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Wanted: Parents for Calf-Baby

Spider Moon

This book is work of fiction. Any reference to historical events, real people, or real locales is used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's twisted imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Bo Guernsey

Copyright © 2018 by Spider Moon

Published by M.H. Dartos

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“The man is a pervert,” Kathy says. “I’ll bet that somewhere in this world there’s another half-human, half-bovine creature mooing for its daddy. You know how he tends to his cows.”

Before this calf-baby is put out to pasture, his heartbroken mom, Julia the cow, is making one last attempt to place him in a home with loving parents.

“I know who his father is, but I guess he’ll never own up to it. They say that there was a mix-up at the animal husbandry sperm bank. That’s a lot of bull! After being told by fertility specialists that I would never bring forth calves, my owner Mr. J.G.O., offered his own sperm, direct deposit, the sperm of a human being, and it worked. My son was born with a human body and a cow’s head and face.”

“He really is a wonderful little calf: frisky, playful. I hate to give him up, but it will be best for him in the long run.” said the owner Mr. J.G.O., “precautions should have been taken. There are such things as condoms, jellies, withdrawal, and prayer. If any of these (or a combination) had been resorted to, this tragedy might have been averted. Whoever did this thing has taken advantage of one of god’s poor defenseless creatures! He is an evil, heartless, coward who deserves punishment. Just let me catch him! He’ll wish he were dead. I swear I will not rest until the guilty perpetrator is found.”

According to the vet in attendance, the pregnancy was uneventful and nobody realized anything had gone wrong until they heard mooing sounds coming from the infant. My assistant said to me, “Oh mother of god, that calf looks like a human baby.” We whisked the newborn mutant from the barn and placed him in a locked room in our own hospital where we could observe him in secrecy. His mother, of course was allowed to stay with him in order to fulfill her motherly duties of nursing and licking him to sleep. At first Julia did all she could to bring the calf around. But when all he did was lie on his back and kick his legs in the air she became agitated, and refused to nurse him. The vets consulted with a top team of plastic surgeons associated with the mayo clinic that specialized in reconstructive pediatric surgery. Everyone agreed that the infant would be a freak without a future (sideshows being few and far between...displaying himself an exercise in self-denigration) unless he was operated on. Mr. J.G.O., after interviewing Julia and considering the medical staff’s opinions, decided to help Julia give the calf-baby up for adoption. The infant would need lots of professional and amateur attention pre-op, during-op, and post-op. Indeed, it might be many operations, and many years into the future before the child both looked human, and was accepted as such. At no time, however, did Mr. J.G.O. Admit that he was the genetic dumdum bullet, the daddy in bovine absentia, the man without a human cuntry.

“It’s not easy to give up your own calf,” Julia sobbed. “But this calf needs a mommy and a daddy to raise him. He has a wonderful personality combining the bravery of a bull with the placidity of a cow. He’s always mooing, and I just know he’d make some lucky couple very happy and give them a lot of love. Of course, if they had a grassy green field beside their house it would make me very happy. I’d need a place to graze when I visit.”

In all confidentiality, Julia revealed to a close friend that if she ever betrayed Mr. J.G.O. (to the farm journal press) as being the father of her child, he would not hesitate to make hamburgers out of her. Her one bargaining chip, one that she hesitated to use unless she was forced to, was the terrible secret that he did not have long to live his haste to discharge his sperm within her, he had contracted “mad cow disease.” Only she knew that. Only she knew that all of Brazil (famous for Brazil nuts, coffee, and beef) happily chewing away at its steaks and chops would suffer (in ten years more or less) because of one man’s obsessive need to fornicate with a cow! Still, she could not resist waxing dopey romantic, reflecting on the tenderness they shared when he first made a play for her, he lying down in front of her, naked, strapping a thick rubber band around his balls to present a tight flesh fruit sack, her licking those tender fruits in strong slow sensuous strokes until the mauve mushroom head exploded in sweet hot creamy crescendo, then lapping up the emissions in longer slower circles, finally tugging on his pebbles a tad to drain them completely, the face of Mr. J.G.O. alternately tightening and melting into a satisfied ooze, drool running down his cheeks. The first time he upped the ante and mounted her proper she was not surprised just amazed at the quantity of drive and sperm this particular bull commanded.

