wednesdays clock killers

[mustynutz]

Friday night, October 22nd, 2004. 1:00am.

He's blacked out in some black dream.

The valley-girl wannabe's are still pointing, still giggling, in between trucker-sized gulps of sugary vodka sevens. The club's soundsystem still pounds the flesh on the dancefloor--nobody knew for sure if he was stumbling drunk or stumbling from a hot dose. Too much of a hot dose.

He's sweating and incoherent. Eyes rolling back in his head. He drops his drink but can't hear it smash on the floor. The air around him a smoke filled haze, mad voices everywhere, a quick scream as he falls forwards. His legs have forgotten the body.

The black dream. The nothingness. Swells over him and swallows up the insides. The brain gives up but the body remembers--keeping the lungs minimally full with air.

The crowd cricles around him.

They can only point.

More laughter swallowed up by the black dream before it registers in his ears.

And then there's the commotion.

The grabbing and shaking, the water splashed on his face. A hand splashed across his face. Voices, crazy and screaming for calm. Who is this guy? Does anybody know this guy?

But nobody does.

He stumbled in a few hours ago accidentally. Forgot his jacket at the bar. Spilled a drink on a beer tub girl and called the bouncer a facist. He tried to pick up a hooker--but the drugged brain can't convert thoughts into words anymore--he froths and spits from the mouth. All he can mutter: fuck it all, fuck it all, fuck it all.

His hands are cold. Lips blue. Somebody calls out for an ambulance.

Then the tremors. Violent quakes that start in the spine and shoot out through the limbs. A man is holding his tongue--he can taste a woman on the man's fingers, but not even sex can pull him out of the black dream.

An oxygen mask. A flashlight in the eyes.

Thick bands are wrapped around him. Tied down to a stretcher, he recognizes the sqwak of a radio, the ceiling light shines over him in the back of the ambulance. Is he dying in this white mist, or is it his womb?

Needles and a breathing tube.

A siren.

Crash of hospital doors and nurses screaming out to each other. A doctor: this is the tenth one tonight--grab the stomach pump and some adrenaline. Moves through his procedures half awake, half dreaming of returning to his wife. Climbing into bed with her, hiding away from all this maddness. The knife wound kid he treated is a headache in his brain. Another drugged out kid. Another goddamn drugged out kid. Goddamn it.

He won't take my story home to the safety of his bed. He risks contagion.

I have nothing left but the machines I'm linked to.

The oxygen bribing my lungs to breathe again. A heart monitor beeping and blarring. There is a young nurse in the corner--does she recognize me?

I cannot recognize myself anymore.

And then the black dream.

Morning. The brain wakes up. My mouth stained charcol black from the great purge.

I can't speak, there is a wild shattering headache in my eyes, the shell of me aching and quivering. Hating me for being alive in this condition. How many times Jacob? How many times can you do this to yourself?

Another drugged out kid. Another goddamn drugged out kid. Goddamnit.

Police. Notebooks. Questions I can't answer. Eyes that judge me--addict. The word crosses their eyes behind the flesh--I can see them formulating it, then I see the pleasure as they spit it at me. Venom.

Addict.

But I did not take these drugs on my own.

Tox screen results: amphetimines, barbituates, blood alcohol levels that reach off the page. And up the wall, crawls across the ceiling above me--I can see the black dream sliding down the walls behind them. It wants to swallow everything.

I remember cocaine and whiskey.

But my blood is shaded in heroin grey death. A track mark where the needle broke in my arm. The sour bruised flesh swollen around it.

Did you do this to yourself?
Did I do this to myself?

I wasn't watching. The black dream clouded me. Kept me safe from the sight of me.

There are no more voices to wake me from this black dream. My river blood flows with a lingering memory of opium regret. Not caring about not caring anymore. Did I sacrifice my body for the curse? The sickness in me--a wicked root that flowered into pure destruction.

I have taken years off my life.

 

[mustynutz]

AQUARIUS (January, we think; does it matter?):
Today could be a good day. Depends. If the opportunity arises,
please let yourself go sexually to your fullest potential with a
LEO (Me), as an Aquarius is part of Leo's lunch today. Take a plane
if neccessary to fulfill this requirement as you know what
happens when you don't follow your horoscope. Today's panty
color is sheer and edible. A good day to spend money mindlessly.
So is tomorrow. And the next day. Your lucky number is .069.
Don't take any wooden nickles. Whatever that means. Moon sign?
Your guess is as good as ours. No wagering.


