Trying to get my mind round making another fanzine at the moment. It's not hard: filling fanzines with middle of the road crud is the standard. At the moment I'm trying to let go of my inhibitions and write what I really think about. It's a cleasing process I think. Once I get rid of the weirdness running thru my mind maybe I can lead a normal life. Maybe when I stop fantasising about the mean spirited Chinese lady at work, maybe when I stop going to watch rom coms by myself, maybe when I stop walking for miles into the middle of nowhere by myself because I can't wait for the end of the world. These feelings come and go.
Right now I've got a whole bunch of shit being typed but it's all thoroughly MIDDLE OF THE FLIPPIN' ROAD. A couple of years ago I briefly fell in love with a girl who worked in a butchers. She stunk.
The Pork Queen
Slater Wilcox
I have worked with some total shitheads in the past, real horrid cunts. The guy in the bakery with no front teeth and a moustache who used to mutter “kinky” every time a major babe walked past in boots. Then there was the guy in the warehouse who preferred to sleep with women on their periods as it “felt better”. The guy in the pub with a penchant for the “suck it and see” t shirts. And the guy in the lorry who yelled “NICE NIPPPLES” at a 50 year old lady on a cold day in St Austell.
I trollied the 20 cases of wine round the back of the butcher's shop. The door opened to the scent of raw meat and a very attractive Irish girl. It stank, but she was beautiful. I became delirious. I imagined her black hair smelling of pork as I spanked her with a 10oz rib eye steak. If she'd have taken her clothes off, I would have eaten them. However, my nose was dripping and the guy I worked with kept insisting that I was gay; I felt like I had the charisma of a clogged toilet. Nothing happened between me and the Pork Queen.
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