The lingering odor of a recent shit still clings to the browneye.  It’s the clenched circle that seals off what’s inside from what’s out.  Churning in the bowels is a moment waiting to burst free, kept in check by this little portal, this asshole.  But at least once a day, a moment escapes, and the person to whom the asshole belongs momentarily belongs to it, and then that is the term we use to describe them – asshole.

To be fair, Jeremy Mullins is not always an asshole.  He makes it through the bulk of each day an exemplar of courtesy and tact.  He smiles when he greets you.  He laughs at your stories.  He buys you a cup of coffee.  He’s the kind of girl you want to bring home to meet your mother.

Most of the time I have spent with Jeremy Mullins could be called pleasant.  We never lack for topics of conversation, from the size of nearby tits to the aesthetic practicality of fat girls tanning.  Even the silences are filled with warmth, like an old married couple that has run out of things to talk about but suffer from too much joint pain to contemplate adultery.  Yes, Jeremy Mullins is the sweet old wife of myself and everyone around him.

But there is a fuse, like a string dangling from his rectum, which when lit by the fires of injustice detonates in a rain of caustic sparks that shower down on the unfortunate few within the blast radius.  In this moment, he is asshole, and all that is evil inside is unleashed.

I have borne witness to this terror only a few times.  I have the burns on my retinas to prove it.  But it is still too soon for me to speak of it.  The scars are still too fresh, and the memories too real.  So let these moments speak for themselves.

Within these Web pages lie the chronicles.  This is what happens when you mildly to moderately irritate Jeremy “Sweetwater” Mullins.  Beware.

-Zach Powers