John’s Big Head Eccentric Outsider Art Blog

Disco Fever

by John DAgostino, Eccentric Outsider Artist, a.k.a. The John Dog

 

I met the old man in white again last night, the one who resembles Bukowski. We talked awhile, but mostly we drank beer.  He told me to keep everything hush hush, so I am not going to tell you any more stories of the amazing things about him or his powers.   He had my mind spinning.  It was weird, strange; I was very ill at ease at times.  Moments of clarity hit me like they hadn’t in years.  In the late 70s I became a shaman.  Not by choice, but by calling.  I could detect the undercurrent of my shamanistic energy bubbling when I talked to him.  Thinking back, he saw it, I’m sure that he knew the minute he saw me.  That was why he came right over to me even when his friends were telling him, "No, stay seated, you don’t just reveal what you do to perfect strangers."  I thought that I was a shaman cloaked by shadows, but a faint glow must still be there because his keen eyes detected it. (see previous blog for more on the old man in white)

I spent a few years in Africa and learned some of the ceremonies that constrain and/or focus these powers. I drank a lot of chicken blood, spoke with the ancestors, and honed my senses. I spent more years amongst the Cubans in Miami and saw how the Santerias manage the gods.  I practiced in my own way from time to time.  In those days I had the vision, the eye, the clarity. Lately, I keep to myself a lot.  I can’t bear to be with people. It’s not that I don’t like people, but I see, I hear, I sense too much.  It’s part of the curse of having shamanistic powers.  My actions become instinctive. I think that I can channel the power positively, but things often backfire, turn out wrong. I don’t trust myself. I fear what might happen.  So I stay hidden and paint or write.  Better to let the force flow into the plywood that I paint on or the plastic keys that I type on.  Unleashing that energy in a random uncontrolled way can be risky, can be painful.  I don’t want to hurt anybody.  I drink heavily trying to dull my vision. I knock back my third shot of tequila, "Here’s mud in my eye."

I’ve said enough, I’ve said too much, so I’m changing the topic, NOW.  I met a radiant young blonde the other night at the same bar.  She was with a large group of yellow haired folk; moms, and sisters, and kid brothers.  The men in their lives must be back home in Amsterdam or The Hague with their fingers or something else stuck in some dike.  The one sitting closest to me looked like an angel, really, no kidding, but without the wings.  Everyone was having fun drinking beer and laughing.  The rap version of ‘Staying Alive’ by the Bee Gees was booming out of the speakers. The house was rocking.  The place was jumping.  We were all doing some funky chair dancing, getting into it, getting down with that funky sound. 

That’s when I noticed that the angel kept looking over at me.  It didn’t take me long to strike up a conversation.  She had a light moka tan so I asked, how long have you been here, 3 days was her reply. "Damn, that’s a good tan for 3 days, You got any white bits left? Can I have a peek?" She flashed me a smile and a quick look at part of her uppers. Oh, baby, baby, baby, why you tease me like that? I bite my hand.  So I find out that she is 19, got most of the tan at the salon back in Holland, and wants to find work as a waitress at one of the bars along the beach. I’ve been sitting at the bar a few hours and I had a few back home.  By this time naturally I gotta pee, water the flowers, so I go to the men’s room. (In the fantasy version of this story, she gets up and follows me there, and we do unspeakable acts of an extremely perverse nature)  I get back to my table and fuck what do I see – 4 studdly Portuguese guys huddled around her.  C’est la vie. I used to get depressed when confronted with these situations and ponder suicide, but a few drinks and a few cigarettes usually satiate that craving. I switch from beer with tequila shots to straight whiskey on the rocks.  Which reminds me off this gem of a story.

You can buy anything on ebay.  A bunch of writers are doing a charity auction and hocking immortality (they are so humble).  They’ll make you a character in their next books. Steven King’s offer looks particularly attractive. He warns, "Buyer should be aware that ‘CELL’ is a violent piece of work, which comes complete with zombies set in motion by bad cell phone signals that destroy the human brain,"  Then he adds, "Like cheap whiskey, it’s very nasty and extremely satisfying," adding that if the buyer wants the character to die, it must be a female name.  What a fucking dork.  He steals a quote of mine and can’t even spit it back properly.  It’s not cheap whiskey. It’s cheap sex. There ain’t nothing satisfying about cheap whiskey.  It usually tastes like iodine and the next day your head feels like some monkey is boring holes into it with a Black and Decker power drill. Cheap sex is something you can savor for a long time.  And cheap sex ‘is’ satisfying, well at least more satisfying than no sex at all or sex with your grandmother.  I did have cheap sex with a ‘friend’s’ grandmother once which wasn’t too bad, but that’s another story for another time.

So, Steven let me throw you a scene for the movie version of the book and try not to screw it up this time.  Soon to be Zombie Girl, mid-western high school corn fed cutie, Christina Applegate from ‘Married with Children’, gets infected by these bad cell phone calls.  The bimbo deserves it though cause she’s working for Dial-A-Wank and talking dirty for hours to little boys who have stolen daddy’s credit card and are ringing up mega bills at $2.95 a minute while they pull on their knobs and shoot their loads into a hanky. Soon Bimbo Zombie is cruising the streets of Chicago looking for some dick to suck and some souls to steal.  She walks aimless down a busy street filled with late night thrill seekers.  She is scantily clad in tattered denim shorts that expose the cheeks of her fine little tush.  Her halter top is damp with perspiration from another of those Chi-Town killer heat waves.  The shirt clings tight to her body like a latex glove on a corrupt customs inspector’s hand. With her arms out stretched doing the zombie shuffle her areolas and nipples can be clearly seen through the light white fabric of her top. Christina Zombie Girl is on the prowl.

Guys stare at her. Women stare at her.  They know she is a zombie but they don’t care.  They’ve seen plenty of crack heads in worse condition, so a few zombies roaming the city don’t merit most people’s or the news media’s attention. (A fatal flaw in their thinking which leaves this growing phenomenon unchecked until it reaches epidemic proportions.) Besides everyone knows that zombies are easy.  Christina Bimbo Zombie enters a disco.  The music is loud and the bass is thumping hard.  Lights are flashing everywhere.  The smoke machine is billowing. CBZ and some other zomboids are dancing frantically as the re-released Michael Jackoffwithaminor retro hit ‘Thriller’ blares through the sound system. Suddenly, she stops dancing.  She is covered in sweat, her halter top wetter than ever.  She walks over to a dark corner where 4 college jocks are sitting.  She lifts her leg and swings it across the low table knocking all the drinks in their laps.  She plops her ass down in the middle of the table and slides out of her shorts. Spread eagle on the Formica she looks them in the eyes, rolls her tongue around her lips and says, "Hey big boys, you want some cheap zombie sex, it’s very nasty and very satisfying."