“What do the tea leaves say? Is the time propitious for me to tell him to go to hell?” I ask Kathy.

“You don’t have to be tough on him now; after all he’s in Brazil, not around the corner.”

“So should I write him a letter? Mr. Juvenal Glenn Oren no longer exists for me. I resent his persistence and his hyperactive glands. Once I’m done with a project, I’m done with it.”

“I wouldn’t.”


“Unless you really want to. Do you?”

“I’m kind of curious about how he’s going to end the complete and unexpurgated Memoirs of a Rakehell From Brazil.”

“Wanna bet he goes on and on, not mentioning you, never ending, like a shaggy bitch story?” Kathy likes saying bitch. She doesn’t have to be politically correct around me. All she has to be is funny.

“Some men who have a macho attitude still think that if a female’s an artist she’s also a whore or a mother confessor,” Kathy says. “This guy thinks you’re both.”

“Naw, he respects me, his beautiful bovine. We discussed a movie together. He spilled his guts; revealed his filthy thoughts.”

“Men confide in females they don’t know, as easily as they fuck females they don’t know, species notwithstanding. Think it’s their birthright.”

“s’funny, I think it’s my birthright too,” I say. “He once told me I should call his penis ‘cock.’ I couldn’t stop laughing at the thought of his penis being a rooster, crowing at sunrise. He slapped me.

“Your feet are the gateway to your soul, and since I am poor cow it is also true that any ground my feet stand on I do not own. A man I once knew was fixated on women’s feet. He’d bring them into the barn and take them savagely. I’d watch the women lay on their backs, their legs spread wide and waggling high in the air. He loved to kiss and caress them, to suck their big toes, to lick between each little pink piggy, to have them walk on him. For these stolen moments of illicit sex (he was married to a woman who refused to satisfy his cravings) he’d wear a special velvet jacket which was soft and thick and gave off little sparks of electricity as she traversed him. His fascination, at first an innocent diversion that gave him great joy, became his downfall since (punishment from heaven?) He managed to catch a disease that resembled foot fungus on his tongue. A skin specialist advised him to give up his compulsive behavior before it killed him. (This is what he told me before we broke up.) He blamed me of course. All I can say is he didn’t get it from me since I’ve never had a skin disease anywhere on my body. And his mouth never touched me, though mine touched his nibble bits many times, the sad deviant. I am reminded of Bunuel’s l’age d’or: the garden scene where a woman sucks the big toe of a naked male statue. It really doesn’t matter what one puts into one’s mouth, it always looks pornographic. Mama Louise is the first bourgeois sculptor to have carved bunions in marble. One comes upon them by surprise after having observed the rest of the carving: a well formed human female in traditional semi-reclining pose. Then. Slyly. There are the feet! (the bone grows outward) a painful grotesquery. A rude reminder of the way things really are. Of what happens. This sculptural malformation is bourgeois’ comment on the sentimentality and false perfection of Rodin’s statues of naked women (that find their parallel in those air brushed photographs seen in playboy and other “skin” magazines.) Thanks for your artfab message Mama Louise. Ugh (!) To that stuff. I like pretty pictures; that’s my taste. Turner seascapes to skinny dip my bare-assed brain. Yeah! Blakelock trees...fuck under them trees. The tarry boats and thick lemon moons of Ryder. So what! I like Ida Applebroog. Applebroog. Can’t get any prettier than that. The stage is set. The players struck dumb by circumstance. The human comedy advances in silence. When the titles appear, fear takes all the credit. I have a few of her early announcements. Scary postcards.”

“Hey Julia, you really like her?”


“Better than who? Daumier? Munch?”

