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THIS MAGAZINE CONTAINS A TRAP AND ALSO HIGHLY SATIRICAL JOKES & AMAZING WRITERS; A FANTASTIC VOYAGE ON THE DEEP SEA OF FICTIONAL NARRATIVE. OH, AND THERE’S FREE COOKIES TOO. WE LIKE FREE PUBLICITY AND WE LIKE DELICIOUS GREEK FETA CHEESE. WE OFTEN USE POOR GRAMMER
filth noun \ˈfilth\ Definition of FILTH 1 : foul or putrid matter; especially : loathsome dirt or refuse 2 a : moral corruption or defilement b : something that tends to corrupt or defile Origin of FILTH Middle English, from Old English fȳlth, from fūl foul First Known Use: before 12th century
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AND TPYICALLY A LOT OF MISSPELLINGS TOO (WE FIRED OUR PROOFREADERS) WE LIKE INAPPROPRIATE HAND GESTURES, FIGS & ANTIQUATED MORALS. SLOW MOTION.
WHAT WHITE ELEPHANT / THE MAY ISSUE
HOROSCOPES FILTH GOTTA PUT YOU DOWN
2. ...1 4. ...4 ...4
It began when I heard, then saw, an old college friend run down in Omaha. I was relaxing at my favorite outdoor café when:
I stare at her long legs as she pulls her panties on in front of me. She sees my devilish grin and giggles.
Abby is still sitting there, in my head and in this novel, presumably with his thumb up his butt.
DOMESTICATED BY WILD ASS
He would lie, steal, cheat, or murder; work double-shifts, holidays and weekends; crash his car, shoot junk in his veins and leave his wife.
That’s what I’m putting here to pretend that everyone who reads this is part of an ephemeral associative group.
FAILED HOPES & DISENCHANTMENT C’MERE YOU DIRTY WHORE
CONFESSIONAL THINGS OVERHEARD THE GUEST LIST 18. 19. 20.
THAT FILTHY WHORE 15.
Completely & utterly powerless, every damn time. But that’s the thing about her, she makes you feel like the only thing in the universe..
POETRY & PROSE
SPONSORED BY FILTH
YOU WANTED TO KNOW ABOUT HOROSCOPES EVERYTHING THE FUTURE BUT WERE TOO DIRTY TO ASK
ARIES - Oh you wanton babe. You have the innocence of a cat in heat. You’re the child that loves being molested. At least you make people squirt after you tease them. Your problem is that you feel like shit after you cum especially when you fuck with that scum bag you for some reason have a taste for. Do yourself a favor; this month read about Tantra, that way when you make your shitty sex mistakes because you’re an innocent slut you’ll use the people you’re dipping into or being cored out by in a more spiritual way. Get sex for God. Or Goddess. Or Satan. TAURUS - You’re an egoistic buzzard who can’t see past its nose and survives on other people’s sloppy seconds. When another animal is hungry you freak out and peck at it like the decaying piece of meat was yours to begin with. With that much possessiveness I’m surprised you didn’t lose your virginity to yourself. Gotta keep your claws dug in there somehow. This month drink a lot of Apple Cider vinegar with your meals, ’cause I bet that haggard meat is getting really old. GEMINI - My dear sweet twin, let your freak flag fly. ‘Cause you got a peen only a mother could love. Seriously. I feel so sorry for you. Maybe not soo sorry. You like weird sex. I’m sure there’s people out there who like small penises. If things get too weird... well, it wont be that out of the rdinary because you’re a fucking weird person--but yeah, if things get too weird just reinvent yourself like you love to do!
CANCER - You make people want to cut off your head and fuck your new found orifices. No, that’s a good thing! That means you have redeemable qualities. And that you’re totally getting laid tonight! Maybe you’re just not up for that level of BDSM. It’s whatever. This month if you don’t want your skull fucked in a bloody way and have everyone say she had it coming avoid alleys and wear longer skirts, tramp. Because everybody wants to stick it in ya, where and how depends on you. LEO - I bet the Anti-Christ is a Leo. Obama’s a Leo. A lot of people think he’s the Anti-Christ. I mean he DOES order the U.S. military to bomb villages and cities in the middle east like totally once a week. Hundreds of people have died due to his flawless orders and our sexy Drone Program. I feel so much safer in your arms, soo much safer knowing that we’re blowing up sand nigger babies that lets face it were probably just going to blow up our precious white house. VIRGO - What’s the use in having sex if you can’t get off? I know your world revolves around your lover, but you need to get yours too! Try some whips and chains!? Role playing? Oh! Oh! I got it! Golden showers! It sounds messy, buuut you let your significant other do this to you metaphorically anyways-maybe you should try it out in the bed room. . It’ll give you something to clean and bitch about afterwards too. This month try your damnedest to get off.
LIBRA - Um...That was it? You’re spent after two strokes? You literally were inside me for three seconds and the last second was ripped away so you could go on my ass. Stop focusing on yourself! That’s probably why you didn’t get laid for almost a year. Maybe you should do like your astro-opposite Aries and read up on Tantra, except, in your case it wont be for spiritual gain it’ll be for your lover’s gain because the only way a woman could get off before you is if she had a clit almost as big as your dick--your dick is so big and girthy, which is why this whole situation is so sad. SCORPIO - You are on fucking fire this month. April’s full moon in Scorpio awakened that deep Lunar sex energy, the venomous kind, your favorite. Sooo, that person you’re fucking is dead-- No they’re like cold and lifeless-- No, I’m not talking about personality-- Well of course they move when you fuck them-They’re wet due to blunt force trauma!-LOOK! YOUR DICK IS BLOODY!--Dead people don’t have menstrual cycles-Kind of cool? Jesus, you would be into that kind of shit. Poke it!? No way! Okay! Okay! SAGITTARIUS - I don’t usually find people with their heads stuck in their asses very sexy, but you make it look so good. Yum. That burly mountain man beard covered in feces makes me weak at the knees. I’ll take you, with a side of more poop, please. You make people want to be dirty, only because we want to make you feel dirty, only because you’re dillusional and self absorbed and can’t see what a dirty asshole bitch you really are. I don’t know if there’s any logic in that method.
