Glory Hole for Midgets with Fat Dicks
01.09 THE AMERICAN DREAM
photographed by Ben DeCamp
12.14 FUCK FIESTA
All of a sudden using the word fuck is cool again. Popular websites like LookatThisFuckingHipster, TheFuckingWeather, and FuckMyLife are more rampant than The Salvation Army ringing bells and panhandling outside of department stores.
The first and definitely last time my mother heard me say fuck, we were in the parking lot of the San Diego Zoo. I didn’t want to see the zoo because I was hungry and the caged elephant made me sad. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no advocate for animal rights by any means; I consume meat like it’s going out of style. I just hate the smell of stale urine in a cramped environment while little kids on a sugar high bump into my legs. Take that same swarm of children in India, and I would’ve had my wallet stolen and succumbed to identity theft before I even got out of the car.
More so than losing a credit card, I have an irrational fear of losing a winning lottery ticket. In Lake George, NY during the summer of 2002, a man won the Powerball jackpot of an unprecedented $389 million at the same convenience store my Dad and I bought a ticket 20 minutes prior. Clearly ours was not the winner because I wouldn’t be writing this blog and I’d be living on some island in the fucking Mediterranean Sea while dark-haired sluts fed me aged cheese and performed fellatio at predetermined intervals. Dad was always pissed off about that, not the lack of aged cheese, but about not winning the lotto. “We came so close!” He vowed to never gamble again.
I used to collect and save my fortunes from fortune cookies. You know those one-liners that are more obscure than an astrology reading in the newspaper? Yea, those. I tried playing the digits on the back as my lotto numbers for several years. I would rarely hit two or three numbers, but nothing more. I think the distribution company closed because on the back of the fortune the writing changed from my lucky numbers to, “Learn how to Speak Chinese.” Where’s my lucky numbers? FUCK YOU FORTUNE COOKIE WRITER YOU MOTHERFUCKER does it look like I’m travelling to Beijing to try to seduce some well-mannered and docile Asian chick with the ass of a 10-yr old boy?!? NO.
36-23-36. At first glance that seems like a random 3-digit combo that might win big in that quick play 3 number game. Actually they’re the measurements of a recent girl I slept with, or should I say “fucked” in Manhattan. Yea, that sounds cooler, might earn 5 bonus street cred/hipster points by writing fuck. The only reason these digits are relevant is because Pamela Anderson’s body measurements in her prime were 36-24-36, so basically this girl had a 1” skinnier waist which made her ass look an inch bigger than Pam’s. Her face wasn’t that great, but once I realized the mathematical similarities there was no turning back. It was as close as I was ever going to get to having sex with Pamela Anderson. I tried to get her to wear a red bathing suit, but she wasn’t having it. Pam’s ass was pretty good, but the TV show was always about her bouncing tits. Baywatch rarely featured her running down the beach away from the camera, just towards it. I heard she recently auctioned off that red buoy she carried around on set. Not that I’d buy it, but shouldn’t it be donated to the National Lifeguarding Museum?
Besides reminiscing about my delusional sex life and a near decade of losing the lottery, next time I’ll talk more about going to the zoo with Mom and the tortoise who threw up a piece of banana. Maybe I’ll touch upon the fact that I sported khakis and collared shirts in public school till I was a teenager because I aspired to be successful like my father. By the way, that trip to the San Diego zoo… was when I was 4 years old and I just learned how to swear. Mom spanked me so hard, even she cried. But c’mon give me a break, at that age I just wanted to dress and talk like Dad, help him rake leaves, wash the car, mow the lawn, and do everything and anything that he did because it was cool. By the time I reached high school, I remember saying to myself, “Fuck that.”
10.9 GIDDY UP GIDEON
I’ll be completely honest. My name isn’t Ben, it’s George. It just sounds so tacky: George Bush, King George, George Foreman grill, Curious George. It was one of those legacy names that was tagged onto what my parents really wanted to call me as if I ever met my great-great-grandfather and that naming me as such should remind me of what standing in a bread line was like during the Great Depression. Fuck that. As soon as I tell girls that Ben is my middle name, they say, “So you’re name is Ben Ben DeCamp?” No you fuckwit, unlike yours, my mother wasn’t on meth when I shot out into the delivery room while my irresponsible father nursed a hangover and avoided the gaze of anyone resembling a police officer.
