Anus, Part II

If you read Anus a few weeks back, you know about my inmate correspondence.  I just wanted to give this quick update.  I received my latest letter from the inmate, in which he replied to my research findings on the anuses of the female celebrities he inquired about.  Apparently I took him too literally.  Here is the clarification from his latest missive on his anal interest:

Yes, I do enjoy the boldness of Kendra Lust, Lily Phillips, Bonnie Blue among others.  What actual acts they do is what I was so curious about.  Plus if they did close ups.  Some adult films do close ups.  It shows boldness in the adult stars' performances.  So. . .are they 'whores' or just open—very extremely open about what they find pleasure in as women?

OK, so I guess he did not want to know if there were extreme close-ups of these women's anuses, he just wants to know what sex acts they perform, and, I think (if I am interpreting his last sentence correctly), if they seem genuinely fond of these sex acts, or are they just being whores, i.e., pretending to like their anal, vaginal and pie holes being stretched for money?

I did in-depth research on the video tramp Lily Phillips who recently gained the gutter spotlight with an OnlyFans *backdoor* challenge in which she was butt-fucked by 50 men in one night. I did not, of course, bother to waste my money paying to see this marathon of sodomy, as there are plenty of free Lily Phillips videos on the internet in which she is penetrated in the butt-hole.  I watched quite a few, enough to offer what I believe is a now informed opinion.

In my reply to the inmate I told him that, yes, there are close-ups of the action, you often see a male (of various races, all with rather long penises) spit into Lily Phillips' unbleached shit-hole, then wedge his cock into and stretch out the anus, then pump into her rectum vigorously.  Her reaction in all the videos is the same: Porn School 101 Drama, moaning and gasping and cooing way too loudly while pinching the nipples of her artificially augmented titties.  Nothing seems genuine about the sex act.  It appears a purely commercial endeavor.

I reported to my inmate penpal that I cannot state Ms. Phillips would enjoy being anally penetrated by him based on the video evidence.  Maybe she would, maybe she wouldn't.  Perhaps if she met the inmate (or me, or you if you are male) and she formed some emotional connection, then maybe some real passion might develop, and she might ache to be butt-fucked, but until we can perform a field test, we can only state it does not appear Lily Phillips enjoys being sodomized from the free internet video evidence available.

The Other Side

The Other Side: Written by the great graphic artist Alfred Kubin, this is one nutty book. If you’ve seen any of his deranged, grotesque illustrations, you won’t be surprised by this deranged, grotesque “novel.” We put novel in quotation marks because Kubin’s writing lacks certain technical skills, chief among them comprehensibility. Stuff happens in this book just because stuff happens. If you are willing to go along for the ride, you’ll be treated to one of the great literary freak shows.

The Other Side tells the story of the narrator’s and his wife’s journey to the Dream Realm, which was founded by the mysterious Patera, former classmate of the narrator and now a nearly supernatural figure. The Dream Realm is a 1200 square mile patch of Asia shut off from the rest of the world by a massive wall, and meant to be refuge for those unhappy with modern civilization. The residents of the Dream Realm are said to “exist in moods alone.” But the narrator and his wife soon find it to be a gloomy landscape of shabby buildings inhabited by a population of neurotics, misfits and human oddities. The bizarre atmosphere and queer occurrences  take their toll, producing an accumulating anxiety and sense of dread, and the narrator’s wife dies a vague death of nervous exhaustion, which provokes in the narrator a morbid libido, as just a few hours after his wife’s funeral he seduces a married woman. The narrator finds a temporary peace with the blue-eyed tribe, a group of indigenous hermits who practice a zen-like way of life. With these people the narrator discovers the joys of quiet contemplation, and discovers, to his shock, his inner being: “I found that my self was composed of countless selves, each one lurking behind the other, each one seeming bigger and more taciturn than the one in front. The last ones disappeared in the shadows, beyond my comprehension. Each of these selves had ideas of its own.” 

