Let me introduce you to Annabelle Lotus, daughter of “Juggalo Julz,” an “OLD SCHOOL NINJA..BORN AND RAISED FROM THE GHETTO STREETZ OF CHICAGO A*K*A CHITOWN..IM ORIGINAL JRB CHITOWN JUGGALO RYDA..BITCH! IM ONE OF A KIND..EITHER YOU LOVE OR HATE ME..EITHER WAY YA’LL STILL KNOW MY NAME..IM VERY BLUNT, HONEST & I KEEP IT REAL..I SAY WHATZ ON MY MIND WHEN ITZ ON MY MIND..I STRAIGHT DONT GIVE A FUCK!!”
Well, unfortunately for li’l Anabelle, Julz, or “Juicebox” did give a fuck sometime in September 2007 and her boyfriend slipped his little hatchet man into her circus tent and blew a jugga-load. A few billion clowns swimming through a river of Spazmatic! and fighting for the center ring of Julz’s carnival attraction, and Anabelle made it to the top and wowed her mom’s womb with her trapeze act.
For six months Julz nurtured her growing Juggalette just as a responsible and caring mother should.
She sought the advice of both her doctor about physical does and don’ts during her pregnancy and a nutritionist concerning her dietary needs. She carefully watched what she ate, maintained an advised exercise regimen, and even spent her evenings curled up in a chair reading to her stomach.
Oh, wait, no, that was my sister.
For six months Julz nurtured her growing Juggalette just as an responsible and caring mother would.
With gallons of alcohol, and buckets of Xanax.
Oh, wait, wrong again. Sort of.
Julz didn’t know that she was with child for the first 6 months of her pregnancy. No reason why she shouldn’t be washing handfuls of Xanax down with a 40 oz of malt liquor. Who amongst us doesn’t do that? I apologize. I mean, why pay any attention to your body, especially when you haven’t experienced a normal menstrual cycle in 6 months? I’m sure she just figured it was the silly drug and beer binges playing jokes on her physiology. Sure, she was having sex on a regular basis, but condoms are, like, almost 100 percent effective, right? And why the hell should she have to be all responsible and shit? She’s a juggalo, motherfuckers, and accepted for who she is among her peers, no matter if she, like, totally killed her baby with negligence.
Sorry, I’m again incorrect.
It was the hospital that killed her precious Anabelle Lotus, not Julz’s habitual drug and alcohol habit that she carried her child with her through two third’s of her pregnancy. My bad.
Just listen to this phone conversation that Julz had with the radio station WFKO (W Fuck Off) in which she explains how the hospital was negligent, not her. She completely takes us through the procedures and practices that were done incorrectly by the irresponsible doctors and nurses that directly lead to them murdering her innocent baby girl.
Oh, and God, he was in on it too.
Well, I guess I’m wrong once more.
She didn’t explain any of that, she just glossed over the death of her child with a quick statement about how none of the doctors knew why her baby only lived for 13 minutes. Rather, she opted to use the majority of her interview pimping her dead baby for free t-shirts and concert tickets.
Because that is what you do when you’re a responsible and caring mother.
Can I call her a mom when she gave birth to a poisoned fetus that coughed its way through 13 minutes before cashing in its ticket for the ferris wheel in the sky?
Do you think it’s coincidence that she gave birth on Mother’s Day?
And that Mother Nature responded with an resounding “No fucking way!”
I know moms. I have one. And a number of my friends are as well. I can think of dozens of differences between them and Julz, but I think the main one is that their daughters didn’t slide out of their wombs as though the doctor had reached into a ghetto convenience store freezer and pulled out a luke-warm 2 liter of Faygo.
I guess it only seemed fitting to bury her in a converted Styrofoam cooler.
And yes, those are hatchet men stickers.
On a coffin.
What could be more respectful and reverent than cartoon characters slapped on the surface of the vessel meant to bear one from this life into the next? Or to attend the funeral of your “murdered” daughter dressed like you’re on your way to an Insane Clown Posse concert?
I guess we can all be glad that at least they didn’t have her cremated and turned her urn into a bong.
Cough, cough. “This hit’s for you little ninja!” Cough.
One thing that me and Juggalo Julz can agree on, is that Anabelle Lotus is certainly “in a better place.”