I thought I was in the clear with Benjamin, a pretty standard and respectable name by anyone’s standards. I was raped over and over throughout grade school; that’s a pretty strong metaphor, but really my ass got kicked so many times it felt like sodomy. Benjamin Franklin, Ben Dover, Bengay…the names didn’t stop. It’s one thing to be made fun of for having the same name as a notable historical figure, but any likeness to a pain relieving ointment is the epitome of potential ridicule. This irrelevant photo of a gigantic fucking sandwich is a reminder to never eat at Route 66 roadside delis, otherwise known as lessons in food poisoning.
On weekends, I volunteered at the local soup kitchen downtown. It wasn’t an attempt to clear my conscience of all the fucked up revenge ideas I had for those bullies. I had 100 mandatory hours to fulfill in order to get confirmed by my local church; something I was forced to do by my parents or else they’d revoke any money put towards the college fund. I obliged, mumbled a bunch of bullshit songs and ate some stale crackers while avoiding the pneumonia-laden boxed wine during the holidays. The soup kitchen was full of homeless and other unfortunate souls like myself serving their time. Sometimes I’d suck on a beef barley cube and listen to the stories of those passing through, or merely trying to avoid the blizzard conditions of another harsh Northeast winter.
He knew a victim when he saw one… “Benjamin…ahh…a strong biblical name. Have you read Psalms 35:16? Well it all starts…” I wanted to shank Brother Joseph with that golden crucifix dangling from his scrawny neck. He knew I had to listen to his gospel and make pleasant conversation; an easy target. He wasn’t homeless. He was one of those fucking Gideons that places free bibles in Vegas hotel rooms; the last place I want to think about anything holy while digging around for a condom at 4am, when there’s a girl in black lingerie sprawled across my bed and confusing the sheets for a Halloween ghost costume.
9.28 URBAN SHAMU
PHOTO // BEN DECAMP
Occasionally someone will ask me where I got the name for this blog. A friend was flying into town and she wanted to visit Sea World. I was driving towards the airport at 10:03 pm, midway through their nightly fireworks display; celebrating whatever dolphin trainers celebrate. I’m no animal rights activist by any means, but at 85mph in a fit of disgust I yelled out that SeaWorld was just a “Fucking glorified KillerWhalePettingZoo!” I blinked; the rage subsided and several moments passed until I erratically pulled off onto the shoulder to scheme up slogans and sketch crude logos. The worst of the series became the hideous logo for this site. I gave the whale apprehensive eyebrows, because that’s how I’d feel too if a bunch of tourists from Arizona tried to caress my blow hole while I pretended to be amused and restrained myself from ripping some toddler’s limb off with my 3″ incisors.
ROLLOVER MINUTES
I was sitting in my underwear checking emails when my cell phone erupted into a vibrating seizure. This was supposed to be a relaxing end to an evening, but I had a gut feeling that this was going to be one of those Tuesdays where it gets really fucking crazy/borderline sadistic. Considering it was 4am, and an unknown caller; the prospects seemed entertaining. I answered. Turned out to be a girl I had met three weeks ago. She called off her wedding and wanted to shoot some photos ASAP, probably to drive the nail deeper into her ex-fiancé’s heart. The day after tomorrow sounded good, but she seemed flakey with her busy schedule. I wrote her off; I can’t stand thinking about girls more than 48 hours in advance. Ten minutes later she’s on the phone saying she packed an overnight bag and is on the highway driving down from LA. I started frantically looking for my roommate’s bottle of rum and fresh rolls of film. Slapped a little cologne on and met her in the parking lot of a downtown motel. She was smoking Virginia Slims, which should’ve been the tip-off that she was horny, but I was young and naive.
So we went through a procession of outfits, and each time she would change in the bathroom as if I hadn’t seen a naked woman before. Then she admitted she was 35, and then that she had a kid, which translates to early 40’s and several kids. That was bizarre enough for me; I did the hyena/gazelle maneuver: grabbed her by the back of her hair and latched onto her neck… She wouldn’t put out.
