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Playboy - Lit and Tits

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When I was in middle school, my brother got busted with possession of pornography in our home. I found out it was something called Playboy, and I asked my mom "What's so bad about it?" to which she replied: "It's a dirty magazine, Haley. Not appropriate for young ladies and boys your brother's age," (he was in high school by then). Years later, when I was in high school and discovered my own college boyfriend had a stash, I had to discover what all the huff and smut was about: and I found it purely fascinating. I'm now 21 years old, and I read Playboy for the articles.

Debuting in 1953, with the then-unknown Marilyn MoPlayboy - Lit and Tits9 years ago in Academic Essays

On Writing To be a good writer, you have to be a Man. Not just a man, but a Man. I envy the hell out of chicks that decide to write mainstream fiction. Rehash a few awkward or painful teenage memories, chuck your crystallized adolescence into the defroster and pawn it off to Oprah, ba-da-bing, you’re a millionaire. Not with guys. Oprah doesn’t have your back if you’re swingin’ around a dick. Did you see what she did to James Frey? Jesus. That should teach him to potentially exaggerate any fragment of a story.

Writing is easy. Anyone with a superiority complex and a pen is already a writer. But to be a good writer, one of them litOn Writing6 years ago in Philosophical

It's been about six or so hours, but what is time? Time is simply a complex measurement of space, measured by hands, measuring my life as gravity grips my skin and pulls. My skin succumbs, settling and dripping like wax...

I hear the cackling and jabber of a madman and as soon as it's heard, the vibrations begin twisting and sauntering in my direction; an enticing harmonious melody made especially for me. My name.

I puff... exhale. Entranced by the smoke, I was startled when my eyes met with a wicked Cheshire grin seemingly floating below two huge, black ovals. "I am the eggman", he repeated. "Yes?"

"We are the eggmen", I hear myself say. The Eggmen6 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives

Gonzo Journalism:An Experiment

Sweet Jesus, I thought, there's no fire. We'll all freeze up and die! "Bring another candle!" I screeched at the barmaid desperately, hoping that she had not yet succumbed to the bitter frost.

Instead of the candles she delivered wine lists and menus as if forcing us to pay for a chemical fire in our bellies would scare away the dark cold of the air. I thought it best to test her theory. "Beer! I must have a beer!" I shouted at the cheap, fire-hording whorefaces running the bar.

My camera assist ordered something remarkably similar to pinesol in its odour. It must have had something to do with his Island upbringing. Crazy bastard. "I'm sureGonzo Journalism:An Experiment8 years ago in Articles & Interviews

Faking it I feel like I’m faking it, the whole writing thing. Somehow, it just doesn’t seem romantic enough. I feel like I should be staring into the cold face of some ancient, rickety typewriter with a glass of whiskey in one hand and a half-burnt cigarette in the other, not sitting in front of some stark-white, sterile word processor on the same computer I use to talk to everyone I know, steal music, and look at porn. It feels like blasphemy, like I’m butchering the art.

I feel like I should be a real writer, off living in a freezing shack somewhere, wearing red and black flannel lumberjacket shirts and growing an intimidating VikinFaking it6 years ago in Philosophical

eulogy for HST

you are all presumably here to honour the memory of the recently deceased dr hunter s. thompson, and i'd like to say a few words before we get ridiculously hammered.

last sunday, thompson put a loaded .45 calibre handgun in his mouth and blew his brains out. he was 67 years old. i can't say the suicide surprised me terribly; i always kinda figured he'd die in an extremely violent way, whether from suicide, murder, OD or some car accident. what surprises me is that he lived this long in the first place; he himself mentioned that he didn't know how he made it through through the 70s. thompson existed in a self-contained universe of mind-bogglieulogy for HST8 years ago in Biography & Memoir

A Drinking GameA drinking game.

To be played with anywhere between one and 8 billion people.

Divide the players into two lines facing each other, making sure each player has either a magazine, television, or a computer in plain view. If the game is to be played alone, use a mirror to simulate the other players.

Next, lay one to seven empty shot glasses and three red cups in between the two lines of players. Exact number of cups and glasses can be changed, if necessary. Leave one or more red cups in the center of the playing area.

Once properly positioned, have each player turn and face the media outlet in front of them, preferably set to some form of poA Drinking Game5 years ago in General Non-Fiction

Fear and Loathing N.IrelandIt all started with a hedge. Marty flew in through the shower.  20 Hours away a drum was being played by a guitar.  A lorry full of beds was pulling through the front door.  Riddled with drug addled conception Freddie through a stone at a tree.

