 This is the journal of an underground slaughterhouse worker who went by the code name of "Bluegill". The meat that was illegally made from unhealthy or stolen cows which were brutally slaughtered there was sent to third world countries and poor neighborhoods in the United States for many years. Many of this meat was used to make tacos. I uncovered this journal while researching for a project of mine, "The Secret History of the Taco" and thought I'd add it to the collection of writings here. While "Bluegill" often comes across as an endearing character, he also had a mean streak, alot of personal demons and often seemed morally ambiguous. The journal ends abruptly and it is uncertain what became of Bluegill. In this journal he spoke of writing a book, "The Cows of Unforgiveness" in which he was to expose his employers for their crimes against cows in hopes that the cows would forgive him. Fearing that Bluegill's past eventually caught up with him and that he was murdered by those he worked for I have decided to name this journal "The Cows of Forgiveness" in his memory.
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November 15, 2004
Gil is Here, so HOLLA!!
Y'all are going to have to take it easy on me today because it's my first posting in this journal. I don't really know what
to say. My name's Gil in real life so I thought I'd call myself "Bluegill" since I like to do some fishing when I get some
time off. I added a few peeps to get this thing going, so if you're out there HOLLA!!!! Right now I'm getting out of these
damn stinky work drawers , puttin' on some music and gonna lift some weights.
Did any of y'all see that brawl in Motown? I like to sit down and watch me a basketball game or two now and then, and Lord
was I in for a treat watching that fight between the Pacers and the Pistons. I like old Ron Artest, he's full of fire and a
Chicago boy, if I'm correct. They jipped him good, man, suspending him for the rest of the season like that. Yep, they jipped
him good. Shoulda been only for a few games but they threw the book at the brother. Who WOULDNT do what he did if a fan threw
a damn beer at you? I'd be out in the bleachers killing every damn one of them. Stupid fans need to know their damn place.
Maybe it should go back to the old days when basketball players did their balling inside a cage.
November 25, 2004
Been Grinchin' On The Turkey All Day
Ew, boy, just got back from mom's house up in Chi-Town. Damn, that woman can cook. I ate so much turkey I thought about
FLYING home, then I remembered that flying around might have been what got the turkey I ate SHOT in the first damn place. A
man don't need to fly with his feathers if his WHEELS have got it together, you know what I mean? My pick-up truck gets me
around just fine. Looking through the TV listings and it looks like "The Grinch that Stole Christmas" is coming on. Haven't
seen that damn show in years, and this one is with real people, not a cartoon. It's got Jim Carrey in it, who can be funny
for a white dude, and I think I might give it a look. If my stomach don't stop hurting from eating so much damn turkey I'm
gonna have to do ME some "grinchin'", you know? I'm gonna start grinchin' all over the damn toilet bowl!
Anybody see that damn squirrely Bears game? Looked like a couple high school teams out there playing. Yep, da Bears stink.
Again.
Man, my brother needs to lay off my back, though. All around the dinner table he kept harping at me, saying I need to go out
and get me a better job, said that I smelt like a side of beef. I work in a slaughter house, alright? But I keep myself nice
and clean most times and there aint NO DAMN WAY I smelt like no beef. My brother just harps on me because he's got a college
degree and works as a damn nurse, thinks he's better than me and my older brother. Who ever heard of a brother being a nurse?
I've learned to accept it, but man, being around him almost like being around my damn cranky bitch of an ex-girlfriend. Good
thing I won't have to see him again until Christmas, I tell ya. Hope everyone had a nice T-Day. Over and out.
November 27, 2004
Time To Chop Some Wood
I got today off too and I'm going out to chop some wood. Funny thing chopping that wood, as it helps to take my mind off
things and gives me a good work out. Specially with the weather being nice and crispy cold, wear me a thick flannel shirt,
get chopping on that wood to work up a sweat, man, and I'll be feeling like a man accomplished something. Sometimes when I
get done chopping that wood, I take a hot shower, come out and start feeling like damn SUPERMAN!!!! Put me on a fire in the
fireplace, feel them hot flames as I sit on the couch and drink a cold beer. All I need now is a new lady friend, I suppose,
but that will come in time. Old Gil doesn't do without for long. I figure I'll just spend the holidays alone and reflecting
on things, chop wood and sort some things out in my mind. Come 2005, y'all better LOOK OUT! Because old Gil is gonna be on
the "dog hunt" again, that's for sure.
Man, "The Grinch that Stole Christmas" stunk. Bad. I liked the older, cartoon version a whole lot better. It's nice being
back here in the country after spending yesterday up in Chicago. Man, I grew up there but city life just ain't for me no
more. And the nearest city is just a little over a mile away from my house if I decide I need to get out and do something.
Life's good . . until Monday when it's back to cuttin' on them damn cows.
November 29, 2004
Time To Cut On The Cows Again
Well, the 4 day weekend is over and it's time to get back to stinkin damn work. I'll probably write more about where I work
sometime later, but it's definitely a squirrely place, and a little bit of a secret one. They tell me not to talk about it to
the public but I've been working there a long time and I'm getting FED UP! Bout time to let some of them dogs out of the
house, if you know what I mean. Peeps in the front office will be yellin, "Dammit, who let the dogs out?!!" And I'll be
standing there lookin at them, my arms crossed and saying "That would be me, Gil - - what you gonna do about it, huh?" Mother
fuckers better give a raise first of the year, boy, or them dogs is commin OUT!!!
Funny thing about waking up the crack of dawn, sittin on my porch in the crispy cold, strumming my guitar with a cup of
coffee nearby. My old faithful wiener dog, Geronimo XL sits there lookin at me all sad eyed, says to himself, "Uh-oh, here go
Gil playin them blues again." That old dog put up with more of my blues than God ever dreamt of doing and it make you laugh
what a damn dirty dumb mutt will do for some food now and then, the way he put up with my strummin on them strings. He knows
puttin up with my guitar early in the morning gonna earn him a whole half pound of ground beef when I get back from the
slaughterhouse this evening. I steal it for him without conscience. That's what gets me through the day, imagining the happy
look in Geronimo XL's eyes when I give him a handful of that dirty beat up cow meat. I only wish I was so easily satisfied
myself.
December 1, 2004
Best Be Eatin' It If You're Gonna Kill It
I'm no vegetarian, that's for sure. Couldn't do it, no way. That don't mean I support going out and killing animals for the
thrill of it, all that "hunting for sport" nonsense. I admittedly kill alot of animals where I work, mostly them cows, but I
do this for my livelihood and I EAT the damn cows too. One thing I can't stand is dudes that go around killing animals and
not eating them. If you're gonna kill it, you best be puttin it in your mouth and swallowing it or Gil is gonna frown upon
you like a momma watching her child gettin hit by a car.
Reason I'm on this trip is that today old Geronimo XL come into the house carrying a damn little white mouse in his mouth,
started snarling and chewing on it while it squirmed its little damn legs, freaked, and finally fucking died right there on
the floor while I was watchin television. I said to Geronimo, "You think you're tough for killing that little thing, don't
you? Well, you best be eatin it now, then." Geronimo XL just looked at me all confused, leaves the dead mouse on the floor
and goes over to his little pan of dogfood in the kitchen. I jumped up and pulled the pan away from him, said, "Nuh-uh, dude!
