Sorry. I know SOME of you have taken an interest in my job and would like to hear more about the sick, bizarro, weirdo fantasies I see each day, and I would just loooove to write about that. You can thank those few lowly dildos who each week find it of extreme importance to speculate what sex I am, and who like to say I have something a little extra between my legs. This is for you douchebags.
I have often thought I was born a male. Once when I was young, I had heard a rumor that Jamie Lee Curtis was born with a penis, and that it was cut off after birth. Then later I saw a special on the Discovery Channel about the fact that it happens, but not very often – that folks are born with both sets of genitalia, and often times the parents decide that they don't want their kids growin' up freaks, so they lop the dick off, or erase all the traces of a vagina. They decide for their kids what sex they will be, and often times later in life the children display a lot of characteristics of the opposite sex.
Since seeing that special, I have thought a lot about myself, and my fucked up childhood where I refused to play with dolls and threw them in cages and only played with He Man and boy’s toys... and the fact that I would never let my parents refer to me as a little girl, but I knew that I was not a little boy, so I made them call me a "little guy." I also have a pronounced Adam's Apple. But the rest of me, I assure you, is feminine (I don't have "man hands" or anything, thank God). I tend to think and act more like a typical male. As far as sexual orientation, I don't consider myself gay, straight, or bi. Queer would probably describe it best. My first teenage sexual relationship was with a girl.
All of this put together plus anytime many people read my writing for a somewhat prolonged period of time, at least one to several of them conclude that I cannot possibly be a female and I am most definitely a male posing as a female. So you morons are not alone... it seems to be some sort of weirdo phenomenon.
I'm going off on a tangent here, but I've always hated web threads. I appreciate many of the comments, but reading some of your retard dribble can be more than a bit annoying. Then again, you take the time to read my retard dribble. But I feel I must set the record straight, so to speak. I am fortunately or unfortunately biologically, physically, and mentally a female. I do not have a penis. I don't even have an enlarged clitoris. If you must know, my clitoris is actually extremely tiny. I have breasts, even though I do find it a bit bizarre that they didn't fully develop until last year when I was 26.
I have been told I tend to think more like a man, whatever that means, especially when it comes to sex. I think people are referring to the whole "hit it and quit it" idea I adopted for awhile. I'm not like that anymore though. And I really don't think that is a purely or even mostly purely male tendency and know many females who think and act like that. I am a bit confused by this whole conspiracy theory of sorts that I am secretly a man writing as a female for CJ. I really don't understand why that seems to be a popular belief. Sure I have written about how women are disgusting, but I have written far more about how disgusting men are.
This shit is annoying. I have a pussy. Sorry folks. If you want to see it, watch my glorious video here on CJ entitled "Je Ne Regrette Rien" where there is a big whiskey bottle shoved up said pussy. Case fucking closed. Meg is my name. I don't have a cock. Go to hell. Shut up. Get a life. And get over it.
There is something interesting about all of this though. Because, like I said, some of you CJ readers (as obnoxious as you foul pigs are) are not the first ones to read my writing and come to the conclusion that I am lying about my sex. I must wonder then... extra small clitoris, large Adam's Apple, bizarre engendering during childhood... if I was actually like those Discovery Channel babies and Jamie Lee Curtis, and born with both genitalia. It would make so much sense for my parents to choose that I would be a girl considering I have always been "Daddy's Little Girl" (eh, guy), and I don't think he'd love me as much if I had a bulge between my thighs. He certainly would no longer be able to make comments about how pretty his "little guy" is, or more recently how shapely and gorgeous my ass looks, without sounding like a total homo. He never would have been able to take me to a really sleazy lingerie store at the ripe young age of ten and ask the cashier, to her complete horror, if they had anything in my size!!! (He still claims he was just looking for pajamas.)
I have even, at my braver moments, accused my parents of chopping my penis off at birth, and they just brush it off. "There Meg goes getting crazy again." But sometimes I do wonder. And then all of this crazy feedback I get from readers somewhat verifies my suspicion.
However, to answer the big question again... NO!!!!! I AM NOT A MAN. I AM 100% FEMALE. I HAVE A VAG. GO LOOK AT IT. NO MORE FUCKING DEBATES.
I AM BEYOND SICK OF READING ABOUT IT IN THE COMMENTS SECTION.
I do confess now that sometimes I believe I was born with a little something "extra"; however I never ever think I'm a man trapped in a woman's body, although I do wish I could gain admittance to gay male bathhouses. But other than that, I think I like being a LADY. Perhaps I'll write to Jamie Lee Curtis and we can start a club or something. In the meantime, recognize that I am a bootylicious female and that my vagina bleeds for five days every month. TAKE THAT!
Now go bother some other writer on this site about how you think he's a woman and leave me the fuck alone. Oh yea and if you think this is a good opportunity to use this post to ask me for naked photos of myself, I will send you something terribly disturbing and hellish in return... far more terribly disturbing than naked photos of myself.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Stinky Stan's Electrocution Fantasy
As I said in my last post, I got a new job, and some of you more curious folks have inquired as to what exactly that new job is. I guess there's a name for it, but I don't really like the name because I don't really think it encompasses what I do. I do not sit around whipping and beating men. Thank God. Though I guess that is fun for some, the job gets much more complex, and it can be tons of fun, especially when disgusting bodily fluids are involved. In other words, the whipping is not my favorite thing to do. I have been doing this work formally, as a regular job, for three weeks now. I have done it sporadically in the past, but never officially working for an established business. And it is a business. I know this might surprise some of you in this sexual-phobic country, but it’s also a legal business. Everything is on the books, and nothing illegal goes on.
I'm not going to go into all the crazy stories I have from being a party to this for three weeks, rather I will highlight one very recent man's fantasy that I LOVED and simply cannot stop thinking about it. A great part of this whole fantasy was that the man was telling it to me whilst sniffing my feet. I had to walk around in my stinkiest shoes for hours before meeting with him, so to assure that my feet would be totally fucking disgusting smelling, which is not hard for me considering I am pretty fucking disgusting and have bad hygiene. So this man tells me his fantasy all the while pausing to take huge deep mouthfuls of stink from my feet, and of course loving it.
Here is the fantasy though, and I must write it because I simply cannot forget this. After he told it to me, I was forced to recite it back to him, while he asked me specific questions about it. Having one of the most terrible short term memories on earth, I was having huge problems doing this, so he had to keep repeating it, but never got annoyed or anything, probably because he knew that I was really enjoying this whole experience immensely, and knowing that I was a writer, I believe he did have a secret desire that I would write about it. The fantasy includes a writer, which would probably in real life be me, although in his fantasy I play the female warden of the prison, but you'll get all of that when I explain it. I keep going on tangents, I will stop. This is what he tells me. Now remember, this is his FANTASY, so it never happened. I don't think ANY part of it is true, even the beginning, which very possibly could be true, but I really just think this is all made up.
He hires a prostitute in order to sniff her dirty feet, because that is obviously what he loves to do. While he is with her, he is caught by the cops and arrested and then discovers that the prostitute was underage, only 14 years old, so he is sent to jail to await the trial. He goes to trial and of course everyone in the courtroom is female. Female judge, female prosecutor, female public defender, and an all female jury. His public defender is particularly shitty, and the prosecutor is friends with the judge ad he is determined to be a sexual deviant. The all female jury finds him guilty, and the judge gives him a particularly harsh sentence, since he is a total pervo sexual deviant, and she hates people like him. He will be forced to die in the electric chair.
I am the warden of an all female prison. I am not a particularly cold or mean warden. I just like to get my job done, and since all of the male prisons are overcrowded, he is forced to spend his death row time in my prison. We have the electric chair there, and I am always the one that pulls the switch on the chair. Like I said, I am not mean about it, rather it is my job. I don’t see them as humans, and electrocuting a man is more like putting a dog down for a veterinarian. It is a part of my job, and I am cordial, but I must do it.
I must pause for a second because – being a HUGE fan of true crime and shows like OZ, and having seen actual electrocutions (on tv or the internet of course), and know somewhat the prison process – I started realizing at the very beginning of the story that there were a TON of holes in this story and I was like "HEY THAT COULD NEVER HAPPEN"... but he HAD to keep repeating to my dumb ass that this was HIS FANTASY so it happens in his head, only. As he repeated that to me I started to fully picture the whole thing. So I really don't want to get any feedback saying "god, that was fucking stupid, that could never happen"... I agree. It couldn't. It is a FANTASY. So once you get that, you might appreciate this more. And when you realize and picture that the entire time he is reciting this extremely elaborate fantasy to me he is inhaling the odors of my stinky feet like Dennis Hopper's character in Blue Velvet taking those huge, perverse breaths out of that gas mask he has. Well, that's what it reminded me of, anyways. Ok, no more tangents, I promise.
I am the warden and I have about one electrocution a month and I schedule his electrocution for the following Thursday at 10AM. I always like to schedule my electrocutions at the same time: always on a Thursday, always at 10AM. At this point, the story skips to the Wednesday night before the electrocution. The man is taken to the holding cell. In front of the holding cell is a huge menacing metal door, which he is forced to stare at. Once he is put in the room, the "strap down team" comes in and rips off all his clothes. Because, why would he need clothes, if they're just going to get ruined once he is electrocuted? So he is forced to wait all night, naked, cowering in this small cell, awaiting the next day when he will have to sit down on the "hot seat" and have his "tushie roasted." (I say those words because these are the certain buzz words that turn him on. I must remember them when I repeat the story to him.) I, the female warden, refer jokingly to electrocutions as "tushie roasts." And when I'm going to electrocute a man I always tell everyone, "We're going to have a Tushie Roast tomorrow".
So this man is naked, cowering in his cell, and there is a female guard watching him overnight, and he starts to beg her and plead and say, "I only sniffed a girl's feet, I don't deserve this, I promise I'll never do it again, just please don't roast me." She is not mean or nice. She just very matter-of-fact-ly tells him to try and calm down and that the governor (who is also female) might call in a reprieve but if not, he will have to be electrocuted at 10AM the following morning.
The time keeps passing, and it is getting closer and closer to the time he has to die. They bring his breakfast in around 7 am, and of course he can't eat a bite because he is so scared to die.
He likes to think that this is the way all men go down, pleading and apologizing, and I did (being an idiot again) explain to him that not all men go down like that, many of them are very put together. Some even want to die. But he, again had to explain to me that this was his fantasy, and that in his fantasy all men are scared to death of the "hot seat," and they all go in like he does, begging and pleading and lurching back and forth, trying to get away, but they never do because there is a very efficient all female "strap down team" who takes the naked, sweaty man to the "hot seat." I did ask him if he asked about his last meal and what it was, but he said that it was just a regular breakfast, and it didn't really matter in his fantasy because he could not eat it anyway, because how could a man possibly eat when he knows that he will be dead in a few hours?
After his breakfast comes, there is a twist. I, the female warden, am having a particularly busy day, so I move the electrocution up to nine AM because I want to get it over with, thus showing how little I care about this man's life, and that it is merely a burden in my day. There is no notion in my mind that a human life will be lost. He's just fucking up my daily business. He protests to this and says how unfair it is, and now there is way less time for any type of reprieve, and again says that if he is not given the hot seat he will NEVER EVER do anything like he did before and he will be good and how in the world could they just move it up an hour like that, but he is told by the guard that these things happen, and he is to meet with a few people and then get prepped for the electrocution.
