My First Can

Here's a pic of me and a few of my fellow werewolf buddies outside (and inside) one of the dumpsters in town. I've got a 50-year old friend who lives with his mom and doesn't have a real job so he goes around collecting scrap metal, mostly aluminum cans, for a living. Since times are tough and I haven't been able to find any extra work other than the 20 hours a week I work as a janitor, I decided to go out gathering cans with him the other day for some extra cash, bringing my wolfen pals along with me. In the picture you can see that I am holding my FIRST CAN! Yay! It's a Diet Pepsi can and you can tell by the self-satisfied look on my face that I'm pretty proud of it.

I hadn't shaved in a few days when this picture was taken, so you can see why amongst the can-collecting crowd I'm known as the "Silver Wolf" because of the abundance of gray hairs you can see in my scruffy, half-assed beard. I've been at this can-collecting thing for a couple weeks now and I've almost filled a whole trash bag full! Hopefully in a few more days I'll have a whole bag and when I take it to the junkyard I expect to get around, I dunno, 10 bucks for it. Hey, don't laugh. That's a pack of smokes and a bag of frozen burritos and I will have EARNED it, man, not having had it given it to me as some fucking hand-out by the government.

Speaking of "hand-outs," I've been eating free lunch at this local church downtown. The food isn't too bad but the place is always jammed packed with hungry, stinky people, people like me (yeah, maybe I stink every once in awhile, so what?) who are just trying to make ends meet. I come to get free food to save money so I can pay my Internet bill and not have it disconnected unlike alot of lazy, unemployed people who come there just because they feel they are entitled, like having food in their bellies is some God-given right. Then they eat and go a block away to use free Internet at the public library's computers when I PAY for my damn Internet. But anyway, I was at this church trying to eat the other day and this big fat, greasy dude had his chair pulled out from under him by some mischievous little weasel. The big guy's plate of free food--a pork fritter, some corn and a couple cheese sticks-- went flying everywhere. The big guy got mad, got up and started grabbing the smaller dude, the two of them slipping and sliding in a puddle of Kool-Aid on the floor, and it was funny as hell. There wasn't room to sit down and eat so I just stood in a corner by the free coffee pot, stuffing this big piece of free cake into my mouth as I watched the whole sad, hilarious scene.

After I finished eating, I walked down to this garage that my can-collecting friend uses to sort out his scrap metal every week. He's alot better at collecting this stuff than I am and he spends nearly every waking hour out gathering metal up all over town, so every week he has a huge pile of it needing sorted out before it goes to the junkyard. You have to sort out the aluminum from the tin from the steel from the foil from the copper wire, etc., and he hired me on to help him do it once a week. It's an intense, fast-paced, gross job that takes about 4 hours and he pays me $25. The funny thing is that the garage we are using is just some garage for an apartment complex. Neither one of us live there, my friend just noticed it wasn't used by any tenants and took over the place. LOL. The metal-sorting isn't so bad until you run into some big foil pan full of week-old lasagna. YUCK. Then towards the end of the job all you have left is this big pile of tiny tin lids, caps, tiny bits of tin foil, etc., and I have to get on my hands and knees to sort this shit out with my hands stained and greasy with lasagna. And the other day I noticed a dog turd about an inch away from my hand. I was wearing gloves at first but it made me go too slow in picking stuff up, so I went bare-handed and when I came close to putting my hand right in that piece of dogshit I damn near regretted it. There was one point when my friend fucking yelled at me for putting an aluminum cat food can in the bag where tin is supposed to go. I got pissed and started kicking shit. He says he's going to give me a magnet next time we do it, so I can tell the difference between tin and aluminum. Tin sticks to the magnet, aluminum doesn't.

But when the work is done I take my $25, go home and have a real party because that's what life's about, making the most of what you got or what other people are willing to give to you. I do a little bit on my own, I let people do a little bit for me. Now will someone please come change my diaper for me and make me a taco? LOL.

An Initial Exploration Of Cheese, Lettuce, Tomato

**NOTE** Please ignore the presence of sour cream in the image below. Sour cream is not addressed in this essay.

It is important for me to maintain in my work as a hairy food fetishist, and in my life as a werewolf, to do my best to promote a positive, healthy lifestyle. Though I do respect past werewolf traditions I feel that I need to move beyond many of the perceptions of a werewolf being a violent, murderous beast. It is not always easy to be positive in this world, and as an artist the symbols I use in my work are very important, for it is through these symbols that my vision is cultivated and it is through the lens of these symbols that my outlook is forged. That is one of the reasons why I choose the TACO as my primary symbol of positive meditation. There are many things I have said and will say about the taco as a whole, but in this particular essay I want to quickly address three of the taco's primary ingredients: Cheese, Lettuce, and Tomatoes.

"Cheese, Lettuce, Tomato" has become like a mantra to me, a chant I say over and over again to myself during times when life is not going as I had planned. Whenever I become angry or distressed, depressed or disappointed in life I think of these three main taco ingredients. If possible, I eat them soon after I am upset about something. Ideally, I eat them as part of a taco, but in an emergency I can also eat them plain one after the other; or in a salad grouped together; or as toppings for a hamburger.

The cheese, it soothes me. The rich, creamy taste and the orange hue of sharp cheddar cheese reminds me of the sun on a warm, summer day. I bite into the flakes of the shredded cheese upon my taco, slightly melted from the heat of the meat upon which it rests inside the shell. This slight melting is important to me because it serves as a metaphor for what I am currently going through in life. It is the rich, good taste of life-- but slightly melted, slightly bent of shape. Someone has turned up the heat on and they are trying to make me angry! The melted parts of the cheese tell me life is not perfect but it is the preponderance of the cheese, the vast majority that is unharmed and golden as ever--which is still unscathed by the heavy, greasy meat-- that I know is the true reality, that is the cheese I truly know. This comforts me as I let the cheese rest upon my tongue and slide down my throat.

The lettuce, it delights me! It is so crisp and slightly cold, so soothing to feel inside my belly after I've been angry over something. Followed by, or mixed in with cheese within a taco, I think of it as being alot like love. "Lettuce is the love that binds us." I've said this many times when relating all the various colors and hues within a taco to the different-colored skin tones of all the people of the world. There is cheese, there is tomato, and then there is the LETTUCE. There is usually more lettuce than anything else because it is cheaper. This is especially true within a salad where lettuce serves as the main body, the overbearing symbol, because our natural tendency to want to eat something such as salad intuitively sees lettuce as love in the deepest sense, as the oceanic, turbulent body of oblivion from which we all came and from which we get just a little taste of in our relationships and in our eating of LETTUCE. Just sit somewhere by yourself sometime, preferably on a park bench on a nice sunny day. Bite into the lettuce and feel the water wet your tongue and that ever so slight but potent flavor smear your palate. It is bringing back a memory, see, an ever faint memory lettuce brings that reminds you of the time when were all one, when we were all together, and the lettuce inside a taco further pronounces the taco's ability, as a whole and more than the sum of all of its ingredients, to serve as a symbol of unity. You bite into a taco and hear that crunch. To the unenlightened, this is the louder crunch of the taco's shell, but if you train your ears, and when you open up your heart to the subtleties of taco mysticism, you can make it so you are only hearing the soft, sweet crunch of the LETTUCE, my friend, oh yes, and what a beautiful song this little lettuce bird sings!

Then there are tomatoes, the most beautiful part of this trinity of Cheese, Lettuce, Tomato. Is it any wonder that the tomato cannot truly be classified? Is it a fruit or is it a vegetable? Does it have a double meaning? The tomato to me is sacred because it represents the blood that goes through my veins. It is its symbolic function as the blood that gives me life that always presents me with an opportunity to go against more traditional ideas of the violent, murderous werewolf, especially the ones portrayed in werewolf movies where blood is splattered EVERYWHERE by virtue of the sharp claws and dripping red teeth. Why does blood in so many cases in our media have to represent death? Why, when in paintings, drawings or movies, when a person is covered in blood does this have to be deemed disgusting? The way I work around this, see, is by first giving blood a poetic transformation. Firstly, blood is the life; and tomatoes, to me, in my taco lexicon, are representative of blood; so with tomatoes-- being a primary ingredient of HOT SAUCE, a liquid similar in appearance to blood-- I can portray people covered in HOT SAUCE instead of blood, and it has the same magnetic effect upon a person when they look at it. So when a person is typically said to be transfixed with death if they have a fixation with gory imagery, see, the truth of the matter is that they are obsessed with LIFE, life that is ideologically saturated within the symbol of a tomato and further refined within the structure of more complex substance, hot sauce. And it is here, once again, that the mysterious occult tomato rears its awesome, majestic double-headed meaning. Is is a fruit or a vegetable? Is it life or death? And to take this observation even further, isn't it interesting that the tomato appears TWICE within the best-tasting tacos as a tomato and once again in HOT SAUCE? Think about that. The next time you bite into a taco and feel that delicious, spicy and sweetly luscious flavor of the tomatoes mixing with the hot sauce, ask yourself, "Am I perhaps eating just a little bit more than my LUNCH?

"Tummy Everything" Official Blog

So I decided I wanted to have an "official" blog and I've been messing around with setting it up the past few days. I want a blog to post some of my longer, more serious (LOL!) stuff, as well as a sort of centralized funnel through which to post and link to all my website updates because I've got all kinds of different stuff I want to get out there in the future. Plus, this new blog is set up entirely on my own hosting account, on my own domain, and that makes me happy. I actually just wanted to get it set up for now and don't plan on updating it on a regular basis for a few months. Anyway, this official blog is now ready and set up at Tummy Everything (NSFW! Adults Only!). Since I got it set up I went ahead and made a first, introductory blog entry for it called "Tummy Everything About That Taco I Bought You"(NSFW! Adults Only!)to try and explain the blog's strange title but, like I said, I don't plan on actually using this blog until probably this summer. I'm always thinking ahead and have to stay ahead of the game if I'm going to seriously make some waves in the "food in the stomach" fetish micro-niche. Hahahaha.

We got about 8 inches of snow here in Indiana last night and today. This is like the fourth major snowfall we've gotten this winter which is alot compared to the past few years. I'm actually kind of glad because it makes you appreciate the warm weather when it finally does arrive.

I Stand United With Myself In Good Taco Taste

I decided I wanted to spice up my Links Page up a tad so I made this little logo for it today. Honestly, it just bothered me to no end to have a simple "links page," it sounded so lame. I had to somehow juice it up and make it seem like something special and extraordinary, so it is now called "The Hairy Taco Lovers' Alliance". Hahahaaha. All of my websites now stand UNITED, dude. Me and all my hairy friends are now entangled in our mutual hairs and united in our good taco taste!

Yeah, well, the Colts LOST last night. The Saints were honestly just a better team, I hate to say. The Colts finally had to play a team with a good pass offense which exposed alot of the their weaknesses in defending the short passing game. Plus, the Saints were just alot more dynamic; their special teams made alot of big plays and their coaches made some excellent play-calling decisions, especially with the onside kick to open up the second half. Peyton Manning's legacy is definitely hurt by the loss, especially in light of the Pick Six he threw toward the end of the game that cemented the Saints' first Super Bowl win in their franchise history.

Anyway, I just made a big bowl of taco salad with DORITOS in it and mounds of sour cream and sharp cheddar cheese, splattered with spicy, exhilarating hot sauce; crisp, fresh lettuce; firm, juicy cherry tomatoes; tender clumps of seasoned ground beef and unified with a ton of FreNcH DreSSinG!! I've got a two-hour documentary on crop circles to watch, plus a couple documentaries on wolves. No, not WeReWolvEs, you sillys, these are about REAL wolves because I live in the REAL world. LOL!!

Fans Are Allowed In The Pro Football Hall Of Fame?

Here's a logo I just made to put on my Hairy News and Views Archive page, a simple little links page I had to make to replace my non-adult/mainstream blog at Hairy News and Views because Blogger is doing away with its FTP interface functions. I'm working on "official" Taco Werewolf blog that'll function entirely from my own hosting account and will integrate both my mainstream and more porny/extreme hairy taco stuff and I'll link to it when I get it set up. Blogger blows goats, anyway, I've been planning to stop using it for awhile now.

Today is Super Bowl Sunday and, of course, I am going to watch the game because I am an unabashed fan of the NFL. Being a life-long Indiana resident and living pretty close to Indianapolis I am, of course, rooting for the Colts. I watch nearly every single one of the Colts' games on TV and am pretty grateful we have a local team that, year after year, is pretty damn good and is always in the hunt for winning the Super Bowl. I'm not as excited about the Colts being in the Super Bowl this year as I was when they made it and won it '06, because that was their first time since being in Indy, but it's still pretty damn cool.

I'm disappointed that the Saints are even IN in the Super Bowl because to get there they had to beat my beloved Minnesota Vikings that I've been a fan of ever since my mom bought me some Vikings pajamas at K-Mart when I was 6 years old. It had some kind of subliminal effect on me as a child and I've loved the Vikings ever since. Their loss to the Saints two weeks ago was one of the most agonizing, heartbreaking games I've ever had to watch. I guess it was too much to ask for a Vikings/Colts Super Bowl. At least now I won't have to deal with torn loyalties and I can root for the Colts angst-free.

I also don't like the Saints being in the Super Bowl because they were one of five teams that have never been in the game, along with the Browns, Lions, Jaguars and Texans. I just think there needs to be teams that NEVER make it to the Super Bowl, it makes it seem more special and, just as in life, some things to some people should just be-- no matter how hard they wish or try--UNATTAINABLE, so here's to hoping that the Saints at least don't WIN.