But the quiet life is broken with the uninvited arrival of an ugly American into the Dream Realm, who wants to dethrone Patera and remake the place in his own image, but his plans only cause a fissure in the Realm’s delicate balance, and soon chaos erupts: a sleeping sickness ensues, animals run wild and copulate in a frenzy, buildings and objects begin to decay rapidly, ants inherit the earth, the citizens descend to base carnality, engaging in mass orgy, with no limit, including incest and pedophilia. After the American’s failed revolution, mass murders begin and bizarre ecological disasters occur until the even more lunatick grand finale, were a vengeful Patera becomes a titan, spraying his boiling urine all over the earth, and then engages in a last battle with a now similarly titanic American, which ends in both of them expanding and contracting like demented universes collapsing upon themselves, leaving Patera to survive in death, while the American survives in life.

Huh? What did it all mean? Who knows? It makes Revelation seem straightforward. Fittingly, this mad masterpiece ends with the following: “True hell lies in the fact that this discordant clash continues within us. Even love has its focus ‘between faeces and urine.’ The sublime can fall prey to the ridiculous, to derision, to iron.” Amen, brother.

Calvin & Tiny

I haven't been up to Marion, MI in a long time, since my mother died some years ago.  Bored, I drove up there a couple days ago, just to see if it was still the same.  It pretty much is.  I ran into a couple fellas I knew back in the day, Calvin & Tiny.

Calvin had to move into a trailer on his brother-in-law's dairy farm after he lost his 400 sq ft cabin on the Middle Branch river. He borrows his brother-in-law's truck every now and then and drives by his old place, to see what's been poached. A little wood deck has been stripped off, a storage shed is gone, as is a winter's worth of firewood. He used to get by doing odd jobs farm-to-farm, repairs, painting, hauling, whatever needed done. But now nobody has money to pay for labor, the locals either do the work themselves, or let it go undone.

"Well," I says to him, trying to find the bright side, "it looks like you haven't missed too many meals, at least."

"Shit," he says, "I work a few chores for my brother-in-law, takes two hours a day, if I move slows. Then I eat and eat. Sit in the trailer and get fatter and fatter. I get fat and think about my cabin. I built it my God damn self. It ain't nothing much, but I miss looking out at the river every night."

Tiny owns a gas station and party store on M-115—but the last couple years there haven't been nearly as many city slickers from SE Michigan coming up to *get away from it all.* Tiny used to give a couple high school kids part-time summer jobs—not anymore, now he and his wife do all the work. Tiny figures he can hang on two more years, then after that? “I’d rather not think about it,” he says. Tiny's wife, who is nearly as *tiny* as Tiny, says they'll probably end up working at the Wal-Mart in Cadillac. "If we can even get that," Tiny adds.

Omens, Then & Now

Been reading some of the more obscure writings of Francis Bacon, and was floored by how closely this matched my present mood, despite it being penned some four hundred years ago:

Hark, of late, when I do enter a shoppe, a mercantile house, or some manner of trading place—be it a market of victuals or a house of sundry wares, such as that great hall of trade men call Target—the presence of others, those wretches called customers, doth weigh upon mine own spirit as a yoke upon the neck of the ox. Yea, their very presence doth oppress me.

This selfsame affliction doth seize me not only within the confines of such houses of trade, but likewise in those foul taverns of hasty victuals, and upon the crowded thoroughfares where the multitude doth press and jostle without cease. Yet mark thee well! This malady troubleth me not within the hallowed hush of a library. Nay, nor doth it beset me in a bookseller’s shoppe, though therein it lurketh as it doth in all other places of exchange. For these be the places wherein I chiefly go.

Yet lo! Amidst this throng—this heavy and loathsome tide of human flesh, vile as meat left too long upon the butcher’s block—there be, as salt cast unto a dish most rank, a scant few women whom I should desire to know in that most carnal wise. Women slender of form, be they lofty or of lesser stature, golden-haired or dark of tress, ruddy as flame or even she whose locks bear the hue of some strange artifice—yet ever they be thin. Thin women of all ages. And verily, I do believe that should I have but one of them, take her in such manner as nature ordaineth, this grievous oppression would be lifted from me. Yet such relief is not granted. And thus, whilst I linger in the shoppe, the mart, or the house of wares, I do yet remain oppressed.

These customers—they do seem sinister… Nay, not sinister, but something fouler still. They are ominous, yea, they are dread portents. But what doom do they foretell?

Hell.

And so it is no marvel that when I step within a shoppe, a mercantile house, or some such den of trade—be it a market of victuals or a place of sundry wares—the presence of others, these so-called customers, doth weigh upon me as the very shadow of damnation itself.

