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Wednesday, December 17, 2014

Where Amazin' Adolf and his Nazi hipsters are the height of fashion...

For many people it might be difficult to grasp but in some parts of the world, like east Asia, Hitler and Nazi imagery are the height of hip fashion. They're considered cool, super stylish and on the level of global brands like Dolce & Gabbana, Yves Saint-Laurent or Hello Kitty.

Even governments get into the act, funding parades, plays, movies, magazines and what have you, featuring stuff like school kids marching in fafferized versions of Gestapo uniforms while carrying banners of "Superhero Hitler" and singing about what an awesome dude he is and how much they dig his songs.

Then there was some animated dreck of a cliche art student in smock and beret happily painting a portrait of Der Fuhrer looking fit and heroic as hell.
Yeah, many think he's still alive and recording new hits and living the high life somewhere out there in Farang Land. 

The Israeli ambassador to Thailand tried to get across the idea this stuff is not cool when he said he was 'deeply saddened' by a Thai movie that grooved on Adolf and his Nazi pals. The movie was funded by the government. Officials were a bit embarrassed and said they'd look into it.

The doof who made the film was annoyed at the offense taken by some noisy asshole who had 6 million relatives gassed by Adolf's crew. "I don't see why it's a problem," the director remarked. "It's not about anything. It's just a movie."

Yep, everything from burger joints to handbags, music videos and swizzle sticks have turned the ol' psycho Austrian into a branding machine. A few days ago I ran across a motorcycle with big Hitler stickers on both sides, including a swastika. It was pointed out to me the swastika was actually backward to what the Nazis used, thus being the old Hindu symbol. Oh, well, in that case...

Japan used to be a regional leader in this respect. At one point they had, and still might have, a hardcore right wing anti-Semitic party, using full-on Nazi regalia, jack boots, the whole schmear. This despite a dearth of Jews in the country.
"Kick out the Jews!"
"We don't have any."

"Well, then go find some and kick them out! Better still, gas them! Do I have to think of everything?"

In Thailand anyone who complains is told to take a powder, chill, sabei sabei , buddy, what's the big deal? So you don't like his music. Fine. What are you getting so excited about? Just change the song, ffs.

Some people say it's a lack of history classes in schools. The average person doesn't realize who Amazin' Adolf was and what he stood for. As far as most are aware, he's no different than a supermodel who's become a singing sensation. The guy's just trying to cash in on his cache. Wtf?

When I bothered to explain a little bit about who Hitler was and what he and his gang of psychos did, many people became incredulous. They smiled quizzically.
"Get the fuck outa here... You're pullin my leg."
"No, seriously. The guy headed up Germany for a few years, conquered most of Europe and killed millions. It was big news over there, this thing called World War II."
"No shit..."
"Yeah. I guess you guys missed it."
"Hm... I guess so... Well, he still looks cool."

Of course, the irony is the much-loved Adolf didn't considered Asians to be anything more than a species of ground-hugging monkey. Hitler's basic view was there's way too many Asians and they should be wiped off the face of the earth. Okay, maybe keep a few around to do the laundry...

Saturday, November 29, 2014


I used to write for a moronic so-called BDSM magazine called Kinky. They've been shit sniffing around again, wondering if I'm willing to once more bend over. However, we have something of a checkered past.

When I wrote for them, until last spring, they paid me a bit and promised gallons of "exposure." To what, they didn't say. Eventually it got to be a drag. Trouble was, they didn't pay for the majority of filler type crap they put in the mag, meaning the site's content was packed with "volunteer" submissions by cut-and-paste boneheads who wouldn't know writing from rat fucking.

Back in the fall of 2013, despite the dumb name, Kinky started out not too bad, had a bit of promise but all the content they ripped off from other fetish sites gave the thing a bad stink and eventually drove the whole shit wagon downhill. So the original publisher, Mike Stabile, and the original editor, Aleks Kang, they both quit and moved on. Underpaid and overworked, they were too smart to stick with that dog. I joined them not long after, especially when I realized my labors were netting me about five cents an hour.

And yeah, the name of the mag itself is pretty embarrassing. Kinky. Sounds so half-assed and indicates a serious lack of commitment to anything, especially anything hot. It's mealy-mouthed and bullshitty. "Hi, wanna get Kinky?" Ugh. No thanks.

Kinky's "volunteer experts" are led by an old creep called Master Simon. He's one of these pasty late-comer wannabes and claims he's been in the "BDSM scene" since 1975. He plagiarizes a lot of stuff, steals pictures and gets some geek to photoshop out the watermark, real low end bullshit. 

