There Is No Lil Prince

I have been dating this same Jewish douchebag for quite some time now. Call him Schlobo.

Schlobo, I thought, would be a one-night stand, but he immediately declared me his girlfriend, and I figured it was perhaps a good way to maybe be monogamous for awhile (even though I hate monogamy), because my amount of sexual partners was seriously getting out of control, and they were also getting to be more and more like human primates, and I was wondering what the fuck I was doing.

Alas, this has gone on so long that I think it’s too late to stop it. I'm just too lazy.

Music-impresario Schlobo is presently attempting to take songs that I write and perform and put them on tapes to sell to the public. He's making 150 tapes; I get eight. This is sick. Then he asks me for money all the time.

Last week, Schlobo threatened that if I did not go see him play with his gay toys at a show, he would deny me sex for a week. I could not stop laughing. He needs to stay away from me. What a diseased parasite now. Schlobo is just a terrible, degenerate plug who is no different than the Neanderthal dicks that I used to be pounded with each week after leaving a slimy bar.

But how do I get out? I'm not good at saying no, and I am certainly not good at breaking things off. Imagine some dill-hole denying me sex. YUCK. YUCK! It makes me puke to think about it.

I have never been one to care what others think but I am constantly barraged with questions as to why I am with this monkey, and I explain that I don't know how to end this shit.

Schlobo wears Old Spice deodorant, and whenever he comes over he leaves this manly scent on my bed and I feel like I'm going to fucking hurl everywhere every time my head touches some part of the bed where the man scent has touched. And he falls asleep with his condoms on. I know I have mentioned this in a previous column. I am not used to this. I don't think I've ever had any guy do this. But not only does he fall asleep with them on, which is so fucking foul, in the morning he starts bitching and whines, "EEEW OH MY GOD WHY DIDNT YOU TELL ME THAT I STILL HAD MY CONDOM ON??? I CAN'T BELIEVE I SLEPT WITH IT ON...AGAIN." As if I am supposed to check his dick for a condom?

It’s disgusting is what it is, and he's slowly putting me into some kind of mommy role because he has no job and no money and moved out of his parents’ house at age 30 and blames me for that.

Still, all Schlobo does is sit in his house and smoke pot and play Chef's Love Shack on the Nintendo 64 and watch his nine South Park seasons on tape, and like usually I'd think this was funny in itself, but it's not. It has lost its charm. Forever.

The worst thing is that Schlobo expects me to be a lady. He expects my shit not to smell. I mean, Jesus Christ, the high point of our relationship was when his retarded friend tried to rape me. I wish I could physically beat him. He is terrible. He talks to me about having kids and raising them. He has no clue.

I have developed a crush on someone else, though. This man is very strange, so strange that I suspect that he might be responsible for many people that are missing today. I think he is hiding them somewhere. He has an outdoor sale every weekend, I will not say where as to not reveal where he is, but he puts a huge sign out that says in big letters WEIRD SALE, and he hits the nail right on the head with that one. I don't think I've ever been to a weirder fucking sale. This guy sells used speculums. He sells 8 mm porn, some of it I suspect can be illegal even.

I don't know if it's a crush that I have on the Weird Salesman. It's more of some insane fascination. He is quiet. The first week he sold me one of the most awesome items I own. It is a slide projector that also has a TV screen that you can project the slides on. It really rules. But it was so hard to get him to talk to me at first.

I try to visit the Weird Salesman every weekend. I always wanted to know what he would say about the speculums he sells, because they were sort of hidden beneath all his crazy junk (oh, if you don't know what a speculum is, it’s one of those medical tools that they use to open a woman's vagina up. It sort of looks like a torture device or a duck), but I never wanted to ask him.

My roommate went up to him with two speculums and started making them talk to each other and asked the man how much they were, he seemed very angry/embarrassed and said five dollars. It was so cute.

