December 6 , 2003
10, 000 Maniacs & Counting

Rolled over 10, 000 page views today. Not bad. Not great. A good start. Kind of gives me a stiff 'un. Sort of like this fellah. NewScientist reports that :

A newly discovered 425 million-year-old fossil boasts a lurid claim to fame - it has the oldest penis on record.
The five millimetre long crustacean, discovered by UK and US researchers, has been named Colymbosathon ecplecticos - derived from the Greek for "astounding swimmer with a large penis".

Biology, an amazing thing. That's right, life been boasting big, hard cocks since a hundred million years after the pre-Cambrian explosion. For more evolutionary intrigue involving hundreds of years of murdering British Royals check this out. In related news involving my biological desire to quench my lady writer's ovarian thirst, Colette's supposed to hand over her first cinquaine this weekend. I await it with bated breath. And vigorous ecpletcic blood flow.

December 5 , 2003
The Assman Cometh

The Assman and his side-kick, Michelangelo, busted in on me this morning, wanting to hit up the egg place for breakfast. For some reason, the Assman figures that because we haven't seen each other in about ten years, it's time to reacquaint ourselves. Fine with me, but I don't know why he has to drag along this painter friend of his, who is a blatantly untalented homosexual that insists on talking about house design make0vers and reality television. At one point after we ordered, he delivered a three minute soliloquay about his love for some muscular guy on the desert island show. I was still thinking about my DoppleGanger complex, so I asked him if he ever thought about that fellah when he was sucking another man's cock. For some reason, he gagged on his spoon and shut the fuck up and The Assman seized the moment.

"Hey, I was reading your site," he said. "Thanks for throwing your list of friends on."

"Ah, no problem," I said. "It was a good idea for new people reading the site."

"It's cool though, reading up on what's going on in your life. It's sort of like a soap opera, you know? All the people, and you, and that girl..."

"Eat my shit, a fucking soap opera. What the fuck you talking about, a fucking soap opera? Why don't you just knee me in the sack?"

"Sorry, man. Maybe a soap opera's not the right word. But it's sort of like a tv show or something."

"It's a fucking journal, mang. I just started throwing it online."

"Yeah, but you know, when you read it every day, you start to get to know the people a bit, and you want to know more about them, what they're like and so on, just like on the shows. You know, like Chloe. I mean, I've never met her, but she sounds hot."

"She is. Ass made out of rubber."

"But what's she like? You know, like at home?"

Michelangelo perked up, somewhat interested. I stirred my coffee and gazed at my friend, the Assman.

"What do you mean? What does she look like? Does she walk around naked in my little basement cell? Does she walk around with her bush sticking out? I mean, sometimes she does-but mostly she walks around in her underwear. At least, she did in the summer, but now it's fucking cold, so she likes to wear pyjamas, or she stays at home, where they have real heating. Is that what you want to know?"

"Yeah, but what's she like, is she nice?"

"Nice? I don't know. She can be nice, I guess. She's an actress, a stage actress. What else do I have to say? She's neurotic, and she likes to talk to herself in the mirror, and she's always asking me if her tits are too small, and she spends most of her time trying to Be In Character. So I don't know if she's really nice. Depends on what play she's reading."

"Sounds like a bitch," said Michelangelo.

"You guys really don't get along?" said the Assman.

"Let me put it to you like this," I said. "After I come from my little date with Colette the other night, I was a bit flustered and I wanted to write, so I cracked myself off a double
rum and coke and fired up the machine. Colette walks out of the bedroom, and looks at the drink in my hand. She says 'Are you drunk again? I don't want to see you drunk again right now.' So I take a big slam off the glass, put it down, and say 'Well then, you better get the fuck out of the room.'"

"No shit," said Michelangelo. "What'd she do?"

"She went back to bed. What do you think? I was a prick, but she was a bitch to start it off, and so we'll suck on that ass nugget for a couple days and that's the way it goes."