She’s feeding worms and a myriad of burrowing insects, and providing nutrients to the topsoil.
I can see her casting shadows over the ground in the shape of flower petals, instead of growing up to be just another Juggalo.
I can say that with unabashed admiration and an entirely unwavering sense of my own sexuality.
His MySpace page (now defunct) is testament to that statement. Competitor in Fear Factor, practitioner of the Martial Arts, owner of sports cars and collector of very foxy and well-endowed women. He enjoys classical music when he is “studing.”
He may appear to be your average jock, but listen to that ladies, this man has style and class. After a long hard day of hitting the books and the weights, Tony wants nothing more than to enjoy a cold one.
As he describes himself: “I work hard, so I party hard, that’s my motto.”
And party hard he does.
Or should that be “party stiff?”
You see, dear reader, in addition to “weight training, playing football, making mix dance/club mixes, and going out to the hottest clubs in NYC,” Anthony also enjoys bumping uglies with the recently deceased. That’s right ladies, Anthony is a necrophiliac.
The first chink in Tony’s armor is subtle, but there for the trained eye to notice. He lists in his books section Neverwhere by Neil Gaiman. Obvious. Gaiman is a goth icon, and we all know that goth leads an interest in all things dead which in turn leads to eventual necrophiliac tendencies when coupled with individuals who contain an unyielding sense of passion, as exhibited by one Anthony’s choices of favorite movies: Too Fast, Too Furious; which is arguably the most romantic slice of homo-erotica ever filmed. He was able to see past the the facade of underground racing circuits and machismo to the heart of the movie; two men and their inability to properly express their white hot desire to engage in some hot, hot man-on-man ass-fucking. Hence the repetitive double entendre with automobile jargon and rooster-chesting. Anthony decided a course of repression was not for him. He would stop fighting his deepest desires, fling open the floodgates and let love loose.
He says that “I never seem to have enough time to do all the things that I would like to do.” So modest, this man of immeasurable love. And although he makes this claim, events would lend evidence that he was genius enough to combine his love of histo-technology, his field of employment, with his undying love of loving the dead.
On Halloween evening of 2007, Anthony was caught red handed with his purple-veined member inside the body of a 92 year-old blue-haired stiff.
You call him dead granny fucker.
I call him true romantic.
How many of you are passionate and spirited enough to look beyond the confines of mortality for true love? Your feeble flesh may not be able to court the dead and romance rigor mortis, but that is your cross to bear, not Tony’s. He is enlightened. He can love a woman in all stages of life, even in the absence of. His fingertips work like magic on the zippers of body bags. His tongue can thaw cold and stiffened muscle.His white hot cock will put a little rouge into even the most frozen of cheeks.
Both sets, baby.
How many nights found our boy Tony slick with sweat? Not from burning calories down at the local gym rubbing his rock hard body up against other hard bodies, but from his own fevered desire. The local paper opened to the obituaries in one hand, and his other wrapped around his stiffened, purple-vein throbbing cock. Teeth clinched against each other as he madly stroked his inflamed member, picturing a tagged toe. Imagining running his hands up a pair of varicose laden thighs. Slowly tracing a cold and stiff labia, an ice cube clitoris with his burning tongue.
“Come here Gramma, let me melt away those blues.”
Anthony may beat off to the thought of necrophilia so much he gets a hard-on every time he opens the fridge, but he is no pervert.
You certainly may shout your socially programmed adjectives, but you cannot deny truth when it slaps you in the face like a cold dead fish. Anthony may choose to call himself a fighter, but he is first and foremost a lover. To take the steps he has is to exhibit intestinal fortitude most of us cannot even comprehend. All over this country of ours morgues and mortuaries are full, thousands of souls lay inside cold meat lockers, souls that only wanted to be loved.
To be touched.
To be caressed.
Not out of a sense of obligatory or familial sympathy, but true love and passion!
Come on, do you see that body?
Why waste it on the apathetic living?
Anthony chiseled his physique with years of discipline and sweat and blood and tears into one fine corpse-fucking gorgeous machine.
His paramour is 92 years young, and crying tears of joy as I write this.
As you accuse him of “desecration!,” she is sweetly whispering “consecration.”
We share a fluffy yellow Peep and the Rabbit spreads its arms like a bat taking flight. The Rabbit shows me its stigmata, where the non-believers drove carrots into its paws.
I pause this reality and dive down the hole after it into the next.
Its matted bloody fur wiggles and hums. Buzzes. Hundreds of bees pour from its wounded appendages. In droves they circle my head. Into my ears they crawl. They tickle. They wriggle in there, in and out of my honeycombed brain. I feel a warm mess dripping down my neck. I put my fingers into it, touch them to my lips and lick the sweet and sticky from them.
Did you see what God just did to us man!
The Rabbit claps its paws together and my skull flips back like an over-seized PEZ dispenser.
7 pink and green coffin-shaped candy pellets bounce off of my chest and skitter across the floor and skid to a stop in perfect alignment with the other. They open, a trumpet of creaking wood announcing their arrival. Thousands upon thousands of multi-colored baby spiders pour out of them, save for one. They cover the floor, up the bed and swarm over me. I feel compelled to lay flat on my back and let them crisscross my skin 8 legs at a time. I can feel each and every single depression. From the soles of my feet to the tip of my shoulders, they lock legs and slowly tip-toe, like a Sunday school procession. They blanket my body like a quilt, and I am comforted.
I hear the last candy coffin open and 3 dark shapes fly up and around the room, dancing like shadows in and out of the corners. I can’t quite make out their form, but their substance twinkles and sparkles and makes my eyes squint, like too much sunlight.
But I know these creatures are born of the moon.
They flutter and flap, black velvet wings that twist and turn to no pattern. Click. Click, click. They fly closer and closer, crashing into each other and spinning together madly.
A black licorice whip clatters to the floor like an empty picture frame.
The quilt of arachnids has melted like ice cream off of my skin and puddles around my body like an abandoned birthday party.
The Rabbit urges me to climb onto its back, and promises that we are safe as houses. I straddle it just above its snow white haunches and with a light tap of the licorice whip we zoom through a musty maze of tunnels, avoiding sharp-mouthed stones and the prying fingers of angry roots. This is Otik’s womb, I think, but The Rabbit tells me that we are late, that we have video tapes to return, that we have no time to waste with tree parties. We make 5 lefts in quick succession and then 4 slower rights and jump out into nightfall and straight into the ocean. I ask the Rabbit in crystal clear bubbles if it can swim and it replies that it’s not important. What is important, its bubbles breaking against my face, is if you can.
I grab the nape of the Rabbit’s neck in my teeth and pull it up, zigging and zagging towards that silver sliver, my lungs screaming for air, my heart screaming for salvation. I see the Rabbit’s eyes changing from green to brown to black. I think of Sebastian, and his arrows. My skin looks like tinfoil in this light, I notice, and speaking I watch as the last bubble gurgles out of my mouth and floats just above me. I look one last time into the eyes of the Rabbit and grab hold of that bubble just before it is out of reach. And straining one last time, my mouth full of cotton candy, I break the surface of the water.
I’m in the middle of my living room sitting cross-legged, naked, sweating and praying. Presenting the floppy-eared Presence with a present. A trick in the palm of one hand and a treat in the other.
The Rabbit partakes of both.
The Rabbit shows me how we are all but Easter eggs of varying brilliance and design nested in fluorescent grass inside wicker baskets floating atop an ocean of melted nougat.
That we are all just cobweb hair and ghost tongues; bruised and battered orange pumpkin shells with our guts spilled all over the floor, ready and waiting for the candle.
Far be it for me to suggest getting a flu shot from an 80 year-old woman in a crusty blue smock stained with chocolate flavored Ensure standing behind a folding table offering $30 dollar doses of influenza remedy in the middle of a Walgreens, but one thing I enthusiastically request of myself: Eric, don’t mix entire bottles of NyQuil with Keanu Reeve’s films!
Read on, dude!
My head is on fire.
I can feel giant drops of perspiration gathering against the surface, growing too heavy to withstand the pull of gravity and one by one they tumble over my brow and slide down my nose like obnoxious children. They fly through the air, laughing, until they crash like a dozen Humpty-Dumptys on my chest spraying tiny egg shell shrapnel everywhere. I wipe the front of my head in an effort to stem the flow of sweat and my skin sloughs off my skull between my fingers. It gathers against the palm of my hand like slices of lunch meat and it’s not really fair because I am quite hungry for some soup and a sandwich.