He really has no family or friends, so no one like that will be watching the electrocution. The underage prostitute was not a victim, and she doesn't even realize what happened to him after he was taken away, so there will be no victims watching. The first visit he gets is from his female public defender. She tries to act like she feels bad for not doing a better job with the case, but really she doesn't care much, but tries to offer a kind face, and will witness the electrocution.
The second visitor is the female prosecutor, who just thinks that men like him are disgusting pigs who should fucking fry. She's so glad to witness him dying. But she says about the hottest thing in the world to him, which is of EXTREME importance in the story. She walks up to him, wearing a business suit and high heels. He is naked cowering in his cell. He starts to plead with her, and she says to him, with a sly smile on her face
"You know, it's a real shame that you're going to fry for sniffing an underage girl's feet. Not just underage girls’ feet smell. I'm a mature woman, and my feet, in these heels smell REAL bad. Think about that when you're sitting on the hot seat, waiting to fry." How shitty is that? She not only is a very big part of the reason he's dying, she completely mind-fucks him right before his death. (But what a hot thing to say.)
One more visitor comes in. (This is the one that I actually in real life mostly identify with, but in his fantasy, again, I play the female warden.) Another woman, this one a true crime writer and a psychologist. She is working on a book about sexual deviants and she has researched this man's life and is writing a chapter about him in her book. This is the first live electrocution she has ever witnessed, and she is extremely excited about it. She is escorted to the cell by me, the female warden. And I open the huge metal door in front of him and in that room is the hot seat, and I give the psychologist a tour of it, while he is finally getting his first glimpse of the instrument that will soon kill him.
After the tour, I take the psychologist over to him, and she is very warm to him and gives him her regards, and explains to him how she has been writing a chapter on him and how she will be watching the electrocution as well. She's nice to him, but it's little comfort, since he realizes that this is the last visitor and he will soon die.
It is now 8:30, and no reprieves or anything have been called in. He must get prepped for the chair. A barber and a nurse come into his cell. The barber explains that she is there to shave his tushie so that the hair does not burn. She pulls out the straight razor and starts to shave. He starts again to writhe and resists and she suggests to him that he should really stay still because he will be sitting on a pad of alcohol and if he has an open sore, the alcohol will burn it when he sits down. He thinks this is a ridiculous request since he knows that the pain of an alcohol burn will be far less than the pain of having thousands of volts jolting through his body.
After the barber is done shaving his tushie, the nurse starts to lube it up. She then explains that she will have to insert a plug of sorts into his tushie because when they electrocute him, his body will have no control and they don't want a mess from him shitting all over, so they will have to plug him up. (At this point in the story, I said WHAT?!? They don't really put butt-plugs in people's butts when they electrocute them. That wouldn't even really work would it? He laughed and explained to me AGAIN that this was HIS fantasy, and he thinks that they use diapers or something, which I remembered that that is what they do, but in his fantasy, he gets the butt plug. I honestly just needed to shut the fuck up and go with it but I loved the story so much and him sniffing my dirty feet that I almost wanted it to be real now. And a weird detail like that would ruin it for ME. But, for him, a butt plug being forced into his ass is a lot hotter than them putting a diaper on him, so that is what happens). The nurse then inserts the butt plug into the naked, sweaty man. Then she weighs him and explains that they need his weight to determine how much current they will use to fry him. She then clips his toenails. He asks her why she is doing this and she explains that the people going to the chair tend to kick, and they don't want him cutting anyone with his long toenails, so they must be cut.
It is now time to take him into the room with the metal door in front of him, which menacingly stores the electric chair. It is 8:45. I stand by in my business suit and high heels while the four-female "strap down team" comes into his cell to get him into the chair. At this point, the man KNOWS that there's no going back now, he's gonna fry very, very soon. He starts going nuts. He's doing EVERYTHING he can to get the hell out of there, he is writhing and flipping over and pleading and saying that he didn't do anything, and how could they do this to him. But he is no match for the strap down team. They are used to this, because they have to do this about once a month, whenever a man gets the hot seat. They are very efficient in their job and they quickly grab him and get him into the chair and he sits down on the cold sponge on the chair, and they grab both arms and legs and strap him in.
The room is very cold, because it tends to get hot after an electrocution. Even though the room is cold, and the man is completely naked, he is sweating profusely because of the fighting and the fact that the anticipation of the doom that is to come. He sits in the chair and faces the glass window with the witnesses. He sees his public defender, who is smiling, trying to comfort him. He sees the prosecutor, who is smiling because she can't wait to see this pervo roast. He then sees the psychologist, who is smiling because this is the first electrocution that she has ever witnessed, and she's really excited to see the whole process. There are a total of twelve people in the witness room. All women. All are smiling. But he only recognizes the three smiling faces that had visited him in his cell.
After he sits for a minute, I check if there has been any reprieves from the governor. There have not. I start to read him his "death warrant" and then I ask him if he has any last words. He realizes this is his last chance to stop everything, and he is given a microphone, but all he can do is beg and plead that he will never EVER do anything bad again, and how he is an innocent man, and this is too harsh of a punishment – just about the same stuff he has been saying all along.
I take the microphone from him. I will be pulling the switch, and I really secretly love watching these men fry, but I am very businesslike and efficient about it. I do have one thing I am famous for, though. After the death warrant and the last words have been said, and there is no going back and I am about to pull the switch, I go up to him and I check the straps, and make sure they're good and tight. I put my hand on his shoulder, and I say my catch phrase to him. I say "Good Luck Tushie". Then the bag is placed over his head and he can only hear my high heels hitting the ground as I walk to the switch.
I pull the switch. His body starts to shake, then goes limp. He is dead.
