Pizza and a Seal

"What I really learned from being a Navy SEAL," he said, "was to be humble, and confidence."

Uh-huh, I thought. Which is why you just showed me a video of you jumping out of airplane. Why you prefaced the comment on your humility with "I didn't just learn to kill people, or to make kill shots with sniper rifles from miles away." You said and did these things because you're obviously humble. You're so incredibly confident that the only reason we're having this conversation is because you wanted to act macho when I started talking to your girlfriend.

I could have said those things out loud. When you pretend to be a Navy SEAL, though, you might just fight a man ten years younger than you for daring to illuminate the truth. And though reality is on my side, an impervious head and fighting reflexes are not. So I kept my mouth shut and instead tried a different tactic: Sycophancy.

"Dope. I'm gonna go eat that pizza."

Ah, the pizza. The reason I went over to his girlfriend and her friend in the first place. That Domino's crust had wafted into my nostrils from across the bar, and I had nothing to lose. I waltzed over there and my wish was granted: a steamy slice. Veggie, but whatever. I paid nothing. I almost thought I might pay with my face- a Navy SEAL boyfriend? This could get ugly.

Not with this guy. I doubted his credentials when he was my height but not noticeably athletic in any way. He came in so hot to talk to me when he noticed me saddle up to the ladies. I noticed that and immediately played friendly, over-the-top in my obsequiousness, and smoothed over the situation. When you're smart, play oblivious. Strangers don't know you're not really dumb. Simpletons gain leeway.

That leeway worked its way into more pizza. I called Jason over to Gary and me, when the women were gone, and said we each wanted another slice. Well, Gary had never had one to begin with and I don't think he truly wanted one, but I wanted two. Channa called Gary up to sing. Leaving me to be asked by Navy Sea Lion, "Who's Gary?"

"Uh, that's Gary."

"Yeah, but who's Gary?"

"He's that guy? Who you just met, Gary?"

"I mean, I've killed people." Ok, sure dude, really relevant to the conversation. "Who is Gary? What's he do, where's he from?"

"Well, he crushes it at karaoke." That's as far as I got. Mr. SEAL got fed up with my inability to put two and two together, I guess, and just let me have the whole box of pizza. Straight up.

Then he showed me the video of him jumping out of a plane, real Smoking Gun evidence of his war record, and we wind up at the beginning of the story. A small, aggressive man. And a smaller, more aggressive but only in the pursuit of pizza, me. What a strange night.

What. The. Fuck. : A Series of Poor Decisions

"Well, my life is over."

Frank's roommate Todd put down the phone and collapsed back into the couch. To Frank, it looked as if he was trying to assimilate with it. Todd thought that maybe, just maybe, he could fuse with the couch on an atomic level through a quantum miracle. The universe would never be able to find him again. More importantly, neither would Alex or Megan.

"What's wrong?" asked Frank. He did not know Todd to be a depressive.

"Remember how great last week was? How I got published, and felt on top of the world?"

"Yeah."

"Remember how fucking dope I looked when we out each night?"

"In your opinion, yeah."

"Hawaiian shirts with rolled up sleeves are cool. I think. If it's good enough for Jon Cusack and Anthony Edwards, it's good enough for us. But I slayed. I banged five chicks that week."

"That's terrible. Life definitely over."

"Two of them are pregnant."

"Two?" Frank looked at Todd in disbelief.

Todd had the same incredulous look in his own eyes, but his pupils also contained fear and melancholy.

"Two, Todd confirmed. "Alex and I were blacked out. She was so sure we used protection. I didn't force the issue. Megan said she was on birth control."

"Never trust a woman."

"But she was hot!"

"Case in point."

"What am I gonna do, Frank?" Todd lamented to the sky while sinking further into the couch. "What am I gonna do?"

"Can't marry both. In a way, getting two relative strangers pregnant might be better than just knocking up one."

"Shut up."

"Serious."

"Alex ain't a stranger, she's a softball teammate. We're practically friends. Anyway, that's not what I'm worried about. Alex says she's keeping it, since she's getting on in years and still single, but I can be as involved as I want and that I'm not on the hook for child support-"

"-get it in writing-"

"-I'm not on the hook for child support, Frank. She may not be the brightest bulb, but I trust her in her sincerity. If it makes you happy, you who's so invested in this- oh, wait, you're not- I will. Dick."