America is a land of illusion.  Reality is hard to find even on Reality TV. No one’s dreams and fantasies are any less real than another’s. We hold on to these illusions, dreams, and fantasies because there is nothing else to hold on to.  People used to hold onto God and the God fable.  But that’s passé. God is passé. God and his anointed or appointed ones used to make the rules. Thou shall not diddle with your neighbor’s dog in a homosexual fashion. Today, everything is relative. There are no real hard and fast rules. Dogs beware. Even sanity is relative.  King’s book will undoubtedly be a best seller.  People will drive to the mall in their gas guzzling SUVs to buy the book and some t-shirts with someone else’s name on them.  The war for oil goes on in Iraq.

Sorry Steven, but I won’t buy the book. I’ll take the bus to the theatre and see the movie when it comes out. I don’t that read much anyway, but I do write. With all that’s going on in the world around us there’s not enough cheap booze in the world to block out my visions. So I write in a vain attempt to hold onto my last remaining morsel of sanity.  I write to stay alive. Over and out, Peace, Love, Dove, the John Dog

More Real Life Stories from John’s Big Head

by John D’Agostino, Eccentric Outsider Artist, a.k.a The John Dog

An old man from Holland was at the bar last night. An even older man than me. He was dressed all in white. He was almost bald. He was sitting with a Dutch friend of mine, Alexandra. Johann, her husband was there too. I never met him before because the last time she came to Turkey it was to get away from him. She had caught him cheating on her with her best friend. But that’s another story.

I was sitting with an English woman, Susan, who also lives in Holland, at the table next to theirs chatting about relationships, our ex’s, and the joys of casual sex with partners half our age.

The old man is a friend of Alex and Johann. Alex and I have shared laughs, and beers together and even a few tears.   Their 6 year old daughter is a gem a real jewel. I’m sure she plays a big part in keeping those two together. I didn’t catch the old man’s name.  I asked is this your father and Alex replied, no just a friend. I will remember to ask his name the next time I see him.

He doesn’t speak English, so we didn’t talk much.  It’s about 2 am and I’ve had my share of beers.  Alex apparently told him about my arthritis.  On my right hand I wear ring-splints on each finger to compensate for the joint deterioration. The man came up to me and said "You have a problem with your hands, arthritis?" He reached over and cupped my right hand, which is the worse, in his hands. I wondered, I thought, Is he a healer? Will my hand be able to move again like it did before my affliction?  He held my hand and said nothing. There was a long silence.  He took my other hand and did the same. He just held it and I tried to feel something more than just the warmth of his hands. Was there more there than just compassion in his gentle grip?  Was there an unseen power there? Was his compassion enough to cure the pain in my fingers? I looked at his haggard weather beaten face. I looked in his soulful eyes. Then it struck me that he vaguely resembled the Buk-man. I’m not sure if he possessed any magic. But the gesture was kind and I appreciated it for that and that alone.

I wanted to get down and dirty in my blog today, but shit happens, sometimes good shit. Got a reply from an e-mail I sent to a Buk fan. In my original e-mail I posted this quote about love:

"Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking. It is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil, but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails."

She replied, "How did you know that I really needed to hear that today?" That made me tingle all over. It made me think of the old man.  It made me think, shit, Love Works.

(shameless plug for my site here – www.love-works-art.com)

I read the headlines looking for a little gritty inspiration. Got to be some juicy stuff there.

11:19am, Tue Aug 16

• Police take over Gaza’s largest settlement

• Iraqis fail to agree on constitution

• Coroner: 6 alive when Greek plane crashed

• 36 reported injured in Japan earthquake

• Media coverage distorts view of legal system

• Popularity of bratwurst grows in the U.S.

• College offers class in how to catch fish

• MLB · Golf · NFL · NHL · NBA · Soccer

Same old crap. But the bratwurst story did catch my eye.  I could get some mileage out of that one, juicy bratwurst, who is buying all these bratwursts and what sort of unnatural acts are they using them for. I’ll save that for another time.

What you are witnessing in this blog is a reflection of how the John Dog works, the John Dog in action. (By the way I have a beer in one hand and a cigar in the other, guess what I am typing with). Get your mind out of the gutter you filthy pigs, remember I’m a dog I got 4 paws. One of the Dog’s favorite credos (and I have many of them) is that "There is nothing new under the sun". You’ve read about my AADD, artistic attention deficit disorder, that’s if you have been being good little boys and girls and reading ALL my blogs. (But, if you haven’t then maybe you need some spanking on your pimply round bottoms, would you like that, bet you would). I often add found objects to my paintings and I apply the same aesthetic to my writing.

To fully understand what is going on here you need to learn about cow stomachs and cow stomach/brain transplants (details at http://www.johnsbighead.com/jbh-3faq.htm).  I’ll give you the abbreviated version. I do not have a normal brain.  About 5 years ago I had an operation which replaced my brain with cow stomachs.  This is all because of the internet.  There is just too much information to digest. You know cow stomachs have a number of chambers (4). Cows chew, they shallow (unlike that ‘ho’ Silvia who works on the corner), stuff starts to get digested, but then it comes back up as cud.  I am a major fan of "chewing the cud". Opps, here comes some now from a hot little blogger babe in Florida.

Why I love D.

He just got home and runs and jumps onto the bed on his stomach. I’m directly behind him and sort of belly-flop onto his back with a running start. I start humping him… no. More like raping his butt crack with my crotch. He starts squirming and rolls me off making this little "ew" grunting noise. He says, "I can feel your pelvis rubbing into my ass crack and I hate it!! I hate it so much!!"

Then.

He wrestles me over and starts humping my butt then stops, yanks my shorts down and does his butt-bite routine… and then time stopped.

He shoved his chewing gum into my butt crack.

That was disgusting.

-tm

Wish I could remember the Blog Title, so I can give them the credit they deserve. I got to chew on that one some more. It might make an interesting painting.

They sound like such a romantic young couple, don’t they.  A friend of theirs wrote this great comment.

A Pack of chewing gum - $0.25

Clean sheets - $15.00

Your boyfriend sticking his chewing gum in your butt crack - Priceless

For everything else… there are vibrators and dildos.

