JELLYFISH QUEEF CONCERTO

I have a reoccurring fantasy where I say "must see t.v." to a random person's face, then fire an uzi in the direction of their dumb smile.

THE HOUR OF PEACOCK LABIA

Recently my facial hair was out of control.  I kept imagining my mustache as a black girl saying "talk to the hand" at any food trying to pass through my open lips.  I also imagined my nose hair as the skinny cousin yelling "no ya din'nt!" to everything the black girl mustache denied.

My beard hair was the creepy uncle who likes to sit back, lick his lips and just watch.

Being a dragon isn't easy.

ABOLISH ALL MIRRORS

Let's talk more about the search query "Jereme Dean".

Every 6-8 months I google my name.  It's not like a calendar reminder is set.  Usually, what happens is I wonder if people are talking bullshit about me and check the internet.

I found a video on tumblr EE did.  The video is her reading a story I like from the Fast Machine anthology while wearing jean shorts and an american flag bikini top.  Fuck yeah.  The video is here.

I also found a blog named Deathcapades because of a post mentioning my name. At first I thought the blog author had a pussy.  After reading more posts I thought maybe the author was a guy/girl team.  Now I think maybe it's just a guy pretending to be a girl, or a girl pretending to be a guy.  Unsure, really. 

Having a difficult time believing a woman is capable of a sense of humor like the deathcapades author has.

Heh.

FLY LIKE A PARAPLEGIC OCTOPUS IN AN OCEAN OF SUGARED PISS

The old blogger required an additional module be installed for web logging.  I purposely didn't utilize it.  Statistics are for corporations and the insecure.

The new blogger has minimal web stats as an interface feature.  Kind of shitty because I log in to my account and there they are, these meaningless fucking statistics, complete with graphic charts.  What marble head has a tiny orgasm over this sort of data?

"34 page views today.  Feel validated."

The only good a forced stat counter has is seeing the terms searched to find my weak signal blog.  One person's search term: female masturbation at work.

Dear internet user, while I have masturbated on several occasions throughout my life, I do not have a vagina, nor have I encountered any vaginal masturbation while on the job   I believe it to be myth.  My apology for the momentary disappointment that is this blog.

The other search term people used to find my blog is "Jereme Dean".  Unsure why people keep googling my name.  I'm not important.  Shit, I hardly exist.  My ex-wife does like to keep tabs on my life because she's a big fan of my poetry, I guess--hi, Maggie!

Does a statistic exist to show the people who pronounce my name correctly when searching for it?

On an unrelated topic, when I smell an open jar of coconut oil a naked black girl materializes in my mindspace..

MY YACHT IS YOUR EMOTIONAL BREAKDOWN

The introduction for Sam Pink's "Frowns Need Friends, Too." is a mustard fart away from being finished.  Writing it felt good.  The book is being re-released from Lazy Fascist Press.  Fuck yep.

Maybe you didn't know Ani Smith interviewed me a while back.  It's the first and only.  You can find it here: interview.  Yeah, those women in the picture have dicks.  Pretty sure theirs are much bigger than mine, too.

This piece was solicited by an editor for an anthology.  The original publication in Lamination Colony is the only publication I've felt good about.  I'm really thankful Blake published the writing.  Totally think I owe him an aggressive blow job as a thank you. 

The second part of the life outline will be finished soon, I hope.  Unsure what I'm going to do with it.  Email me if you have any ideas: jdean33442@gmail.com

Below is a picture of me and my dog, Little Dave.  He's the one popping a boner.  I named him after a poet friend of mine.  We should be on the cover of a soft-core homosexual porn magazine (if such a thing exists).

(beat your meat with old men)

THE PEACH LORD OF AQUATIC SEX DREAMS

Here are some random lines.  Maybe I'll use them in poems one day.  Probably not.

***
The best voyeurism is a woman performing the ritual of the refigerator pickle.

My day as a high school teacher was spent finger fucking female students.  Don't judge.

Nathan Lane gives lazy blow jobs.

Lady, I don't want to fuck but I'm willing to watch your facial expression while I choke you.

 Short, fat women with over-sized mammary glands are always afraid of large dogs.

Masturbating to the idea of immortality is what makes us human.

Ring pops are nature's sex toys.

The board game "Don't Wake Daddy!" was based on the real life game "Sexual Assault".

Pubic hair: grow that shit!
***

TEAM WORK IS MASTURBATING WHILE SOMEONE GUILLOTINES YOUR SOFT NECK

Have you ever walked around your corn syrup city and thought, "Man, this is some bullshit.  Where's all the hot snatch?"  It's here, with me, in LA.

Hollywood is a pussy mecca.  No shit.  My favorite pastime is observing women.  Not creepy, but not clandestine either.  Feel like I'm an affable lecher.

I like to imagine a woman naked, but replace her vagina with a harmonica.  A large chunk of my mental process is spent debating if a particular instrument is petite or over-sized  and clown like.

Any sort of movement by the female form stupefies me.  Running or jogging, dancing, fighting, whatever.  My brain shuts down all auxiliary function.  I could watch hips until I die.

Anyways, what blogs are worth reading these days?  I never stopped reading Sam Pink's blog.  Ani Smith has a blog--she is my friend and has a sensational harmonica, I think; pretty sure hers can sing two tunes at once, too.  Oh yeah, Blake Butler still has a blog.

