American Party

Being a citizen of a client nation of the American empire has always required a certain level of cognitive dissonance and culpability. How do we balance what is marvelous about America with what is evil?

It’s like America is throwing a fantastic barbecue party. There are clowns and a bouncy castle for the kids. There’s so much junk food! There’s live music! Booze! Drugs! Hookers! It is off the fucking chain!

Those of us who can get into the party are just so excited to be invited. We want to be there so much, we ignore that the land America is throwing the party on was stolen from people America murdered. That the food and drugs are paid for with blood money. That the hookers are sex-slaves.

Easy to turn a blind eye, though, because the party is just so much fun.

However, everything is going on around a big shed right in the middle of the yard. We’re all there enjoying ourselves, pointedly ignoring that shed. It’s not talked about. We don’t even look at it. It’s like it doesn’t even exist.

That’s Uncle Sam’s shed, by the way. America’s patriarch. The man who does the dirty work providing all the fun we’re having. That shed is Uncle Sam’s torture chamber, where he liquefies his victims once he’s done working on them.

The shed has always been there. It has always been in use.

But we all party on, doing our best to ignore it.

Now the party’s winding down, though. The sun’s coming up and we desperately need some real food, a long shower, and a deep sleep. Where’s my ride, anyway? The only people left here are the hardcore burnouts doing blow around the fire pit, listening to one of the hookers get sodomized in the bushes nearby.

How do I get home from here?

Oh, there’s Uncle Sam himself now. He’s wandered out of his shed, and he hasn’t bothered to change out of his “work clothes.”

That is a really nice, red white and blue leather apron, though. I wonder what kind of hide it’s made out of?

The Secret of My Non-Success

For years I had this default mental mechanism to seeing successful people; particularly artists and creators. I’d go into this pouty, self-pity-party mode with the central theme being:

“Why can’t I have that? Why do they get to have that and I don’t?”

It took a surprisingly long time for me to figure out the answer to these questions.

I can’t have that because I never did anything to achieve it. I never stuck with something for long enough to even have a chance to fail.

It’s like not starting your car and then complaining that it doesn’t accelerate.

It wasn’t the universe, or fate, that was selfishly depriving me of what I truly deserve. It was me choosing not to do what is necessary to succeed.

In reaching this conclusion, the question had to shift.

Why do I sabotage my own success?

That’s a harder one to answer.

The Cowboy

by Balls Malone

The Cowboy looked down from atop his magnificent steed at the pretty young woman and the three rough looking men who surrounded her.

“Trouble Sally?” he asked in his smooth baritone.

“Jaundice, these men are–” Sally started before she was interrupted as one of the men stepped behind her, clamped his hand over her near-legendary mouth, and drew a huge Bowie knife to wave in front of her dewy eyes. As if of one mind, the other two bandits stepped between her and Jaundice.

“There aint nothing here for ya, mister, less you be lookin for trouble,” said the lankiest of them, with his hand poised over his low-slung pistol like a rattlesnake with five heads and no tail.

“Why, I like trouble,” Jaundice replied, “almost as much as I like sucking shit from your mother’s asshole.”

Puzzled by the inherent wittiness of Jaundice’s retort, all three of the men paused, blinking stupidly at each other. This was all the time Jaundice needed.

With the lightning speed of a man born to action, Jaundice drew his double barreled shotgun from its saddle holster and brought it down hard on the lead brigand’s head, who fell as though struck by a shotgun wielded by God himself. Jaundice continued the natural motion of his swing until it was pointed at the second villain, and he discharged both barrels into his face at a range of less than a foot. Then, trusting in the inherent stupidity of all villains in westerns, Jaundice swung his leg over his mount and slid from the saddle, tossing his empty shotgun to Sally’s captor with a smooth call of “catch!” The man did not disappoint, and dropped his buxom human shield in order to grab the still smoking weapon. Jaundice drew his pistol and shot him right between the eyes.

Sally was by no means any less attractive now that she was covered in the remains of two men’s heads, including the almost complete scalp of the shotgun victim, which dangled jauntily from her bonnet. She ran up to her savior and buried her face in his chest, comforting herself with his manly musk.

“Oh Jaundice! I thought for sure they were going to… well… you know,” she finally managed.

“Now, now, Sally, I’m sure that would only be a mite less tolerable than you’re used to,” The Cowboy answered with a wry grin. Before she could respond indignantly to this, he pushed her to arm’s length. “Don’t get your bloomers in a bunch, Sally. I’m just sassing.”

Jaundice swiveled his steely gaze from her quivering face to the first villain he had struck over the head, who was beginning to come around.

“Why, I reckon I’m going to teach this varmint a lesson he’ll never forget!” Jaundice exclaimed.

He and Sally proceeded to strip the man naked. They tethered him wrists and ankles with rawhide and stakes, face up and spread eagle over a round boulder in the small of his back. Jaundice then commenced to sodomizing him vigorously, face to face, pausing in this only to beat him about the body with brutal punches from his iron-hard fists. Sally, fine lady that she was, helped Jaundice along by massaging his ass and balls from behind as she averted her eyes from the spectacle.

The Cowboy ejaculated inside the villain, who was rendered quite speechless by the manly display he had been treated to. Jaundice and Sally took their time with the next stage. They lit a small fire under the villain’s genitals and slow roasted them good and proper. After waiting for him to pipe down a bit, they cut off his eyelids and left him as he was, staring up at the noonday sun with eyes frying in his head. They rode off together with his screams still echoing in the canyon around them.

It was a good day for Justice.