You gonna eat that damn mouse you killed before you get any of this dogfood." He starts barking and waggin his tail, thinking
I'm playing. But he starts to get different ideas as I put the damn mouse in a fryin pan, start cookin it up for him,
taunting him as I do, saying to him, "Mmmm, fried mouse is good eatin, boy. Today is your lucky damn day."
I fry the mouse up in some flour, put it on a plate and set it in front of Geronimo, rubbing his nose in it. He hasn't eaten
it yet, but I aint feeding him nothin else til he does, so I figure he'll finally get the point. Bad thing is my house smell
like fried mouse now.
December 5, 2004
Damn Christmas Cows Has Come Already
The damn trucks full of Christmas cows came Friday morning to the slaughterhouse, and I’m just today able to get me some
rest, then it back to work tomorrow to round up another truckload. Yeah I know a lot of peeps eat ham and duck and turkey on
Christmas but believe me there’s a bunch of poor folks that eat hamburgers for the holidays. It was a dirty damn cold morning
Friday, the sun hadn’t even been up yet and here come these big semi-trailers full of the Christmas cows. My supervisor says
to me, “Gil, it’s time for the round up!” I sigh in sorrow, put down my knife from where I was cutting out steaks from a cow
leg, go outside and there they are, all them cows out yonder on the horizon, mooing like a fat, sick momma on her death bed,
man, and my spirit dropped to my ankles cause I knew I’d have to work the whole weekend rounding up these damn dumb beasts
and driving them into the factory for killin.
Like I said, the place I work in kind of secret, so we all have to wear masks outside of the place so no one can identify us.
I got me this hockey goalie mask I wear during these round ups that’s covered in cow blood, so I look like Jason from Friday
the 13th cause I dig the series. I got my rope, my cow prod and my mask on, walk out over the hill toward the sunset where
the boys are already putting black hoods over the cows heads. We blindfold them like that so they can’t tell where they’re
going in case one runs away to tell the FDA about all the policies we be breakin. I have to say that upon first glance these
Christmas cows are some of the sickest, mangiest, skinniest looking beasts I ever seen. We don’t inspect the meat any damn
way, so all that matters is that we get them in the building for cutting up into ground beef. We send the worst of the meat
to third world countries so let them worry about it, the boss man always says.
“So where you get these damn mangy things, Gus?” I ask one of the truck drivers. He just look at me real mean, spit a glob of
tobacco juice near my boot and say, “You don’t need to worry about it, do you Gil?”
They steal the damn things, I imagine, but I aint got time to think because all sudden somebody shouts out to me, “Hey Gil!
We got a runner!” Yep, I look over yonder and there’s a little skinny calf with wobbly legs, with it’s black hood on its head
trying to run away. It don’t know where the hell its going, it just scared and feel it need to RUN, you know? Good thing old
Gil was around as I run toward the little monster, get about 20 foot from it, spin my rope over my head, showing off a bit
for the new workers until I pitch the rope and lasso the calf around the neck. I get up to it, put it in a headlock and taunt
it, say, “Where you think you goin, boy?” Heh, heh. I shocked it a couple times with my cow prod, and kept an eye on it
during the round up. It didn’t try any more funny stuff, that’s for sure.
December 10, 2004
Mummy Autopsy Is The Shizzle
I think one of my favorite shows to watch is "Mummy Autopsy" on the Discovery Channel. Every week they round up a different
damn mummy from all parts of the world, mostly Egypt, and then they take it to this gay anthropologist dude. The gay dude
start cryin, marvelin at the possibilities and who this mummy could be and why they died, stuff like that. He gets all
emotional about it and it sort of sucks me in to his world. Last night they had the mummy of some young woman who had a
crushed sternum. She was found buried with a little child in Egypt, 3,000 years old. They investigated her stomach and they
found NUBIAN food, though! So the gay dude start cryin in excitement, wonderin if this woman is an Egyptian Queen. And if she
is a Queen from Nubia ruling in Egypt, then history would have to be re-written because all them white folks know ain't no
Nubian Queen ever ruled damn Egypt.
They did a facial reconstruction from her skull and she looked just like Donna Summer, dog, and the kid look sort of like
Gary Coleman. But of course white folks will still say they somehow ain't "black". Come to find out, though, the girl was an
Egyptian Queen who lied in bed most of her damn young life because her sternum was crushed. She was Egyptian, born and
raised, not Nubian, and was just a spoilt brat who made poor people walk over to Nubia, a whole other damn COUNTRY, ever damn
time she was craving some sweet, Nubian treats. I found it all so offensive, like if I was some rich dude lyin in bed all
damn day here in Champaign, get the munchies for some soul food and say to my butler, "Hey dude! Go up there to Chicago and
get me some damn Bar BQ!!" Even if I knew it'd take him a week to get there and back on camels or goats or whatever them
fuckers rode back then. It just piss me off when black folks get money and start bossin other brothas and sistas around like
they're white.
The second mummy they excavated was some sick Chinese dude that died on this quarantined island in Peru. I didn't care about
that one as much, though, but I laughed at the gay dude cryin because it was all so tragic. It's a sad show, but you learn
alot about history and the world. I'll be tuned in next week, that's for sure.
December 15, 2004
White Chicks Wearin' Santa Claus Hats
Dog, what the hell is it with white women wearin them damn Santa Claus hats? Now I admit, I am attracted to white women
almost as much as the sistas, and when I see a fine white girl wearing a Santa Claus hat, it make em look so cute, like you
just wanna take them home, cuddle with them, coddle them, buy them dinner with a bit of wine and stick my dang, dirty dick
right in that dirty fuckin hole. And I’m talking about the DIRT hole, yo. I ain’t lyin and I’ve done it before. Reason I’m on
this trip is that there is this white girl that work at the local sporting goods store where I often go to get my fishin bait
and weightlifting gear. I am always flirtin with her, like I’m known to do, never expectin to really get anywhere, it’s just
my nature. Yesterday I was in there buyin me some worms for a little late season fishin, pretended like I didn’t know where
they was at. The girl was wearing this cute little Santa Claus hat, almost seeming like she was begging for it, so I decided
to try out one of my “methods” on her.
I go up to this white chick and say, in jest, “Ma’am, where the hell them worms at you white folks been hiding from the black
man all summer? I know you bring em out this time of year for us when it too cold to fish any damn way.” So this cute blonde
with the Santa hat show me the worms in this little refrigerator. “Isn’t it getting a little cold for fishing?” the girl
says. “Oh no, ma’am," I reply, “the fish is always bitin on Gil’s worm, rain or shine, sleet or snow,” feeding her a little
subliminal "worm" imagery, wanting her to think of my dick. I take a little container of the worms out the refrigerator, walk
up to the counter, smiling at the girl while she rings me up. I hand her my credit card, she gives me the slip to sign. I
pull my own pen out my pocket, start to sign and say, “Damn! My pen is gotten too big for its britches! It don’t wanna work.”
And when I say “pen is getting too big for its britches,” I say the “pen is” part like it sound like penis, dig? So
this girl is subliminally fixated on my dick, see? Then she hands me another pen while I’m small talking, working her
up, say, “Yeah, my neighbors above me is all ready for Christmas, but the ones below me seems like a bunch of Scrooges.”
Again, I say the “below me" part to sound like “blow me", see? Then as I’m ready to leave I give her a big grin,
exclaim, “Yep, I got me a big old brown worm now, don’t I?”
