Friday, February 14, 2014

Thursday, February 13, 2014

It's Not Me, It's You

Al paced back and forth in the hallway outside of Kathleen's office. The thought of her her ashen, slack skin made his impatient erection throb like a sore tooth. Meetings. Meetings all day. It was some cruel game she was playing, he thought. The office door opened.

"Kathleen," he said, half-sobbing and lunging at the door. It was just her aide.

"Janice," Al said, grabbing the frightened girl by her shoulders. "When, Janice?" he begged.

"Al, you need to calm down. She's in with The President of the United States Barack Obama and the Meeting is Very Important. They are talking about the implementation of The Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act."

"Fuck that noise, Janice. I need my Kathleen. My loins burn for her!"

"Ew."

"Don't 'ew' our love, Janice. You're just an aide. You don't know about love yet. Have you even had your first abortion, you silly twat?"

"You know I'm working on it, Al," Janice hissed.

"Get Kathleen out here right now or I'm going to make you watch me fuck and eat your abortion, Janice. I'll fucking split in half on my cock and tongue out the insides, Janice. You fucking know I will."

"Fuck you, Al. All you make are empty promises."

She watched as a tranq dart caught him in the neck and he dropped to the ground.

Monday, February 10, 2014

Dinosaur Porn

"I don't care what our parents think, Azog. Run away with me." Grrgr's talons clicked loudly as he paced across the drawing room floor.

 "But what about the hunting lands your grandfather left you in the will, my love? You will be penniless," Azog said.

 "I don't care about hunting lands or my father's money. I just want to be with you. I want to keep our egg clutch safe with my defensive displays. It's only your name I want to squawk at a deafening volume every new morn." Grrgr rushed to Azog and buried his tears in the warm, tender meat of her bosom.

"Yes, Grrgr! Yes, my love! Fly me away from the small-minded people that cannot accept our love."

Grrgr tore himself away from her and walked to the roaring fireplace. "Azog. My love. My only love. I have keep a secret from you. It is so terrible I thought if it was revealed our relationship could never survive it."

Azog ran to Grrgr, her long gown sweeping the floor. She threw her arms around him, his splendid plumage tickling her desire.

"Nothing could make me leave you, Grrgr," she wailed. "Not now. Not ever!"

Grrgr pecked absently at her forearm, drawing blood. Azog was so in love she couldn't even feel it. 

"Azog. I am flightless. These feathers are only for courting display," Grrgr said, hanging his head.

 Azog's gasp of dismay broke his rapidly beating heart.

Thursday, September 26, 2013

All looks yellow to the Jaundic'd Eye

"Almanian, I want to marinate your face in my asstric juices," Kathleen whispered. The ashen wattles on her neck quivered like jellied meat.

"I want to lick your every wrinkle and crevasse, Katie. I want to fill your dead womb with my hot man semen and have you shit it back into my mouth." Almanian was panting as he strained to free himself. She jammed the applicator into his anus to fit another tampon in. He sigmoid colon felt pregnant with cotton. He wanted to give ass birth to their special brown baby.

Kathleen climbed onto his chest and thrust her chewed labia into his mouth, her pubis bruising on what was left of his teeth. He choked on the grey flesh and smell of powdered violets. Her shriveled teats swayed queasily above him. He longed to squeeze them until they were smooth and ripe again. She farted wetly and it spattered into the hollow of his neck. He writhed around, jerking against his restraints. Kathleen reached back and scooped up a fingerful of shit and wrote her initials on his forehead. His eyes were wide with panic; her gunt was splayed over his nose and he couldn't breathe. She smacked him in the ear and laughed.

Wednesday, July 24, 2013

Grudge Match



I want to see a grudge match between these two. Yes, the Gorn is an alien being with superior strength, but Humungus is a battle-hardened post-ill-defined-apocalypse warrior with a tolerant attitude toward alternate lifestyles.



Besides the Gorn was once beaten in hand-to-hand combat by William Shatner…an admitted Canadian!

