NO! to your bald-faced lies about the tragic murder of innocent Nicole Good by vicious I.C.E. agent Jonathan Ross! He wasn’t injured, but he put at least 3 bullets in a mother and wife without provocation! If Ross was traumatized by an earlier incident, why wasn’t he at a desk job until he healed? Innocent blood is ON YOUR HANDS, murderer!
NO! to your fake investigations of Gov. Tim Walz and Mayor Jacob Frey! You have sent an invading army of anonymous, violent, even murderous GOONS and THUGS into their state, because you yourself are so weak, and your ego is so withered, you cannot tolerate ANY differences! NO to your lies about them, both honorable men, inciting disobedience! They are doing what they were elected by the people of Minnesota and Minneapolis to do — defend them from criminals like YOU!
NO! to your insane plan to invade Greenland! We have a treaty with Denmark from 1951 (my birth year, BTW) that allows us to build and operate military bases there! We used to have 17, but the U.S. government closed them down! Greenlanders are happy to let us use their island, and your fears that Russia and China are “closing in” demonstrate only your own swelling paranoia! The best way to push Greenland into enemy hands is to do EXACTLY WHAT YOU ARE DOING, destroying N.A.T.O., the organization that has kept American and its European allies safe and secure for 80 years!
NO! to your wet dream of building the world’s most expensive floating target, a $20 billion “Gold Fleet” of battleships! Do you know what proved them useless in WW I? Submarines firing torpedos! Do you know what proved them archaic in WW II? Aircraft carriers! One dive bomber with a brave pilot and a 500-pound armor-piercing bomb could sink a battleship! All they ever did was blow each other up, like Bismark vs. Hood, and make holes on beaches for landings, which can be done by lesser destroyers or cruisers. One nuclear torpedo, one powerful mine, or even a clever dolphin delivering a magnetic limpet mine (which the Russian Navy knows how to do), will blow your battleship to hell, where it belongs, along with the rest of your insane military ideas! You know who else thought he knew more than his generals and admirals? HINT: His first name was Adolph, and his last name began with H and ended with -itler!
NO! to your cruel deprivation of A.C.A. health insurance to 20 million low-income Americans who need it desperately, because they have nowhere else to turn! You raised their premiums to impossible heights, and you deprived the hungry, and expectant mothers, of their S.N.A.P. benefits! Are you a sullen little twat because the A.C.A. got named Obamacare by the grateful American people, and your name will be scrubbed from every building and street sign in America, once you are gone from office? You petty little child! +
NO! to your lawless plan to cancel the 2026 MIDTERM ELECTIONS! You are a mad bull in china shop, crushing everything blindly, but I guarantee you, you are no longer friends with Elon Musk, and he may not do your bidding, as he did in 2024! Every-body knows he rigged the voting machines in swing states for you, donated a quarter-billion dollars to your war chest, and took a chain saw to a budget that required a scalpel. NO! to martial law in Democratic cities and states, your plans are totally transparent!
I could go on, but are you listening? I long for the administrations of Barack HUSSEIN Obama and Joe Biden, because know what?
WHAT THOSE MEN LEAVE IN THE TOILET EVERY MORNING has more CLASS AND INTEGRITY than you and anyone in your whole stinking, corrupt, fetid administration!
YOU DEFILE AMERICA AND WIPE YOUR ASS WITH THE CONSTITUTION, BUT YOU ARE, THANKFULLY, NOT IMMORTAL! And when you are gone, regardless of whether you walk out of the White House you ruined on your feet, or are carried out feet-first, the righteous people of America and their leaders will purge your name from EVERYTHING!And Donald J. Trump will be obliterated from history. You will become a B.L.O.A.T. — BIGGEST LOSER OF ALL TIME!
Have a nice day, LOSER! — Malcolm J. Brenner, B.A. woke joker
Author displaying a bottle of formerly Russian alcoholic beverage, and a Russian translation of his non-fiction novel, Wet Goddess: Recollections of a Dolphin Lover.Crap, can you imagine what kompromat Vlad the Invader has on Donald the Village Idiot? Putin plays chess, and wins. Donald plays dominoes, and loses. End of story!
Me, on No Kings Day, trying to look like a genuine Antifa member! Note, I mis-spelled “Fascist”! Good thing I didn’t feel well enough to attend the rally, with that shirt on, I’d have lost my posting to the Central Committee!
What follows is an utterly true, insanely compelling, and totally unbiased report to my Russian translator, known here for his protection only by his initials A.R., of what has happened to me since last Sunday evening that is of some significant medical note!
I say “unbiased” even though I write here about my own experiences, not because I think I can be seriously objective, but because this didn’t make the local news the way it did when, for instance, the celebrated primatologist Dr. Jane Goodall kicked the bucket recently, and if I don’t write about the shit that happens to me, who the fuck will?
