History 102: Caligula: The World's First Free Spirit

Malcolm McDowell looking exceptionally fierce as Caligula: "Kiss the ring, bitch!"

As many of you already know, I am something of a history buff, and it is a well known fact that those are the best kind of buffs. I earned an utterly useless degree in History while in college, and have impregnated my personal library with a fine collection of biographies and historical nonfiction. To the untrained eye I may even come off as being educated, which would be a truism, except for the fact that I possess absolutely no knowledge whatsoever that would be beneficial to mankind. I am an idiot savant of meaningless information. For instance, did you know that goose bumps are left over remnants from when our species was completely covered in hair? Or, that the white crescents at the bottoms of our fingers are air pockets that serve no purpose? How about the fact that Albert Einstein had autism? So, how bout it? Is cancer cured yet? Did those little tidbits solve the AIDS crisis? No? Well, that's all I got. Anywho, today I want to talk about perhaps the single most devious, malicious, hated person to have ever lived: Gaius Julius Caesar Augustus Germanicus, AKA Bobby Ray, AKA Caligula, emperor of Rome during the Julio-Claudian dynasty who reigned from 37 AD to 41 AD. However, I wish to discuss Caligula in direct relation to the only worthwhile biopic made of his life, 1979's Caligula, directed by Tinto Brass and starring Peter O'Toole, Helen Mirren and Malcolm McDowell (who is probably best known for his role as Alex DeLarge in A Clockwork Orange). Now, in real life, Caligula was one badass motherfucker (or sisterfucker, since, you know, he raped his sister...sit on that for a while). While attending a gladiatorial display at the famed Coliseum, Caligula ordered an entire section of spectators be fed to wild animals during intermission because he was bored. He would have sex with any woman he wanted, and then would intentionally brag about it to the woman's husband. Just to be a dick, he recalled all the exiles banished by his predecessor. Eventually, he just said fuck it and went for full-on crazy when he started dressing like Hercules or Apollo (sadly, not the Creed of Rocky fame) or Venus (Aphrodite to those dirty, smelly Greeks). He started referring to himself as a god, and demanded that others do it as well. He even ordered a statue to be constructed in his honor in Jerusalem, the holiest city in the world, and asked people to worship him there. Caligula makes the Marquis de Sade look like fucking Mr. Rogers (please Google Marquis de Sade to get this reference)! Yet, sadly, Caligula's reign of batshit nuts was cut short when he was stabbed to death by a group of pissed off senators. OK. That was my little intro to Caligula. Read more online or visit your local library. Now, I want to talk about Tinto Brass's infamous movie. As I mentioned above, the movie starred some classically-trained acting heavy weights. And it was written by Gore Vidal, the Gore-fucking-Vidal; perhaps America's most famous author and essayist. So, it seemed at the time that all the pieces were in order: a controversial, yet intriguing subject, a respected avant garde director, accomplished, well-known classical actors, and a screenplay by one of the world's best writers. The project had all the makings of becoming a true classic, in every sense of the word. What could possibly go wrong? Well, for starters the movie was produced by a man named Bob Guccione. If that name sounds familiar then you are probably a sexual deviant and registered sex offender, because Bob Guccione is the founder of Penthouse, the porn mag that was Playboy's main competitor. Now, what do you think Guccione's (or the Gooch to his friends) artistic contributions to the movie were? How about insert scenes of hardcore pornography into a legitimate Hollywood film! That's right! In an intense scene at the beginning of the movie, Caligula and Tiberius (played by Peter O'Toole, possibly the greatest actor to have ever lived) are arguing over Caligula's future. In the scene Tiberius threatens Caligula with torture and death. It really sucks you in. After the scene ends, instead of moving on to another scene that, you know, keeps the plot moving forward, the viewer gets an extreme close-up of a vicious dong just pounded the shit out of a scantily clad slave girl. I mean...it's pretty nasty, even by seventies standards. And that was it. That's what the whole movie was like. It wasn't exactly porn because there was an actual plot, but it wasn't a real Hollywood movie because of all the shots of penises going in and out of vaginae. Can you imagine watching Gladiator or Braveheart, and every couple of minutes, just for the fuck of it, there are shots of people just going to town on each other? In fact, the one criticism I had about the movie Julie & Julia was that there was not enough interracial fucking in it. But here's the real kick in the balls: Guccione didn't tell anyone that he was going to put the porn shots into the movie! So Mr. O'Toole and Ms. Mirren are just sitting there during the premier, thinking about Oscar season, and then, oh, wow, a dude's sack flopping against his thigh...huh. So the Gooch pulled a fast one em. But it's not like they were innocent bystanders in this. In an actual scene written by Vidal and shown in the movie, Caligula greases his fist with lard and anally penetrates a man and his wife (Helen Mirren). So, they couldn't have been completely blindsided by this (Oh! The Blindside! That shitty movie could have also used more fucking). Now, I'm a big fan of biopics, and the Roman era is one of the better ones, as far as eras go, so I watched Caligula, knowing full well that it contained such hardcore scenes. It was a weird experience to say the least. I mean, I couldn't jerk off to the porn scenes because they kept getting cut off by the legitimate movie scenes. But I couldn't take the legitimate movie scenes seriously because those kept getting saturated by balls. I concluded that certain things do not mix: oil and water, oil and water.....I'm not sure what else doesn't mix, but I do know that history and porn do not mix either. But if you really want to see the movie, I guess it's worth renting. After all, it is to date Penthouse's number one (1) selling movie. Spoiler alert: Caligula's been dead the whole time!

The Moore You Know: My dad pulled me aside the other day, completely frustrated and said firmly, "Eric, why can't you be more like your older brother?" "Uh," I replied, "you want me to have rape fantasies about Mom, too?"

© Eric Moore - 2010

The Best Part Of You

"Do I look less creepy if I stand like this?"

