The Drag Brings Peace

She was out, with the trash of course and I gathering eggs. Nice ass too, she had on tight-tight lipo-hugging jeans and a pretty shirt. She smiled at me with my hands full of eggs before she dumped her cargo. I guess it takes a while to get the drag on so jeans and a pretty shirt will do for morning trash. Too bad my hands were full of eggs, I could have, by the skill of my crochet, showed her wonders with yarn and hook. We could have passed the barrier of her Middle-Eastern jabber and my valley-lingo. The world speaks in a universal language of slip knots, they are all the same no matter where you go.

Drag Queen had a perky smile and later, when attending to the young egg plants, I heard the clap-clap happy song. The boys are once again happy. Drag Queen knows her trash and she takes it to the alley, this of course makes the Zionist Jihad Party Boys very happy.

The Zionists Jihad Party Boys make a lot of trash, hence Drag Queen. Drag Queen knows trash. Now the clap-clap songs can begin. They even popped for music and song in their garble language. More than likely, Drag Queen is lip-syncing to the music. Shaking her fanny while applying coy moves of the fan. It was inside, so she probably is entertaining them with a butt flosser, driving these camel riders crazy with butt lust. Butts, as everyone knows, are a Middle Eastern delicacy of dick delight. They fuck boys, camels, drag queens, hell they have male only clubs for fucking boy drags while riding camels. They love their butt and Drag Queen loves trash. A perfect match.

There will be fucking tonight. Drag Queen knows her trash.

At the palace, Mean Queen was thrown out by Daddy. Daddy watered in the back today. He gave sparingly a new meaning. I think he is trying to keep the cement alive. Mean Queen was seen carrying clothes and small possessions out with the help of an older woman by Mr. Peepers. Mean Queen stashed her loot and fled the palace. No shrieking, no profanities, just out.

There is peace in the hood, thanks to Drag Queen.

The Hood Memorials

Last night one of the songs that came up was from Ray Reed who lived next door. Jazz musician and author of the songs we were listening to. He died a few years back.
Smoke.
Smoke.
Smoke that cigarette.

Really nice guy I knew since 1956. He was older by about three or four years. His parents were musicians as well. The dad played piano and the horn in a military band. His mom was a hoofer on the stage. They had two children. Ray and his sister. The father died first. Then his mom and once free of the bitterest woman I ever met, didn't live long enough to really enjoy his freedom.

He had a girl from the next block but mom took that away. Mom took it all and it was--
Smoke.
Smoke.
Smoke that cigarette.

Three smokers in one house without a window opened--ever. What good is music when there is no joy? But Ray made beautiful music. And when he died, music teachers, musicians, and the jazz world paid homage. I still do and when I hear his music, I remember the day he showed me how to fly a kite with a fishing poll and reel to hold the string and make the kite dance in a blue sky and big clouds.

The Lady of the Forest is back. She has a steed, a Mustang all white with a black mane. The mane is the soft-top to her white Mustang convertible. She is alone in her forest. It's shade falls in darts on the grass with chairs and tables to sit under. The breeze is caught and filtered through shined glossy leafs. I think she is tired, sadness weighs on her.

The Zionist Jihad Party Boys, drag queen is the keeper of trash. As all drag queens, if it is one thing they know well, it's trash. I think she has a yearning to learn the crochet techniques I employ in my crochet butt flossers. She obviously buys hers. I might just crochet one in front of her the next time I see her with trash in her arms.

The palace is all so very quiet. Mean Queen has stopped shrieking. Daddy does not grumble and swear. A slave came out early and pushed more trash in onto an overloaded barrel. The lawn is as high as an elephant's eye but shit, these people think lawns are for goats.

But the memorial I will always have here is that for my father. The bravest man I ever knew and he loved me unconditionally--fag genes and all.

Mom came for a visit

She is perpetually, Madame Butterfly.

I was to be up and ready for a bike ride by nine in the morning. However, as fate would have it, a friend came by filled with bitter tears. We toasted three bottles of wine and several joints to love lost. At some point around two in the morning, I said, "Dude, I just gotta get some sleep. I've got to ride over the Santa Sue Pass in the morning."

At six thirty I woke up still drunk, staggered to the can for a pee. "Shit. Shit. I'm fucked." I can still catch some sleep, get another hour in before I need to get up.

