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Summer 2013


"The Packard Plant of Detroit is a monument of the vast urban decay the city has faced for decades" @oopsspaghetti

The Thing Is A google search result collection by @narwhalynn

THE THING is a REAL COOL MOVIE!!!! In blackjack, the thing is to get nearest to 21 without going over.

The thing is, all memory is fiction. You have to remember that. THE THING is a one year commitment, and we do not offer refunds The thing is to understand myself, to see what God really wishes me to do: the thing is to find a truth which is true for me, to find the idea for which I can live and die. The thing is, reality doesn’t give a shit about our identities. The thing is, I've had a lot of other work this week. But the thing is, products that change the way people live and are rapidly adopted by millions of people don’t come along every day.

Jeremy Czerw

Smell clothes honestly. Don’t wear clothes that smell. Ask yourself: Would Keith Richards wear this? If the answer is no, don’t wear it. If the answer is yes, you can wear it. If the answer is maybe, you tend to overthink. Consider working in food service or the military, where you will not get enough sleep to do that. For putdowns, remember that alligators and dinosaurs smell. Remember pretty much everyone is afraid of genitals, of the smell of their own genitals, of the diseases that may be hiding in the genitals of others. Use that to your advantage.

Parlor, King of Rooms Twitter: @ambivalentricky

What is the most fun room there is? A parlor. The only things that are allowed in parlors are fun things. What are some of the things you find in a parlor? Ice cream. Billiards. Massages. Tattoos. Pizza. Nobody ever talks about parlor work. Only parlor games. What is the least fun room there is? Probably a station. A station is not even a room, it's a building. It's multiple not fun rooms. What are some of the things you find in a station? Police. Trains. Gas. A fire station does not have fire in it, making it also not fun. There are only three fun stations: Radio station. Space station. PlayStation.


bad awful sewer man by aaron j. marko We are the victims of a biological process created by chance on a planet that spins in the perfect orbit just the right distance from a sun that is just the right size the odds of which happen to be beyond comprehension all of which may very well be the result of a drunken god spilling a beer on his television set causing it to burst into the star matter which now populates our bodies created by random events that happened to coincide just perfectly enough to seem magical to a group of apes who understand only a fraction of what they know. So, no. I would not like to subscribe to the New York Times.



A TERRIBLE TWITTER FANFIC BY @IAREDOMINATE CHAPTER 1 It was a cold, damp morning. The rain had fallen heavily during the night. The air was heavy with humidity and the smells of a city. @hairyskeletor was the bus, on his way to meet fellow bounty hunters. Their target? @crime _man _, the notorious criminal. @crime _man _ had a criminal record that went on for thousands of tweets. Day in and day out, @crime _man _ was doing a crime. Many attempts proceeded @hairyskeletor 's. He knew he would need help. To this end, @hairyskeletor had employed the help of @weedcoffin and @sickcoffin. Together they had come up with a plan to end @crime _man _ 's reign of terror over the city. It was a dangerous plan, filled with risk, but the bitcoins being offered for @crime _man _ 's bounty was too high to resist. The bus stopped moving. @hairyskeletor got out of his seat, he had reached his destination. @hairskeletor was no longer the bus. Waiting for him was @weedcoffin and @sickcoffin. @sickcoffin was a tall, serious man. Standing just over 6 feet tall with a slender frame, @sickcoffin was an imposing figure. @weedcoffin looked just like princess bubblegum from adventure time. So much so that it was disturbing, because that is a cartoon and this is reality. They began walking towards @crime _man _ 's hideout, discussing the plan as they went. Suddenly, @weedcoffin saw a cute dogge. Her razor sharp instincts took over. @weedcoffin ran into the street to give the dogge a hug. Unfortunately, when @weedcoffin ran into the street she was hit by a bus. As the bus sped by @hairyskeletor caught a glimpse of @crime _man_ behind the steering wheel. @weedcoffin 's final cry of 'FRICK' rang out in the damp evening. @sickcoffin declared 'wow fuck this' and he and @hairyskeletor decided to postpone their capture of @crime _man _ . @hairyskeletor went to an outdoor cafe to gather his thoughts. His head was spinning with the events of the evening. He sat down and ordered a coffee. He buried his head in his hands, trying to figure out what his next move should be. Through his foggy mind he heard someone sit down across from him. @hairyskeletor looked up to see Amanda Bynes sitting in front of him. @hairyskeletor was ferociously in love with Amanda Bynes, a fact well documented with his blog on twitter dot com. But something was amiss. The white facepaint. The white gloves. The shirt with black and white horizontal stripes. The black beret. Amanda Bynes was a mime. @hairyskeletor was torn between his love for Amanda Bynes and his disdain for mimes. THeir eyes met, Amanda's eyes pleading for acceptance and @hairskeletor 's eyes exposing his internal torment. Amanda stood up, and began pulling herself away using a rope which did not exist. As she was pulling herself the road a bus drove by, again piloted by @crime _man _ , and hit her. @hairyskeletor reached out, tears welling in his eyes, but he could do nothing. He vowed to catch @crime _man _ and make him pay for his consistently committed crimes. END CHAPTER 1

Guilty @CannibalKisses

Terrifying Facts About Aphids by @sirbeetee Aphids are the stuff of nightmares: a small pear shaped insect plant-vampire, pregnant with granddaughter clones, and protected by an army of ants that are paid in feces. Plant sap is under pressure, so aphids feed by penetrating the plant, forcing liquid into their food canal. As they feed, "honeydew" secretions are produced from the anus of the aphid. Multiple species of ants have evolved a symbiotic relationship with aphids and will protect them from predators in exchange for their sweet excrement. Ants will sometimes even chillingly "milk" the aphids by stroking them with their antennae. Through a devil's-bargain-gene-transfer with fungi, some types of green aphids can now color themselves red. Aphids spread disease and misery wherever they go, they contributed to the spread of blight that caused the Irish potato famine in 1840. Populations of aphids are often entirely female because they generally produce female clones through live birth or laying eggs. Some Aphids even give birth to pregnant female clones, which is to say that the mother aphid is pregnant with a clone that is pregnant with a granddaughter clone. The horror. The Miracle of Lyfe: an aphid giving birth to a pregnant clone

The only rad thing about aphids that I can think of is that they're female dominant and typically only produce males to mate.

Chris Middleman ( @_Middleman)

Sketch: a Middle Class, Middle-Aged White Man Shopping at a West Coast City Trader Joe's on a Sunday Afternoon Super-insulated, yet ultra-thin, his charcoal jacket sweeps across his distressed denim leg when he places a hand on his hipthe same hand that fidgets with the spage-age black frames of his eyeglasses The same hand that carefully gelled the tousled, graying strands of hair that deviate from the rest of the ‘70s holdover, middle-parted haircut; a window dressing signifier of an easygoing attitude ____________________________________________________________________

Watermelon Red This city, blown regularly by gales born of frantic wings affixed to the angels of its citizens’ better natures might have expectations for stanzas written about that figure living in the red Dodge van across from my warehouse Words that could comfort like my grandmother’s afghan, lines that warm from inside-out, like dark tea Words reflective as bistro silverware, allowing the inadvertent glimpse of one’s own complexion, hair and gums A wide-eyed ode to an honorable sort of abandonment A votive lit in gratitude for how comparatively well we’ve scored our cards in Maszlow’s Bingo Instead, I can only offer them what I’d seen: shirtless, greasy, sitting on a mustard-yellow curb the blinking horror of what had been someone’s son, beastly now, snorting, gnawing at two fifths of a melon split open on asphalt like the skull of a vanquished enemy, whose lifeblood runs toward its end through a wild, stained beard

Your Intention Misshapen cotton On a silent rope line Along came you, with a look that was blind Standing, staring, soaking wet Sweeping your Motives Off to the Left Pretentious distress, unanswered plea, Seeing underneath, what I should not see

Wonderful Minding the time Reiterating rhyme

Apologetic, Low light in your eye Sudden embrace, Heavenly Design Off with your clothes, a Snapshot in Time, Trapped in my mind

Longing to latch on Your unholy conga line Flashing, thirsty eyes Predator’s disguise

Seeing you, molded from Dirt and Grass Pieces of broken, Metal and Glass Adding up, to Nothing and All, Naked outdoors, A day lived Before

Bottomless games Fake and empty prize

Wonderful Your primitive scent Lingers, whispers Love, Empty clothesline whistling, Moist, clean song Above

How could you pour Stolen, shallow wisdom Saturating my core?

Constraints of mine, stumble to find Dresses wet with Your Intention, A forward, forbidden Mention

Kneeling without a floor Heartache screaming down your door Crouch with window cracked Fate will not attack Forever won’t find me Climbing just to fall

Poems by @bizarrequotes


Lying behind your back A shadow’s stricken call Echoes not at all



Restaurant Review by Gerald the Two-Headed Shark (aka Two Bites) (aka Two Heads, One Shark) I am a two-headed shark and my name is Gerald. I can walk around and type at a computer outside the water. I’m really talented! You might think that I have difficulty eating, what with the two heads sharing the same stomach and only one set of gills for each head1 but it's not when I go to my local Taco Bell and get Doritos Locos Cool Ranch tacos supremos!

To begin, the crunchy shell has a powder-coating on it, so it's like I can lick it first before2 I take my first bite. I like eating cow meat and I like more eating horsemeat3, so that's great. I love that the sour cream is more like milky cream than sour cream and sorta runny and room temp. I like real fruit and veg too—so I'm thrilled with the real chopped iceberg4 and tomatoes5. (Oh, by the way, I'm an academic, so I write a lot of footnotes and parentheticals.) My favorite thing about the Taco Bell Doritos Locos Cool Ranch tacos is that the packaging features on it a picture of exactly what is beneath the packaging. Like, if you're sitting there about to dig into your food and you unwrap it6? So you sit down to eat it, you unwrap the shell and you get this inner paper cover on the shell7. The paper cover looks like a Doritos bag, but then at the end they have printed taco shell that looks really real there. Art historians and aesthetes would call it "trompe l'oeil" or "fool the eye" in français8. So just in case you were wondering what lies beneath the covering after you've ordered a taco and you get a semi -circular cracker shell food item, they have a picture of it on it. And then, one millimeter9 beneath that paper packaging is the actual shell itself... which actually looks cleaner than the picture10. I love going to museums and appreciating art and when I go to Taco Bell, I can eat and appreciate art at the same time. As I have two heads11, I get two three-taco meals so each mouth can eat three of 'em. This gives them lotsa energy for running around and harassing anemones12. Or the homeless guys who sleep in the train station Taco Bell13. Having two heads is a way tough thing. When you say you're "right brained" or "left brained," you're speaking of a way you process information and function in the world. For me, that's a literal thing. Because I have two brains. A linguist would say that saying, "my left hand doesn't know what my right hand is doing" is symbolic and metonymical, but for me, that's what happens, basically all the time. Except with fins. The best thing about the train station Taco Bell is that it has this really rude lady who serves me14. She always says that her "computer is broken15"' so she has to ring up my Mucho Value Meal as separate items. She then charges me for the tacos and then pockets the money for the drink. It's a good racket, but seems pretty small-stakes to me. Then again, her bosses are Indians, so she prolly hates their culture16 and doesn't like the curry they make her eat at the staff meals17. So I'm going to marry that lady and we're going to take her nest egg and buy a house in suburban Cincinnati18. I'll kiss her with both my tongues and we'll have lots of rich and sneaky two-headed people-shark babies.

