Private Beaver and the Battle of Shit Soup

"This elevator only goes to the basement, and someone made an awful mess down there." -Abe Simpson

I have a great fondness for women that extends well beyond my girlfriend's hewg bewbs and a crippling oedipal complex. Females are the buxom glue that holds this world together. They are, most importantly, the givers of life. And a woman truly is a man's better half. Plus, if you tell a chick you love her she will probably tongue your balls, which, being inches closer (eight inches in my case) to your asshole is remarkable. The weaker sex (yes, ladies, you are the weaker sex. It is so easy to beat you up!) has always had my complete and unconditional respect. I did not think that I could possibly sing the praises of your virtues any higher. And then, this weekend, I was reminded of one of the most important and degrading struggles most of you women will have to face in your lifetime: the port-a-potty. Whenever I am in the vicinity of a port-a-potty (or john), it usually means that I am at a county fair, a concert, or a tailgating party, in which case I am also usually too fucked up to give a shit where I piss, just so long as it is not in pants. But this weekend, whist tailgating, I encountered a brief moment of sobriety, and in my lucidity I took notice of all the girls having to march in and out of the johns that lined the parking lot. Suddenly, it hit me that it must really suck to be a chick and have to use one of these disgusting shit boxes. I stood in line and watched as girl after girl came out of the john, a look of pure, unadulterated antipathy etched across their faces. For some, it could have been the booze making them look that way, others were probably born with that look on their face (ISU fans), but I was sure that most of them were looking that way because of the excrement-laden crypt they had just endured. When it was finally my turn to relieve myself, I stepped diligently into the john and let the spring door slam behind me, turning the gray plastic lock so the outside notice changed from green to red. Inside I was provided with two (2) luxurious options. Being a man who also contains a penis, I could either piss into the small urinal attached to the side of the john, or I could piss into the gaping hole in the center of the john. Decisions, decisions. Now, I have the urinary aim of Stevie Wonder at a shooting range, so I politely and respectfully chose the urinal. As I let myself go I turned (out of sheer morbid curiosity) and peered into the toilet. The lid of the toilet was already covered in piss. I doubt that anyone had every attempted to lift it. Inside the belly of the beast was an abhorrent salad of piss, several definitions of shit, vomit, an excessively used tampon, a diaper, beer cans, part of a hot dog and season four (4) of Scrubs. Now, according to WebMD, a picnic table has more germs than a port-a-potty, but I'm not sure I'm convinced. Ladies, if someone asked you, "Where would you rather put your cootchie? A foot-and-a-half away from someone else's liquidy shit? Or tucked away nicely in a pair of jeans and resting comfortably on a wooden bench?" how would you answer? "What is liquidy shit, Alex." "Oh, I'm sorry. We were looking for 'tucked away nicely and resting comfortably on a wooded bench.'" As I gazed hypnotically into that dank abyss of apocalyptic defecation, I couldn't help but think of all those poor vaginae out there that had to hoover delicately over it's murky waters. That hole of sick and waste very well could have been the gateway to Hell. Dante himself could not have envisioned a more horrific sight. Once I finished my business, I zipped up, stepped out, and gave a deep hug to the girl who was set to go in after me. "Poor thing," I whispered, as I furtively wiped my piss-covered hands onto the back of her shirt, "you have no idea." If I was a dashing archaeologist living in the late 1930s and leading a group of scantily clad lady scientists through an old South American temple, and we suddenly found ourselves encased in a small room with a poopy hole in the center, my first order would be, "Ladies, whatever you do, don't take out your vaginas! There's shit in that hole." Then I would follow up with, "Bewbs are OK, though." Seriously, for all intents and purposes, a port-a-potty is technically the last reasonable place a lady should flash the moose knuckle. I'm not quite sure of technique once inside either. I'm sure there is some hovering going on. A delicate balancing act that if done properly results in a controlled stream falling languidly into the center of the void. But if done with a booze-addled mind, one slip could mean a slushy end for those Steve Madden's you stupidly decided to wear. I'm sure a honed aim could hit the side urinal if aimed correctly. Perhaps some semblance of cleaning could be done to the seat, but if you are a woman who just plops her ass down on the seat to do your business, then you have effectively given up on life and I feel sorry for you. It is, of course, completely different for a man. We were blessed with an external appendage for our sex organ; a veritable pistol, naturally made to be pointed and shot wherever we please (not in the hair, though. Trust me, your girlfriend will be pissed). Public restrooms pose no threat to us; no bathroom situation does. We can wheel out just enough dick to get the job done, and empty our chambers whist standing at a safe distance. Port-a-potties? Fuck em. I use the side urinal out of respect for the women who have to endure the toilet, but every now and then I will piss into the hole, especially if there is a nice big turd resting atop a raft of toilet paper. That turd becomes Pearl Harbor, and my piss is the sneak attack. "Hey...hey, Mike. Did you-did you see that piece of shit in the toilet in there? Yeah. I know. I know. L-listen, man. I, like...(hiccup)...like totally sawed it in half. With my piss!" I'll tell you what, girls, I definitely couldn't do it. But you march right into that john and do what has to be done. That takes balls, and I liken that bravery to the Allies storming the beach at Normandy. You deserve to be saluted.

