PETRIFIED PIMPIN'

Lately, I have let you in on some of my business ventures (TECHNICOLOR MIDGETS 20AUG2011, SOPHISTICATED CANNIBALISM 31OCT2011, PROFESSIONAL QUADRIPLEGIC CAT JACKER 22OCT2011, etc.) around the world that help keep me so rich.  I tend to fund the more unusual and odd ventures so that I can capitalize on unknown and untapped markets for making money.  My latest money making scheme involves becoming a partial financier in the Chicago, IL. (U.S.), Milwaukee, WI. (U.S.) and Madrid, Spain pimping circuits.  I have always admired pimps for their work ethic.  It’s not easy to regulate and manage multiple “bitches and/or hoes” while simultaneously ensuring that bitches “betta have yo’ money” as is so eloquently stated in the pimpin trade (or in Madrid, “Las Perras deben tener mi dinero.”  The problem with the standard pimping circuit is that the game is played out.  Macs gotta stretch their legs and bitches just ain’t the same bitches no moh.  So, I gathered together a few of my pimp associates and we hashed out a plan to develop a new and unexplored market; an untapped resource if you will.  We are going to tap the vast necrophiliac underground.  Those members of society who have been shunned or even arrested because they want to fuck dead women, guys, goats, muskrats, road kill, ducks, whatever, as long as it’s deceased… will have an outlet for their pent up sexual desires.  Why should you have to settle for cheating on your wife with a whore who’s heart’s still beating!  I say, that’s unfair, and to be honest, it’s borderline lifest….that’s right, I said it,  LIFEST.  So what if you’re dead, should you be discriminated against by the living for who you are?! Hell no!  Sorry I’m getting off on a tangent.  I just get a little worked up because as you know I used to date and almost married a zombie chick once (MY ZOMBIE LATINA, 10OCT2011), so you can imagine I have a soft spot for the dead.    Well, as this plan is still in the works and I don’t want to be trumped by some other necrophiliac pimp entrepreneur this is where I’ll leave this discussion until the follow up post. Keep that pimp hand strong!

MY ZOMBIE LATINA

When I was 20 years old I met this girl named Lucia.  She was a beautiful and witty Latina girl full of energy and spunk.  We used to go out together all the time as friends and eventually started dating.  Things got pretty serious and we really started to think about our future together; even the possibility of marriage.  I remember we were coming close to our one year anniversary.  I had planned a cruise to the Bahamas and saved up for several months.  I bought the tickets and came home to surprise her.  When I got home early from work she was already there and in bed.  I asked her if she was feeling okay and she said she felt like she was catching the flu and just wanted to rest.  Lucia didn’t look well at all.  She was pale, perspiring and just all around looked ill.  I let her sleep, and in the morning went to work again but didn’t wake her.  She seemed to be deep asleep and I figured she needed the rest.  When I got home that evening I smelled something putrid in the house.  It smelled like rotting trash or a dead animal.  I sniffed around and the smell was coming from the bedroom.  Finally, I came to the bedroom and Lucia was sitting upright in the bed staring out the window.  I said “Hey honey, I’m home.  How are you feeling? Do you smell that odor?  I think it’s coming from in here.”  She didn’t move.  So I went closer until I was within arms reach to tap her on the shoulder.  Just before I reached her she rapidly twisted around and leaped out of the bed at me.  Her eyes were black as coal and skin was deathly pale.  Reflexively, I grabbed her waist and threw her against the wall.  I immediately ran over and toppled the bedroom dresser on top of her to pin her down and then jumped on top to secure it.  At that moment while I was teetering on the cabinet with my girlfriend writhing, hissing and biting underneath I came to a realization.  My girlfriend was now a zombie!  A hot Latina zombie.  I chained her down to the bed post with a bike lock chain and a fuzzy handcuff set so that I could have some time to reevaluate our relationship.  “How do you break up with a zombie?”  I asked myself.  “I still have deep feelings for her though.  I don’t want to break up….maybe there’s a way I can make this work?”  I resolved at that point that this was just a small speed bump in the road of love.  Just as new couples have arguments and fights as they learn to adjust to each other’s quirks and habits they usually end up compromising.  Sticking it out in the relationship long enough to reach that point of compromise is what makes for a strong relationship.  A newly zombified girlfriend?  It’ll just take some getting used to.   

