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The Little Red Butthole

Picture a board book, with a round hole through the center. The hole grows smaller with each page, missing entirely on the last.

Page 1. Vague interior with “wallpaper” that looks like a cute diaper pattern. A painting is literally Photoshopped in. The hole IS the main character:

There once was a little butthole, who lived in a snug little home. It was warm, soft and carpeted. He even a Vermeer painting. (So I’m told. I’m pretty sure that’s a Cassatt.)

Page 2. The butthole tosses his Trilby hat onto the coatrack:

The butthole had a nice life. He did some work, usually every day, sometimes less, sometimes more. The work was boring, but it needed to be done.

Page 3. Buckets & flower pots are out catching leaks, but it’s not interruping his evening on the barcalounger:

True, sometimes his house would get a bit wet. But, into every life some rain must fall. He didn’t usually mind.

Page 4. He’s tiredly thrown the trilby, and missed the rack. The pots are in disarray. The Cassatt is crooked:

Usually. There came a time when the work got too much. No sooner did one job end when he’d be needed for another. And another. And another.

Page 5. Flooded! He’s in a rowboat, with his coatrack and his soaked Cassatt. The trilby floats:

Worse, his home was CONSTANTLY flooded! 

He started to get tired. He started to get sore. He started to get angry. Pretty soon he was angry, and sore, and tired, and...

Page 6. Big radiating anger lines, on a page of solid:

RED!

There was only one thing to do. Nothing else could make the butthole happy again. He needed to leave his snug little home. He needed to go out into the big, windy world. He needed...

Page 7: Two page spread of a gorgeous, sunny landscape, bursting with color. A couple of chubby back legs and heels are visible below:

Naked Time!

Page 8: Art gallery, with a Vermeer and a Cassatt in background. Midground, the bottom 2/3 of a woman, turning around startled. Foreground, the backside of a man, his unseen butthole where the tiny hole on the previous page would have been:

This story, from my own butthole, happened a long time ago. As we all know, every butthole has a story to tell. Often quite loudly.

The End
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Excerpts from “Sorworth Place” by Russell Kirk

The firm signature put Bain in mind of Mrs. Lurlin’s elegant, pale look; and he spent most of the intervening evening and night and morning in a reverie of nearly forgotten faces, men he had alienated by his negligence or his improvidence, women he had found hollow or who had found him exasperating. None of these ever thought of him now, even when dreaming before the fire. And why should they?

*****

She looked at him steadily. “I believe you’re decent. I have no friends, and I hate to be solitary here, day on day. I’m afraid to be alone.”

“I wouldn’t take you to be timid, Mrs. Lurlin.”

“Don’t you understand? I thought you’d guessed.” She came a trifle closer to Bain; and she said, in her low sweet voice, “I’m afraid of my husband.”

Bain stared at her. “Your husband? I understood–I thought that he’s dead.”

“Quite,” said Ann Lurlin.

Somewhere in that Minoan maze of a house, a board or table creaked; the wind rattled a sash; and this little room at the stairfoot was musty. “You know, don’t you?” Mrs. Lurlin whispered. “You know something’s near.”

*****

“It will be a year next Friday. Now I’m going to confess something.” She turned her little body so that her eyes looked directly into Bain’s. “When I saw you in the square, I wondered if I could use you. I had some notion that I might stick a life between myself and… You looked no better than a dare-devil. Do you mind my saying that? Something in me whispered, ‘He was made to take chances; that’s what he’s good for.’ I meant you to come to see me. I don’t suppose it flatters you, Ralph, to have been snared by a madwoman.”

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New User Profile: Hugin

My son Hugin turns one month old tomorrow. Much about him may still a mystery, but I’ve got a handle on a few things.

Noises:

  • Guinea pig: Happy and asleep
  • Anxious chicken: Almost waking from sleep/Do not want
  • Duck call: False alarm, not waking up
  • Full, rolling cry: Everything in the world is wrong/I’m slightly cold while being changed
  • Burp: Burp
  • Fart: Shart
  • Gurgly fart: Prepare yourself, mortal

Favorite activities:

  • Milk
  • Sleep
  • Poop/pee/sharting
  • Whamming that big ol’ noggin around
  • Staring concernedly at one particular empty spot on the wall, especially at 3:00AM 
  • Impersonating Donald Pleasance

Future aspirations:

  • Voluntary muscle control
  • Preferring mommy
  • 5D influencer
  • Selecting an eye color
  • “Big feelings”
  • Starting on the other boob
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The Woods in Winter

The third Christmas ghost story by Matt Rasmussen

“I tell these things as accurately as I can, and with no theories to blur the history. Theories are poor things at the best, and the bulk of mine have perished long ago.” -W. B. Yeats

Where the houses ended, the woods began. Neither had a name. The houses didn’t merit one, and the woods could not be encompassed by one. The woods were not merely deep–one might think, endless–but defied one’s sense of scale and order. Wonders were meant to cease. Down the very first path lay a cathedral of pines, tall, solemn and breathless, forever dissolving into the faintest haze. Not far along, three chattering falls met like a fleur-de-lis to run laughing away down a narrow, secretive gorge. Above, a hillside rose, so vast and even that the trees seemed to grow sideways. At the top, a great ledge of quartz split apart to form a silent, mossy inner sanctum. Wander deeper and discover more. The wood’s imagination was never exhausted. The only limits were endurance, and how much one’s heart could hold. Spring, summer and fall, all walked the woods as if in a shared dream. But in winter, no one entered the woods.

