Pimp their shells

(The following is based on a true events happening right now) In an effort to protect the local snail population in urban areas, a group of enthusiastic neo-environmentalists have decided to paint the shells of snails in a range of bright colours and designs to make walkers by more aware of their presence. For too long you see, a snail has been trodden underfoot by us giants. They did their research and found non-toxic, none solvent and most of all SALT-FREE paints and chalks so the snail wouldn’t absorb anything nasty and poison them. They posted their pictures and encouraged many of us to take up the change to paint ours snails. Yet despite all this effort the snail population has sharply decreased. Granted few people are stepping on these creatures, but when you place rhinestones and plastic gems on a shell in the morning sun they tend to sparkle. This catches the attention of the local birds, hungry for breakfast. The bland camouflage that matches the wood and the bark is now a Rolling Stones Logo that can be seen high on the roof tops. These poor little bastards don’t have a chance… but hey at least they not being stepped on.

The secret of poor Managers

Ever have a manager that simply seemed to never know what to do? A manager that was fixed in place and repeated the same dogma and phrases of no real use. At first I wondered if parrots were getting better at management, but parrots are far more colourful and inspiring to behold. I considered if robots were slowing coming to replace us all. Yet Robots were confident and decisive. They didn’t hesitate or simply ignore your requests. They are logical and effective, not just a plastic face that makes the boys think with their little heads. So on another fruitless attempt to get water from the empty well, I approached her again and saw something hang from her shoulder blade. I though it was a loose thread or a label, but it was silver ring. She did not wear ear rings so it couldn’t have fallen out of place. Cautiously I placed my figure through the loop and was able to pull it towards myself for a good three feet. I let it go and and slowly it drew back into her as the phase shouted out.

‘ THAT’S WHAT WE DO ON OTHER CONTRACTS!’

She turned around to see me and stood in horror. She was upset that someone else was pulling the strings around here.

The league of Transethnics

My name is Steven Blacksmith, but I was formerly known as Tyler O’Neil. I am a transethnic Caucasian. I was born in the body of an African American, but growing up I always felt like a white person. I preferred the company of white people, whether it was watching Ice Hockey, listening to Country music and eating vegetable soup. I struggled to integrate with my fellow African Americans as I believed Eminem was a better rapper than Tuc-Pac, that OJ was guilty and that maybe the police were just doing their jobs. My nickname was ‘Oreo’ and occasionally ‘ Vader’ because I was white on the side. But maybe that was true.

On my journey of self discovery I met a lady called Sissy who was post op transgender woman. She told me about her experiences and I sympathised with those ideals. That I did not identify with my body either. She told me I should be proud of the gift God gave me and that I was a strong black man who could enjoy all my interests and seek out others who shared my interest. In hind sight I think she actually meant I should just go on the internet and find people, but my encounter took me in a radical direction.

I met an experimental cosmetic surgeon who had lost his licence due to PCP abuse and he offered to help me be in the body I wanted. At first I spent a year as a white person. I wore pale skin tone paints, blue contacts and a blonde wig. On the street I was given abuse for being white, but my fellow white people said nothing. That’s not to say I never got hassle. In fact I was racially abused for my transformation. I was asked to leave stores, restaurants and public venues because I was ‘racist’, ‘ a race traitor’ and ‘ fucking crazy ignorant cracker lover’. Even the police arrested me for being out in my make-up, though as they had initially mistaken me for a white man I was not shot on sight.

I saved up my money for pigment bleaching, re-constructive surgery, blonde hair plugs, eye tattooing and height reduction. Then last month I achieved the complete package. I had a penis reduction from my 9 inches flaccid to 6 inches erection, a real Caucasian penis.

I started my league of transethnics to find others who can be supported and givenadvice during transition as well as becoming a social-politcal platform. Take Jamie-Z, a white boy from Oklahoma who believes that he should be black. He at stage two, though wearing black face is an offence in many states so he has to stays inside. He always keeps calling everyone the ‘n’ word so I can’t help but feel he doesn’t really understand African American culture beyond music videos. Then there’s Tia one of our greatest success stories, she’s gone through her full transformation to become Japanese. No one has ever guessed she was ever Korean.

People may say it’s unnatural, that it goes against God and it’s mocking the civil rights of ethnic minorities and transgender communities. The truth is though if we can learn to love everyone and help people love themselves, whether it helping accept them for how they were born or helping them change to who they wish to be, then we should help them without hesitation and go about it with an open mind and heart. In saying that I have told the Guild of Transspecies that if they try and contact me again I’m going to fire bomb their property. Freaks.