What kind of man sells speculums and porn on the corner? He also peddles pictures of the Pope and broken figures of Baby Jesus. My roommate picked the Baby Jesus up and was holding it upside down, and the guy yelled at him and told him to hold the Baby Jesus like he would a baby. This guy is serial-killer material for sure.

I thought the Weird Salesman might be too weird for me even, but our weekly encounters have gotten more and more intimate. First, he helped me carry stuff to my car. Second, he gave me a free slide bulb and then changed it for me. The next week he gave me all this stuff for real cheap. Oh, and the final week he did the typical thing that guys do to find out if you have a boyfriend.

I was saying that I would have trouble trying to get this one thing to work that he was trying to sell me, and he said to me "I'm sure your BOYFRIEND would be able to help you with it, that is your boyfriend right, the other guy that comes here with you?" I of course took the hint and said "No way, he's just my roommate, I DON'T HAVE A BOYFRIEND" (I wasn't lying either, he is dead to me).

Yeah, I know what you're tryin' to do, Weird Sale guy, I thought to myself. I SCORED! Even though I still don't know his name, I know I'm in there. He could very well be a murderer though. He is very strange and it took weeks to get him to open up to me. But we'll see. It's a big challenge, and I like challenges. Plus he has awesome stuff. And my boyfriend now SUX. As I said.

Come on, I can't date a guy who will not allow me to spill drinks in his room, wants me to kiss him in public, introduces me as his "girlfriend" as if I have no name or identity other than being HIS GIRLFRIEND. He's also broke, wears Old Spice, and he REFUSES to read my columns (which is actually a great thing because I can write things like this about him and not fear him reading them). In addition, Schlobo talks WAY too loud, tries to take advantage of me and my crappy rap act, makes shitty fliers for shows, wears athletic pants only, eats Indian food, has taken me out ONE TIME in our six-month dating period, got me practical items for Christmas (such as socks, clean blankets, etc.). THAT ALONE should have made me dump him.

Oh my God, I just realized I've been dating him since before Christmas. This is depressing. I've got to jump off the Jew train onto the serial-killer train. Actually one of the only things that made me like him is that he is Jewish and he looks good. I'm so over that though.

If I am somehow missing in the upcoming weeks though, find the Weird Sale and go through the 8mm film stock and maybe you'll see me getting cut up or something.

Gimme An R!

For the past four months, I have had one, and only one, sexual partner. It is a far cry from my behavior of the previous two years, wherein I'd say I racked up about 80 different bedmates.

Eighty is only an estimate; it could be more or less. And I didn't make a damn dime. I figure if I went home with that many scumbag motherfuckers from bars, why the hell am I not prostituting myself? I could have at least made some money. I'm a fucking idiot. I asked for nothing. That's the world's problem. Everyone wants something. These fuckers got something. I feel gypped. All I got was genital warts.

Now that I am only fucking one person I feel like people are trying to take parts of me in other ways. Trying to fucking own me. My stuff. My brain. My thoughts. Stuff I make. Stuff I write. Stuff I do. Stuff I own. Everyone wants a fucking piece. Whether it's pussy or something else. Everyone's always trying to break off a piece.

They want to intrude into my thoughts, my time, my life. I don't spend enough time on the phone with someone. I am not being a good friend. Maybe if I just fucked them all they would be satisfied. Everyone's a fucking pervert. And everyone wants a piece. They know that they are incomplete so they think that they can complete themselves by using another person.

How do you rape someone that's allowed it? I feel like I'm constantly being raped but allowing it. People pick and pick at me and I let it happen. I don't feel sorry for myself, but I'd like for it to stop.

Fuck the games.

Get rid of the play-acting.

Let the real thing be sold.

How do you rape someone without knowing it?

Install a camera in the girl’s room and watch them piss and shit without them ever knowing that you're coming all over yourself at their expense.

I guess that's a way.

It's easy.

Talk to them, steal from them, their bodies, their minds, their possessions, and they will never know the difference. Because it is not the RAPE we see on the news.

