Issue Five

Briar Rose I give you my deepest apologies from the bottom of my heart for the uncouth and disgusting display Mr. Cudgel had published in the previous issue of NEST. I had sent my representative, Ms. Powers, to oversee the development and to assure that that drunken degenerate did not disrupt the magazines development. Sadly, Ms. Powers is as much of a disrespectful insubordinate as her drinking buddy and allowed him to print an image of a morbidly obese man with the head of a rabbit. Despite this continuing tom foolery, the 5th issue of NEST features the very best that we have to offer. We, yet again, have a number of exquisite poems, illustrations, interviews, and other such works created with a pen and paper. A fellow named Jake Morrow has recently joined our staff and regales us with his account of his first gutterbird meeting, A young woman tells us about the beginnings of her sexual development, Ms. Powers gives us another of her strange interest pieces, and Mr. Cudgel sobered up enough to conduct an interview with one of gutterbirds featured musical acts, For The Birds. These are just a few of the works in this, another glorious issue of Nest. I am confident that you will find it as wonderfully enriching and entertaining as I have. To our talented artists, thank you for all of your beautiful blood, sweat, and tears. To Mr. Cudgel, unpunished. Sincerely, Briar Rose. your insolence will not go

Table of Contents
Our Stories
Drunkerbird Jake Morrow, Pg 2. Cassoulet: An Epic Joel Brown, Pg 8. When I Was Your Age Caitlin K. Roberts, Pg 26. Love or Psilocybin Cody Britton, Pg 30. Edward Penishands: A Film Review Saturn C. Powers, Pg 35.

Saliencies
Billy Cudgel Interviews For the Birds, Pg 46. Autoethnology of Standing in Line Eileen Wernnekers, Pg 57. Nixon and Mao Mitchell Gauvin, Pg 59. Fishsticks Overachieving Ian Moroe, Pg 60. Oi! Guttaboids! Natalie Kaye, Pg 61. The Origin of Eternal Ties Nitasha Randhawa, Pg 64. Whats Your Sign? By: WE R. DNA At Night Part 1: The Blue Zach Brewer, Pg 65. Horoscopes Because Were Drunk, Pg 68.

Tisha D. Myles

Our Stories

Drunkerbird
Jake Morrow So we were fucking around after the show. DJ Centurions playing an extra set, Jake has the camera and he said repeatedly throughout, on camera: I should not have the camera. No one should give me the camera. He thought it belonged to Joel Brown at first, and then he thought it belonged to Drew, and then he realized it belonged to me. I think it was the realization that it belonged to me, and the knowledge that he had previously stated that this camera shouldnt be in his hands that made Jake think, Okay, my dick is going on this camera. It was entirely an internal decision. I was excited when Billy Cudgel asked me to join gutterbird - Ive always loved the project and was happy to help. During a one-on-one sit-down, Cudgel let me know that I should have a pitch ready for what would be my first general meeting about what I was working on for the upcoming issue. I wasnt working on shit. Cudgel also suggested that he would love to have me do something a little gonzo. I had no idea what the fuck he meant. This was going to be something. Id always been a fan of the gonzo style, Hunter S. Thompson has been my favourite writer since the ninth grade, when I found a copy of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas in a relatives basement, still powdered with remnants of a years-kicked cocaine habit. I love the idea that conveying the emotions involved in composing a story is as important as getting the facts right. My literary idols are drunken bleeding hearts and neurotic self-deprecators. But, what the hell did he want

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from me? I sat there, whiskey in hand wondering if Cudgel had meant for me to get shit-faced drunk and write about it or if he simply wanted me to shove myself into a story. Then, as if escorted by trumpeting angels, the only reasonable answer came to me: I had to get shit-faced drunk for my first gutterbird meeting. Maybe it wouldnt be as journalistic a piece as Cudgel wanted, maybe he wouldnt appreciate my meeting time intoxication, maybe it was a terrible idea, but by golly would I enjoy writing it. The meeting was set to start at 8:00 p.m. on a Sunday. At around 7:00 I finished my beer, took a swig of Jack Daniels and retrieved a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon from the kitchen- if I was going to do this thing, I was going to do it right. I couldnt leave room to let myself decide to sober up and choose a new story idea. By 7:30, my wine was gone, my Jack was only half full and I was drunk. I live only a few blocks away and was the first to arrive. This worried me. I would say that overall, it had a positive effect. Jake became, if possible, more charismatic than his sober self. He engaged with the gutterbird staff in a way that drew out ideas, that engaged in the collaborative effort to involve artists even further. Ive had some of my drunkest moments in front of Cudgel and was sure he would notice immediately that I was liquored up. He didnt, luckily, and offered me a beer. I dont see why not, I said and grabbed a bottle from the fridge. It would not be my only beer of the meeting.

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The meeting started out fine and dandy. I was participating in discussions and getting along fine with all who were present. I was taking notes that, though mostly nonsensical, were surprisingly legible. Jake experiences a reduction of inhibition and is willing to take greater risks and speak louder, and that in and of itself draws out other people present. As time went on, however, I became less concerned with hiding the fact that I was drinking. I stopped ducking to take swigs of whiskey and began offering the bottle to others. My words likely became more slurred and my notes eventually lost all legibility. They consisted mostly of one-liners that make no sense now. This is when I decided to switch to computer notes. It was also the time when we began pitching what we were working on for the next issue. It was a short table and time was running out. I slyly hit the record button on my phone and waited. Being drunk and in possession of a short attention span, in my recording, you can hear a familiar voice ask: May I get another beer? about a minute in. Thats me. The recording apparently stops during this trip. So I have no objective version of how that went down. But! I have my notes, which I will transcribe excerpts of verbatim. Twenty minutes until the meeting. Half a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon down got some Jack Daniels in my bag. Excited to work. Tried to pick a tie to wear but I couldnt find a combination I liked. A collared shirt is hard enough. Fuck ties.

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So I have arrived, Billy is handing out beer. This is good. Go with it. Weve come to the point where Billy is asking us what were working on. How to let him know my article is about me getting drunk for this meeting? Everybody kind of thought that I was joking. If I needed a cigarette before, I definitely need one now. Jack Daniels will have to suffice. There is now an ant on my screen. I keep trying to convince him to go on my hand so I can write about him more efficiently. Regardless, he has become my mascot. Hes on my notebook saying Go Jake Morrow, you can pay attention to this meeting. J. Jonah Jameson! (This was circled emphatically for some reason.) Worshipping Satan. LOL!! After I typed that Jack Daniels will have to suffice is clearly when my attempts to contribute to the meeting became useless. I wrote vaguely threatening things about other staff members for not being Leafs fans. I continuously interrupted to Skype Joel Brown, whose absence clearly upset me to my core. You do that, its one of your only giveaways, because youre really good at being cogent when youre drunk. One of your only giveaways is that you stop being really interested in listening to other people and become much more interested in talking. And that was happening at the end; you were so interested in you and what was going on with your life. You dominated the conversation.

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I woke up sore and late for class the next day. Fuck, I thought, that probably went terribly. I set a pot of coffee to brew and went for a cigarette and paper run. The class, I decided was a write off, I could catch my second one that afternoon. When I returned home, I poured myself a cup and decided to quickly go over my notes before tearing into this mornings Toronto Sun, which, when you wake up at 11 a.m. is the only paper still in the box. Fuck, I thought. I checked my phone to see if Cudgel had called me: nothing. I checked my email: nothing. I hadnt been fired. That was something, I suppose, but now there was a grim possibility that I actually had to write this half assed idea for a story. By the days end, Id confirmed that my conduct had, somehow, been acceptable and the story pitch had worked. Fuck, I thought and looked at my blank screen. I guess we all start somewhere.

Drawing by Evee Fex-Chriszt

Nicole Mandelis

Cassoulet: An Epic
By: Joel Brown Hello, my name is Joel and I am a classically trained French cook, butcher and alcoholic. Note that I did not say chef but cook because chef is a term that is oft bestowed upon those over yonder age of thirty, with laurels and accreditations galore. I am bereft of such glory and I am but a simple, short man armed with a knife and an explosive abundance of curiosity. Today, we are going to learn how to make cassoulet from scratch. I want you to imagine, if you will, this piece as a cooking show. Place yourself in Eddie Bauer khakis and a pastel t-shirt of sorts in a production studio. If you look under your seat, youll be pleased to note that you will be taking home nothing but the gift of knowledge today. And this knowledge is free. And we like things that are free dont we. Incredible ironing of the khakis. Did you get that done by the surgeon general? Stupendous job. You could cut diamonds with that crease, you magnificent bastard. Let us begin. Strip naked, burn down the place that houses you with all of your worldly possessions. Head north, sprinting the whole way. Do this say around five in the morning and plan a decent route that avoids judicial buildings and police stations. You must train for two years prior. This is a marathon run. Train with marines. Hoo-ah. Hm, perhaps it might be prudent to keep but the clothes on your back and maybe with the last of the money in your bank account which I would suggest closing, you should buy a bus ticket to some godforsaken bus shelter say in Belleville and then make with the stripping. Nudity is the key to rebirth here. Were creating the most organic and

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authentic version of the dish here. Get far out of the city into the rural farmland of wherever you may be. In our case, this rural farmland would be Ontario. The key here is finding the spot that has damn good soil and is in the berth of a bountiful watershed, say Lake Simcoe for arguments sake. You need rich black gold to grow in. Find this place, there should be some streams nearby, for your ducks. Yes, I forgot to mention. Youre raising ducks. Youre also raising pigs, mutton and children. In terms of agricultural production, were mostly going to focus on aromatics here. So, some good hearty white onions, Roma tomatoes, celery, carrots, Italian parsley, thyme, bay leaf and of course, white beans. Theres also going to be pottery involved as you need to make an earthenware pot and carve your own utensils out of bone, etc. etc.But more on that later. Because, let us remember, I have not given you a chance to clothe yourself or build shelter. Did you really think I was going to let you do this whole thing in the buff? What kind of sadistic sonofabitch do you take me for? Kill a bear. The bear is going to be the key to your survival. You cant do this without the dead bear. There are about forty to sixty bears per one hundred square kilometers between Simcoe and Ottawa so go to town. Im a cook and not a bear killer so I cant give you the exact specifics on how to do this, but youre awfully good at ironing khakis so I can only imagine there is a master bear killer somewhere within you. Rocks, large sticks, pit traps, telekinesis, do what you must and kill this bear in order to survive. If you have not killed the bear, turn to page thirty nine (as this is a periodical publication, I cannot employ the Choose Your Own Adventure style of narrative quite to my liking so I will just tell you what page thirty nine will say: You are dead, you loser.). Assuming you have slain the bear, go about skin-

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ning the bear and fashion yourself some bearskin clothes. WWKLD? (sic: What Would Karl Lagerfeld Do?) Make a bear tooth necklace. Turn the bones into tools. Eat, subsist but cook well as you do not want to contract trichinella. Eat the gall bladder and you will note that your eyesight improves ten fold and your sanity decreases equally so. Mount the skull of the bear on the nearest tree and live here for weeks holding a nightly vigil and a period of mourning. A fellow passenger had to pass in order for you to survive, so go the way of the Native American and pay respect. Howl at the goddamn moon. You are now prepared for the coup dtat. Oh yes, of course, the coup dtat. So I dont know how to put this lightly but you kind of need to take over a farm by force. And Im assuming this can be easily done if youve created some good bear bone weapons and bear fur apparel. Youre going to look twice as crazy as you feel and if you show up on some farmers doorstep threatening to pillage his farm and raze the rooms of his offspring to the ground dressed like a Neolithic savage, the likelihood of him fleeing the scene is probably very high. You have options. You could theoretically take the entire family hostage and enslave them to enhance production. You could, seeing as how you just killed a bear and scarfed down its gall bladder, kill them and if ever caught, plea insanity. Or do as I would do, and let them go and tell them that if they go to the authorities, you will never, ever forgive them and you will be very disappointed in them. Disappointment: the most powerful weapon that parents worldwide have ever created. Do as you must and take the farm. Also, depending on your sex, take the farmers son or daughter as collateral for your own. I mentioned children earlier. Remember what I said earlier about the rich black gold soil, the streams, etc. No half measures

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here. But I suppose that goes without saying. We can now settle down with the killing of bears, of farmers and the nudity. Oh right, the children. Make passionate love to your newly betrothed farmer offspring in the field under the moonlight and tell them of the great cassoulet the two of you will make together. If they think you are crazy, it is prudent to brainwash them a la Stockholm syndrome. Conceive a child. Conceive many over years. Labour, labour, labour. This is your mantra for lovemaking. You might want to take two or even three lovers for your commune. For convenience, let us say that the farmer who previously owned the land was already raising ducks and pigs. Now ducks are fairly easy to raise and have great yield. I would suggest starting with one drake and two females to start. These will be your breeders. Twice a year, these Muscovy ducks will produce twelve to fifteen little ducklings a year. You are slowly amassing an army. As you have already won the nation of bears respect for killing their general in the field of battle, your compound should be surrounded by bear guards who will defend you against society. I would advise training them in the practice of Spartan warfare. Read the bear cubs Lao Tzus The Art of War before bed. Do the same with the ducklings and fit their heads with laser cannons. Before you ask me how to go about this, I am but a simple cook and as I mentioned your khakis earlier and your earth shattering brain power, I am sure, as you have thus far, will figure it out. Really, Im just trying to provide you with a viable and sustainable way to make cassoulet from scratch. Back to the land and all that good stuff. Let us consider the animals. They might be cute and adorable but those are just the societal ideas we have put upon them. Do you think

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pigs and ducks look upon humans as cute and adorable? No. They probably think of us the barbaric bloodthirsty death mongers that we truly are. And rightly so. If given the chance for an uprising, as seen in Orwells Animal Farm, they would probably go about it. So I would highly recommend treating all of your livestock with utmost care and respect. Happy animals equals happy food. Give them ample space to roam, top quality food to eat and space to forage. Treat them as you would your own children. Play them Beethoven, talk to them about ill effects of globalization and perhaps treat them to a glass of pinot noir every now and then. Never lay a menacing hand upon them. I mean you did kill a bear and do so viciously I am assuming but it was a bear for petes sakes. Let us say, for convenience, that the farmer was raising Muscovy duck, Berkshire Pork and Katahdin sheep. These are all excellent flavourful breeds. Your ducks will also produce wonderful eggs for your breakfast, molt feathers for your pillows and will defend your borders with the aforesaidmentioned lasers. The Berkies will produce great amounts of manure to fertilize your garden. And the lamb which will grow to be mutton will of course give you tons of wool to clothe your brood. You really lucked out with this whole affair. You have that crystal clear stream from which you get water and in which your ducks swim about before going back to their nests to warm their eggs. The black gold. The rolling fields. The ever present protection from the federales as presented by the bears and laser cannon ducks and in the late summer before you harvest your crops you can chat Sartre and Kant with the pigs as they are so highly evolved. La via bella. So say you have grown all the necessary vegetables and raised your animals to the prime of their life. Get the fam jam to go out and harvest all the vegetables and then it is time to make with

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the slaughter of your beautiful creatures. Now this is a hard time for any farmer, ending the bond and the connection they have made with their creatures, but in the vein of this circle of life, it must be done. So you want all of your animals to be of a certain weight. For the purpose of this recipe, we will require one life of every mature animal. You need to accept this as truth. If youve skipped the whole process I have noted above and just gone to the store to purchase your meats and vegetables, not only are you copping out of being a living organism, but youre giving into the evils of industrialized food, you bastard person. And how can you honestly eat meat unless youve become part of the process that takes the muscles of living and breathing animals and helps you in turn survive this cold, dark passing that is life. Where do I get off preaching these ideals? I was a fucking butcher. Thats where I get off. I was your middle man for a short period of time. Now, when you go about taking the life of these animals, make sure they are at their most calm, play Beethovens Moonlight Sonata, treat them warmly, as you would a friend and then when the silence of the world prevails end their lives quickly and as painlessly as possible. With pigs this is often done with a bolt gun or small arm gun shot when they have reached the weight of maturity which is clocking in at around two hundred pounds. Take two of your eight year old children and bench press them. Your porker should weigh about that much. You want to make sure they have not been fed a day prior to the slaughter and make sure they are taken away from their friends to a quiet place somewhere yonder over the rolling hills so they can relax before their passing. Then when you are ready to do the deed, draw an imaginary X between the pigs eyes and ears, aim between the junction on the right side and take fire instantly. The pig will let out the death rattle and crumple to its knees or its side. Now acting quickly, flip the swine over and

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insert a blade into the neck, not too deeply and slit the throat of the animal. Construct pulley system from the thick branch of a chest nut tree (which I am sure you had to feed the pig the entirety of its life, along with truffles and such) and hang the pig by its hind legs, with a bucket beneath the neck to catch the blood (which you will eventually use this week to make another French classic known as boudin noir; your eldest son Jeremiah has become quite the accomplished charcutier in his early teenage years and will give you all the instructions on how to go about this). The next part of this weird and primal exercise known as hog slaughter involves the act of scalding. For this you need a very large vat of boiling water. This takes about six to eight minutes and then using a scraper you earlier fashioned out of the general bears bones, scrape the fur and dirt off of the pigs hide and then scrub out any remaining dirt. Now comes time for evisceration, that is to say, the gutting of the pig which in itself may come across as a grisly act, but I would like for you to think about this process thus far and compare it to the life/death relationship had between a cheetah and a gazelle. FADE IN SCENE: The dusty savannah. A lone gazelle stands majestically and defiantly in the glare of the noon sun, ruminating about the American election, civil war and of plagues and angels. In the distance stalks a predator, the speedy cheetah, watching from a hundred yards off hiding in some underbrush. Gazelle (voiced by Helen Mirren): Who can say what the waterfalls, enya enya enya, what the waterfalls. Cheetah (voiced by Russell Crowe): CROIKEY, OIMA

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GET ME SOME GAZELLE MEAT FA NOSH. ROAR AND STUFF. The cheetah the sand at in the air, column and heart beats springs into action and races across nearly ninety miles per hour, leaping claws protruding, digging into spinal tearing it out while the gazelles on.

