Going There


Suggested Audio Jukebox ♫

[1] Johnny Cash “I Walk The Line”

[2] Sly Fox “Let’s Go All The Way”

[3] Filter “Hey Man Nice Shot”

[4] Sly and the Family Stone “Hot Fun in the Summertime”



Where do we draw the line? What is deemed appropriate and what pushes the line of public decency a little too far? When should those bars of soap be produced and how rigorously should we wash our mouths out with them? Writing in the manner that I do, all of the above posers have been entertained on more than one occasion during my tenure and I guess it’s just a matter of opinion. There’s a whole lot of devilish fun to be had from black comedy and its allure is far too strong for a cheeky little blighter like myself. I’m okay with being the guy who “goes there” so long as nobody is getting hurt. If this means constantly slamming Justin Bieber then, rest assured, I have no real issue with the ‘lil pipsqueak. That statement itself must seem ludicrous but he’s currently attempting to make something of himself and knuckling down to what he’s good at – making music to hemorrhage to – so more the power to him I say. It doesn’t mean I won’t ridicule the shit out of him at every available opportunity until it ain’t funny anymore but, the moment he reads one of my playful swipes and his feelings become hurt, then I’ll stop tagging The Biebs in my posts. Doesn’t mean he won’t still get it, he’ll just get it behind closed doors and with no intention of crushing his spine between adjacent twin wrecking balls. Just a bit of harmless tomfoolery.


If I’m aiming to get a rise from my readership for the purpose of good old-fashioned hijinks, then the views I share may not necessarily always be endorsed by me. Those who know me personally will have a fair idea of what reeks authenticity and what smells like teen spirit. Every single piece I scribe is different and multiple sides of my character are shown but not all of these tally up to my real points of view. When I write something, I wish for it to be approachable regardless of timeline, perused subjectively, and out of context with current affairs. This can seem hard at the time and this is where noses are put out of joint but, reading the same article back from a fresh vantage, can suddenly see your words making a helluva lot more sense. As for humor, well that’s just timeless right? We all deserve to laugh at least once during every calendar day and I’m more than obliging on this front. You see, for all my dark fiction and horror leanings, I’m essentially a comedian. Read enough of my prose and there are a multitude of common threads, many of which are woven around my funny bone. Occasionally I look to reveal another side to my game and keep things po-faced but it’s a test of stamina let me tell you.


The images I select to adorn my verse have a tendency of pushing the envelope with regards to public decency and this is where I become a right little mischief-maker as I’m a shamelessly visual creature and love nothing more than having my retinas tickled. Female to male ratio may seem a little lopsided and admittedly the former seem more than willing to appear in all manner of compromising positions whereas those bucks are barely granted a sniff of the gorgonzola. Believe it or not, this isn’t intentional on my part, there just seems to be that much more to choose from when it comes to the fairer sex. Should I really feel that I’m testing those boundaries then I’ll slap a mature content sticker on the front end and consider that all that is required to say about the matter. Rivers of Grue is an adult site, of that there should be no confusion, and censorship nary figures into the equation. That said, I have my limits, and will not lower the tone beneath a level that I’m comfortable with as I’m not looking to repulse for the sake of it, just provoke a reaction through visual, whatever that reaction may be. Shock, awe, vague discomfort, belly laughs – all are fair game in my book – and I’m only too happy to endorse all freely through pictorials. But they needn’t say anything about my character. That all depends where I’m going and why.


Masturbation tends to crop up rather habitually and I have to come clean at this point, as I’m really not the committed philanderer I make out from time to time (and time again). That’s all just part of the Keeper styling, a constant desire to be self-effacing, and the fact that certain topics never grow old to a simpleton like me. Some of my humor is decidedly high brow and discussing wanking at regular intervals assists me in striking myself a balance by way of the lowest common denominator. Bowel movements often find their way onto the programme too and it isn’t unheard of for me to sicken myself by veering off course to sink those battleships. This is where it comes in handy being an adult as we enter these pages of our own free will, at our own risk, and being aware of the lapse rule set upon commencement. Pretty much everything goes and there are few topics I won’t breach for the purpose of entertainment although even I have my limits, as ludicrous as that may appear at times. Keep those hefty pinches of salt on hand and you should find that I seldom steer you wrong.