That is the fantasy. A rather anticlimactic ending, but he explains to me that the ending is not the important thing… everything leading up to the electrocution is important. Each sentence in this story is an EXTREMELY important detail which must be remembered when repeating his fantasy back to him. Of course a person (especially me) cannot remember all of these details after having heard the story one time, but I did my damnedest to repeat it back to him the very best I could. I LOVED the story. This man paid a few hundred dollars for this experience, and I swear I definitely would have done it for free. I would do it a thousand times again. It was SO AWESOME.
When repeating the story to him, he asked me certain questions like whether or not I would pull the switch, and of course I am supposed to say hell yes I would love to, but stupid me who thinks too much, laughs and honestly answers, I really don't think so, but as soon as I see the disappointment start to show on his face, I realize that I'm being a total idiot and change and say, “Actually, of course I'd fucking pull the switch. I'd pull that goddamned switch and smile and as I watched you fry.”
He asked me what I'd say to him and suddenly my mind went blank, and I couldn’t remember if it's "good night tushie" or "good luck tushie" and he's was so close to climaxing, and I said "good night tushie," and he says, smiling, "NOOOO!!!! It's 'Good Luck Tushie'!!!". I end up getting this phrase wrong like three times. Each time I get it wrong and he's about to cum, and then he laughs, and stops. Now I'm getting really frustrated, but then I get it right, and he climaxes. And, sadly, the hour is over.
An interesting side note, this man also has a fantasy about the "gas chamber." Some of you may be able to guess what that involves. I should make you all guess, but it's too funny. The "gas chamber" involves a woman farting in his face. But apparently there is no long elaborate story for it. I don't get how it goes. I told him he HAS to make up a gas chamber story. And that I need to hear it. I really hope he does. But I'd gladly play female warden for him again. That was so fun!!!
Before I go, I leave you with these final words. You don’t have to worry… I won’t turn this column into a diary about my job, but I feel the need to include amazing stuff like this foot smeller because I loved it. It made me so happy. And I know that my columns often come off sounding depressing, or at least I have been told that. Maybe this one will sound depressing to some. Two weirdo pervs getting off on some crazy-ass, bizarro fantasy, what a sick world we live in. But I truly believe that if places like I work at did not exist, these people would have almost no outlet for these fantasies (imagine what it was like pre-Internet!!!), and they'd actually go out and act on their rape fantasies instead of imagining them with a fellow sicko like me. Most of these people are, as you might imagine, rich, upstanding, white collar workers. I do not know what they do specifically but I'm sure they are influential people. Money means power for many. And these people obviously have money, therefore having power. This is going in a totally different direction. I'll stop now. I'm just hoping that I get to send some lucky man to the gas chamber someday.
I'm not going to go into all the crazy stories I have from being a party to this for three weeks, rather I will highlight one very recent man's fantasy that I LOVED and simply cannot stop thinking about it. A great part of this whole fantasy was that the man was telling it to me whilst sniffing my feet. I had to walk around in my stinkiest shoes for hours before meeting with him, so to assure that my feet would be totally fucking disgusting smelling, which is not hard for me considering I am pretty fucking disgusting and have bad hygiene. So this man tells me his fantasy all the while pausing to take huge deep mouthfuls of stink from my feet, and of course loving it.
Here is the fantasy though, and I must write it because I simply cannot forget this. After he told it to me, I was forced to recite it back to him, while he asked me specific questions about it. Having one of the most terrible short term memories on earth, I was having huge problems doing this, so he had to keep repeating it, but never got annoyed or anything, probably because he knew that I was really enjoying this whole experience immensely, and knowing that I was a writer, I believe he did have a secret desire that I would write about it. The fantasy includes a writer, which would probably in real life be me, although in his fantasy I play the female warden of the prison, but you'll get all of that when I explain it. I keep going on tangents, I will stop. This is what he tells me. Now remember, this is his FANTASY, so it never happened. I don't think ANY part of it is true, even the beginning, which very possibly could be true, but I really just think this is all made up.
He hires a prostitute in order to sniff her dirty feet, because that is obviously what he loves to do. While he is with her, he is caught by the cops and arrested and then discovers that the prostitute was underage, only 14 years old, so he is sent to jail to await the trial. He goes to trial and of course everyone in the courtroom is female. Female judge, female prosecutor, female public defender, and an all female jury. His public defender is particularly shitty, and the prosecutor is friends with the judge ad he is determined to be a sexual deviant. The all female jury finds him guilty, and the judge gives him a particularly harsh sentence, since he is a total pervo sexual deviant, and she hates people like him. He will be forced to die in the electric chair.
I am the warden of an all female prison. I am not a particularly cold or mean warden. I just like to get my job done, and since all of the male prisons are overcrowded, he is forced to spend his death row time in my prison. We have the electric chair there, and I am always the one that pulls the switch on the chair. Like I said, I am not mean about it, rather it is my job. I don’t see them as humans, and electrocuting a man is more like putting a dog down for a veterinarian. It is a part of my job, and I am cordial, but I must do it.
I must pause for a second because – being a HUGE fan of true crime and shows like OZ, and having seen actual electrocutions (on tv or the internet of course), and know somewhat the prison process – I started realizing at the very beginning of the story that there were a TON of holes in this story and I was like "HEY THAT COULD NEVER HAPPEN"... but he HAD to keep repeating to my dumb ass that this was HIS FANTASY so it happens in his head, only. As he repeated that to me I started to fully picture the whole thing. So I really don't want to get any feedback saying "god, that was fucking stupid, that could never happen"... I agree. It couldn't. It is a FANTASY. So once you get that, you might appreciate this more. And when you realize and picture that the entire time he is reciting this extremely elaborate fantasy to me he is inhaling the odors of my stinky feet like Dennis Hopper's character in Blue Velvet taking those huge, perverse breaths out of that gas mask he has. Well, that's what it reminded me of, anyways. Ok, no more tangents, I promise.
