Poems, Shorties, & Quick-n-Tasty
Naughty Bits-n-Bites from the QMC
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Look, I'm a serious artist. And writer. I am.
Everyone has a dark side (notice how instead of my third-person person writing about this book, it is my first-person person, meaning me, writing about me? Meta-fiction posing as art, posing as pure entertainment couched in dirty language? Is there a 5th wall?) Anyway, back to "everyone has a dark side."
They do. However, they are usually too:
they're intelligent enough to use a pseudonym
sensible, astute, and forward-thinking…
…to actually talk about it. Let alone write it in stone. No, books aren’t made of stone, but the saying “written in stone” is a reference to 1) the Ten Commandments a.k.a God’s finger came down and wrote that shit personally, and 2) it’s a metaphor for something being permanent, eternal-edict-ish, and immutable.
With the advent of the Internet, things are now literally (but not, you know, literally) written in stone in that they never, ever go away. Which is why revenge porn is a thing, why you should never, ever post x-rated photos anywhere online, ever, and why you should never, ever take the very first publishing offer you get on your first, hideously written, horrifically edited (as in unedited), but rather endearing, first-novel attempt (cough, cough).
Double-Dog Dare is the book I will be regretting when I : 1) return to the Mormon faith or at least acknowledge a god “might” exist as some sort of final "hail-mary-please-don’t-let-me-burn" deathbed-type deal, 2) one of my Mormon family members suddenly decides to be "supportive" of my "hobby" and reads everything I've ever written, and/or 3) the reason all of my kids and progeny will change their names. Wait. My girls…already don’t have my name…my son, doesn’t have my name...step-daughters have PART of my name…eh, they already deny they know me (smart move, girls, just sayin’. I totally get it), and will probably marry and take on the names of their husbands. So. Ass, covered, there, anyway.
You will find the writings of the Queen Mother C*nt, the lovely sobriquet given me by my adoring fans (all four? Five?) in Great Britain, and YES it’s complimentary, and YES I even asked them if it was (complimentary) and they said…well, they said: “Oi, you’re the one who wanted us to call you that, eh?”
Hm. I did some research. Sure enough. A poem from my book, no secrets:
the word c*nt
is the queen mother of all
so when this books gets sold
i want to be known
queen mother c*nt…
get those pesky bugs
outta their asses.
Well, ‘nuff said, I think. Look, I have a sense of humor, and yeah, it’s like a test tube of 10-year-old boy-potty-humor mingled with a horrible case of “emotional incontinence” (PBA: Pseudobulbar Affect, and yes, it’s a thing, and NO it isn’t funny, but yes it SO is [funny], and I can make fun of it because I have it, but you can’t [make fun of it, I mean]. Them’s the rules), then shaken in a vortex mixer (what? I know stuff) with a pinch of “…unnatural preoccupation with all things sexual, dirty, filthy, crass, do-you-kiss-your-mother-with-that-mouth, semi-sociopathic, definitely misanthropic, and a repulsive, impulsive, exhibitionistic need to blurt, blather and vomit words about said fixations. Out loud and in written form.”**
Double-Dog Dare is a mishy-washy-mashy mix of sex, filth, fun-for-the-whole-family-if-your-kids-are-all-adults-and-you-play-CAH*** as a family, dark, disturbing shit, and general wrong-ness. Mixed in are actual writing stuffs with PG-13 shit, too, so it's fun for the whole fam-damnly, et. al. So yeah, you can read it if you're looking for a way to get all filthy-minded while zoning out during your niece's baptism or whatever. Yeah, so...wrong. But you know how when wrong feels so...right? At least with the right kind of lube or the right amount of fresh basil in a blackberry rum mojito? Yeah.
Poetry, musings, aphorisms, short fiction, and a series, mingled throughout, called Married to an OBGYN, a series of dialogue-tagless exchanges between an OBGYN and his wife.
Enjoy some snippets below. Or don’t. Read them with a sneer on your face and a stick up your ass if you want. Go ahead. You do You. K? YOU do YOU, and I’LL do ME, and…there should be peace on earth. Also, there’s some serious misanthropic, politically incorrect shit in here, too.
