He was a weird little dude in skinny jeans, a paisley shirt, and a masking smile. He held no body weight to speak of. In another era his delicate lineaments would be described as "wispy". An awkwardly coifed beard courageously clung to the lower half of his spongey face; it was an off-centered hack job that suggested a bathroom mirror in need of either adjustment or removal. He was one of those queerly arranged millennial lads that only look properly placed within the confines of a Starbucks. If you dragged him into the sunlight and forced him to stand erect in his Kenneth Cole Reaction desert suede puss boots, he would look like he'd just fallen off a delivery truck on the way to Madame Tussaud's.

His name was Xander.

This was the first official meeting of the Southern Nevada Anarchist Party (SNAP) and we were the only ones who showed up. Even the guy who called the meeting didn't show. We immediately voted him out of the organization. It was unanimous.

Beware the awesome power two people can wield in the back room of a Marie Callender's.

We greedily devoured our pies and discussed the future of the party, having great difficulty agreeing on a version of anarchism that would carry the organization forward. I touted my street cred as a European-trained practitioner of Individualist Anarchism and he puffed his chest about Social Anarchism and his involvement with the Southern Nevada Alliance of the Libertarian Left. I told him I remembered those guys from a few years back and they were a little too into the posturing and tweeting for my taste. He said I was a judgmental old cock and I agreed with that assessment so we both roundly and unanimously voted me Chairman of the Judgmental Old Cocks wing of SNAP.

I was moving up in the world.

He claimed his right to be Chairman of the Oh No You Di'int wing of SNAP and proved that he was able to move his head back and forth across his shoulders without tilting it.

Some men are born into greatness.

I told him about my time in Amsterdam when I lived in a squat that had "SMASH THE STATE IN A RIOT OF HATE" written across the front of the building, and how I had spent more than a few nights arguing with the anarchist, nihilists, punks and junkies who lived there with me that while I agreed with the sentiment, I thought the use of the word "hate" muddled the message, discouraged recruitment, and therefore delayed the revolution.

I was repeatedly told to fuck off which, quite often, I did. But I liked those guys. Well, maybe like is not the right word. I enjoyed their company and admired their conviction. On one particularly drunken night, an Albanian Hoxhaist named Ramiz broke an Orval Trappist Ale bottle over my head because he felt my definition of anarcho-syndicalism was sloppy and irritating and typical of American laziness.

Neo-Bolshevik ass-hat. But he was right.

Xander thought my squat buddies sounded like the kind of rabble that the proletariat too often associated with Anarchism and that the emerging era of "Trumpist Fascism" (his term, not mine) required a more palatable version of anti-state socialism that emphasized communitarian principles as the most effective means of push back against the encroaching state.

I told him his argument would pack more punch if he didn't have a dollop of blueberry pie dangling off his chin, swinging back and forth like a tiny purple testicle. He pulled it off and tossed it into his gobbling pie hole like an ape as he shot me a self-serving sneer and lifted his left butt cheek to crack an unholy rat.

Anarchist table manners could stand some refinement.

The details of social ownership seemed to be the only point of contention between us so we decided to forgo that dispute until after the revolution. What we did agree upon was that nonviolent but deliberate and relentless industrial unionism would be the preferred method for the proletariat to seize control of the economy in a capitalist society.

A conspiracy had been established and the revolt was officially underway. As with any uprising, your comrades might not be people with whom you would normally associate but providence demands liaison.

In marijuana terms he was more of an indica man and I am primarily a sativa man. Where he would choose a Vanilla Kush and a Caramel Macchiato, I would go with a Super Silver Haze and Turkish coffee.
Somehow we met in the middle with Killa Gorilla and a 4-shot Americano.

Political theory for the lightly toasted.

Copyright © 2016 John Bizarre.

Anarchy, Pie and "Trumpist Fascism"

Every man has at least one pair of underwear that's completely in tatters - the sagging waistband with the Betty Rubble cut that desperately clutches just enough fabric to hold up one yam. Damned be the other yam. And damned be his ever wandering and perpetually needy, south of the border buddy, Senor Chubbo, the chunky chorizo. They can fend for themselves, the bastards.

A single, snuggly cupped nut is enough utility to justify a final mission for this precariously toting tog.

And that's what the everyman tells himself - that it's OK to pull the shamefully shredded slingshot up one's legs this last time to mark the final journey for a courageously long-lived meat hauler.

You heard me, motherfucker. Long-lived meat hauler. Yeah, you're jealous. You wish YOU were a long-lived meat hauler, hauling' meat all the live long day. Oh, don't you deny it. You wish I were sticking my legs through your ears and pulling your threadbare cotton face up to my hanging chandelier of schwanz.

