Brizzles Basket

The afternoon sky was a large, leaking umbrella. The windshields of oncoming cars reflected tall trees along the sides of Highway 60. I’d never been in a car with parents that weren’t mine or with brothers who weren’t. Mr. Popp’s new, steel-belted tires hummed and, like a jowly uncle full of stories, summer waited. Read the rest of this entry »

I’m obsessed. I’m on a mission. Antoinette, this nurse I’ve been nurse working with, doesn’t think I’m funny. I’ve hit her with just about everything I’ve got. I’ve done my impression of Miss Piggy and Kermit the frog having phone sex…

Oh Kermie I’ve been thinking about you all day and about how much I love your big hard Froggy cock. I can’t get it out of my head, Kermie. I love the way it feels in my mouth and how you taste just like chicken. Just thinking about sucking you makes my piggy pussy all wet. No toad’s throbbing love tool has ever affected me the way yours does, Kermie. You fuck me and I want to squeal…

I make fun of absolutely everyone Antoinette and I work with. Even people that I like.

Read the rest of this entry »

It’s 1960. I’m seven years old. Mom’s in the kitchen. She’s always in the kitchen.

Mom’s washing clothes and Marsha and I, seated at a red and white Formica and chrome table, are coloring quietly on brown paper bags like Mom told us to do.

My family and I live in the Iroquois housing project and right now dirty water is rushing from a fat, black, rubber hose attached to the washing machine into a large square, stainless steel sink attached to the wall.

Mom’s big pregnant with Margie.  Mark, still in diapers, is playing with parts of a wooden train set at her feet.

Except for the splashy water sounds, things are unusually quiet right now. Dad’s out looking for a job. He’s always out looking for a job.

My older brothers and Janice aren’t home from school yet and Larry’s asleep in one of the back bedrooms of our almost-all-made-of-concrete apartment. My brother Larry’s supposed to be at school, too, but he won’t go and pretty much nobody can make him. Read the rest of this entry »

It’s 1969. I’m sitting on the Talbotts’ avocado-green couch, watching a report about the successful launch of Apollo 10 on the eleven o’clock news.

Alan, a nine-year-old kid I’ve baby-sat with several times now, is asleep in his room.

The Talbotts have a nice home, with black and white tile floors and Danish Modern furniture. A few really nice pieces. It’s a clean place with a commendable absence of clutter. Robert Talbott makes good money doing something at a place called the Naval Ordnance.

The news ends and Joey Bishop is halfway through his talk show’s opening monologue when the Talbotts return from a movie and dinner out with friends.

A pale looking Emma disappears into the bedroom and when Robert sits on the couch next to me, I sit up and scoot forward.

“It’s okay,” Robert says. “We don’t have to rush right out.”

I relax, sit back and I’m only a little surprised when a minute later Robert puts his hand on my crotch. Joey Bishop tells a few more jokes and Robert’s touching is tentative at first, like the guy just wants to get a little acquainted with things but tentative doesn’t last. I get fully hard and Robert’s big fingers grab my cock through my pants. Read the rest of this entry »

Often, in life, things happen quickly.

Twenty minutes ago I was hanging on a peg at a place called PeekWorld. Now I’m on the front seat of a silver Dodge Dakota — an SLT four-door with an extended cab — being driven much too fast by a young guy who, after a lot of pensive looking around and pacing and considerable comparison and debate, purchased me for $79.95, plus tax.

Oh wait. I should tell you I’m not a person; I’m a sex toy — a masturbator, actually. More specifically, I’m an artificial vagina. My name is Debbie XS11. Read the rest of this entry »

Here’s the master plan for my Brizzlesbasket.com success story:

First, somehow about a bazillion internet folks all over the world will find the site, read the stuff on it and discover how sexy and clever I am.

Okay, about a bazillion people will find out how funny my mother is.

And then you and they will all be typing in “www.brizzlesbasket.com” and clicking like mad men and mad women on my site several times a day.

This will result in me knocking down about $123,416.44 every month from Google and other ad people.

And then once the money starts rolling in . . .

I’m going to move permanently to Jamaica, or a place like that. Somewhere very near a beach, but not Panama City, where I’ll spend the rest of my days in a lounge chair, drinking pink drinks with colorful little umbrellas in them while surrounded by half-naked brown men waving big palm fans.

And at night, I’ll buy hot sex. Lots of it.

Oh yeah, I like it. It may be that the only word I actually ever utter aloud for the rest of my life is “Next.”

Let’s see . . . and I’ll get me a hair transplant. I want Fabio hair.

And I’ll trade in my ‘98 Honda Accord for a ’99 Honda Accord.

