D’Angelo the Dragon

D’Angelo the Dragon sat in his cave, blowing air at his flaccid penis.  D’Angelo is a black dragon, dark scaled and tough.  He never knew his father.  But that is common, you see, as dragons are solitary creatures.  Once a dragon egg hatches, it is soon after left to its own devices.

Female dragons far outnumber their male counterparts.  It is a male dragon’s responsibility to fly from kingdom to kingdom, cave to cave, to impregnate female dragons.  71% of all dragon attacks are committed by sexually frustrated male dragons, displacing their contemptuous lust, their stifling rage, on unsuspecting peasants.  If a male dragon doesn’t fuck fuck fuck, the kingdoms, the villages, they burn burn burn.

D’Angelo’s father fucked D’Angelo’s mother years ago.  Unlike most dragons, D’Angelo grew up with attachment issues, and mounting resentments over his abandonment as a child dragon.  He harbored these crippling issues, isolated in his cave, rarely emerging for lonely flyovers of the kingdoms and villages, the suburbs and slums.  He never attacked the people and structures below.  Too broken inside, his ability to breathe fire, to scorch and desecrate, never fully developed.  But his prejudices did.  So often sheltered in his cave, D’Angelo’s malnourished mind filled with hate.

D’Angelo was a minority among dragons, and hated the red dragon majority.  He hated white people, he hated their gluttony, their entitlement.  He hated their fear of him and all black dragons, never considering the inherent menace a dragon, any dragon is to all humanity.  D’Angelo had a mild tolerance for Koreans.

Like all prejudices, D’Angelo’s were predicated on ignorance, a lack of significant exposure to the outside world, to other dragons, humans, and species of all sorts.  The more he hid from the world, from reality, the more racist D’Angelo became.  Unaware of his own toxic role in his close-minded thinking patterns, D’Angelo’s ability to breathe fire, the source of a male dragon’s virility, withered away.

Dragons, like people, were born to move, move, move.  To explore.  To learn.  To love.  To try.  But D’Angelo shut himself off from all the good in the world.  Happy, virile dragons destroy lives, orphan children, eradicate infrastructure, control the human population.  Any man, woman, or child that does not believe in a God, pagan or otherwise, still believes in dragons, in the cold indifference of their sudden destruction.  To live under fear is to be productive, to develop oneself and to cherish every waking moment, lest the dragons come and burn burn burn their fragile lives away.  D’Angelo’s impotent prejudices damage the ecosystem, the fear-based faith of humanity.  You take faith and fear away and a man is no better than a dragon, is lawless, vicious, without conscience.

The world will turn in on itself, cause its own destruction, develop nuclear arsenals, engage in casual sex so empty, the soul becomes an opaque, obtrusive object, so easily discarded as the trash it may always have been.  Racist, prejudiced, self-hating dragons, rotting away in their dark caves and lairs obliterate social norms and the collective good.

D’Angelo will never know his father, and must accept this, difficult as it may be.  But more importantly, D’Angelo will never fulfill his potential to breed, to ruin, to unite the very people he despises unless he ventures out from his cave; not the cold place where he dwells, but the suffocating cave of his closed mind, his self hatred flipped, bent into racist zealotry.  He will huff and puff, he will blow blow blow, but there shall be no fire until his mind opens.  His impotent thoughts, how they have seized his fire, stifled the loins, the sexual rage needed to render humans helpless, to gather them together in a meek, huddled display of the vulnerability each man possesses when his insecurities shrink and he gives himself freely to his tribal yearnings.  Belong, belong, belong together.  No war, no murder, no withholding of feeling, of love, confusion, longing, when the dragons come.  When the dragons soar.  The dragons need to fuck, but it’s their furious search that bolsters humanity, that gives us peace when the embers of the cities and towns cool.  The peace never lasts, but so long as there are dragons and their screaming lust it will return, time and time again.

D’Angelo the Dragon still sits, squats in a corner of his cave.  Isolation.  He stokes no human warmth through immolation.  The only treasure he guards with bubbling panic is his prejudice, a stack of lies he tells himself as he puffs dry air at his non-responsive member, night after night, scales peeling off from atrophy.


Nocturnal Salamander Emissions

“I am going to knit an ascot out of your flesh,” I told him.

“With a matching cod piece?” he replied, surprisingly undeterred.

And so I pressed.  “The cod piece will be from an actual cod, fished out of the Dead Sea with a hammer from a hardware store in a quaint town in Minnesota.”