A season for all voices

If salt and pepper shakers could speak, I wonder what they would say? Would they resent one and other, one being of one seasoning and the other a different flavour? Or perhaps opposites do attract and we get a Mr and Mrs Shaker effect? But if that was true, then their society could only exist with polygamy. As shakers are swapped tables and paired up again. I could be wrong. They could stare at each other, longing for one another; dreaming that their souls will be reunited when they can cross the room. A table apart may as well be a universe to them; their fate purely in the hands of god who are gluttons for their seasoning. Maybe I think too romantic about them? They could just listen to the gossip on the tables and pass on what they hear from table to table as they are passed along. They see and hear everything when people think they are alone. At night they could have a good laugh at your expense. But they are silent. They spend years being shuck and thrown, slammed down and manhandled before being passed around. Used and traded away, the years of abuse turning them into slaves; their cries ignored. Maybe that’s why the shakers are silent. No one ever tried to listen.

The works of Wendi Bear: The Inkwellknight review

I first discovered Wendi Bear works on a little WordPress blog ‘It’s not my fault’. Her short stories were as insightful as they were graphic. It was not ‘refreshing’, but rather ‘invigorating’ to read a blog with real passion and fearless story telling. It was magnetic; I was puzzled to try and decide if this was a pure work of fiction or an exaggerated truth. Either way it was entertainment on a weekly basis. Though I had known about her first novel for some time, I never really had the spare cash to invest in a full collection. Well after a new job and a bit of free reading time on the two trams and bus each morning I figured I could treat myself. So I bought both ‘It’s not my fault’ novels and decided to have a read. Needless to say I have a lot to say about them. I will discuss both books individually, though there may be cross over throughout.

 

I will start with ‘Self Discovery and Admission’ with its wonderful colourful and playful cover art (though many have mistaken it for an indie porn star photoshoot.) The fierce and feisty glare is both inviting and evoking. It’s far more than a simple author’s pose and from one of the final stories it sounds like a fun day for Wendi.

Now we can’t judge a book by its cover alone, so what can one expect when you read this book? Well the format is a collection of short stories that are concise and well formed. One can either enjoy reading them all in a two hour blocks ( like I did) or simply treat yourself one by one like a box of chocolates (part of me wished I had done this.) It is ideal for any pace reader and what I would regard as an easy reader, though there is nothing child friendly about this book.

The stories do follow a pattern of Meets friend-gets drunk-blackout-friend retells of terrible event. It’s a solid structure (if not at time repetitive) so the pace never drags too long. While locations for the most part are vaguely described, it is a very much action driven plot meaning that for impatient readers (like myself) can get into the characters. Characters (who may or not be based on real people) are for the most part horribly flawed and thus very genuine. Their behaviour is as much of an outrage to read as it is to pity. Asterix (our narrator/protagonist/author?) is ultimately trapped in a hedonistic nightmare where everything has gone so wrong, that she might as well be smoking golden tipped cigarettes. That her endless search for love is simply pathos as she is drawn to flawed men who take of their inadequacy on her and other innocent victims.

So what can I describe this genre as you may ask? Well I see it as ‘Bridget Jones Diary’ as written by Nancy Spungen (Sid’s girlfriend just so you don’t have to google it like I did). The events are gross, bloody and graphic. With colour language and very adult content, at times I found myself cautious that no small child was reading over my shoulder. For the most part I was reading it in the way one would enjoy a John Waters script, keeping an open mind to a world I will never be part of. Granted there is a chapter that made my eyes roll after a few holocaust puns, but once you’ve entered that far into the novel you just need to plough through it or just skip that one chapter.

For me though it’s not the sex scenes, the outrageous exploits and the psychotic behaviour of the characters that caught my attention most. It’s rather the darker stories that don’t try and pull punches or play up for toilet humour. The childhood abuse and the bleak realities of adulthood makes you think more. It makes you question when reality played a bigger role in the story set up. One story very much sticks with me that starts off like the others as a ‘sexy romp’ has tragic consequences for one of her friends. There’s plenty of discussion to have around various themes and events within the book, but it might be difficult to find the reading circle that would be open to discussing this novel.

So what is the best way for me to sum up this novel? At its best, this unique and grotesque piece of art is a heartfelt scream of passion, mourning and alcohol which is more depth than what may appear on the surface. At its worse, it’s a collection of trashy gross out stories that may be ready out during a Temperance meeting as warning to young women.  For me I would happily re-read this collection and suggest it to only the most open minded (take that as you will) of people.

