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The Big Stupid Review


American Dream Serialization (Early Chapters)
Introduction to Jim Chaffee's Studies in Mathematical Pornography by Maurice Stoker
Introduction to Jim Chaffee's Studies in Mathematical Pornography by Tom Bradley
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: American Dream Title Page by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 1 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 2 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 3 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 4 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 5 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 6 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 7 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 8 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 9 by Jim Chaffee
Modern Tragedy, or Parodies of Ourselves by Robert Castle
Totally Enchanté, Dahling by Thor Garcia
Hastini by Rudy Ravindra
The Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter Volume 5 Translation by W. C. Firebaugh
Unexpected Pastures by Kim Farleigh
Nonviolence by Jim Courter
The Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter Volume 4 Translation by W. C. Firebaugh
The Poet Laureate of Greenville by Al Po
The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part VI by Thor Garcia
The Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter Volume 3 Translation by W. C. Firebaugh
The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part V by Thor Garcia
The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part IV by Thor Garcia
The Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter Volume 2 Translation by W. C. Firebaugh
The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part I by Thor Garcia
The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part II by Thor Garcia
The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part III by Thor Garcia
The Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter Volume 1 Translation by W. C. Firebaugh
DADDY KNOWS WORST: Clown Cowers as Father Flounders! by Thor Garcia
RESURRECTON: Excerpt from Breakfast at Midnight by Louis Armand
Review of The Volcker Virus (Donald Strauss) by Kane X Faucher: Excerpt from the forthcoming Infinite Grey by Kane X Faucher
Little Red Light by Suvi Mahonen and Luke Waldrip
TEXECUTION: Klown Konfab as Killer Kroaked! by Thor Garcia
Miranda's Poop by Jimmy Grist
Paul Fabulan by Kane X Faucher: Excerpt from the forthcoming Infinite Grey by Kane X Faucher
Operation Scumbag by Thor Garcia
Take-Out Dick by Holly Day
Patience by Ward Webb
The Moon Hides Behind a Cloud by Barrie Darke
The Golden Limo of Slipback City by Ken Valenti
Chapter from The Infinite Atrocity by Kane X. Faucher
Support the Troops By Giving Them Posthumous Boners by Tom Bradley
When Good Pistols Do Bad Things by Kurt Mueller
Corporate Strategies by Bruce Douglas Reeves
The Dead Sea by Kim Farleigh
The Perfect Knot by Ernest Alanki
Girlish by Bob Bartholomew
The Little Ganges by Joshua Willey
The Invisible World: René Magritte by Nick Bertelson
Honk for Jesus by Mitchell Waldman
Red's Dead by Eli Richardson
The Memphis Showdown by Gabriel Ricard
Someday Man by John Grochalski
I Was a Teenage Rent-a-Frankenstein by Tom Bradley
Only Love Can Break Your Heart by Fred Bubbers
Believe in These Men by Adam Greenfield
The Magnus Effect by Robert Edward Sullivan
Performance Piece by Jim Chaffee
Injustice for All by D. E. Fredd
The Polysyllogistic Curse by Gary J. Shipley
How It's Done by Anjoli Roy
Ghost Dance by Connor Caddigan
Two in a Van by Pavlo Kravchenko
Uncreated Creatures by Connor Caddigan
Invisible by Anjoli Roy
One of Us by Sonia Ramos Rossi
Storyteller by Alan McCormick
Idolatry by Robert Smith
P H I L E M A T O P H I L I A by Traci Chee
They Do! by Al Po
Full TEX Archive
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Totally Enchanté, Dahling

By Thor Garcia


PRAGUE – "Who doesn't love a little black cock?" Lindsay laughed and took another slug from the bottle of cabernet. "No, that so doesn't make any sense! I mean – what I meant is – you know what I mean! They don't make them any other way, do they? That's what I meant."

"Enchantι," I replied. "Yes, many seem to desire them from time to time – often more than one. At least according to the internet."

"Well, your tackle isn't exactly black, or exactly little," she said, handling mine in the 3 p.m. Czech gloom. "All in all, though, it's divine, Mr. Garcia. I guess it might do for now, or for a few weeks."

I lay back on the floor, enjoying the friction of her caress. "So you're saying it's not true – that in fact, you have gone black – and that it is possible to come back?"

"Oh, staaaaahp it," she said. "I just want to suck and fuck, dahling. Don't you know anything? Didn't I make that clear? Hmmm? What – haven't you ever a sucked upon a black one? Obviously not. Or you'd never be here with me now."

"Hmmm. No, I suppose not…Well, so when did you have your first?"

"Let's turn up the music, dahling," she said. "Well, let's see – I've been sucking them since I was fifteen, if that's what you mean. Different colors, of course. I could never tell you how many at this point. But the first was indeed black. He ended up being sentenced to jail."

