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Friday, January 8, 2016

White Man's Burden comes home to roost...

New Year's Eve in any big drunken public space is usually pretty gruesome but Germans got their lederhosen in a big head-up-the-ass knot over attacks on women by gangs of suspected North African and Middle Eastern guys at Cologne's train station while 'revelers enjoy the celebration.' (ie: a big herd of drunks hanging out setting off fireworks).

Sorry, Mutti Merkel, not all refugees are cuddle toys!

Like any other population, they will include a percentage of young male assholes and criminals, and they have every demographic "right" to be so.
Germany wanted more low-paid toilet cleaners & geriatrics' ass wipers. They got em!

White Man's burden has come home to roost and the historical irony is pretty rich. The media tried to pretend it didn't happen but that backfired badly. I guess nobody told them about social media.

So some newspapers began to do their job and invesigators quoted police on scene as checking IDs and finding most of those they checked, who were suspected of causing trouble, were asylum seekers. Witnesses and victims said the men "looked" North African or Middle Eastern. So what? They're supposed to be saints because gentrified German hypocrites want to polishing their halos on them?

Being nice and pc and respecting women is not required to be granted asylum, as far as I know and expecting men from a vastly different culture, which treats women as property, to instantly become Westernized and culturally-sensitive is a nice fantasy but then reality sometimes intervenes.
 
So who were the perps? There are over 300 cameras in the area but police are loathe to release footage due to "political awkwardness."

The Euro bourgeois elite political class had better come to grips with this reality soon or the goosestepping won't be far behind. Young angry men whose lives have been destroyed by ravenous Western imperialism may not want to behave like grateful house pets.

Saturday, January 2, 2016

FOR THOSE OF YOU UNDER 18

Goodreads is monitoring your reading habits by censoring my new novel for 18+ only, or any other book they decide belongs in that category.
My new novel is called:


Thankfully, that only provokes people under 18 to look for it. Goodreads as Mommy Boss Authority Figure. A great place in life to begin to stick up your finger, kids, and repeat after me: FUCK YOU, FASCIST ASSHOLES! Begin by saying that to your parents. They're not your friends. They're your parents. Don't believe anything they tell you. It's all lies meant to make their lives easier and less embarrassing. Your parents and your teachers, the police and the internet, most of your peers - they are your enemies. They want you to just shut up and obey. They will keep you in diapers forever, control and humiliate you, turn you into nothing but a byte of bullshit.

The fact Goodreads needs to censor work indicates they are a backward, regressive, reactionary organization which has zero faith in the intelligence of its readers.
They don't care about books or readers. It is an algorithm to make money, that's all.
Their goal is revenue; books, bathrobes or bags of medicinal dog vomit, Goodreads has zero interest in what you want to read when THEY decide what is appropriate for your age and fall back on the hypocrisy of "community standards."

Life is about censorship now, despite all the bullshit about freedom of expression.
Now it is most often self-censorship, led by social media fascism like Facebook.
Do not contradict the group on Facebook. You will be attacked and perhaps booted out of the group.
The message is Be A Sheep.
Agree with them.
Hang onto false morality.
Do not step out of line, you will be punished for it.

Wednesday, December 30, 2015

Excerpt from the new novel...



Excerpt chapter:
WHEREABOUTS UNKNOWN


I’m chaperoning Opium at the jammed apartment of Fil’s father, Max. He’s a dyspeptic old crip who fancies himself an inventor. We’re wedged into his pack rat life, a shabby little place in Christie Pits, owned by the noisy Porkchops downstairs. A lot of incandescent lights are on, red paisley wallpaper. Tables and bed are supported by boxes of third and fourth hand war books every chairborne commando must own. A raft of plastic bags fills one corner. Max always asks about his son but I never reply.

“Filmore P. Mann,” he declares. “Whereabouts unknown.”

Opium picks her way through this overheated overstuffed crap pad, idly scoping tiny soldier figurines and boxes of hotrod postcards. Her black hair is in long pigtails with red plastic devil barrettes. She wears Oxfords, white knee socks, kids training pants and a child-size wifebeater. She sucks on a popsicle while examining Max’s collection of scale model WWII British fighter planes hung from the ceiling by fishing wire.

Max is missing his left hand from mid-wrist. I’ve heard a bunch of different versions how it happened, from an inexplicable cleaver attack to the extremely rare Doctor Strangelove Syndrome, where the hand was removed because it kept trying to tear out his throat.

Currently, he’s using an old fleshtone prosthesis bought at a garage sale after losing his yearly allotment. The losses are down to Max getting boozed up and taking off the hand to play up some drunken gag and forgetting it on the bar.

