Greasy Beasely and the Two-Ton Dermoid – Part 1

January 18, 2013

A dermoid is a cyst full of hair, fluid, blood, and bones. My buddy Beasely has one on his butt. It’s soft to the touch, and if you poke it hard enough you’ll notice a gooeyness that feels like pudding. Beasely’s dermoid has patches of bristly black hairs. If he forgets to wash his dermoid for a while it will start to smell. That’s true for every body part, but it’s especially true for dermoids.

Beasely has a good attitude about having a dermoid. “Some folks got a tumor, some folks got a conjoined twin. I got a dermoid,” he says. “Life goes on, say la vee.”

“Thata boy, Beasely. Don’t let that dermoid bring you down,” is what I say to him when he talks about his dermoid, which isn’t often. If you had a dermoid on your butt, would you want to talk about all the time?

If you ask Beasely why he has a dermoid, he’ll say it’s hereditary. “All the men on my dad’s side have dermoids.” But that’s just Beasely saving face. Truth is, he has a dermoid because he eats grease, and eating too much grease causes dermoids. Beasely eats all sorts of grease: bacon grease, hamburger grease, eggy grease. Even the grease that oozes from his dermoid, which is borderline cannibalistic.

The internet says dermoids range in size. Small dermoids are typically the size of a quarter, while large dermoids can be as big as grapefruits. Beasely’s dermoid is not on the dermoid-size spectrum. His dermoid is the size of a small car. It’s bigger than most dermoids because even after his dermoid started growing, Beasely never stopped eating grease.

Doctors warned him: “Beasely, you jaggof! If you keep eating grease, that dermoid is only gonna get bigger and bigger.”

He wouldn’t listen. “I’d rather be a happy guy who eats grease and who has a giant dermoid than a sad, dermoid-free guy who doesn’t eat grease,” he said one day while eating grease.

Geez Lousie, Bease. Does stubbornness run in your family, too?

Last summer I asked Beasely how much his dermoid weighs. He said, “Oh hell, I don’t know how much my dermoid weighs. The only scale that’s big enough to weigh this dermoid is at the State Fair probably.”

“What else are we going to do today?”

“I have plans to buy grease and eat it.”

I said that I would buy his grease for the week if he weighs his dermoid at the fair. He agreed.

So we walked two miles to the state fair. We would have driven, but come on, get real. Who has a car that can fit a dermoid as big as Beasely’s?

The fair was crowded. It was so hot out, the dermoid was dripping with sweat and emitting a pungent dermoidal odor.

Beasely got in line with the hogs who were waiting to be weighed. When it was his turn, a crane was brought in and it hoisted his dermoid onto the scale.

The scale said it weighed two tons.

Even now, after everything that has happened, I was never as shocked as I was when I saw that it weighed two tons.

The crane operator dropped his donut. “Hey everyone! This kid has a two-ton dermoid on his butt!” He called the fair manager over and told him Beasely deserved a ribbon for growing such an impressive dermoid.

The fair manager walked over to Beasely. “Let’s see here. A classic gargantuan dermoid on the posterior. Anatomical class 45-J.” He poked it with his fingers. He poked it with his cane. “Gooeyness? Indeed!” He took three long sniffs of it. “Smell? Putrid.” He climbed on top of it and stomped three times. “Durable.”

He took out a Swiss Army knife and cut a slit in the dermoid, causing fluid to ooze forth. The fair manager collected a handful of the fluid and tasted it. “What is your name, son?”


“It’s great to meet you, Beasely.”

“Well? Is this an award-winning dermoid, or what?”

“I’m sorry, no. This is the worst-tasting dermoid I’ve ever come across. Good day to you,” and he started to walk away.

“Wait!” Beasely said. “I meant its size. Is it big enough to win an award or whatever?”

The manager thought about it for a minute and then shook his head. “I’m sorry, no. I’ve seen dermoids this big before.”

“Bullcrap! Where?” Beasely said.