"Why? Because you were too young?"

"No – for the alleged rape of a different girl . . . and for allegedly stealing a truckload of crisps." Lindsay hit the bottle, nearly emptying it, then lit a smoke. "I'd call that racism – but we know the English people aren't racist at all. Never have been. That's a slandah, dahling. He claimed none of it was true – and I believed him." She cackled.

"What did your parents say?"

"Huh, my parents? Hah! They didn't know a thing, dahling. I was a lunchtime, after-school blow girl. Just buy me a Stella afterwards, thank you very much. There were a few of us heroines. I told my mum I kept my virginity until I was eighteen – and that was the complete truth."

"Aha," I said. "I see. That's why you've got such tremendous Dome Game. Years and years of hard-won experience."

"'Dome Game'?" She cackled. "How delightful. That sounds like a Negro-American thing, dahling. Or – wait, can I still say Negro these days? Or will I be stripped and shackled for it?"

"No, absolutely not – you cannot say. Yes, stripped and shackled, at least if you are in decent company…which is in any case very hard to come by, so I fear you have nothing to fear. Natter on, dahling."

"'Dome Game'?" she repeated. "I love it! You Yanks! You fucking Yanks!" She rubbed her tiny breasts in my face. "Look at these nonexistent boobs. You're cunting right I've got to have a great Dome Game if I want cock!"

"I hear ya, sweetheart…"

"Anyway, my ass is my greatest asset. 'Tisn't it?" She stood with her feet on either side of my head and squatted an inch from my face. That's right – a view to a kill – or was it view to kill for? "Oh, dear. We're out of wine, dahling. Where can I find a new one?"

"Uh, ummm…"

Lindsay was from somewhere in southern England, I don't remember where. I had met her the previous night at the old Blush Cafι-Bar on Lublanska, which occupied the ground-floor corner spot in a grubby pink building two blocks from I.P. Pavlova. As was often the case at Blush, I was the only non-black male in a humid orange room teeming with them (black African males). Only very rarely would you happen to see a black female at Blush. The rest of the bar's clientele, remarkably enough, was usually European white females.

The place thumped with lethargic techno-reggae, colored lights blinked in the dimness. The smell was of burning wax, cologne and industrial cleaning detergent. Blush was one of Prague's leading black-meat markets. The fellas could usually be had for the night for well less than the 1,500 crowns or so charged by the white women at Playzone Paradize, just on the other side of the highway. But many of these African guys were playing a deeper game than the Euro whores, in more ways than one. Many of the fellas seemed to realize that if they could charm and fuck their way to marriage and/or a Czech child, it would definitely accrue to their advantage. If they could cross over from Africa to the Czech or other Euro leagues, perhaps the world would gleam afresh – and they'd be dazzled by the illusion that almost anything was suddenly possible.

The night we met at Blush, I had put a finger on Lindsay's bare shoulder, leaned close and said, "Excuse me. Your back is quite lovely. May I touch it?"

She turned to me, intrigued. "Enchantι. Don't think I've ever heard that one before."

She was wearing a strapless, flimsy, green and blue gown. I stroked her back for a good four minutes. I was slobbering drunk, my eyes misty and zigzagging over each other. But whatever I might have said, it probably wouldn't have mattered much. Homegirl Lindsay had cock on the mind (as she usually did). Perhaps her thought was of black cock when the evening started, but now my cock had joined the melee. It was a cock, at least, and maybe it would do. My only real calculation, lingering half-heartedly somewhere in the back of my thought, was whether I would still have enough cash for a taxi to my place, or whether she would have to dig for it. In any case, I was pretty sure that a mention of the bottles of wine I had at home would seal the deal.

A little while later, as we sat next to each other at a crowded table, Lindsay commented: "Nice Iron Maiden shirt, by the way. Nice Rod Stewart hair…"

"Yes, I know…"

Since being forced back into singlehood, I'd had only a smattering of success with women – until I found out about Blush. A white girl singer from Scotland had urged me to go. In those days, I'd been drinking a lot at the Dewdrop Inn, mainly because I was adrift and stumbling and didn't know where else to go. The girl's crap band was performing one night at the Dewdrop, and I watched with mild boredom and hostility as they meandered through their softly "ironic" covers of "Wonderwall" and "La Bamba," "Angels" and "Buddy Holly" and a few others. Afterwards, I'd courageously come forward and struck up a conversation with Ginger, as she called herself. It seemed to be going well – until her phlegmatically-bearded boyfriend or whoever (I believe he was the keyboard player) intervened to demand that I put my details on an e-mail list. I complied. Before he escorted her away, mumbling something about equipment transfer, Ginger told me they were playing again in two weeks "at Blush."

