Joaquin "El Chapo" Guzman Loera Escapes From Prison via Tunnel

...and we have actual footage of the event.

That's right, actual photographs of the infamous Mexican Drug Lord jumping down a tunnel dug for him by his sinister henchman and riding off on a motorbike.

The pictures may look sort of grainy, but you can definitely make him out.  There's no mistaking it, especially in the first photo:  it's Señor Guzman himself making a getaway.

Just Remember:  You saw it first at The Lost Cause Lounge.

Tommy Bahama & the Malignant Prostate Conundrum

I plan on ageing like boxed wine.

Ageing is a process that many people fear, and rightly so, as this is technically a process of dying.  For example, it is common knowledge that as one grows older, it becomes easier to injure one’s self, as it is also typically becomes more difficult to recover.  That having been said, I am not afraid of growing old.

The physical advantages of a young body aside, youth has never been something I’ve been game on.  When I was a kid, I hated other kids.  Now I fucking hate kids.  This persisted even when I was in my early twenties.  I was distrustful of other youngsters, particularly arrogant, lazy college kids.  I also still for the most part distrust arrogant, lazy college kids.  Even more, actually.  But then again, they seem to be getting more annoying.

 So, perhaps I’m a bit biased.  But if I wasn’t biased, would you be reading this right now?

 Let’s instead look at the facts.  Of course, I’m only speaking from a male perspective.  You can charge me with torches and pitchforks all you want, but the fact is, as women age, their ability to reproduce declines drastically, particularly after they reach the age of thirty.  On the other hand, as long as a dude can blow loads, he can still get broads pregnant.  Male fertility, even without recent pharmaceutical innovations, will always possess a longevity that female fertility will not. 

Even as we trudge further deeper into an era of sterile fecundity, where our seed becomes waste, it is important to note that within our recreational organs lie dormant truths coded in hormones.  Again, if you want to dispute this, please consult a website other than “The Lost Cause Lounge.”  We are not interested in proving such scientific points.  Sure, it’s a double standard.  But it’s just how it is:  women wither, men grow rugged.

 Aging for men contains many advantages, even when you are thinking with your dick.  Crow’s feet and widow’s peaks have been moistening crotches for thousands of years.  It’s just the way things have always been.  This largely stems from the fact that middle aged men command a certain amount of authority, which is why mustaches fit their faces so well even if some younger men can pull the look off.  Simply put, mustaches represent old school power.

Old school power in action.

The mustache is a symbol for paternal strength.  But this kind of “power” is not what I’m looking forward to.  It’s neither ebiophile fantasies nor a desire to be dominant that makes me look forward to the decades ahead.

Believe it or not, I’m not thinking with my dick as I write this. 

Let me break it down for you.

 If the mustache represents the dominant side of manliness, the Hawaiian shirt fits the laid back vibe of someone who has outgrown the Bullshit of the world.  This is one reason why Hawaiian shirts in general fit older men so much better than they do Spring Chickens.  Another important reason is that they are so festive and flamboyant that they typically require leathery skin or gray hair for contrast.  Having a male pattern baldness helps, too.

It used to be that Hawaiian shirts, pulled off well, acted as megaphones for the rods of young studs. They kind of advertised a bold personality and thus high quality sperm.  Even then, this was more true for guys in their thirties than their twenties.  Tom Selleck’s role in Magnum PI is the perfect example of the not quite middle aged man who killed it in floral patterns.  His image from that show subliminally exudes, Hey Ladies, I’ve got Diamond Sperm.  I think it was the abnormally hairy chest that did this, but I don’t know.  The important part is, they named a condom after him.  A condom for abnormally large dongs.   

Admit it: if you had a vagina, you'd be squatting on your Sybian right now.

Eventually the haters had their way and the mustache and Hawaiian shirt tumbled down from power, like so many bricks from the Berlin Wall.  In the spirit of most aesthetic changes, it just sort of happened, but I still call conspiracy. 

