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THE HEAD PROPHECIES "Head Prosthesis" is a creation. Thru this creation, I get glimpses of the creator, but only glimpses. I see a small, rotound man in his late 20s, early 30s. He is starting to bald. His skin is pale, though red around the cheeks and nose from a life of habitual drinking. His teeth are yellowed, jagged and small, like a row of popcorn kernels. He wears faded blue jeans that sag in the ass and t-shirts emblazoned with phrases like "jockeys jock" and "CHONGER" and the logos of beer companies and adult magazines. He lives in a double-wide trailer on the outskirts of a small Michigan town. The trailer is filled with computer equipment, Atari gaming consoles, comic books and the manifestos of Andre Breton and the Unabomber. His video collection consists of low-budget splatter flicks and foreign films, among them Luis Bunuel's An Andalusion Dog and Herzog's Even Dwarves Started Small. The double-wide is cluttered with empty booze bottles, rubber sex toys and bean bag chairs. The walls are covered with black velvet paintings of big-eyed children, big-eyed dogs and cats, and Elvis. The place smells of mansweat and pressed ham. The television is constantly on, tuned to a channel that specializes in soft-core porn involving stuffed animals and drill bits. The radio is also on, vomiting hip hop beats into the stale air. In the bedroom on a mattress covered with a black polyester sheet lays head's prize possession; a lifesize inflatable fuck doll with a lifelike snatch bristled with nylon pubic hair. Her name is Jill. She's from Ohio. And she's developed a slow leak. Her arms, legs and chest are deflating, slowly receding into the mattress. Her head is flattened out and her mouth has the shocked "oh my" expression of television's Mr. Bill. The only part of her that still has the shape and curve of her flesh counterparts is her round belly and her luscious latex mound of Venus. A three dimensional snatch attached to a body gone 2D. This is only a temporary disaster. Later that night, Head, using his booze-blasted breath, will return her to her full polycarbonate glory. JIM DANDY A full moon hung above the doublewide. It radiated the night a milky white. Sitting on the porch, Head started to wax poetic. The moon looked like a big peppermint lifesaver he thought. Or a giant beach ball. Head had never been to a beach but he could imagine, couldn't he? Shit yeah. Though poetry was a fag's game, Head had come to terms with his feminine side, a little poetry didn't bug him out, he knew who he was: a 5 foot sausage in a pair of khaki shorts and a tye-dyed t-shirt, with a flair for poesy and a delicate turn-of-phrase. Actually 4 foot nine, but who's countin'. Head was feeling tall in the saddle tonight, flush with high grade testosterone and a serious love jones. Tonight was the night. No more inflatable fuck dolls and cum-encrusted issues of Juggs. No more Debbie Does Hogtown or Teenage Hookers From Hoboken. Tonight was the night that Head would finally meet that sweet piece of cyber poon he met on the internet. The bitch that liked horsies. The over-achieving white chick who lived in a place where the sky was big and blue and the birdies went cheep cheep allfuckingdaylong. This was finally it, d-day for the h-man. Head had laid out his suit on the bed earlier that afternoon. He wanted to look sharp, like the dude in that ZZ Top song: Sharp Dressed Man. The suit was powder blue polyester with a white piping on the pockets and lapels. He chose a pink shirt with a floral motif and a pair of matching pink patent leather loafers. The loafers had brass buckles that glowed like tiny slabs of sunlight. Perfect. They matched the buckle on his big black bikers belt, the one with the western tooling and gold braiding on the edges. Shit, he was gonna look good for this California babe, this big-titted bimbo with hungry thighs and a tight steaming snatch. Head had hit paydirt. No more nights of quiet desperation staring into the cathode ray of loneliness and despair. Tonight, with the help of some well-chosen words, a jug of chianti and the magic cologne he bought online, Head was gonna finally get his rusted, creaking pipes cleaned. But fuck, hee hee he said buttfuck (late 20th century television pop culture reference), where was the magic cologne? The elixir called Jim Dandy, a magic potion chockablock with male hormones and shit, irresistable to women, and a great mosquito repellent as well. Where the fuck is the Jim Dandy? Had to find the Jim Dandy. Without it he was lost, just another video lothario, a computer Cassanova with a limp prick and a bad case of carpel tunnel syndrome. THE KANGAROO GOES DOWN With the Jim Dandy in his breast pocket and a car salesman's smile slapped on his bloated mug, Head nosed his Corvair toward Big Mike's Restaurant and Car Wash. This was the rendevous point he had agreed to with Miss California Dreaming. He was as nervous as a priest at a Cub Scout meeting. He kept assuring himself that failure was not an option. All systems were go. He had the details taken care of: the music, plenty of booze and a pocketful of ribbed Rough Riders. The booze and jimmy caps had been easy. It was the music that had required alot of thought. He