ergonomics, sincere, attract derision

confess

aroused, I would masturbate
Austrian rabbits
skin ferrets
auspicious head to foot ejaculation
Hemorrhage
Gay heartbeat
erection suffocation
Colorado Springs porkbutcher
The Search for the Animal chin

body image disorder
social stigmatization
Diabetic foot

Blood Sabbath
the cyclic method of the cytotec lawyer
evidence?
indisputable ejaculation

Perfect Stranger 
Mortuary

wheelchair gay realtor avails hisself of gay saunas
Side effects of Xanax
All of these girls holes getting filled with ice
Well done, anal fuck
Less the antique pressure cooker
when men gain weight
…Oxygen pills

Granny Slaves

The Viagra maintains my hardness throw out in to the ejaculation
The Viagra maintains my hardness promising settle nearby the ejaculation

Prostate Milking Sexual Pleasure 
Rhino Male Enhancement
Manhood Aboriginal Initiation Receive Spirit 
Mom Saw My Erection
Suicide by Zoloft
Bicycle For Mature Womens
Grannys fucking grandkids
endtimes are at hand

Whoopi Goldberg
Rob Reiner
Antique colon mass

This laid the foundation for modern quantum theory, the Tri county ohio antique mall, on the body

Longitude Male Enhancement

We Were Both Surprised When Her Hand Brushed My Erection

the woman comes across as intimidating to him

Older Horses With Cervical Vertebral Malformation
Older Used Boat Trailer
Granny Scent

young nude teens staying teens
captivated, I buy Viagra

I call this piece “indisputable ejaculation”.

If only Sir John Gielgud were alive to read it.

Before there was reality television, there was something better. It was called Stupor. And, it still is. Stupor, now about 15 years old, continues to be, a wonderful little, toilet-tank-sized zine filled with the stories of real, or at least somewhat real, American men and women. It’s curated and published by my dear friend Steve Hughes, who collects the fascinating stories of the American dream gone wrong as he makes his way through the bars of southeast Michigan. His genius comes through in the translation between oral history and written word, as he distills the essence of the story, and brings sharp focus to the elements that matter. He kind of blurs the line between fiction and non-fiction in the process, and in so doing creates wonderful, little, poetic vignettes that are often almost impossible to forget. If you have never had the pleasure of experiencing Stupor, you’ll have a chance starting this Saturday evening at Hamtramck’s Design 99, where a new Stupor-inspired show will be opening.

STUPOR: A Retrospective of Bad Ideas
Runs from March 7 – May 2
Opening Saturday, March 7, 8-11 PM
Reading Saturday, April 25, 7-9 PM

I just sent Steve five questions by way of email. Following are his responses.

Who are you?
I’m Steve Hughes. I’m 42. I live in Hamtramck. I have for 14 years. When I’m not building stuff, or doing stuff with the kids, or cleaning up the trail of their messes, or sleeping, I’m a writer. I write Stupor magazine. I’m on my 29th issue.

What’s Stupor?
Stupor is a collection of stories. True stories. As in the Talking Heads movie, True Stories. I listen to people talking all the time. When a story sticks with me, I write it down. Stupor is this place for me to retell what I hear while I’m waiting, working or loafing at the bar, or loafing in general. The stories aren’t transcriptions but they’re not exactly fictions either. They’re something in between. Hybrids. I describe them in the beginning of each issue as coming to me in a skeletal form. I put skin on them. In the last two years, I’ve enlisted artists to layout the magazine. The last 11 issues were cut and pasted, illustrated, and assembled by 9 artists. I gave each one about 6 stories and some minimal instructions, and let them run with it. The issues have become a place for the artists to explore their own ideas. In a way it’s created a cool sort of community. For sure, it gives the readers an opportunity to check out an artists rendering, interpretation, or comment on the stories they’re reading. It’s cool.

What should I expect to see at the show?
The show opening Saturday is an opportunity to check out the Stupors and see some work by the artist’s who have been integral in creating the most recent issues. Artists include Kamil Antos, Lisa Anne Auerbach, Mitch Cope, Jeff Karolski, Teresa Petersen, Gina Reichert, Chris Riddell, and Clint Snyder. They’ll have work on the walls. There’s also some 3-D and some installation. All the work connects with Stupor.

Is it true that you’re 7 year old son’s zine about his dead dog sold more copies that Stupor at the last Shadow Art Fair?
It’s true that my son’s magazines are superior. Do you think it might also be true that Ypsi chicks love a good dead dog story?