While the moustache has resurfaced in recent years for young studs, the Hawaiian shirt has been dry-cleaned and retired to the realm of the middle aged and elderly, which brings us back to the fact that aging introduces a carefree grace to men.

In this era, it seems that if a young man wears a Hawaiian shirt it’s either for yucks or it’s because he’s a fedora-wearing-ponytailed-dork.  You know the type, that guy who subconsciously attempts pulling resemblance to Hunter S Thompson but he’s really just advertising that he watches a lot of Japanimation porn.  It’s like seeing a little boy with a plastic badge.  He’s not a police officer, he’s still playing cops n’ robbers.  Nobody can ever take this shirt seriously when it’s a mere whippersnapper flying the flag.  In both cases, the boy in question is either just playing or they are delusional in how the world sees them.

There comes a time in most guys’ lives where they can don those bright parrots and flowers and coconuts and hula girls with grace.   I think it happens at different times for different dudes.  It’s when they hit that state of mind where they know they don’t need to prove anything.  They’ve done hunting, they’ve done gathering.  Now it’s time to casually peruse the world.  This is a far cry from the Magnum Ideal of seed sower supreme.  And this is huge.  This is why I frequently envy these guys.

They’ve done the dance, they’ve been around the block.  They’ve earned the colors.  Just like before you join the Hell’s Angels you have to go through a beat down, to truly be a fully patched member of the Tommy Bahama Crew, you need to go through life’s beat down.  

Like a boss.

Of course, this comes with a price:  higher risk for numerous cancers, heart disease, liver spots, brittle bones, fragile joints.  And with this fragility comes a heightened vulnerability that criminals will  run behind you when no one’s looking and beat you, rob you, even sodomize you.  This list goes on.  It’s literally the beginning of death.

This sense of mortality is a double edged blade.  If one can accept it in in all its various forms, the daily proximity of a definite end to all that is you washes away the trivial bullshit anxieties and obligations of earlier life.  It cleans the spirit, trims the fat.  I’m not saying all guys get there, nor that it is necessarily a set Utopian destination.  Like a lot of things, I would imagine it’s a process on a thousand continuum in so many different ways.

In any case, when I get there, whenever it is, I’ll be flying the floral print, but until then I’ll be garbed in drab.

Mr. Mudknuckle, on the other hand, fucking kills it in floral prints.  

Powder Diaries II: rituals and initations. The beginnings of a fuck up and yeast lord

First time doing coke:

I was drunk living in a party house in a college town with four roommates. All but me and the influist were sleeping. We had been drinking and playing cards (I think gin or gin runmy? Whatever one you play to 500 and have sets of cards to get the points. Fun game.) 

I knew my roommates occasionally did blow, but due to the strength of the pot we smoked I was always passed the fuck out as they merrily hit the nose slopes. 

But not this night.

It was me and my roommate Derin. She was my friends girlfriend, a former college softball star, student and Fred Meyer employee.  I don't know how the conversation went but basically she said, hey we got some coke for Angie's birthday, you wanna do some? I said no but she pestered me, I was depressed and my life was shitty. I was failing out of a post baccalaureate journalism school stint and massively in credit card debt. I was having fun living in a house with  friends from back home but I just felt like I was fucking up in a bad way. Anyhow she convinced me.

My only drug up to that point was pot, and once I told some people I had an old hydrocodone bottle from getting mono and they said pain killers and booze make you feel magical. (Turns out they do, I went to a comedy show and the whole theater had a rose tinged halo to it, and I laughed more than I should have and felt great.  A forty and a vicodin is a good time.)

She brought out the coke and I am trying to remember what it looked like but it was white little powdery rocks in a plastic back.  The snorting part of coke was the first thing I liked about the experience. 

The first time I snorted something was at a frat party when I was in high school playing a show at my older brother's school. Some guy had some snus, a powder tobacco inhalant, and as an at the time non tobacco user it was a good head rush. (Ok take that back, snorting pixie sticks in grade school was my first snorting experience and pixie sticks burn just like coke does when you first do it, before your nasal cavities get eaten away and hey, you might even have a hole connecting your nostril cavities!)