In winter, when the shadows of the trees stretched toward them even at midday, the houses became lighted bastions. Visits were begun by early dusk, and lasted until the late light of morning. Candles burned in windows all night long. Snug and warm, these were the hilights of the children’s year, the winter sleepovers with cousins and friends. Good things were exchanged: Principally sweets for the kids, knitwear for babies, and alcohol for adults. Parents stayed up late to sing and toast. If snow fell overnight, it was a good sign for the turning of the year.

Martin and his family didn’t live in one of the old houses, whose small-paned windows scraped the very edges of the forest. Their sashes were of wood, not iron. Their walls were plastered brick, not lichened stone. A boy his age needn’t duck under heavy timbers to move from room to room. The path up their garden bore only a single loop, long overgrown. A hawthorn could be found above the hedge gate, but it was only a carving.

Several houses (which his father called new) faced the roundabout, inside of which had grown up a small stand of beech trees, sparse enough that the lights of the facing houses showed clearly through their paper-white trunks. Whether it was a wood or not, it was here that Martin had first seen her.

She was white, pale as the frost on the grass. “I’m your sister,” she’d said. Her breath didn’t show in the cold.

“I don’t have a sister.”

That’s what he would have said, but Martin knew she’d have shot back, “Are you calling me a liar?”

“Why is your face painted like a fox?”

This, too, he hadn’t asked, but it was just as well. “It’s NOT painted,” she’d have replied.

So little had passed between them. Had he said anything at all? He could remember almost nothing. Questions had been answered without being asked.

A boy other than Martin might have wondered how this could be. A boy other than Martin would have been afraid, or cautious, or at least intrigued. A boy other than Martin would have hesitated to tell his mother.

“You shouldn’t have been out past dark,” she said.

Continue reading “The Woods in Winter”
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On the Election Loss

It’s been a long day. With respect to the feelings of many people I care about, Trump is not a win for America. You may not think so, but I’ve been listening to you all along. I’ve been listening, but you haven’t fulfilled your end of the bargain—you’ve neither listened, nor had anything much to say.

There’s been no “smear campaign:” We’ve only taken Trump at his true, in-context, and utterly un-American word. You “feel” that the economy was better under him, while the numbers call it a wash. You believe that crime is rising where it’s falling. The border is such a major issue for you, but when Republicans killed the bill that was everything you wanted because Trump wanted to, quote, “run on immigration,” you didn’t bat an eyelash. You fail to hold Trump to any standards, and while you’ll privately oppose many of his and his cronies’ policies (tax cuts for the rich, money in politics, unfettered corporate power, healthcare, contraception, Ukraine, etc.) you don’t speak out. You won’t speak out. And it’s only going to get harder.

If the last decade has taught us all nothing else, it’s that all expectations are off. The guardrails do not hold. Polling doesn’t work anymore. Reporting doesn’t work anymore. Only bold repetition seems to break through, and that is an idea whose master we do not wish to acknowledge. 

We treat America’s democracy as a thing carved in stone, rather than a gentle flower we must guard. Democracy is a burden, which is why it’s been allowed to fail in so many places, already, in this young century. It’s our burden. But when we allow the information space to, as Steve Bannon recommended, “fill with shit,” we shirk our duties as citizens. And no amount of projection and finger-pointing can overcome the tarnish on your intellectual honor from believing only what you want to believe.

Trump can’t stop lying. He’s in too deep. But whatever of his policies you support, you must not play along. That way lies nothing of honor, value, bravery, or love.

***

These were my thoughts Wednesday, the day after Donald Trump was elected to a second term as U.S. President. They’re messy, but they’re honest.

There is something important I left out, though. I won’t waste your time with paragraph after paragraph. It’s this: Social progress is not zero-sum. Putting in “the leaf” doesn’t make your place at the table any smaller. (And the good man must then ask: What if it even did? What would that change?) Populists have been leading flocks astray with this dead meme for well over a century, that being concerned for someone who isn’t you means not being concerned for you. I have to wonder how small their hearts are. Whatever can be used to “other” one’s fellow man and pretend that they, uniquely, don’t matter, is fair game.

When shamed out, as they always are, they invert the play. They steal the language of those they’d marginalize. It’s the same premise. It’s childish. That someone else has suffered doesn’t imply that you haven’t. That your and your neighbor’s positions are precarious doesn’t mean that you need to find a way to fuck him out of whatever he’s got left.

We’re supposed to be One Nation, and we’ve elected a divider–a man whose chief talents are projection and insults. This is not baseball. Enjoy your truimph, but look forward to the hangover. Whoever won this election, America lost.

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From “Negotium Perambulans” by E. F. Benson

But they are linked together, so it has always seemed to me, by some mysterious comprehension: it is as if they had all been initiated into some ancient rite, inspired and framed by forces visible and invisible. The winter storms that batter the coast, the vernal spell of the spring, the hot, still summers, the season of rains and autumnal decay, have made a spell which, line by line, has been communicated to them, concerning the powers, evil and good, that rule the world, and manifest themselves in ways benignant or terrible . . .