The applause still lingered as I ran off stage and bolted down a rear corridor alone.
My escape was momentarily halted by the back door, which had the most baffling handle I’d ever seen.
Suddenly, an old acquaintance appeared behind me. “Oh, good,” I said. “Help a brother here. You gays always know the way out.”
“Try this,” he said as he leaned over my shoulder and placed his hand on mine. We pushed the handle together at just the right spot, then staggered out onto the patio.
“You were great today,” he said, settling down on a retaining wall while I paced absently.
“Thanks, man.”
“You look good and smell nice, too,” he said with a sly grin.
“Heh, thanks,” I said with a light chuckle. “Not interested, though.”
“Don’t knock me for trying,” he gently protested.
“Nah, I respect the game,” I shot back.
He lit up a cigarette and started smoking, and I sidled up beside him.
“Mind if I share?” I asked. I don’t even smoke.
He handed me the cigarette without a word while blowing into the air.
Her latest mission is to rid the world of transgenders for Jesus.
She’s never met one, but knows they’re everywhere, lurking in dark bathrooms, waiting to groom her children.
It’s ironic: with all the fillers in her face and her militant demeanor, she seems so harsh and manly. And with a half-inch of makeup caked on her skin and that brittle, bottle-blonde hair, she could easily be mistaken for a drag queen.
She spends endless hours scrolling social media, posting impassioned rants about gays, sex trafficking, saving babies, or whatever the newest topic of outrage may be.
As she racks up the likes, she congratulates herself for being such an effective agent for change without ever having to leave her chair. How did God ever manage to get anything done before she came along?
In the waking moments of the morning, she checks her phone for the latest news to feed her fury. The world is changing quickly, and she needs to be at the center of it, spouting her opinion on everything — no matter how little she understands.
All through the day, she listens to her favorite dozen or so podcasts, hosted by blathering, imbecilic grifters whose livelihoods depend on spewing toxic shit from their mouth anuses. She laps up their manufactured rage and conspiracy theories as gospel.
At night, she demands to have the television running while she sleeps: her mind needs to be constantly plugged into a steady stream of noise, lest she ever have a quiet, reflective thought of her own. Isolation breeds rebellion, and she must remain in lock step with the other warriors, firmly entrenched in the same beliefs.
Her rage is righteousness, and she often thinks about that day in the far distant future when she enters heaven and approaches Jesus’ throne. He’ll congratulate her for having all the correct beliefs and hating all the same people he hates, and she’ll primly smile while inwardly sneering at all the sinners burning in hell. Oh, how she can’t wait for them to suffer.
Needless to say, her bed has been dead for years. Her husband’s flabby, middle-aged spread grosses her out, and he’s grown bored of her sagging body despite that pricey boob lift he paid for a while back. He also detests the cunt.
She disdains him for being weak and passive — he isn’t the strong, aggressive man with a giant penis that she so often fantasizes about. Sometimes, while she’s violently fingering her clit in the tub, she thinks about him slapping her around and subduing her like a real man.
In the evenings, when she’s busy achieving meaningful change on social media, her husband is quietly swiping on his phone, furtively cruising for fresh hole. Meanwhile, her son is gooning to hentai in the next room.
She secretly despises her daughter for having the audacity to be young and cute, and seethes with jealousy that men now look at that prissy little bitch instead of her.
Other women are her competition: none of that “sisterhood” and “supporting the girls” crap for her. She’s spent her life seeking men’s validation, and she’ll be damned if she lets another woman receive attention from one.
To her, life is all about survival of the fittest — she’s pretty sure it even says that in the Bible. At least, that’s what a chatbot told her once when she was looking for an inspirational verse to post on her socials.
Because of her enduring faithfulness, God has richly blessed her with a well-paying job, and now she’s the breadwinner. Money talks, so she gets everything she wants. “If Mama ain’t happy…” is her motto, and she reminds everyone in the family of it.
She regularly berates her husband and children, and they cower in their rooms when she comes home each day, stomping in the door and banging noisily in the kitchen, alternately staring at her phone and yelling while she microwaves dinner. They’ve all come to hate the sound of her voice, butchered by years of baby talk and vocal fry.
Her favorite time of the week is Sunday morning, when she and her family will be all smiles in the second row at church.
She’s living her best life, and loves that everyone is so jelly of her.
If only women knew what their husbands and boyfriends do with each other in public restrooms.
Any man from Atlanta knows the code well: the toilet flushing when you walk in the door, tapping feet, heavy breathing.
One time in the Midtown Publix, I was standing at the urinal while two guys were grunting and moaning in the stall next to me, apparently too distracted to detect my presence — or maybe they knew and liked it.
Another time in the Buckhead Target, I watched two guys stumble out of a stall when I walked in the door — both had embarrassed looks on their faces and were pulling up their pants. You can’t get less subtle than that.
Then there was the time I stopped at a rest area in the suburbs at 5 a.m. — I drank a lot of coffee before I left the city. The first thing I saw when I pushed open the door was a bare ass ducking into a stall. “Nooope”, I said out loud and beelined to the adjacent restroom.
I make no judgment on the acts — only the lies and secrecy. And for the men who hook up with other guys but elect to strip the rights of those who aren’t downlow hypocrites like themselves, I have nothing but disdain.
Suck and fuck all you want, bros, and when you have to deal with the inevitable disease and the fallout of your women discovering your deeds, well, you have my sympathies — but only to a point.
I’m the Chinese software engineer who hacked into your device OS.
I’ve been watching you for months now.
Fuck that’s hot. Do I turn you on that much, big boy?
You’ve been infected with malware through the adult website you visited.
Which one?
I have downloaded all confidential information from your system and I got some more evidence.
Aren’t you the sneaky sleuth? Hot.
I gained access to your smartphone and saw everything you were doing… well, I got a video of you masturbating in the bathroom (nice interior, by the way).
Thanks! Like my cock? The walls are streaked with my cum.
I’ve been monitoring your camera for the past 2 weeks – it was active for 47 hours total, and you never noticed because I disabled the LED indicator.
You’re so smart and naughty, Chinese engineer. No wonder US dominance is slipping.
I put together footage: on one side of the screen is the video you’re watching at the moment and on the other side is your satisfied face. With one click, I can send this video to all your contacts.
Oh fuck yes. I want them all to see me like this.
I’ve already prepared everything. I have access to your WhatsApp and I can see all your conversations – with your family, your relatives, your friends, your colleagues, and even your boss. I’ve also taken screenshots of your private chats. The video is queued and ready to send. One wrong move and I press the button.
Mmmm fuuuck. Do it, bro!
I can see your WhatsApp messages, your private chats, your family group chats, and I can send anything I want from your account. I also have your work email and I can see all your professional contacts. Imagine your relatives receiving this video from your WhatsApp number in your family group chat, or your boss and colleagues receiving it during work hours. How would you explain that? Your life will be ruined.
Omg, please ruin me. Make me your slave, daddy.
All your data is already uploaded to my secure servers. Even if you delete everything from your device right now, I still have copies. The email templates are ready. The video is processed and optimized. Everything is set up. I’m just waiting for the timer to expire.
Tick tick, baby.Now show me your yellow dick.
I’m monitoring this email right now. If you forward it, show it to someone, or try to contact the police, I’ll know instantly and the video will be sent immediately to your entire contact list, starting with your relatives and your work contacts. There’s no way to stop me once I press that button.
Oooh, so sexy and commanding. Make me beg for mercyon my knees.
Do you want to prevent this?
No, punish me, Daddy.
I understand your concern. Especially since the video was quite vulgar, I can’t imagine the embarrassment you will feel when your family, relatives, colleagues, friends and everyone else see it. Your reputation will be destroyed forever.
Have you seen my site? I destroyed my own reputation a long time ago.