I'm also upset because this guy is in the Pro Football Hall of Fame. It's some New Orleans Saints fan who calls himself "Da Pope." I read about him in the local newspaper this week and didn't believe they even allowed fans in the Hall of Fame. But after doing some research I learned that in 1999 the NFL did allow a fan from each of the then 31 teams to be inducted into the "Hall of Fans" a special display in the Hall of Fame, and yes, Lionel Alphonso, Sr., the guy in the pic, was inducted. I need to do some more research to see if they actually got their own bust or not, though.

My Orange Ski Mask Is Warm Light From Mexican Spaghetti

Aaaaah, yes, my bright orange ski mask feels so good on my face, especially when I wear it outside when it is cold. It makes my head feel like the burning, nurturing warm summer sun in the midst of such depressingly frigid winter temperatures. I stare at the bright white snow through the ski mask's eyes and it is like a piercing, hot laser shoots from my pupils as the snow all around melts when I approach it, leaving me a clear pathway from which to walk into this disheartening milieu of madness, this orange ski mask over my face and this rotting, sacred plate of spaghetti in my hand. Rays of sunlight shoot outward from the plate of spaghetti and I realize I must not only wear my heart on my sleeve-- I must also wear my clean, white underwear over my pants!

It takes courage to do what I do. I takes a lot of valor to walk about with one's underwear placed over their pants. The spaghetti on my plate is about two weeks old. I don't know, sometimes I just let it sit around awhile to keep me company. It is made with a mixture of angel hair spaghetti and mostaccioli. When I made it I didn't have any pasta sauce, per se, but I did have a packet of taco seasoning which I used to flavor the ground beef, so in a sense this is actually Mexican Spaghetti. LOL!! As you can see, whenever I fork a few of the mostaccioli they strangely have this magnetic pull toward my private parts instead of my mouth. To me, this further emphasizes the importance between the relationship of my need to fuck hairy tacos and my desire to eat. I have been doing both for so long that the wires have become entwined. This howling dualistic desire has now gone full circle as I bite my own wolfen tail, feeling a need to stuff food down my pants whenever I see a hairy vagina, or fondle my wolfen cock as I walk by McDonald's to see people coming out with those new "McSnack Wraps"; the very thought of them makes me roll my eyes and walk a few extra blocks to Taco Bell.

Hahaha, one of my neighbors, Daniel, recently died. He was some dude in his early/mid 40's. He always bummed cigarettes off of me whenever I went outside my apartment complex to smoke. It is funny because I was actually outside smoking when I saw the ambulance pull up. They rushed into the building and about an hour later the paramedics came out wheeling my dead neighbor on a stretcher. I guess he just had some sort of seizure or something. I was sort of sad and shocked. I didn't know the guy real well. He was okay, I guess. It was annoying having to give him cigarettes all the time but I guess I won't have to do that anymore, will I? I talked to another neighbor of mine a day or two later and he was mad that Daniel died because he'd let him borrow some movies that he'd rented from the library. The movies were now stuck in dead Daniel's apartment, accruing higher and higher late fees. My neighbor talked to the rental company about his problem and they told him to leave a note on the door for Daniel's family so, as they packed away their son's belongings, they could take the library movies down the hall to him. LOL! Yeah, leave a fucking note on the door saying, "Sorry your son is dead, but can I have those library movies I let him borrow?" Hahahahaaa. Anybody who lets someone borrow shit that they, in turn, have BoRRoWeD from the library is an idiot, anyway, and I refuse to let bum cigarettes from me, wear my orange ski mask, or invite them over for a Mexican spaghetti dinner.

My New Long Johns Are Sooo Excited About the New Year!

I got home yesterday from being at my family's various houses for the holidays since New Year's Eve. I hadn't been home for the holidays in nine years, so it was a pretty good experience for me. It felt good to see my mom and dad and my two sisters. It was especially fun to spend some time with my four nephews and two nieces, ages 6-12. They all welcomed me with open arms and were really sweet toward me despite the fact that I have barely seen them for most of their lives. In fact, before this past summer when I went home for my older sister's second wedding, I hadn't seen any of them at ALL except for the oldest one; I saw her briefly when she was four years old.

New Year's Eve was spent at mom and dad's watching movies with the kids, family-type stuff like Race to Witch Mountain, How to Eat Fried Worms and The Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. At midnight my mom dressed all the kids up nice and warm and let them go outside to light firecrackers and bang on pots and pans. It was pretty funny. I went out with them in my shorts and just stood there laughing, smoking a cigarette and wishing I could be eight years old again.

Friday I went to my oldest sister's HUGE fucking house and that's where we all opened our belated Christmas presents. I got a pair of Long John underwears and Season #1 of True Blood from my mom and dad, both of which you can see in the pic above. I also got a coat and a comforter. HELL YEAH, IT's ALL ABOUT KEEPING WARM and watching vampires FUCK this winter. Or at least I heard that the vampires in True Blood fuck alot. I wonder if they fuck any werewolves? We also played alot of games. We played UNO FLASH, some fast-paced electronic version of that old "Uno" card game I used to play as a kid. We also played "The Sopranos" trivia game. My whole family are Sopranos freaks. I won the game because I had only recently seen the whole series from front to back, this past Fall. When I play these fucking games I want to WIN even if it's against my mom and a bunch of 6-8 year olds. Hahhaaa.

Saturday I went to my youngest sister's house and played Wii for the first time with her kids. I really liked the Wii bowling game, but I sort of sucked at "Guitar Hero." My sister has a bunch of chickens and I went out and helped my brother-in-law go out there and collect eggs from them. They laid twelve that day! I guess they were happy to see me?

Sunday morning I went to church with my mom and youngest sister and actually took communion for the first time in over 25 years. It's a Protestant church and they don't offer it very often, so I lucked out! I'm waiting for some miracles to start happening now. Before I drank the grape juice and nibbled on that little wafer, I said, "Jesus, please let the Vikings beat the Giants today and have the Cowboys beat the Eagles so the Vikings can get a first round bye in the playoffs and get the #2 seed!" All of that actually happened Sunday afternoon, so I might be taking communion more often from now on. Hahahhaa

Deer Rump Roast, Meet My Dear Butt

So one of my friends is a big deer hunter and the other day he gave me 30 pounds of deer meat for Christmas. I've got deer steaks, deer tenderloins and a couple deer rump roasts, one of which I decided to take a couple pictures of me holding right before I ate it last night, as you can see above. Oooooh, it felt sooo good to rub that wet, bloody freshly thawed deer rump roast against my lovely wolfen butt! I know some people don't like the idea of eating deer meat, or shooting deer, or whatever, but honestly, it doesn't bother me. I was raised around a family of hunters and I can honestly say that rabbit and squirrels are some damn good eatin'! The deer meat isn't as good as I remembered it tasting the last time I had it, about 20 years or so ago, but it'll save me some money on food this winter. I can't help but wonder, which is tastier and which is more beautiful? My RUMP or my ROAST? Hahahahaa

God, the deer meat is sooo fucking bloody, though! I had to wring this deer roast out in the sink with my hands for a while before I could even hold it to take any pics of it. And when I cut this shit up and fry it in the frying pan it honestly doesn't smell too good, so much blood boiling in hot butter, but it honestly doesn't taste so bad after I smother it in A1 sauce. Mmmmmm! Anyway, tomorrow I'm going home for the belated holidays. I'll spend the New Year's weekend with all my little nieces and nephews and eat some of my mom's home cooking which is a helluva lot better than mine. When I come back Sunday afternoon I'll be ready to start the New Year off with a bang, a howl, and perhaps I'll even make some deer meat tacos while I watch the final games of the NFL regular season.

TacObama Power and the Hula HOOps of HOpe!

Here is another commissioned painting I mailed out to someone the other day. There is a little write-up I made for it HERE. The customer sent me three pics of theirself to be included in the painting, and the rest of the painting's content was up to me. I wanted to do something that focused on the letter "O" (for "Obama," of course) and I started with Michelle Obama hula-hooping. All paintings must also contain tacos and underwear.



I have another customer wanting me to make a painting with them, their girlfriend, their dog, President Obama and Michelle-- along with tacos and underwear, of course. I've been racking my brain trying to figure out how to cram all of that in one image, but I think I can manage.

I'm Not The Creep, You Are!

I've been called "creepy" in my life plenty of times, or occasionally someone will just say I'm an outright creep which, of course, isn't true. And there's times when I encounter or meet someone and I think they are a creep, only to find out later, once I've gotten to know them, that they are pretty decent people. So in the spirit of Christmas I wanted to mention someone in my life that I've recently learned isn't as creepy as I thought, despite my initial impression of them.

It's this older lady neighbor of mine. This past summer she was always hanging out outside the apartment complex, sitting at one of our patio tables, with her cat in a baby stroller. When I passed her I'd say hello and she'd point to the sky and say things like, "Jesus is such a great artist, isn't he?", implying that Jesus painted the sky blue, or whatever. I'd just humor her and say yeah, he sure is. She is always wearing skirts so I think she goes to some Mennonite church here in town. I didn't really think much of her until it started getting cold and I started noticing her constantly walking the hallways of my apartment complex. She would hang out in the lobby, walking in circles and muttering to herself, her baby stroller with the cat in it nearby. She also quit talking to me when I passed by, just gave me this piercing mean stare. I'd leave my apartment and start walking down the hall and I would look over my shoulder to see her staring at me from the lobby, looking like she wanted to kill me or put a curse on me, her long, gray unkempt hair sticking up all over. I started to think she was pissed at me because she could smell my cigarette smoke and I started wondering if she was going to rat me out.

But last week I passed her on my way to get my mail. She didn't say a word, just gave me a mean look and I was like, fuck it, and I said to her, "Is there something wrong?" To this her face softened and she gave me a sad look. She started telling me about how she has some pain in her legs that makes it impossible for her to sit down for very long and that is why she walks the halls all day and night. Then she started talking about how she has no friends, no family, and how bored she gets. She started telling me about how no one wants to talk to her. Well, I stood there listening to her sob story for awhile and, before you know it, I ended up going back in my apartment. I dug out my fucking checker board from the bottom of a bunch of dirty underwear in my closet and spent a couple hours playing checkers with this old whiny bitch. About every ten minutes she had to get up from her seat and walk around. At one point she was at the other end of the lobby when I said, "King Me!" because, you know, one of my checkers made it to the last row of the board, and this chick was all like, "Wait, I'm in so much pain, I don't know if I can get there to do it!" I was like, fucking walk over here KING ME, bitch! Hahahahaaaha. Yeah, and of course she's trying to get me to go to her church. I actually might one of these nights if I get bored enough, who knows? But yeah, I found out this woman wasn't really a creep or all that creepy, she's just some miserable old lady in alot of pain. I kind of enjoyed playing checkers with her and might do it again sometime.

Taco's Breastaurant

I've been thinking alot about women's breasts lately. I think about them alot anyway, but I've been obsessing over them a little more than usual after recently being exposed to soooo many mothers nursing their children in public. Normally when I see women nursing their babies in public, they are sitting somewhere like on a bus, or in a dark, secluded corner at Taco Bell, or something, but lately they seem to be getting more brazen and bold about it, like they are trying to make some sort of feminist statement. I walked into the public library awhile back, and right there in the middle of the huge lobby was a pretty young woman standing there for all to see. She was cradling her sweet baby in her arms and with her rather large, floppy (gorgeous!)titty hanging out as her babeling sucked on it in front of an audience of hundreds of people!

This was honestly a bit startling at first, simply because I am not used to seeing it. But hey, I am a dude and I like boobs, so what the hell. At first I just walked on by the nursing woman as if I wasn't at all affected by her brazen display. But then I decided to walk back and study this shit a little bit more. I got a cup of coffee out of the machine and just sort of casually took a seat at a nearby table. I slowly, comfortably sipped my coffee and watched as I felt my werewolf cock rustle a tad inside my jeans. It got a little stiff and excited, I must admit, as I pretended I was the woman's loving husband and imagined myself sucking on the woman's other boob, nursing on her hot, wet Mary milk alongside my hungry baby son or daughter, a perfect image of family love and unity, and just in time for the holidays. It would be such a beautiful picture to put on Christmas cards!

At one point the woman smiled at me. I actually blushed and felt a bit guilty for my erection. I wanted to put my werewolf mask on which I had in my backpack, to clue her in on my true wolfen nature and to "test the waters," so to speak, as to whether she was into guys like me. But something inside me told me no, that this is not about me. This was bigger than me and my stupid obsession with werewolves and body hair and boobies. This was about love and family and making a statement about a woman's right to nurse her child in public and that a single, non-family-having, never-been-married loser like me had no business getting himself involved. So after I drank about half my cup of coffee, I left and went browsing through the DVD section, perfectly content to be finished with this infatuation with mothers and their milk-squirting mammaries.

But then last weekend it all came back to me at a Los Lobos concert. I've been a big fan of Los Lobos because their name translates into "The Wolves," of course, and ever since seeing the movie, La Bamba, about the tragic rise and sudden fall of Ritchie Valens, played in the movie by Lou Diamond Phillips, with whom I have long had a sort of man-crush on. Los Lobos did covers for the songs "Come On, Let's Go" and "La Bamba" in that movie, which are excellent songs to howl and eat tacos to! But my favorite song of theirs is the sweet and sad medley called "Will the Wolf Survive?" in which the band laments over the current crisis facing many lonely wolves today as an endangered species.

