THis is something I put together of my own writings. I am in Kabul, Afghanistan working as a war correspondent

“There were a lot of really appalling acts,” he said to me as he stood in a pot hole, ankle deep in cold water. “Puke eating. Lighting light bulbs up with pussies. Screw drivers being shoved down cocks. Hanging beer cans off of pussy piercings. Flame shooting pussies.”
Pot Holes. Yes. Always fucking with your tire. Pot holes, Pot Holes. Pot. Reefer, Madness.
I meet him at the food bank in 2000. But it took two years of hearing about her before I meet her. She was part of that scene coming out of New Orleans in 1999, housed in a loft dubbed the “Ass Palace.” The explorations of perversion coupled with art and performance flowered there. After regularly performing at any venue available in a Pakistani matchbox, they hit the road
Often people question “Why would you want to stuff a Turkey?” Well, I can think of five reasons off the top of my head for turkey stuffing. Thanksgiving is around the corner. That is not reason in and of itself, nor do I mean to imply some type of conspiracy perpetuated by the National Turkey Stuffing Syndicate or the Lubricating Industrial Complex. My reasons are more mundane, of a carnal bestial nature.
I was in Algiers and New Orleans as a volunteer before many of the residents had returned to their homes in October. It was the first time I have experienced a disaster of this scale. I started working at the Common Ground Relief organization in Algiers. I have taken a number of classes from the Red Cross in South Bend and Indianapolis. No class can give you what first had volunteer work gives you in a disaster. At Common Ground, we worked out of a house. Most of the volunteers, such as myself, lived in tents in the yard. Volunteers came from all over the United States. Perhaps a third or less were from the area. The local residents had to leave to escape the storm and many had not returned. We gave out food, water and supplies to the community as they returned, put blue tarps on damaged roofs and helped people file documents with FEMA and the Red Cross to get aid, among other things.
“My favorite thing was the whole meat rack thing” he said over the megaphone to the Burning Muslims in Gumbad. “Hanging all that beer off her tang. It is everything in one act. Aleph that contains everything else.”
Silly and her games, playing in the dirt. Making roads to plant IEDs under.
On their mother. Pimples in the road. Pot holes. Pot holes. Pot. Reefer. Madness.
I waited four days to catch a plane to Iraq. Many planes leave at night. They are less likely to be shot down in the dark. Four days. Waiting at Camp Doha, in Kuwait. They have big hangers with dividers filled with bunk beds. Contractors and troops, coming or going. Waiting to leave. Waiting to head to Afghanistan, Iraq or other points more classified.
Red Lights in my rear view. Like Alice through the looking glass, The White Rabbit I follow In a pot hole. To evade to escape to be free. Where is this new mother? New Earth? Ancient lands, fertile with blood spilled by Genghis Khan and Alexander the Great now glows green with depleted uranium.
NASA brought them to Chile with the CIA ending eye end day. It was dark when I got there. Between 2 and 5 a.m. I had to check for the flight. There actually was a flight the first night. But only two spots. We had three in my crew. First was me. Tattooed Burning Man worker, former mayoral candidate and artist with a bad attitude from Seattle. William, who held the same position as I, Project Coordinator, was a cook from the Air force. He lived in Texas and was about 40 years old, had a big nose and wore Hawaiian shirts and shorts all the time. Even though he held the same job as I, he told people that he was actually doing work building cellphone towers, and counter intelligence. Our job, on the contract, was to coordinate building of structures for the military in a timely manner and insure once they were built that the HVAC and generators worked for how ever long our company held the contract. Our Company was a smaller out fit that Halliburtons KBR and we were able to under bid everyone. Of course, I learned early that it also meant that I made a third of other workers pay and only had off 4 hours a week.
Supplies would arrive in trucks at all hours. We formed a human line to unload trucks. I remember working one night well past midnight unloading tons of supplies. Much like Sisyphus, of Greek legend, who had to role a rock up a hill and down for all existence, we to had to move supplies, up and down. Work started at 7:30 a.m. and ran all day. The most important lesson you learn as volunteer is your own personal limitations. As much as one wants to save the world, or small areas of it like New Orleans, each of us has limitations on how much we can work in a day before we need to sleep and eat.
Winter, Snow covers her face. It peels back The black tar, Like a beauty mask. Eyes melt. Skin Explodes, Everybody dead. A Neutron Bomb A pot hole A hole A looking glass An apocalypse, Now!
She has a very nice Turkey anyway, no matter what time of year it is. Sometimes I look at that Turkey and wonder why I haven't stuffed it already. That turkey is delicious, perfectly rounded and balanced for my needs. It moves with confidence and draws my attention outward and into its secret realms.