Sand Witch. Sorceress of the Spice. Wind swept tresses of black hair flowing out behind her, from underneath and out of a hat that cannot match the striking shade of midnight that grows from her scalp. Pale white skin of the moon that cannot be tainted by the sun that tries its best to burn her to cinders with no trial nor pyre. She pays no heed to its efforts as she skillfully navigates a Spice worm through the vast desert dessert with a pair of eyes like sugar frosted green gum drops…
I can’t feel my feet.
I look down towards the ends of my legs to make sure that I still possess them and let out a small sigh of relief to find them when a strange sensation passes through my skin and my legs begin to grow longer and longer and oh, how nice of the room to go right ahead and stretch along with them so that they will have enough room instead of of just coiling up against the wall like tendrils of vanilla ice cream. And my big purple bed is an even bigger, purple-er bed, as it grew in proportion with my legs. I’ve always said that it is quite accommodating, now I have ample evidence.
My torso just turned into a Play-Doh Fun Factory.
I wonder if…wait, let me check.
Nope, of course not. Well, neither did my arms and my head seems to be of the same width and breadth as it was a few minutes ago. Oh, and I forgot all about that whole “no skin nor scalp” thing. That was weird. I thought for a moment that perhaps I had shaved my head again, but I’ve never been able to get it that smooth. I knock on it a few time just to see how hollow it sounds, and I’m not all that surprised to hear someone knocking back, yelling at me to keep the noise down.
I pick up the crumpled mask that was my face and put my hand inside of it and try to make it talk like a puppet. Eat drums. Eat drums! EAT DRUMS! GAAAHHHH! I poke two of my fingers through the eye holes and wiggle them back at my eyeballs, but I quickly pull them back through and drop my face to my side as an intense fear grips me as I wonder if my fingers were going to manifest themselves inside my skull and skewer my actual eyeballs on the ends of my fingers. I swallow hard imaging that my wrist is pressing against my larynx.
Wait, who’s wiggling my toes?
I look back down to find that someone’s hands are operating my feet like sock puppets. They’re making silhouette aminals against the wall of my bedroom and I watch as they contort my big toe away from the rest of my toes like the ears of a rabbit. I watch them moving back and forth across the wall, their shadows playfully cavorting together in an amicable fashion. I feel a slight tug at the end of my ankles and I quickly glance back to the source of the puppetry to find that both of my feet, with an audible pop, have disconnected themselves from my ankles. They’ve grown paws and tails and noses of their own. Big wondering eyes that keep shifting through the secondary colors of the wheel.
Two argyle bunnies that are hopping around on the edge of my bed.
Who, I demand, are you, and what have you done with my feet!
They both stop and stand up on their hind legs, testing my scent with their noses and walk right back towards me, up and over my knees. Each of them strolling up the length of their previous locale with an air of nonchalance.
I’m Peter S. Cottontail, Esquire.
I’m Rod “Rodentia” Lagomorph.
And together we’re WYLD RABBYTS!
They begin playing air guitar on the edge of my bed, their ears spreading wide from the tops of their heads as electricity starts climbing up to their tips like a Tesla coil. Sparks are flying from the tips of their fur and dancing in the air all around us and I can hear the mystical magic of Kip Winger’s fretwork making my ears ring. All the furniture in my bedroom is turning into hedges as the music gets louder. My green glass lamps shatter on either side of me. They twist and crunch as they grow roots and a trunk. The trunk sprouts branches that grab the emerald shards of glass right out of the air and they transform into burnt orange leaves hanging from their ends that cast shade over my hardwood floor that grass is now growing up from and covering the entirety of the walking space.
My bed has turned into a collection of rocks covered in purple lichen.
The rabbits high five each other and with a later bro! they hop across the floor towards a hole that has appeared in the corner of my room just to the side of one of the hedges and they both dive into it and disappear. I listen for about a minute waiting to hear an echo of them landing safely, and I hear a faint observation floating up from the depths.