Second time was crushing up the hydrocodone and snorting it off a Waylon Jennings vinyl sleeve. Turns out vicodin and hydrocodone have like 500mg of acetomenophin, which is what makes up almost all of the pill. So yeah. Have fun snorting that you big dummy.

I don't remember much about that night but the thing I remember most was enjoying the ritual. Preparing the coke, chopping up the lines.  BUT!... THE VERY BEST THING AND MY FAVORITE FOR QUITE A LOT MY COCAINE ADDICTION..............

COCAINE CIGARETTES!

I had recently become a habitual smoker and to make smoking even cooler was her showing me how to make a cocaine cigarette. In the Denzel Movie Flight John Goodman calls it a coco puff.  The way she showed me how to do it is you lick your cigarette in four places with the end of your tongue making wet lines on the shaft. Then you lick the end of the cigarette and dab a liberal amount of cocaine on the end then roll the cigarette in a line of powder where you licked it. Let it dry and you've  got a thing of beauty. Besides a few times of trying to smoke foils, (Cocaine and water dabbed on aluminum foil then dried, and using a bic pen as a straw inhaling the smoke, being carefully not to heat the coke too much.) this was most if the coke smoking I did.  It tasted chemical like and smelled that way too.  I am not sure if these coke cigarettes even make you high, and I had forgot about them til now but I think they might have been my favorite part of my fucked up times doing coke.

As for the rest of the night I don't remember much but for the coke cigarettes.  I did not have a come down or a need to do more. I woke up next day mostly feeling like I had sunk to a new low in my fucked up life. Alas, my friends, that was just the beginning of another era; (if you can call it that) a fucked up can't keep a job max out credit cards doing two and three day benders of sniffing lines and the overly anxious dry high and hassle of being at the whim of the one guy you can get drugs off of trying to figure out how to go to sleep, maybe painkillers, wish I could have gotten some Xanax, and I was  basically a human vacuum for as long as the ride lasted.

And then just a poor fiend.

And later putting my life back together...

Years later writing this and the last blog and a bunch of internet searches and finally some social networking will lead me to another entry tentatively called the 500 dollar five day blizzard.  Hopefully my last ride into hell,  chasing my demons  while my past dark nights of the soul overtook me. Cue

Cocaine,
YOUGODAMMNEDSONNUFFABITCH!

POWDER MEMOIRS PART I

Mexican Mafia and Dirty Biker Gang commonalities; "It'll make ya feel like a million bucks - trust me dude" -- The lizard skinned mullet man 2002

(Author's note: this was supposed to be a piece on my small experiences with crystal meth but it is hard to talk about meth without coke because I only encountered meth because of doing coke.

This is an unfinished piece as I try to find a better through line or more narrow piece to write about.)

I've smoked it and snorted it (first time I forgot to crush it up and immediately threw up). It has been a kid brother helping me out when I was out of MY Big Daddy, and it was the only thing keeping me from withdrawals.  The only reason I ever used it was because I had none of my guy left.

And my dude is a bad motherfucker. I've been told my choice is basically like taking money and throwing it in the trash and I should be using kid brother for my escape from life.

People love it.

Methamphetamine.

  I've never felt like it did anything but make me feel normal. And the only times I have have done it I had either been doing mass quantities of Yayo all night and day and didn't want to experience the come down of cocaine withdrawals where you will do just about anything to get more white lines. But this is about crystal of which I know none of the slang for as I have done it less than a handful of times and still have all my teeth as a result.

I have done two types of meth. The first was from a cartel who this girl I was unlucky enough to know was working for. It was brownish yellow kind of looked like sugar in the raw. 
The second I had the delight of doing a fresh from the cook house batch of Annie or Anhydrous.  It was white and looked more like coke.

I had a lot of access to money the first times I did meth but not a lot of easy ways to get coke when I ran out and had no other option.

Coke is mostly a waiting game and the highest part of doing coke is the mindless hours fiending and waiting for your dealer to call you back or being told to go to a spot and wait til they get there give em your money and wait til they get back.  That's the dry high. 

The first line, actually the second you get your bag and ditch the dude who you may have to do a gratuity line with, and you either hide it in the best place you can in your car or you just palm it and get home as fast as you can. That is the  calmest part. Knowing you've got an eight ball or hopefully more and I can go home when I lived by myself and do my routine.

Ok i guess this piece is now about powders I was gonna do a little piece about the handful of times I did meth but FUCK IT! 

MY DRUG OF CHOICE WAS YAYO COCAŇA THE WHITENESS!!!!

And I had one long run of doing coke for as long as I could sleeping it off and then taking those hours pestering my everything guy to get off his ass and call the black guy D or Jr. The short fat mexican who had to go on  the lamb after he shot a guy in front of the 7-11.

I just looked up all my old dealers of whom I knew their real names and they are all in jail or have warrants.

It was in the  first few minutes of the video game Battlefield Hardline that I got a trigger to even think about coke or the people I associated with or even what it was like to be a coke head.

I am going to post this un finished rambling so my blog master will write something.

ROD GILA I COMMAND YOU TO POST! !!

More to come...

How Genital Warts Saved My Soul

                Four bulbous discolored dong nodules changed my life forever.  Here's why you should go out and catch HPV, too. 

                My fondness for loose women had come back to bite me, but not in the form of a mouth breathing Fetal Alcohol Syndrome baby or a week’s worth of burning urination.  It was these puffy purple bumps sticking arrogantly out of my flesh saber.

  

                The first time I saw my wicked impurities manifest on my man shaft, my mind flooded with a sense of defeat and intense self-hatred.  The ghastly sight of these clumpy bumps let loose a flood gate of of shame and disgust about my manly mastiff.  These suckers were huge, but it wasn’t the bumps themselves as much as it was the idea of them.

                There was suddenly a slimey, warty wall between me and the rest of the world.   Not only were these bumps quite unsightly, but are known to be connected to cervical cancer.  Obviously, I don't have to worry about that personally--I don't have a cervix--but it certainly makes the act of drunkenly bulldozing the meat flaps of a lonely lady a potentially harmful situation for the other party.  I'm not talking about the sense of shame that comes over her when she realizes how low in the barrel she scraped that night in the event that she gets to know me better.  I'm talking about cancer and I'm not about that.

                Even if I used a condom, it could still infest her because this little cluster of fuckers sprung up right at the base, where the sun don't shine but also where the rubber don't cover.  I tried on condoms in front of the mirror to check, and much to my dismay, the dark viral lesions showed below the bottom of the wrap much like the stretch marks of a chubby girl in a small T-shirt. 

                Just in case you were curious for another visual, they came about in very much the same way that mushrooms sprout from the base of a tall majestic tree.  And that giant majestic tree is my giant majestic phallus.

                Is this a bit of an overstatement?  No.  The bumpy hard reality is that my cock is literally carcinogenic.  And ugly as fuck, too.  Which is very disgusting but also sort of awesome.

                After a while, it kind of made me feel like an old dirty sailor, you know, with the anchor tattoos and the racist jokes.  You see those guys in photos and movies from the days of lore, smoking cigars in white T-shirts, drinking swill beer from a can, picking up hookers in their cigarette stenched Buicks, watching boxing on a black and white TV with unstable reception in some shitty old man bar.  I'll bet most of those dudes had lumpy lumber, too.

                Overcoming the shame of my beastial outbreak took quite a while for me.  It's kind of funny to think about it now, but in the beginning I felt like I was a cripple slowly wheeling myself off the edge of a giant cliff.  It was a slow, living death on the inside.  But since I'm used to lurking around at various imagined rock bottom scenarios, after a while I was able to regain my wits and spelunk my mind a bit, eventually coming to the conclusion that it’s no big deal after all. 

                There was sense of relief at overcoming the shame.  I eventually became grateful for the scenario, because it put me on the other side of the proverbial fence.  I am now one of those dirty people with a dirty, dirty disease.  I never realized how much I internalized the fear of VD until I spent several cumulative hours staring at those toady nodules.