“Yeah,” the girl say, mesmerized, almost like she’s hypnotized, “you got you a big brown worm alright, bunches of them in
that container.” Then I strut out the place very slowly, turn my head over my shoulder to give her a sexy smile before I’m
out the door, and I bet soon as I left she scrambled somewhere to rub herself, thinking of my big black dick in her mouth,
that for sure. I’ll be coming back in that store soon to check up on her, and I’ll be fuckin her soon, I bet.
December 19, 2004
The Pistol Room
The Three Snowmen (that’s what we call the 3 head honchos that run the place I work because they cold and they white) got me
bustin my tail tryin to get all these damn Christmas cattle rounded up and killed, ground up into beef and sent to poor
neighborhoods and overseas in time for the holidays. It got so bad, we been killin so many damn cattle that old Pistol Pete,
the man that’s been shootin all the cows for more’n twenty years had to quit for a couple days, said he couldn’t move his
trigger finger no more for all the shootin. And Pete is a hard man, a tough, crusty brother, gettin old but he still can blow
out some damn cow brains, boy, you never seen the like. He walk around lookin like Karl Malone with his cowboy hat on and a
belt buckle bigger than the South Side of Chicago. Man don’t go nowhere unless its in his big semi-truck trailer, either,
does everything in a big way. I actually watched him drive his 18-wheeler down to the corner store just to pick up a pack of
Kools once and I ain’t lyin.
So with Pistol Pete laid up, the Three Snowmen put me workin in the Pistol Room, tryin to fill Pete’s big cowboy boots. I’m
pretty good with a pistol but I ain’t never got to blow out no damn cow brains before. So I was excited, getting into the
holiday drama. We had Christmas lights hanging all around the otherwise, cold dark dreary room, so pretty and blinkin as
these mangy, damn little brown calves came trottin into the room with their black hoods on over their heads. These damn dirty
Mexicans was walkin alongside them, shocking them with their cow prods, laughing and takin out their own personal misery on
these poor little calves until I says to them. “Hey you tacos! That’ll be enough of that bullshit!” and they all three
stiffened up, actin all sheepish like kids just been told to quit beatin up on their little sister. “Take them damn hoods off
them calves,” I said, “I wanna see in the eyes of what I’m killin.”
The Mexican dudes take the hoods off the calves heads, and boy, them little beasts was scared. They was shakin in their tiny
hooves, dog, and their skinny legs was wobblin. I paced back and forth in front of them like a drill instructor, looking into
their fearful eyes, being an intimidator until all the sudden I scream, "AttenHUT"!! and all these calves stiffen up, look
straight ahead at nothingness, knowing they about to die. Hell even the Mexicans was scared of old Gil. I had fire in my
eyes, boy, as I told them damn Mexicans to lead them little calves out in front of me one by one. They shocked them forward
with their cow prods as I cocked my pistol and ”BLAM!! BLAM!!” my gun went off, echo throughout the place 'bout to make a
lesser man deaf. The calves started droppin as I put a lead bullet into each of them damn, dirty dumb monsters’ brains, boy,
and as they fell I yell to the Mexicans to drag them into the Guttin’ Room and to be quick about it. Them boys was huffin and
puffin, tryin to keep up with me. They was at a slight disadvantage because it took me all of a second to blow a calve’s
brain out, but it took em about two minutes to drag the carcass into the Guttin’ Room. Before long they had a big pile of
dead, mangy calves backed up on them, lyin in a big pool of blood and underneath the Christmas lights it all looked kind of
pretty.
December 20, 2004
The Guttin' Room
It definitely is the most wonderful time of the year, my friends. This is about the only time of year at the slaughterhouse
we get to butcher up them young calves for veal is around Christmas, and veal is some good eatin. Old Geronimo XL don’t know
what to do with himself lately, last 3 nights I been bringin him home nice, tender veal patties. I says to him last night
before I start fryin it up for him, “Do the Veal Dance, boy!” and he start spinnin around the room, dancing like a new spring
dandelion. He can even stand on one leg for about 2 seconds before he start doin them backflips, cravin that veal, boy, and
he knows there ain’t nothin like it. It makes me laugh like hell. I swore I saw him last night start doing a moonwalk, but
maybe I was nippin on the whiskey a bit too much by then. I worked hard all damn two weeks killing them calves and it sure
does my heart some good watchin Geronimo scarf it up and makes it all seem worth it. Lot of sweat, blood and tears goes into
them veal patties, boy, and I ain’t lyin.
Old Pistol Pete came back to finish up shootin the rest of them calves on Thursday, and he’s a sight to see. Man is the best
shot I know of at point-blank range, make them cow brains fly clean across the room with only one bullet! I started feelin
sorry watching those damn Mexicans huffin and puffin dragging them calf carcasses into the Guttin Room, so I volunteered to
help them yesterday. Hell, it was Friday and I was feelin good, so why not? It’s a good thing I did, too, because I saw how
them dumb Mexicans was going about things. I caught one of them trying to skin a damn calf BACKWARDS!! The damn dumbass was
putting an incision around the calves neck, right? And then he takes that flap of skin around its throat while he steppin on
the tail and his buddies hold it by the head, steadying it while he pull the hide off. I say to him, “Hey you dumb taco! This
how you fuckin do it, right here,” and I show him that you put a slit underneath the calve’s TAIL, see? Right above it
butthole, then peeps hold the damn LEGS while you pull the hide off by jerking on the tail until it go over the calves HEAD,
and it a lot quicker that way. But these Mexicans do it the other way so it take longer and so they can make more money
before we ship their asses back below the border. We only need the fuckers around Christmas, and boy, I’ll be glad when
they’re gone, tell you the truth.
I actually caught one of them nasty bastards taking a fucking NAP in the damn GUT CART, man. I poked my head in there and see
this fucker lyin down asleep in a big squishy , stinkin pile of intestines, livers, stomachs and I don’t know what else. I
was getting ready to push them guts all into the Hot Dog Room and had to wake this fucker up to save his damn life. Should
have just let him sleep, let them dog his ass up, then maybe he’ll think different when someone starts munchin on his ass
middle of a bun at a baseball game. Next weeks gonna be a lot easier. All the hard work’s over and it all about cleanin up
the damn mess now.
December 21, 2004
My Manger Is A Cart Full Of Cow Intestines
Damn sad thing about old Terrell Owens getting his ankle sprained like that. Philadelphia Eagles done been to the NFC
Championship Game three years in a row and lost. They would have WON it this year with old Terrell, though, and probably won
the Super Bowl too. Terrell had a big mouth, but the man could play some ball, and I wasn't offended a bit by that skit he
done with that naked white girl on Monday Night Football, thought it was pretty funny myself. I just wish he'd started givin
her the black bone she craved right then and there. Somethin tell me old Terrel Owens can do some fuckin, now, even with a
sprained ankle.
I watched "Mummy Detective" last night, and this AIDS-infected gay anthropologist dude was trying to figure out the riddle of
the Three Wise Men that give the baby Jesus all them toys. He was getting all into that "Star of Bethlehem" thing that the
shepards and the wise men saw, tryin to track it down. He say it was actually the PLANET of Jupiter, not a damn star. Through
the study of ancient astrology and modern astronomy this erudite homo figured out that Jesus was actually born on April 17th,
NOT Christmas as white folks say. And it crack me up, that the Wise Men was Persians and they traveled for EIGHT MONTHS just
to give a little black baby Jesus a bunch of stupid toys he didn't want to play with anyway. What the hell a black baby Jesus
gonna do with gold, frankinstinks and merlot? It pretty ironic that the Wise Men was a bunch of dumbasses if you ask me. And
then the homo start lookin at their skulls they got placed in a big cathedral in Germany, sayin they are really the skulls of
the Wise Men because he can tell by the backs of the skulls they was a young one, a middle aged one and an old one just as
(white) tradition says. Don't believe the hype, folks, the Wise Men was a bunch of dumbasses and it piss me off how the white
folks hire these homos with AIDS to do these shows so folks feel sorry for them and believe their bullshit.
