Bare Skinned Zealots, Warrior Hearts, and Black Earth Curses: Getting My Ass Kicked in The Cradle of Life (2392 hits)
Category: NoneRating: 1.95 on 63 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Isaac Bickerstaff (View user info) at 2005-06-23 21:37:49 EDT
I aint saying I meant to, and you and I both know that's not my style, but sometimes the truth dogs your preconceptions with a diligence that rivals even the begging kids in the slums of Johannesburg, where we spent the previous night. But the truth says I killed that guy, and make no mistake, child: I killed him as sure as God put the pious spank on Sodom and Gomorrah, and with equal indifference.
My therapist said I should come, that doing something charitable would be good for me, would be good for my soul. "My soul?" I say. And even though I want to tell him; I don't, but I want to tell him that somewhere in Atlantic City, on the sidewalk outside the Taj Mahal, is a chalk outline of my soul. And no goodwill fight in Africa is gonna revive that cold, putrid specter. Maybe I'll tell him when I get back, when the Girl's false pregnancy turns out to be nothing, or at least benign. Maybe I'll tell him then.
But probably not.
The missionary chicks met us at the landing strip, little blond chippies with waxy smooth legs, dripping in Malawi beads and hiking boots that lesbians wear when they're going somewhere dressy. They chirp out their excitement in breathy blond enthusiasm, blessing us with every gesture, praising our generosity in shrieking self-congratulation. My therapist would call them narcissistic; JD just calls them potential.
The postulant in charge is a libidinous amazon named Cricket. Now you and I both know, kid, that the first rule of virtuous chicks is that no hunk of anatomy is ever revealed accidentally no matter what they want you to think; they know exactly what they're doing. And Cricket, man, Cricket's got Lucifer in the languorous beckoning of her barelegged stride, her eyes the fiery pit of a lost sinner's final kingdom: the Beast in a belly shirt.
JD and Taro the Hunchback ride in the backseat with a giggling mass of tank tops and tanned skin and I swear I can't even tell how many of them are back there, they all run together like flavored pudding. Cricket drives us to town in a truck filled with donations fresh from the plane for the natives: Nikes, fruit roll ups, sun hats; department store self-annihilation, gaudy and glowing in bright chromatic glitz. It's gonna be Christmas in May, kids; Jesus loves the pagan babies, and Cricket loves the fuck out of Jesus.
But that's not until tomorrow, you impatient bastards. Tomorrow that truck full of plastic and neoprene will show up at the missionary camp, and as Cricket and her crew of bright eyed zealots hand down the boxes, we'll watch as the tribal leaders pick through their contents, absentminded and uninterested, unable or unwilling to use most of its stock, like crows at a feast of jewels.
But that's tomorrow, and the only thing I'm thinking about today is that I wish this jalopy we're in had AC cause the African heat is melting my tired New York bones into liquid angst. But I aint in the mawkish state of mind, kids: I'm already slipping my aspect, climbing into the emotional front seat of the Voltron I gotta be for the next two hours. Cause today, today I've agreed to box their best guy, whoever that is.
We slide into an open dirt square out front of the "Big Rest Public House" which is the only building I can see that actually has a second story; slouching awkwardly toward the earth in a losing battle with gravity that depresses me in its familiarity.
Taro the Hunchback carries our gear to the side of the extempore ring and dumps it on a table there which is clear except for two pairs of badly ass-hammered Everlast gloves, sweaty and torn: and I revel in their prosaic, matter of factness. The crowd is a slithering mass of dark, slick faces, shiny and bright; reflecting the dying sunlight in piercing jabs of glitter, like sparks at a witch burning. They are euphoric; jubilant in the face of this side show pageantry. And as the little blonde dish from the backseat who will forever after tonight be known to JD as Moby (cause she can stay down for hours) walks us over to our corner, I see the Cub for the very first time.
Tomorrow, let's not forget, the Cub will be there with his family, puzzling over this flatbed full of American generosity that has shown up, a gift from the civilized world, a beckoning ticket to godhood. He will watch through his swollen eyes as the blessings are brought down, nonpareil and nameless: the dolls handed out, the clothes tentatively tried on, the tote bags filled with whatever's handy. And all of them will gaze in rapt concern at the bicycle, the wheels spinning in diabolical unison, its paint a perfect anachronism of scarlet: because while these people have seen bicycles before, no one has ever ridden one.