What are your three favorite places in Hamtramck?
Besides my house, my three favorite Hamtramck spots include Bakers Street Car Bar for budget pizza and beer, less than $10 bucks before tip for a pitcher and a large pie. Alladin Sweets on Connant is great for Bangladeshi food, especially at the all you can eat lunch buffet. And Design 99, which has created a center for the community of artists in the area. Every city needs a Design 99.

Is your brother Greg on Facebook? I saw a picture of him from around 1993 on there a few days ago, and I wanted to let him know.
No, I don’t think my brother is on Facebook. So maybe send me the picture.

This photo, which I referred to in my last question, was taken by Janet Larson in about 1993, during the birthday party of her son, Miles. That’s Miles in the center. The fellow to the left, I believe, is Greg Hughes. At least he has his posture and hair. The fellow on the right is Dan Richardson. At the time, Dan and I were in the band Prehensile Monkey-tailed Skink together, along with Peter Larson, the father of Miles, and Matt Krizowsky. Greg, at that point in time, played for The Monarchs.

OK, I’m off to work on a new zine about dead dogs.

[Tonight's post is dedicated to all the U.S. banks taking bailout money, and the hundreds of subsidiaries they operate in the Cayman Islands for the purposes of avoiding U.S. taxes. We salute your patriotism.]

Hello Mark–I just wanted to compliment one of your employees at the Costco in Redding, Ca. On Sunday the 22nd of June my family and friends were driving to Lake Shasta for a Houseboat vacation when the boat trailer had a blow out. We called ahead to Costco in Redding and spoke with Kyle in the tire department. He was very helpful, and when we got there, he had the tires we wanted to purchase ready. He also was very accommodating in taking the old tires off the rims and putting the new ones on. We were out of there in approx. 20 minutes. As a business owner, he is the kind of employee we all want.

I haven’t sent it yet, but here’s my response.

Thank you for taking the time to write, Vickie. It’s gratifying to hear that Costco may somehow have played a part in what must have been a delightful vacation with your friends and family. I’d like to accept your thanks, but, unfortunately, I think you may have been assisted at another branch. You see, there isn’t a Kyle in our tire department. We did have a young man here named Kyle, but that was years ago, and he died after being gutted by an experimental tire removal device. At any rate, thank you for shopping at Costco.

I know it’s not likely, but I figure there’s at least a slight chance that Vickie might believe that her tires were put on by a customer service oriented ghost… Originally I was going to go much darker with it, suggesting that lovable Kyle had been dragged to his death behind a houseboat to which he’d become somehow fastened, but I didn’t have the heart.

My other idea was to go totally urban legend with it, telling the family that “Kyle” was an escaped convict who had been working with a partner on the highway. The plan was for this partner to shoot out the tire of a houseboat, causing the family to seek assistance at Costco, where “Kyle” had assumed the identity of the manager. According to the accomplice, who later confessed, “Kyle” was to stow away until a safe distance away, then kill the family, taking their identities. The main thing motivating me to take this route was that it would allow me to say, “GET OUT OF THE HOUSEBOAT!”

The man made his way into the Brewery holding a large, gift-wrapped box, tied up with a red ribbon. He sat down and said, “This is the box she left at my house.” We started digging through the contents of the box. There was a gold-plated ceramic cat that he said must have been stolen from his house a week or so prior, during a party. She’d added whiskers and a red cape, but he had no doubt that it was the same cat that had, until recently, sat upon his mantle. “She must have been in my house during a party,” he said. (Perhaps she’s still there – phrogging.) In the box there were also several tiny drawings of teeth. He said there was a cookie, which was dressed in a “paper sweater,” and a toothbrush too. A housemate, he said, probably ate the cookie. He suspected someone had also used the toothbrush. Otherwise, he said, the contents of the box were just as he found them on his doorstep a week ago. The best part was the elegant, elongated, silky, stuffed tooth featured in the picture here.

Probably unbeknownst to her, the fellow had a history with the Ypsi Tooth. According to him, he was drinking beer at the Sidetrack a year or so ago when she and a handful of accomplices stormed in wearing trench coats and “old person” masks, and proceeded to spray-paint a tooth on the face of the marble fireplace. I’d heard rumor of this brazen attack in the past, but this was the first eyewitness confirmation that I’d heard. As there’s no sign of the spray-paint on the fireplace now, I thought that it could have been an Ypsi urban legend, like the flying smeet frog, but I guess it really did happen. (He said that, after the attack, Sidetrack employees scrubbed it off. It apparently took a half an hour, but all signs were erased.)

I’ve seen her work around town about a dozen times now. I’ve been tempted to take what I’ve found, but I’ve always been able to stop myself, thinking that she (the Tooth) would have wanted it that way. I was envious of this fellow who had a handmade tooth left for him on his doorstep. I told him he was a lucky son of a bitch and he acknowledged it.

So, according to her website, she “loves” me, so I’m going to assume that she reads my site and leave her a message. The following is a private letter between me and the Ypsi Tooth. Please do not read it:

I don’t want to know who you are. Please don’t tell me. If I knew, I’d have to tell the Mayor, and I don’t want to see you go to jail. I might feel differently if the spray-paint hadn’t come off the fireplace of the Sidetrack so easily, but, since it did, I can still appreciate your work. Very little is done these days just for the sake of doing it, and I appreciate the work that goes into your pieces, only to be left outside, in the elements. I find it beautiful… So, here’s a secret that I haven’t told anyone else yet. My friend Melissa and I are starting a company together to sell severed unicorn head related material. I know that sounds fucked up, but you’ll have to trust me on this. It’s going to be huge… Anyway, I was thinking that, if you’re up for it, we could carry stuffed unicorn teeth on our site. If that sounds good to you, send me a signal and we’ll work something out. (note: The signal should not involve spray-painting my house, car, pets or loved ones. Cookies and toothbrushes, however, are OK.) I’m thinking that maybe you could leave a box of teeth hidden somewhere in the park and I could leave a cashier’s check in their place. Let me know what you think. I look forward to doing business with you.

(Photo courtesy of Steve Cherry, who, knowing all my passwords and such, was apparenlty able to sneak in and upload it without my knowledge… From now on, whenever you see something that you don’t like here – like disgusting references to monkey taints – just assume that it was Steve’s doing.)

(As for these ribbons, they’re not my best work. They’re just the first two ideas that popped into my head. So, if you’re new to this site, please don’t judge me based on them…. If you want an example of me at my best, scroll back to some of my “ball shaving” material.)

Clementine and I were out yesterday, walking through Frog Island Park, when I noticed a small, rectangular box about two feet off the trail, in a bare spot overlooking the Huron River. Being somewhat obsessive by nature, I couldn’t just walk by it without first seeing what it was, so I swung the stroller over to the side and poked at the box with the tip of my shoe. What I’d found, I quickly realized, wasn’t your run of the mill public park garbage. No, I’d found something special – the packaging for “Sure Grip” vagina-tightening cream. Fortunately, Clementine’s young enough that I didn’t have to explain what it was, why someone would buy it, or, worse yet, why her father wanted to bring it home.

I kicked the box into a plastic bag (which I carry for just such occasions), tucked it into the bottom of the stroller, and began walking toward home, praying all the while that we wouldn’t run into anyone that we knew, and that, in the process of chatting, the bag would pop out to reveal its contents.

It wasn’t until I got home that I had an opportunity to look over the packaging closely… I’d seen the slogan across the top, guaranteeing “that honeymoon fit,” when I got it into the bag, but I hadn’t seen the, “Tightens your vagina like it was your First Time,” line. Or, the fact that it had a $14.95 price tag.

I’ve been wrestling with the “who” and “why” of it ever since. “Could it have been,” I wonder, “one of the older ladies walking the track for exercise… maybe a recent, self-conscious divorc

I had to get a screen capture of it because I knew you wouldn’t believe me otherwise… Yes, we got a visitor yesterday who was pointed to MM.com by Google, after searching for the phrase, “John Kerry shaving his balls.” That’s right, it wasn’t “John Kerry’s plan for winning the peace in Iraq,” or “John Kerry + stolen election.” It was, “John Kerry shaving his balls.” That’s apparently what people care about.

And here I thought that I couldn’t possibly be any more ashamed to be an American…. Actually, I suppose the search could have been conducted from outside the US. That gives me some hope. My suspicion is that it’s some lone-nut American fetishist though. Of course, I guess it’s also possible that it’s the work of a right wing attack group, like Hairy, Natural Balled Patriots for Truth. Perhaps they’re getting ready in case Kerry challenges the legitimacy of the election.

And how sad is it that the person coming to search for “Saint Catherine of Seina” might have rubbed up against this person in our lobby? That makes me feel icky.