“That’s a long way for that hammer to travel”.  Way too folksy, he was, dear friend, not aware of the mounting desire to actually construct his flesh ascot, just to be closer to him, an annual visit to see him not nearly enough to quench my thirst for authentic male bonding, for true, deep human connection.

“It teleports via salamander wet dreams,” I say.

“And what do they dream about?”

“Charles’ friend on “Charles in Charge”.  The dim-witted but good spirited one that held Charles up as an even more substantial archetype of a thriving, vibrant young man by sheer juxtaposition.  I forget if his name was Buddy on the show, or if he was just played by the actor Buddy Ames, or Ayers, or neither.  My mind is a fog, you see.  A fog of slipshod factoids, a fog of mounting regrets.”


“Salamanders also dream of the salamander apocalypse.”

He chuckled, such sweet laughter.  I felt a pang of shame from the ascot urge, and doubled down, salamander wet dreams coursing, surging, pulsing through me.

“And mangy dogs playing Xbox with cheat codes.”

“And a Utopian society ruined by a wise sage who remembered what foreskins felt like.”

“And heavy meats ripening in the harsh dusty sun rays depicted in “The Grapes of Wrath’ “.

“And 3D printed dildos sold in Farmers’ markets in rural wastelands.”

“And well-executed insurance fraud.”

“And a booger-based currency system.”

“And the well-contoured ass of a webcam model from Luxembourg who disappeared in 2011.”

“And a string of construction paper treble clefts hung above a music teacher’s door in a school about to cut their music program.”


“Salamanders dream so wetly it hurts their glands.  They develop a certain toxicity from their own disturbed dreamscape.  Sometimes they die.  Mostly, they just want to.”

“Is that so?”. He sipped his whiskey, the prick.  Eyes darting about the room, never focusing on me, never focusing on anything, the ADHD fuck.  Always with the whiskey.  My visits so rare, would he even remember I came at all?  Always with the whiskey.

“You must understand, this is real to me!”. I shouted.  My voice began to quake, to rumble.  “The salamanders, how they dream dream dream.  The ascot.  My love for you.  All of it!”


He pushed the jug of Evan Williams toward me.  I declined, though I yearned, though my mouth salivated.

“And they dream of me picking strawberries with the neighbor girl who moved away, when I was young, too young to feel such loss.  They read my mind.  They know I still think of her, how her spirit embodies the faces I cast my hopes and dreams upon to this day.  The salamanders know.  They’ve always known.”

He grabbed the whiskey jug by the handle, tipped it back toward its mouth, even though his cup was nearly full.  Glug glug glug.

Nobody ever listens, not really.  Not even the salamanders.

Local Drunk Detests Gentrification

Bert, a local drunk from (Redacted), spills his guts over the evils of gentrification:


Time was, I could pass out anywhere I damn well pleased in Northeast. Times change. People change, but not me.

I hit the liquor store on New Jersey, everyday, soon as it opens.

“Morning, Bert”, Akhmed would say.

“Mornin’? Time is relative,” I’d grumble, cause it is. Least it is if you spend your days drunk, blissful. And your nights defecating, wretching, grousin’ after hookers by the bridge on 3rd, you know the one, the one with all them hookers, stepping out of the shadows, sweet specters of rentable flesh. And yeah, I’d poke me a whore or two when my scratch-offs hit. Get the goblins out, my dad used to say. And sometimes night was day, wretch by the scrapyard, pass out in the alley behind the food bank on 1st, shit by the bridge, ain’t no daytime hookers out.

See, time is relative if you got nothin’ tying you down. And I ain’t need no tethering. I got Akhmed give my syrup. Pints is only $4.99, the plastic bottles. Whiskey, vodka, gin, don’t matter. Drink ‘em straight, I ain’t no pussy. And sometimes I get me a 40 ounce or three. Malt got them calories if I ain’t planning on eatin’ too much. Some days I don’t feel like scrounging, or standing in line at the food bank with those shit tossers. All think they deserve more slop in their bowls, like they got a story I ain’t heard before.

Me, I got no problems. I just like to get fucked up. Ain’t trying to work more, for the god damn government to reach in my pockets, hell no. I was put here to drink, god damn it. Akhmed know it, he always glad to see me, and he’s alright for an Arab.

Anyway, life was good. Then they built that fucking stadium and god damn commerce took off like the Black Plague, Ring around the Rosey, blocks I roamed like almighty Christ, swallowed up by developers and yuppies.