So I was standing amidst the crowd at this outdoor concert. The weather was great for it being mid-November. The sun was out and it was about 60 degrees or so, with a cool autumn breeze blowing against all the writhing, dancing bodies of screaming fans. There were many Latinos there, of course, but there were also people of all creeds and races present to soak in the eclectic, brilliant songs of this prolific, ground-breaking Latin-American band. After awhile I got impatient to hear my favorite song. I put on my werewolf mask and started howling, screaming out,"Play 'Will the Wolf Survive!" I did this for awhile while dancing about, and at some point I heard someone screaming at some woman, "Hey, take that fucking kid over there to the 'Breastaurant,' bitch! None of us here want to see you feeding your fucking kid with your goddam tits hanging out!"

I turned around to see this cute Mexican chick, Luisa, that I remembered from working at Motel 6! She had been a housekeeper there but I'd never had a chance to really talk to her much. She didn't speak English real well but I'd always been appreciative of how cute she was and how hard she seemed to work for her family. She was standing there in the crowd with BOTH her boobs hanging out, cradling her baby in one hand and with what looked like a margarita in the other. She was spilling the drink all over herself and her kid as her baby struggled to latch on to her nipple and get its fill of milk.

"I tried to find my way to the 'Breastaurant' but I got lost!" Luisa said in her broken English, trying to fend off the harassment she was receiving from this older white couple that seemed to be offended by her exposed breasts.

What the fuck was a goddam "Breastarant?" I thought as my heart immediately went out to Luisa who was struggling to hold on to her baby. She was indeed very drunk, was in no condition to be caring for her child. While her tits were very enticing, large and juicy-looking with large, brown nipples, I immediately realized what was important here was the welfare of her baby. I went up to Luisa, shouted a few obscenities to the people who were giving her a hard time. I wrapped my arm around her, took her drink from her hand, and said, "C'mon, Luisa, I'll help you find this 'Breastaurant' they are talking about!"

I pushed my way through the crowd, guiding Luisa through the maze of this glorious fiesta of salsa-soaked music, inquiring here and there as to where the Breastaurant was, until eventually we reached the outer periphery of the crowd, and right underneath this huge tree stood a small tent. There was a sign in front of it that read "Mom's Breastaurant" and inside the tent I saw four or five mothers sitting in chairs, their beautiful infant children cradled in their arms as they suckled from their moms' breasts in relative quiet and seclusion. What a gorgeous sight it was! So many sets of naked titties, so many gallons of luscious Mary Milk! Luisa got so excited at the sight of it that she began to run towards it, her bulbous boobs jiggling as she barely held on to her baby, that she tripped and fell. Luckily she landed on her back as she lied there laughing, drunk off her ass, her baby lying in between her exposed breasts wet with milk, and her face wet with sweet, sugary margarita.

It immediately dawned on me that if I signed her into the Breastaurant they would realize she was drunk and report her to the police, who would have her baby taken away. I hurriedly began to help Luisa off the ground. I took her baby in my own arms and urged her to button up her shirt. "C'mon, Luisa, I'm going to walk you home," I said. "If we go into that Breastaurant, you may never see your baby again." I put my arm around this poor, beautiful drunken mother and as we started to walk away from the festivities I began to hear my song! Los Lobos began to play "Will the Wolf Survive?" as I looked into the eyes of the baby I held in my arms and wondered if it would indeed survive being raised by a struggling mother such as Luisa. Then later, as I sat in Luisa's apartment after we had put the baby to bed and I watched her drink a couple shots of tequila, I began to wonder if she had a HaIrY TacO!! HAHAHAHAHA!! And it wasn't long after I started wondering that she got drunk enough to pull down her hot little panties in front of me to let me know, that yes, she sure as fuck DID!!

Do The Cigarette Police Use Silver Bullets?

The above picture expresses the attitude I had the other day after I received a NO SMOKING NOTICE underneath my door from my land lady. As soon as I read it I lit up and took this picture in a fit of rebellion. I had it in my mind to continue to smoke in my room, anyway, as I always have, that I wouldn't let anyone change how I lived my life-long love affair with the evil brown weed. But as I've been doing so the past couple days, I'm becoming increasingly paranoid. There are sooooo many of my non-smoking tattle-tail neighbors who might tell on me. Every time I hear someone walking past my door out in the hall, I listen to hear them sniffing, to see if they can smell my cigarette smoke, and if they are going to rat me out. The point of smoking cigarettes is to enjoy them and relax, but how can I relax if I'm constantly wondering if the CigaReTTe PoLiCe are nearby? I'm getting too old for this "Smoking in the Boy's Room" crap and I want to quit, anyway, so fuck it-- starting today I'm only going to smoke outside. I'm also making a long-term plan to smoke no more than 1 cigarette per hour for the rest of November and December. Then in January I'll smoke no more than 1 every three hours until JANUARY 31st when I shall quit entirely. I've only been out of bed a few hours and so far this is driving me crazy.

The worst part about having to smoke outside is that I have to constantly put on and take off my fucking clothes to do so. I am always naked in my apartment. I can't bear the feeling of wearing clothes in my sacred, sanctified wolf den. I am so used to fondling my dangling, dancing wolf cock as I prance about my apartment with a cigarette in my hand and my junk in the other, that I'm at a loss what to with my empty hand now. So far all I've come up with to do with it is use it to fondle myself, too. So I've been sitting in my recliner, swatting my cock back and forth with both hands, waiting for another hour to approach so I can get dressed again, go outside and fucking smoke! When will this torture end and how will I get through the day? I'm so used to smoking while I work on the computer, while I watch TV, while I masturbate, while I cook and in between the eating of tacos, that I feel like I must completely reprogram myself. One of the worst things is that, while I'm painting, every so often I like to step back and look at the painting, gauge its progress as I smoke a cigarette, and I can't even do fucking THAT now! Nor can I chain-smoke while I pace around and brood about how I'm going to solve all my problems while listening to my favorite songs. It's driving me batty not to have a cigarette in my hand right now as I type this. I miss the falling ashes upon my keyboard and being able to flick ashes into a plate of half-eaten food from the night before. I miss sitting in my recliner smoking as the lit cherry tip falls off and onto my bare belly, forcing me to squirm in pain and catch it before it burns my fine curly pubes. There are just so many things I'm going to miss about smoking in my apartment that I'm really starting to wonder if I can do this.

No Smoking In My Own Apartment Anymore?

So I received a note under my apartment door today (Don't you just hate notes under your door? They are never good!) from the property manager of my apartment complex. The note is reminding people that the building I live in is a NON-SMOKING property! Huh? I actually had no idea! I've been living in the same apartment for nearly nine years, and when I moved in it was okay to smoke in your room. But the building was sold about three years ago, and I guess the new managers changed the policy. I've signed a couple leases with the more recent owners, but honestly, I never read them, and I missed the part about not being allowed to smoke! No one told me about it so for the past three years I've been smoking away like a fiend in my room, like I always do. If you look at the pics of me on my various websites you can see that the walls are yellow and COVERED with smoke and nicotine stains. I guess they have been giving prospective tenants tours of the building recently, bragging to them about how it is a "smoke-free environment," only to see the prospects give them an "Oh, really?" dubious look when they smelled cigarette smoke in the halls. Hahahhaaa. The property managers are fed up with it so they slipped everybody this threatening note, saying you'll get fined $150.00 if you get caught smoking ANYWHERE on the property.