Bereft of other female possibilities, Ginger animated my days and I made a point of going to this "Blush." The show started at eight and was over in about 45 minutes. I was one of about four people in attendance. Nearly as soon as the band soundly ruined their finale of "L.A. Woman," black African males began flooding the place. A deejay appeared next to the bar and the volume of the sound system nearly doubled, suddenly shaking the floor with the thuds and chirps of reggaeton and dancehall. I went over and said hello to Ginger. She didn't seem to remember me that much. The band whisked out their equipment. I went to the bar and began to speed-drink beer. When I glanced over my shoulder, I was stunned to find several packs of white girls in high heels, skirts and tight jeans congregating around the tables, smoking pot and ordering cocktails.

I started going to Blush two or three times a week. I got to know the owner and several of the male regulars fairly well. For almost two years, until it closed, it was my main joint. Thanks to Blush, I had more routine success with women than at any previous time in my life.

The European girls might get woozy enough to tell you, frankly, that they had come for the black cock – at least to look – and for the pot. This is what they told me – and I talked to a great many of them. Some of the first-timers claimed they were merely "curious" about this place they had heard about – a place chockablock with freely available black men and drugs. On many nights, the girlie action was almost thrust upon you. I went home with a Slovak film institute staffer, a Norwegian medical student, English-language instructors like Lindsay, Danish nutrition specialists, a cavalcade of Czech admin assistants and master's candidates. Most were not beauties – they were packing a few extra pounds, or had body or face or self-confidence issues, or were trying to recover from some white-male relationship damage, which of course could be quite extensive – but something had fired their brains. They were horny, bright-eyed, enthusiastic, curious…

Enter the Thor-man. If a black cock had not come their way – or if perhaps they had become a bit shy – an American like me might be the ticket. Though my verve, my confidence, was slowly on the incline, I must emphasize that all of this, I believe, had little to do with "me." I was simply there, and seemed reasonable enough – that night, at that moment. Such was the effect on the female mind of black-cock-thoughts, booze and dope, that almost any "reasonable" guy might work. I was fairly quick to catch on. When preparing for a Blush night, I began to subtly emphasize my non-blackness – donning, for example, the heavy-metal T-shirts and white jeans, the puka-shell necklace, flaunting my shaggy rock n' roll hair but taking care to make sure it was not too long, no, not at all… Precisely. I learned to flow with the tide. Sometimes the gals liked the offer of a "last drink" at my place. Or they wondered if I might walk them to the tram stop … and then on to their apartment, you know, for personal security reasons. Or you might go with a group – black males and white females – for extra drinking at a herna bar. There, I'd be granted another chance to showcase my personality and…difference.

Of course, it didn't always work out. Once, a Dutch woman began shouting at me, accusing me of war crimes and illegal invasions, when I told her I was in fact an American, but from California. She was absolutely furious over the human rights violations committed by some of my countrymen. I responded with something like, "Enchantι. It's not my fault, but well…would you rather to be told what to do by a fine Russian or Chinese gentleman?" "You asshole!" she railed. "That's not the point!" A brunette American woman from Virginia, who said she was married, told me she visited Blush because she craved a "change of pace" and got a boost from the "African energy." She said her husband was boozing with pals and thought she was somewhere else. She left after about an hour, saying she had to relieve the babysitter. She gave me her number. We exchanged a few messages and set up a meeting. She didn't show. But as I say, this was a rarity. I didn't worry about it greatly.


Many nights I came early to Blush and stayed late, and a good portion of my time was spent talking to Paco. Paco was Nigerian, from the Yoruba people. He was either the owner of Blush or ran it for somebody who preferred to remain in the shadows. We became more than acquaintances, but remained something less than friends. Paco was about 5-foot 10-inches tall, brawny and broad-shouldered, with lively eyes and a quick smile. He liked to wear a baseball cap and tight T-shirts that emphasized his significant biceps. Paco said he had been traveling through Europe, came to Prague, liked it, and decided to stay. The funding was there and Blush was established. I imagine the story was probably a little more complicated than that, but I never pressed the issue. Paco was a clever and interesting guy who had many fascinating and fantabulous theories about the world.

Most of the guys who came to Blush, Paco explained, were from West Africa – countries like Nigeria, Ghana, Liberia, Mali, Ivory Coast. What were they doing in Prague? I inquired. Paco grinned. Some had come as students. Some, it seemed, had simply appeared. Paco called them "air people." Huh? Paco moved his hands rapidly, as if constructing an invisible double-helix. He shrugged and rolled his eyes. "They get money from the air." Selling drugs? "Never," he said, grinning. "There's never been any drugs in Blush. Everyone I talk to is against it. It's against the rules."

I laughed. I suppose he had to say what was necessary to protect himself in case of a crackdown. After all, he didn't know who I was – this pale face who was suddenly spending almost half of his nights at Blush. I don't think, however, that he ever suspected me as anything more than a semi-aggressive lush and pussy hound.