I’m not naive enough to think that anybody else gives a rat’s ass about what’s going on here at Casa Galla del Delfino, aside from my scant friends and my money-grubbing family, all of whom are only awaiting my ultimate demise so they can divvy up Brenner Industries and my other significant holdings in painkiller pharmaceutical precursors, cluster bomb manufacturers, North Slope oil holdings, Sea Whirled Kuwait, and of course my secret whaling fleet, which I bought cheap after Aristotle Onassis died!
But after a night with no sleep, some rum and a bit — okay, more than a bit, a couple of joints of pot — I wrote A.R. this letter to inform him on these changes with my health, and then realized that if I didn’t post it here, on WordPress, I’d be kind of stupid not to inform you, my legions of slavering, demanding fans, of my impending, but hopefully uncertain and far-off demise!
Because if you really want an autographed or, Godz 4bid, DEDICATED copy of “Wet Goddess” or “Mel-Khyor,” the time to get one is, perhaps, soon? It’s not that I don’t trust my beloved daughter Thea, she of the sometimes-purple hair, to keep publishing the books after I die, if she sees any money or benefit in it, it’s just that I don’t think, even with electronic amplification, that hooking up an Auto-Pen to a Quija board is going to deliver the results you want! Just saying. Now, the letter…
Hey A*****, here’s some news that may move you to contact: I was just in a local hospital for 2 days! And let me level with you, it was no fun at all! A hospital may be a place to get tested, diagnosed, treated and healed, but is is no place to get well! That is best done at home, or some place where you can relax. In the hospital, you can’t relax unless you are so sick, that is your only option! But as usual, I digress:
Last Sunday evening, right around sunset, I was out walking my dog Epic around the block, which my house sits on the SW corner of. We had gone about 3/4 of the way, and were on the home stretch, when it felt like a gale-force wind, or some invisible thing, struck my right side, pushing me HARD to the left! But there was no wind! I staggered, and found I could no longer walk a straight line; I was zig-zagging like Trump awaiting Putin in Alaska! I dragged the mutt home as fast as I could, about 30 meters at that point, and once we were inside I looked in the bathroom mirror. The left side of my mouth was drooping down, even when I tried to smile.
These were all signs of a possible stroke. In her last years, my poor mother suffered a lot of small but incapacitating strokes, and I was familiar with the symptoms. I called my friend Dave, who lives about 30 minutes away (13 miles, 21 km), and arranged for him to take care of Epic while I got myself to the local ER of the better of two hospitals in town. I gathered up the necessities of aged life — glasses, my apnea-preventing CPAP sleep machine, cell phone and charger, dentures and Fix-O-Dent — stuffed them in a carry bag and called an ambulance by dialing 911, the American number for the nearest emergency dispatcher.
When it showed up in about 5 minutes, I reassured Epic (who has some serious abandonment issues) that I’d be back, and walked out to meet the ambulance. The EMT’s strapped me down on a gurney, even though the hospital is only 1/2 mile – 0.8 km away, and one started unwrapping a needle to insert a catheter in a prominent vein in the inner elbow of my left arm — all this while we were driving to the hospital.
“Couldn’t you wait until we get there?” I asked the EMT who was playing Dracula.
He looked at me with a rather bored but nevertheless professional expression and said, “We do this all the time. We know what we’re doing.” SKRRRRICH! He drove the needle in.
When we arrived I was wheeled directly into the ER room where X-rays and other non-invasive diagnostic techniques are done. An ER doctor on duty gave me a blood thinner and anti-coagulant, and after a short exam by CAT scan, I was listening to a preliminary diagnosis from a remote neurologist on TV, and feeling very much like the protagonist in a low-budget sci-fi movie!
(Me, hospitalized and not looking quite as sharp as usual. Must’ve been a fingerprint on the lens of my iPhone!)
Although my symptoms were those of a stroke, there was no gross evidence of one that would show up on a CAT scan; a more detailed diagnosis would have to await Monday, when they could do a detailed MRI scan. They kept me overnight, and I barely got any sleep at all, because that goddamn catheter hurt! I asked my nurse to move it, but he didn’t get to it until the next day.
Well, long story short, they not only did the MRI scan Monday, I also got a chest echogram, an EKG, and echograms of my carotid arteries on both sides of my neck. They were looking for any irregularity that might have caused the presumed blood clot in my brain, but they came up empty handed. Much to the disappointment of many of my harshest critics, I turned out to be disgustingly normal.
A very nice woman neurologist came by eventually to explain what they thought it was: a Transient Ischemic Attack, or T.I.A.. No, this has nothing to do with Radical Islam, “ischemic” means not getting proper blood supply. I probably did have a “mini-stroke,” but my circulatory system then got up off the mat and proceeded to beat the snot out of the blood clot, which broke up and was promptly flushed away. Those blood clots, they can dish it out, but they can’t take it when the tables are turned! GRRRRRR!
