dan's blog

Get To Know Me.

Tue, 01 Jul 2008 18:13:39 +0000

Hi- I'm Dan Gleason. And these are my stories. I've published two books, 'It Ain't Extra, It's Sextra: Dan Gleason's Greatest Hits Vol. 1,' and, 'The Return Of Kebab: Dan Gleason's Greatest Hits Vol. 2.' And you can get them here-
http://www.iuniverse.com/bookstore/qsearchresults.asp?choice=title&inputstr=dan+gleason
Some of these tales are held within. Others- no- they are not. But you will more than likely see them in one of my many zines at Quimby's Bookstore in Chicago.
http://www.quimbys.com/advanced_search_result.php?keywords=dan%20gleason&sort=2a&page=1
Some are available at The Golden Age Bookstore as well-
http://www.goldenagestore.com/index2.htm
And please, always remember- make love to yourself, for there is no one else out there who will truly ever know how to rumpel your clamato, grimlock your tally-ho, or snoggle your herr goebbels any better. AND NOW- ENJOY.

My Utopia

Sat, 29 Mar 2008 22:19:08 +0000

In my utopia the snow will taste like ice cream, and everyone will be just as happy as a dolphin. In my utopia country music will be banned, and no one will confuse God’s will with his or her own horrible self-loathing and lack of esteem. The guns will be melted down to make beautiful chess sets, and the houses will look as if they were designed by Gaudi- not by whoever drew up all of those condos along Diversey. In my utopia the ideas of the automobile and weapons of mass destruction will be totally forgotten- there will be a true sense of community, and yet everyone will know to stay out of my fucking way.
In my utopia dogs will behave like pets and not like petite demons that try to nip at you the second you take to the streets or sex your leg the minute their owners turn around. Birds won’t be afraid- they will actually rest on your shoulders, eat from your palms. Squirrels will enter homes freely through fireplaces, share in food, and not leave droppings everywhere. Rats will no longer carry the stigma of the plague- they will become good friends and servants to humanity. And everyone will pay homage to a gigantic Crystal Goat in Towns Square, created by the world’s greatest sculptor, SANTINI.
In my utopia modern medicine will cure all of the world’s most threatening diseases (know here that I am talking specifically about male pattern baldness). Sleeping pills will be sold next to candy bars in snack machines, and drugs will be better engineered so they do not expand grey matter. In my utopia everyone will get a chance to explore other lands- cultures will actually intermingle, but without creating awful new institutions, like jazz fusion music. All of the cities will be bordered by large bodies of water in which incredible numbers of sperm whales swim. And voices and music will never rise above a certain non-irritating level.
No one shall be called Copreus in my utopia (which means literally, ‘dung man,’ in the Greek). The Fraternal Order of Police won’t be calling you every other moment, in that vaguely menacing tone, asking for substantial monetary donations. Al Johnson will be worshipped for his powerful lyricism, and Georges Bataille will be the eternal poet laureate. And I will stop letting out those mad shrieks every night before I go to sleep.
In my utopia sexual relations will be looked on positively, not as activities that force you to resign as the Governor of the state of New York. Eunuchs will develop sophisticated copulation techniques that allow them to partake in the coital act with other eunuchs. Men will sport more interesting fashions, and beautiful ladies will wear large, clunky glasses (because that is sexy). If one desires he shall be allowed to get flogged until he ejaculates by the fountain, or take part in nights of promiscuous revel. Everyone will refer to my penis as, ‘Tantalus,’ and a bottle of liquor shall be the only thing you ever have to profess your love to.
In my utopia no one will be sold into indentured servitude to a capitalist social structure. No one shall be brained or have his arms pulled off by one of those combines either. The only job titles will be, ‘horse-groomer,’ or, ‘gardener.’ Perhaps, ‘travel agent,’ as well. People will be loved and appreciated for their unique talents and traits, and not for their commitment to a false idol/boss.
Buses will be replaced by golden chariots, carted by Zeus’s flying horses, in my utopia. Nobody will ride their bicycle on the sidewalk, and couples and families with eighteen children won’t clog up the walkways either. There will be no cellular phones, anti-graffiti zones, or foamy puke-like substances flowing in the streets. Children won’t get lost in the sewer systems, no crime will be committed worse than littering, and everyone shall invite a wino to the dinner table, even if he prays openly to, ‘King Baby.’
In my utopia I will have one of those greasy hobo moustaches, and that moustache will be president of some small Pacific Island country. I will wear a lion’s skull helmet, like Heracles, and my cupboards will no longer be filled with promotional cups culled from solicitors or sporting events. No- instead I shall drink from mystical silver goblets. In my utopia I will never over-cook frozen pizzas, and they shall stop turning on the Reba show every time I dine at that restaurant on Fullerton. Because clearly this will be my utopia, and not theirs. Not in any way.