"Thanks."

There were a few moments of silence before Frank chimed back up. "So it's Megan you're worried about?"

"She doesn't want to ruin her figure at 21 with a pregnancy. I just have to completely pay for the abortion. Bitch. But it's better than paying for a baby."

"What're you worried about then?"

"Remember that black chick whose name I don't remember?"

"Yeah."

"Didn't wear a condom with her either. And I have two missed calls from a number I don't recognize."

Poems IX

It's smoky out here in Mammoth because of a fire that can't reach us. It's smoke, on the other hand, is not making my lungs happy. I hate wildfires, and it's high season here in California. Drought and years of dryness have turned out beautiful forests into tinder. All we can hope is that El Niño brings a wet winter for the upcoming year. But really, we can't change the natural processes of nature to our liking. We have to accept what happens, while still doing all we can the right way. We only have control over ourselves, so that's where we need to start, "I'm starting with the Man in the Mirror/I'm asking him to change his ways." Please conserve. Please, be the best you that you can be.

"Wildfires"

"Healthily" trapped in a cabin, in a cottage
A haze outside
And a ruby sun.
We have freedom from the flames
But the smoke assails us still
Assaulted with ash,
The secondary details,
The ripples and Vulcan echoes, are we.
The fire was fanned by "other"
Lightning or lighted fag,
I fear a man with no remorse
More than nature which just is.
The worlds consumes itself
And needs justify nothing.
But I cough and hack and wheeze and burn,
My eyes tear
For beauty and solemn truth.
We will be long gone
Before the last of the fires die, out or down
But still we can mourn and cherish
For that's the gift that's been given us.

"Through the fire and the flames/We carry on"

Plugged

Can we watch something else?

It’s what’s on. You shouldn’t change it, that’s rude.

But he’s not watching.

You’re not watching either.

Technically. But I know it’s on.

So does he. Maybe it’s soothing.

It’s aggravating.

Why?

Why? That’s the question, isn’t it.

So answer it.

Ok. I will.

...

Fine, here goes. These people, they’re not doing anything. Nothing worthwhile. And yet, you’d never know that from listening to them. Every moment of their lives is so exciting, or heartbreaking. At least they play it that way for the cameras. You get the impression that their very lives hang on the balance of the next five minutes. The five minutes, which of course, take up twenty minutes of TV time.

Franklin looked over at his roommate. Mark had his laptop open to BuzzFeed, a listicle of pug dogs that Franklin had disgustedly scrolled through the night before, a listicle he had scrolled through until the end, scoffing and hating and yet finishing, eagerly rushing to the comment section to express his disdain. Mark’s eyes weren’t on the pugs, but rather his smartphone, as he loaded up Clash of Clans. He had just finished exclusively liking hot girls’ posts on Instagram, and now he needed to win virtual glory. Mark had turned to the History channel when he awoke.

Franklin had returned from his early morning bowel movement to find Mark getting ready to watch “Pawn Stars.” Franklin had already sat through an hour and a half of Sportscenter when this happened, meaning he knew a half hour of sports content well, and another half hour extremely well. He still made a peevish coughing noise of offense that Mark had not noticed. Franklin felt Mark never noticed his annoyances or passive-aggressive comments. Mark felt Franklin needed to stop wearing shoes in the house.

Franklin loaded up his Instagram feed, looking at Mark’s Likes with disdain and not liking anything he came across. Two of the pictures he did like already had triple digit likes, since they were posted by sorority girls he had known tangentially in college. Franklin refused to become part of the sea. He wanted his Likes to stand out, as they did in real life. Quinoa and ketchup embodied Franklin: too off the beaten path even for those who fought the current. He incorporated cultural norms in ways that went against the grains of normalcy. He was better than the heathens, especially the people who try to sell cars to Rick on “Pawn Stars,” instead of selling them themselves like everyone else does.

Mark ripped a bowl one-handed, and had moved on to a video on his iPad. Many men multi-tasked with two or three tasks. Mark’s record, though he didn’t keep of track of those things, was eight and a half.

Carlos, the third roommate, was asleep. He had a night job but maintained himself in pretty good physical shape for that one night a week he had off. He’d go to bars. Mark and Franklin would complain that his room smelled of sex, or that they heard him the night before when they were trying to watch videos on their computers- Netflix for Mark, torrents for Franklin. Carlos simply smiled when later in the week they’d complain about their personal lack of sex lives.

Dandelion Wine vs. Blood Meridian

The last two books I read were each "classics" of their authors. Ray Bradbury's "Dandelion Wine" is a semi-autobiographical novel about a 12 year old boy in summer. Cormac McCarthy wrote "Blood Meridian" as a violent exploration of borderland outlaws in the late 1800s in the Southwest. Both authors express themselves incredibly poetically, with fanciful language and high metaphor use. The difference is, McCarthy's novel was a struggle. I breezed through "Dandelion Wine." I worked through "Blood Meridian."

And to me, that makes "Dandelion Wine" a much better book. It's filled with deaths, yes, but it's also filled with hope. It expresses a deep sadness that reflects reality, and only serves to make you glad at the end of it. "Dandelion Wine"'s tears are the kind that Butters cries in the one episode of South Park where his Raisins "girlfriend"ends it with him. Even when you lose something important to you, the knowledge exists that you had it in the first place. Tragedy comes from living. Without it, the tears don't come but neither does the smile.

"Blood Meridian" makes a point with its drudgery and repetition. War and violence keep on keepin' on, and the hearts of men lead to evil if they give in. The poetry was beautiful, the vocabulary perplexingly yet intriguingly arcane, but it never could hook me in. Plot? Not really. Just a lot of walking and riding and killing, and an author making it all seem mundane. I guess it's more depressing than shocking. It is true looking around the internet that it could never be a movie. It lives on its own as a book.

Both books, by the way, are linked to Moby Dick. Which is weird. I guess this is an example of how your brain always finds the connections when it's primed or already looking for them. It's like noticing how your iPod always seems to play the same artist in an hour even when you're on shuffle. Actually it's random, but your brain goes in for false pattern recognition.

Read "Dandelion Wine." Many times. Study "Blood Meridian" in a college course.

This quote from Dandelion Wine links in to both of them, but is really a good life lesson about throwing in the towel when it's the proper time:

"Tom, when the time comes that the same cowboys are shooting the same Indians on the same mountaintop, then it's best to fold back the seat and head for the door, with no regrets and no walking backwards up the aisle."

And then there's a quote I thought I had written down but I can't find so I'll try and recite from memory:

"She wasn't thin in the way that girls are when they're not loved at seventeen, or fat in the way that women are when they're not loved at fifty, but a firmness, a roundness, when women are at any age and there is no question."

Something like that. The proper Venus.

Wild Animus

Wild Animus, Rich Shapero's self-published artistic effort, has sat untouched on my bookshelf for about four years. It was handed to me for free freshman year, in the space between UCLA's Northern Lights and Campbell Hall, and I finally decided to give it a go last night. I read a chapter and restarted tonight. I stopped, just now, after the first book section because I don't have to keep reading. Believe me, I wanted to. I felt like I should.

But I don't have an obligation.

Wild Animus is bad. Very bad. Some of the songs on the accompanying CDs are okay. I'm listening to them now. They're disturbingly similar, but taken as a concept album could go well with drugs. Drugs, you see, are a main theme of Wild Animus. The main character does a shit-ton of LSD and apparently goes crazy, thinks he's a Dall ram, and dies. I say apparently because I only read the first book section, which details this guy's meeting of a girlfriend, them moving to Seattle, and then visiting Alaska. The ram imagery, however, has been shoved down my throat since the third page. They have a secret ram language, Sam and Lindy, by the second time they're hanging out- which is also when they do acid together. That's stupid.

I described the prose to myself last night, when I decided I would definitely tackle it (sorry, me) as ham-handed and heavy-fisted. Really, I think that it's ham-fisted and heavy-handed, but it's incessant metaphor and blatant hippy-speak really addles the brain. It's way too much way too quickly, like every line is supposed to be some revelation about the world and nature. There's no "a-ha!" epiphany moment, just endless LSD drivel that fellow Amazon users have described as coming from someone who has never taken LSD.