Pensioned off from the Transit Commission’s ideological purity division years ago, he whiles away his days building dildo attachments adapted to fit onto a universally swiveling mount he sticks over his stump, custom braced all the way to the elbow. His dildo arm is twice as thick as his drinking and smoking arm so he’s ended up looking like a tennis player.

Max’s Friday night visits from Opium have been going on for quite some time─months, I guess. To truly get off, he requires a very specific set up. She must wear her child’s underthings and sit in the oversized wingback opposite, feet dangling as she reads aloud from a dumbed down fairy tale collection, one of those volumes with the pop-up 3D characters. Max playfully menaces her with one of his dildo attachments, making it rev up and down with suggestive zings. She smiles shyly and continues to read, slow and unsure, as a child of five might. After about ten minutes of this warm-up, Max discreetly wacks off under a big coffee table volume full of those grainy old trench warfare photos from Passchendaele and Vimy Ridge. Opium pretends not to notice.

I watch Max fuck around with his latest contraption, the Vual 3400 Dildonator, named after a dearly departed pal who Max claims was built like a Khazar donkey─known among aficionados as the donkey’s donkey. Max has used the mechanism from a reciprocating saw with a massive twelve-inch red rubber dong mounted on a metal shaft. The thing’s thick as the business end of a Louisville slugger. It’s powered by heavy duty cables welded to a pair of 24-volt truck batteries sitting on the floor.

He plans to patent and market his creation through “gentlemen’s magazines.” This new device not only pounds up and down but he’s installed a mini gyroscope to effect random wiggles, waggles and figure eights. Max has been badgering me to ask Opium to take a test drive. Yeah, that’ll work. The chick’s got like a fifteen inch waist.

“Approximates skilled fornication method,” Max brags with a bucktoothed grin as he waves it around.

He hits an On switch zip-tied to his upper arm and the dong begins a slow articulated rhumba. A hollow section in its middle is full of colored plastic beads. They rattle and clatter as a blue-lit greeting card diode plays the Average White Band tune, Cut The Cake. The thing does in fact wiggle, woggle and wondrously worm its way through a snappy little routine. Opium doesn’t look up from her fairy tales.

After a minute or so the Dildonator seems to get stuck and repeatedly swivels to the left. The motor whines as the mega-dong angrily pogos up and down, as if throwing a tantrum. Max hits the Off switch but no dice. The beast howls and dervishes. Its centrifugal force almost throws him out of his wheelchair. Max battles to unlock it from the gyrating base. It’s clamped on tight. He yowls in pain when the thing almost twists off a finger.

The motor bursts into flame, igniting the sparkle-filled red rubber phallus. It quickly liquefies black. Max shrieks as molten effluent runs down to his forearm. I grab the loco dong with the sleeves of my jacket and try to tear it off him. The thing deforms in my hands, its slimy napalm ooze sticking to me and anything else it touches. Pieces of it drip and run onto the carpet. The rug catches fire. I stamp on it but the goop comes up in flaming strings stuck to my boot.

Opium finally springs into action.

“Don’t get water!” I holler. “It’s an electrical fire.”

“So what then?!” she yells from the kitchen.

“Something powder! Baking soda. Anything!”

I grab a dirty towel off the floor and swat at my sleeve, now going up. The dong motor spins and screeches. I duck as it hurls its remaining guts in a wild 360. The distended nightmare glob twists and sizzles, strung between me, Max and his chair. He screams again as more flaming black rubber splatters his face. I try to corral it with the towel. It too goes up, a fiery white flag.

“Hurry the fuck up!” I yell just as me, Max and the rabid dong get hit with a choking cloud of laundry powder. The light blue crystals clump and smoke but finally kill the melted remains of the haywire dildo. The monster buzzes and farts a final time. Opium stands there, empty jumbo detergent box in her hands. She wears an astonished grin. Max shrugs, sheepish, picks at the bits of melted rubber stuck to his glasses.

Monday, December 28, 2015

New novel from eXcessica Books...

www.amazon.com/dp/B018YBGOG0

Available as Kindle edition or other ebook at:

AMAZON CENSORSHIP & MONOPOLY
FACEBOOK AS SELF-CENSORSHIP PROMOTER
The book is listed as How To XiiX Your Psychiatrist on Amazon to avoid that site's censorship algorithm. The publisher got away with the title on the cover art because it's not spelled out digitally. It's just an image.

Amazon maintains a complex and constantly changing set of censorship parameters that are altered frequently without clear reason or warning. However, this only applies to smaller and medium sized publishers and not to the larger publishing houses, with whom Amazon agreed to a separate set of rules due to the book industry threatening a class-action suit.

