Strove to find a way to punch people in the face by using the Internet.



Dear Sir,
Will those skinheads really beat my ass?
Dick Hertz

Well, Dick, if it’s 1988 and the skinheads in question happen to be those 30 or so Nazi behemoths from Tampa and Orlando, then I can assure you the answer is yes. In fact, if your ass-beating experience is anything like mine, they’ll probably do a thorough, professional-grade job of it too.

Sometimes people ask me, “Why did they beat your ass?” Well, Dick, they’re Nazi skinheads. They didn’t really need a reason. First of all, they were skinheads. And second of all, they were Nazis. The skinhead chapter of the Hello Kitty fan club doesn’t need a reason to whoop someone’s ass, you know? Ass beating just falls under general duties in the job description.

But in a roundabout way I brought it on myself. Back then, pathetically enough, I had aspirations toward thuggishness, and (while eschewing any racist or fascist sympathies, please note) attracted the gang’s attention by trying to be like them: bald, menacing and angry. I did this in a wholly goofy and pussy-fied way, of course. It was pretty easy to bum out local hippies and knock down the occasional drunken fratboy while scowling around town in my boots ‘n’ braces, but you’re dealing with a whole ‘nother standard of whoop-ass when it comes to a cross-eyed mob of crank-fueled big-city muscle-heads with tattoos of swastikas.

My beating started out pretty mild. I was waiting to go inside a hardcore show at the local VFW hall when my head started jerking forward uncontrollably. I spent a few confused minutes trying to figure out why this was happening before someone pointed out to me that three or four skinheads were taking turns running at me and hitting me in the back of my head. (Little did they know that they couldn’t get my attention that way, as my head doesn’t house any vital spots.)

Disturbed by this development, I retired to the parking lot, where the beating began in earnest. My first combat strategy involved talking – frankly, I was terrified that if I fought back I’d incur a higher level of butt-kick than might originally be in store for me. It wasn’t until I was curled up on the ground with them in a circle around me, kicking me, that it occurred to me that my designated stomping was going to be turned up to 11 no matter what I did.

So I hauled myself up and started swinging wildly. The mob backed off a step or two, and I heard a few voices call out for the attack to resume under “one on one” rules. Although I certainly appreciated this chivalry, I thought to myself that it would have been much nicer if the one-on-one thing had been instigated a little earlier, alas.

Regardless, a gigantic representative was selected from their ranks to carry on with my thrashing. I adopted the Marquis of Queensbury pose, and he hit me four or five times in the face. I then landed one feather-light blow to his kneecap, which of course was the signal for the other 29 gentlemen to resume punching me from all sides.

Somehow I fought to my best friend’s car, and sat on the trunk wiping blood out of my eyes while kicking at the mob, who really seemed to be having a good time. Strangely enough, considering his dark-brown skin and long, curly hair, my friend was allowed to pass through the crowd unmolested. In fact, one of the Nazis politely handed him his hat, which had fallen off while he vainly tried to pull me from the fray. He started the car, I fought my way into the passenger seat and after a short discussion we agreed that it was probably a good time to leave.

I was so glad that I didn’t die that as we pulled away I started laughing. My friend was looking at me in horror, and I figured out why when I glanced down and had the unique experience of seeing blood pour out of several holes in my face and splash across my lap. My nose was broken in two places, my clothes were torn and the entire left side of my body was turning into one solid bruise. My ghastly appearance didn’t prevent us from stopping by the video store on the way home, which gave us the chance to warn a punk-rock buddy working there that he might want to avoid the show. “There are a lot of mean skinheads there,” I said, perhaps unnecessarily.

You’ll be happy to know, Dick, that I learned some important lessons from this experience. One is that no matter how tough you are, there is always someone tougher. In fact, there are 30 of those tougher someones, and they like Hitler and will punch you in the face while wearing spiky metal knuckle-rings.

Another thing I learned is that everyone will treat you like you’re some sort of bad-ass fighting machine if you have two black eyes, a broken nose and cuts all over your face, despite the fact that these accoutrements would seem to suggest your skill at fisticuffs is somewhat lacking. Weird.

Oh, I mustn’t forget this one: pushing pieces of your nose back into place makes disturbing crackly noises, and kind of sucks.

Thanks for your question, Dick!