Well, there you have it, my blog for August 16^th 2005. Not a very long one I know, but my hand is starting to ache. I’m out of beer.  Time to head for the bar.  Later, maybe I’ll moosey over to the all night Turkish chow house down the road and order me a bowl of nice garlicy tripe soup. Iskembe they call it here, if you’re ever in the neighborhood and want to try some.

Conspiracy Against The John Dog, Part 2

by John D’Agostino, Eccentric Outsider Artist, a.k.a. John Dog

The plot thickens.  I got word from my sources in the States that Johnny Law is after the John Dog, a.k.a.  John DAgostino, Eccentric Outsider Artist. It seems like I’m wanted on some bogus contempt charge.  Contempt my ass.  The only contempt anyone can accuse me of is contempt for that election stealing Bush whacker.  I know what this is really all about.  I know what I’m talking about here.  You see last year I was living in Romania doing my little bit to facilitate the harmonious integration of Eastern European states into the European Union. This is what this is all about. Bush, the treasury department, and the US financial elite want to thwart these efforts.  The money men behind Bush don’t want to see a stronger EU, a stronger competitor in the world markets. (see my July 29 Blog for more on the Conspiracy against the John Dog)

Mr. Businessman got his plan and it calls for putting the screws to the EU and throwing a monkey wrench into the drive train of the emerging Chinese economy. That’s where I’m going next, Shang Hai, if the CIA ever puts enough pressure on the Turkish government to get me deported.  China is the new monster in Bush’s fear campaign.  He had us all so afraid of that camel fucker Saddam and the other A-rabs that the American people stuck their collective heads up their collective asses and forgot to look at the piss poor state of the US economy.  Well I got no job, I got no money, and you ain’t gonna get no rent money next Friday, but frigging Bush gets re-elected to a second term.  But the men in the suits see the light at the end of the tunnel for that billion dollar Iraqi blow job and they be looking to the future.

It wasn’t so long ago that the FCC granted the big boys in the media industry the green light to get involved in the internet and cable.  The CIA backed media giants are steadily increasing their grip on the minds of the American people and the world.  Independent thinkers, like John D’Agostino, Eccentric Outsider Artist, a.k.a. John Dog have no place in their plan to flood the airwaves and cyber space with "their truth". Weapons of mass destruction, give me a fucking break.

Seems like war mongering Bush and daddy war bucks Cheney are mopping up their business in Iraq and Afghanistan.  The oil is pumping and the gas is flowing and Halliburton is keeping the troops well supplied.  The Bush and Bin Laden families are making plenty of big bucks.  That’s the way the buddy system works in the oil industry. But read the headlines on Yahoo and listen to the reports on CNN and get a clue where the next battle begins. China Submarine Possible Threat, Chinese Yuan threatens the Dollar, China Economy Growing cut back Trade Aid, China’s link to African Dictators Alarming, China Ready to Use Nuclear Weapons against US, Unocal Threatened by Chinese Take Over, the list goes on and on, enter the dragon, enter the NEW BOOGEY MAN.

Iran and North Korea are done deals. Remember the Axis of Evil? Twas a brilliant piece of Bush administration PR work, three for the price of one.  Fear is not the breeding ground for a peaceful and harmonious world.  Threats only breed more threats and spawn hatred and misunderstanding. Who wants to live in a world consumed by fear? I certainly don’t.  I’d rather rest my lazy bones on the beach in southern Turkey.  I can write my shit and talk my trash here and no one minds.  The Turks aren’t crazy about the America that Bush and the Republicans have created either.

There is some fear here in Turkey but it is much more manageable.  People do worry about money and feeding their families but that’s a global concern with the languishing growth of the world economy.  The Kurdish issue persists and isn’t helped by the US’s involvement in Iraq.  The PKK doesn’t need any support or encouragement to think that an independent state is a possibility.   My two cents on that pipe dream (and it is a pipe dream, an oil pipe dream) is - Would Texas have the right to become an independent country if the majority of the population were of Mexican origin?  I don’t think that Mr. Bush and his cronies would like that idea.

Well, there’s some food for thought, fodder for the cannons, shit for the fan, more evidence of sedition.  Strike that last phrase I would never incite anyone to do anyone else any harm.   The conspiracy against me, John Dog, Eccentric Outsider Artist, a.k.a. John D’Agostino is small. I just read about an extremely sad miscarriage of justice and the theft of two people’s individual rights. Go to http://www.annettemartini.us/brief01.htm and read about the horrors that befell Annette and Tony Martini and the role the US government had in the conspiracy.  If you read the "entire" document, no skimming, I’ll even buy you a cup of coffee, seriously.  I put my money on the counter and stand behind these two people’s courageous fight against the corrupt system that’s posing as Democracy in America today.

PS – Don’t worry I haven’t stopped writing the smutty stuff, more is in the works. Peace, Love, Dove from the John Dog

Thrown for a Loop

by John D’Agostino, Eccentric Outsider Artist, a.k.a John Dog

This morning started like any other.   Woke up with a boner and no where to stick it.  I looked at the clock, 5 am, too fucking early, but I couldn’t go back to sleep. I had too much on my mind.  I got up, got out of bed and dragged a comb across my head.  I went downstairs to the diner below me and ordered a cup of joe.  The waitress had Dolly Parton hair but none of her other fine assets. Her rhinestone glasses hung on a chain around her neck.   Her name tag said Rita.  I joked, "Coffee smells good this morning, but you sure smell sweeter." She smiled looked me up and down and said, "I get off in half an hour, if you’re still here, maybe, I’ll let you walk me home." , "You want cream and sugar with your coffee, honey?" With that I had a new found appreciation for the expression, "The early bird catchers the worm."  My worm was beginning to squirm, so I told her not to worry, she had her escort home, and thanks I’ll have my coffee black.

I took a curler from the tray on the counter and dunked it in my coffee. I was feeling good. The sun was arising above the horizon and world was turning in perfect harmony. Rita was pretty new at the diner.  I’ve seen her there more than a few mornings during the past couple of months, but she’s never given me a second glance before. She must have had a slow graveyard shift that dragged on endlessly till dawn.  She probably sat in the booth in the back smoking cigarettes and sipping coffee all night while kegeling to fight the eternal boredom of it all.  I dipped my curler again and took a bite. Rita’s apartment was two blocks away and two flights up.  It was a shabby little place no worse than mine. She says, "We have to be quiet, my boy’s asleep in the other room." Not wanting to make any noise Rita dragged me into her bedroom and shut the door.