The True Power Of Leisure

Sat, 06 Oct 2007 16:28:44 +0000

After they questioned no scoffed at no better laughed at my ultimate goal of producing a lounge chair that utilizes the same technologies the Sealy company used to make the Posturepedic Bed I was sent into a hopeless inconsolable tailspin and found myself feather dusting my genitals with a mutilated pigeon I rescued from the streets hugging unwilling cuddling-participants in front of the rest home walking through drive-thrus leading the fast food workers there to threaten me with police presence wearing a mole skin hair shirt and telling everyone waiting in the lane that I am from space rattling off senseless useless information regarding items no one cares about (did you know that tulips were originally found as wildflowers in central Asia?) to gentlemen I cornered in public restrooms chanting ‘by the people for the people up with people fucks with people and blah blah blah’ wherever I went depressing the depressed committing random acts of sodomy and sexual enslavement contributing to the ugliness of this society through my loudly-mouthed vagaries (no one could shut me up) spreading s.t.d.’s merely by eyeballing the citizenry dowsing myself each evening in cold tzatziki sauce though I had signed several mental pacts with my own person never to bathe again meeting with doctors with lawyers men with ugly minds hell-bent on turning my chicken pox into planters warts in attempts to freeze them off of the bottom of my feet for their own sadistic pleasure and I ask you can they truly not comprehend the power felt in lounging? the unsurpassable strength of what the layman calls ‘ease?’ are their backs really that strong and mighty? my dream chair could have been the world’s dream chair but they ruined it and now they will never know they will never understand the true power of leisure.

More Excerpts From My Diary

Thu, 02 Aug 2007 15:57:15 +0000

At the office, I do not believe I am getting the respect I deserve. So yesterday, I came in early, and shouted to everyone present- “What do I have to do to impress you people, to get a little acceptance around here- suck my own dick? Lick my own testicles?” When no one reacted, I decided that’s exactly what I should do. So I lied down, brought my legs forward, placed my knees up against my temples, and began oral manipulations. Still it seemed no one was impressed. I screamed, “Wow these balls sure taste like balls,” but they continued to pay me no mind. Now, I think I’ll have to try a different approach on Monday morning.
I have developed a new and exciting fetish. I call this fetish, ‘Large black man- tackle me on the backside with your genitals exposed while I am naked, and then insert those genitals into my rectum.’ And I don’t know if any one else knows about this- and I’m unsure if it only works with large black men. But I have got to find a way to make people understand how wonderful this experience is!
Last night I asked my baby, “How come the sex is always so much better after you’ve cum?” And she just looked at me angrily. What is up with that?
So I always knew that the Durex Brand Tropical Condom was going to be, ‘luscious,’ due to the warning on the outer packaging. And, that it would protect me from lesions. But what I did not expect to happen, when I finally purchased the item and tried one on, was that I instantly broke into some sort of samba dance, or a merengue. Or perhaps one might consider my movements to be the tango- I do not know. But these condoms surely do mentally take you to the tropics, so I’d have to suggest them to everyone. Dick Or No.
What? He was sexually assaulted? On video? (I hate hearing only part of people’s conversations.)
I have gay friends. I have so many gay friends, it’s very difficult for me to give you an exact number. But yes- if I could come up with it, that number would truly be quite high. And, I used to live in an apartment with a homosexual, five, maybe six years ago. And every night, I would have anal intercourse with this homosexual gentleman I roomed with. But being gay, without a doubt, is an absolute abomination. And it is not me who says this- it’s God. And I hope my old roommate understands this- and I hope, and I pray that one day he finds a way to get right with God.

An Excerpt From A William S. Burroughs Cut-Up Novel, Uncovered By Myself, That Could Possibly Be Released Posthumously. Potential Title- Enter The Mind Of The Genius.

Sat, 28 Jul 2007 14:46:57 +0000

The buttocks of moral turpitude rankle under the armpits of S. Rodriguez y Rodriguez. Prison boy sex partner Louie Louis Lewis sneezed cow spit love juice rhythm shits splits the grizzled gizzard...eels slide upside Hecuban territories of ghoulish glaucoma. Porcupine peanut limestone shale fish the tuna with crustaceous shell. Lark loosely, sink softly into the pants of Yao...crystal marmoset sheets crystal sheep fandango bloated hammock hemlock sherlock grimlock. Meat off the shellfish struedel. Mmm-mmm- good Sanchez good...boiling huckleberry ball of limestone lips flap in brown hounds mud worms writhe lamely in dilapidated tissue. Ground round shoe horn tulip limestone mollusk. Horse manure brimstone, limestone, limestone...eyeball the mudflap of the tubesteak crustacean. Dirty white thighs dirty white lies and Horacio Mandinko. Horacio Mandinko- a swine dwells amongst us. Shellfish crustacean lobster crawdad...mental fitness interior fleshmeats schism on the bee-bop tambourine player. A gargoyle's shoe rattle-tap-taps on the shoe dip shoey shoe shoe. Rattlesnake limestone cornhole...Kissy kiss kiss the crawdad. The fleshpants of the Amarillo Terrier Pedro Morales tightened the heroin hostel for old lobster claw...mucul sputum on the thighs of shellfish dear harem boys, mucul sputum on the thighs of Dr. Poco...