And I’ll buy three truck-loads and two shopping carts full of Oreo cookies.

And — because I am a generous and a caring man — I won’t forget all the little people who helped make my dreams come true.

Like, I’ll get my friend Paula some curtains. And my nephew George a nanny. And my son Dan a $100 . . . no, a $50 gift certificate for Borders.

And then I’ll go back to spending money on me.

And I’ll buy clothes and lots of shoes. I’ll get Vera Wang to design them.

And I want a tummy tuck. Yes. And an ass exactly like Ricky Martin’s.

That’s right; I’ll march into the office of a famous plastic surgeon-to-the-stars with a picture of Ricky’s ass, and I’ll bend over and demand an ass just like it.

And I’ll hire a cook . . . with a really big penis. What? Yeah, you’re right. I really don’t care if he can cook.

And (writer tears up and puts his hand over his heart) I’ll buy my sainted mother a wonderful headstone. It’ll be beautiful. I’ll have Vera Wang design it. It’ll be a life-sized Engelbert Humperdinck, flanked by angels and peeing cupids.

And once the headstone is finished, I’ll spend more money on me.

And maybe I’ll get me a gas powered weed-eater. Oh, and diamonds in all of my teeth.

And I’ll change my name to Adolpho, because guys with foreign-sounding names get laid a lot.

And I’ll put fresh cut flowers in every room of my home.

I’ll donate 40 percent . . . no, 30 . . . maybe 10 . . . oh, three percent . . . I’ll donate $25 every month to help those poor, unfortunate people who don’t have food or good cologne.

And then, after I write that check to Unicef, or whoever it is who would see to it that those people actually receive the money, I’ll go back to spending on me.

And I’ll buy myself lap dances. No, I’ll buy lessons on how to give lap dances.

And I’ll get a surfboard. I’ll have Vera Wang design it. No, strike the surfboard. I’ll get a pool boy. Even if I don’t get a pool.

And I must have subscriptions to all my favorite magazines –Details, GQ, Maxim, Vanity Fair, Blue Collar Hunks.

And I want season tickets to whatever game it is that Derek Jeter plays.

And . . . and . . . and . . . out of sheer gratitude, I’ll send everyone who visits this site (that’s brizzlesbasket.com) an autographed 8 X 10 nude photo of myself.

Oh, calm the hell down. Semi-nude, then.

Okay, fine, I won’t bother you. Damn.

And then I’ll go back to spending on myself . . .

My name is Ernie Skaggs. I’m a boy and I’m six-years-old. Usually I go to school vut today I didn’t ‘cause my mom didn’t feel like washing clothes. She stayed in ved with her voyfriend Lester and said I could stay home and play in my underwear so that’s what I did.

I know it’s almost March but Mom’s still tired from the holidays and she wants me to be quiet. Christmas especially wore Mom out. I wanted a DVD player from Santa Clause but I didn’t get one. I got a table instead. It’s a cool table and I liked getting it vecause I already had a chair. Read the rest of this entry »

I carry a sandwich into the living room where I’ve been watching “Close Encounters of the Third Kind” on the Movie Channel. I settle heavily on the couch.

Carol’s doing the Sunday-school-church-and-lunch-with-other-Jesus-loving-girlfriends thing, and for a moment, an afternoon, life is good.

Danny and Ricky are sitting on the back stoop. I have the door open and a nice breeze blows in through the screen.

“I know my Daddy can do it,” I hear Danny say.

“No he can’t. Mine can’t and yours can’t either,” his little friend tells him.

I bite into Rainbow bread and turkey and cheese and wonder what the two boys are talking about. Read the rest of this entry »

To all my lovely friends and readers, I wanted to leave a quick kind of “Gone Fishing” note here to tell you, let you know, that I am fine. I’m just returning from and recovering from a vacation in Panama City, Fla. It was a nightmare. Enough to weird out Wes Craven… I’m serious, I mean I had my picture taken in the mouth of a shark… sigh.

Anyway. I have lots of new notes and outlines. New stories (next up the story where my mom marries Hank and I am both best man and maid of honor) and new hopes of returning (100 percent) to my old story telling self with a swiftness so please check back soon and often. And please if you haven’t already dive into my archives here and please tell anyone and everyone you know (who can read) about me and this website. Most importantly please know I am getting better and I do care about all of you.

Bill

Some whining and whimpering sounds wake me. At first I think it’s Andy, wanting some of my attention, but it’s only Max trying to tell me he needs to go out.

For the one or two of you who may not know, Max is a dog, a mistake — and my fucking, hair-shedding answer to Toto. (God I’m lousy at this gay thing sometimes.)

“What’s going on?” Roddick asks sleepily. Read the rest of this entry »