C H E A P S W I L L

The Revolution is Breweing

The Sexual Revolution Reborn!

motivaional_communismmachismo (n.) ma·chis·mo 1. a strong or exaggerated sense of manliness; an assumptive attitude that virility, courage, strength, and entitlement to dominate are attributes or concomitants of masculinity. 2. a strong or exaggerated sense of power or the right to dominate: Example: The military campaign was an exercise in national machismo.

Two studies on why males fight were published last week in scientific journals. They concluded, and rather vaguely, that “machismo may be biologically inevitable.” Its flattering to witness science attempting to prove what males already tend to instinctively and wholeheartedly understand. And that is that violence is an ingrained impulse, it is a tool of survival with origins tracing further back than our collective memory can reach. Men are biologically designed to be protectors/providers, and violence has proven to be a reliable means to secure a meal, protect the chances of reproduction and thus ensure survival. Ironically, though it is a biologically ingrained tool for survival, masculinity’s bastard cousin, ‘machismo’, is actually self destructive. Witness how Man embraces his nature and pushes it to extremes on his survival quest. This is ‘machismo’ and it manifests itself into many evils that all corrode away the core of humanity.

In the individual machismo becomes apparent in fierce competitiveness, an exaggerated sense of Yin–masculine qualities and attributes, and the desire to exert ones manliness or need to prove dominance. On a mass scale ‘machismo’ is evident in the subjugation of women, violence against women, professional sports like the WWF, hockey, football and the roller-derby; arms races and most destructively, war. When masculinity is allowed to mutate into machismo no longer does it serve as a tool of survival but in fact aides in ones own destruction (how can you win an arms race?). Sadly though, machismo is perpetuated and even encouraged by our society. Our governments and leaders, especially our big brother to the south, ooze machismo. The American style of world domination is very patriarchal: heavy handed, exploitative, domineering, and bullish. Even their leaders personal lives reflect and are celebrated for their machismo. The entertainment industry caters to chauvinistic fantasies as well, espousing false values that plant seeds of illusion in the minds of young men and thereby perpetuate machismo. Hollywood churns out male oriented movies wholesale. Here sex is objectified, war is glorified, and people are exploited. Despite somewhat of a backlash spawning from of the feminist movement to recreate the modern woman, when men had begun to feel comfortable expressing their vulnerability, sensitivity and traditional feminine qualities, but alas machismo still stubbornly stands erect.

Its foolish to deny that testosterone and all that inclines men to fulfil their biological role is in itself evil. However it is wise to carefully identify which male qualities and values we cling to that are potentially harmful and destructive to ourselves and others. We need to look at the underlying desires that fuel our chauvinistic urges and establish more productive means to meet our desired end. Our rational mind, perhaps our most valuable tool of survival, must consciously push us over this evolutionary hump and see to it that machismo is eradicated.

CheapSwill wholeheartedly endorses the fantastic sexual revolution that is sweeping the nation and soon hopefully our very own town. The movement, known as Sexual Communism, is designed to curb chauvinistic urges on a spiritual path toward enlightenment. We are proud to present this brief sermon provided by the enigmatic leaders of this movement exclusively for this publication! Ladies and gentlemen, Rev. Max Temperance and the honourable Rev. B. Ashworth.