The other night a friend of mine calls me up and asks me to go bar-hopping with him. I look at the clock and decide that it's too late to go out on a work night, but he protests. "Dude," he says emphatically into the phone, "it's going to be awesome!" I roll my eyes and ask, "What will be so awesome about it?" He sighs, laughs coyly, and replies, "Dude, we are going to go to a bunch of bars, we are going to drink a lot of beers, we are going to get totally fucked up, and we are going to surround ourselves with mad pussy, bro. Mad pussy." "I don't think so," I tell him. "Dude, bro, dude...mad pussy, though." I hang up the phone without saying another word to him. Now, normally I would not be adverse to going out with a friend and drinking copious amounts of alcohol. In all honesty, I love to drink, and thoroughly enjoy going to different bars around town. You see, I come from a large family of drinkers, so imbibing the sweet gifts of Dionysus (Wikipedia it) comes naturally to me. Some have suggested that alcoholism runs in my family, but on contrary, it certainly does not run. In my family, alcoholism stays and parties with you. It drinks all your beer, bums your smokes and tells you how hot your sister is. So, it was not my friend's suggestion of getting very drunk that turned me off to his invitation, rather it was his usage of the phrase 'mad pussy.' To hear a vagina being described as angry does little to entice me. His promises of "mad pussy" appealed to me very little. Actually, I'm 25-years-old, and happy pussy still makes me a bit uncomfortable. Content pussy can even unnerve me for a moment. So, my friend, do not threaten to relegate me to being amidst a plethora of lupine pantie hamsters against my will. You, sir, did not promote the evening well enough. If you wanted to get me to come out, of course promise me loads and loads of booze, but don't be so crude when it comes to girls. I don't want mad pussy. You know what? Soft-spoken pussy might be OK. Or better yet, Jane Austen-enjoying pussy. Even better. I also love how we have forgone referring to people by genders when trying to hook up at a bar, and have instead gone right for the genitals. You don't really hear, "I hope I meet a girl tonight." Or, "I hope I meet a guy." No, no. Instead it's, "I hope I get some pussy." And, "I just want some dick." I want some pussy tonight. You hear guys say that a lot. All I want is pussy. Just those three or four magical inches. Technically, a guy isn't asking for a lot, considering an average girl's BMI; pussy is a relatively short order. Just give me some pussy. Leave the head and the arms and the legs and the hair and the bewbs and the name and the voice and the ideas and the opinions at the bar. I just want the pussy. If only we could detach the pussy from the girl like a coffee pot and just carry the pussy home with us, then bring it back once we're done. Wouldn't that be something?If you're really lucky you will get the pussy (or dick) back to your place. And after a little beating around the bush (pun intended) it is time for the naked. When a girl takes her underwear off for a guy for the very first time, it's good, but he is usually not going to be flabbergasted by anything. I mean, all vaginae (plural for vagina) pretty much look the same. You will be hard pressed to find a guy who says, "What the hell is that?" when he lays eyes on your sweet hot pocket. Seriously, I could probably sketch out any girl's duchess and it would probably be a pretty accurate representation. You would at least answer correctly if we were on a Pictionary team. Anyway, when a female girl disrobes, and gets ready to show off the goods, a guy isn't prepping like there's going to be a map to the lost city of Atlantis down there. He's thinking two (2) things: 1. What is the pube situation going to be like? And 2. I hope the beef curtains don't hang down too low. That's all. Shaved or unshaven? And, please God don't let this girl look like she just got done sitting on a fire hydrant. Men are simple like that. Now, for you ladies out there, it is a lot different when it comes to seeing a man's thingy-ma-bob for the first time. Women have a lot more to lose. It is easier for a man to let down a woman. You see, with schlongs, women have to wonder about length, girth, straight or bendy, what's the pube situation, what will the balls be doing, circumcised or uncircumcised. Have you seen an uncircumcised penis? It's like a snake in the middle of shedding it's skin. It's gross. Women have so much more to think about. That's why a man should feel proud when a woman takes him to bed. It means you passed the physical. Now, on the other hand, women, don't feel to proud when a man invites you into his bed. You showed up...that was the test...you passed.

The Moore You Know: These days it's kinda hard being a Catholic. All of these sex abuse scandals filling up the newspapers can really make one question his faith. Now they say the Pope had a hand in covering up a lot of the allegations. I'm afraid to tell people I'm a Catholic now. Whenever people find out they say, "Fucking pedophile." "Pervert!" It's horrible. I've decided to become a Muslim. It's less controversial.

© Eric Moore - 2010

Fun With Fetishes!

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Weed Whacker

Warning: Not An Accurate Portrayal of a Marijuana User

In high school I was voted Most Likely To Be Randomly Drug Tested. I had a large "wacky tobacky" poster proudly displayed on my bedroom wall. And, if I am being completely honest, I have even tried a marijuana cigarette or two. But in actuality, I am not a big proponent of marijuana usage. I do not actively seek the stuff, nor do I really hang out with people that do. I personally have nothing against marijuana, or any other plant for that matter (except prairie sagewort. That motherfucker is dead to me). And I have nothing against anyone who uses marijuana recreationally or professionally. To each his own, that's my motto. But I am against the legalization of cannabis, and for more than a few reasons, too. First of all, does weed really need to be legalized? I mean, REALLY need to be legalized. Have you ever heard of anyone not being able to find weed when they need it? I bought a dime bag off a guy in line for confession at my church. If you can't find someone to sell you weed, then you smoke entirely too much weed and you need to quit. But Eric, weed would be so much cheaper if it was legalized? Money has never, ever, been an issue to people who smoke weed on a regular basis. Anything could be sold cheap, technically, but no one who has ever wanted to buy weed said, "Actually dude, that's too expensive...I'm just gonna go home." Fuck that! It doesn't matter how much the shit costs, you'll still buy it. And think about this: if you are someone who smokes weed on a regular basis, then you probably have smoking rituals, certain people you only smoke with, favorite pieces of paraphernalia, et cetera. But if marijuana is legalized, then you have to deal with all these assholes who just started smoking and act like they've been doing it for years, and you have to listen to them talk like they are experts at the best weed to smoke and they probably went out and bought all these expensive pipes and bongs just to look cool. It's kinda like if you have ever had a favorite indie band. You go to all their shows, and you meet them because the venues are small and you can get real close to the stage, and they stay and drink after the show and take pictures with you. You feel like they are your band, and anyone else who knows them immediately becomes your best friend. But then they release their fifth album, and it has a shitty name like The Long Road Home, and they change their sound and got a single on the radio, now everyone loves them, and they start playing bigger shows and don't come back to your little hole-in-the-wall bar, and you have to listen to these douchebags say things like, "I don't like their early stuff, it was too heavy for me." Now all of a sudden, all these dipshits are fucking experts, and you're forced to hate your band, because now they are sell out tools. Well, that's what legalizing weed will be like. Think of that idiot at work that you can't fucking stand. The guy that drives you crazy so much that the reason you smoke weed is just to deal with him. Now, imagine he becomes your dealer. As I said already up there, I have dabbled in marijuana. I smoked it for the first time in eighth grade and I did it off an on throughout high school. I know how I act when I'm stoned, and I don't want more assholes in the world like High Eric. While stoned, I have done everything from take a leisurely stroll around the mall, been convinced that my hands were frozen to my buddy's bedroom door, and honestly believed that the Omaha skyline was actually an army of robots come to destroy me. I have laughed my ass off while high, puked my guts up, passed out en route to my Grandma's house, played in a JV football game...I don't want to be surrounded by people who are like that. Traffic is bad enough. Plus, do you know how much I have desecrated my childhood by doing things I used to love to do when I was younger, but doing them while high when I was older? Forget all the cliche stoner things like watching Willy Wonka or listening to Dark Side of the Moon. Have you ever read a Dr. Seuss book while high? It's fucked up! The Lorax isn't some furry woodland creature out to save the trees, he's a goddamn devil sent straight from the nightmares of HP Lovecraft. This is true: once, while smoking the reefer, I was flipping through a Where's Waldo book. I remember it was a crowded beach scene, and after several frustrating moments of not being able to find the striped explorer I actually said aloud, "I wish all these people would get the fuck outta the way." And fucking Sesame Street. That's like Dante's Inferno type shit. Oh yeah, Eric? Well, marijuana is safer than cigarettes and alcohol! Yeah? No-fucking-shit, asshole. A lot of things are safer than cigarettes and alcohol. Getting stabbed in the goddamn aorta is safer than cigarettes and alcohol. But if everything that was safer than smoking cigarettes and drinking alcohol was made legal then everyone would be out boosting cars and raping children. But this rant is probably all for not. I'm sure marijuana will be made legal soon enough. What else that is illegal is so blatantly done by so many people? I can't think of anything. Well..maybe sodomy. There were laws against ass-fucking in this country, but so many people loved doing it that they were all overturned. If people enjoyed smoking weed as much as they love taking it up the ass, then marijuana would have been legal decades ago!