“What the fuck!?! You drove all the way from LA to suck on my roommate’s bottle of Captain and…”
“I’m dating someone,” she said.
“He’s a multi-millionaire. We’re flying to his house in Paris this weekend and I’m going to get my breasts done.”
Well obviously I couldn’t compete with that. She’s not even dating one millionaire, she’ll drive to LA and set up numerous dates throughout the day, but she doesn’t sleep with any of the guys. I’d soon learn that she just prefers young cock like mine. Not only did she bring two suitcases full of crap, she brought all kinds of other emotional baggage.
“When we broke up he took the TiVo box, all I wanted was to lay around and watch Sopranos re-runs. Do we have HBO here? Actually I’m tired, let’s just go to sleep.”
So I woke up in the morning and was fed up with the whole situation so I started finger-banging her for good measures, or retribution for the bullshit I had to put up with. I mean what kind of self-respecting hotel puts the ice machine on the sidewalk and doesn’t serve breakfast? She didn’t stop me; I saw it on the Internet once, so I maneuvered her into some awkward position and waited for a reaction. She freaked out, but just wanted me to put on a condom. Smart girl, she already made that mistake several times; one of her kids was the same age as me. I hope it all comes full circle and I take a picture of him dancing in a seedy night club. We’ll talk about how I slept with some older woman and laugh unknowingly about it over glasses of aged cognac. Anyways, I’m getting side tracked. So Mrs. Robinson and I did it in a smorgasbord of positions until the hotel maid started pounding on the door and demanding something in Spanish. I speak Spanish pretty well, but not through ten inches of drywall. I rolled over in a tangled mess of sweaty sheets and derelict clothing. The numbers glowed back in red: checkout was 4 hours ago.
A couple months went by and I hadn’t heard from her. Can’t blame her; I mean if I was a heavy drinker and a girl brought over a near empty bottle of shitty rum, I’d be pissed too. This old guy I occasionally hang out with once told me, “It’s not how many girls you sleep with, it’s how many invite you over for a 2nd time.” The phone rang…… These days unknown callers get my heart racing, it could be a variety of possibilities from death threats, pleading drug addicts, to jury duty. How do these fucks get my #? Regardless, it was her again…my stomach dropped. “Want to go to Vegas at the end of the month? My treat!”
I LOST MY PHONE TONIGHT
This photo is a metaphor; it symbolizes everything about my life, about her life, about your life, about someone you don’t even know’s life who doesn’t have at least 2500 friends on the most relevant social networking platform. I’m not only projecting upon this pretty young thing, I’m digging deep inside myself…
Tonight, I lost my phone. It’s the most important thing in my entire life. It’s the iPhone/Crackberry/5-way slider/flip/walkie-talkie. Losing this item will make me shed more tears than even losing grandma, genocide, and my 13yr. old sister’s abortion all combined into one. This will eventually send me on a downward spiral and I’ll think irrationally about the situation, and I will begin to ask questions like:
Who am I? Where am I going in life? Where am I going later tonight?
Will I eat 4th meal at Taco Bell?
Why did I give my cell # to the bartender?
Has he ever had a cell # (in state prison)?
Would real friends leave me out here with the homeless people?
What are all those black spots on the sidewalk from?
I wonder how I should pose if an authentic hipster photographer comes along? Do I smile or appear ironic? What does ‘ironic’ mean?
Should I get a pink rubber latex sleeve for my iPhone?
Should I wear high-waisted shorts with an oversized belt instead of a pregnancy tank top?
I wonder if I’m in someone’s “Fav 5”?
Does anyone use *69 anymore?
Do I have any rollover minutes?
There are so many questions tonight…I just need to figure out what I am supposed to do in life. Quite possibly I’m in dire need of career aspirations or maybe I can just post a status update and people will tell me what I should be. I’m just so angry; feel like I could fight anyone right now; might become the first female bouncer in the history of blue belt karate class graduates whose dojo is located in the local strip mall.
