February 2006, Vol. 5, Issue 2

1. Highway Job by Tenzin McGrupp
They smelled like a combination of three-day old urine and rotten eggs as the aroma of depravity made me nauseous for the entire fifteen minutes I sat and waited for my Greyhound bus bound for NYC to arrive... More

2. Action Island by Otis
I couldn't see any coke on his nose. Still, if you'd told me there hadn't been some marching powder shooting up his nostrils in the last couple of hours, I would've called you an idiot... More

3. Tomorrow Thoughts by Jaxia Kiley
Window's open. A soft breeze runs across our skin and under the sheets as we dance together... More

4. The Honey Wagon by AlCantHang
I drive the shit truck. The Honey Wagon. I'm a drunk. It's my job and I hate it. The job, not the drink... More

5. Two Loves by Human Head
A person with self-esteem as fragile as mine often questions the reality of things. Everything is easy when nothing stinks, enough money is in various accounts, and cartoon bluebirds flutter to and fro in the background, but sooner or later Mr. Yin makes a call to Mr. Yang and the balance sheets are once again set in order... More

6. Merry Fucking Christmas by Ben Rillie
The only thought in my tiny, tiny brain at the time was, "Man, this is going to be a monster of a fart," and I immediately pondered the best way to record it so I could email it to my friends... More

7. Can I Hit It and Quit? by Tenzin McGrupp
She reminded me of a young Meryl Streep. Her accent was thick and she smelled like flowers and blueberries. She sipped on a Sea Breeze or some sort of vodka-cranberry concoction... More

What a Long Strange Trip It's Been...

From the Editor's Laptop:

Thanks for returning back to another issue of your favorite e-zine. Thanks to Maudie for the new banner, which gives Truckin' a more professional look! The second issue of 2006 features several old writers such as Otis, Human Head, and AlCantHang. Strips clubs, cokeheads, and shit trucks. Sounds like another exciting issue, eh? Especially with another poem from Jaxia. This issue also features a new writer, Ben Rillie . Check out his story called Merry Fucking Christmas. Finally, I decided to go with a bus story and something that happened to me one late night in Atlantic City.

Thanks to everyone who shared their bloodwork this month. I always say that the other contributing authors inspire me, because it's true. You guys write for free and if I could pay you, I would. Your time and effort is worth more money than I can ever afford to pay.

I ask that if you like these stories, then please do me and the rest of the writers a huge favor: Tell your friends about your favorite stories. It takes a few seconds to pass along the URL. I certainly appreciate your support. Feel free to shoot me an e-mail if you know anyone who is interested in being added to the mailing list.

Thanks again. I am grateful that you wasted your time with my site. Until next time.

Salukis,
McG

"What do I know of man's destiny? I could tell you more about radishes." - Samuel Beckett

Action Island

By Otis © 2006

I couldn't see any coke on his nose. Still, if you'd told me there hadn't been some marching powder shooting up his nostrils in the last couple of hours, I would've called you an idiot. He was drinking tequila and spilling towers of hundred-dollar chips all over his spot in the one seat. Presently, the only smiling cocktail waiter in the joint showed up with nine glasses of tequila. The table exploded with cheers. The one seat, a guy in a black sport jacket with a leather collar, stood with a handful of black and entered into serious negotiation with the waiter. Thirty seconds later the one-seat dropped three black chips on the waiter's tray. The one seat, a guy everyone was calling The Billionaire, turned back to the table and said, "I don't know what that guy was saying, but it was very confusing." No one told him he'd just paid $300 for $80 in drinks.

The game was $50/$100 No-Limit Hold'em. Brandon sat in the one seat. Nick "TheTakeover" Schulman sat in the six seat. Nenad Medic was in the seven seat. A Venezuelan they call Twin Caracas was in the nine seat. Mike Matusow was in the ten seat. It appeared it was Matusow's turn to do a shot. He stood and held his glass high and said "Brandon!" He and Brandon drank their shots while the other eight players hid their drinks under the table or handed them to friends. It was evident that no one wanted to be drunk. They had a whale on the line and they needed all their strength to reel him in.