But it all start gettin to me sometimes, all the homos and all the stars; all the calves I killed, like it too much for old
Gil to deal with. I woke up in the midst of a horrible dream last night, thinking of my Grandmother that is in the hospital,
hoping she will make it home for Christmas. I dreamt I was in the midst of this hell, inside one of them GUT CARTS at work,
squirmin around like the black baby Jesus in the middle of these cows intestines. I felt like a lost baby Jesus! Instead of
Three Wise Men lookin down on me there was all these little calves I killed with they eyes plucked out, mooing and givin me
these haunting looks, actin like they was gonna eat me. I started screamin, "Please be forgivin me! Please be forgivin me!"
but the calves wouldn't listen and they dumped the cart over, started chewin on me, licking me with they tongues like they
was marinating me for a Christmas BarBQ of their own spit. Then I wake up in a sweat, rush to the bathroom and start lookin
in the mirror. In movies this is the point where a fine, soft woman is supposed to come from behind a man and console him for
his bad dream, say, "Baby, it's alright that you killed them calves" and then they make sweet love. But instead I look down
and it old Geronimo XL humpin on my damn leg.
December 31, 2004
That Dog Done Partied Too Hard On The Ground Beef
Well here it is on the Eve of a New Year and my dog, Geronimo XL, still ain’t woken up from his Christmas hamburger feast.
That dog partied a bit too hard it look like. I made the trip to Chicago’s south side in my little pick-up truck to see my
family on Christmas Eve evening, got home late Sunday night. I had to leave old Geronimo at home, and boy, I hated doin it.
There just wasn’t no way around it because that dog isn’t fit for city livin. Every time I take him to the city he get too
excited and start chasin cars and women around, and about gets his ass run over. So I left him home this year, but with
plenty of food. I left that boy a whole big BOX- size of a cat’s litter box- full of fresh ground beef, along with a couple
steaks on top of THAT, cuz I was feelin bad for leaving him.
When I got home from Ma’s Christmas a couple days later, there was that dog layin in the box of beef fast asleep, just like I
caught that damn, dirty Mexican at work sleepin in the gut cart. Geronimo’s eyes was closed and his belly was about as big as
a damn FOOTBALL!! I says to him, “Geronimo! Wake up! I call you ‘XL’ because your heart is big, not your damn belly! How much
of that damn beef you done ate?!” He wouldn’t move or open his eyes or make a sound, so I got a little scared. I picked him
up and he was breathin okay. His heart was still beating too, so I carried him into the bedroom and laid him down on the bed,
stayed up all night with him, rubbin his big, hamburger-filled belly, worryin’ he’d ate so much of that damn dirty beef that
he’d gone into a coma. I was trying like hell to wake him up and knowin how much that old dog likes them blues of mine, I
started strumming on my guitar a song I made up as I went along. It went a little like this:
Them holiday hamburger blues, don’t know what to do
I come home late and there Geronimo was
He ate too much ground beef, celebratin that Christmas day
When the Lord baby Jesus ate too much hamburger
So I know the song fucking STUNK, right? About the dumbest damn song I ever wrote. It didn’t do too much good for Geronimo
either but it was the best I could come up with on the spot like that. And here it is a week later and that dog STILL ain’t
woken up. I was supposed to celebrate New Year’s Eve tonight with that white chick from the sporting goods store, get me some
of that dirty white DIRTHOLE, yo, but it ain’t gonna happen now. I gotta stay home with my dog and if he ain’t woken up by
Monday I suppose I’ll take him to a doctor. Happy New Year, ya’ll. I’m out.
January 9, 2005
I Have A Dream, But I'm Missin' A Couple Fingers
Well, I hope all my brothers and sisters out there had a nice Martin Luther King Day yesterday and that you at least didn’t
have to work or go to class. Them damn dirty dogs at the slaughterhouse tried to get me to work but I wasn’t havin it, told
em to stick that beef up in their damn belfries cuz I was intent upon sittin home and watchin the good reverend give his “I
Have a Dream” speech that I have on tape. I do it every year. Then I always make it a point to get to church on this day to
try and get right with the Lord, appreciating all the sacrifice that dudes like Martin Luther King and Jesus made for us.
Why, them brothers have done so much that I should be getting on my hands and knees and lickin their damn toes, keep going up
they legs until I get to their dirty buttholes, I’m so weak. I’m so black that I must need to kiss they asses even though
they both been dead for years. They wasn’t Gods, y’all, but they both made some fine ass speeches so I guess it don’t hurt me
to show them a little respect now and then. Be a clean day up my dirty black butt before I worship they asses, though, that’s
for sure.
I watched part one of a good series on PBS last night. It called “Unforgiveable Blackness,” and it was about the rise of
black boxer, Jack Johnson, back in the first decade of last century. Mother fuckers just think Jackie Robinson went through
some shit bein the first brother to play baseball in the 40's and 50’s. This shit with Jack Johnson went down in the 00’s and
10’s, ya’ll, back when whities was still lynchin black folks on a regular basis. And here Jack Johnson was, boy, struttin and
wearin gold caps over his front teeth, goin around beatin white dudes asses nearly every damn day, sayin “Fuck y’all,” and he
openly went about carousing with white women. Took a damn long time before any white dudes would give him a shot at the
heavy-weight title, though. Finally old Jack had beaten so much white ass that white folks was beggin retired white
heavy-weight champion, Jim Jeffries, to come out of retirement to put the “damn nigger” in his place. The fight finally went
down in 1910, in Reno, and Jim Jeffries was all stumpy, thick and hairy; had hair on his ears; hair on his nose; hell, that
white dude even had damn hair on his forehead and mother fuckers was sayin that Jack Johnson was the damn ape cuz he was
black! Shit. The brother kicked Jim Jeffries' hairy white ass, though, and changed the face of sports forever, opened a lot
of doors, and I respect dudes like that bout as much as I do Martin Luther King.
It all made me want to get back in the ring myself, give me them “Tiger Eyes” like I had when I was younger. I did me some
fightin back in the day, spent a lot of time at the gym. I was a sparring partner for a lot of well-known boxers, but I never
got to go pro cuz I lost a couple fingers one night while I was boxin a pit bull. That dirty, crooked promoter, Leo
Barnstill, told me one day he’d give me a pro fight if I could beat up a pit bull one day. And damn if that dog didn’t bite
off couple my digits before I even had a chance to deliver my best upper cut, ruined all my dreams in the time it takes to
break an egg. Sometimes I still lay in bed at night and hear old Leo laughin at me, and it make me want to track his ass down
and gut him like I do them cows.
February 10, 2005
The Fur Is Gonna Fly
And God gave Noah the rainbow sign,
No more water, the fire next time!