I agreed that that explained my symptoms, which had gradually waned, and I’d recovered most of my ability to walk again without support by Monday afternoon. After another night of observation, the doctors agreed it was safe to release me back into the game preserve.
The scenic view from my hospital room window. The doctors here believe this view of Mother Nature promotes healing — but then again, they still use leeches, too. The park design is Modern Industrial, a look that is Brutalist, and not that different from the industrial mining town where my translator was trying to sell in a failing appliance store before he came across Wet Goddess,and the rest, as they say, is Great Russian Literature! Count Leo Tolstoy, Anton Checkov, Franz Kafka, eat your hearts out!
I had to catch a Lyft ride to get home, as it was too far for Dave to drive that day, and when the Lyft driver arrived, I got into his car without a shirt. Dave had visited me in the hospital the day before, and thinking of poor Epic sitting at home not knowing when or whether I was ever going to return, I gave him my T-shirt so she could smell it and know I was still above ground.
Walking the dog again that afternoon, I was astonished by the vibrancy of the sky, the glory of the beams of sunlight drawing water through the clouds, the lushness of the greenery all around me and the nicely ordered houses.
Nothing like a little brush with death to make you appreciate life, eh? I’m OK, but I’ve got a whole new list of medications, a new diet that basically eliminates everything I like to eat, and a couple of new specialist MDs, a cardiologist and a neurologist. Oh joy!
Well, our governor, Ron De Santis, has said “Florida is where WOKE comes to die!” I know you were trying to express your false dreams for the death of social responsibility, Ron, but let’s face it: SO DOES EVERYTHING ELSE!
Thus concludes for now my tale, A****. Tell me of your life, if you will! Or tell me to get lost. Just tell me something, OK? Thanks! — Malcolm
My sincerest thanks to the doctors, nursing staff, technicians, administration, and everyone else on Floor 4, HCA Fawcett Hospital, Port Charlotte, who took pretty damn good care of me while I was there, and put up with all my dumb Boomer-Age jokes! You’re a great bunch, and believe me, there’s no other place I’d rather be sick than with all of you around! — MjB
ABOVE: My good friend Raving Dave gave me the Balsa Toucan, a former decoration of his palatial mobile home, and I chose the empty spot over the doorway. Little did I know that the Great Blue Heron, wading on the wall over my shoulder, would grow insanely jealous of the ornithological competition he now faced! The argument was about who had the better beak.
“My beak is sharp and deadly, and I can spear fish, amphibians, reptiles and even small mammals with it,” the GBH crowed. “Everyone better watch out for this death-dealing beak!”
To which the Toucan replied, “My beak eats fruit, doesn’t kill anybody, is charmingly colorful, and people think I’m a feathered comedian! HA! Go fuck yourself, you pompous, death-dealing excuse for a toothless sauropod! All the little critters fear you, but humans LOVE me!”
So far, the argument has not reached a definitive conclusion, and I have to listen to old 1970’s hits to tune it out. Any suggestions?
The Awful, uh, Author, as photographed by my daughter’s ex-boyfriend, who was an OK photographer but sort of abusive to her, and for that reason, no credit for him!I’d just be defaming him, anyhow.
I’m excited to announce that BOTH of my books, Wet Goddess: Recollections of a Dolphin Lover, and Growing Up in the Orgone Box: Secrets of a Reichian Childhood, will be available as part of a promotion on Smashwords for the month of July as part of their Annual Summer/Winter Sale! This is a chance to get my books, along with books from many other great authors, at a 50% discount, so you can get right to your summer reading!
(Originally an email to about 40 of my friends and acquaintances on Feb. 20, 2025.)
Hi, friends, fans and family, foes, fools, and frolickers, freedom-fighters and fellow-travelers,
I hope you’re doing well, or at least mostly adequate. Out of sheer, mortal desperation, I have started a fundraiser on GoFundMe, and it would mean so much if you could take a look at it! (See URL below.) How much?
The page has some pretty fair pictures of me on it, taken back when I was actually handsome, and AI didn’t write a word of it! Any help, like donating $$$ or sharing, gets me closer to my goal of not having to beg my reluctant and somewhat unpredictable relatives to save me from starvation, getting my lights or water turned off, or having to go straight for a while. Reality! What a major buzz kill, dudes! How do you cope?
I am hoping to raise $200-250 a month, which works out to $3K/year, to supplement my tiny Social Security check. (How tiny? Do you have an electron microscope?) Thanks in advance for your kindness, generosity and support! Just don’t expect the Universe to reward you for your goodwill, okay? It doesn’t work that way, and yes, it is disappointing.
Yeah, you’ve seen this photo before! And you’ll probably see it again, before I get done with it, and #45!
