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Tag Archives: succubi

Welcome To Pervert Alley

31 Friday Jul 2015

Posted by Smaktakula in True-Ass Tales

≈ 23 Comments

Tags

Converse All-Stars, creepy old perverts, drunkenness, edgy drifter, Halbermenschen, happiest town in America, invisible people, living in squalor, losers, mis-named things, not actually an alley, Pervert Alley, San Luis Obispo, succubi, vodka, wretched

By Tardsie
abandon-hope-all-ye-who-enter-here-e1285714292550

Pervert Alley Doesn’t Have An Official Motto, But This Is As Good As Anything.

At the bottom of my street there’s a rude clutch of a half-dozen shanty apartments that we call Pervert Alley. Pervert Alley is two low rectangular buildings set at right angles to one another, forming roughly half the border of the parking lot it shares with a popular coffee shop. The coffee shop’s been there about ten years now. Before that it was, among other things, a self-help legal center and a doctor’s office, and much of the time it lay vacant. But as far back as I can remember, Pervert Alley has remained constant and unchanged.

Like my house and a lot of the houses in my neighborhood, Pervert Alley is old and was built on the cheap in the years following World War II. Painted in washed-out earth tones, Pervert Alley seems almost designed to be unremarkable–a thing to be seen and then just as quickly forgotten, as if it were shameful or somehow malignant.

There is a commonality to the people who call Pervert Alley home, a worn and tattered theme played out in face after face, year after year. They are neither young–perhaps because the young are still too full of hope to find themselves tossed upon Pervert Alley’s bitter shores–nor are they usually very old; they are not the kind of people who can expect to grow old. They are the fringers and the forgotten, Halbermenschen who haunt the peripheries of society, phantoms who live alongside us, but never with us.

Disneyland

Like Pervert Alley, It’s Full Of Whimsical Characters That You Would Under No Circumstances Leave Unsupervised With Your Children.

The occupant of the first apartment is a gentleman we call–appropriately enough–Pervert #1, and, ironically, the aging registered sex offender is likely the only bona fide pervert residing in Pervert Alley. He keeps to himself and seems to be in poor health, and I expect before much longer that I’ll see a new face in #1. Mostly what I feel for him is pity.

A middle-aged couple live in #2. The man looks a little like George Carlin and the woman like what I imagine a small-town librarian should look like: tall and narrow with round, owlish glasses and straight hair the color of steel wool pulled into a tight bun and pinned up with a variety of makeshift items–pencils, disposable chopsticks, nail files. She has a weary, long-suffering face which I associate for some reason with the pitiless expanse of Midwest prairie, and not the shadow of the Oprah-proclaimed “happiest town in America.” They’re a friendly couple, and sometimes we wave. Passing the husband on my walk one day as he chatted with a friend, I overheard him say of his wife:  “She’s got a heart of gold and she’ll do anything for anybody. Give you the shirt off her back.” He paused before saying, “But the only thing she has to eat all day is vodka.”

636px-Grant_Wood_-_American_Gothic_-_Google_Art_Project

Like This, But A Lot Drunker.

Terry, who lives in #3, is a nut, but not the dangerous kind. At his worst, he’s tiresome. Terry is the star of The Terry Wives of Windsor, a cable-access show I’ve never seen, but which I assume is some kind of drag revue. I first met Terry about ten years ago when he applied for membership in a business organization with which I was associated at the time. Terry had dyed his hair red, in a shade that has never been known to spring forth from a human scalp. His t-shirt was a failed home tie-dye which clung to his scrawny frame like Spandex. However, the pièce de résistance was his footwear, Converse All-Stars  he’d decorated in loops and whirls with a purple permanent marker. It doubtless won’t surprise anyone that he wasn’t invited to join the group. I’ve always been nice to him, though, and when he told me recently how much it meant to him that “you guys {because he now includes my wife & kids} have always supported me,” I felt both touched and a little sad at the same time.

The fourth apartment is a dim, hidden sanctum at the end of the first row, partially blocked by the intersection of the smaller structure which comprises Apartments #5 & #6. I have no idea who–or what–lives in Apartment #4.

Apartment #5 seems to have trouble keeping a steady occupant, and a stream of losers, leeches and ne’er-do-wells have stumbled, slunk and staggered through its door. The current resident has been there just a few months. It’s not easy to tell how old she is; she might be my age or younger, but she’s seen some hard living. She’s tall and blubbery, and her fat hangs unhealthily from her the way it does from an old person, so that her arms and legs jut like broomsticks covered in melted rubber from a body as round and heavy as a swollen tick. She has a predator’s eyes, set in a vapid, moony face crowned by a tangle of greasy, colorless locks. At night she gets fucked up and yells things. She does sometimes in the daylight, too.

