#benpalmer

Dear diary, 

It took Uncle Butch a while to figure it out, but I've got a weed plant growing in our backyard. The dumbass goes back there every morning and picks out a tomato for his afternoon salad, yet doesn't notice that right next to it is a big giant nice bud of leaf. It took him a while to notice it, but I think he knows now. I saw him staring pretty heavily at it when he was by himself in the yard yesterday. He stood there around it, unsure of what it really was, his head tilting from one way to another. It's a weed plant. Delicious indiga, the kind that makes you smooth and mellow. I bet he'll smoke it and feel like he's back in the 70s and in his prime again. I'm waiting for the right time to smoke it, like when I get a girl to come over after a date. We'll have a spaghetti dinner, and take it back to my place, and I'll crack open a bottle of wine and we'll turn on a hip flick, and I'll take her outside to show her something and then talk about it with her and how I got it and what I've done to nurture it to become what it is now. And then I'll say"Do you wanna smoke it?"

And we'll both nod our heads and break it up, roll it into a joint and get high while watching cartoons. Nah, fuck it. I'll probably smoke it with Uncle Butch tonight. The guy was the first one to get me high, so I can't go hiding it from him. I've noticed he's been a little annoyed about something lately, like he may be disturbed I'm holding out on him. It may have hurt his feelings. He's quite the guy, I tell you. I'm gonna get high with him again and see what kind of crazy nonsense he's going to talk about this time. Maybe he'll tell me he's gay or something. Or that he used to fuck horses. I could see that. He seems like a guy that fucked horses. And then one day Bessie got the best of him and he had to retire. He seems like he was devastated by a horse. He seems like the kind of guy who got arrested for being out too late at a farm, jerking off one of the chickens, and then the police rolled up on him and took him to prison. Then he did hard time and had to go through a lot of shit in prison being known as the guy who jerked off the chickens. That's Butch, alright. That's Butch.

Dear Diary,

It’s almost midnight. Do I have my PDF’S on fly fishing? No. I do not. Called the people over at MagicJack. They confessed to me that the product is basically the “three-toed sloth” of internet services. That’s when I lost my cool —

Me: Well, what about my fucking fly-fishing PDF’S? Should I be expecting reparations in the form of a 1 year subscription to Field And Stream?

MagicJack: First of all, sir, please do not curse. And second of all, we’re not responsible, in any way, for providing you with information regarding angling, or any other outdoor sports for that matter.

Me: Look, hear me out. My neighbor lost his job. My access to the internet was also terminated when he lost his job.

MagicJack: Are you joking? Is this a joke, sir?

Me: A joke? Pshhh. I found the name of the place that neighbor of mine worked at. I stormed in there, asked for the manager, told him he made a huge mistake firing Roger, who, I felt, was the strongest bartender in Applebee’s history --

MagicJack: Hello, this is Gordon, customer services operator.

Me: Hello, Gordon. I’m almost finished . . . The manager looks at me, says, “who the fuck might you be?” That’s when I look him in the eyes and say, “I’m the fucking guy who relied on Roger AKA NETGEAR55-13 for internet access —fly-fishing resources, etc.

MagicJack: Goodbye. Me: Fuckin’ gaylords.

So, looks like I’ll be returning MagicJack to Wal-Greens, in the hopes Roger is welcomed back to Applebee’s. NETGEAR55-13 (the only router that didn’t require a password) is currently non-existent, according to the airport on my Macbook-Air.

Herman should be back home from his fly-fishing excursion tomorrow. Which is precisely why I must get my meat-hooks on those god damn PDF’S.

Kinda lied to Herm; told him he didn’t know shit about fly-fishing, and that, sometime really soon, Uncle Butch was gonna provide some insight, secrets, and tips on how to catch more fish. Clearly that was a lie. I know nothing about fishing, let alone fly-fishing, which appears to require some kind of yo-yo-master trickery—that loose line looks pretty damn tricky. Herm could return home at any moment, mention his trip, in which fly-fishing would be discussed in great detail. Not good.

Still waiting to hear back from unemployment; gonna get it, just not sure how much exactly. Anxiety has gotten the better part of me the last few days. Worried I won’t have the money and knowledge necessary to keep up with the demands of a growing 18 year old boy: that’s my greatest fear.

My mother always told me to stay positive, work-hard, and always pursue my wants, needs, urges, and desires: she’d want me to fuck Herman. And I will.

Simple and easy. I’m gonna make a comeback in the next few days, get the PDF’s, get my unemployment situation squared away—maybe fix the oscillation feature on the dehumidifier—and get my nephew alone for a weekend on a fly- fishing trip;

It’d be a victory for Butch Vogul, know that much.

Dear diary,

Dear diary,

Missed the last few days on here, sorry. Irresponsible neighbor lost his job and can’t pay for internet. I took matters into my own hands: purchased Magic Jack Plus. This thing is no damn good. Started downloading—at 2am—a compilation of Fly Fishing PDF’s put together by the fine folks at Field And Stream Magazine: it’s 4:44 in the afternoon and I only got 13 of the 44MB needed to complete my download. Will call those fuckers at Magic Jack tomorrow, trust me!