The Moore You Know: The other night I was playing the game Would You Rather...with my old man. I drew a card from the deck that read, "Would you rather have hair covering your entire body OR no hair on your entire body?" But, just to fuck with my dad, what I told him was, "Would you rather have a son that is gay OR a daughter dating a black man?" My dad leaned back in his chair and said, "Wow! They do not make this easy do they. Ahhh...bop, bop bop...ahhhh....dadada....Can I pick which black guy my daughter dates? Cuz she can date Denzel." "No, dad, you can't pick." "OK...huh...huh huh huh...what to do, what to do. Is the son like so gay there's no way around it? Super effeminate gay. Or a manly gay like Rock Hudson?" It was pure torture for the old man. I was positive that if my dad had his choice between two realities, one where a son says, "Dad, I'm gay." or a daughter who says, "Dad, this is Jamal, and we're in love." he would create Option C, insert a loaded 9mm into his mouth and pull the fuckin trigger. Just a story bout my old man.

© Eric Moore - 2010

Fuck Tha Police!...Or Just Show A Mild Disdain For Tha Police

"Dude, put your dick away. We're being photographed."

The year was 1990. The place was Fremont, Nebraska. I was a six(6)-year-old boy attending kindergarten at the regally named District 11 Elementary School. My family had moved to Fremont during the middle of the school year, so I was forced to be one of those awkward new students that gets stared at with suspicion like a black dude in a Best Buy (Rant Solipsism's 100th racist statement!). The only redeeming factor about my new school was that my class was very small. As I recall, there were only about 8 or 9 kids. Being such a small class, everyone was pretty much friends, and after a few weeks I think I fell into some solid friendships without much hassle. Over the next few months I became best friends with tomboyish girl named Nikki. Now, remember that I was six, so at this point in my life I was pretty much a sexless, chubby, worm-like creature. At the time I had not shown any promise in any field. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was writing musical compositions by age five. Tiger Woods was playing golf at age four. At age six, I was still getting yelled at by my old man for eating seven slices of bologna every day after school (my bologna fetish did not wane until my late teens). I can even remember sitting in our backyard while my dad grilled out, and shoving handfuls of grass clippings into my mouth. I'm not sure if Dale bet me I wouldn't, or if in fact he was forcing me to do this, but I have a very lucid image in my mind of green blades bobbing up and down betwixt my lips as I chewed on gobs of the stuff. Needless to say, things were really up in the air as to how I would turn out. Anyway, my kindergarten class was like a small family. We all went to each other's birthday parties and most other gatherings that are put together for children. I distinctly remember going to a boy/girl sleepover and having to sit through the suicide-inducing 1969 classic piece of shit movie The Love Bug. It was the host of the party's favorite movie. At the time, I had no idea what "gay" was. I probably had never even heard the word, but as I watched this anthropomorphic Nazi invention, all I could think was, "This is so gay." I probably thought at the time that I had made the word up. My point is, we were a tight-knit little bunch. So, that Christmas, Santa had brought me what was probably one of the best gifts that I had ever received in my life. It was a police set that came with a vest that said POLICE on the back, a hat that read POLICE across the front, a pair of black shades, plastic handcuffs, a grenade, and several toy guns. There was a plastic assault rifle, a pistol and (I shit you not) a MAC 10 replica. Apparently, this was no ordinary police outfit. This was the get-up for a corrupt federalie taking drug money to protect Pablo Escobar type shit. But I didn't care, the more weapons the better. Whenever I put that outfit on-and I did a lot-I felt like a badass motherfucker. In fact, I thought I kind of resembled Sly Stallone in Cobra. So one day in the spring, I invited my first girl friend (a friend who happened to be a girl), Nikki, over for a play date. From what I can recall, I think we just watched movies, ate lunch and ran around for most of the day. But by the afternoon, things took a turn, and like most things that turn, this one was for the worse. I'm not exactly sure how it began-probably a suggestion by Yours Truly-but I decided to pick up the telephone in the basement and dial 911. A few rings and then a profession female voice saying, "911. What is your emergency?" I immediately slammed the phone down and began to laugh my ass off. Nikki thought it was hilarious too. So, realizing that she liked it, I picked the phone up once more, dialed 911 again, waited for the woman to ask, "What is your emergency?" and then hung up. We both keeled over with laughter. Now, I knew that what I was doing probably wasn't right, but I honestly compared it to prank calling a neighbor. I didn't know that any such technology existed that could trace a phone call to an exact address. All I knew was that Nikki thought it was hilarious when I did this, so following the lead of every male before that has done stupid shit to impress a girl, I called 911 for a third time, with the same result. On the fourth phone call I fired one of my fake police guns into the receiver and Nikki screamed in the background. So, by this point, I wasn't content with just wasting the police's time, I wanted them to actually think that a crime was being committed. In total, I pranked 911, not once, not twice, or three, four, five or six times. I honestly prank called 911 nine fucking times that day. Prank calling the cops was probably my first experience with addiction (novelty shot glasses and CFNM porn would follow later in life). Each time I picked up the phone it was like injecting adrenaline into my veins. Now, only a fucking moron would call 911, scream bloody murder into the phone, and hang up that many times and expect to get away with it. Well, I'm a fucking moron. The only reason I kept doing it was because Nikki liked it, and I really thought that there were going to be no