I’m Gone For Just Two Millenia…

And look what happens to my precious Rome!

Oh sure, to you it’s some neat touristy diversion, minor ruins, a chill place to sit around and get high with the Australians from your hostel.  But that was my temple!  In 40 A.D., man, the blood ran down those steps and people recognized me for the various gods I undoubtedly am.  And today when I peeked in the archway the Danish teenagers fucking inside wouldn’t even let me take a Polaroid.  When did I lose my touch?  When did my palaces of torture crumble into desrepair?

The rest of the city was likewise depressing; I was run over by two taxis and a ten-year-old on a vespa.  Yet I did catch a glimpse of an opulently dressed man on a balcony—from what the locals say, he seems to have taken up my mantle of narcissism and  eccentricity.  Sealed away in an untouchable private country (imagine the hidden/forbidden pleasures!) and essentially equating himself with the Creator, his word is law; he commands unconditional worship.  It’s good to know Rome is still under the sway of a man so made in my mold:

—Caligula

Walt Disney Rolls Over In His Cryogenic Pod

Caligula would be remiss if he didn’t personally praise the Disney Company for all the taboos it has seen fit to engage, which is why I’d like to present it with the very first Incitatus Award, named for my dear, departed and willingly subjugated horse.  In a world of corporate soft-pedaling, old Walt’s magic kingdom brought unspeakable images into the hearts and minds of millions of unassuming children, stirring that first “weird feeling” which, with a little luck, can blossom into outright depravity.  We fondly remember the “Priest Boner” moment from The Little Mermaid (1989), of course…

And that tradition of uncomfortable sexuality continued with a magnificent portrayal of a squeamish moment in The Lion King (1994):

THE FACE OF PREMATURE EJACULATION

And of course, with the way things are trending at Disneyworld, we’ll soon be able to enjoy the antics of those once-annoying costume entertainers swarming about the place.

I commend you, oh prophets of the profane.  Incitatus would be proud.

—Caligula

Whatever It Is You’re Looking For

Folks, tomorrow is the 12-week/3-month anniversary of Caligula vs. Nero.  And in that short time, we’ve amassed a lot of fans for a furious goose and a batshit crazy retired politician, as the hit counter demonstrates.  It saddens us, though, that we don’t know our readers very well, being that we so rarely receive comments on our posts, presumably because everything we write dumbfounds you.

But never fear: thanks to wordpress’ data collection system, we can make all kinds of assumptions about you based on the search engine input you used to find our site.  And so, without further ado, here are the search terms that have brought people into the Caligula vs. Nero family, spelling and sequence preserved. We sure hope you found what you were looking for.  Enjoy, and tremble in fear.

“vlad the impaler”

“sex robots”

“absinthe dreams”

“scalia”

“caligula gay”

“goose computer”

“humilliation sex”

“sex humiliation”

“zer vs nero”

“‘pro-tec’ shorts”

“dickhole”

“being big bird the muppet”

“bradley trout”

“allergy”

“vlad, the impaler”

Vlad “Dracul” the Impaler Transylvanian Castle Set™ sold separately

“pet goose”

“absenth spoon”

“the imagination is a dying animal”

“sex while clothed”

“absinthe robette”

“ben and jerrys pint”

“pegging”

“pegging preversion”

“canada goose attack”

“sadism”

“sadistic sex”

“form fitting shorts”

“children fucked”

“christopher mullan , goose beating”

“vlad dracul”

“history of absinthe”

and, of course,

“dumpster fuck”

—Nero

Chexmate

The indignities just keep coming.  

My temp job is so dull you couldn’t cut a blade of grass with it.  And since I don’t enjoy the comforts of my own computer or a desk to display bobble-heads on, I have only one pleasure: a daily 75¢ bag of transcendently salt-infused Original Chex Mix from the break room’s vending machine.  

Oh, believe me, I’d like more than one bag a day, but the machine isn’t restocked very often, and if I indulge my Chex addiction too much, I’ll be left deliberating whether trail mix or Juicyfruit gum would be the less vomit-inducing alternative.  Not a great selection in that machine.  But I have a system, and it works.

Usually.