So, fast forward a few months and things actually fell into their own rhythm.  I’d lock her up in the closet in a dog cage with a few chicken wings and go to work for the day.  I’d come home and we’d hang out like any other loving couple.  I’d bring her out and strap her down to the recliner chair with ratchet down straps used for securing furniture to your truck bed.  I’d be in my chair and she in hers and we’d watch I Love Lucy, Jersey Shore or whatever.  I’d have popcorn and she’d have a puppy or gerbil that I either found or got from the kennel.  After awhile she looked a little thin so I started going out to gay bars on the weekends and getting guys drunk and bringing them home.  As they came into the door I’d throw a chloroform soaked rag over their mouth which usually did the trick.  They passed out and I’d roll them into the bedroom with Lucia so she could have a treat.  We were like two peas in a pod; Lucia and I.  I loved her and she loved me; in her own way. 

Now, every couple needs to get out of the house and spread their wings a little bit.  Occasionally, I’d rent a cabin on this large plot of land in the country and Lucia and I would go get some fresh air.  Of course I’d bring a cooler full of beer and sandwiches for me and a trunk full of chloroformed gay men for her.  The best part is we both got to stretch out and relax.  I’d take the guys out and lay them in the grass about 100 yards away from the cabin.  Lucia and I would be on the porch.  As the men started waking up and moving around, still groggy from the chloroform, I’d let Lucia off her chain.  She'd have so much fun chasing around after them and I got some quite time to read my book.  Everything was working out great until one day we came back from our cabin retreat and she got out of the car at a local gas station.  She ran out into the road and a semi truck plowed right into her.  Her body exploded into dozens of one pound chunks of flesh.  Whatever wasn’t stuck to the truck’s grill or had ricocheted off to the sides ended up as paste on the pavement.  The trucker got out in horror thinking he’d killed my girlfriend.  I told him not to worry about it; that she was my zombie girlfriend and was already dead anyway.  He breathed a sigh of relief, got back in his truck and drove off.  I shrugged my shoulders and realized, at the point, that I was just kidding myself trying to keep a relationship going with a zombie girl. 

LORD OF THE T.P.

