Dead Man Talking

Crad Kilodney's archives

Ass Cleavage! Endangered Species! by Crad Kilodney

Ass Cleavage! Endangered Species! by Crad Kilodney

January 2002



Dear Diane,


Bet you never expected to hear from me again, did you, you bondage slut? You still owe me $50 from that reading in ’89, but never mind that because you’re going to make it up to me, see? Get your Polaroid out of the closet and take some ass shots of yourself. I want you to lie over a comfy chair with your knees on the floor and your ass spread wide. You can do panty shots with the panty pulled up to show me your ass cleavage, and also some good naked shots with good light on your bunghole. You’re going to do the same with your girlfriends and your female customers. I want good asses with lots of meat. I’ve been appointed Endangered Species Protection Agent for the Metro area — a great honor but no stipend to go with it unless I take a trip to Ottawa and blow this Liberal punk named Noel, which I would never do. So I’m going to make money with the ass cleavage shots you send me. I’m going to sell photo packs and maybe produce some gag tourist postcards (“Hi from Toronto!”). I can work with Polaroids or negatives or regular prints or digital, whatever. The money will go to save endangered species, in a vague way. I’m supposed to get people to count whatever the fuck is endangered and tot up the numbers they send in. But mainly I want to bite your ass and lick it all over, you bitch, because you only dated fucking wogs, not white Canadians. You need a stiff ramrod up your pretentious artsy bunghole, you bohemian trash slut. So get that ass up because I have to save, what, penguins? Salamanders? Some fucking woodpecker that supposedly migrates over Mississauga one day a year on its way to Louisiana? Whales for sure. Never mind that we’re nowhere near the ocean. Somebody’s gonna send me a whale count, just you watch, and I’ll accept it. (Prove they didn’t swim up the St. Lawrence Seaway!) If something goes extinct it’s technically not endangered any more and not my problem. I just want to get bundles of hot ass shots from you, and I don’t care how you get them (should be no big deal since you advertise in Now). Just don’t get all artsy with me with dumb poses and costumes and weird shit, just normal (bondage okay) ass meat targets a prisoner or mental patient can jerk off all over (with a clear plastic protector, of course), which brings back memories of Penetang, but I digress. I want my animal counters to be happy campers (I don’t have to do plants). Yeah, that’s how I’m recruiting them. They count fucking endangered wolverines or chipmunks for me, I supply girls’ ass cleavage shots. I’ll just throw the reports in the closet, that’s all. If the government wants me to write up some sort of white paper or green paper or whatever the fuck the Environment Minister stands up and reads in the House of Commons, they gotta send me a hot female assistant with a BIG ass I can thrash around in with the trouser snake. It’s a hard job, but I’m ready to do it as long as nobody blames me for dangerously low counts of marmots, skinks, or ospreys. I never did anything to any species in my whole life except kick a few pigeons that expected ME to walk around THEM, but they’re not endangered and, besides, they had it coming because of their city attitude. Now listen, you bitch, you bend over for me and pull that g-string up your crack and show me good ass cleavage, and all is forgiven. And if you find me some prime callipygian butt-babes (Italian brunettes!), you may even have a favor or two coming if I’m in the mood. I don’t want to see any faces, understand? It spoils the fantasy. And like I said, no fucking experimental, conceptual bullshit like your terrible poetry, which you’ll never get published unless you butt-fuck some totally marginal CanLit wiener with your strap-on. Listen, you screw up this assignment and I’ll leave a dead porpoise in your pot garden. I want straight-on, rude-and-crude crack shots, and I want a pile of them every month because there’s a lot of fucking endangered species crying out in their pathetic little voices, “Help! Save me! I can’t reproduce because my habitat sucks!”, and I’m going to protect them if I have to come over there myself and rip your leather panties off and whip your white Canadian ass.


Yours fervently,

The Dickmaster





All material at  is copyright © by Crad Kilodney. All rights reserved.


Crad Kilodney, P.O. Box 72577, 345 Bloor St. East, Unit 7, Toronto, ON, M4W 3S9

— Crad’s new writing is now at



Osama bin Laden’s Favorite Cookie Recipes by Crad Kilodney










Osama bin Laden’s Favorite Cookie Recipes by Crad Kilodney

November 2001



Jihad Gingerbread Men


½  cup molasses ½  teaspoon baking soda
¼  cup sugar ½  teaspoon salt
3   tablespoons butter ½  teaspoon nutmeg
1  tablespoon milk ½  teaspoon cinnamon
2  cups flour ½  teaspoon ground cloves
½  teaspoon powdered ginger

Preheat the oven to 350° F while praying for the death of infidels and butter some cookie sheets. Heat the molasses to the boiling point, as you would the masses in Islamabad, then add the sugar, butter, and milk. Mix the flour with the baking soda, salt, nutmeg, cinnamon, cloves, and ginger. Add the first mixture and blend well. Add a few tablespoons of water, enough so that the dough holds together and handles easily, like plastic explosives. Roll or pat out the dough about ¼ inch thick. Using a box cutter, cut into large gingerbread men in the shape of heavily-armed soldiers. Bake for 5-7 minutes. When cool, adorn with frosting and bits of candy, raisins, or orange peel to represent gun belt, grenades, dagger, ammunition clips, etc. An inspiring treat served throughout our training camps.



Mujahadeen Molasses Cookies


¼  cup molasses 1  egg
½  cup shortening 1  cup flour
¾  cup dark brown sugar ½  teaspoon salt
½  teaspoon baking soda

Preheat the oven to 375° F. Mix the molasses, shortening, brown sugar, and egg in a bowl, combining well. Mix the flour, salt, and baking soda together, add to first mixture, and blend. Arrange by teaspoonfuls on ungreased cookie sheets, about 1 inch apart, and bake for 7-10 minutes or until crisp and lightly browned. A nourishing snack to eat where the air is thin, as it is in our many caves in the mountains of Afghanistan. All guests must eat them, too.