"Man, why don't you just leave her?" said the Assman. "Or kick her out, or whatever."

Thought about it for a minute.

"Cause, I don't like to sleep alone."

"And that's it?" said Michelangelo.

"There must be more to her than that, something good about her...." said the Assman.

Sat and looked at their expectant faces, like I was telling a story that had a real ending, and stirred my coffee, and shrugged.

"We have some good times. We read lines together, and we get drunk together and we fuck like crazy and she's good at a funeral, but she's regularly combative and I think most guys would kick her the fuck out. But I don't, cause she sleeps in that bed most nights and she sucks a mean cock and mostly that's what I need. I mean, she might be psychotic, but what fucking prize am I offering? A broke writer who's major claim to fame might be the publication of a book about holy clitoris? She's not exactly ecstatic about me either, but we're together for now and so we do what people do when their together. Fuck with each other."

"That's sort of sad," said Michelangelo.

"No different than most people, I think," I said. "Lot of fucking settlers, biding their time. But what do I know?"

"Well, what about this Colette?" said the Assman. "She sounds pretty hot too."

"Yep, but you know what the difficulty with her is, and this is sad, because she's my best prospect at this point," I said. "And she's pulling me in, really. I'm almost dreading reading her poetry. Cause the fucked up thing is..."

Stirred my coffee again. Drank a little. Shook my head, and laughed a bit.

"I want a woman who's getting married next year. Really, I mean, I wouldn't want to make it fucking easy on myself, would I?"

"Well, why not?" said the Assman. "You could look for someone a little less complicated."

"Yes, but then what kind of fucking soap opera would that be, my friend?" I said. "Oh no, go for the one that's getting married. That'll make it entertaining indeed."

December 4 , 2003
The Language of Seduction

My dear friend Rumsfeld got what he deserved today, picking up the 2003 Foot in Mouth Award from the lovely British people fighting for more plain English around the world.

Rumsfeld's honour stemmed from this lovely quadspeak about WMD in Iraq.

"Reports that say that something hasn't happened are always interesting to me, because as we know, there are known knowns; there are things we know we know. We also know there are known unknowns; that is to say we know there are some things we do not know. But there are also unknown unknowns — the ones we don't know we don't know. " - Donnie Rumsfeld

Enjoy the award, Donald. I certainly will. Especially after seeing headlines saying that NATO troops will stay in Iraq. Very misleading Donald. Looks like NATO is involved in Iraq, when it most certainly is not. I know this because Canada belongs to NATO, yet Canada has no troops in Iraq. There may be troops that belong to countries that belong to NATO that are staying in Iraq, but there are no specifically NATO troops.

Nice try, Donald. Enjoy the taste of that foot. You're right up there now with such intelligentsia as Alicia Silverstone and Richard Gere.

Speaking of language. I've decided I'm going to seduce Colette with words. Cause that's what she wants.

I hit the coffee house last night, a bit late, and Colette was waiting. She had a huge smile for me, and she showed me her work and I read it and it was quite good, and I told her so. She was happy with this, but she pressed me to critique it, which I did in an unwilling sort of way. It's hard to say much about a five line poem, I think. Either it works or it does not, but I tried to tell her what she needed to hear.

" It's not quite mature," I said. "It needs a bit more suffering. Or disbelief. "
"What is it that's not mature?" she said.
"Maybe mature is the wrong word," I said. "It just needs a bit more age. More ambivalence. You're too sure of yourself."

She nodded carefully, and wrote it down in her notebook, which was a strange feeling. I'm notorious for writing down other people's words and laughing as I do so, but this was the first time that anybody had written down anything I had said. It sort of made the hair on my balls stand up. After some more chat about the nature of the cinquaine, she brought up an idea she had obviously been sitting on for some time.

"What do you think of collaborating on a poetry project?" she said.
"Sure," I said. "What are you thinking of?"
"Something small to start with," she said. "In reality, I just want someone to bounce my cinquaine off. But I'd like to feel something back, you know?"
"I don't write cinquaine," I said.
"That's fine," she said. "You could write something else."
"Haiku? Nuntos?"
"Haiku. That might work," she said. " You see, I want to write quintets of cinquaine, around the same theme. Perhaps even five sets of cinquaine quintets. I'm interested in the symmetry."

At this point, I nodded in excitement, and a brilliant little turd popped out of my mouth, previously unconceived.

" I've been thinking of the same sort of thing, actually," I said. "After the crushing failure of my earlier long form poem, Divinity, I was thinking of building a smaller system of poems, of cantos, cuntos, nuntos, whatever, but out of a structure system of poetry, like haiku. But I wanted something larger in theme than what a haiku can handle. So I was thinking of writing what I can only describe as a haiku sephirot."

She blinked, and she shivered. I may be wrong, but she may have actually had a tiny creeping orgasm. The bitch had been looking for something, and I hit it right on the clit. Sensing the blood rising, I hesitated, letting her smell it a bit.

"Sephirot?"
"You know, the old Kabbalah tree?"
"Sort of..."
"The old Jewish mystics use the sephirot to know God, as he can be known. Sephirot are ten different circles of knowledge about the different aspects of god, and when they're interconnected, they make up a sort of Tree Of God as a whole. Each of the sephirot is its own entity; knowable, comprehensible, and when linked with the other aspects of God they make up a whole that cannot be truly understood on its own. I don't believe in Kabbalah, but I think the structure has applications. It hasn't been tried before, but you can see where ten interconnected haiku would allow one to see the universe in a different sort of way - fall, winter, spring, fall, death, birth, youth, old age, sex and of course, love."

She looked at me strangely, a bit lost for words, maybe a bit out of breath. I looked at her, and I refused to flinch. Eventually, she turned and looked at the floor.

She had to leave soon after, but we agreed to meet again soon, and to start to work together on these projects, as motivators and critics. So I'm on the hook for a Haiku sephirot, an entirely new poetic art form that I carved out of the air in a desperate cunt-hungry moment. Doesn't bother me though, cause it's gonna get me where I want to go and where I know Colette wants to go.

So everyone can watch and pitch in as I build this thing for the only reason any man should build anything, and that's to run my fingers up her spine and feel her quiver. I could see that when she walked out into the cold, she had no real words to say. Mingus and Collete, linguistically twisted, and cunnilingually tristed. No, you have no chance, woman. And neither do I.


December 3 , 2003
The Green Fear

Shouldna got into the absinthe again, but these things happen. And now I got the green fear.

Last night, waking up in a sweat so thick I think I pissed the bed, wondering if Chloe is going to cut my throat in my sleep. In my dream she finds out about my Doppleganger Complex and when I am drilling away, she turns and looks at me and says very sweetly,

"Mingus? You can call me Colette if you want."

That's the part where I wake up. And wonder about whether that's piss or that's sweat. All cause I'm meeting up with Colette tonight, and even though there's two blocked calls from the Accountant on the phone, I know Chloe would lose her fucking mind if she thought I was drinking coffee with another woman and fondling her tits when I should be fondling Chloe's. Chloe's not violent, normally, but the bitch is unpredictable. It would be well within her nature to throw something or swing something, or if she was real fucking mad, pull out that butcher blade and cut something. Sweet, sweet Chloe.

At the other end of the planet, Colette's bringing some of her writing and I'm going to read it. I am hard with anticipation. She said something in her email about exchanging writing in the future, but her letter wasn't all that clear. Again, it could be the green fairy clouding up the issue. What can you do, cept caramelize another sugar cube and drop it in the glass? Thank Christ for avarice!

For those keeping track of the Tagline Contest, we have unofficial interest in 'Think Inside the Box'. Anyone else got a preference? How about Mingus Tourette: Like Watching a Car Wreck... or ... Mingus Tourette: Wonderfully Ignorant!