CAPRICORN (The winter we think): God, your life blows. Give it
up. Your favorite color is blue. You like pizza? I like pizza.
Lucky number is 391 for no apparent reason. Stay away from Giraffes.
No one cares about you because you're not a Leo. Get bent.
Don't eat the schnitzel, it's schnauzer.


CANCER (July 2-3): Do you realize your moon sign is the
same as a terrible disease? That doesn't bode well for you
today. Or next week. Hell, the whole year will be a mess for
you. We wouldn't leave the house if we were you. But thankfully,
we're not. We were born under a normal sign. Also, we're not
sure but we think your animal sign is a crab. Crabs aren't good
for you. At least not the kind you have in your pants. Your
lucky number doesn't exist. Pass the salt. Cerrano's got the
discs. Hike.

TAURUS (April? October? Not important): Do YOU want to drive a
Ford Taurus? The answer to that question is the same as the one
to "Do you want to hang out with a Taurus?". We don't. We'd
prefer to skip the Taurus. So do most of your friends. If you
have any. Your "lucky day" was last Thursday. And remember how
uneventful THAT was. Keep it in the short grass.

SCORPIO (No idea) The Scorpio is tolerable
if you can shut her, uhhh, them up. Stay away from liquor.
Please. We can understand why the Scorpio wishes to copulate
with the Leo. Carry your diaphram at all times. You're horny as
hell. Lucky number is a Leo's cell number. Not compatable with
Virgos. Or with red heads. Keep your chin up. Except when going
down. Drive in the car pool lane for best results.
Don't forget to pack. Heat.

PISCES (Fridays at 5pm): We recommend the Pisces Sandwich and
Chips, Friday at the Cornerstone Grill. Don't forget the malt
vinegar. Pisces should bathe...a lot. Or wash with lemons. Not
to be confused with Reese's Pisces, which are really tasty. Your
favorite panties should be the thong. If not, re-check your
birth certificate because someone is lying to you. Good luck
color? Clear.
Dates of interest: February 29. Good things will happen. The
rest of the year will probably blow.
Stay away from air conditioning.

GEMINI (What difference does it make? The following drivel will
be Virgo's horoscope three months from now): Don't quote us but
we think Gemini has something to do with twins. As long as we're
talking about twin broads, Gemini is one of the best moon signs
to be born under. If you weren't, maybe you can be reincarnated
as a Gemini. Don't delay. The quicker you jump, the better
chance you have. Geminis are generally a horny lot, because of
the twin thing. We're not sure why. Your lucky number is 1, as
in ONE lucky guy doing both the twins. Color of interest? That
little lacy white thing will work. Stay out of the road. Happy
Hour is the best time of the day. The Gemini is a master bator.
We hope we spelled baiter" right. Don't drink and drive. Unless
you have to.

VIRGO ( ? ) zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

LIBRA (You tell us): Closely resembling the name of a dangerous
Middle East country, Libra's are smart if they don't admit their
Libra-ness or they fall victim to racial profiling. Which is
smart. Libra's bring nothing to the table. But they leave with
stuff because they're thieves. Don't speak with your mouth full.
You suck, Libra.

ARIES ( June, 2002): If you were born under this star sign
you have the misfortune of being born under the worst car sign
since the Taurus. You like rust. But you can't get your motor
started half the time and consequently, we're sick of jump
starting you. Lack of interest best describes you. Unless, by
some stroke of luck, you're a hot chick. Then, we have new found
interest. Especially if you swallow. Your lucky number can't be
calculated. Your best time of the day? Last call. It's your only
chance for action.

SAGITTARIUS (%&!@#&^%): Too hard to spell...even harder to predict what
will happen to you. Mostly because we don't give a shit. Your lucky number?
19 degrees Celsius. Don't forget to wipe your ass for luck.
Stay away from green cats. At 4:32pm, take shelter. Moon sign is "Closed for Remodeling".

 

[mustynutz]

It fucking happened again. I was out and about at the bar, drinking and carrying on like usual. I was the center of the intellectual conversation or I was on the bar with my pants off pouring liquor into underage girls mouths. I spot a little cutie all alone and make my way over to her.