Silver ship landed and brought a beast, first it was in the East. Puerto Rico, Miami as far as New York then Seattle, San Francisco, Nevada, Roswell, NM. Acid dreams. A naked breast beneath the asphalt waiting to be suckled A moist soft earth The womb from which all came.
I read the paper every day. The names of the dead are important. The way they died, of interest. I think about the liberals that have attacked me of being a Nazi for working in Iraq. I think about the paper. And why they cannot acknowledge my emails. Egos subverting facts.
Time to go; Go under; Underground; Like Alice; The White Rabbit; Beckons & Calls. Out through the inside Out through the inside. 1234 foot steps at your door.
1234 you can't take it anymore 1234 green skinned reaper at your door 1234 chupacabra spreads its wings and brings to you evil things No one knows their name
But Blood sucking is their game like gargoyles of churches past this devil survived his past Escaped gravity to spread his immorality on our innocent livestock. sangria funk Paranormal Blow job Reach around the Rosie Goat Blood on Sunday
Dead Man on Monday
Smokers are the heel of society's Birkenstock's. Forced out, like a club of defrocked clergy, excommunicated and still sinning, we stand outside, often when it is brisk with a chill, to smoke.
I've always been told that I should try new things. Isn't that a motto at the dinner table? This is something new that I would like to try. Perhaps not at the dinner table. Neither she nor I possess one. I suppose one could be purchased second hand for the occasion, though. It adds a new dimension to the relationship. Trying something new is by definition, new, even on the dinner table.
Smoking is far more entertaining now than it was in the good old days, when everyone puffed away, like an iron smelter, wedged in a desk. Most places today you can't even fire up a smoke at work. But that's all right with me. I enjoy the exodus from the workplace in search of sinful pleasure. Each time I smoke a cigarette, my mind wanders back to ancient Greece. You know, those slave-owning misogynist homosexuals on whom the United States based their philosophical and political ideas. The ancient Greeks would pour wine onto the ground as an offering to the gods. These libations were a celebration of the raw, primal forces that fuel the mysteries of life responsible for the simple pleasures, such as the growing of grapes. When reaping the rewards of nature, they believed in honoring the forces involved.
Smoking is like giving a little to death. How much more alive can one be than when giving a little bit of life back to death? Smoking is pouring a little bit of your precious wine into the dirt. If you are alive - and I am talking more than just a having a heartbeat - you have to ask yourself how much you can give.
Smoking is deleterious, and living is hazardous to your health. I've got stuff to give.
I like filterless cigarettes. The unadulterated, high octane, pure smoke makes me feel kinda funny.
There is no guarantee that any of us will live long enough to get a free cup of coffee at McDonald's. Death is a trap door that pops open under our feet, anonymously collecting souls, like a laundry chute for the gods. No one here gets out alive. I want to get my kicks while I still have something to give.
Not only that, a friend of mine with 8 toes told me that nine out of ten Turkeys like to be stuffed. You cannot argue with statistics like that, if they are true, which we will only debate by experience. Of course, you have to be gentle with your turkey. You can't come in after a nights drinking and just expect to stuff it like a pizza pocket or a meat cake. The turkey is a delicate and beautiful bird that demands gentle, thought out stuffing. Nine or ten times a day of stuffing would be too much. We will have to accept the information of my 8 toed source as accurate for now, due to safety limitations imposed by the US Department of Agriculture.
Mason put down his lite refrigerate so he put on his magic cock ring that allowed him to travel through space and time by masturbation to naked pictures of Chris Farley. Farley had so much Yang in his fat ass that by its gravity, his ass cheeks folded in upon themselves in the 4th dimension, creating Yin, making him the gatekeeper of the Tao.
"Must find Talisha," Mason thought as he pulled his 6-inch average cock out of his puke-green three-piece polyester suit.
I am fascinated by the way stuffer goes in and out. It is at a different angle than usual. Different sensations are created by the stuffing and the textures of the interior. The well lubed turkey accepts the stuffer and his stuffing slowly, like a first kiss.
He really enjoyed his time-travel cock ring. It allowed him to make lots of money gambling. Lottery was still elusive due to probability. Reality reorganizes itself even if you go back in time. So, he still didn't win Powerball. The numbers changed, even though he had them. But sporting events were usually solid investments. Hunting his ho' bitch Talisha was a sport he had the numbers for, but he didn't have the sheet on Donut.
