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.

A Christmas Goose

In the spirit of the holiday season I will share with you a tale of a Christmas past. I was invited by my friend and fellow patriot Tony to come over for the usual Christmas spread: a fine ham, a roasted and stuffed christmas goose with all the trimmings and a smorgasbord of other fixins.

Tony and I had been friends since high school. He was a pretty agreeable guy and he understood the truth in all its forms. Plus he cooked a mean goose, and the giblet gravy that he would make, was delicious. I went to Tony's house early that day to help with the cooking.

I drank a quart of brandy and he drank a quart of rum. The Christmas meal's intoxicating smell wafted throughout his A-frame cabin. Tony took the cooked goose, glistening in all its fatty majesty, out of the oven and set it on the table upon a silver platter. We guzzled more brandy and rum out of leaded crystal goblets.

Tony brought in the heaping pot of giblet gravy. The gravy was still boiling in the sauce pot. The dark brown color of the gravy was perfect. I could not stop thinking of how good the gravy would be atop the goose meat and how gluttonously we would eat this meal. That is when Tony's doorbell rang.

Tony carried the still-steaming giblet gravy to the front door. As he opened the door, I saw that waiting outside was the homosexual mailman, Rico. Rico stretched out his arm, his hand holding several envelopes. Tony quickly threw the entire pot of giblet gravy into the face of the homosexual mailman. Tony shut the door immediately afterward.

That gravy would have been spectacular.

We ate the goose while staring at each other silently. The pitter-patter of snow against the windows was the only sound. Sometimes Rico would yell from outside. Each time I would close my eyes and put another slice of buttery, succulent goose meat into my mouth.

The Forest

"The days are shorter. The nights are colder. Society is crumbling. The supplies are running out. The government is destroying us. The misery. We're dying from the inside out, because of technology. These are the elements of the "progress" that mankind wanted so desperately to achieve."

John knew that. The statement echoed in his very soul as he mouthed the words to himself in the darkness. The night was freezing cold and the forest was unforgiving. The noise of insects and the hooting and grunting of animals was barely audible above John's heartbeat. John's heart was beating like a helve hammer inside his chest. The adrenaline coursed through his veins and cold sweat soaked his clothes.

John was bleeding from running through the brambles earlier. His feet hurt from running and his thoughts were racing.

John was not much of a woodsman. He was a counselor for breast cancer survivors. Many of his clients were dealing with mastectomy procedures and he ran weekly group meetings at his office near the forest. The issues of loss of femininity and losing their sexuality plagued the survivors. John did his best in therapy to reintegrate them into the society from which the survivors now felt so removed.

John's life was boring but he liked it. Helping people was in his nature. He had a birthmark in the shape of the continent of Africa and he would rub olive oil on it at night.

But not tonight. Tonight John was running through the woods. Running for his life.

John blamed the whole situation on Cleite. Cleite joined the group on Tuesday. Cleite was depressed and unpredictable and she was turning the group against John with her headstrong diatribes against men. The cancer had made Cleite bitter, and her physique was as strong as her hateful feelings.

The meeting had gone awfully. John walked out to his car dejected. Cleite shouted from behind him, "John!"

As John turned to see what the commotion was about, he heard the distinctive pluck of a bow and the whizzing of an arrow past his head. John began to run and a second arrow flew past him.

John didn't have time to think as he ran into the forest. He weaved between the trees and ran as fast as he could. John had been in a runner in his youth but a car accident in the 90s had left him lame. The best John could muster these days was around 7 minute mile pace. No sense in thinking about that. Nobody can outrun an arrow.

John rushed and ran into the night.

These are the elements of the "progress" that mankind wanted so desperately to achieve.

John hid behind an oak tree and struggled to catch his breath. His eyes were watering. John gasped for air. He was dizzy and worried about passing out.

Just then, Cleite stepped out from behind the tree and saw John. She looked at John with a disdainful look and bent the yew of the bow. John clutched his chest. The carbon-shafted razor arrow protruded from his chest. The arrow punctured his lung. He was choking on blood. John fell to the ground and quickly passed out.

Then he woke up. Cleite was still there. She stopped doing CPR on him and killed John again.

Official Police Business

If you are reading this, you have no doubt realized that lizardmen control America. They are well on their way to controlling the entire internet and shutting down this website. Enjoy being able to view the truth while you can. Until the lizardmen do ultimately prevail I will speak the truth about them.

The lizardmen are organized in a patriarchal society. Each band of lizardmen is lead by an alpha male who makes them submit to his whims with violence. The use of force is the only law that the lizardmen know. The individual bands are united by regional warlords whose ruthless brutality subjugates all the bands. And yet the multitudinous warlords work in concert, under the scaly thumb of the supreme king of the lizardmen. The most exalted high king of the lizardmen is truly the worst of them all.

He rules America from his foul nest in an earthen mound. He has taken all the powers from the Americans, if they even can still be called Americans. Today's American shames the notion of what it is to be an American. The modern American is a puppet of the lizardmen, who pander to his capricious nature while exploiting his inability to see the bigger picture.

It cannot be disputed that man exists to kill man. Man has done so from the earliest days. Think back reader, to a time when there were many fewer men. Is there any doubt in your mind that in that prehistoric time, when the first man came across another man, that he slew him where he stood? Of course not.

And this is man's twofold purpose: idolatry and killing.

But nowhere did God say to man to be enslaved by the lizardman. And so I say, tell a friend to tell a friend about the lizardmen, and their society, and their foul, slithering king.

Barack Obama is a lizardman. He is the worst lizardman of all because he dominates not only with shockingly violent force but also with skulduggery . Barack Obama, the lizardman, dares not to show his true form to the American people and the people of the world, but instead comes as a Black, giving false hope to the downtrodden and racially oppressed. He hates grenadine and the mere sight of it drives him to lie in a specially-built teak bassinet where he coos and whimpers like an infantile retard.

Drive him back.

2 oz. Dark Rum
2 oz. Orange Juice
2 oz. Pineapple Juice
1/2 oz. Lime Juice
Dash Grenadine
Orange Slice & Cherry for garnish