“On the internet. Yours is big, for sure, but in the grand scheme of things, this dermoid is what I like to call a no-big-whoop anatomical curiosity. Come back to the fair when it talks or plays a musical instrument or something truly maaaaarvelous.”

The crane lowered a bummed-out Beasely to the ground.

Two giddy boys ran up to him and poked the dermoid hard, and dermoid fluid covered their hands and faces.



Ethics Lesson

January 18, 2013

Me: Here’s an ethics lesson for you: Yesterday before a doctor’s appointment I bought a platter of hot deli food at a grocery on 14th Street: meatballs, a spicy chicken wing, lasagna, and carrots. My appointment wasn’t for another half hour, see, and eating in the doctor’s waiting room is impolite because everyone else has to smell it. So I needed a place to eat this food. Waiting until later and re-heating the food was not an option I was willing to entertain. If I were bring this food home, you and your scavenger mother would be all over it. And I wanted to eat it, it was my food. So I walked down 5th Ave. and entered a different grocery. I went up to the dining area and sat down at a table. What I am saying here son is that I bought deli food at a grocery without tables and chairs and then walked to another grocery with a dining area to eat my food. This second grocery was more like a bodega that happens to have a small dining area than an actual grocery store. I have a feeling not many people choose to eat dinner there. The dining area was empty and quiet; there wasn’t even Muzak playing. I ate while emailing old girlfriends, don’t tell Mom.

As I was finishing dinner, an large bearded man sat down at a nearby table and started eating. He could have passed as a homeless person. I may be eating hot deli food at this bodega, but at least I’m not him, I thought. Could be worse, I could be this guy. But here’s the thing: I could imagine him responding, “At least I’m eating food I bought here. I didn’t transport hot deli food across the street and eat it at a separate bodega, a bodega I didn’t even buy food at.” His food even looked more appetizing than mine. For a few minutes last night, he was doing better than me.

I have purchased snacks and sandwiches at the second bodega before, OK. If my case were to go before some sort of non-criminal ethics jury, I would hope they would not find me guilty of being unethical. My only crime was being a guy with hot food and nowhere to eat it. What do you think? Was I being unethical?

Little Ann: I don’t care about this.

Me: I’m trying to teach you how the world works. You have to care.

Little Ann: I can’t change how I feel about your shitty story. If you think I can, then you need a lesson about how the world works, Pep.

Me: You might be right, you little orphan asshole. Come here.

[They hug.]

Me: You teach me something everyday.

Little Ann: I wish that man who ate dinner where he bought the food was my dad and I wish you were a homeless guy who always eats dinner at bodegas.



Here Are Your Best Picture Nominees [In VICE]

January 10, 2013

Two old married people face the fact that even true love won’t save them from death. I think they both die in the end; one from a blood clot, the other from loneliness. I didn’t see it because I’ve seen this movie before. In REAL LIFE. My maternal grandma died before my grandpa. He was with her in the hospital, holding her hand and saying, “Oh, my little Libby. My sweet Libby.” Jesus Christ, it was so miserable. I can’t believe I’m writing this on the internet. Later on, when my grandpa was living in a home, he spent his days flirting with nurses and re-reading the first few pages of the same three James Patterson novels that were in his room. I guess Cher was right: There is life after love.

Continue reading.





Two Plans

January 5, 2013




The Pits – Part II

January 3, 2013

Peggy hosted the election party at her father’s club. She was an old flame of mine who, even now, still lets me cuddle me her from time to time as long as I say, “I fucked up. You’re the one I should have married.” If I ever have a daughter I’m going to take her to Peggy’s house every once and a while so Peggy can rub off on her—teach her clarinet, show her where her arms should go when she’s sitting down, teach her how to talk. That sort of stuff. The stuff Marni is bad at.

“O-bam-a! O-bam-a!”

We were in the parlor, chanting as he won Ohio, and then Florida, and then California, or whatever the order was.

Peggy was smoking near the window. She would shout, “Ba-rack!” in between our “O-bam-a!”s, and each time she said “Barack!” I looked over at her, smiling. It became a game. “Barack!” Look at Peggy and smile. “Barack!” Look at Peggy and smile. After a few of these, she waved me over to the window and I obliged.