Brandon the Billionaire shook off the effects of the tequila and told the dealer, "These guys think they can take advantage of me...and they are right."

The rail was thick with tired people. It was 3am and the main event of the PokerStars Caribbean Adventure had long since been put to bed. This was a cash game and if a TV producer had been anywhere in the room, the game would've been a reality show before sunrise.

Anyone who walked up quickly realized they had to ask one question before they could watch any more. "Who is that in the one seat?"

The answers would vary, depending on who was asked. Some would say, "He's a heroin addict." Others would tell you, "He's coked up and drunk." More creative people would say, "Ever watch the show Dynasty? His family was the basis for that show."

It would be about 12 hours before I learned the guy's true identity. His name was Brandon Davis. He either had been or was currently dating OC actress Mischa Barton. And, apparently Aaron Spelling did film an episode of Dynasty at the Davis home in Colorado. For the moment, though, his fame was of no concern to the other nine players at the table.

Tens of thousands of dollars sat in front of each player. The button would move, the blinds would be paid, the pots would be pushed. But for an hour, I don't remember any of the players contesting a pot with anyone but Brandon. It was not a poker game. It was poker's version of date rape meets gang rape meets star fucking.

When Brandon told a joke, everyone would laugh. When Brandon won a pot, everyone would congratulate him. When Brandon lost a pot, everyone would bemoan his bad luck.

For days, the temporary poker room at the Atlantis Resort and Casino had been home to the the biggest action for thousands of miles. At any give time, there were three $50/$100 no-limit games, several $25/$50, and a few $10/$20 games. Jean Robert-Bellande and Chris Fargis played $200/$400 triple draw. The reality show producer who never showed up would've called his production, "Action Island." This episode would been called, "Raping Brandon."

Each player took his turn fleecing the rich kid of his money. The other players weren't colluding necessarily. They just weren't playing against each other. They knew they stood a greater chance of losing against the other pros at their table. The nearly-guaranteed win would come at the expense of the one seat. So, they just waited their turn.

I'd heard tales of a whale named Casey who had done the same thing at the games in Aruba a few months before. Players lined up ten-deep to get their money down against the guy who would play any two cards for any amount of money and only fold when it was apparent there was no way he could possibly win. At one point, I heard one of the players say, "Imagine if we had Brandon and Casey at the same table."

I stood with a beer in my hand. Because I had special access, I was able to stand within a couple feet of the table and watch and listen to everything as it happened. It was one of those moments that I assume is like one's first experience with a hooker. I felt dirty and exhilarated at the same time. In front of me was poker pornography. It was a wildlife show with the kill-scene on a repeating loop.

It was nearly 4am and because of the room's special rules, the last hand would be dealt in just a few minutes. I could see the players exhale in disappointment. The guy in the 5-seat said, "If this game was in Vegas, it would go on for five days."

Matusow, happier than I'd ever seen him, looked up with a giant, sober smile on his face. "If Brandon were around all the time, I'd have to take up my drug habit again." He looked down at his chips and saw a bigger stack than he'd had in days. The he laughed out loud. "But it would be worth it."

Otis is a freelance writer, contributor to Up For Poker, and lead writer for the PokerStars Blog. He just returned from the PokerStars Caribbean Adventure in the Bahamas.

Highway Job

By Tenzin McGrupp © 2006

The bus station.

It looked new but the inhabitants were always the same. The bus stations around America featured some of the lowest forms of wayward travelers. These were folks who couldn't afford plane or train fare. You wondered how they scratched together enough cash to pay for the Greyhound fare. Even with the influx of gamblers from New York and Philadelphia catching buses back to those cities, there were plenty of sullen faces on the rest of the people who sat silently in the brightly lit terminal. A few rows were crowded by street people bundled up in layers of clothing. They smelled like a combination of three-day old urine and rotten eggs as the aroma of depravity made me nauseous for the entire fifteen minutes I sat and waited for my Greyhound bus bound for NYC to arrive. I couldn't withstand the smell anymore and went outside to wait.