But that's not the problem. I could deal with poorly written sentences, or rather overly "well-written" sentences that gag you. The problem is that I don't give a single shit about the characters. Because they are terrible, and terribly written. Their physical features are described too specifically, and their emotions are spilled out every two seconds. Their emotions change too drastically though. These aren't real people. Amazon reviewers say they are interchangeable or cardboard. I'd disagree. Cookie-cutter characters at least make sense in the stories they dwell. This girl goes from in fear to enraged to lovey-dovey. On a page, with no real explanation or build up. I don't like the protagonist. he names himself Ransom Altman at some point. What the fuck kind of a name is Ransom Altman? He wants to be surrender's ransom, he says. What? Rich Shapero has heard of metaphor, definitely, he uses it too much. Yet he completely fails on using metaphors for symbolism. Everything is spelled out.

Now, I've been writing a novel. And I've put in some blatant symbolism and written references too out-in-the-open. But not like this. It can't possibly be like this. This is bad. I had to stop reading! This got published as-is. I'd want an editor for some of the stuff I spell out. It's there as a placeholder, to take up space and keep my mind going. Shapero doesn't hide anything. He rubs your nose in it. And it's shit.

The good takeaway from this is that I can use the bad example to get better with how I write. I don't want to be anywhere close to Shapero's example. It starts with the characters. They have to be consistent. Now, Matilda is consistently useless and not a strong female character, which is a shame but that's kind of her role. And Bill grows a bit, but stays a hipster half-douche. Ava is underwritten. I know this. That's why she's cool, but injured and stolen. That way I don't have to spend too much time on her. I want her to kick major ass but that's not where my life experience lies. Joe changed probably too much in the well, and Geoffrey could be more consistent and foolish, but does relatively well as a character.

Those are my characters. They grow the story. George R.R. Martin has his gardeners and architects of writers. I half-architect after gardening, and sometimes the gardening destroys the building I've designed. My characters do the things they're supposed to. It makes sense for them to perform actions, and I just fit those actions into the story. But Rich Shapero? Rich Shapero said fuck it. He said, I've got a story and I've got some acid. These characters are going to do everything and anything to get to this plot point. Because they suck and do nothing to inspire empathy.

Or maybe not. Like I said, I couldn't finish the book. I might be able to, as a cautionary tale. But do I really need to? There's no prize for finishing bad books. It's a pride thing. No. I can't do it.

A Joke

A clown comes in to a classic barbershop, straight razors and all, because the circus is in town and he needs a clip.
The barber asks how the circus has been going as he preps the chair.
"Not good," replies the clown, "one of our tumbling midgets tried to commit suicide yesterday by jumping off the circus tent."
The barber says, "Just a little off the top?"

At the end of the haircut, the barber asks the clown, "Close shave?"
"No," the clown says, "he just broke both his ankles."

Peruvian Literary Battles and Monkeys on Planes

I just read a really cool article about literary battling in Peru. Writers square off and are given three words with which and five minutes in which to write a short story. Winner goes on, loser goes home (and must unmask themselves). I decided to time myself and give it a go with the three words given in the article, which I read at:

http://www.pri.org/stories/2013-09-30/peru-makes-book-writing-spectator-sport-and-invites-desperate-writers-combat

I’d like to point out that five minutes went by way too quickly. It’s actually pretty nerve-wracking and I’m sure in front of a crowd it’s worse. I thrive under pressure on a stage, but for some reason I feel like I’d lose every possible match-up due to the fact that I can’t write in Spanish. The story couldn’t be titled in five minutes, but just right now I’ve dubbed it: 

“Monkey Miscommunication”

“I’m sorry sir, but you can’t bring that on the plane at this time.”

Haleel looked up from his plane ticket. “But ma’am, it say here I boarding group number two. You just call boarding group number two.”

The flight attendant was unfazed. “That may be true, Mr. Haleel, but you can’t board with a monkey.”

“I can’t board with monkey? But guide book say I can go with my monkey to America.”

“I don’t know what guide book you’re looking at, sir, but no, you can’t bring a monkey to America. Not without the proper documentation and vaccination. It’ll need quarantine, too.”

“No! No, no, no! This not right! Look here at guide book.”

Haleel shoved the guide book in the flight attendant’s face. She sighed. The airline was not paying her enough for this. “Security,” she called over the intercom.