In fact, the cops showed frequently at Blush – I saw them come around at least once every two or three weeks. Paco would rush to the front to meet them at the entrance. Then they'd usually go out to the street to talk. The cops would usually depart after about five minutes. Paco would usually return to say there had been a complaint about noise and/or "suspicious behavior" from apparent darkies whom the neighbors believed had been using Blush as a base from which to conduct nefarious operations. Sometimes Paco would turn tables on the cops, telling them that some new graffiti had been sprayed on the front of the building and he was concerned he was being targeted by skinheads. "It's me who needs protection," he would say. "Somebody could try to burn this place down with people inside." I thought he had a good point – it only takes one neo-Nazi skinhead to ruin everyone's fun. I never saw any obviously racist or "KKK"-style graffiti on the building, but who knew what some of the bizarre scrawlings were about…

Yet the fact was, if you asked around, you could obtain nearly any kind of substance you wanted at Blush. Paco talked a good game, but he had to think about his business interests above all and seemed to have a permanently blind eye. Once or twice he came around with a joint after closing time, took a few puffs and sighed. But his thing was mainly espresso – he was wired on it, downing half a dozen shots or more per night. He had to – he was constantly exhausted. He ran Blush practically by himself, pouring drinks alongside another bartender during business hours and emptying the trash, mopping up, and scrubbing the toilets with disinfectant after it closed at 3 or 4 a.m.

Paco was shacked up with Pavlina, a wiry Czech blond who sometimes worked behind the bar. For about six months, I regularly tried to talk her up, thinking she was a vulnerable, sweet young girl-student who was only working there to make ends meet. I felt sad and worried for her, or tried to. To my way of thinking, she was sure to make bad, life-screwing-up decisions should she continue to surround herself with all these unemployed Africans and their drugs and mind-warping jungle music. It wasn't until I saw Paco and Pavlina kissing one night in the doorway that I came to understand that they were a couple. It took me that long to catch on – such was my condition! Paco later told me they lived together in an apartment behind the bar. Pavlina was always friendly and greeted me with a smile, though she seemed reluctant to ever reveal too much personal information.

Paco and I were capable of talking for hours, and frequently he charged me for one beer for each two that I drank. If it was an unlucky night with the ladies for me, Paco would let me stay after closing to chat with him and drink. He said he enjoyed me because I "knew about stuff," and also had a "thinking hat." Some of the stuff he said, well – maybe he was just pulling my pud. But I doubt it. In any case, some the other regulars began to befriend me, knowing I was Paco's pal. I got on a first-name basis with Antoine from Sierra Leone, Uzi from Senegal, Blua from Sγo Tomι, Umenyora from Guinea-Bissau, several others. Their comradeship helped most handily if I felt like joining a table full of girls or accompanying the fellas on a mission with some sweethearts to a herna.

Initially, I must admit, I behaved toward these fellows as if they were American blacks – trotting out the usual U.S. race-conscious vernaculars and gestural shorthands, if you know what I mean. It was knee-jerk and almost instinctual – such was my societal/political programming, implanted from infancy and cultivated to a fine, scared-shitless finish, with the aim of sending the message that I was cool, bruh, and never would I intend to trigger any unnecessary conflict. So even if I say asinine things – bear with me, cuz, 'cause I ain't about that, so can we please form a silent non-aggression pact? Ya know, man? It was jolting to discover that these Africans, unlike American blacks, didn't seem to immediately regard me with suspicion or as a vessel of fatal hidden racism. Perhaps they assumed it – or didn't. I never quite could tell. In any case, our conversations at Blush were loose, sloppy, without any clear objective. We'd ramble from observations on the weather, to music appreciation, to what kind of rum was really the best, and so on. Perhaps I was just grotesquely drunk and didn't give much of a damn, and they were stone skunked, and our spines were connected to the reggaeton bomb-boom. Yes, obviously.

Paco and I spent a lot of time discussing Nigeria. I was shocked to discover how little I knew about Africa's biggest economy and most populous country – and Paco, it seems, did his best to indoctrinate me to his way of perceiving the situation. For one thing, he was furious at the Muslim bastards who dominate Nigeria's north. They were little more than bloodthirsty savages, he explained, who had taken to launching terrorist attacks and trying to stir up civil war because of their jealousy and anger over the relative economic success of the mostly Christian south. The problem, Paco said, was exactly Islam – especially the awful, destructive way it was practiced in Nigeria. The way Paco saw it, economic success was directly linked to the question of marriage – or more specifically, polygamy, or the lack of it. Entire communities were dragged down and corrupted by these Muslim polygamist assholes in the north, he said. Their "families," to begin with, used up too many resources inefficiently. Also, when a problem arose, these jerks would frequently manipulate the issue by subtly encouraging the families of their various wives to fight or otherwise compete against each other, thereby exacerbating local tensions and further hobbling development. The polygamist structure also left many young men without women or decent economic opportunity, leaving them easy prey for the wacko religious extremists. This, he said, was in sharp contrast to the south, where the Christian way of living – one man with one woman – tended to create stable families and led to peace of mind, enabling positive social and economic development.