CAPRICORN - Oh working family man you’ve been really lonely ever since they tore down that Flying J. The glory hole in their bathroom was your favorite and the only one near town. Meh, I guess it’s no snot off of your nose. You may be a frugal tightwad, but you’ll splurge on yourself the same way others buy for their children. Take that 50 mile drive for that furry pussy... or was it a face? Who knows. Maybe the hole with the bump will be there! It makes your dick smell weird, but it can do things no other hole has ever done to your dong. On your way to work GET TESTED! AQUARIUS - The only time you’re warmer than 32 degrees is when you’re fucking someone. Which is often, because you’re a humanitarian (to get laid) and love the whole world (slut). It’s hard to believe the same person that was so interested in my ideas and bettering the lives of others is the same person that stopped talking to me because I got mad that they were fucking my brother and gave me AIDS. You may want to better this world, but it’s people like you that make it such a sick fucking place. Do some soul searching this month--No, find your own soul you fucking vampire. PISCES - You’re a slutty drunken princess. You want everyone to notice you. When they do you freak out and get hammered then convince yourself that no one can see you with your shirt off rubbing your chest and dancing like an ape on drugs. You’re insanely good at escaping your own reality, the sad part is, you suck at escaping others.fake it until you make it. Your lucky powerball number’s are 32, 12, 18, 49, 52
Yeti Detective ilth? Is this the Filth issue? I’ve tried hard to determine whether that is true, but everything seems hazy or encoded. Like I’m trying to read something in a dream. Every time I look it says something different, or gibberish. I was sedated yesterday. It was amazing. Speaking of filth, that story fits into the theme pretty well. For, you see, I was sedated in a hospital so that they could pull my ball tubes out of my scrotum, cut off a bit (almost indistinguishable from a single beef-a-roni noodle,) and burn the remaining ends before terminating them with permanent metal clamps. I now have tiny pieces of metal inside my scrotum. I am now more machine than man. Suck it down, normworm. They don’t normally sedate you for this procedure, the bilateral vasectomy. (Literally, “removing the tubes from both sides,” probably. I don’t speak Latin or greek or whatever. Why don’t you ask your teacher? BECAUSE YOU DROPPED OUT YOU LOSER! YOU DON’T HAVE A TEACHER ANYMORE! NOW YOU GO TO THE SCHOOL OF HARD KNOCKS EXCEPT YOU’RE MAJOR IS SURVIVING OUT OF DUMPSTERS WITH A MINOR IN STEALING BAGS OF COLD NACHO CHEESE FROM UNDER THE GAS STATION COUNTER!) Sorry, reader, that was harsh. You’ll do fine. You’ve just got to find your passion. What do you love doing? Get a job doing what you love, and you’ll never work a day in your life. 4 FILTH
In your case, it will probably be easier to just figure out which cocktail of drugs will make you love slopping weird meat slurry into tortilla shells at Taco Bell. I’d start experimenting with mixtures of psychedelics and dissociatives. Then again, you’ll just end up thinking you’re a Jedi or something and become one of those assholes who’s still 40 working for minimum wage and dispensing life advice to your teenager coworkers because they’re the last group of people you can trick into thinking you’re cool, and you still have to get them high first to do that. But enough about you, reader. You’re being a little selfish today. Can you tone it the fuck back a second? I just had surgery on and in my nut sack. Let’s talk about filth. I don’t have a problem with needles. I have a tattoo, and hope to get more some day. I don’t have a problem with syringes. I can look right at my blood being drawn. I have a HUGE problem with injections. What? Don’t you take drugs like, all the goddamn time? I thought I told you to shut up, but yes. You have a point. It seems contradictory for me to fear chemicals entering my bloodstream intravenously when I’ve basically made a science of the oral version of it. (That’s not the only oral thing I’ve made a science of, either, and if you’ve got $100 for an hour of my time I’ll give you a science lesson that’ll make you need a cigarette. Call me.) Allow me to expand upon my fear of doctors, hospitals, tubes, and injections. You see, I was born with an incredible set of genetics. I’m extremely healthy, bright, and sharp despite a diet of almost exclusively garbage, malt liquor, caffeine, nicotine, and amphetamines. When I went to the con-
sultation for my vasectomy a couple of weeks ago I had the blood pressure of a healthy 24 year old despite being 30 and having had a breakfast of whiskey, an energy drink, and a Decade brand cigarette. (That is not a fancy brand.) I trust my body. I trust my stomach and liver and kidneys to deal with whatever sorts of threats come their way. I train them. I drill them. They are elite. They are the Seal Team 6 of human organs. But when someone (myself included) puts something directly into my blood without consulting them first, I have to shift my trust to that human. And if you’ve been reading my articles for... I don’t know, ever, you’ve probably noticed that I only trust humans to be lazy, selfish, cruel, and incompetent. Especially incompetent. So, yesterday morning I was in the self-imposed position of having a stranger hook a tube directly into a vein in my hand for the purpose of delivering anaesthetic drugs meant to lull me unconscious so that another stranger could cut open part of my sex organ (literally my favorite organ,) with the express aim of disabling the part of that organ that makes babies, and then put everything back in so that the sexdoing parts still work. Because, man do I like doing sex. With other people sometimes. With myself, a lot. Really, a lot. Just, a whole freaking lot. Anyway, the time between having the IV inserted and the actual anaesthesia that sent me into sweet, sweet oblivion (about 45 minutes) was spent freaking the FUCK out. I almost hyperventilated at first because I tried to control my anxiety with breathing exercises I know. Then my girlfriend came in, and the only thing that could keep me from thinking about the unknown and potentially poisonous fluids gushing into my arm was ranting to her about black holes and Transformers’ blood. Not in that order.