There's a good chance I can get away with smoking, anyway, but man, I'm just sick of the oppression I've been feeling as a smoker the past few years. I've been smoking over 20 years and I think I'm about ready to finally quit. I'm just sick of it more than I like it as this point. It costs me over $300 a month and makes me feel fatigued alot of the time, anymore. I've gotten to where I just smoke way too much, more than two packs a day, and now I can't even smoke in my own apartment without feeling I'm doing something that's against the rules.

"Black Taco Sun" Photoset

I'm finally getting around to posting some pics of myself in my Halloween costume as "The Lord of Hairy Black Tacos." Under a Black Taco Sun I went to Taco Bell a couple Saturdays ago to get some of their new black-shelled tacos, and what I thought would be a pleasurable dining experience turned out to be a LIVING HALLOWEEN HELL!! My love for tacos soon became challenged by some of the most intense feelings of HATRED I've felt in a looooong time!

Click here to see more pics of me in my Halloween costume! (Adults Only! NSFW!)

The "Keeper of the Underwear"

This is a commissioned piece I did for a friend who is a fan of my "Obama Taco Underwear" painting series, and an even bigger supporter of our amazing President. My friend is the handsome, immaculately dressed bald magician in the painting who, through the magic of tacos and underwear, is able to "pull a rabbit out of a hat" in the event of any problems he may encounter as long as he and the American people have HOPE. The rabbit ears on both his and President Obama's head represent our President's ability to hear what the majority of American people want, and to try his best to deliver it to them despite any adversity and opposition.

There is also a sort of "painting within a painting" in this piece. My magician friend is also the owner of the very first installment of the "Obama Taco Underwear" painting series, "A Change In Underwear We Can Believe In". "Underwear Change" has a very special sentimental value to me. It is the "flagship" painting of the series, and I feel the most inspired, as it perfectly captures the essence of what "Obama Taco Underwear" is all about. I wanted to refer to it in this commissioned piece, in an image that also portrays its owner. So as this painting is indeed a depiction of hope, change and transformation through the metaphorical power of underwear and tacos, it also has something to say about who is the owner of the series' first installment, the painting that started it all for me. You can see that there are six multi-colored figures in the painting, all of which also appear in the same poses in "A Change In Underwear We Can Believe In" which is meant to show that my magician friend, at least in my own mind, is now the "Keeper of the Underwear."

I Finally Get Recognized For Finally Changing My Underwear

Hahahaha, I just found an art history paper a college student wrote on the first installment of my "Obama Taco Underwear" Painting Series, "A Change In Underwear We Can Believe In". Here is a page from his website. This kid is awesome and I got a real kick out of reading the paper. I'm certain he will end up being a very successful person, whatever he chooses to do in life, because he's alot better at talking about my art than I am. Hahaha. I kind of miss writing college papers like that and getting to use all those big words.

The painting he's writing about got put on this site, Bad Paintings of Barack Obama months ago. The site went viral but none of the artists are given CREDIT for their work on it. So if you google "obama taco painting" you'll find 161515115151 blog entries where my painting is posted (again, without my being given credit) and talked about. I was just like, screw it, even though I wasn't given credit, enough people were able to find my site, anyway, and I sold that painting (not for much at all, grant you) and a few other pieces.

Here's the painting:

"A Change In Underwear We Can Believe In"

Does Tom Cruise Have A Peg Leg?

I think I'm going to watch Valkyrie tonight because I want to see Tom Cruise with that patch over his eye. A friend piqued my curiosity today because he said Tom Cruise also has some other wounds besides the eye in the movie. I hope he has a peg leg!

The Leaves On Masturbator Lane

I've been raking leaves at work at the porn store the past couple days. There is this little alleyway behind the store that is covered with leaves that we call "Masturbator Lane." Alot of the masturbators that come into the store like to come in from the back and walk down this alley so people won't see them coming in to jerk off. So I'm in the alley with my rake, getting rid of all these fucking leaves as masturbators and jerk-offs walk by me, saying lame shit like, "Good day to rake some leaves, huh?" I'm thinking, "Yeah, just like it is a good day to go into a dark movie booth and play with fucking PUD, right?"

I have to rake the leaves on Masturbator Lane every year around this time, but usually it doesn't bother me. Today, though, I guess I'm getting more sensitive because raking the leaves made me sort of sad. It's like all these leaves are brown and dead and crispy. They are going to get burnt or some of them are just going to lie there and rot and it is just so sad, isn't it? As I was raking them I said to them, "Well the party is over, boys." It was just a few months ago that these leaves were brand new. They were green and fresh, with water running through their veins as they bathed in the spring-time sun. Then they basked in the kisses of the summer sky, laughed with their other leaf buddies on the branch, having a party, and now they are fucking DEAD. Yes, the party is indeed over, just like it will be for all of us someday, I guess.

And before someone says something like, "Don't worry, the leaves will be back next year and they will be green again, because, NO, they won't. The particular, specific leaves I raked up today are DEAD FOREVER just you are going to be someday, you dead FUCK.

I've been fucking around on You Tube and I forgot how many killer songs Pat Benatar has.

Never again?
Isn't that what you said?

The Leaves On Masturbator Lane?

I've been raking leaves at work at the porn store the past couple days. There is this little alleyway behind the store that is covered with leaves that we call "Masturbator Lane." Alot of the masturbators that come into the store like to come in from the back and walk down this alley so people won't see them coming in to jerk off. So I'm in the alley with my rake, getting rid of all these fucking leaves as masturbators and jerk-offs walk by me, saying lame shit like, "Good day to rake some leaves, huh?" I'm thinking, "Yeah, just like it is a good day to go into a dark movie booth and play with fucking PUD, right?"

I have to rake the leaves on Masturbator Lane every year around this time, but usually it doesn't bother me. Today, though, I guess I'm getting more sensitive because raking the leaves made me sort of sad. It's like all these leaves are brown and dead and crispy. They are going to get burnt or some of them are just going to lie there and rot and it is just so sad, isn't it? As I was raking them I said to them, "Well the party is over, boys." It was just a few months ago that these leaves were brand new. They were green and fresh, with water running through their veins as they bathed in the spring-time sun. Then they basked in the kisses of the summer sky, laughed with their other leaf buddies on the branch, having a party, and now they are fucking DEAD. Yes, the party is indeed over, just like it will be for all of us someday, I guess.

And before someone says something like, "Don't worry, the leaves will be back next year and they will be green again, because, NO, they won't. The particular, specific leaves I raked up today are DEAD FOREVER just you are going to be someday, you dead FUCK.

