Spank My Bajinga

Pussy Delight

EdwardiaNine — Tue, 11 Oct 2005 19:59:35 GMT

Zits are fun. Maybe not for the tortured teen who looks like someone flicked flaming marshmallows at her face at last weekend's quasi-sapphic 4-H meeting, and maybe not for you with your prescription acne meds that clash with your zoloft pumps. But for me, zits are fun. Sure, they can be inconvenient: the little red bump at 7am becomes a bubonic whitehead by 3pm and you absently lance it with a toothpick in your hot coworker's car after lunch. That's frustrating. Unless your hot coworker is Veronica and you're me. Because then your hot coworker's eyes will light up the way you'd expect if like was just like bad erotic literature. Only it's not cock that's got her so excited; it's the holy grail of pusfiends: multiple chambers. Which makes me wonder if Marilyn Chambers ever had multiple orgasms. That's a fairly heady connection, ho ho ho, but you've got to admit: if she turned out to have an anal-vaginal fistula, the nickname 'Multiple' would take on the savory glow of someone pooping into their own coochie. But I digress. Veronica, as indicated earlier, loves to pop my zits. She gets this cruel, delightedly taunting tone when she sees one on my neck or nestled in the depths of my beard. "Sweetie," she fiends. "You've got a treat for me." A treat. Not a zit. Not a pimple. A treat. For most women, a treat would be perhaps some exquisite European chocolates. Free cosmetics. A week without beatings. Not so Veronica: I could club her with a pound of Teucher as we prance merrily about the Clinique counter and it still wouldn't compare to finding a three- or four-chambered pustule somewhere on my person. My sister Hillary was recently bitten by an Hobo Spider; frequently confused with the Brown Recluse, the Hobo Spider's bites are similar but different. Like Mandy Patinkin and Al Jolson. So Hillary spent about a week with a softball-sized welt just above her left ass cheek. She put some ointment on it that drew the fluids into one spot, and after a few days the floodgates opened. It happened while she was at home during lunch (she lives with my parents, apparently taking a sabbatical from her Wayward Hayward lifestyle); she was in the bathroom, twisted around and poking at the angry red planet when it reached its apogee, epigee and perigee simultaneously: blood and pus began to dribble in chunky starts down her leg like mozarella-tomato soup down your grandmother's shapely chin. "Mom!" "What." "I popped it!" "Ooo! Lemme see! Come in here, I've got my magnifier all set up." Which is why Veronica fits so well into my family. So Hillary goes in there, pants around her ankles and one cheek peeking, hopping and making the pus plert-plert-plert out with every impact. Now, you've gathered that Mom likes to pop zits. What you don't know, or what you now also know, is that she's none too gentle about it. Her bedside manner, one might say, leaves something to be desired. Imagine an older, giddy retarded busdriver performing hamfisted openheart surgery. That's what it's like having my Mom pop your zits. If it hurts, she won't just nudge it: she'll thump at it with her gnarled arthritic fingers like a madwoman testing boulders for ripeness. So Hillary's in there twisted around to watch and Mom's got her glasses on and is scooting her chair forward while simultaneously adjusting the big while flexible magnifying lamp. Meanwhile, Banner and Penny have gotten excited by the raised voices and the half-naked pusquest and have launched themsleves from beneath my parents' spacious desks to pant and bark and -- you saw this coming -- try to lick the blood and pus from my sister's buttock. An Hobo Spider bite you do not want. An Hobo Spider bite on your ass is best avoided. My mother sucking pus truffles from your Hobo-bitten ass chambers with the plastic syringe from our (hopefully?) decomissioned Flavor Injector is a definite No. Doing all this while a pair of pony-sized dogs are vying for first place in the Open Wound Contamination Olympics? Serious business. "Banner, Penny, sit!" "Come on, you guys, settle." "Mom, take them out and close the door." "They'll be fine in here." "Sure they'll be fine. They can smell it." Banner walks over and tries to plant his nose somewhere on or around Hillary's ass. She's trying to push him away and Mom is sitting there saying, "Settle, Bubby. Settle. Come on, Bubba Dog, be a good boy. Now, now, don't try to lick Hilly's ass -- ohhhh look at you, Miss Penny. Look at you. Aren't you a good girl? Penny. Penny. Penny. Not you, Bubby. Penny. Aaa-h! Penny. Miss Penny. Penny. Penny, -- Bubby, no -- Penny? Do you love Hillary?" Penny licks a generous globule from the back of Hillary's knee. Hillary keens heavenward, "Ewwwww!", a forsaken suburban angel. She's trying to push Penny and Banner away now and Mom is just laughing at her: "She must really love her Hilly! Miss Penny, was that good? Did you like that Miss Penny? Do you want some more?" "Mom, that is so. GROSS!" "She'll be fine, honey, she eats from the cat box, too." Which is when my father, who's been home the whole time and whose hearing is apparently improving from three drops of castor oil in both ears nightly, walks in. "What are you doing to Hillary, Mother?" "Get out you old fart, can't you see she's half naked?" "Dad, Penny just licked blood and pus off my knee." "Eew. Oh, did it pop? Let me see that." The dogs are suddenly nowhere to be seen, and Dad leans in as Mom switches on the magnifying lamp and Hillary angles a compact so she can see what they see. For a few moments, the house is still. Dad says, "It looks like that shrimp cocktail we used to pour over the cream cheese at Doc and Merle's." Mom and Hillary both go, "Oh yeah ..." at precisely the same time, with precisely the same inflection.