I had gotten myself completely zoned out from the whole “tube in my blood, am I going to wake up in a pink capsule and realize I’ve been forcefed the liquefied corpses of my human compatriots all my life,” thing when the anesthesiologist came in to talk about the risks of anaesthesia. They had to inject a ‘calm the fuck down’ drug into the IV. I don’t remember what it was called, but I did calm the fuck down. When I woke up, I had a nice little bra for my balls and a two week prescription for vicodin, praise the lord. So, yeah. That’s what filth is to me. It’s letting disgusting, normal human beings fuck around inside my pristine, yeti body and taint it’s perfect, magical juices. I’m better now. I’m over it. It’s behind me forever, and before me lies a grand and glorious future where I will never accidentally get a stripper pregnant. I’ll see you in that future, reader. I’ll see you in that future...
USE YOUR BRAIN - TAKE AN IDEA OR THOUGHT, WRITE SEMI-COHERENT WORDS DOWN INTO A SOMEWHAT LEGIBLE SENTENCE STRUCTURE. USE ANOTHER SYNAPSE FIRING AND EMAIL TO WHATWHITEELEPHANT@ GMAIL.COM, AND WE’LL MAKE YOU SUPER RICH & ANNOYINGLY FAMOUS.... PROBABLY NOT THOUGH
Gotta Put You Down For a Little Velveteen While
Hushing him quiet wasn’t easy and most of the time unwarranted, watching the stretch of that mouth open as sly groans and warbles slip past his lips, whether around my cock or in a microphone, got me even on my bad days. Fuck, …c’mon. Yet, today wasn’t one of them. &&& His hands pull me closer grabbing at Brushing against him lightly, as he stood my shoulders, breaking my lips from in the hall, was a simple signal easily un- his throat, his meet mine again. Twinderstood. He followed close and softly, ing our tongues with the flicking of my the normal clattering of his boots barely wrist, his patience becomes tinier, nipping at my mouth and not letting me making a sound against the linoleum. take an inch. His hands make their way Quickly turning and pulling him against into my hair, rucking it up and weaving me, hidden in an alcove by the stage, I in with his grip, punishing and strong. couldn’t wait. Slowly breaking the kiss and gently stopKissing him was always like coming ping the motions of my wrist, I look into home and crashing waves of blurs. his eyes. Heavy and an unsated need Lips loose and breaths against my skin, burns in his gaze, his body speaking in eyes a rush of blue and blonde hair a opposition to my movements, thighs rishadowy hue. My fingertips nip into his oting for action. I won’t make him wait, jaw, keeping him close and pressing in for the want sits in me just as it flares as my tongue salves across his mouth, within him. making him wet and open. Flipping in Fuck my mouth; don’t stop until you’ve reverse, up against the wall I push him come. in deep, his back bowing and hips rubbing against me. His hands don’t stay in Letting go of the light hold he has on my place and neither do mine, a calm fran- neck, I bend at my knees, the hard floor already making my muscles and bones tic feeling lying against my spine. ache. Splaying my hand up against his Our foreheads lean into one another, shirt, smoothing across his stomach, eyes open and throat rough. Trail- I can’t help but greedily suck and bite ing my hand down across his stomach what’s given to me. Popping the last then feathering my fingertips above his button and barrier, I trail my way down jeans, I feel him shiver, the first sign of with my lips, the cool but thick air no him undone. Not popping the button doubt enhancing his quakes. Taking him or pulling down the zip, I push in. Skin into my mouth, thick and hot, I lick the close and my palm splayed wide, grasp- underside, a slight pulse reverberating ing his cock wasn’t easy but I wanted throughout. Glancing up at him, his this to last. With barely any room to eyes full of warmth and undiluted lust,
move, a slight pull of my wrist pressing against the resisting denim of his pants, left him slightly taut and wanting. Keeping my pace and tilting his head back, I make my way down his throat. Biting, bruising, and swathing away doubts of stopping. His mewls and warbles swell faster within his breaths, ringing, and trampling loud in my ears.
mouth parted, plump, and wet from Resting back against the wall, he slips obviously his tongue—I signal him to out of my mouth, glistening and wet. move. Pulling me upwards, his lips meet mine and I don’t resist. Words of gratitude Starting his pace gentle and lightly ap- never leave his mouth but lie within his prehensive is his routine, careful not tongue, mapping and laying out his tone to rush and push too hard, despite me and vowels. He makes his way toward loving it when he does. The slow slick my own jeans, going for the clasp but, I and slide of his cock in my mouth, meet- stop him. Breaking the kiss, a question ing the ridge above my tongue only to swimming in his eyes, tangling my hand move further back, leaves me panting, a with his I bring it up to relax behind his want of air bringing a rush to my head. head. Lightly kissing him back, his lips Tangling his hand in my hair, speeding soft and easy and our eyes open, I reply. up his hips, the back and forth motion of his body starts to move faster, stut- We can get back to me later… tering as I begin to hum. I see him arch his back and rest his head on the wall, With a smile he understands and pulls blonde hair splayed and lashes brushing me in for a little more. against his cheeks—flushed and red. He knows to be quiet but little noises can’t help but escape. Soft mewls and peppered reassurances tipping and falling past his lips. I dare not to touch myself, the need too much for just simply my hand, so I quell my desire by reaching up and running them along the swell of his ribs, trembling with his breaths. He’s getting closer I can tell, the lift of his hips, the sensitive but deep thrusts meeting the back of my throat again and again. Cradling my face into his hands he keeps me in place, the smooth but lightly haired span of skin barely brushing along my nose and cheeks. My mouth overridden of saliva drips past my chin and assuredly glides across his member. With one swipe against the head and deep suck, bringing him into my throat blocking my breaths, he comes. Muscles stretched and strained, a rough groan grinding up through his mouth along with his hips slowing their canting, I move back my mouth swallowing and licking up the last of his pearls.
GOTTA PUT YOU DOWN FOR A LITTLE WHILE 7
MAYFLY Marshall Edwards
It began when I heard, then saw, an old college friend run down in Omaha. I was relaxing at my favorite outdoor café when: I heard the screech of tires, familiar enough, often streets away but now very close at hand – I heard a man scream – this too was familiar, and with a specificity that struck the breast – As I turned to look, I saw a shuddering bulk of cobalt blue and a stricken body thrown free – And following the arc of vision I saw a layemoel smartphone flung free, arcing high, emancipated from the now-familiar corpse.
ered his features and his sanity, made me wonder if he wasn’t better off dead.