Can Jim Marburger really pee and ride a bicycle at the same time?
Hugh Jass

He sure can, Hugh. And despite being drunk and bleeding because he jumped off of that really high porch into those bushes to make amends for busting your hand open when he hit you with that chair, he’s as graceful as a greased-up Nadia Comeneci frolicking naked in an inflatable moonwalk with Mary Lou Retton while he’s doing it.

Powdered cocoa won’t put out the fire?
Amusingo Genitalio

No, paisan, it won’t. And that shit doesn’t exactly give the kitchen a nice chocolatey aroma when it explodes all over the place either.

Excuse me,
For someone who makes fun of that shit a lot, you sure seem to be awfully familiar with stuff like Dungeons and Dragons and the Renaissance Faire.
Grey Ravenhawk the Black, chaotic neutral dwarf paladin, esq.

Look, don’t get all +9 vorpal sword on me, demilich. I’ve owned my share of 12-sided dice, sure, but in my early teens I looked out from behind the DM screen and discovered a little real-world module called “beer and poontang.” Plus, after you’ve defeated Asmodeus – yeah, you heard me right, DEFEATED ASMODEUS – there just aren’t many challenges left. So go stick it in your enchanted bag of holding.

Confidential to Jon Resh of Chicago, Illinois: Relax, dude! I hear a lot of guys have dreams about sleeping with their mom.

Got a question? Mail it to rawpower (at) bellsouth (dot) net.



As the result of a newfound desire to not be such a fat-ass, I have jettisoned my manhood and made my first foray into the world of frozen, microwaveable low-fat foodstuffs.

I know there's too much glare in this pic, but trust me... The packaging does not reflect the true nature of the contents.

I mean, this looks positively, uhhh... edible, right?

And this looks like someone gave my plate syphilis.

That's all I've got for now. I've been really busy... trying to find my balls.




April 1993 – Does it seem like a disturbingly large portion of these diary entries involve stuff going in and out of my pee-hole or butt? ‘Cause it sure seems that way to me.

Anyway… Many moons ago I dated a sexually liberated girl who was a little too interested in the human butthole.

…And that’s it. That’s it folks; that’s the entry for this week! “Many moons ago I dated a sexually liberated girl who was a little too interested in the human butthole.” Thanks for stopping by, and have a safe drive home.

No, no… Just kidding. If only that was the end of it. No, this was one of those aforementioned women who’ll publicly endorse all sorts of kinky, alternative-sexuality mores, but who in my experience turn out to be about as fun to hunch as a pile of compost. (No offense to you compost fuckers.)

Now, I admit that it’s certainly within the bounds of possibility that the simple exhibition of my naked body is dampening the carnal fires in these situations – in fact, my parole officer hinted as much to me after that one incident in the mall. (Not to get off-topic, but can I just say that I really think America would be a better place if society was a little more open to modern interpretive dance? Thanks.)

I have a theory about all this, in the unlikely event these unsatisfying sexual situations aren’t actually the fault of my doughy, scarred physique. I think it’s part of a psychological need to deal with intimacy and sex in a safe, controlled environment. This frequently manifests itself during the college years, when a final personal identity is being formed. In the process of exploring these complex feelings and testing the boundaries of individual sexuality, displayed behavior might run contrary to a person’s true comfort level with certain kinds of bedroom activities.

Or it might not even be that complex – maybe this kind of behavior is just a simple survival tactic, a way to armor-plate emotions or divert attention from vulnerable parts of the psyche.

But who knows? I never bring it up. God knows I don’t want to hear about feelings and emotions and psychological crap from a girlfriend, or anyone else. Ultimately these issues are for people who, unlike me, care about the happiness and well-being of others.

Anyway, I was dating one of these girls, and she was always talking about the butthole. One time she even recommended some book with a title like Healthy Butthole Lifestyles or Your Stinky Gateway to Fun or Magic Anal Rootin’ Around or something. However, this didn’t have much of an impact on me. We had a long-distance relationship, so it’s not like I was faced with any actual buttholes on a day-to-day basis, and when we were on the phone I was usually pretty distracted by the fact that I wasn’t paying any attention to whatever it was she was saying. In fact, I was so dense that the vibrating buttplug she sent me on Valentine’s Day didn’t even register as a possible clue as to the seriousness of her rectal proclivities.

