Buches, dass es mir plötzlich einfällt dass ich “Es” seit einiger Zeit nicht mehr getrieben hab. Einfach so, aus dem Nichts, trifft mich die Gedanke, meine Stirn runzelt und ich denke “Man! Es waren bestimmt schon sechs Monate..:” Oder noch länger. Und mir ist bewusst dass ich irgendwie, zwischen dem ganzen Kaos und Trübel, vergessen habe Sex zu haben. Hmmm. Die Problematik. Und jetzt dass die Gedanke sich in meinem Kopf verankert hat, lässt sie mich nicht mehr los -egal was ich so mache oder wo ich mich herumtreibe, alles errinert mich an die Tatsache das ich in letzter Zeit ziemlich sexuell inaktiv und abstinent geworden bin.

Ich schalte den Ferseher an, will mir einen Thriller ansehen… eine halbe Stunde nach Film Anfang, trotz drei ungeklärte Morde und ein noch frei laufenden Mörder, begeben sich die Hauptkaraktere ins Schlafzimmer und haben Sex. Ich versuche ein Buch zu lesen über Bergsteigen….. stell dir vor: Mount Everest Basis Lager, über 6000 Meter höhe – es sind 20 Minus Grad drausen aber hey! zwei Journalisten treiben’s gerade im Zelt. Ein Kumpel von mir kommt zu Besuch. Rat mal was er gestern Nacht gemacht hat?
Yep, er hat gef*ckt.
Ich komm ins grübeln, überlege mir ob ich nicht vielleicht besser aufgehoben wäre im Kloster… oder vielleicht könnte ich ja meine eigene kleine Kolonie gründen. Ja, das wärs – ich als Guru einer Sekte für New Age Asexualität! Ich würde der ganzen Welt bekannt machen dass ich meine gesamte primitive sexuelle Praxise abgelegt habe. Ab jetzt werde ich nur noch Sex mit meinem Zeige Finger machen. Ich würde zu meinen Anhängern prädigen über die Wunder des “Finger Sex” – “Sex mit Geschlechts Organen ist so dreckig!” würde ich der Masse zu rufen. “In einer idealen Welt können wir uns fortpflanzen mit unseren Fingern! Keine schmierige, auslaufende Wixe mehr, weg mit der unpraktischen Menstruation! Unsere Fingern wären ausgestattet mit den nötigen Fortpflanzungsorgane um die schmerzfreie und saubere Vermehrung zu ermöglichen – nie wieder muss jemand durch eine eklige Geburt leiden oder eine Kugel neun Monate mit sich durch die Gegend schleppen! Unsere Finger werden kleine Eier legen die wir daheim lassen können bis sie schlüpfen! Lebende geburte als evolutionären Forschritt? Schwachsinn! Menstruierende Finger brauchen keine Tampons oder grosse, unangenehme Binden – man braucht nur ein kleines Pflaster!” Finger sex ist einfach und direkt. Die Zeiten der verpatzten Versuche ein BH aufzukriegen sind vorbei! Man muss nur seine Fingerspitze an die seines Partners drücken – überall, jederzeit. Partnersuche wird zum Kinderspiel, denn sogar Freunde können sich schnell den Finger geben. Nach dem Essen, beim Fernsehen, im Kino - ist doch nichts dabei! Die Angst entdeckt zu werden, hemliche sexualität – alles Staub von Gestern!

“Finger Orgasmen,” werde ich der Menge erklären, ” sind viel intensiver als die jenigen die man durch seine Genitalien erlebt.”

Ich werde einer meiner Anhänger zu mir ans Podium ziehen und ihm mein Finger entgegen strecken. “Komm,” werden ich ihn auffördern. “Lass uns es treiben!”

Er wird, natürlich, zuerst zögern, denn er hat ja schliesslich Angst vor dieser neuen Welt der moderne Sexualität. Aber sein Finger wird dann doch sich erheben. Langsam und zärtlich werden unsere Fingerspitzen verschmelzen mit einander und auf meinem Gesicht zeichnet sich deutlich die Ecstase und Befriedungung ab. Er wird mich warscheinlich etwas erstaunt anschauen, sein Gesicht eine Miene der totalen Verwirrung.

“Hast du an deinem Körper nicht die Wellen der Lust gespürt?” werde ich ihn fragen als ich mein Finger zurück ziehe.

