Religious Wars

Posted in Rants on February 17, 2018 by dissectingthefetalpig

The thing with religions and cultures is that they all leave a clue. The gods are creatures much like us. There was a disagreement, things were splintered and we were created. Much like an arms race. Also, much like an arms race, we became out of control and could ultimately shift the balance to what they all fear.

Total extinction.

If it sounds too familiar or too relatable it’s because the clues were there all along.

It all echoes through on different levels and different planes. We sense it but we don’t admit it. We read it wrong. We only look at what we can read as we see it. We only hear and feel what we want. We try to translate it, but we can’t. Because we aren’t doing it at all levels. Man doesn’t want to accept the unfathomable cause of what their purpose is.

How it all connects.

What the gods fear is meeting their maker. Waking up a long slumbering and cold reality that they too fucked up. And in creating man, a constantly evolving creature that learned it doesn’t need god. Or any god for that matter. A perfect doomsday device in the ultimate cold, cold war. And instead of using man to sway the balance, maybe man can shift the balance to something steady. We don’t have to follow anyone’s agenda and we can all coexist as long as we acknowledge each other respectfully.


All City Means Within The 5 Boroughs

Posted in Rants on February 15, 2018 by dissectingthefetalpig

Late night with a friend. Both of us got a bad case of the sads. We share a few beers and some weed before we start to head out on our different ways. I walk with my friend to the train station which is right near a taco cart I like. I had the munchies and I hadn’t eaten much that day. The food is great at this spot. But you’re gonna pay the cost in the morning.

As we roll up to the taco cart there is a young couple giving the vendor shit over the prices. The small girl looks at me and starts to rant about his prices. “8.50 a taco! This is bullshit!” As a chef, I’m offended already. The guy’s prices are fair and his food game is tight. I point that it’s actually 3.50 a taco. She and her man get more pissed. I had been fumbling for my pocket for small bills as I had just been paid. I like to have everything in play when I deal with late night food carts. No telling what could happen. My dumb ass pulls a crisp Ben Franklin. I’m pissed at myself for that. I know what’s coming. The dude notices that and makes a comment “Rich Brooklyn motherfuckers like to just throw their money away”. I politely mention I am from the Bronx and I’m only on this side of Brooklyn for work.

The young man goes into shaved ape mode and proceeds to tell me how he is from Long Island. Shit is no joke out there. I look at him and tell him I get it. I know the terrain. But I grew up in the South Bronx (and the slums of Atlanta, but I’m not looking for conversation), I’m not a rich kid. Instead of getting the clue that I’m not some fucking hipster and to chill, he gets more excited. So I cut it cold and tell him that I am no mood for his tough guy talk and I would just like to order a fucking taco. He freezes for a second and then storms off to his car in a fit. I can hear his tantrum and I can tell he may do something stupid.

Casually my friend, who had been in the background the whole time, and I switch gears and get ready for a bad possibility. There’s that uncomfortable silence, like the one before two dogs fight, and everyone can feel it. My friend and I bask in it. The girl is listening in to see if we’ll talk shit. We do. Just enough to make the point that this isn’t a game to us. It’s what we do. The cook makes her order fast, she pays and leaves. Everyone gives it a second. It’s the tipping point. Will our friend get stupid?

He doesn’t.

In the end he drives off in a similar fashion to his tantrum. The mood has returned to a more lifted tone. My friend, who actually is a Brooklyn kid, laughs. I had pulled my BX card hard and cut him with it. I just look at him, “Real recognizes real and I don’t see him on the charts” I mutter.

More laughter.

“All city is all 5 boroughs” he says.
“Exactly” I reply.

With that we exchanged good byes. We both had felt better than we started. I was off to eat a burrito while I walked to a cheap Uber spot after a long shift in a kitchen and he was off to go on a graffiti raid. No cheap imitations or trick spelling. Just two New Yorkers just being New Yorkers on a Wednesday night.


Darby Crash, You’re My Hero

Posted in Rants on January 14, 2016 by dissectingthefetalpig

Let’s get it very clear. I have a drug problem. I would like to lie about that, honestly. I may not totally admit it. But I’ve definitely got one and pretty much always had one.  But I’ll always admit that life is better when you’re fucked up. It’s not to say I do drugs all the time. It ain’t that bad. But I’m always down to do them and when I’m not on them I certainly miss them.

Though I’ve steered from some of the more serious shit like Crack or Heroin, I can’t say I haven’t always avoided the hard stuff. I guess I started the whole thing ass backwards. I was doing shrooms and acid before I was sipping whiskey and, sadly, I most definitely was doing lines of coke before I discovered the wonders of marijuana.

Go big or go the fuck home.