The Moore You Know: Oh boy. I just got back from London, England a few days ago. It was weird, because I had no idea that across the pond cigarettes are called fags. Needless to say this caused a bit of confusion, as I'm a smoker. I would ask for a fag, people would shove cigarettes in my face, and I would have to tell them that, "No, I mean I want to get fucked in the ass."

© Eric Moore - 2010

My Dad Will End Your Shit

At the World Arm Wrestling Championships, Drew Dempster was the heavy favorite over Danny "Baby Arm" McCoy

My dad is a complex man. He's not the human equivalent of a David Lynch movie, but he is complex nevertheless. I guess he's complex in the same way that a seven (7)-year-old probably thinks Monopoly is complex. All those cards and rainbow monies. Over the course of my life my dad has done and said things that would annoy, anger, bother, humiliate, amuse, shock and scare me. Growing up I was in constant fear of his temper, which could swell up at the slightest inconvenience. But there were also moments of surprising hilarity and genuine affection. I guess life was sort of a trail mix of emotions for him. I wasn't sure which side of my dad I would see from one day to the next. One of the earliest memories I have of my father being mad at me was when I wasn't even in school yet, maybe four, and I had run away from my babysitter's house and into the woods past her backyard. I had gotten into some poison ivy, and came back to my watcher's house scratched and itchy. When my dad came to pick me up, my babysitter told him what had happened. I distinctly remember my dad looking down at me and saying, "I can't wait to get home." Once home, I was promptly sent into my bedroom which I shared with my older brother, Dale. The threat of physical abuse was so palpable I started bawling as Dale changed out of his school uniform. "You shouldn't have done it, Eric," my brother said with an air of smugness that he still reeks of to this day. My dad eventually came in, sent my brother out, and bent me over his knee. I lay bare-assed as he began to rein down upon my supple flesh a torrent of sharp slaps that turned my butt cheeks a deep, red color. Now, over the years I had become accustomed to getting spanked, and had developed a technique to lessen the punishment. First, I clenched my cheeks as tight as I could to deaden the sting. Second, I usually flailed about and slid from my father's knees like a fish out of water, hoping desperately that he would consider the punishment properly received. Ten times out of ten, though, he merely pulled me back up across his knees and started the process over again. If this is my first memory of punishment, then it is also the catalyst that birthed my great fear of my dad growing up. But his punishments were not always abusive. Well, not in the hitting way. For instance, one day my brother and I were playing in the living room. I was probably five and Dale was seven. We were watching The Super Mario Bros. Super Show! on TV, and decided to act out the show ourselves. The problem was that we both wanted to be Mario. For the next moment are argument consisted of "I'm Mario!" "No! I'm Mario" Until finally my older brother suggested an alternative. "You're Koopa!" He shouted at me. I was standing on the couch, looking down on him when he hurled this nefarious accusation at me. My honest reply to him was "You're a dumb fuck!" Now, as much as my old man loves saying the word 'fuck' I'm actually surprised I didn't say it more often, but the truth was I didn't even know what the word was, only that my mom and dad could say it, but not me. Well, my mom was in the bathroom dying curling her hair, when all of a sudden I heard her shout "WHAT!" She came storming out of the bathroom, eyes blazing with fury. I was terrified. My brother and I were sent to our room, as punishment would be meted out by Father. For this indiscretion, my dad took both Dale and I into the kitchen and grabbed a bar of soap from the sink and shoved it into each of our mouths. Now, it wasn't just letting the soap rest on our tongue. My dad scraped the soap across our teeth like a fucking cheese grater. My