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Wednesday, March 23, 2016

Newest member of the family...

Me and my girls...
Newest member of the family on the left...
Kawasaki D'Tracker, modified screamer
with powerbomb exhaust.
Loud and lovely...

Wednesday, February 17, 2016

True title reclaimed...

Available as Paperback, Kindle edition or other ebook at:

Amazon isn't a person or people. It's a constantly morphing set of algorithms publishers and writers live in fear of. My publisher warned the title of my novel, How To Fuck Your Psychiatrist would send the book into the "Erotica dungeon," where few would be able to find it and it wouldn't show up on various lists, etc. But the ifs and hows and whys are impossible to predict. The constantly morphing Amazon quasi-brain changes its mind many times per second, or so I'm told.

I fell for the Amazon monopoly's terrorism and came up with a censored name for the novel, How To XiiX Your Psychiatrist since How To F.... or How To XXX etc would all apparently tip off the tight-assed, blue stocking, bible-thumping Amazon algorithms.

But after some weeks I couldn't take seeing my book's title censored like that. Really got on my nerves. Being forced to self-censor due to some vague Amazon threat.

So I changed it to How To Fυck Your Psychiatrist. The trick was to use the lower case version of the Greek letter yiota. It looks like a Latin u but is actually the Latin y when converted on the keyboard.
Amazon's community standards sniffer dogs apparently fell for it and left my novel in the "Romantic Comedy" and "Contemporary Romance" categories, which are very popular word has it, rather than condemning my book to the "Erotica" purgatory.

I really don't get why that's a nightmare but I've been assured you don't want any book there. Amazon "anchors" it so casual searches don't turn it up. You must go to "Erotica" section and hunt around.

So that's the deal. The book is now back to it's original title. You might still see How To XiiX Your Psychiatrist come up here and there on Amazon but it's slowly being purged.

The digital torch-bearing mob may reappear at some point. Impossible to know but for now, I'll consider it a victory...

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 polish 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


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:

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...

Available as Kindle edition or other ebook at:

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.