But today, as the Cub and I make eye contact across the dirt, Taro the Hunchback grabs my arm and pulls me to one side, astounding me with this peculiar character breach. He jabs one crooked finger into my face. "There is a curse here," he says simply, his lips getting wet and palsied. "Waiting." And JD drags himself away from the angel-that-isn't and sidles up next to us.
"Swallow a pill, Taro, this guy's Special Olympics, right Twink?" and the three of us look over at the Cub, now smiling warmly at us from across the dirt ring. He catches our look and astonishingly, waves.
"Okay," I say to JD.
"That's m' boy." And he saunters back over to Moby, already thick in the hunt, hungry like the wolf. When I turn back to Taro the Hunchback, he is pulling out tape and gloves like he never spoke, his face a stone façade of Asian ineffability as he continues his surgical pre-fight choreography.
I turn back and watch the Cub walk over to the table and pick up a pair of the Everlasts: not like the ghosts they are, the pulpy, ragged remains of a thousand bouts shared by every wannabe fighter in town; but reverential, like Hendrix taking up a stratocaster, Arthur pulling Excalibur. As he pushes his hands through the tired elastic, I poke Taro the Hunchback and point to the Cub. "Go tape that guys hands and give him some proper mitts."
But tomorrow the Cub will be different. He will smile less often, if ever again, and his shoulders will pull back, his fingers curl more acutely. His face will show the bruises from the beating he will take today, swelling in angry purple domes of pride, each one a testament to a slow duck or missed sidestep. And after every person he has ever known has walked past the bike, and dismissed it as inscrutable, he will set his jaw and walk the bike up a nearby hill, determined with a newly acquired warrior's will to conquer this new challenge.
Now anyone who can't see the face of God in the way that Taro the Hunchback tapes hands, well then, they don't know what He looks like. The Cub stands there with his big paws outstretched, watching in vestal fascination as the strips of white are laid in categorical sticky perfection: just enough between each digit, creeping gently up the wrist for stiffness; but not too much: too much can wreck your hook, man, or petrify an uppercut into rigid, eggshell brittleness. Watching Taro tape is the introit to the Mass, the bells before the Eucharist.
And I'm the minister, my children. I am the prophet of doom in a vestment of scars, spreading the gospel with thunderous Old Testament ass kicking; Leviticus in my back pocket hungry for heathens to smite with the righteous indignation of an East Coast Smackdown.
It's never a good idea to do your own wraps, kid, and trust me when I tell you. Not because it's hard or you'll jack it up or anything, but because it forces you to look at your hands; to gaze with a jewelers eye on the completely fucked up landscape of everything your hands could've done other than this. And you can see it the whole time, brother and that aint no lie. You can see right through the cuts and calluses down into the tender pink meat of your wasted potential: pianist, painter, financier, and poet. All those things that would make her so much happier than the thug you've turned into over the years. But nope, here you are, and there aint no turning back now, child, even if you wanted to.
Turning back, man, how many times have I thought about that? Certainly we will tomorrow. We'll wish we had stopped him, or shown him what brakes are, or just aimed him in a different direction, maybe not let him go up that hill. But the fight, man, the fight had changed the Cub. He had something to prove after the fight, something to regain, his honor to recoup. And the bike was the quickest, best way to do it, cause facts is facts, kids, no one had the stones to overthrow the mighty bicycle, no one but the Cub.
Today he chose the bright blue gloves, the ones with the Stars and Stripes stitched in blazing, swagger on the fronts. I never wear those gloves, man, seriously. I can hardly represent my own ass up in here, I don't need that pressure. We face each other in the middle of the dirt ring, the last fight of the day; the main event as it were, for those not around tomorrow anyway. The Cub stands there grinning, holding his gloves out in front of him as the sun goes down, waiting for me to touch. Cricket stands between us, the soft ripple of her hip muscles glistening above the line of her impossibly low cargos. And when the Cub clicks out a soft phrase in vowel-less earnestness, it's Cricket's voice I hear, "He says it's an honor to fight you, and he hopes you both fight well." Then she turns to me and says, "He has also practiced something, and wants to say it to you."
"Um, okay."
She looks at the Cub and speaks as if to a scared puppy, "Go ahead."
And the Cub takes a deep breath and says, better than Taro the Hunchback ever could and that's for damn sure, "Floht lahka buttafly, sting lahka bee." And he smiles again, that impossible, perfect, perfect smile.
