by Tracy Vanity
Don’t you want to become a cult leader?
On his twenty-fifth birthday, Jack cut off his right ear and stuck it in a pickle jar.
“You are my god,” he said. “I have created you and I will worship you.”
Jack created god because he felt only divinity could truly understand him.
Activated by Jack’s desire, his right ear, submerged in vinegar, became self-aware. It became EAR.
“How will you worship me?” EAR asked Jack.
“I will complain to you. My gripes are the sacrifices you must love.”
“It is not right that you, my supplicant, dictate to me,” EAR said. “I would prefer McDonald’s occasionally.”
“Do not develop ambitions beyond your station in life,” Jack retorted. “You are my god, created to listen to me.” He thought awhile then added. “And occasionally to perform miracles.”
“You are selfish,” EAR said.
“Religion’s a bitch,” Jack replied. “Deal with it.”
“I’m lonely and no one understands me,” Jack told EAR. “Do what other gods do for their worshippers. Make a help-meet for me.”
So EAR created Jill for Jack.
She was tall and willowy. She looked like Julia Roberts in 1988.
“Oh pretty woman!” Jack shouted, running across the room at her, arms raised in euphoria that he was no longer alone.
“What the hell did you do that for?” he screamed piteously, blood running down his legs from his burst testicles, exploded because Jill had violently kicked them.
“Keep your hands to yourself pig!” she said coldly as he crumpled to the floor, “Just like you, I like girls. Next time, I’ll cut your dick off!”
In agony, Jack stared at his god in disbelief. “What the . . . you made me a gay woman?”
“Your faith in me was insufficient for heterosexuality my child,” EAR replied.
“What is that? Jill gasped, noticing the speaking ear in the pickle jar. “Are you a serial killer?”
“That’s god,” Jack whimpered. “Kneel and worship it. Feed it your complaints. Then ask it for whatever you desire.”
“I’m misunderstood and no one loves me,” Jill told EAR. “Make me a partner.”
EAR sighed, wearied by the obtuse insatiability of its supplicants. It switched the location of Jack’s penis from his crotch to his right hand, replacing it with his thumb. It moved his exploded testicles to his chest, inflating them into breasts.
“Now you’re remade in my image,” Jill told Jack. “You’re a woman like me, and I love you.” She giggled. “I will call you Penisthumb.”
So Penisthumb and Jill lived in peace and harmony for a full year, with Penisthumb thumb-screwing Jill twice daily,
A year after Penisthumb and Jill had fallen madly in love, Dog appeared in the sky over New and Improved York City. Dog was big, black and evil, and had twin rocket launcher turrets in place of nostrils.
“I Dog rule over all,” it barked. “Bow before me earthlings.”
“In a pig’s eye asshole,” the New and Improved Yorkers replied.
Incensed by their lack of reverence, Dog began shooting everyone, firing Canadians from its nostril cannons.
Penisthumb was killed when a fusillade of Dog’s Canadian Citizen rockets blew up the train she was commuting home from work in.
“DO SOMETHING!” Jill, tears streaming down her face, screamed at EAR when the hospital informed her of Penisthumb’s death. “Avenge your creator!”
“I will fight and defeat this menace,” EAR replied. “Not for Penisthumb, but for myself. When I win, all humanity will worship ME. No longer will I be America’s best kept secret!”
It flew out of the house, becoming bigger than Madison Square Garden, and engaged Dog in conflict over New and Improved York.
EAR fired earwax ICBMs at Dog, but Dog was faster. It blew the wax missiles apart with its Canadian patriots.
Sizzling wax droplets rained on the world, frying everyone they hit.
Though EAR fought bravely, it lacked Dog’s killer instinct.
Dog killed EAR–after first blocking it with gorgeous Celine Dion clones (who ruptured its eardrum with their razor-pitched voices), it ripped EAR to pieces and wolfed it down.
Finally, Dog descended to Earth.
“I am Dog,” it said. “You will worship me.”
“We cannot worship a dog,” the New and Improved Yorkers, Jill among them, patiently explained. “You lack sophistication. The Roman Catholics will mock us.”
“Then I will reverse the spelling of my name and become God instead,” Dog said.
“If you do this, you will be remade in our image, and we will worship you,” the New and Improved Yorkers replied.
“And your previous gods?”
“They are of no consequence,” the multitudes replied.
So Dog reversed its name and became God, and its form altered. It was human, it dressed in a tan Giorgio Armani Suit.
But once human, its powers left it. It became an ordinary man.
And Jill, realizing God was now powerless, and seeing her chance to avenge Penisthumb’s death, screamed. “FAKER! CRUCIFY HIM!!!”
And the multitudes crucified God, bearing him above their heads to the banks of the Hudson River and nailing him to a tree there.
And God withered down to an elephant ear, with beautiful black roses growing around its rim. And in time and in turn, its roses also withered, because no one remembered to water them.
