Dark Bite

23 07 2008

Dear Batman,

While I really appreciate all you’re doing for the city in vigilantia, I must take umbrage at the tactics enacted by your person at the orphanage fire last night.  Fine, yes, you got me: I was engaging in acts of nihilistic and bottomless evil.  But when I gained a temporary advantage in the battle—namely, a half-nelson headlock you were sure to lose consciousness during—was it really appropriate to sink your teeth into my exposed forearm?

As such a dubious force for good, should you really be risking a venture into more gray territory?  You and I are less dissimilar than you think—I have some boy slaves of my own (though I haven’t dressed them up in anything nearly so campy, you’ve clearly outsickoed me in that department), and I suspect your alter-ego may have as much money in the bank as this comfortable emperor.  So why the eagerness to get your saliva into my bloodstream?  It’s childish, unsportsmanlike, goes against all sorts of health standards.  I can only hope you meant it as a symbolic gesture, in which case, of course I’ll be your wife, you silly flying rodent.

With confusing quantities of love and spite,

Caligula

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Walt Disney Rolls Over In His Cryogenic Pod

27 06 2008

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

26 06 2008

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





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. 

—Caligula





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

9 06 2008

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

6 06 2008

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 

 





Sex And The Shitty

27 05 2008

What up bipeds.  I’m actually in a bit of a good mood today.  My mange has really cleared up, and I snagged a date as a result!  As you may or may not know, geese mate for life because monogamy is what God intended.  Ha!  Not really, it’s just easier.  Fuck, if I could organize a harem, you bet your naked baboon asses I would.  

Anyhoo, this total babe—let’s call her “Roscoe”—I picked her up at the dog run.  We were both taunting the mutts on the inside of the fence, honking, waggling our tail feathers just out of reach, and the next thing you know, we’re daring each other to take flying shits on traffic cops in Times Square.

Then Roscoe had the saucy idea of going to Manhattan’s “Sex Museum.”  I liked where her head was at but grumbled over the ticket price.  Still, I couldn’t very well ask my new lady friend to sneak in through an open second floor window or help me bully the front desk peon into a comp entrance as I normally do in these situations.  I was even more distraught when I realized what I’d shelled out cash for.

Um.

Roscoe wasn’t too shaken.  We ended up having a good laugh.  I’m just lucky I didn’t spring for the audio tour.

Also, normally I never preen and tell, but she did totally let me preen her.

—Nero