The room was clean enough, bed wasn’t made but the sheets weren’t soiled, makeup, blue eye shadow, lipstick, and an ash tray full of butts sat on the nightstand. The television and DVD player rested silently on a brown desk strewn with bills and papers.  Once in the room Rita relaxed and discarded her uniform.  She removed her makeup with a moist towelette as she sat on the bed in bra and panties.  I got down to my shorts and lit a cigarette. "You have anything to drink? I ask. She pointed to a draw in the desk where I found a bottle of scotch.  I had a swig from the bottle and passed it to her.  She took three large gulps which drained about a fifth of the bottle.  I had another long pull and put the bottle aside.

We lay back, Rita sighs and I kiss her.  As women go Rita ain’t a bad looker, bit of a plain jane but with features much handsomer than my own.   Ten to one she’s from the mid-west come to L.A. with California dreaming on her mind.  Hope the tips at the Sunset Diner are enough to support her and her kid cause I’d hate to think of her as being disappointed.  We kiss a little more.  I take off her bra and we both slip out of our underwear.  Her body is much like her face, healthy but showing signs of that near 40 droop.  With my gut I’m not complaining, I’m thankful.  She opens a door in the night stand, reaches in and hands me a condom, ribbed and lubricated. She says, "Can you put this on?"

I thought our love making would be nothing spectacular, just a comfortable Sunday morning screw.  I start in slowly and vary the pace giving her some long lazy strokes and then a few quick pokes.  She bites my chest and does a little Mike Tyson on my right ear lobe.  I forcefully kiss the length of her neck then push harder into her yielding flesh. The bed is creaking, but I don’t think either of us is worried about waking junior up at the moment.  As we go on rocking the bed I can feel her muscles contracting and she is getting tighter and tighter. We go on like that for 5 minutes and I’m getting one of the best pinches of my life. Neither of us is in a rush. I’m starting to throb but the semen is not yet rising. With each push there is equal constriction in return.  My cock is clenched in her vagina. As I try to move in and out I feel myself slipping from the trojan. Better to bore deep to keep the damn rubber from falling off. I bury my balls into her and make a couple more short deep stabs. She squeezes and I’m there, the condom fills. I’m still hard enough and keep pounding deeply. Soon she’s there too, her muscles release and she lets out her second sigh of the day.

I remain on top and gently lick the sweat off her nipples, brush the hair from her face. Her eyes sparkle.  I pull out, toss the condom, and check my battered tool.  It’s all still there. I roll off and we both feel the wind of the fan blow across us which cools our warm bodies.  I’m not a religious man, but I lay back and thank God for tossing this old dog such a tasty bone.

Life is funny.  There are good days and there are bad days.  And as they say you gotta take the good with the bad.  I was just reading about a woman in Sarasota who won a quarter of a million dollar settlement against KFC, Kentucky Fried Chicken.  Seems her cat got into a dumpster behind the KFC and choked to death on a chicken bone. This was no alley cat. This pussy had papers and was some kind of champion or something.  She got so much cash cause the court decided she could have made a mint in stud fees if the cat hadn’t have croaked.  And of course the mental anguish of it all.  Sometimes tragedy can be a blessing in disguise.  All I have to say about that though is, "You know what comes before KFC?" Answer - JFC, Jesus Fucking Christ, wish it was my frigging cat.

Just then there’s a loud banging on the door.  There’s a boom and a crash, the door flies open.  The door knob punches a hole in the plasterboard wall beside it and sticks there.  I hear a deep voice bellow, "What the fuck are you doing in bed with my mother, you fucking dirty old dog."  Shit, is this junior?  Junior is about 16, almost six feet tall, and from the looks of it he’s a member of the ROTC.  His neck is as thick as my thigh. He’s got a buzz cut and he ain’t smiling. Rita and I both grab for the sheets and pull them up over us.  He lunges forward.  Rita yells stop. He hesitates and Rita starts to cry.

"Roy, stop it, stop it not again", shouts Rita. Roy swings a left in a wide arch. I jump up and block it, one hand on the sheet and another in front of my all too scarred face.  Roy is quick. He grabs my arm and twists it behind my back. He says, "You aren’t half the man my father was. I’ll teach you a thing or two, you come round here dogging my mother like that."  I say, "Look kid I was invited." But he’s not listening.   I manage to deliver an elbow to the abdomen, but he hangs on.  I kick him in the shins with the back of my heels which only makes him madder and ratchet my arm higher another notch. 

All this time Rita is screaming, "Stop it, stop it, he’s really a nice man, he’s really a nice man."  He finally relents, loosens his grip, and tosses me to the ground like a broken match stick. Before he stomps out of the room he lays a boot to my ass, yelling, "You better not be here when I get back."  Not a very pleasant scene to say the least.  Not the way I figured our morning of bliss would end. 

I gingerly get off the floor, dust myself off and sit on the edge of the bed.  I look around for my clothes.  My head is spinning, my ass is aching, and I think that my arm might be broken.  Damage assessment completed I’m ready to get the hell out of this mad house.

Rita slides over to me on the bed.  She starts to run her fingers through my hair, but I recoil.  She starts bawling again. Tears are flowing and she’s trying to speak. All I can make out is, he’s had a rough time, father dead, he’s not a bad boy, blah, blah, blah.  I think yea, me too, things are tough all over and they ain’t getting any better. (Which reminds me, I gotta go home and let Tom out of the closet.)  I kiss Rita on the cheek and get dressed. I tell her I gotta leave. She doesn’t protest. She doesn’t expect any more or any less for that matter. Who am I after all, just another customer in the diner.  Rita throws on a bathrobe and sees me to the door.  Another peck, a good-bye wave and I’m out of there. She knows I won’t be coming back.

The cosmic wheels of the universe have a strange way of spinning.  If you’re lucky life tosses you a bone or two, most the time though you’re getting thrown curves and sliders.  Some of these you’ll hit and others you’ll miss. But, then there are those really nasty dog days when the grease dries up in the gears, the axles lock and you just get tossed. I don’t wish those on anybody.