Yeah! Tasse meine Balle, Adolph! Trage mein verschwiztes Fleisch, ya friggin' Fleischtrager!

Ah, the glory of it all. A full day of state-smashing, convention-crushing anarchist tirade that begins with the hoisting of the three piece yogurt launcher into a battle-fatigued gunnysack of aspiration; heaving William Godwin's Molotov cocktails of reason at the government's inherently malevolent influence on civilization with the strapping support of a combat-tested egg basket that cradles the tripod of humanity's only chance of survival; shoving Pierre-Joseph Proudhon's society without authority down the throats of those who would govern and control and regulate and number and spy on and tax and hoax and rob and judge and altogether imprison the free hearts of men who carry their hairy, sweating, liberty bells of emancipation in barely buttressed satchels of hope.

Go fuck yourself, state. I swing my gangly gigglestick atchoo. I dunk my gyrating jumble-giblets of discontent in your elitist martini of jurisdiction, you courtier of despotism. I allow the seditious ghost of Emma Goldman to take the heel of her 1892, lace-up, Victorian bitchboot, place it securely under my tailbone, and then heartily hurl me, groin first, into your fascist face so you can inhale a gagging whiff of my manly marinade in all its magnificent manumission.

The Simpsonian war cry of Eat My Shorts! by an animated, helmeted little bus brat was the lead horse in one of the final Anarchist charges of the 20th century.

Let the first year of the Trumptatorship begin with the clarion call of the gurgling gospel pipe and his two backup singers as they break free from their ramshackled bondage and hock the loogie of liberty into the eye of authority.

Copyright © 2017 John Bizarre

The Tao of Bart

Transcript of The Last Supper translated from Aramaic by the Ecumenical Brotherhood on Christian Authenticity at The First Council of Nicaea

Jesus: "Assuredly, I say to you, one of you will betray me."

Peter: "Lord, is it I?"

Jesus: "I can't say. All I can say is one of you will betray me."

Andrew: "Well, that's not fair. Why won't you tell us who the rat is?"

Jesus: "I...I just can't. Now, let's get back to eating."

Philip: "Wait, you can't do that. You can't just drop a bomb like one of you is a traitor and then not tell us who."

James the Lesser: "Hey, leave Jesus alone, Phil."

Philip: "Shut up, James the Lesser. Nobody wants to hear from you. If we want to hear from a James we'll talk to James the Greater over here."

James the Greater: "Yeah."

Philip: "You shut up too, James the Greater. And that reminds me. Where the hell is James the Greatest?"

Simon: "He said he was sick but I think he went bowling with James the Very Least."

Philip: "Lyin' pricks."

Jesus: "Hey folks, let's uh..pull it together here, huh? I'm gonna be tortured and murdered tomorrow and I thought we might have a nice quiet dinner, OK?"

Andrew: "I still want to know who the rat is."

Jesus: "Look, forget about the rat. I never should have brought it up. Listen, everybody take a piece of bread, OK? Yeah, there you go, pass it around..OK.."

Bartholomew: "Hey, this ain't fair. I got a small one."

Jesus: "It doesn't matter how big.."

Bartholomew: "Thaddeus! You took too big a piece!"

Thaddeus: "I did not. You just took a small one. It's your own fault."

Bartholomew: "No fair! I want a another tug at the bread!"

Jesus: "Fellas, the size of your piece is irrelevant. What's import..."

Bartholomew: "Thomas, pass that bread back. I want another tug."

Thomas: "You can't have two tugs. It's one tug per disciple."

Bartholomew: "But I didn't know how big a tug everybody was going to take! I WANT ANOTHER TUG!!"

Jesus: "Everybody shut the fuck up! It doesn't matter how big your piece is! It's just symbolic!"

John: "Wow, Jesus just said fuck. Are we..are we supposed to include that in the Gospels?"

Thomas: "I wouldn't."

Jesus: "Now, listen. Everybody. Take this bread and eat it. It is my body."

Philip: "What did he just say?"

Simon: "I think he just..he said the bread is his body."

Philip: "What the hell does that mean?"

Simon: "I don't know. Hey, Jesus! What does that mean?"

Jesus: "I'm saying that this bread represents my body and I want you to eat it."

Simon: ", you're me?"

Jesus: "No no, that's not...I mean.."

Andrew: "Well, that's kinda rude."

Thaddeus: "Really."

Andrew: "Where's he get off with that stuff?"

Thaddeus: "When did cannibalism become part of this whole deal?"

Philip: "Ahh, I'm gettin' a weird vibe here."