“Woof woof,” she said. I said, “Meow.” That’s how we talked when we dated.

“Puppy wants to cuddle.”

“Not when wifey cat is still sober. Give me an hour and meet me in the kitchen.”

“Woof. Roger that.”

“Meow. I love you.”

The thing about Peggy is, I didn’t marry her for only one reason: she’s in a wheelchair. It’s as simple as that. She’s charming, gorgeous, hilarious, smart, a good cook, has medium-small breasts that will never drop, and doesn’t need to work because her father gives her seven grand a month. She was born with a nasty spinal thing that got worse after we started dating and, boom, one day she needed to be a wheelchair, and a week after that we were at dinner and she said, “I know you want to leave me.”

I said, “Meow, you’re right.”


“Bye bye puppy.”

It was quick.

At the time I was thinking, life can be shitty enough without a wife in a wheelchair. Why make it shittier by choosing to push around a woman—albeit a smart, pretty one—your entire life. How could I be with a handicapped wife? I like to dance and do all sorts of sex stuff that requires both partners to have legs. I like walking on the beach, not pushing a person on the beach, and can even get those wide green plastic sand wheels on beach bikes attached to a wheelchair? I was certain.

It took a long time to admit it, but I was a damned fool when I was younger, and looking at her across the room that night, I confirmed what I’d been thinking for years: I made a huge mistake. Peggy in a chair is a better woman than able-bodied Marni, who runs half marathons sometimes and is a fast walker in general, like me. Don’t put functioning legs on a pedestal when choosing a partner. That’s what I’ve learned. Do put sex on a pedestal, though. Peggy was a sorcerer in the sack. I won’t go into details, but I will say this: you know how blind people often have exceptional hearing and strong taste buds because their working senses compensate for the non-working ones? Peggy had that, but with her arms and hands. She could grip and pull things tightly, and with a delicate precision. Marni’s hands are as strong as Peggy’s feeble feet. If it were the year 3000, and Science’s abilities were limitless, I would knock my wife unconscious, take her and Peggy to a black-market surgeon and have him remove Marni’s legs and graft them onto Peggy, and then I’d have him remove Peggy’s lame legs and graft them onto Marni. Then I would run away with Peggy. Maybe to Indianapolis, where the women are homely, where I wouldn’t be as tempted to stray.

“Let’s go home,” the wife said soon after Obama was confirmed the winner.

“But there’s dessert. And Peggy’s going to do her Transformer impressions. We have to stay.”

“I’ve seen Peggy’s impressions. And I’ve had the club’s desserts, too. Waahhh, waahhh, I’m a thirty-three-year-old baby.”

She didn’t say that last part.

“We’re staying for dessert,” I said, grabbing her arm, perhaps too hard, and she said, “Lemme go!” loud enough to draw attention. Peggy looked over and grinned, and then slowly wheeled away. She loved too see us fighting. No doubt it blunted the sting of being alone forever and warmed her in that cold metal chair. Sure, she would drape blankets around the arms but sometimes a bare hand (oh those hands!) would graze the metal arm and she would get a chill.

“Mc-Cain! Mc-Cain!”

It was Peggy’s father, the rich asshole, shaking my hand. Peggy told me he had donated the maximum a person could give to McCain, and the Bushes too, all four times Bushes ran.

“Hello sir, sorry, but the good guy won I guess,” I said.

“Eat shit. My shit. My rich, black shit. Black from all the black truffles and black caviar I eat.”


“My daughter said she needs you in the kitchen. Something about a bottle of wine.”

I found Peggy in the kitchen with her head in her hands. Those hands! She was red-faced, crying a little, but not loudly, and she had spilled red wine on the blanket on her chair.

“Meow. Are you okay?”

“Nothing is okay. Do I look like a person who is okay?”