consequences to my actions. Now, somewhere between the first and last phone call, something incredible happened. I remember hanging up the phone, giggling madly (my testicles had not descended yet, so I laughed like an 18-year-old Japanese girl) and Nikki saying to me, "Let's kiss!" Jesus H. Cookie-cutting Christ! What!? Kiss? It took me years to realize what had happened, but after much analysis and regret I figured it out. You see, kind readers, up until that point, Nikki and I were only friends. The fact that one was a boy and one was a girl had never been an issue. Except for the fact that we wore different clothes, and I had shorter hair, at six, our bodies looked almost identical. Bewbs were still a far-off obsession, and if I had known what the fuck a vagina was, I probably would have laughed it off like a sick urban legend. Hell, if I had seen a vagina at six I would have been more baffled than anything. We were strictly asexual, good friends. But now, NOW, Nikki wanted a kiss. I had done something totes awesome for her, and she wanted to reward me. I was turning her on! I realize that I sound like a fucking pervert saying that at 25, but it's true. I was impressing a girl without even knowing how to or thinking about it. The rush, the feeling of being bad, had taken hold of Nikki, and she needed to let loose. Had I known that chicks are drawn to the bad boys, I might have dropped out of kindergarten, told the old man to fuck himself, and headed for the big city (that being Omaha). But, I digress. Nikki wanted a kiss. So I mustered all my courage, puckered my lips, closed my eyes, and gave her the most emotionless, bland, sterile kiss any boy had ever given a girl. It was just two lumps of pink flesh brushing up against one another. No feeling. No passion. And then, it was over. A single fleeting moment of spontaneous eroticism...gone now, forever. But, that was my very first kiss, and I will remember it always. It wasn't my best, just my first. However, this is not the story of my first kiss, this is the story of the first and only time I was able to stick it to the Man. Shortly after the ninth phone call, my mom-who had been upstairs the whole time-walked down the steps and asked us what we were doing. "Nothing," I lied. "Well, I just got a phone call from the police asking me if they should send a cruiser out to our house. They said they have been getting calls from this house." "No, Mom. Don't know anything about that." Deny, deny, deny. That is the one thing that I have learned when it came to getting into trouble. Now, I could deny anything up and down, it made no difference to my old man. He'd beat my ass if it was even suggested that I may have done something bad. All I could hope for was that he would not be completely sure, and thus perhaps feel a little guilt about possibly beating his innocent son. But, such was usually the case, I did do it, and Dad never felt guilty. Anyway, I denied that Nikki and I had done anything other than normal childish things, when in fact we were pretty close to that couple in Natural Born Killers. Well, soon after Nikkie was picked up, and my dad came home from work. Nothing out of the ordinary occurred until later than night when, around seven or so, my father announced, "Let's go to the grocery store." My dad, my mom, my older brother Dale, my 2-year-old sister, and myself, piled into the family car for our very first Late Night Family Grocery Store Run. The first and only one. As we drove to the grocery store, I did not think that anything out of the ordinary was happening, and I stared mindlessly out the window. Then, we pulled up to the grocery store. It was a massive structure, with numerous looming pillars, a pointed archway, and what I thought were a hundred gigantic steps leading up to the huge glass doors. "Just Eric is going in," my dad stated plainly. "Huh," I thought. "Maybe he's going to buy me something." I hopped out of the car, blissfully unaware of my impending doom. In fact, the only thing I was concerned about as I marched up the precipitous steps, was that I was dressed so sloppily, and this place looked like a pretty fucking classy grocery store. We made it to the entrance, and my dad pulled open the heavy glass door. I took two steps in before realizing my mistake. Behind a metal cage sat a fat old cop, looking at my father and me intently. At once I realized I had been had! This was no grocery store! I turned and ran screaming from the doorway, trying desperately to reach the family auto. But, alas, it was all for not. My dad had his vice-like grip on my arm, and he pulled me through the entrance and up to the awaiting police officer behind the cage. "Earlier today my son pranked 911 eight times-" "It was nine times, Dad!" I interrupted. I actually corrected my father's accusation. Shit, if I'm going to fry for one prank phone call, I might as well get credit for them all. My dad explained the situation to the cop, and we were both led to a small white room where I was sat down on a bench. Within a matter of moments a dashing, mustachioed cop walked in and shut the door. It was all run-of-the-mill scare tactics, but guess what, I WAS FUCKIN SCARED. The cop asked me why I did it. "I don't know." He told me that technically he could throw me in jail. Did I want to be thrown in jail? "No." He told me that had my dad done it, they would throw my dad in jail. Did I want my dad thrown in jail? "No." The meeting lasted about ten minutes, and I'm not sure what all was said during that time, because I could not even look at my dad or the cop. Instead I played with the buttons on my jacket like they were the most interesting things in the world. Finally, my dad and I were released from the small cell and we trudged down to the car. "Don't you ever do that again, Eric," my dad said sternly. "I won't." "I fucking know you won't. And don't think that your punishment is over, either. Just wait until we get home." In the car ride home a deathly silence had befallen everyone. My mom knew my old man was pissed, and refused to offer me any comfort. There was nothing but absolute silence...until I looked over at my brother Dale, and saw him with both hands covering his mouth, tears streaming down his cheeks, as he tried his goddamdest to muffle the sounds of his own maniacal laughter.