The bus showed up on time and I sat next to an old lady who brought ear plugs with her. She didn't want to have to listen to the Russian guys in the back bitch and moan about their bad beats for two hours straight. Plus the guy on his cell phone two rows ahead of us blew off the bus driver's warning to keep all phone conversations brief and polluted the air recanting his last 48 hours as he slowly lost his entire paycheck at the tables.

I listened to my iPod and zoned out. I'd wake up every fifteen minutes and find myself staring out at the window watching the landscape of the Garden State Parkway whoosh by. Two portly passengers diagonally across from me cuddled most of the ride. She looked like a 300-pound version of Whoopi Goldberg with six-inch nails colored in seven shades of acrylic paint. She had her hands down her boyfriend's pants. He looked like Fidel Castro minus the cigar and hat.

Fat chicks jerking off guys on the NJ Turnpike.

It was Groundhog Day and I'd kill myself if I got stuck seeing that gruesome scene everyday for the rest of my life. I tolerated it once because as much as it sickens me to death, I have a morbid curiosity of the psychology behind explicit and random displays of sex acts in public places. It's one thing to see a guy get his rocks off on Bourbon Street during Mardi Gras. It's something totally different to see a guy get a beejer sitting in row 10 on a Greyhound.

Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.

Tomorrow Thoughts

By Jaxia Kiley © 2006

Window's open. A soft breeze runs across our skin and under the sheets as we dance together. And I close my eyes as the music ends, waiting for your soothing voice or a gentle kiss. And rumors lie because I can see only you surrounding me, and I envelope you, completing the circle. I feel your smooth skin and your warm touch even when you're far away. I lie around, thinking of little things I can do to show you my thoughts. And I can see your smile of happiness even before they're done. And dreams of what we'll do and what we'll be float freely through my mind. I wonder if forever really crosses your mind. Seems almost real, like it's already happening whenever you're in my arms. Hard to imagine love without you. Hope you'll never go away, because I miss you already. Pull up the covers and move my pillow closer to yours. A warm kiss, pressing my body against the length of yours, and tomorrow I'll tell you about it.

Jaxia Kiley is a poet from Forth Worth, Texas.

The Honey Wagon

By AlCantHang © 2006

I drive the shit truck. The Honey Wagon. I'm a drunk. It's my job and I hate it. The job, not the drink.

I wasn't always this way. I started out enjoying the good life with great potential. No one knew I'd be the most tenured driver on shit detail by the age of 30. I was popular in high school, a certified jock, and the beginning of college was no different. I had a moderate yet accurate fastball which resulted in a decent scholarship at a tiny college. This allowed me to spend plenty of time drinking and mingling with the "pretty" people. It would be great to tell you that my descent to where I am now was caused by something dramatic and shocking. This is no tale of the star athlete who got caught nailing the dean's 16-year old daughter after plastering her with booze and low grade pharmaceuticals.

It was my damned fast ball that landed me on the career path towards portable raw sewage pickup. The accurate left arm that once had me living the good life would soon spend more time lifting a pint of bourbon than delivering any victories.

It was a normal college Friday night. There were more parties than I could chose from and I'd be welcome at each. It wasn't baseball season but I was still a hit at the parties because I was always there and never failed to bring some premium booze and girls.

I grabbed a couple of girls hanging around the apartment and walked to the nearest party. It was still early but I always like to get a head start on the festivities. The atmosphere was still low key just waiting for the burst of post-drinking game craziness. We were standing around bullshitting with the host when the backup catcher walked in the door and changed my life.

The next to last baseball game of the season could have been my ticket to the next level. Our coach was known to do a decent job working with pitchers and occasionally a minor league scout would make an appearance. One showed up during my final start. Unfortunately for me, the backup catcher was playing. Didn't that fucker go and screw up my chance.