Gazelle: NOOOOOOOOOOOO. IVE NEVER BEEN TO FRANCE. Cheetah: HO HO HO HO HO HO HO. WOT FUN. GUNNA HAVE ME A ROOT WITH THE MISSUS AFTA THIS ONE. The cheetah viciously tears into every muscle grouping within the gazelle with unparalleled furor. Once sated, he leaves the hacked up carcass for the hyenas and moves on. ANDSCENE. FADE OUT. Were not so bad when you think about it. Think about what a cheetah could do to you. Herein lies the authors rational for eating animals. After hanging the animal for evisceration by its hind legs, take your bear bone knife and slice upwards from your initial throat slit cut, breaking the sternum and following it all the way up the belly to the bung. At this point, the organs expose them all. Keep them all, use them all. Its the least you can do out of respect. And for this recipe you need to make Toulouse sausage, so youre definitely going to need the small intestines. Turn them inside out, scrape them with a wooden stick and then soak them in a solution of lime water . If youre grossed out and this is making you uneasy, become a vegan, go to Burning Man and commit heinous acts of self-actualization on an ashram. But if youve been doing everything according to my plan, you already killed a bear in the nude, held a family hostage, practised polygamy and ran naked through the country side,

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so I suppose youre just as out to lunch as I am. So now onto a trickier part. Tie off the bung with a piece of string, and using your small knife, slowly release the bung and the collection of organs into a catching pot. Wash and chill every organ after removing and severing. Everything can be used in the future to create a plethora of interesting dishes. If you have a moral complication with this and in some bizarre and twisted way think that pork heart is any different from pork tenderloin, I would like for you to go get lobotomized and raised on a farm. Fundamentally, it is the same thing and by not using every part of the animal, you are tantamount to a cheetah, shitting on the remains and leaving the rest for the hyenas. Were civilized, for gods sakes. Have you seen the CN Tower? That was a joke. Back to the pig, once you have removed and chilled the innards it is time for splitting the carcass in two. At this point you can either remove the head entirely, or cut around one half of it so it remains attached to the other side. I would suggest removing it now. Coming in behind the ears with your knife, swing around until you reach under the cheek and then twist the head off in one fell motion. Using a hacksaw, which at this point in your tiny civilizations lifespan has no doubt been invented (or perhaps leftover from the previous farmer), using long even strokes, cut down along the center of the spine, separating the animal in two. Alternatively, you could use a very long splitting knife to cut the beast in two. Now hang the carcass to dry out a bit in a chilled environment (Im also expecting you to have invented Freon and vis a vis the wonders of modern refrigeration). Congratulations, you have slaughtered your first pig. Youre sweaty and splattered blood, viscera engrained within your fingernails and youre going through that rush, exhilaration of a kill. Or perhaps the instant depression and

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shame for taking another beings life. Buck up, champ, you still have two more animals to take lives from. The lamb is essentially the same as the pig in terms of slaughter except you must skin it first, and now you have a blanket for a child. I remember an infant time in my life where I dragged around a blanket known affectionately as lambie. Betray this information to any future European supermodel fiance of mine and I will come for you. That is a promise. If ever asked, when I was a child, I ran marathons and drank only the finest bottles of Dom Perignon. Now with both animals, I would highly recommend thoroughly washing them before hanging to dry out to allow the meat to firm up. Trust me on this one, if you go straight from kill to butchery, youre a fool in fools clothing, no matter how good the crease of your khaki is. For the duck, again, you must take it out of the world in the same manner in which you raised it - with calm and vigilant respect, with awe and benevolence and with a surefire quickness, without pain or suffering. Stroke the neck and talk of serenity of the cosmos and midsentence, slit the ducks throat, bleed it out into a bucket and hang until bled out. Scald as you did with the pig and then spend the next hour or so plucking out all the feathers, saving them for that meditating cushion youll have on your throne ten years from now (I have really, really big plans for you). Now that all the dastardly work of slaughter is done, let us go play in the field. You have seven children by now. Time sure flies doesnt it? Of course it does, because as the age old phrase goes: good food takes time. Ive tricked you into this. We went from a salacious and transgressive narrative about bear killing and anarchic streaking into a drawn out rant about slow food. Welcome to my new show, with guest star Ashton Kutcher: Satired. You just got

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Satired, chump. By now the land is fertile and the roads leading to your compound are stained with blood of the try hard goodie goods of society who have come to get you only to be destroyed by extremely well organized bears and laser shooting ducks. We are now out in the sprawling fields with your seven children Jeremiah, Moses, Abraham, Rebecca, Asher, Miriam and Wesley Snipes (Your prized daughter). They are each tending to different lots. Jer is on the voluptuous Roma tomato stalks; Moses tending and clipping the herbs before they go to seed; Rebecca on the aromatics (your celery, carrot, onion); and the wee ones, Asher and Miriam are both on white bean duty. Such a happy family. As your spouse(s), slog on inside researching fission energy and the base tenets of metaphysics and level two thousand blacksmithing. Young Wesley Snipes is digging for clay and she will be constructing the key piece to your cassoulet puzzle. She is making the cassole. She sets about molding and sculpting this massive pot as well as building a homemade kiln out of a great roaring bonfire. Once the bonfire has reduced to embers, she dries the large pot out, turning it every so often as to ensure it does not break or crack, maintaining an even temperature throughout. Once sufficiently dried, she builds a little log cabin in the center of the embers, with a raft for the pot to sit upon. She builds a roof over top of the cabin and builds a pyramid of wood on top of that and pushes the embers back in. The fire is back to its once raging self and in turn the fire reminds you of life as a single tear drips from your left eye. The burning down of everything you once knew, the rebuilding of lifes foundations from a single period, the triumph of the final product with the central goal hardening within the raging inferno surrounding it. After an hour or so, the primitive kiln is broken down with the beautiful cassole inside, left to cool under the

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light of the moon. Keep the kiln handy though and constantly burning as sometime in the near future we will be using it to smoke bacon. And now, we can finally enter the realm of where I really know what Im talking about: butchery and cooking. We shall begin with the duck confit which on its own is just as good, but is part of cassoulets holy trinity of duck leg, mutton leg and pork belly. We shall take your duck and break it down into the following parts: boneless breast, fat, bone in leg and carcass. Render the fat in a one of your many earthenware pots as made by Wesley Snipes, skimming the impurities and then passing through a fine sieve. Duck fat is Yahwehs way of saying: good for you human race, you survived the dark ages, now have this gold. The breasts you sear on a clay pan to a nice medium, slice on the bias and serve atop a parsley and tomato salad for afternoon lunch. The bones you will turn into duck stock which has an endless supply of uses when making soups, sauces and flavour bases. Now with the legs, with the Himalayan rock salt that you mined when taking a spirit quest to Tibet, salt judiciously, add in some sprigs of thyme, bay leaf and thinly sliced garlic and allow to cure slightly over night. It is now time to butcher thine pig. In the grandiose world of cuisine, pork is Julius Ceasar (when Julius Ceasar was at his peak, when urrybody in da club was lovin his bidness, in the parlance of our times). The head youve obviously kept for making head cheese and the jowls removed for guanciale. Out of the butcher block you fashioned out of ye olde oak tree in the front yard, heave up one side of the pig to the table. The first step is to remove the hock and the trotter from the shoulder section of the pig and you do this by taking your scimitar (your significant other has become such a wonderful blacksmith) and cutting around the elbow separating the hock from the trotter. In the same

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fashion, thusly follow with the hock at the base where it attaches to the shoulder. Now saw through the bone. Reserve both for any number of braising dishes. The butt and the belly are really what were after here. In between the fifth and six rib, counting down from the head end, make an incision from the top of the sixth rib to the bottom of the fifth, cutting all the way through on one end and then flipping the blade and then arching all the way through to the top . The only thing in your way here are the featherbones and the spinal column. Saw through until youve separated the shoulder. The shoulder can now be cut right down the middle, on a perpendicular angle to the ribs separating the butt and the picnic (which is what your hock was connected to). The picnic can be reserved for pulled pork and your shoulder can now be boned out. Save all fat for rendering, all bones for stock and finally, all skin for crackling. We are now left with on the other side of the animal with the rib section, the loin, the belly and the ham (or leg). Place your big gnarled mitt into the curvature of the spine at the end of the rib section and where your thumb or baby finger ends, make a mark. This is how one separates the rib from the belly. Now make a line with your knife across the ribs up until where they end. There are some flaps of meat here cloistered in a bit of fat known as a flank section in animals such as beef. Where this long strip ends and the ham begins you will find the tail end of your belly. Mark it off and saw through the ribs. In most butchery, I suggest marking first with a knife and then cutting only through bone with your saw and only through muscle and flesh with your sharp knife. Using your knife again, slide your blade, facing heavenwards on a slight upwards angle against the rib bones and remove them. These are your spare ribs and will be excellent for a midnight snack later on. Get your champion charcutier son Jeremiah to cure the belly overnight and in the wee hours of the morning smoke