gums were bleeding by the end of it, and my mouth was filled with large chunks of Ivory soap stuck in every nook and cranny of my teeth. It sucked. Now, because Dale and I were subjected to this type of punishment throughout of lives, and because we were both little bastards who deserved it, we each relished any time my dad made an ass out of himself, and this continues to this day. One time when my family was staying in a motel, my dad had bought Burger King for everyone. As my mom was eating her sandwich a large tomato slipped from the bun and landed on the floor. "Ewww..." the kids said. My mom picked it up, bits of hair and dirt stuck to it now, and placed it on a napkin on the nightstand. Well, Dad was in the bathroom during this, and when he came out, all he saw was a free, unwanted, perfectly good tomato lying on a napkin. So he just bent over, picked it up, and popped it in his mouth. Immediately, we all tried to stifle our laughter for fear of Dad's retribution, but alas, Mom could not hold it in any longer. With tears running down her cheeks, she admitted, "That fell onto the floor! It had shit all over it!" We all busted out laughing, as Steve-O had been had. Another minor victory over my dad's tyrannical reign came in 2002 when my family was vacationing in Washington DC. We were attempting to board the subway, but in order to get through the turnstile, one had to take his ticket, insert it into the front of a metal box that controlled the arms of the turnstile, and then take the ticket when it popped out of the top of the box. Doing this would enable the metal arms to move and the person could get through. No one in my family had a problem with this concept, except Dad. When the metal box took in his ticket, he thought it had disappeared from the face of the goddamned earth! We watched with bemused laughter as he futilely tried to force the metal arms to move. He began to violently shake the contraption, until finally a small Indian man who worked at the subway yelled, "Tade da teekit! Sir, you must tade your teekit!" "What fuckin ticket!" my dad offered. Now, everyone could see the ticket sticking noticeably out of the top of the box, but my dad continued his assault on the machine, until finally the Indian man had to come over and tade the teekit himself. Then, on the subway, my brother and sister noticed two elderly Asian women looking at my dad and talking to each other in whispered smiles. Turns out they were staring at my dad's crotch, because when he went to the bathroom that morning, he zipped is shirt into his pants, so it was sticking out of his zipper. These small victories, in which the world kicked my dad in the nuts every so often, were moments I cherished and they got me through my childhood. As I grew older, though, my father opened up more, and let me into his strange id. I grew to love his morbid and perverse sense of humor once I began to understand it. My dad loves to say things that he thinks are funny. He is his own audience, so he doesn't care who is around to hear it or how inappropriate it might me. In the summer of 1997, my family was down in Fort Worth, TX visiting my mom's brother. My uncle had a pool in his back yard, and I went outside early one day with my dad and my uncle. As the old men drank and bullshitted, it fell on me to blow up the rafts for the pool. At 12 I had the lung capacity of a seventy (70)-year-old smoker, so I rather humbly told my dad that I couldn't blow up the raft. My dad snatched the raft from my hands and pinched the air nozzle in between his thumb and index finger. "All you do, Eric," he said to me, "is bite low and blow. Just like I tell your mother." Now, was it right for my dad to discuss his fellatio instructions to my mother with me? I would argue that no, it wasn't right. Not to mention that this little joke was also told to my mom's older brother. But Steve-O didn't give a shit. Funny is funny, and now that I'm older, it was a pretty fucking hilarious thing to say. One summer my family went camping, and one evening my dad and I went to showers. When we were done, we wadded our dirty clothes into a ball and carried them under our