Massive Fuck Off Beard

The Bearded Lady, Madame Delait Vintage Postcard

“Madame Delait, the Bearded Lady” 1910

Some argue that women aren’t celebrated enough.  I argue that bearded women aren’t celebrated enough.  Therefore, in the spirit of justice, I have endeavoured to help change social attitudes towards the glory that is the thatched female and present this tale of intrigue.  Well, there probably isn’t all that much intrigue actually, but there is beardage, and to some that can be quite intriguing itself.  Written on the 20th May 2017.


Massive Fuck Off Beard

She was a woman with a plan. Her affliction had seen her childhood and teenage years ruined but now in the intellectual awakening that was her twenties she had a brilliant idea. Some may even say, a spiffing one.

At its core it was a rather simple idea, one which would turn her world on its head and reap great rewards. She would embrace her facial thatch and cultivate that which would become both revered and loved as, the “massive fuck off beard”. And so, she set to work and squeezed real hard.

In a month she was regularly mistaken for a man. In six months she had become a well respected wizard, despite knowing no magic. And in two years she could form a skipping rope with her facial foliage so long that up to seven children could jump it at once.

But now came the tough part: convincing the locals that she was indeed a she and not a he as many would initially presume.  For it is often said in carnie circuits that nobody buys a ticket to see a bearded man.

She pondered her options for some time. She could take her top off, but that would be lewd and no self respecting bearded woman would lower themselves to such a standard. There was also the option of getting pregnant and popping a crotch fruit in a public forum. But again, that would be vulgar. And besides, she wouldn’t have a child for such a ridiculous reason.

No, she would much rather prove her womanhood by not laughing at the next fart that happened in front of her. Then they’d know she was all woman. For it was a well known fact that this was something that could not be faked.

She’d show them she was all woman. All, bearded, woman.

The day finally came when an opportunity arose and a fireman farted beside her in church. All the men burst out laughing as the coffin squeaked off behind the velvet curtains. But the one with the gigantic forest for a face didn’t even crack a smile.

The reverend noticed first. He dropped his bible and pointed, a vacuous wheeze coming from his agape mouth. In the commotion that followed, several stained glass windows were shattered, the organ collapsed and the pews were weaponised and thrown around in the uproar.

This he was undeniably a she, and clearly in no way a he. And she was very happy that everyone now knew the truth behind her dense thicket of bristles. “Behold!” the woman shouted, calming everyone with a polite courtesy. “I am a woman, and if you wish to behold my massive fuck off beard, you may pay me tuppence at my house on Wilted Cabbage Road and see it at your leisure”. And with a brief flick of her skirts, she turned heel and left.

In the months that followed, many curiosity seekers did come to the house on Wilted Cabbage Road and the young woman was soon rich beyond her wildest dreams. After a time she decided that she’d earned enough coin and so shaved her local legend off, sold her home and left town altogether, coming to the conclusion that she would much rather spend the rest of her life beard-free and soaking up the sun on the coast than remain in the town which had once ridiculed her for her differences.

The town, having now lost a huge portion of its wealth to the absent woman, found itself bankrupt. And soon enough, as is the way with such things, it had fallen into disrepair and disrepute. Things eventually got so bad that the government threw up its hands and nuked it, pretending it had never existed at all. They sworn vehemently for the next several decades that the radioactive crater several miles across had always been there, and the twelve limbed dogs that the chased neon cats were indigenous to the area.

And somewhere out there on the idyllic sands of a distant sun-kissed beach, a content woman rubs her petite chin, and in the process reminds herself to grab a quick shave whenever she gets back to the beach house.

McAllister’s Woe

Back to Black - Laura in Bella Magazine1

“Back to Black” by Anna Gunselman (2014)

I am an odd person.  I have decided this based on the standard of weirdness that my writings regularly attain.  This tale is absolutely no different.  I won’t even give it a proper introduction.  Instead, here are two relevant points of interest discussed within: Laura Prepon and a toilet of God.  Sound fun?  Fantastic!  Have at it, reader!  Originally written on the 8th May 2017.


McAllister’s Woe

Reverend McAllister was thinking about Laura Prepon again. In addition to being a famous actress of her day, Laura was also a whimsical painter with dazzling nails and vast toes with which to cultivate them. Most of that is probably not true, but McAllister liked to think it was. In addition to being an employee of Christ, he was also a devout creep.

The man of God pranced through the vestry and over to the decorative gold toilet, whereupon he reflected on his manhood. As a general rule, he had always hated other men’s more picturesque genitalia because his own was not so aesthetically pleasing. The fact that he made a habit of stabbing knitting needles into it certainly didn’t help. Though, despite its flaws, it was alert and featured an above average pain threshold. It was an organ that encouraged his tendency to feel mighty.

As he picked out a piece of broken knitting needle, he saw something in the toilet bowl. Or rather, someone. Yes, it was unmistakable. It was a miniaturized version of Laura Prepon.

McAllister gulped. He glanced back at his manhood, waggling like a puppy dog’s tail and semi-obscuring his view of the little woman in the toilet. He shifted slightly to the left. Yes, there she was, floating alongside half a knitting needle, the love of his life and star of his most sordid dreams.