Abandoned row houses I’d pass out in front of, or in when it get cold, that’s all a Wal-Mart now, you believe that? High rise condos shooting up like Yuppie Babylon over every sodden step I’d take. Big, clean monstrosities with plush furniture nobody ever pissed on, and off-the-boat African concierges, friendlier than shit. Bridge hookers still hookin’, but they nervous. And the scrapyard is a fucking Pei Wei now, with a Sodastream. Seven god damn flavors of Mello Yello. Seven. And they keep sayin’ their restroom is for paying customers only, but sometimes I sneak past and take a big old shit, cause fuck ‘em. I ate their slop before, don’t taste like real Asian food.

You want real shit, you go down to Chinatown. But they got a stadium there, too, and they’ll chase away all the Chinamen, you just wait. And they’ll build more bars for the youths, and their Tinders. And another fucking wax museum, with a Pei Wei in it. And they’ll have a Lincoln wax, without the head wound, cause nobody wants real shit, don’t know what to do with it if it sat on their face. They want seven fucking flavors of Mello Yello.

They call it gentrification. But that word don’t sound sinister enough, do it? Push all the blacks out. Turn our titty bars into Tapas, the fuck is Tapas? Rip the bars off our windows, shove them straight up our asses. We, the Dreamers. We, the Low People. Demolish the shelter and the food bank, build a satellite campus for a liberal arts college, so future yuppie wives can study social work. Nevermind the starving. Nevermind the sick.

I tell Akhmed, I say, watch your back brother, they’ll run you out, too. Raise your rent up so high you’ll work the bridge to keep your lights on, but you ain’t pretty enough. Neither is they, but they pros, and everybody need a warm place, get the goblins out. You ain’t no pro, Akhmed, and I sure do doubt you warm. You watch, brother. They’ll force you to fold, push you out with me, and the blacks. Pop your sweet immigrant dream inside out. All that service you provide to the community, hooch and rubbers and lottos and them Hot Cheetos, gone gone gone. They’ll tear your building down to the foundation, along with the rotting corpse of the adjacent Radio Shack, build a Total Wines or a World of Beer. These millennials want variety in their mouths, right quick, and they don’t think about nobody but themselves. But every piece of marble tile they walk on, you rip it up, you dig down deep enough, through the soil, and I’m there, man.

They can push me out as far as they please, but every bodily fluid I ever done expunged remains, somewhere way down in the guts of our neighborhood, and they can’t take that away from us.

Let ‘em bus us out to bumblefuck, stack Pei Weis on Paneras on Pei Weis on Paneras, straight up to God Herself, but they stackin’ up their gentrified fuck bubble on top of the fossilized piss shit puke and sperm of good ol’ Bert.


Child Laborer at Chinese Apple Factory Asks Jared Fogle for PR Job

Degenerate Nation has obtained a correspondence between a Chinese child laborer at an Apple Factory, and disgraced ex-Subway spokesman Jared Fogle:



Dear Mr. Fogle,

My name Xang Xu. I am 8 years old. I live in the Guangdong province of China. Maybe you watch secret videos of girl my age from same province?

I work Apple factory every day. I work very long hours. Make IPhone 4, 5, 6 all day. I ride bus long way to Apple factory with workers, some young like me, some very old. I make assemble IPhone 4, 5, 6 parts very fast, sometimes until fingers bleed. Work very fast, very hard. If I bleed on IPhone 4, 5, 6 while make assemble, Supervisor scream and beat me. If worker bleed worker pay for product loss out of wage. Very low wage very long hours.

Factory building very tall, many floors. Few windows but sometimes workers jump out windows to die. Very sad but job fill next day. IPhone 4, 5, 6 make assemble for white girl 22 years old in United State to lose drunk at bar and cry. White girl lose IPhone 4, 5, 6, worst thing to happen in life. I make more IPhone 4, 5, 6 for white girl parent to replace. Make IPhone 4, 5, 6 until fingers bleed but no cry. If cry Supervisor beat me and workers not allowed make eye contact with me until mistake rectify many time over or Supervisor beat whole line of assembly to make bodies bleed, not just fingers.

Make IPhone 4, 5, 6 faster than boy of age 6 next to me, but no bonus monies for work faster better. Bonus is Supervisor not to beat me.

Father very skill. Build drones for Alibaba make deliveries. Mother work Apple factory but jump out window. I see her fall but not allow to cry or Supervisor beat me twice. One for cry, two for loss production of IPhone 4, 5, 6 from mother.