arms back to our campsite. While en route, we heard a soft female voice coming from behind us. "Um, sir?" We stopped and turned around. It was a mother and her little girl sitting on a picnic table. She was pointing to the ground. "I think you dropped something," she said cautiously. My dad had indeed dropped something. A sweaty pair of dirty tighty-whiteys. Rather than be embarrassed about it-as I was-my dad simply walked back, picked them up, and told the woman, "These'll scare your kids." There was also a time while driving over the Council Bluffs viaduct, my dad managed to get behind a piece of shit Le baron, with its wheels positioned a foot out from the body of the car. The licence plate on the car read BEANER. When my dad passed the car he yelled at the Hispanic gentleman in the Le baron, "Thanks for warning us, asshole!" When my dad converted to Catholicism in his early fifties, my family thought that his first-time confession, fifty-some years of bad deeds, would take hours. But Steve-O got us there. His first reconciliation as a Catholic lasted about two minutes. "You don't have anything else to confess?" The priest pressed. "I'm really a good guy," my dad replied. But growing up it wasn't always spankings and soap and dick and fart jokes and sexual remarks about my mom that have left me with a searing oedipal complex. My dad did have a tender side. Like when my mom had to work and couldn't take her little kids to Sesame Street Live, Dad brought her home flowers. Hell, Steve-O even once put his own fucking kidney up on the auction block! He was shit-faced, but he meant it. And he was fiercely loyal to his kids. We all know how I sucked at organized sports, and one game in particular comes to mind. I would have been in fifth grade, and my team was playing in a Southwest Iowa baseball tournament. I had been sitting on the bench the entire game, and my team was getting crushed. The final inning was upon us, there was no hope of a comeback, and it was the last game of the tournament. I hadn't even stepped onto the field. My dad approached the coach and asked, "Why don't you let these other kids play a bit?" The couch (who had a notoriously hot temper) exploded on my dad. "You want to couch, Steve!? You want too? Then get in here and do it!" "Christ, Kurt," my dad said. "It's only a game." When I got older, and eventually outgrew my dad, I also got braver. Once. Only once have I stood up to my dad, nearly coming to blows. One day while I was in high school I was standing in the dinning room of our house getting yelled at by my mom. Now, my mom is maybe 5'1", probably 100 pounds. But she has a voice that can only be described as banshee-esque, especially when she is yelling. Well, she was screaming at me this day, and was very close to my ear...so much that it hurt. I pulled away from her and shouted, "Your hurtin my fuckin ear!" And as I said this I punched her in the upper arm. Now, I had meant to pull my punch at the last minute, but as I lack all forms of physical coordination, the punch landed and bruised my mom's arm. When my dad got home, I knew what was coming. He cussed and smacked me all the way down the stairs, kicked me in the ass, and shoved me around until we got to my room. Finally, he hit me hard enough that I fell into my bed. Almost instantly, I shot back up, puffed up my chest, and glared down at him. "What are you gonna do, tough guy?" My dad asked, completely unimpressed by my attempt at machismo. I immediately sat back down and didn't say another word. And that is how it has been for the past twenty years, though his hold on me has loosened with time. All in all, I had a fine childhood, and I deserved all the good and bad I got. Do I hold a grudge? Nope. Because each tirade about money that I have to endure now, I know that the world is just waiting to hand my dad another dirty tomato. And, I have decided, that even though the old man is sixty now, once, just once before he dies (hell, it might even be on his deathbed) I am going to haul off and punch him in the face as hard as I fucking can, as payback for years of bullshit. Then, I'm going to run away as fast as I fucking can.