At eight-thirty Mother knocked, "Hello" in her tiny Butterfly voice."

"Yeah, I'm up." And I was, especially after jamming my toes into the foot of the bed. I was up then. "Fuck me, shit mother-fucker"

"Are you all right?"

"Oh, yeah. Friend came over and I got all fucked up on wine. I'll get it together and we'll go."
There was no fucking way I was going to get it together. I couldn't get the water together for a cup of tea. Couldn't get the pills ready and I had a drunken turd packed in that was about to blow. Fuck.

"Oh, Betty made a poop on the floor."

"Shit, I just cleaned the rug the other day."

"Oh, I'm sorry." Madame Butterfly has, "Oh, I'm sorry" down pat. It comes out as if she has a blade held to her gut ready to slash the life from her.

I"m getting the rug cleaner and paper towels when it is announced that Betty is also bleeding.

"Fuck."

Down on my knees, cleaning runny dog shit and blood while clenching my sphincter because the toilet lobster wants to slide out. Now I think I might hurl as well. Fuck.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Do you still want to go biking today?" It is Madame Butterfly's cry of pain. Like, if you want, you can tear my wings from me and I won't care.

"No, fuck no, I just need a cup of tea and let me read a bit of the paper."

"Take as long as you need."

Meanwhile, after a visit to the can, after finding some pills to down, Madame Butterfly has the bikes out, tires pumped and water bottles filled. It's going to be in the high fucking eighties. Perfect weather for a hangover from hell.

"How about if we go to Santa Monica?"

"Better, what if I just go up the climb on this side and you go on, I'll come back here and die."

"Are you sure? I don't want to leave you if you're not feeling well." The blade is out.

"No, you go on, I'll be alright." Yeah, just as soon as I can get the pounding to stop in my head and my booze burn on my sphincter healed.

Mother. everyone needs one, I had one but she died and now I have another.

Mr. Peepers

There is a plastic owl in the vegatable garden. The bird is stuck on a pole and it can spy for quite a distance with it's little gem eyes and a camera for a brain. Today, at the west bunker of the Zionist Jihad Party Boys, a drag queen made her presence. Pink dress, black hair (wig) and pumps. Her arms gave her away and the ass. Ugly fucking drag too, skinny bitch with shoulder blades bigger than her tits. She muscled the trash cans and it was obvious that the bitch knew her trash.

She looked over at my collection of butt flossers hanging on the chain link. It rained today, nothing like a rain cleaned butt flosser, especially with warm weather just around the corner. I could tell the bitch was wearing one herself. She fancied my more brighter ones, like the pink and blue with white popcorn stitching at the crotch. If it wasn't for her stilettos catching on the rough asphalt of the alley, she would have nabbed my popcorner butt flosser. But she must have pushed hard on the barrels and it looked like one of her heels came loose. Drag queens are use to loosing heels, they carry hammer and nails in their Gucci bags just for that reason.

Mr. Peepers' head moved to the direction of the Lady of the Forest. One of her men folk had a real nice bike on the back of his car. A much better bike than the rack holding it to the car. Guess he's not worried about the bike falling off because he was too fucking cheap to get a good rack. But hey, Mr. Peepers doesn't give a rat's ass. The Lady of the Forest hasn't been seen since the birthday party. That could change.

Mean Queen's palace lawn again looks like a cow pasture. She will shriek at Daddy until he relents and forces my Mexican gardeners to his bidding for the mighty Yankee dollar. In fact, the grass has gone to seed. Little pods waving in the wind waiting for the sickle. Mr Peepers noticed that they leave early each day at the palace and return late at night. Even Daddy leaves early and returns late. The palace walls are crumbling, the trash hasn't been taken out in three weeks and Mean Queen has stopped her egg laying. There may be a rush from the tunnels that hold the slaves of Mean Queen. It could be that the drag queen might capture a few if they make a run for it.

Mr. Peepers is on lookout high above the string beans.

Lady of the Forest

Right behind our house, on the other side of the alley, exact center between the Zionist Jihad Party Boys' bunkers lives the village idiot. He sings opera in short bursts. It ends when he can 't reach the high note. They come out as a shrill cry much like a seagull.

The Lady of the Forest lives next to the village idiot on the east side. She has a one year old girl and several different men. The men all seem nice, they help her quite a bit. I'm not sure if they're lovers or brothers. But the Lady of the Forest needs lots of help. For some reason it is the same story for all Ladies of the Forest. They all need help in some way.