wanted to make sure that the car's cassette deck was spewing out the right soundtrack for an evening of epic poon pounding. He had been up all the previous night putting together his foolproof "sex mix" (brother you gots to buy your own), 90 minutes of seriously seductive, sweat-inducing, soul wrenching, cunt stretching rock and fuckin' roll. Well, it wasn't all rock, there were some ballads and shit, afterall the broads love the corny stuff. But, it was a monster mix, segue waying from Color Me Badd's "I Wanna Sex You Up" to Aerosmith's "Judy's Gotta Gun" to Rolf Harris' immortal and surprisingly sexy (if you're into bondage) "Tie Me Kangaroo Down". Head was grooving on the sounds as he tooled down the highway toward Big Mikes. Thats when the unthinkable happened. CELESTIAL STRETCH MARKS In his highly regarded (though occasionally ridiculed) study of alien abduction, Celestial Stretch Marks, Dr. Von Spelding discusses the case of a Michigan man named Head Prosthesis. Mr. Prosthesis was the victim/recipient of an alien visitation while en route to a romantic rendevous. In preparation for his date, Mr. Prosthesis had saturated himself with a product known as Jim Dandy. Jim Dandy was a product sold over the internet that contained highly concentrated amounts of pheromones (http://www.pheromones.com). While these pheromones had little or no actual effect on human beings, they drove extraterrestrials wild. A sensitive alien living as far away as Uranus and possessing a fairly large scent receptor could, if the wind were up, detect and respond to Jim Dandy like a blood hound to a fine piece of well-groomed poodle poon. On a night in April of 2002 Mr Head Prosthesis would regret the day he had ever heard the word "pheromone". HARD BOILED LEGS Whathefuck? Finger in my asshole. Chemical smell. Head? yes? Do you love her? What? I haven't even met her. But do you love her? How can I love somebody I've never met? Do you love God? Yes, I guess. But, you've never met God, have you? You bet yer ass I've met God! God is everywhere. Here, now. In this cold chrome room with its electrical hums and chemical stench. In my fucking shrivelled cock and ulcerated bunghole. God is fucking everywhere! Are you hungry, Head? Yes. What would you like to eat? Some toast, a glass of Tang and some hard boiled legs. BIG MIKE'S CRI du COUER The young chick at the end of the bar smelled West Coast, sea salt and patchouli, New Age. Big Mike had been in the night club business long enough to know you don't mess with the teenybopper set. Anyone under 18, fuck em and yer fucked for life. So, Big Mike just meditated on California's bra-less topography. The bitch was fine. A little too fine. She was ripe material to be sportin' a pearl necklace. Yeah, a slo-mo cum shot lacing that pale neck and dripping down into that tender cleavage would be enough to make a grown man weep. A veritable cri du couer. Somewhere in outerspace, Head ached to go home. After all, he did have a date and the Jim Dandy was starting to wear off. THE GEE SPOT My aunt Lindy called me Pepper because she said I was spicy, like a Spice Girl. When aunt Lindy died (she was only 27), my mother bought me a horse to help me adjust to the unfathomable pain and stuff that comes with the death of a luvved one. Lindy died because she had a cancer on her kooka (vagina). I know we all got to die, but I'm doing my best to not have that happen. The wheatgrass and hydro-therapy helps. Ha ha. Hydro-therapy means I do 20 laps at the olympic sized pool at the local health club. I'm a survivor. I can't believe I'm finally going to meet Head. He's so cool. I met him on this cool website that talks about a green fairy and sex and some guy in Tieland that whips people. I'm starting to feel like a woman. Or something. GOD TALK Head was banged-up, blown out, beamed up and brought down like Hugh Hefner's prostrate. poetry is a cosmic case of blue balls, yearn all you like, the result: nothing. Head had an inner dialogue, no doubt, but it was in a language he didn't understand. Imagine if God talked to you in some arch mumbo jumbo and the only God to English dictionary you possessed was printed in invisable ink. God talk is the sound of the space between hic and cup. Head had to jockey jock back to Earth. The girl of his dreams was about to be Turtle Waxed in Big Mike's Car Wash Of Absolute Reality. EYES LIE The heavyset dyke at the end of the bar triggered Big Mike's fag sensors into overdrive. There were alot of things that Big Mike had come to understand about the universe and its myriad of manifestations, like a broad doin' a broad, but this particular lezzie had a warp all her own. She looked like the hellish crossbreed of Tammy Wynette and Haystack Calhoun, with a little dose of Angelfood McSpade thrown in. The USDA grainfed dyke sported a halfassed tuft of facial hair on her sneering mug framed by a pink puckered scar that ran along the bottom of her chinny chin chin like a small fragment of route 66. When it came right down to it, she was the very definition of coyote ugly. She was one repulsive broad....except she wasn't. Appearances can be deceptive. Eyes lie. California Dreaming giggled as the dyke leaned over and whispered in her sweet tender ear "its me, Head". (... to be continued.) |