The Moore You Know: So, I read today that 18% of suicides are done by hanging. That seems like a lot. I mean, I had no idea that that many people knew how to tie a noose. Seriously. Who knows how to tie a noose anymore. When was the last time you needed to know how to tie one? Who are these people that are killing themselves this way? Boy Scouts and Old Timey train robbers? Honestly, I figured knowing how to tie a noose went out of style probably around the time the Civil Rights Act was passed.

© Eric Moore - 2010

I Am Not A Homophobe: A Reasonable Defense

Whoa, whoa whoa! Since when did peacock feathers become gay?

As I have mentioned in a previous post, my father and I have had our share of differences over the years. Though we appear more as rivals than as father and son, we still love and respect one another. The same cannot be said for three individuals whom I considered to be my arch nemeses. These three unfortunate souls are my most hated foes; men for whom I pray slow and painful deaths each and every day of my life. We are sworn enemies, and our hatred for one another has spanned space, time and existence. The very core of my being begs for their destruction. I considered their very names to be as profane as the demonic monikers of Beelzebub, Malebolgia and Belial. The sight of them disgusts me, and I have to repress the urge to vomit every time I happen to see one of them. On more than one occasion my plans to murder them have been thwarted, as I fear that to touch them would permanently stain me in some way. I am sure that acidic and putrid bile pumps through their veins, the very piss and shit of the devil himself. The abhorrence that I feel for these men is as pure and untouched as a newly fallen layer of snow. Every breath they draw is an insult to me, and I shall despise them forever. I pray to God that one day one of these assholes gets raped by a grizzly bear and contracts HIV because of it. I would love to put a gun to one of these guys' head and force him to fuck a beehive, and each individual bee has a scorching case of herpes. I want to take a crazy straw and force it up my enemy's dick hole, and then pour lemon juice into the straw with a dropper pipette. Now, some of you may be asking yourself, "Eric, why is it that all of your revenge plans consist of what can only be described as sadomasochistic, bestial sex-torture?" Well, to be honest, I don't have a satisfactory answer for that. I just want you all to understand how much I hate these muthafuckas. That being said, let me be perfectly clear: the fact that all three of these men happen to be gay has nothing to do with my hatred of them. OK. Their sexual orientation means nothing to me. They have given me other reasons to draw my ire. Let me explain. The first of mine enemies is a blond-haired Adonis my the name of Trevor Blueisland. We met in a Barnes and Noble after we both reached for the same copy of Maya Angelou's Pulitzer-prize winning novel, Beloved. African-American literature has always been a strong passion of mine. Discovering that Mr. Blueisland was a fellow blackiophile (def.: n. one who enjoys black people) we quickly started up a fascinating discussion regarding stereotypes in Langston Hughes's masterpiece, Invisible Man. That conversation inevitably led to a passionate debate on first-person shooter video games. Though spirited, we remained cordial, until Mr. Blueeefjdsfis...I'm sorry, I get queasy just writing his name...until Mr. Blueisland said something that I can never forgive him for and earned him my most sincere hatred. "I believe, Eric," he began confidently, "that GoldenEye 007 is the most overrated video game ever made, and was not even the best first-person shooter game for Nintendo 64. That honor goes to the flawless Perfect Dark." Oh, did my blood boil! GoldenEye is overrated? Was this guy fucking serious? GoldenEye 007 is one of the most important video games ever to be manufactured, and it's multi-player feature raised the bar for generations to come. And this asshole thinks that Pefect Dark, a sloppy GoldenEye rip-off, is better? Fuck that! I took the copy of Beloved that I had in my hand and smashed the spine of the book on the bridge of his nose. Blood squirted out his nostrils and a sickening crunching sound emitted from his face. Mr. Blueisland fell to his knees and cried out in pain. "Don't you ever, EVER, say another word about GoldenEye!" I screamed at him. "Or so help me God I will fucking murder you! Do you hear me shithead! I WILL FUCKING END YOU!" Well, all the commotion brought over a bookstore employee who demanded to know what was going on. Before I had a chance to explain, Mr. Blueisland pointed up at me and screeched, "He hit me because I'm gay!" The employee looked at me. "That's a hate crime! That is a hate crime, sir!" By now a small crowd had begun to gather around us, each person looked at me with contempt. I had no choice. I fled from the store, the bloodied copy of Beloved still in my hand. Ever since that day I have wished for the death of Trevor Blueisland for what he said about the best N64 game ever made. The fact that he is a colon bomber means nothing. If he wants to garden uphill that's fine with me. That's his business. He just better not talk shit about my favorite video game. I met my second nemesis while sitting in a small coffee shop reading my favorite novel, Push by W.E.B. Du Bois. While I had completely immersed myself into the life of the obese and illiterate 16-year-old heroine (heroin?) of Mr. Du Bois's debut novel, I couldn't help but overhear the man sitting at the table next to me. He was an effeminate little guy with one of those voices that was soooo gay there was no way around it. Anyway, I heard him say into his phone, "I dunno. Ghostbusters didn't need a sequel. The first one wrapped everything up. Part two was just overkill." Well, I considered Ghostbusters 2 to be right up there with Citizen Kane and Casablanca. So I tore my attention from Precious Jones and her adventures and turned to the man. "What is your name?" I demanded. "Excuse me," he replied. I slammed my book shut and stood up. "Your name. What is it?" "It's Leland. Leland Merryoates." I put my hands on his table and bent over so our eyes were at the same level. "Well, guess what mouse dick? Ghostbusters was goddamn magic in a bottle. Why wouldn't you want there to be a sequel? And no one thought that lightening could strike twice, but guess what? It did. Ghostbusters 2 is one of the greatest movies ever made." Then, I grabbed his hot latte off the table and threw it in his face. Mr. Merryoates let out a terrible scream and dropped to the floor, clutching madly at his face. I stood over him, quite pleased with myself. Then, a waitress rushed over and said, "You scalded Leland's face! Why? Because he's gay? This is a hate crime!" Well, fuck me. I looked around at the other patrons. They were all staring at me like I was dressed in full Nazi regalia. "I'm calling the cops you dirty gay-basher!" The waitress screamed. I had no choice but to flee, unfortunately leaving my worn copy of Push behind me. Now, I maimed Mr. Merryoates for his derogatory Ghostbusters 2 statements, and not because he is a three-legged beaver. If he wants to be a brownie that is of no concern to me. I just want to make myself clear. Finally, I met the third in my trilogy of twinks one day in the park. I was lying in the grass reading National Book Award-winning author Ralph Ellison's famous Devil in a Blue Dress. A few yards away from me a man and a woman were lying on a blanket looking up at the sky. Enthralled by my book and happy to be in the presence of young lovers, I allowed the day to pass with little provocation. Until I heard the man say aloud to who I thought was his girlfriend, "You know, Corneille's Le Cid was a much better tragedy than Mairet's Sophonisbe. Mairet was just jealous of Corneille's fame." Now, there are a lot of things in my life that I let slide. I turn the proverbial cheek multiple times a day. How-the-fuck-ever, this was not one of those times. My love of French playwright Jean Mairet's stunning masterpiece Sophonisbe is one issue that I will never-NEVER-compromise. So, I stood up, set aside Devil in a Blue Dress, and marched right over to the couple. "Excuse me," I said politely. "But can you repeat what you just said?" "I'm sorry?" I crouched down. The girl instinctively moved back. "Say what you said a moment ago in regard to Mairet." The man swallowed hard. He looked nervously to the girl. "You better just answer him, Roderick. Otherwise he'll never leave," the girl said. "She's right, Roderick," I said with a malicious grin. "You better answer me." Roderick looked at me, but only for a moment before his eyes wavered to the ground. "I-I was only saying how I b-believed Mairet to be jealous of Corn-" I didn't even let him finish his blasphemy. I shot up, lifted a foot, and smashed it down upon his groin, twisting my shoe with such force that a loud popping noise could be heard coming from beneath the sole. Roderick howled in pain and the girl screamed in surprise. Then, I grabbed the guy by his shirt and dragged him to the pond in front of us. When he resisted, I kicked him again in the testicles. Pulling him over the pond's rocky edge, Roderick became torn and bloody. I pushed his face into the water repeatedly and then forced him to drink the fetid water. "Let's wash that shitty mouth of yours! Let's get all that shit-talking out of your mouth!" I demanded in a mocking tone. When I thought he had had enough, I left Roderick in a pile of his own filth next to the water. I could hear him sobbing as I stomped up to the girl. "Tell your boyfriend that real men love Mairet, bitch!" I said. "He's not my boyfriend!" she cried. "He's just my friend! He's gay! And you beat him up because of it! You are a hate-monger! This is a hate crime! I'm calling the police!" Well, I had no choice but to run away. I wanted to stay and explain to the girl that I only beat up her friend because of his allegiance to Pierre Corneille, and not because he is a pork sword-swallower. If this sperm-burper wants to be a tearoom queen, I'm completely fine with that. That has never been an issue with me. I just get riled up when it comes to 17th century French dramatists, OK. So, that is the back story behind how I met my three most hated rivals. Arrogant, rude, ignorant slobs they are! And yes, yes, they also happen to be bubble-biting chocolate doughnut-punchers, but that's not at all why I hate them. I hate them because they are douche bags.