I asked her what’s wrong and she said she was sad for no reason. I didn’t believe her and asked again and she said no reason again. This went on for a while and, I’ll admit it, I was slowly moving closer to her face, like we use to do years ago. I was down on a knee, meowing while she woofed.




“Meow, I miss you.”

“Woof, get a divorce, you coward.”

“Meow. Maybe.”

And that’s when it happened. The bad thing. The worst thing. The reason why Marni’s been onto me for years. Granted, she was onto me before we were married, they always are, but she never talked about it. Now any night she gets on her back or her hands and knees, it’s all, “Remember the election party in 2008? Remember what that gimp told you? Remember what you told her? I do. I’ll never forget that. Maybe. Who are you fucking? Tell me who you’re fucking? Tell me right now or I’m falling asleep.”

I wish I had the balls to say, “Inez and her sister Libby. They live near the pit.”

But instead I say, “Only you.”

Or: “Well, lately, nobody, because you’ve been so depressed” and of course she hates that and starts up with the bullshit again, “Who is she?! Tell me!” and I zone out and think of happier days, like the time I walked around inspecting the pit all day unknowingly with a few strands of Inez’s hair stuck in my butt. Maybe Libby’s hair, too. Who knows.

Before Libby met me she would cut her legs to relieve stress. There’s not much else to say about that, but I want it on the record because although I caused her much heartache in the end, I was helpful to her in the beginning and if I hadn’t taken her hand and started dancing with her that night at the church fundraiser (or was that how I met Inez? I met one of them at the church fundraiser and the other one I just woke up next to after a long night and neither of us knew where we met. For now, let’s say it was in fact Libby whom I met at the church) she would probably still be a cutter. Perhaps she would be dead. I hope someday she grows up and realizes that.



John McShane’s Brooklyn

January 3, 2013

5 Great Parks in Williamsburg and Greenpoint

Guide to McCarren Park

How to Ride the East River Ferry

Overview of DUMBO

Overview of Williamsburg

Overview of Greenpoint

How to Walk Across the Williamsburg Bridge

Tags: , ,


I’ma Find Her Cat and Fuck It

December 12, 2012

[GARY 1 and GARY 2 are at the bar drinking gin and tonics. Their unfortunate clothes indicate that they are not busy or vital men.]

Gary 1: BURRRRP!

Gary 2: Yes!

Gary 1: Hey man. I saw something bad. I wasn’t going to tell you but I figure I should because we’re friends.

Gary 2: Tell me immediately.

Gary 1: Are we friends?

Gary 2: Yes, we are friends, of course. Who else am I friends with if I’m not friends with you. Tell me right now please.

Gary 1: I was outside the Skyline, the one on I-75, just carrying on and being a righteous dude, and I saw Angie.

Gary 2: How is that lizard?

Gary 1: Real good, it looked like. Nice clothes, good hair, smiling a lot. She was on a date. With a hangbot. Do you want any more details?

Gary 2: Give me all the details.

Gary 1: Her finger was in his mouth and she was petting him like a kitten. She was wearing a cool-looking hangbot-y jean jacket, it’s his, I’m sure, and they were falling over, so, not sober. They probably just got out of a hangbot party in Trotwood, and she kept whispering things in his ear, probably stuff she wanted to do to him later on, like give him a beej, and he kept saying, Niiiice, like he was real happy about it.

Gary 2: She’s good at beejes. Do you know who he is?

Gary 1: At first, no, I didn’t. All those hangbots look alike. But then Darryl’s Dad came up to him and said, Hey Cody!, or, What’s up, Cody! So it’s probably Cody. Cody actually seems pretty cool, man, I’m sorry.

Gary 2: I am sure he is REAL cool to be eating five-ways with that lizard.

Gary 1: You said you wanted to know.

Gary 2: Well I have to do something about this.

Gary 1: No, you don’t.

Gary 2: I think I do.

Gary 1: You really don’t man, just forget it.