Holy Mighty Fuck

EdwardiaNine — Fri, 23 Sep 2005 06:00:42 GMT

Very, very cool. This thing read me like a book with woodcuts by Dore. http://www.crush007.com/love.cgi?id=1127447951wnz Check it out.

Oy, the chumanity ...

EdwardiaNine — Sat, 27 Aug 2005 04:41:11 GMT

What is more depressing than auditions where actors don't show up? It's a wonder I didn't crack open the whiskey sooner. As it was, I was just taking an extra-marvellous sip when an actor scheduled for 6pm showed up ... roughly 8:30pm. Mostly a dancer, but a better actor than he thinks he is. I know where I want to use him in the show. Now I'm waiting for another actor to show up. My friend Chelsea. But we're just going to drink and laugh and watch movies. She'll officially audition tomorrow, and I will officially prance about like a slithering pixie. Audition for my play, you bastards. I'm fun to work with and I'll buy you drinks. Jesus, I'm offering alcohol to strangers so they'll be in my play. Am I a whore or a producer? Is there a difference?

Help me tell the story!

EdwardiaNine — Tue, 16 Aug 2005 06:57:47 GMT

I need you to follow this link and, picture by picture, tell the real/true/hidden story. Or stories. Yay! http://www.mirrorimagephoto.net/id4.html

EdwardiaNine — Wed, 10 Aug 2005 04:45:56 GMT

Announcer: We find ourselves in the spacious confines of stately old Hightower Manor. Ram Singh pours coffee for Edward and his mother, the Duchess of Wootzietail. DUCHESS: Thank you, Ram Singh, that will be all. RAM SING: Is Madame certain she is not preferring to marginalize my exotic otherness perhaps one iota further? D: Oh Ram Singh, so silly and formal with your dark and frightening skin. Show us your buttocks. RS: Ohhhh, this is truly degrading. EDWARD: Mother ... D: Edward, stop it: I can fondle whichever servants I please. You're making this whole scene feel like an A.R. Gurney. RS: Your hands are like the bony paws of an emaciated white rat whose eyes glow red as its claws leave hanta trails in peculiar heiroglyphs across my taint to my dark and bunching testicles, Madame. D: Indeed, foul Manservant. Such is the price you pay for dark skin and a non-Western modality. (We hear the sound of an orange being juiced as raw calamari is tossed from a stainless steel bowl, arcing first against the wall and then landing in chunky splats on a patch of butcher paper over marble.) RS: Well, goodness gracious me. D: Look at the dirty mess you've made. Fetch the mop! RS (fading out as we hear him padding away): Ooooh I am most wretched. Most wretched indeed. Naughty, naughty wretched penis-toting ejaculator ... ! D (over RS): Now, Edward, what was it about which you wished to speak? E: Mother, the Nordstrom Quasi-Biennial Funeral Procession is next week, and I've been trying to think of an appropriate way to celebrate your inheritance of the Sacred Title. D: So. You've finally come to bend your knee at the feet of the Queen of the Nordstrom Dead, have you? And what penitence shall I mete out in harsh judgement of your lengthy silences and overly-complex writing? E: Well, I -- D: HOW shall I live when my every waking moment is spent in cold realization of your adolescent infidelities -- E: Mother, this is hardly the time -- D: Masturbating! To photographs of filthy naked lesbian potsmokers being ritually fisted by angry Mexican Librarians! E (Protesting): I've never been fisted in my life. D: No not you, silly boy: the naked lesbian potsmokers. E: Oh! D: To continue: Never a thought for your mother! Never a drop of your quasi-manhood spilt in contemplation of her withered, sagging teats you didn't even find as attractive as that cartoon harpie's always climbing out of cakes behind the centerfold in the PLAYBOY you stole from your brother in 1975! E: Shall we air familiy laundries, or lawn amelie fairies? ... lawn familiy aries ... ? D: Oh. So you've come to work in the garden. (Sound of a trunk or large chest creaking suddenly open) RS (from within opened trunk): But Madame, you promised me that if anyone would be lawning the family Aries, it would be me! O, She IS A Rockstar! Oceana Rockstar! Oh, she am a Rockstar, too! D: Back in the trunk, filthy subservient witchdoctor! (Sound of trunk slamming and locking closed, perhaps a yelp from Ram Singh. Perhaps not) D: There, now that's done let's stroll about the grounds and argue for the legalization of Morphine. E: Morphine is legal, Mother. D: I know, I know! Isn't it WONDERFUL?! (Her last word hugely monstrously distorted and eerie, not like the lake) E: Perhaps we should plant some poppies ... (They walk off, chatting. From within the trunk we hear, muffled:) RS: Please to be opening the trunk now. Please? I have ceased the rhythmic squeezing of my sleeping semi-rection. (Sound: key in lock, turning, bolt release: trunk creaking open again.) RS: Oh thank you, thank you, Sahib. There is something I must tell you. Come closer. Closer. Closer still ... (whispered:) I am in a trunk. (Sound: trunk slams closed, with finality) RS: Now you are, too. (He chuckles.) END (C) 2005, Edward Hightower. All rights reserved.

Aura

EdwardiaNine — Fri, 05 Aug 2005 21:32:28 GMT

So Veronica is always registering for these VIP pass things, right? And there's this place supposed to be great opening up in Pleasanton, called AURA. They tout some amazing designer and Chef Gerrick Penn (the actual name, I kid you not), even going so far as to claim that the place will be some kind of thrilling vortex of fashion, music and cuisine. So I see this place listed in Panama Bay as I'm leaving on my way to camp one morning, only I'm walking to the camp from coffee because I was dropped off early because of car availability and such, so I've got a delicious and healthful blueberry and banana smoothie which I'm sipping judiciously as I read this flyer tacked next to the door. And I'm thinking, "Yeah, sure, if this place is anything like the way they describe it, this would be a cool thing to have in Pleasanton." So Veronica tells me we somehow got onto the VIP list and we're going and -- get this, o faithful ones -- I'm actually looking forward to it. Most of you are probably already familiar with my deeply rooted loathing for what the kids like to call the 'club scene'. In fact, I remember that when I was in college we called it the 'club scene'. Only it sucked. Which it still does. At AURA. So we're VIPs and we show up a little later, aiming for the sweet spot after the arrival of the eager Bank of America cust. serv. rep. who is about thirty incessantly chirping pounds overweight miserable and righteous in her fundamentalist Christian Anti-Orgasm Movement , but before the arrival of the Jaded Ultra Hips besmocked in shade-grown fair trade Prada and oozing Liberal Concern for Political Issues like the greasy grey anal leakage my uncle gets from eating those soytato chips. I think our timing was pretty near perfect. So we get there and inquire of a very handsome early twenties boy with boyish cleanshaven good looks and spiky hair over a black silk or satin button-down shirt that shows off his well-developed pecs without revealing embarrassing nipplewart detail ('Maybe she won't notice; maybe this time I won't come so soon! Maybe someday I'll tell Brent that I like him ...'), who tells us that the VIP line is over there on the right side of the doors. I'm sorry ... was that, 'The VIP line!?' There's a fucking LINE?! I tell it to you as only an American Citizen could, fellow citizens: AURA had a line for people on the VIP list, but people who were paying for admission were being ushered in ahead of us. (Them. I was a dispassionate observer.) What moron wandered out of his third class at Cal State Fuckmook and decided that the way to drum up business was to offer random exclusivity and then retract it in obvious favor of cash? Wait a moment ... No, can't place that scent ... So we wait ten minutes and men are ogling Veronica with a dexterity rarely witnessed outside their swank limbo parties, but nobody will look at me! Okay, they'll look at me. But my facial hair seems to deter further investigation. I'm humming a song about hatcheting the kittens when we reach the front of the LINE, and this smiling padded bra with a clearly synthetic fall sporting poorly laquered chopsticks smiles corporately at us and says, "Hi there I'm Denice are you on the list?" Veronica says, "Veronica." "I'm sorry, Ronnerfa?" "Veronica." "Teutonica." "No, Veronica. V-E-R--" "Oh I see here it is, can I see your IDs?" I bat my eyelids at her and make kissy lips as I show her mine. She smiles: this guy's cute and funny because he's with this beautiful woman. Veronica is asking her a question as she stamps the underside of our right wrists with a nifty Aura symbol, and I'm tweaking my nipples with cries of a constipated turkey vulture. She's still smiling, listening to Veronica as her eyes glance at me. Once. The smile falters. Veronica sees her attention shift and repeats something, drawing Denise's attention back but not before I see a brief and telling flash of deep human alarm illuminate her inner monologue: this man stands over me with a nude disfigured Barbie doll but his eyes are made of pudding! Pudding!! We're inside and Veronica asks a muscular Asiatic fellow where the VIP lounge is; he points over his right shoulder. We go in and we're stopped by a not-as-muscular Phillipino gentleman who wears a three button suit and tells Veronica that the VIP lounge -- to which we were to have exclusive access along with all of the other VIP dupes -- is been reserved for a private party. Now, what I wanted right about then was to sit down with a strong drink and numb my ears to the music. I wanted to sneak the occasional cleavage or ass glance, purely for statistical purposes you understand. I wanted to watch tanned corporate assistants' heels break next to the stilt walker whose headdress would perhaps decapitate or at least impale the Oompa-Loompa Go-Go girl as she fell. So I hovered, eyes adjusting to the dark and scanning frantically for a place to sit or the entrance to the part where food might be. Veronica is watching the people. She says, "D'you wanna go somewhere else?" I look around at the cleanshaven spiky-haired muscle boys in tight shirts and Tanqueray as they eye the highlighted temps who see their eighth-grade history teacher when they glance at me. I wonder aloud, "Do these people vote?"

Spank My Bajinga

Pussy Delight

Holy Mighty Fuck

Oy, the chumanity ...

Help me tell the story!

Radio Script, (C) Edward Hightower, 2005. All Rights Reserved

Aura