Cleanliness is Next to Godliness.

by John D’Agostino, Eccentric Outsider Artist, a.k.a. The John Dog

I sit and wonder how all this has come to be.  My artistic endeavors have made some big swings lately.  My painting has regressed to the point of a ten year old pre-adolescent girl.  Last week I was painting hearts with smiley faces on them and now this week I’m writing porn.  (see www.love-works-art.com) Artistic ADD or AADD for short gotta be the answer, if not the blood clot in my leg that has laid me up for the week must be currently lodged in my brain.  Then again the steady diet of vodka, beer, and sesame seed sticks might have something to do with it. I hear that sesame seeds have some strange side effects when eaten in large quantities. I have to keep reminding myself lately that I am The John Dog, Eccentric Outsider Artist.  I am not Charles Frigging Bukowski. Quiet Hank, I’m trying to write here. I never bothered you while you were trying to write. FUCK OFF, get out of my head.

AADD is a serious disorder.  Not many artists survive as long as I have enduring this condition. It has doomed me or blessed me into Outsider Artist status long ago. Hold on a second, Tom is calling from the closet. "What? You want me to call the Burrito King and order you a couple beaners?" yea, will do soon as I’m done with this blog. I’m going to keep going on this thread for as long as it lasts.  But who knows when the clot will move again or the AADD will kick in or worse. Mortality is a bitch. God bless America. God bless Mickey Mantle who died just ten years ago today (liver cancer). Better enjoy this stuff while you can, might not be another post tomorrow.

Met a great lady on friendster, D.  She’s a writer and a self-proclaimed coffee house whore with the sexiest red shorts. She has the alluring charm of the alienated with that certain mystique of ennui which is such a turn on, but without the affliction of malaise which often comes with it. The girl got spunk.  Damn good scribbler too.  Hank says I ought to put on a Jack Black record and do her rough and hard just like in the song.  Damn, Waites is hollering again. "Yea, yea, I’ll get you a large Pepsi too. yea, there’s still some J.D. left."  Waites has two more days in the closet. He was a bad boy. I caught him drinking cleaning products.

Enough of this dribble. The house is finally empty and Rosita the cleaning woman should be here any minute, any hour, any time now. There’s the bell.

"Hola, mamasita."

"Hola, fucking ugly old gringo, I’m third generation Californian don’t give me that mamasita crap."

"Baby, you know I love it when you talk dirty to me."

"Looks like somebody been having some fun. (crosses herself) You better ease up on all this partying and carrying on.  You gonna drink yourself to death then I’m gonna have to find me another grumpy old fart to clean up after."

"Keep up the chatter babe you’re making me hot."

Rosita ignores my comments and starts picking up empties. I love it when women play hard to get.  I know she wants me bad.

Shit I’m loosing my train of thought here, must be the AADD, the blood clot, or Rosita’s tight lime green spandex pants with that hint of camel toe showing.  Or maybe I should have put more vodka in my coffee this morning to counter act the large dose caffeine.  My little mama ain’t so little. She’s built for comfort not speed. She’s about 45 and has the triple ‘D’s that I love in a woman. I can’t resist the 3 ‘D’s, dark hair, dark eyes, and dark complexion. Her rack isn’t bad either. She looks mighty fine with her white shirt tails tied in front exposing her ample form.

Ah, Rosita, she’s right, my life does stink, this apartment stinks, and Christ I stink too.   I’m too distracted. Can’t finish this blog at the moment. So I call the Burrito King, order some food for Waites and myself.  I ask Rosita too, she orders 4 tacos and a chicken burrito and a large side order of guacamole.  The total comes to $14.59. I jump in the shower and try to wash the stink off my soul before the chow arrives.

I come out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around myself feeling a whole lot better about the world. Rosita has just finished vacuuming and proceeds to put a few dishes on the table for our meal.  The burrito boy arrives. I pay him and get the grub. I put Tom’s meal in a bag, get him his Jack, and take his lunch to the closet.  I toss it in and slam the door.  Waites will manage eating even with his hands tied.  If he can wank off in the closet than he sure as shit can eat a burrito in the dark. Rosita has set a nice table and has divided up our portions. I complement her on her cleaning and her table setting abilities, "Damn, the place almost looks civilized."

I’ve known Rosita for four years.  She holds the all time world record for putting up with my shit.  I knew a bit about her past, her dead husband, the senseless tragedy of it all. She first came to work for me after her husband was shot by some madman.  He was picked off on the freeway by a loony with a rifle. Ever since I’ve known her she has worn black. Today was different. So I mention delicately as we crunch into our tacos, "I see you’re not wearing black." Well, she says you know the story. I was married to my Julio, God rest his soul, for four years, yesterday was the fourth anniversary of his death, God rest his soul. Enough is enough. Life goes on. I could see that she was holding back a tear. I got up and went to the fridge for some beer. I popped open the two tinnies and put them on the table. I spot some sour cream on Rosita’s lip. I take my clean handkerchief out of my pocket and wipe it off. That’s when the flood begins.

Latin women sure can sob and I’m a sucker for it every time.  We embrace, she gropes, I grab, we kiss, tongues darting in and out like guppies in a pool. We knock into the table, beers fall on the newly cleaned tile, burritos and tacos fly in all directions. Four years of pent up sexual angst, sexual frustration, sexual desire unleashed in my kitchen. Next thing I know we are on the kitchen table naked as the day God put us on Earth. Actually, she’s on the table face down half hanging off and I’m standing there trying to do her from behind. I’m pounding away like a brut, but she is barely responding. I say, "What’s the matter baby?" She says, "Do you have to be so rough, Julio, God rest his soul, was never so rough and he is the only other man that I’ve been with. Please, be gentle with me."  With that I roll her over and start nibbling the taco sauce off her breasts, the beans off her belly, the sour cream out of her mound of pubic hair.  She seemed to like that.

Between nibbles we kissed and caressed.  She was starting to loosen up but wasn’t getting real wet.  My cock was erect for the moment but at my age who knows for how long that would last.  I found the side of guacamole and dipped my fingers in. I began rubbing the guac generously into her pussy paying special attention to stimulate her clitoris. She responded and I attempted re-entry. It was a tight fit but mission accomplished, I got my big burrito in.  I mounted her high and started long slow deep thrusts.  The table was rocking.  It was getting slippery down there and it wasn’t just the molé.

I was getting nervous about the table crashing to the ground, so I quickly eased her over to the carpet in the living room.  I snatched a pillow off the couch and put it under her bottom.  I went back to work, this time speeding up the rhythm.  She shook back and forth with the intensity of the pleasure, fighting against it.  I held down her arms and drove home with determination.  I was intent on bringing her to orgasm.  I could hear Waites yelling in the background for more hot sauce. I ignore him.