Presently I was shaking him by the shoulders, urging him: “Roger! Roger, it’s me. You’re okay, Roger. For the love of God, stop screaming!”
The ambulance team beat its way through the crowd – some still filming, some trying to touch the resurrected in religious fire. And though Roger seemed physically fine, he was frozen in terror. I rode along and guided Roger through hospital check-in and, given Roger’s state, they allowed me to stay. The sedatives soaked his tissue, and he stopped clawing the air, and released my hand from his pin-and-needle grip.
A throng of pedestrians rushed in, and I with them. I was sure the dissembled corpse, strung here on the warped hood and across the ground, was that of my old friend, Roger Maybury.
As I sat, the adrenaline released me, and a cold ache settled in. His breathing steady, Roger pooled his composure further into his absence. The steady beat of machinery and hospital bustle pulled into a nodding doze. “I thought it was you.” Roger spoke, pulling me from my fitful nap. HE was fixed on me now, alan wrench eyes digging into sockets long unused.
I stood there, dumbfounded in the tumult, recalling dead old Maybury, terror of the Philosophy undergraduates. Not a class or social gathering or casual conversation went by without him blistering in tumult, screaming humans were slaves to the desires of others. He aggrandized Nietzsche, claiming man (he always said “man”, not “humanity”, now matter how often corrected or by whom) was a chrysalis, a larvae, stuck between its base drudgery and the realm of the gods and that one day, he would prove it. We’d pass the wine and the weed during these rants, basking in the rage, ten we’d step in to revive the cupidic scowled when he, breathless, passed out. All this larval talk and vasovagal extinction earned him the name Mayfly – a name I now regretted, seeing him thus on the pavement. And as we clamored over the busted man – the body was gone, scraps of viscera left behind like footfalls in the frost.
I shifted in my seat, pantomiming relaxation in an overwrought way. “That was one hell of a trick, Jacob. You okay?”
My jocular tone didn’t sway him. He pursed his lips to speak, then relented and returned his gaze to the wall.
“When we were at school, I often went on for hours while you listened. I know you thought I was a joke. But there was something else there, wasn’t there? “I’m sorry – forgive me. I’m was an asshole. But, more than ever, I need someone to listen now. He bored into me again with flint-sharp eyes. His cracked lips quivered. “Please,” he rasped. “Help me.” I should have run.
The crowd shifted from excitation to mad bafflement. A tall conical man grappled called emergency dispatch as a legion of smartphones captured the anomaly. I began to think of my bag. Whatever was going on, I’d feel more secure with laptop in hand. As I turned away, my attention was hooked by a scream on the edge of sanity and there was Roger, no longer a wet mess of red, but clean and howling breathless. The look in his eyes, a haunted agony that with-
“I keep the name of everyone I’ve ever loved.” Not much has changed since. I stare at her long legs as she pulls her panties on in front of me. She sees my devilish grin and giggles, “Another round? Sorry, but I got to go.” “Too bad. Can I at least get your number?” She stops for a second already half dessed and she sits back on the bed. “It’s funny. I never thought we’d get this far. I mean, hell I walked into that shit hole of a bar, probably the best looking woman that set foot in there for months. And I got my dress on,” She says and points to the red dress on the floor tossed in the heat of the moment. “Yeah, you sure did. You strutted inside like a model. In that dress that shows just enough to tell men you’re sexy and you ain’t afraid to show it off, but it’s not too slutty. It leaves a certain amount of intrigue hidden.” She nods, agreeing with me, “So I walk in looking heavenly and there you are holding your drink at the bar. I see you, and I see you notice me. Your gaze burns right through me, you don’t look at me, you look into my desires, kinks and experiences. I can see you read me like an open book, just by looking. And I think he’s the one I’m taking home tonight. So I strut next to you and you just look back to your drink.” I can’t but suppress my laughter, “That’s why you thought I wasn’t into you?” She frowns at me, “Well, every goddamn of you losers packed into that
shit hole dropped their jaws and turned around when I walked in. Everyone stole just another glance, except you. You didn’t even give me a second look-over. Nothing.” I grab her hands and pull her back to lie with me on the bed, “It’s nothing personal. I just made a promise to myself long ago. I told myself I’ll never turn around after women. Maybe it’s the way my mom raised me, taught me good manners, or maybe I find it a sign of weakness, so blatantly enjoying in your beauty.” “I don’t mind you enjoying one bit,” She tells me playfully. “Maybe it’s more than that. I don’t know. I never turn around for anyone. I always look to the future, turning around to steal another second, another glimpse is dangerous. While you’re looking back you don’t know what’s happening in front of you. Turning around never did anybody good.” I lean over and kiss her soft lips, “It’s nothing personal, as you can tell since we ended up together. It’s just a fact. I never turn around after women.”
Abby wakes up in the morning. He goes back to sleep. He wakes up again, an hour later, with a hard on and a need to pee. He struggles with the decision to do something about this. Finally, after thirty minutes of non-sleep/reminescence of his dreams, he puts his feet over the edge of the bed. His feet land in the holes of his pants, and his feet touch the floor. He reverses the motion of taking his pants off as he stands up, and finds a shirt on the arm of a chair in his room. His dick is only half erect now, and he finds himself able to get out the door without being embarrassed. As he steps foot out the door, his foot touches laminate. He creaks down the stairs in the dark, the sun not having come up yet. It’s not normal for Abby to be up this early, but I’m writing him to have gone to bed early, and rising early. He will enjoy having the full rest preceding the full day. He finds the bathroom, which is conveniently in the same place as it was some fourteen years ago. He eyes himself blearily in the mirror as he drains his lizard, and takes comfort in the warm feelings traversing through his moderately swollen member. He steps back out the door, again onto laminate, and in the kitchen finds himself a glass. The kitchen is largely the same as it was fourteen years ago, as well. It has switched owners twice, however, and the status of the current owners beliefs on cleanliness are apparent. Abby doesn’t hate his step-mom, not anymore than he can hate life itself, but he does wonder what makes people the way she is; the way he is. Filled with fine intentions, but not the abilities to make them a reality. I wonder if she is like Abby in the sense that she is a people pleaser. Maybe she is more of a people pleaser than Abby can even relate to. In the glass that Abby found, he pours milk. He drinks that glass while standing in the light of the refrigerator, holding the door open with his body and the milk jug with
his hand, waiting to refill his glass. After pouring himself a second one, he caps the jug and steps away from his door, using his right foot to persuade but not force it closed. As he sets his glass down on the counter, he picks up four other glasses, pours the contents down the sink (two fruit, powder based drinks; a cup of tea and a cup of water), and then stacks them. He repeats this process with three other glasses in the sink, he scrapes the plates and rinses them, along with the bowls and silverware, and finally every dish in the kitchen. With the dishwasher loaded, he wipes off the counter, which he can never get clean, and gets a clean bowl and fork from their respective places. In the refrigerator again, he finds a couple of eggs and the package of sausage he put out last night to thaw. He scrambles the eggs in the bowl with the fork and adds a little milk. He forms the sausage into patties. He cooks the sausage first, then the eggs. The sausage is from the grocery store’s meat department, the store Abby works at. He doesn’t particularly like the flavor it gives the eggs, but he dislikes cold eggs even more. As he is finishing up his eggs, his step brother comes down the stairs. Abby had become unaware of the possibility of other people in his hazy breakfast making. As Abby loaded the toaster with wheat bread, his brother stumbled into the bathroom the same way Abby had, and drained his lizard. When he came back out, Abby asked him how the zine is going. “Hey, Divvy, how’s the zine going?” “Huh? I don’t know.” “How late did you stay up last night?” “I don’t know, like midnight or something,” he replied as he found the refrigerator and a clean glass. “Midnight? That’s not dedication. Did you get anything done?” Abby pushed his eggs onto a plate with a wooden spoon. “Yeah, asshole, I got a bit done. The format is finally decent looking, and I produced a new piece. Midnight is late, that’s dedication, if not conviction.”
“Did you edit any of the things we already have? Did you look at any of the contributions to see if they’re any good or not? Midnight is mild curiosity, not conviction.” The toaster pops, surprising Abby like usual, no matter how much he prepares himself for it. “There were like, two emails I thought were pretty good, but I didn’t feel like editing anything last night. I was bleary amidst my dedication.” Abby considered this as he smeared a little butter and jelly on his toast. “How will we ever get this done if our editor-in-chief manages to fall into a bleary haze every night? We need someone with dedication through the amiss.” He didn’t really want Divvy to drop anything, but he always used his chance to jab someone in the morning. It was just a mood of his. Divvy slurped his milk and stayed quiet, because he knew Abby was full of shit, but he wasn’t awake enough to return it. He grabbed the loaf of bread and dropped two slices into the toaster as he glances over the kitchenware his brother had just used to make a breakfast sandwich. “Do you think that will help?” Abby had taken his bite of sandwich and was chewing, but ignorant to any manners he answers, “I can’t see it being any worse.” Divvy grinned out of sight with his head in the refrigerator, digging for the things Abby had just made for his breakfast. “Quit mocking everything you’re afraid of. Do you think we’ll get this done? When are you wanting to get it to the printer?” “Hopefully by Monday. I’m not afraid of not getting it done, but I would at least like it to be presentable to John Q Public. Not the usual chicken scratch/
of the month
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She had a cheeky, pear-shaped ass that seemed to wink at you from atop her long white legs; inviting you inside with a hint of pink and skin so smooth that it made him think of snowflakes melting on his tongue. It made his mouth water just to imagine that ass moving beneath their flannel sheets or emerging from the tub, glistening wet and red from the heat. For an ass like that, he would lie, steal, cheat, or murder; work double-shifts, holidays, and weekends; crash his car; crash your car; shoot junk in his veins and leave his wife, leave his children. For an ass like that, he would burn down the house; denounce his faith; and push his mother down the stairs. He would go ten rounds with Sonny Liston and put up with all your bullshit; walk barefoot across hot and sharpened stones; and quit whiskey and cigarettes. For an ass like that, he would sell himself and endure your disease. And if he had to pay for an ass like that, he would pay full price. He would not offend such an ass by attempting to bargain or barter with its maker. And when he gets that ass he will cherish it, not as a delicate flower but as a strong and beautiful animal. He will squeeze and bite and slap that ass, burrowing his face between its cheeks, and exploring its mysteries with a warm, wet tongue. He will tease that ass with soft lips and whispers, and the pressure of wellplaced fingers. And when that ass finally succumbs, battleweary and marred from teeth and hand, she will reach over and stroke his hair, the way she always does after she comes. And he will listen to the sound of her heartbeat, as her breathing slowly returns to normal and enjoy the cool touch of her toes rubbing against his leg, and he will know that he has served her well.
Domesticated by wild ass jscottgrand
DOMESTICATED BY WILD ASS
Hey gang. That’s what I’m putting here to pretend that everyone who reads this is part of an ephemeral associative group. Some fat albert shit up in this bid’ness. Directly: I want to talk about something that is still pretty taboo (though becoming less so every day!). I want to talk about porn. It’s been on my mind lately. Yes. I said that. Specifically: I wanted to talk about the impact of pornography and sexually explicit materials on concepts of sexuality as a whole. To understand what I mean by this, and why it is relevant, you must understand that there are multiple websites that run software that allows the porn consumer to search just about any porn-related term to find pictures that feature that term. There is a passel of websites that stream porn videos in a format very similar to youtube. There are tens of thousands of huge 1+ Gigabyte torrents consisting entirely of porn. There’s an internet truism known as “rule 34” (it is actually the 34th rule on a list) that states simply “if it exists, there is porn of it.” There is a website devoted to colleting and categorizing that strange porn. And of course there are all the sites that actually charge money. For a lot of you, this is not news. You’ve been porning since your first orgasm, and given that you’re reading this on the internet, it is more than likely that you used the internet to go porning with. Despite the lack of novelty of the existence of these particular websites (some are almost a decade old), however, society continues to pretend that porn does not exist, especially to this scale. The Ur-narrative of the U.S. relegates porn to a shameful and deviant thing to produce a lot of television about. Fetishists and kinksters and queers and all that are indeed filed under deviant things the average American should stay away from/know little about/ have maybe one queer friend who is a bit odd but secretly good under all that weirdness. You know what I mean. This is the story that we tell ourselves on a cultural scale, the story that appears in CSI and on “Weird Sex” and all that. It is, of course, incredibly false. Everyone is horny all the time. Anyone who says otherwise is lying and worse, committing that sort of pernicious lie that helps construct a certain concept of reality in the liar’s head, thereby denying objective truth, not only from being real, but from actually existing. These little solipsistic rat bastards need
their reality because the reality of humans as sexual beings rattles them out of their cage and makes them reel in disgust and regret and wonder “What the hell have I been missing?” Sex as a bad, deviant, unholy, profane thing is pretty deeply embedded into U.S. culture, so of course there’s an entire array of paraphilia for “demonic” beings or the corruption of otherwise holy or chaste people. There’s a “bimbofication” fetish that involves the transformation of demure, plain, sexless women into voluptuous slut-types. There’s a hypnosis fetish that does much the same. Porn doesn’t care because the human libido doesn’t care. Biologically we’re not nearly as interested in what society really thinks of what turns us on, we’re too busy being turned on. Back to porn. In the modern era, finding porn (on the internet) is about as easy as (your mom) wildly mashing your keyboard into google image search. There has never been (quite literally) so free access to sex (images) in the history of mankind. For thousands upon thousands of years, we built up cultures that delineated rules for sex, certain places, certain times, certain methods being acceptable and all others taboo. We denied ourselves our “base” urges for sake of needing to spend at least some time in the day gathering food. Of course, in private and away from the cultural assumptions of sex, we had tons of it, willy-nilly, all the time, all places, all forms. All you really needed was consent, and not even that a lot of the time. But still, we grew up and existed socially in a sphere that constrained sex to a standard that wouldn’t offend those around you. It reflected itself in the types of sex we would have and the way in which we would go about finding a sex partner, and most importantly, in the fantasies that people privately kept. The internet, though, is not constrained by any such rules. Existing socially on the internet is as easy and consequencefree as human interaction is ever likely to be. There are no hard rules for the internet. You can say whatever you like and the worst anyone can attempt to do to you is banish you from a community. And even that is easily circumvented. There are no qualms on the internet when it comes to discussing social topics of any level of controversy. The internet is well known for proliferating some of the more heinous opinions of people, indeed, but to take that disreputability and demarcate (okay, I’m just fucking around with the words now. Never be me, kids. You’ll get addicted to alliteration.) the whole of the in-
ternet as the source of these awful opinions and the creator of these terrible people is to ignore the reality that these opinions have always existed in the people who express them. The internet is simply the first time that the people involved have been able to connect with others of similar mindsets and share their awful-ness. The same is true of sex. There are a vast number of paraphilia in the world, all of which probably existed long before the internet ever did. The majority of these paraphilia, though, remained completely underground, the only community for them existing in conventions of already-weird people, which led to mailing lists and perhaps maybe an artist or two producing content for these obscure fetishists. If you didn’t go to conventions or went to the wrong ones or whatever, you simply existed out of the loop, your favorite fantasies staying inside of your head. (Note, I’m not sure if this is true. I could be making that up, mostly piecing it together from really old giantess porn that seems to have been part of a mail-order collection. Feel free to correct me.) In modern times, finding such communities is just a google away, allowing you to meet and connect with people who share your crazy sex fantasies and share art and find new works and generally promote said fantasy. Even when that fantasy is completely deviant to the society in which you originate. (I sound like I’m talking about child porn, now, huh. Nah, there’s a lot more stuff out there. From absorption to zoophilia.) This is fantastic. People like me and people of my generation(ish) are growing up in a world where the extant culture around you is subverted and trumped by the one promoted on the internet. The sheer volume of “dickgirl/futanari/newhalf” porn on the internet denies the concept of finding simply the male or the female form to be universally attractive for the opposite gender. It’s the principle that people are attracted to certain things rather than certain genders being demonstrated in action. It’s not much, because we do still live in a society that earnestly believes (at least in its false Ur-narrative) that only 3-10% of the population is gay and bisexuals are just “on the fence” (seriously that concept still confuses the fuck outta me) and that gender is immutable. But as objective reality continues to prove, the people living inside of the narrative do not themselves behave consistently to it. It’s just a matter of organizing these people together until the Ur-narrative shifts in the face of overwhelm-
ing majority. The unprecedented availability and variety of sexually explicit materials on the internet is a great first step toward that end. Of course not everything is sunshine and roses and daisies and dandelions. A lot of these communities still face the problem of being unable to organize outside of the internet, leading to a lot of very lonely horny people, rather than a sexually compatible utopian cornucopia of copulation. (Seriously I need to be banned from writing) No matter how amazing or fantastic our online sex lives may be, no matter what freedom of expression of kinks exists virtually, we do still live in a reality, and a reality that is dominated by Ur-narratives that condemn the things we do on the internet. At best, it causes people to be at least a little shy about what they do on the internet. At worst, people develop practical schisms of their personality, using one as an acceptable public version of themselves and the other as the selves they are on the internet. As with any instance where society causes personality change, there’s quite a lot of guilt and shame involved, which can express itself in myriad ways. There’s a popular Japanese meme/joke/truism that “3D girls are pig disgusting,” abbreviated “3dpd” on this side of the pacific. It refers to the intense attachment that some form to idealized female drawn characters to the extent that they “reject” all real women as imperfect and thus unworthy of their attention. It’s a joke, in that the majority of people viewing drawn porn do not actually hold this opinion, but like all jokes, it’s important because it reveals the underlying concept of shame for viewing these images so often and sometimes to the exclusion of actual human contact. Porn is still a villain here. Still racy and underground and taboo. We still live in a society that gets up in arms whenever women are included solely for sex appeal in movies and such. We still censor sexual images en masse, we still look down on women who dress “inappropriately,” we still aggressively de-eroticize images of male sexuality, or at the very least take great pains to ensure that it’s clearly aimed at female viewers and thus a heterosexual exchange. The only difference, though. Is that while we all do that publically and accept the status quo, we’re all furiously friggin’ and stroking to the most diverse expressions of human sexuality ever known to man. And that’s pretty cool. It’s only been ten years since this kind of thing became possible. Change will come, as it inevitably does.