The Moore You Know: Listen, I understand that not every woman likes to go down on her man, and that's fine. But there are a lot of women who do enjoy giving head, and I just think that some women need to shut up about how good they think they are at giving blowjobs. I mean, a chick who brags about her oral skills is like an astronaut who brags about being able to name all the planets. Here's a shocker, ladies: it's not that hard to make a man come. Shit, I've busted my nut twice during this post just because my chair is that comfortable. A dude will come from pretty much anything, and the worst blowjob in the world still feels as good as the best blowjob in the world. In fact, I could stick my dick in a blender and I would probably ejaculate before having my junk ripped to shreds.

© Eric Moore - 2010

Inside The Dugout Of The Worst Team In The Aryan Nation Slow-pitch Softball League

White Supremacy

"All right, guys, let's play a little bit of D out there. No more runs, no more runs. Weaver, move left a little bit. That-no, you're left. Right. No, I'm saying you moved in the right direction, go back. OK, stop. Perfect. Miller, I want you back to the edge of the grass. Back, back, back. Good. Here we go, here we go. Let's show these boys what we can do!"

"Hey, Coach?"

"Yeah, Dirk, what is it?"

"Heil Hitler!"

"Jesus Christ, Dirk, watch your hand! You almost took out my fuckin eye!"

"But, heil Hitler."

"Yes, yes. Heil Hitler, but right now we also need some outs. This other team is killing us right now."

"Eighteen to zero, Coach."

"Yeah."

"I had no idea these greasy wetback's would be such good ball players. Did you?"

"Not at all. When I saw them all pour out of that old van I thought, 'Oh great, the Mexican circus is in town.'"

"They're Cuban."

"What?"

"They're Cuban, Coach."

"Dirk, who is this asshole?"

"That's Thomas Rider, sir. The ringer. Oliver's cousin who played ball at LSU a few year ago."

"You played ball at LSU? Why the fuck are we still scoreless? Why the fuck aren't you even on the field!"

"Because when my cousin asked me to join his softball team for a game he didn't tell me you guys were a bunch of neo-Nazis! I'm not going to play for you!"

"Jesus Christ, Dirk. Can you believe the balls on this kid? He we are down eighteen to nothing-"

"Twenty to nothing, Sir."

"What?"

"That dirty taco-eater just hit a two-run homer."

"Tacos are not traditional Cuban food."

"What?"

"I was only saying that technically, they aren't dirty taco-eaters because tacos are not a traditional Cuban food. Maybe you should have called them dirty picadillo-eaters or dirty ropa vieja-eaters."

"This fucking kid, Dirk. This fucking kid."

"You want I should kick his mongrel-loving ass, Coach?"

"I just don't get it, Tom. Your fellow white man needs you right now. You have the potential to be our white knight, the savior of the Aryan Nation. Won't you help us beat these fuckin cherry pickers?"

"Absolutely not."

"Where the fuck is Oliver?"

"Right field, Coach."

"Ump, time. Oliver, get over here. Look at this sumbitch waddle. Pride of the white race, huh. Christ, I think I'm getting hard just watching those fat tits bounce."

"He is exceptionally tubby, Coach. You want I should beat his ass?"

"Shut up. Oliver, what the fuck?"

"What is it, Coach?"

"What the fuck is this?"

"That's my cousin, Tom. He played D1 ball at LSU. You said we should try to get a ringer in here, cuz we ain't got no talent on this team. I thought Tom would be a good fit."