The avian community agrees: Chex Mix is worth risking your life for

There are some days, however, when the ever-sadistic machine decides that you can’t have anything from Row C.  Row C, C as in the row Chex Mix calls home.  Put in a dollar bill—or exact change, which I’m always prepared with—and push C-3; a light goes on next to the phrase “make another selection.” The Chex Mix is there, begging you to free it from its coiled metal prison, but the machine thinks you might like something in another row better.  Either that or its playing dumb.  You press your forehead to the plexiglas and sigh, defeated.

And then there comes a time when you can’t let junk food-dispensing robots win.  

You see where all this is going, don’t you.

I’m still in the neck brace.  And I’m pretty sure I got fired, but who knows—after my head had been stuck in the slot for 20 minutes I sorta blacked out.  And I couldn’t pay my hospital bill, so they kicked me out a little earlier than is customary in these cases.

But not before offering me trail mix.

—Nero

 

 

 

 

Reader Response #1: Pegging The Peggers (Who Never Get Preggers)

Any emperor worth his Oriental throw pillows will tell you he is nothing without his people—he doesn’t mean it, of course.  It’s just that these sorts of statements prolong your inevitable assassination a bit. Nevertheless, I am honored to answer the denizens poring over this blog in any queries or quibbles they may have, queer quests they undertake, or quaffing quorums they invite me to attend.

Caligula fan David Freericks writes:

“I am writing a leaflet on abherent paraphilias in the tri-state area and was wondering if you would share with us your personal experiences with strap-on sex, or pegging.”

Oh, Davus, if only I could condense that knowledge further than I already have in my forthcoming book, “Ménage à Blah: Why Paraphilic Sex In New York, New Jersey and Connecticut Just Doesn’t Work” (HarperCollins, $24.95). But I think you can judge by the title itself the central flaw in your otherwise promising leaflet’s conceit.

Because let’s face it: strap-ons and pegging, brutal/fun/hair-raising as they may be, are nothing without the thrill of adventure, perversion and transgression.  The tri-state area, though, has given us shock-jock radio, Albany and Joe Lieberman.  In other words, your cookie-cutter kink ain’t gonna cut it here. 

New Jersey in particular barely bothers to hide its cesspools of vice 

My advice is to up the ante.  Something groundbreaking, not the same old anally-receiving-a-fake-hard-plastic-penis-worn-by-someone-without-a-real-penis gambit.  The Marquis de Sade was violating himself with a whittled wooden phallus over two centuries ago, for crying out loud (he probably was).  And if you’re really wedded to this whole idea of artificial sex organs, I have a hint: think toasters.

—Caligula

The Reverse Dear-John

Dear “Kristen”—

No, the title of this post is not a reference to one of the many positions you and ex-governor Eliot Spitzer lovelessly copulated in.  Or at least I don’t mean it that way.  

I’m breaking this thing off.

That’s right.  You squandered your gift.  You had all the makings of the Top 40 pop star I’d been waiting for my whole adult life, a diva that could make me molt with nothing but her sultry voice, an oversexed club beat and ugly—gloriously ugly—synthesizer riffs.  And you threw it all away.  Instead of being a record industry whore, you were a regular whore.  Instead of reminding us “What We Want” and to “Move Ya Body,” you chose to be a jizz jar at the VIP club.  Well, you forgot who the real VIPs are: the fans.

How can I think of peace when those fingers have been in a governor’s asshole?

Oh, I defended you when the news first broke and threatened to overshadow your singing career.  I said when the dust settled, you’d be touring with Kanye and the Dixie Chicks and get around to responding to my MySpace messages.  But the weeks went by, and I got knocked off your top friends list.  I couldn’t afford tickets to “Glow In The Dark,” but I know you sure as hell didn’t make a guest appearance.  And I won’t let you hurt me any longer.

You could have been a goddess, girl.  But the world will always remember the day Eliot Spitzer fell as the the day the music died.

—Nero 

 

Weddings Always Make Me Bleed

Bleed the bride, of course, with dagger or leeches: her choice. It’s a little ritual I made up and hope will catch on soon—symbolizing the virginal blood, getting the lady of the hour good and dizzy for the fuckfest to follow that night—my invented spiritual exercises have got it all.

I had just come out of the glass box with the giant glowing apple on 59th street (and who exactly is supposed to have taken a bite of that apple? the customer? would I really be stupid enough to eat a luminous white food, other than, say, Renoir’s weightless onions?). Just one of those days, really. The so-called “Genius Bar” was utterly ignorant of how I might alter my iPhone to periodically emit the scent of a concubine’s tears. And it was in the resulting foul mood that I found myself outside the Metropolitan Club, a lavish wedding reception taking place inside…in dire need of enlivening.