He'll fall off the bike a few times first, not realizing that you gotta get it going or you'll never keep it upright. But by about the fourth time, he'll actually start down the hill. At first he won't even know what the pedals do, he'll just try to keep his feet glued to them, but once he learns that if he pushes on the damn things, he can actually go faster, then he'll dig in with his wiry legs and really start to rocket down that grassy hill. A moment later, he'll venture an upraised arm clenched in a triumphant fist, and he'll hoot a warrior's cry; a mingled shriek of elation and rebirth: a sound that thrills and terrifies me because I recognize it so clearly, and I know what it portends.
Cricket checks her Breitling and bangs on a drum to start the round. No ref, no judges, just a hundred black faces askance in childish glee; the day's former boxers sitting nearest the ring, tired and sweaty and joyous at watching this big white guy from America, this professional, fight their champ.
I look over to my corner and see Taro the Hunchback is looking abjectly at the sky like he's waiting for a bus, like any minute now Medea may show up in her chariot pulled by dragons and carry him off. And JD, looking pink and powdered and bulletproof, the dusty heat shrinking away from him in colorless waves, fearful of wrinkling his suit, sits on a wooden bench with Moby, her glossy lips parted as she stares at his mouth while he talks.
The Cub blasts in shooting some stiff jabs, and tries to set me up for an early knockout. But right away I can tell that this is going to be a shellacking; the Cub is way out of his league, and is hoping to substitute enthusiasm for training the way a teenage lover mistakes passion for technique. I sidestep a couple times and let his gloves slide off mine. But through it all, I forget. I forget the unspoken rule of pugilism, that whatever happens, I'm here to fight. I forget that the licorice whipchain in the ring with me is expecting me to hit back. They are expecting me to fight, and for the Cub, it's crucial. And I forget, and I go soft.
And tomorrow when I hear that cry, when the Cub lifts his hand and bellows out his soul's refrain of emancipation and renewal, it will occur to me. It's not until that exact moment when I will know I should've hit back more, should've hit harder. I shouldn't have been so easy on him, shouldn't have let him score. He knew the whole time, and it destroyed him.
But how could I know, you judgmental fuckers? He was just a kid, we were both for that moment, just a couple of kids. And how could I know that my softness, my generosity; how could I know I was killing him?
But now I'm dancing there in a mesmerized funk, the hot sand reflecting hard icicles into my city boy eyes, wondering whose stares bother me more: the Malawai children hooting wild mayhem, or the missionaries passing out crucifixes and Power Bars to the crowd, afraid to meet my gaze, flipping occasional glances at me in the same way they watch the wildlife on their high priced safaris, knowing at any moment I might turn savage and eat them: the Devil in their midst. The more I slip away, the harder the Cub tries to pulverize me. His frustration builds with every missed right hand, every time I tap his beak. I want to slow him down, show him how to do it right, demonstrate that he's gotta duck after every combo, loosen his elbows, keep his right hand up before he hooks. But I don't, I slip and bob, and stick him with light jabs for four interminable rounds, until Cricket stops us, and holds both our hands up to the clamor of the crowd.
And as the Cub steps back from me, the sun disappears behind his delicate round head and makes a perfect silver halo: the symbol heaven always sends to show that God is watching, right before He turns away for good. And I want to tell Cricket that her God aint here; her God is a thousand miles away in the machines of the West, blaring in sweaty fury from the televisions of a Godless nation. We don't belong here, man, the Gods here are old, and no match, no fucking match at all. It's the kind of thought that keeps you awake at night, or worse, lets you sleep.
Tomorrow we'll all hear the wet crack and know right off that he's dead when the Cub hits the tree. And we'll all cringe impotent melancholy as we run over; knowing it's a waste of sweat. Cricket will shout useless orders through her thespian sobs; JD will stand back, breezily unencumbered by emotion. Taro the Hunchback alone will look relieved, like we dodged a bullet, like the curse of which he spoke somehow missed its mark, granting us at least a temporary stay. Moby will fall to her exquisite knees and pull at JD's sleeve, crying out for something that none of us is prepared to give her, "Pray with me, JD..." she will say. "Pray with me..."
JD will pull his hand up in that abusive way chicks like that get wet on, "Get off..." and he'll step away from her. And as the village elders swarm around their fallen champion, an old woman who must be a thousand, will pull the bike away and drag it onto a fire, cursing and spitting, and demanding answers of Gods that refuse to speak. And behind it all, as if through a running fountain of blood, we'll hear Moby's refrain from her pew in the dirt, "What should we pray for, Cricket? What should we pray for?"
And Taro the Hunchback alone will answer her, his voice a mocking bass to Moby's contralto. "Pray for the warrior," he will say, and successfully fool them all.
And like a secret handshake, or a lover's perfumed note, he will dash me a glance through cowboy eyes; and I alone will know that he means me, that Taro the Hunchback isn't asking for prayer on the Cub's behalf; the Cub is gone and let's be honest, all the ecclesiastical supplication in the world has never changed heaven's mind on matters such as this.
No, Taro's eyes say: don't pray for the Cub, his life was virtuous and his final kingdom as good as any; pray for the living; pray for Bickerstaff.
User Reviews
Submitted by orph (user info) at 2008-05-09 11:01:46 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Brilliant
Submitted by Fey (user info) at 2007-05-26 18:06:19 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
This one broke something.
Submitted by AsshOly (user info) at 2006-07-11 21:46:26 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
i would commit genocide in your name.
Submitted by redskieslookfake (user info) at 2006-04-23 18:25:13 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I still love this.
Submitted by shadow (user info) at 2006-04-14 16:36:29 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by redskieslookfake (user info) at 2006-03-19 10:43:23 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-03-13 03:26:46 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Fantastic.
Submitted by Rocktsrgn (user info) at 2006-02-28 13:09:07 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Everytime I read your stuff, it evokes emotion. Raw emotion, that stays with me. There aren't words, man, or at least, I don't have them.
Submitted by Berty (user info) at 2005-11-25 11:15:31 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I just read this again.
wow
Submitted by whataefag (user info) at 2005-11-21 14:26:42 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by theshadypeach (user info) at 2005-10-25 23:52:50 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
oh shit i rated it 0 by accident. FUCK my bad.
Submitted by coindon (user info) at 2005-10-25 23:51:29 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Staggering, Brilliant writing. I am green with envy.
Submitted by theshadypeach (user info) at 2005-10-25 23:38:13 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
The story's simply beautiful...but in a dark, brutal sort of way.
Submitted by rad1101 (user info) at 2005-10-19 03:44:37 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
There are a solid four pages of +2 streaks with 30 or more reviews. That is stupid. I am weeding it all out by giving every one of them a +1; that way posts that have 1.99 with 200+ reviews gets best ever.
Submitted by gina (user info) at 2005-08-24 13:58:55 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I know who you aaaarrrr-rrrreeee......
Submitted by Confuzitron (user info) at 2005-08-23 16:05:06 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Post more often. Please.
Submitted by pen_name (user info) at 2005-08-11 22:22:21 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Un-fucking-believable.
Saying I was jealous just wouldn't cover it.
Submitted by Phallic_Cymbals (user info) at 2005-08-10 22:41:17 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
So many beautiful, beautiful lines. Some of the best writing i've ever read, on this site and off.
Submitted by ThineJericho (user info) at 2005-07-22 23:16:44 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
You're beautiful.
Submitted by thecaes (user info) at 2005-07-04 23:46:18 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I should never read one of your posts before I plan on writing something. It makes what comes out seem like I bashed my face into the keyboard for twenty minutes.
I am SO in awe of your metaphors/similes.
Usually I try to offer something constructive to people who writing seriously because they're often looking for input, but with you, I got nothin'. For every line that was slightly less than perfect, there were about five that were.
Submitted by Spam (user info) at 2005-07-04 09:59:20 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I want to read Snark's story about chips - I think he could be onto something good there.
Submitted by Pacifist248 (user info) at 2005-06-29 04:59:48 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
As you (or anyone) may have noticed, I just gave you a +2 and mostly all your posts (read them before and just set it up for 10 or whatever +2's in a row).
All I have to say:
". . . And say to all the world 'This was a man!'"
Damn good writing.
Submitted by Berty (user info) at 2005-06-27 11:16:12 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by creep_firebombing (user info) at 2005-06-24 09:04:10 (#)
Ranking: 2
Admit it. You already have a book on the New York Times Best Sellers list, don't you? You're fucking Steven King or Dean Koontz or Micheal Chrighton and you somehow stumbled upon this wasteland site. You're using us as a proving ground. Just testing yourself to see if you still have it and people aren't just buying your books because they have your name on it. Part of your midlife crisis, perhaps? "I'll just drop a gem amongst the teenage boy-trolls and the whining unwed mothers and the computer geeks searching for some kind of human connection when they're trapped in their cubicle prisons." type of thing?