Rosita’s spicy Mexican-American vagina tightened like a soft taco squeezed in the grip of a hungry sailor and I knew she was getting close. I took a chance and pulled out, she gasped, I plunged in, she moaned. She wouldn’t let me loose now. She clung tight and hung on hard.  A wave of spasms pulled me in deeper.  I let go of her arms and she wrapped them firmly around me.  I held her face kissing her lips passionately. She dug her nails into my back. We climaxed together my warm semen entering a dark place that had been dry for many years. We collapsed there and lay motionless.

My mind began to wander to all the things left undone, all the paintings left unfinished. I realized that tomorrow there’d be quite a mess to clean up. And, oh yea, I got to finish that frigging blog. As I drifted off to sleep I thanked the Lord for good Mexican food and Rosita and for being alive, for today anyway. 

Mo’ Ramblin’ with The Buk, The Dude, and Carlin

by John Dog, a.k.a. John D’Agostino, Eccentric Outsider Artist

I needed to pee. I needed to vomit. I needed to purge.  I head towards the toilet and the fucking door is locked.  I bang on the door, yelling, "I need exorcised, I need in now!" So the Dude and the blonde open the door and come out. "Sorry, man", the Dude says.  The bathroom wreaks of many a foul smell, but I ain’t blaming the Dude or his girl.  It always smells that way. I brush against the Russian as I rush past.  My left shoulder cops a feel on her left breast as I squeeze by. As I turn to close the door. I notice a firm protruding nipple under her too tight tube top. She gives me a sly little half way grin.  I make a mental note to do something about that later. I puke in the sink, rub my sleeve across my mouth, and proceed to the toilet.

When I come out I see that Mamma has left.  George has just fired up another bowl. Lebowski and la blonde are playing footsies on the couch.  So I turn to George and say, "What about beaver? Can I use beaver on television?" Carlin nods his approval as he inhales deeply. I say, "What about split beaver?" Carlin bursts and a huge cloud of smoke darkens the room. He says, "I’m not sure there, you’re cutting a fine line."  Well, the line may be fine or it may be jagged, it’s what’s inside and getting in that counts.

The Dude has got his hands under the tube top and I’m getting hot watching.  Tanya, the leggy one next to me wakes up and notices the action too.  I take a sip off my malt liquor and get a mouthful of ash instead.  Crushed cans lie all over the coffee table and floor. I look over at George with big watery puppy eyes.  George gets the hint and volunteers to make a run.  I give him enough dough for a bottle of vodka and a 2 gallon jug of wine.  That ought to do us until the late afternoon reinforcements arrive.

The Dude’s hands have moved lower now, so I say to him, "Why don’t you two get a room or something?" and I throw a glance towards the bedroom door. The Dude looks up and says, "Oh, right man, far out" and he and Miss Leningrad head off in that direction.  I turn my attention to Tanya. She immediately leaps on me, mouth to mouth, breast to chest, I fall back on the couch arms a flaying. Hail Mikhael Sergeyevich Gorbachev, hail detente, hail the end of the cold war.

So we’re on the couch, we still got most of our clothes on, and we’re doing the pelvic thrust or the time warp or something.  My head is pretty foggy at this time, too much booze and too little sleep.  Tanya had her little nap and she is all fired up.  She keeps saying, "Oh Boris, Boris, hurt me daddy".  I do admit that I faintly resemble Boris Karloff, so I don’t pay it no mind. I reach into her panties and feel that sweet honey of life, so I say, "let’s get off this couch so we can have room to play."

We make to the bedroom. We enter, fuck, I forgot the bedroom is occupied.  Tanya is sitting on the bed, smoking a cigarette, knees up, naked.  On the floor I see a sock and a foot behind the bed.  Isaac Hayes is playing softly on the boom box. The Dude is passed out on the carpet.  We shed our clothes and jump into bed.   Sasha, Miss. Leningrad, smiles.  I’m like a kid in a candy shop kissing one and licking the nipples of the other.  One of them starts sucking my sour balls and I dive in for a taste of some of that Good and Plenty.  Bells are ringing.  All of this is a hazy blur, but somehow we get into a mouth to genital triangle. Tanya’s clit is swollen purple and I do all my regular tricks and licks. Tanya must be working Sasha good cause she is squirming around and keeps loosing contact with my semi-stiff woody.  I do my best when I’m plastered, but sometimes…. well let’s leave at that. 

The Dude had already got Sasha’s motor running and she came quickly. I rolled onto my back and Sasha not wanting to disappoint mounted me and slid me in.  Tanya looking for some deeper nose action sat on my face and started to wiggle. I took a deep breath and worked the clit with my nose as I thrust my tongue in and out. As the juices of our copulation ran down the sides of my face and into my ears I felt my cock getting harder and harder.  Tanya was humping and groaning, Sasha was humping and moaning, and I was finding it impossible to hold back anymore.  I shot, Tanya screamed in ecstasy, and Sasha had her second coming. Oh, my God.

We lay on the damp sheets unable to move. We stayed like that holding each other’s hands and caught our breath. Puke if you like, but heck I’m a romantic.  All of a sudden I hear a thumping, a thumping coming from the closet.  I grab a baseball bat and go to the closet.  In the closet sitting on the floor is Waites.  Tom is in his boxer shorts and socks, the ones with little horseshoes on them, the shorts not the socks.  Guess he thinks he’ll get lucky someday.   His feet are tied with duct tape and so are his wrists.  Although his hands are bound, his ugly dong is sticking out of the hole in his underwear and he’s got a firm grip.  He’s in there trying to spank his monkey. I said "Damn, Waites, I thought I smelled that cheap cologne of yours in the room earlier." He gives me a side ways grin as I slam the door.  Now, that’s another story.

Ward, Go Easy on the Beaver tonight.

by John Dog, a.k.a. John D’Agostino, Eccentric Outsider Artist

The dawn cracked hard like a pool ball on a steely grey sky. Just another smog filled Monday in LA. George and the Dude were sitting on the couch across from me.  They had come bearing gifts the night before, a quart of vodka from Ralph’s Super Market and a fifth of Gimbly’s Dry Gin.  They also came with two platinum blondes, one long legged, the other a bit stout but with heaving mounds that giggled almost out of her blouse when she laughed. Neither of them old enough to remember the cold war, the Beatles, or President Clinton for that matter, not even twenty-something yet. I sat comfortably on the couch between these two lovely bookends talking dirty with George and the Dude, a.k.a. the dead beat Jeffery Lebowski.

