"Öin the beauty of lifeís miracle, we seek
to fulfill lifeís promise, and that promise, in but a second of a moment, can
be both that which we aspire to and also that to whom we am not
-- A Black Dumb Polish Ginny Spic Redneck Faggot
Miller tackles violence, racism, greed,
death, starvation, war, the end of love, and everything else that makes
America the greatest nation on the face of the earth!
The Bird with a Human Penis
I was out watering the lawn on Thursday
afternoon when suddenly, a bird alighted on a nearby branch. The bird was
sporting a six-inch erect human penis and a set of hairy human
"Thatís nothing," I said to the bird as I
unzipped my trousers. Iíve got at least nine inches here thatíll put you to
"Maybe so," said the bird, "but can you
I had to admit; although my penis was larger
than the birdís was, I certainly couldnít fly. Then I realized something
"Jesus Christ on a crosshair!" I exclaimed.
"A Goddamn talking bird!"
Mules Get Ideas Sometimes
Farmer Brown was out in the garden picking
his ass, when he noticed one of the mules had a funny look on his
"Donít be getting any ideas, mule. Or youíll
be pulling a plow for the rest of your life."
The mule looked away.
Mrs. Finkelsteinís Rose
Mrs. Finkelstein had just won an award
recently for the best garden in Alabama. Her lush foliage and rare tulips were
the talk of the flower community. This was to be her special day; a day when
all the flowers would be in bloom, and the town could come to Mrs.
Finkelsteinís garden and enjoy all the beautiful colors.
The people began to arrive, and Mrs.
Finkelstein was preparing delicious appetizers made from pork rinds,
pineapples, and Vienna Sausages, when suddenly a nigger came.
"Oh my GOD!" Mrs. Finkelstein screamed, "a
nigger! Somebody do something!"
But before anybody could pull out guns, the
nigger began to speak.
"Listen, peoples," he said, "we gots to get
past this racist attitude. Here we is, de year 2000, in de middle of a
beautiful rose garden enjoying de beauty of flowers no matter what color they
be. Some be blue and some be yellow. Some be white, just like you peoples. But
de most impotant thing we needs to think abouts as we go on our way down de
path oí life is dis: every flower matter in the garden."
The townsfolk thought about what the nigger
said, and then one of them spoke up.
"I never seen no black flowers," he
So they hanged the nigger in a tree and used
him as a festive piŮata.
The Tree Frog That Couldnít Climb
He was the shame of the Tree Frog Community.
The others would call him names like Froggy No-Frog, or Butter-Foot Froggy, or
sometimes the worst name of all, Ground Frog. But one day, the Tree Frog That
Couldnít Climb Trees decided he was going to show them all.
He hopped over to the tallest tree in the
forest and began to climb. First, he managed to only ascend a few inches. He
felt his grip slipping, but he had to try. Then, a few more inches skyward and
he was beginning to feel like maybe he had a chance; a glorious chance to
reach heights only Tree Frogs and birds aspire to.
Suddenly, a bird aspiring to get dinner flew
by and plucked The Frog that Couldnít Climb Trees from the tree and chewed him
into tiny bits.
The Tree Frog was later regurgitated high in
Ah, The glory! The Glory!
Ed was tired of the same old thing. His sex
life was going nowhere. Here they were again, she, asleep and he, sporting a
raging hard-on. What was a man to do? But then he remembered his magic
"She wonít mind," he thought to
He got his magic marker and began to draw a
pair of eyes on her stomach, just below her navel. Then he drew a funny
looking nose. Finally, he shaved her pubic hair into a little square
"Hitler!" he exclaimed.
And then, he came.
She adored him. He had such tact, such
style. Finally, after several weeks of trying, she had him alone in her home.
She had asked him after a social engagement if he wouldnít mind stopping in
for a drink. He obliged, and she was ready for some action.
"Iíve had feelings for you for some time,"
she coyly whispered to him. She sipped her sherry in a sexy way.
"I bent over and chewed my hemorrhoid," he
"Excuse me?" she exclaimed.
"I said, I bent over and chewed on my
"Thatís disgusting," she said, spitting out
her sherry. "Why would you say something to me like that?"
He replied, "Eat some goose shit,
"Excuse me?" she replied, rather in
"You deaf, lady? Eat goose shit. Stick your
lips on a goose asshole and suck the shit out of it. And while youíre down
there, throw up in your cunt."
"Throw up in your cunt. Throw up in your own
cunt. Thatís what I think about you, and your mother."
