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Friday, April 14, 2006
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 WHEREUPON TERRORIST THREATS ARE MADE AGAINST POETRY MAGAZINE
The general public thinks that I'm sexy just because I'll turn on my webcam and put on a show of frenzied masturbation for little or no reason at all. While I won't deny that that's a powerfully sexy thing, its only a part of my appeal, and a small part at that. There really is more to me than just that. The women who know me, love me for my religious fervor and the righteous crusades I launch against those who wrong both me and those dear to me. Sure, they might come for the monster cock and loving, skilled cunnilingus, but they stay for the fatwas.
If I can give you the secret to being a great lover, it would be this: issue more fatwas. Broads dig it. It shows that you're committed to her and sensitive to her feelings. Besides, they like passion and nothing is quite as passionate as invoking the holy judgement of Allah in her interests. Sure, this might be complicated by the fact that you're probably not a Muslim, but she'll appreciate the effort. Perhaps she'll even reward you a slow, sloppy blowjob, and that's far superior to 72 virgins. Don't ask me how I know that, just know that I do.
Most of you might be surprised to learn this, but I'm a pretty angry man. I am possessed of a venom that cannot help but to seek release. As a matter of fact, my average day starts like this; awake, masturbate, have my first cigarette, and then decide who or what will be the focus of my bile for the day. For the last month, the focus has been my new job, but that's growing tiresome. Besides, you'll probably be reading a whole lot more about that later on.
Thankfully, things have been changed up this week and my furious hatred is directed toward Poetry Magazine.
Of course, you, my dear readers, must be wondering what Poetry Magazine has done to deserve my incandescent anger? Morever, what in the fuck do I even know about poetry in the first place?
Well, I'll tell you a secret. I know nothing about poetry. Actually, I know less than nothing about it. If a poem doesn't have the words "Nantuckett" and "bucket" in it, I'm utterly fucking lost.
 Okay, that's not entirely true. When I was fourteen years old, I thought I was Jim Morrison. In my sodden teenage mind, it all made sense, too. Since I was drunk all of the time and given to exposing my beautiful penis to the good citizens of Miami whilst telling them that they're "all a bunch of fucking assholes" whose "faces are being pressed into the shit of the world," then I, too, must be a poet.
It made sense at the time, and not just to me. When I was in the 9th grade, my English class was given a poetry assignment. I gleefully set about turning in a good deal of my Morrison-ery tripe and was celebrated far and wide for the effort. The Jesuit who taught my Latin class, knowing that he was going to fail me anyway, encouraged me to sit outside in the sun and write poetry instead of attending his class. For the remainder of the year, I was Poetry Boy.
For roughly ten minutes, the acclaim deluded me into thinking that I didn't suck. Of course, I did, but I wasnt aware of it. Shortly thereafter, I came to the sudden realization that being perpetually hammered (which I was at fourteen) and showing off my lovely, lovely cock to the denizens of south Florida didn't make me a poet any more than it made Jim Morrison one. Perhaps after I die, Ray Manzerek, John Densmore and Robby Kreiger can record music to accompany my musings about my penis and the death thereof. Perhaps it'll be as funny as An American Prayer.
 What I didn't understand at the time was how the poetry gig worked. Morrison's poetry was published only after after he got famous and subsequently got dead. Jewel moonlights as a published poet, but she has superior titties and can accordingly do whatever she wants.
Other than that, I have no idea how poetry works. I'm completely uneducated about the whole mess. Songs I understand and can write. Poetry, not so much.
My Beaurtiful Young Friend, on the other hand, knows quite a bit about poetry. And as far as I can tell, she's good at writing it as well. Far better than Jim Morrison, Jewel and I are, in any event. As it happens, Poetry Magazine pays a fuckload of money for the poems that it publishes. My Beautiful Young Friend happens to need a fuckload of money. I've read my Beautiful Young Friend's poetry, and I like it. A lot. It's full of imagery and rich lyricism and stuff that is generally considered good. So I encouraged her to submit it to Poetry Magazine and collect her well-deserved fuckload of money.
Being that I'm a deeply persuasive cat, my Beautiful Young Friend followed up on my suggestion and submitted three poems. And they regected them. Each and every one. In short, those cocksuckers made me look bad. Or worse than I already do, which is plenty bad.
Certainly, we can all be comforted by the fact that Poetry Magazine also rejected T.S Eliot, who subsequetly became something of a big deal in poetry circles. Rejecteing Eliot is regarding as something akin to denying the Beatles a record contract, which happened no fewer than eight times. Alas, the world is full of luddites and putzes. To rail against that is to bang one's head against a wall. Luckily, this is a common behaviour among those who have loved my Beautiful Young Friend.
Those who toil in The Arts are routinely rejected. I know this. Despite all evidence to the contrary, I am not, in fact, an ignorant, slack-jawed shut-in. I just play one on TV. I could take my Beautiful Young Friend's repudiation by Poetry Magazine in perspective, I suppose. After all, she is. My Beautiful Young Friend is fazed by this development not at all.
But that is not my way. A good deal of my charm consists of blowing things out of their proper proportion. What good am I to anyone without that? That and my ability to make a woman hallucinate with my tongue are the only reasons I have left to live. Over-reaction and cunnilingus are all that there is in the way of my good qualities. Things go sharply downhill from there.
The fact of the matter is that, besides being the most beautiful woman alive and the single kinkiest fuck monkey to ever walk the Earth, my Beautiful Young Friend is an extradionarily gifted writer. Even if I never achieve my dream of sodomizing her for days on end, I do want to see her succeed as a writer. Poetry Magazine threw a wrench into that dream, and for that they have earned my unyielding emnity. They wear the scarlet letter of my undying hatred.
They've also earned themselves a jihad. They have inspired a burning hatred within me that not even listening to my favorite blues records can stifle. Indeed, the blues only fuels my fury, as its masters were cheated and denied their proper due by people who must resemble the editors of Poetry Magazine in the most horribly atavistic ways.
Unfortunately, I cannot rely on the editors of Poetry Magazine to commit collective suicide, so a jihad is necssecary. I'm as sorry as anyone that things have come to this, but it is what it is. And if we've learned anything in the last five years from Donald Rumsfeld, it's that when "it is what it is" is said, some folks have to die.
As President George Herbert Walker Bush said of Iraq's aggression against Kuwait, "this cannot stand." Certainly, my vengence against Poetry Magazine could involve an armed asault on their heavily fortified headquarters, but that is a plam doomed to fail. Oh no, thier editors must be punished in a more pre-Enlightenment manner for their Crimes Against Art. Their flesh must be stripped from their bodies, cooked on a spit, and fed to a pack of newly rabid dobermans as they watch. Even drowning is too common and merciful fate for these people. Anything less is unaceptable.
If there's one thing I know, its that vengence without the force of a Big Time Religion behind it comes across as shallow and rather petty. If I've learned anything in the last 36 years, its that a howling bloodlust without a deity behind it is seen by many as empty and self-aggrandizing. And while I am empty and self-aggrandizing, its hard to be taken seriously by pompous and lecherous malefactors like the editors of Poetry Magazine that way. Just as no one would have taken al-Qaeda seriously if they were inspired by old Smiths records, I need a motivating factor greater than my own formidable fury.
The problem is that Christianity has been a source of constant disappointment to me. While it is full of righteous indignation and powerful anger, that anger is all too frequently directed at dopey shit like gay marriage and getting Terri Schiavo on the starting lineup of the Miami Dolphins. This meant I have to look elsewhere. That elsewhere happens to be Islam.
While it is true that most Muslims are terrorists, most terrorists are Muslim. And it's easy to see why. Islam is a religion of furiously angry rhetoric. While this is also true of Christianity, there is a significant difference. Christianity is the Elvis Presley to Islam's punk rock. One is frustratated by its inability to get young girls to wrestle one another in their white cotton panties, while the other wants nothing less that the total annhilation of everything. The latter is not without it's appeal to me, as you might suspect.
Besides, Islam allows for a jihad against that which its followers disapprove of without regard to whether or not is specifically mention in the Koran. Therefore, Islam is the perfect outlet for my more violent impulses toward Poetry Magazine. Besides, Islam is seen as being generally scary these days, and that works for me, too.
So I'd like to leave with just six words for the editors of Poetry Magazine, "A shadu la ilaha illa Allah."
Recommenended Easy Listening of the Day: John Walker's Blues By Steve Earle. From: Jerusalem
PermalinkLabels: Life With skippy
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