T.W. Selvey



The dumbfounded agents of the police disinformation squad revised and/or updated the number of fingerless human bodies that were discovered yesterday in a remote region of the neurotic planet that we are permanently imprisoned in. I’m horny, how ‘bout you? The apparent and completely alleged reality of their deaths is now under investigation, but is likely attributable to the reactionary impulses of postmodern exasperation taking bodily form and inflicting life-termination on unsuspecting but consensual victims. Oooh do you feel that? You’re in my asshole.

Search warrants are being issued for all abstainers of mass culture, which, despite conclusive proof of its clinical death, still exerts a feed tube influence that can be described as hell-fire passionate. How many of you can I fit in my asshole? It is believed that thirteen fingerless bodies have been located so far in various pre-destined drop-off sites that were determined by the killer in conjunction with the desires of the public that the bodies be of the bio-degradable sort.

I love the word, asshole. Melodious. Crisp like a chip. Love at first bite. The first syllable hisses and the second syllable opens up your mouth, just right.

The authorities on the subject of criminal psychopathology have come to the general bewitching opinion that the killer is mediated on a level of consciousness that is gentler than that of the average non-murderous citizen. You’re in my asshole, too. In fact, the killer may be receiving instructions directly from the internet, and could be an instrument of population control. When interviewed earlier today, Billy Graham was quoted as saying, “you guys took that ‘be fruitful and multiply’ thing way too seriously!” No word today yet as to the Imperator’s opinion of these recent events. Are you still moving? I feel you moving around, like you want to crawl up, further up my asshole. Go ahead, go as deep as you want. Make yourself at home.

The number of expert opinions that are currently assessing the situation has been re-estimated at 924, up from the original estimate that was made by eyewitnesses present at the gruesome excavation scene. I’ll cram you in, one by one, and you’ll be linking up, piling up, pushing each other up, helping each other. That’s it, give each other a boost. As one goes in, push your friend in above you. Don’t be jealous. Someone has to be at the front of the line. Experts deemed their necessity self-evidently as experts. Five thousand gathered to unearth the alleged dead bodies, so the bodies could be analyzed for evidence, and then returned to the store to redeem the deposit.

How big can I make my asshole? When asked why the bodies were mutilated and what possible symbolic meaning could removal of the victim’s fingers have, Generic Psychology Unit replied, “the murderer is displacing an obsession with an impotent phallic-organ onto the non-phallic sense organs of others, the realization of which releases repressed energy stored in the libido and this release takes the form of aggression toward those phallic symbols that the killer believes are responsible for anxiety. But of course, etc., etc., contradicting myself, and so forth.” Maybe I’d put you all in at once, a fistful.

The authorities continue to insist on the possibility of apprehending a suspect and that the validity of the ‘a posteriori’ conclusion that all murdered people a good, satisfying fingering is exactly what I needed who have murderers have murderers that will be caught, as good will always triumphs over not-good, and murderers are definitely not-good, or something to that effect, will be proven to be irrefutably true. Actually, several fistfuls and then some! 

Services will be held tomorrow for the accumulated and compacted remains (of the victims?) at the Apocryphal Last Adventist Evangelical Episcopalian Mausoleum of St. Dave Thomas (the founder of the Wendy’s fast food chain), which has been recently refurbished with crimson wall-to-wall shag carpeting. Thirteen is my lucky number. But oh god, I can’t fit so many in at once.

The family members are expected to join hands in honor of their own tenacious attachment to their fingers, which have been left unharmed by genuine sympathy, and then sometime in the early afternoon there will be a luncheon served in honor of the appetites of attendees, at which point they will hoist scrumptious snacks into their mouths with the use of their still attached appendages. But it feels so good, the best it’s ever felt. The snacks were generously donated by the local distributors of compulsive consumption, who will have advertisements for their snack products prominently displayed on the victims’ coffins. Better than action figures, better than tampons, better than a baseball bat, better than a dog chew toy, better than a dog’s paw, better than a dog’s snout, better than a dog’s dong.

There is no word yet on just how drunk the participants will be by the end of the afternoon, but said one widow mourning over the loss of her husband of thirty-two years, five months and an indeterminate number of days, “I know that I am shit-housed already.” I swear I can feel you all squirming, searching and sensual, seducing me from within, so I never stop. So I never close up my ass. Three days before the services are even scheduled to begin, the woman (whose name remains unpronounceable) was photographed as she passed out in front of the funeral home clutching an empty fifth of rum in her right hand please keep crawling, go all the way up and worm through the other end, if you can and a still burning cigarette in her left hand. It is painfully clear that the healing process for this woman will be a damp journey through the dripping heart of profundity.

Shredded, I feel the brutal scars of endless orgasm. Chunks bleed out, but it’s out of love, an ultimate love, and I release you. 


Recently, T.W.’s writing has appeared in The Shore, Nauseated Drive, Cav Mag, Grody Mag and Trashworld. T.W. is the proud curator of a haphazardly curated blog,