I've been fucking around on You Tube and I forgot how many killer songs Pat Benatar has.

Never again?
Isn't that what you said?

"V" Is For Your Cold Lizard Vagina

Holy crap, is this babe hot! I watched V last night, mainly because I was sucked into it by seeing some hot, sexy ad for it featuring this chick while I was dicking around on You Tube yesterday morning. In the ad she says, "We come in peace, always!" Hahahha, yeah, I'd like to cum on your hot reptile ass in peace always, too! I like her short, hip, space-age hair-cut and elegantly iniquitous elfin features. I guess this chick's real name is Morena Baccarin, a Brazilian/Italian (whatta hella combination!) actress with deep, dark communion-inducing eyes. She plays "Anna," the leader of the visiting aliens to Earth in the new "re-imagining" of the popular 80's mini-series. I tried to find some naked pics of Baccarin, but no luck. She is beautiful, of course, and it's too bad they don't just have her walking around naked during the whole show like Mathilda May in Life Force. What makes her even hotter is knowing that underneath her soft, milk-white sexy skin she is a scale-ridden, green and slimy reptilian LIzArD BitCH with a tight, wet lizard CuNT that is colder than the dead but you know it feels sooooo good to put your pecker into!

I watched the original V mini-series on TV in the 80's, and though they had a female leader in that one, too, she wasn't near as hot as "Anna" and there wasn't near the focus on her and her seductive femme fatale beauty as there is in the new one. And in the original, the first-in-command was actually some dorky looking DUDE named "John," if I remember right. A couple years ago I watched the original again, actually, after reading a couple David Icke books. David Icke's hilarious, whirlwind conspiracy theories that ramble on and on about the anunnaki, a race of reptilian aliens that have ruled over earth and have lived secretly among us for thousands of years, renewed my interest in V, so I borrowed the 80's version from a friend.

Oh yeah, and I liked how in the new one last night, Anna says she wants to give earthlings "Universal Health Care," a spooky parallel to contemporary events, implying that Obama and the Democrats might be aliens?

For a night cap, I actually found They Live-- another movie about aliens living among us-- on free On Demand and watched it, too. To be honest, there does seem to be a lot of compelling evidence that this stuff could actually have some truth to it. You just need to look at the world through the right pair of sunglasses and it becomes perfectly clear. Personally, I'd just like to have a pair of sunglasses that would allow me to see "Anna" naked next week as I watch the second episode of V!!

The Werewolf Of Motel 6

So I left Taco Bell in mid-August after working there about a month and a half. The reason I quit is because Motel 6 called me and wanted me to be a front desk clerk there full time, 40 hours a week. I was only getting 20 hours a week at Taco Bell and that, combined with the 20 hours I still worked at the porn store a week, was helping me make progress on my bills but I just wasn't get caught up fast enough. I decided fuck it, I'd never worked front desk at a motel before so I took the job, though I was leery about how well I'd handle working a total of 60+ hours a week. I figured I'd tough it out for a couple months, get a couple months ahead on my rent, then tell Motel 6 to get fucked after I got my cable and Internet hooked back up.

Working 60 + hours a week is a bitch, but I was able to do it for two months, and what got me through it was thinking about hairy tacos while working my shifts at Motel 6. The job sucked, and the worst part about it were all the guests fucking BITCHING at me about their rooms. I swear, I'd never been so verbally abused in all my life! They'd complain about their sheets being dirty; that they didn't have towels, or not enough of them; that there was a sandwich underneath their bed; that their remote control didn't work; that the room was moldy; that their non-smoking room smelled like smoke, etc., and the list goes on and on about how these fuckers BITCHED at me. I'd actually never thought about it before I took the job. I figured it would be easy because of the low number of transactions and the fact that, since the lowest cost per transaction was $40.31 (one person for one night), most people would pay with credit cards so I wouldn't have to fuck with alot of cash. But actually, it was during the start of football season in a major college town ; the Motel 6 is by the football stadium and during game weekends I'd be checking people in from the start to finish of my shift. And the fucking PHONE would never stop ringing, MOTHER FUCK, how I hated that goddam phone, people calling to make reservations while I'm trying to check someone in; and while all this is going on some Mexican worker dude keeps bugging me, saying that housekeeping stole his goddam bag of SKITTLES! HAAHAHAHA!! Oh yeah, and the late night drunk fucks. God, I'm glad I quit drinking five years ago because all these drunk fuckers wanting rooms after the bars closed reminded me of how disgusting I used to be when I was drunk.

But thinking of hairy tacos got me through it. In my few idle moments I'd step outside to smoke a cigarette. I liked fantasizing about the girls I'd checked in during my shift. I figured if a girl gets a motel room by herself or with a female friend(s), especially in the evening, one of the first things she does is take off all her clothes. She has just finished working or has been traveling for a long time, and she wants to get nice and comfortable. I checked in sooooo many hot chicks and I always gave them a "courtesy call" 30 minutes after giving them their key to make sure their room was okay. I figured thirty minutes was just time enough for them to get naked, but not enough for them to already be in the shower, and I imagined they were naked when I called them. "Hello, this is the front desk, just making sure your room is okay," I would say to them, and I'd wonder if they had a hairy taco between their legs, whether they had a bush or were shaven. I know that a lot more girls shave their pussies these days than used to, but believe me, alot of them still don't and it drove me mad wondering which of the hot babes I checked in to the Motel 6 on any given night had a tasty HaiRY TaCO between her legs waiting for me to fuck!

After I'd worked there nearly two months, I knew I was about ready to quit, so I got this idea in my head to find out which of these babes had a mound of pubic hair between her legs one night. I went to Taco Bell before my shift and got about 5 tacos. I brought a bag of my own hair with me from when I'd shaved my head a few weeks earlier, and I put a handful of hair in each taco. I then got to Motel 6 a little early and I checked on the computer to find out which rooms were vacant. While the clerk I was about to relieve was in the bathroom, I made keys for five rooms. Then when the clerk got out of the bathroom I told her I was going to go out and smoke a cigarette, but what I REALLY did was go inside these five vacant rooms and placed a "HAIRY TACO" in the shower. That night, during my shift, I picked out the five hottest babes that wanted a room and I sent them to the rooms with the "hairy tacos." See, I'm smart because by putting the tacos in the shower I insured that, when they called me bitching about it, that they would be BUTT FUCKING NAKED. And any of them who didn't call to complain, well, there must be a reason why they don't mind a "hairy taco" being in their shower, right? Because they've got one between their fucking legs!

That night, as my shift wore one, I checked five different hot babes into the rooms with "hairy tacos" in the showers, and all five of them called me to complain anywhere from an hour to three hours after I checked them into their room. "Oh, I'm so sorry, ma'am," I said to them as they screamed at me on the phone, "There's a fucking taco with hairs in it in my shower!" Then I gleefully went to their rooms and took it out as they stood there scowling at me with their fresh, clean towels wrapped around their gorgeous naked bodies. There was only about an hour left of my shift when the FIFTH girl complained. I was severely disappointed when she called because she was the most beautiful of the bunch. She had long jet black hair, dark eyes. Her breasts were big and she wore a low-cut blouse while I checked her in, her cleavage oozing out of it and beckoning me to fondle it. She had gorgeous ethnic, Latina looks and I knew that if she had a hairy taco between her legs, that it must be tastier than anything Taco Bell could create, and especially better than the one I'd placed in her shower. But when she called and bitched me out about the "hairy taco," I assumed she didn't have one, herself, between her legs, so I gloomily went to her room to take the taco out, upset that ALL FIVE of these chicks were clean-shaven.

The woman answered the door with her bath towel wrapped around her. I said, "I'm here to take the "hairy taco" out of your shower, ma'am, sorry about that." That's when my werewolf cock became stiffer than a statue as I watched this gorgeous woman, this awe-inspiring Latina babe, let her towel drop as she said, "The only 'hairy taco' I know of in here is this one right between my fucking legs!" I then began to howl. I reached into my back pocket and grabbed my werewolf mask and put it on while looking at the beautiful mound of pitch-black pubes that covered this woman's vagina. It was a thick, soft, huge mound of pussy hair that glistened and beckoned me as I howled and forced myself into her room. I grabbed her and threw her on the bed, unable to control my wolfen desire as I began to fuck her hairy taco relentlessly, occasionally stopping to bury my face in it between rounds of deep penetrating thrusts of my meat into her pretty pink shell. After I finished fucking her I looked in the shower and the taco I'd put in it was not there. It wasn't in the trash, either. Perplexed, I said to the woman, "So where did that taco go?"

"I ate it," she said, "hair and all." We both laughed as I put my clothes back on and hurried back to the front desk to do change-over. It would be my last night on the job.

Hairy Porn DVD Cases On The Taco Bell Counter

Ever since I started being the Taco Werewolf, I've been amazed at all the synchronicity in my life regarding the merging of body hair and Mexican food. My mother always told me growing up that eating alot of burritos would grow hair on my chest, but I wasn't prepared for all the numerous coincidences and connections I would encounter once I consciously began to seek out creative inspiration regarding werewolf life-styles involving Mexican food. One of these inspirational moments occurred while I was working at Taco Bell this past summer, and it actually helped me fix a broken relationship with a dear friend.

Taco Bell called me and gave me a job back in July, rescuing me from having to work for that slimeball, Mitch, selling his goddam glowsticks. In March and April I'd applied to all the Mexican restaurants in town, figuring it would give me some good "street cred" to be Taco Werewolf and having worked in a Mexican restaurant at one point or another. It could only enhance my credentials, right? It didn't bother me to be a 39-year old man working in a fast food joint, making tacos and being ordered around by 16-year old punk kids. I did it for art's sake and for the sake of comedy, if not even to humble myself a little. These kids could tell me to grab a mop and squirt sour cream on a goddam gordita with all the rudeness and impudence their snot-nosed personalities could muster, but they couldn't touch my wolfen soul. They couldn't keep my body hair from growing, my pubes from sprouting, my heart from howling, or keep me from reading my werewolf books. The joke was on THEM in the end. People have no idea what I'm really thinking or what I'm really up to while I pretend to participate in their mundane world or work in their lousy restaurants. I've had a secret agenda since the day I was born.

People are always talking about how a even a monkey could work in a place like Taco Bell, but to tell you the truth, that shit was hard! There's alot of stuff to remember. You have to know which ingredients go in what item: how to make a Mexican pizza and how long to cook it; the subtle difference between a gordita and a chalupa; what orders require guacamole and which require sour cream. When to use tomatoes, how much lettuce to put in each taco, and the list goes on and on. To my credit, I bit my tongue and just smiled while this 18-year old kid who was training me chided me and snapped at me while I struggled to learn the menu. There was one time when a customer complained that the steak in his fajita wasn't fully cooked-- and that it had too much onions it-- when this kid training me told me if I didn't shape up, he was going to have me cleaning the toilet every night. I said fine, and left the kitchen area to head straight into the bathroom. About ten minutes later, the manager came into the bathroom to see me on my hands and knees, giddily scrubbing the toilet bowl. "You need to be behind the counter learning to make a steak fajita right, is what you need to be doing," he said. I just said okay, and I walked back into the kitchen to make fajitas, having not washed my hands. Hahahhaaa.

After a couple weeks, though, I settled in, learned the menu by heart, and became one of the stars of the crew. After about three weeks, I was put on the cash register and got to wear a set of headphones to work the drive-thru. The interesting part came when an ex-friend of mine, Chimp, came in to order some tacos. Chimp used to be a good friend of mine when I started making my Taco Werewolf websites a few years ago. He actually took a few of the photosets of me, most notably the one of me making a Taco Sacrifice (Adults Only! NSFW!) in a graveyard. He played a big part in Taco Werewolf getting off the ground. The problem arose when he borrowed a bunch of my hairy porn DVD cases to serve as background for a short horror film he was supposed to be making, part of which would take place in a porn store. He borrowed my hairy porn movie cases and promised me a small part in the movie in return. Funny thing is, that was two fucking YEARS ago and I hadn't heard a word from him since until he came into Taco Bell that day.

Needless to say, I refused to sell him any tacos until he returned my fucking porn cases. Chimp understood, and he actually seemed sorry for having screwed me over, for not responding to my emails or answering my phone calls all this time. Come to find out, he'd been avoiding me because he was embarrassed that he hadn't even made the damn movie, and that my fucking porn cases had just been sitting in his apartment all this time. It was a magical moment when Chimp came in to the Taco Bell a couple days later to return the cases, though. He brought them all into the restaurant in a black trash bag. I asked him to dump them all right on the counter so I could make sure they were all there. I looked at the pictures on all the cases and saw sweet, furry beavers, all these beautiful hirsute women getting fucked in their figurative tacos as the smell of actual, literal tacos lingered in the air! Chimp looked at me and smiled because he knew what I was thinking. I was thinking about hairy pussy! I was gleefully imagining my werewolf cock going deep inside a HaiRY TaCO, and that's when I shook Chimp's hand and our friendship was repaired. "Thanks for bringing back my porn cases, dude," I said. "Come back later on during my lunch break and you and I can eat our tacos together." Chimp agreed and even offered to pay for them to make up for his mistake. As we ate our tacos that day and talked about old times, we both marveled over how body hair and Mexican food seemed to be married to one another, at least in our own lives, and how they constantly seemed to intersect. It was especially hilarious when Chimp bit into one of the tacos and frowned, said, "Ew! What the fuck?" He then proceeded to pull a long hair out of his mouth that had been inside the taco as I laughed my ass off. It was one of my pubic hairs that I had intentionally stuck in there when I made it, to get him back! Hahahahahaa.

"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!