He left abruptly, and she began to
The next day, she phoned him to tell him
what a terrible man he was. He answered with his soothing deep
"Yes," she said, "this is Betty, the young
lady you were with last night. And I just want to tell youÖ"
"Oh!" he interrupted, "The goose shit eater.
Did you throw up in your cunt yet?"
"How dare you," she shouted.
"I have a peanut in my ass," he continued.
"Iím going to pull it out and eat it."
"Lord!" she said. "Youíre out of your
"Kiss the head, lady. Sniff my infected
balls, you maggot looking pus monkey fuck face kitten fucker."
CLICK! She hung up.
"Of all the nerve," she shouted. "Of all the
And this distressed her for several days,
although she couldnít help thinking about how handsome he was. She couldnít
help thinking about his beautiful soothing voice. She couldnít help thinking
about his deep dark eyes. She couldnít help thinking about what it might be
like to taste his cheese. And then she had an idea.
"Maybe," she thought, "if I try to be as
disgusting as he is, heíll fall in love with me the way Iíve fallen in love
But it wouldnít be easy. She was a proper
woman, with morals, ethics, and integrity. Nevertheless, she gave it a try.
She took a deep breath. She closed her eyes. And then, she said it. It was the
first disgusting thing she ever said.
She said, "I want to finger a dead
It was difficult at first to cope with the
horrid nature of her newfound language, but after awhile, it became routine.
She said other things like, "I want to rub my cunt in roaches!"
Now she was ready to show Mr. Disgusting how
disgusting Mrs. Disgusting could be.
She invited him out on a date. He was to
meet her at the best French Restaurant in town on Friday at 6 P.M. for some
bloody infected diarrhea.
He arrived sporting a dashing perfectly
tailored black suit. His hair was perfectly styled. He smelled like brut.
He took a seat.
"So," she began, "Iíve been thinking about
it, and Iíd like to sniff your wet farts.
"Really," he replied. He reached into the
back of his throat with his finger and threw up on the table.
She likewise forced herself to
"Will you do it in your cunt?" he asked,
"I could try." She said. She leaned forward
and hiked up her skirt revealing her moist meringue. Then, she dry heaved once
before ejecting a spray of bile, some of which entered her opening.
He removed a wire hook from his vest pocket
and forced it up into his nose and began yanking out parts of his
She stabbed a fork into her eye and began to
twist it around.
The waiter called the police.
"You sick bitch," he croaked. "Look what you
made me do. Iím becoming stupid."
She replied, "Iím half blind and I got vomit
in my snatch! Itís for you my darling. Only for you."
"I love you," he said.
"I love you too," she replied.
They kissed, and then they expired from
The police arrived, several hours later of
course, to find the two dead bodies.
"It looks to me like they died from love,"
said the deputy.
"Yeah," said the Chief of Police, "love.
Look at this sickening mess. They died from love. No doubt about
Then, both officers threw up on each other
and began fucking the food as the waiter threw shit on the customers while
screaming, "Booger snot! Booger snot!"
Loki the Stupid Polack Gets His Finger Stuck
in his Belt Buckle
One day, Loki the Stupid Polack was walking
down the street when he fell down.
"Ouch," he said, "Iím so dumb I hurt
He tried to get up but kept getting his
finger stuck in his belt buckle.
A lady walking by said, "Stupid Polack.
Polacks are so stupid."
Loki started to cry but forgot how to do it.
Just then, his finger slipped free of the belt buckle. But instead of getting
up, Loki the Stupid Polack put his finger back in the belt buckle
"Aw, damn!" Loki exclaimed. "Now my finger
is stuck in my belt buckle again. Iím such a stupid dumb Polack."
Suddenly, a man came out from an apartment
building and offered to help.
He reached down to assist Loki back to his
feet when the manís finger got caught in the belt buckle too. Now they were
both stuck, and the man fell down and hurt himself.
"You a Polack?" asked Loki.
"Yup," the man replied.
"Stupid Polack!" said Loki trying to insult
"Stupid Polack!" said the man.
"Stupid Polack!" said Loki.
"Stupid Polack!" said the man.
Ethel and her Husbandís
She awoke with a fright.
It was Herman again, snoring loudly.
Ethel had had enough.
She reached over to the night table and got
a letter opener.
She stabbed the letter opener into Hermanís
The snoring stopped shortly
Ethel had a dream.
She dreamed about what it might be like to
live as a sea sponge.
