There used to be certainties. People. Friends that could be trusted with anything. With everything. But that's in the past. That's been exposed as a lie.
You don't want the memories. You don't want the photos. You don't want the reminders.

You said, "I want you to try something new, to see things in a different way,..."

I lay awake. Feeling you next to me. Feeling the warmth of your body against my back. I close my eyes, and feel your arm reach over me. Your hand moves down my arm, resting at my waist. Where it belongs. I can feel you breathing. You let out a sigh of sleep, your arm moves slightly as your breath is released from your chest. Warm on the back of my neck. I lay, not wanting to move. Not wanting to lose that feeling of peace I have when you are next to me. The feeling that I am safe, that nothing can get to me. I lay wrapped in your body, shielded from the world around me.

Surely by now you've heard of the recent Massachusetts court decision striking down a ban on same-sex marriages. And I'm sure you've also heard all the arguments from the homophobes on the right, about how this will herald in nothing less than the end of civilization as we know it.

Two months ago, Sal Swayzo created this freaky image for a story that was pulled. (Yeah, we actually don't print everything.) Instead of tossing the pic, though, we decided to have 12 staff members write 12 different stories about the image for a 12 Days of Christmas type of thing. Dig,...
SMOKIN'-STYLE

Two months ago, Sal Swayzo created this freaky image for a story that was pulled. (Yeah, we actually don't print everything.) Instead of tossing the pic, though, we decided to have 12 staff members write 12 different stories about the image for a 12 Days of Christmas type of thing. Dig,...
WATCHMAN-STYLE
The hunt began long before dawn. As a camouflage-clad hunter stirred his still-dreaming son to take them out into the cold for the boy's first kill. But that rite of passage into manhood was brought to a screeching halt when Blitzen kicked down the door.

Dude. Seriously. What the hell? When we were at the store you said you didn’t even want any peanut butter. That was, what, less than a week ago? Now it’s all gone. It’s not a big deal, it’s just,... I have jelly and bread. Fuck, dude. I was really looking forward to that peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I never even saw you eat any peanut butter! When’d you do it? No, for real. This troubles me. Did you just spoon it straight out of the jar one night when I was, I dunno, out living life while you were zoned out in front of the TV or some shit?

Dear Jennifer Connelly,
Hey. What up? Hope all is well. Oh, you may be wondering who I am, and why I’m writing you. Well, my name is D.J. Kirkbride: ace simpleton and writer for tastes like chicken. I’ve decided to imagine you check our website often, and figured I’d use said self-created delusion to take up a wee little bit of bandwidth as a way to ask you out on a date.

Okay, so you know what Pure Lard is by now, right? Some shit that I've been writing every month (or so) since back when you were in short pants, right? Yeah. Now it's in tastes like chicken every month because Insane Wayne Chinsang wants me to keep quiet about his severe anal ras-- I mean, uh,.. it's a good time! Read on!

I used to think Christmas was for ninnies. Well, ninnies and Gentiles. Then I discovered that my editor/boss/sponsor, the honorable Wayne Chinsang, has a heart.
I discovered it about a half-hour ago, when he gave me a special little DVD called The Work of Director Michel Gondry.