                As the mornings of me staring at my flawed junk pile on, these little purple bulges swelled up into a Rorschach splatter test.  I began to see a face forming, the leathery, wrinkly, jaundiced face of my Inner Dirty Sailor. The mouth formed a scowl one morning, the dark eyes glaring up at me as if to say, “Why you gotta be such a fuggin’ lil’ quee-uh about this shit, huh?”

                The disapproval of the blue collar burnout, who lives above his favorite bar in a studio apartment with shared toilet and shower, the Inner Dirty Sailor collecting social security, the face of a proud failure, just shaking his head at me.  Why can’t I just get over this?  Why do I have to be crying like a tot?  Just grow up and stop being so pitiful. 

                After all, I’m a grown ass man, with a disease that mostly grown-ups catch.  Most guys learn to grow up when they have a baby, I guess my calling was a shameful infection.  This is my way of becoming one of the big boys, or so the warts told me.

Eventually, I broke down and decided to seek out help in eliminating the warts.  Of course, the virus will always remain, but I had grown tired of looking at them.  They were starting to fuck with  my head, even if I had learned to live with the fact that I now permanently have the Hedonist’s Hex.

                I went to a young, neurotic, Jewish Doctor...actually, he's a Nurse Practitioner, but same diff.

                As he was listening to my heart with his stethoscope, I awkwardly explained that I *might* have genital warts.

                He gave me a look like, Ew, I don't want to touch your dick, faggot.  Just go buy a Freeze Off Kit and do it yourself. 

                Now, he didn't say this outright; online medical sources on the subject--and believe me, I've read plenty--are unanimous on this matter. As are the instructions to the Freeze Off kits.  They all chant the same refrain, "Do not use on your genitals."  And legally, I can't give Medical Advice.  But I can tell you what happened.  Just don't do this at home, kids.  Seriously, I can’t advise doing what I did.

                Anyways, after a moment of silence, Nurse Practitioner Shalom Hebrewman (that's not his real name), related to me how he caught the purple meanies in Hawaii a few years ago and he just froze them off himself.  And he strongly intimated that he didn't want to see my pecker.  All of this is true, other than the fact that he caught it in the state of Hawaii.  I'm making that up.  He didn't say where he was when he caught it.  But Hawaii sounds like a good place to catch the good old naughty bulge syndrome, so I'm sticking with it. 

                I'm sure if I had pressed him on it, he would have froze them off himself.  But I wasn't about to beg a another man to look at my shlong.  Also, it's quite a bit cheaper to do it myself. 

                So I went to Fred Meyer's later on and picked up a Liquid Nitrogen kit.  Like a boss.  Like a man.

                I got home, dropped my drawers and set the Freeze Off Box on by my sink.  I decided to go with CompoundW’s version because of the patented "Precision Tip."  The instructions were fairly straight forward and I had already made up my mind to disregard all of them and do things my way.

 

                After all, what is one of the loudest proclamations on the box?  "Do not use on your genitals." Ignoring the advice of this large pharmaceutical company to cure the outward signs of a venereal disease is the most Rock n' Roll thing I ever did. 

                I pressed the applicator into the liquid nitrogen reserve releasing the gas with a sharp hiss.  After a few seconds, I pulled the applicator out and examined the frosty, fuming tip.  Satisfied that it was cold enough to burn skin, I jabbed it into my penis and held it until the first wart stung and was covered in snowy, white crystals.

                I repeated this process for the other nefarious nubs and waited about two days to do it again.  The container says to wait two weeks or more before the second application, but they don't even want me to use it on my genitals to begin with, so fuck them. 

                After a few applications, I noticed that some of the warts became crispy on the outside.  I also noticed that the skin felt very sore when my boxers rubbed against it, but it was the joyous agony of victory.

                After all, I was winning the war.  And I beat more than just a few purple bumps.  Becoming a loser in the game of social disease nullified the fear of loss.  More importantly, catching VD made a Man out of me by bringing out my Inner Dirty Sailor. 