I don’t like work for Apple factory, but family need money for electricity and eat Kentucky Fried Chicken. I don’t like Kentucky Fried Chicken but no other place open when come home from Apple factory on bus. No time to cook food when come home from Apple factory. So eat Kentucky Fried Chicken. Very greasy but taste more good than Subway sandwich. Subway sandwich, meat too thin. Subway sandwich, bread soggy, taste like swamp bread. Subway lettuce cause to vomit.

Mr. Fogle, I would like new job. As you can see from letter, I can write American words. You are in very deep trouble for pay intercourse with young girls.   I don’t understand why you don’t go trip to Thailand for pay intercourse with young girls and boys. Very popular for white men.

You in deep trouble and lose endorsement for all Subway restaurant monies. And lose freedom from prison. Make new friends soon in prison, yes? Friends who make intercourse with you that you do not ask for, yes?

Mr. Fogle, you need Officer of Public Relations to restore image of not-fat white man of below average face looks. New image is not-fat white man of below average looks who like watch sex movie of children and pay for intercourse with young girls and ruin family.

To work for you is to be upgrade from work Apple factory. Even though you might find me very sexy and low pay from scrubbing your own butt blood off prison shower floor not good enough to make wage good for me, I want escape from Apple factory. I want escape very bad. Please let me write many many letters to repair American public idea of you. I can not make assemble any more I Phone 4, 5, 6 or go crazy forever crazy.

There is very large banner of Steve Jobs in black turtleneck at Apple factory stare at us and empower Supervisors to beat us through his ruthless divinity that haunts from grave.

Please may I come to America and work for you, Mr. Jared Fogle?


Xang Xu.



Dear Xang,

Show me your dick.



Jared Fogle

“I Get Around”: Tupac vs. The Beach Boys

Arguably the most influential artists in pop and hip-hop, respectively, Brian Wilson and Tupac Shakur each composed smash singles with an identical name, “I Get Around”, and a unifying theme:  Get Ass, Keep Movin’.

The Brian Wilson-led Beach Boys and the typically-uncredited “Wrecking Crew” gang of studio musicians defined the distinctive sound of 60s California pop.  Nearly 30 years later, Tupac emerged as the most dominant and enduring force of 90’s west coast hip-hop.

Breaking down the lyrics of both “I Get Around”s, one may conclude that, not only are they titanic displays of braggadocio, they also represent a linear evolution in lyrical frankness.  Take, for example, the seminal passage from the Beach Boys’ “I Get Around:

“We always take my car cause it’s never been beat. 

And we’ve never missed yet with the girls we meet

None of the guys go steady cause it wouldn’t be right

To leave their best girl home now on Saturday night.”

Now, let’s compare that with this integral passage from Tupac’s “I Get Around”:

“Ayo bust it, baby got a problem saying bye bye

Just another hazard of a fly guy

You ask why, my pockets got fatter

Now everybody’s looking for the latter

And ain’t no need in being greedy

If you wanna see me dial the beeper

Number baby when you need me

And I’ll be there in a jiffy

Don’t be picky, just be happy with this quickie

But when you learn, you can’t tie me down

Baby doll, check it out, I get around.”


The message in both songs is clear:  The Beach Boys and Tupac are well-off, wildly successful in their sexual enterprising, and unwilling to commit their priceless time and prized genitals to just one girl.  While Tupac’s “Don’t be picky, just be happy with this quickie”, is more overt in its sexual content, it is also more bracingly and endearingly honest than the Beach Boys tune.  Tupac’s track feels intrinsically autobiographical, and seemingly refers to his busy recording and traveling schedule, as an addendum to his own desired promiscuity.  The Beach Boys’ “I Get Around”, in contrast, feels more anthemic, a generalized celebration of cool kid culture, rather than an audible snapshot of a young artist enjoying the fleeting temptations of notoriety and financial success.

The worldview presented in the Beach Boys’ “I Get Around” champions the archaic group dynamics of “Entourage”, a prehistoric “bros before hos” mentality buried behind the conceit of not leaving “the best girl home on a Saturday night.”  To the enlightened soul, it comes off as the Beach Boys’ avatars performing charitable works with less desirable females in the interim, whilst ensuring that the alpha target of their sexual desire is properly addressed on Saturday nights.

Tupac’s song somehow manages to celebrate the underlying see ass, get ass impulse of the quintessential male brain, without inherently marginalizing his conquests with a comparison to a more desired mate.  If anything, Tupac himself is the conquest.  “Baby when you need me, I’ll be there in a jiffy” are the words of a man controlled by his ingrained necessity to spread his seed, not a man and his buddies simply amusing themselves with side pieces while they wait on Miss Saturday night.