Paco would spiel. Jumping off from Nigeria, he declared himself an enthusiastic supporter of any and all U.S. military interventions in the Islamic world. The more that America slaughtered Muslims, he said, the better it was for the world. After some of the horrific things he had seen in Nigeria, he was convinced that Muslims would stop at nothing until the global caliphate had been established and everyone was forced at the point of beheading to worship Allah. Paco was thrilled by Russia's harsh response to Islamists, saying Russia and the USA, those epic Christian nations, were defending civilization from takeover by evil, goat-fucking hordes.

"Wow," I would say, "never thought I'd hear something like that from you."

"What," he would say, grinning, "are you Muslim?"

It wasn't just Muslims, though. It was also, and seemingly inevitably, "Jews." Blush was a place where those two seemingly endlessly discussable topics – black cocks and Jew-stuff – had found a home. Well, I say: The world was mad, and anyone who says different was bonkers. Black cocks and Jews, black cocks and Jews – talk about firing up the mind for centuries! I politely ask: If not for these things, what would the rest of the world think about?

I'm not sure what Paco thought about black cocks, but "Jews" were definitely on his agenda. For example, let him get rolling, and he was liable to tell you that just "around 30 families" were actually in control of the world . . . and these same families had been in control for the past 600 years or more, making sure everything was following their interests, which mainly concerned money and killing. These families controlled the media, controlled the economy, started the wars. But who are they? I said. He mentioned the Rothschilds and Rockefellers – along, of course, seemingly inevitably, with "the Jews."

"The Jews?" I said. "You can't be serious. Well, in that case, they've been running things quite badly, haven't they? Ever hear of the Holocaust? Millions killed by the Germans. How's that fit in to being a power and running the world according to your interests? I just don't go for Jew stuff, Paco. I don't see it. I'm not buying."

"You mean the made-up Holocaust," Paco said. "There was no Holocaust. They made it up so they could start Israel and steal the oil. You're just from America and they always tell you Jews can do nothing but good and must win Nobel Prize."

"But Israel doesn't got any oil," I said. "Also, they kill a lot of Muslims. Isn't that cool? Isn't that what you want?"

"Israel fights Arabs only so America can come over there and steal the oil," he continued. "They kill Muslims, O.K. But really, they just want to take over everything. I read a book, you should too. Protocols of Elders of Zionism. Internet got it everywhere. Everything you need to know, is there."

"No, no, no, man," I said. "That book has been proven as a fake. Anyway…but I thought you liked them killing Muslims? America, Israel, they're all busy killing them, all the time. Shouldn't we be happy? Kick back, let 'em kill the ragheads, things will change, get better…"

"No. Kill the Islam, because they are trying to blow us up for now. But it won't go on forever. After they kill the Muslims, they'll kill all the blacks in Africa and steal the oil of Africa. Just wait and watch. There'll be a big war in Africa between America and China and Russia, but there won't be any blacks left because we're all gone."

On the one hand, Paco blamed Muslims, and claimed to be happy when America, Russia and Israel killed them. On the other hand, he was convinced that the non-black powers were intent on eventually exterminating Africa's blacks as well. This alleged policy involved provoking war, famines, crippling children with poisoned infant-formula, and spreading man-made diseases like AIDS and ebola, all of which kept black Africans weak and was slowly leading to their genocide. Black Africans had already lost most of what was theirs and were poised to lose even more. The 30 ruling families and their servant governments would pretty soon get around to the genocide, as soon as they developed the right germ warfare or disease technique. They had come close, Paco said, with AIDS. Next time, they'd probably succeed. Technology, after all, was galloping ahead at a head-spinning rate, and the plan of the powers made perfect sense – from their perspective, absolutely…

"My god," I said. "I've got to think all this through." I knocked down my glass on the counter. "Thanks for the info. Fill me up, Paco. I'm gonna need to drink this one through."

Spanish Dan was another case. Dan was one of the few other non-black Blush regulars – but he didn't come for a grab at the white women excess. Far from it. Dan was a weeping drunk. He lived around the corner on Bruselska, with his Czech girlfriend. Dan said he had come to Prague because the employment possibilities here were much better than in Spain, where the economy was totally in the shitter because the bankers and politicians had stolen everything. Dan, who had long sideburns and a Jesus beard, would usually show up around midnight or 1 a.m. On slow nights, if I wasn't getting any white-girl nibbles, we'd spend hours talking film, literature and music.

