Unicorn cock is three quarters the length of the horn atop
its skull. I discovered this when I first saw a unicorn orgy. If you’ve
never seen one, it’s like seeing a bunch of horses with horns atop their
heads having a good time in terms of the manipulation of their magic genitals.
(They do not manipulate their genitals gently, either. They really go at
it.) Maybe you’ve seen the films I’ve made? They’re like nature documentaries,
but with the animals doing each other, or more so: magic animals having
magic sex. I tend to slap on some
late-sixties Swedish psychedelia as background music, edit the images
so provocative images cut back and forth from various angles, and voila,
that shit sells. Unicorn
Porn was really hot a decade ago when shit seemed way more fucked than
it does now, that is, when people were freaked and the suggestion, let
alone the fact, of Unicorn Porn activated pleasure centers in a way that
was needed then, if not as much now. Not that things are any better now,
just that people aren’t as freaked now as they were then and therefore
maybe not as apt to watch sixty minutes of magic animals majestically getting
it on. If you’ve never seen Unicorn Porn, if you’re expecting cozy green
pastures and shimmering waterfalls and little Leprechaun rainbows everywhere,
diaphanous mist coming off sweetly trickling streams and shit, that’s not
what we’re talking about here. Not at all. We’ve always filmed in warehouse
spaces since there’s something about the residue of heavy industry, the
ghost of all that hard labor during the ultra-rational mechanical age that
turns unicorns on. Who knew? You see some unicorns out in an idyllic airbrushed
pasture, the last thing you’ll film is a hot unicorn romp. They’ll release
magic neighs into the sweet breeze, sure, they might even leap so high
they seem to pause mid-air in front of a large, low crescent moon. But
if you attract them to a warehouse space with irresistible canisters of
nitrous oxide and Wite-Out and airplane glue and paint thinner and the
like, as well as a pretty sizeable vat of sliced kumquats you’ve let simmer
for hours in brown sugar, you’re sure to lure some unicorns to your remote
warehouse where, once they’re sufficiently out of their minds on whippets
and candied kumquats, they’ll sense the ghosts of serious mechanization,
and once their inhalant-blown magic unicorn minds realize that very rational
work was done in this space for decades, you can sit back and start filming.
Works every time. Usually they just stand there and look majestic and not
at all strung out, but once you get them wasted on kumquats and inhalants
and they’re hypersensitive to the ghosts of labor, they start fucking each
other like there’s only an hour to live before the world ends and if they
don’t spend that hour in a polyamorous ball of thrusting and sucking of
horse cock and horns, all will be totally lost. What’s really amazing about
this is that they get going to such an admirable, energetic, absolutely
unselfconscious degree that for a while as you watch you’re hypnotized.
But not in a zombie state. It’s more like an enlightened stupefaction.
Supreme awareness of one’s surroundings—the warehouse, the film crew, the
polyamorous
ball of hyper-fucking unicorns—but every time I watch it live or on
DVD, when I emerge from that trance, I’m always like my god aren’t we at
war, didn’t I hear something about melting ice, what about high-fructose
corn syrup’s effect on America’s youth, haven’t most industrial cities
in America been hit by hurricanes of neglect and racism and whatnot for
years but no international aid comes to help, aren’t the rich getting richer
as the poor get buggered by the fiscal equivalents of unicorn horns, and
doesn’t the Mayan calendar end any minute, anyway? It never fails. The
feeling of emerging from coital oblivion spurred by the blur of thrusting
and sucking of those erect horse cocks and majestic magic horns is always
the same, the words that come to mind, the clearly enunciated internal
thought is always my god we’re fucked, huh? But it can’t be that bad, or
maybe it’s always been that bad? The goodnesses have always been pretty
much the same. Love and friendships and fulfilled aspirations, blue skies
and warm days and pleasant memories of the past and expectation of more
memories made before the inevitable end. But the badnesses have always
been a changeable list of horrors with the old-fashioned immutable full
stop of death at the end. It used to be Black Plague, leprosy, dragons,
ogres, evil spells, leeches, witch trials, lances through the heart. Back
then the mighty unicorn surely pranced through pastures and surely something
turned them on and the serfs of long ago stared in wonder as one unicorn
thrust its mighty horse cock into the folds of another unicorn’s happy
genital flesh as that unicorn used its giant magic unicorn tongue to lap
the candy-cane–flavored horn of an another unicorn thrusting its enormous
magic horse cock into the pleasure center of another magic beast doing
the same to another
magic beast doing the same to another magic beast, onward and upward
and spinning in a whirlingly fantastic copulation that sends the viewer
into such a pleasurable state of oblivion that the only thing that can
be thought then and there is oh my my. And then after the post-coital realization
of how
fucked we’ve always been as a species, there’s a final glimmer of hope
at the end, a necessary counterweight to the aforementioned full stop of
mortality, a sense that if one member of our species can profit from selling
DVDs loaded with Unicorn Porn, then maybe we as a species will be able
to concoct some solutions to limit the degree to which we’re all totally
and indubitably and ineluctably fucked?
Note: the above first appeared in a slightly different form in the second
edition of See
You Next Tuesday, an anthology published by Better Non Sequitur in
2008.
For now, as Xmas approaches, as NYE 2012/13 approaches, as the End of
the World approaches, we recommend a few things to keep you entertained
if not totally sane: The Book
Fight podcast. This essay on Full
Stop by our very own Eyeshot Editor about Goodreads and other stuff.
Way more people should also have already read and shouted in voce
freakin' piena about Inscriptions
for Headstones by Matthew Vollmer. We're mad it's not one of the NYT's
best books of the year. Also, the image was taken at Tattooed Mom, a bar
in Philadelphia home to the notoriously fun TireFire
Readings.