"Well, Oliver, your cousin fits about as well as a square dick into a round pussy!"

"Your dick is square?"

"Shut up!"

"Coach, let's wrap it up!"

"Sure thing, Blue. Oliver, you sit your sweaty ass down on the bench. Tom, get your ass into right!"

"No."

"Listen to me you little sack of shit! I'm about to go Edward Norton on your ass! You ever see that movie! Well, I was the goddamn consultant for that shit! I showed Edward Norton how to curb stomp that porch monkey! I'll do the same thing to you if you don't get your fairy ass into right field!"

"Please, Tom. I vouched for you. You're embarrassing me."

"OK. I'll play, but only because I feel bad for Oliver. Not because I believe a single piece of your hateful bullshit."

"I don't care if you're a card-carrying Commie, gook-loving twink! Just move your fuckin feet to right field!"

"Sorry about that, Coach. I thought Tom was cool."

"Are you wearing a sports bra, Oliver?"

"Mom said it might help. Gives me an awful case of uni-boob though."

"Oh shit, Coach. Their best player is at bat. He hit the grand slam in the third."

"Christ Almighty. How did we wind up playing these bans. I thought it was an all white league?"

"We needed eight teams to fill the season, Coach. We only had seven in the Nation, so we had to bring in an outside team."

"So we decided to fill the final spot with Castro's fuckin national team? Miller! Get your ass back! Stay there, dickhead!"

"Well, I suggested Mattie's Tile Company form a softball team. They're all fat drunks over there, Sir. We could have easily kicked the shit out of them."

"So how did we end up playing these coke camels?"

"Weaver, Coach. He suggested playing them as a way of showing how superior the white man's athletic skills are to these spics. Sir."

"Weaver? Ump, time!"

"Last one, Coach!"

"Weaver, get your ass over here! A little faster, please. Dirk here tells me it was your idea to put these guys on the schedule. What the fuck man? We're trying to prove that the Aryan race is the only race, meanwhile we're getting piss-pounded by fucking Desi Arnaz out there."

"Who's Desi-"

"Shut the fuck up, Dirk."

"I'm sorry, Coach. I thought we could just bring them in and roll them. I had no idea that Cubans were so good at playing ball."

"You-you didn't know that?"

"No, sir. I have never heard that before."

"Are you fucking serious right now? We're the Aryan fucking Nation! Our entire belief system is based on stereotyping others, and you're telling me you didn't know that Cubans could play ball! That's what the dirty Communist rats are most known for!"

"That's news to me to be honest with you. I thought they smelled bad."

"The blacks smell bad, shit-for-brains! Cubans can hit a ball five hundred feet!"

"Well, I...I don't know what to say, Coach. I feel like an asshole. I feel like this whole fiasco is all my fault."

"No. No, it's not all your fault. You need help to be this bad. Maybe I need to be a better coach. Let's just try to make it through this inning, OK?"

"Sure, Coach. And Coach, white power!"

"Apparently not, Weaver. Apparently not."

"How'd it go with Weaver, Coach?"

"Shut the fuck up, Oliver."

"Shut the fuck up, Dirk. Oh, shit, that's gone. Look at Tom out there. What a faggy run. Holy shit he caught it! He fuckin caught it! Throw to second. Double play! We got a double play! I can't believe it! Two outs! Two outs! How do you like that you slimy garden gnomes! That's how the white man plays defense! Heil Hitler! Heil Hitler!"

"Heil Hitler, Coach! Heil Hitler!"

"Man oh man, that Tommy can really run. Did you see him snag that ball? And what a cannon."

"I told you he was good, Coach. Played for the LSU down there."

"Dry off your tits, Oliver."

"Yes, Coach."

"There may be hope for us yet, huh Coach."

"Fuck no, Dirk. Hell fucking no. But it was great to see the look on that ugly saltwater beaner's face when Tommy caught that ball. And did you see that other rafter try to slide into second? No chance."

"I love it when you smile, Coach."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"He said he loves it when you smile, Coach."

"Shut the fuck up, Oliver!"

"What? That's what you said. I love it when you smile too, Coach."

"What?"

"You don't have to be so pissed off all the time is all. I mean, I know we suck at softball, and hatred is pretty much what we're known for, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't smile sometimes."

"Are you coming on to me, Oliver?"

"All he's saying is it's OK to smile, Coach. Sir."

"Maybe I have been a bit of a grumpy goose lately. Things haven't been going so great these past few weeks. Fletcher forgot to give my new Hitler tattoo a mustache. Can you believe that? Now, everyone asks me why I have a pissed off Clark Gable on my chest. A shipment of fresh Nazi flags jack-knifed on the highway. And now this team...I don't know, Dirk. Heavy is the head that wears the crown, you know. I just feel like-HE'S OUT, BITCH! HE IS OUT! That's three outs! Tom, you magnificent bastard! Great catch! Way to go! We fuckin did it! We fuckin did it! Man, you were amazing out there!"

"Th-thanks."

"You look like you could be on the Yankees! That Derek Jeter swirlie has nothing on you! You were terrific!"

"It...it was nothing. No big deal."

"Coach?"

"Yes, Blue. What's up?"

"I'm calling it."

"Calling what?"

"The game. The score is twenty-one to nothing. It's over."

"You dirty rotten cocksmoker, motherfucker! I am God's handmaiden! I will tear out your lungs and breathe in the fucking truth! I will eat your brains and consume your knowledge! You fucking piece of shit no good backstabbing baby-touching monkey lover! I will rape and eat your children! You are going to die today!"

"We got another game at 2:30 on this field."

"Another time then, Blue. But you better fucking believe that I am going to write a pamphlet on this. Congratulations, Ump, you just became propaganda."

"That's game! That's game! Miguel's Cuban Restaurant is the winner!"

"Look at em all. Celebratin like they just run ashore in Miami. Fucking Castro humpers. Ah well. Tommy, you were great out there today. Listen, I know we don't really see eye to eye on a lot of things. But we still got two games left. I would be honored if you would come back next week and play for us."

"Coach. It's my pleasure...to tell you to go fuck yourself."

"But...but..."

"He's gone. I'm sorry, Coach. Perhaps we flew too high to the sun today."

"Dirk...GET YOUR FUCKIN HANDS OFF ME! Tomorrow we go back to fundamentals you piles of horse shit! Get in the van! Get in the fucking van. You maggots make me want to fucking vomit! Jesus H. Christ, I am actually ashamed to be white today! You talentless fucks! Get in the van! Get in the van! Get in the van!"

