2007-05-17 - 10:39 p.m.
Trembling with terror, the beautiful blonde convicted parole breaker arrived in her expensive chauffeur-driven Aston Cooper at Pelican Bay Prison, where she was slated to serve her 40 day sentence for getting drunk, in spite of being on parole for a previous DUI. She walked up to the Intake Office and presented herself to the plump, motherly African American woman who was sitting behind the plexiglass receiving window.
“I’m Paris Hilton – I’m here to report for my jail sentence,” the blonde intoned, her voice vibrating in that nasal honk beloved of millions of the fans of her TV shows and her appearances in Hello and OK! Magazines. The African American matron looked up from her desk and shoved a clipboard through a hole in the window.
“Sign here, baby, and slide your wallet through the window. And when I press the button, push open the metal doors.” The door buzzed, and Miss Hilton shoved her way through the door, emerging inside a squalid antechamber with metal walls and a stone slab with a raised end, upon which was hung a pair of stirrups.
The black matron stepped into the room from the office, brandishing a long, metal cattle prod with a vicious black bulb at one end.
“Now, honey,” she smiled. “You gotta strip naked for the disinfenction and cavity search. That’s right, girly. You think that jes’ because you a superstar, you might not have some illegal contraband stuffed inside yo’ hoochie? Slide them stonewashed jeans down over your ankles. Uh huh. And those little panties of yours, yes’m! Off with ‘em! Now bend yo’self ova the table!”
How Paris howled and shrieked under the icy, impersonal probing of Matron “Mama” McGee! And then, when Matron “Mama” McGee started up the cattle prod, the device made a roaring nose like a chainsaw going berserk.
“Now, honey,” Matron “Mama” McGee smirked. “This is what we do special-like for celebrities who wind up behind these here bars! Get ready, cus this is gonna hurt something terrible!....”
So how long do you think it’s going to be before we see a whole lot of “Free Paris!” t-shirts? I am betting no more than a few days, since the revolting woman has just been sentenced to 40 days for breaking her DUI parole. Wouldn’t it be lovely if someone shanked her in prison?
I would laugh like a hyena on Nitreous Oxide if I found myself watching on the news, as a gaily caparisoned news anchorman appeared and intoned, “Miss Hilton was in the shower room of Cell Block D, when vicious prison lesbian Mama McGee inserted a broom stick handle deep, deep, deep inside the flamboyant young heiress’s rectum! The scene, which viewers claim resembled a scene from the well known prison drama, ‘Born Innocent’ left Miss Hilton screeching like a scalded cat, even as the rest of the prison block laughed with merriment until the tears showered down their faces like a spring rain!”
I mean, where do these dopey people get off? They think that they can do whatever they like and all we’re going to do is smile and nod, give them unconditional love and adoration. No, I tell you, no! It’s to the hoosegow with Paris Hilton, I say. And I hope she enjoys her month of eating maggot-filled porridge and rat-meat fried steak.
It’s really enough to make you quite crazy yourself. And I must admit that there is no shortage of crazies in my life right now. Really, I feel like I can quote Jack Nicholson in AS GOOD AS IT GETS something like five times a day. “Go sell crazy somewhere else,” I could tell almost everyone who comes up to me at the library. “We’re all stocked up here!”
Today has been an unusual day here in the Library Computer Room. There have been very few requests for assistance, but the people who have made the several requests have been unusually freakish. Perhaps dangerously so. There is one nutjob whom I actually slightly knew a few years back, long before the idea of coming to work at the library was even a glimmer of a notion.
Back in the day, he would see me sitting at such-and-such a café on Santa Monica Boulevard and Robertson, and he would come up to me and be almost unutterably unctuous. He surely thought I was some kind of a whackadoodle movie mogul and he was always so very oleagenous and friendly – my, he schmoozed me up and down!
Well now that he has discovered that I work part time at the library, he seems to have decided that my class stature has so diminished that he can now treat me like a living slug under his shoe. Oh, I wish you could see him, dear blog-a-licious blog! He comes up to my counter and orders me to perform the most dopey and stupid chores – and, since nothing he has asked me yet is actually outside of the duties that I am supposed to do, I must go and do them. And how he smirks as I unlock his computer account, or clear some page off the screen that he can’t wipe. It is interesting how some folks are just Kiss Up, Piss Down people, isn’t it? At least he’s a homeless crack head, so his opinion is irrelevant. It’s just that other folks are the same way – they’re just not so mentally unhinged that their behavior is just so obvious.
Other info: Today’s Craziest Computer User was the quite attractive lady in a tight-fitting brown sweater and tight brown leggings, who, with her feathered hair and vivid red lipstick, would have seemed a beautiful woman, were it not for her dazed, glazed, thorazine-saturated expression. She was also wearing a metal lit from a Pringles can on her forehead. No, seriously.
The lady had it stuck to her forehead, pull tab out, like she was waiting for someone to open the lid and reveal the boiling brain within. Otherwise, she sat at her computer terminal, searching the net for sites on New Age philosophy, looking for all the world like a normal, everyday gal. Normal, except for the pull tab on her forehead. I spent several minutes after my shift debating with another co-worker about what possible reason a lady needs a Pringles lid attached to her forehead, and I am afraid none of us were able to come to a reasonable answer.