The décor of the restaurant leaves a lot to be desired. It’s a combo Nathan’s Hot Dogs and pizza place and Taco Bell, so there’s all sorts of other food smells there. There’s also a lot of people from Lawngisland going home to do their laundry with mom and dad or riding out to their loveless wives and husbands19, so it’s just a lot of pathos and nonaction. Strangest thing about the daycore is that there is a random blacked out door at the back that would seem to have been an exit at some point, but is now unusable and mysterious20. I expect it’s where they get the horse carcasses in to cut them up and serve them as tacos, but I haven’t ever seen such activity. Mostly now it’s just a wall used to backstop the homeless dudes who sleep there. I love Taco Bell, I love train stations, I love Doritos Locos Cool Ranch Doritos Tacos. I am a 2-headed shark and a gourmand.

1. It's hard to breathe, okaaay?! 2. Sharks have tongues, dontchaknow! I've got two tongues, bitchezz. Fact. 3. Sizzeee queeeeeeen! 4. See what I did there?! Icebergs; sharks; North Atlantic?! 5. Those itinerant tomato pickers who work for Yum! Brands, Inc. are totally entitled to a penny more per bushel—that's only fair and Marx would be happy with it. When I look at a tomato I see it as a hieroglyphic of the labor that went into growing it and picking it and I feel sympathy for my brother workers (I don't actually do any work, mostly swimming) who gather the fruit (tomatoes are fruits, don't forget) and send it to the Yum! Brands Inc. And please don't forget the exclamation point, or the period at the end of “Inc.”. Companies with lots of punctuation are really cool and ’90s. And who actually uses Yahoo! as a search engine anymore? Why would you?! How’s working for you? Also, what the fuck is a bushel? Is it a size of container (like a quart) or a fruit number count (like a dozen)? 6. Has anyone ever unwrapped a hard-shell Taco Bell taco and not had half the thing fall out onto the table? Why does that always happen to me? Prolly something to do with my fins and my lack of hand-eye coördination (how you like that New Yorker Magazine diphthong style for ya there?! You're welcome). 7. And why would you ever get a soft taco at Taco Bell? That's like going to a combo Chinese-Sushi resto and ordering sushi, being made by a man from Shenzhen. Makes no sense. 8. Which is how they say French in Germany. 9. We sharks use metric, because we're global. 10.In the picture there they emphasize the black shadows in the shell texture, making it look dirty. This is a great example of a simulacrum, or an imitation of something that never existed in the first place. Like the castle at Disney World or a Dan Hathaway award acceptance speech in which she cries about how nervous she was and about her lack of self-confidence. As if! 11.We're both called Gerald. Stop confusing us. Our favorite movie is Twin Falls, Idaho. The Polish Bros are our acting alter-egos. 12.We like big back yards. 13.I don't know what an anemone looks like but I like saying it and when I type (with my fins). I speak out loud what I'm writing so it's fun to write and say! And is it "anemones" or "anemonea"? I don't speak Greek. (Editor, do you know? How would you write that?) 14.Remember in the ’90s when we called it “Taco Hell”? God—the ’90s were such a great decade. So punny! 15.She's racist against sharks and magical two-headed beings. 16.But we all knows computers don't break, amaright?! 17.She prolly hates their garbage, over-valued cinema culture. Everything since Satyajit Ray has been absolute crap. The Apu Trilogy really is an undervalued cycle and a great example of how the availability of the first movie, Pather Panchali, has made the other two films less important. But really, they’re each strengthened by the other two, so as a triptych they’re amazing. 18.They have staff meals at Taco Bells, right?! 19.Cincinnati is a town that got its name from The Society of the Cincinnati, a club of awesome American revolutionaries who loved George Washington like a god and put into the city's bylaws that because GW had slaves they would forever be racist against black people. Seriously. Look it up. It's also the only place in Ohio that Kentucky looks down upon. 20.God—thinking about living in Nassau County gives me the major sads. I once went on an online dating site and started chatting with a girl who lived out there and she worked at an Apple store in Nassau and had no hopes or dreams because they were all dashed as she looked down the barrel of a life where the strip mall pizza parlor was a nice night out with the fam. Shudder. 21.Feng Shui (pronounced “fung shwee”) experts would say that’s a bad thing to have in your resto… then again, feng shui is a bunk non-science and a way for white people to sell hippie-dippie Eastern kulture to rich lib-tards and put some seal of approval on it. But there is no governing body of the “art” so it’s all just bunk.

Commercial for Gloves Twitter: @ambivalentricky A BOY walks into his house, bat over his shoulder, wearing a grassstained Little League uniform. BOY Mom! Make me a sandwich? His MOM, holding her hands out into the air awkwardly, gives him an embarrassed look. MOM I'm sorry, sport. I just got done walking Ginger, and... well, you know. Brief FLASHBACK to the mother walking a golden retriever, which squats happily in a flowerpatch. CLOSEUP on MOM's face. She winces. BOY Shithands? She nods, embarrassed. BOY (sadly) Aw, mom. A TEENAGE GIRL stands in the upstairs hallway in a satin homecoming dress. She is putting the finishing touches on her outfit. TEENAGE GIRL Dad, will you pin on my corsage? Her DAD, in a white medical coat, is sitting in a La-Z-Boy chair in his study. A newspaper is balanced on the chair's ottoman. He is turning the pages of the newspaper with his bare feet. DAD I'm sorry, honey, I had kind of a tough day at work. FLASHBACK to DAD in his office attending to a patient. DAD Mr. Stevenson, I need you to stop squirming! STEVENSON Couldn't you at least have taken off your class ring? DAUGHTER Oh, Dad! Not again. DAD I'm sorry, honey. (to the world at large) Can't somebody do something about these shithands? VOICEOVER Gloves are hollow fake hands that are bigger than your hands. You put them over your hands and then you can touch all kinds of things. Cut to MOM, who is lifting her face out of a bowl of soup. The soup drips from her face. MOM This changes everything! VOICEOVER Gloves. No more shithands.

[Glove images added by editor]

For Immediate Release

IN AFFILIATION WITH CUMSKULL EVENTS AND MANAGEMENT: AVIATOR FRAMES TEAM UP WITH SUPER PRODUCER (AND LURKCORE PIONEER) R.X. LENSES FOR TWO SONG MICRO-E.P. I’M ON THE LIST/ COMMUNITY SWERVICE! After a forced hiatus, Aviator Frames return with a new spin on their trademark ‘lecherdelic’ sound to claim the innocence of a new generation. With his discharge from the big house, Aviator Frames’ visionary singer/songwriter and Tumblr GIF-strumentalist Justin Foerasecant and new collaborator R.X. Lenses are eager to touch their fans in new ways. On the Micro-E.P., which Foerasecant insists stands not for Extended Play, but Extremely Penetrating, not only shows Aviator Frames’ disciples his darkest recesses, but also aims to set the record straight. “Fuck what you heard,” he says. “I went to jail for my principles. That shit reporter called us ‘The Aviator Frames,’ so I hit him. It’s ‘Aviator Frames,’ this isn’t your grandparents’ verse-chorus-versus ‘Rock And Roll’ music. You’d be hard pressed to find a verse or a chorus anywhere on that early stuff. It was so ahead of its time, I wouldn’t even necessarily call it music, even though I just did. As for that other stuff, it was overblown and misconstrued. Aviator Frames have a young fan base. I’m tuned into their desire to interact and, as a performer, I consider it my job to give them what they want, which is Justin Foerasecant, IRL. It’s like I said in court, ‘The youth want the truth.’ I’m a humble guy and I consider myself lucky to be able to give it to these kids.” After being forbidden by Court Order from staging a dramatic reading of Henry Rollins’ GET IN THE VAN on the grounds that Foerasecant would be in violation of the terms of his parole by simply reading the book’s title, Foerasecant decided to return to his roots and find some new collaborators. As Foerasecant explain, “I was thinking about how I love being in Aviator Frames, but I also loved being in my first two bands, Charisma Prism and Orange Koresh. I love the music, but most of all I like the sense of community I get from working with like-minded individuals. After all, guys like us have to stick together. I’d been a fan of lurkcore from the time I first heard The Followers, but it wasn’t until I received some old AF tracks that he’d reworked that I realized Aviator Frames and R.X. Lenses go together perfectly.” Indeed, it is a match for the ages. Lenses is best known for employing found sounds in unconventional ways. Coupled with the AF’s prurient poetry, Lenses’ inappropriate appropriation has never been sexier, SO ADD THIS COLLABO TO YOUR ARTISTS-TOWATCH WATCHLIST AND YOUR MUST-LISTEN REGISTRY! For Booking/Media Inquiries: Don't hesitate! The first 25 review copies of I'M ON THE LIST/COMMUNITY SWERVICE come preloaded with geotagging software that will allow Justin Foerasecant and R.X. Lenses to find you and interact with you directly!!!!




Cum Dumpsters 7: The Novelization

by @radfist

Rod St. Croix was a complicated man. He had failed AP Biology but had passed regular biology with a C+ the next semester. That was just how things always seemed to work out for Rod. For example, just yesterday he had been fucking this one chicks pussy when his cock slipped out. When he put it back in he missed her gash but landed in her ass. When the cookie crumbles Rod just slams it in the poop chute. Today though, today was gonna be different. Today was a good day. A great day. He stood nude in the driveway of some greasy Eastern European guys Los Angeles house and the early morning sunlight cast a 12 foot shadow off his hairless dick. Today he was gonna fuck some chick. Just right up in her pussy. His dick, Rod’s dick, in some chick’s pussy. Unbelievable. She rolled up in a 2004 Toyota Camry. He couldn’t believe it was blue. That shit was crazy. A blue car? How crazy. A blue car with some chick with a pussy he was going to fuck. This shit was crazy. She had blonde hair except close to her head, where it wasn’t blonde. It was brown. Rod didn’t know how they did that. These chicks he was all the time fucking. All Rod’s hair was one color. Shit brown, except on his dick. He did not have hair on his dick. “I bet her fuckbox is real tight,” he thought to himself before saying out loud, “I bet you’re fuckbox is real tight.” “Yeah,” she said. They went inside the Europeans house and then this chick started sucking Rods cock. “Grggrggr,” she said as she sucked him. She spit all over herself and also on Rod. Rod laid her down in a pile of her own saliva before he ate her out. He spit all over and in her vagina. “Yeah,” she said as Rod put his dick in her. “Yeah. Mm-hmm, yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Mmhmm. Hmm. Yeah. Yes. Yeah,” she said as he thrust. “Ahhhhhh. Oh ah. Yeah. Yeah. Eeerrrrr. Mmm. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Mmmmm. Ahhhhh. Mmmmm. Yeah,” said Rod.