Give it all up here!

December 2 , 2003
It's Official: The Tagline is Coming

Response to the big announcement has been unbelievably overwhelming! Both of nunt.com's regular reader's signed the guestbook, and several irregular visitors surfed the web site! We're off to a rollicking start, that's for sure! One might even call it a capital start. Or capital balls, anyways.

As the author and one of the 'creatives' at Zygote Publishing, the collective is banking on my unique ideas to promote the book and create interesting taglines for myself, the book and Zygote press releases. I cooked up the Cross Canada Ice Cream tour, and I like to think the following taglines have a certain ring to them. Some of them have surfaced before - you be the judge! Add your own! Tell the Marketing Directors what You Like!!!

Mingus Tourette Campaign 2004: Why Vote Bush When You Can Vote Nunt?
Mingus Tourette: Blowing Up Like Krakatoa
Nunt: May Be Offensive to All Readers
Nunt is Coming
Nunt: Think Inside the Box
Zygote Publishing - Anyone for Vatican Roulette?
Mingus Tourette: Far Drunker and More Belligerent Than You
Nunt: Cheaper Than a Rabies Shot
Nunt: Buy a Book, Win a Gasmask!
Nunt: Vatican Pink Meat for the Masses
Nunt: Buy the Book, Fuck the Author. Not Bad for $14.95.
Mingus Tourette: Writer. Iconoclast. Purveyor of Fine Apostasy.
Mingus Tourette: Buy His Book, Have a Heated Affair with Him, End up in the Next One
Nunt: Possibly the Stupidest, Most Psychotic Book Anyone Has Ever Invested Money Into with Such Deadly Sincerity
Zygote Publishing: Dead Fucking Serious Bout this Whole Thing
Mingus Tourette: Also Dead Fucking Serious Bout this Whole Thing
Nunt: Representing One Shot for Mingus Tourette to get out of the Trap and Write
Mingus Tourette: Aching to Meet Young Women Writers on a Cross Canada Book Tour that Like to Drink and Talk about Dostoevsky
Nunt: A Violation of America in 62 Parts
Mingus Tourette: Treating Nuns With the Oral Respect they Deserve
Mingus Tourette's Nunt: This Is Not Your Fuhrer's Blitzkrieg
Nunt: Gasmasks for the Faithful

Give me more.

Give me peace. Give me liberty. Give me a naked nun impaled on a man's cock in the middle of a downtown alley, weeping for her husband. Lord, Give me Nunt.

Gimme Feedback, Bitches.


December 1 , 2003
It's Official: Nunt is Coming

At the same heady time that nunt.com surpasses 4000 visitors, Mingus Tourette and the fine folks at the newly-formed Zygote Publishing are proud to announce that Mingus Tourette's book of outrageous prose-styled poetry will be published and formally released in September 2004, just in time for the American Election. So next year, don't vote Bush when you can vote Nunt! ISBN 0-9734458-0-7 !!!

Zygote Publishing is a collective of highly motivated, like-minded, lit-loving, Western Canadian individuals interesting in creating a publishing house with a different approach to pushing writers and literature to the masses. This collective of writers, editors, designers, marketing and new media professionals (plus a lawyer & salesman or two) are betting that cutting edge Canadian literature can be served up in new and exciting ways that will entice a decent sized audience, and to start with, we're betting it all on Nunt!

Plans for the next year include a cross-Canada tour in a pink Ice Cream truck, monthly gas mask giveaways, poetry readings with dancing Nuntettes and online debates on the nature of obscenity, God and the American Empire with the one and only Mingus Tourette.

If you're running a blog that runs a lot of traffic, let us know, and you may qualify for a review copy of the book. If you're media, you automatically qualify for a book, and if you're Vatican, you qualify for a book, a lube and a full release.

Stay tuned. The revolution will be forthcoming.

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