“Munch? Nah. I’m familiar with the silent scream. Do it myself. But in art? Suffering succotash! Stop the suffering and bring on the succotash. I prefer Daumier. Got his kicks revealing the corruption of petty officials, licentious clergy, etc. Vagina vagina everywhere, roaming the countryside, carnivorous clams. Still I prefer Applebroog. As long as injustice and cruelty exist in the home, office, and seedy hotel rooms she will seek it out and show it for what it is. What is it? Home movies: fear, rage, repression, powerlessness, isolation. Not in that order.”


“Do you know her?”


She found herself fat and full of milk, covered by a spotted hide; until a strange flickering nudged her awake.

The picture turned to sand and the color of hyperactive mucous worms as she became conscious. It’s what you get every time a commercial runs on TV.

Most behaviors revolve around one simple concept, or one simple key.

She blinked her eyes.

I really have gained too much weight, she thought. Perhaps this is a dream of warning.

If the bastard stole my bell, he would gain nothing.

Suddenly she realized that he was standing in the bright doorway, manipulating the barn door so that a line of light fell repeatedly over her pancake face.

Maybe I should model again so that I could experience that glamorous life style. My kind of bovine ugly is a great commerce these days.

“Hello,” he whispered. “Are you awake?”


He doesn’t speak the language of the people. Bad rumors would spread and she would lose customers.

She stood, shaking loose the folds of her long cloak, and letting go a blast of foul wind from her storehouse.

“Do I look like a geek?”

“You look beautiful,” he says.

She would rather be a cow in a barn. The putrid was fully twenty-seven years old, like her, hissing with impatience and hot with gashouse chili.

“Please look at my stuff,” he says.

His “stuff” is tripe, his work is crap, his is the kind of trash that is tossed and smashed with feces, nothing in his body of work could she find resonance with, therefore it stank of moose shit. She did not want to survey his half-baked plans for the sex and guts magazine that was occupying his attentions. He had been traveling strenuously for some days and now wants her because he is bored and exasperated.

“Mmm…your ass looks very tasty indeed.”

She looks away, pretends not hearing. But this she hears as she hears all. Of this she is exasperated.

Am I here?

You are.

How do you know?

I do.

She blinked her eyes.

But how?

If the waiter stole my bell, he would gain nothing.



“Hello,” he whispered. “Are you awake?”



Follow and lead.

I will.

You must.

But why?

It is what it is.



“We can fuck now.”

“Fuck? penetrating penetration fucking?”

“But of course.”

He is crude vulgar and all that connects her to this world of misery.


“The rules of beasts precede us.”

“I really have gained too much weight.”

“No, silly cow. For my pulsing pole your sloppy slit is perfect.”

“But I…I…”

He stands and pulls out his pecker, rolling and massaging it to attention.

“Step over now, there, bring your ass over this way.”

“This is not—”

Grab spread thrust grunts groans.


The beast overpowers, shame burns her soul.

She is used and tossed away like yesterday’s slaughterhouse offal. She did not want to read his writing, his crapulous writing, his tormented, obsessive, fanatically, sexually-charged-for-the-rumps-of-furry-animals writing.

She is suffering considerable fatigue.

How does he know?

She did not think she was at the moment capable of judging design ideas for any scheme of things.

She blinked her eyes.

Most of all, she did not want hear his pleading.

She would rather be a cow in a barn than stand between him and Lois and Maura and Gretchen.

They, he and Lois and Maura and Gretchen, were not married although they had lived together for ten years.

Lois and Maura and Gretchen introduced him to strangers as “the father of our bastard children,” which sounded admirably new.

She had lived with the four in the same barn for almost seven years.

He had once told her, “Dutch Mill Lavender, in full bloom at the end of June, is complementary to our Pink Gaura.”

“Hello,” he whispered, thrice weekly. “Are you awake?”

She could not decide whether or not she was married to them or just a masochist in need of cheap sex.

She didn’t think common law applied in her case even if they had consummated.

Maura and Gretchen were quite comely heifers. Though Mr. J.G.O refused to mount them. Just as Julia was once a comely heifer, quite attractive, solemnly submissive, a demeanor that the Mr. found sinfully seductive. But he mounted her like it was going out of style, REPEATEDLY. Maura and Gretchen were young and naïve. Perhaps he had far more wicked intentions for the plucky pair.

Neither one was short any blooms. Lois resembled dried flowers, the moody matron of the herd.

“If I were their milk cow, I think I would pass stool into my milk,” she thought, “That would show these fuckers how much I give a shit!”

Again a knifelike light streamed through the open door. Somewhere out there he lurked and lusted, waiting only to pounce again.

She backed against the cold slat wall pressing her rear flanks in tight, a bold move of defiance. She knew just how to animate this silly boy’s lust. She would peak his pork through rejection, and through cruel tantalization have him flat before her once again, baring his expandable thrill sausage. Her lick was strong, her chew stronger…CHOMP!!!!

Who’s the hamburger now, BITCH??!!!

Who Controls the Penis Controls the Man

"Let us convene manger central and get freaky. Verily I say unto thee that what is today The Bestialities shall be on the morrow The Beatitudes."

"But you don't mean you can't be thinking of like, uh…Fido and…" she tenses and scrunches her nose in painful expression.

"Pop out thine breasts, and suffer thine nakedness unto me and mine comfort hound, sweet sister. Say hey for the Jeez..."

Thoughts race through his open mind, Be fruitful and multiply and fill the earth and subdue it and have dominion over the fish of the sea and over the birds of the heavens and over every living thing that moves on the earth. A lovely deer, a graceful doe. Let her breasts fill you at all times with delight; be intoxicated always in her love. Come, let us take our fill of love till morning; let us delight ourselves with love.

I used to go to the Cafe Seaside, which was immediately opposite the theater. Often I would see actors sitting there after a performance or a rehearsal and would secretly admire them. They would all come in together, wearing black suits like they wear in films about paratroopers, and quietly sit down at their tables. There were so many of them that they would occupy half the room, but they never made a racket. In fact, they were very much on the quiet side, as though they were communicating by way of grimaces. They were perfectly professional and always looked frightened, their bristly beards outstretched like open arms -- not to mention the rather helpless and bashful motions of their hands and eyes as they drank their coffee. They would arrive from the theater all smoky and scorched, sometimes even still smoldering. The director of the company forced them to jump through burning hoops, as many as five in a row. In a play about an airport, they set fire to one of the actor's sleeves with which he then gave signals to the pilot. The actor's flaming hands symbolized the semaphore flags. In a different play four actors, pretending to be sailing on a pirate's ship, drank burning gin from an iron cup

The elevator starts to move. She unbuttons and unzips the bellhop and the bellhop says god yes and pornographic images assault the bellhop with the cataclysmic force of a linebacker's crushing hit. She abandons herself to him, blithely, beautifully squashed against the side panel of the elevator, elderly couples watching with big stunned eyes from marble benches flanking the fountain down in the lobby, and she can see their transfixed faces and the pennies gleaming, coppery, on the translucent floor of the fountain. The bellhop, riding her, excited, nervous, the thrill at this point both from Margarite's comely body compressed against him and from the risk of impending job termination, groans, and suddenly Margarite chants a feral yes and bashes a hole in the glass with her ecstatically clenched fists, shooting sharp shards at the horrified lobby-dwellers down below, and leaps, face first, through the glass and out of the elevator.

And I think of her hair as I walk with two feet of her long black hair as black and heavy as the night in my face and that smell that dark and forbidden smell of her hair nothing small about that smell but it was dark though the light turned down low and she laughed and said what are you doing burying yourself in my hair are you eating my hair and I said no not really but I would like to she said you're crazy or said nothing at all I don't remember and tousled mine and I drank hers fill after fill and she filled me with night and many many nights and thoughts of Baudelaire and Persia.