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it and make some bacon. Hang the bacon from the ceiling of the kitchen and remind me of my grandmothers stories of growing up on a farm in Ireland. I would go into great detail about breaking the rest of the animal and perhaps talk of the prosciutto you could make with the ham, or the roast pork loin in hay or the succulent rib chops, but I have a word count to consider. At the break of day, make your family a fine breakfast of poached duck eggs and bacon. Remove your duck legs from the cure and wash them thoroughly. Place them in an earthenware pot, through in some aromatics and pour the duck fat over top. Let this slow cook by the white embers of the fire for at least half a day. Finally, remove only the shanks from your lamb and reserve the rest for lamb on a spit roast. Now go fetch your wee-est of kiddos who control the white bean situation and get them to throw them into a large pot. Throw in some parsley stems, some thyme, some bay leaf, a big chunk of bacon and a little bit of raw pork belly. Cover with a mixture of your duck and pork stock which you made with a good hardy water collected from the babbling brook over yonder. Yonder where, Im not sure, but continue with your suspension of disbelief and carry on my wayward son. Simmer for about half an hour and in this half an hour make love or build tree fort or meet with the bears and discuss strategy. Strain the beans and remove the aromatics, reserving the starchy liquid, and then meet with Jeremiah, your beloved, and discuss his ideas for an authentic Toulouse sausage. He has some ratios worked out and has constructed a wonderful meat grinder out of spare car parts and tree sap. Just spitballing here: say eighty percent pork shoulder, ten percent pork belly, five percent white wine (spirit quest, see Chardonnay region, France), one percent salt and then a smattering of sugar, white pepper, garlic and nutmeg. Now if you remember gutting the pig and re-

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moving the small intestine, it should be ready for use. Fill that with your ground and well mixed sausage stuffing, tie and hang for a day in a place colder than an average autumnal day in South Dakota (see: room temperature). Bring in the harvest. The trees are beginning to change colour, the bears grow sleepy, the ducks returning to their nests; the black haired pigs sleepily nuzzle one another in the their hovel, the sheep talk of dithering uselessness. And your family is hungry as this insane journey to the perfect cassoulet has aged them gracefully to the point of minor exhaustion. It is time to cook as your mise en place is in order. The bears have given warning; the authorities are fast approaching. Tales of your barbaric rule over Simcoe county have travelled to the big cities, to the ivory towers, the concrete jungles and the hoi polloi is disgusted. They are coming for you, armed with torches and pitchforks and submachine guns and tallship cannons, nuclear warheads and their guns and their bombs, and their bombs and their guns, in your head, in your head. After these years of hardship, of great labour and love, your bones weary and creaking, your children almost full grown adults, it is finally time to make one of the greatest marvels of French cuisine: cassoulet. Get the large pot that your dear Wesley Snipes has made bring it over the hearth of the fire. Start with your bacon and some duck fat to get the fats and oils a bubbling. Then add your sliced garlic, tomatoes and roughly chopped onions, cook until all are tender and deglaze with a hearty few cups of say a Sauvignon Blanc. Be sure to take a couple of swigs for yourself. It is good to own land and be well fortified this night. Throw in a layer of beans. On top of that layer, go forth with the belly, the lamb shanks and the duck legs. Add more beans. Throw in some aromatics. Add in

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your pork, duck and bean stock combo, scrape away at the natural sugars that have built up on the bottom and let bubble away. Now for the ancient Frenchese secret: your cassoulet will develop a skin from time to time and a good cassoulet has this skin broken seven times before it is ready to serve. Cooking time should take a couple of hours which gives you plenty of time to polish the advanced laser weaponry, man the battle stations and make love for one last and final time. And remember: season judiciously. The pot slowly bubbles and pops, with the final seventh skin crusting over the top, forming a gooey ice over the unctuous lake of white bean, of pork, of duck and of mutton. The scents tantalize your nose like a bad drug addiction and as your eyes glaze over, your belly rumbles in time with the artillery in the distance, your heart rate crescendos and you lean in with your wooden spoon and give that skin the final, resounding, world stopping CRACK. Your family descends on the pot as if this is the first and last meal they will ever eat in their entire lives. Ohas the duck leg slips off the bone like a prom dress, the lamb tears apart into strands of angels hair, the beans go off in your mouth like grenades, the fat melting right off belly and melting away in your mouth into an orgasmic frenzy of flavourif the good lord is in the details, then this heaven weve been promised in every religion from Scientology to those of the old world, is found right here, in this triumphant bowl of cassoulet. And thats when the fools, loaded on hormone injected chicken and genetically modified beef jerky, high on fat bags of the golden arches, drunk and strungout on the high of monosodium glutamate, thats when, these damned fools rush in Cue the Wagner and load thine weapons.

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Nicole Mandelis

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When I Was Your Age...

Caitlin K. Roberts tobeaslut.com When I was eight I was having sex dreams. I also humped my teddy bears. Yeah. I said it. No shame. BUT I WAS EIGHT. Our current understanding of anything to do with children and sex is that, to them, it is explained in a manner that is all very mechanical and logical and maybe connected to this distant, incomprehensible concept of love that our parents talk about - blushing and stuttering all the while. The dreams that I had were comprised of rather obvious symbols and images that would depict what the subconscious of a hypersexual eight year old might resemble: enlarged genitalia that you traveled through to get to other realms (but needed a password to enter) and strange naked games in which there were always boys, naked, jumping on top of me. To be frank: I have no idea if I understood any of this. I knew it made me feel all tingly, happy and excitingly naughty, so I didnt complain. Why WOULD you complain about something that made you feel all those things (not that I could control what I dreamt about anyhow). Sex was just running randy and rampant in my young subconscious mind. Something else happened when I was eight: I found my mother and her boyfriends underwear on the couch one Saturday morning when I went to go watch the Weekenders and Sabrina the Teenage Witch. It was mind-boggling. What on earth would they be doing taking their underpants off in the living room? Let alone taking them off TOGETHER?!

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I knew this likely meant that I should recognize my mother and her boyfriend as sexual entities in their own selves (as they seemed to be reenacting the naked games I was having in my dreams). But, just as my mother did not want to imagine her young, innocent daughter as a being with a libido, I was in denial about every adult having one. When my parents divorced, my grandmother bought my father about 200 different types of condoms for Christmas. I looked away and chose to ignore the fact that my father may have been a sexual creature. Which is hilarious, because I was eight. What is sexuality to an eight year old? I remember feeling funny watching a girl very gently, softly and carefully focus on brading another girls hair. I remember doing back tickles late at night with my female cousins; extracting pleasure from the sensitivity of light fingernails on the skin from our necks down to the waistline of our pajama pants. I remember seeing a flash of testicles in grade one when a fellow classmate was doing somersaults and, again, feeling ever so funny. I remember trading candy hearts with a boy named Luke and thinking we would get married. This is not dangerous stuff. This is nothing that we need to be terrified that our offspring are experiencing. To me, these instances strike me as moments of intense sensuality that derive not from genital stimulation, but an ability to appreciate and experience pleasure. I feel the need to paint you a picture.

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I was the quietest and shyest girl in my class; no boys had crushes on me. I became a flaming red ball of blushing embarrassment if ever asked to speak in front of more than one person at a time. I didnt keep up with the latest fashions. At ten, I tiptoed around the schoolyard in purple velvet pants and an oversized pink teddy bear sweater to hide the swollen nipples that Mother Nature had hatefully handed me. What I am hoping this characterization of myself as a child will do is to negate that image of a half-naked, extroverted tom-boy who went around asking if she could see down every nine-year-old boys pants, and her hand always between her legs regardless of the fanciness of the restaurant. Something is okay to recognize: children are sexual beings. Not just the flagrantly obvious horny little boys, but also the quiet, shy, timid girl in the corner. SHOCK! GASP! APPALLING DISGRACE, HOW DARE YOU SAY THIS CAITLIN?! Now, Im not saying we should toss away all thought patterns we have on the subject matter. Throwing in the towel and just letting our kids masturbate all over the place likely wont solve any of the internal sexual reservations that most of them will have when they reach adulthood. It would, however, solve a lot of our future generations psychological turmoil if we acknowledge that children are already preprogrammed for sex long before we even have a chance to explain to them that it has to do with a bed, two individuals who look at each other longingly and lovingly, and with mushing our genitals together.