Her forest are a group of overgrown elm trees. They shade the Lady of the Forest but offer little else. The Lady of the Forest is blond, but not by nature, she has the hard look of someone who has seen battle and hard times. The Lady of the Forest wears thick black eye liner that makes the lines around her eyes pronounced.

Something is wrong with the Lady of the Forest. Some tragedy is etched in her being. I'm not sure what it is as yet. So much of my time is spent on tracking Mean Queen, Daddy and the Zionist Jihad Party Boys that the Lady of the Forest as been neglected and I think, the Lady of the Forest suffers from neglect of some kind. She has this perpetual sadness that surrounds Ladies of the Forests.

I gave her flowers and eggs which delighted her. Flowers for her child's first birthday party and eggs to eat. The gift delighted her and as the birthday party went on and the birthday song was sung, shortly afterward a fight ensued. One of those drunken fights with a girl screaming for attention and a man swearing because she wanted attention. They left the party and after a respectable pause, the party continued. But I could sense the sadness of the Lady of the Forest. It spilled out, even with the celebration of her daughter's first year.

The Lady of the Forest has secrets.

Revelation!

The other day, I had a blood test. It required that I fast for three days. That is, no alcohol for three days, and then nothing after dinner until I go in for the blood work the next morning. It makes for a light headiness. The kind of state I'm sure mystics get when they abstain. This state of mind is perfect for revelations.

I had a blunt needle sunk into my arm that felt as if the nurse was trying to stop the flow of oil at an underwater derrick. This shattering pain to my arm added to my mystical revelation that night. That and the bottle of Boodles gin I bought to go with the steaks we would have for dinner. Nothing like gin and steak, especially after a fast.

The first martini brought on euphoria. The second martini heightened the euphoria and by the time I was on the fourth martini, I was in a heightened state of euphoric bliss. Much like mystics get as they gaze at the world from their cave. Except that martinis are far more easier to induce this state of bliss than roasted dung beetles and mare sweat of the standard mystic.

I'm sitting in the backyard near the chickens, the girls and one bull dyke chicken were in the hen house sleeping off a corn high when I saw at the Zionist Jihad Party Boys' bunker that someone was watching me. Watching me watching them. It caused a freeze to my limbs. Like a deer stuck in the headlights of a car. I was about to light my pipe of homegrown herb when the discovery occurred. We stared at each other unable to move. Finally, he left and that gave me time to strike the lighter, puff and ponder.

What was the Jihad Party Boy doing out in the alley? It required more euphoric mare sweat in the form of Boodles for a clearer picture. While in my required intoxicated state of bliss, enjoying the warm night air, a black SUV pulled up slowly in the alley in back of the Zionist Jihad bunker. It stayed there, silent and hulking before a man got out and went into the bunker. A few minuets later he came out with a paper bag in hand and left. All the while, I felt that a Party Boy was keeping an eye on me. I couldn't see him but my heightened state of euphoria gave me that knowledge. It's something only us mystics can understand.

Now, one could draw the obvious conclusion that the black SUV had just scored some kind of drug. But what drug?

A large bunker with little land left for greenery, one green barrel for organic waste, two black barrels for trash and two blue barrels for recyclables. Most people in the hood have one of each. I have three greens but use only one, the other two are used for the gardeners when they work on the front and one for me to save compost material until ready to compost.

So, they can't be growing marijuana. If it was herb in the bunkers they wouldn't waste energy on lighting the outside, they would have more organic matter to toss and they wouldn't need two blues and two black barrels. What are Zionist Party Boys known for in European circles? Purveyors of Ecstasy. They are making Ecstasy in the bunkers and selling it. That's why the happy clap-clap songs. The touching and the two blue barrels and two black barrels for the refuge of the chemicals to make Ecstasy.

Mean Queen and Daddy know nothing of it. Mean Queen and Daddy had a huge fight last night and in my transported state of euphoria, their fight turned real ugly. Mean Queen had mean words with Daddy and Daddy grumbled and swore. Daddy threatened and Mean Queen shrieked. It went on and on and I thought on waking this morning that they must have burnt important documents in the palace's fireplace until I realized the smell of something burning was from the incense coil I lit the other day and forgot about. But that in no way effected the outcome of the struggle for power between Mean Queen and Daddy. While retrieving the morning paper today, both left at the same time this morning in different cars, without a wave or smile at me or each other.