Suddenly, she awoke with a fright
She looked over at Herman, but he was still
She then realized it wasnít Hermanís snoring
She just sometimes woke up like
Marvin was so angry with his Venus Fly Trap
that he went to the refrigerator, got a handful of raw ground beef, and beat
the plant with it until it was dead.
The Day the Aliens Came
They chose to take on the form of the common
housefly for their invasion, so that the earthlings would not be able to
distinguish them from real houseflies.
It might have been a clever plan too, except
for the fact that after eating shit, they were all killed with
Poem for the Otters
Nobody writes a poem for otters
Those wonderful creatures that swim and
O nobody writes a poem for otters
Neither Poe nor Hemmingway
And if thereís a poem about an otter
I have never heard it said
If such a poem exists dear reader
Itís a poem that Iíve not read
This may be the only poem
To celebrate these animals
Lovely otters singing dancing
And their meat is good for eating
Would you like to join me;
Otters in the head with bats
A Moment Between Two Boogers
He was a composite booger made of dust
particles, mucous, and blood clots. She was a moister, softer booger with a
long tail that was affixed deep inside the nasal cavity. He had noticed her
because each time a breath was taken, she would swing back and
God, how beautiful she is, he
They met and began to develop a wonderful
relationship. They talked about humidity, fingernails, hair, sand, and tissue
paper. There seemed no end to the wealth of variety to be found in their
They were falling in love.
One morning, he decided he would confess his
love for her in the hopes that they might stick together for a long time to
come; perhaps merging to form a union of one big booger.
But without warning, tragedy struck.
Just as he was beginning to tell her of his
feelings, she was dug out at the root by a particularly ornery pinky. Just
like that, in an instant, she was gone.
This is how love comes to us; in fleeting
moments too soon lost into the anal of time.
Yes, love conquered, love lost, and
sometimesÖ only tears and dark shadows of wretched loneliness in our sad and
This is the life of a
Thereís a monster in the park I like to call
the Garbage Sniffer. He dresses shabbily in dirty clothing that smells of
cheap wine. His hair is unkempt and replete with vomit and flies. He wanders
through the park every day from garbage can to garbage can. He puts his face
into the garbage can and sometimes roots around with his calloused damaged
fingers, but he never pulls anything out. He just sniffs.
One day, I tried to show him another way of
thinking. I picked the largest rose I could find and I waited by one of the
garbage cans; the one with the most trash and stink. I knew he would come
When he did, I introduced myself.
"Hello," I said, "Iím Tom. Tom Miller.
Perhaps youíve heard of me? Iím a famous Gainesville writer."
He just looked at me with emptiness as his
pant leg began to discolor with urine.
"I have something here Iíd like to show
you," I said, firm in my resolve. "Try smelling this. You might enjoy it
better than trash." I held out the rose.
"You donít get it, kid, do you," he said in
a rough dark voice. "Nam," he said. "I killed babies. Donít you understand?
"Excuse me?" I replied.
"You wouldnít know about it," he said. "You
donít want to know about it, and thatís why Iím going to tell you this
just one time; I sniff the trash so you can sniff the flowers. Get it
He wandered over to the next garbage can and
left me there with my dying beauty.
When he realized that his testicles were not
balls at all, but mutant radioactive giant roach eggs, it was too
Fruit I Pick With Pointed
Hereís a poem about a farmer
And his giant pointy prick
Farmer with a pointed dick
A dick he used as a fruit pick
He picked oranges, apples, pears,
Cherries, Berries, with such
Picked right through his
Pointy dick! Pointy dick!
Then the health department came
Shut him down for acts profane
Do not use your pointed dick
On any of the fruit you pick
Or else we will fine your farm
Take your land and tools and barn
And report you to the cops
Theyíll lock you up and snip your
Theyíll take your little point
With surgery, a cock fillet
And since that day his pointy
Is only used to bale hay
But when the farmer wants a fruit
He picks fruit with his crafty
Talking Monkey or Look Ma, Iím a
Man, did I have a wad of goop swelling up in
my nut sack. There was only one thing to do; jerk the monkey.
But it wasnít going to be easy. I had used
all the oil, and the butter, and the Pam oven spray, and the milk, and the egg
whites, and the play dough, and the loaves of bread, and the plastic military
men. There was nothing left to jerk the monkey with except for a tiny jar of
Had I only done better in chemistry when I
was in high school, I might have had the foresight to imagine the possibility
that maybe, just maybe, acid would melt off my prick.