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Adrienne Dagg

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Love or Psilocybin Cody Britton

Our first kiss was on a magic mushroom trip. Let me tell you, nothing is more passionate than a mushroom kiss trust me. Well, at least nothing Ive experienced. We stood there, upstairs, secluded from the party happening below us. Exploding with electricity, loud music, neon and more drugs (the party I mean, not us). I remember feeling her before she was there, soft and wet, gently touching my lips with the delicacy of light bouncing around a room. But maybe it was just the anticipation, the expectation and finally understanding why shed been acting like she wanted to kiss me. I remember feeling her hand falling perfectly on my shoulder, with such weightlessness that I had to look and make sure I wasnt just imagining that slight touch. I remember mimicking this act by placing my own right hand, in a similar transparency, on the small of her back, openpalmed. The little fingers of her spine locking with mineso subtle. Ghosts would have been envious. *** The music suddenly dies. It doesnt matter to us what the DJ is planning on playing next. It doesnt matter that the stair people, barely alive and shrouded in shadow, could see us if they had the slightest bit of sober competence to just look up. It doesnt matter that I am out of smokes and dont have a way home, or that its already pushing four oclock on a Sunday morning. Yes, for this brief moment, I forget

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about the vibrant symbol, comparable to those of the Mayans, melting out of the previously dull white wall. Save for the little cracks running up and down the surface, proof of a long and purposeful existence of holding up a roof. And there: my own personal wallpaper. But I dont care. Looking into her eyes I find serenity, a place I dont see too often. I see the reflection of my own in a pearly blue world. Im gazing into her, into me, as she inches a bit closer, biting at her lower lip, and sighs in a low whisper: Can we do that again? *** My Wingman is the first of us to learn about the existence of the aforementioned party. Are you going to that party later? This is a vague statement. I am intrigued. We all gather religiously around him as he clarifies its meaning. Talking in long, articulate syllables, he recites the address over, and over, and over, and over. It becomes a chant. We conjure up the sacred house number. Finally the simple sequence of numerals is imprinted infinitely in our memories. My response is as blunt and purposely casual as the inquiry: Yeah man, can I get a ride? Sure, he replies, Dannyboy too. but we have to pick up

In this moment he is my wingman. And I hope shell

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be there. I dont even bother to ask who Dannyboy is. *** Lets take a break for a minute to describe my friend: He is a very important character. He is short. He is surly. He is hairy. He is not always my wingman, but at this particular outing he was. He is Ben. Without him this story would not exist. Without him, I would not have been informed. Ben is the kind of guy who understands too much of the world to take it seriously at all. To Ben the world is a bad joke, and he is there to make fun of it. Always, always laughing. Okay, now you know a little bit about my wingman, so Ill continue. *** We finish work at the same time, in a sober disappointment that it is already almost midnight on a Saturday and we have a lot of catching up to do. It is a unanimous decision to instead walk the fifteen-or-so blocks to the place so we can begin alcohol ingestion on the way. But theres that one little thing. I got to go to The Mans house, I say, the words flooding out of my mouth alongside the fog of my breath in the cool winter air, and pick up a few grams. There is an unspoken agreement between the two figures in the silence of the freezing cold, the night always seeming a little brighter than usual at this time of year. The way streetlights reflect

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off of the white, powdery ground. They change their direction without discussion. This destination is found almost by instinct. Its scary stuff kids, your parents got a good mind to warn you.????? We spark a match and light up a bunch of broken-up marijuana that has been avidly wrapped in a little piece of paper. This is a joint, and its purpose is, not only to warm our lungs on the way, but also to suddenly change simple tasks into an overwhelming sense of confusion and doubt. The world becomes judgmental and slightly fuzzy. The light snow falling like Gods dandruff from the sky, and the wind blowing unceasingly like a slap in the face just kind of stop mattering for a little while. We stumble. We giggle. We have the inability to use proper sentence structure. I look at Ben: Hey man, you know, uh fuck, what was I saying?

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Arielle Whitee

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Edward Penishands: A Film Review

Saturn C. Powers Anyone who has known me for a substantial amount of time knows that I like porn. I used to hoard that shit on my computer when I was in high school and at one Point I had over 48 hours of sexy time movies, which isnt as much as it sounds. The weird thing is that Ive never really watched porn for its intended purpose. I know, I know, bullshit right? Well, Ill try to explain this as best as I possibly can; I dont like bum fucking or anything to do with putting shit in the out hole (see what I did there?), and I dont find anything attractive about the vagina. So, that pretty much leaves us with the really weird fetish stuff that scares me a bit despite my perverse curiosity to see how one would screw a horse. Generally, I fast forward through the sex, only stopping to watch if its really bizarre. To put things simply, when I choose a pornographic film, Im looking for some really weird shit out of sheer curiosity. Though what Im really looking for is something with some sort of plot At some point during the early years of pornographic film, someone decided that sex would be more interesting to watch if the viewers knew how it was that this couple or group came to be fucking. Clichs come from some where, so I assume that the first porn with a narrative involved a pizza dude and a blond tit stick. As we all know, the writers employed by the pornographic film agency are lazy as fuck and just need some quick cash for some weed or something, so they tend to steal from Hollywood and sex it up a bit. The most ingenious of these horn dog hacks came together and created one of the greatest artistic endeavors of human creation: The parody porno. So with that, today I will be talking about Edward Penishands.

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Please note that I love Edward Scissorhands so much it borders on obsession. From what I gather Penishands is one of the first parody pornos, if not THE first. So, Im going to call this a lesson in the history of erotic entertainment. That way we all feel better about ourselves for finding this shit intriguing. The film starts with a stock photo of a creepy, dark castle on top of a hill in the middle of nowhere. This is rather odd, since when we see the interior it is clearly the innards of a sketchy warehouse of factory; like the one in Batman 1989 where Jack Nicholson fell into a vat of toxic waste and came out the Joker. This is where we meet Patricia, our local neighbourhood marital aid sales representative. For some reason venturing up to the big spooky house to sell dongs seemed like a really good idea. I guess sales were shitty or something. Despite the place being clearly deserted, Patty doesnt give up the hope of a sale and ventures further into this creepy castle/sketchy warehouse. Patty doesnt seem at all worried about running into some crazy STD ridden homeless dude all ready to get his rape on. I guess with porn logic being what it is, Patty probably is unaware that venereal disease exists, and the homeless dude would be hot and well hung. Oh, and Patty would totally let him fuck her; you cant rape the willing. So anyways, Patty wanders around the place in search of a potential customer when, suddenly, a pair of giant penises appear from behind a dark corner. She is shocked, but curious, of the phalluses waving at her and approaches to see who is holding up these dicks. She says Hey, has someone else been selling in my territory? because in the porn-iverse there is more than one door to door dildo sales lady. A figure emerges

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from the darkness still holding the dicks, but wait, those arent dildos. THOSE ARE HIS HANDS! The legendary Penishands do not disappoint. They are testament to all porn props and costumes to follow and are a clear masterpiece of the erotic art world, kind of. Porn budgets being what they are, you would think that they would have just duct taped some dildos to the actors hands. Writer/ director/editor/cameraman/creative mastermind Paul Norman decided to go the extra mile on his magnum opus and hired a special effects technician to make the hands. The man hired was Mark Garbario. A two time Emmy award nominee who is best knows for his work on Six Feet Under, 300, Star Trek (2009), and the highly anticipated adaptation of Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter. I guess Garbario had some debts to settle in 1991 and took on the job of making prosthetic dildo mitt things. And thats the best way to describe them aside from calling them, well, penishands. Two extremely large, realistic looking, latex, dildos were melded to these skin tone latex mitts that look like mutated fists that the poor actor has glued on to his real hands. Thats not even the best part! The penishands are equipped with a manual pump that the actor uses to make the hands ejaculate. Yup, they spooge like fountains everywhere. Getting back to the film, Patricia is understandably shocked to find a weird dude calling himself Edward, who looks like Robert Smith from the Cure with, well, penishands. She attempts to leave but Edward asks her to stay in an oh-socreepy tone. Patty stays and attempts to assess his strange physical situation and he responds in what one would expect from a dude living in a sketchy warehouse; he gropes her. She giggles, he apologizes and this prompts her to let down her hair. This, of course, is the universal sign of getting down in the porn-iverse and so porn music

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begins to play and Edward sticks one of his dick hands into her mouth. Then they fuck. The director makes sure Edward uses all the of his penises in some very weird, elaborate, and complicated ways. Writing out the details would be quite the ordeal for both myself and you, the person who has to read this shit. Im pretty sure you know what sex looks like and if you had internet access in high school you know what weird sex looks like. All I will mention is how Edward does not take off his leather outfit for the entirety of the film and his facial expressions are extremely over the top and cartoonish. At least 80% more than what is appropriate for porn. After being satisfied and getting a jizz shower, Patty decides to take her new best friend home to meet her family. When we get to Pattys house, we are greeted with some hilariously out of place product placement. Who wants penishands associated with their product? Trident does! The best part of this poor choice for an ad is that it is in no way subtle. There is a giant Trident poster taped up on the baby blue walls of Patricias living room. Right beside the door so everyone can see. It should be noted that not a single stick of gum is chewed for the entire film. Classic. After Edward mind fucks a picture of Pattys daughter Susan for a few seconds, she directs him to the master bathroom and they both exit stage left. On queue, the true heroin of the movie, Susan, makes her grand entrance with her nameless slut bag friend. These little rascals decide to have some good old fashioned after school fun and take Patricias sample bag of sexy time toys into Susans room to do some extremely predictable things to each other. When theyve had their fill, Susan returns the dildos, numbering at around 20, back into the bag, UNWASHED, and sneaks the thing

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back into its place before her mom sees. Oh kids. Meanwhile, Edward is freshening up in the bathroom and begins to think of his humble origins, which brings tears to his eyes. As it turns out, Edward was created by some lonely woman who longed for her favourite dildo to be alive, probably so dates would appear less weird. The details of what became of the woman are unclear. I suppose she just got too old to be fucked by three, giant dicks at once and died. Well, Edward got so wrapped up in his memories that he didnt notice he had left the bathroom door ajar. Susan walks past and sees one of Edwards hands and grabs it thinking its one of her mothers products. So, she meets Edward and reacts appropriately by freaking the fuck out. This draws Patricias attention and she bursts in to the bathroom and tells her daughter not to be afraid. She formally introduces her frightened daughter to Edward and tells her that he will be staying with them. Susan is confused and shocked by her mothers sudden case of insanity to which Patty just sort of brushes off. Christ, Patty is the worst fucking mom ever. Dad comes home and, for some reason, is in no way shocked that his wife brought home a dick handed potential sex offender to live with them. In fact, he is totally cool with it. I was brought up under the impression that all dads with teenaged daughters saw all other humans with working dicks as the enemy. I would have thought that any dad coming home to find a dude with dicks for hands would promptly escort the gentleman off the property with a shot gun. Not this dad! First, he offers to shake Edwards hand then immediately retracts when a penis is nearly placed in his palm. What happens next is kind of messed up, even for porn; Mr. and Mrs. Porn Parents encourage their only daughter to touch a complete strangers throbbing cock hand. Susan cringes as she obeys

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and extends her hand to Edward. She quickly recoils when his hand starts dripping on the floor. Patricia gives poor Edward a sympathetic pat on the back and her husband, who I think is named Carl, says its ok we can mop it up. Scene. Dinner time! You know those really awkward dinners you had with your parents when you were n high school? The ones where you brought home a date to meet them and they were either judgmental, embarrassing, or both? Well, this dinner at the porn familys residence has all of that awkwardness and more for poor, poor, Susan. Mom decides to put on an incredibly tight, blue unitard; Dad is asking Edward what life was like living alone with penishands, while our hero clumsily tries to eat his spaghetti with said hands. You can tell how uncomfortable Susan is with the situation based on the amount of clothing shes wearing. The film has already established that Susan is not one for wearing clothes. It is also safe to assume that the climate is fairly warm; No one is seen wearing a jacket and Susan and her hoe bag friend both came home from school wearing cropped tops and daisy dukes. For dinner, Susan chooses to wear a large, red sweater tucked into baggy jeans. The look is incredibly unflattering, conservative, and in no way suited for a pornographic film. Susan is obviously trying to be as unsexy as possible in hopes that Edward wont try to touch her again. This scene is meant to parody the first dinner Edward Scissorhands has with the Boggs family in the original. This parody lacks the all the charm Johnny Depp brought to the table and is just fucking weird. There are probably around 40 people in the world that would find two dicks trying to lift up a clump spaghetti arousing. The whole thing is funny, but not ha-ha funny and chances are people tend to watch this scene with the same look of disgust that Susan has been wearing since

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she first saw the freak. This whole scene is incredibly unsexy and was an extremely poor choice for a porno, even a parody. So, eventually Susan cant deal with this horrible scene anymore and leaves the table. And by leave, I mean she runs the fuck away. Just as Patricia tries to call Susan back, she s interrupted by the doorbell. She answers the door and two of her horny housewife neighbours barge in looking for Edward. They scold Patty for trying to keep him all to herself and then proceed to drag him into the bathroom for our third sex scene. Patty is extremely disappointed with the evening and is shocked that it was such a disaster. She is not very bright. Carl decides that the best way to cheer up his wife is to toss the remainder of dinner on the floor and fuck Pattys disappointment away. I know this is a porno, but holy Christ! If child services found out about this shit, Patricia and Carl would quickly find themselves in jail. We have a dickhanded sex freak house guest fucking the neighbours in the bathroom, mom and dad fuck on the dinner table, all while 16 year-old Susan sits in her room traumatized, possibly while trying to calm herself down with one of her moms sample products. This is reckless child endangerment and neglectful parenting to the extreme. No wonder Susan is a horny slut bag. She never had a chance. After the orgy is concluded, the neighbours leave, Patricia tidies up the mess and everyone gets ready for bed. Presumably while Susan is taking a nice, long bath to wash off the shame and disgust from the days events, Edward himself right at home in her bed and attempts to pleasure himself to her picture. Again, I have no idea what the director was thinking when he decided to film

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this scene. Its not like he didnt have a choice because it was in the script; he wrote the fucking thing! I think it was supposed to be romantic or something because there is romantic music playing in the whole time. This scene isnt so much creepy as it is odd and confusing. The dude is mashing his mostly flaccid junk with both hands before giving up and just rubbing the penishands together, like hes trying to start a fire with some sticks. Eventually this works and he splodes his daddy-juice all over himself and Susans bed like a champ. Susan walks into her room and is pretty chill about the whole thing. If I were her, I would have freaked out and attacked the guy with what ever blunt object was closest to me. Susan just says hey, thats really gross like she caught the dog going through the trash. Edward is so freaked out he runs away. After hes left, Susan discovers the picture of her that Edwards was trying to jerk off to covered in his hand jizz. She picks it up, dips her finger in it, tastes it, and suddenly everything makes sense. Hes not a creepy and perverted monster; hes an outcast who is in love with her. Just like Beauty and the Beast. That, or being raised by Mr. and Mrs. Porn parents has made Susan an even bigger sexual deviant than I thought. After tasting Edwards liquid kids, she says this could be fun and runs off to find her tri-dicked prince. The Climax; the beautiful and magical climax. So, having Susan walk in on his pathetic not-jerk session embarrassed him so much that Edward flees his new home and returns to his castle/warehouse. Susans slut powers guide her to her lovers sanctuary and after an establishing stock photo shot, we find the two love birds slowly approaching each other. Now begins a parody of the original films most romantic scenes and the best part of this train wreck. Susan, wearing a pretty white dress,

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asks Edward to hold her. He says I cant, Im sorry as he raises his hands for dramatic effect. Susan tenderly wraps her arms around him just as a romantic ballad begins to play. For some reason (probably love or whatever) Edwards hands begin to shoot cum like a fountain. Jizz is literally raining down on Susan and she dances in it. Yup, Tim Burtons snow dance just became Paul Normans semen dance. Then to wrap shit up, Edward lays Susan down by the fire, literally. There is a fire place somewhere in the fucking castle/warehouse. And so, they screw for that last 10 minutes of the movie. Roll credits in front of the castle picture. The end! So, yeah. That is the tale of Edward Penishands. Its worth a look, if not for sexual arousal (which I doubt), then for sheer curiosity. If you manage to sit through though whole hour and 14 minutes without skipping the sex, thats kind of weird but congratulations all the same. If nothing else, skip right to the climax. Then when someone asks (I dont know why anyone would), you can say Yup, they did it. There is an Edward Penishands. The hands have plumbing and there is a semen dance. Despite being incredibly unsexy, Edward Penishands kicked open the door for parody porn to be produced in excess. Good thing or bad thing, it doesnt really matter. Our curiosity draws us to this sexual humour, and as long as they keep making movies in Hollywood, you can bet your ass some dude in his basement is going to make a perverted little parody. P.S. A very special to Norma Jean Baker for all your lovely spluge

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Nina Leinonen

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Saliencies

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Billy Cudgel Interviews For the Birds:

For the Birds released their new album, TIME TO PANIC, on March 17, St. Patricks Day. For the Birds has been together for just a year and TIME TO PANIC is the Barrie-based bands third album. FtB continues to deliver the kind of upbeat poppunk that fills up dance floors and warms hearts like whiskey shots. Some of the gutterbird staff and I hopped on a bus to Barrie for the release party, hosted by their label Soda Records. The label put on a great night, featuring The Staggering Drunks and The High Road Pilots; rounded out with some traditional Irish dancing. We danced on stage with FtB and, after the bar closed, we kicked it with the band and polished off a couple of bottles of Wisers. The next morning we all had hung-over breakfast and drummer Rex Dynamite gave us a ride back to the city. It was a great time. It wasnt too long after that that I had the chance to talk with lead singer Katie Kaboom, drummer Rex Dynamite, bassist Tron Ogilve and guitarist Marlboro Slim of For the Birds. Characteristic of their high-energy dedication to performance, we did the interview at a bar downtown just before one of their shows on the homecoming stretch of their spring-time east coast tour.

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Billy: Why the name For the Birds? Slim: Because we couldnt call ourselves the Daytime Hookers. Tron: Actually, its because we were all owners of exotic birds that have since passed and this is our way of honouring them. Katie: Really though, its because we dont take ourselves too seriously. Its all about having a good time. Our music is just for the birds. Billy: In the last year youve released three albums thats quite an accomplishment what can you tell me about your process? Slim: We dont really have a process. We do have a secret ingredient though. Billy: Is it weed? Slim: Its definitely weed.

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Katie: The process is to have fun. If youre not enjoying what youre doing why do it? We get into a session and were laughing the whole way through it. Billy: You definitely see that when you guys get on stage, you have immense charisma when youre up there Slim: Thats not charisma. Katie: We do that at our jam space. Thats just what we look like. Rex: Thats how we play music. Katie: Thats how we write music. We cut songs all the time, like, no ones even smiling right now, lets move on to a different song. We cut songs that just arent that fun and keep the ones that make us laugh. Billy: How was your tour? Slim: Great! The van only caught fire once. Katie: The tour was awesome. It couldnt have gone better. We booked it ourselves, did all the promotion and everything ourselves. We had people at every show. Well one show no one came, so we bought two street people a beer and they came in and watched. Tron: We played as the Daytime Hookers that night. Katie: It was great. We hit all our dates, all the bands we booked with were awesome. Good people.

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Tron: Made a lot of good friends along the way. Katie: Were going back soon. Well do another tour in a few months. Billy: What was the highlight? Katie: Plan B in Moncton. Tron: They hooked us right up. Katie: The owners put us up, gave us hugs. In the morning they played us a recording of the show from the night before. Rex: Which we watched while eating a home-cooked meal! Slim: And those other bands were fucking awesome! Katie: This one band was primarily French-speaking with Newfie accents. So, when they were speaking English to you, you could not understand them. We thought they were calling everyone assholes, turns out they were just saying awesome a lot. Billy: The entire music industry is undergoing this radical transformation the traditional methods of producing music are falling apart. Whats it like making music in that context? Katie: It sucks a little bit cause its way harder, but its also way easier to get people to listen to your music. We wrote a song in a day, recorded it in a day and made a music video the next day then 1600 people had watched it on YouTube. And its a stupid homemade video of us looking like idiots!

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Slim: Its one of those things; its just like, if you think: I want to sell a million records, its going to suck for you, but if you think: I want to drink beers and play music, then being in music right now is perfect. Katie: If you think about it from our point of view weve had a lot of success. Our first show had like 30 people at it and we were blown away. We were like: What? People want to see this? If you have a good attitude its easy to do all of that stuff cause its just for fun. Slim: It also helps if youre hanging out with good people who are willing to jump in a cab and head down to Toronto to get drunk at 9:00 on a Thursday. Katie: If you go to a big corporation that charges you however much money for 3000 CDs, you get stressed out youre never going to sell that as a band that no one knows. So we print 150 and we sell them at a CD release. Its way more manageable and easier to do and cheaper. Billy: Has the internet helped you? For the Birds: Yes. Billy: Has piracy? Katie: Oh for sure. People know our songs who shouldnt know our songs. We know they dont have a CD theyve never seen us before but they know our songs. Thats awesome. Rex: And hey, if you end up liking it, youll probably buy it at the show.

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Billy: What do you think it takes to be a successful group in 2012? And what is success for For the Birds? Katie: Weed. Slim: Thats what it takes and thats what success is! Katie: We get most of our fans from hanging out with people at the shows or talking to them when were playing. You cant just be stuck up and play a show and leave. You have to have a good time. Tron: You have to interact with the crowd, for sure. Rex: Were a very sociable band cause its all for the birds. So fuck, lets all have a good time. Katie: Any band that comes to play with us in Barrie is more than welcome to come back to the house after. Its more personable, you have to be direct, face to face. You have to be hands on. You cant just play a show and have people know you. Slim: I think thats what success is in music right now. Success is having good times. Katie: Success isnt about making money, cause no one makes money. We dont know anyone in Barrie that makes money. Slim: Its that whole realism thing thats not how shit works anymore. Billy: You guys are working with an indie label, you organize your own tours and you actively seek

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out local artists and producers, you even built your own jam space! Katie: We also make our own stickers and buttons and t-shirts. Tron: Everythings on our own. Katie: Tron even built the guitar that I play! Billy: So you guys are into the grass roots thing as a conscious choice? Katie: Yes. Slim: Not really. I think its just that we dont care. Katie: Nah, its a conscious choice for sure, its more fun this way. When you have a stake in whats going on and you havent spent too much money Thats why people get stressed out with music, they put so much out and they never get money back. So we put a quarter of the money out and when people see your homemade thing or theyre coming to the jam space youve built and invited them to you get triple the returns Tron: People do like character. Slim: Well, eventually you need something to do when youre getting high. Katie: With the label weve grouped together were not getting money from this label, theyre not funding anything. But when you join this label 25 people are automatically at your shows because theyre on your label and they want to support you. 25 people are talking about you online.

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Tron: Thats 25 different skills sets you can utilize. Katie: Exactly! Everyone has a different job. You pool your resources. One of the guys on our label - his dad owns a music store. One of the guys works at a lumber yard, one of the guys is a former journalist who does press releases Like, he knows a guy who has a button maker. Its a pooling of resources that makes things cheaper and easier and way more fun. Billy: This sounds a lot less like a formalized record label and more like Rex used the word family Katie: Yeah, we have family dinners for peoples birthdays or whatever. [Katie points to her necklace] This is my secret Santa gift from our label manager Shane! Rex: Like shes saying: well all bring chairs, we bring food and we have dinners. Everybody together. Katie: All the people that were in here with us earlier tonight are on our label also. They just came down with us for the night. Its a good crowd you can count on. Billy: Can you tell me more about this community that youre building? Katie: I can tell you why it became such an issue. When people get big in Barrie when musicians get any kind of success they automatically change from being from Barrie to being from Toronto. All of a sudden theyre a Toronto band. So no one pays attention to Barrie, no one looks at the city for music. And were like: why do people do that, youre from Barrie,

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I went to high school with you, you live there now! How are you from Toronto? We were kind of annoyed at that, and the scene was slowing down in Barrie so we thought that with this label you could bring some attention to Barrie. We all go to each others shows, we go to support other bands, we talk about the Barrie music scene so that people feel a sense of community and they come out more often. And then theres more people at the bar, more people doing art or whatever. Rex: Its almost like running for president. You gotta be shaking babies and kissing hands. Every night. Everytime I go out anywhere I just say Hey, Soda Records Have you heard of this band? Check out this band! Katie: And it really works. You see a return on it. We went on tour and we gave out digital download cards with the soda records sampler which has two songs by every band and all the other bands started getting more fans on facebook and more listens on bandcamp while we were on tour. Tron: Everyones hits went up. Billy: Do you guys have any advice for people who like the grassroots idea but dont know how to approach that, or havent built up that community yet? Rex: Go to sodarecords.ca and well help you right out. Katie: E-mail one of us, well totally tell you everything! Its actually easier than you think. If you know someone who has an in at a bar Well, you need a bar, a homebase and a Staples nearby because its sooo cheap! Thats pretty much it

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Slim: And a bunch of people who have the exact same mindset. Rex: And you gotta be cool. Slim: Thats the mindset! Rex: No DBs. Katie: Lots of dancing, also. Slim: Less arms crossed, more dancing. Billy: More drunken goodtimes. Speaking of which, I read on your website that your number one influence is good fucking times. Katie: [laughs] So is. Slim: If youre not smiling, then its not worth your time. Rex: Youre smiling just sitting here! Katie: Were really about, yeah, sometimes times are shitty, but you can turn anything around and have a good time doing it!

Check out For the Birds at: http://www.reverbnation.com/forthebirdstheband Or on the gutterbird playlist at: www.gutterbird.com

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Nicole Mandelis

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Autoethnography of Standing in Line

Eileen Wernnekers Oh Im so magnanimous, the way I restrain myself from standing closer to whoevers ahead, ahead of men, and reassured that this not allowing my anxiety to become manifest through a breach in decorum will mitigate my anxiety as I compulsively turn my attention to the clock fixed cleverly by the management to the wall behind the doddering positively doddering older women convened in bewilderment over the ridiculous till which is ridiculous but they are not doddering the older women are dignified or maybe just wise enough to take their time and either way they are somehow exempt from the anxiety that fixes my eye to the clock fixed cleverly by the management to the wall behind the older women so that I, too, can measure the efficiency of their movements against the time, inhabiting the logic of the calculating manager who has fixed this device that shields me from my anxiety and which is upon analysis found to derive from the same technique of rationalization because the clock also tells me I will soon be late and so I retreat to luxuriate in my magnanimity, the way I restrain myself from not allowing my anxiety to become manifest by standing closer to whoevers ahead, ahead of me, inching towards and before me towards the triumphant achievement of my demand, my passionate demand, that I deserve this coffee, I have two dollars, I brought my own mug, oh I work so hard and so efficiently and I am so magnanimous, the way I restrain myself from allowing my anxiety to become manifest by standing closer to whoevers ahead of me and so I deserve it, I deserve the satisfaction of this demand, because of how piously I offer up my patience as a response to the apologies of the older women who are negotiating the communication of the complementary free drink coupon being presented by

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whoevers ahead of me to the ridiculous till with my warm murmured reassurance oh take your time and my genuine compassionate smile because my decorum is authentic because oh Ive been there, oh Im so magnanimous oh even now Im subject to the clock fixed cleverly to the wall behind the older women by the management as I stride off with my prize as clear and ringing and crystalline vibration sounds through my head and my neck which have been purified by the ritual that has left me purified for the days work, my capacity for efficiency secured.