Jesus: "Alright alright, never mind that, let's move on. Everybody raise your glasses. Yeah, there you go. Good. Now, listen. Drink this, for it is my blood.."

John: "OK now, wait a minute.."

Andrew: "What, are we vampires now?"

James the Greater: "Maybe we should have worn costumes."

James the Lesser: "I wanna be a Power Ranger!"

Jesus: "Alright, you know what? Fuck all y'all. Just eat your meals and drink up and forget the whole thing. I'll just go get killed and you guys can sleep in tomorrow."

Peter: "Easy, Jesus. They don't mean nothin' by it."

Jesus: "Ah, whatever."

Peter: "No, really, man. I'm listening. What else?"

Jesus: "Well, for instance, you will deny me three times before the cock crows."

Peter: "Wha..why would I do that?"

Jesus: "I don't know, people just do stuff, how the hell should I know? Man, this soup blows. Pass that salt, wouldja, Pete?"

Peter: " know, you're not supposed to be eating a lot of salt, Jesus."

Jesus: "Yeah yeah, I know, I know, but this soup is like water. Pass it over."

Peter: "I'm serious, Jesus, you're supposed to be watching your blood pressure."

Jesus: "Peter, I'm the son of God, for fuck's sake. I can watch my own blood pressure. Now, pass me that goddamn salt!"

Peter: "Jesus, I really think it's a bad idea. I'm gonna..I'm gonna go ahead and not do that."

Jesus: "See? Did you all see that? He denied me three times! And the cock hasn't crowed yet!"

Andrew: "Who's he calling a cock?"

Bartholomew: "Somebody pass him the salt already before he gets any more goofy."

Jesus: "Look, I'm really disappointed with you guys. You're supposed to be my disciples. You're supposed to be spreading my teachings."

James the Lesser: "You mean about eating people and drinking blood and stuff?"

Jesus: "No, goddamn it, you're not listening! OK, I'm going to make it really simple for you. Here's the message - Do unto others as you would have them do unto you."

Thaddeus: "Hmm. I'm not sure I get that. You mean, if I want people to give me free pizza, I should give other people free pizza?"

Jesus: "Well, that's not exactly.."

Thaddeus: "Because that doesn't make any sense. If I start giving out free pizza, people are going to assume that I've got plenty of pizza, so nobody's going to give me any. Why would anyone give pizza to somebody who is already giving it away for free?"

Jesus: "Alright, you people are hopeless. Forget it. You can all go to hell."

Peter: "Jesus, come back!"

Philip: "Ah, let him go. Wait a minute. Did he really just tell us to do unto others, and then walk out before the bill arrives?"

John: "That sneaky bastard."

Simon: "How are we going to pay for all this?"

Judas: "Don't worry about it."

Philip: "What do you mean?"

Judas: "I lifted his wallet while you guys were drinking his blood."

Andrew: "Nice."

Copyright © John Bizarre

March 14, 2017 - Rather than talk about the disturbing direction of the United States Government I am, instead, burying myself in Dutch politics while fulfilling a request. Last week I met a man from Belgium whose Dutch was good and English even better. During our conversation I was reminded of something I wrote many years ago and was then asked if I could be pursuaded to repost it. Yeah..we can do that..


A friend of mine is a guitar player in a famous rock and roll band. Let's call him Ernie because if you knew who I was talking about (a long haired, fret-shredding, hammer-swinging God of Thunder), calling him Ernie would make you giggle.

Ernie and I are both coffee sharks. After my show at the Flamingo the other night we were sitting at the bar in front of Bugsy's Cabaret mooing at the herd. I told him I was about to pull an all-nighter to finish an article submission for, a Tyler Durden two-step about the military coup in Turkey. He said he knew just the recipe my nervous system required for such an onerous task and he suggested we make a beeline to an underground coffee joint here in Vegas where all the REAL coffee tweakin' vein poppers go.

"There's no sign out front, you have to find your way in through the alley in back and sometimes even that door is locked. It's like a speakeasy."

"How the hell do they do any business?"

"Dude, the coffee is $75 a cup. This is the real shit. Literally. It's made from an accelerated Indonesian coffee bean that they shove down a weasel's throat and wait 'till it shoots out of his ass. Then while the bean is still warm from the butt heat of the weasel, they rinse it off, flash roast it, crush it into powder, run some hot Bhutan spring water over it, and serve it to you in a cup about as big as the head of your dick."

"That's a very small cup."

"It's all you'll need. You'll be grinding your teeth down to the roots, chewin' through your grandmother's panties. It climbs up your spine like a barbed wire spider. The only trouble you'll have is not digging your own eyeballs out of your skull with a grapefruit spoon."