I am the warden and I have about one electrocution a month and I schedule his electrocution for the following Thursday at 10AM. I always like to schedule my electrocutions at the same time: always on a Thursday, always at 10AM. At this point, the story skips to the Wednesday night before the electrocution. The man is taken to the holding cell. In front of the holding cell is a huge menacing metal door, which he is forced to stare at. Once he is put in the room, the "strap down team" comes in and rips off all his clothes. Because, why would he need clothes, if they're just going to get ruined once he is electrocuted? So he is forced to wait all night, naked, cowering in this small cell, awaiting the next day when he will have to sit down on the "hot seat" and have his "tushie roasted." (I say those words because these are the certain buzz words that turn him on. I must remember them when I repeat the story to him.) I, the female warden, refer jokingly to electrocutions as "tushie roasts." And when I'm going to electrocute a man I always tell everyone, "We're going to have a Tushie Roast tomorrow".
So this man is naked, cowering in his cell, and there is a female guard watching him overnight, and he starts to beg her and plead and say, "I only sniffed a girl's feet, I don't deserve this, I promise I'll never do it again, just please don't roast me." She is not mean or nice. She just very matter-of-fact-ly tells him to try and calm down and that the governor (who is also female) might call in a reprieve but if not, he will have to be electrocuted at 10AM the following morning.
The time keeps passing, and it is getting closer and closer to the time he has to die. They bring his breakfast in around 7 am, and of course he can't eat a bite because he is so scared to die.
He likes to think that this is the way all men go down, pleading and apologizing, and I did (being an idiot again) explain to him that not all men go down like that, many of them are very put together. Some even want to die. But he, again had to explain to me that this was his fantasy, and that in his fantasy all men are scared to death of the "hot seat," and they all go in like he does, begging and pleading and lurching back and forth, trying to get away, but they never do because there is a very efficient all female "strap down team" who takes the naked, sweaty man to the "hot seat." I did ask him if he asked about his last meal and what it was, but he said that it was just a regular breakfast, and it didn't really matter in his fantasy because he could not eat it anyway, because how could a man possibly eat when he knows that he will be dead in a few hours?
After his breakfast comes, there is a twist. I, the female warden, am having a particularly busy day, so I move the electrocution up to nine AM because I want to get it over with, thus showing how little I care about this man's life, and that it is merely a burden in my day. There is no notion in my mind that a human life will be lost. He's just fucking up my daily business. He protests to this and says how unfair it is, and now there is way less time for any type of reprieve, and again says that if he is not given the hot seat he will NEVER EVER do anything like he did before and he will be good and how in the world could they just move it up an hour like that, but he is told by the guard that these things happen, and he is to meet with a few people and then get prepped for the electrocution.
He really has no family or friends, so no one like that will be watching the electrocution. The underage prostitute was not a victim, and she doesn't even realize what happened to him after he was taken away, so there will be no victims watching. The first visit he gets is from his female public defender. She tries to act like she feels bad for not doing a better job with the case, but really she doesn't care much, but tries to offer a kind face, and will witness the electrocution.
The second visitor is the female prosecutor, who just thinks that men like him are disgusting pigs who should fucking fry. She's so glad to witness him dying. But she says about the hottest thing in the world to him, which is of EXTREME importance in the story. She walks up to him, wearing a business suit and high heels. He is naked cowering in his cell. He starts to plead with her, and she says to him, with a sly smile on her face
"You know, it's a real shame that you're going to fry for sniffing an underage girl's feet. Not just underage girls’ feet smell. I'm a mature woman, and my feet, in these heels smell REAL bad. Think about that when you're sitting on the hot seat, waiting to fry." How shitty is that? She not only is a very big part of the reason he's dying, she completely mind-fucks him right before his death. (But what a hot thing to say.)
One more visitor comes in. (This is the one that I actually in real life mostly identify with, but in his fantasy, again, I play the female warden.) Another woman, this one a true crime writer and a psychologist. She is working on a book about sexual deviants and she has researched this man's life and is writing a chapter about him in her book. This is the first live electrocution she has ever witnessed, and she is extremely excited about it. She is escorted to the cell by me, the female warden. And I open the huge metal door in front of him and in that room is the hot seat, and I give the psychologist a tour of it, while he is finally getting his first glimpse of the instrument that will soon kill him.
After the tour, I take the psychologist over to him, and she is very warm to him and gives him her regards, and explains to him how she has been writing a chapter on him and how she will be watching the electrocution as well. She's nice to him, but it's little comfort, since he realizes that this is the last visitor and he will soon die.
It is now 8:30, and no reprieves or anything have been called in. He must get prepped for the chair. A barber and a nurse come into his cell. The barber explains that she is there to shave his tushie so that the hair does not burn. She pulls out the straight razor and starts to shave. He starts again to writhe and resists and she suggests to him that he should really stay still because he will be sitting on a pad of alcohol and if he has an open sore, the alcohol will burn it when he sits down. He thinks this is a ridiculous request since he knows that the pain of an alcohol burn will be far less than the pain of having thousands of volts jolting through his body.
After the barber is done shaving his tushie, the nurse starts to lube it up. She then explains that she will have to insert a plug of sorts into his tushie because when they electrocute him, his body will have no control and they don't want a mess from him shitting all over, so they will have to plug him up. (At this point in the story, I said WHAT?!? They don't really put butt-plugs in people's butts when they electrocute them. That wouldn't even really work would it? He laughed and explained to me AGAIN that this was HIS fantasy, and he thinks that they use diapers or something, which I remembered that that is what they do, but in his fantasy, he gets the butt plug. I honestly just needed to shut the fuck up and go with it but I loved the story so much and him sniffing my dirty feet that I almost wanted it to be real now. And a weird detail like that would ruin it for ME. But, for him, a butt plug being forced into his ass is a lot hotter than them putting a diaper on him, so that is what happens). The nurse then inserts the butt plug into the naked, sweaty man. Then she weighs him and explains that they need his weight to determine how much current they will use to fry him. She then clips his toenails. He asks her why she is doing this and she explains that the people going to the chair tend to kick, and they don't want him cutting anyone with his long toenails, so they must be cut.
