Les Huîtres de Bélon

You've been to Bélon. I know I have. Le Bretagne. The oysters. The Mistral. The pussy.

I stayed in a small cottage on the river with no electricity and a primitive but effective wood-burning stove. It was a modest abode, the kind of place where a man could go to flee the bustling of the big city. I went to find peace. I also went to see an old friend.

Serge had called me weeks before I arrived. He had opened a sleepy bar near the river and wanted me to leave the United States for the French countryside. I gladly obliged - I owed him, after all. We had known each other for a long time, since our meeting in Laos years ago. It feels like forever ago looking back upon it.

The bar was called Le Petit Chou-Fleur. It was a tiny, bistro style bar with patterned tile floors. My feet hurt. Serge was behind the bar. I greeted him and we kissed on each cheek. The bar was mostly empty, except for one old man, sitting at the very end of the bar. The old man methodically sipped cognac from a tiny snifter, giving the glass a quarter turn after each sip. He looked easily over a hundred years old. I looked down the bar at him, and he shot me a fiery look that made me quickly look back to Serge.

Serge was a stout man, proud of his belly, and the fine food with which he filled it. He was short of stature, but his personality filled a room. While I had been looking at the old man, Serge poured me a glass of anisette, shaken with ice. The milky white highball sat on the oaken bartop. I sipped it slowly. Serge drank red wine out of a juice glass.

Serge and I reminisced about the old days. The old man stared. I realized then that he wasn't glaring at me. His eyes were cataracted. They were as cloudy and pale as my drink. I wondered if he was born that way or if it had developed in the hundreds of years during which he appeared to have been alive.

Serge brought out a large platter, piled high with oysters on ice. He gave me an oyster knife and took one himself. We shucked oysters and drank, laughing and gesturing. The old man said nothing. He sipped his cognac, turning the glass.

Serge was in the middle of pouring me another anisette when the sweaty Turk arrived. His clothes were shabby and his perspiration made his white shirt translucent. The Turk was a hirsute fellow; body hair erupting in tufts from nearly all his exposed skin. His beard was a vast jungle of blackness upon his face. The Turk stumbled over to the old man and put his arms around his ancient physique in a threatening grip.

The old man was frail and I was concerned. Before I could do anything, the old man stood up and smashed the Turks head on the bar. He deftly flicked out a pocket knife and shucked the Turk's left eye completely out of its socket. The old man ate the eye, slowly, chewing with his mouth open. I walked over to make sure the old man was okay, and then he shucked out the Turk's right eye, which I only ate so as not to insult the old man. The vitreous fluid from the eyeball exploded in my mouth and tasted like an especially mucus-filled loogie mixed with ocean water.

"This happens all the time," Serge said in a calm monotone.

The old man laughed. Then he took a sip of his cognac, spinning the glass. For a second, he looked just a little younger. And in the mirror, I looked into my face, and I looked younger too.

Culinary School

Barack Obama sat in the Oval Office, brooding over a stack of papers. He took out his crayons and scribbled furiously, drawing a crude scene of a pine forest. Obama grabbed a deep brown crayon and began to draw a grizzly bear. The grizzly bear was leaning forward, holding a salmon in his gnashed teeth. Beneath the bear, Obama drew a man. The bear had the man pinned face-down beneath his poorly-drawn paws. The man was being fucked in the ass by the bear. Obama accented the scene with a few squiggly lines to show the thrusting motion that the bear was making.

Obama stood up at his desk. He held his drawing in his scaly hands. His tongue flicked in and out of his mouth. He was very pleased with the drawing.

Obama's days in the Oval Office were not always so relaxing. Just a week ago he was embroiled in a vicious prank war with one of the sous-chefs in the White House kitchen. The sous-chef's name was Julio. Julio was a cantankerous alcoholic. He drank cooking wine in the kitchen all day and also all night. In spite of Julio's faults he had an excellent sense of humor.

Obama was meeting with the Japanese Prime Minister. They called the kitchen for an opulent lunch to be delivered immediately to the Oval Office. Julio had planned for this moment. He made a last minute substitution to the food cart, replacing Obama's requested seasonal pumpkin soup with an ornate gilded bowl filled with urine with chunks of human feces floating in it. Julio gagged at how disgusting the replacement soup was. Obama and the Prime Minister recoiled in horror as it was unveiled from beneath the cloche and served to them.

Without missing a beat Obama snapped his fingers and five Secret Service agents rushed into the kitchen. Four of them held down Julio, while the fifth undid his pants and jerked Julio off with high-quality gourmet olive oil. Julio struggled to get free but he could not break the grip of the four men holding him down. The workers in the kitchen were aghast, except for a few Ecuadorian line cooks that saw Julio send up the shit soup to Obama. They laughed like hyenas as the Secret Service jerked off Julio.

After about 2 minutes of being vigorously jerked off, a stale, grey load of jism exploded out of Julio's penis and the Secret Service agents reported back to Obama. The President of the United States laughed and high-fived the Japanese Prime Minister. The two men then sat and each chowed down on the urine and shit soup, stopping only to smirk and look at each other knowingly.