SO. Bringing it full-circle, since we were talking about, you know, dark sides...within me there lies a terrible darkness. I simply have the:
attitude that I am officially out of fucks to give about what people think
balls of a tuberous bush cricket (before you get all snotty, that tuber-bushy thing has the largest balls in relation to its body than any other living thing, at 14% of its body weight. Yeah. Them’s me balls.
wisdom (because you’re all dark inside too, motherfuckers, I know it, YOU know it)
- desire to be myself in all my complex and weird-faceted glory
temerity, gall, nerve, and bug-up-my-ass misanthropic urge to write whatever my dark side tells me to.
So. Welcome to my dark side.
Mind-Bleach available via the following: finding Jesus/ baptism/repentance, therapy, regression (professionally guided only, please—be safe, okay?), developing MPD and killing off the personality that read this book, LSD…LDS (eeks, I always get those confused…which one eventually stops you from hallucinating? Ah yes, the LSD), medication (non-prescription, non-OTC, preferably taken from your friend’s mom’s bathroom cabinet—yellow or light-blue pills are usually the safest bet), and also singing hymns.
Think you can handle it? I fucking Double-Dog Dare you.
Kiss, kiss and tally pip--
Q M C, Esq.1
(1 Because people who use that--> [Esq.] after their names are literally c*nts.)
(* The “*” above is a “u,” fyi. I was just trying to be polite.)
(The “*” to which I’m referring is the “*” in the word “cunt,” and all the the subsequent uses of said word, "cunt.")
(The latter use of the word "c*nt" w/r/t using it as a title is the only c*nt herein used specifically as a pejorative. The rest are complimentary uses of the word. Hope that's a little clearer.)
**Text may or may NOT have been directly taken from therapy notes whilst, shuddering with the need to vacate his bowels thanks to a questionable street taco 20-minutes earlier, my therapist, sweating and quaking, ran from the office, thus leaving me to my own devices. Or not. This is not an admission of guilt. Only a caveat and perhaps a CYA later for legal purposes and whatnot.
***Cards Against Humanity. Best. Game. Ever.
Image courtesy of: and also a ridiculously creepy guy fetishizing, er, showing us said balls.
Sample Spunk from Double-Dog Dare:
I think there is something fundamentally
wrong with this country.
And I know I’m not alone.
See, I feel a sense of churning rage
whenever I get those Christmas cards
in the mail.
You know the ones—where it has a photo, or photo-collage
of the family, and they can't even be bothered to
there’s TEXT right on the photo, that reads
Merry Christmas from the Brubakers!
Do they think I’m going to put their family
on my fucking fridge?
Now, back in the old days
people would get Christmas cards and display them
so that all of the visitors would marvel and say,
Wow, you have a lot of Christmas cards a.k.a. friends
who care about you enough to send Christmas cards.
But that’s not a thing anymore.
Now people can see how many Facebook friends you have
and that’s your status,
not a card with a family all kneeling on each other’s backs
in a pyramid, in, I-shit-you-not, matching colors, smiling, with
Merry Christmas from the Brubakers!
I want to know what happened to bringing
baked goods over at Christmas?
I live in the heart of suburbia,
and not one fucking Christmas cookie
or peanut brittle plate has
hit my doorstep. Ever.
What the hell, people?
I don’t care about your family
and I’m not going to keep the card
you sent me.
It’s going in the garbage the second I glance at it.
And it’s not even going to be a perfunctory glance.
It’s going to literally be a meaningless visual my brain
processes, but takes zero time on whatsoever.
So unless you’ve got homemade sugar cookies—frosted—
on a plate (tins are fine, too) for me?
Save a fucking tree.
Don’t even get me started on “family newsletters.”
If I cared, I’d already KNOW 'little Judy finally
passed the 3rd grade' or whatever.