Her unforgiving chains of clandestineness rip through my chest and pollute the purity that is my patchwork heart, till every stitch oozes and seeps the toxic sludge of decrepitude. Powerless. Completely and utterly powerless, every damn time. But that’s the thing about her, when she focuses on you, she makes you feel like you’re the only thing in the universe. Its her gift. Maybe it’s a gift given too freely. I remember college, that’s when I first saw her. It was a time of flighty passions, where things seemed obsolete and time moved too quickly. Then you realize that everything you believe to be true changes. I often ask myself why some of the most beautiful gifts are the cruelestmaybe because sometimes the ugliest ones tell us the most about ourselves. I said once through the channels of petulant candor, thatI’ve never met anyone like you before. However, that’s not necessarily a good thing.
me she would be anything less than twenty ways from crazy and wouldn’t fuck like an animal, just like these broads do. The crazy ones always make the best lays, maybe that’s why I love them so much. But once again I was wrong. The silent conversation of our predestined lust changed me forever… I want you to plunge your fingers into the silk clothened crevices of my cognizance and have your words paint intricate swirls in my mind with the tip of your wet tongue. I want your obfuscations to be as carnal as the fantasy at the edge of my fingertip. I want my lips wet with your warm oozing euphemisms.
Create a reality in the blue of my eyes that leaves me tantalized and raw, turning my inhibitions over to the creature I can become. Play with my moist senses til my the eyes of my perception roll back in a moment of the truest truth. My pons are the bridge which you straddle with engorged reticular formations, effervescent, and vitiate my moralities. My skins begs your aggressive amygdala to run Perception is the cruelest form of reality. its salacious licentiousness up and down my cells, Because then reality only exist within the lens you lightening them up like the magic that lies in beview it. tween my soft thick flesh. But what do you do with a dirt caked lens? Then at the point where I can take no more, your I wanted to find a person whose matching intellect eyes open mine in pure ecstasy leaving my world allows us to go through an entire journey of pure, screaming to be defiled over and over by your sexually charged transcendence without a single flagitiousness. touch. Leaving only my vociferous response of your I was craving a intellectual orgasm so bad, the inimitable perversion bouncing off the walls of ache in my loins could be felt outward to the end my cerebrum- covering my subconscious in the of my toes, to the tip of my skull. sticky white of your intellect and filth. This is what leads every path-walking individual to live the sentence of the reprobated. It’s so pre- And ill thank you by drawing the universe on the dictable you can almost smell it, heavy in the air, back of your hand, so that every time you stumlike the cigarette smoke that chokes your eyes in a ble a glittering sidereal net will catch your fall. bar too small and unloved. I looked up from my sweat dripping coke and This is what keeps me writing with the force of rum to see it. Like a flashing red sign screeching a pure and nasty addiction, even if what I write every hellish warning, but at the same time holds means nothing. Because there is a ton of reality every single thing that made me want her more- out there that we never experience that other the bat of her eyelash, the slight twinge of her creatures can. mouth. Life is made up of a series of moments channeled The way she orders her drink, in just a way that through the eyes of right now. positions her body enough to give me a glimpse I saw a side of myself in that moment that I did of its glory, but not enough to directly say she’s not perceive before, and in that moment it was interested. more real than any other experience felt within the physical realm of my perception. Broads like her have been playing this game for way too long, to not know what they are doing. -HandfulOfEuphemisms There was nothing about this specimen that told
THAT FILTHY WHORE!
The Man With The Green Hat
Hanging on the cross of life our hands bloat to ineffectiveness gone numb to feeling with gut muscles giving way to clench which no longer holds and our upper organs begin to loosen in drop to bowels In our imaginations we are lesser messiahs on the rising and every fly on our blue lips as the sun goes setting are angels of mercy I married you because I needed another sinner at my right hand to fulfill a prophecy of error before I find myself in prolapse to gravity’s pull Inside-out we hang here to die as if living were the only answer left when we’ve been alive forever having been our Father’s children since before conception of time And I’m hanging on the cross of life seeping blood and oozing bile weeping scabs to feed the flies goodbye with you to my right and no theif left
When love has packed your favorite suitcase and all you miss is your favorite suitcase, dust is your closest companion. If life suggests closure, nod in agreement and allow it’s departure while you hide your last breath in anticipation of kickstarting the machine. then, when Down is out and dust is Settled, roar to life laughing and exhale into the clouds to starve the stars of night’s beautiful solitude.
mr.ficklebritches one sleeping pill down too hot, now too cold tossing & turning sweating & swearing i’ve got a friend in the devil two sleeping pills down i wanna sleep so badly forever ever ever like laying in a field of poppies let me sleep, let me die in consciousness just tonight three sleeping pills down
Written in Jail In the absense of everything, your all, your life positioned, you find the dust, while still dust, is flesh defined.