Taliban Sand Tarts


   ¼  pound butter 1  egg white, slightly beaten,
1 ½  cups sugar     like a disobedient wife in
   1  egg     accordance with Islamic law
   2  cups flour 1  teaspoon cinnamon
   ¼  teaspoon salt

Preheat the oven or outdoor stone pit to 400° F. Beat the butter until softened, then slowly add 1 ¼ cups of the sugar, continuing to beat until creamy and smooth. Add the egg and mix well. Add the flour and salt and beat until well blended, like our inconspicuous agents in America. Chill the dough for 30 minutes. Sprinkle a surface lightly with flour and roll out the dough very thin, then brush it with beaten egg white. Mix the remaining ¼ cup of sugar with the cinnamon and sprinkle over the dough. Cut into appropriate Islamic shapes, such as rocket launcher, tank, plane, or Mullah Omar, and place on ungreased cookie sheets. Bake for about 6 minutes or until the edges of the cookies turn slightly golden. Remove from oven; let cool a minute or two before removing from rack to cool. Store in airtight container, like those used for biological or chemical weapons. Serve to family while listening to state-controlled radio station. Then the children must say their prayers and go to bed. The wife must retire to the marital bed and await her husband.



Suicide Shortbreads


Sandy and crumbly, like the ruins of a symbol of American
hegemony after a martyr’s bombing mission.
½  pound butter 2  cups flour
½  cup confectioners’ sugar ¼  teaspoon salt
¼  teaspoon baking powder

Preheat the oven to 350° F. Cream the butter, then gradually add the sugar, beating well. Mix the flour, salt, and baking powder together and add to the first mixture, combining thoroughly. Roll out the dough with a rolling pin or artillery shell casing until it is ¼ inch thick, then cut into any shape that is acceptably Islamic. Put them on ungreased cookie sheets, prick each cookie with a fork, and bake for 20-25 minutes, or until you see a vision of virgins awaiting you in Paradise. A perfect send-off sweet for you and your brothers on your last day on earth.



al-Qaeda Brownies


(Don’t overcook! We like them moist and chewy!)
   3  ounces unsweetened chocolate    ¼  teaspoon salt
   6  tablespoons butter    ¾  cup flour
1 ½  cups sugar    ¾  cup chopped walnuts
   3  eggs 1 ½  teaspoons vanilla

Preheat the oven to 350° F. Butter a 9-inch square cake pan. Melt the chocolate and the butter in a bowl or pot over simmering water, stirring until smooth. Remove from heat, and stir in the sugar, eggs, salt, flour, walnuts, and vanilla. Combine well. Spread in the pan and bake for about 40 minutes, until dry on top and almost firm to the touch. Set the pan on a rack to cool for about 15 minutes, then cut the brownies into squares approximately 2 ¼ inches. A tasty reward for little Mohammed after a good day on the shooting range, may he grow up to kill a thousand Americans and Jews and die gloriously for Islam!



All material at  is copyright © by Crad Kilodney. All rights reserved.


Crad Kilodney, P.O. Box 72577, 345 Bloor St. East, Unit 7, Toronto, ON, M4W 3S9

— Crad’s new writing is now at


Moby Dick Essay by Crad Kilodney

Moby Dick Essay by Crad Kilodney

March 2002

Note: this essay is suitable for junior college and college students



Moby Dick is an exciting sea novel about a captain who sails the high seas in search of a giant whale. The whale had bitten off his leg long before, so he wanted to get even. Author Herman Melville may well have been inspired by another sea-going novelist, Benito Cereno, whose novel Cyrano de Bergerac relates the story of an ugly captain with a long nose who sails the seas in search of a beautiful woman he met in the seaport of Paris during the Spanish Inquisition. It was a trip calculated to end in disaster, which embodies the theme that one must not challenge the forces of Fate but accept one’s humble place in a Christian universe.

Moby Dick has the most levels of meaning of any novel in American literature. At least eighteen have been counted by literary scholars at Oxford, Columbia, the U.S. Naval Academy at Acropolis, and many others. However, the three big ones are: a) a tragedy of revenge, b) animal rights, and c) superstition vs. science. It is the latter theme that interests me most.

Mid-way through the novel, Capt. Ahab, our egotistical hero, walks on the plank at night and asks the universe “whether tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles and, by opposing, end them?” Ahab hopes to slay a supernatural whale by the application of modern weapons, such as the lance, spear, harpoon, and similar artillery. But his faithful first mate, Starbuck, a devout, church-going man, recognizes the danger, for he knows well that Moby Dick is no ordinary whale but a force of evil. During a crossing of the Line of Capricorn, a vision appears on the mast in the form of St. Elmo’s fire, an electrical phenomenon conjured up in olden times by the monks of the Order of St. Elmo. The vision of a satanic pentagon warns Starbuck to try to avert disaster. However, Ahab is stubborn, like the ancient Hebrew king of old whose name he took, and he is determined to get his revenge on Moby Dick.

Mysterious events along the way prove that superstitious forces are at work: a sailor falls into the sea and does not rise to the surface; the sun stands still for many hours; the wind dies down to nothing; birds fly confused in all directions; Queequeg, a South Pacific Indian who is an expert whale-killer, sees death in a pattern of bones; and a large piece of cheese disappears, causing the captain to lock up several innocent sailors by mistake.

The captain has bribed his men by offering his favorite gold coin as a reward to the sailor who is the first to harpoon Moby Dick, which overlaps another level of meaning, which is capitalism vs. morality, one that is not within the scope of this essay but deserves investigation at another time.

In the final climax, the whale appears, and it is as white as a snow-capped mountain, causing many experienced sailors to go faint and fearful. Half of them want to run away, but the others are hypnotized by the whiteness of the whale so much that they are willing to obey the commands of their captain wherever he leads them, even to the bottom of the sea. The boats are sent off, and Ahab himself gets into one, hoping to snare the prize himself. The whale, however, seems to be reading his mind, for just when Ahab is about to strike, it goes under the water. Ahab’s use of science will not do him any good now, for he is up against a demonic force of religious proportions. Starbuck knew that long ago, but now it is too late for him. He says to himself, “All our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death,” which symbolizes the futility of human educational experience against the overwhelming odds of natural forces of universal evil.

The whale surfaces and causes mayhem, sinking all the boats. The captain is dragged down in its bloody jaws, and an evil color shines in the clouds overhead, representing the supremacy of evil over the rational Christian mind.

Only Ishmael, the narrator, survives to tell the story, a clever narrative device used by Melville and other best-selling authors, which adds drama to everything preceding.

Readers and scholars continue to analyze this profoundly deep and complex story which offers endless speculation as to its true meaning. This essay, it is hoped, has selected an appropriate aspect of the book and illuminated some relevant insights to explain it.




All material at is copyright © by Crad Kilodney. All rights reserved.


Crad Kilodney, P.O. Box 72577, 345 Bloor St. East, Unit 7, Toronto, ON, M4W 3S9

— Crad’s new writing is now at


Ed McBain Stole My Joke by Crad Kilodney

Ed McBain Stole My Joke by Crad Kilodney

February 2002


As an obscure writer, I should be flattered that a famous writer like Ed McBain would steal a joke from one of my little books. Of course, he would deny it. He’d say it was a coincidence. But I say he stole my joke, and I’m going to present my evidence and let you be the judge.

The joke concerns the difference between the words “hanged” and “hung.” (People are hanged, but objects are hung.) In my story “The Story of A Man With A Broken Toaster,” from my 1984 private edition Bang Heads Here, Suffering Bastards, a class clown named Vinnie is having his essay corrected by a strict teacher named Brother Julio:

“…Wrong word. Hanged, not hung, Vincent.”


“A man gets hanged, not hung.”

“How come? If a guy’s got a big whacker, you say he’s well hung, right?”

“He may be well hung, but he still gets hanged.”

Short and sweet, right? That’s my style. Now read the McBain version, from the novel Lightning, also copyright 1984. Here we have two detectives at a crime scene, where a body has been found hanging from a lamppost:

“Maybe she hung herself,” Monoghan said.

“So then where’s the ladder or whatever?” Monroe said.

“Up here in the Eight-Seven,” Monoghan said, “she coulda hung herself and somebody coulda stole the ladder later.”

“Anyway, it’s hanged,” Monroe said.

“Whattya mean it’s hanged?” Monoghan said.

“A person hangs himself, you say he got hanged. Not hung.”

“Who told you that?”

“It’s common knowledge.”



“That don’t sound right. Hanged.”

“It’s right, though.”

“You see a guy with a big dork,” Monoghan said, “you don’t say he’s well-hanged, you say he’s well-hung.”

“That’s a different thing entirely,” Monroe said. “We’re talking here about a different thing entirely.”

“When you hang up your suit on a hanger, you don’t say I hanged up my suit,” Monoghan said. “You say I hung up my suit.”

“That’s also different,” Monroe said.

“How is it different?”

“It’s different because when you hang somebody then the person has been hanged, he has not been hung.”

The imitation is never as good as the original. In McBain’s hands, the hanged/hung joke gets lost in verbosity. McBain is apparently trying to show how casual these two detectives are about death by having them carry on such a banal conversation at a murder scene. Maybe you buy it, but I don’t. Neither do I buy the suggestion that any homicide detective wouldn’t already know that people are hanged, not hung.

The joke has been re-heated, re-seasoned, rearranged, and served up to the reader like leftovers, but it is still recognizable as my joke.

Lightning is not a very good book, by the way. The characters are unconvincing, and the plot is ridiculous. It was made into a movie starring Yaphet Kotto, which is seen less often than Plan Nine From Outer Space.

How I stumbled upon this book is worth relating. I was walking downstairs in my apartment building, and I found the book on the floor of the lobby. It was as if some little angel put it there for me to find. I recognized the author’s name, picked up the book, and put it away in a carton of other books I intended to read. Many months later I picked it up and started reading it. When I got to page 6, I practically shouted, “This is my joke! He stole my joke!” I checked the copyright date — 1984. I fished out my book and checked the copyright date — also 1984. If my book came out early in the year, there would have been plenty of time for a copy to find its way to him before he delivered his page proofs for a fall publication date. Don’t ask me to prove it with documents. I can’t. But this is the only explanation that works. And don’t think my little books didn’t get around. They did.

Anyway, I want to stress that I wasn’t angry. I recognized it as the sort of delicious tidbit my future biographers would be delighted to discover. However, I did want McBain to admit that he had “borrowed” my joke. So I wrote him a friendly letter in care of his publishers, saying, in effect, come on, fess up, you got that joke from my book, didn’t you? Well, I never got an answer. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.

I’m sure best-selling authors occasionally steal little things from sources that are so obscure, the odds are a million to one that the reader will know. It’s not really plagiarism; it’s more like petty theft.

The prosecution rests its case. You, the jury, are asked to reach a conclusion of fact. Don’t let the possible punishment dissuade you from delivering a guilty verdict. After all, it’s not as though anyone’s going to get hanged.




All material at is copyright © by Crad Kilodney. All rights reserved.


Crad Kilodney, P.O. Box 72577, 345 Bloor St. East, Unit 7, Toronto, ON, M4W 3S9

— Crad’s new writing is now at


What to Do About Girls Who Give Out Fake Numbers by Crad Kilodney

What to Do About Girls Who Give Out Fake Numbers by Crad Kilodney

April 2002



Some of you girls think you’re very clever. You meet a man in a bar, and when he asks you for your phone number, you give him a fake one because you don’t like him. You could have told him no in a polite way, but you don’t know anything about manners. You don’t care how that nice man will feel when he calls the number you gave him and ends up with Mohammed’s Grocery, or some Tamil terrorist named Venmugalingam Thambapillai, or a voice mailbox for a company that rents forklifts, or, worst of all, a number that isn’t even in service.

Well, your number’s up, Sweetie, because this is what we’re going to do to you. If you give out a fake number to a nice man, you will be locked up in a motel room and forced to write the following sentence 50,000 times: “I will never again give a fake phone number to a nice man as long as I live.” Of course, you will have to take time off from work or school to write the sentences, but you should have thought of that first. And don’t whine about getting writer’s cramp or I’ll make it 100,000 times instead of 50,000.

After you have written the sentence 15,000 times, you will be allowed to have a visitor for one hour.

After 25,000 times, you will be allowed to order in any food you want, so long as you pay for it.

After 30,000 times, you will be allowed to watch TV for one hour.

After 40,000 times, you will be allowed to go for a walk under adult supervision and get a snack, but you must be back within an hour.

After 50,000 times, you will be finished. However, if you have cheated on the count, or if your handwriting is not legible, you will have to start over again.

If you break any of the rules or try to escape, you will be chained to the desk and have to start over. You will also lose the privileges I mentioned before.

Assuming you have done exactly what you were supposed to do, you will then find out where the man lives that you gave the fake phone number to, and you will write him a letter, apologizing for the mental pain you inflicted upon him. You will pay him $100 to read your letter. If you don’t have the money, you will have to borrow it or save it up from your pay or allowance.

You will also have to write a letter to your boss or principal, explaining why you missed a week of work or school (the exact time depends on you, but a week is probably the minimum for writing 50,000 sentences). If you’re in trouble because of the time you missed, you’ll just have to square it with your boss or principal, even if that means sexual favors.

And speaking of sex, if you would just put out when a nice man is interested in you, instead of being a deceitful bitch, you wouldn’t get into all this trouble with me. It’s really for your own good, so just accept it. Too bad if your hand hurts from so much writing. But just to prove what a nice guy I am, if you absolutely physically cannot finish 50,000 sentences, you can spread your legs for me or suck me off, and I’ll consider your debt to society paid. Just don’t make the same mistake twice, because the penalty goes up exponentially with each additional offense.




All material at is copyright © by Crad Kilodney. All rights reserved.


Crad Kilodney, P.O. Box 72577, 345 Bloor St. East, Unit 7, Toronto, ON, M4W 3S9

— Crad’s new writing is now at


Percy and Rosalie by Crad Kilodney

Percy and Rosalie by Crad Kilodney

May 2002



Percy and Rosalie are in their fifties now, as I am. I’ve bumped into them downtown for nearly twenty years, since the early days when I was selling my own books on the street. Nothing much has changed with them in all that time. Percy was on welfare for the longest time, then took an accounting course and worked briefly as a bookkeeper, and then got laid off. Now he’s on a disability pension for a chronic back problem and scavenges deposit bottles (something I did occasionally myself when I was poor). He’s not a bad fellow but has never amounted to anything. The same with his girlfriend Rosalie, who is a perpetual student.

Percy used to talk to me on the street about his novel in progress. It started out as a story, which underwent countless revisions, then it had to be expanded to a novel because of the “multiple levels” that required elaboration. It’s an epic novel of action, political intrigue, romance, and “social philosophy.” First it was set in Canada, then in England, and most recently in South Africa. Percy says this is for marketing reasons, to keep it as timely as possible. The main characters are based on real people, although they have been altered for dramatic interest and to protect Percy from legal consequences. Various incidents have been added, deleted, or changed because of all the new ideas piling up in Percy’s brain. There is no completion date as such. Percy doesn’t want to make the fatal mistake of submitting a manuscript that is less than perfect because he expects it to be a blockbuster, provided that he connects with the right publisher.

Percy has never published anything anywhere. When I suggested to him once that he try to publish short works in small magazines that are open to unknown writers, he grimaced and shook his head. “It would be a waste of time.” That was many years ago, and he still hasn’t got one single publication credit to confirm his own opinion of his talent. It’s obvious to me — but I say it for your benefit anyway — that Percy’s problem is that he fears rejection. Therefore, he can never submit any manuscript anywhere. Nor, for that matter, can he ever finish one.

When Percy talks — and he loves to talk — he has the most annoying conversational style of anyone I have ever known. He speaks in analogies that are totally inapposite. One time we were talking about the law of supply and demand, and he used an analogy about three drunken French aristocrats in a restaurant arguing over the last trout in France. This led him on a long, tortuous divagation about social apathy, the prison system, political corruption, and how inventors have their inventions stolen, and by the time he reached a conclusion, I no longer remembered what we were talking about and didn’t want to return to it in any case. I thought, if this is indicative of Percy’s writing style, he has no hope of publishing anything.

Rosalie has never worked at what you’d call a normal, steady job, so far as I know. She is taking courses to become a social worker or social work administrator. She has been taking these courses for most of the time that I’ve known her — at least fifteen years. At one point she was planning to go to England to seek work because they were hiring more there. A year later, that plan was dropped. I forget the reason. Whenever I bump into Rosalie in the food court in the mall, she’s writing in a notebook, looking seriously studious. There is apparently no end to the courses required for qualification, to say nothing about those that are highly desirable even if not strictly required. When will she be through with all this school work? “God only knows!” (When I was in college in the Sixties, I knew the exact date I’d be finished and had it marked on my calendar.)

Rosalie looks so shabby. She can’t afford clothes. Her only income is from an inheritance she received, which she put into a bank certificate to earn interest, and she just rolls that over year after year. Now, with interest rates at rock bottom, her income is next to nothing. You’d think she’d look for alternatives, but she doesn’t know the first thing about financial matters. I tried to explain a few things to her about investing, and although she seemed interested, it was clear to me that she just didn’t get it. Now I mind my own business. Rosalie would be a disaster as an investor. “It would take many years of study,” she assured me.

Why is Rosalie a perpetual student? Perhaps you’ve already figured her out. She lacks self-confidence. She doesn’t think she’s smart enough. In fact, she doesn’t think she’s smart at all. She’s afraid to go out in the working world and be tested. She’s afraid she will fail and be exposed as an incompetent. If Rosalie had really wanted to be a social worker — or anything else — she would have qualified long ago. Her endless preparation for a career she will never have is a device for avoiding the world until she’s old enough to collect an old age pension. Nobody’s going to hire a new social work graduate in her fifties, so why do her teachers encourage her? Well, that’s another story.

The city has many Percys and Rosalies — born losers who pair up and limp along through life toward some mirage on the horizon that will never get any closer, and who will never rise above the level of marginal poverty they occupy. Separately, they would die; together, they can muddle along indefinitely with their weaknesses and illusions. It would be unkind of me to tell them bluntly what I’m telling you, so I don’t. After all, they’ve never said an unkind thing to me, so why should I hurt their feelings? Let them live their lives the only way they know how, and may God have mercy on their poor, pathetic so




All material at is copyright © by Crad Kilodney. All rights reserved.


Crad Kilodney, P.O. Box 72577, 345 Bloor St. East, Unit 7, Toronto, ON, M4W 3S9

— Crad’s new writing is now at


List of Crad Kilodney’s Books

List of Crad Kilodney’s Books

The publication dates for Crad’s 32 books were between 1978 and 1992. The last day on which Crad sold books on the street in Toronto was July 19, 1995.

The best place to find Crad’s books is at Note that all of Crad’s books are first editions, and almost all are signed by Crad. An unsigned book is actually harder to find than a signed one.

    • Charnel House Books by Crad …Charnel House is Crad’s own imprint
      1. Click to see larger image (~200K) World Under Anaesthesia (1979) 38 pages
        • Midnight Trousers
        • The History Of The World
        • Forget That Grapefruit; Here Come The Midgets
        • The Hard-Working Garbage Men of Cleveland
        • Waiting For Halley’s Comet
        • My Work As A Hole
      2. Click to see larger image (~200K) Gainfully Employed in Limbo (1980) ISBN: 0-9690261-1-0, 40 pages
        • Gainfully Employed in Canada
        • Office Worker’s Dreams
          • Modern Facilities
          • Term of Employment Determined by Pens
          • The Impact of Goodness
          • Upward Mobility
          • Organic Sense
        • Warehouse Worker’s Dreams
          • Forced Retirement
          • Tracking Down Bad Ideas
          • One For All
          • Taken Away From All This
          • Lucky To Be Here
        • Filling Orders in Albania
        • Scenarios
          • Renaming the Parkway
          • Essay
          • A Difficult Assignment
          • A Dream and the Sale of Sharp Rocks
          • On Speaking Terms at Last
          • Fortuitous Exchange
        • Tainted Data
        • Excerpts From My Autobiography
          • My Posthumous Fame
          • The Wheat Sheaf Six or Seven
          • Meeting Editorial Needs
          • Kilodney on Kilodney
          • How I Improved Society
        • The Window
      3. Click to see larger image (~200K) Human Secrets — Book One (1981) ISBN: 0-9690261-2-9, 34 pages
        • Janitors and Kitchen Staff
        • Conference Call
        • Bucky’s Big Day
        • What the Arrival of New York State Onions Meant to Me
      4. Click to see larger image (~200K) Human Secrets — Book Two (1982) ISBN: 0-9690261-3-7, 39 pages
        • West Quaco
        • The Dobbins File (#31001)
        • Rainy Night
      5. Click to see larger image (~200K) Sex Slaves of the Astro-Mutants (1982) ISBN: 0-9690261-4-5, 39 pages
        • Introduction
        • The Extremely Sane Postal Workers of Yellowknife
        • Sex Slaves of the Astro-Mutants
        • Dark Intruder
        • The World’s Dullest Story
        • Bakery Boys
        • Duh
      6. Click to see larger image (~200K) Terminal Ward — Human Secrets: Book Three (1982) ISBN: 0-9690261-5-3, 42 pages
      7. Click to see larger image (~200K) Bang Heads Here, Suffering Bastards (1984) ISBN: 0-9690261-6-1, 39 pages
        • Death of a Canadian Writer
        • The Story of a Man With a Broken Toaster
        • A Well-Adjusted Man
        • A Cowboy Story
      8. Click to see larger image (~200K) The Orange Book (1984) ISBN: 0-9690261-7-X, 40 pages
        • The Circumcision Rights of the Toronto Stock Exchange
        • Obligatory Tit Time
        • Beans and Binoculars: Youth Speaks Out
        • The Poem That Changed the World
        • Plagues or Prosperity: Challenge to Management
        • Some Questions on Sex Etiquette
        • The Last Interview of Crad Kilodney
        • Lachrymose Market Report
      9. Click to see larger image (~200K) The Blue Book (1985) ISBN: 0-9690261-9-6, 43 pages
        • Mr. Schlepp and His Ace Mechanic
        • Dream Street
        • Wooden Sticks With Points
      10. Click to see larger image (~200K) The Green Book (1985) ISBN: 0-9690261-8-8, 44 pages
        • An Appeal To My Readers
        • Secrets Of The Financial District
        • Selected Potatoes
        • Jap Scientologists Ate My Grandfather
        • A Likely Story
        • A Beaver Tale
      11. Click to see larger image (~200K) The Scarlet Book (1985) ISBN: 0-920973-00-0, 40 pages
        • The Simplified Existence of Mr. Duggins
        • Patrolman Ignacio
        • Fish Story
      12. Click to see larger image (~200K) The Yellow Book (1985) ISBN: 0-920973-01-9, 40 pages
        • Message From The People’s Revolutionary Committee Against Indiscipline
        • Alan Cherry In Outer Space
        • The Pygmies Next Door
        • Melon Man
      13. Click to see larger image (~200K) Cathy (1985) ISBN: 0-920973-02-7, 40 pages
      14. Click to see larger image (~200K) Foul Pus From Dead Dogs (1986) ISBN: 0-920973-05-1, 39 pages
      15. Click to see larger image (~200K) Incurable Trucks & Speeding Diseases (1986) ISBN: 0-920973-04-3, 39 pages
        • Hot Line
        • Ultra-Tech: Excerpts From The Diary Of Dr. Fahd Bashibazouk
        • Punishment Subway
        • Night Barber
        • The Newspapers
      16. Click to see larger image (~200K) Simple Stories for Idiots (1986) ISBN: 0-920973-03-5, 40 pages
        • Introduction
        • The Troubled Goalie
        • The Scream of the Mutilated
        • The Country Doctor
        • Occurrence at Unterkleidung Bridge
        • Magumba Comes to Canada
        • Big Tits
      17. Click to see larger image (~200K) Nice Stories for Canadians (1988) ISBN: 0-920973-09-4, 51 pages
        • Editorial
        • Boys Who Love Tropical Fish
        • Something Wrong With My Sandwich
        • Fish Man — A True Story
        • The Age of Enlightenment
        • TV — 2001
        • No Chekhov at Yorkdale
        • The Way to Life
        • The Big Deal
        • Horrible, Horrible Salami
        • In Gourmet Square
      18. Click to see larger image (~200K) I Chewed Mrs. Ewing’s Raw Guts (1988) ISBN: 0-920973-08-6, 54 pages
        • I Chewed Mrs. Ewing’s Raw Guts
        • The Polecat
        • Who is John Copping?
      19. Click to see larger image (~200K) Excrement (1988) ISBN: 0-920973-10-8, 88 pages
      20. Click to see larger image (~200K) Blood-Sucking Monkeys From North Tonawanda (1989) ISBN: 0-920973-12-4, 56 pages
        • Blood-Sucking Monkeys From North Tonawanda
        • My Date With Alan Edmonds
        • Happy-Go-Lucky Time
        • The Man Who Died of His Opinions
      21. Click to see larger image (~200K) Junior Brain Tumors in Action (1990) ISBN: 0-920973-13-2, 55 pages
        • Foreword
        • Jumping Rubber Maggot Time
        • The Great Vomito
        • The Most Important Story Ever Written About Gary, Indiana
        • Hare Krishna Weekend
        • Index
      22. Click to see larger image (~200K) Putrid Scum (1991) ISBN: 0-920973-14-0 , 193 pages
      23. Click to see larger image (~200K) Suburban Chicken-Strangling Stories (1992) ISBN: 0-920973-16-7, 60 pages
        • Introduction: How to make the Chinese Explode by Psychic Power
        • O’Driscoll, Chicken-Strangler
        • Spiritual Preparation for Castration
        • The Professor Enoch Padolsky Fan Club Newsletter
        • Somali Peepee Car
        • Life Without Drama
        • Nazi Nuclear Power Plant Janitor Dog
    • Edited by Crad
      1. Click to see larger image (~200K) Worst Canadian Stories, Vol. 1 (1987) ISBN: 0-920973-06-X, 52 pages
        • Preface
        • Electric Feet, by Ilyot Prabang
        • One Life To Give, by Yolanda Earth-Queen Naswaca
        • The Hangman, by W. Beacon Sellar
        • Deadbrainfuckdestruct, by Steve Erewhonian
        • 5-4-3-2-1, by T. M. Whale
        • “You Wouldn’t Do This…Drive Without Tires?”, by Dr. Leo Corvadupa
        • Shoot-out At Dead Dog Gulch, by Juliette Crabbe and Eunice Urge
        • Return Of The Slime Thing, by Bulwer Zetford
        • Coffin, by Wanda Ann Clouter
        • The Moose And The Beaver, by Mamie Tubbs
        • The Vacuum Cleaner Salesman’s Wife, by Orrie Hitt
        • Notes on Contributors
      2. Click to see larger image (~200K) Worst Canadian Stories, Vol. 2 (1987) ISBN: 0-920973-07-8, 52 pages
        • Preface
        • The Wounding Healer, by Rochelle Ibis Flabazo
        • Rubber Greek School, by Athanasios Apostolopoulos
        • Roller Derby Vampires, by Dr. Orval Armando Haltiwanger
        • Winston Melling, Social Worker, by Winston Melling
        • A Walk in the Wilderness, by Warren Antlers
        • A Day at the Farm, by Eileen English
        • The Oglethorpe Prize, by Oliver E. Dreyfus
        • The Knock at the Door, by Mickey Smith
        • Springtime, Sunflowers, and Seiji, by Ken Nakazawa
        • The Sky Above, The Mud Below, by Louie Wilhelm
        • Ancestors Today, by Nat Shapiro
        • Notes on Contributors
      3. Click to see larger image (~200K) The First Charnel House Anthology of Bad Poetry (1989) ISBN: 0-920973-11-6, 63 pages


    1. Click to see larger image (~200K) The Second Charnel House Anthology of Bad Poetry (1992) ISBN: 0-920973-15-9, 95 pages
  • Also by Crad …written by Crad, but not published under his Charnel House imprint
    1. Click to see larger image (~200K) Mental Cases (Lowlands Review LR6, Spring, 1978) 40 pages …this was Crad’s first book, published as issue number 6 of Lowlands Review
      • The Discovery of Bismuth
      • It Came From Beneath The Slush Pile
      • Teleological — With Chicken Meat
      • The Last Secrets of Omega
    2. Click to see larger image (~200K) Lightning Struck My Dick (Virgo Press, 1980) ISBN: 0-920528-15-5, 121 pages
      • Preface (by Stuart Ross)
      • Lightning Struck My Dick
      • Annuit Coeptis and Doorknobs
      • In My Ear Generally
      • The Cesar Frank Story
      • My Re-creation Of The World
      • In The Culture Warehouse
      • Logic
      • The True Story Of My Dentist
      • Dr. Mark Litvack
      • Convincing Professor Brindle About Flying Saucers
      • Agriculture
      • The Mentally Disturbed Astronomers Of Cincinnatti
      • The Last Secrets Of Omega
      • It Came From Beneath The Slush Pile or The Mountain Elephants of Delaware
      • Midnight Trousers
      • When Polyhistoricism Receded
      • The Hard-working Garbage Men of Cleveland
      • Advance Oboe Problems
      • About the Author
    3. Click to see larger image (~200K) Pork College (Coach House Press, 1984) ISBN: 0-88910-296-4, 78 pages
      • Preface
      • Post-Preface
      • Pork College
      • Pork College Heroes
      • Pork College Mystery
      • Pork College Lethargy
      • Pork College Heartbreak
      • Return to Pork College
    4. Click to see larger image (~200K) Malignant Humors (Black Moss Press, 1988) ISBN: 0-88753-170-9, 95 pages
      • Introduction
      • Lightning Struck My Dick
      • Fish Story
      • The Hard-Working Garbage Men of Cleveland
      • The Discovery of Bismuth
      • Filling Orders in Albania
      • Office Worker’s Dreams
      • The Poem That Changed the World
      • Waiting For Halley’s Comet
      • Teleological – With Chicken Meat
      • West Quaco
      • Selected Potatoes
      • The Last Interview With Crad Kilodney
      • Advanced Oboe Problems
    5. Click to see larger image (~200K) Girl on the Subway (Black Moss Press, 1990) ISBN: 0-88753-202-0, 109 pages
      • Girl on the Subway
      • Three Dead Men
      • The Funeral of Lenny Zeller
      • “Don’t You Know Who This Is?”
      • Henry
      • No Chekhov at Yorkdale
      • A Moment of Silence for Man Ray
      • The Simplified Existence of Mr. Duggins
      • Rainy Night
      • Wooden Sticks With Points
      • My Work As A Hole

Photos of Crad -November 2004

These photos were taken at the Cambridge House International Investment Conference, Metro Toronto Convention Centre, on October 4th, 2004. This show is devoted mainly to mining — especially the small, speculative mineral exploration companies whose stocks trade on Toronto or the Canadian Venture Exchange.

Your humble stock speculator and neighbour Olga, in the lobby upstairs from the mining show.

Photo 1
(click to enlarge)

Didn’t I mention Dunsmuir Ventures in my last PDAC article? Well, I bought it and made money on it.

Photo 2
(click to enlarge)

Visiting one of my companies. I bailed out of Pacific Northwest Capital with a loss but expect to do better with Freegold Ventures.

Photo 3
(click to enlarge)

Visiting another of my companies — North Atlantic Resources, which is actually exploring for gold in west Africa.

Photo 4
(click to enlarge)

Another of my companies, Diamondex Resources. Usually the president, Randy Turner, is at the booth, but he took off with a hot-looking babe just before I got there.

Photo 5
(click to enlarge)

Formation Capital was the best new idea I brought back from this convention, and I bought 4,000 shares a few days later. Buy it now! It’s FCO on Toronto.

Photo 6
(click to enlarge)

ATTENTION TORONTO COMPANIES! HIRE THIS LADY NOW! Olga has worked at Desjardins Financial and ABN Amro Bank, and she is enthusiastic about the mining and oil & gas sectors. I could go on and on, but you should really talk to her. Direct your inquiries to the email address below.

Photo 7
(click to enlarge)


Name Your Band! by Crad Kilodney

Name Your Band! by Crad Kilodney

November 2004



Do you need a cool name for your band? Well, our Deep Minds have come up with over a hundred that are original (as far as we know) and guaranteed to bring you strange luck.

If you see one you like, just take it. No charge. No obligation. It’s our gift to the next generation of geniuses. Just remember us when you’re rich and famous.


  1. The Gloms
  2. Twinkie Holocaust
  3. Cesspool Zombies
  4. The Incredibly Boring Potted Plants
  5. Rubber Nuns
  6. Armageddon Hamsters
  7. The Babyslitters
  8. The Harpies
  9. Bondage Waitress
  10. The Necrotones
  11. Toilet Whores
  12. Cannibal High School
  13. Congo Robot Sperm
  14. The Gamookas
  15. Dog Torture Storm
  16. Mohammed Potato
  17. Clit Warfare
  18. Rude Awakening
  19. Treblinka Study Hall
  20. Blarina Shrew
  21. Mongoloid Burger
  22. Interstate Ejaculators
  23. Deranged Driving Instructors
  24. Eat My Sister
  25. Stalin Guppy
  26. Skydiving Cows
  27. The Shmoogas
  28. Chromium Marshmallow
  29. Meat Rockets
  30. Dreamy Lepers
  31. Guilty As Charged
  32. Hairball Connoisseur
  33. Thrilling Root Canal
  34. Snakepit Ushers
  35. Gryzypnyx
  36. Hopalong Salmonella
  37. The Clawmutes
  38. Flit Earwig
  39. Goon School
  40. Dr. Nescience
  41. Noxio Bubo
  42. Monster Zero
  43. The Slugs
  44. Mildred Zontar
  45. Thorazine Budgie
  46. Armando and the Ticks
  47. Prom Gorgons
  48. Njinki Blogbadu
  49. Bozo Einstein
  50. The Screaming Scallops
  51. Pocket Hitler
  52. Duke and the Crack-Lickers
  53. Exploding Puffins
  54. Suburban Chicken-Stranglers
  55. Martha and the Squids
  56. Gooma Flumbarooma
  57. The Stupidinkos
  58. The Bleens
  59. The Erewhonians
  60. Manuel and the Cleaners
  61. Brains For Tomorrow
  62. Delightful Puff Adders
  63. Satan’s Milkmaids
  64. The Krakens
  65. Voodoo Barbie
  66. The Crudblopes
  67. Bus Plunge Kills Twenty
  68. Hold the Pickles
  69. Acromegaly
  70. Shoot to Kill
  71. The Maledictorians
  72. Autopsy Cheerleaders
  73. Lemming Leadership
  74. Gammera Donut
  75. Teenage Amoebas
  76. Mondo Hunkamooga
  77. The Gaboonyas
  78. Wizard Prang
  79. Panic Attack
  80. Criatura Estudiante
  81. Mindless Blobs
  82. Buzz Bombs
  83. Village Idiots
  84. Liquid Citizens
  85. The Apathetics
  86. Public Nuisance
  87. The Ik Tribe
  88. The Dadadodoes
  89. The Bungalungas
  90. The Detestables
  91. Psycho Mailmen
  92. Arrogant Broccoli
  93. The Plutonians
  94. The Flaming Monkeys
  95. Biff Bopp and the Retros
  96. Bowling For Intestines
  97. Closet Corpse
  98. Savage Waffles
  99. Hindenburg Fruitcake
  100. The Bashibazouks
  101. Plan Eight From Outer Mongolia
  102. The Disappointing Dump Trucks
  103. The Gumps
  104. Mystic Baboons
  105. Spider Girls From Venus
  106. Choked Poets
  107. Snatch Vipers
  108. The Stun Guns
  109. The Slicks
  110. Moonseed
  111. Snakeroot
  112. The Haunted Stranglers
  113. Nancy Droog and the Defectives
  114. Spot and the Tire-Biters
  115. Nattering Nabobs
  116. The Troglodytes
  117. The Detonators



by Crad Kilodney



All material at Dead Man Talking/  is copyright © by Crad Kilodney. All rights reserved.

Crad Kilodney, P.O. Box 72577, 345 Bloor St. East, Unit 7, Toronto, ON, M4W 3S9

Crad’s new writing is now at



Ralph Nader Barbecued My Puppy — A Story of Horror and Heartbreak by Crad Kilodney

Ralph Nader Barbecued My Puppy — A Story of Horror and Heartbreak by Crad Kilodney

October 2004

She was my one love — Fifi. My little poodle. So full of life, so affectionate. She made life worth living.

He was a presidential candidate, consumer activist, lawyer, author, founder of numerous organizations, a graduate of Princeton and Harvard — and puppy-eating monster! He took her from me. The world has never heard this story. Now it shall be told.

I had rented a lovely house in the country in Connecticut to work on my next gay novel, Cowboy Buddies of Dodge City. I had Fifi with me. I didn’t need anyone else. She was my joy, comfort, and inspiration. Her antics were so charming. I would read her my rough draft, and she would sit there, head tilted and tail wagging, as if to show approval. The work was going well. My publisher in the Czech Republic was sure to be thrilled.

The only other house in the area was about a half mile up the two-lane road. The real estate agent had told me it was a summer rental, like mine. I walked past it one day while taking Fifi for a walk. On the mailbox was the name “Nader.” I thought nothing of it until I saw the occupant step out of the front door briefly to pick up his newspaper. Even at a distance I could tell: it was Ralph Nader.

I wanted to meet him but was too shy to knock on his door. However, the opportunity arose a few days later when I had to go into town for several hours and couldn’t bring Fifi along. Rather than leave her alone, I decided to ask Ralph Nader to look after her. Surely he would do it. Why wouldn’t he? If he hated big corporations, he had to love cute puppies. So I walked over to his house, with Fifi on a leash. He was sitting on a lawn chair, reading his paper, while a big, muscular black man was washing his car — a late-model Volvo. Both looked at me with suspicion as I boldly strode up the gravel driveway.

“Mr. Nader!” I greeted him chirpily. “I’m your neighbor from down the road, Crad Kilodney. And this is Fifi.”

“How do you do,” he said, not smiling. “What can I do for you?”

“Can you look after Fifi for a few hours while I go into town?”

“No, I can’t, I’m sorry.”

“She won’t be any trouble. I promise.”

“No, I really would prefer not to have that responsibility.”

“You’ll love her once you get to know her. Here…” I held the leash for him to take, but he wouldn’t touch it.

“No, honestly,” he said, looking helpless. “I’m not good with dogs.”

“Just for a few hours,” I persisted. “It’s no big deal.” And I tied the leash loosely around a large ornamental rock. He gaped at me, mouth open. Really, he could have been more polite. I was disappointed. “I’ll be back before you know it. Thanks a lot.”

Ralph and the black man exchanged looks of disbelief, shaking their heads. Well, never mind. They’d be all smiles when I returned, without a doubt. Some city folks need time to loosen up, that’s all. Probably it was all the pressure from leading the good fight for the American consumer and breaking down the walls of the power-hungry corporate elite.

I went into town and did my important literary errands, happily anticipating making friends with Ralph Nader and a black person.

When I returned a few hours later, I could see Ralph at the barbecue in the backyard. The black man was now dressed in a dark suit, which seemed quite out place in the country. He walked down the driveway and met me halfway.

“I’ve come to get Fifi,” I said expecting to be invited for lunch.

“Yo’ dog run away,” he said, his expression slightly hostile.


“Yo’ dog run away.”

“What do you mean? How?”

“She slip her leash and she run away. It wasn’t our fault. We didn’t say you could leave her.”

I was confused. Was this a joke? And then I noticed the foul smell coming from the barbecue. Whatever Ralph was barbecuing, it wasn’t something a normal American would want to eat.

“What’s that smell? What’s he cooking?”

“Never mind what he cookin’. Now please git off de prop’ty.”

What was going on? Where was Fifi? What was that bad smell?… And then it hit me!…He was barbecuing Fifi!

“Fifi!” I screamed. “He’s cooking my dog!” I started to run forward, but the black man grabbed me.

“You crazy sonofabitch! Now, look, I ask you to leave, so you leave, unnerstand?”

“He’s barbecuing my dog! He killed my dog!”

“You damn fool, he ain’t barbecuin’ no dog! Nobody kill yo’ dog. I tole you she run away. Now git off de prop’ty!”

“You can’t fool me! That’s my little dog!” I started to cry.

This time the black man put both hands on me firmly, frog-marched me down the driveway, and gave me a measured shove into the roadway. “Don’ choo be comin’ roun’ heah no mo’. We got nothin’ to do wit yo’ dog.”

I staggered home in tears, my whole world shattered…my Fifi…dead….All cut up into pieces and burning over hot coals! What sort of fiend….Just a sweet little puppy….How could anyone….

Now I know the meaning of Pure Evil. And you, dear Reader, can you comprehend my pain? Can you feel anything for me in your heart? Think about my poor little Fifi when you step into the voting booth and make your choice. Ralph Nader barbecued my puppy. And I want the world to know.


by Crad Kilodney



All material at Dead Man Talking/  is copyright © by Crad Kilodney. All rights reserved.

Crad Kilodney, P.O. Box 72577, 345 Bloor St. East, Unit 7, Toronto, ON, M4W 3S9

Crad’s new writing is now at