Details are unnecessary, just take my word that I wasn't pleased to see him at the party. I was still bitter and my drinking had really ramped up. He never knew what he had done and how it affected me. Why should he care? His rich bitch mother paid for the new turf at the stadium and he'd never have to work a hard day in his life.

"Hey Jack, can you throw me a beer!" Those were the last words he ever uttered without a severe speech impediment.

Everything goes into slow motion and I relive this moment every time I find myself up to my elbows in your shit.

I reached into the keg bucket full of ice and beer cans. Iron City Light, for the record. I picked up a beer, shook off the excess water and turned towards the guy who cost me the best shot at relative fame and fortune and groupies. He was just standing there with an idiotic grin on his face holding out his hands.

Without the slightest thought, and with very little effort, the can fired out of my hand. Straight and true as always. I told the cops later that I accidentally threw the can too hard and too high. That wasn't the truth. I intended to drill that cock smoker right between the eyes.

I can still see that can flying in a perfect line. End over end until the bottom of the can slammed smack in the middle of his forehead. He never got his hands higher than his shoulders. No fancy movie shit where he shakes his head then falls down. No drama. He dropped like a fuckin' rock and things instantly speed back up. He was doing the shimmy shake on the carpet and people started pushing, shoving, hitting, kicking, my ass all over the place. "Asshole!" "Douchebag!" and "Moron!" were my new nicknames.

I was numb and the same thought was repeating itself in my head.

I did the "time" prescribed by the judicial system. I thought maybe the stay would help me sober up. My former backup catcher would never be the same. Mommy and Daddy spent a large chunk of their rotten money to keep him comfortable. Speech therapists and nurses and probably even someone to rub the dribble off his chin. I guess if I cared, I might try to visit or apologize.

But I don't so I don't.

I still have that same thought going through my head occasionally. Especially on the nasty days. The 100 degree Sauna of Shit. Crappers falling over. Even when a former co-worker drowned face down in an over flooded shitter I had the same thought.

"Cock sucker never could catch."

Al Cant Hang is a seasoned Socologist from Phoenixville, PA.

Two Loves

By Human Head © 2006

Her ass, wrapped in those lizard or snake or whatever-was-fashionable-at-the-time pants looked like something I would only ever see in my dreams. When my gazed moved north and caught a glimpse of her eyes, they held me like never before or after. Life got fuzzy around the edges and I knew.

I want her to love me.

Things began well for us. I had a hundred dollars and she had a promise. I had seen her with other men, also other women. She whispered promises to them and then left shortly afterwards. Some never came back and some wouldn't stop coming. During our initial time together she sat in my lap, normally a faux pas at the tables, but no one else could see. It was my secret, having her there, and no one noticed until all of the chips sat in front of me. They finally saw, even if it was too late.

It felt like she loved me.

A person with self-esteem as fragile as mine often questions the reality of things. Everything is easy when nothing stinks, enough money is in various accounts, and cartoon bluebirds flutter to and fro in the background, but sooner or later Mr. Yin makes a call to Mr. Yang and the balance sheets are once again set in order. Three discs slipped out of place, turning and swelling, causing the doctor to wince and inquire about my mobility. An all day sojourn at the hospital and an allergy to the pain pills brought a gushing and smelly reminder all over the bathroom that the bluebirds had to sleep sometime. She cleaned without complaint, even stopping halfway through to check and make sure that my mess-making hadn't been too taxing. She did not run away screaming.

I think she loves me.

We saw each other every day, often spending hours together on a playground covered in felt. She left my lap a few times, but it was never troubling. Brimming with confidence during her absence, I heard the old man shout, "I need some luck here!" His perfect conditions came to pass, a large and disparate pile of composite clay moved in the wrong direction, and the corner of my eye saw her rubbing his leg. She swore she would be back in a second. Ignore the sting and hope she wasn’t lying.

Why doesn't she love me?