POETRY & PROSE
Handful of Euphemisms
Snow drips like sweat from a swan. But can it bea crimson red Boiling. festering. seething. Cries fly out in the night. A flamboyant flamingocan you imagine her expression? When truth does digress, what solemn night does follow? Are there any more real tears? Resolve! I repeat in kindness, resolvePeppered in resentment of course A night drowned in Liquor an poor judgment I thought I saw! I checked my eyesone and TwoBoth naïve and blue. But now its morning; and all that wasmelts in my mind. Like cherry lip gloss, on a whiskey neck. A dream so rightshattered and trembling. A smiling infant of pure joy. Mundane. Mocks me in its grin. Jiggling, wiggling, a hairy hell: my dreams die ingrease and Crisco. Somewhere, a dog licks its privates.
oda Coaster Conga
What’s your type ?
this world is so full of all sorts of men the stoners and lawyers the lovers, the friends the haters, the movers the knowing, the spent but of all of these creatures there’s one king in that pen the man who knows true love and has true love to lend but that’s just the guys there are women here too and it just wouldn’t be right to not give them their due there’s the lasses and hussies the peggy’s and the sue’s those uncultured and ill mannered and the sweet “how do you do’s?” but what’s weirdest of all is the way they all mate with childish games and sad cries blaming fate with heartbreak and anguish with loss and regret yet somehow they keep trying to complete their heart’s set so with one thing in common this yearning for love I ask of you all just who do you love? just which is your type and for whom do you wish when you lay wide awake who’s lips would you kiss?
You taste like something terrible about to happen... The truth is, I’m trying my best not to write about you. Partly out of reverence, because you are someone that I have a sincere admiration of, and a growing affection for… but mostly because I’m terrified, of selling you short. I don’t believe I’m articulate, or talented, enough to fully express how lovely you really are. Being a writer is sort of a curse. No. I know, (he and) I tend to romanticize it a bit. Even when I discuss how frustrating and horrible it can be, there’s a certain measure of unspoken respect for the act; the craft. Even when I “hate” it, I’m still infatuated with it. Even when I want to set my laptop on fire, or eat every page that I’ve ever produced… I’m always secretly pondering my next bit of prose. But… It really is a curse, sometimes, because you feel this immense burden — to share your thoughts, feelings, and memories, with the page. To offer up the most intimate parts of yourself, to the audience; the sincere; the profound; the vulnerable; the absurd; the idiotic; the crude. Yet, you know… in your heart of hearts… that nothing that you record, channel, or describe can match the thing it is that you’re trying to capture. Even something “original” that you create… is never quite as brilliant as it was in your own mind. Maybe this is why we’re such sulky fucks, at least some of the time. I’m not saying that this type of stomach-knotting-soul-draining uneasiness, or if you want to be
dramatic by saying “angst”, is specific only to writers. I mean truthfully, I think that all artists — no matter what the medium — experience this. Eh, but let’s face it, all artists are also sort of self-absorbed assholes, and at best, mildly pretentious twats who consider their own medium to be at least marginally more important than all others… so fuck the lot of them. The suffering of writers far outweighs the tepid gripes of everyone else. At least when we complain, albeit on paper… it’s still related to our craft… I’m drifting now. What was I trying to say? Oh yes: Your mouth is permanently burned into my memory. Sometimes, I trace the pad of my thumb… so slowly and gently… against my slightly parted lips, and I think about how it felt to kiss you — softly and sweetly; deeply and passionately. I find myself craving another taste of you. You taste like something terrible about to happen, to me. Like a prelude to a busted lip, or a violent car crash. An event that’s going to leave me choking on a mouthful of blood, or mangled in a ditch. You taste like the end of everything, and the beginning of something… a viciously beautiful happening.
Do you ever wonder if horses get bad pop songs stuck in their heads? 69 is the most egalitarian oral sex, but oral sex is never about égalité, is it? Sometimes it feels weird to be a human. I really don’t get too frustrated with things, but grumbling is an artform where I come from. We’re not Jewish, but we kvetch. How can a bidet be NSFW?
But why do people even like Marilyn Monroe/Kurt Cobain at all?
Boehner reminds me of my Uncle who’s an asshole.
Well, I didn’t know how to spell bananas until I heard hollaback girl. I did the math and it looks like 3 wrongs don’t make a right either. I’m so turned on i could light a cigarette with my asshole.
In town for 3 days before being solicited... I must be losing my touch. How’s your momma and dem?
I think I’m going to be extremely Roman Catholic today because why not?
It wouldn’t be a zine party unless I threw up from coughing.
“Me too, it’s all swollen and yuck.” ‘Aww... I’ll pet it softly for you.’ Lady just got her hair stuck in a bra.
For a homosexual adult man, I sure call a lot of drivers in a traffic jam ‘faggots’. I miss the days when criminals would get dressed up before they went and robbed a bank.
I’m so happy I turned on the goods right before the hate crime.
I do not know what position he plays, but based purely on his name, I’m guessing catcher. Like a bridge over troubled water, I will lay your mom.
You know, it occurs to me I never saw you wear any of the awesome mustaches I gave you... Rude.
The bible isn’t exactly a John Lennon record. There’s a lesbian with a black eye in my house. I appreciate all things that will only happen once in my entire life. Why can’t I just have a normal drinking night? One where I don’t have to dress up like a girl or die?
I like seahorses because they don’t gallop. Cigarettes and milk is really good.
I can have six chickens now. That’s freedom right there. Make up your mind! Are you Pro-P or AntiP?! You’re waffling on the issues!
THE FILTH ISSUE / WHAT WHITE ELEPHANT
“All every woman really wants, be it mother, senator, nun, is some serious deepdickin’.”
Sergeant Heartstomp - GUTTER PUNK Peanut Scholar - INTERSTATE REBEL Butchcat Bitchmouth - SULTRY SLUT Jesus After Easter - EATER OF BEANS Flesh Cherry - SALACIOUS SOULEATER “I used to fuck guys like you in prison.”
YETI DETECTIVE JACOB GERMAIN MARSHALL EDWARDS VELVETEEN HANDFUL OF EUPHEMISMS JSCOTTGRAND SULTRY VIRGINS GUY DEBORD ORDINARY LOVER
THEMANWITHTHEGREENHAT DANIEL JONES MR.FICKLEBRITCHES AWEN PH HANDFUL OF EUPHEMISMS
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