The hardest part of volunteering in New Orleans was getting there and covering expenses. This is a problem for any kind of volunteer work out of your home area. The more skills you have, the more likely you will be able to volunteer in this type of work. You may even be able to get your air plane ticket paid for. A great place to start is the Red Cross. Another good skill is a Ham Radio. Communication is a vital factor in emergency situations. Obviously, general labor is needed to move supplies. But the more specific and advanced your skills are, the better chance you have of being brought into the front lines as a volunteer. Throughout the next year, I am certain volunteer work will be needed throughout New Orleans and the Gulf Coast.
"Must find Talisha," Mason thought as he looked at the naked photos of Chris Farley. He tried to download the photos from the Internet, but Farley's massive Yin-Yang blew the power out for two blocks around his small apartment in Seattle's Central District. It also melted his ISDN line and crashed all Internet service in Seattle for two weeks. Bill Gates sent the FBI after him for making him lose money, but the Feds couldn't prove anything. They determined it was an unspecified electrical pulse with nanofluctuations of orgone energy.
Mason remembered the first time he found the Holmestrobe Time Ring, as he had taken to calling it after the deceased porn star John Holmes. Mason was high on coke, glue, E and pot. He just drank two 40s of Big Bear and found himself at Falo's dump in rural Michigan. Blue flames of methane shot from the earth, a sure sign of the apocalypse, and stinky, too.
His cock got hard. The sun and the moon flashed before him like a time-lapse video. A rusty '64 Chevy Malibu sat before him and Mr. T opened its rusty door and stood before him. Mr. T was naked. He had tiny pierced breasts, like a 12-year-old girl, and a giant afro-covered pussy with eight giant gold rings in the moist brown outer lips.
"Hey boy!" Mr. T shouted. "I want you to fuck the rusty tailpipe of my car. If you do, you will be rewarded. If you don't, I'll get my pump and fuck you in the ass."
Mason dropped his pants and started pumping furiously. Perhaps it was the drugs. At first, he felt the jagged rusty inside the tailpipe of the candy-apple-red Chevy Malibu lacerate his fat cock. But then the rusty pipe turned into Madonna's ass when she was eight years old, tight and dry.
Mason shot a load of thick yellow spunk inside the car. Mr. T fingered his pussy with four of his manly fingers.
"You did good, boy, now get on your knees and eat my big afro-colored pussy until flames shoot out my ass and my clit gets as big as your arm."
Mason remembered that part for sure. Mr. T rewarded Mason by coming in his mouth with a horsecock clit, and gave him the Holmesotrobic Time Ring.
Licking his lips, spitting a wad of snot in his right palm, and eyeing Farley's fat ass, Mason started traveling through time.
He felt his cum rattle through his balls. He imagined greasing Farley's fat body with lard and rubbing his cock all through his belly folds. "Um, cumming," Mason thought. "Must find Talisha."
Find Talisha is what Mason did. But he was to learn more about the soul of humans and the space-time continuum. He hadn't figured on 3 Fingers, the voodoo priest, capturing Talisha's soul.
Mason opened his eyes. He had 17 hard-cocked Grays around him. He saw ' two tiny midgets. And he wished he could get it up to get out of this dimension.
One of the first people he helped was a man called Mr. Jake. He was 93 years old and lived in his home through both hurricanes. He didn't even realize that hurricanes had hit and complained about the condition of his yard. Mr. Jake had injured his arm. We bandaged it and got a doctor in to see him within a day. At this time, even the Red Cross was not working in New Orleans. The city was closed.
How did I end up here, he often asked myself. I know the city of New Orleans pretty well and it was very eerie in its silence and empty streets, like a zombie movie. I live in Nevada most of the time. Once a year, where I live there is an art festival called Burning Man. Over 35,000 people attend this event. My friends from New Orleans that were at the event immediately started raising money once they heard the hurricane Katrina hit. They trained with the Red Cross for disaster work in Reno and drove to New Orleans. I flew into Baton Rouge and accompanied them when they arrived. They were able to raise over $50,000. Most of it went to the Red Cross. And then I got a job in Afghanistan and made a word collage of shit I wrote, that was laying dormant on my laptops HARD DRIVE
To recap, I would like to state that I really want to stuff that turkey for carnal purposes. Why you may ask? Well, because I would like to try something new, something approved by law, that would add a new dimension to the relationship and would support the holiday market.
Once you clean and lubricate the turkey, you can stuff it anywhere you want, within the privacy of your own home, according to the Supreme Court. The Supreme Court allows that in the United States you can do many things with your turkey besides stuff it. It was a landmark decision by the judicial branch, not only for Thanksgiving, but for the other days of the year when one finds themselves alone, with the comfort of a warm, lubricated turkey, willing to be stuffed. Just don't make a website or do it on tribe.net