You’ll never be able to look them in the eye again.
I don’t look them in the eye now. Pretty sure I’m on the spectrum.
If you need to delete all of your collected data, just send 0.01 btc (Bitcoin) to a wallet that was specially generated for your email address.
bc1q5g3fhptpp9g8r0spfzr7jdwgp0wn6tqc3gsgpf
That looks legit.
Yes, it’s that simple! My script will detect the transaction to this wallet and will automatically delete all the dirt that was collected on you from my servers.
Nah, too much work. I’m a lazy American. Now let me suck ur cock.
You have 48 hours to pay. The countdown started the moment you opened this email. If you don’t pay within 48 hours, the video will be automatically sent – right when everyone is at work, checking their messages. Every hour you delay, I’ll send the video to random contacts from your list, starting with your relatives and work colleagues. After 48 hours, everyone gets it – your entire WhatsApp contact list, including all your relatives, and I’ll also post it on your social media accounts from your own profile. There will be no way to undo this.
Blah blah blah. Show me your bits, big boy.
Timer ID: -904422093
The timer started automatically after you opened this email. You’re being watched right now. Every second counts.
If you don’t have enough money, you can pay half the amount (0.005 btc) to your wallet in order to extend the timer for another 48 hours.
Zzzz….stop with this dry ass hell technical talk.
Do not try to reply to this email, it makes absolutely no sense (the sender’s email address as well as the Bitcoin wallet were generated automatically especially for you and cannot be traced). I don’t make mistakes. Don’t test me.
There’s that dominating talk I like. Control me, daddy. Make me your slave.
If I see that you’ve shared this message with someone else (for example, if it is opened on a different device than yours), the video will instantly start being sent out to your contact list. I have monitoring scripts running 24/7. Your relatives will be the first to receive it in your family group chats. This is your only warning.
Mmm….that’s right. I’m a naughty boy.Bend me over and swat me with your chopstick.
Take it easy. Take it as a little life lesson and be more careful in the future.
I don’t want to be more careful….I just wanna choke on your Chinese wang.
Yes, the internet advice about taping the camera isn’t so useless.
I first learned about Paley Park in William H. Whyte‘s The Social Life of Small Urban Spaces, an inspiring and formative little book that I stumbled upon years ago and still occasionally thumb through and read.
Paley Park was at the top of my list when I first visited New York in September 2022, and I’ve returned several times since.
Just 4,200 square feet in size,1 it’s a perfect little slice of nature in Midtown Manhattan, with a waterfall, trees, and plenty of tables and chairs.
The park is full every time I visit, even on a freezing day in January.
I woke up this morning to the rat-a-tat-tat of an old typewriter, Ready to punch out the form of my day. “Just a minute,” I objected hazily — sometimes I like to go off-script. I drifted back into some preferable, strange dream, Then, resurrected with a cup of coffee an hour later. “Okay, writer: resume.”
As the old man sinks onto the toilet, his prolapsed anus pulsing, he thinks to himself: “My God, it feels good to be superior.”
With thick, labored breaths, he spreads his pale, sweaty thighs, unable to see his shriveled cock and sagging balls for his bulging stomach.
Grunting and groaning with every flatulent squirt, he tries in vain to push out a turd that’s been compacting in his colon for days, inhaling deeply as he farts because he likes his own smell.
The tile on his bathroom wall is streaked with shit because he never washes his hands. In a nearby bucket are the cuttings of his pubes, which he trims to make his penis look bigger. It doesn’t fool anyone, though, even when he’s wearing a cock ring.
He pushes and heaves for what feels like an eternity, but the only evacuation from his body is a flaccid little stream of piss.
Finally giving up on his labor, he strains to wipe the fresh juice from the folds of his orifice, clumsily smearing it into the coarse hairs of his crack, all matted together with dried fecal crumbs.
Now red, irritated, and burning, the asshole begins to rage.
