BEST BOOK EVER PUBLISHED

It's subjective, of course, and I'm biased, but the best book ever published is not THE KING JAMES BIBLE or The Grapes of Wrath or The Great Gatsby or Sweet Valley High #1: DOUBLE LOVE. No ma'am. No sir. The best book ever published is RETARD PENIS. Here is an excerpt:

I was sitting in a booth at the McDonald’s on Fredericksburg Road slurping melted ice cream when Debbie began bombarding me with text messages. I didn’t have time for her bullshit so I turned off my piece of shit Samsung Galaxy and soaked in the bliss of the moment, slurping melted vanilla ice cream looking out the window at the Tower of The Americas hazy in the distance. Sometimes I love living in this city. I donated plasma three days ago so I can afford this treat.

Debbie writes poems about me, says she’s in love, but I just enjoy fucking her on occasion with my basic American five inch cock. I don’t delude myself. The best I can hope for is a mediocre sex life with a bat shit crazy poet covered in ugly tattoos and the occasional McDonald’s or Dairy Queen or Sonic treat. I work as a cashier at the Five Below on the upper level of Wonderland. I’ve never taken an IQ test but I’m probably a few points above retarded. Not severely retarded. Functioning retarded, like most Texan Americans.

(title of the piece is DUMPING DEBBIE)

 

EAT some caKe

David drives me crazy.
I love the maniac.
He's a brilliant motherfucker with a big cocK.

This is not a haiKu.

 

swooncaKe aesthetic

Not everyone is special. Not everyone is worthy of attention, publicity, wealth, health, divine revelations, favor. I did not make the rules, I only abide by them. If something isn't special I do not share it. That was not always the case. Lately I've been dedicated to the culling process. I've been deleting old photographs, blog posts, videos and playlists. God (according to David GOD does not exist but I remain a believer) has instructed me and I have obeyed. We don't all get a seat at the table. We can't all be Kim Kardashian. We can't all be Taylor Swift. We can't all be Sharon Osbourne. We can't all be Anais Nin. We can't all be Erica Jong. I could puke from now until the day I die looking around at those who are favored, celebrated, lauded, rewarded. Last night I watched a favorite film of mine, "Coal Miner's Daughter." David was amused and disgusted. He doesn't get it. Not everyone thinks Loretta Lynn was a great or even good singer. Not everyone is mesmerized by Sissy Spacek's portrayal of Loretta Lynn. Not everyone worships at the altar of Elvis. Not everyone thinks RETARD PENIS should be purchased, read, reviewed. 

It's lonely (quite) at my table. I am seated at the kiddie table. I'm too ridiculous and rude to be welcome at The Grown-Up Table where the gossip ranges from Billy Bob's latest Home Depot haul to Kelly Sue's latest pregnancy. I don't feel like I'm missing out on much at all. Loneliness is often delicious. No one I think is in my tree and that is perfectly acceptable. I was deluded for several years, jumping through hoops of fire for various motherfuckers. No mas, hoss.

I celebrate trash. I celebrate the absurd. I celebrate the ridiculous. End transmission.

 

RETARD PENIS is NOW aVaiLaBLe

 

David did the cover. I am responsible for the cover art. We worked long and hard on this one and decided to publish it today, Thursday, 20 August 2026. Leo season. Jesus will cry if you opt not to purchase this goddamn gorgeous collection of flash fiction and prose poetry.

kurt cobain's suicide letter as edited by kathleen hanna

That's the title of my latest piece for RETARD PENIS, coming soon for the pathologically curious and terminally bored. Flash fiction, prose poetry, essays that would never make the cut and be published in Guernica or Sassy (RIP). It's a bloody DISASTER. Haters encouraged to purchase a copy at (where else) lulu dot fucking com. The world is hopping straight to hell like a delirious bunny and language is dead as dead as your daddy's dick. People will have no choice but to get over their petty prejudices and panties in a wad grievances. I pasted these words in a collage I made a billion years ago when I was a sexually frustrated virgin living small in rural Texas:

What's Your Problem Gripe or Guilt Trip?

There was probably a comma in there. I fucking loathe commas. 

There's such purity to obscurity. I embrace it like Dana Plato embraced Gary Coleman but only on set. Daddy was Mr. Drummond.
 

WORKING THE SAW

working the saw
working the daw
working the maw
working the claw
working the jaw
working the caw
working the blah

 

OBSESSED WITH OBSCURITY

The YouTube crowd seems obsessed with obscurity lately. Obscure audio is trending. These tracks are as obscure as 30 minutes ago. Obscurity is just another day at the office for me.