The actual plug on this gizmo was a small, silver lozenge with a pronounced seam. It had a flimsy remote control attached to it by a few feet of plastic cord, and the entire apparatus generated a disagreeable buzzing noise when switched on. Fact was, the thing was so chintzy that I thought it was a gag. I did manage to find some uses for it that deviated from its intended purpose, though… Chiefly, turning it on and whirling it around like a set of nunchuks while screaming and chasing houseguests.

It went on like this for a few months; with me occasionally wearing the clumsy thing like a bolo tie or using it to mix drinks. Then one day I happened to be visiting friends, a heavily pierced and laboriously transgressive married couple that had a few sex-toy catalogs on their coffee table. Leafing through this stuff in hopes of spying a titty I could “save for later,” I noticed my buttplug.

Holy moley! The thing had cost 40 bucks! I couldn’t believe something that was so cheaply made and dinky (not to mention specifically designed to be befouled by the human ass) would be so expensive.

I gasped and my friends, no doubt really hoping I was shocked by something other than a price tag, came running to see what was the matter. “My… My… It’s my buttplug,” I said, pointing at the catalog.

“Ohh, that’s a good one,” they said, almost in unison. “Don’t you just love it?”

Hmmm… I sure did love horrifying people with it. But was it possible someone would actually stick this kind of thing in their butt on purpose? And enjoy it? I mean, the place where the poo comes out? I wasn’t exactly thrilled with the primary function of the butt, and in general monkeyed around with it as little as possible... A few embarrassed swabs with toilet paper here and there, just to keep my somewhat tenuous membership in civilization active… That was it. Could it be that fetid hole might do double-duty as a source of sexual pleasure?

“Dude,” I asked, addressing the husband. “You stick this doohickey in your ass?”

“I love it,” he said.

“It feels good?”

“It feels GREAT.”

“Huh. No shit. Well. I reckon maybe I’ll give it a try then.”

So I went home and called up ol’ Analina the Bunghole Queen. Sure enough, she had always intended that I use her gift for sexy good times, rather than assaulting my friends. She even told me she was getting kind of hot then and there just thinking about me cramming the device up my pooper (perhaps not her exact words). That was enough for me. I made the decision right then – I was going to get it on with myself in a forbidden, anal fashion. Awwww yeah.

As I made preparations, a thousand thoughts shot through my head. What if it hurts? What if it feels really, really good? What if it feels so good that I freak out? Hey! …What if I turn gay? I already had a Bronski Beat album, but if the buttplug turned me gay I’d pretty much have to start over from scratch in every other area of my life. That’d be a lot of work. Is it worth the risk? Will my girlfriend break up with me if her buttplug turns me gay? And when I go through with the actual deed, should I put on the Bronski Beat album to, you know, give the place a little atmosphere?

I have to admit that, all doubts aside, I was pretty excited. I mean, I was fixin’ to open myself up to a rear-end rollercoaster of mind-bending, ass-blasting erotic thrills. Skin flush with anticipation, I stripped down and got on the bed. After a moment’s reflection, I wrapped the plug in a condom, to protect it from poop. Lying on my back, I got down to business. After a few minutes of whacking it, I was ready. I leaned to one side, lifted a cheek and started easing it in…

Oh, there… There it goes… Hmmm. Is it in yet? Never thought I’d be asking myself that question… So far so good, though… No discomfort… Don’t feel gay yet.

In fact, I didn’t feel much of anything. I very gingerly activated the vibration… Nothing. Primed for an explosion of sensual ass-fireworks, I upped the ante a bit. Nothing. Anxious to generate any kind of sensation at all, I cranked it, really putting the pedal to the metal.

Nothing. Not even a tingle.

The luster began to fade. I noticed the faint buzzing noise coming from deep within my crotch, like a sad, degenerate bee had flown down there. The only discernible sensation was a slight pressure, pretty much identical to the feeling I get when I have to take a dump. I glanced down and saw myself: a naked man… With a cheap, plastic remote control coming out of his ass. A wave of self-awareness shocked me… I was a failed libertine, a battery-powered pervert… An unadulterated square too vanilla to get off even with the assistance of the latest in advanced butthole technology.

The room suddenly seemed dark and cold. I was very alone.


This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?