The man who lives in #6 is named Daniel, and he’s the hardest for me to talk about even though he’s the reason I started writing about Pervert Alley in the first place. Daniel was, perhaps improbably, my friend. Maybe he still is. He’s changed, and not for the better. Daniel had seen some rough times in his life, but at nearly fifty years old he was finally getting his life together. But then he met Shelly, and that’s a story I’ll tell you next time.

lucas-cranach-the-elder-eve-offering-the-apple-to-adam-in-the-garden-of-eden-c-1520-25-oil-on-wood-detail-of-407328

We Don’t Intend To Imply That All Women Are Soul-Crushing Succubi Who Love Nothing More Than To Bring A Man To Ruin. But Clearly, Some Are.

This Day In Alternate History: Yoko Ono Slain

03 Friday Feb 2012

Posted by Smaktakula in Celebrity, Crime, Entertainment, History, Music, News

≈ 7 Comments

Tags

alternate history, Chad, Cyndi Lauper, death by John Lennon, death by Ringo Starr, drugs, Germany, John Lennon, Mexico, murder, New York, outright lies, Ross Perot, succubi, the Beatles, the woman who destroyed the Beatles, Why God? Why?, wish fulfillment, Yoko Ono

By Smaktakula

You're Just Giving Us Ideas, Yoko.

Some call it ‘The Day the Music Didn’t Die,’ and for others it is simply ‘Ononacht.’ In Germany the holiday is known as Tag der toten Hexe, and goes by Tiempo de Quietud in Mexico. In Chad it’s a complicated series of clicks. This auspicious date is known by myriad names throughout the world: regardless of what it is called, nearly everyone remembers the event through the same blood-hued image of a deranged, frozen-fish wielding John Lennon beating to death a wailing Yoko Ono.

Proof That No Matter How Powerful Or Talented, When Drugs Enter The Picture, A Man Will Fuck A Tree-Sloth.

New Yorkers will recall how the biting cold which had settled over the city on that December day in 1980 was almost magically dispelled as the happy news began to spread throughout the city: Despised succubus Yoko Ono was dead, beaten about the head and face with some kind of fish–possibly a cod or grouper, and then stabbed twenty-eight times with a glass chrysanthemum. The news that John Lennon was the sole suspect in the slaying was met with little surprise, but much empathy.

The Assault Was Vicious And Unprovoked.

Initially, authorities were reluctant to pursue charges against the legendary singer.  Said a police representative, “We scoured the scene looking for any shred of evidence that Ms. Ono’s demise was simply a happy accident; we had our best men on it. I may have my own feelings on this matter, but the law is very clear: if there’s a dead body, we’re required to find a perp. And since Mr. Lennon was discovered at the scene crouched weeping over Ono’s battered carcass and bathed in her eerie greenish blood, there wasn’t much I could do.”

The Reaction To The News Of Yoko's Death Was Immediate And Unanimous.

Lennon was acquitted after a two-month trial, his legal team having mounted a spirited and successful justifiable homicide defense. Although this verdict proved only slightly controversial in 1981, it is unanimously heralded today, as Ono’s death removed the final obstacle preventing a long-awaited Beatles reunion. Sadly, the Beatles’ comeback album, Still Lettin’ It Be, proved a commercial and critical failure, the majority of which was attributed to Ringo Starr’s drum playing. Today, however, the album is remembered more fondly, particularly as only two of the Beatles remain alive–Ringo died along with Cyndi Lauper in a 1986 murder-suicide pact, and George Harrison was slain two years later by crazed fan Ross Perot.

Banging Yoko Ono When You're A Rock Star Is Like A Rich Dude Buying A Chevy Lumina. Why Would You Do It?

Yoko Ono is  a relic of a horrible and best-forgotten past, who, if she is remembered at all, is known as the Delilah who nearly destroyed the greatest rock & roll group of all time. We can be grateful, however, that she did not succeed, and imagine instead a world where it was Lennon rather than Ono who was slain, and where the shrieking, talentless howler monkey lived on leech-like upon the great man’s legacy. Such a possibility is too depressingly horrible to even contemplate.

That's Just Not A World In Which We Want To Live.

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