Tupac and the Beach Boys both want ass.  Everyone wants ass, or we as human beings, would cease to exist.  But upon close examination, there is certainly a fundamental difference to the artists’ communication of this core tenet of the male beast.  The Beach Boys imply that you are not a cool kid unless you’ve got a hot car and a throng of women, and that idealizing their Saturday night siren’s supposed desire to not be left alone, at the expense of the “lesser” females, somehow qualifies as nobility.

Tupac may refer to a woman as a bitch or a ho in his song, an unfortunate staple in hip-hop, but he never proselytizes behind a veil of insincerity like the Beach Boys do with “it wouldn’t be right” preceding “to  leave the best girl home on a Saturday night”.  Tupac obtains nobility by ignoring its existence.  The rapper just likes procuring quickies and sensual nights of simulated passion on the road.  He hides behind nothing:  “Cause I only got one night in town.  Break out or be clown, baby doll are you down?  I get around.”

If “I Get Around” was Tupac’s only published work, would one infer that he would also like to find his one, true love?  Is he perhaps a kindred spirit to a young LL Cool J’s breathy, soul-casting coo, “I need love, girl”?  Fuck it, probably.  Regardless, the entirety of Tupac’s verses in “I Get Around” reflect the perks, and perhaps pratfalls, of a lifestyle, as opposed to the Beach Boys’ “I Get Around” portraying a similar lifestyle as the pinnacle of human existence.

And now, a hypothetical:

Person A is swiping right on Tinder during an airport layover.  He manages to find a match, and after a brief explanation that he is leaving in a few hours, but would certainly fancy a fuck, arranges for a hook-up with a woman “5 miles away”.  He takes an Uber to a Ramada Inn, engages in two brief rounds of furtive intercourse with the stranger, Ubers back to the airport, and hops on his plane to Whereverthefuck.

Person B is casually dating multiple women in his office building, but only on Sundays through Fridays.  He refuses to offer any of the women a modicum of commitment, and tells them he will never be available on a Saturday night.  Regardless of the relative values of the other women’s character, intelligence, humor, or warmth, Person B decides to reserve Saturday Nights for the hottest-by-consensus-and-therefore-best woman in the same office building.  Not just because he desires this woman more, but out of deference to her projected feelings of not spending a Saturday night alone, as if the “best” woman’s only choices were to wait for Person B to oh-so-nobly rescue her, or stroke her cat as she fills out questions on Match.com.

Person A is Tupac.  Person B, the Beach Boys.  Who’s the asshole?

Sole Authority

“Sole Authority”

By Vladimir Putin

I am sole authority on historical record

Dinosaurs exist only if I declare it so

All wars, flawless victories

All rivers flow to Moscow

All women, flushed with bombastic fervor of my expunged lust

Orgasm always achieve

Drainage of totalitarian seed into unworthy orifice of proles never result in conception

High fives for my genital manipulation given only with my written consent

on State approve stationary

I am the meat on every woman plate

all other men like flaccid display of parsley

I am sole authority on breeding and woman capacity for satisfactory living condition






by Vladimir Putin


Wife is carcinogenic distortion of idealism

with nary a moment of release from disappointment

Wife is tapeworm feasting on my insides

Wife is earwax preventing me from hear

Feeble, succulent cries of hapless masses I subjugate

I detest Wife’s:


financial imprudence

inability to make borsch

barren capacity for exhibit emotion

facial aesthetic


To procure murder of wife

is to dig pipeline to exultant inner peace

required to maintain ultimate focus

on rekindle flame

of Soviet aggression and dominance

until the skies burn red with my anger

and unstable atmosphere of freedom dissipates

and the scattered Resistance choke on the rising smoke

of my flawless victory

and those with the wisdom to acquiesce without necessity of punishment

are rewarded with absence of choice, unfettered bliss

And as smoke clears, the normalcy of my dominance permeates the robotic minds of man and beast

and all creatures breathe my totalitarian smog

Wife is fart bubble

I must pop

so I may sing my unchained melody

a haunting lullaby to Mother Russia

with violent, xenophobic undertones





Guns. Bears. Mystery Lovers

“Guns.  Bears.  Mystery Lovers”

By Vladimir Putin




Mystery Lovers

These I own

Everything is possession

Gun, BANG.  Murder complete.

Bear, I wrestle.  Conquer.

Bear acquiesce to me.

Bear, now my violent puppet

Strange women, bewitched by my power

Temporary lovers to subjugate

Beneath the shroud of my macho greed

Everything is possession, always