Haleel was escorted out of the airport with his monkey. At home, he discovered the problem. His English dictionary had the words next to each other: “monkey” was “hakab” and “suitcase” was “hakann.” He could bring a suitcase, yes. Not a monkey.

"Sugar" Cain Vedlogge's Top Five Fitness Tips

This is a guest post from Cain Vedlogge, founder of fitnessissocoolilovefitness.vedlogge.com, the premier fitness site. Claims have not been verified.

Hi there folks! My name is “Sugar” Cain Vedlogge, and just like you, I used to be a slovenly pig. That’s all changed thanks to my time spent in-between employment. Technically I don’t have any new employment yet, but that’ll change thanks to the physical changes I’ve undergone, too. See, before I “lost” my job, I was working too hard to please my boss and not working hard enough on my physique. Apparently that meant I couldn’t please my girlfriend enough, but it’s her loss. These days I’m lean, I’m mean, and I’m willing to share what it takes to go from zero to hero! After I gained around 12 pounds of beer and depression weight after Clarissa left, I’ve lost it all and more, and I can actually see two of my abs. If I did it after moving back in with my parents, so can you!

“Sugar” Cain Vedlogge’s Top Five Fitness Tips

1. A) Be inefficient.

This one’s easy. Every single thing you do should take up WAY more time and effort than what’s reasonable. In this way, you’ll burn more calories and increase your metabolism, through mundane and boring tasks. If I go get the mail, I bring it upstairs. But if I want a drink of water after that, I need to go downstairs again to grab my glass! In an office setting, if you have to staple some papers and give them to someone, then don’t have a stapler with you. Don’t bring your papers to the stapler, either. Find a stapler, take the stapler to your desk, staple, and then return the stapler back to its proper place. Now go back to your desk and grab the stapled papers, and finally you can go get rid of them. Don't you feel like you burned more fat than the usual? It's because you did!

1. B) Use the farthest bathroom.

This is doubly useful in the workplace in that it avoids time spent working. It takes time and energy to go use the farthest bathroom. Having two stories really helped my weight loss goal.

2. Lose your car keys.

Nothing crushes the hopes of a truly tight bod like mechanical locomotion, am I right? Listen, if you drive everywhere, you’ll be sedentary that much longer. Think driving to the gym and getting a good parking space ensure a good workout? WRONG! You should be walking to the gym and back, cutting into your meal times but not your pump. You can’t carry unnecessary groceries from the store, either. Just one hand for a gallon of milk, one hand for a gallon of chocolate milk, and eggs in between. Your diet is awesome, just like you! You can even remove all temptation by having the car belong to your girlfriend so that she takes off with it when she leaves you.

3. Don’t just be fit- pretend to be fit!

Let’s talk about what it means to be fit. Should you get six-pack abs if you’re never going to show them off? Should you maintain a healthy level of fat so you can keep your energy up? Should you do weight lifting that emphasizes strength over size? No to every single one of those! Your muscles should be as beefy as possible with as minimal strength as you can afford. Try artificial methods of fitness, like creatine. I take three 5-Hour energies a day, and wake up with a cup of coffee. Girls like Clarissa think synthol injections are a little overboard, so don’t try that. Definitely wear skintight fitness shirts though, and bicycle shorts to really show that you’re here to get in shape. Talk about fitness with everyone you meet. They’ll love it, and go home thinking “Wow, what a cool guy. He’s in so much better shape than me, I don’t know how I’m dating his ex-girlfriend. She’ll probably leave me to get back together with him really soon.”

4. Don’t get really drunk every night.

Apparently most people already know this? This was news to me. After I got serious about weight loss, I only drank myself to sleep once, on our anniversary while staring at that photo. You know, the one where the guy taking the photo kept putting his thumb in front of the lens and we laughed the rest of the night? New Orleans was fun. I miss you.

5. Masturbate sensually.

We’ve saved the best for last. When you’re ready to jerk it (which you should be doing daily for the cardio), don’t just sit there limpwristedly and crank it out halfheartedly while sobbing. Get into it. Breathe hot and heavy. Sex is better exercise, but you can’t be bothered to find a woman! That doesn’t fit with your fitness goals, which are designed to get your ex to take you back! Instead, turn your masturbation into virtual sex. Thrust into things. Put some hip into it. Practice your stroke, which you will put to good use once you’re in great shape and the ladies come running. If you’re going to cry, really shout out the name, something like, I don’t know, “Clarissa.” In the meantime though, buy a fleshlight. Name it. That’s the best two hundred dollars you’ll spend on your fitness journey.