Ten Toes in the Game

Late last night I was watching Food Network. Mario Batali was doing a special, traveling the world and savoring the fine wines that the different regions have to offer. Batali's corpulent jowls undulated as he spoke of the terroir, a French term in wine used to denote the special characteristics that local geography bestowed upon particular varieties.

Batali spoke at length, his entire body vibrating and jiggling like Jell-O.

"Château Latour. Perhaps France's finest wine. This bottle is from 1996, an excellent year for Château Latour Pauillac. A red Bordeaux from the Bordeaux region of France, wine connoisseurs the world around have come to know Château Latour as the name in fine drinking."

Batali uncorked the bottle. He inhaled deeply from the cork. His face furrowing into deep, gelatinous thought.

He poured a massive glass of wine, rotating the deep red liquid around the expensive, stemless wine glass. Batali leaned in close toward the camera. His beard was unevenly shaven and his entire face seemed to be made of butter. Then he threw the wine in his face.

Screaming into the camera now, Batali repeated over and over, "CHATEAU LATOUR! CHATEAU LATOUR!"

His purplish-red wine stained visage was horrific. The wine made his face expand and contort. Batali pressed his terrible purple face into the camera's lens, occupying the whole shot and mushing his already porcine features into a muddled grimace. Wine stained the camera lens and Batali grappled with the cameraman.

The wine drenched man continued chanting, "CHATEAU LATOUR! CHATEAU LATOUR!"

Batali was in a frenzy, now pouring the remnants of the magnum bottle of wine over his unusually large head.

"CHATEAU LATOUR! CHATEAU LATOUR!"

Batali's screams were getting louder and louder from the television.

I was unable to cope with Batali's vulgar display. I took a huge swill of overproof peppermint schnapps and put on the extreme motorcycle building channel.

Shrimp Ceviche

"Fucking hot today," Tareq muttered to himself as he walked down the sun-scorched streets of Cancun. He wore a garish Hawaiian shirt, open toed sandals and tan cargo shorts. Only gringos and burros walk around in the noonday sun. Tareq knew that, but he had an entire duffle bag full of envelopes to bring to the post office. Over the past 3 days, Tareq had been preparing to mail his letters, containing a short, but pointless message and photographs of his short, deformed penis to the North Pole. 500 letters in total, the photos in each taken using a time-lapse camera in front of which Tareq danced a vulgar nude dance for nearly the entire 3 days.

Tareq's thirst grew as he trudged down the blocks to the post office. Sweat dripping from his brow, Tareq adjusted the strap of the duffle. There was a cantina nearby. The cantina wasn't air-conditioned, but they did have an attractive waitress that Tareq had seen before, and a large selection of tequila. Tareq entered the cantina and ordered a mescal, con gusano. The silvery liquor shimmered in the bottle, and the attractive waitress fished out the worm and dropped it in the drink. There was an satisfying plop as the worm hit the spirits in the glass.

Tareq eyed the drink, and then the waitress, and then the drink again. He gripped the lowball glass in his unsteady hand and slammed down the several ounces of liquor in one gulp, including the worm.

What Tareq didn't know was that the worm was an alien symbiote, and the resultant parasitic infection permanently turned him into a homosexual. While ordinarily that might have upset Tareq, the worm also robbed him of the ability to realize anything had changed. He did have to suck a lot of cocks throughout Mexico and the rest of the world, though.

The Highest Level of Government

The Manticore and Barack Obama sat in the Oval Office, playing Candyland like they did every morning. Obama passed the Manticore a bottle of whiskey and they each drank deeply from the bottle, taking breaks only to draw cards and advance their Candyland pieces. After 20 or so minutes, the Manticore had amassed a big lead on Obama. Obama's forked tongue flicked in and out, and he stroked his scaly chin, planning his next move.

The Manticore was unwavering. The Manticore took a huge swill of whiskey and advanced his piece on the final point on the Candyland board. Obama jumped to his feet, shouting at the top of his lizardman lungs, "YOU DIRTY JEW MOTHERFUCKER! PIECE OF SHIT FUCKING FAG JEW MANTICORE! BULLSHIT!"

The Manticore shrugged his shoulders, put his yarmulke down on President Barack Obama's desk and walked out of the Oval Office without saying a word.

The next morning, Obama and the Manticore met in the Oval Office and played Candyland and drank whiskey, like they always did.

Sandalwood

Rachel Simmons was a single mother struggling to stay afloat in America. She had 4 kids with her deadbeat, lowlife boyfriend Tony. One shitty Friday, Tony said that he was going out for a job interview and never came back. Rachel was left with their upside-down mortgage, car payments and an impossible full-time job: being a mother to 4 children.

Mr. DeMarcos knew all this. DeMarcos was a politician. He wore expensive suits and heavy leather shoes. DeMarcos strutted like a peacock in public. He stood for family values, and for the simpler times when the American dream was still alive.

