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.

—Caligula

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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





Poetry In Lotion

23 06 2008

That’ll be the title of Caligula’s finest book of poems, the fourth and final volume of my masturbation collection—damned be the metacriticism of “pseudo-intellectual masturbation over masturbation itself.” Currently, however, I’m stalled on that masterpiece, and so I thought I’d clear out the cobwebs by trying some good old-fashioned non-rhyming Jap-limericks, or Haiku, as I politically correct thugs would probably insist. No matter. The images speak for themselves!

1.

Flaws in creation:

My summer-kissed fist does not

Quite fit up his ass

2.

Wilting leaves expose

Each soul’s private hurt and loss

I’ll kick your teeth in

3.

Beaten, bloodied by

McDonald’s purple Grimace

It is winter now

4.

Cutting blossoms off

Reborn trees, make hippies choose:

Nature or free speech?

—Caligula





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,

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





Vintage Verbiage

28 05 2008

Q. What’s worse than a plagarist?

A. A time-traveling plagarist.

Close friends have been reading countless drafts of my nearly-complete debut novel, American Emperor, a pseudo-pornographic odyssey through the last years of the 20th century with an effortlessly awesome Manhattanite postmodern Caesar, Baligula (too obvious?  constructive criticism welcome), at its center.  And well they should re-read this manuscript in its myriad incarnations: it’s a burgeoning, blood-spattered masterpiece. The deposed and down-on-his-luck emperor resurrects himself as high society’s most divine pillar by establishing cutthroat professional “friendships,” ensconcing himself in über-expensive fashions to the point of obsession and gruesomely torturing those who may or may not have slighted him in the past, recording every tedious detail along the way.


Intellectual thievery, thy name is Bret.

All this work only to have the hacks at Random House tell me they see unmistakable echoes of a book published 17 years ago and want no part of the inevitable legal hoopla I’m inviting.  I suppose they mean my pending lawsuit against Mr. Ellis, who is recklessly abusing his apparent ability to hopscotch through history and, frankly, flattering himself by passing off my fictions as his.  I say: “fine!”  I will take this cad on by my lonesome.  How dare he re-write my happy ending!

Just the same, I have the feeling we might hit it off. 

—Caligula





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