"…in the beauty of life’s miracle, we seek to fulfill life’s 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 fulfilling…"

-- 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.

"That’s nothing," I said to the bird as I unzipped my trousers. I’ve got at least nine inches here that’ll put you to shame."

"Maybe so," said the bird, "but can you fly?"

I had to admit; although my penis was larger than the bird’s was, I certainly couldn’t fly. Then I realized something unusual.

"Jesus Christ on a crosshair!" I exclaimed. "A Goddamn talking bird!"

The End

 

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.

"Don’t be getting any ideas, mule. Or you’ll be pulling a plow for the rest of your life."

The mule looked away.

The End

Mrs. Finkelstein’s 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. Finkelstein’s 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 o’ 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 piñata.

The End

 

The Tree Frog That Couldn’t 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 Couldn’t 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 Couldn’t 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!

The End

 

 

Sex Furor

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 won’t 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.

 

The End

Mr. Disgusting

Part 1.

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 wouldn’t mind stopping in for a drink. He obliged, and she was ready for some action.

"I’ve 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."

"That’s 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 you’re down there, throw up in your cunt."

"Pardon me?"

"Throw up in your cunt. Throw up in your own cunt. That’s 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.

"Hello?"

"Yes," she said, "this is Betty, the young lady you were with last night. And I just want to tell you…"

"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. "I’m going to pull it out and eat it."

"Lord!" she said. "You’re 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 couldn’t help thinking about how handsome he was. She couldn’t help thinking about his beautiful soothing voice. She couldn’t help thinking about his deep dark eyes. She couldn’t 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, he’ll fall in love with me the way I’ve fallen in love with him."

But it wouldn’t 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, "I’ve been thinking about it, and I’d 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. I’m becoming stupid."

She replied, "I’m half blind and I got vomit in my snatch! It’s 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!"

The End

 

 

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, "I’m 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. I’m 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 man’s 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.

 

The End

 

 

Ethel and her Husband’s 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 Herman’s 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 wasn’t Herman’s snoring after all.

She just sometimes woke up like that.

The End

 

Eat This

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 End

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.

The End

 

 

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 there’s a poem about an otter

I have never heard it said

If such a poem exists dear reader

It’s a poem that I’ve 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 sometimes… only tears and dark shadows of wretched loneliness in our sad and angry world.

This is the life of a booger.

The End

 

Garbage Sniffer

There’s 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, "I’m Tom. Tom Miller. Perhaps you’ve heard of me? I’m a famous Gainesville writer."

He just looked at me with emptiness as his pant leg began to discolor with urine.

"I have something here I’d 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 don’t get it, kid, do you," he said in a rough dark voice. "Nam," he said. "I killed babies. Don’t you understand? Babies!"

"Excuse me?" I replied.

"You wouldn’t know about it," he said. "You don’t want to know about it, and that’s why I’m 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.

The End

 

Mr. Disgusting

Part 2.

When he realized that his testicles were not balls at all, but mutant radioactive giant roach eggs, it was too late.

 

The End

 

Fruit I Pick With Pointed Dick

 

Here’s 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

They’ll lock you up and snip your cock

They’ll 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, I’m 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 wasn’t 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.

Stupid me!

So I got the jar of sulfuric acid, poured it over my engorged knob and began to jerk.

And that’s when my dick started talking.

"Hey, Miller. Do you realize you just poured sulfuric acid on me?"

"Pardon?" I asked my dick. I hadn’t 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, "I’m burning up! The skin is peeling! You’re not going to achieve an orgasm unless you wash me off! I’m melting! I’m melting!"

"What’s that?" I said. The voice was becoming softer. The lips were shrinking, shriveling. I couldn’t hear what my dick was saying.

"Water!" it said. "Please God, water! The pain! The pain!"

That’s 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.

 

The End

Rules

It had been a long day stressful day and I sure as shit needed a stiff one. A drink.

So I headed over to Laffy’s Tavern O’ Shame and saddled up to the bar.

"Give me a Slammer!" I said with glee. "Nothing like a good slammer."

"I’m sorry," the bartender replied. "I can’t 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?"

"That’s ridiculous!" I complained. "Bullshit! What’s a bar for, anyway?"

"Well," the bartender continued, "I can bring you a water. That’s all that’s legal now."

"Shit." I said. I pulled out a cigarette and lit up my Zippo. "Fine, then. Bring me the Goddamn water."

"You’re 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 you’re 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. That’s the law. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be right back with your water."

But before he left, the bartender leaned in and whispered, "… and that lady over there in the red dress…" He looked over to where a beautiful young woman was seated and drinking a glass of… water. "Don’t get more than three feet near her, or they’ll 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. It’s true." The bartender looked over to the man who had just seated himself on the smoking stool. "See that guy over there? That’s a cop. Three feet. No more. Or he’ll bust you right as rain. I’ll be right back with your water."

"This is so insane," I thought. "What’s this world coming to? Can’t drink, can’t smoke, three feet away… it’s madness. It’s like they don’t want you to be human."

Then, she called out, "HEY MISTER!"

"YEAH!" I said.

"YOU LOOK GOOD FROM WHERE I’M AT."

"YEAH!" I shouted. "YOU DO TOO. COME HERE OFTEN?"

"WHAT?" she said. She couldn’t 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! ONCE… IN… A… WHILE!"

"ONCE IN A WHAT?" I screamed.

"WHILE! WHILE!"

"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. "Don’t worry," I said. "Not enough laws… anarchy! Too many laws… anarchy! Let’s 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.

It’s not legal anymore to go into Laffy’s Tavern O’ Shame. There’s 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 Laffy’s Tavern O’ 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.

 

The End

 

 

Reality

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 couldn’t 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 bathtub…

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 won’t be too long now before I’ll 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 can’t reason with these self-centered machines. You have to compromise, or they won’t 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 computer’s 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.

It’s 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 woman’s 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, I’m 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. That’s not me talking, it’s 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 you’ll 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 off… now:

 

 

 

 

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