THE PURITAN
BY KEN McKENZIE
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When you are a celebrity, people listen to you. And when you tilt your head one way, all strange, they wonder why, and then you can say something witty, and shallow, and they will think real deep. And they all react the same way. And the only way to make them react different is to unzip your jeans and bare your cock. And it had better be a throbbing hard-on because a whet doughy noodle is going to make you the freak, not them, but a firm celebrity cock with veins makes everybody do something different, and the younger women sometimes freak and smile but they don't run, they stare, and some of them just purr like cats, and some people just run away and the men sometimes laugh in a manly way and make a dirty joke and respect the hell out of you, but sometimes they get insecure in front of celebrity cock and they call you nuts, man, and get outta there, and some upright fuck calls the cops on you, and the cops come -- like fifty friggin cop cars -- and they get your autograph before they take you to jail and spend all night drinking with you in your cell before your lawyer comes the next morning and you all go out to that smokey Italian shithole for drinks and pancakes, and when you get to that shithole the owner shakes your hand and there are three blondes flirting with you even though you are not flirting back just letting them feel your chest, which is pretty packed since you have nothing else to do really except lift those black weights. And the weights are always black, just like your coat, just like your knuckles after you punched out that window of that shoe store because the guys inside were assiduous snoddy little motherfuckers. And you travel,
and everything you touch has that overused, hotel smell. And you can demand
fruit juice and flowers everywhere you go and you don't pay for those,
hell, you pay for nothing because some cool marketing gimp to the stars
from every company in the world decided you could be a walking ad for their
stuff so your clothes are great and your watch is great and your cell phone
is great and your car is great and your hotel room is great and the maids
will take their underwear off and get kind of touchy feely but you honestly
have a hard time getting your cock up for them, and you sign your name
on boobs a lot so you see so many boobs and sometimes the boobs crop up
in your dreams, but the problem is that it is always the crazy scary boobs
that you see in your dreams and the good boobs elude you and you have no
idea why, but hey, there's gel in your hair and you just kinda walk around
and the good boobs appear all over the place, but you can't stay in one
place too long or the newspapers get it and they will never understand
you, because you are so friggin deep and isolated, so friggin lonely you
could die, because you're a celebrity, not some guitar-picking dock worker
from Queens, not some yodeling craphead working nights at the Holiday Inn,
amen, slam that shot.
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B R A V E S O U L S R E C E I V E
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