 

From her first novel I then got ready to dive into Sacrifice and Survival. Fans of her first novel can expect more of the humour and modern day philosophy. The cover is embraces more of the ‘Goth’ look that Astreix references through her works, though it is more subtle and tasteful than her pervious cover (though I always liked a blonde in pink).

After looking past the cover what you get is a collection of short stories, though they are more stretched out than the previous novel. Characters are allowed to expand and are explored more within these stories, though at times I would have like something short and spicy. It still has the creative language suitable for all readers, but the length alone may deter some from enjoying these ballads of madness.

The genre also takes a different shift, focusing further away from the physical description of sexual acts and more of the human consequences and build up. That’s not to say there aren’t any excessive graphic scenes, but the story is more about people and that is something I would encourage.

The structure does alter a little as the formula ‘friend-drink-consequence’ became more infrequent and characters become regular cast members as oppose to throw away stock characters. It dipped into the darker issues of relationships, domestic abuse and childhood drama. Issues that people should be able to discuss and get off their chest in a safe environment. Many of these stories at least explains (if not at times justifies) Asterix’s behaviour.

It’s hard to make a comparison to other works. At first I thought a Las Vegas based ‘Angela’s ashes’, but that doesn’t settle right for me. Honestly it may be better for people to read the novel themselves than explain a comparison. Compared to her first novel though, there wasn’t quite as much to think about after this book ended.

So how to some up this novel?  At its best it’s a good collection for anyone who is already an establish fan of Wendi Bear’s work that add more background to her characters. At its worse, a strained series of misadventures that might not hold your attention too long. It’s not a fan favourite for me, but if there’s a book three I could keep the faith.

 

Thus ends my reviews, which I shall place on amazon review. If Wendi does ever read these reviews, I wish to thank her for some wonderful stories and I hope that all criticism is taken constructively and that she knows all praise is taken with sincerity.

First in History: Fashion show

She had worked very hard to create a new line of clothing and Shera was going to make the tribe respect her vision. With a hand full of models and large fire to gather everyone around, the show began. A wide range of furs, leafs, animal skins and bark dresses walked up and down for everyone to see. The collection: gathers glamour. After the show Shera stood forward and bowed, but many in the audience were left quiet confused.

‘What things on feet?’ asked one of the men pointing to pair of high heels.

‘High feet, make you look taller,’ she replied.

‘Can you run in them?’

‘No.’

There were grumbles from the group.

Another question was asked.

‘How we stay warm at night?’ asked a woman. ‘Not cover up all body.’

‘You look good in it though, that reason you wear it,’ replied Shera.

‘I want stay warm and no freeze.’

The chief of the tribe then stood up.

‘This waste of time and animal skin,’ he said.

‘This art,’ said Shera.

‘Draw on walls or chip stone, no waste animal skin.’

‘Why no skin made to fit big people,’ asked a fat cave woman.

‘My art!’ shouted Shera. ‘Not yours. Fat woman no beautiful.’

The tribe all walked away, angry that they would have to gather more resources to make it through the winter.

Glassman vs Dr Acid- Part 1

Glassman was sat opposite his teammate, the Burrower, whom was busy throwing up in a sick bag. The mission was to go find Dr Acid lair and seek out his old team mates. He was the only one who had previously beaten Dr Acid and could save them (plus the government was going to clean up some ‘monkey business’ that happened a while ago). The only issue was that the mission seemed impossible.

Dr Acid was operating on an island with an active volcano, however to cover up his activities he had built a theme park on the island as bonus revenue. ‘Sockoworld’ the world only sock puppet themed adventure experience; it promised rides such as the ‘NOM NOM’ ride and the ‘Pool of socks.’

When they landed, Glassman looked at the large stitched sign that welcomed guest in.

‘Who the hell would go to sock theme park?’ he said.

‘Oh my wife and I bought a family season pass,’ said the Burrower. ‘We come out here about two or three times a year with the kids and her mother. We all think it’s wonderful.’

‘Wait Burrower you have kids?’

‘Yeah.’

‘But you’re a terrible villain, how have you been able to support them?’

‘I do a job share as a systems analyst.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah, also their holiday scheme is actually accumulative. I’ve not missed a day of work in seventeen years… if I keep this up I can retire five years earlier.’

‘Wow your company sounds awesome… have they got any opening?’

Before they could speak a man wearing a giant sock appeared in front of them.

‘Welcome to Sockoland, I’m Socko your best friend. Do you want a snuggle hug?’

‘No piss off,’ said Glassman. ‘We need to speak to your boss.’

‘My manager on his break right now sir…’

‘Oh… oh…Socko… I want I picture of you in my costume,’ said the Burrower. ‘I’ve never been able to be the Burrower while at Socko land.’

Glassman was forced to take part in various sock puppet themed activities to the delight of the Burrower. They eventually made their way to ‘The washing machine’. Glassman was drilled information during the queue by the Burrower about how it would spin you around, then fill up with water and foam before a final spin to dress out your clothes.

When it was their turn, the pair were strapped into their seats before the door was closed.

‘Hey… how many people fit onto this?’ asked Glassman.

‘Oh 200,’ replied the Burrower.

‘Then why are we the only two on it?’

The ride then began.

‘Oh bollocks!’ he shouted.

The pair were sucked into the drain and were washed away. They landed with a thud in front of a man in a lab coat. It was none other than Dr Acid; he had glowing green veins and yellow eyes.

‘Welcome Glassman,’ he hissed.

‘Why didn’t you just drown us?’ asked Glassman.

‘What?’

‘Why didn’t you just drown us both up there… what’s the point of going through this drama?’

‘Honestly, it for insurance reasons. Every person that disappeared or dies on a ride causes a massive amount of paperwork. Its better I kill you both and leave you behind the children’s puppet theatre later this afternoon with needles in your arms. And before you ask yes… we do have a drug problem here at Sockoland… I don’t know why drug addicts are attracted here, they just are.’

‘I don’t give a shit about your theme park, where the hell is my old team? Are dead or not, I just want to find out so I can get off this crappy island?’

‘Oh Glassman why so rushed don’t you want to see if we still have… chemistry?’

‘No.’

‘Oh come on don’t be so upset, you’ve yet to feel my… acid tongue.’

‘No not doing this.’

‘You don’t have any glass puns for me? Come on buddy, this is what we do.’

‘Okay how about this… let me just clear my throat. If you don’t tell me where my friends are I will take a dildo make of razor glass, run it in and out your anus as it spins into your stomach and then out your throat. I will then draw in back through into your lower intestines and make it shatter into a thousand pieces. Assuming blood lost hasn’t killed you, I will make those pieces explode into more shards, rebuild them into the shape of a badger that will burst from your guts and rip you apart. How do you feel about that Dr Acid… how the fuck do you feel about that!?’

Everyone went quiet.

‘What happened?’ asked Dr Acid. ‘We had a bit of respect for each other. It was a fun time.’

‘It wasn’t fun for me! I fucking hated being a hero! Now all I want is to be left the fuck alone and everyone keeps demanding my help!’ screamed Glassman. ‘If I don’t save these arseholes I’ll never be at peace. I don’t want to do this anymore Dr Acid alright… I just want to go home. Burrower, glass me so I can end this shit.’

‘I don’t have any glass, I thought you’d bring you own along,’ said the Burrower.

‘And the day just gets better!’

The room was absent of anything that could be made of glass; nothing but rock, metal, rubber and paper.

‘A laboratory with no glass… genius isn’t it,’ said Dr Acid. ‘But only second to my greatest invention… the Sockosaurus!’

‘Before you unleash this thing… what with the sock obsession man. Is it like a foot fetish thing? Just help me out here,’ said Glassman, ‘I just don’t get it. Anyone… anyone?’

‘My wife and I enjoy role playing with stockings… but not socks,’ said the Burrower.

‘No you should have paid more attention to my origin story,’ said Dr Acid. ‘Now kill them my beast.’

There was clunk and a screech from the darkness behind the misfit pair.

Psychic World Cup Animals

 

It was the world cup once again and all the barnyard animals watched through the window. The farmer sat with his flag in one hand and a betting slip in the other. This would be his year to win. The only animal not watching was a pig called Muddles. Every match the farmer would cheer and boo. Despite all his research and inside tips, he never won a bet. A young rooster once asked Muddles why he didn’t watch the matches.  The pig groaned and replied:

‘I’m psychic. I know who going to win.’

The pig rolled over onto his belly and slept. The young rooster had an idea. Each morning the rooster would wake up the farmer and try to get the farmer out to the pig pen. It took three days before the farmer finally went to Muddles. On the sty floor, a flag was made out in straw and Muddles lay asleep next to it. The farmer saw this as a sign and rushed to get his betting slip. That night all the animals sat waiting for the match. To everyone’s amazement Muddles then stumbled into place.

‘Who’s playing?’ he asked.

The young rooster was confused. Surely he knew who won after all, why did it matter? Unfortunately sarcasm had not been the rooster’s strong point. The straw flag was no by design, but from rustling in the pen too long. So when the final whistle blew and all the hopes of the farmer’s riches lay scattered, he may have taken it out on the wrong animal. The next match the farmer ate sausages with black pudding. The rooster was quiet throughout the match. His ears then caught a conversation between two mice.

‘Shame about Muddles,’ said the first.

‘Yeah,’ said the second, ‘if only he talked to the woodlouse… that guy taught Paul the octopus all he knew about football.’

Mystery Bin Bid

 

It was time for another episode of Mystery Bin Bid, the show where storage spaces are auctioned off to stereotypes and obnoxious greedy (and delusional) Americans. Accompanied by the auctioneer, Insulting Ted, the gang wake their way through the broken dreams and victims of recession.

The first door was opened to reveal a single box. Everyone looked at each other with confusion.

‘I’ll start the bid at $50’, shouted Insulting Ted. ‘I got no bids, no bids, no bids, no bids… no bids, no bids.’

‘I’ll give you $5 just to see what’s in the box,’ said a man with a scar on his eye.

‘$5 from the Bond Villian… $10? $10?’

‘No one else cares Ted!’ shouted a man with a beard.

‘Okay Z-Z top.Get your prize Scarface.’

The man walked to the box and opened it up. Inside he found a Gideon bible.

‘Oh my God… that could not possibly be planted there for entertainment purposes!’ shouted Insulting Ted. ‘You can buy a secret volcano lair with that or get your face fixed up with that kind of cash.’

‘Why are you even here?’ asked the man, ‘I don’t need you to look over my shoulder when I’m opening up my box. No piss off.’

The bidders moved onto a new locker. When it was opened they found a woman tied to a chair, covered in bruises and clearly distressed.

‘Ted I think she’s been kidnapped,’ said an elderly black man, ‘maybe we should let her go.’

‘Come on Black snake moan, we got bidding to do. That chair she’s sitting on must be worth some cash.’

‘If I bid on the chair can we let her go?’

‘You can’t enter the bin unless you bid. Starting bid $100.’

Everyone squirmed in place. The chair just wasn’t worth that much.

‘No bids? No… no… okay lock it up,’ said Insulting Ted.

The storage door was closed shut and the woman disappeared from view.

They came to the final bin for the day. It was large room that was covered in a blue tarp. From the shape it looked like a boat. Everyone went fever pitch. Bids were shouted out and strange phrases were bellowed out.

‘Oh yeah.’

‘That’s my bid’

‘Say What!?’

‘I’ll have that’

‘Piggy says OINK!’

‘MONEY!’

‘The good gentleman declares his bidding.’

‘Biddy me.’

Eventually there were only two bidders left. The bin was at $10,000.

‘We go a war between the Curly Jew and hoppy Pete,’ said Insulting Ted.

‘Okay Ted, I’m not jewish and he’s actually got cerebral palsy so shut the fuck up and just point,’ said Morris (aka Curly Jew).

Insulting Ted just smiled.

‘Come on I’m just having some fun, you know making the series more interesting,’ said Insulting Ted.

Everyone stared at each other.

‘Okay so $10,000… going once… going twice…’

‘Piggy goes OINK!’ shouted an obese Texan.

‘$10,500 to the Texas Weeble!’

No one else bided and the bin was won.

‘Now it’s time to reveal what you’ve won!’ shouted Insulting Ted.

The tarp was pulled away to reveal several poles. They had been positioned to look like the outline of a boat. There was a note taped to the centre pole. It read: I purposely bought a locker and fitted these poles so some moron would spend a fortune on an empty bin.

The Texan screamed with anger and smashed up the poles. It was the highest rated episode of the season.

Riverbank of tears

 

In these parts people got real depressed. There wasn’t much work and there were even fewer rewards. The only thing of note in this world was the riverbank of tears. Legend had it that it was once a lake that was born from the tears of the earth; that the land had always been cursed. You see when life gets a bit too much for people they would think about ending it all. Now we didn’t have no chemicals to drink and the tree branches couldn’t hold a man to hang. We only had the lake to go drown yourself in. Now this lake was not that deep so to make sure you stayed at the bottom, you had to make yourself sink. So these poor souls would have to go round and collect stones and pebbles to place in their pockets and shoes. Sometimes they tried sand and dirt when it was too dark to find them. Now when you’ve had so much time to think and work your mind can change. You think about family and friends. You think about possible futures and dwell on kinder memories. By the time you get to the edge of the lake, most people just emptied their pockets. Sure occasionally people went the full distance, but over time the mound of emptied pockets built a layer and shrunk the lake. Eventually it built up into the Riverbank of tears. So you see, even when you’re on your last legs, you can create something amazing through your sorrow. You just have to be patient.