No Ecstasy for them, no blue barrel of empty plastic water bottles. Nope, just rage and ruin until they spent themselves of their hatred for one another. Mean Queen and Daddy need mare sweat and roasted dung beetles. Mean Queen and Daddy need a night of ecstasy and water before the palace comes tumbling down and exposes the vast tunnel system laden with eggs, slaves and WMD.

Bull Dyke Chicken

One of the girls is a lesbian. Definitely. For instance, on Wednesday when I leave for a bike ride at 8:30, all the girls have laid their eggs. All but one. She knows I go out to gather the eggs just before I leave and deliberately holds back. Typical bull dyke behavior. She has a girlfriend too. A piece of fluff that she keeps clean with little pecks to her beak after eating. The dyke likes her girls pretty.

Now, it doesn't bother me that one is a bull dyke. And it doesn't matter that the dyke has to try and crow after she lays her egg. But it's a small egg. Small in comparison with her girlfriend who lays some of the biggest eggs. And then to crow about it? It's an anal retentive egg for Christ's sake. A typical bull dyke egg. Small, plain and so ordinarier. Why in hell does she try to crow over the damn egg? Her girlfriend however, lays them early, they're big and clean with a nice brown shell. But her damn dyke girlfriend--shit no. She has to wait at least an hour after the other girls have eased one out. Her anal retentive dyke butt squeezes out a so-so egg and you would think she just won a prize for egg laying with all her strutting and cackling.

It's a fucking egg, you stupid lesbian chicken. A plain, no prize egg. Just lay the damn thing, lay it before 8:30 and then you can fondle your piece of fluff, the prize egg layer of them all. Now that girl gives til it hurts and from the size of some of her eggs it would have to hurt.

Now her piece of fluff girly is quiet and demur after laying an egg that's hard to fit in an egg carton while her damn dyke girlfriend squawks and struts after pumping out a ping pong. And I love the stand the dyke gives me when I go into the pen to check on things. You would think she was ready to rip my jugular out, but her girlfriend comes over for a neck scratching which drives her dyke girlfriend into a chicken frenzy. Boy does that make her pissed off and then she goes into attack mode, like I'm going to run from the dyke, which I usually do in real life but a chicken bull dyke? Who the fuck does she think she is?

Bunker Shutdown

Drop dead quiet at the bunkers in the alley. As if they were pussy footing around and I'm sure that is exactly what they are doing. Something foul is coming. Some sort of mischief is at hand. I thought it would be a good idea to hang some butt flossers out on the chain link fence to dry. It rained the last night and this morning, a good time to get the flossers cleaned of offending dingle berries. And I thought that it might get the Zionist Jihad Party Boys interested in keeping their butt cracks cleaned. A kind of slow introduction to the idea. They now know what they look like and how easy they are to make. Plus how easy it is to keep a butt flosser cleaned after it has rid your crack of dangling dingle berries.

I think they studied them. The cameras showed a spy glimpsing at them from his bunker. He raised a black eyebrow and muttered something in Middle Eastern, probably Hebrew. I should record these remarks and take them to a Jewish deli that is nearby. I'm sure the waitress there can translate them for me because no matter what I say to her she replies, "Sure Hon, anything else?"
"Hows life treating you Elsie?"
"Sure Hon, anything else?"
Then I get a pastrami sandwich on seeded rye with a pickle and a cup of coffee. It doesn't matter what I say, "Elsie, I'll try the egg sandwich.
"Sure Hon, anything else?"
She knows Hebrew I can tell because when the Jews order, they get what they want even when they order in plain English.
"Elsie! So how's the tongue today."
"Don't ask."
"I'll take the egg salad."
"Sure Hon, anything else?"

They get egg salad.

So I know there is a secret code of the Jews. A slight twist of the tongue that translates English to Hebrew and back. The Jihad Party Boys know it and I'm sure Mean Queen and Daddy do as well. Perhaps if I gain their confidence with the butt flossers they will let me order something other than a pastrami sandwich on seeded rye. It is certainly something to strive for.