Major publishers are excluded from Amazon's censorship algorithm and can publish pretty much any sort of salacious title or cover they wish. For example, the original cover art for my new novel was a woman in a black thong and bra with her back to the camera and holding a motorcycle helmet at her butt. 

Something you would see in countless fashion magazines, on television, billboards, anywhere. And yet, since some ass cheek was visible the image was deemed as 'inappropriate' and the publisher decided to not risk having the book consigned to the 'erotica dungeon', a place where searches can be difficult and sometimes impossible. The result is: How To XiiX Your Psychiatrist.

Some believe this type of very subjective and highly selective cenorship was insisted upon by the major publishing houses, as part of their deal with Amazon. Small and medium sized publishers like eXcessica, along with self-publishing, have become a legitimate threat to traditional publishers, who once controlled the book industry but are now struggling to adapt to and survive the end of the gatekeeper era.  

First Amendment rights, as described by the US Constitution, apply only to the government suppressing freedom of expression among the populace. A corporation like Amazon can practice censorship in any way it sees fit. However, I don't believe their motives are moral or ideological. Their motives are strictly monetary, like any other corporation seeking profits. Amazon doesn't care if they sell books or bathrobes or bags of medicinal dog piss.

Amazon, in cooperation with what's left of the traditional book industry, have created a monopoly on expression - something that might be an anti-trust violation but the ACLU doesn't appear to be taking on that particular fight.
Amazon now controls the book business in the US, Europe and elsewhere. YOUR choices are limited to what Amazon permits.

It's no surprise little is said about Amazon's censorship. Despite all the propaganda about freedom of expression, nowadays it only applies to expressing ideas with which the majority agree.

Adding to the corporate control of ideas and freedom expression, Facebook has become the world's greatest promoter of self-censorship. Join any group of 'friends' then disagree with the group's beliefs and chances are very good you will be attacked and castigated and perhaps - horror of horrors - 'unfriended.'

The message is this:
Be a sheep.
Follow the group.
Do not disagree with the group or you will be punished.



 

Monday, January 26, 2015

WHEN IN DOUBT - FLOWERS

There's this weird thing I heard about...

A husband doesn't give his wife flowers during 20 years of marriage. Not once. Not when their kids are born, not on anniversaries, not on birthdays, nada, zilch, zero, bupkus. Oh, wait. One time he told his secretary to have flowers sent to his wife when he closed a big deal and wanted to celebrate. ie: Take memo. Send flowers to me via wife.

Okay, maybe I'm hopelessly romantic but I love buying flowers for my girl - or for anyone. Who doesn't? Who would flip it off as ridiculous and say: "Flowers? Oh, c'mon. Grow up already."
Is that like a special kind of sociopath? The non-flower buying type? Is it in the DSM nut categorizing manual? Should be.

Flowers are a crucial part of any successful relationship and an important marital aid. Not only do you get to look like a good guy in the flower store and on the way to giving the flowers to that special person, but when every woman and relatively enlightened guy sees you, as you're marching along with a bunch of colorful flowers in your fist, bright eyed with happy anticipation, they all go: "Awww... what a good guy."

But the non-flower giving guy had his reasons, apparently. He felt flowers were corny and unnecessary. If I was a woman and a guy went two weeks without flowers, forget two effin' decades - I'd be throwing his butt onto the curb with the trash. No flowers, huh? Okay, no nookie. Whaddaya mean that won't work? Why not? Oh, c'mon, grow up, sex is so corny and unnecessary. I've had the kid. What do you need sex for?

Now here's the really weird part. The wife in this spousal partnership, or whatever you'd call a thing where the guy never buys flowers, she felt she couldn't impose on him to be someone he's not - ie: a flower-buying guy. She didn't feel she could force him to not be a self absorbed a-hole who can't think of anyone but himself for a single moment. Oh, well, sure, I get that. Live and let live. "He just doesn't have it in him." Uh, yeah.
No wonder their love life stinks.

And she actually wonders why things have gone flat? Why the magic's worn off and the fire's died, etc etc? Duh. Here's a clue, Dr. Watson. A pathological lack of flowers would undermine the whole shebang and turn it into a she-not-bang. How hot are you gonna get for a guy who's NEVER bought you flowers? Seriously. Imagine the underlying pathology. Some sort of really bizarre enabling kinda unspoken freak show. Yesh.

And how the hell does he get sheepish and apologize for being a jerk without flowers? What the hell? How does that work? When you've messed up and pissed her off, there's a law somewhere on the books that says you MUST go to a good flower store and get her a bunch of nice flowers - not corner store dying carnations, but real flowers. And no, not a big bushel of melodramatic blood red roses.

Don't put some big pressure on. Just drag your ass in there with some nice flowers, you shrug and mutter: "Sorry, baby... I know I been a real jackoff."
And she'll pout and reply: "Yeah, you have."
And then you give her the flowers. And if you haven't screwed up really bad, she'll smile that in spite of herself Okay, I guess you're not a total jerk smile and your ass is hopefully out of the fire. Try pulling that off without flowers. You'll be lucky to sleep in the garage.

Or what happens when at the last minute you're going to someone's house and you grab a bottle of wine and....? Yeah, flowers. Show up with just a bottle and you're a lush. Show up with flowers and wine and it's a bit of class. Your hostess looks at you and thinks, Hm... I guess he isn't a total dirtbag, after all.

And what about all that other stuff - anniversaries, birthdays, other happy occasions? As my mum used to say: "Don't show up with empty hands a'swingin'."

Amazing this is even a topic of any kind. Seems implausible. Of course the worst part is the wife putting up with this creep's no-flowers psychosis and even making excuses for it and claiming to be no worse for wear. Nice try but I did notice she cringed when he touched her.

So remember... When in doubt - flowers.
My personal fave, wild flowers


Sunday, November 23, 2014

THEY DIED FUCKING

When I was a kid my parents knew a couple called George and Georgia. Both were made of that exotic mongrel mix you get in southeastern Europe, the land bridge going into Turkey and the Middle East. Mobs of marauders and rapists have been through there for centuries.


George was swarthy and handsome. He'd have looked right at home with a top-knot and Fu Manchu, shirtless and carrying a scimitar. Georgia wasn't magazine beautiful but had a rare blonde sensuality. Not easy for a woman with pale hair, pale skin and pale gray eyes to come off fiery but she did it with a kind of deeper sweet hunger.

Their real strength was others didn't exist for them. George was a typical man of his era, tall and masculine, didn't dance, a sublime undertone of confidence and power. Women went all girlish and soft near him.

The same way men doted on Georgia's sweetness, which seemed to be for the whole world but she was just being a good girl. When those two looked at one another, they burned everything else away. Married but no kids, which was strange for the time and she openly dismissed the idea as "Not for us."

I guess they were too busy fucking to be parents. I was like ten or something and at some big wedding or baptism in a church basement me and a few other kids saw George and Georgia steaming up their car windows out in the parking lot. I guess they couldn't wait to get home, just had to take a break from the drinking and socializing to lay on a good fuck. They seemed a lot younger than my parents or their other friends. Fucking will do that. Amazing they didn't get sick of one another the way couples usually do.

Anyway, my original point was about this thing Georgia would do. A couple times she dropped George off at a cafeteria my old man owned a piece of. George was a highly skilled carpenter. He usually did bowling alley lanes with an uncle of mine but since my old man had found him a cool hotrod Buick at a good price, George came round for a few days and built a new cafeteria counter.

I'd be sitting outside peeling potatoes in the alley way and see them pull in and she'd wipe his mouth and his mustache with her hand. Actually, more like fondle his face and mouth, this really slutty smile on her. I didn't recognize it as such then, being just some stupid kid, but I realized later on what her look meant.

I asked my old man about the mouth fondling and he was never a subtle guy. "She wipes her wet pussy first," he grunted then gave me a leer and winked but didn't explain further and I didn't ask since I had no clue what he was talking about.

George and Georgia looked so natural in his hopped-up Buick Skylark coupe. They were a pair of Balkan fuck freaks yet easily slipped into the beautiful American open road forever nihilism of that very romantic era. Now it's all about gas mileage and hard-on drugs and traffic tickets.

I'm talking about ancient ideas pushed so well by those old hotrods merging speed and love in a perfect way cuz they had a front bench seat, like a big sofa, so were pretty much made for George and Georgia. Not like cars nowadays with the straight jacket bucket seats you're strapped into and can't touch each other. Well, maybe hold hands.

Try giving a driver's seat blow job in your average commuter car today. The one doing the blowing will end up eviscerated by some lever or other plastic protuberance - and you'll both get a raft of tickets issued by some safety-obsessed paramilitary idiot cop.

The crazy thing is not long after George built the cafeteria counter they were both killed in a high speed crash. The police said it happened for no apparent reason on a straight away, during a warm sunny day. So I figure they must have died fucking, Georgia straddling George in the driver's seat, the windshield fogged up, her ass knocks the steering wheel sideways and the Buick bashes into the guard rail at 100 mph and goes cartwheeling down a steep rocky gorge to explode on impact - their huge A-Bomb mushroom cloud of burnin' hot love. Talk about going out in style...