Unless you read Russian, and are familiar with the current generation of samizdat — underground home publishing by officially unacknowledged writers — you probably aren’t aware that my novel of non-human intelligence, WET GODDESS: Recollections of a Dolphin Lover, is published in Russian! Here I am, celebrating the official publication in 2015, with my good friend Stoli Ch’naya, who used to be Russian but wisely moved his operations to Lithuania several years before Putin thought to put the bite on him:
This publication — little noted in the Russian press, by design — was actually initiated by the translator himself, who contacted me in 2014 to let me know that he had spent a year painstakingly translating Wet Goddess so his close friends and family could enjoy it as much as he had, and oh, by the way, did I mind?
Yes, he was asking my permission for a deed he’d already done!
Of course, being an ardent capitalist (at least when I have no money), my mind immediately turned to how I, and maybe even he, could turn a profit on the book, and, by the way, spread my radical ideas about dolphin personhood to a new continent and the largest country in the world (as of this writing)!
You may notice that I am not including a photo of my Russian translator here, or mentioning him by name, nor identifying the Russian city or oblast (state) where he lives. The reason for this is the meat-grinder of Putin’s insane war with Ukraine, which is currently turning Russian youth into sausages, with body-bag casings. Although my translator was working as a salesman in a failing retail store when he contacted me, he has, by dint of thrift (and Soviet-style subsidized rental housing, which costs about 1/10th of what it would here), slowly improved his photo and video gear to the point where he’s been operating for a couple of years and as independent cameraman/director/editor for his own and others’ productions! This guy is a typical Republican “pull yourself up by your bootstraps” self-made man, but he managed to do it in the Middle of Bumfok, Nowhere, Russia, without any help from what now passes for the GOP!
Not only that, the dude’s insanely handsome, like a Bolshevik version of Brad Pitt, but with that crazy madness in his eyes that we’ve come to expect from every Russian villain, from Dr. Zarkov in Flash Gordon to Viggo Tarasov in John Wick! When I pointed this out to him, he just replied “Yes, that’s what my mother says, too, but I thought she might be biased.”
This guy is utterly clueless!
I think I’ve said all I have to say, while keeping him safe from the clutches of the FSB! Here, without further ado, is my letter describing the confusing political events of July, 2024, the month and year when A NEW HOPE SHONE FORTH…
July 28-29, 2024 Dear XXXXX,
I know I haven’t given you enough time to respond since my last email, but current events have overtaken me, and the U.S.A. in general! Since I don’t know what or how RU TV covers U.S. news, I suspect you may have heard some rumors, or half-truths, or convenient untruths, about what is actually going on over here.
Because things are a bit topsy-turvy right now, let me try to summarize for your benefit, and that of all your fellow Russians, petit-bourgeois commoners, surfs, kulaks and nobles alike, the often confusing, sometimes confounding U.S. political events of the past month in chronological order, presented on a handy, bulleted (no pun intended) list for clarity, and because everybody else does it:
June 27, one month + one day ago: Ex-President Trump mops the studio floor with President Joe Biden in their first, and it turns out last, debate. Never mind that Trump lied hundreds of times during that 2 hours — the “firehose of falsehoods” you’ve referred to previously — Biden looked weak, and frail, and old. Not good optics! And of course no fact-checking by the moderators, which Trump wouldn’t tolerate. Worst thing Biden got out was “I’ve never heard such malarky in my life (Irish roots showing)!” I saw Biden debate Trump 4 years ago, and he was great. It’s sad to see what’s happened to him, but Grandfather Time catches up with everyone, even us Boomers!