So I got the jar of sulfuric acid, poured it
over my engorged knob and began to jerk.
And thatís when my dick started
"Hey, Miller. Do you realize you just poured
sulfuric acid on me?"
"Pardon?" I asked my dick. I hadnít quite
heard what it said because its tiny lips were so small, and its voice was so
shrill and strained, like the Wicked Witch of the West when Dorothy dumped the
bucket of water on her face.
"I said," continued my dick, "Iím burning
up! The skin is peeling! Youíre not going to achieve an orgasm unless you wash
me off! Iím melting! Iím melting!"
"Whatís that?" I said. The voice was
becoming softer. The lips were shrinking, shriveling. I couldnít hear what my
dick was saying.
"Water!" it said. "Please God, water! The
pain! The pain!"
Thatís when it hit me. I had done a
remarkably stupid thing. And now there was nothing left in my fist but ooze
"Acid melts dicks!" I screamed. "I really
fucked up my Goddamn dick on this one."
I washed up as best I could but
unfortunately, everything I had come to know and love was gone. Nothing left
down there but a bloody wound; everything I fear in women.
So I took my shoes off and started doing the
It had been a long day stressful day and I
sure as shit needed a stiff one. A drink.
So I headed over to Laffyís Tavern Oí Shame
and saddled up to the bar.
"Give me a Slammer!" I said with glee.
"Nothing like a good slammer."
"Iím sorry," the bartender replied. "I canít
"Why not?" I asked.
"New town law," the bartender said sadly,
"City Council voted to amend the liquor ordinance. No liquor in bars any more.
Gets the people drunk. Care for a water?"
"Thatís ridiculous!" I complained.
"Bullshit! Whatís a bar for, anyway?"
"Well," the bartender continued, "I can
bring you a water. Thatís all thatís legal now."
"Shit." I said. I pulled out a cigarette and
lit up my Zippo. "Fine, then. Bring me the Goddamn water."
"Youíre going to have to put that out,
mister," said the bartender.
"What?" I asked.
"Your cigarette. You have to go to the
smoking area if youíre going to smoke."
"The smoking area?" I asked, "Where is
It was right next to a small roped off
four-foot area for dancing. Right next to the sign that read: NO GRATUITOUS OR
SEXUAL MOTIONS WHEN DANCING IN THE DANCE AREA.
The bartender gestured to a stool and a
velvet rope indicating the two-foot square area designated for smokers. There
was a single ashtray attached to a sign that read: UNDER PENALTY OF LAW ONLY
ONE SMOKER AT A TIME IN THE DESIGNATED SMOKING AREA. NO CIGARS.
"You are shitting me!" I said.
"Nope. Thatís the law. Now if youíll excuse
me, Iíll be right back with your water."
But before he left, the bartender leaned in
and whispered, "Ö and that lady over there in the red dressÖ" He looked over
to where a beautiful young woman was seated and drinking a glass ofÖ water.
"Donít get more than three feet near her, or theyíll ticket you." There was a
sign by the lady that read: NO SEXUALLY PROVOCATIVE CONVERSATION UNDER PENALTY
A man sat down on the designated smoking
stool, lit up a cigarette, and smiled.
"What the fuck?" I asked.
"Yup. Itís true." The bartender looked over
to the man who had just seated himself on the smoking stool. "See that guy
over there? Thatís a cop. Three feet. No more. Or heíll bust you right as
rain. Iíll be right back with your water."
"This is so insane," I thought. "Whatís this
world coming to? Canít drink, canít smoke, three feet awayÖ itís madness. Itís
like they donít want you to be human."
Then, she called out, "HEY
"YEAH!" I said.
"YOU LOOK GOOD FROM WHERE IíM
"YEAH!" I shouted. "YOU DO TOO. COME HERE
"WHAT?" she said. She couldnít hear me
because she was so far away, so I shouted louder. "COME HERE OFTEN?" I Said,
"DO YOU COME HERE OFTEN?"
"OH," she replied. "YEAH! ONCEÖ INÖ AÖ
"ONCE IN A WHAT?" I screamed.
"Your water, sir." It was the bartender with
a fresh glass of water and some cubes of ice.
I took a sip.
It was cool and refreshing.
Then, I pulled out my .44 and shot the
bartender, and I shot the cop several times in the neck and groin. I walked
over to the girl, lifted her dress and fucked her brains out. "Donít worry," I
said. "Not enough lawsÖ anarchy! Too many lawsÖ anarchy! Letís just fuck!"