I was not tied down with a gun to my fucking head by some massive, dark-skinned man calling me a bitch and holding me down and pumping my ass with his fat, uncircumcised, disease-addled cock.

But you are still taking from me.

There are no news stories about this.

It's not interesting enough, and far too common.

It's not only me getting raped, it’s not only women, it’s men, it’s everyone.

Rape is a buzzword.

The honesty can be claustrophobic.

But you're all taking from me. I call it rape.

It makes people uncomfortable when I say that.

I am a parasite too. I will not deny that.

But right now, I feel like I am being pulled in too many directions by too many people and decisions are getting harder and harder to make.

Maybe that is what success is.

Maybe that's when you know you're succeeding, when everyone wants to rape you.

But like I said it's hard to rape the willing and I am weak and often willing.

I want to vomit all the time.

Everything comes at a price.

I never noticed all of this until I stepped back and stopped thinking about rape in a sexual way. But it can hurt. I see it happen to people all the time. Watch out, my friends.

Parasites are everywhere. And we are all victims and perpetrators. This is a warning to you all. Be careful what you are doing, and be aware of what is being done to you.

Rape is a serious word, but sometimes it takes a buzzword like RAPE for people to understand exactly what they are doing.

Make Mine Thalidomide

Once, when I was a kid, my dad had bought this doll for me and it was missing an arm and a leg, and he told me that it was my "thalidomide baby."

Being five, I had no idea what thalidomide was, and I'm sure that many people now are unfamiliar with it. Thalidomide (tha-lid-o-mide) was first marketed in Europe in the late 1950s. It was used as a sleeping pill and to treat morning sickness during pregnancy. At that time no one knew thalidomide caused birth defects. Then they started popping up. These birth defects included loss of limbs and fucked-up skulls and brain defects.

Regardless, I carried my baby around with pride and told everyone that it was my "Thalidomide baby" and I loved it. It was one of my favorite stuffed dolls. I had hundreds of stuffed animals and, at 25, I still will not let my mother get rid of them, although I know she secretly tries to sell them at garage sales and then throws them away. There's nothing I can do about it. It's tragic.

As part of my childhood obsessive-compulsive disorder, I'd assign personalities to inanimate objects, not only my dolls, but chairs and refrigerators and other weird appliances and things. And I still assign personalities to all of these stuffed animals that I had owned and played with as a child, so I can't bear to throw them away.

The "Thalidomide Baby" was of course a stuffed doll, since I hated all regular dolls and would put them in cages and throw them in the garbage. Dolls were for girls and I never considered myself a girl. In fact I would not allow anyone to refer to me as a "little girl"; I didn't want to be referred to as a "little boy" either. I knew I wasn't a fucking boy. So I decided "little guy" would be the best way to refer to me. Thus, I made my parents introduce me as their "little guy."

It must have looked weird, my parents calling me a little guy and all, but I was a weird child, and considering all the shit I was going through at the time, and how fucking weird my family was, it made sense. I still have problems thinking of myself as a "woman." I wish people would still refer to me as a guy or some non-gender-specific term, but there isn't one.

I know I'm a "woman." I have a pussy. I bleed every month. But I don't feel like a woman. I don't like shopping for shoes. I'm not happy that Star Jones has lost 600 pounds. I don't eat bonbons. And I hate women. But I hate men too. I like scum. I like shit. That's what I'm attracted to. Turds. Thalidomide babies. That doll I think shaped my whole life. My dad did so many things to mold me into the most socially awkward being, I can't believe I was ever even able to enter the real world.

The school system further alienated me by putting me in these "gifted" classes for smart kids who were all social retards, and I could never fit into any group. It was just as demeaning as being in the "retard" class. At least if I was fat or had some sort of physical disability I could understand why people thought I was so weird, but on the outside I looked normal. People just tried to stay away from me.

For one of my gifted classes, I did an in-depth study on McDonald's. I actually visited the first McDonald’s restaurant in Des Plaines, IL, and I made this crazy puppet show and educated everyone about McDonald’s.