End of June/Beginning of July: The Left falls into general slump, realizes Biden hasn’t got what it takes any more. Influential Democrats like George Clooney, the famous American actor (he was in a bad remake of Stanislaw Lem’s Solaris in 2002, but I like Andrei Tarkovsky’s twisted vision better, he didn’t try to film a love story, but he left in those endless cheap special effects shots driving around Tokyo’s Ginza District on wet streets at night) start asking Biden to step down and let someone else lead the anti-Trump charge. Gee, who could it be? I wonder… the U.S.A.’s first Black/Asian female VP, Kamala Harris, former California senator, former federal prosecutor for the district of San Francisco?… NAH! What are you smoking, comrade? July 13, Saturday: Trump’s dog-and-pony show sets up its tents in the Rust Belt town of Butler, PA, about 40 miles north of Pittsburgh, which used to be the thriving center of the U.S. steel industry in the 20th Century. It’s solid-red Trump Country! Unbeknownst to the Trump security team, the local police or county sheriff, or even the Secret Service or his own family, a mentally disturbed white, Republican 20-year-old named Thomas Matthew Crooks, whose gun-nut father is a rabid Trump supporter, asks borrow his dad’s AR-15 style people-hunting rifle, so he can get some time in at the local gun range. Crooks’ dad jokes that his son needs the practice! (NOTE: Crooks’ high school gun club threw him out because he couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn, and was a danger on the firing range to himself and others! This kid was no Lee Harvey Oswald, a trained USMC sniper, by any means!) Later That Same Day: Crooks buys 50 rounds of ammo at a local gun shop, picks up a digital laser rangefinder and a short step ladder at Home Depot, and drives 40 miles to the Butler Farm Show, a seasonal event at which Trump is blathering. While Trump recalls his boyhood friendship with fictional cannibal Hannibal Lecter, Crooks wanders around, measuring, sighting, and planning his shots. Supposedly the Secret Service knew about the danger he posed 18 minutes before the attempted assassination, as people saw Crooks up on the roof of the building that law enforcement was using as a headquarters! Crooks has plenty of time to crawl over the roof. A local sheriff’s deputy follows him up the ladder, but when Crooks points his long gun at the deputy, he falls off! Moments later, and while being intently observed by not 1 but 2 Secret Service sharpshooters, Crooks opens fire. 6:11 p.m.: Making a point, Donald Trump turns his head slightly and a .223 high velocity round flies through his right ear, missing a cranial shot by about 2 cm. Crooks gets off several more rounds, blasting a Teleprompter to fragments, seriously injuring two bystanders and killing a third. The SS sharpshooters put five .50 caliber rounds into young Master Crooks, ending his brief reign of terror, the Secret Service agents mob Trump, who instructs them on a hot mic to put his shoes back on (???) and doesn’t forget to pump his fist in the air, a dramatic salute to his followers, as he’s hustled out of the arena, blood trickling down his face. Immediately Afterward: The Republican Echo Chamber begins turning out nonsense about the shooting, and there’s no official word from either Trump’s campaign staff or the hospital where he was treated, other than to say he’s “doing well.” Rumors don’t just fly, they teleport! And when it’s finally realized that Crooks WAS a Trump supporter, and his family donated to Trump’s campaign, the Right is utterly gobsmacked! They were all prepared to blame President Biden, for threatening Trump by making him sound like a mean old Nazi, which Biden did by the simple expedient of quoting some of Trump’s statements recorded at his private, unscripted events! Here, Trump praises Fearless Leader, Little Rocket Man, Adolf Hitler, Stalin, and Nikolay Denkov, among other despots, for their firm grip on power. His fans eat it up. July 15-18: Republican Convention in Milwaukee, WI, a city which Trump has previously declared he hates, and is the capital of American beer-brewing. Trump is apotheosized and given burnt offerings and songs of glad adulation, along with people beseeching him to rescue them and their semiautomatic weapons from the Horrible Socialist Left, as only he can! July 18: On the last day of convention, Trump announces his eagerly-anticipated choice for VP! It’s J. D. Vance, a freshman senator from Ohio who was famous 10 years ago for writing a briefly bestselling book about how lousy his youth was titled Hillbilly Elegy. Almost immediately, videos of Vance making anti-Trump statements a few years ago start circulating. If you want to know what Pretzel Logic is, it’s politics! July 21, Sunday: Former Democratic Speaker of the House, Nancy Pelosi, finally convinces President Joe Biden to depart the campaign, for the good of the country and the preservation of our democratic republic! Reluctantly, Biden agrees and appoints Kamala Harris to replace him on the ticket! She eagerly accepts, and starts fundraising immediately! 24 Hours Later: Harris has raised over $100,000,000, and set a new one-day record for U.S. political fundraising! July 22, Monday, A Slow News Day: When the news about Harris’s campaign gets out, Republicans suffer coronary arrest! Trump demands somebody repay him for all the money he’s invested in planning Sleepy Joe’s defeat, because Harris leaves him with no arguments except that she’s Black, she’s Asian and she’s got a vagina! (Which I think everybody was willing to accept on expert opinion.)
LATE MONDAY, 7-29: I put in 4 hours researching and writing this compilation, intending to complete it earlier, but I really felt like crap all day. Current events confound everything; for instance, where’s the supposed bullet hole in Trump’s right ear? And where are his medical records from the hospital ER, where he was treated? The FBI, among others, would like to hear it from Trump’s lips, and he’s finally acceded to their request. Also, the local sheriff’s office SWAT team was never briefed, never contacted, by the Secret Service until after the assignation attempt! Stay tuned to National Public Radio (NPR) for the best reporting originating in the USA. It reflects pretty well not only the news, but how it’s affecting ordinary people over here. Be well, stay low, wear camo and carry spare ammo! That’s the best advice I can give you right now, XXXXX, the rest is up to Lady Luck! — Malcolm
Fellow-travelers, greetings from the edge of the Great Beyond! As I gaze into the abyss (and perceive, just as Friedrich Nietzsche warned us, that it gazes back at me), visions of the future form in my slightly foggy mind.