The Moore You Know: I have decided I can no longer drink orange juice with pulp. One day I was having a glass, and as I felt the texture of it in my mouth I thought, "This must be what sperm tastes like." I have no context for that thought, and nothing to back it up. I just think that if I had to guess, orange juice with pulp is about as close as you're going to come to matching semen. So, you know...no more for me. Hot dogs I'm still good with.

© Eric Moore - 2010

Idle Hands Are The Devil's Anal Beads

If Heaven was this good, I would convert to Islam and start suicide bombing tomorrow.

I have the work ethic of a dead black man. You know that anorexic guy from the movie Se7en who turns out to be Keyser Soze's victim for Sloth? Well, that skeletal sumbitch got more done in a day than me. I always get up early, having made grand plans the night before in which I listed out all the great and prosperous things I'm going to do, only to get side-tracked in the morning by five crudely made pancakes and a Dirty Jobs marathon. Balance my check book? Ah, Iowa Student Loans gives you like two weeks before they regard a payment as "late." Apply for a better job? But where else can I smoke a pack of cigarettes while driving a badly damaged Kubota lawnmower through a gaggle of terrified and tragically slow ducks? No where, that is where! Hey, Eric, how about losing some weight? Well, dick, according to this well-written article I don't have to. But fuck you for suggesting otherwise. For some reason, perhaps genetically, perhaps subconsciously, I lack all motivation to better myself. When I was unemployed-a part of my life I refer to as the Good Part-the only time I stopped playing video games was to watch only the battle scenes from the Lord of the Rings trilogy or masturbate to cosplay porn. My girlfriend would get home from work around six and ask, "Did you apply for any jobs today?" "No," I would tell her. "Even better! I finally completed the Path of the Mentor on Ninja Gaiden 2 and unlocked the secret Black Jaguar costume!" I remember Steph's look of equal parts rage, confusion and depression. "So, are you going to have money to pay your half of the rent this month?" She asked me. "Rent is not important, honey. What is important is this fuckin sick ninja gear I found today. I don't know anyone else who has done this." Well, she didn't even bother to congratulate me...a transgression I have still not forgiven her for. The little victories are what it's all about for me. Getting to the next level of a video game is hardly the same as receiving a MacArthur Genius Grant, but I doubt any of those so-called "geniuses (geni? genies?)" have ever landed a 40-hit freeflow combo whilst playing Batman: Arkham Asylum. Finishing a book always makes me feel like I've done something productive. There, I defeated all those pages, retained most of what I've read, and can now paraphrase the author's ideas to my friends and pass them off as my own. Doing the laundry is also a great way for me to feel like I've accomplished something, because the end results are immediately tangible. It's not like when I worked at Geico and my boss would say, "Good job, Eric. You saved the policyholder seven dollars over a three-year span." That last scenario was an utter work of fiction, as I never helped anyone save money during my brief stint as someone in charge of lots of important and personal information. More likely my boss would hover over my desk to make sure I didn't use any racial slurs or ask female callers if they would like to give me a "Ralph Johnson." But I digress. I enjoy doing the laundry because you can see the results of your work. However, I'll admit that doing the laundry can get a bit dicey at times. Washing and drying is OK, but folding laundry was invented by child molesters as a way of distracting mothers. When I wasn't working I could go days, literally days, without showering. I wouldn't brush my teeth until my tongue felt like it was rubbing against sandpaper. I sat up from nap one day, and could not recall the last time I wore a pair of pants that had a zipper. Everyday just became one long span of apathy, insane PS3 graphics, discovering what foods could be dipped into ricotta cheese, and falling asleep to violent South Korean horror films. I mentioned in a previous entry that I stopped going to church because I could never find a decent parking spot, now I call in sick to work if IFC is playing the director's cut of Bad Lieutenant. I need a jump-start, I think. I need something to jolt me into existence. Something to turn me into an active and contributing member of society. You know what? I'm finally going to register to vote. Yeah. I'm sick of being so apolitical. And you know what else? I am going to join a gym. I'm tired of my eyes disappearing into my face every time I smile. And I'm going to finish that 10,000 piece puzzle of the movie poster to Eat Pray Love. I'm going to get a hair cut. I'm going to trim my beard. I'm going to finally get fucking organized! Starting tomorrow. What's that? Rays play the Red Sox tomorrow? OK, starting Thursday I'm taking my life ba- Jersey Shore? It's all new? Is JWoww and Sammi still fighting? Friday I am going to clean up my act and start living for the future. Oh, shit. Wesley is have that party isn't he. Hawks and Cyclones on Saturday. I never work on Sunday in order to keep holy the Sabbath...Monday! Next Monday begins the start of a new Eric! If I remember...and if I still give a shit.

The Moore You Know: My sister recently announced to the family that she's become a vegan. It took us all by surprise. No one had any idea she liked eating pussy. There is no humble way to say you're a vegan. I'm sure some people thought Gandhi was a self-righteous asshole. You could be in a hospital, dying of cancer, and when the nurse brings in your lunch of Jell-O, a small salad and a turkey sandwich, you have to say, "I can't eat the turkey sandwich." "Are you too ill today?" "No, I-I'm a veg-vegan..." Your a pretentious piece of shit is what you are, and your cancer is a sign from God that he thinks so too.

© Eric Moore - 2010

The Single Most Fucked Up Thing I Have Ever Written

"Seriously, dude. I didn't even notice it until you said something."