It is now time to take him into the room with the metal door in front of him, which menacingly stores the electric chair. It is 8:45. I stand by in my business suit and high heels while the four-female "strap down team" comes into his cell to get him into the chair. At this point, the man KNOWS that there's no going back now, he's gonna fry very, very soon. He starts going nuts. He's doing EVERYTHING he can to get the hell out of there, he is writhing and flipping over and pleading and saying that he didn't do anything, and how could they do this to him. But he is no match for the strap down team. They are used to this, because they have to do this about once a month, whenever a man gets the hot seat. They are very efficient in their job and they quickly grab him and get him into the chair and he sits down on the cold sponge on the chair, and they grab both arms and legs and strap him in.
The room is very cold, because it tends to get hot after an electrocution. Even though the room is cold, and the man is completely naked, he is sweating profusely because of the fighting and the fact that the anticipation of the doom that is to come. He sits in the chair and faces the glass window with the witnesses. He sees his public defender, who is smiling, trying to comfort him. He sees the prosecutor, who is smiling because she can't wait to see this pervo roast. He then sees the psychologist, who is smiling because this is the first electrocution that she has ever witnessed, and she's really excited to see the whole process. There are a total of twelve people in the witness room. All women. All are smiling. But he only recognizes the three smiling faces that had visited him in his cell.
After he sits for a minute, I check if there has been any reprieves from the governor. There have not. I start to read him his "death warrant" and then I ask him if he has any last words. He realizes this is his last chance to stop everything, and he is given a microphone, but all he can do is beg and plead that he will never EVER do anything bad again, and how he is an innocent man, and this is too harsh of a punishment – just about the same stuff he has been saying all along.
I take the microphone from him. I will be pulling the switch, and I really secretly love watching these men fry, but I am very businesslike and efficient about it. I do have one thing I am famous for, though. After the death warrant and the last words have been said, and there is no going back and I am about to pull the switch, I go up to him and I check the straps, and make sure they're good and tight. I put my hand on his shoulder, and I say my catch phrase to him. I say "Good Luck Tushie". Then the bag is placed over his head and he can only hear my high heels hitting the ground as I walk to the switch.
I pull the switch. His body starts to shake, then goes limp. He is dead.
That is the fantasy. A rather anticlimactic ending, but he explains to me that the ending is not the important thing… everything leading up to the electrocution is important. Each sentence in this story is an EXTREMELY important detail which must be remembered when repeating his fantasy back to him. Of course a person (especially me) cannot remember all of these details after having heard the story one time, but I did my damnedest to repeat it back to him the very best I could. I LOVED the story. This man paid a few hundred dollars for this experience, and I swear I definitely would have done it for free. I would do it a thousand times again. It was SO AWESOME.
When repeating the story to him, he asked me certain questions like whether or not I would pull the switch, and of course I am supposed to say hell yes I would love to, but stupid me who thinks too much, laughs and honestly answers, I really don't think so, but as soon as I see the disappointment start to show on his face, I realize that I'm being a total idiot and change and say, “Actually, of course I'd fucking pull the switch. I'd pull that goddamned switch and smile and as I watched you fry.”
He asked me what I'd say to him and suddenly my mind went blank, and I couldn’t remember if it's "good night tushie" or "good luck tushie" and he's was so close to climaxing, and I said "good night tushie," and he says, smiling, "NOOOO!!!! It's 'Good Luck Tushie'!!!". I end up getting this phrase wrong like three times. Each time I get it wrong and he's about to cum, and then he laughs, and stops. Now I'm getting really frustrated, but then I get it right, and he climaxes. And, sadly, the hour is over.
An interesting side note, this man also has a fantasy about the "gas chamber." Some of you may be able to guess what that involves. I should make you all guess, but it's too funny. The "gas chamber" involves a woman farting in his face. But apparently there is no long elaborate story for it. I don't get how it goes. I told him he HAS to make up a gas chamber story. And that I need to hear it. I really hope he does. But I'd gladly play female warden for him again. That was so fun!!!
Before I go, I leave you with these final words. You don’t have to worry… I won’t turn this column into a diary about my job, but I feel the need to include amazing stuff like this foot smeller because I loved it. It made me so happy. And I know that my columns often come off sounding depressing, or at least I have been told that. Maybe this one will sound depressing to some. Two weirdo pervs getting off on some crazy-ass, bizarro fantasy, what a sick world we live in. But I truly believe that if places like I work at did not exist, these people would have almost no outlet for these fantasies (imagine what it was like pre-Internet!!!), and they'd actually go out and act on their rape fantasies instead of imagining them with a fellow sicko like me. Most of these people are, as you might imagine, rich, upstanding, white collar workers. I do not know what they do specifically but I'm sure they are influential people. Money means power for many. And these people obviously have money, therefore having power. This is going in a totally different direction. I'll stop now. I'm just hoping that I get to send some lucky man to the gas chamber someday.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Thursday, October 4, 2007
A Few Of Meg's Favorite Things
In Chicago, we have a version of what I guess the Village Voice is in NYC. It's the trendy, stick-up-your-ass paper that the tragically hip try to adhere to. Its mindless reviews can either make you or break you if you're in my profession – my profession being that of a deadbeat writer/artist trying to exploit yourself horribly to gain a dime. The publication has exploited me and my stories, my clothes, and my films for its value, and I of course consented. Personally, the only time I like when this paper decides to bottom feed and sink to my guttural level is when it talks about what a terrible worthless retard I am.
The recent issue highlights the forty best things about our wonderful city, Chicago. I will leave any promotion out. They managed to hit on a couple of good spots, but for the most part, it was a bunch of hipster, fake, lamoid, boring, turd events that the foul, steaming, shitpile, hipsters who they chose to write about them attend. At first I was a little insulted. I was insulted that I am a pretty well known shithead, scumbag writer in Chicago, and I was not chosen to pick my favorite place. That feeling lasted about ten seconds, and then I slapped myself in the face for even entertaining the idea that I would bless them with my foul mind turds. I couldn’t believe I would even have such ambitions.
There is a hierarchical totem pole to the hipster madness at this chic, Chicago paper. The head of the totem pole turns out to be a wonderfully "hip" girl that I had the pleasure of attending high school with. We never cease to exchange dirty looks when we see each other anywhere. This rivalry has been going on ever since that over-privileged brat went to the same over-privileged suburban high school that I went to. And when she was not busy being a tawdry, dirty cunt and a shame to the female gender, she was spitting on me and calling me trash.
We parted ways for four years. She became a cokehead stripper, completed college, and gets paid shitloads of dollars to be Ms. Hip in Chi-town and prance around like Paris or Lohan or Bijou and write regenerated garbage about the Chicago "scene." I became a drunk heroin addict who barely survives on extra government money, graduated college, and emerged a smut writer who almost no publication will touch (thank God for CJ); and when they do, I am labeled a "shock-columnist" – a title which always makes me gag (I like "smut peddler" much better). I guess it’s because of my lack of “literary merit” that this prissy piss pouch still spits on me at hipster parties, and once she even tried to steal one of my boyfriends. Trash. Apparently for her, high school has never ended.
I haven’t seen the most recent issue, but I’m going to take a guess as to what it’s about. She no doubt highlights some terrible pick-up clubs and crappy bands and writes the most banal, Sex in the City-esque dumpster stories about where to shop and bands that kick out "gnarly synth mauling beats"… whatever the fuck that means.
Some might come to the conclusion, by reading this, that I am jealous. My response? YOU'RE GODDAMNED FUCKING RIGHT!!!!! I'm jealous as hell that I sit here and tell my dirtiest of dirty secrets and am a truck stop away from being a full time hooker, whilst she, and many like her, recycles boring, thumb-up-my-ass crap about what kind of pussy fragrance to wear. The tit-less little bone prances around with her expensive shoes and froo-froo scarf around her little neck, and groans and gargles out garbage onto a page for tons of dollars. Instead of wanting to hit the next hot club, she makes me want to hit myself in the roof of the mouth with a shotgun and blow the back of my head off.
In lieu of further bitching, I feel it will be more apropos to write a list of my 42 favorite things. These could have all graced her hipster turd paper and been beautiful. Besides, it’s about time I write something upbeat. I don't hate everything folks, and here are 42 of my favorite things to prove it:
1. That new reality show where the children have to toil and work. I'm waiting for it to turn into real life Lord of the Flies.
2. Watching the obese, children, and people in wheelchairs fall down.
3. Seeing Tyra Banks cry.
4. Jan Michael Vincent at this age and the fact that he has cirrhosis of the liver.
5. Juggalos. (hardcore ICP fans).
6. Honor amongst thieves, especially in the old west.
7. Natural disasters.
8. When Valerie Solanis shot Andy Warhol.
9. The extremely racist Disney movie "Song of thee South," which is now almost impossible to get because Disney owns the world, and is for some reason ashamed of this slice of genius.
10. The women in the film "Grey Gardens" and agoraphobic women in general.
11. The Hemloch Society and assisted suicide.
12. Canadian Landlords.
13. When celebrities complain about how terrible their lives are because of the paparazzi.
14. The fact that my breasts have grown 1 1/2 cup sizes in the past year.
15. Television. (I could go on forever).
16. The plays of Cho, the fellow who shot up Virginia Tech, especially the one entitled "Richard McBeef".
17. Abusive Relationships.
18. Disneyland jail.
19. Red Lobster Lobsterfest.
20. Getting paid by the government without working.
21. Blogs of high school girls with low self esteem.
22. Xanax.
23. The bridge when you enter Tijuana over the boarder where all the sick and decrepit beg for money, and children play the accordion and yell.
24. Sitting in the house and getting bigger.
25. Food stamps.
26. Jack in the Box, two tacos for 99 cents.
27. Bars that don't search my bags so I can bring my own drinks in.
28. Secrets.
29. The smell of my neighborhood. Kind of like the smell of slaughterhouses.
30. Child Beauty Pageants.
31. Waiting for the man.
32. Pee pads.
33. Hentai.
34. Hitler mustaches.
35. The scene in the movie "The Wall" where Pink tears apart his hotel room and arranges everything in this beautifully obsessive compulsive way.
36. The photos in my Pediatric Nursing and Clinical Dermatology books.
37. The time when a guy told me that I looked like "a toy box threw up" in reference to the colorful way I dress, I guess. Who knows? It was a wonderful thing to yell at someone.
38. Plastic surgery disasters.
39. Sugar Mammas and Daddies
40. Fixing cars with Duct tape.
41. Bridezillas.
42. Multiples of five.
Not too shabby of a list, if I may say. Man, I like a lot of things. And it definitely proves I don’t hate everything in the world. Hell, I could make an even longer list if I tried. Notice "life" was not in there, but neither was "death". So I can do other things than complain. I actually consider myself a humanitarian and a proponent of social justice. Fucking weird. I don't like to write about that stuff, I just hope it comes out through what I write.
I have to admit, however, that even after all this positivity I still can’t help but hate that nasty, cum-stained journalist whom I far surpass in intellect and creativity, but I feel a lot better that I have a way better forum where I can write my 42 favorite things. I don't even have to worry about whether the audience loves or hates it, because either result is a success to me.
FTW. I love life.