Mean Queen Held Court

Heads were heard rolling at the palace today. There were pleas on occasion but Mean Queen would hear nothing of it. She held court and those found short displeased Mean Queen. The tunnels were humming with activity. Minions were sent to serve time digging. Somber black SUV's were parked in the alley at both bunkers and more Zionist Jihad Party Boys were brought in to take the place of those sent to the tunnels.

There were no clap-clap happy songs. No touching, I'm not sure if they had butt flossers on, they did have skull caps and black pants. Why Party Boys wear black pants is a mystery. They do make pants in other colors and of course butt flossers can be made in a vast amount of colors. I think I should take it upon myself to demonstrate how to crochet a butt flosser and the proper way to wear one. These Jihad Party Boys need clean butts cause they got big fat asses. A fat ass needs flossing, especially these Party Boys. I think wool. It's durable and will stand up to the rigors of being between the cheeks of a fat-ass Jihad Party Boy. Acrylic would get messy, silk is a waste of material on these buns. You need a heavy duty, tried and true, Black and Decker standard wool to get these cracks clean of dingle berries.

Perhaps that is what Mean Queen was pissed off about. Her Zionist Jihad Party Boys had dirty, dingle berry infested ass-cracks. I'm sure of it and there is no way for me to reach the vast underground tunnels holding god knows how many subjects of Mean Queen who have no idea how to rid themselves of dingle berries. I'm not sending Millie down there again, and she doesn't need a butt flosser anyway. No, they'll just have to go the rest of their lives with dingle berries the size of grapes hanging from their assholes.

I can only do so much.

Slaves of Mean Queen

I have noticed, from time to time, that the palace next door must have slave laborers. A woman with black hair was seen on the back porch beating a rug. She has never, ever been seen in front. And, get this, has no car. She must have a cell in the vast tunnel system the Jihad Party Boys have built. Probably right under the palace of Mean Queen so that the slave can be used anytime as slaves usually are.

Now, I noticed that Daddy goes to the trash cans the most. The reason probably is to prevent the slave from bolting over the fence to freedom. As far as I can tell, she has only been on the back porch. It may be a chain that prevents her from going any further. Her only use is to clean after Mean Queen and Daddy. She must cook, do the laundry, clean, and probably degrade herself further by waiting on Mean Queen and Daddy as well. Mean Queen is that mean.

Zionist Jihad Party Boys Carbon Footprint

Today, while having a glass of wine in the backyard, enjoying the afternoon sun, I noticed that the West bunker of the Zionist Jihad Party Boys has one green barrel, two blue barrels and two black barrels.

That means they have very little green, and a whole lot of waste. Landfill waste, and renewable waste, which is probably not that renewable. It probably is more of a black barrel waste. How do I know? By the amount of time the salvagers spend at their barrels. Not much.

This can mean two things. One: they are creating W.M.D. Do I have to draw a mushroom cloud? No, everyone knows from the Bush administration how Middle Eastern countries are swamped with W.M.D. Why didn't they find them in Iraq? Some say it was because they were looking in the wrong places. Others say because they haven't found them yet, but there is the second reason to consider: the Zionist Jihad Party Boys have them and they are slowly dismantling them in their blue and black barrels.

The whole thing is becoming crystal clear now. The vast tunnel system, Mean Queen's obsession with egg laying and getting screwed was a cover up. The tunnels are to hold W.M.D not eggs laid by Mean Queen. The barracks house the workers, women and children who do not come and go but are vaporized from handling W.M.D. They too are probably swept into the black and blue barrels that are now filling our landfills.

I'll have to go to Dick Cheney and tell him the news. He will be so glad to hear that he has been vindicated. It will be hard on the Democrats, but it is my duty as a citizen to report what I know. How could I have been so wrong on this. Mean Queen's ass was perfect for mass egg laying. And her business suit mechanic was stud enough to produce the eggs required by Mean Queen. It is Daddy that must be the brains of all this. Daddy who sits in the back and pays and pays. It is him that has organized the dismantling of W.M.D. so that they can be lost in the vast landfills of America.

Ingenious.

I'll probably have to visit Wyoming and find him. Cheney needs to know he wasn't the lying bastard everyone thought of him. W.M.D. are right here in Encino hidden by Zionist Jihad Party Boys.

Mean Queen Waved

She truly is a mean, mean queen. Her fat ass, taut in a tight ass-hugging skirt, trotted out the front door of her palace and sneered at me. A dismissive wave. A wave to a gay goy boy that said, "I got the hot business suited mechanic."