“Greetings, first let me dispel any misconceptions regarding Sexual Communism. Though we’ve adopted the term ‘communism’ we are not a political party. We do not endorse Carl Marx’s manifesto nor do we support any communist parties or revolutions which have occurred in the past or may occur in the future. We do not encourage the proletariat to rise up against the capitalists. We do however advocate the casting off of chains which keep people sexually repressed. Because only through the physical expression of love, enjoyment and satisfaction, through sex, can our deepest desires and needs be actualised and met. And if this capacity is suppressed, so to is our spiritual growth and development. The first step in the arduous but often enjoyable path to sexual enlightenment is to systematically escape the chains and smash through the barriers that limit us as sexual creatures. These include taboos, hang-ups, the objectification of sex, exploitation, socially imposed gender roles, and the focus of today’s article, machismo. Through sexual communism ‘machismo’ is slowly dismantled to reveal the true and pure core of masculinity. Once machismo is relinquished by offering himself up to a constant influx of sexual experiences with various partners, no longer does man feel the need to exert his manhood. But beware, sexual communism is not as easy and enjoyable as it may sound. Many will be opposed to your lifestyle change. They will call you a “slut,” a “hussy,” perhaps even a “harlot,” but never forget that those who oppose you are still sexually repressed. They live their life in fear of their own god given sexuality. You are on a righteous path, stay true and you will attain enlightenment. Look not to the hippie free-love movement of the 1960’s for inspiration. They were eager on the same path in which you are about to embark on but their so-called sexual revolution was slowly deluded and eventually burnt out by excessive drug abuse. One must constantly remain open-minded if they wish to attain enlightenment, but one mustn’t rely on mind altering drugs to maintain an open mind. Some Eastern religions, like Tantric Yoga, seem to offer insight into liberation through sexual unions, but these religions can be dangerous because of their exclusiveness. In such disciplines you are expected to focus on only one partner, while sexual communism allows for multiple partners and thus a more vast, varied, and all-inclusive experience. We identify with the motto: “To each according to her need, by each according to his ability.” And vice versa. However, in order to attain the level of spiritual enlightenment necessary to experience the true freedom inherent in this ideal, one must offer himself or herself up to monk-hood on a commune where the strict discipline of sexual communism is actually lived out.

Here is a run down of the regimen:

#1. Sexual acts will be performed with random partners, matched only by numerical representation, and paired on the occasion of copulation.

#2. The order of the sexual acts will be as follows. Both persons will kiss for 2 minutes. Both persons will passionately kiss for 1 minute. Both persons will begin to grope each other through clothing for 3 minutes. Both persons will disrobe. The male will receive oral sex for 6 minutes. The female will receive oral sex for 5 minutes, with the addition of 1 minute for the kissing of breasts. Intercourse will begin with the male on top for 3 minutes. The woman on top will be for 5 minutes, as she will need time to have an orgasm. If the male did not orgasm with the woman during that 5 minutes, then he has the option to continue having the woman on top, or revert to the man on top until orgasm. If the male orgasm has not been reached after 4 minutes, the act is cancelled.

#3. Sexual meets happen 5 times a month. All persons must attend at least 2 times a month.

#4. All public holidays will have a sexual act that corresponds with the holiday. Participation is optional, but each person must attend at least 10 holiday sex acts per year. These holiday sexual acts are to allow the naturally kinky habits to come to focus, but to not let them take over ones life on a day to day basis. NEW YEARS DAY = drunken group sex. MARTIN LUTHER KING JR. DAY = group sex with an African American theme. PASSOVER (aka: Assover) = spanking, cocaine, ass worship. GOOD FRIDAY = oral sex (both sexes, split into AM / PM shifts). EASTER = hide the eggs on strings in any orifice, paint your genitals. MOTHER’S DAY = any mother may choose between 2 hours oral sex, 2 hour massage, or a 2 hour gang bang. VICTORIA DAY = everyone dresses like a blond cocktail waitress and has sex on jello. MEMORIAL DAY = group sex in fields lined with wreaths while sounds of war explode in the air. FATHER’S DAY = 2 hour gang bang. CANADA DAY = everyone has drunken group sex, but must say sorry out of context at least 30 times. INDEPENDENCE DAY = group masturbation. CIVIC HOLIDAY = sex in a small car. LABOUR DAY = performing sexual acts that you dislike (Men; oral sex on women… Women; anal sex with men). THANKSGIVING DAY = reviewing personal videos of past holidays. REMEMBERANCE DAY = group masturbation to video highlights of past holidays. HANUKKAH = candle/hot wax sex, kosher food sex, sex with brown socks. CHRISTMAS DAY = turkey stuffing, special sauces. BOXING DAY = bondage and dentistry. This is a sufficient primer course on the massive and consuming topic. There is still much to explore and learn. Next lesson will focus on the liberation from false gender roles, the ethics of sexual communism, and technique. Stay tuned for more.

-The Exalted Reverend Max Temperance With consultation provided by, Rev. B. Ashworth

The Celibate Misogynist

Paul Easterling lay in bed unclothed, exalted by the feeling of his cold flesh on the electric night air. It was a starry Saturday midnight and he was looking for a ship to hitch his thoughts to, something to carry him gently into sleep, the land of pipe dreams and pillow drool.

But all was not right that night, something nagged him, haunted him. He tossed and turned, listless and wired. Maybe it was the pair of double rusty nails he’d swallowed with dinner, black cod with acorn squash and peppercorn maple drizzle. His thoughts swaggered, stumbled and swooped all at once, tracing the nights events. A bourgeois meal, dull, obligatory conversation, and inevitable rejection. Her yearning face flickered in the corner of his eye, but when he turned she was not there.

He tried TV, schlepped through channels of shameless trash, halted on few tense hands of Texas Hold’em before being pulled into a vortex of nutritional blender drinks. Yawn. He clicked it off.

He tried reading. A book of poems. The words funneled off the page, into his lap and tampered something deep inside of him. He absorbed a few stanzas then suddenly more than just his thoughts were stimulated. He reached under his mattress and pulled out a crisp magazine, Wet Slot, and thumbed through a few pages. Paul could span the gamut of arousal from Anais Nin-erotica to pseudo-erotic smut and still have a hard time. But what endured after the inevitable exhalation?

He felt too much, he convinced himself. That was why tonight he left her where he had found her a week ago, at the restaurant bar. When they’d first spotted each other, across a crowded room (of course) he was compelled to have her. But her vector would run parallel to his for only a moment, just enough to motivate him to pursue her. Or was he pursuing an idea, a notion of what he thought was normal? Guy meets girl, wines girl, dines girl, gets behind girl, right? But as he sat across the table from her tonight clinging to the initial glimmer of attraction that faded with every inane comment that fell flat, he knew he could not suffer her any longer. It was painfully obvious that she held out for hope, her hand curled up on the white linen inviting his, but he pretended not to notice. After the server rushed them the cheque, they traded excuses and parted. She found a girlfriend at the bar, probably drank too much and stumbled home with some bullwhipped consolation prize. Paul drove the speed limit back to his apartment.

He hated porn for what it did to him, just as he hated all the woman hed rejected. Wet Slot hallowed him. The vacuous sneer of the oiled, writhing model expressed victimization whether by economics, abuse, or coercion and it inspired an orgasm tainted with the same flavour. She was not modeling sex, but an emotion. And it wasnt pleasure, despite what her poses, however nuanced, conveyed; it was nihilism. On her face was imprinted her emotional reality, and splayed on the page, for your pleasure, was her raw and naked story. He resented his sexual impulse because it made him a victimizer, and he hated himself for being so weak, and he hated his date for reminding him of how dysfunctional his sexuality was. And then he came. And slept. And dreamed not.

This is not the future, this is Futurism

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By F.T. Marinetti

We had stayed up all night, my friends and I, under hanging mosque lamps with domes of filigreed brass, domes starred like our spirits, shining like them with the prisoned radiance of electric hearts. For hours we had trampled our atavistic ennui into rich oriental rugs, arguing up to the last confines of logic and blackening many reams of paper with our frenzied scribbling.
An immense pride was buoying us up, because we felt ourselves alone at that hour, alone, awake, and on our feet, like proud beacons or forward sentries against an army of hostile stars glaring down at us from their celestial encampments. Alone with stokers feeding the hellish fires of great ships, alone with the black spectres who grope in the red-hot bellies of locomotives launched on their crazy courses, alone with drunkards reeling like wounded birds along the city walls.
Suddenly we jumped, hearing the mighty noise of the huge double-decker trams that rumbled by outside, ablaze with colored lights, like villages on holiday suddenly struck and uprooted by the flooding Po and dragged over falls and through gourges to the sea. Then the silence deepened. But, as we listened to the old canal muttering its feeble prayers and the creaking bones of sickly palaces above their damp green beards, under the windows we suddenly heard the famished roar of automobiles.
“Let’s go!” I said. “Friends, away! Let’s go! Mythology and the Mystic Ideal are defeated at last. We’re about to see the Centaur’s birth and, soon after, the first flight of Angels!… We must shake at the gates of life, test the bolts and hinges. Let’s go! Look there, on the earth, the very first dawn! There’s nothing to match the splendor of the sun’s red sword, slashing for the first time through our millennial gloom!”
We went up to the three snorting beasts, to lay amorous hands on their torrid breasts. I stretched out on my car like a corpse on its bier, but revived at once under the steering wheel, a guillotine blade that threatened my stomach.The raging broom of madness swept us out of ourselves and drove us through streets as rough and deep as the beds of torrents. Here and there, sick lamplight through window glass taught us to distrust the deceitful mathematics of our perishing eyes.I cried, “The scent, the scent alone is enough for our beasts.”
And like young lions we ran after Death, its dark pelt blotched with pale crosses as it escaped down the vast violet living and throbbing sky.But we had no ideal Mistress raising her divine form to the clouds, nor any cruel Queen to whom to offer our bodies, twisted like Byzantine rings! There was nothing to make us wish for death, unless the wish to be free at last from the weight of our courage!And on we raced, hurling watchdogs against doorsteps, curling them under our burning tires like collars under a flatiron. Death, domesticated, met me at every turn, gracefully holding out a paw, or once in a while hunkering down, making velvety caressing eyes at me from every puddle.“Let’s break out of the horrible shell of wisdom and throw ourselves like pride-ripened fruit into the wide, contorted mouth of the wind! Let’s give ourselves utterly to the Unknown, not in desperation but only to replenish the deep wells of the Absurd!”The words were scarcely out of my mouth when I spun my car around with the frenzy of a dog trying to bite its tail, and there, suddenly, were two cyclists coming towards me, shaking their fists, wobbling like two equally convincing but nevertheless contradictory arguments. Their stupid dilemma was blocking my way—Damn! Ouch!… I stopped short and to my disgust rolled over into a ditch with my wheels in the air…O maternal ditch, almost full of muddy water! Fair factory drain! I gulped down your nourishing sludge; and I remembered the blessed black beast of my Sudanese nurse… When I came up—torn, filthy, and stinking—from under the capsized car, I felt the white-hot iron of joy deliciously pass through my heart!A crowd of fishermen with handlines and gouty naturalists were already swarming around the prodigy. With patient, loving care those people rigged a tall derrick and iron grapnels to fish out my car, like a big beached shark. Up it came from the ditch, slowly, leaving in the bottom, like scales, its heavy framework of good sense and its soft upholstery of comfort.They thought it was dead, my beautiful shark, but a caress from me was enough to revive it; and there it was, alive again, running on its powerful fins!And so, faces smeared with good factory muck—plastered with metallic waste, with senseless sweat, with celestial soot—we, bruised, our arms in slings, but unafraid, declared our high intentions to all the living of the earth…

Cheapswill: Directions for Use

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We’re not interested in a fond place in your memories. But concrete powers are at stake. A few hundred people haphazardly determine the thought of an era. Whether they know it or not, they are at our disposal. By sending Cheapswill to effectively positioned people, we can interrupt the circuit when and where we please. Some readers have been chosen arbitrarily. You have a chance to be one of them.

Suffering Paris Syndrome

The fine folks over at listverse.com have compiled another illuminating list of useless information: Top 10 Bizarre Mental Disorders.

Ignoring altogether how disappointed I was that my own personal demon, horseraddishaphobia, didn’t make the cut, I was curios to learn about an exotic and exciting new affliction: Paris Syndrome.

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Paris syndrome is a condition exclusive to Japanese tourists and nationals, which causes them to have a mental breakdown while in the famous city. Of the millions of Japanese tourists that visit the city every year, around a dozen suffer this illness and have to be returned to their home country.