It was weird, yes, but who was he to question an opportunity like this? Perhaps the Almighty was finally rewarding his lifetime of service. This was his big chance to impress Laura Prepon with his knowledge of toenails and snag her for life. But there was something nagging at the back of his mind. Was he truly deserving of Laura Prepon’s love? He was a man who had once made a cup of nesquik for a senile blind person and smashed it in her face so many times she was never identified.

But not even a spiteful person who had once made a cup of nesquik for a senile blind person was prepared for the reason sweet Laura was in his toilet that day.

She was there to kill him.

Being astronomically in love to the point that, as mentioned, his genitalia wagged like a doggie’s rear appendage, tears of elation began to rain down from the reverend’s face like lemon juice off a bag of lemons being headbutted repeatedly into a wall by an elephant seal with a headache and a disdain for sour fruit. He had to regain his composure, else Laura Prepon might think he was weird. McAllister quickly grabbed a copy of the bible off the shelf above the toilet. He rubbed its fine paper pages, trying to reclaim some dignity.

Without putting his still wagging man-of-the-cloth away, McAllister reached into the toilet and was elated to see Laura reaching up to meet his grasp. Suddenly, he could see a look of devilry in her eyes. It confused him. Laura Prepon was meant to love him, it was written in the stars that he drew on the ceiling above his bunk bed. But devilish glints meant nothing to him anymore, he was so consumed, he didn’t care. Lust had taken control of his sensibilities as well as senses.

Suddenly, Laura glared with all the wrath of 2099 cold-blooded, murderous giraffes trying to coordinate a carpet bomb attack on a trio of primarily dessert-based nations. In a tone that made the toilet water quake, she screamed, “I loathe you and I want a nail clipper!”

McAllister looked shocked. No one ever expects a three inch version of their crush to appear in a toilet bowl and demand a nail clipper after confessing its supreme hatred for them. The reverend fingered the bejesus out of the fine paper biblette.

“Laura, I am your father,” he replied.

This wasn’t even remotely true, but clearly McAllister wanted to hurt Laura Prepon and that was the best he could come up with on such short notice.

They looked at each other in surprise for a moment, like two homeless Croatians who’d had a string of bad luck as of late and had thought they were about to turn things around only for someone to poo in their cheeseburgers and laugh. On their collective birthday.

Suddenly, Laura lunged forward and tried to punch McAllister in the moustache. Quickly, the reverend used the almost immaculate – but not quite because he’d been fingering its fine paper pages for a long time by this point, and with excessive force – biblette and brought it down on Laura Prepon’s soaking wet head.

Laura, the three foot woman with toes for days and nails to match was dead. McAllister’s heart was broken. The poor miniature woman, she looked so squished, like a trodden on burrito.

The reverend let out an agonising groan and collapsed onto the toilet, smashing his head off the rim and, in his unconscious state, drowning to the point where he attained the biological event known as death.

It was not a beautiful death, however, as the vestry’s toilet remained unflushed throughout.

The Ship of Nails

Naglfar by Dhattura (2012)

“Naglfar” by Dhattura (2012)

One of my favourite things is mythology.  In particular, Norse mythology has always fascinated me.  With its rich tales and sagas, characters, gods and events, the old Norse stories have always been a source of inspiration.  I wrote this short piece a while ago about Naglfar, the ship of nails, and decided to post it here finally.  Hope you enjoy!  Originally written on the 23rd June 2016.


The Ship of Nails

It anchors in the fracture somewhere. Harboured in a cold world between the now and the imminent.

It is a ship. An infinite-masted hulk of immense age, one made entirely out of the fingernails and castings of the gallant dead. Behold tearful eyes to grand Naglfar, ship of the perished.

A ghastly vessel with a purpose as yet unrealised, it idles in meditation within the dead calm of the in-between. For a glacial eternity it has waited patiently for the moment the horns call its name; the rapturous trice Ragnarök comes to cleave the world asunder.

And when the time-encrusted and long submerged anchor is finally raised, Naglfar will set off, silencing into the new dawn, sails billowing with the gnashing winds of resolute cataclysm.

Vígríðr, attainable destination of the destinationless. Journey’s end for the driven cleaver of ancient waters. An unsettled harbour, an imminent surging of war, all this and oblivion lie beyond the vermilion curtain of horizon.

Below decks of weathered nail, chained to desiccated corpses, a horde lies in cargo. They will be ferried, fate-bound to engage in the great battle, a final confrontation with the stricken old gods. And all around them, as the ravaged skies fall like shattered ice, a lone wolf shall take the sun in its mighty jaws. And in his ravenousness, swallow it whole.

He of the jötunn will take the ship’s helm. An old sea captain, Hrym is his name. From Jötunheimr of the fracture he hails. His stern nod shall raise the anchor, heavy with the rust and barnacles of woe, and in his dying breaths direct the cadaverous hands that command rope.

He of Fárbauti and Laufey, father of the wolf will be the master’s equal. Together making unheard passage towards solemn Midgard, they will approach the decay of grandeur: the swallowing of time absolute.

A skeletal ship of nails heralding desolation in its spectral wake, it cuts the waters of the now and the imminent. A dying, muted symphony of portent separating the threads between worlds. The Harbinger of Dissolution will drift towards ruin, slicing its steadfast path into the murky unknown of futures untold.

Boldly, Naglfar sails on.