Pretty sure my nephew has no clue I installed cameras in his dehumidifier— that’s the good news, anyway. The bad news is he adjusted its location, and this has rendered all footage void of any dong sightings. The cameras only seem to capture the left side of his dresser drawer. Sometimes I can see him walking by, but always fully clothed, energetic— not drowsy or vulnerable. Also pretty sure that when I installed the cameras I accidentally pinched a loose wire, eliminating the dehumidifier’s oscillation feature. Tried to fix, unsuccessful though.

Sometimes in the afternoons I sneak into his bedroom, yank open his dresser drawers, and sniff the gray hue of his longjohns, and if I’m feeling good, I’ll leave rose petals in his church-socks. Lol. I may or may not have placed dirty limericks underneath Herman’s pillow last night.

Been pickin’ up trails of Busch cans all morning. Thought my Fly-Fishing PDF’s would be ready, and when MagicJack let me down, got a 30 of BUSCH. Got really rowdy. Started thinking about brushing Herman’s teeth with my beard stubble. Herm’s gonna get some jet-black hair up in his teeth. Real fuckin’ soon.

Oh, fuck me. I forgot to mention my failed solution for fixing the oscillation feature on Herm’s dehumidifier. After I steam up all of his belongings with the breathe of my nostrils, I reposition his dehumidifier, align the cameras with his bed—get a buttered popcorn, movie view (if you know what I mean?). But, always, this little meat-mountain is resolute, firm in his beliefs and habits. And first on Herm’s list of beliefs: dehumidifier must be placed in front of window,

creating awful angle for strategically placed , hidden cameras, courtesy of sneaky uncle.

Must do better job of clearing my tracks while going in and out of his bedroom. Can’t weird Herm out. Wear him out, yes, but create feelings of violation: absolutely not. My brother, I’m afraid, already knows, at least subconsciously, about my strange perversions, lust, and yearning for the incessant loin thrusts of his dear son.

When Herm was 10 months old, my brother, Bill, walked in on me hovering over Herm’s crib. My long, dark, mythical ponytail was dangling, casting mysterious looking shadows over his round, pudgy, baby face. Bill just looked at me and said, “My son look like a Camaro to you, Butch?” I just laughed and reminded Bill, Herm enjoyed being tickled with the split-ends of my big, beautiful pony tail.

Whoa, ha. Just had a fantasy in the midst of writing this entry. My fantasy: My ponytail was a bright, yellow, UFO tractor beam. I exited the back door

of my brother’s house. I started to levitate. My nephew was in the forrest, splitting wood with a tiny, tiny axe, made from, aerially speaking, what appeared to be clay. He looked hot and thirsty. Some guy was standing up on a tall tree stump, wearing yellow bowling shoes, black umbro shorts, and one of those spooky Nixon mask’s. I watched down on them from above the tree-tops,’ licking my lips, rubbing circular patterns on and around the lamp of a genie, which I suddenly realized was my penis. I’m thrown off when they both look to the sky, spotting me. “You’re never gonna marry your nephew,” the man in the Nixon mask shouts, “Your brother will never let you. After he cuts my wood, I’m gonna get ‘em.” Then, Herman bent over, spread his cheeks and said, “Drill me, drill me for oil you fucking pig.” Jealousy got the best of me. I wrapped my ponytail around Nixon’s neck and catapulted his head, high above the clouds. My voice echoed over the hillside, “Nobody drills me nephew except me— nobody drills my nephew except me . . .

Fantasy over.

Anyway. I gotta call MagicJack in the morning. Need those fly-fishing PDF’s, and pronto.

This is Butch Vogul, signing off.

I was finally able to sneak into Herman’s bedroom long enough to install secret cameras in his dehumidifier. He has a habit of leaving it set on Oscillation Mode. This gives me more coverage and, undoubtedly, improves my chances of seeing his thighs, buttocks or dong.

Oh, darn. This is my first entry; so I probably should explain myself: I don’t wanna seem like a creep.

Dear Diary,

Since the day of his birth, January 2nd, 1996, my nephew has been the apple of my eye. And despite years of torment, years in which I fantasized about him, always in extremely perverted ways, I never crossed the line, not once. But things have changed; Herbert is 18, legal, handsome, tender: on my to do list (if you know what I mean). Proximity is no longer an issue. Tony Hill Auto, based out of Atlanta, Georgia, laid me off; so, my days of repairing the Iroc-Z28 Camaro is over, at least for now. Don’t get all sad on me, I took the news like a dignified man, swung my long, stoic, jet black pony tail over my shoulder, jumped in my Eagle Talon and drove to Ledyard, Connecticut. I’m living with my brother for the time being. I hate my brother; but I have to love him, he’s Herbert’s father.

I figure I’ll have at least three to four months to win my nephew’s heart— express my longing, my passion, my insatiable need to be with him, as lovers, forever and ever.

My goal while I’m here in Connecticut living at my brother’s house is quite simple.

 My brother Paul is letting me stay with he and Herman. That means–according to what Paul told me–I got about 6 months, 6 months to convince my nephew that we were meant to be together—I wanna marry Herman.

The obstacles are stacked against me, though, but I didn’t expect this to be easy. If my brother Paul finds out I’m trying to steal away Herman, he’ll kill me.

My name is Butch Vogul, and I’m in love. This is my diary. I encourage you to read it; follow the hunt.