No sooner had I put my shingle out than the telephone rang. "I can't sleep. There's this rattling sound coming from the basement," a woman's voice confided. I was able to get to her place straightaway, and once there I told her to go about her usual routine as if I wasn't there. So she began to preserve cherries. At first nothing happened, but after a while she gestured to me and, listening carefully, I was able to hear a suspicious sound coming from the cellar. I indicated to her that she should continue with what she was doing and, full of enthusiasm for the adventure, I went downstairs.

Catching me with tendrils invisible the tiny molecules of odor fill the air and smell makes me wonder that I don't see them how small they must be and I smell the fields and the dung they have just spread all over the field over there beyond the dike over there beyond the copse of juniper over there and still they catch me cow dung and horse dung but mainly cow dung that's what I think and all these molecules how small they must be is it true that one molecule of Plutonium in a million of air molecules can kill you I don't think so but they sure are small.

I rode off to Grope Mountain. A visit is always physically engaging but also erotic. Climbing the wall is like climaxing - in mind and spirit. Just grab onto a boob and haul yourself to the top, treading on butts faces vulva and penises as you go. Not actual penises, vulvae, faces, boobs, and butts, to be clear. That type of wall is reserved for orgy parties. Or Alcoholic Architecture, an inhabitable cloud of gin and tonic; or the world's first Multi-Sensory Fireworks display for New Year's Eve; or the Taste Experience for the Guinness Storehouse in Dublin.

I was well ahead of schedule at my job. I was so ahead of schedule that I was able to squeeze in a few more extra tasks before the day ended. Thus I would increase my pay, for one is paid by the job in my line of work. So I got into my company car and rode into the countryside where I was to collect money from an old inventor for no particular reason. This is what I do in my line of work. I stopped along the road for a moment to relieve myself (for there were no toilets in the countryside yet), and I noticed something red sticking out of the ground. It was a wax figure of a painter with a pocket knife attached to its brush. Frightened, I got into the car and rode off to Kiss Azz Coffee, where T-shirts of a Durd angel with java flowing into his trumpet are selling well. But they don't have the blessing of religious leaders.

The shirts have upset the Church of Milo Splotch of Latter-day Shirts. Not only is Gonzoni a revered figure - Durds believe he appeared to church founder Klopect Schmidt - but LSD members are discouraged from drinking coffee.

The shirts show the angel Gonzoni, a male figure in a robe blowing a trumpet. The trumpet is turned up at an angle as coffee is poured in.

"They've been the best-selling T-shirts we've ever done," said Kiss Azz Coffee co-owner Ed Fyzel.

The church informed Fyzel that the angel's image is a registered trademark.

"If they provide proof, we're going to comply," Fyzel said. "We don't want to break any laws or anything."

Kiss Azz Coffee put the image on greeting cards about a year ago and started selling the shirts before Christmas. Gonzoni also appeared in ads that caught the church's attention.

Church spokesman Snott Spotter said the image is a trademark.

"It was a spoof," Fyzel said. "It was meant to be fun."

We are gathered here today to discuss the central matter at the core of our civilization: the penis, or cock if you prefer. Now, we and our multitude of nameless but not insignificant sisters have through millennia suffered the abuses of said penis without so much as a blip of justice on the universal scale, so that we in this modern time still find ourselves at a loss.

To the credit of one Salima Rundy, our benefactor and founder, we have turned the tables on the offending gender and rendered them almost entirely submissive to our aims. Long story short, the council recommends the following: gather up 12 men, the prime examples of the species of course, drug and lay them out naked, blindfolded and gagged, strapped down in circular fashion around a roaring sacrificial fire, then after bringing each one to a staggering strong and sustaining erection, bring each erection to simultaneous and thundering ejaculation, (*do not, I repeat, do not under any circumstances employ the female anus as the ejaculatory means) collect the emissions in the approved vessel, then with utter swift and steady action, remove the genitals from each of the men, then stab each sacrifice through the heart to complete the cycle, all to be concluded by a celebratory roasting of long pigs and sweet meats stew, this process to be repeated and continued until extermination is complete.

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