My Own Olympus

15 07 2008

Naturally, once Caligula found out Manhattan had an “Olympic Tower,” he simply had to have one of its converted condos on the 51st floor. Even the fact that a filthy Greek like Aristotle (and I was never one for scholastics, either) Onassis was one of the driving forces behind this behemoth’s construction could not stanch my gliterati greed for a perch in the opulent roost. That I could shit out my window onto St. Patrick’s cathedral was too much to pass up: feces-flavored icing on the anti-monotheistic fungus cake!

Worship in my ugly, modernist shadow, Christ-humping Irish scum!

Of course, I did have to suffer a shade of buyer’s remorse. For where in my unit was the vomitorium whereupon we purge between meal courses? Surely no hedonist’s home is complete without it. The landlord calmly explained that no such vomitorium as I described it ever really existed, not even when I was Caesar of Rome—the idea was nothing but pure misconception, he said. I took the opportunity of his open mouth to deliberately regurgitate a half-digested duck confit entree into his face to make a point, and bid him to clean up the resulting mess, for as Seneca writes: Cum ad cenandum discubuimus, alius sputa deterget, alius reliquias temulentorum [toro] subditus colligit — “When we recline at a banquet, one [slave] wipes up the spittle; another, situated beneath [the table], collects the leavings of the drunks.”

And though I did not drool, I was supremely hammered at the time, and most of my “leavings” did end up under a Mies van de Rohe glass coffee table. Luckily or not, my landlord happened to be a rare emetophiliac, which meant he found the whole barfing display erotic and arousing.

I can’t say I found the sight of duck goo and bile in his mustache quite as enticing, even after licking some off.



Brand Subconsciousness

17 06 2008

Facebook community, Caligula is so sorry.  Sorry I coded an application so special, so visionary, so geared to your fickle yet stunningly limited 18 to 25-year-old imaginations.  An application you should have loved, god damn it.  But now I’ve heard your whiny voices, and I’ve gone and pulled the plug on HotLists.  Just too ahead of its time, I guess.  No, you shut up.  You Generation Y-ers turned out to be nothing but Generation Why-ers.  No, worse than that: Generation Liars.  Um….Generation Criers.  Generation Pli—whatever, you get the idea.  You were not the high-concept hedonists the mainstream media led me to expect.  You must be in denial: deep down, you don’t even care about branding, do you?  Disgusting.

If you’ve got a better idea, you probably stole it    

Someday soon you’ll understand what I was trying to accomplish, but by then it will be too late.  “How can we identify ourselves without invoking Jessica Alba and Starbucks?”  Here’s a hint: you can’t.  Good luck getting through life without telling people you’re all about Family Guy…Generation Die-ers.  

Get it?  because…I’ll kill you?…ah, fuck it. 


Relatively Speaking

13 06 2008

Dear Crazy, Infection-Ridden, Dog-Infatuated, Probably Homeless Lady Who Roams Central Park West:

Whoever you are under that low-quality wig of dreadlocks, thank you.

You’d think New Yorkers would be used to anything, and not glance twice when they see an emotionally warped man of my chiseled looks walk out of his luxury condo in a toga and laurels.  I guess we never live in a society as progressive as we’d like—I’ve certainly tried to put pressure on what constitutes “normal” in my lifetime, but maybe I’d given up trying to push it there, defiantly eschewing the need to fit in, even to my own detriment.

But then along you came, wearing those plastic vampire teeth that I can only assume are your cheap replacements for the genuine article, showing off that bed bug-infested inside-out fur coat, and suddenly exploding from inaudible mutters into an incoherent scream of “Time was to get busy, PLEASE!!”  Which never fails to speed up the gait of passersby.  

Also, your tendency to act as though you’re about to kidnap people’s shi tzus makes them visibly panicked.

I’m like 80% sure our neighborhood’s crazy dog lady

isn’t the ghost of Leona Helmsley

I’m not a man prone to hyperbole, but you are quite literally America’s greatest hero, nay, doused in godliness.  Because of your wrestling matches with park benches, nobody even seems to notice a harmless eccentric like yours truly these days.  It seems that after an estimable tenure, I’ve passed the torch on to another challenger of the status quo.  Oh, sure, you can’t take the twisted decadence out of me—I’m the same soulless void I always was. But a new generation is ready to follow in my footsteps, helming the ship en route to an oblivion of the cruelly absurd and absurd cruelty.

Dog-licking: why didn’t I think of that!

With rapturous admiration,




Small Government, Big Checks

9 05 2008

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.       


Uncanny Valley

25 04 2008

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’s DreamLog #2: Somebody Pinch Me

21 04 2008

Because where else could such an inspired notion be borne out but my naughty dreams? In this case, my somnolent fantasy was not so rich in detail or plot as it was sodomy-heavy. It happens. Anyhoo, something struck me about the encounter: here I was copulating with a skinny man. Normally I am given to the meatier type—as much as pleasure and pain belong together, pointy hips leave me with bruised buttocks and thighs, which can greatly sap my otherwise bull-like endurance. And though the coitus here was prolonged and rough, of the kind designed to draw blood, my body, though delicate from a life of luxury, felt no pain or injury. At first I thought it was a function of the dream’s illogic, but gradually, preceding the dreamgasm, I became aware of a garment this handsome devil was wearing:

The miraculous fuck-padding device (dickhole not pictured)

What to my joy should I discover upon subsequent internet search but the very extreme form-fitting shorts he had on, marketed to the extreme snow sport crowd—they existed after all! Possibly it was a visual mindscrap held over from my last visit to the Alps. In any event, you can bet that I ordered a dozen pairs and will be making the necessary alterations for “easy access.”