"I don't have a grapefruit spoon."

"Then you should be fine. Let's go."

We hopped in his Lamborghini, swung onto Las Vegas Boulevard north and immediately slammed into traffic.

"Fuck! What is it with this town?"


"This is bullshit. I didn't rent this rumbling whore for $1,200 a day to sit behind a Nissan Sentra. Driving a Lamborghini at five miles an hour is like using a triple crown, champion race horse to give pony rides at a retarded kid's birthday party."

Some people in the cars next to us recognized Ernie and started yelling to him, taking selfies with him in the background while giving him the finger. He'd had enough of that and drove up onto the curb, through a service entrance and onto a side street I'd never heard of, all while texting his personal mobile valet service. We screeched through a series of poorly lit back streets, making our way to the far east end of Freemont Street and pulling up in front of a chain linked fence that surrounded an empty dirt lot. He gave the keys to his personal valet, Nucleus, who arrived at the same time we did. Nucleus looked and sounded like Antonio Fargus in Cornbread, Earl and Me.

"Shit, I ain't got enough firepower to keep this bitch down."

"We'll only be 20 minutes," Ernie said, handing him $100. "Throw a blanket over it or something."

We walked two blocks to a small alley, made a right and slipped behind a dumpster to a red wooden door with a brass handle. Ernie put his ear to the door for a moment, turned the handle and cracked it open. A dour musk wafted out.

"What's that stank?"

"Weasel scat," Ernie said. "They have a back room full of the wretched little devils, all passing coffee beans through their intestines. Flea-bitten, cock-chompin' Pez dispensers. Keep your dick away from 'em."

"Why would I put my.."

"Come on."

We walked into what felt like an opium den in the old west during the gold strikes. Dark, dank, ripped red velvet and black oak. The jukebox cranked out Machine Gun by Jimi Hendrix but it seemed to be playing at a slower speed. Darting eyes, twitching fingers, too much hair and ink for the number of people who were in there. A one-eyed girl in her 20s wearing lace panties and a bebe tank top sat on the floor thumbing her nose like a boxer and looking at everybody's feet.

The biker chick bartender had maple hair and big black eyes. She was about 10 years away from that hardened, loogie-hockin' look that many biker chicks fall into without proper supervision. She was the kind of girl who could twist off a beer cap with her hooha and then use her labia to flick it at your kneecap.

We stepped over one-eye and pulled up to the bar. The bartender recognized Ernie. "Ha! Rock star's back."

Ernie leaned into her. "My buddy's writing a piece for a financial site. Needs to jack up for about 16 hours."

She looked at me like she could chew me up and spit me out before the ash fell off her cigarette. "Uh huh." She scrunched up her face at me and kept talking to Ernie. "Well, we just got two new civets in. That's one now, making that racket back there, thrashing around in his cage. Rabid little beast. Been snakin' beans through him all day. Might be just the ticket for," she tossed her thumb at me with distaste, "this one."

"Make it two."

"And keep your dick away from the cage," I added.

I thought she was going to punch me in the teeth. Instead she smiled and walked away, exposing the most appealing component of her overall package.

"Dude, I wouldn't fuck around in here."

"Ah, she can handle herself," I said. "So, this is gonna be $150?"

"I got it. Better than an eight ball and no jail time. Sign your form."

The bartender had left us two pieces of paper to sign, releasing the establishment from any responsibility for our actions after we've ingested our beverages. As I signed I noticed one-eye, still on the floor, checking out my Vans.

"Got wide feet," she said. "Sportin' a choad?"

"Like a bottle o' Red Stripe."

"Knew it."

An Irish meat head at the end of the bar was giving me the daggers. He had a nose like an egg and I felt sure that if I smashed his face into a frying pan I could have a right proper breakfast. I chose instead to focus on the business at hand and leave the consumption of his throbbing honker for hungrier days ahead.

The bartender returned and placed two thimble sized cups of what looked to be motor oil in front of us. She snatched the releases and said, "Happy landings."

Ernie looked at me with a weird smile on his face. It reminded me of the smile Victor Buono has on his face when Bette Davis is singing, "I've written a letter to Daddy" in "What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?"

We clinked cups and threw them back. It kind of tasted like Turkish coffee only way stronger and with a hint of rat ass.

I shivered and gripped the bar. My left eye started to twitch and my head filled with the hot breath of a thousand devils.

All the sound in the room stopped and I thought I might shit my pants when I heard a loud pop..

End of Chapter One

Copyright © 2016 John Bizarre

( no particular order..some newer ones are down the page a bit..)