Her pussy was making a lot of slurping noises. Like when a duck starts flying while it’s still swimming in a pond or lake or something. Something wet. Wet like this chicks pussy that was making all these slurshing sounds as Rod fucked it. Rod came in this chicks pussy and they both watched patiently as he slowly dribbled out of her pussy and all over this European guys orange rug. “Yeah. You’re a real Cum Dumpsters 7,” said Rod to this chick with semen dripping out of her pussy.

[editor’s note: I assume this is a novelization of the author’s favorite scene from C’Dumpsters7 because holy heck there are 86 scenes featuring 134 C’Shots? Damn, that’s value. Or art. {graphic added by Ed.}]

January '12

Marijuana butterfly stepping stones of guilt Watch out as the tipsy Judge falls right from his stilts Rain above comes crashing down o how it does cleanse a broken jaw, a tattered quilt like Mother’s hands it mends -@stevemaccc


Cop Tales @HeyItsKamo My old man worked as a deputy sheriff for almost 30 years. He kept a journal during his time in the world of law enforcement, and I was going through it the other day and what I found was fucking amazing. He would always tell me funny stories from his job, but since he’s been retired the stories have obviously trickled to a stop- what he had in his journal was some of the most ridiculous shit I’ve ever read. All of these are true stories, word for word what he wrote in his journal- I really hope you enjoy them as much as I did. I spent 25 and a half years in Corrections. Until this day, I do not understand why they call it Corrections, because a very high percentage of those assholes are never corrected. It was not a very rewarding career, but the money was OK and the pension is good... it beats the hell out of working. Most of the first two years of my career were not spent at the main jail, but at an overflow facility which was in operation at the County Penitentiary. I worked mostly midnight shifts, and I did a lot of overtime on the day shift. I tried to get along with everyone on both sides of the bars, but sometimes it was difficult. I will try to remember a lot of the humorous things that happened in my career and share them with you here. I got along pretty well with one of the criminals that worked as a trustee in the "Chow Hall" which is what the Cafeteria is referred to in my line of work. He came up to me one morning and said, "Hey, Dep... you don't drink the coffee here do you?" I told him, "No, I bring my own." He responded with "Good, because I piss in it." After explaining to him that most of the inmates liked the coffee, he said that he wondered if there was a future in it. I don't think urine flavored coffee would be a big seller.

I remembered the coffee encounter later on and asked one of the inmates if he liked a little wang in his coffee. He replied with "No, I'm not Chinese." We had inmates that could not be marched to the Chow Hall, so we fed them on the block (they were called F.O.Bs, as opposed to S.O.Bs, but that would work too). One morning, the deputies were all picking up the trays on their respective blocks. One of the deputies brought his trays down and said, "Hey, I didn't know they had sausage today." I told him they didn't. He showed us a tray and said, "Well what's this then?" An inmate had dropped a sausage sized shit on the tray for my fellow Deputy to collect. I wonder if the culprit was Italian... We figured out who the inmate was and dropped the turd in a small garbage can in front of his cell, just out of his reach. They had a bakery out at the old Pen where they made donuts, rolls and other baked goods. One morning an inmate bit into a roll and found a cigarette butt. He asked me if I had a light; looking back, I think he might have had a smoking problem. I worked the young men's block for a while. I wrote one inmate up three times in one week for exposing himself out the window to the females in the Rec Yard. He said he was trying to set up dates for when he got out. Another inmate showed me a legal document with his charges. One of them was statutory rape. He said, "I didn't do nothing to no statue." Maybe the pigeons wouldn't let him. Earlier in my career, it was suggested that I get an alarm watch. This came in handy on the midnight shift. You could set it in case you fell asleep or you wanted to catch a nap