I read your stuff and feel bad about giving anyone else a +2.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
If he's not right, he may as well be.
Submitted by indoninja (user info) at 2005-06-27 08:11:57 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by DavyJones (user info) at 2005-06-26 16:27:03 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I would believe Creep's theory.
Submitted by Grownasskid (user info) at 2005-06-26 15:33:12 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
My stories = A palm job from a she-male
Your stories = A 4 porn star orgy
stellar
Submitted by SiskelandFatboy (user info) at 2005-06-26 14:23:30 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by creep_firebombing (user info) at 2005-06-24 09:04:10 (#)
Ranking: 2
I read your stuff and feel bad about giving anyone else a +2.
---------------
I think this sums up how good your posts really are.
I agree with him...
Submitted by Snark (user info) at 2005-06-24 18:35:14 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Your stuff makes my stuff look like the story below:
"Hey what are you dooin" said Tom
"Eatin Chips!" said Tom's friend Ernie.
"Can I have some chips too please?" said Tom
"OK" said Tom's friend Ernie "Here is a chip for you"
"Cool" Said Tom.
crunch crunch crunch went the chips.
Then they killed some people.
The end.
Submitted by JonnyX (user info) at 2005-06-24 18:20:07 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I see somebody got a thesaurus for Christmas.
Submitted by your_brown_eyed_girl (user info) at 2005-06-24 17:33:44 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
Decent
Submitted by c1ndy (user info) at 2005-06-24 14:11:09 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
good stuff!
Submitted by Davros (user info) at 2005-06-24 14:02:43 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Back to the MRR.
-Dave
Submitted by thorpe (user info) at 2005-06-24 11:00:34 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Snark (user info) at 2005-06-24 10:42:57 (#)
Ranking: 2
"And as the Cub steps back from me, the sun disappears behind his delicate round head and makes a perfect silver halo: the symbol heaven always sends to show that God is watching, right before He turns away for good. And I want to tell Cricket that her God aint here; her God is a thousand miles away in the machines of the West, blaring in sweaty fury from the televisions of a Godless nation. We don't belong here, man, the Gods here are old, and no match, no fucking match at all. It's the kind of thought that keeps you awake at night, or worse, lets you sleep. "
This is so far the best example of what makes the Bickerstaff character so enjoyable to read.
This is what makes him one of us; the knowledge that if God did find the time to notice your existence, he'd chuckle then move on, and man, it's better that way. It's cooler out of the spotlight. It's safer to be the man behind the man, and there's more power there.
It's like he inherently knows what we all feel, and he should give up, but her never will, because it's all about the struggle; because the struggle is beautiful.
Damn, your writing makes me rant.
--------------------------------
Bloody hell Snark, that's not bad.
Submitted by Snark (user info) at 2005-06-24 10:42:57 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
"And as the Cub steps back from me, the sun disappears behind his delicate round head and makes a perfect silver halo: the symbol heaven always sends to show that God is watching, right before He turns away for good. And I want to tell Cricket that her God aint here; her God is a thousand miles away in the machines of the West, blaring in sweaty fury from the televisions of a Godless nation. We don't belong here, man, the Gods here are old, and no match, no fucking match at all. It's the kind of thought that keeps you awake at night, or worse, lets you sleep. "
This is so far the best example of what makes the Bickerstaff character so enjoyable to read.
This is what makes him one of us; the knowledge that if God did find the time to notice your existence, he'd chuckle then move on, and man, it's better that way. It's cooler out of the spotlight. It's safer to be the man behind the man, and there's more power there.
It's like he inherently knows what we all feel, and he should give up, but her never will, because it's all about the struggle; because the struggle is beautiful.
Damn, your writing makes me rant.
Submitted by Jungle_Jimanee (user info) at 2005-06-24 10:34:26 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I was on the verge of offering you money to write more, I'm sure me and the other uberers could make it worth your while.
Unless what Creep said is true, which wouldn't suprise me.
Submitted by Adamdidit2u (user info) at 2005-06-24 09:58:12 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by creep_firebombing (user info) at 2005-06-24 09:04:10 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Admit it. You already have a book on the New York Times Best Sellers list, don't you? You're fucking Steven King or Dean Koontz or Micheal Chrighton and you somehow stumbled upon this wasteland site. You're using us as a proving ground. Just testing yourself to see if you still have it and people aren't just buying your books because they have your name on it. Part of your midlife crisis, perhaps? "I'll just drop a gem amongst the teenage boy-trolls and the whining unwed mothers and the computer geeks searching for some kind of human connection when they're trapped in their cubicle prisons." type of thing?