The applause for my penis tricks was tepid at best.

When all is said and arrested on multiple counts of indecency and assault, these people just didn’t want to celebrate. I should have known what I was getting into when the doorman refused to believe my toga was formal wear. I mean, really, if a wedding crasher can’t appoint himself MC and force-feed the kid’s table sperm-coated cake without bringing the full wrath of the authorities down on himself, what hope does that poor couple really have?

—Caligula

Caligula’s Dreamlog #3: The Ritzy Underbelly

How quaint! I dreamed I was a man of moderately less power and stature, which is to say, some obscenely wealthy and naïve fauxhemian metro with a Gucci axe to grind. It was an odyssey of Homeric—er, maybe Spielbergian—uh, small quirky Sundance film proportions. Who knew how perfectly ridiculous it was to see the world through the reductive psyche of the modern aristocrat wannabe?

The Dream:

Steve Forbes had lodged one too many hasty wagers at the Hampton Classic, and I grew altogether weary of his delinquency in tendering the final—and rightfully beloved—Fabergé egg. This was no slight tiff: my Segway had been sitting sans worthwhile hood ornament in my spare closet since I first finagled a prototype of the awkward thing, waiting patiently in a cocoon for the embellishment that would transform it from gauche scooter into chariot-fit-for-Apollo.

The price of Forbes’ weakness for long-odds horses

Setting out towards Steve’s on that gyroscopic claptrap, my valet Bernard driving, I gripping his pelvis for dear life, I was suddenly struck with a profound craving for vitals, i.e., bourbon, in some unfamiliar ghetto or other. A Xanadu of Oriental delights awaited: We wandered into an establishment staffed by the largest and most muscled women one could care to gaze upon, who, after plying us with saccharine libations and cuisine apparently fused in Asia, went about joshing and lightly embarrassing various patrons in the middle of their meals, occasionally bursting into inspired song. All this was executed with a wit so barbed and bawdy Oscar Wilde’s pallid cheeks would burn. I assumed these mercurial hosts had absorbed rumors that suggested this tastemaker’s penchant for entertainment of the decadent and bacchanalian sort until one turned to Bernard and inquired whether I was his boyfriend, sending my poor manservant into a dreadful stutter, which only served to magnify his discomfiture and mine. The rest of the ride to Steve’s and all the pelvic contact there entailed came bundled with a silent tension I won’t soon forget.

Analysis:

Apparently my nocturnal alter-ego had never been to a drag restaurant. Oh! The innocence of it all! Which reminds me, I haven’t been to Lucky Cheng’s in ages.

Small Government, Big Checks

Call me what you will, but Caligula is no tax cheat.  I know perfectly well that I’m welcome to wallow in my moral degeneracy in this country only so long as I tremble before the IRS.  Try telling that to Wesley Snipes!  I bet he wishes he’d listened to me now.

So this nonsense of mailing my economic stimulus check out a month later because I used the “fund transfer” option when direct depositing my rebate on TurboTax…oh, this really is too boring.  Just give me the damn blood money now, you swine!

It was bad enough they raised an eyebrow at the input of fourteen dependents on my return.  If a supple young slave boy doesn’t count as dependent, what does?  It’s not like they have a part-time job on top of that, and if they did, you could be sure they’d be getting beaten more often, making them frailer and thus all the more dependent on me.  Or haven’t you heard of the circle of life?

I’m not gonna lie.  I need the money to get a gift for myself.  The whole household, really.  I saw one demonstrated at a convention in Las Vegas this past winter, and really, how is a man of taste to resist—

If I didn’t know better, I’d swear it was designed with the hedonist Roman emperor in mind.       

—Caligula

Uncanny Valley

Dear Scientists,

OK, so you’ve been making fairly realistic humanoid robots for a few years now.  I assure you, we’re all impressed.  I’m sure, however, you’ve got some impatient auto-eroticists eager for more pliable orifices, the fuckable “2.0″ models, if you will.  And while I can’t really fault the desire to see things move in that direction, I must beg for attention to one simple detail as you become the pornographers of this brave new century, without which sex is cold and meaningless to me:

Make them capable of humiliation?

Addicted to sadism,

Caligula