When I was in fourth grade I attended Immaculate Conception School in Columbia, Illinois. Sometime during the year, my class was forced to put on a talent show, where each student had to display some kind of feat that made him or her unique. I can remember three or four girls prepping their singing voices, my friend Alex was going to do yo-yo tricks, another kid had brought a magic set to school (I myself owned a magic set, but after an unfortunate incident involving the wand and the words, "See how far in it can go!" it was quickly taken away from me). It seemed like I was the only kid without a single talent to display. At night I would toss and turn under my covers, unable to sleep, energized by the prodigious dread of having to be singled out by humiliating circumstances. There was nothing I was good at. There was nothing I excelled in. There was nothing that made me stand out from others. The only thing I truly enjoyed doing at age 10 was eating and reading. Being a big fan of scary stories at the time, I decided that maybe I should try to write one. So that is what I did. When the day of the talent show arrived, I read a 10 page, handwritten, story that I had written involving a demonic teacher and a heroic young student. It got a good response from the class, and since that day I have had the egomaniacal need to impress people with my imagination. Now, let's jump forward a decade (ten [10] years). The year is 2005, and I am an average 20-year-old college sophomore. My college experience has been mediocre at best, and I am basically just drifting from one day to the next waiting for school to let out. But then, something very strange happened-I met a girl...who was interested in me. It seems that a slick brown pair of Adidas sneakers that I wore caught the eye of the impressionable young Stephanie, and after months of using the same study hall in our dorm, the lass became quite enamored with me, Fatal Attraction style. As the two of us got to know each other, I opened up about how I liked to write and even won some awards in high school for some short stories (Jesus Christ, Eric! Let it go already!) I had entered into a contest. Stephanie became putty (puddy?) in my hands and said she would love to read something of mine sometime. My heart leapt at the romantic notion of seducing Stephanie with my wonderful prose (but as it turns out I didn't need wonderful prose to seduce her, just a bottle of Admiral Nelson). My happy reverie was short-lived however, because I became suddenly aware that I had nothing to show her. There were a few stories that I was working on here and there, but nothing that I felt confident enough about to surrender to my new flame. Like a girl asked to set up a chess board, I was stumped. But then it dawned on me-I would write something completely original just for her! Of course! Just as Byron or Shelley used their poetry to inveigle busty chambermaids into their beds, so too would I use my narrative skills to coax this girl out of them panties. School let out for the summer and Steph and I were temporarily sent in opposite directions, but we made plans to visit each other often during the summer months. At home in Treynor, I quickly set to work on coming up with a story that would be suitable to give to Steph. Something that would appropriately display my talents, while at the same time subtly suggesting my feelings for her. For inspiration I went through some books that I had. Now, I'm something of an amateur bibliophile (n. someone who has sex with books), and have a good collection of reading material. I scanned some titles before stopping on a story collection by H.P. Lovecraft. At this point in my life I was a huge Lovecraft fan, and had gotten into the habit of mimicking his grandiose writing style. For those ignorant pieces of shit who don't know him, H.P. Lovecraft is perhaps the most influential horror writer of the twentieth (20th) century. He took what Edgar Allan Poe made famous, and sent it into a whole nother stratosphere. Without H.P. Lovecraft there would be no Stephen King, Clive Barker, John Saul, Dean Koontz...you get the idea. Anyway, Lovecraft is known for writing very surreal, horrific magniloquent stories. Now, if you don't know what the word magniloquent means, I'll give you a hint: using the word magniloquent in a sentence is the perfect example of being magniloquent. So, I knew how wanted to write the story. I wanted it to be a long, internal narrative, no dialog, told in the third-person. But what would it be about? I thought for days and days until finally an idea formed in my brain. Do you know what an embryonic twin is? It's when one twin absorbs the other twin into his or her body while still in the womb, and can actually result in a baby being born with a fetus (the unlucky twin) in its stomach. That idea was the basis for my story. It sounds like I might be ripping off Stephen King's novel The Dark Half, but just wait...I'm not done yet. OK, this was the plot of my story to Stephanie: A baby is born with disfigured genitals, as a result of the baby trying to absorb a dead twin while in his mother's womb. The doctor tells the mother that the baby is a boy, but because of the disfiguration he will need an operation. During the operation the doctor uses pieces of the deceased twin to fashion the living baby a new penis. The baby grows up, not knowing that his dick is actually his dead twin brother. Through a series of events that I do not have time to explain or justify here, the man manages to swallow a bit of his own semen. Upon doing this, he realizes that he can hear a voice...the voice of his dead twin brother, which is now his penis. The dead twin is a prophet, and the man realizes that by masturbating and swallowing his own come, the voice of his dead twin will tell him future events. Eventually, the man is driven insane by all of his dick's/brother's predictions, and ends up ripping off his penis in a fit of rage and then bleeding to death. That's it. That was my gift to Stephanie. Now, I know there were a lot of plot holes (if the dick was the dead brother, wouldn't the dick have decayed?), and it was probably plagued with anacoluthia (magniloquence!), but it was my ode to H.P. Lovecraft, and I thought if she doesn't call me a sick fuck and demand that I lose her number after reading this, then maybe we have a shot. Some guys sings songs to impress their lady. Others write poetry or buy them flowers. I wrote my love a story about a guy who drinks his own sperm to know the future. At least now she doesn't think my collection of Batman comics is weird.

The Moore You Know: I have not accomplished anything in life. Seriously, I'm 25, and I have nothing to show for myself. The last time I was successful at anything was when I was the first sperm to get to my mom's egg. It's been all downhill from there. At least if she would have gotten an abortion I could have gone out while still on top, like Barry Sanders.

© Eric Moore - 2010