This month is Black History Month and I watched another good civil rights show on PBS about the “Greensboro Four”. There was
four black brothers, college students in the early 60’s, that decided they wasn’t gonna take it anymore, didn’t like that
they weren’t allowed to sit down with the whites at the diner counter at Woolworths there in Greensboro, NC, so they had a
meetin about it in their dormroom. When it was all said and done, they decided to “cross them tracks,” boy, cross them
railroad tracks in town that divided the blacks and the whites. They crossed them tracks, then they crossed their hearts,
went right into that Woolworth’s and sat their asses down on them stools, never-minding the fat white pig in blue that was
pacing back and forth behind em, tappin his damn billy club into the palm of his hand, ready to bash their skulls in. Nothin
happened, though, and it was all good. Before you know it, black folks all over the South was sittin on them stools from
North Carolina to Georgia and plum into Virginia, startin a big movement of black folks sittin on their asses in the name of
freedom that still continues today. And it make me feel a whole lot better about myself, when I get tired of cutting that
beef at work. I sneak into the bathroom and take a big dirty dump, sittin on that stool and smellin my own shit for two,
three hours and getting paid for it. Freedom, boy, there ain’t nothing like it.
Them dirty bastards at the slaughterhouse wouldn’t give me a damn raise, say that “times is tough” and they blame it all on
the fact that a couple of our trucks got hauled in last Spring, comin in from Arizona with what was discovered to be what we
in the industry call “pet meat”. Seems a lot of people in Tucson was complainin about their pets bein missin: birds, cats,
dogs, snakes and the like, and they track it down to one of our company’s convoys. They pulled em over right there on the
interstate as they was about to cross the New Mexico border. The Feds busted em hard, boy, and my company lost a lot of damn
money. I done told y’all if they didn’t give me a damn raise this year, that them “dogs was comin out,” that I was gonna tell
the public everything I know, and it gonna happen for real now. I’m sittin down to write me a book about it all called “The
Cows of Forgiveness” (tentative title), and when it comes out, the “fur is gonna fly” like it did when those brothers sat on
them stools in Greensboro. You heard it here first.
February 15, 2005
Fuel For The Pussy
“Would you stick your dick in that, Gil?” my boy, Pistol Pete, asked me.
“Hell, no, I wouldn’t,” I said. “I bet he would, though,” and I was right.
Me and ol’ Pistol Pete was out doin a little deer huntin the other day, tryin to find us a few baby doe to cut down. Deer
meat is good eatin and the young ones is so tender it bout feel like meat-flavored mashed potatoes in your mouth, it so soft
and tasty. We was out there in the woods, me in my cammies and bright-orange ball cap, carryin a .20 gauge over my shoulder,
lookin all around me for a doe to put a shell in. Pete was up in the tree in his deer loft, scoutin out the area with his
binoculars, every once in awhile makin’ his deer call which is one of the most frightenin things I ever heard. Sound like he
gettin stabbed in the mouth with a sword and tryin to shit out the blade all at once, it so shrill. It bring them dumb deer
out of hidin, though, and that’s what we want.
All of a sudden Pete be yellin, “Over yonder, Gil! I see a pair of antlers!” I get to weavin through the maze of trees,
scopin out the goods. Pete jumps down from the tree and pulls out his buck knife. We wink at each other as we spy them
antlers just a few feet away, over near a clearing, across a tiny creek. I get that damn, dumb deer in my sights and lay to
firin, BLAM! BLAM! Then I start hearin all this yellin, some dude screamin, “Whoah, man! What the fuck? Stop shootin at me!”
Pete looks at me in wonder and we walk slowly up to where we saw them antlers. We get right up close to see it’s some DUDE,
man, some damn white dude. He all but naked, in his white underwear briefs, and he got a dead, rotten deer carcass sittin a
few feet away from him, probably been there a week. The dude cut off its antlers and tied them atop his own head with a shred
of hide, so that’s what I was shootin at. But this dude’s all messed up, man, brought a damn gas can with him to deer hunt.
He on his knees before the gas can, obviously all fucked up from huffin in the fumes for days. The dude is fucked UP, man,
high on gas and all the deer blood he got smeared all over him, look at me and Pete all wild-eyed and smilin, says to us,
“You ain’t as good a shot as I was, are ya?” pointin to the deer he must of killed over a week ago.
Me and Pete don’t know what to think. We both just stare down at the small, circular opening of the gas can this dude been
breathin fumes from. Ol’ Pistol Pete says to me, “Would you stick your dick in that, Gil?”
“Hell, no, I wouldn’t,” I say. “I bet he would, though,” and I was right.
Me and Pete just start shakin our heads as this crazy, messed up gas-huffer lays himself over the can like he doin push-ups.
He stick his hard dick in the opening of it and start fuckin it, goin up and down like a jack-hammer. He look up at us, his
face all red and screams out, “It’s fuel for the pussy! It’s fuel for the pussy!”
February 27, 2005
Saturn Got Big Monster's Balls
For Valentine’s Day I went to an old-time movie drive-in last night with a fine female that look a lot like Halle Berry. It
funny how she look like Halle Barry, too, cuz the movie we seen was “Monster’s Ball,” the one Halle won an Oscar for. Funny
show, that one, not hardly a lick of dialogue but damn good actin all the same. It a real slow kind of flick, y’all, that
creep up in your innards, and when you there with your girl watchin it, it good for getting them to want to cuddle up next to
you real tight in your pick-up truck, especially during that scary part where damn Puff Daddy was gettin himself SMOKED in
the electric chair, boy. He gettin himself SMOKED in the chair while his wife, Halle, is back at home whooping her big black
son’s fat ass for stealin’ another candy bar. She says to him, “Get on them scales, boy! You is too fat and your daddy is
gettin fried right about now and it look like I’m gonna need a white man to make me finally feel good!”
That when old Billie Bob Thornton come in, actin’ all subdued and turnin on his slow, subtle country charm. He get Halle to
suck his dick, all right, and then some. But what he really wanted was that white cowboy hat she bought him, and once he got
that he turned all evil. He actually run over her fat black son on purpose after that and killed him! The best part is at the
end, old Billy Bob and Halle is sittin on the steps of their new home. Billy Bob has just bought ol’ girl some chocolate ice
cream and together they’s lookin at the family tombstones in the yard, down by the barn, right after Billy Bob ate Halle’s
sweet pussy. Billy Bob just sort of grunt to himself, says, “I think we’re gonna be all right,” puts his white cowboy hat on
and then shoots Halle Berry in the head!
Halle Berry’s fat fuckin son remind me of my boy, Saturn, who came down to see me yesterday. Him and I used to run together
until he got too damn lazy to be worth a count. Old Saturn is a big, fat doughy brother, got nappy hair and even nappier
clothes. Just wears damn stained T-shirt and sweat-pants all the time cuz it all he has. Mother fucker just got done doin
time in jail for vagrancy. I find him sittin on my damn porch-swing when I got off work yesterday evening. I says to him,
“Boy, ain’t sittin your black ass down on other people’s property what got you puttin in jail before?” Old Saturn just smile,
pull a candy bar out of his pocket and commence to eatin it. I stare at him in wonder a second, put my hands on my hips and
shake my head, go on in the house. If the mother fucker still out there this morning when I leave for work, I’m callin the
cops on him to send his black ass back to jail. I don’t play them damn “gangsta mind-games” no more, and that what he doin,
tryin to fuck with my head to lure me back into the “business” him and I was in before. He got big monster’s balls, bigger’n
Billy Bob’s, for tryin this shit on me after all these months I been clean.
March 5, 2005
Brought Down Low By The Blindness
Oh Lord, it looks like I ain’t the only one who is high on the ground beef. Did any of y’all read this shit? Some girl done
went and killed her sister over a HAMBURGER!! I couldn’t help but laugh when I heard it, but I suppose it somewhat sad that a
twelve-year old girl would kill her damn sister over a circular slab of beef. It couldn’t have been a hamburger from where I
work, they just ain’t that good. Peeps has been known to get violent from bein so broke as to have to resort to eatin one of
our burgers, not for the damn right. I’m thinking it must have been one of them Hardee’s Angus Beef burgers or something, to
put enough fire in a girl’s belly to want to kill for it. I had one of them the other day, boy, and it was pretty damn tasty.
I watched Ray the other night, just me and Geronimo XL. That old dog likes to watch a movie once in awhile, and getting in
the spirit I put a pair of shades over his eyes so he look like Ray Charles while we watch it. In alot of ways the movie had
all the standard clichés of a musician’s biography: the rise, the fall; the women; the drugs; the point where they “almost
lost it all” like in them “Behind the Music” shows on VH1. But the good parts was the flashbacks to Ray’s childhood, and
especially the part where he went blind. In the movie they say he went blind soon after he witnessed his little brother dyin.
His little brother fell back into his mama’s big wash tub-- him little legs was hangin over the sides of the tub, flailin
about while he drownt and ol’ dumb Ray just fuckin stood there watchin it! Ray’s mama come runnin and holdin her dead baby
boy in her arms, says to Ray, “Why didn’t you do something?!!”
You know what ol’ Ray said to her? He says, “I was thinking bout a naked lady, mama, and didn’t realize he was dyin,” then he
start cryin and runnin back to the house. It don’t take no damn pet detective to figure out what he done then, started
choking that chicken, boy—my man was STROKIN it!—thinking bout his dead baby brother and how sad it all was, along with him
getting a little piece of ass cuz he was nearing that age when the yearnin get a little crazy for it. The movie seemed to say
that the hurt of seein his brother drown is what brought his sight down low, but it all seem to figure that he went blind
from jerkin off too damn much. If you is thinking about chokin your chicken while you watch your brother drown then you must
be cryin in that same damn dirty coop all the damn time, tearin off feathers til there ain’t nothin left of that chirpin bird
but the big BONE to paw at with your hands all day and night. That peter pullin’ will take your sight, now. It ain’t no
wive’s tale—had a cousin it happened to, for real.
March 6, 2005
Get The Hell Off My Red Carpet
Me, Pistol Pete and a couple other brothers from the slaughterhouse met here at my house to watch the Oscars the other night
night like we do every year. We is all black men of fine taste and we all seen most of the movies that’s been nominated.
Four-Eyed John, a young brother that works in the packing department has seen every damn movie nominated at least twice. He
has an eye for what good and what’s not, studied films in junior college, and he has such a gift for guessing who gonna win
the award in every category that we call him “Oscar All-Star”. That dude don’t sit down to watch a flick unless he know it
gonna be winnin that Oscar, boy, in some damn category or another. He an educated, discernin viewer who picks his movies
wisely. So imagine how pissed him and all the rest of us get when Chris Rock, tryin to be all funny and edgy and “representin
the black folk”, did that damn dirty, dumb skit at Magic Johnson’s movie theater.
Did any y’all see that shit? In this skit about an hour of the way through the awards ceremonies, Chris Rock goes to Magic
Johnson’s movie theater in this black neighborhood, and he make all these black folks look dumb by askin them have they seen
this and that Oscar-nominated movie. He ask Raven, “You seen Million Dollar Baby?” “No.” Then he ask Leroy, “Hey, Leroy, you
seen Sideways?” “What is that?” “Hey Latisha, what you think of The Aviator ?” “The Avi- huh?” See, they aint none of em seen
all these good movies, then he ask a white dude and he seen all of them. What Chris Rock was doin is try to make some
statement that black folk don’t give a damn about the Oscars and they don’t watch good movies, which ain’t true. At the end,
he ask all the black folk if they seen White Chicks and they was all like, “Oh, hell yeah!” Great. Real fucking great, dude.
I know he tryin to be funny but to a group of thoughtful movie-goers, black men like me and my slaughterhouse crew, it was a
tad hurtful. Old Chris Rock just didn’t belong there, is all, bringin his tired-ass, clichéd bullshit comedy to such an
esteemed event as the Oscars, bunchin all of us black folk into one group which we not. He said himself he thought awards
ceremonies was bullshit, so maybe he should go sit in the corner and scream “Bitch, paint my house!” over and over cuz that
the only thing he ever said that was funny. He don't speak for this nigger here, that for sure.
It was good to see Morgan Freeman finally win an Oscar after all the sufferin he done havin to drive around that bitch Miss
Daisy and play the “nice little endearing negro” alongside white folk for years. Man plays the same damn character every damn
time so now that he won an Oscar for it maybe he can finally do something else. And old Jamie Foxx won for playin that
masturbatin’ Ray Charles, which I think everyone knew was gonna happen anyway. In recent years, my boy, Denzel Washington,
Cuba Gooding, Jr., and Halle Berry won Oscars, so things is lookin good for black actors. Now if only we can get brothers
like Chris Rock-- who don’t care about nothin meaningful and just wanna make dumb jokes about everything-- the hell off our
red carpet. That boy ain’t prime time-- he is way fuckin past time. You heard it here first.
March 10, 2005
Shouldn't Have To Die For It
Been writin on my book so I haven't got around to postin much in here the past few days. The book is at a point where I'm
talkin about the first time I ever laid eyes on my dog, Geronimo XL, and it hard to put pen to paper cuz it so emotional for
me. You see, Geronimo was the lil puppy of a friend of mine, Huck, who died from eatin some bad beef I sold him a few years
back. I was supposed to go fishin with ol Huck one morning. I go to his little apartment back in the projects in Chicago I
grew up in, knock on the door and there no answer. But I heard his bitch wiener dog barkin something crazy inside, like it
was a cry for help so I busted in the door. I bust in the door and there was my boy, Huck, all sprawled out and butt naked on
him couch, a half eaten hamburger lyin on his coffee table in front of him.
I says to myself, "Oh Lord, no, that beef was supposed to be from the good batch." I run in and scream at old Huck, "Dude,
wake up!" but there wasn't nothing doin. His heart had stopped and as I looked to my left to see his fishin pole and tackle
box sittin there, knowin he wouldn't be fishin no more, I broke down and cried. That when I looked over and saw this little
tiny wiener dog, this cute little dachsund, sittin in a cardboard box next to the TV. It was the offspring of the bitch dog
that was barkin at me and tryin to bite my damn leg at the time, probably knowin I gave Huck that bad burger. I says to that
bitch, "I didn't know that beef was bad, so go on!" But she wouldn't listen, kept gnawing at my damn pant leg so I had no
choice but to pick her up and throw her across the room.
She crash into old Huck's stereo, laid there on the carpet and I get in my boxin stance, sayin "You want some more, huh?" The
bitch dog came after me again and I give her an upper-cut right in the jaw. My mind a wreck over feelin responsible for
Huck's death, I walk into the kitchen to get a steak knife and begin stabbin that bitch mutt all to hell. Blood is flyin
everywhere, in my face; it splatters on my glasses so I can't hardly see. This why I stabbed her in the butthole, I think, a
couple times when I was aimin for her chest to kill her quick. Since I stab her in the butthole she lived for awhile and
scoot and crawled around the room for a bit screamin and yelpin while shit fall out her ass, making a design on Huck's carpet
that almost look like one of them spooky martian crop circles you see on TV, before she finally died.
I get real skeered then, reach into the cardboard box and pull out that little puppy. I cradle him in my arms, cryin, and I
says to him, "Boy, I'm gonna take you out of this damn ghetto, away from all this bad beef. We is gonna move out into the
country where a brother can eat a good burger without havin to worry about dyin for it."
March 13, 2005
Beachball Bart And The Two Stomachs
I know the title of this entry sound like the name of some bad 60’s acid-rock band, man, but it ain’t got nothing to do with
that shit. All around the slaughterhouse last week, peeps was talking about good old Beachball Bart, how he lost 200 pounds
in two months. Bart was one of the biggest dudes I ever known, weighed about 400 pounds, and it got to where he couldn’t
hardly walk around no more from all the fat he lugged around. Now, he got an important job bein the supervisor of the Lamb
Chop department. You gotta be quick with them shears, boy, and them lambs is always trying to run away. Bart was gettin to
where he couldn’t keep up no more so the big boss upstairs told him to take a couple months off and lose some weight somehow
or they was gonna have to let him go.
All morning on Monday, peeps was sayin to me, “Man, Gil, you gotta go see Bart, he don’t even look the same.” So on my lunch
hour I decide to see what all the fuss was about, head on over to the Lamb Chop department to have a look. Man, it was a busy
place in there—all these damn sheep with they “bahahahahahahas” of fear and cries for mercy. They was all lined up as
hard-workin brothers put the shears to em to get all that nasty wool off. I yell out over the noise, “Hey y’all! Where old
Beachball Bart at?! I heard he done lost 200 pounds of fat off his ass!” A few of the dudes point me over toward the killing
section of the room, where lo and behold there was Bart. He had a big smile on his face as he wrap a plastic bag over this
wool-less, slick-skinned, ugly little monster of a lamb-- tie the bag around it’s neck real tight until it don’t breathe no
more and let it flop to the floor. I noticed the lamb was one of the fattest I ever seen but old Bart was skinnier than a
damn sawhorse! I could hardly believe it.
I says to him after he suffocated that sheep, “Bart, how you lose all that weight, man?” He start telling me about this
surgery called a “gastric bypass” that is all the rage now—fat peeps is getting it done to em about as easy as gettin a shot
in the ass for the flu. Scientists just now discovered that, like a cow, some peeps is got two stomachs and, like Beachball
Bart, it make em wanna eat all the damn time. What them doctors did to Bart, see, is they cut one of Bart’s stomachs out,
along with pullin a few feet of his intestines out though him butthole so he won’t be so full of shit all the time. Research
has shown that half the weight fat people have is all the feces they carry around with them.
I says to Bart, “So now that you ain’t so full of shit anymore, what you did with that extra stomach they took out of you?”
Old Bart just laugh, point down at that dead sheep on the floor he just smothered. “I gave it to this sheep here, Gil, to
fatten her up a bit before the kill.” Upon lookin at that sheep a little closer, I reckoned it was the fattest I’d ever done
seen.
April 10, 2005
One String Says Alot
Well, the whole Champaign/Urbana area is in mourning this week because them damn University of Illinois Illini done went and
blew it, man, let them fucking North Carolina Tarheels take away the title Monday night. Illinois was ranked #1 all damn
year, only lost one game, and there they go losing in the final game of the NCAA tournament. Illinois has never won a damn
title and probably never will now. It was this year or no damn year. And then we gotta watch Roy Williams, coach of the
Tarheels, finally win a title after choking so much in Kansas. He go up to “cut down the net,” gets on that ladder and starts
cuttin down that net in celebration while all the Carolina fans is cheering. Funny thing is that he takes down every little
last white bit of that shiny, brand-new basketball net except for one string. He leaves one string sittin up around the
orange rim of the goal and all the peeps is like, “Oooooh, Coach Williams, why you leavin that one string up there for?”
Come to find out it was in memory of a retarded guy, some Down’s Syndrome dude named Frank who served as the Tarheel’s
honorary assistant manager all year. He died about a month ago, just before the tournament started, and it left the whole
team in sadness. Frank didn’t get to live to see his team win the tournament, so Coach Williams, feelin bad for him, left
that one little string up there in his memory, sayin, “So’s it can go straight up to Heaven and be with Frank.” I must admit
I was a little touched, and it helped the hurt a bit from Illinois losin the game. They interviewed Frank’s dad and he was
all cryin, so appreciative that Coach Williams would honor his son like that, real humble and respectful. I was touched,
y’all, like I said, and it make me realize there more to life than winnin and losin. It how you honor the retard. Retarded
dudes have a knack for touchin a lot of lives, and just cuz they handicapped don’t mean they bad people. I once had a tard I
called “Quicksand” run beef for me and he did a pretty good job.
I started thinking of old Quicksand a little more, and how he, too, died an early death. He got hit by a car while running
from the police when they found him in an alley sellin some kids a pound of rat meat. Right after the Illinois game I grilled
me and a few of my boys up some burgers to try and lift all our spirits. I was thinking of that tard of mine, Quicksand, and
after all of us scarfed down them burgers practically in one mouthful, I left a little bite on my plate. My friend, Clyde,
start reaching his hand over to grab it and I swatted it, said, “Clyde, get your paws off that!” Clyde ask me why and I
started starin out the window, actin all melancholy and reflective as I told him, “It for an old friend of mine.”
April 18, 2005
Woodpeckers Is Bad News
I watched a pretty good movie last week about a child molester. It was called The Woodsman and it starred that creepy Kevin
Bacon. I liked Kevin Bacon ever since I saw him in The River Wild, where he played a charismatic convict named Wade that
makes a misery out of this poor family’s vacation along the wild river rapids. He made them poor folks’ lives miserable on
that river, that for sure, just like he messed up a lot of little girls’ heads and vaginas in The Woodsman. He been getting
in that young, tight 9-11 year old pussy, boy, that for sure, but the bad thing is that pussy was a little bit too young, and
he got put in prison for 12 damn years for fuckin it. And you know when a good lookin white kid fucker get put in prison, the
brothers is gonna ream his pink ass raw. All through the movie, Kevin Bacon got that “I been butt-raped real bad a bunch of
times by black guys” look in his eyes which almost make you feel sorry for him which is part of the point of the film.
See, the movie wasn’t so much about havin a plot as it was a portrait of a child molester’s disease, and a somewhat
sympathetic one, which might piss some folks off. Kevin Bacon (his name was “Walter” in the movie) just gets out of prison
and goes about his daily life workin in a lumberyard and livin by a grade school, wishin he was normal and that he didn’t
have so much lust for little girls. But he still does, see, even after 12 years, and no amount of prison gonna change
something like that. Once you do them dark deeds with the young one’s vaginas, the full grown pussy of adult women just don’t
seem right. It seem all loose and stanky and ain’t fit for a dog to fuck most times, let alone a big movie star like Kevin
Bacon. It all about bein the first one to swim in the pool before someone pees in it, see? He gotta have em young and he
gotta have em tight, so he start breakin down, goin back to his old ways as he follows this blonde-haired little girl in a
red dress from the grade school into the woods one afternoon.
She has her binoculars with her cuz she is a cute little “bird watcher,” and is sittin on a bench in a wooded clearing,
watchin the birds. Ol’ creepy Kevin Bacon slither on up to her like a snake, sits on the bench with her and says, “Hey,
what’cha doing?” He has this tortured look in his eyes so peeps will feel sorry for him, like he seducing this girl against
his will.
“I is lookin for a woodpecker up in them trees,” the little girl says, and you can tell old Kevin is gettin horny. He start
squirmin his little white ass on the bench. His brow is all sweaty; his hands is shakin. He don’t want to molest this little
girl but yet he does want to, see? He want up in that tiny ass so bad but he know it wrong. Stutterin, he says, “D-Do you
want to sit on my lap? I’ve got a wood pecker in my pants. If you sit on my lap you will be able to feel him moving around.”
The little girl smiles and pulls down her underwears. She starts to sit on Kevin Bacon’s lap to feel the “woodpecker” and I
don’t know what the hell happened after that because I covered my eyes, then turned the damn thing off. I was just wantin to
watch a regular movie and not some damn kiddie porno. It was a good flick, though, and if any of y’all are perverts and
watched the ending, let me know what happened.
April 23, 2005
A Blue Gill Birthday
I wanna thank all the nice peeps down below that wished me a happy birthday. That was real nice of y’all, man, especially
since I never mentioned it here in my journal. I forgot all about that I’d put it on my info page when I signed up for this
gig. I had a real good birthday too, last Wednesday. It was the same day my buddy, Slim, finally got back from a “pet meat”
run down in Colorado and parts of Nevada. He’d been gone all damn winter and this dude came back with a big load of kittens
and screechin, nasty cats. I’m a dog person, myself, so it didn’t bother me none to see all these felines in captivity. Slim
and his boys pulled into the slaughterhouse parkin lot in they semi-trailers, honkin they horns in happiness because they had
trailer after trailer full of peeps’ stolen kittens. Lot of cat owners out West is cryin right now but little do they realize
their cats are gonna be ground up and sold to starving children in South America this summer, so it’s all good. We all get to
eat and that’s what matters. I’m just proud to do my small part to help people.
With it bein my birthday and Slim’s winnin a bunch of money in Reno, we went out and got some hoes, man, took em all out to
Pistol Pete’s barn. Old Pete got a big old red barn where he parks his 18-wheeler and it got a big loft full of hay just
meant for fuckin in. We had us a damn wet, stinkin sex party, y’all, with white chicks, blacks chicks, Puerto Rican hotties
with big bulbous swingin titties, and there was even some thick sister with blue hair and green eyes from Idaho. We was all
fuckin in that hay, boy, and it got hotter than a Nelly song. It got so sweaty and I was stickin my dick in so many damn
different holes it sorta got confusing. I was just glad old Slim’s butthole stunk so bad so I’d know when I was getting near
it so I wouldn’t stick my dick in it by accident. One time I had just cum on this Puerto Rican girl’s titties; then I
immediately stick my dick in the hole of this other girl. I push it in and out just one time and I started seein cum all over
my damn dick already. I shouted out, “Damn! I just came again already!” And this bitch start strugglin, pulls herself out
from all the naked bodies. She is all red-faced, pissed off and holdin her nose as she screams at me, “You was fucking my
goddam nostril and made me sneeze, you idiot! That’s my fucking snot on your dick!"
I didn’t take too kindly to this bitch calling me an “idiot” so I took her to my place, figuring to take some revenge out on
her tiny lil’ ass. We started talkin after I butt-fuck her real good. It turns out she was a cat-lovin’ woman and she says to
me, “Gil, how would you like it if someone ground up your dog and sold it overseas?” I says to her, “Girl, we ain’t gonna be
talking about my damn dog that way on my birthday and I got your cat’s ‘ball of yarn’ right here!” as I put my big black fist
in her jib, sent her flyin across the room. I ain’t one to be punchin on no woman, now, but I will if it come to it. Ain’t no
cat lovin’ bitch gonna threaten my damn dog, and if she do she’ll be coughin up a few “scare balls” as well as suckin on my
nuts all night That what I did to punish her. I put on another woman’s panties to make her jealous and tied a leash around
her neck. I lied back in my recliner, watching all three parts of Lord of the Rings (my moms got me the box set for my
birthday) while I let one of my big, sweaty brown nuts hang out the front of the pink panties I had on. I had my cattle prod
in my hand as I told the bitch to lick my creepy brown nut ever time that scary Golem dude appeared in the movie. She was all
skeered, lickin my nut and sayin, “Yessssss! It my preciousssss! We likes it!” through all ten hours of that Hobbit shit, I
had her trained so good. Am I the only who noticed Lord of the Rings ain’t got one damn black person in it?
May 13, 2005
Camp Hug-A-Thug
Goddam nice weather has the boss man sendin representatives of the company out in the community to do good deeds for peeps to
make it look like we’re a legit business. I gotta work Monday-Thursday cutting on them cows, then last Friday I had to get up
at 4am to get to Camp Hug-A-Thug by 6am. Camp Hug-A-Thug is a little prison camp they have out in the woods near here, where
they send prisoners that they think needs a little love. They transfer them from a regular penitentiary to the camp because
they are always so sad and depressed that they can’t keep their damn drawers clean, don’t make their damn bed; don’t take no
damn showers, and all the other inmates keep beatin them up and bustin their chops because they asses stink so bad. So they
send these nasty criminals to Camp Hug-A-Thug for six weeks, put them in a program that tries to make em feel loved, feel
better about themselves enough that they start washin their damn stinkin asses once in awhile.
My boss says to me, “All they need is a hug, Gil. Just go in there and hug a couple of them pieces of shit, make us look
good, and we won’t put you on charity duty again for another year.” I’m like, fuckin great, man, this is all I need. I got a
lot of friends in jails and prisons and I got nothin against cons so much as I can’t stand a man that don’t keep himself
clean. So I get to the camp and they assign me to this thin little nappy brother who is doin life for murder. He got an afro
bout looked like damn Moses’ burnin bush and you could tell it ain’t been washed in months. His orange prison uniform is damn
near gray from all the filth he got on it. Macaroni and cheese is stuck to his pant legs and when he open his mouth you see
he got a grill full of gold caps; but it also got bits of rotten fuckin food all in it bout to make a girl rather kiss a
toad’s ass than stick her tongue between the scabbed lips of this dirty dude.
I says to this thug, “So what’s the deal, man? Why you can’t keep yourself clean and force peeps to send you here like you
was some child?” The brother don’t say nothin for a few moments as me and him are sittin at a picnic table. He just stare out
toward the nearby trees with a sad look on his face as I look all around me. It such a beautiful, sunny May day and all
around us is these picnic tables. At every one of them sits a dirty thug who is being talked to by a representative of some
damn company in the community that is tryin to convince him to wash his ass to make their business look good.
I start to feel sick to my stomach that I’m a part of it all, and then this stinky, smelly thug says to me, “Don’t do no damn
good to wash my ass, man, not if I’m stuck in this joint the rest of my life. At least it somethin I got, somethin that’s a
part of me. This dirt is mine. This funk is mine,” then he stand up, start pullin his drawers down, shows me his skinny,
brown ass that is bruised and purple, covered in shit, dude. It dried and wet and caked on him butt cheeks, and drippin from
his fuckin nutsack, down his leg and it obvious he ain’t even wiped it for weeks. He starts shoutin out to the trees, to the
animals, toward all the peeps around him, anyone that will listen, “This shit is mine!!”
I just sighed in resignation and said to him, “You don’t need a hug, you need some damn toilet paper.” Then I left, figuring
I’d just lie to my boss about huggin him.