The recent issue highlights the forty best things about our wonderful city, Chicago. I will leave any promotion out. They managed to hit on a couple of good spots, but for the most part, it was a bunch of hipster, fake, lamoid, boring, turd events that the foul, steaming, shitpile, hipsters who they chose to write about them attend. At first I was a little insulted. I was insulted that I am a pretty well known shithead, scumbag writer in Chicago, and I was not chosen to pick my favorite place. That feeling lasted about ten seconds, and then I slapped myself in the face for even entertaining the idea that I would bless them with my foul mind turds. I couldn’t believe I would even have such ambitions.
There is a hierarchical totem pole to the hipster madness at this chic, Chicago paper. The head of the totem pole turns out to be a wonderfully "hip" girl that I had the pleasure of attending high school with. We never cease to exchange dirty looks when we see each other anywhere. This rivalry has been going on ever since that over-privileged brat went to the same over-privileged suburban high school that I went to. And when she was not busy being a tawdry, dirty cunt and a shame to the female gender, she was spitting on me and calling me trash.
We parted ways for four years. She became a cokehead stripper, completed college, and gets paid shitloads of dollars to be Ms. Hip in Chi-town and prance around like Paris or Lohan or Bijou and write regenerated garbage about the Chicago "scene." I became a drunk heroin addict who barely survives on extra government money, graduated college, and emerged a smut writer who almost no publication will touch (thank God for CJ); and when they do, I am labeled a "shock-columnist" – a title which always makes me gag (I like "smut peddler" much better). I guess it’s because of my lack of “literary merit” that this prissy piss pouch still spits on me at hipster parties, and once she even tried to steal one of my boyfriends. Trash. Apparently for her, high school has never ended.
I haven’t seen the most recent issue, but I’m going to take a guess as to what it’s about. She no doubt highlights some terrible pick-up clubs and crappy bands and writes the most banal, Sex in the City-esque dumpster stories about where to shop and bands that kick out "gnarly synth mauling beats"… whatever the fuck that means.
Some might come to the conclusion, by reading this, that I am jealous. My response? YOU'RE GODDAMNED FUCKING RIGHT!!!!! I'm jealous as hell that I sit here and tell my dirtiest of dirty secrets and am a truck stop away from being a full time hooker, whilst she, and many like her, recycles boring, thumb-up-my-ass crap about what kind of pussy fragrance to wear. The tit-less little bone prances around with her expensive shoes and froo-froo scarf around her little neck, and groans and gargles out garbage onto a page for tons of dollars. Instead of wanting to hit the next hot club, she makes me want to hit myself in the roof of the mouth with a shotgun and blow the back of my head off.
In lieu of further bitching, I feel it will be more apropos to write a list of my 42 favorite things. These could have all graced her hipster turd paper and been beautiful. Besides, it’s about time I write something upbeat. I don't hate everything folks, and here are 42 of my favorite things to prove it:
1. That new reality show where the children have to toil and work. I'm waiting for it to turn into real life Lord of the Flies.
2. Watching the obese, children, and people in wheelchairs fall down.
3. Seeing Tyra Banks cry.
4. Jan Michael Vincent at this age and the fact that he has cirrhosis of the liver.
5. Juggalos. (hardcore ICP fans).
6. Honor amongst thieves, especially in the old west.
7. Natural disasters.
8. When Valerie Solanis shot Andy Warhol.
9. The extremely racist Disney movie "Song of thee South," which is now almost impossible to get because Disney owns the world, and is for some reason ashamed of this slice of genius.
10. The women in the film "Grey Gardens" and agoraphobic women in general.
11. The Hemloch Society and assisted suicide.
12. Canadian Landlords.
13. When celebrities complain about how terrible their lives are because of the paparazzi.
14. The fact that my breasts have grown 1 1/2 cup sizes in the past year.
15. Television. (I could go on forever).
16. The plays of Cho, the fellow who shot up Virginia Tech, especially the one entitled "Richard McBeef".
17. Abusive Relationships.
18. Disneyland jail.
19. Red Lobster Lobsterfest.
20. Getting paid by the government without working.
21. Blogs of high school girls with low self esteem.
22. Xanax.
23. The bridge when you enter Tijuana over the boarder where all the sick and decrepit beg for money, and children play the accordion and yell.
24. Sitting in the house and getting bigger.
25. Food stamps.
26. Jack in the Box, two tacos for 99 cents.
27. Bars that don't search my bags so I can bring my own drinks in.
28. Secrets.
29. The smell of my neighborhood. Kind of like the smell of slaughterhouses.
30. Child Beauty Pageants.
31. Waiting for the man.
32. Pee pads.
33. Hentai.
34. Hitler mustaches.
35. The scene in the movie "The Wall" where Pink tears apart his hotel room and arranges everything in this beautifully obsessive compulsive way.
36. The photos in my Pediatric Nursing and Clinical Dermatology books.
37. The time when a guy told me that I looked like "a toy box threw up" in reference to the colorful way I dress, I guess. Who knows? It was a wonderful thing to yell at someone.
38. Plastic surgery disasters.
39. Sugar Mammas and Daddies
40. Fixing cars with Duct tape.
41. Bridezillas.
42. Multiples of five.
Not too shabby of a list, if I may say. Man, I like a lot of things. And it definitely proves I don’t hate everything in the world. Hell, I could make an even longer list if I tried. Notice "life" was not in there, but neither was "death". So I can do other things than complain. I actually consider myself a humanitarian and a proponent of social justice. Fucking weird. I don't like to write about that stuff, I just hope it comes out through what I write.
I have to admit, however, that even after all this positivity I still can’t help but hate that nasty, cum-stained journalist whom I far surpass in intellect and creativity, but I feel a lot better that I have a way better forum where I can write my 42 favorite things. I don't even have to worry about whether the audience loves or hates it, because either result is a success to me.
FTW. I love life.
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