I have a secret.  I take pleasure in listening to the ranting frustrations of people sifting through the toilet stalls in a public bathroom looking for a roll of toilet paper.   The kicker is when I’M the one in the stall with that ONE last roll.  It’s usually long after I have finished with my business and I am just sitting on the toilet reading the stall graffiti and just generally relaxing that they come in.  They curse under their breath as they go up and down the aisle of stalls, opening each one until reaching the last one, and then starting from the beginning again and repeating, as if the T.P. gnomes will replenish the supplies in the meantime.  Now, as I am typically the only one in the stalls, since I am the only one who successfully obtained that single roll of T.P., it’s pretty obvious, to outsiders, that I’ve got the goods.  So, what these jackasses always do is after rampaging their way in and out of the empty stalls, repeatedly, they stand right outside of MY stall door.  They know I have the T.P.   Their shoe tips damn near penetrating into my stall perimeter from under the door, as if testing some imaginary line in the sand.  I can hear them breathing and can almost sense the neurons in their brain firing, contemplating whether or not they should bother me for some of my T.P., and how they would even go about asking for something like that.  I just sit there as quietly as possible.  It’s like, if you were in a zombie apocalypse scenario and you were on one side of a door, of an abandoned house, that didn’t have a lock.  On the other side was a horde of the undead just hoping to tear a living human limb from limb, just one shove of that door away from getting to you.  Your only tactical option is to be as quite as possible; not moving; not indicating you are there at all, so as not to alert them.  The outsider finally realizes that decorum dictates that it is extremely rude to ask a fellow shitter for some of their toilet paper because of the potential for them to be in mid-shit.  How would you even transfer T.P. to them anyways?  How would you even determine how much shitting they’d be doing therefore how much T.P. they would need?  Are they a muti-wiper?  What do you do; hand them a wad of it or scoot the whole roll, itself, out from under the stall to them?  If you hand them a wad of loose T.P. then you just determined their fate.  If they get into their stall and the wad amount that you issued to them is not enough; they are screwed.  They’ll have to go caveman style and hand scoop it or sacrifice their underwear.   As far as pushing your T.P. roll out to them (which you would be an idiot to do) you would be screwing YOURSELF.  What if you then needed to go again, all of a sudden, or had leakage while standing up, then YOU’D be in real trouble.  I just sit in silence, that way I don’t even have to deal with that whole rigamarole.  If I WAS asked, though, I would ration out the T.P. like a King rationing out bread and cheese to his serfs.  “ONE double ply sheet, TWO double ply sheets, THREE double ply sheets, now be gone with ye peasant before I set the dogs upon ye!”  It gives you a sense of power and dominance.  Like having an elevated position in combat.  You have the dominant position and therefore all the outsiders must bow to you for offerings of T.P.   As Erasmus of Rotterdam put it, “In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king”, and as Rusty Shrew puts it, “In the public bathroom, the man with the last roll of T.P. is king.” 

PRETEND TIME !

We’re gonna play a little game called “Pretend.”  You remember that game don’t you?  The one in Elementary school, you know, where you were the knight in shining armor or the Pretty princess with the pony.  No… ? Well then, how bout more recently, as let’s saaaay a short skirted house maid, or oiled up pool boy….hmmm….that’s more your speed isn’t it.  Alright then, so what are we pretending then?  Well, what we are pretending today is simple enough... let’s just pretend that it's the year 1999, in Los Angeles, California and I was a gay necrophiliac who worked as an embalmer in the city morgue.  I was what you would call a Necrosexual.  I was a bit of a shut in, but really a sweet guy at heart.  I was just like everyone else.  I loved walks on the beach, old John Wayne flicks, a good glass of Pinot Grigio, couldn’t get enough of playing Jenga, and I was and still am a sucker for guys in corduroy pants….. oh, yeah…. and I loved fucking corpses.  Now, since I was a Homosexual Necrosexual, my Wednesday and Saturday nights were usually spent turning all the male stiffs that rolled through my morgue into human Pigs-in-the-blanket.  I prided myself on my efforts towards diversity.  I didn’t care about skin color (everybody was pretty much pale by the time they got to me anyways), tattoos, or body composition, I would say young or old, but what’s the point.  I didn’t care how ripe they were as long as they were male.  I’d fuck Thomas Jefferson’s old ass if I could get past the guards at Monticello long enough to dig em’ up.   Hell, I’d even go so far as fucking a zombie if they were real; now that’d spice up your Friday night!  

Obviously, working at the morgue afforded me opportunities which benefited my particular “interests.”  I wasn’t always like this; I used to just be your regular old run-of-the-mill homosexual.  I’d window shop the various clubs in L.A.  My favorite was this one called “The Tool Box.”  I’d meet young men, such as myself, roofie them immediately, and roll them home in a shopping cart.  That limp sack of Man Meat was as close as I got to bliss before I started working at the city morgue.   Now that I worked there I could take all the pictures that I wanted, make all the videos that I wanted, I could even violate Tom, Dick, AND Harry while pulling their brains out of their nostrils with a crochet needle and douching the left over cavity full of embalming fluid.   I loved my job, it was the best.  If it hadn’t been for the owner showing up at 2AM, and catching me elbows deep in two Asian prior-weight lifters with (10) other stiffs sitting in chairs in a circle around us, and the video camera running,  I’d still be working there.  Life’s a funny thing (no pun intended).