What's weird is the mag allows replies to his articles to go up unedited and they are usually vicious and justified attacks on good ol' Master Simon, his claims and sources, his credibility and his outright theft. Maybe the new publisher, who goes by the name Tomcat, maybe he has some sort of obscure digital fetish - does everything in his power to make himself appear to be a total fucking idiot with zero self respect. Hey, man, he's into it. He's not harming anyone...

Another problem is in the 1970's the term "BDSM" didn't exist, especially in the de-balled plasticized theatrical manifestation you get nowadays. Back then it was referred to as "criminal sexual deviancy" and included almost no women. It was pretty much a strictly homo bath house thing and it was fucking extreme but I won't go into that right now.

Anyway, tell me what sounds hotter, BDSM or Criminal Sexual Deviancy, being a "Kinkster" or being a "Deviant." Which would you rather be? Which party would you rather go to? Besides, this whole caring/sharing/nice people faring approach, this hideous middle class obsession with turning perving into a spineless little poodle every milquetoast can pet and jack off on, it is sadly ironic.

Kinky Magazine also has a couple of generic porn stars who "write" for them. These airheads couldn't Twit their Twat so they end up inadvertently but happily "celebrating" the cliche of the empty headed cocksucking porn skank. I watched a couple minutes of their cornball videos and, man, they are dead soft. I wouldn't cross the room to face fuck either of those doofi.

Well, younger women are generally pretty useless fucks, almost as bad as younger guys. Just gormless. They think they're all that but know dick about dick, not a clue about 3D perving or any of what fuels the fires. Sure, any young porn hag can do quantity; suck cock by the mile, drown in bukkake and pull a train a thousand cars long, but they're far too dense to tie a knot one-handed, as the old saying goes.

So Kinky has asked me if I want to write for them again and do some more foul mouthed podcasts. But they insist no dogs and no sucking bleeding pussy. Wtf is up with that? Why are so many purportedly "kinked" morons so against sucking on a woman's menstruating pussy? What's not to like? The smell, the taste - the bloodier the better. As a friend once remarked: "Welcome to the Crimson Tide, baby."

Oh yeah, sugar... lemme spread your bloody pussy and suck it outa you like it is the end of life itself, like a consuming conflagration of vacuum faced cunt loving maniac, suck it even harder after it runs into your contracting asshole and comes back out so bitter on my tongue...
Mmmmm.... yeah... all that good shit... So anybody with a hangup about something so perfectly visceral, those gimps should stick to being 2D digital diddlers, a mile wide and an inch deep.

Anyway, so I thought I'd apply the D and the S in Kinky's BDSM ouvre and became very abusive, treated them like the absolute low life cheap fucks they are, starting with their cheapest trick and dirtbag owner, Peter Acworth. The guy made a fortune flattering the homespun pud pounders who pay good money to watch his ham-fisted Gotherina wank videos.

How his site's "members" actually get hard and jack off to that shit - Jeezus - it is a scarifying indictment into either how little imagination their sociopathic minds possess or just how little they actually get laid. It'd be depressing if it wasn't so pathetically funny. "Viewers" of these cheeseball Kink videos get to "critique" the "performances" and their semi-literate horseshit is a total scream.

Some long time Kink devotee will write hilarious crap like: "I found LaFleesha's performation to be inspirationed, adding heretofore unknown passioning to the form. Her bowel rimming scene in Fox Force 5 was especially moved yet lighthearted, manifesting a certain demental frissonation and creating a genuine andidote of access for the viewer. Kudos to LaFleesha. PS- Love the new asterisk tattoo on the end of your nose, babe."

So... my second debut with Kinky is not to be. We couldn't come to an agreement cuz even stupid old whores like me eventually learn to insist on getting paid real money BEFORE I sucka the big peenjo...

Sunday, November 23, 2014


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...

Friday, November 14, 2014


I was recently sent the following message from what I'm told is a local swingers collective. I think I'll give up trying to write satire. The names have not been changed in order to protect the credulous...

If you come alone or with your partner please be here no later than 6pm; please bring a chemise or something similar to wear when not actively engaged. You do not have to, it is not required but most of the ladies like slipping something on even if it is waist or hip long when they take a break for a drink or snack, or go to the bathroom to freshen up.

pleas email us at and all we ask for is a face picture so we know who is showing up at the door. this is not required either but is a good comfort factor for us.

I think the youngest is 30 and the oldest, bringing his GF too if I remember right, is 65 or 66 and I am 60 and I am a Master.

I hope it is not a problem that all the males are white.

When you get to the house we will give the ladies a quick tour, we have three bedrooms and three full baths w/three showers.

One bedroom has a king sized bed and one has a queen while the middle room has a double.

We have a range of toys and equipment, all well sanitized but pls bring your own if you wish something specific.

If you have special requirements, pls write them down so it can be circulated among the men attending so there are no awkward or embarrassing moments.

Please let me know if you d can tell me Saturday. We want to make sure the guys know who does so they do not try anything with those that do NOT.

Okay, we currently have several couples; 4-5 single men and 2-3 Single females.

We are in the Esmeralda apartments; 64-66 Soi Nagmduplee, Rama 4 Rd.
Apt 7C, tell the guards you are visiting RichardMcCormick.

Nagmduplee is Sathonr area; behind the big Q House Lumpini.

It can be accessed down Sathon Soi 1 or off of Rama 4. Soi 1 dead ends on nagmduplee , turn RIGHT, 25 ' entrance to Esmeralda on RIGHT we are in UPPER tower.

From Rama 4 you turn directly onto Nagmduplee. Stay straight, all cab drivers want to turn. When you pass the only 7-11 (scary I know) you are close. Stay straight. Pass the intersection (Soi 1 enters on your right) and again stay straight and 25' on right side

Walking distance from the 7-11 or the IBIS Hotel on Soi Nagmduplee.

Again - upper tower.

Anything else? Oh, no drugs, no drunks and no vulgar language. We will have drinks and snacks. We just folk to have fun and get what they want.

And please be aware we practice safe sex and keep to strict safe word limits and all encounters will be monitored to keep all safe and for no misunderstandings.

And if you wish a particular group activity such as GB, please let us know beforehand to again ensure there is no embarrassment.


Master Richard

Friday, October 24, 2014


I got an email from some pretend college in Canada offering weekend courses in how to write fiction and get published.
"We're Ready When You Are."
They make it sound as if you're building a deck. 5 Easy Steps To Being A Nuisance!

The course will "Launch you toward the top tier in the highly competitive world of modern fiction." But it doesn't say where you'll land after being launched toward the top tier.


I love this Ikea style branding. It's 10 hours over 2 days of "a simple and easily understood assignment and peer-review based learning process."

PT Barnum and Ripley got rich off these rubes. Incredible they'll pay $350 each to be diapered and stroked by some loser in a plaid shirt.

But the really depressing part is the "Instructors."
Paid pretty much shit, a dumpy middle aged schmendrick must drag his sorry ass outa bed on a freezing Saturday morning in some obscure hick town called Parry Sound and go deal with the aspirations of a bunch of angry housewives and the one geeky gy who's got half a foot out of the closet door and wants to start a magazine.

So here's the "instructor" - driving his shitty little leased car across the wind swept plains of some Canadian steppe, full of dread at the upcoming two days locked in a room with a herd of big mouthed yentas who'll sit at the front and kibitz and openly compare him to some other asshole instructor and demand their money's worth.

While getting his drive-thru ten dollar coffee from the new Cognoscenti's outlet, he prays for a willowy little English lit major to show up and sit at the back of the class and shyly pull out a copy of his pointless novel, hoping he'll personally sign it. He'll tell her she has talent, she's not like the others, her pussy's definitely not like the others, etc etc. He checks his bald spot in the rearview mirror and wishes he had the money to buy Rogaine on a regular basis. 

Then he curses himself for being such a putz to marry that fucking cow who ditched his ass after screwing some hockey player and she's now living downtown in HIS condo with their ingrate kid going to a fancy school, while the dyke cunts who run the government force him to pay through the ass and he's the actual artist in the family and he had to move to this whitebread buttfuck end of nowhere and beg for a job as an "Associate Instructor" at a former agricultural school after they took government money to create an "arts based curriculum" for the hags who bought big boxes houses up here a hundred miles from town because they're too cheap and stupid to have cashed in on the red hot real estate market in the city and now he's making $175 bucks for 10 hours of HIS time to teach them how to get published. What the fuck.

If he had any balls he'd drive to the city, find that other bitch, his so-called publisher, and beat her to death with a tire iron. His most recent novel, A Dog's Breath, won two "non-monetary" but noteworthy awards and then he once again got zero attention because his grant-whore publisher couldn't give away free money, let alone sell a fucking book.

And forget having his bonehead students work on whatever garbage they type on their laptops worth more than he makes in a month. Noooooo. He, a published author, will be harangued, harassed and hammer-locked into giving them the Secret to seeing their slop published - ie: shoved between the covers of some cock-eyed Print On Demand piece of dreck.

As he drives away with his coffee and settles back into the more soothing notion of a willowy little thing grasping his genius, he takes a sip and almost vomits onto the steering wheel. He very specifically asked for a Neo-Grande Double Naught Despresso Famagusta and they gave him fucking coffee!

In a rage, he tries to reverse but a giant SUV is already at the window and to get back in line he must exit the parking lot, drive three miles to get around the concrete divider then wait ten minutes to make a left turn back into the official drive-thru entrance and once again join the parade of waiting cars.
hey, teach...

Monday, October 20, 2014


I still get some manuscripts sent to me, a few per week. People who want to be writers tentatively reaching out. Some seem to believe since I've gotten published somehow, and I'm living in SE Asia, I've figured out something they haven't.

Honestly, I wouldn't recommend writing to anyone. For me it's a terrible compulsion. I spent 2.5 decades or so as a narcotics addict and a general waste of space. It left a huge hole in my life when I came to Thailand and quit using. I mean, anybody with a keyboard is a 'writer' these days. You'll make more money begging and get far more respect if you can actually do something useful, like fix a flat tire or screw in a light bulb.

Tons of writing sites tell you to post your stuff in exchange for 'exposure.' Pay you money? Don't be gauche. Nobody can tell you if your writing is any good and really, does it matter? Maybe it's just about quantity and nothing to do with quality. Agents tell me to write what 'appeals to readers.' What readers? Who reads anything longer than a couple lines? Why would they? Soon, the Google created Googerator will allow 'readers' to absorb information through an extremely fine wire thinner than a human hair which is inserted into the anus and works wirelessly, the beta version was called Satellass, btw.

So... you will be sodomized with a slow enjoyable pulse and absorb data at quantum rates. Farts will be transliterated to texts for a select group of recipients - your 'friends', so to speak. There won't be any context since experience is an extremely difficult algorithm to parse and of little practical use. However, consumers craniums will house a vast array of admittedly circumscribed human knowledge and also convincingly ape countless human activities, ie: reallyreallyreallysmartapp.

Anyway... I know, it was bizarre to come to one of the world's great narcotics producing centers and quit using but I did. Why did it work when rehab, headshrinkers, beatings and the like didn't help? My theory is the ready supply, high quality and cheap price allowed me to keep postponing what seemed to be the inevitable. I could delay buying good drugs and not worry they wouldn't be there later or tomorrow.

Back home there was constant panic to raise the money, find good stuff and stock up since it likely wouldn't last. Even my doctor there joked he'd come to the airport to take delivery of my body bag.

So writing became a way to try to fill the huge  hole left by a chaotic and time consuming lifestyle. Selling dope, running whores and racing around on a baffed out old Japanese sportbike was very involving. Constantly in a state of rage, I felt I was spitting in fate's eye - like, Fuck you! Kill me now or fuck off! I don't care if I live another minute. Do your worst, Fate, you dirty bitch! Snarl and howl inside my helmet as I'd rip through traffic, take mad chances and near misses. Really stupid stuff.

So writing became a kind of compulsion, something to do in lieu of violently killing myself. No, writing is not something I really enjoy. It's cathartic in its way but mostly I try to write about friends dead or imprisoned or gone nuts, try to keep them from disappearing entirely and I fear I'm forgetting so much, my addled mind losing cohesion, losing clarity, a mad jumble.

But the worst thing about sobriety is waking up every day to once more face myself. Oh, great. You again...

So I write. Not cuz I'm dying to but it might be a way to keep my dead from abandoning me entirely because I am certain there is nothing else out there. No gods or aliens or ghosts or spirits or magic or "earth-like" planets. There is nothing but us and our here and now and this one life you get to try to somehow be human.

But don't fall back on having children to compensate for your own failings. They have their own troubles...

Monday, October 13, 2014


Check this out. I stumbled across some Magick Guy's blog. He seems nice enough, trying to do some holistic type crap with magick. Its sad but whatever, harmless enough hobby.
So he writes some spiel about a very funny demon called Sitri, who has the ability, if properly conjured, to make women drip with heat, basically swallow your cock where you stand, right out of the blue.
A super hot, snooty nose-in-the-air girl goes by, wouldn't piss on you if your hair was on fire, but then she's suddenly gorging on your suddenly massive cock. Great magick trick, right?
Impress the hell out of your friends. Hey, guys, watch this!

So some whiner writes in to Magick Guy bitching he's famous but it hasn't gotten him any extra pussy. A few meek homely women shyly rubbing against his leg a couple times a year but no cock crazed knock-outs begging for some stinkin' hot perv'n 24/7.

Okay, here's his whine, and I didn't make this up:

magus93 said...
So...even if you are correct about sitri shinig forth his light from your soul, who gives a fuck. As long as you get laid, so what. I haven't been getting much more than once or twice a year and I've grown to become a public figure from all my non goetic efforts and hard work so far. Still haven't got much sex. I say it is about damn time for me to get sex and love but mostly sex on a regular basis and who gives a fuck even if you are right. I'd be getting what I want thus I will use goetia...I am almost ready to start once I finish jsut a bit more studying.

Yeah. This guy is for real. Either that or he's a very sublime satirist. It'd be great if he was but I wouldn't bet real money on it.
"love but mostly sex"