Rhode Island is top tier!

A recent study published on PLOS ONE has determined the most racist areas of the United States based on the frequency with which locals have searched for the N-bomb on Google. Just look at Little Rhody burning bright in the upper-right corner of Figure 1!


Ten bucks says the researchers accidentally included the contents of H.P. Lovecraft’s collected letters in there with the search statistics.


Bouncing Soulmates – a Sestina

Caveats: 1) No formal rules were broken, just bent. Bending things is fun.
2) Yeah my music tastes haven’t changed since 2000, what of it? Be glad I didn’t make an Ephertaph pun at any point.

Bouncing Soulmates – a Sestina
by Zach Bartlett

My tries at getting picked up have been junk,
Almost enough to make me shed a tear.
It shouldn’t be so hard to just get some,
I feel as though my patience will soon crack.
Maybe I could get out on the dance floor,
but dancing pants lay folded in my drawers.

I mean my dresser; not, like, boxers-drawers.
Don’t need no pair of pants to pad my junk!
If only they knew that out on the floor.
I worry if I danced, both pants would tear.
Well if they did, at least the girls would crack
up, then maybe they might talk to me some?

Several of them, I find, are quite toothsome.
I kind of want to get into their drawers.
I figure, eh, I could give it a crack;
just go and spout some pick-up-artist junk.
But if she’s sassy she’ll go on a tear
and cuss me out ’til I’m curled on the floor.

Just then some punk rock girl walks ‘cross the floor,
asks what I’m drinking, and I buy her some.
Her Bad Religion t-shirt easily tears
my focus from her trunk (but damn, such junk!)
I say, “I’ve got that same shirt in a drawer.
I actually saw them tour with Leftӧver Crack.”

It’s quite a naughty smile that she cracks,
then navigates us both around the floor
to leave the club-rats to their dubstep junk.
She pulls me close and then says “So, handsome,
what else do you keep hidden in that drawer?”
We get in to her car, and off we tear.

We’re in my bed so quickly the sheets tear,
I’m squeezed until my spine could almost crack.
(I hope there’s still some condoms in that drawer.)
But either way, her shirt’s off and I’m floored!
A loss for words — opposite of gruesome?
No time for that vocabulary junk!

She tears her skirt off, throws it on the floor,
and says “You want some, boy, well take a crack
at it.” I drop my drawers, whip out my junk–

Note Left on Fridge

by Zach Bartlett

Hey Roomie!

Hate to be that guy, but I know we discussed appropriate noise levels when you moved in. I didn’t get it in writing or anything, but you seemed to be cool with me expecting you to behave like a responsible adult. So do you think it would be possible for you to wear headphones when you watch porn?

Now, I’m not a nosy guy. As my Grandpa said: do whatever you want as long as you aren’t out in the middle of the street scaring the horses. But I can hear porn from your room while I’m in my room. Originally I thought you were just a fan of horror movies and, hey, maybe we’d have something to talk about. Then after a bit of listening I realized I was hearing the wrong kind of womens’ shouts and moans.

If I heard you actually having sex with a partner, I’d understand. Actual sex is something you kinda want your roommates to hear. It’s a primal thing, like asserting your status as the silverback Alpha-Roomie. Letting people know when you’re having a one-man sock-hop? That’s Gamma-Roomie behavior. I’ve started subconsciously flexing when you’re around just to further show my dominance.

And it’s not like what you’re watching is the kind of porn worth bragging about. Based on the intervals of noise and silence I hear every time that you’re jackin’ the beanstalk, I’m fairly certain you’re just watching a bunch of 10-second BangBros preview clips. I suppose you have to cut some corners if you’re putting the Kleenex kids through college.

But seriously, next time when you decide to give yourself a low five, please wear headphones. Hell, if you get a pair of Beats By Dre then the joke writes itself.

P.S. I know it’s my turn to buy the toilet paper and I’ll pick up a 24-pack for you, Tiger!
No hard feelings. Pun intended.


“Caesar? I Hardly Know ‘er!” A Choose-Ye-Owne Adventure

This is one of a couple Choose-Your-Own Adventure stories, sans legitimate choices, I’ve read at Esoterotica. Good thing I don’t write out all the options, because there were an awful lot of people in the audience who had a thing for the manservant in the beginning.

Another one, set in the Edwardian era, can be found in Eso’s second anthology.

Caesar? I Hardly Know ‘er! A Choose-Ye-Owne-Adventure
by Zach B

You are a former Roman centurion named Maximus Legspreadius, and you are not a subtle man.
You awake that morning in your. . . (hut? I don’t know what Romans lived in. . .) you awake in your dwelling at the crack of dawn. You rouse Dane, your boy servant, from his sleep and order him to get you whatever Romans ate for breakfast. (A gyro?)

Anyways, you’re well in to middle-age — thirty two — and it’s been quite a while since your last roll in the hay. Metaphorically, not the pile Dane sleeps in. In your younger days, tales of your military conquests easily led to conquests of a more personal sort, though now that you’ve settled in to a stable gig as a guard at the Colosseum, women aren’t as ready to lend you their ears, let alone other sensitive organs. You’re in a slump. How do you deal with it?

To take your sexual frustrations out on Dane, who for all you know may be of legal age, turn to page 65.

To strap on armour that looks like your chest used to and head to work hoping for the sort of miracle that can only happen in a work of short erotic fiction, turn to page 23.

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