No, screw that. I’m going to community college. I’m going to better myself and contribute to society. I’m going to get a degree in Music Theory, and become a real electronic/house/dub-step DJ. I will become famous. My professor works at the record store on weekends, but I will fail to realize that this is an indicator of the job market and chance of becoming a famous DJ is slimmer than being 5’3 and getting signed to the LA Lakers.
After graduating with a degree in Music Theory and becoming a professional DJ, life will come full circle; life will momentarily make sense. And then when I realize the futility, I will saunter across the street to Papa John’s Pizza and beg for remorse, plead with them to open the doors at 2:03 am because I’m in desperate need of a slice of pepperoni. I will do this, because by the time I graduate in 1.5 years with a meaningless piece of paper/Associate’s Degree, electro will be dead. I’ll eat to cope with pain and then do lines of blow to counteract the weight gain. It’s a vicious cycle, but I obviously could give a shit because I lost my phone tonight. It wasn’t possible to lose your phone 10 years ago, because the majority of phones used to be connected [via cables] to the fucking wall.
I will fail to realize being a DJ isn’t a viable career option because live synthesized vocals are the new fad, and I don’t have a sliver of musical talent besides hooting on a recorder once in 3rd grade. My iPhone had my entire music library on it, and now I feel lost; cast out into a cruel world if you will. I lost my phone and my ability to have a conversation with my friends back inside the club. It’s okay though, no one will listen to me anyways because in the grand scheme of things, I never had a voice. Might start a blog and reach out to others like myself, or just comment on someone else’s blog to have a voice through them because I have big aspirations, but lack initiative to realize my goals. I identify with this writer; he seems to make sense; he represents me. Maybe we’ll start a Facebook group together about an intangible object like “Hugs” and find common ground with others all over the world.
My self-esteem will rise in direct correlation to an increase in fans/group members. I keep telling myself I’ll be okay; it’s not the right time to step in front of a city bus. I just need some friends/pepperoni pizza/cocaine because tonight, I lost my phone. “Send me your numbers.”
I LOVE ME
There is no one else in the world I would rather be. I wouldn’t let you walk a mile in my shoes, because I’d probably become jealous. They were $149.99 hi-tops that I only wore twice on my carpet and then put behind Plexiglas because they’re the collectors edition and I’m gonna pawn them on EBay in several years. My parents front me an exorbitant amount of funds so I can live in a condo downtown, have sporadic dance parties on Tuesday nights, be happily unemployed, and live 300 feet from the club entrance. But I take a cab because my friends and I hate walking. I have no responsibilities. Sometimes I’ll buy a little baggie of “Do you like to party?” and offer it to any important people in the club. That being relevant DJ’s (only gracing national music blogs), any photographer who could make me 5% more famous, and the girl wearing the tightest American Apparel leggings I can find.
Actually I decided I’m only wearing body mesh suits now. They deceive the viewer to what is really underneath. Skin blemishes, bruises, and cuts are all covered up. I’m not this pale in real life, but the black micro mesh gives me a darker skin appearance, kinda like going tanning on a budget. It’s an optical illusion; very similar to shopping for bulk fruit and buying a dozen oranges bagged with the orange mesh only to discover that 11 of them are rotten.
In fact, I love Me so much, that I will do anything to make myself look sexier/hotter/hipster-er-er. I will even fulfill my lifelong model aspirations in an alleyway while there are homeless women trying to collect cans to pay for baby food/hotel room/meth/sharpie markers for their cardboard signs. 
Been wondering where this generation of self-entitlement is headed… Let’s be honest, I was only worrying about Me. Now you can broadcast your every thought to the world; and even when you think you’re completely and utterly alone, don’t off yourself just yet. There’s surely some lonely man living in a rural Montana shack who understands you. 
He’s probably on various social networking sites and knows you’re kinda famous; he holds you up on a pedestal (or at least beats off to these photos while they are scotch-taped above his computer desk.) His name is probably Leopold, Horace, or the Unabomber. It sounds like this one man who emailed me and “Fully supports my feet photography and wants to fund my efforts for his private collection.” I don’t love my boyfriend/dog/parents/religious figure anymore. I don’t even love LA, NY, or that touristy t-shirt I bought. I don’t love you; I love Me.