Dan was a freak for films directed by John Cassavetes. His eyes would crest over with tears as he spoke about the uncompromising humanity, aesthetic prowess and indie heroism of the acclaimed Husbands helmsman and Rosemary's Baby standout. Dan could also soliloquize for hours about the Austrian director Michael Haneke. Dan was fond of Haneke's entire body of work, but was particularly fascinated by his Funny Games series, in which two young thugs capture and torture a family in excruciating detail. Dan was quite, quite sure that Haneke's original European-produced Funny Games (1997) was far superior to the U.S. version of the same script, filmed a decade later by Haneke and starring that delicious blond scrumpkin, Naomi Watts. Rather remarkably, I thought, Dan also claimed to have spent a weekend boning the blond Spanish girl who had allegedly been Michel Houllebecq's model for the piano-playing femme fatale in Houllebecq's dystopian masterpiece about clones, The Possibility of an Island. It was just an O.K. bang, he said, nothing remarkably remarkable, all things considered. Dan – hey, Dan – did she fuck and suck? Well yes, of course. This girl was quite the well-known little slut in that area of central Spain, Dan explained. Many, many fellows had made runs at her and many had achieved success, or claimed to…and Houllebecq had spent about six months in that area, researching the locales…

A typical conversation with Dan might proceed: "Funny Games, it showth how all human kind ith in loving with torture and killing and will be happy watching ith, especially if in commercial movie with good actors. Ith justh facth, Thor."

"Well yes, Dan, the role of the artist is one of the few areas of our society in which male emotionality is permitted. Haneke uses that to indulge his emotional fantasies of rape and torture, and sticks an 'Art' label on it. I can't say I disagree."

"Yes," Dan would say. "In perfect world, we Art kill, destroy every. But I not agree. Not everything muth be…"

"Yes, exactamente, Dan. Because Art today is merely the artist reproducing his own alienation within the consumer society, which dominates every aspect of existence. And cruelty and coercion are fundamental aspects of that, and everyone reflects that, and so masked and double-dealt cruelty and coercion become the norm of what the child sees as they grow, and we pretend to be surprised when bad stuff and worse happens – when in truth, terribleness is the essential truth of how we have made our existence because we are prevented through the constricting economic, political and social structures from executing any meaningful change or even proposing a meaningful abbreviation, because to do so would mean exile to the fringes, and the human is fundamentally a herd animal who rebels against differentiation…"

Dan also claimed to be a bass player. He was a zealous lover of the band Pavement – said he had even interviewed the singer once for some Spanish mag. Dan claimed to be a disciple of the Dead Kennedys, the Ramones and power-pop bands such The Sweet, Big Star, Ash and Red Kross. One morning, after drinking all night at Blush and in several hernas, I took Dan to my place to round out the evening with a few shots from a bottle of Four Roses. I put on a CD and flicked the stereo to full volume, making the walls tremble. By the second song and before the end of the first whisky, tears were streaming down Dan's face.

"Thith…ith…the…moist beautiful thing I never heard," he said. "I never heard such sound. What ith it? You must say!"

"Never heard it?" I said. "Where ya been, Dan? Jesus, it's Budokan II by Cheap Trick. I know, I know, it's gorgeous. Wish I could make it go louder…Come on, quit the tears, Danny Doubtfire, and drink up, buddy. We got Cheap Trick, fucker! We got Blink-182, Pavement b-sides, Suede b-sides and Jesus and Mary Chain! This world ain't so bad, man. We should be laughing instead of crying."

Then, like clockwork, after about three or four hours of drinking Dan would start crying over his father, who had died two years ago from cancer. Everyone was so sad, Dan especially. Dan was worried his mother would never recover…From there, it was just a few quick steps until he was bawling incomprehensibly about "the Pope," and Roman Catholicism, and inevitably, "Jews."

"What – what – what ith a real Jew?" Dan would ask in apparent utter seriousness, his eyes brimming with tears.

"Dan, I told you already – I don't do Jew stuff. Let the Jews be the Jews and forget about it. There's nothing to be gained by saying Jews this, Jews that. There's no 'Jew' conspiracy, that's just false. Stuff like that is for hateful, stupid, small minds…"

"No, but – what ith a real Jew?" he would insist. "I am trying ask you – what ith a Jew to the Bible?"

"Well, Dan…What's a real Spaniard? What's a real Judy Garland song? What's a real Raymond Carver story? What's a real Muslim? What's a real black cock? What's a real CIA disinformation story? What's a real Charles Manson killing? What's a real meatball?"