Rachel knew of Mr. DeMarcos; DeMarcos was a state senator. She had voted for him in the last elections. Rachel Simmons hadn't thought about him since then. DeMarcos was doing a good job and he was popular with his constituents including Rachel. That is why Rachel was so surprised to see DeMarcos standing in her driveway after she returned from the Food Lion chain of grocery stores.

DeMarcos was wearing a Brioni suit. It looked every bit as expensive as it probably was. His Louis Vuitton loafers shone brightly in the sun. Rachel walked over to him, perplexed. DeMarcos handed her a note and without saying a word, strutted out of the driveway and into his nearby limousine.

Rachel went inside and read the note. The note was a list of instructions and detailed an appointment to meet DeMarcos after nightfall. Rachel carefully followed the instructions in the note, packing a briefcase as DeMarcos asked and waiting for him to return after dark.

About two hours after sunset, there was a rap on the door. Rachel saw DeMarcos through the ornamental glass window of her home. She let him in. Without saying a word, DeMarcos took the briefcase and set it on her countertop. He lit a cigarette, and took a long drag. Rachel dimmed the lights and admired DeMarcos in the now-smoky kitchen.

DeMarcos depressed both buttons on the briefcase, releasing its latches and exposing its contents. He reached in with both hands, gripping two massive handfuls of the 70%/30% hamburger meat that he had asked Rachel to pack inside. He rubbed his meat-filled hands all over his face, knocking the cigarette out of his mouth. Like a man possessed, DeMarcos grabbed more and more meat from the family pack in the suitcase and mushed it into his face. Rachel Simmons said nothing. In the background, a baby was crying.

DeMarcos looked her in the eye with an unblinking, meaty stare that would haunt her for days afterward. He counted out $5000 in $100 bills and left them on the counter. DeMarcos then strutted out of the house, his leather shoes clip-clopping on the tile floor. Chunks of meat sloughed off of him and dropped on to the floor. He pulled the door shut behind himself and left without saying a word.

She knew DeMarcos would be back. "Just one more time," Rachel reassured herself. "Just one more time."

Drakkar Noir

On a hot and humid June day, Principal Jackson's voice crackled through the static of the middle school public address system. "Students, please form straight, single file lines and proceed in an orderly fashion to the gymnasium for an Assembly."

We did as we were told, and I ended up seated next to my friends Joey and Mike. We weren't the most popular kids at school but we were pretty cool, anyway. The Principal, flanked on one side by a stocky policeman, asked our teachers to leave so that we could have an assembly about the dangers of illegal drugs. Principal Jackson introduced the policeman as Officer Albanese, and told us that he would be making regular visits to the school to educate the student body about drugs, and that he would know if we were using any drugs and put us in jail.

This was the beginning of the DARE program and the first we had ever seen of this sort of assembly. Joey rolled his eyes and Mike and I tried not to laugh. "What a waste of time this is," I thought.

Principal Jackson stepped away from the podium, heading to the back of the room, and Officer Albanese took his place as speaker.

"Hello, My name is Officer Albanese and I will be your DARE officer. I have been a police officer for 10 years and I have seen drugs tear apart families, destroy this community and kill children. I have seen the worst parts of drug use and I am here to tell you about them so that you will not use drugs and so that you will never have to deal with these tragedies that I have seen."

Officer Albanese's speech began to drag and he could tell he was losing the attention of the audience as the murmur of side conversations became a dull roar of student's talking amongst themselves. Albanese thoughts raced, quickly trying to bring the attention back onto himself. "I am a police officer and because of that, I am the only person in this gymnasium qualified to carry a gun."

The officer drew his sidearm, a black pistol and held it up over his head. Albanese waved the gun back and forth. "The government has entrusted me with this authority, to use lethal force to protect the public from criminals and dangerous drugs. The power of this firearm cannot be separated from the power of this badge," he said, holding up his badge in his other hand.

We laughed to each other in the crowd. "This guy is really on a trip," I whispered to Joey.

Albanese asked the Principal to come back to the front of the room. Principal Jackson took his place at the side of the podium and began to address the crowd. "Now, remember what Officer Albanese said and DARE to resist drugs and violence. I hope that you all --"

Albanese kicked the back of Principal Jackson's knee and pushed him down by his shoulders on to the ground. The officer trained the pistol on the now prostrated school administrator. A concerned silence fell over the crowd, but nobody moved at all.

"Take off your pants and take a fucking shit on the floor," Albanese's voice boomed through the gymnasium.

The Principal quickly undressed. His disgusting penis hung limply as he cowered, straining to produce a bowel movement before the burly policeman. As he strained and grunted, small nuggets of feces began to drop onto the shiny hardwood floor of the gymnasium. It was so quiet that we could hear each squishy plop as the pieces of shit hit the wooden floor.

Officer Albanese's face contorted into a smug mask of satisfaction and he walked out of the gymnasium without saying anything further.

I'll never forget that day. It was the first time that me, Mike or Joey had ever see a man forced to defecate at gunpoint. It wouldn't be the last.