I was quizzing Carlin on the words that you couldn’t say on television. George had his lips wrapped around the business end of a hookah nursing a bowl of opiated hash. The sweet aroma of cannabis and damp panties hung low in the room like the proverbial second shoe waiting to be dropped. George’s bright red face lightened as he exhaled and he gasped, "No, you can’t say CUNT on television."

The Dude was drinking his usual White Russians staring at the 4 milk jugs on the two white Russians who were rubbing their thighs on mine.  He kept cocking his head back and forth looking at the bimbos.  He said, "Hey, Hank which one of them girls who are rubbing on your thighs there is the one that came with me.  I said, "Fuck, if you don’t know then it sure as shit beats the hell out me". There was a pause, then a nod. "Oh, right" said the Dude.

I went back to pounding Carlin for more answers. I was into some bookies for some long green on a nag who came up short and needed cash in a hurry.  I thought I could write some gags for Johnny Carson and make a few extra bucks. So I sez to George, What ’bout pussy, can I say pussy? Carlin,"only if the next word is ‘cat’."

What about, twat, poontang, nookie, cookie? Carlin, "twat and poontang, definitely not, nookie maybe, cookies, is ok, but only if you say ‘milk and’ before."

The screen door squeaked and I instinctively reached for my piece under the sofa. "Hello, Hello, ya’ll, Mamma’s back with da goods" and in Mamma stepped. Mamma was a big black woman, must have weighed 210…. kilos not pounds.  The thin thread worn cotton flowered sun dress / muumuu that clung to her moist brown body barely contained her bulk. It was a hot and humid morning. Mamma had breakfast for us, 4 six packs of malt liquor and 2 dozen sliders from the White Castle over on Easy Street. She plopped down on an armchair that was narrower than it needed to be.  The sides creaked, then the arms tweaked outward under the pressure of her massive legs, but the chair held.  She put 2 six packs and a dozen sliders beside her on the floor and handed me the rest.

George and the bimbos went straight for the burgers. Hash will do that to you.  The Russian babes were saying, "Thank you, thank you, ve love American food, White Castle rocks, hee hee". I grabbed a brew and tossed another to the Dude which knocked him in the head. I hadn’t noticed that he had nodded out. He said, "Ouch" then he saw the unopened beer in lap and said, "Oh, thanks man".

Mamma was on the run from the law.  She was wanted for questioning in the death of two midgets who worked for the Coon’s Brothers Soul Circus.  The pair of them were found together in the same extra large queen size bed crushed and suffocated to death.  An extra large queen size pair of women’s knickers was also found at the scene.  Mamma wasn’t worried about beating that rap, after all it was just a freak accident.  But, what worried Mamma were the 583 outstanding traffic violations against her.  Mamma drove like a bat outta hell, and the MAN wanted a piece of her. Mamma had an 84 Cadillac Eldorado convertible. With the top down she had no problem getting into her ride. She had the front seats removed when she bought the thing.  She drove from the back seats.  She was that big. She filled the car. No room for passengers at all. In her defense, this was no full size Caddy of the seventies; remember there was an oil shortage back then. The 8 cylinder engine was bored to 600 cubic inches, was fuel injected, and turbo charged. But that’s another story for another time.

So we drank and we smoked the better part of the morning away; Mamma, me, and the rest.  George was still up. The Dude and one of the Ruskies slipped off to a bedroom or a bathroom or someplace.  I guess he finally figured it out. I looked at the long legged one and asked, "Can I see your axe wound?", "Can I see your gash?". "Vhat are you talking about?", she says. I turn an eye towards Mamma and I say, "Can I see your axe wound?", "Can I see your gash?"  Mamma says, "You want to see some gash, I’ll go in the kitchen an’ git me a butcher knife an’ then I show you some gash, you dirty old bastard."  George piped in, "Those are keepers, you can use those."  And, so started my new career as a television joke writer.  By the way, "What is the dirtiest thing ever said on television?"

FYI

by John DAgostino, a.k.a. John Dog, Eccentric Outsider Artist

I woke up on the table. The stainless steel table at the hospital- again.  I was strapped down good. I raised my head as much as I could and tilted my eye to see what I could.  Leather scraps on my ankles, locked tight to the metal frame, a hip harness clipped to the table on each side, and leather wrist straps binding my hands locked to the rail just below the table.  The bright lights from the overhead hospital lamp flooded my retinas and the room. They lit up my torso and legs.  The legs were in bad shape, swollen and blue veined.  Yesterday must have been a very heavy gravity day.  One should try to avoid drinking on heavy gravity days. They warn you about these things when the early warning detection devices are triggered by pre-gravity shock waves, but since I was shit-faced for 3 days I must have missed the warning.

I was still feeling pretty high and was finding the reflections in the concave chrome dome of the light fixture fascinating, that’s when I noticed the intravenous tube stuck in my neck. The scream of the ambulance was still sounding in my ears. I tilted my head back and saw the morphine drip. Tell me Sister Morphine how long have I been lying here. I started to get a chill. Lying naked on a stainless steel table will do that to you.

The lights went off and I dozed off.  For how long I was asleep I don’t know, but I woke up and felt the fuzzies.  The lights were still out, but I knew exactly where they were.  They were crawling all over my thighs, my balls and my limp penis.  The fuzzies are a strange breed, very adaptable creatures. There origins go back to the Green Revolution of 2020.  That’s when the Green Party became the controlling power in the New United Nations, NUN.  The use of fossil fuels had already been eliminated and all the oil men and shahs were in prison where they belong along with the presidents who helped keep them in business.  The Greens initiated, TOP, Total Organic Policy and banned all use of pesticides and the production of meat.  Fuzzies were first reported seen in large numbers about 50 years later.

All insects multiplied 100 fold in those years, but not all species survived.  There are no more butterflies for example.  Scientists believe fuzzies evolved from caterpillars. Fuzzies are about the same size as a caterpillar, 2-3 inches in length. They are very soft on the outside having nice fuzzy brown fur, thus the name fuzzies. But their bodies are hard having a thick shell-like membrane that it almost impossible to crush. 

TOP caused a lot of changes in how the human species interacts with the flora and fauna of the world. Humans are now all vegetarians. There are no more carnivorous animals left on the planet due to a highly successful DNA enhancement program sponsored by Microsoft and the NUN.  We all now eat organic fruits, vegetables, and fruit and vegetable by-products. Fuzzies are no exception. Fuzzies have developed a unique symbiotic relationship with man. Fuzzies live within the human intestinal track and exist by feeding on the decaying organic matter within.

As I said before, TOP has caused a lot of changes to all species on the planet.  Currently, there is a lot of philosophical discussion on the almost pre-historic notion that God put man on the planet to reap its benefits at the expense of all others and the planet. As all humans, animals, birds, fish, mammals, live in peaceful sustainable coexistence, historians and genetic scientists are trying to determine how such a totally bizarre concept became the cornerstone of the human psyche in ancient times.  Under TOP life expectancy has increased greatly. Currently, the average life expectancy of humans is 170 in urban areas and 184 in rural areas.

Sex is almost a thing of the past, a natural consequence of clean living.  Hormones levels in both men and women have declined.  Some say it is because of the totally organic meat-free diets. Some say it is a psychological reaction to living in the stress free environment that the earth has become.  There is little to worry about except for a heavy gravity day or two.  All peoples’ needs are taken care of by the NUN Organic Food Program.  Jobs are plentiful with thanks and blessings to the Techno-Bio Consortium. Everyone has their place in producing or managing totally nutritious organic foods.  It’s probably a good thing that people aren’t doing IT as much anymore. The population WOULD get out of hand if too many babies were popping out and living to be 175 or so.

So, here I am stretched out on a stainless steel table like a corpse ready to be dissected.  I got fuzzies coming out of my ass and crawling all over my genitals.  Sounds gross? Its not, organic shit don’t stink. Actually shit is a thing of the past. The fuzzies take care of all that and when THEY are finished digesting they just pass a small amount of gas.  So the fuzzies are doing their thing on my thing.  It must be getting crowded in there up me ol’ bum hole cause looks like the fuzzies want me to be fruitful and multiple. As I said before humans and fuzzies have a unique symbiotic relationship.

My blood is flowing now. My body feels like it is hovering above the table because of the effects of the morphine.  Little by little my cock begins to throb and the song "Pump It Up" by Les Mc Cann floats in my head.  Soon my rock hard 12 inch penis is sticking almost straight up. It tends to bend slightly forward.  The fuzzies are running up and down the length of it - 5, 6, 7 of them at a time.  My heart is beating faster and faster.  Suddenly, I hear a buzzer. .It’s a damn heart monitor. I’m hooked up to a heart monitor. I can see it flashing day-glow orange in the dark.

A door opens and the lights come on and for the first time in I don’t know how many days I hear the voice of another person, and not just the ones in my head. I hear, Hola, Chico good morning. Steps approach and as I turn my head I see this most beautiful Cuban nurse.  She has long black hair, dark brown eyes, and full lips with shiny maroon lip gloss on them.  Her breasts heave against her tight uniform, the buttons ready to burst.

She looks at my still erect rod and says, I knew you’d make a good father.  I can’t wait to have your massive member deep inside me.  And with that she ripped off her blouse and skirt. Just my luck, I wind up in a hospital with a nurse in heat. Her breasts were better than I imagined with bright cherry red nipples the size of your thumb. My cock now was starting to ache. As she lowered the table and began to climb on top I got a glimpse of her moist vagina and glistening clitoris. She grabbed me and began to rotate her slippery labium gently around the head. It was getting really hot on the table.  I’m sure if it wasn’t for the numbing effects of the morphine I would have shot my load right then.

Then I felt a cool breeze as my damp dick was now alone and pointing to the ceiling fan hanging from above.  Conchita was straddling my face and I watched the blades whirl as she shook her raven locks and said, "Taste my sweet cookie, big boy", "I want you to eat my cookie", "Eat it now!".  She pushed her hairless box down and I wrapped my lips around her hot button and began to suck. It melted like pink cotton candy on my tongue. The juices were flowing.  She kept getting wetter and wetter and wetter.

She moaned and moaned and then turned and moved back down to the other head which was still waiting patiently for some attention.  She grabbed me again hard and rammed me into her cunt. She was on top off me but facing away. She was holding my ankles, her ample Cuban butt resting firmly on my pelvic bone, my johnson deep inside her.  I wanted to caress those two lovely cheeks, feel them in my hands, help guide her movements as she rhythmically hunched forward and back sliding my cock deeper and deeper with every stroke. What were all these restraints for anyway?

I finally climaxed and she did too. Her tight twat gave one last squeeze as she pulled up bringing the last remaining drops of semen from the very bottom of my scrotum to exit the tip of my head and drip into her waiting hole.   We were both covered in sweat and other bodily fluids.  She got off, came over and whispered in my ear, thanks.   Her smile said thanks too.  Just before I heard the door close, she said see you tomorrow.

The door opened again.  Heavier foot steps approached. It was the orderly.  He cranked the bed and turned it vertical so that I was now in a standing position.  He said, "How do you want it, hot or cold?"  I told him "cool", "I want it cool, real cool".  He adjusted the nozzle, hosed me off, and put me under the drying unit.

He joked around about all the noise that he heard in here and said not to worry that I probably would be free in a week or too. He said that my new Cuban "wife" was in a very fertile period in her cycle (which, by the way, isn’t monthly anymore, as in pre-TOP days). A woman’s natural cycle takes a full four years and women bear the child for 12 months.

With the general male population’s sperm count at approximately 50% of what it was 100 years ago, it would more than likely take a week or two of repeated sexual acts to produce a fertilized egg. I didn’t like being tied up for the time, but my Latin hotty wasn’t going to loose her opportunity at producing a child.  This is the way of life and men have their burden in the process of continuing the human race.

In a way I deserve being tied down. I played hard to get for so long.  I don’t have a bonded-breeding wife. I didn’t want the responsibility of having a full-time wife and child. But, if I am not a registered spouse it makes me fair game for the wanton. Gee whiz I am 122, I should’ve know better than to get caught. Now, every month for the rest of my life I will have to pay to the "FUND", again, The NUN-Father Fund for Genetic Continuation.  Also know as the FYI - Feed Your Infant Fund.

It’s my own fault being caught the way I was caught. This is the third time in ten years and I can’t afford an additional FUND payment. No use trying to get out of it either. Genetic tests don’t lie. Sperm-napping is a crime, but guys high on morphine have lousy memories and make terrible witnesses. She’ll just say that we met at a club and that I knocked her up. Those wanton bitches got it all figured out. I shouldn’t have been drinking.  I think I am finally getting that message.