DOS AMIGOS DOS
Girls kissing me on the cheek are usually recipe for disaster. That’s how I’ve gotten pneumonia twice: back-to-back. I think it all started from not washing my hands after grazing alongside some brunette gazelle in the women’s restroom of a local pizza joint, and the subsequent burrito consumption from Dos Amigos Dos. Two weeks later I had bronchitis and was coughing up grey pus from deep inside my chest cavity.
I didn’t even get laid that night, but she thought it would be cute to put her red wax all over my 5 o’clock shadow preventing me from meeting any other girls. I like lip gloss, especially the raspberry flavor; there must be sugar in it because I don’t consume anything unless it’s sweet. I wonder if lip gloss contributes to tooth decay; perhaps kissing contributes to cavities? Her mouth definitely wasn’t as clean as a dog’s. I absolutely despise girls that kiss dogs and then want to kiss me, yea I know a dog’s mouth is supposed to be the cleanest thing in the world, but fuck you. Really it’s just because I don’t like the bacon flavor of dog treats. Any lip products
with glitter should be outlawed. The disco ball spins like a police siren lighting up my face; all the other girls on the dance floor know better than to get near an asshole like me.
“No really babe, I just wanna ‘dance with you!’”
(Kinda like when Britney Spears pseudo-fucked that little metal chair on MTV back in ‘98.)
Speaking of Brit, she looked jacked up with a buzz cut. Natalie Portman looked amazing; it’s all about the bone structure. Leather pants and psychotic dance moves can only mask the fact that you’ve got a schnauzer face.
I can’t figure out why Pledge furniture polish smells like lemons and contains 0% real fruit juice. I tend to gravitate towards products that claim to be healthy, but you can’t eat them. My shaving cream contains oatmeal; I ran out of actual oatmeal, so I spread it on a cracker. I should’ve known better that the neon-blue gel wouldn’t mix well with the burrito from Dos Amigos Dos. I’ve been thinking about this for a long time, if I had to give up one of my senses it would be smell. Sex smells awkward, coffee never tastes as good as it smells, and I hate the smell of my puke from the Dos Amigos Dos. There’s only one sense that I truly need. Hearing: because my orgasms can’t sound any more disgusting than hers. 
Actually my friend fucked a deaf girl recently; her interpreter advised him to go home with her. Apparently the chick’s orgasms sounded so bizarre he couldn’t keep it up. I’m not sure what to make of that. I mean if it was me and I had limp dick, I’d buy the girl a Prince CD or a $10 iTunes gift certificate from the grocery store checkout aisle. But then I’d probably have that sinking feeling in my stomach after I already dropped it off at the post office. I’d rush to a payphone, jam in an irrational amount of quarters, and warn her not to open it; it was an honest mistake! I knew she wouldn’t like it!
“I’m so sorry! Babe, are you there? Can you hear me? BABE. CAN YOU HEAR ME???!!??”
Oh wait…
CHOO CHOO PART II
This little train pissed me off so much I took a second photo of it when it came around the loop another time, and that was with film! If you own a digital camera and just asked “What’s film?” take your memory card, pretend you’re in prison; shave it down against the nearest concrete wall and shank yourself in the neck.
I couldn’t afford to take my kid to the San Diego Zoo which is literally 200 yards away from this crime scene, so I told my wife we’d ride this joke of a model train and be much closer to the animals; our daughter is so young she’ll never remember. “Daddy! Dead? Dead?” “Oh my GOD PETER she just spoke her first word!!!” “She said, ‘Dead’?” Yea Peter, that’s right. That fucking giraffe is made out of plastic and your toddler sees right through your scam. I mean treat it like a safari with the camera and all to make it feel authentic, you might even see a loose Rottweiler leap across the tracks and latch onto your wife’s neck. Now that sounds like a proper time at Wild Animal Park. Your little kid is scarred for life. Should’ve cut your coupons out of the newspaper and splurged the $20 to go see some real malnourished giraffes.