in between rounds. One officer, however, chose to bring an alarm clock to work. So when he woke up, so did everyone else... including the inmates. At the Pen, the cell blocks were quite large. 52 cells per block- 26 on each side. There was an enclosed area between them called a pipe chase. The pipe chase at the Pen was a lot larger than at the main jail; it was like a rest haven for Deputies. Some guys had TVs or radios- this was only in linear jails (older jails with bars). You could also listen to inmates' conversations (behind their cells). One night, I brought in a fake rat with a real long piece of string attached to it (150 feet or so). I gave the inmates time to quiet down. I took the rat out of the back door of the pipe chase and waited a bit longer. When I made my rounds, I got around the back, grabbed the string, and let it out until it was taut. Then the rat started moving up the cellblock along the Deputies' walkway, which of course was separate from the inmate common area. It got about half-way down when an inmate yelled out, "Look at the SIZE of that fuckin' rat!" Those were the good old days. Back in those days, they kept all the gay inmates on the same block- imagine that happening in today’s politically correct society... Anyway, if you worked days or afternoons, the crims would be out of their cells a lot. They would be doing each other’s hair and singing weird songs like "She's A Stranger to Me," "I Like the Way He Walks," or "Back Door Man." A fellow officer was working that block quite often and he told me a story. One night, he was making rounds and caught two of the inmates having sex. He told them to cease and desist and one inmate said, "I'm just checking his oil with my dipstick." After New Years of 1985, I went back to the main holding center, mostly because it was close to home and I had some seniority built up by then. I stayed on the midnight shift for another five years. During that time, I met quite a few sleezeballs. A criminal they called the 22 Caliber Killer was one of them. I also had an inmate in a solitary unit (called the Tiger Cage) that sexually assaulted a minister’s daughter. The minister actually attacked the inmate in court on one occasion; it was shown on television. Inmates complained no matter where you worked. One inmate complained about the bugs in his cell. I always told him the same thing- "No pets in jail- calm down, they don't eat much anyway." He kept complaining, so I told him to send them in the mail to someone. He sent them to a Federal Judge. The jail was fumigated within a week. One thing I miss about work was all the jokes I heard. The black inmates would tell me the Puerto Rican jokes, the Puerto Ricans would tell me the black jokes, and the white criminals would tell me all the others. Here are a few examples: How come blacks and Puerto Ricans do not intermarry? They're afraid their kids would be too lazy to steal. How come Puerto Ricans have such difficulty signing their name? It's hard to write with a can of spray paint. How does a Polish guy count to 11? He opens his zipper. Why wasn't the President of the United States ever circumcised? There's no end to that prick. Communications in those days (early 1980s) was pretty good. Besides the phone system (there were actually two systems), there was the radio. Every block had one. Unlike today, you could not tell who was calling in unless you recognized the voice. Today the radio user unit number shows up in the control room. There was more than communication on those radios at times... You would hear all kinds of odd noises. One night there were several sounds like something dropping in

water and then the sound of a toilet flush. You don't have to be a rocket scientist to figure out what that was. You would hear an occasional flush or the sound of urination, but once in a while someone would fart over the radio, and if you had the volume up it would sound pretty cool. Supervision got sick of it after a while though and started to crack down on unauthorized radio usage. They were just jealous. I had one inmate in the “Hole” or “Tiger Cage” as it was called in those days. They don't use those terms much anymore. Anyway, back then they allowed smoking in all county buildings, including the jail. I came in to work one night and he said, "Hey, Dep? What would you do if I set myself on fire?" I told him I would go down to the kitchen, get some hot dogs and have an old fashioned weenie roast. He thought I was nuts. I did a lot of jobs throughout my career besides working the blocks. I transported inmates through the old county court tunnel. I worked intake a couple of times. I even worked at a medical center lockup, but most of the time I worked the blocks. In my 25 1/2 years I had just one inmate "hang-up" on me. I cut him down, they sent him to the hospital and they declared him brain dead. He lived for about eight days after that. We had a lot of training classes throughout my career- CPR, First Aid, Article 35 (use of force), defensive tactics. I hated that one. I was always hoping I'd get hurt so I could get time off. In one class (I can't remember which), they asked us what we would do if we found an inmate hanging. I said I would call the kitchen and cancel his next meal. I don't think the powers that be liked that one too much, though... I remember walking inmates through the county court tunnel ( the tunnel went from the holding center, under the street and to the county court building). They would be cuffed behind their backs. Sometimes, they would be walking along, see a cigarette butt on the ground, and squat down to pick it up- not an easy maneuver. They could be very resourceful at times.





Tomato, tomato. Liz flipped back the corner of her duvet, popped in the teeth from the glass on her bedside table, slithered to her feet and slipped into her towelling dressing gown (£16.99 in the John Lewis clearance). Throwing back the curtains, she took in the view down the Mall, enjoying the scene on the road outside her house all the more for the way its name rhymed with ‘shall’. She padded over to the loo, had a quick slash and turned the tap on to wash, rinsing her flannel under the stream of water so she could wipe away the stray bogey decorating her left nostril. She fumbled open the pot of paracetamol beside the basin and stuffed a couple in her gob to deal with the pneumatic-drill headache from the ambassador’s reception the night before. Liz looked at her reflection in the mirror. She attacked the wayward fringe of her thick, ginger hair with her brush; no improvement. She clipped in a hair slide; too much with jewellery. She gelled it into a sharp Mohican; inappropriate for her meeting with the Prime Minister. So instead, as every day, she wrestled on the same grey helmet of curls and sighed at its itchy familiarity. Opening the wardrobe made her sigh again. Another day, another bloody bright-coloured whistle and flute with matching titfer. How Liz longed to bung on some big granny pants and a vest, zip herself into a comfy pair of trousers, pull on a nice woolly jumper and accessorise with a waistcoat like the hipsters in Shoreditch. She’d give her right arm, and probably East Anglia, to spend just one day wearing a tracksuit and trainers. She could ditch the cumbersome handbag and clip on her bumbag instead. Even a boiler suit would break the monotony of the buttoned-up two-pieces. At least she retained a modicum of control over her breakfast: jam doughnuts, her favourite; two, every day, without fail. If she couldn’t finish both, she’d wrap any leftovers in clingfilm or tinfoil and stash them in her handbag. Between that, the biscuits and the sweets, there was never space inside to carry a few quid or a mobile phone. Liz didn’t get much choice over meals beyond breakfast. Generally they were luncheons or banquets with MPs and lords, none of whom knew their arses from their elbows. She was a big fan of crisps, chips, fish fingers, swede, jelly – flavours to savour at home, in front of the telly while watching EastEnders. But out at these fancy dinners it was all aubergine, courgette, spring onions, rocket, coriander. Pastel-suited, with a tummy full of buns, Liz caught the lift down to the ground floor of her flat. She stopped to check her post, stepped out onto the porch to drop the rubbish in the wheelie bin, then made for the waiting saloon. (Its number plate – QE2 – was a present from some ignorant wanker who didn’t realise England and Wales hadn’t been unified with Scotland when the previous Liz had been around, therefore rendering its ordinal inaccurate.) Spotting Liz, the driver dropped the bonnet of the car, gave the nearside wing one last buff, flicked an insect off the windscreen and jumped inside. He