I couldn't bring myself to check the Inbox, the mailbox, or any other box. The last day of the month came forward at a steady pace. It was hungry and relentless and our account could give no more. With a glassy look that said tears were on the way, she asked what we were going to do. This was not how it was supposed to be. Like so many times before, looking inward revealed no solution, and neither did looking out. The bluebirds just sat and watched, not making a move for fear of stepping wrong, and tension replaced the breeziness that had been at our backs for so long. She cried, but she put her hand on mine and said we would keep searching together.

She must really love me.

No one knew where she was, leaving me with the perplexed look and feel experienced by so many others in her wake. It didn't make sense, her leaving. We had such a great run together. We turned my hundred into many thousands and there were visions of a lifetime together, her history and her few indiscretions concerning our relationship be damned. My face flushed every time I heard another speaking of her in intimate terms. "She visited me last night, I'm up over a grand and I plan on seeing her again tonight!" Always the dynamo, she had and still has the whole world hot and bothered. The only option left was to stare at my dwindling stack, my dwindling roll, my dwindling everything.

I need her to love me. The only guarantee she gives is a distracted maybe. If she does, I know it will only be temporary.

Telling her would be hard. Self-esteem likes to retreat in times like these, at the prospect of the slightest harm. There was the urge to shit, but barely. The urge to fart was enormous. They call it a Shart, and it wasn't supposed to happen like that, but it did. In the aftermath, the bluebirds took a sick day. Garments were cleaned, and she was none the wiser. In spite of this, she must be told. There must be no secrets between us, not even the wet or smelly. Face her and find out what you must know. The tale is told and she is quiet, as if considering the very real option to run away in a fit of revulsion. She laughs and it is not derisive.

She loves me. I am sure of it.

Two women love me. One loves sometimes and the other loves every time. Mr. Yin and Mr. Yang are happy. It is fortunate that things are not the other way around, and I am happy.

Human Head is a writer and poker player from Wichita, Kansas.

Merry Fucking Christmas

By Ben Rillie © 2006

During the Christmas of 2004, I received a really shitty present. Appendicitis. If you haven't had it, count yourself lucky. It is by far the most painful experience that I've ever encountered. Before, during and after the operation I experienced pain and discomfort that was so bad, it was easily one of the worst times in my life. It was also one of the funniest.

It started in the afternoon. I had just finished a pepper salami, hot coppa and swiss on an onion roll from Genova's (purveyors of the finest sandwiches in the Bay Area) and was trying to get through my usual post-lunch coma. More often than not, a Coke will bring me back to life but on that day I was feeling more lethargic than my usual. The other thing that was bothering me was the discomfort I was feeling in my stomach. I was feeling a little bloated (which I attributed to the sandwich) and I felt like I needed to pass wind (when do I not?). But the problem was, I couldn't seem to get out any flatulence. It was only a minor annoyance and I figured my ass would fart when it was damned well good and ready, so I put it to the back of my mind. The day went on and as knock-off time approached, one of my co-workers asked me for a ride home. "No problem," I said, "it's on the way home." When I got up out of my office chair, something didn't feel right.

You know how when you go to the movies, you order the trash can sized soda, box of Raisinets and then you go and find your seat. You place the soda in the cup holder with the thought that it will last you for a large part of the movie. You sit through those insipid commercials, watch the trailers for upcoming features, reach down to take a drink and the cup feels light. You've already consumed three quarters of your tasty beverage. You curse yourself on two accounts:

1. You won't have much to drink for the remainder of the movie.
2. You're probably going to have to piss pretty soon.

Then the movie starts and you forget all about it and start enjoying yourself. About 45 minutes pass and you start to feel something in your mid-section. A pressure. Your bladder is filling up and you know that you'll have to evacuate very, very soon. But it's the good part of the movie. There's one man, a loner who's wanted in ten states but who's really just misunderstood and he's about to beat the crap out of fifty guys that are much larger than him and have chainsaws. Or there's a sex scene coming up and you really want to see what Scarlett Johansson's nipples look like. Whatever. You're not budging. After a little while, the pressure subsides and you talk yourself into thinking that it's really not that uncomfortable. You enjoy the rest of the movie and it ends. Then you go to get up. A pain shoots through your abdomen and you have to piss like you've never pissed before. You can't even stand up straight. It's excruciating. It's shocking. You knew there was a problem, but you weren't really aware that it was this dire. You gotta do something, and fast. This was what it felt like when I got out of my office chair. I knew there was something wrong, but I didn't know the severity of the issue. Now it was becoming apparent.

Now it felt like I really had to fart. Like when you're on a first date and you're trying really hard to get laid so you stop doing all the things that define you as a person. Things like burping, farting, chain smoking, making lewd jokes and drinking whatever is put in front of you. Now a normal person would've started to worry a bit and maybe considered seeing a doctor. Not me. The only thought in my tiny, tiny brain at the time was, "Man, this is going to be a monster of a fart," and I immediately pondered the best way to record it so I could email it to my friends.

My friend was standing at the door, waiting for his ride home, so I collected my things and we went on our merry way. After I dropped off my co-worker, the pressure felt like it was increasing and it was becoming more and more painful. Once again, instead of thinking about seeking medical help, I was relishing the idea of cultivating a fart so powerful that it may tear the very pants I was wearing as it exited my ass. As I thought of this, I giggled like a small girl as I drove home.

Ben Rillie is works for an animation company in Northern California who is moving to Las Vegas to play poker.

Can I Hit It and Quit?

By Tenzin McGrupp © 2006

Sometimes playing against drunks is like trying to juggle hand grenades with Charles Manson. You know that some weird and crazy shit is going to go down at some point. This time, one guy spilled his cocktail. The dealer was pissed because she warned him at least five times in the first minute I sat down. He had an empty cup holder but was so polluted that he kept putting it on the other side of his stack. And he had a stack. A monster stack. It was dirty for sure with a few $1 and $25 chips grouped together in a sea wall of red $5 chips. Seat 6 was the sucker and I wanted him to double me up. He wasn't friends with the other two Russians at my table. And they had been badgering him all night.

"Call me Nicky," he insisted, "I want you to know the name of the guy who is going to take all your money!"

He began taunting me early on. He had the hipster kid from Brooklyn on tilt and must have run through at least four or five buy-ins according to the Russian chick sitting next to me. She reminded me of a young Meryl Streep. Her accent was thick and she smelled like flowers and blueberries. She sipped on a Sea Breeze or some sort of vodka-cranberry concoction. She was shortstacked and if I spoke better Russian, I would have figured out that she was the table captain. She thought she knew what she was doing and she was screaming at Nicky, the drunk Russian guy every time he scooped a pot. I like feisty women. I prefer feisty drunk women with a penchant for gambling and playing cards at 3 AM.

Every time she entered a pot, Nicky would raise, and she would see the in anger even more. Nicky had the most of the table on tilt. He even got the dealer on tilt after he knocked over his drink.

I'll spare you the bad beat. Pocket pair busted by an unsuited two gapper. Before Nicky could scoop up the pot, I dug back in for a rebuy.

"He is stupid," she said. Actually it sounded more like "stew-pet."

I quickly became her table friend. The old guy to her right with the hairy ears was in a daze. I couldn't tell if he was heavily medicated or just tired after a long session.

"What's your name?"

Always ask hot women what their names are and follow it up with something quick. If it's exotic say something like "What does that mean?" or "How did you get that interesting name?"

If it's a common name like Jennifer or Michelle, just say, "You've got to be one of the best looking Jen's I’ve ever met."

It sounds corny, but it works.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Nadya," she said.

"That's beautiful. What does it mean?"

She smiled. "Hope," she said.

"Like you hope that assclown is going to double you up eventually?"

She laughed and then cursed at Nicky in Russian. The other Russian at the table laughed. Nicky fired something back and by the look on Nadya's face, I'm sure he called her a pig or a dog or dropped a Ruskie C-bomb.

Nadya doubled through Nicky twice in one orbit. She had the best hand both times. A-K and J-J held up for her against A-3 and 3-5s. I doubled up against Nicky and lost a big pot to the old guy with the hairy ears. The hipster dropped another buy-in when he chased a baby flush and Nadya filled in a full house on the river. All of a sudden she had chips and started talking smack with everyone at the table.

"People are so stew-pet," she said.

I was about even when I was heads up with Nadya. I raised with A-Js and missed my flop. She checked to me on a ragged board and I bet the pot on the flop. She muttered something like she knew I had A-K and re-raised me.

Hot Russian chicks drinking Sea Breezes at 6 AM, check-raising me in a $30 pot is a total turn on. I moved all in on her.

"You are a good player. Not one of those stew-pet players like Nicky," as she pointed and cursed at him in Russian.

She folded and showed me her small pair.

"Since I like your face, I'll let you see one card for free. Pick one," as I spread out my hole cards. She pointed to one and I flipped over the Jack of hearts.

She groaned and said something in Russian. Nicky taunted her for the next ten minutes before Nadya racked up her chips and left. After I cashed out she stood at the top of the escalator smoking a menthol cigarette.

"Think I can hit it and quit?" I joked.

Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.

January 2006, Vol. 5, Issue 1

1. Subway Bitch Slap by Tenzin McGrupp
Pedro eventually graduated from low level thuggery to middle level drug dealing. He started out at the bottom as a look out, then a runner, then a full on dealer.... More

2. Two Inches of Banana by Change100
"All I know is that if I were a homosexual, I'd have to be a feeder. Two inches of banana and I'm gagging!" he said... More

3. Anniversary in Italy by John "Falstaff" Hartness
It was our anniversary, and we had ditched the tour group to do a little shopping and have a nice romantic dinner all to ourselves. So we meandered through the cobblestone streets of Taormina.... More

4. Taste by Human Head
Doug and I were long time tripping buddies. Both of us typically shied away from tripping with our group of friends, well, because we felt like the drugs were wasted on them. Not only did we love our drugs, we took them seriously... More

5. The West Texas No by Sean A. Donahue
The simple West Texas attitude is infectious. Give me a beer, George Strait and a karaoke machine to sing Hotel California or The Chair and a West Texan has found Nirvana. For they love to drink, smoke, chew and party... More

6. Living la vida Estonia by Sigge S. Amdal
My second fuck-up was leaving my camera at home. I despise tourists and consider myself a traveler. A traveler sees what he sees, a tourist what he came to see.... More

What a Long Strange Trip It's Been...

From the Editor's Laptop:

Thanks for returning back for the first issue of 2006 for my literary blogzine. Of course, it's late and way past the deadline, but that's how it's always been. Better late than never. This issue features several new writers such as John "Falstaff" Hartness and Sean A. Donahue. Both are bloggers and I'm hoping that they contribute more stuff later this year. Change100, Sigge Amdal, and the Human Head are returning with epic stories. Sigge was in Estonia and we're lucky to read about his travels. Human Head has a tripping tale and Change100 discusses a night in Las Vegas with a horny British guy. Finally, I decided to go with a hybrid subway story.

Thanks to everyone who shared their bloodwork this month. I always say that the other contributing authors inspire me, because it's true. You guys write for free and if I could pay you, I would. Your time and effort is worth more money than I can ever afford to pay.

I ask that if you like these stories, then please do me and the rest of the writers a huge favor: Tell your friends about your favorite stories. It takes a few seconds to pass along the URL. I certainly appreciate your support. Feel free to shoot me an e-mail if you know anyone who is interested in being added to the mailing list.

Thanks again. I am grateful that you wasted your time with my site. Until next time.

Salukis,
McG

"What is life if you don't have fun?" - A Tribe Called Quest