Judas Cradles And Spanish Donkeys 1

"So that's what they wanted: lies. Beautiful lies. That's what they needed. People were fools."

― Henry Chinaski

The Super Bowl:

Reduced to fundamentals, this event is no more than grown men chasing pigskin around a field. Let that settle in for a bit.

Grown men chasing pigskin around a field.

As a species, we believe we're analytically advanced. Yet, year after year, people invest innumerable hours watching "their team" attempt to become the best at this callow endeavor. What would we have accomplished, if all that energy we waste getting to, and viewing, the Super Bowl had been used for something beneficial to humanity?

Would our children still suffer from cancer?

Would Alzheimer's and autism be forgotten terms, only found in forgotten dictionaries?

Would we have mastered clean, safe energy; perhaps traveled to other planets...outside this Solar System?

The dissonance of the table saw incised the desert. Sparks showered from a corrugated tool shed. Tendrils of electricity clawed the heavens.

The alloy hut was seconds from launching into the magnetosphere. Orange and blue blazed from every uneven connection comprising the domicile.

Inside, a driven madman was producing! A faucet broke beneath the donut of hair left encircling the base of his scalp, as sweat drained out the pores of his Naugahyde head.

Slicing electrified air, he brought a five pound hammer down in swooping arcs. The cacophony of metal meeting metal turned the night into a frenzied calliope, smashed out by demons.

"The insurance company will pay, Marilyn," the 73 year old housewife croaked, crumbs from a flaky biscuit breaking apart like Queen, after Freddie Mercury died. The particles fell upon deflated tits, wrangled beneath a name brand blouse less original than a karaoke song.

"Let's hope so," responded an equally drab woman sipping tea, also garbed in uninspired clothing. She readjusted, and a homemade vibrator ― constructed from an electric toothbrush, and a baby doll's arm ― tickled her cervix.

Women attend board meetings ― pretending to be concerned about profit margins ― with cellophane-wrapped pickles up their cunts. CEOs give TED Talks, while sounding rods pierce their penis holes beneath their slacks. People remotely electrocute genitals, all over the globe, at every hour of the day.

We remain within the illusion; doing things in which we have no interest, all the while fantasizing about our true desires. Women want oiled action figures stuck up their assholes ― orgasmic juices draining over these puny, plastic, pretend people ― not some dull discourse about derivatives.

As folks stuff their cocks inside egg salad sandwiches on lunch breaks, and fuck fresh fruit, we pretend we're civilized. This, even though we perpetrate genocide on our own kind, and go to bed blissfully ignorant, wondering who will win some stupid cup named after a guy called Stanley.

Cracks in the fallacy spill from my ball point pen, as I produce these words among the bowels of my enslavement. I scribble in a frenzy to create, inside "employee" bathrooms, on hold with some scumfuck wanting money, etc.

It was the same for the inventor inside the storage shed. Each day, he would listen to his wife drone on about nothing at fucking all. Each evening, he would steal away to his laboratory, and conceive!

Waving through the front room window, he watched the ball and chain depart for who the fuck cared?! As soon as the social security check on wheels disappeared over the horizon, it was fuckin' on!

Activating his cell, he typed the sentence "She's gone," into a text block, and hit send.

"How long?" came the remote reply.

"Four hours," he responded.

"We're on our way."

Dimming the lights in the room ― where his wife had entertained minutes prior ― he flipped a coffee table upright. Extending the telescoping legs, he angled them apart, and the four appendages locked in place.

Somehow, some way, the originally boring piece of Ikea bullshit had ― in two quick moves ― become a St. Andrew's Cross.

From there, the man lighted upon each mundane furnishing. With economy of effort, every piece converted rapidly into various dungeon implements ― all by design.

A recliner spun inside-out to become a Smotherbox. When turned over, the couch was a bondage bed. A harmless chair transformed into an Inversion Table. An empty display case metamorphosed into a Rack; and an ottoman, a Berkley Horse. An innocent exercise bike broke down into an Intruder MK II fuck machine, complete with a nine inch, neon dildo.

In five minutes, a front room that could've graced the cover of Particle Board Publication, was now a medieval torture dungeon. The man's craftsmanship was sinpirational! It had taken him a year to complete.

As the black Corvette nestled into the driveway, his labor of lust was about to pay off.

Three horny housewives ― of various shape and size ― emerged from the vehicle, garbed in schoolgirl outfits, and carrying duffel bags.

A familiar ping, followed by the text, "We're here," and the man gazed out the window to the walkway. Shedding his prosaic attire ― again in one swift motion ― he revealed a snug, latex bodysuit beneath. Pressing a button atop a bookshelf, the wall opened up, revealing a comprehensive display of drilldos, floggers, rope, and whips.

He was no longer Norm L. ― 78 year old, retired postal slave. For the next four hours, he was Stone Mason: Master Dom, armed for action.

The doorbell rang.

― authored by Hugh Mungus