Visions of… you! Yes, you, doing something… something obscure, uncommon… something odd, very odd, in this, the 21st Century, the era of people so distrustful they would rather catch a deadly virus than take the vaccine against it!
You are seated atyour computer, reading an ebook!
A very naughty ebook, I might add. How do I know? Certain subtle signs… or not so subtle, if you’re a guy. I never bothered to count, but I seem to have approximately equal sales to both pitchers and catchers, if you catch my drift?
Or maybe it’s a book that makes you uncomfortable, for some reason. It’s a brutally honest tale of childhood, helplessness, and sexual abuse… but far be it from me to dictate your tastes in erotica or pornography!
What’s the book’s title, you ask? Alas, the spirits refuse to adjust the focus on my Beyond-O-Scope, and it’s too blurred to read. But I do know what you are thinking!
You are thinking “Good grief, what a piece of shit! I disagree with everything this author has to say, in this or any other book he or she has ever authored, and I have developed a profound personal dislike for him or her! Furthermore, this writing style sucks donkey dicks! It’s somewhere between reading Vladimir Putin’s annual speech to the Duma, and the science-fiction novels of A. E. Van Vogt! I can’t believe the publisher paid… oh wait…”
And then you remember that you are reading a self-published ebook, and there are no editors, proof-readers or publishers standing in-between you, naked, and the writer’s wounded, bleeding, pus-oozing, maggot-infested ideas.
Nothing at all!
And you smile… yes, smile… because YOU, lucky human, BOUGHT THIS BOOK ON SALE, at discounts ranging from 25-50%! At that rate, even this sordid, cliché-ridden piece of monkey excrement is a bargain!
And bravely, brushing the flies off the carcass of Western literature, you turn back to your screen and read on!
I told you I would not dictate your tastes in sexually titillating reading, and I won’t. But let me politely SUGGEST this:
If you buy my ebooks from Smashwords (adult filter set to “All Erotica”) between March 5-11, including the memoir “Growing Up in the Orgone Box: Secrets of a Reichian Childhood” at 50% off ($3.49), and/or my non-fiction interspecies romance novel, “Wet Goddess: Recollections of a Dolphin Lover,” at 25% off ($5.24), YOU WILL NOT BE BORED AND WILL NOT REGRET IT!
Your precious time will be spent reading only carefully-crafted words picked for the peak of perfection, woven into epic, thunderous, yet strangely tender tales, stories that seem hauntingly familiar yet unutterably alien, true stories that no other writer dares tell, and tells as well as me, the one and only Malcolm J. Brenner!
Wait! My astral vision is coming back into focus, somebody has turned the knob, cleaned the lens! I see clearly now, the fog is gone…
…In the future, I see you reading an ebook I wrote. You are nodding, smiling, perhaps chuckling a little, sipping a cup of your favorite beverage and carelessly nibbling an oatmeal cooking with raisins, oblivious to the crumbs falling into your keyboard… and you are HAPPY!
And I am very, very grateful! Thanks, readers, comrades, fellow-travelers, and anybody else who appreciates my stories, or buys them to burn in a self-righteous bonfire! The joke’s on you, asshole, your kid has purloined a copy and is reading it under the covers at night, by flashlight! — Malcolm
The author as an evil genius. Photo by Keithen Martinez.
Hey, gang, here I go again! Only I lied when I wrote that headline, because these babies are brand new bargains and rarin’ to go! Drive ’em off the lot for up to 1/2 price, no trade-in required and no tiresome negotiations! I just didn’t think you’d believe me if I said that in the headline!
Yes, it’s the annual Summer/Winter Sale at Smashwords, my favorite purveyor of e-literature. Why? Because, with exquisite taste, they published me, when all other e-book distributors gave me either derisive scorn, or mocking laughter, at the thought of publishing a human-dolphin romance novel!
Well I’ve shown them, haven’t I? Since 2010, over 2,150 copies of Wet Goddess: Recollections of a Dolphin Lover sold in 18 countries, not including South Korea, which for some reason has a ban on Western books going even to U.S. service personnel, but a psychiatric institute in Beijing did order a copy to complete their collection on decadent, imperialistic Western sexual perversions, I guess. Got to keep up with trends in mental illness, after all, and delphinophilia is one of the latest!
(When looking for my books in Smashwords, be sure to set Filtering in the blue bar at the top of the page to Include all Erotica, otherwise you’ll never see them!)
To get a 25% discount on Wet Goddess regular price of $6.99, use this code: WE48B.
Not only that, but the memoir that rips wide-open the weird, creepy, seamy side of my childhood, and exposes New Age psychiatrist Dr. Wilhelm Reich for the idiotic fraud he was, Growing Up in the Orgone Box: Secrets of a Reichian Childhood, is on sale for 50% off!