"Man, he's pissed, Dirk."

"I know, Oliver."

"Practice is going to suck tomorrow."

"I know. But even though we lost today, for a moment, for one moment, we walked with gods. When Tommy made those plays in the outfield, and Coach's face lit up, you and I were witnesses to greatness, Oliver. We strode across the plains of Olympus. We became one with all creation. For a split second, Oliver, you and I bathed in the light of the cosmos. For that I will always be proud."

"Gosh, Dirk. You sure can make pretty words."

"Thanks, Oliver."

"Can I suck on your pecker, please?"

"Ummm....nnno."

The Moore You Know: Well, way to go Iowa. It is now illegal to text and drive at the same time. They went after drinking and driving, then texting and driving. I just know that masturbating and driving is next. Well, guess what, law makers! My stereo is busted! And do you know how boring it is to drive in Iowa! Jerking off is all I have left to pass the time! Something needs to be done before these fascists take away the one fun thing left to do while driving.

© Eric Moore - 2010

Will Work For Food...And A Fuckload Of Money

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And You, Mr. Grylls, Are A Dick Tickler

"Jesus Christ, Bear! There's an Applebee's across the street!"

I have learned a lot from watching television for the past 25 years. In fact, most of what I know was taught to me by channels like TLC, History and Discovery. TLC has taught me that there are way too many midgets, fat asses and cake enthusiasts in this world. The History Channel taught me that Nazis were enthusiastic monster hunters that wrote books about alien encounters. And the Discovery Channel taught me how to survive in the wilderness, which is to say, the Discovery Channel has taught me jack shit. There is really only one survival show on television, that being the controversial Man vs. Wild, hosted by professional survivalist and amateur limey douche, Bear Grylls, real name Edward Michael Grylls. It recently came out that most of Man vs. Wild is shot on a studio lot in Burbank, so really the show shouldn't even be called a survival show. But as far as I am concerned one survival show is one too many, because it really doesn't teach you anything. Neither did the short-lived Survivorman, starring Canadian blues sensation Les Stroud. Or the most absurd survival show yet, the Mad Max-inspired Apocalypse Man, which pitted ex-Marine Rudy Reyes against a fabricated post-apocalyptic environment in which the toxic air made it impossible to keep one's shirt on. The reason that I loathe survival shows is because they are just not practical. If I wanted to watch someone eat that much rancid meat I'd watch The Bachelor. The fact is that if a person's plane crashes in the jungles of South America, he or she is not going to remember which plants are safe to eat and which ones you shouldn't wipe your ass with. The Average Joe isn't going to know how to purify water, rig a makeshift compass, build a raft, or construct proper sleeping quarters. Although, I did see our man Bear give himself a homemade enema. That's something I can get behind (pun intended). But I digress. There are so many different landscapes and weather patterns on this earth that it would be impossible for anyone but an expert to memorize proper survival techniques for each one. I understand that these shows are meant to educate and entertain the viewer, but in all honesty, I know for a fact that I will never be lost in the Amazon or struggling to work my way across the Gobi Desert (that's the second Gobi Desert reference on this blog). Never say never, Eric. Fuck you, buddy. I will never get lost in the wilderness. I know that. I mean, I came close when my old Mercury Grand Marquis broke down on some nameless highway in western Nebraska. But to survive out there I just had to know how to talk Big12 football and make vague references to a vast "negro conspiracy." Finding myself trudging through an arctic tundra is just not in the cards for me. But for the sake of argument, let's say that I decide to hop on a plane and fly to some random village in Chile, and on the way there my plane crashes and I am stranded in the jungle. I am pretty confident that I would die within the first two hours. I quit the Boy Scouts because I couldn't start a fire or catch a fish to save my life (plus I didn't want to help old ladies cross the street, because fuck them that's why). When I was little, I would play tag until I was actually tagged, then it became, "This game is gay. No, I'm done playing. Because it's stupid. You guys always come after me because I'm the slowest. Yes, you do! And I can never get you because you're faster than me. No, I said! I'm going inside. This game is for retards." I watched an episode of I Shouldn't Be Alive about a man who crashed his plane into a volcano. This dude survives a plane crash only to realize the one place he was able to miraculously land was inside a motherfucking volcano. At that point I think God is trying to tell you something. I can picture Him up in Heaven saying to himself, "I made this asshole crash his plane, then dropped him in an active volcano, and the dumb sonuvabitch still doesn't take the hint. THE WORLD IS DONE WITH YOU JERK OFF!" Well, I believe that when it's your time to go, it's your time to go. If my plane crashed into an active volcano I would probably say my prayers, squeeze the bewbs of an unfortunate female passenger, make a Mordor reference, then jump the fuck into the lava. If TV was serious about educating their viewers then they would have a show called Man vs. PMSing Girlfriend. The rugged Australian host would hunker down in an apartment bathroom, sifting through the waste basket and say, "Uh oh, mate. Looking at these tampon wrappers it appears that it's Julie's time of the month. If I ever want to make it out of here alive I better make sure there is plenty of ice cream in the freezer, Midol in the medicine cabinet, and under no circumstances should I make any comparisons between Julie and her mother." Or put a show on the Discovery Channel called Rent Dodging, which teaches you how to effectively avoid your landlord while still being able to stave off eviction. I'm going to develop a show called The Perfect Alibi, which will center on educating men on how to accurately and confidently convince their wives and girlfriends that they were at the library and definitely not at a strip club. Next season the History Channel should air Cleavage Sniper, a show about a dude who teaches you how to secretly stare at women's bewbs without them noticing. That is the kind of television that really educates people. When a man needs to survive using only his wits and whatever he has in his pockets, MacGyver has, and always will, be good enough for me.

The Moore You Know: I think the product that really got the shaft is Kool-Aid. The drink used to be a refreshing summertime beverage, but now it has become synonymous with conformity and mass suicide thanks to the Jonestown Massacre. And what sucks even more is the fact that Kool-Aid wasn't even used as a means of commiting suicide. Jim Jones just used a generic fruit drink mstakenly called Kool-Aid on the news. When was the last time you saw a commercial with a bunch of kids sitting around drinking Kool-Aid? You never see that shit anymore, because the first thing you would think of would be, "Those kids are trying to kill themselves."

© Eric Moore - 2010