Depending on where I am in my life at the time, my output tends to fluctuate in terms of mildness of manner. I recently scribed (but haven’t yet released) a piece by the name of The Cynic and there ain’t much humane about the blathering within and not a great deal of sweetness and light either. That said, none of the views expressed are my own per se, merely ways of viewing certain scenarios if I were that way inclined. It’s chock full of irony and deeply satirical, stating pretty clearly where I stand on pessimism but without necessarily spelling it out for the reader. I don’t know about you but, if I’m reading someone else’s work, then I accept that there will be a degree of legwork necessitated on my part. Give me those grey areas and I’ll slather them until the cows come home, before firing up my George Foreman Grill and slicing myself off some T-Bone. Make me think dagnabbit, get those neurons motoring, give me a reason to care. I wish to feel something, even if that be abject horror, and any scribe worthy of their very own salt shaker happens to have the tools to encourage this readily at their disposal. I love the smell of napalm in the morning but no more than I find methane engaging to my nostrils. It’s all ultimately gravy to Keeper.


My skin has thickened considerably over the past few years and very little offends me nowadays. Long since have I become desensitized to things that would previously have ruffled my feathers, and I much prefer this to being touchy and hyper-sensitive. That said, when all is said and done, I’m an old-fashioned guy with a certain degree of dignity and like to reveal glimpses of my inner distinguished gentleman on occasion, just to remind you that he still languishes within. Recently I wrote a short piece of romantic science-fiction fiction that I’m incredibly proud of called Otherworldly and refrained from taking it anywhere other than “not there”. I actually surprised myself with the restraint I used and, while one particular image could be considered in bad taste, it actually fits the context rather well and its edges soften as a direct result. Of course, the very next day I wrote something suitably unruly, but that’s the beauty of firing from multiple cannons. I don’t wish to become predictable and, when you consider the amount of words at our disposal and the numerous ways in which we can weave them, then there’s no reason whatsoever for this to become applicable. If one dish strikes out on a personal level, then may I suggest the Waldorf salad with my very own thousand island dressing? Keep on coming back and you may well earn yourself that discount you know.


Unless I’m way off course here, it’s all ultimately about having fun right? Whichever way we elect to represent, there is a duty to our readership to entertain as that’s what makes this different from textbook exercises and being told how to suck eggs repeatedly. I don’t even eat poxy eggs and therefore can shed little light into the most agreeable methods of mastication. But I can raise a smile or two, tickle me a fair few pickles, empower others to only take life as seriously as is absolutely necessary and take five once in a while to slum it with a well-meaning heathen. That’s my ultimate goal and the whole reason I wear clown shoes when they evidently offer precious little in the way of ankle support. In another recent fable, which will remain unnamed at this point, I attempt to schmooze a Peregrine Falcon and not in a manner particularly gentlemanly either. Does that make me a bang-to-rights bird fucker? Negative, way too many feathers for my liking. But I will “go there” for the purpose of narrative and am only too willing to paint a pretty crystal picture of the transaction. That’s just me, keen ornithologist that I am, and this particular Peregrine Falcon was begging for a stuffing if you ask me. Cock teases the lot of ’em. You see how this works?


I’m as wascally a wabbit as they come and hold my hands up on that count, while banking on my stiffy to uphold both my aristocracy and slacks. But I’m also a loveable blighter when you get to know me better and mean far less harm than I do charm. For as long as there are ways to entice through prose, I’ll do precisely that, whether one person takes the time to like my posts or a dozen. That’s not why I’m here, that kind of validation is no longer requisite, as I know those who enjoy the ride and ain’t as insecure as it may sometimes appear. Granted, kind words are the fuel to my pistons, but they need not always be spoken to know where they reside. Becoming comfortable in my skin has been of utmost importance and I reached that point some time ago. Alas, the fit is all wrong, and that leaves space for a few stowaways to come and join me. Keep your hands off my kidneys as I have an idea they’re pretty crucial and please attempt not to brush against my lungs as you assume position as they comprise 95% ash, and we should be just fine. I may tiptoe us over a few claymores from time to time but promise to make it as enriching and, most critically, entertaining as humanly possible. Once a clown, always a clown, I learned that from Ronald McDonald as he entered into his thirtieth trimester. If he can make a go of it when he’s evidently inherently evil, then surely a cheeky young scamp like myself has earned every lick of that face paint.

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