I guess you could say that sometimes bad news can be very good for you if you deal with it in the right way.

The come of my brother; or: Cum in the hand is better than cum in the bush

I have two brothers who have kids. One hit his nut-busts-into-babies quota and got his gonads nipped. My other brother has one kid and might be done.

I asked him if he is going to get a vasectomy like my other brother. He said he never will, he would make his wife get her tubes tied instead. He said he's on his second marriage, and if you have one failed marriage, odds are you'll have another. When he is much older he will probably have a young trophy wife, and she'll probably want kids. Why would he want to deny her the joy of child rearing?

Me? I don't have kids, and am on a five year streak of raw dogging my girlfriend with only one toilet baby. Morbid obesity has its perks.

My Scrotal Sputum is Excrement

Have you heard?  "Rubbing one off" is the new "pinching a loaf."

                Piles and piles of wads of cotton, latex, and spent spermatozoa lie dormant in landfills across the Western World.  Sometimes, they freeze amongst the shattered glass, construction debris, and assorted neglected plastic items.  Other times, the rain melts the cotton, washes away the seed, discolors the latex.  When the summer comes, it is all left to fester in the heat.

                The innovation and mass production of  disposable phallus sheaths, female contraceptives and abortifacients, coupled with  various government rulings demanding the availability of these innovations produced some awkward distance between fucking and family. 

                Nowadays, to even say words like “erection” and “family” in the same sentence sounds deviant and even a little disturbing.  We've come a long way from our primitive village farmer roots.

                To further demonstrate what I’m talking about, I’ll display another group of verbal associations to fit together.  Try mixing the words “Father” and “Mother” with the phrase “blew a huge load inside.”  Sort of a weird combination of words to fit a sentence around in our modern minds, but the truth is, for thousands of years, families have quite literally come from cumming.  

                The best kept secret of our day and age is that familes still come from cumming.

                If you’re reading this right now, chances are about seven to nine months before you were born your Dad gave your Mom a big gooey cream pie.

                It is also possible that your faceless father opened his trench coat and shot his flesh cannon into a sterile vial for eighty bucks, and a few weeks to a few months later, your Mom thawed out the snake yogurt in the microwave and studiously poured it into the harry gash of your other Mom.   Perhaps she used a turkey baster to squirt it in.  Now that’s Robert Heinlein space age post-family fuck fantasy right there.

                The 20^th Century was a time of industrial innovation in the field of pregnancy free fucking.  But the creation of this technology has changed the way we get to know carnal knowledge.  And the way we handle our baby gravy, too. 

                Don't get me wrong, the hedonistic element of busting a nut has always been closely intertwined with the whole babymaking side.  But now that it's not about babies at all for many people, it seems to be moving beyond the hedonistic phase and into the realm of bodily urges, like urination and defecation.  At least, that's how it is for me.

               These days, I don’t even get horny.  I just get this physical urge.  It’s not to ravish and fornicate.  It’s simply this bodily need to release tension.  It feels more like I have to take a shit, except the gigantic turd isn’t in my colon.  It’s in my scrotum.

                 Strangely, this is not an urge I get so much when I see an attractive woman as when I say something awkward in public and everybody subsequently ignores my poorly expressed comment.

                The times I want to free the royal oats the most are when I get letters from my landlord.  Unlike many other occasions, such as when my boss sends me an urgent email or when I am questioned by law enforcement personnel about something, I’m alone in my apartment, so I don’t feel inhibited.  When I see these letters  in my mailbox—which are invariably benign bullshit sent to me by the rental association—I get that full feeling in my balls, like I need to empty them.

At the same time, I climb the ladder of associations and begin to imagine what terrible news could await inside.  I think about what it would be like to live in my van when it is below freezing, how I would need to steal to survive and probably turn to hard drugs to deal with the shame of being homeless.  But I mostly just want to splatter my batter.

                I used to get the urge to urinate when I was in terror.  Now I just want to jack off.   I don’t know about you, but that’s what I call progress.