The following year, I did a report on voodoo. Such a funny contradiction between the two subjects, but they are actually similar in a way. I don't want to turn this into some political essay or go on some diatribe about how McDonald's is its own religion, but that's what I mean. But my voodoo presentation caused some major controversy because I plastered the walls of this room with a bunch of photos of Haitian women with big floppy naked pancake titties doing voodoo rituals.

When the parents came to look at all the work their young children had done, they were forced to look at a lot of black-lady tits. But man, the tits weren't the point. I had done a lot of fucking research, but all of the damn pictures had fucking naked women in them. Still, my parents were proud.

I was always forced into these smart-kid classes and I hated it. Everyone else got to be in different classes with different people all day and I had to be with the same group of smarmy "smart kid" fucking rejects all the time. I didn't think I was better than any of them. I just hated them and thought they were all assholes. I can't complain, though, I guess. I grew up in suburbia.

Unfortunately I was just a little bit too old for the whole school-shooting fad, otherwise I think that would have brightened up my days a lot. I remember seeing the movie Heathers and I remember fanatically watching how Winona Rider and Christian Slater blow up their school, and I wished so badly that I could have a boyfriend who would help me do that.

There was a boy named Tom who had written his own manifesto. He was extremely intelligent. I believe he would have shot up the school but he was not interested in girls, and I think he'd have thought of a girl as a hindrance. He was very conceited, especially for someone who hated himself so much. I had myself made frequent and obsessive lists of whom I would kill and how I would do it. If it was three years later and the school found that shit out, I would have had to go to extensive stupid counseling.

This particular essay is all over the place, I know. I just decided to highlight some of the defining points of my life. I'm trying to figure out why I am the way I am. It's so bizarre, these events that I choose to remember so vividly that I guess I have chosen to forget about for so many years. I wish I could find my Thalidomide baby. It's disappeared. Maybe I'll find some psychotic Christian Slater type someday and we can have our own Thalidomide baby.

Hey! It's Jay!

Rarely do I get the chance to be with multiple members of my family in one place at the same time. It is reserved for funerals, weddings (which are usually very soon followed by divorces), graduations (which almost never happen), and very rarely on some holidays.

This past Memorial Day was one such occurrence, bringing me together, all at once, with my father, my brother, various nieces, and a bunch of other members of the Royal Princess clan. The stories that I could write from this six-hour encounter are endless, but I want to concentrate on my half-brother's half-brother. His name is Jay.

I have memories of Jay starting when I was five years old. He worked at Disney World (still one of my favorite places). My parents used to take me there to visit him. He was about 22 and he lived in a small apartment with this 500-pound woman named Ginger. Jay had found her sleeping in the laundry room of his apartment and had taken her in to live with him.

Being five at the time, I had no idea what "gay" was or how a stereotypical homosexual man acted, but I knew that Jay was not normal. Plus I was very confused about his relationship with this Ginger, who was probably the fattest human I had ever seen at that point. Regardless, Jay was so sweet and I was very comfortable around him, so I loved the trips we would take to Disney World to see him.

In time, Jay moved back near Wisconsin where his brothers and sisters and mother lived. I next saw him when I was ten, and I knew then that he was flaming. Then I heard that Jay had HIV. This was when the news first broke about the disease AIDS, so I was devastated. I was sure he would die very quickly.

I didn't see Jay again until I was 15, and I was worried about how he would look. I was used to images of Tom Hanks covered in lesions and sad gay men crying about their emaciated AIDS-inflicted friends. But when I saw Jay, I didn't see emaciation or lesions I just saw this man--a flaming homo to be sure--but not the "typical" person with AIDS.

As a teenager, I befriended Jay all over again, as he was one of the most amusing and bizarre people I had ever met. You see, living in Florida and working at Disney World and having a quarter-ton female best friend is a pretty typical life for a male homo. I swear, it totally is. But moving up to the ass crack of rural Illinois near Wisconsin and being probably the only openly out-of-the-closet homosexual in sight is a bit weird. Especially since there is only one gay bar in a 100-mile radius.