"Thor, but Thor, a real Jew…"

"Sorry, Dan – sorry to tell you, I'm not really Thor – I'm the sick-ass motherfucking pope, and consequently infallible," I would say. "I'm the pope of Prague, Dan, and I'm ruling out this and all you motherfuckers…"

Well, the world is mad. After a certain point, who needs this crap – what point is trying to be made? Why not let's just kill everyone and get it over with? Black cocks and Jews – the concept of the infinitely huge and satisfying black cock and the devious world-controllingness of "Jews." Talk about firing up the mind! I impertinently inquire: If not for these things, what would the rest of the world think about? In such a world, disbelieving and opposing everything – everything – was the only course. Muslims, Jews, Christians, black cocks, non-black cocks. War, peace, orange, silver. Bob Dylan, Dylan Thomas…whatever you could come up with – I was opposed to it all.


She opened his fly and hauled out his flaccid penis, pushed back the foreskin and, like a python, seemed to unhinge her jaws and engulf the head. She pushed on until her face met his trousers, gorging on the flaccid meat, then pulled back at a snail's pace, her lips extruded meat flaps distended snug along the bludgeon like an occluded sore exposing the dark salami gradually from within a gaping rictus drooling with saliva and whatnot. "Damn," Mule said. "Ain't no bitch never got it all down like that."
Jim Chaffee, Studies in Mathematical Pornography: The American Dream

Nigger dick is best.
Jim Chaffee, Studies in Mathematical Pornography: The American Dream

According to Czech government statistics, black Africans constitute well less than 0.5 percent of the 10 million-plus official residents of the Czech Republic. Though Vietnamese immigrants have registered significant growth in recent years, the Central European country remains one of the whitest outposts in the world. Casual racism continues to flourish among Czechs – as it does among all groups – though Czech people, a generally restrained bunch, in most cases possess the good taste to express their regressive racial views only around their children and close friends. In such a context, then, the black cock must be seen as either one of the rarest and most prized commodities – or among the most marginalized. In my view, the black cock in the Czech Republic must overall be seen as a boon, offering the Czech people an opportunity to explore new avenues of sensuality and love-feelings, as well as generating much-needed economic benefits.

The black African cock stands by, offering the average Czech a chance to develop under-utilized qualities of the human spirit. This particular cock creates new desires and the means to express and satisfy them. In the Czech Republic context, the black cock can only be seen as thrusting explosive new impressions upon what remains a mostly monocultural society, arousing both the moral and sensual sentiments of varying segments of the population. As such, it interrupts the monotony and illusion of bourgeois "security" pursued by the vast majority of Czechs, as based on fallacious Hollywood mind-control tactics and the gold-foil apparitions of East Euro robber-baron politicians too greedy and ashamed to back down now. The black cock must therefore be seen as a force that disrupts the stagnation and alienation that necessarily derives from existence in a corporation-dominated – and corporation-acclimated – system…

But we are just at the beginning. In a purely economic context, the possessor of a black cock may – with or without any actual action – and based essentially upon his "color" – produce crime and suspicion, providing a further rationale for the activities of the criminal justice system. We are talking of course about the police, the courts, deportation judges, authorities of every kind – an integral component of any European Union member state. Legalized suspicion relating to black-cockedness thus indubitably results in continued livelihoods for those merely employed in the vicinity of the "legal" universe – those employed to serve these "legal eagles" lunches, concerts, theories of repudiation, video games and many other legal and extra-legal products…In the "arts," meanwhile, blackness – and the long, weighty black cock theory – has for centuries provided much-needed material for the articles and books produced by writers, thereby resulting in an increase in national wealth, intellectual stature, and twisted, sadistic, but well-fashioned rationales for ethnic slaughter and the subsequent rehabilitation of any and all dark-skinned, long-cocked communities who suffered the wrath of those most responsible…Most importantly, though, should the black cock go on to marry and procreate with a white Czech woman – that is, go "worldwide," as the saying has it – the modern state and public shall undoubtedly benefit through an expanded tax base and the economic activity produced by the need to care for and raise the child. And as the mixed-race child grows to maturity, he or she will of course generate aesthetic energy and economic activity which will, in time, add depth, variety and value to the society at large. Philosophers, and thinkers with a "long view," are apt to describe it as a "win-win" enterprise.

"I've never met a dumb Jew," said Lindsay.

"Well, I have," I said. "Maybe you just haven't looked hard enough. And I'm saying that as a guy who's got best friends for Jews. Did I say that right?"

Well, I suppose there's a first time for everything. I guess I was surprised. Even black cock-craving Lindsay wasn't immune from the "Jew-bug."

"I have looked!" she said. "They all just seem…just super-smart. They know what they're doing, you know? Unlike normal white people, who are totally clueless. I'll take a Jew, if offered. Have any?"

"Exactly, dahling. I've got nine to twelve in storage. Perfect specimens, truly. Call me on Tuesday? That's why they control the world – devastatingly smart! Rest easy, I can certainly set you up with Jews to your heart's desire. I hope you're happy, my pink-pink lady!<"/p>

"Oh. Did I say something wrong?"