I didn’t mind pills, but they were never my thing. I’ll admit they are fun, but I consider them a good consolation prize to an injury. Or, the perks of living fast. No percocette jokes there folks. That shit will kill me. I got an allergy to codeine.

I even enjoyed making bad narcotic decisions. Though those were also special occasions and usually controlled experiments. I mean who doesn’t want to drink a forty of Old Gold with your buddies in a parking lot one high school afternoon after donating blood to later eat a tab of ecstasy and a 10 strip of LSD? Or smoke a bowl of weed while tripping on shrooms, get a couple of beers in, nurse a 20 bag of coke, enjoy a snack spread and do fun stuff like play video games or movies  for the first few hours to only later to get weird and queue up some self depreciating level of porn and masturbate while huffing poppers till you pass out in your bed cock in hand on your first day off in weeks. Both, coincidentally, were weeknights. Decades went between.

Like I said, it ain’t that bad.

It ain’t that often either. Except booze. That was a constant, sadly. If there is truth to anything I write, ever, it’s that alcohol is the biggest gateway drug known to man. Coke was another bad habit that I picked up and it would come and go in phases. Late teens and again from my mid to late 30’s. While it is a fun drug, and many of my adventures involved it, it’s most definitely an asshole drug. If you doubt me, think of the type of people you’ve met while doing it or perusing for a minute and get back to me. Or even take a second to think of the shit you’ve said, thought or done while on it.

Shame on you too, motherfucker.

Pot was discovered later in life. I always hated that my friends scrambled around looking for it when we were supposed to be doing other shit. Regrettably, I wish I had started smoking the stuff earlier. I probably wouldn’t have done half the shit I’ve done if I had been toking earlier in life. I like it a lot and it has a medicinal value that applies well to me. It was what I had been looking for all along. It’s probably my last vice.

I never was one to go too balls deep, though I didn’t fuck around either. I never borrowed money to do it or compromised my bills. Though I can’t say the same for my savings. That doesn’t mean I would say no if you were treating either. I always maintained an ethic of trying to be as generous as my friends with anything I ever had. Unless my extinction agenda was set to high. Then it was best to let me play my hand through and let me cash out when I damn well please. I kept a budget. Or I’d sell some of the fat off my record collection to sustain it. I mean, what good is a record collection is it ain’t gonna get you money, pussy or drugs anyways?

Hubba Bubba

Posted in Uncategorized on September 17, 2015 by dissectingthefetalpig

There is a game involving used bubblegum that exists. Perhaps there is one sole player in human existence who plays this odd game with these particular and peculiar rules. 
It is played on the platform of any train station that has a wall behind the third rail. One must first chew a piece of gum until it is bland and no longer sticky, yet has some bounce to it. 
The object is to throw the gum at the wall at an angle hard enough to hit the wall, bounce under the rail and back into your mouth. So far, this has become an impossible feat. However, there is also a point spread.

Points are measured in Skrillions which are basically shrimp bullion cubes. They are also a tasty snack worth it’s weight in gold to amphibious mercenaries from Epsilon Arcana located in the far west part of The Kindred Solar System. All Skrillions accumulated from game play are locked in a secret vault until you’ve finally and successfully performed the full goal of bouncing the gum from the wall, to the floor under the third rail an back into your mouth. Upon which the gum will transform into a pegacorn (not quite a unicorn and not all Pegasus) which will fly out your ass and guide you to the vault and unlock it with it’s magical horn and multiple tails. 

Scoring points is easy enough. I your gum sticks to the wall and goes no further, 10 Skrillion. If it makes it under the rail, 20 Skrillion. Completely around the rail is an automatic 1,000 Skrillion. I you win on your very first try you receive an unlimited supply of Skrillion and two fleets of the intergalactic space pirates of your choosing. If the gum is too sticky and remains stuck to you there is given the option to put the gum back into your mouth and chewed to a better suited game piece at the cost of 100 Skrillion or to forfeit the game altogether. 

I’ve been playing this game since I was a child and I swear to god that by the time I win I will be able to hire enough mercenaries to give the entire population of the world one big simultaneous wedgie. 


Posted in Deep Thoughts, True Stories with tags , , on July 30, 2015 by dissectingthefetalpig

309997_3784422283647_1146279901_nHe was an enigma among enigmas.  No one was sure about where he had come from or how he came to be. Rumors circled about him.  He was an American.  Or at least I presumed, as he never spoke Spanish and his English bore no accent.  Some had said he was a successful business man who snapped and evolved into this homeless mentally ill man who I had come to watch and study.  Others had mentioned that his family had moved there and that upon their deaths he was left alone to wander.  I’ve even been told that his name may have been Arturo and that at one point his mental illness hadn’t been so bad.  Whatever the truth may be, I’ll never be certain.  What I am certain of is that his mental faculties had been frayed beyond repair.  He showed signs of schizophrenia and perhaps had multiple personalities.  It wasn’t uncommon to see him have a conversation with himself, sometimes shuffling from one side of where he was perched to another as if he was doing a one man play.  Nor was it completely unusual to see him bang on walls with all of his might and scream his lungs off in the middle of the night.

Papelón was interesting in his own right.  He would take pieces of metal or rocks that he found and rub them on the street till they were shiny and looked like some sort of raw metal nugget.  He’d trade his currency for cigarettes and other goods.  So it is not to say he didn’t have a little pride. It also wasn’t unusual to catch him masturbating in the street or drinking rusty waters from the gutters during a heavy rainfall.  He also had a thing for drinking hot sauce. I at first had only heard about his peculiar taste and thought it to be absolute bullshit.  That is until the day I actually had to stand next to him on-line at the grocery store as he purchased a small bottle with some spare change he had scraped up and proceeded to open and drink it as he sauntered out of SuperMax.  The dealers in La Perla would even give him some free weed time and again too.  As much as he was harsh on the senses, he was in fact part of the neighborhood.

Almost every morning I’d see him in front of Senzala, where I worked.  He had a thing for sleeping in front of the shop.  I would shoo him away to the next stoop with very little hassle.  Rarely did he cause any problems.  And, if he did, it was usually during like what seemed to be a bad mood swing.  Occasionally he’d leave a bodily function as a present.  After a while he’d see me coming from the end of the block and move.  It was fairly civil for what it was.

There was one incident that always haunted me with him.  I was stumbling home drunk and coked out of my mind, which was my own horrible way of self-medicating my own mental illness at the time, and he was sitting under the doorway of an old abandoned building towards the end of Calle San Sebastian where he would also sleep occasionally, grinning and laughing to himself.  As I got closer, his laughing was louder and he looked dead at me and said “You’re gonna be like me” or something to that effect in his usual multi-pitched and comical sounding snarl.  It chilled me for some reason and still leaves me feeling rather perplexed.  What did he mean?  Was he studying me too?  Perhaps.  He was, after all, a man with nothing but time on his hands.

When I left back for The States, I would think about him and the other motley characters I’d see on the island and wonder how they were holding up.  Recently on a visit back to PR I ventured throughout the old city and saw no trail of him.  The Cat Lady that wore too much make-up was still around as were The Junkie Sisters (one of whom I thought had died long ago). The Little Brown Submarine, The Cougar, The bum I had mentally named Clancy and even The Iguana Man were still easily to spot, but Papelón was nowhere to be seen.  I had felt cheated.  Sadly, as I was collecting my girlfriend’s suitcase back in JFK, I got the news.  He had died.  Part of me was saddened to never see him again.  He was pretty humorous in the sense that he was homeless and lived his life like a very twisted permanent vacation.  I’ll never see him wearing clothes left by tourists or his paper hats anymore, nor will I ever get to learn his mystery and that, in its own right, is a tragedy.

Sleep well, Papelón, may your new shelter be more cozy and luxurious than your former.

Coming Attractions!!!

Posted in Rave on July 6, 2015 by dissectingthefetalpig

With the internet age upon us and DIY aesthetics firmly in place, Dissecting The Fetal Pig is planning to move forward and put out a collected various works of released and previously unreleased material in Ebook form.  This should, hopefully, be out soon for everyone to purchase on Amazon.


Stay Tuned!!!

The Reluctant Nose Goblin That Refused To Leave Home

Posted in Rants with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 15, 2015 by dissectingthefetalpig
010-A Conversation with the Nose GoblinsOnce there was a young nose goblin who feared the outdoors. When pressured to leave he would say “What for? It’s comfy here. Why shall I go forth? It’s dreary and gloomy. The people hate us so!  They bind us in tissue and toss us in trash. They flush us in toilets and wipe us on sleeves. They fling us on strangers and claim that we carry disease. There’s nothing out there for me, I’ll stay, if you please.”
Great gusts of winds and large fleshy probes would could not pry this goblin from his big comfy nose. No matter the struggle, he never gave in. No matter the cost, the goblin would win. He was rooted deep in the depths within. In the thicket of nose hairs far from where any finger could reach.
“I’ll leave when I’m ready! I’ll leave when I please! I leave when I feel like it, no matter your pleas. This is my home born and raised and I’ll remain here till my last dying day. My time is short lived, regardless the course, so deal with the discomfort. My life span is sparse. I’ll vacate the premise when I’m dull and I’ve withered. I’ll go out with a bang, not like a slug and slither.” And with the outside he never did mingle. Till he gave up the fight and dropped down like a tired old shingle.
%d bloggers like this: