A Gay Lobstah Gets Wicked Sad

Burphole #1 is available on book, kindle, and audio versions. Click here and get your copy.

Life is hard. There are going to be moments in your life where you are going to think, “Maybe I don’t want to do this anymore.” Perhaps your doughnut doesn’t have enough sprinkles. Maybe your Coke isn’t as refreshing as promised. Your favorite television character is getting rooted in the ass by someone you don’t like. “No means no!” you scream at the screen. But not this time. No means shut up and bend over. It’s not fair. I know. But, it’s ok. It can all be avoided by sheer will. Just go to your happy place.

The “happy place” was invented by Jesus Christ himself. People used to live their most tragic, horrifying moments in vivid, HD, surround sound. Super aware of every nano second. And then people witnessed an odd occurrence. While J. Star himself was pegged to that wooden cross, he began to speak.

“This is not happening. I’m not really here. Artichokes soaked in vinegar. This isn’t painful at all. Mary playing with my balls. That sweat isn’t stinging my eyes. In fact, I see rhubarb and quinces. Oh, so tasty…”


A young girl is staring up at Jesus Christ on the cross. She has positioned herself so his body is shielding her from the oppressive heat of the sun. Sunbeams, a halo around his head. (Although, the term “halo” has not been invented yet. So, his bulbous head is simply creating a nice bit of shade.) She listens to him wax poetically about pastries and reach arounds. As a buzzard lands on the crossbeam of the cross, Jesus flinches and starts to repeat anxiously, “Go to the happy place. Go to the happy place. Go to the happy place…”

An old man walks up and joins her. He asks the young girl why she isn’t off cleaning someone. Or collecting frankincense. Or whatever young Jerusalem girls do.

She replies, “I’m listening to this peasant talk about some place. The happy place. What is this happy place?”

He shields his eyes, looks up and listens.

Jesus starts singing, “Always look at the bright side of life…”

“He’s singing,” says the man.

“And talking about this place, among other rude things involving food.”

“What place?”

“The happy place.”

As the man looks up at the cross bearing peasant, he says, “What is this place? The happy place? Where is happy?”

The young girl responds, “I’ve never heard of it. Happy. Is that close to Rome? I’ve never been anywhere near it. Maybe it’s close to Rome.”

“Maybe,” says the old man. “Oh my god, did you see that? That crow just snatched out it’s eye!”

The young girl shrugs. “Well, a crow’s gotta eat too.”

Jesus Christ, tormented by the heat of the sun, the holes in his flesh, and a fucking crow, suddenly yells, “Kelly Clarkson!”


“The Happy Place” is truly in the eyes of the beholder. Perhaps it’s a desert where the Joshua trees are made of pistachio gelato. Cacti, the flavor of sour apple Jolly Ranchers. Tiny mammals made of hash brownies that poop little chocolate chips. A confectionery world where everything is joyful.

Maybe your “happy place” is a place of revenge. A thanksgiving gathering where you finally get to wrap your hands around the neck of your childhood stealing Uncle Albert. The one that introduced you to a penis so crooked that you were surprised when you saw a straight one. Walking through the world thinking every man housed a question mark in their pants. Which, ironically, formulated an opinion of why would anyone want one of those around their face? A horrible intrusion into a world where furry vaginas are far superior. And a place where flannels are always appropriate, especially for this wonderful moment of hearing the crushing of a wind pipe.

Maybe your place isn’t happy at all. You can’t recall a time where you were experiencing true joy, so you create the next best thing: A “cool” place. A place where the game is on. Potato chips are abundant. Pink Floyd’s “Animals” softly plays in the background. You’ve got your comfortable clothes on. Especially that one button up that seems to accent your wide shoulders while hiding your protruding gut. Someone is barbecuing out on the patio on a perfect day. The pool is clean and refreshing as it beckons you to attempt a cannon ball. The beer is cold. The whiskey is warm. It’s not Sodom & Gomorrah or anything, but it’s chill. A cool place.

Oh, the places you go when you are getting nailed against your will. Or, when listening to Millennials bloviate on shit I just made up…


ME: So, Harriette. What do you think of the rights of transgendered lobsters in relationship to the right winged fishing industry of the northeast coast of Australia?

HARRIETTE: Well, I think transgendered lobsters should have every right to, uh, be whatever gender they want to be regardless of the views of the racist white….

ME: No, I said “right.” Not white.

HARRIETTE: Yes, I heard you. What is the difference of saying right and white?

ME: It’s Australia. It’s all white.

HARRIETTE: No it’s not. The Aborigines are not white. And they are Australian. The original inhabitants of Australia, I might add. Before those fucking white…

ME: Oh! Ok. What about the Aborigines? Do you think their rampant homophobia and murderous, disgruntled tendencies have an adverse affect on the LLGBTQ community? I mean, how long can we stand by and let them murder transgendered lobsters in the name of their lord, Larry the sea lion? They are eating the lobsters, Harriette.

HARRIETTE: Ohmygod. That’s horrible.

ME: Not when you serve it with drawn butter. But make sure you cook them when alive, or they poison their flesh with gay juice.


ME: That’s right, Harriette. What the fuck are we talking about?


Joe looks over the random artifacts magnetized to the refrigerator door. A concert stub to a Boyz 2 Men show. A kitty cat hangs in there. Butter, Windex and “lady stuff” need to be purchased in the near future. A magazine photo of two Maine lobsters locked at the claws. This last piece seems out-of-place from the squeaky clean positivity of the rest of this curated collection.

“Why do you have lobsters fighting on your refrigerator door?” says Joe.

A voice from down hall, slightly audible. “What was that?”

“I was wondering why you have two lobsters fighting on your refrigerator.”

“They’re not fighting,” says the voice. “They’re holding hands. Did you know lobsters mate for life?”

Joe knew that wasn’t true. He actually had extensive knowledge of the North Atlantic lobster from his many summer jobs on a lobster boat. The North Atlantic lobster is very aggressive. And simple. It was all fucking and fighting. Not like their more organized and intelligent cousins of The Caribbean or New Zealand. Those lobsters have a society and move in migrations. But the North Atlantic lobster is a selfish, hateful, solo being. In fact, the refrigerator photo was an example of something called a “claw lock.” The result of a fight that neither lobster has given up on. A frozen stalemate. In fact, these lobsters have been known to have sex while in “claw clock.” Fucking and fighting at the same time. Which is some gangster shit.

Joe takes a deep breath and says with a shrug, “For life, huh? I didn’t know that.”

“Isn’t that beautiful?” says the voice from down the hall. “Even lobsters find love.”

Joe immediately regrets seeing the lobster photo. Because it’s an example of one of his biggest pet peeves. Anthropomorphizing animals into jolly, happy Disney characters. Animals are fuckers. Rabid, hungry, abusive, destructive fuckers. Why doesn’t anybody say, “Hey. Look at my dog over there by your kid. I bet he’s contemplating biting her fucking face off. Because he’s an animal, dude. And your kid’s annoying.”

Joe changes the subject. “Boyz 2 Men, huh? I didn’t know they were still around.”

“I love, love Boyz 2 Men. They are one of the best groups ever. Maybe the best.”

Joe hates that comment. Boyz 2 Men, the best ever? For fucks sake. First the lobster thing, and now this? He considers walking out of the voice’s place, but he did have to fight traffic to get over here. He should probably stick around and see if he gets a blow job, or better. Maybe a claw lock…


“I miss the old days when “Surf & Turf” was Maine lobster and a succulent tenderloin,” thought Little Billy as he pushed his plate of fish lice and ox blood gelatin away.


Eating lobsters is fucking gross, everybody. It’s a sea bug. An Arthropod. Just like spiders and crabs and scorpions and shrimp and fish lice.

Fish lice.


Fucking lice, dude.

Even the American natives to New England ate arthropods reluctantly. It’s a last resort, survival thing. Only after you have exhausted the rotten potatoes, the dried dog tongues, the sycamore leaf salads, do you venture out into the ocean for the fucking bugs that crawl around the bottom.


Little Tatunka looks at her plate of sea lice, disgusted. She shifts her gaze to the horizon and takes a deep breath. As her eyes glaze over she thinks, “I’d rather be fuckin’ raped, kid.”

I Thought You Hated Pedophiles

Just a few excerpts from the first Burphole collection. On audible as well.


Oh. A new follower on my twitter page. Emily McDemilly. Let’s check out her bio.

“Life’s too short to have regrets.”

Oh, shut up, Emily. Everybody’s a philosopher. You’re supposed to have regrets. That’s what makes you human.

Maybe you shouldn’t have let that Iranian Prince stick it in your pooper behind The Sahara Tent.

Maybe you shouldn’t have cracked your mom’s head open on the bathroom sink after she stole your girlfriend.

Maybe you wish you had eaten the blue pill. Because this reality is a shit show! But those regrets are what gives you character. It’s what makes you interesting, Emily. Life’s too hard to not make mistakes. Stop pretending you’re fuckin’ perfect…

But thanks for following.


Let’s pretend your mind is not an ocean of thought, but the water in a swimming pool. And that pool is dirty. You try to keep it clean, but the elements conspire to dilute your visibility. But still, you try. You skim away the wind blown detritus and dead insects every day. You clean the filter and sterilize the water. Maybe, one day, this water can be purer than Lake Minnetonka.

As the years pass, you come to terms with this dirty pool. And, that maybe, you should stop trying to clean it. Just look at what’s floating on the surface. A whoopee cushion you received on your tenth birthday. The cleavage of your second grade teacher, Miss T. A high school party sucker punch. And, yep. There it is. Your exploded lip.

And what of the stuff you can’t see? All the crap that has sunk to the bottom. You’ve fished some of that stuff out. Let’s see. There was that rubber chicken tied inside of a extra large condom. Bigfoot’s foot. Eh, not so big. There was that canister of dicks and that crate of cunts and that casket of assholes. Remember the noseless carcass in the prom dress? You didn’t invite her. You didn’t ask for any of this shit. But it’s there. And then some.

You walk by the deep end and remember that party when you pulled out a bloated pedophile in clown makeup. It freaked out everybody. Nobody could understand that it wasn’t your idea to find a bloated pedophile in clown makeup! Oh, the humanity! All the Stepford Wives were sobbing like little bitches. It’s just a dead pedophile, right? You don’t understand why they are so upset. Didn’t they say they hated pedophiles? Cry babies.

You walk by the shallow end of the pool. You can see to the bottom. Here, you can cherry pick the nice things and ignore the offensive ones. Hey! It’s your old Nerf football! You loved that football. You played with that thing in the house, in the yard, in the mother fuckin’ streets. (Car!!) Like Linus and his blanket, you two were inseparable. Oh! And look over there. It’s a dead baby in a Cosby sweater. Hmm. Yeah, you better ignore that.


“A clown sneaks up behind you and places your balls on his forehead.”

Like the flicked switch of a neon sign in an unlit room,  that’s the first and immediate thought of the day.

“Oh. Okay. Can I please have some coffee first?”

What strange things happen under the surface of sleep? Tiny scenarios that you could never dream up when awake. Like this one. Because it’s an odd concept. Think of all the logistics that need to be in play for a clown to sneak up behind me and place my balls on his forehead…

1. I need to be in a room with a clown.

2. I need to be unaware of his presence.

3. I need to be butt naked.

4. I need to be severely bowlegged.

I must have been playing the role of a cowboy on a cosplay themed porn set. I can’t recall that dream, but I am happy those scenarios are occurring in there. Whoever writes that show is fuckin’ talented. Anyway…

I appreciate that this clown “places” my balls on his forehead. Which sounds intimate and comfortable. Like flowers in a vase. Or your hand in mine. This all sounds wonderfully acceptable and brings a small victory to my face. Like a ten gallon hat that goes to eleven…


When Bruce became Caitlyn, women became ecstatic.

“How brave! How beautiful! Did you see those photos? She is simply breathtaking! Congratulations!!”

Frankly, I found their euphoria a bit creepy. And, I wondered, how long until they come for me…

THE LADY: Ladies. One less idiot! We are winning the war! Soon, my beautiful ladies, we will evolve into asexual beings. Remember when we needed men to protect us from other species? The lions of the world. And the tigers. And the bears. All of those animals trying to break down our doors, yearning for our sweet, perfect, well moisturized flesh.

We stood in the shadows of our own personal oafs. They were necessary. But now, we only need men around to protect us from other men! Which is a travesty! I say be rid of them all!

The time has come, ladies. The time has come. And may I add, it came multiple times! Without a man! That’s right! The elusive concept of time is now transitioning! Congratulations! You look beautiful!