The condition is basically a severe form of ‘culture shock’. Polite Japanese tourists who come to the city are unable to separate their idyllic view of the city, seen in such films as Amelie, with the reality of a modern, bustling metropolis.

Japanese tourists who come into contact with, say, a rude French waiter, will be unable to argue back and be forced to bottle up their own anger which eventually leads to a full mental breakdown.

The Japanese embassy has a 24hr hotline for tourists suffering for severe culture shock, and can provide emergency hospital treatment if necessary.

I have personally suffered Paris Syndrome, but in reverse. Unlike the poor Japanese tourist, my romanticized view of the city was reinforced when I actually visited the place. Now, back home in Vancouver, Canada I’m in the throws severe culture withdrawal shock. This heartsick feeling I have is both longing for another sip from the great Parisian fountain of artistic inspiration, and despair at watching Canadian culture circle the drain along with the US.

Let it be stated for the record that Cheapswill is committed to wresting western culture from its moronic trappings for the good of all mankind.

Paris, France, not Paris Hilton!

The Ratcatcher

She screamed as soon she realized what it was. It started as a blur of movement in her peripheral vision. Something scuttling around in a dark corner of the basement next to the washing machine. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust and focus and then the shape became clear. It was a rat. A big nasty brown brute, 10 inches from pink tail tip to quivering nose. She froze completely, except for her vocal chords, and unleashed a sobbing cry of horror at the black eyed rodent. The rat stopped too and stared back at her. In the next instant, Emily was bounding up the stairs and slamming the light wood-grained basement door behind her.rat

She grabbed the cordless telephone from its cradle and continued at a running pace up the stairs to the bathroom. Once safely inside, as far away as she could be from the evil gnawing creature in the basement, she locked the door. Emily’s hands were shaking as she dialed her husband’s cell phone number.

“Hello Darling!” Jim answered in a sweet voice that showed he had looked at the caller ID before opening his phone.

“”My God Jim!” screamed Emily, “It’s terrible…” and before she could get anymore of the story out she was interrupted by her own emotions. A gurgling sound started in her chest and crawled up her throat before escaping as a long sobbing wail.

After a few minutes, Jim managed to calm his hysterical young wife and coax the story out of her.

“Don’t worry sweetheart,” he said reassuringly, “I’ll call up an exterminator and have someone come around and take care of it. Why don’t you go to Starbucks and have a latte, and I’ll meet you at home when I’m finished here.”

Emily thought that was a brilliant idea and loved her thoughtful new husband a little more than she had before.

Emily pulled into the driveway at a quarter to six. She pulled up behind Jim’s Silver Honda Accord and was surprised to find him sitting behind the wheel reading a quarterly sales report. He looked startled as she knocked on the window.

“Hello Baby,” Jim cooed. “I thought I would wait out here for you and we could go inside together.” Truth be told, Jim was a little un-nerved by the thought of the rat too and had decided he didn’t want to face it alone.

“I called an exterminator and someone ought to be here any minute,” Jim explained as they walked up the driveway hand in hand. Right on cue, a filthy dilapitated pickup truck rolled to a stop in front of the home. The truck looked as though it had recently been driven through a war zone at top speed. The front bumper was missing, the passenger side mirror was attached with a liberal amount of duct tape, and what appeared to Jim to be bullet holes riddled the side of the box. It wasn’t exactly what he had expected from the ad in the yellow pages.

The small advertisement had been overshadowed by much larger and flashier ones, displaying pictures of dying cartoon vermin and efficiently uniformed professionals. The thing that had drawn Jim’s attention was the simplicity of the small square box at the end of the alphabetical listings. The simple black font proclaimed “Ye Olde RatCatcher. Traditional Extermination”. Something about the “Ye olde” appealed to Jim’s romantic notion of things past and the title “ratcatcher” seemed direct and to the point. He had called the attached number and arranged for someone to arrive at his home later that evening.

Now Jim and Emily stood in the driveway of their suburban home as the driver’s door of the old truck squeaked open on its hinges. Upon seeing the driver Jim felt slightly more re-assured that he had chosen the correct “Ye Olde” vendor of death.