“Uh,” wird er stottern. “Uh, nein…. Ich hab nichts..um entschuldigung..uh.”

“Hast du etwa nicht teil genommen an meinem Seminar?” herrsche ich ihn an.
“Uh, um, nein….”
“Kein Wunder! Wie kannst du es erwarten die Wunder des vortgeschrittenem Sexes zu spüren wenn du nicht daran glaubst? In meinem Seminar kannst du die ganzen Techiniken des Finger Sexes lernen um sie später zu beherrschen,”

Ich dreh mich zur Menge und erhebe meine Arme. “Ja! Für nur 1000 Euro könnt ihr auch in die Welt der modernen Sexualität eintauchen und eure primitive Wege ablegen!”

Und die Menge wird voller Begeisterung jubeln….

Ach ja. In einer idealen Welt…..Aber zurück zu dieser - hier, in der Dimension des primitiven Geschlechtverkehrs bleiben mir nur wenig Optionen übrig. Also werde ich resignieren. Ja, ich bin, irgendwie, ein Sklave meiner Instinkte, versuche ich mich noch so sehr mit geistigen Einfällen dagegen zu wehren. Ich könnte stur bleiben, mich in meinen Spinnereien versenken und nie wieder den Reich meiner Träume verlassen. Aber dann wäre ich doch….. ich glaube man nennt es…. verrückt? Irgendwann muss man doch den faulen Arsch bewegen um etwas in dieser Realität zu erreichen. Verdammt! Also gebe ich mir ein Ruck und nehme mir vor im nächsten Urlaub meine Augen offen zu halten in den Kneipen und Discos. Mit wenigen Ausnahmen läuft es immer aufs gleiche hinaus. ARBEIT. Jagen. Lauern und im richtigen Moment auf die Beute zu springen. Das ewige Spiel von Katze und Maus. Protestiere mein Verstand wie er will – die Mühe, die Anstrengung, gebe ich mir immer wieder. Sollte ich es bis 80 schaffen, kann man mich bestimmt im nächsten Friedhof begutachten wie ich, bewaffnet mit Giesskanne, zwischen den Gräbern Ausschau nach attraktive Witwern halte.

Wenn sie dann nicht schon den Finger Sex erfundenhaben.

How does one explain herself?

secularprophet — Wed, 15 Jul 2009 09:20:40 +0000

Oh the lonely deliberations! The considerations to make when launching a formal discussion with…… yourself.

Allow me to introduce myself:

I am Templar, born in North America and currently located in Germany, where I live, work and study until the next opportunity presents itself to me. I am quite unsure of where I want to be, have absolutely no clue as to where I belong and although I am an expert on my internal affairs, I am at a loss when it comes to finding a correlation between me and the outside world.
I adapt amazingly well to new places, but I have yet to experience home sickness. I am everywhere, but no where in particular. Am I an electron?
My roommate once called me Photon.

I have many countless hobbies, from languages to antique books, from composing to mathematics, from mountain climbing to swimming until my skin shrivels off. I have travelled a lot and I read up to 5 books a week. And yet I am not an “intellectual”. I have absolutely no haughtiness in my bearing, nor do I physically represent a form of anything that does not spew an essence of mediocracy. And although I am quite fond of Bach and co., you won’t find me sitting in front of a fireplace, eyes closed to the music and smoking a pipe. I do not pretend to know anything about wine and formally admit that I am ignorant in all forms of modern art.
I am clueless about many things. Most things, in fact.

Musical composition has been with me since childhood; I only recently began extracting the various melodies and chords that had previously only existed in my head. What a task it was to find the right keys and reproduce the cerebral choir on a keyboard! I have never benefitted from musical training, never learned to associate sounds and tones with written notes. My fingers blindly searched the keys, at first with immense disappointment and then at last with marginal success. The melodies trapped within the dark recesses of my mind were slowly becoming audible to the outside world.
My songs are not perfect copies of those in my head and I do not believe that the technology for such a process will exist in my lifetime. I sometimes have the feeling that they are but weak echoes of symphonies that have ended as sound waves on their way out to space. Ghosts they are, mere wisps of something that has lost substance.

Nonetheless, they are my attempts at unifying experience and feeling into something tangible. And I am able to share them with you.