revved the accelerator, engulfing Liz in a cloud of fumes from the exhaust pipe, and announced that they needed to fill up with petrol before they got to the motorway. “Jolly good,” said Liz, and they screeched out of the car park, nearly running over a tramp with his shopping trolley of dirty belongings, sending both rolling off the pavement onto the tarmac. The traffic, as ever, was a bugger. Roadworks and diversions caused queues at every roundabout and set of traffic lights. The approaching flash of blues and twos belonging to the fire brigade created yet more kerfuffle on the clogged ringroad. Liz knew it would be better to get out of the car, walk to the nearest Tube, get onto the Jubilee to Waterloo and take the train to Windsor. But she’d been caught doing the same thing a fortnight ago and had received a right dressing-down from the Lord Privy Seal. She needed to make another plan, take a different route, do something they’d never expect. Then, like the lights flicking on at the end of a power cut, an idea sprang to mind. “Bollocks to this!” Liz shouted to the driver. “I’m the bus.” —@Lemonosity


Batgirl by @liverdiet

testicles: a cautionary tale @azninthesun when i was eight years old, i learned a very important lesson about testicles, the limitations of the human body, the folly of man, and the nature of my mother’s career. all while passing the rice and seaweed and other korean shit at the dinner table. dinner was the one part of the day when the entire family was together, eating soup and rice in stoic silence. being a typical asian family, the mealtime discussion was parent centered/led when it happened at all. this, however, was a special day: the day my mom got called to consult on a case that was puzzling the doctors in the redneck berg two towns over. my mother is a pathologist, meaning that when you get something removed, she’s the one who tells you if it’s cancer or not. she started telling us about her day, the pride in herself already showing in her voice. “well, i got called out to goldsboro because the doctors couldn’t figure out what was wrong with this man. they’ve been running tests on him all week and have no idea what it is. before i got there, all i knew was that the man’s testicles were the size of grapefruits” i immediately perked up. “he couldn’t even stand up, or walk, or nothing. he couldn’t even put his pants on. when i walked up, he was sitting on his front porch, pants pulled down, testicles hanging out. and they were HUGE. like a softball.” at eight years old, i had no idea testicles (a murky idea to me at the time) were capable of that kind of expansion. was this an exotic disease? an eastern NC epidemic? “he couldn’t go to work or do ANYTHING. the doctors looked at his blood and are out of ideas. so they call me in. doctors do that; they don’t know much, really.” “so i walk up to him and i ask the ONE question the doctor’s never did. i looked him in the eye and said ‘what did you do to yourself?’ he didn’t want to answer, but he eventually told me he injected motor oil through his scrotum and into his testes” scrotum? this was quite an exotic word to me at the time. “i asked him WHY. WHY would he do that? to his testicles?” apparently, he sheepishly replied that he did it because he wanted them to ‘be bigger’. my mind was blown. i had no idea that men wanted their testicles to be BIGGER. to the point where they would pump them full of motor oil. i had so many questions. my mother was just getting to the part of the story where she shined like a star of medical etiquette, so i didn’t interrupt. “i told the doctors what he did to himself. they had never asked him that! a week’s worth of tests wasted. people don’t tell you if they did something stupid to themselves, so you HAVE TO ASK. the doctors asked me what the treatment was. motor oil is an inorganic compound, so when it’s in the testicles it can’t be separated and drained. i told the doctors they had to come off.” my mother’s face looked so smug, but i felt sick. it could have just as easily been me that did something stupid out of boredom! i was suddenly glad i would never have testicles. better to not be tempted. “the doctor’s didn’t want to tell the man his balls had to come off. they wanted me to tell him, so i did. i walked up to him and he asked me if they could be drained. i said ‘no, they’re coming off’ and walked away. i had to come home and cook dinner!” i imagined an iridescent sheen on the surface of my soup, like puddles at a gas station. “after dinner i’ll show you the slides!” um, okay mom. this incident taught me many things: first and foremost, do NOT go to school the next day and warn all the boys in your class to NEVER inject motor oil into their testicles. that’ll

get you sent to the principal’s office. and a few calls to your parents from the parents of these traumatized 2nd graders. also: do not inject an inorganic substance into a part of your body to ‘make it bigger’. if you do, be ready to lose that body part if it doesn’t work out. last but not least: guys are obsessed with their genitals, including their balls.