David Irvine

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Nixon and Mao

Mitchell Gauvin Nixon and Mao struggle for human happiness with a paint brush laced with frequent repetitions repetitions, now you have a modern classic and as may happen sometimes words plague pointless mysterious, amplitude destroyed lives. On a tour of typical the line of ascent outpours American dream, chained and lustful forcing reluctant comforting. On a tour of art the line of descent outpours Socialist dream, fixed and fitted for no ones pot. The sisters sing vision of this crudest propaganda, and East West are confused but imitations of the antidote dig deeper into the psyches of these sleepless recounts of Mao. Soliloquies weave in out of nocturne memories edging towards a new. Artists, not ideologues, create beautiful music for terrorist feelings for the bomb.

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Fishsticks Overachieving Ian Moroe

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Adrienne Dagg

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Oi! Guddaboids! (a bit o fluff )

Natalie Kaye Put down that flaming sugarcubed-spoon* and focus! Brainstorm like youve never brainstormed before. THINK! Quickly, come up with something scrumptious, brilliant, alluring, and original. Hm Gutterbirdgutterbird. Wherefore art thou Gutter crap. This is derivative at best. Damnit. Why did I agree to this? This, my dear seductive-yet-coy-in-that-fetchingoutfit readership, is what comes of nonsoberly* signing a contract in a dark bar* with loud music. I really should find a new location for my central office. Seemed like a decent deal at the time, one 500 word genius rant in exchange for 42 friend points. But I failed to take into consideration two important factors. Important Factor Number One: I am not now, nor have I ever been a genius ranter (A commie, on the other hand). In fact, Im generally too tipsy* to scribble more than a malformed haiku. (soft smoke curlicue sashaying over my head cough) Important Factor Number Two: How am I gonna redeem those FP suckers with the exchange rate being so dodgy? Yes, my diligent reader, you skim correctly. This drivel was requested, so please do pile the blame solely on one Billy Cudgel, who shall remain nameless. (This individual can be reached and

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verbally abused in technicolour languagetollfree for your convenienceat 1 (877) bird-poo). I was coerced into writing this. No, not coerced, whats that newfangled word he kept using? Asked. I was asked to write this. Friends dont coerce friends. Or so I have been informed. So lets keep this light, casual and clichd. (ahem) How bout that local sports team? Sure looks like a patch of bad weather coming. Yep, storms a brewin. How are you today? What are your political, religious, and sexual proclivities? I like candy as well as things that are not candy, what is your opinion on this topical subject? If a Marmota monax were a disassembler of trees, precisely how much would he gain from this toil, if so inclined? 324 words and counting! May as well slog through and write the full 500 ecstatic, purple, shiny, splendiferous, adjective-infused (do hyphenated words count as one word?) words. Call it insurance against being asked to write another one of these. Four alternate beginnings for your discerning perusal: Gut, or be eard! Exclaimed the cockney pirate as he twiddled his thumbs in disgust. Gutterbird. Flutter, bird. What a bird!! Oh la la! I tell you, I was completely gutted! complained the teenaged ornithologically-inclined Brit, I wanted a bird for my birthday but all I got was this lousy t-shirt. Got a beard? Bring it on down to ZZ Tops Tip Top Shop for facial hair nets! Two For

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One Moustache Net Sale Ends November 31! Well, there we have it, my darlings, 500 words signifying nothing! Ah, memories of higher education. Id sign off more cleverly, but Ive run out of words *Re-reading this, it appears I am addicted to alcohol. HmIm not sure, Ill have to drink about that for a bit.

Nina Leinonen

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The Origin of Eternal Ties

By Nitasha Randhawa I stood under the vault of heaven On the eve of the vernal equinox Filled by an artesian well The sky waters drowned my clocks Time became boundless Lost in the ageless deep And an eternal mass of space Floated above the sky's sea I have beheld the universe Mirrored in my lover's eyes and I implored of him to seek The origin of eternal ties The sea had overturned When my beloved returned to me I was floating in the sky For a thousand years it seemed But drowned was the concept of time And I still juvenile My wanderer brought to me Another universe in his palms compiled I asked of him again The origin of eternal ties He said he could not tell For he was just a child

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Whats Your Sign?

By: WE R. DNA I think I've had enough I can't feel my heart anymore And when I do It's nothing like I felt before... Not a good feeling, mind you More like the ones you get When your ribcage is broken And you lay open-chested Back flat on the pavement Exposed to the world Wide open and naked I think I've had enough Of this game we're playing And don't you try and tell me There is no game For I'm the one who started it By asking you your name And you're the one who followed By asking me my birth date Just another cheesy way to say What's your sign? Well, since you asked so politely I suppose you'd call me a disease A Cancerous infection Starting at the knee Then spreading up your chest To where I want to be Lost inside your love Making you a part of me

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And I know I could ask you the same But to be honest, it doesn't matter For you had me the first moment I saw you Standing on your own Dancing like no one was watching Except that I felt you would know Just as I did That tonight would be the night Our past lives would come to light And everything we'd dreamed we'd be Would finally take shape and fly No more games No more pain No more fear No more lies Just you and I... But, leave it up to me to make the first mistake And break one of the rules to our game Before when I mentioned it didn't matter? Well, I lied So how about we start this all over But this time I'll ask you What's your sign?

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Ander Thrice

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At Night Part I: The Blue

By Zach Brewer The first foot pounds against the pavement gently, so gentle throbbing lockstep to the streetcar bells, the freshest smells of summers city streets: humid urine smoke rings drifting nose-full with soft sunset on the skin brash tones of neon sexy, so sexy night to slip through, now guided by this makeshift compass, not content with cyber-suckfests, Ill bathe in all this nightish hue while I sing this Church Street blue. The eyes are lively longing, here and there, appraisals made with tender discretionary fervour a sommeliers sport the finest of the fine all here broken, bent and blazing vital, interacting potent and pointless in equal measure, restless affectations as reassuring as the friendly peck or ass-ward glance, a high pitch burst of laughter and half-mock cadences of concern all biasedly collected by an eye so enrapt with men, as men will do, Ill walk and watch the Church Street blue.

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The skin is moist, sweet sweaty heat. The youngest wrinkled flesh all lean and meaty, bouncing up the walk to pass; balding heads coiffed careful by judicious wrists abound, and fresh bodies taut towards earnest flattery hide naked in the outrageousness of action itself, the sincerest form of flippancy made artful and exacting, flamboyant, unsinkable on the scenic surface. All skip, they jump in flashy shoes for them I beat the Church Street blue. The mind wanders faster than these feet to bodies underfed and overdosed, and choose your poison beer bellied bear hugs of men, or polished gems made rough too many times, and burdened backs that boast weights of inscrutable girth, of loads unleashed to havoc wreak, but bourn with desperate dignity; to bodies overworked to overplay in bars where livers quiver in anticipation for that ecstatic moment now overdue to those who drink from Church Street blue.

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Tang Dao

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Horoscopes because were Drunk

By Billy Cudgel, Joel Brown, Handshake Jones, Elliot Fitzroy, Norma-Jean Baker, Karl Petursson, and Saturn C. Powers

Aries (Mar. 21 Apr. 20): Its never too early to order your Christmas ham (its a metaphor). Taurus (Apr. 21 May 21): You look good and your penis is huge. Gemini (May 22 Jun. 21): Life would be great if it werent for the living; pick up the pieces and move on. Cancer (Jun. 23 Jul. 21): Your lifes been quite benign lately. Congratulations! Leo (Jul. 23 Aug. 22): Go get yourself a fanny pack. Wait, what? You hate fanny packs? What you got against fanny packs? Theyre convenient, they keep your shit out of harms way, and theyre just great fucking bags! Virgo (Aug. 23 Sept. 23): Let it go man, youre too rich for crack. Libra (Sept. 24 Oct. 23): All of your friends from grade 4 who said they were your friends, they arent your friends. They hate you. Delete them from Facebook. Scorpio (Oct. 24 Nov. 22): Wear mismatched socks today because your mom plucks her eye brows and your father is a prostitute.

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Sagittarius (Nov. 23 Dec. 21): Im not legally allowed to suggest suicide, but Capricorn (Dec. 22 Jan. 20): The planets have aligned and the cosmos decided to shower you in their favour, but you got drunk and missed it dick. Aquarius (Jan. 21 Feb. 11): Ive recently learned the difference between Mexico and Spain. They are not the same country and the language spoken in Mexico is not called Mexican. Dont let anyone tell you different. Oh, and go get your red wings. Pisces penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, (Feb. 20 March 20): Penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis, penis.

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www.gutterbird.com/fashion
were in the rag trade now.

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Thanks to the writers and artists who submitted their work, Thanks to the staff who brought this issue together.

www.gutterbird.com
get involved.

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Do you write? Draw? Take photographs? Are Interested in submitting to NEST? Contact lit@gutterbird.com.

Check out www.gutterbird.com to see past issues of NEST