What’s it like to be only 5 years old and lying on a couch, butt naked, with a dark, bitter man staring at you, who is going to hurt you, molest you and cause you only pain? And soundproof walls and a locked door stand between him and your father?
This book tells that story, reveals my mother’s callous indifference to my welfare, and exposes the dangers of believing in pseudo-science, or any unwarranted belief system whether religious or not, rather than your own child.
To get a 50% discount on Orgone Box regular price of $6.99, use this code: BJ25B
The Smashwords Summer/Winter Sale lasts from July 1-July 31, and they call it that because when it’s summer in this hemisphere it’s winter Down Under, right? Right!
And, maybe, I will get out an e-book copy of my straight, heterosexual sex-with-an-alien science-fiction novel Mel-Khyor: An Interstellar Affair in time for the sale. I’ve had some people who don’t like the audio book asking for it, and it’s time I did it, because it sure is gathering dust in paperback! Stranger things have happened, pigs have flown.
But basically you should buy my books for 2 reasons:
1) They are supremely entertaining, if weird, stories that happen to be true, and
2) I need to increase my gross income, so I can support my writing habit. And I’m Jonesing bad, man, bad!
I meant to write this at Christmas, but due to this and that, didn’t get around to it. But here it is, and it is an astonishing fact:
In the month between Nov. 19 — Dec. 20, I got 20 orders for Wet Goddess!
I haven’t had that level of holiday sales since 2010 or 2011, when the book was new, or still relatively new, and David Farrier did his now-notorious interview with me.
What’s even more impressive is that three of those orders were multiples, one for 3 copies, and two for 2. What does that mean? It means they don’t just want to find out about dolphins for themselves, they want someone else to read it. Total sold: 24 copies.
When you consider that the narrator (me, aw shucks) is a zoophile, this is remarkable. What message does it send, giving Wet Goddess for a holiday present? That you are a zoophile? That you are interested in communicating with dolphins and willing to invest $18.95 + S/H? That you have a streak of perverse sexuality in you?
Yes. Perhaps all these things, perhaps other reasons that haven’t imagined. “The Universe is,” as Exeter the alien from Metaluna said in the 1956 special-effects spectacle This Island Earth, “vast, and full of wonders.” I hope it always remains that way.
Zoophile American Author Wins Case Against New Zealand Radio Station, Gets Nothing In Return
PORT CHARLOTTE, FL – Writer, publisher and self-described zoophile Malcolm J. Brenner has won a case against MediaWorks, Inc., a New Zealand broadcaster, for airing a distorted interview with him – where one member of the trio of interviewers insulted him, cursed him, and then left the studio.
“The interview lasted about 20 minutes, but that four-minute segment was all they used,” Brenner said, “and they lied to me about that.”
However, he’ll get nothing for his troubles, not even an on-air apology.
The ruling came from the Broadcast Standards Authority, New Zealand’s equivalent of the U.S. Federal Communications Commission, which found that a program on the station The Edge had deliberately edited an interview with Brenner to present an unflattering portrait of him.
“That’s disgusting! You’re sick! Dolphins cannot give consent,” said Meg Annear during a March 30 interview with the author of the controversial novel Wet Goddess: Recollections of a Dolphin Lover.She then got up from her microphone on The Dom, Meg and Randell Show, removed her headphones and, over the protests of her partners Clint Randell and Dom Harvey, walked out of the studio.
“I’ve had this happen before,” Brenner said. “Some people, particularly certain women, are ‘triggered’ when I begin to describe the dolphin’s uninhibited courtship behavior toward me, and they react as if I was describing my own behavior.” When this happened at a radio station in Australia several years ago, the station opted not to air the interview.
The Dom, Meg and Randell Show, however, took a different course – one that involved the station’s lawyers, management, deception and eventually brought in the BSA itself.
“I went ahead and finished the interview with just the two guys, Dom and Randell, and it was okay and about 20 minutes long,” Brenner explained. “Then Dom and I exchanged some mail about when the clip was going to air. Finally, several days later, he emailed me a 10-minute edit of the interview and told me it would air in a few days.”
Brenner tuned in the podcast, but heard nothing. By now suspicious, he went back into the show’s archives and discovered, to his horror, that not only had Dom sent him a decoy audio file, the material that they did air was the most inflammatory part of the interview, where Meg curses at Brenner on her way out the door.
“Once I realized what the station had done to me, I was astonished and outraged,” Brenner recalled. “Nobody has acted with such contempt for me since junior high school, where I was an unpopular student. It was like getting mugged in the hallway, and they didn’t have to do it. It was malicious, it was intentional, and they thought they could get away with it because I’m a foreigner and an admitted zoophile.”
Bestiality has been illegal in New Zealand since the adoption of the constitution in 1963, by nation-wide law. Brenner’s interlude with the dolphin, named Dolly (Ruby in the novel), occurred over six months in 1971, but bestiality wasn’t made illegal in Florida until 2011.
“I did nothing illegal, not in Florida and certainly not in New Zealand, and yet Dom saw fit to deceive me, lie to me, lie about me and defame me,” Brenner said. “He did this solely based on the idea that I had the experience with Dolly 48 years ago and therefore I must be a non-person with no rights under New Zealand law.”
Worse yet, Brenner suspects the station’s attorney, Tom Turton, conspired with the rogue DJ’s plans.
“A couple of days after we wrapped the interview I inquired about when it would air, and Dom said it was being considered by the station’s lawyers, for content, because zoophilia is illegal in New Zealand,” Brenner said. “By that time the edited, four-minute clip of Meg leaving the studio had already aired!”
Was Dom advised by Turton to deceive Brenner?
“If so, I’d find a new attorney,” the writer half-joked. “When Dom told me he had to run it by the lawyers I had a bad feeling, but I decided to say nothing so as not to ‘bad vibe’ the situation. If Turton collaborated, he should be reported to the New Zealand Bar Association for misconduct.
“I learned it doesn’t matter if you voice your suspicions or not, by the time you’re aware of them the bird has flown,” Brenner said. He asked the BSA to order the station to apologize to him on-air, place the full interview in its archive, and to pay him whatever amount the BSA thought would prevent the station from running similar slanderous stories in the future. The Administration can impose up to a $5,000 NZ ($3,600 US) fine.
However, the BSA decided not to place any orders on the station, thus giving it only an symbolic “slap on the wrist,” Brenner said.
“MediaWorks advise that its processes have been reviewed with respect to how it responds to audience feedback on challenging topics. Taking into account the above factors and the action taken by MediaWorks, the Authority considers that the publication of this decision is sufficient to censure MediaWorks conduct and clarify our expectations of broadcasters under the fairness standard. Accordingly, we do not make any orders,”the BSA’s decision, signed by its chair Judge Bill Hastings, reads.
“I’m appalled at the lack accountability,” Brenner said. “This decision leaves MediaWorks free to practice this kind of slander on anyone who comes along, anyone they feel is ‘different’ or vulnerable.
“I don’t even get a formal apology from the people who lied to me, lied about me, defamed me, sent me a false file and tried to bury the truth afterward. MediaWorks said they had no problem making an apology and archiving the show, but the BSA doesn’t require it, so they won’t do it. It’s absolutely disgusting.”
Brenner is filing an appeal of the decision, citing the lack of any orders. He is also the author of a memoir, Growing Up in the Orgone Box: Secrets of a Reichian Childhood,and a science-fiction novel, Mel-Khyor: An Interstellar Affair.
For a copy of the complete decision by the BSA (15 pgs.), please contact Brenner at
Let me make something abundantly clear: Wet Goddess was not written to promote bestiality or zoophilia, although I knew if I told my story it would probably come down to that.
I wrote Wet Goddess to share my experience with a creature that I found to be remarkably sophisticated, intelligent, aware, loving and worthy in every way of the designation, “non-human person.”
And she didn’t come out of some alien spacecraft. Her kind exist here on Earth, as they have for millions of years before we appeared, surviving ages of fire and ice in the arms of Mother Ocean.
In the decades since my experience with Dolly, science has, in many ways, caught up with my impressions and anecdotal experience. Now cognitive psychologists and others have explored the mind of the dolphin and arrived at the same conclusions I did in 1971: dolphins are self-aware individuals, able to recognize themselves in a mirror, experiencing a vast range of emotions and behaviors, language users and capable of employing “theory of mind,” the ability to calculate or imagine what another creature is thinking.
We should be devoting a large chunk of our resources as a species to understanding these creatures who have survived so much longer on this planet than we have. What are we doing instead? Some nations still slaughter them en masse in tuna nets, while others conduct murderous drive hunts and butcher them with glee. Some nations take the prettiest ones and commoditize them and sell them into enslavement, where they are forced to perform stupid tricks for our amusement. And we are polluting their environment at such a rate that by 2050 there will be more plastic in the ocean than fish. I despair for their future.
My zoosexual love story with Dolly the dolphin is what has attracted most attention, but if I’d had sex with a barnyard animal or a household pet, do you seriously think I’d have spoken up, exposing a practice that most people find viscerally revolting?
Of course not. Zoophiles may still have to keep their sexuality a secret in most situations, but they are humans and accorded certain rights by law. Dolphins are considered chattel, or property, by the same system. I am advocating for changing that and giving dolphins rights under a framework that recognizes their status, as acknowledged by science.
And that, folks, is what I mean when I say “I didn’t write Wet Goddess for zoophiles, I wrote it for dolphins.”
Sorry I had to spell it out for those of you who so perceptively pointed out that dolphins can’t read.
Malcolm J. Brenner 