I read your stuff and feel bad about giving anyone else a +2.
Submitted by Jeanneee (user info) at 2005-06-24 09:00:47 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Awesome.
I totally ripped off your trademark title format for my second-to-last post. I thought it would get me more hits (and I was right!). Just thought you should know.
Submitted by Pentameter (user info) at 2005-06-24 08:52:41 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I think I just orgasmed.
Submitted by wookie (user info) at 2005-06-24 08:49:58 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Brdn_Nkd (user info) at 2005-06-24 08:46:57 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Gnat (user info) at 2005-06-24 06:34:55 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Davros (user info) at 2005-06-24 05:15:22 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
This stuff NEEDS to be published.
Another awesome installment.
-Dave
Submitted by UberWeiss (user info) at 2005-06-24 04:20:31 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Style.
UW
Submitted by kai070169 (user info) at 2005-06-24 03:05:40 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
The way you write gives me a long, hard Bickerstaff.
Submitted by Flaahgra (user info) at 2005-06-24 01:04:13 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
"not like the ghosts they are, the pulpy, ragged remains of a thousand bouts shared by every wannabe fighter in town; but reverential, like Hendrix taking up a stratocaster, Arthur pulling Excalibur."
"Watching Taro tape is the introit to the Mass, the bells before the Eucharist."
"he'll hoot a warrior's cry; a mingled shriek of elation and rebirth: a sound that thrills and terrifies me because I recognize it so clearly, and I know what it portends."
Ah hell, I'll just stop there. There's too many brilliant lines in there to list them all.
Submitted by shandythedog (user info) at 2005-06-24 01:01:41 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
"Malawi beads and hiking boots that lesbians wear when they're going somewhere dressy"
i like that line
haven't really made up my mind about the isaac bickerstaff phenomena. like alot of stuff on ubersite, it's obviusly publishable quality, but i find it a bit hard to digest.
Submitted by jgreening (user info) at 2005-06-24 00:37:07 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Oh Wiggles.
Go shove a can of baby peas up your ass.
His writing flat out blows me away, and I thin it's savagly beautiful.
If *anyone* else on Uber were half this good, I'd be thrilled.
Submitted by polyamorousaj (user info) at 2005-06-24 00:36:19 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Was just asking Circe the other night where you'd been.
Submitted by Wiggles (user info) at 2005-06-23 23:49:12 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Great piece as always, though.
Submitted by Wiggles (user info) at 2005-06-23 23:48:48 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by jgreening (user info) at 2005-06-23 22:16:20 (#)
Ranking: 2
Your writing is like a tantric orgasm.
Long, slow, and wonderfully perfect.
------------
The exact opposite of what a woman gets when she spends a night with Jgreening.
Jesus Christ. "Wonderfully perfect."
Submitted by LadyPlural (user info) at 2005-06-23 23:02:56 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Before I read this, I was all worked up about something fairly inconsequential, but now I don't really care too much. You're a fucking amazing writer, man. Thank you for pposting again- I was slightly worried that you'd left us.
Submitted by GodLovesALittleLovin (user info) at 2005-06-23 22:38:11 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Circe (user info) at 2005-06-23 22:18:16 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
By the way - "The Beast in a belly shirt" is a killer line.
Submitted by Circe (user info) at 2005-06-23 22:16:33 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Absolutely perfect. Far, far better than Uber deserves.
Submitted by jgreening (user info) at 2005-06-23 22:16:20 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Your writing is like a tantric orgasm.
Long, slow, and wonderfully perfect.
Submitted by lordofthedance (user info) at 2005-06-23 21:57:11 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by GodChicken (user info) at 2005-06-23 21:54:45 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by thorpe (user info) at 2005-06-23 21:53:36 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Genko (user info) at 2005-06-23 21:50:31 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
What is there to add?
Submitted by screamfeeder (user info) at 2005-06-23 21:45:22 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by kai070169 (user info) at 2005-06-23 21:40:42 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I - ZAK! I - ZAK! I - ZAK!
Submitted by thorpe (user info) at 2005-06-23 21:39:29 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
YES YES YES YES YES YES
Now to read this.