I Miss The '60s

You know, when you look around at all the craziness in America, the tranxiety, the border neuroses, the imbeciles running the government and escalating the decline in the quality of life, the pockets of zombie homeless, the poor mental and physical health of the sheeple, the poverty, the absurd grabs for Greenland and Canada, and you combine that with the darkness from Palestine, Ukraine, the threat of war in Iran, this may be the most miserable state of the world I have seen in in my lifetime, certainly the worst in the last 50 - 55 years.

I was 7 years old in 1967, and I remember that time and the years until the mid-'70s as being pretty wild. The Vietnam war, the war protests, the race riots, the assassinations, Manson, the lunar landing—probably more chaos, death, spectacle and upheaval than right now. . . but the sheeple back then were mentally and physically healthier, they were far better able to accurately process what was going on around them than today's sheeple.  And I saw that in spite of all constant churn, the sheeple back then were far more hopeful, and much less depressed than the sheeple today.  The youth believed a better Age was dawning.  Look at those three groovy chicks in the photo above, look how happy, look at the smiles!  Nobody smiles today.  Now people are afraid of their own shadow, and of who’s pissing next to them in the shitter.

Even though in the late '60s and early '70s the American people were divided over the war and race issues, they maintained a higher degree of civility on the individual level. People didn't rage and brawl in fast food restaurants and on airplanes, they didn't shoot each other at work and at school.  People didn't call the police over every personal offense. Today there is open hatred of those who hold contrary opinion.  Much of this can be attributed to the dehumanizing effects of the electronic age.  The other is not a flesh-and blood-human, but a clashing electronic viewpoint in our timeline.  As people become more and more isolated in the electronic age, interpersonal relationship skills vanish.  People don't know how to talk to other people, let alone how to get another person naked for sexual activity.  Young people today have higher celibacy rates than medieval clerics.

It's the unpleasantness of other people, their meanness and pettiness, their appetite for violence, that makes our current day seem so much darker and hopeless than the crazy late '60s and early '70s.  

Other people are so disgusting, why even bother to hope for better days?  Who even wants to live with these people?    

No Answer

The soul that believes there is a Higher Power (from whatever religious or scientific faith) cannot answer the infidel's question: why does God allow evil to happen?

The believer will try to answer.  In fact, the believer often truly believes he has the answer.  But his answer is just one of man's homilies, usually one of the following three:

1. God allows evil to display the need for and glory of His redemptive work, His mercy, grace, patience, etc.

2. Free will.  God allows people to make their own choices, and most of them are bad, leading to the degenerate state of the world.

3. God allows evil because, although we cannot see how from the midst of it, it is part of a greater plan that works for a greater good.

None of these answers, or any of the lesser known answers, would satisfy the child, or the family of the child pictured above.  Currently we are witnessing the Israelis inflicting incredible cruelty upon the Palestinians. This is not a historical anomaly.  The Jews themselves suffered incredible horror during WW II, and, in fact, human history is littered with such suffering, both on the collective and the individual level.  

Even those who seem strong in their belief in a Higher Power can abandon that faith when tragedy afflicts them.  

Only one answer is somewhat satisfying to the human mind, the mind that assumes fairness and justice are obligations of existence.  Only the hope of Universal Salvation can ease the sting (and it doesn't completely ease the sting) of evil.  The belief every human being, at *the end of time* will be resurrected to eternal glory, an eternity free of tears and pain, which then offers at least a joyous future as compensation for the present misery. But Universal Salvation is a tiny minority belief in the religious and scientific faiths, and is rarely discussed or debated.

If there is no Higher Power, no responsible Creator, then the world's pain and suffering is simply a byproduct of the accident of life.  Life mutated into horror.

But for the person of religious or scientific faith in a Higher Power, is there really nothing better to be offered as a consolation for the suffering?  Is there really nothing more we can say than trust God's plan, His ways are not our ways, and in the end glory awaits (at least, glory awaits for some)? 

Is there anything else we can offer the injured, dying child, and his family?

No.

Hindus believe in karma, but that gives little solace in the here and now of misery, and besides, if we honestly assess human history, we see an overwhelming unbalance in the favor of bad karma.

The infidel shouldn't be troubled or surprised by the agony of life.  The unbeliever is convinced life is the result of a random act of violence so terrifyingly powerful it continues without end, and all the accidental life forms that it tore from the void suffer and die for whatever life form exists in the present, and they too will suffer and die and be the genesis of the universe's next miserable creatures.

Personally, I find solace in the life of Christ.  Jesus was despised and rejected, a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief, so much so He seemed stricken and smitten of God, He was tortured and murdered.  

So when I look at the broken body of the Palestinian child, the victim of Israel, I hear the words of Jesus:

The servant is not greater than his Lord. If they have persecuted Me, they will also persecute you.

I can only pray all the miserable people of the world are called to serve the Lord.

The Fugitive

Over 60 years old now, The Fugitive remains one of my all-tme favorite television shows. It starred David Janssen as Dr. Richard Kimble, a physician wrongly convicted of murdering his wife and sentenced to death. Kimble escaped from prison and went on the run, often frequently helping the people he was hiding amongst, all the while determined to find the real killer, a sinister one-armed man. Along the way, he was pursued by Lieutenant Gerard (played by Barry Morse), a dogged, humorless detective who was obsessed with returning Kimble to death row.

The plot was loosely borrowed from Victor Hugo’s classic 19th century French novel Les Misérables, with the Kimble character being the counterpart of Hugo’s fugitive Jean Valjean, and Lieutenant Gerard based on Hugo’s Frech police inspector Javert.

The Fugitive was both a critical and commercial success, winning four Primetime Emmy Awards and becoming one of the most popular television shows of the 1960s. It was a groundbreaking show that helped to shape the television landscape. It was one of the first shows to deal with serious issues in a realistic way, and it helped to raise awareness of important social issues, such as race relations, domestic violence, poverty, addiction, mental health, even the plight of migrant workers.

What made The Fugitive so great, though, was the lead actor David Janssen. Yes the scripts were generally above average, and they dealt with some interesting issues, but it was David Janssen‘s portrayal of Dr. Ruchard Kimble that really drew the viewer in. Jansen gave a fantastic performance as the fugitive. He brought a great deal of depth and nuance to the role, and he made Kimble a sympathetic and relatable character. Here was a character who lived the fine life, a rich, successful doctor who had come to take the blessings in his life, including his wife, for granted. But In a twist of fate worthy of Greek tragedy he is brought low, and must experience life again at its most humble, running from town to town, living in constant fear of being discovered, working menial jobs, associating with classes of people he had long since been isolated from. And, as his greatest curse, he becomes a man who must live completely alone in the world.

There have been a lot of books and movies about the last man on earth, some poor schmuck who is the only survivor of some kind of apocalyptic event and is left to wander a desolate landscape all by himself. Well that’s essentially the fate of David Janssen‘s character. He has to live as if he’s the last man on earth, even though he’s surrounded by the living. He can’t afford to let anyone know he is there. He can’t tell anybody who he is or what he’s up to for fear of being betrayed and/or captured. It’s a fantastic performance, Janssen is able to express the frustration, the stress, the tension of always having to look over his shoulder, always having to be careful of what he says. He gives a very subdued, subtle performance, he shrugs, sticks his hands in his pockets, hems and haws as he gives vague answers to questions, always glancing for the nearest exit.

Listen, anybody who has ever worked at a job knows that sooner or later at least one person, some workplace busybody is gonna try to butt into your life and figure out who you are. As the fugitive flees from town to town, he takes on countless odd jobs and temporary work, and invariably runs up against some workplace leech. It’s very tiring having to live while always hiding who you really are. David Jansen‘s character expresses that kind of fatigue very well, the fatigue of living contrary to your nature. Janssen’s Richard Kimble is the great world-weary representative of every one of us who has ever, for however brief or long, tried to live a secret life.

The Fugitive, a great, great show. You know over the years they’ve done different versions of the show, even a Harrison Ford movie, but what they’ve never tried and what would be much more interesting than trying to remake something that was already done almost perfectly, is if they did a movie which showed the fugitive trying to go back to living as Richard Kimble. How difficult would it be to try to go back and live your true life, after having lived a different life for so long? Perhaps you would have discovered that what you had thought your true life was wasn’t really true at all. . . maybe there were lies in that life, also? Would you pick them up again? Is everybody, at their core, a fugitive from their true self?