"No, dahling. Of course not. Carry on…"

Lindsay had emailed me after about, what – a good 18 months. We went out on Valentine's Day – such, apparently, were our conditions. She looked five years older – not two – plus15 pounds fatter and sagging eyes. We drank for about six hours at a bar, then went back to my place and started playing her favorite band, Hole, and drinking more. After she pulled down my shorts – and demonstrated the continuing delights of her still-unparalleled Dome Game – Lindsay informed that she'd actually had a boyfriend for the past three months – a dude from Cote d'Ivoire. Oh, yo – it was on, brotha!

"Couldn't stay away, could you?" I said. "Boyfriend? Enchanté, dahling. How could you – you! – use such a word? You know that's a false distinction. What does it mean? You've only got laser-eyes for his cock? Well, we know that's not true… Means you've strapped three lockboxes on your cunt and handed him the keys? Seemingly not…So you go to bars together, smoke dope, and talk about how you'd like to spend the future entwined in each other's arms, because nothing else could ever be so perfect? Yes, I suppose that's a real possibility. But where is he now, on fucking Valentine's Day?"

"He had to go somewhere to meet somebody. I didn't even realize it was Valentine's Day." She cackled. "Who cares, anyway? I'm sure you cared so much about me, but I must've missed your emails. Hold on, let me check again…Whatsa matter, dahling? Still bitter over the marriage breakup after all these years?"

"Not at all, dahling. Yes. No, it was the best thing that ever happened to me. Tell me, me lovely: What's it like, having that big ol' black monster moving around in your mouth, ramming the back of your throat? Inhaling that fuckstick faster than air, gulping it down faster than water? Feeling that ol' salami piercing your brain and hitting you between the eyes. Can you – really, actually – tell a difference?"

"Well, dahling, you should try it sometime, if you're so interested." Lindsay cackled. "Curious, are we? Well, surely we can get together – this is the 90s, after all. You can suck him while I strap on Purple Thunder and penetrate you in your supremely beige behind, which I have long longed to do. Shall we spread the cheeks? I'm sure he probably wouldn't be opposed, as long as he has something pungent to smoke in advance. Oh, think about it! His tackle – oh well, it curves, dahling! To the right, at possibly a 38 degree angle. It's quite beautiful. I guess you must trust me…"

"Would he suck me afterward?"

"That," she said, "I do not know."

Well, sweetheart! – indeed, there's a lot we don't know. What we might know is: "Man discovered by experience that sexual (genital) love afforded him his greatest gratification, so that it became in effect the prototype of all happiness to him," said Freud in his "groundbreaking" Civilization and Its Discontents. The good/bad doctor added that the human seeks "happiness" by making "genital eroticism the central point of his life." Well, the old buzzard did nail that one. Dork. Ding! Darn it – mankind was never too smart. Never had been, never. The evidence was simply not there – or sorry, it was there. Genital love? Surely 'twas a self-conniving trick, illusory and hilarious, about which we still knew nothing. Fleeting moments of joy, too often leading to lifetimes of misery, bloodshed and hate…Yo, ya, Buster Brown – that evidence was in.

"Let's finish this wine and then you can fuck me," Lindsay said. "Oh, I want you to fuck me! It's been so long. Do you have another liter-point-five of mayo, or do you need a little longer to rest? Here, have some wine."

"Thank you. Well, I don't know, dahling. I don't think I got a condom. Hmmm?"

"Oh, I see. Worried my boyfriend might've passed along a little intestinal gas, are we? Well, you've always known that all my holes are always available. You may take your pick, dahling. And I do thank you for the wine."

"Totally enchanté, dahling. 'Twas my pleasure…and let's do this again – sometime soon."

Eventually I wound up with a crazy girlfriend from Moravia. She was tastefully ambivalent about Blush, and I suppose I didn't think about the place for a few months. One night, though, I got terribly thirsty and decided to pay a visit – wanted to catch up with Paco, and maybe Spanish Dan, too. Absolutely, I missed those guys – missed the dancehall, missed the vibe, missed the aroma…It might also be nice, I figured, to have a look at any curious girls who might've stopped by to take a peek.

Well, it was closed. Windows barred and dark. Sign taken down. Just a few posters in the side window, advertising unknown bands and deejays that had come and gone. I was suddenly down, felt like a bowl of boulders around my nose. I wondered: Pavlina once told me Paco had agreed to close the place if she ever got pregnant and the baby was born. Had it happened? The pale pink walls of the former Blush were defiantly unclear.

Moral of the story: None. People fuck, people laugh, people die, everything gets shut down and whole universes disappear at the turn of your head. Stories are told, lies are spread, but nobody's ever the wiser. Hey Joe, hey killa – stuff it in your pipe and crack it. Let's give thanks to black cocks and to Jews. Long may they thrive. May they both long, long be with us.

black cock

© Thor Garcia 2014