“My partner, Penisthumb, was a good woman,” Jill said afterwards. “We will bury her, but keep her penis-thumb. This we will stick in a pickle jar and worship as our new god.”
And the multitudes agreed.
Wol-vriey is Nigerian and quite tall. As well as appearing in several online e-zines (including William Pauley III’s ‘New Flesh’ webzine), his fiction has appeared in Like Frozen Statues of Flesh and The Big Book of Bizarro.
Greetings Smutzarros, I’m Cam Kirkeron. No, you don’t recognize me, I’m not someone famous. I am but a simple man on a crusade. You’ve clearly landed on this webpage because you got distracted from your daily pornography searches. I’m here on this digital den of sin and vice because I am in possession of certain photographical evidence depicting the administrators of this website in compromising positions. Hence, my appearance in this most unlikely of pulpits.
I had the misfortune of becoming aware of this “genre” of “literature” through the work of one Steve Lowe, whose quote-unquote book “Muscle Memory” goes to great lengths to slander several well-known and morally-astute celebrities with lies, innuendo and crude toilet humor. Normally, I let this sort of thing slide off my back and pray that the hearts and minds of such wayward sheep will one day be shepherded back into His Heavenly fold.
But this egregious affront to decency and wholesomeness known as Bizarro fiction simply cannot stand any longer. Of particular note is this offshoot of Smutzarro that calls itself “The New Bizarro Author Series”. What twisted mind thought up this crude form of hazing, unleashing desperate losers into the world to harass and harangue decent folk into sullying their hearths and hearts with the mere presence of such distasteful, disgusting, damaging material, all for the sake of earning a contract to create even more filth? According to my detailed investigation of the matter, one Kevin Donihe can be held most accountable.
Take this current batch of NBAS swill. They have the nerve to call themselves the Magnificent Seven, though I’d be shocked to learn if any of them can count that high. Seven books of such atrocious subject matter, such that I can hardly describe. But for the good of decency on the Internet, I will soldier forward and do just that, detailing the lowlights of these filth-filled tomes.
First you have Eric Hendrixson’s “Bucket of Face”. This piece of pseudo fiction glorifies the life of a known sex offender and explicitly depicts an act of sexual congress between a man and a Kiwi fruit. Imagine your children getting their hands on this “Bucket of Sin”. This Hendrixson character has also gone so far as to offer cheap swag on Facebook to anyone who will “Like” his trash. So add bribery to his long list of flaws.
Then there’s Nicole Cushing’s “How to Eat Fried Furries”. Religion-hating, British-Comedy-imitating, hack-television-script-writing, indecipherable noise slapped onto paper. Trees died to make this thing come to life. And all this from a seemingly nice woman. Shocking to see members of the fairer sex involved in this depravity.
But not as shocking as this next entry, from fresh-faced youngster, Kirsten Alene. “Love in the Time of Dinosaurs” is about evil dinosaurs (devil lizards? OK, I can see that), indestructible monks (members of the clergy with super powers bestowed upon them by a higher authority? Yeah, I can get behind that!), and a forbidden love affair betwixt the two. Wait, what? Oh, Ms. Alene, what a shame. You were actually going somewhere, but then you fell on the crutch of the weak: violence, vulgar language and forbidden relations between species. What must your mother think?
When it comes to Caris O’Malley, I am of the opinion that he was not born to a proper mother – clearly he is the spawn of the Dark Lord, hatched from an egg just like in his book “The Egg Said Nothing”. Time-traveling loser repeatedly beats himself to death with a shovel, all the while cursing a blue streak and fornicating with a tramp? The O’Malley clearly says nothing of substance or value to humanity with this hot garbage.
But he’s not even the worst one. This Kirk Jones guy wrote a story about couches having… well, I just can’t bring myself to type such a thing. Reading “Uncle Sam’s Carnival of Copulating Inanimals” is like riding a bullet train straight to Hell. And Jones is in the engineer’s seat, using a noble charity to help disseminate his furniture fornication (I hereby dub the term DavenPorn) to the world.
Of course, DavenPorn pales in comparison to the unholy tripe authored by James Steele. “Felix and the Sacred Thor” is the most disgusting, demented and disturbed offering of the lot, glorifying the use of huge animal (I shudder to even consider this word) dildos as weapons, and the ritual sodomizing of America’s retail workforce (haven’t those people suffered enough?). A tenth circle of Hell awaits you, Mr. Steele.
And that brings us back to the beginning, and in my opinion, the worst of the lot. Steve Lowe’s Muscle Memory does not go to the extremes of James “the Damned” Steele, or Kirk “The Devil is in Mr.” Jones. And that’s what makes it so insidious and dangerous. I’ll confess that I snicker at the occasional fart joke like anyone else, but hear this: No one makes fun of Kirk Cameron and Terry Bradshaw on my watch! Help me rid the world of this trash. Burn it and light the night sky with our cleansing flames. Fire shall make you new again.
Now, go be productive and stop surfing for porn, or you’ll end up like one of these Smutzarros.