It infuriates him that the world doesn’t recognize how special he is — that he is divinely appointed for a special purpose.
He believes he’s smarter, stronger, and more talented than anyone else, and he alone is exempt from the laws of the universe. He is elevated, set aside, unique from all the other pissing, shitting creatures around him.
It’s never been enough for him to keep his exceptional superiority to himself, however — he needs everyone else to recognize it, too. As a god among mortals, he was made to be admired, worshiped, and adored.
He’s always had an endless supply of sycophants at his disposal: idolatrous, insecure asswipes he can seduce and trap with his magnetic charm. It was easier when he was young and good-looking, but age has given him the ugly mug and impotent cock he deserves.
His ass-lickers fawn over him, lavish him with praise, and hang on his every word. He feeds off their adulation for sweet life, but when he inevitably grows bored or is struck by fresh fear, he lashes out in self-righteous rage about disloyalty or some other invented slight, then quickly discards them.
Most of his enablers don’t go away completely — at least not at first. Some he never hears from again, but the weaker ones can usually be wooed back with flattery and empty promises when he needs a fresh supply. They return to him on their knees, groveling, begging forgiveness from their abuser, and the cycle repeats, each time shorter and more miserable than the last.
Yet even the most loyal lackeys grow weary of sucking him off to keep him happy. His words are worth less than his shit; he has an unquenchable thirst for attention, and his infantile need for domination is exhausting, suffocating, and above all, boring. Everyone drawn into his orbit eventually comes to resent and despise him.
He is consumed with paranoia and suspicion, and for good reason — those who profess the greatest loyalty to him are the ones who, for their own protection, become the smoothest of liars.
To have any long-standing relationship with him is to fabricate a persona that exists solely to pacify him: one that is obsequious and compliant. You must become detached, steely, guarded — and a consummate actor. Smile and tell him what he wants to hear, then conspire in whispers behind his back.
He is a man without love: no matter how good it begins, every relationship degrades into a cold and transactional exchange of power. Those who stick with him the longest are the ones who believe the deepest that they will benefit from his supremacy, too blinded to recognize that it’s a hallucination, a chimera, a mirage. They only know it when he has utterly stripped their souls, leaving them worthless, depleted, and without any of their original identity.
His string of failed relationships and consistent self-sabotage betray him as an abject failure of a human being. He desperately wants to be seen as intelligent, but anyone who’s been around him for any amount of time knows that he’s a bumbling imbecile: dumb as a post, dull as his dick, and a fool to the core.
He is, in fact, a pathetic husk of a man — a cipher, a void, a reptilian viper, a succubus from the darkest pit of hell. Look into his eyes: you’ll find there’s nothing in them.
He is an empty sack of darkness, a black hole of deception, manipulation, cruelty, and depravity. Lacking discipline and self-control, he seeks to wreak vengeance and humiliation on those he deems inferior to himself — and that happens to be everyone. Yet in constant threats and tirades, he reveals himself to be the very thing he fears to be recognized as: pathetic, fragile, and weak.
Beneath his gaseous cloud of illusion, baby boy knows deep in his bowels that there is nothing special about him at all. He is only one of many such monsters who roam the earth: Celebrities, politicians, pastors, executives, pissant middle managers, hucksters, grifters, and sheisty salesmen. There are a billion others just like him, all preying on those willing to surrender their souls for the illusion of second-hand power.
This class of dime-store demons should be mocked, derided, and ignored. Instead, they are honored, celebrated, and revered as aspirational figures by a world of suckling infants desperate for god-like caricatures to coddle and protect them while they distract themselves with trinkets and toys.
The old man has his role to play on earth, like everyone — the soul, after all, doesn’t grow without adversity. But as just one of a legion of adversaries, he is not unique: in time, he, too, will flame out and be forgotten. He is a passing shadow, a fleeting mist, a momentary fart.
And as he shifts on his throne to rip another one, he suddenly slumps forward and belches his last sulfurous breath.
