The Origin of the Gods

Once upon a time, in a wicked city, there lived a disgusting bum named Jimbo. Jimbo had tangled, dirty, blond hair and a face that was swollen up and purple (seeing as how he drank a gallon-and-a-half of rotgut moonshine a day which he purchased in Chinatown for a quarter-a-pint).  Jimbo was very articulate but he was also very horny.  See, he’d regale any woman he saw with the finest poetics he could muster but always to no avail (seeing as how he smelled just like the city dump).

BUT ONE DAY, while he was shooting up in the bathroom of a corporate coffee house downtown, a goat-man appeared to him in the mirror and the goat-man said,
        “So says the fawn behind the glass:
                 if sex you seek to gain,
        go grab a rag and wash your ass
                 and comb that gnarled mane!
        When next you meet a foxy lass
                 she’ll know you as: JAMES VAIN!”
Then, (poof!) the goat-man disappeared and ‘James’ did as he said and walked out of that bathroom door a disgusting bum no longer and never again.  From that point ever after he knew in his heart that he was, in fact, the most handsome poet who had ever lived. 

He spent the rest of that afternoon spouting verse to the rooftops, until he came upon a dimly lit and deserted bar where the bartender was fast asleep and snoring loudly. So, James walked in and helped himself to a drink, and noticed, against the far wall of the pool room, a cabinet secured heavily with locks and chains and from within the cabinet came the sound of a gentle knocking. It sounded to James Vain like a plea for help, so cleverly, he picked the locks with one hand (while he snacked casually on olives with the other), then fell to his knees, as the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen stepped out of the cabinet and looked down into his eyes, beaming sun-spray from the back of her head, which, James noticed, was beautifully adorned with none other than: the pelt and the ears of a fox.
She yanked his hair viciously, but spoke softly as a butterfly as she said,
        “I’ve been waiting for you, Darling.” And the words flowed freely from his poet’s heart as he replied,
        “I want to fuck you,” to which, the goddess giggled, and summoned her magic, and snapped her fingers twice—dissolving her flimsy, floral-print dress and revealing a tuft of solid gold pubic hair and a couple of daisies where her nipples ought to have been. Then, right there on the pool table, for five solid hours, they engaged in every insidious sex act ever invented (and created a few new ones of their own as well) and recorded all of it (all of it!) in incredible detail, in a tiny leather bound journal and fell fast asleep in each other’s arms.
They were awakened a couple of hours later by a man, who shook them hard saying,
“getcherassesup!” They looked around to find the bar packed, shoulder to shoulder, with beards and beanies and skinny jeans and neck tattoos. The man indicated a stage at the front of the room that was spot-lit and set and he shouted frantically: “Lessgo! You only get five minutes up there! C’mon! C’mon! C’mon! C’MON!”  
They, in a sort of a daze, walked naked, hand in hand, to the microphone and stared out into the eager eyes of the audience seated before them, and knowing not what else to do, raised the leather-bound journal between them and cracked it open and (BANG!) the goat-man burst through the swinging doors, bringing hurricane winds behind him. He pressed a silver fiddle to his beard and sawed a blast of fanfare, shattering every piece of glass in the bar (and then some!). James Vain and the Foxy Lass began to read, as the fawn’s harmonies wrapped them in a blanket of bliss, and they, all three of them, rose from the stage and smashed through the ceiling of the bar and continued to rise ever upward.  

 The crowd sat, dumbfounded, in a moonlit puddle of their own tears as the emcee called up in utter bewilderment, “Wait! Like, who are you guys??”

 And James Vain, almost to the brink of the heavens, didst he reply in an echoing sonic boom:


Clyde ALWAYS the Bard of the Lower Haight, for the promotion of bliss, writes and recites his own blend of tall tales and clever verses.