"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 fulfillingÖ"
-- 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 balls.
"Thatís nothing," I said to the bird as I unzipped my trousers. Iíve got at least nine inches here thatíll put you to shame."
"Maybe so," said the bird, "but can you fly?"
I had to admit; although my penis was larger than the birdís was, I certainly couldnít fly. Then I realized something unusual.
"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 face.
"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 Garden
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 shouted.
So they hanged the nigger in a tree and used him as a festive piŮata.
The Tree Frog That Couldnít Climb Trees
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 a treetop.
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 marker.
"She wonít mind," he thought to himself.
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 moustache.
"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 replied.
"Excuse me?" she exclaimed.
"I said, I bent over and chewed on my hemorrhoid."
"Thatís disgusting," she said, spitting out her sherry. "Why would you say something to me like that?"
He replied, "Eat some goose shit, lady."
"Excuse me?" she replied, rather in shock.
"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 cry.
The next day, she phoned him to tell him what a terrible man he was. He answered with his soothing deep voice.
"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 mind."
"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 nerve."
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 with him."
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 wino."
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 vomit.
"Will you do it in your cunt?" he asked, lovingly.
"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 brain.
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 their injuries.
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 it."
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 myself."
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 again.
"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 the man.
"Stupid Polack!" said the man.
"Stupid Polack!" said Loki.
"Stupid Polack!" said the man.
Ethel and her Husbandís Snoring
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 throat.
The snoring stopped shortly after.
Ethel had a dream.
She dreamed about what it might be like to live as a sea sponge.
Suddenly, she awoke with a fright again.
She looked over at Herman, but he was still dead.
She then realized it wasnít Hermanís snoring after all.
She just sometimes woke up like that.
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 swatters.
Poem for the Otters
Nobody writes a poem for otters
Those wonderful creatures that swim and play
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; beating
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 forth.
God, how beautiful she is, he thought.
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 conversations.
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 angry world.
This is the life of a booger.
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 there.
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? Babies!"
"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 now?"
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 late.
Fruit I Pick With Pointed Dick
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 flair
Picked right through his underwear
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 cock
Theyíll take your little point away
With surgery, a cock fillet
And since that day his pointy dick
Is only used to bale hay
But when the farmer wants a fruit bowl
He picks fruit with his crafty asshole!
Talking Monkey or Look Ma, Iím a Chick
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 sulfuric acid.
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 talking.
"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 and blood.
"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 dishes.
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 serve you."
"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 that?"
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 OF LAW.
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 MISTER!"
"YEAH!" I said.
"YOU LOOK GOOD FROM WHERE IíM AT."
"YEAH!" I shouted. "YOU DO TOO. COME HERE OFTEN?"
"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 WHILE!"
"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 mercy.
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 was okay.
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 everything.
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 me.
AFTERWORD: The Author Explains The Work, by Tom Miller
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 irredeemable prose.
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 artist.
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 pit.
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 now: