"The Hairy Hand Gets The Taco" Photoset

You can see all the pics from this photoset HERE (Adults Only! NSFW!)

Within the concrete walls of my wolf den, with all of my drawings of naked hairy women (who all have HaIry TAcoS between their legs, of course!) hanging on the walls, and with all of my bloody crosses and crucifixes to keep me company, I feel right at home. When I get home from work all hot and sweaty, the first thing I do is strip naked and put on my "Communion Clothes." My "Communion Clothes" consist of these cut-off blue denim shorts and a white, button-down shirt covered in red paint. The red paint is meant to symbolize my howling wolfen soul and the passion I have for my art and for speaking with the spirits of dead wolves. Yes, that is what I mean by "communion," speaking with the dead wolves and letting them enter my body, have sweet intercourse with my soul as they whisper to me what I must do that night. Often, they tell me what to have for dinner, and on the night I made this photoset they told me to have TACOS!! HAHAHAHA!! My hairy hand always gets the taco, mother fucker. Don't you ever forget that.

HappY HaLLoWeeN, everybody! Later on a friend and I are going to my former place of employment, Taco Bell, to get some of those creepy BLACK TACOS!! Hell yeah!

I'm Surviving, One Glow-Stick At A Time

So a little over a year ago I had my hours cut in HALF at the pornstore I've been working in for over 11 years now. I was left with just 20 hours doing janitorial work, mopping up semen, scrubbing dried cum off the walls, scraping GUM off the floor, etc. I had some money saved up so I didn't try to look for another job right away. When I finally did decide to look for one back in March or so, I didn't get one right off the bat. I applied at numerous fast food restaurants but no one would hire me. Fucking Denny's made me go to THREE fucking interviews, and after the third one, the manager just looked at me and said, "Sorry, but we don't have any openings." HAHAHA! What the fuck? If you don't have any openings then why the fuck did you make me go to THREE fucking interviews, asshole?

My mom seems to think that it is my teeth, that I need my teeth worked on but I don't think my teeth are that bad, really. She thinks that my teeth are too yellow from smoking so many cigarettes over the years, and that it is a big turn-off to people at these job interviews. But my interviews have been at shit-holes like Long John Silver's, Wendy's, Rally's Hamburgers and fucking DENNY'S and most of the managers at these rat shacks have fucking GREEN teeth, so I really don't think my goddam TEETH are the issue. Regardless, when I went home for my sister's wedding this past June my mom said that as soon as my Dad gets finished with his radiation treatment for prostate cancer, she'll pay to have my teeth worked on. I'm like, whatever, my mom still thinks I should walk around looking like Wally Cleaver, wearing nice clean clothes and with a sparkling smile emanating from white porcelain-like teeth and I'm like, Mom, I am a 39-year-old semi-unemployed janitor at a PORN-STORE who, in his free-time gets on the Internet and posts pictures of himself in his underwear while wearing a werewolf mask and eating tacos. It really is just time for my mother to give up the dream of me being or looking respectable.

The end of May rolled around and I STILL had not found another job. I saw an ad in the paper, it was a carnie-type job, selling glow-sticks at carnivals and other outdoor events. I was way behind on my rent, had to have my Internet and cable shut off, and I was willing to try about anything for extra cash, so I signed up to do this shit. I walked about two miles out to this guy's house out in the country. The owner of the operation, Mitch, was some slimeball in his late-forties. He walked around his yard giving orders half the time, then the other half he looked like he was in some sort of daze and didn't know where he was at. He was some short stocky guy who wore jogging pants and a white muscle shirt. His back was fucking HAIRY and he actually looked like that singer, Meatloaf, only a little smaller and with white hair. I'm sure he does or has done alot of drugs in his life. I can see him being the manager of some third-rate classic rock band like Molly Hatchet, or something. We had to sit around in his yard every day in the hot, sweltering sun, waiting for him to tell us what event we were going to and in what city, and who we were riding with. Some days we had to wait for HOURS and I got bored once and said to Mitch, "Damn, your back is hairy. Are you a werewolf, Mitch?" He just looked at me with these space cadet eyes and asked, "Why would you say thaaaaaaaat?"

Sometimes we played hacky-sack in the yard while we waited, what a stupid fucking game. I spent alot of time ogling this real hot 19-year old chick. I just stood against this tree, smoking cigarettes and leering at her like some creep. She was short, had big, slightly-slanted brown eyes, short brown hair in a bob, and a bunch of wicked tattoos on her arm, most of which were only half-finished which gave them a raw, sexy look. She sat around on the grass talking to all the other homeless punks, retreads and jail-birds that a job like selling glow sticks attracts, and often her ass would be facing me. I could see her gorgeous butt-crack hovering just over the waist-line of her low-cut jeans. One time she stood up and I saw half her hot, round BARE ass and I thought I would die before she wrestled her pants back up. There was one occasion when she wasn't surrounded by any hoodlums that I was able to talk her up. She liked Green Day and alot of other poppy-sounding punk bands, and talked about all the shows she'd been to recently. She was a cute chick with a cute chipmunk face, and every time she flashed her bright, promising but slightly tragic, sweet smile I got a slight erection and imagined that her lips were her vagina getting wet and opening up for the trembling, stirring werewolf cock that frolicked about behind my zipper.

Selling glow sticks was actually fun when I finally got to an event. It actually takes alot of nerve to do it, I think, or a complete lack of self-consciousness. They drop you off at the event. There are all these people standing around having a good time. There's some crappy local cover band singing John Mellencamp songs in the background. You stand there and get your stuff ready, all this glowing crap, all these crappy toys. I put these blinking bunny ears on my head, wore all these blinking necklaces around my neck. Everyone is looking at you and laughing. It's kind of like crashing a party. You just walk right out in the middle of all these people, looking like an idiot and screaming out, BUNNY EARS! GET YOUR BUNNY EARS!! Glow sticks! Who wants a glow stick?!" All these kids come running toward you carrying crinkled up dollar bills. Parents walk up to you and get out their wallets/purses. A few of them took pictures of me with their kids, it was sweet. There were these two five-year old, adorable twin girls who bought bunny ears off of me in Owensboro, Kentucky. They put them on and their mom took a picture of me with them, her beautiful daughters posing with the carnie, bunny-eared loser. On a good night at a good event I'd come home, finally, at about 3am with maybe 50 dollars cash in my hand, enough for cigarettes and food for a couple days. I did it for about two weeks until Taco Bell finally called me and offered me a job. It was June and I'd interviewed with them back in freaking MARCH or some shit, but how could a Taco Werewolf turn down an opportunity to work around Mexican food all the time?

Taste My Terrifying Taco!

Well, first I'd like to say that it's good to be back on Live Journal. I had an LJ under a different user name from November 2002-August 2004, but I had to break away from it for various reasons, namely because I was being seduced away from social networking by the spirits of dead wolves, although I didn't realize it at the time. I thought that perhaps some mischievous, malicious human spirit had possessed one of my blow-up dolls that I've taped my own hair all over; or that it was Lilith, Bloody Mary, the sweet stabbed-to-death sister of Captain Howdy, or some other nasty entity, some vile, scab-covered spiritual succubus, the kind that like to torture men when they sleep and debilitate them when they are awake with useless, soul-sucking obsessions with NOTHING that prevent them from living a productive, healthy life; and from keeping online journals.

I suppose you can say I am an artist, and I have always had some obsession or creative project I'm working on, all of which have gotten me absolutely NOWHERE up to this point. For two years after leaving LJ, I dabbled with different ideas, experimented with different creative visions, but it wasn't until October 2006 that I was listening to Ozzy Osbourne's song, "Bark at the Moon," (yes, as silly as that sounds, it was a major impetus for my ascension into full-blown werewolfery) that I got the idea for "Taco Werewolf." There were alot of other influences and factors, but that fucking bad-ass song gave me the final kick, that's when I was "bitten," in a figurative sense, by the dead wolfen spirits that had been haunting me. Slowly, I started to be able to articulate to myself, through writing, photosets, art, etc., what the wolfen spirits told me I knew along: that I was put on this earth to develop a creative vision of "Werewolf Life-Styles Involving Mexican Food" and that I should do so through the creative lense of the idea of "Taco Werewolf." So "Taco Werewolf" is a sort of persona I adopt when I put on a werewolf mask and express my art. Though I also currently function in the real world as a regular guy with a normal name who works mundane jobs, it is my hope that I'll be able to someday discard my born identity and totally embody my "Taco Werewolf" idealism, functioning fully and entirely as a living, breathing, howling work of Mexican food fetish art. To help me toward this end, I ask all my friends here to please call me "Taco," with my last name being "Werewolf," please.

Let it also be known that I do NOT claim to be a real werewolf. I also am not some role-player or LARP hobbyist and this is not a fucking game. When I talk about things like "dead wolfen spirits" seducing me, it is just a colorful, figurative way of referring to my inspiration, my muse. I'm not fucking crazy so please don't understand me. Who knows? Maybe it really WAS the spirits of dead wolves that lured me into this bewitching world of salsa-soaked lycanthropy, but I don't claim that to be the case in a literal sense. It's just how I prefer to think of it and talk about it. Who the fuck knows where creative inspiration REALLY comes from? Do you? Are you really that fucking smart?

At this point in my werewolf development, after three long years of soul-searching, I feel I know enough about my own wolfen nature that I am comfortable sharing some of my ideas with others. So I've joined all the hip and fancy social networks. I joined Fuckbook, MySnatch, and Twatter and now here I am back on Live Journal. To tell you the truth, LJ is by far my favorite of all of these formats because it seems that people actually WRITE and CREATE things on Live Journal, whereas Twatter and MySnatch seems to be just big, sloppy, gaudy SPAM-machines for people to pimp their stuff on. I haven't really spent much time on Fuckbook, yet, but we'll see how it goes when I actually get around to doing something on it. They all serve a purpose but Live Journal seems more intimate and serves as a better way to get feedback from people on what you're doing and thinking, and to cultivate a few friendships that might actually mean something.

Underwear In My Bag Of Doritos?

Halloween is in the air and ghosts and goblins are flocking about in their UNDERWEAR! Last night I was disturbed by the hissing of an evil spirit in my apartment. It was the ghost of one the Doritos I had eaten LAST Halloween and it had come back to haunt me! Luckily, I had my werewolf mask handy. I was able to put it on real quick, get out my crucifix, and perform an exorcism. But I couldn't rid of the ghosts' underwear which had somehow made it into my bag of Doritos!

Football And Fall Furball Cleaning

Well, it's that time of year again, folks, when I get out my dinosaur backpack, grab a broom and start cleaning up my apartment while I watch me some Monday Night Football. Some think that being a werewolf is easy but you oughtta stop by my apartment some time. When you see all the fur balls and pubic hairs lying around on the floor, waiting for me to sweep up, you'll be glad all you normal folks need is a Bic razor to keep your skin nice and smooth. I have to really work at it, in the bathroom and the living room. It's all good, though, because after I'm done I start feasting on some homemade tacos while HOWLING at the goddam stupid referees on the telly!