Please don't recommend tumbler pages.  I hate tumbler.  All white space and picture overload isn't for me, unless it's a page of nothing but cock pictures.  I'm cool with that.  But the page has to have all sizes represented.  Massive cocks are only so interesting when those are all a person peeps.

Is Xenga still a decent place to hook-up with suicidal, under-aged girls?  Hope so.  For all our sake.


What should I read, fags?

WISH FOR HANDS

Chemtrails are the scientific equivelant of aerial herpes. 

America loves you.

No homo.

TRITE, LIKE YOU.

I was asked to do a reading.  Well, actually, the invitation was more of a casual demand.  The lady who asked insinuated she would obliterate my dick under the force of her foot if any response was returned other than an emphatic "fuck yes".

I said I had to meditate on the idea and get back to her.  She responded by calling me pussy.  Been cupping my crotch out of fear since.

It's not like I'm a curmudgeon shitting on everything because I hate myself.  I've attended numerous readings before arriving to a conclusion: readings are stupid because they are fucking stupid.

A writer with a small soul and giant ego reads a precious work to a gathering of fellow authors in an unmarked book store, or even worse, a bar, to assuage their inadequate self-image.  Yeah, man, totally sounds like a night of perpetual smiles.

The worst type of reader are the pricks who bask in the attention, force puke a slew of poorly timed jokes, and prattle about a soft existence.  Then they read in a tone like a librarian's climax.
The listeners are worse.  Needy writers with boring lives foraging for any spatial freedom to talk about themselves to other dickheads who share the same agenda.  Newsflash: validation is not my preferred drug, it's yours.

Another reason I'm against readings is my attention span has the circumference of a jellyfish pussy.  Bullshit bores me quick.  When I get bored I revert back to inner dialogue, which is mostly comprised of me shitting on popular ideas or my environment.  Then I vocalize. Then people get ass sorrow.  Then I'm ostracized.

I've spent my entire life making myself laugh to cope with loneliness.  I will not stop.  Everything is humorous.  Get over it.

Did you know there was a time when an author read his shit to a crowd of fans who genuinely wanted the performance.  Crazy, huh?

If one person, doesn't have to be a fan, says "hey jereme, I want to hear you read." without a hidden agenda, I'll accept the invitation--I will read.

Now is your chance.  Convince me.

Please.

MOLDENKE WOULD REMAIN

A friend got married a few weeks ago.  The wedding was in Malibu.  I'm a misogamist who believes in relationships, who also believes in love.  So yeah, I was in attendance.

Usually, I wouldn't attend such a thing.  I loathe weddings.  The ceremonies involved are insulting to anyone with any sort of intelligence, like all ceremony is, and the emotionally charged women terrify me.  Fucking TERRIFY me.

My invitation wasn't met with excitement, only because I knew I had to compromise my value system to support a friend.  Most people wouldn't benefit from such an allowance.  But this guy is my friend.  I heart him and shit.  His girl is super awesome, too.

The idea of me wearing a suit and tie wandering around a stupid church with a feigned smile provided moderate anxiety.  I kept thinking, am I really going to be a bitch and do this?  The answer: sort of.

The issue with the 21st century is that nobody declares themselves anymore.  People shut up, look down, and ride the hegemonic wave of consumer slavery because convenience and safety is just that.  We, the civilized, are a generation of coddle shit squishes. 

"You know, like, hey, ipods and Michael Bay movies aren't that bad."  Yeah, they are--fuck you.

I stand for shit.

The only way I could feel good about attending the wedding was by protesting the idea of marriage, to some degree.  Not in a dickhead way, though.  Like in an affable scumbag sort of way.

My initial idea of protest was to sport a 12-inch black rubber dick with a chin strap as a 'top hat', a cock ring 'monocle' and a massive double-headed dildo 'staff'.  Basically, the valley version of Mr. Peanut.

The outfit seemed cumbersome.  I didn't do it.

The next idea I had was to bring an ounce of cocaine and 5 naked strippers to the wedding.  Maybe do some body shots off white children or something.

Then I remembered how completely annoying strippers are.  They usually have cold skin despite their sweet tans, too.  Freaks me out a little.  Like their soul is so eroded body heat doesn't work.

Plus, who the fuck wants to share cocaine?

After much deliberation, I decided to wear a costume.  Dragons are special to me.  They symbolize individual strength, a force against all things.  Looking cool was a determining factor, too. 

So yeah, I wore a dragon costume to a wedding.

People liked the outfit.  The bride and groom genuinely seemed to like it.  The kids liked it.  Of course, haters gonna hate.  So I gave the sour pussies a bright, green fuck you to really hate on.  They devoured that shit.

The wedding was nice.  It wasn't a normal ceremony.  And didn't even take place at a church.  The bullshit part was minimal.  Approximately 15 minutes.  Maybe it was longer.  I got there an hour late.  Everything else was pure party.

I like pure party.

As the night went on and alcohol at the bar waned, more and more people had the courage to ask me exactly why I was dressed in costume.  It was the best part of the night.  I told 15 or so people exactly why I was a misogamist, why I believed in love, why I didn't waffle on my values, and why the protest.

Some people got 'it', other people had horrified facial expressions and avoided me the rest of the night, others just wanted to pet my tail.

Fun night.

Gena looked very fuckable and took some pictures--like she always does--as a document of my life.  Here's a picture of the bride and me making a heart shape where the groom's stomach is supposed to be: