Chuck Tingle’s ‘Pounded In The Butt By My Own Butt’ is a transhumanist masterpiece
Once in a generation, a literary mind comes along who’s able to express the zeitgesit of the current age with inimitable, earth-shattering clarity. The ’20s had F Scott Fitzgerald, the ’70s had Hunter S. Thompson, the ’80s had Don Delillo, and now, like a beacon shining on the horizon, comes a talent of truly ass-stounding proportions.
I am speaking, of course, of bestselling e-book author Dr. Chuck Tingle, PhD, whose previously published titles include “Taken By The Gay Unicorn Biker,” “Pounded By President Bigfoot,” and “My Billionaire Triceratops Craves Gay Ass.” These stories have won him much acclaim in the world of gay dinosaur erotica, but his latest effort, “Pounded in the Butt By My Own Butt,” is accomplished enough to transcend its various genre pigeonholes and become one of the great short stories of our time. Like Phillip K. Dick’s “Do Androids Dream Of Electric Sheep?”, but with more prostate orgasms.
Released in the Amazon Kindle format, “Pounded in the Butt By My Own Butt” (PITBBMOB, for short) details the torrid love affair between a young, ambitious research assistant named Kirk and a winged, sentient clone of his own butt, whom he names Portork. It begins with a meditation on the epistemological meaning of “science” and where we might draw the line between unknown quantities and the occult:
Set in a world eerily similar to our own, “PITBBMOB” outlines in vivid detail a near future in which human cloning is a reality and scientists are racing to see who will be the first to successfully create a permanent underclass of weak-minded drones to perform our manual labor for us. Tingle complicates his protagonist by placing him on the side of the rising Techno-libertarians, with their dogmatic credo of “progress at all costs”:
And yet, at times he feels conflicted about the effects his work will have, on both the unfortunate creatures he brings to life in his lab, and on society at large:
As one might surmise from the above passage as well as from the book’s title, Kirk’s main love interest comes into being when his boss tries splicing together DNA samples from his brain, his posterior, and a common hawk. Like the title character in “Dr. Frankenstein,” he greets his success with a complex melange of jubilation and horror.
An uncanny reflection of the deeply flawed yet physically perfect Kirk, the winged butt represents the narcissist’s forbidden dream (but also, in equal measures, fear) of having another person truly know them:
It’s not long before Kirk begins to feel irresistibly attracted to the butt, whom he names “Portork” in an effort to exert linguistic control over his double’s identity and, by extension, his own. So he takes him out to a fancy French restaurant for his first taste of steak and wine.
The Dorian Grey to Kirk’s Lord Basil, Portork proves an apt pupil in the ways of hedonism, vanishing both food and drink into his single orifice in a manner reminiscent of the creatures populating Burroughs’ “Naked Lunch.” At the end of the meal, he announces he’d like to “try anal,” as if there’s any other type of sex a winged, sentient butt can have.
The story commits even more fully to magical realism when, sufficiently excited, Portork sprouts a throbbing appendage described in the text as an “impressive…massive rod” from the region directly below his anus. Kirk’s id overtakes his ego as the relationship is consummated, with each lover taking turns “pitching” and “catching” in an endless Hegelian dialectic of copulation.
In an act foreshadowed by Act One’s character description, Portork briefly tricks Kirk into thinking he’s gone forever, but it turns out their romantic compatibility is too great for even a runaway posterior like himself to ignore.
As the book’s cinematic gaze pans out on the happy couple, one must ask: Is the story meant as a satire of the empty “radical self-love” philosophy that is “hawked” on every street corner of our neoliberal dystopia by snake oil salesmen like Dr. Phil and Oprah? Or is it meant as a qualified embrace of same? Does it herald our coming transhumanist modifications with joy, or trepidation? Two things we know for certain: We are likely to be discussing these questions for quite some time, and Dr. Chuck Tingle is just getting farted.