I hope these tips have set you straight. As I always say, “Fitness is cool! I love Fitness!”

Porcupyros

"Porcupyros"- Let It Be Known I Don't Back Down From Outlandish Ideas

Being inside bothered Morgan. Morgan stepped outside and breathed deeply in the crisp autumn air. A wisp of smoke floated by. Morgan hurried on. Morgan didn’t want to be late for the fire. Morgan had been yelled at by the fire chief for being late once already, and it was only Morgan’s second week on the job as a fireman. Morgan grabbed fire quickly and hustled on, legs waddling fast.

At the blaze, Morgan nodded to the others already there. Morgan Watmaugh, Morgan Morrison, and Morgan Kelsey were tossing flames from their backs on the books piled up in the clearing. Morgan joined in, getting as close as possible to the blaze without getting seared. No Morgan could read a book. It had been that way for as long as Morgan could remember. If they had kept history books, Morgan could probably get a timeframe on how long illiteracy had been the norm. Morgan disagreed with the very concept of writing. Books were alien. Books were wrong.

Chief Morgan showed up. The chief looked on with a signature frown. That frown said the firemen were doing a good enough job, but that even the sight of books was unwelcome. The chief hated books the most of any of them. The chief tried to eat a book once, just to see if it had any use. Though it had pictures of edible goods all inside, it tasted bland and didn’t chew properly. The chief didn’t carry any fire tonight, but was there to supervise. Many new recruits, including Morgan and Morgan Kelsey, had joined the fire crew this season. The chief wanted to weed out the weaklings and possible book-lovers. No book-lover had ever made it on the team to sabotage the firemen’s burnings. No book-lover had ever tried, as far as Morgan knew. The possibility nonetheless remained, so the chief stayed vigilant, and grouchy.

“Morgan!” The chief was glaring at Morgan. “Would you mind telling me where these books came from?”

“An old shed, over by the beaver dam.” Morgan had made the discovery with Morgan Kelsey in the afternoon. Morgan Kelsey went to get the others at the fire station while Morgan pulled the tomes to the clearing and grabbed fire from home. Morgan enjoyed being with Morgan Kelsey. Those eyes had a way of looking right through Morgan. Morgan Kelsey looked over to where the conversation was taking place. Again, those eyes pierced Morgan and Morgan shuddered wonderfully.

“Did you check the perimeter like we went over in training?”

“No, chief,” Morgan said, straightening up and remembering the fireman technical manual, “but it was just me and Morgan Kelsey. Not enough to check for 'associations of structure' in relation to the shed placement either. I remember the location perfectly and wanted to scout tomorrow after meeting.”

“Harrumph.” The chief didn’t look disappointed, meaning the chief was as pleased as possible. “Don’t you squander this opportunity, rookie. You’ve got potential, and the passion for the job. But this job is as volatile as the fire we harness. You make one mental screw-up, and you’re gone, ya hear me? Did you leave the shed standing, or burn it?”

“I left it standing so we could find it again without hassle, and cross-reference its building style. Also, I wanted you to check for any hidden books.”

“Hidden books? In a shed? Now you’re being too damn cautious, rookie. I ain’t going out there for this bullshit of a burn. Burn this mess and go home tonight, crew. I’ll see you in the morning.” The chief did an awkward about-face and grunted as he left, “Morgan Kelsey! You’re doing that all wrong.”

Morgan Kelsey’s face fell. The light from the fire illuminated all the lines Morgan was so interested in knowing. Morgan moved up next to Morgan Kelsey.

“The chief only yells because book burning is so important,” Morgan said.

“I know,”Morgan Kelsey said. “It’s just hard to take the personal sting out of the words.”

“Let me make it up to you. Come over to my place tonight. We’ll have a nice meal.”

Morgan Kelsey looked over with a sly grin. “Nothing wrong with my place either. It’s closer.”

“Alright, then. After this fire. Your place.”