After some give-and-take argument, we came to the conclusion that the lady probably was wearing the pull tab Pringles lid for the simple reason that it might either be 1)an excellent antenna for receiving the psychic rays from the planet Bloobadooba, which, as we all know, sends out transmissions for many hours a day, but only if you have cleverly implanted some tin on your forehead.
Or, 2), it might be a metal block to PREVENT transmissions from the secret Trilateral Commission/ Government Mind Control Station. Either explanation is just as likely, for, as you can imagine, the magical power of metal can both block transmissions, and act as a receiver for other transmissions. You never know.
But what do I care about that? For these days, with my six jobs that take me into almost every avenue (albeit in a low level way) of the media, I am no longer able to define myself as anything. Or anyone. And do you know? That is a rather pleasant sensation. For if I am not able to define myself as “this kind of a job-person” or “that kind of a job-person,” I just become… me. Mister Johnny Darling, crazy ghoul of Santa Monica, California.
After finishing up at the library, I crossed the street to my gym for a swim. And it was there that I had a most wonderful adventure! No, I am not talking about the 30 laps I swam, though swim them I did – after the adventure. No, I am talking about something that I have not done for years and years, and which, unaccountably I know, made me feel as young as the grass. You see, I had myself the opportunity to have some juicy sex right at the gym, in public, with no one noticing. It was totally Penthouse Forum kind of stuff.
Do folks still read Penthouse Forum, by the way? I seem to recall that Penthouse Forum was something that horny frat kids read back in the 70s and 80s, long before computers were invented. Nowadays, when folks want to showcase their incredible and unusual sexual exploits, they just grab a video camera, tape themselves, and put it up on Xtube. This is a good thing, by the way.
So anyway, there I was, in the gym locker room, getting changed for my swim, when I espied this young Latin boy across the room. He was adorable! He was shortish – about five foot six, I’d say – but lean and muscular, with a shaved bald head, and dressed in hot “cholo” wear – a baggy pair of shorts and a striped Old Navy shirt. I would have put him at no older than 23, and probably a bit younger than that.
I caught him checking me out as I was getting undressed. And when I caught his eye, he looked away, a little bashfully. He walked out of the locker room, but then he walked right back in again, and ambled right past me, giving me quite a meaningful look. I stared right into his eyes and pulled down my underwear. And he gave a palpable gulp, his eyes shifting down and up in time honored “cruise” mode.
He looked to the left, then to the right, then sort of ambled over to the nearby paper towel dispenser, making a big, fake show of pulling out a paper towel to wipe his hands. This obviously to cover the fact he was staring at me in case anyone was watching.
Tying up my bathing suit, I walked past him and signaled that he should follow me to the steam room. He shook his head, and walked towards the door to the locker room. I didn’t know what he meant, so I grabbed a t-shirt and followed him. I really had no idea of what his plan was, since I knew for sure I wasn’t fixing on leaving the gym complex to have sex – that would have really been too much trouble.
But he led me down the hall to the firedoor, which he pushed open and walked through. The firedoor led to an enclosed iron staircase, which led from the roof to a basement fire exit. What a splendid idea! After fifteen years of going to this gym, I had never been on this staircase, so I knew that it was almost never used. He shut the door behind us and leaned against the wall, unzipping his white shorts and sliding them and his plaid-colored boxers down. His cock was smallish, but it was already rock hard, with a beautiful tight foreskin.
I dropped to my knees and started sucking him, while he caressed the back of my head, moaning gently.
“Please. Lick my ass!” he whispered, and I smiled. I turned him around and pulled down his shorts and briefs and tongued his delightful brown butt cheeks, the crack of which was lined with lovely black Latin boy hair. I am pleased to say he was very clean – clearly he had just had a shower at the gym, which was more than I had, since the kid had grabbed me before I had the chance to have a swim.
The boy reached down and fumbled in his pocket for a condom.
“I wan’ you to fuck me. Please fuck me!” he grunted, through a thick Mexican accent.
“Naw, I am not into fucking today,” I replied.
“Pleeese! Pleeeeese fuck mee!” he whined, I kid you not. I sighed, unzipped my swim shorts, and allowed him to slide the condom on my cock. Then he spat on his hand, and wiped it right on his ass crack. He grabbed my shlong and guided it right between his cheeks. I grabbed his waist and entered him, as he bent over the gym staircase railing and grunted. I slapped his ass as I pumped him, and he moaned.
“Faster!” he whispered, his voice getting heavier and heavier. I obliged pumping him and moving his lower body back and forth against my belly as he slapped against the railing. Soon I reached around and started stroking his little penis, which was sopping wet – and with just a few strokes, with my hose in his hole, he squirted a small, but very pressurized ejaculation of jizm all over the wall. I pulled out, panting. With little ado, the boy slid up his shorts and jeans, and buttoned them. He started up the stairs. I moved to follow him, but he waved me away.
“You go that way,” he grunted, pointing in the other direction.
I shook my head, followed him up a few steps. I took my condom, which I peeled off my dick, and I shoved it into the pocket of his shorts. I then tied up my bathing suit and went back to the gym. I showered and had myself a very very nice swim after that, I assure you!