Petrol bombs were flowing down the western street festival like blizzards on ice.  Aaron was stating his contempt for ice cream when Marty was arrested for eating lunch by the coastguard.  Water started melting into fire and someone slapped a car with a blade of sky.

From the journey 6 fledging musicians surrounded Marty.  Jail was orange.&#Fear and Loathing N.Ireland4 years ago in Humor

We're All Crazy HereI have a little tale to tell you all, my lovely little ones. A tiny tale of psychosis and terror-ific amusement. A tale where there is no beginning, only darkness brought to light and then pitched back to the dark twilight again. A tale which has no end, only a fading away with a kind of "oh." feeling. A tale with no moral and no moral compass and no explanation other than it's all just a very terrible dream. So scooch closer children, otherwise you might not hear me. You might just miss me.

We begin in a vortex, in a tunnel of dark and there's a quesy feeling, an upended awareness slowly sinking through a veil of numbness. There's white at We're All Crazy Here4 years ago in General Fiction

Up Past Curfew“It’s ten minutes past curfew, why are you still up?” The voice is squeaky and harsh in my ear as a hand grabs my arm and pulls.

I look. Someone new. I’m growing weary of this. It’s another nurse, not Nurse Nancy, and she is escorting me down a dimly-lit hallway. The air tastes of night, I can smell the darkness. I don’t see windows. Just hanging light fixtures.

The nurse looks like an old suitcase, some kind of iguana in a linen white uniform with an ink-smudged tag that reads ‘Nurse Carrie.’ For an instant, I see pigs blood splash and fade away. When Nurse Carrie looks at me, I feel a deep horror anUp Past Curfew4 years ago in General Fiction

crazy little thoughts “I’m tired.” she spoke weakly, her arm failing her command to move.

Cold morning blue eyes, with expressive warm flesh surrounding them, appeared above her. “I know, darling. It’ll be over soon.”

The flash of glinting silver beside his eyes.

hmm, maybe some other time...

bloody hell...

No, no, no. I think we’ll start out with something entirely other. The miss-breed. The wretch. The ever-falling-faster. The make-no-sense-but-there’s-enough-coffee-to-keep-me-coherent-maybe... Hi there, my name is Rabbit–at least for this time round–and I’m currently piecing thoughts together from crazy little thoughts5 years ago in General Non-Fiction

The Good Doctor

I had to spend two days in utter shock at the statement I read in the paper that the Doctor, who I have come to love through his many articles and sheer violent attacks with the beautiful words as weapons upon which he released the greatest fiery, that I couldn't even comprehend the words 'no longer with us'. As a fan of his work and a greater fan for all those who sit down to write the pieces of crap that many reporters and new papers write to soothe the masses, I decided to go headlong into a piece about a writer instead of the story. I believe, that the good Doctor would want at least one of his fans to come out and at least appear to undeThe Good Doctor8 years ago in Articles & Interviews

LamentationMay 12th. July 18th. December 16th.

If I were to create a cult, these would be my high holy days. As it is, with my hatred of religion, they're nothing but personal holidays now. On these days, I will take off school or work. I will turn off my cellphone and put away my computer. I will unplug my cable and take the batteries out of my radio, and I will be dead to the outside world.

These days, to you, may seem to have no meaning. I will put them in perspective, in my cryptic way, and you might understand.

On May 12th, I will read Brain Droppings. I will listen to Life is Worth Losing.

On July 18th, I will watch Fear and Loathing in Las VeLamentation5 years ago in Academic Essays

Lowlands"Life should be made as difficult as possible...so that the victims might develop more character."
--Hunter S. Thompson

*

New job. New work. Even the word "work" makes me ache when the words aren't coming--WRITING is my work, and where has it gone? Each day unrolls like a wet cigarette, and you don't even smoke, but there it is. Each week is ongoing. (How is it I never thought of it like that?) The job. Third week. It is not difficult. It is everyday. It is not the problem. At least I don't think it is. Perhaps just the adjusLowlands2 years ago in Stories & Vignettes

The Mexican Affair

The Mexican Affair

6/7/11 - 7:46 PM

Oh shit

I stand here at the back of a room in Mexico City, with at least thirty guns pointed at me, and they do not seem to want to listen to me anymore.

Colonel Martinez, the guy in charge here, kisses his pearl rosary and is about to put a hole through my head when suddenly his back is filled with sharp objects. It seems to be raining knives. Out come my Colts as Drew and I begin to carve our way through the rabble, it doesn't take long with the element of surprise.

"What the hell took you so long, Drew?" I ask my old pal.

"I had to get a Doc." Replies The Mexican Affair8 years ago in Transgressive

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