The firemen turned their attention to the blaze. Books burned and crackled after the firemen turned the fire on their backs into a giant conflagration. Smoke billowed up between the trees around the clearing. Morgan Morrison laughed. Fire was fun, and pyromania gripped them all for another hour.

The embers died down and they used their many feet to kick ashes and dirt around, so the fire wouldn’t spread to the forest. Morgan Morrison and Morgan Watmaugh shuffled away, joking about the way the heat overwhelmed them like the chief’s bad morning breath. Morgan lay belly-down looking at the fire until Morgan Kelsey came and lay down also.

“Shall we go?”

“Oh, let’s.”

They got to their feet and headed back to Morgan Kelsey’s. Sexual tension hummed heavily in the night air. As soon as they ducked into the doorway, they embraced. They began kissing, careful not to go too fast. Morgan had been hurt before. They both had. Morgan found Morgan, and their bodies became as entangled as their emotions. A sway of passion commenced, the rhythmic motions forming the beast with two backs. Eyes closed, Morgan wandered his lips over Morgan’s neck, and Morgan gave a deep sigh of contentment. Morgan broke away to look Morgan in the eye. Ten seconds passed, wordless, as their eyes delved into places no hands could go. They returned to locking lips, with Morgan touching Morgan even as she touched herself. Morgan moaned. Morgan reached his hands up to her face and gently rubbed her, breathing her scent in deep. Morgan's nipples became erect, and Morgan felt a swelling in the genitals.

“I’m ready,” Morgan whispered in a husky voice.

Morgan almost shrieked with pleasure, moving himself behind Morgan, and penetrated her, leaving his hands at his sides. She gasped in wonder, keeping her tail up.

“Oh, Morgan!”

His penis, with its tiny conical spikes, made many erotic motions into her willing vagina, because she had put her quills down now and Morgan wasn’t going to get stabbed. Morgan was happy Morgan didn’t have to soak Morgan in urine, which often happens in this kind of erotically sexual erotic sex. They procreated for six minutes, on the long side for porcupines such as Morgan and Morgan.

This is why they all hated books so much; porcupines are completely illiterate, and total jerks when they have fire on their quills.

THE END


My two sources, who would obviously be completely thrilled about this if they found out:

http://www.slate.com/articles/health_and_science/science/2012/11/porcupine_sex_mating_behaviors_involve_quills_musk_penis_spikes_fights_and.html

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_Zta4W5noiM

Last Wednesday There Occurred an Event of Great Fortune

Delving into Facebook notes, I've got this gem from November, 2011. What's funny is that I've now met the girl who I mention in the note, and she's very, very nice. The internet discovered her recently after the College World Series this year, since she's a player's girlfriend. That was kind of a disgusting public sleuthing, so I'm not putting any information here. But those in the know should understand.

Last Wednesday There Occurred An Event Of Great Fortune
Unedited since November 9, 2011 at 10:14pm

Let me tell you a tale about two people.

One is a small boy whom I see every Wednesday as I walk back from linguistics class. Usually he has a look on his face like he's the saddest child in the world. He mopes through campus near the Pauley construction with a backpack that seems to have utterly quashed his dreams with its weight. One time he had a project, a volcano if I recall, and he held it sullenly like the it was the only thing he had left in this world, yet he knew it would soon desert him as well. He's probably only ten, but is the sullenest boy I've seen outside of photographs from tsunami-stricken lands.

The next is a young woman attending UCLA. I have no idea her name, who she is, or anything other than the utter conviction I have that she has the largest breasts on campus. She is a skinny blonde with fantastically flaunted legs, a preference for pink tank tops that show ample cleavage, and too much makeup on. But dear god, her breasts. Each tit dwarfs her head; there is no way they can can be natural, since they stem from such a trim frame. I can only imagine she had her ample bosom naturally and then decided to shoot the moon with augmentation as well. Or she got implants first and unknowingly was a late bloomer in the chest department. I stare more in shock than admiration when I see her on campus.

Today, I saw her again. She passed me by the Wooden Center as I talked to a friend. She continued away down the path. I started walking that way shortly after, my friend having entered the gym. And as I sauntered forward, I saw my friend the sad child, walking from the opposite direction, parallel and passing...

It was good to see him smile.