in me grows with teething urgency the satanic seed of some otherworldly idea - some thing of evil and ambition, birthed from the bloated, bleeding womb of a silently infamous pasta dish; the penne vodka.
I am a simple man, I always have been. I love simple things, and live a simple life.
A simpleton however, I am not. But who could resist.
In every way she is erotic. Barefooted Beatrice beckons me, smelling of roses and alcohol, promising divinity. I perch on her lap, lost for questions; Eventually I say,
-"so Lucia, is that like italian or something"
She puts a long, girthy finger to my mouth as if to say "shutup and be pretty", and then inside me. Im sucking. I taste mushrooms, cream, make believe favorites, my mothers cooking, and vodka. Im drunk now. And nauseous
I stumble backwards, disoriented, the faint, faraway scream of a man being tortured radiates from my torso with reverb and distortion, getting louder now - deafening - what is this?
I look up at Mama. In her seat sits Moammar gaddaffi, in drag. A baby gorgon suckles at his exposed tit.
"THE REVOLUTION IS COMING" he booms with a voice like Krakatoa and John Lennon at the end of, the appropriately named, "Mother".
He molests my mind with an unbearably visceral, grotesquely painful glimpse of the future that penetrates my virgin body with spartan mercy.
I see banners, flags, little pins, a red book, all bearing the same oddly familiar shape. Its hazy, I'm trying to make out what it is, I get closer, inching forward, step on a mouse trap, and get dropped in a vat of semen. I struggle for breath, inhaling copious amounts of cum, drowning, dying, a horse in a well. This can't be real, this can't possibly be real - i start questioning the basic tenants of my existence - what is my name?, what is my gender?, where am I from? who are my parents? did the bowling green massacre happen or not?
The pain in my stomach is now a dull thud on the locked bathroom door of friends and family pounding vainly, as a man they know kills himself in front of the sink, never breaking his own gaze.
This must be death. I think, or don't. It doesn't matter at this point.
I shouldn't have gone out to eat. I should have just watched Giada at home and made myself a sandwich. All this is excessive, even for a lifelong masochist.
And then suddenly, the cum is drained and in a vacuum I float, gasping at air that isnt there.
But Im alive, thats all that matters. Where am I? I am in a tube. I press my naked, semen soaked body against the edge of the glass. All around me is the new world. And for the first time I recognize with a horror worse than pain the ubiquitous icon of tomorrow; penne vodka. I scream, I scream with unbelieving recognition, till my lungs bleed like Jodee Blanco on a "sick day". I scream and pound and shout and masturbate, Ive lost all sense of decency. But no one hears me. I don't hear myself. Here I live for a life sentence, observing from my cell the day to day dealings of a communist dystopia.
And then I am freed. Without warning without reason without panic. I am freed back into my old life, and it is the next day. I divorce my wife, subject my kids to a post birth abortion, euthanize my parents, and sit at my desk to write this review. This is the last thing I will ever do.
Mama lucia gets 1 out of 5 stars for me. read more