The man was tall and gaunt, propelled forward at a lean by long spindly legs. He didn’t wear a sterile looking corporate exterminator’s jumpsuit, but rather a slightly shabby brown tweed suit and a matching flatcap. In his hand he carried a large worn leather case, not unlike the ones carried by old fashioned doctors on house calls.

“Allo,” said the man in a sharp nasally accent, “Hamilcar Shipley Esquire, professional ratcatcher, at your service.”

They led him into the house and Emily pointed at the door to the basement.

“It’s down there, she said, with a quiver in her voice and a look of mild disgust on her pretty young face.

“Worry not madam,” pronounced Shipley, “I shall dispatch the brute in a wink.”

“What type of traps do use,” inquired Jim.

“Ah, no traps here,” responded the ratcatcher, ”I use only the true traditional methods of the profession.” With that he set his large beaten leather satchel on the kitchen floor linoleum and opened the small brass clasp at its top. As he rooted around in the mysterious contents of the bag, Jim squeezed his young wife’s slender shoulder reassuringly and gave her a wink.

Mister Shipley fiddled about in the bag for a few moments, pulled something from inside, and straightened his bent back. He turned towards them revealing a crooked smile of yellow teeth and a clear bottle of unknown liquid in his hand. He removed a cork stopper from the bottle’s mouth and dug through his pocket, removing a filthy handerkerchief. He inserted the soiled bit of linen into the bottle leaving half of the handkerchief hanging down the side. He had already fished a small silver cigarette lighter from his inside jacket pocket before Jim and his wife simultaneously registered that the gaunt fellow in their kitchen was holding a Molotov cocktail in his hands.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” demanded Jim.

“Sir, you did ask me here to rid your home of vermin, did you not? I am merely dealing with the situation in the most expeditious and traditional manner I know,” explained Shipley, “Everyone knows where there’s one leather-tailed rodent there are others nearby. Gotta burn them out sir, get the whole nest!”

“Jim!” implored Emily, “Do something!”

“Put that thing down,” Jim begged the ratcatcher, “You’ll burn our bloody house down. Surely there must be another way.”

“Suit yourself,” said the exterminator, “I’ve other methods at my disposal.” With that he set the homemade firebomb on the kitchen table and began to scratch the thinning strands of hair on his head. “Well,” he said, “I do have a slightly less invasive method.”

Jim nodded, and the ratcatcher let out an audible sigh as he turned back toward the leather bag. Emily looked coldly into her husband’s eyes and all he could do was shrug his shoulders and attempt to give her a smile. The air in the small kitchen was thick and quiet except for the mutterings of Shipley and the sound of arcane instruments clinking together as he rooted through the tools of his profession.

“Ah, here it is,” Shipley exclaimed, as he drew something heavy from the bag. “Don’t worry folks,” he explained, “this is the second best way I know to rid one’s self of filthy nibbling beasts.”

As he turned to face the couple they heard a loud metallic click. In his hands was a crude nightmarish gun. It was a remarkably large antique looking pistol with a handle of dark wood, a tarnished black iron barrel, and a large insidious looking mechanism.

“Oh my God,” Emily screeched in shock at the sight of the ancient weapon, “You can’t use that thing in here.”

“Are you sure?” asked the ratcatcher as he stroked the barrel of his hand cannon and fingered the elaborate match-lock, “This is the traditional method. I’ll stalk the little bastard and splatter his verminous guts all over the paving stones with this beauty.”

The exterminator looked dejectedly at Jim who nodded sternly in agreement with his wife.

“I’m just trying to do my job folks. These are the methods I learned during my apprenticeship and I can assure you that they have served me well these many years. But, if you insist.”

“No more guns,” said Jim.

“And no more bombs,” added Emily, “We just signed the mortgage papers two weeks ago.”

Shipley produced a small book from his back pocket and flipped it open. It was bound in black leather that was cracking and splitting with age. He thumbed through a few pages, reviewing the time-honoured methods of his craft.

Jim and Emily squeezed each other’s hands and looked nervously at each other.