After about an hour of "blah, blah, blah" crap we got to the good shit, like fucking. This girls standards made me look like a goddamn saint. To put it nicely "she gets around" and then around again and again. I have no problem dipping my balls into a filthy fuck pig every now and again but I like to at least pretend she knows how to keep her legs closed.

This is the conversation we had drunken word for drunken word.

FFP: "So you want to come over?"

Me: "Sure why not."

FFP: "You can go on my wall of fame."

Me: "Sweet, what the fuck is that?"

FFP: "I keep something from every guy that fucks me."

Me: "No offense but how many cocks have been in your crotch?"

FFP:" Since when?"

Penis to brain: "ABORT ABORT, I MIGHT FALL THE FUCK OFF IN THERE!!"

Me: "Well good luck on your STD collection."

She was classy, sexy and sophisticated or she was a sleazy, mindless, hooker. Depends how much you drank I guess. I love meeting girls like this it sure as hell makes me feel good about the whore I am going to marry.

 

[mustynutz]

Nobody likes a Man-Whore. Really. If you are a Man-Whore reading this, you probably don't even like yourself. Man-Whores are dirty rutting beasts, who'll happily root their best mates girlfriend whilst his back is turned. He is undeniably attractive and pulls the sorts of chicks who you can only dream about. And this seems so unfair to you, since he's an unfunny wanker and you can drink twice as much beer as him.
As for why us ladies hate Man-Whores, well it's kind of self explantory. They try anything to get us in the sack, then once they've accomplished that they tell all their mates, piss off without asking for our phone number, and the next weekend we see them they're making out with our worst enemy.
So here is what to do, ladies:

1st Step - Preparation:
- Don't shave your legs for a month. Wear the same knickers for two weeks (and don't even think about washing down there, Missy.)

2nd Step - Entrapment:
- Pick up a Man-Whore (this won't take much effort. Just get a titty top happening and laugh at every single thing he says).
- Invite him back to your place (this probably won't be necessary as he will undoubtedly invite himself).

3rd Step - Getting freaky.
- The Man-Whore will most probably be stronger than you. So in order to give him the working he deserves, suggest a little bondage. Use handcuffs, not material. The Man-Whore will go along with it, albeit a little half-heartedly (Man-Whore's love to dominate).
- Straddle the Man-Whore and kiss him for a while.
- Start to get a bit kinky. In a weird way. Ask him to lick your hairy legs. Yummmmm.
- If you have the guts, sit your arse right down on his head so that his face is buried in your muff, forced to inhale the putrid stench you've been baking for the last fortnight.
- The Man-Whore will be a tad revolted by this stage, but he'll still be keen because he can't wait to tell all his mates about the disgusting bitch he boned last night and what a hero he was to take one for the team, etc.
- Move away from this position so that you are again straddling the Man-Whore. Now take the Man-Whore penis in your hands. Don't stroke it or touch it in a pleasing way. Pick at it, examine it. Jump up in a hurry and return to the room with a magnifying glass. At this stage the Man-Whore will be a little curious, perhaps disturbed. Explain that you're looking for any signs of STDs and you've just found a wart on his dick. Right now he will be trying to break free, demanding that you let him go (but if you're smart you went with the handcuffs, not the material). Pretend you cannot hear him.
- Assure him that it's okay, because you have herpes yourself. He'll just need to cover himself with four condoms.
- The Man-Whore will be thinking of how you were just sitting on his face with your herpes infested box shoved right in his mouth. He will be going wild right now. He'll probably be screaming words like "dirty disease ridden slut". You must not let this upset you. Smile sweetly and remind him that he has genital warts. His erection should have subsided a long time ago. In fact, his dick should be trying to crawl up into his stomach. A perfect photo opportunity.
- Before you take any pictures, invite any housemates into your room who have a sense of humour. Stand around and have a bit of a chuckle. Get one of your mates to pose with him. The Man-Whore will be trying to rip apart your bed head by this stage. Possibly he has already bent the metal.
- If you have a cattle prod handy, don't hesistate to give him a few right up the arse.

At some stage you are going to have let the Man-Whore leave. When you do release him you are probably going to get bashed. But seriously, you deserved it.