Ball torture, by @underwhlemist

10 Things I Would Do if I Had Tentacles @crystalizedvibe

All the hot buzz for the past few years has been about these post-apocalyptic stories we see in books, movies, schizophrenic homeless men around the corner, your dad, tweets beginning with “It’s the year 2067….”, etc. A lot of these stories usually involve a form of strange futurist, authoritarian government, and fucking crazy technological advancements. Now, these advancements have got me contemplating the subsequent development of cosmetic surgery. So let me start this off in the old fashioned, twitter joke format (that everybody’s absolutely fed up with by now) way: The year is 2391, anti-aging compounds have been found and are in full use. The United Republic of Bros has essentially eliminated every being that isn’t “chill as heck” off the face of the Earth, overpopulation is no longer a problem. Cosmetic surgery isn’t the same anymore; society isn’t based on looking beautiful and perfect, it is based on looking like a rad mutant. Fur implants for the real life furries, human turtle shells, horns for those who want to be literally horny forever, and tentacles for people like me. *Before you keep reading I suggest you look up the videogame Octodad, and keep that in mind Choke somebody with my slippery appendages of doom. Do tentacles have fingerprints? [everybody] NO! Is asphyxiating someone fun? [everybody] NO! Well… is this the perfect crime? [everybody] YES! This literally makes committing felonies super fun. Make a super nice meal at ridiculous speed. With eight tentacles I could be slicing, batting, soaking, balling, hustling, dealing, etc all the same damn time. But lets be realistic here, the nicest thing I could cook up by myself is opening liquor bottle, or cereal with milk. Paint with no paintbrushes (or fingers). Imagine a canvas, now imagine tentacles drenched in paint, now imagine paint-covered tentacles slapping the mother fuck out of the canvas. Jackson Pollock? More like Jackson Pollocktopus, hehehe am I right pals?????? ;) Grab a police officer and boomerang throw him into the darkening twilight. The farther he is midair, the fainter his screams get, and the louder the chants from the local teens get. “FUCK THE PO-LICE, FUCK THE PO-LICE, FUCK THE PO-LICE.” I will be a celebrated hero. Whiplash the brittle figurines your grandma keeps around the house. We’ve had enough of grandma whipping out the old Nelly CD at absolutely unconventional times, we’ve had enough of finding her dildos inside the kitchen drawers, dear tweeters we got to take a stand. Fuck that bitch and her cane, *breaks cane*

Amputate one of my huge tentacles, deep fry it, invite some people over, have little feast. “I’m inside you” has never been this literal before. Now that you have eaten me, we have an unbreakable bon— nope we still have nothing in common. Why the fuck are you here anyways? I don’t even like you, my mom invited you. Loser. Give a SWEEET handjob. Need I say more? Absorb drugs through my suction cups, or really absorb anything. The call me the Acid Leech around these parts my friend. And by these parts I mean the building that grew out of grass in my backyard, miniature lil waynes are riding giant wasps and are telling me to jump— OH GOD. Wake somebody up with a gentle massage. You want it, you got it. You want it, baby you got it (just bust a knot.) Slip my tentacles through oral cavity and up the nasal passageway, out the nostrils for an unbelievable booger cleanse. Squeaky clean golden nugget mine. Breathe deeper, feel fresher, the everlasting smell of seafood in your nose. N A T U R E.

I haven't had the time to do what I intended to for the first issue of what will no doubt be the world's finest publication. I feel like this is mag will be the glue that finally brings us (humans) together as a true community. I plan on presenting interesting science topics from around the world that I have either read in a journal or been involved with in some way. I am a molecular biologist/biochemist and my identity must remain anonymous for various reasons. That being said, anonymity allows me freedom to report on and answer questions about ANYTHING related to science w/out fear of being excommunicated from my fellow scientists. I welcome any science questions and will answer all of them if possible with the intention of publishing the most interesting ones in the magazine. I would like to thank Hairyskeletor for allowing me to be a part of this experience. @NadinesEyepatch Here are some interesting science things that happened recently: 1. A patient died from a parasitic infection of the brain after using a neti pot filled with river water. 2. A study determined that a large percentage Capri Sun drinks have fungal mats growing on top of the drink inside the packaging. This is thought to be due to the drink not containing any preservatives and the presence of tiny holes in the packaging allowing oxygen to enter. 3. Biofuels are being extracted from algae (and other transformed microbes). As the process is optimized it appears to truly be a reasonable alternative to fossil fuels in the near future (next 10 years). 4. MIT is working on a perpetual battery that supplies power through utilization of ion exchange gradients in a closed system (ie salts moving across a membrane from high concentration to low concentration and back again). 5. It was recently determined that humans didn't have many cavities as hunter-gatherers. As our diet shifted due to agricultural advanced, and an industrial revolution, humans began having cavities and gum/mouth diseases. This was done by studying the DNA of the microbes on bone samples.

Amanda, pls.


Gentle Reader, I offer first my apology to any who were offended by the concept or content of this publication. My intent was only to amuse and provoke conversation, not consternation. My greatest and most unctuous thanks go out to all who participated in this experimentâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; you brave cyber-souls have made CumSkull what is it. Literally. I encourage the reader to reach out to each creator and say heyâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; that was cool I like what u did with your words or pencils or what have ye. Follow these people on twitter and encourage their creativity. Make friends, form a band, overthrow the government, start a watersports club at your local YMCA! But more than anything, I hope u will choose to be a part of the next issue of CumSkull! Write something, draw something, paint something, or p-shop something u want to share with the world and email it as an attachment to

Thank you good bye, And good luck. Love always, @hairyskeletor