It was in the morning, when I'm at my most vulnerable. It's when I let the dogs out as I find the paper and try to read something while they take their sweet time finding a place to crap. Mean Queen saw me bleary eyed, knew that it was now the time to smile and wave with her freshly fucked fanny wiggling in a wool skirt.

She is so mean. She still has the mechanic somewhere hidden in her palace. Probably in one of her warren of tunnels. It serves him right for fucking her. He deserves to be tied to the wall and submit to her demands of sex on command. He will be no use to me or anyone else after she is through. That's how mean, the Mean Queen is and depraved.

The Antler Dance is wasted on her. She has no use for the Antler Dance, just her need to be fucked fresh each day for the eggs she lays. She is there now, laying eggs in the dead of night while my neighbors have no knowledge that under their very homes, mass amounts of eggs are being stored.

She knows I know. She knows that I have uncovered her plot to turn the hood into a wasteland. She wants to take the butt flossers from us and the cock and ball warmers for winter. She wants skull caps and bellies. She wants Zionist Jihad Party Boys to do the clap-clap songs without a gay goy boy staring at them.

But I won't give up. I won't leave my post until everyone knows of her wicked, mean plan. I will take down Mean Queen. I will defy her and topple her skirted fat ass full of semen.

A Walk in the Hood

Daddy was out adjusting his sprinklers. He wanted to make sure that when you walked on the sidewalk, the person walking would get wet. He succeeded. I'm not sure what the shovel was for though, probably to fill in cave-ins for the vast tunnel system they built.

We walked up to Ventura and had dinner at the Coral Tree Cafe. Now, why would they call it Cafe when they don't serve you? You go to the counter and give them your order. If you want water, then there is a counter for that with thin plastic picnic cups to drink out of and you place a number on the table you selected and wait for the food to be brought to you. What gets me is that everywhere there are hints for a tip. There is a tip jar, a line on the credit card receipt to add a tip and no service other than to bring your food and wrapped utensils. They don't ask if you would like anything else, they don't do squat, so you're to tip for what? taking your order at the counter and pointing to where you get your water? Bringing the food to a table that has a number on it?

And here's a kicker, a woman comes in and orders, she then goes and sits outside and lights up a cigarette. Writes in a pad while she smokes and when the wine is brought to her she sniffs it. After a sip or two and some more sniffs and a few puffs on her cigarette, she takes the wine back in and wants a different red. Okay, how could someone who smokes know one red from the other? Unless of course you put salt and pepper in the glass.

Another young gal, blah-blahing on her cell phone almost breaks her neck trying to navigate the two steps down from the door while talking on the cell. Without breaking a syllable, she rights herself and continues on.

A cafe, really?

The Antler Dance

Recently discovered DNA from Neanderthals have shown that we bred with them. I'm not surprised. Some people I know will fuck anything. For example, years ago a friend asked me to give the job to painting the house to someone he knew that needed work. After pestering me, I agreed. The friend, was in recovery in A.A.

I paid half the amount he asked, because he said he needed to fix his car and to buy supplies. After two weeks of not showing up, I chased him down at a meeting and had a talk with him. He showed up the next day and worked for less than a week before he stopped again. I hunted him down again and that's when he told me that he also goes to Sexual Compulsive meetings as well.

"Sexual compulsive?" I asked.

"Yes," he said, "I have trouble going from my apartment to the job without looking for sex."

"Oh," I said, "Who do you have sex with?"

He studied the question for a while before answering, "Well, I haven't had sex with anything dead yet."

That certainly narrowed it down. Now I can't leave the house, I can't leave my dog or cat alone. I can't leave my handicap father who I was caring for at the time. And I can't leave him alone in the neighborhood either. After a call to my friend that stuck me with this guy, threatening to rape him with an axe handle if anything should happen, I calmed down somewhat, got out a paintbrush and painted half the house myself, while Dickbreath painted the rest.

So yes, I would imagine our genes are mixed in with a lot of other fuckable animals. And that brings us to the Antler Dance.

The Antler Dance has been around a lot longer than us fucking Neanderthals. It is ingrained in our genetic code. Everyone can do the dance. There is a reason why primitive man wore butt flossers. Straps of rawhide up the crack and a flap of hide to cover the genitals. It was found earlier by our ancestors that dingle berries were a social taboo. The primitive butt flosser helped keep the pucker clear of dingle berries and insured the Antler Dance a place in history.