Gary 2: Here’s what I want to do: Angie goes to the laundromat on Sunday nights, after Family Guy usually. I’ll wait there for her, nab her, and put her in my trunk. I’ll have rubbing alcohol on a hanky and I’ll put over her face real hard and say, “You made me do this!” or something cool, and shove her in my trunk and close the trunk door.

We’ll drive to my folks’ old place in Miamisburg. I’ll take her out of the trunk and drag her by her blond lizard hair into the garage.

My pops has miles of rope in there, at least he used to, and I’ll take the rope and tie her to the riding lawnmower so she can’t go anywhere.

Gary 1: So far, so good.

Gary 2: Then I’ll strip her down and cover her with gasoline.

Gary 1: Whoa, whoa dude.

Gary 2: I’m not going to burn her. I only want her to think I’m going to.

Next, I’ll take six feet of rope, grease it up with Skyline, and shove it down her throat, through her stomach and out her little asshole.

And she’ll be like, “I’m sorry, I’ve made so many mistakes, I have been so deceitful and so cruel to you.”

I’ma roll her into a ball and tie her to the tetherball pole in the backyard and punch her face.

I’ma pour ginger ale on her and leave her tied to the pole overnight so the raccoons can gnaw at her.

I’ma shave her head and eyebrows and draw cumming dicks everywhere with a Sharpie.

I’ma grate her tits off with a cheese grater and then sew on two tiny patches that say CUNT where her tits used to be. Everyone will call her “Cunt Tits.” At least until she takes the patches off.

I’ma tie the volleyball net around her and make her real small and squeeze her little lizard face into my asshole and then slowly pull it out like anal beads, and then again, and again, all the while cumming real hard on that framed picture of us at Grant Park she gave me for Christmas last year. That’s when she made me wear that bullshit sweater with huge buttons she gave me that she knew I would hate.

I’ma slice her lips and ears with a broken beer bottle and cover her face with Tabasco sauce, and then leave her tied up outside again so the raccoons can get at her.

I’ma fart on her. She hates that.

I’ma tell her about all her friends I mosted. I’ve mosted six: Lesley. C.C., Dana. Pam. Fat Becca. Andrea.

I’ma find her cat who’s been lost for a year and is probably dead—and if it’s dead I’ma dig it up or get it out of the lanfill—and fuck its dead face in front of her. I’ll call you over and you’ll fuck it too if you want.

Gary 1: Hey man, don’t rope me into this sickness.

Gary 2: You said you were my friend.

We’ll cut it up and sell it on the street in a little lemonade stand-type shack. We’ll say it’s lamb nibblets. She’ll be tied up inside, with her face in front of the garage door window, and she’ll have to watch as her friends and neighbors walk by and eats our nibblets. They’ll say, “How tender!” “What a delicious treat!” And she’ll be thinking, That’s not lamb, that’s my cat, boo hoo hoo, I’m a slut.

I’ma gnaw her abnormally large clit until it’s thin as floss and then floss my back molars, the hard-to-get ones. I’ma floss real hard so blood gets everywhere, all over her vag, and for once her vag will be covered in my blood, and not my dick covered in her blood.

I’ma fill her little asshole with 151 and Coke, and light it on fire and drink it.

Gary 1: That’s called a Flaming Dr. Pepper.

Gary 2: YEAH NO SHIT, I saw it on Real World.

I’ma take her inside and sit next to her on the couch and we can watch some TV, whatever she wants. Princess Diaries, whatever.

I’ma make pour her an Ultra Light.

I’ma make out with her real slow, tell her she’s a gorgeous lady, and then propose marriage.

Gary 1: Would you still marry her after everything?

Gary 2: Of course I would. Who’s better than Angie?



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Published Work

Page 1: The Fox in the Garage

How I Started a Family

Do We Need Cynar?

Gary 1 and Gary 2

I Work at a Fashionable Hotel Called the Hudson

C.O.D.Y. the Robot Who Hangs Out

Ann and Her Birdhouses

Luke and His Bobber

The Fox in the Garage in 3-D

105 Stories About Ohio


The Slugman of Herbert Street

Harold and the Purple Women


Dos Factotum

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