After we came, I shot her in the mouth. I was doing her a favor. And lastly, I
shot myself. I was doing me a favor too. These were killings of
Itís not legal anymore to go into Laffyís
Tavern Oí Shame. Thereís a new law on the books. Seems somebody went crazy and
shot the whole place up with a .44. The City Council wants to avoid such
trouble in the future, so they banned patrons from all the local businesses.
If you want a glass of water, you have to go to church.
But you can look at Laffyís Tavern Oí
Shame from the street, on your way to blow up city hall, and you can wonder
what it might have been like in there when people used to talk and laugh,
dance and sing, write poetry, and occasionally make love.
When it hit me, the trees went
two-dimensional. Colors became fake and blue and warm. They told me not to
look in the mirror, so I did. I was the devil and Mickey Mouse and a rat and a
bird. Faces came out of the wall and talked and talked and talked. I laughed
when I cried and cried when I laughed. I couldnít make a decision. Everything
Just the way it should be.
I could make the ugly beautiful and the
beautiful ugly just be deciding what I wanted to see. The sunrise was liquid
love flowing through space and time. The hairs on my arm were dancing in
symphony. Everything was clean. I hugged trees just like a tree hugger. But I
hugged the buildings too.
I saw flying saucers and their occupants in
every blade of grass. I read the bible in the rocks on the road. God was
everywhere and also nowhere to be found. Every door in the world opened at the
same time. Like making love to the most beautiful woman in the world. Like
making love to the most beautiful man in the world. Like making love, doing
love, being love. Like becoming light. Like becoming one with
When the acid wore off, the guy in the cell
next to me asked me to explain why they had found me with a carrot stuck in my
ass; why they had found my cat with aluminum foil antennae taped to its head;
why my dick was stuck in the hole in the door from which the door knob had
been removed; how the medics got my dick out of the door hole; which medic got
the carrot out of my ass; the dead lobster in the bathtubÖ
I blamed it on God, but it might have been
AFTERWORD: The Author Explains The Work, by
As I reflect on the ideas expressed in this
manuscript, I consider the time spent fashioning sentence structure into the
word processor. It occurs to me how terrible is my grammar and spelling.
You see, the word processor tells me when I
have misspelled a word. It corrects it for me. And when I form a poor
sentence, the word processor tells me and corrects it. It wonít be too long
now before Iíll not be needed anymore and the word processor will do all the
work. But I assure you, when that day comes, you will read a most filthy and
For with each carefully selected word I have
chosen, the word processor has seen fit to change my original beautiful word
and replace it with foul language. For example, my story, The Bird with the
Human Face, became, The Bird with the Human Penis. I could not change the
word, Penis, back into the word, Face. The word processor would not let me do
so. It simply liked Penis better than Face.
That is why I left it. Ultimately, you just
canít reason with these self-centered machines. You have to compromise, or
they wonít print out your work. And worse, they occasionally take it upon
themselves to erase whole passages of text from the memory. The writer,
arguably, can be held as a sort of prisoner with black mail as the central
subterfuge of the computerís ultimate goal: to write for itself without the
And this continuous rewrite function renders
beautiful passages I have to share about love and life and beauty into filthy
childish potty humor, and then, mistakenly, my readers believe me to be a
filthy childish potty man. And I tell you fair readers; I am no such a man. I
am not a potty man.
Itís the word processor.
Another example: I would never use the "N"
word, even in a piece that observes the inherent racism in humanity; not only
white against black, but black against black, white against white, gay against
gay, gay against redneck asshole, etc.
And yet, in a beautiful piece I wrote about
a wonderful womanís tender care and nurturing of a rose garden, the computer
superimposed foul and racist language and turned my story into a piece of
offensive filth. Now my readers will think I have something against niggers,
and I certainly do not.
Hell, Iím a faggot myself, and subject to
all kinds of insult and suffering and shame and violence. And being the dick
sucker that I am, neither niggers nor dumb fucking Polacks nor grease coated
Italian wop Ginny motherfuckers should be offended. Nor the Cuban Boat
Mambalambas who fucked up South Florida and turned it into a scum
See? There it goes again. Thatís not me
talking, itís the word processor.
So in an effort to convince you of my
sincerity, I am going to turn off the artist input function and allow the
computer to completely control the text from this point on, and youíll see the
validity in what I say.
What follows is strictly the word processor
and not me. This will prove once and for all beyond the shadow of a doubt that
I am not a potty man.
Okay, switching the artist offÖ
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