I’m really worried about the forests and stuff.
so after i tried men,
i tried women.
men had proved to be…
i got cats.
they didn’t stalk me
and they don’t steal my shit.
i don’t think men realize this,
but the greatest mystery to us,
at least when we’re young,
is what they look like naked
without their cocks being hard.
it takes a long time
before we get to see a flaccid penis.
because every time you guys pull it out,
it’s always…well, angry.
think about it.
like the first time i saw one and it wasn’t hard—
keep in mind i’d been with quite a few guys—
it was completely new. like...whoa.
kind of “ew” a little, too.
so i was like,
oh, okay, well that’s weird.
what's it like to have that thing
dangling between your legs all the time?
i think it was at that moment
when i felt, for the first time,
like a full-on grown-up.
here’s what adult children don’t understand:
there are two main parts to parenting:
on the one hand,
there is the
love, acceptance, support and
but then there’s the
sorry, you don’t get one without the other.
adult children think they can have
all of the perks
without the ‘instructive’ thing.
oh no, i get it.
because when you’re in your twenties
you know way more
than someone twice your age
with literally a lifetime of experience more
because that’s how it usually is
responsible parenting 2.0
every so often, when i’m bored,
i go down into my 14-year-old son’s room
and i snoop through his things.
i look for drugs or drug paraphernalia, porn,
weapons, condoms, rude journal entries about me or
candy he’s hiding from me
(which i promptly eat because he was taught to share.
natural consequences, buddy).
see, as a parent, i’m committed to
my son’s safety and well-being.
i told a friend this the other day
and she acted sort of weird, like shocked
i’d “invade” his privacy or whatever.
i was like, privacy? that kid came out of my
vagina! how about my effing privacy?
well, that’s neither here nor there. the point is
that if my son were doing drugs, having sex or
hating on me in private or anything,
i’d have a better idea about how to parent him.
in a way, it makes me feel really close to him.
i get a true, unadulterated look-see into his life,
a lot more comprehensive than
when i hack into his facebook and email accounts.
and let’s face it, if he were doing
any of those things, he wouldn’t, like, tell me, right?
if we’re gonna get all up on our high-horses and everything.
and it’s not like he doesn’t go into my room and secretly
look at all of my kama sutra books and stuff.
i mean, i think the nsa has the exact, right idea.
stop trouble before it starts.
my son wants to go to a party this weekend with a bunch
of 10th graders. i was thinking of maybe planting a little sage leaf
in his desk, (he might know it's not pot. point is, *i* don't know)
and then “accidentally” finding it
while "rebooting the internet" router in his room.
it’ll save me having to pick him up
at 11 p.m. on a saturday night.
of course he’ll protest and all that, it’s not mine, wahh wahh,
he’ll say or whatever, but i’ll just throw that
“protesteth too much” quote in his face
and that will be the end of that.
the point is, i totally respected my other two kids’
“privacy” while they were growing up, and look at
the shit they pulled behind my back. they’re both
lucky to be alive, frankly.
so. that’s my thought process behind this whole thing
and i think if more parents did this, there would be
a lot less teen pregnancy and drug abuse.
and there’s the double bonus that you’ll
pretty much ensure that your kid will
move their asses OUT of the house by eighteen.
so it’s a win-win.
i’m not worried. at some point in
his twenties he’ll forgive me because
he’s going to eventually need to
borrow some money.
circle of life, folks.
Married to an OBGYN series:
Married to an OBGYN 0
--Dennis, what made you, you know, finally decide
to be an OBGYN? I’ve always wondered.
Well, honey, I guess it was the thought of combining my two loves
into my profession, you know.
--Uh HUH. So the one love being, of course, pussy.
Actually I was going to say ‘medicine’ and ‘prenatal care, and
bringing new life into the world.’
--Yeah. Nice try.
It was my official answer during the interview.
--And ‘pussy’ would have sounded ‘wrong.’
--Kind of a creeper. Really, really, creeped out right now.
Whatever. Admit it. That whole thing was a trap.
Married to an OBGYN 3
--Mmm that felt so good, Dennis.
I love doing it…
--I’m so glad.
It’s weird how I can taste
the onions from dinner, though.
I’m just saying. No big, honey.
Married to an OBGYN 6
--So how was your day, Honey?
Married to an OBGYN 4
Anyway, she was so tight
she broke the speculum!
I mean, wow, right?
--Shut up, Dennis.
What? What did I say?
Married to an OBGYN 7
--So vagina and vagina called me
today and we vagina-ed our vaginas
for vagina, but vagina
vagina vagina…so vagina vagina…
So… I’m thinking this is your
not-so-subtle way of telling me
I talk too much about work, isn’t it.