I wrote a story about a squirrel monkey. You can find it in this zine. Download for FREE!
#1 June 10, 1997
Once there was a fox who went to the library. He wanted to get a book but they did not let him in. So he went to the swimming pond. He tried to get a duck but an alligator came and the alligator ate the fox. That was the end of the fox.
Moral of the story: Everyone should be able to use the library.
#2 June 11, 1997
Once upon a time there were three wolves and a big bad pig. The three wolves had a mother and their mother was sick. So the three wolves went to the forest and built a brick house. They were playing out side. Then big bad pig came and blaw the house apart. Next they built a flower house and then the big bad pig came and smelled how beautiful it smelled. The pig became friends with them.
Moral of the story: Always have your house smell good.
#3 June 11, 1997
Once there was a mouse who tried to jump over the moon. But one day he practiced jumping and jumped and he jumped but he could still not jump over the moon. Then the mouse jumped his highest and still was not able to jump over the moon.
Moral of the story: Don’t set your goals too high otherwise you will be disappointed.
By Nicholas Weidner
Seymour Dodd was a tall boy. He actually wasn’t a boy, but a man. And often times, he wasn’t even a man, but a lady. He didn’t inhabit seedy alleyways, or offer blowjobs under leaky bridges for money. He was a man who simply enjoyed wearing women’s dresses and caking his face with make-up, particularly during the night while his wife slept. It would sound cliché to say Seymour Dodd was a closeted homosexual married to a woman, but Seymour Dodd was a closeted homosexual married to a woman. At the time, homosexuality wasn’t completely frowned upon, mocked or considered experimental. The year wasn’t 1950, or even anytime in the 60’s, 70’s or 80’s, but was actually 1999. Cell phones didn’t really exist at the time, at least not like they do today. Internet Explorer 5 was just released. A carton of a dozen eggs cost on average 89 cents, and on May 3rd an F5 tornado killed 38 people in Oklahoma City. An article was recently published that suggests one in eight married men are secretly gay. Whether or not this statistic is true or relevant, Seymour Dodd was definitely gay. However, he wasn’t flamboyantly gay, or even straight-gay. He was just gay. He liked guys. He never fucked a guy though. He never even kissed guy, not on the lips or dick.
Seymour Dodd may have been a tall man, but he was also fat. And not fat like any of those faceless people you’ll see in Morgan Spurlock’s Super Size Me, but fat like really fat pigs and heavy like cement. However, this does not mean he was a pig. He was a clean boy-man-lady. He showered daily, sometimes twice, and filed his fingernails every three days keeping them short, symmetric and smooth. He trimmed his goatee, maintaining a thinner cut, shaved his back, chest, pubic and tummy hairs and even clipped the hairs between his butt cheeks that engulfed his anus. He wasn’t fond of scissoring those particular hairs, as some strands would survive and tickle his cheeks as he walked, but he got used to it. He didn’t do it to feel girly and smooth, but merely because his father was a hairy man. And to say Seymour Dodd had daddy-issues would be cliché, but Seymour Dodd had daddy-issues. He loved his father, but only during the years he was a boy, oblivious to adult shenanigans. In 1967 he caught his father fucking around with two cowboys. Not fucking around as in beat-and-brawls outside a bar, but fucking around as in fucking. Like dicks going into assholes and mouths. He hated his father because he hurt his mother. Whether Seymour Dodd’s father knew Seymour Dodd was gay, he’ll never know because Seymour Dodd’s mother shot his father in the dick with a rifle. Then she shot him in the face, then his head. Maybe Seymour Dodd didn’t fuck guys because he was afraid his wife would shoot him in the dick, face and head. His wife was also fat like a pig, but a pig slightly slimmer than a really fat pig. Her legs were thin, stuck under thick thighs and a bloated belly. Her face was mushy, but cute and soft. Her boobs rested on her belly rolls, and her nipples were always hard, often poking through her bras and shirts. But Seymour Dodd didn’t care to notice her nipples. He was an ass man. His wife’s ass was plump, and curvy, but he kind of liked it that way. It reminded him of his own ass.
The first night Seymour Dodd wore a dress, he was raped. It was an unusual rape. In the realm of science fiction, it would be cliché to say Seymour Dodd was abducted by aliens, anally probed, then dropped off in a cornfield after having been missing for two weeks, but it happened. The police questioned him concerning his whereabouts after his fat wife declared him missing, and Seymour Dodd consciously withheld the truth. Not because he was afraid to end up in a psychiatrists office, overcoming his “delusional” experience, and not because he was embarrassed by what was done to him, but because he was in love, and he needed to protect that love.
After the rape, Seymour Dodd was a different man. He was actually happy. While his wife slept, he spent his nights in numerous cornfields, dressed in dresses, losing himself in the embracing sky. There were no stars, only overwhelming blackness. He waited patiently for any flutter of light. He was lonely. Sad. Confused. Aroused. Cold. Hot. Dry. Moist. Tired. Itchy. Angry. Sick. For three years he waited. No one. No thing. Nothing. His heart ached, much like anyone and everyone who ever lost love or the idea of love. He wrote poems. Love poems. Sex poems. Beautiful poems. He stopped masturbating. He ignored his wife. They didn’t fuck anymore. He didn’t sleep. He stopped eating. For twenty-five years he waited. Seymour Dodd stopped shaving. His wife died and eventually he died. This is not a story, but merely an abstract obituary. Seymour Dodd was 56 when he died. His body was cremated and currently rests in a box on a wooden and wobbly shelf among other unclaimed urns in a funeral home. His remains sit beside the smallest of the boxes, which contains ashes of a stillborn baby boy, who’s mother chose to have him cremated and, as of yet, has not come back to pick him up.
Love is something chemical. Love exists in sex, ideas and minds. Love exists in families and loveless marriages. Love is confusing. Love is gay. Gay as in stupid and gay as in homosexual. Seymour Dodd was gay. Aliens fucked him, and he fell in love. Seymour Dodd is love.
If you knew Seymour Dodd personally, we politely request that you claim his remains. You can do an in-ground burial, above-ground scattering or bring the urn home and put it on your shelf. He is to be loved.