With a butt flosser on, I recommend a crochet butt flosser, you place your hands just above your ears and close to your head. Spread your fingers out, hop on one foot, then the other with your head bent and your fingered antlers displayed. Raise up your head quickly and at the same time, thrust your pelvis out. This causes your genitals to raise the flap and expose themselves to your dance partner or partners. Then, again bend slightly over to expose that you do indeed have your butt flosser on and hop while displaying your finger antlers.

Soon, a sexual arousal will result in all the participants. There will be a rutting, a snapping of butt flossers and the cover flap will be fully exposed by a rousing phallus, ready to sink into a clean butt-hole.

It's the Antler Dance folks. Plain and simple. We have danced the dance for thousands and thousands of years, fucking nearly everything nearby. It's Spring and the Antler Dance begins. Host an Antler Dance in your garage, if you have one or even better at a public park. A case of beer, some butt flossers or enough yarn and crochet hooks for everyone and you'll be the hit of the hood. Guaranteed.

Mean Queen's Mechanic

The other day I watched a man change a tire in front of Mean Queen's palace. At first, because he was on the asphalt with only his legs protruding from the back, I thought it was Daddy. It wasn't, and when he stood, my interest perked.

First, he was handsome and secondly he was dressed in a suit. Well, shirt and tie with suit pants. I guess his coat was somewhere else. I have a thing for suits. There is something about a man in a suit that does it for me. But like all uniforms, they only work while the person is clothed. This one worked and him changing a tire was a perk. He spoke Middle Eastern, whatever in hell he said came out strong, so he had a good set of balls on him. I like that.

I'm not sure if the tire change worked. In a short while of him being very butch in a commanding voice, everything stopped and he went into the house. I suspect to fuck someone. Men like that go into houses for a purpose. They go in to fuck or eat--or both.

Mean Queen has been silent of late. She probably got the fucking. I don't see Daddy getting fucked. Mean Queen got fucked good, so good that she stopped pestering Daddy. Stopped nagging the shit out of him for more and more. Mean Queen had her pussy opened and drilled by a hot guy in a suit, sweaty and some grease on his hands and face. Sweat and axle grease from working on a big black car. He must have fucked the shit out of someone in the Palace. Fucked them good I bet. It would mellow me out as well, hell who wouldn't enjoy a good fucking now and then.

It's Spring, time for the Antler Dance. Time to take off the cock and ball warmer and in its place have on a crochet butt-flosser. Now I've been thinking, these Zionist Jihad Party Boys would be into a crochet butt-flosser. These boys have big butts. Big beefy butts that could use a good flossing. And I'm sure, once I show them how easy it is to slip the crochet straps into the crack and how, by simply walking from one barrack to the other, they can, at the same time, floss their ass crack. It prevents dingle-berries. Those untidy little bits that collect around the pucker. No he-man in a suit is going to mount an un-flossed butt. He-men want squeaky clean butts. So, if they ever want a chance for a good fucking. An Antler Dance with a he-man, they had damn well better learn how to crochet and wear a butt-flosser.

Cut and Splice

We had a party Sunday for Caryl. It was her birthday, fifty something. Who the fuck cares about the number when you pass thirty. There was a good crowd. A large crowd and more than I should have invited but if you don't invite enough, it's hardly a party.

Smoked ham and baked beans with collard greens and a salad from out of the garden with an addition of carrots, peas and eggs. It fed everyone and it all went pretty well except that I cut my right thumb and put a blister on my left thumb from a hot grill.

Caryl said, no one ever had a party for her. She had parties but she did the cooking and cleaning for her birthday party. Well it took two days to recuperate and my two thumbs are still real sore. The right one especially because it's my space-key thumb, and where I smack it on the space-key, is right where the fucking cut is.

The Jihad Party Boys have been co-mingling. New women with children are over. Probably to size up the situation with the children. I never see an overweight kid from the Middle East. They get fatten up here, readied for Mean Queen and I know these children are new because they saw the chickens and it made them hungry.

I don't know what is going on now with the barracks and Mean Queen's palace. There's something happening though, a new group is evolving. I'll keep a camera on it all, they go back and forth. Women come, women go. Women with children come and they go, it is all very mysterious. Very sinister and my thumb is killing me.