“MMhmm,” Hamilcar Shipley pronounced, “I have found it, a method that will do no harm to your charming abode. It is a particularly ancient technique and, while it may be a tad unorthodox, it is guaranteed to work.”

“No guns or firebombs?” asked Jim.

“No sir,” answered Shipley, “This time I need nothing but the tools God gave me.”

Emily gave her husband a questioning look but said nothing.

Ye olde ratcatcher then opened the basement door and headed down the stairs to the lair of the scurrying beast, the laundry room. Jim and Emily, temporarily forgetting their fear of the rat, followed Shipley down the stairs.

As they watched, Shipley stopped dead in his tracks in the gloom of the basement and began to murmur. “Aghumazurahnutan…”

He appeared to be chanting some ancient incantation. His pitch and tempo increased. He was still standing stock still but his right hand was moving slowly downward across his body. His mumbling was now a sonorous chant delivered at full voice. “Aghumazurahnutanijahkitan…” The couple heard something else too, a sudden ZZZZZIP. Then to their shock and surprise, Shipley’s pants fell to the floor exposing his manhood to the air. From the waist down he wore nothing but slouching black socks and a tarnished old pair of black shoes. He continued his strange song and he began to sway slightly, causing his naughty bits to swing in time. “Aghumazurahnutanijahkitanmugaraminagitah…”

Jim and Emily gaped at him in awe. They were equally hypnotized by his repetitious tune and his shockingly large testicles.

The sack in question was enormous and pendulous, and covered in wiry gray hairs. It was wrinkled even more than such pieces of anatomy generally are, and seemed to be fissured with hundreds of small scars. Next to the enormous bag, Shipley’s penis looked unimpressive and tired.

The song continued and so did the swing of the dangling scrotum.

Emily recoiled in horror and reached for her husband at the site of quick blurs of movement along the laundry room floor. Jim looked from his terrified young bride to the floor and saw what was emerging from beneath piles of dirty socks and from behind newly purchased washing appliances. There were rats, at least a half dozen of them, charging at the chanting and swaying man in the brown tweed jacket who’s testicles swung before him like the weight of some antique grandfather clock. All at once the beasts leapt through the air, their pink tails twitching behind them. In a moment they had all attached themselves to Shipley’s swinging nuts and sunk their sharp rodent teeth and claws into the wrinkled and battered flesh. Emily screamed… Shipley did not. He simply stopped his ancient song and stood very still. The only sounds to be heard were Emily’s sobbing and the gnawing noise of the filthy vermin as the chewed desperately.

Shipley pulled his trousers up around his waist and managed, with some difficulty, to zip them shut over the mass of wriggling and biting rodents attached to his genitals.

He removed a small invoice book and pen from his breast pocket and scratched out a bill which he tore from the book and handed to Jim. To shocked to speak, Jim rooted in his pocket, pulled out a folded $20 bill and handed it to the ratcathcer.

“Thank you sir,” said Hamilcar Shipley Esquire, “It has been a pleasure to serve you.” And, with that, he stepped past the mortified young lover’s and up the stairs.

They held each other and said nothing until they heard the front door close and the sound of the old beaten truck driving off.

“Oh Jim,” Emily cried as she pounded her small fists against his chest, “How could you let him do that? How could you bring that man into our home.”

Jim was quiet for a moment and then he answered, “I had no choice… he was the cheapest one I could find.”

Welcome back Cheapswill!

What is Cheapswill? It’s a maligned plot to take over minds, to plant seeds of dissent and inspire havok. Well, at least that’s what the mission was when we created ‘Swill almost 15 years ago. We were wired and inspired, still buzzing post-pubescence, when the revelation occurred that we could be cultural tycoons; that not only would we be legends in our own minds, others would revere our wacky-fun sense of humour too! So we put all our spastic and warped vision into a 12-page zine and named it Cheapswill. Ten issues would follow over the next ten years, then suddenly without warning ‘Swill went missing. Not really, actually it just got fat and lazy and couldn’t be bothered anymore.

Now, the insatiable Cheapswill is back — resurrected.