But that's my Jay.

At our family gatherings, we are surrounded by charmers with swastika tattoos and Nascar shirts and "Git 'er Dun" hats. They are the last people on earth that anyone would think could accept homosexuality. And they don't. But they have to deal with it because Jay's whole family accepts him and the fact that not only is he homosexual, he is a flaming homosexual. He doesn't advertise the AIDS thing, but he doesn't keep it a secret either.

Jay taunts our relatives, too. He talks about how men are while in the company of burly homo-haters and never gets his ass kicked. Sure, comments are made behind his back, but this motherfucker is tough and will fight anyone. And no one wants to make Jay bleed because they're all afraid of his disease.

Not only is Jay on a heavy regimen of HIV drugs, which have intense side effects, he also regularly consumes valium, narcotics, marijuana, and booze. For some reason, everything balances everything else out and he's been fine, at least until he gets some alcohol in him. Every time I see Jay he has like six more stories for me about when he got drunk lately.

At the Memorial Day barbecue, there were hardcore Navy guys present, which prompted Jay to go on and on about how sailors parade around in drag and all buttfuck each other. I saw fire in one of the navy men's eyes--either out of anger or the fact that he wanted a taste of Jay for himself--but since Jay was surrounded by family, this man could not do anything.

Most recently Jay, who's now 43, told me that at one point he walked into a bar, started drinking, and when he came to, he was covered in water and shackled in Greyslake jail. It turns out that he got into a huge brawl, went to jail, and when they placed him in his cell he ripped out the sprinkler system for the little jail and it flooded and they had to evacuate the whole place and take all the prisoners out until they could fix the problem. And Jay didn't remember any of this.

Two weeks later, Jay was getting loaded again and called 911. He felt very bad about what he had done as far as ripping the sprinkler system out of the jail and flooding it, and even though his court date had not come up yet, he demanded to be arrested again. The cops would not take him seriously and just told him to hang up and leave them alone. After about the thirtieth time Jay telephoned the Greyslake police department demanding he be rearrested, they decided to comply and came to his house and he ended up in jail...again.

The entire police department knows who he is. I like to think of him as the gay G.G. Allin. Well, I guess G.G. Allin could be considered gay, but he was everything (like me). Either way, Jay is a genius. I wish more people recognized it. I don't know why there are so many amazing people in my family. Like I have said before, I'm pretty sure it's due to inbreeding and severe childhood abuse, but Jay is definitely one of a kind.

He was raised by a horrible, mean father. His name was Jack and he was beaten to death with a baseball bat at a bar by a bunch of Puerto Ricans to whom he owed money. Jack once locked my brother in the trunk of a car for eight hours straight on an extremely hot day and almost killed him. Jack also used to take the kids to the park and sit on a bench and shoot heroin right there in front of them all. He was a very short man, about five feet tall, and seemed to have one of the worst cases of the Napoleon complex of anyone I've ever heard of.

Thank God I never had the chance to meet Jack. He molested little girls. My dad almost killed him and eventually was responsible for throwing him in jail for a lot of years after he found out about how badly he was abusing Tommy and Patty, my brother and sister. This man was Jay's father and namesake. Jay and I were comparing our prescription drugs and I looked at the label on Jay's prescriptions and they were under the name of "Jack Thorson." When I saw this, memories of stories I had heard about this man flooded my head, and I suddenly realized that Jay was subject to all of this horrible man's abuse.

It is no surprise as to why a lot of my family members turned out the way they did. This is another reason Jay is a hero to me, growing up with that type of abuse, living through that, living through being a homosexual way before rainbow flags and pride parades, being one of the earlier people diagnosed with HIV(in the pre-Magic-Johnson years). And I love Jay's stories, and the way he floods jails and fucks the system. A lot of people feel bad for him. I look up to him. In my opinion he's one of the bravest, most humorous, and angelic people in my family.