My money’s on the bondage freak with the big gun.

Matt Yglesias: Forever Alone

Needz Moar Labelz





In case you need it


Monday, July 22, 2013

A Quick Programming Note

All existing and future Warty Hugeman stories will be henceforth available at The Warty Hugeman blog.


Monday, July 15, 2013

The Ripper Paranundrum: A Warty Hugeman Time Travel Adventure

Warty Hugeman hated Victorian England. There was soot everywhere, the whores were particularly scabby, and the whole place smelled like disemboweled horse. But this is where his prey was to be found, and Warty Hugeman always got his man. Or woman. Or sexually ambiguous alien.

“Where the hell is he?” Warty muttered to himself. This was the most thoroughly documented murder by Jack the Ripper and Warty meant to have him. He already had a place in the Menagerie picked out, right between Peter Kürten, The Vampire of Düsseldorf, and Jurgen Metzler, The Mad Butcher of Milwaukee. Ed Gein was once housed in the case, but Warty had gotten sick of his constant demands for salted vulvas and let him loose in Hitler’s bunker, after he watched Warty take Eva Braun’s anal virginity. Hitler’s bunker was such a time travel cliché, Warty hoped Gein would kill some of his rivals. The Forstock twins kept going back the day before he stole Charlemagne’s crown and stealing it first. He’d also seen those little bald fuckers sulking around Golgotha as well. Poseurs. He’d seen the Jew die a hundred times before they were even born, or would have been born if he hadn’t kicked their mother to death. They were loose in the timestream now. If they ever returned to their place in the skein, they’d dissolve into fetal goo in seconds, erased from history. Warty had masturbated into a supervolcano on Pangea after that victory, his manly juices steaming into the primordial sky.

Warty saw movement in the alley across from his vantage point. Pressure on his right incisor activated his infrared implant. The figure that was revealed was huge, tall and broad. It stepped out into the feeble gaslight. It was himself. Warty waved himself over. He was taller and more muscular. An biomechanical webbing covered most of his face.

“What are you doing here?” Warty asked himself.

“You don’t get him on the first try,” himself said to he. “I’m going to make sure you do it right this time.”

“What went wrong last time?”

“I distracted you, but that’s not going to happen his time.”

And even larger figure stepped up behind him. Warty went down in a defensive crouch as a large silvered hand dropped on Warty’s shoulder.

“Yes, you do distract him,” Warty said to hisselves. He was covered in a silver coating from head to toe. He looked like an enormous, monstrously sexy mannequin.

“So when should I not be distracted?” Warty asked Warty.

“In about three Earth minutes,” Warty said.

“So, um, how’s it going?” Warty asked.

“I can’t tell you, you know that,” they said, slightly out of sync like a cheap stereo.

Warty sized up the two. “Do I just keep getting bigger and bigger? Cause you are huge, dude.”

“Yes,” they both said.

“So I’m definitely going to get him, right? You two cancel each other out?” Warty asked the Warties.

Before they could answer, a gigantic shadow detached itself from the gloom of the alley and towered over them. “No,” it said. “They both distract you when they start making out.”

“Well, that’s just fucking great.” Warty couldn’t even make out the Warty swaddled in light-swallowing black, but he could hear his breathing, rumbling like distant thunder. How much bigger can I get, he thought? A small surge of blood flooded his penis. The giant shadow laughed knowingly.

“OK, here he comes,” said one of the Warties. Warty could see a lithe figure coming toward them. The familiar cape, the doctor’s bag, a flash of white teeth.

“Get him!” Warty yelled. He tackled the figure and they wrestled briefly. Jack the Ripper was nothing to rippling bulk of the smallest Warty. The others cheered him on.

Warty ripped away the hood of the subdued figure. It was his face, sickly, thin and grooved with pain.

“I came back to stop you,” wheezed the small Warty. “You cannot take Jack The Ripper from the timestream! Dire events unfold from this night. Dire!” He coughed feebly.

Warty stood up and brushed the Victorian filth from his elegant clothes. He backed away from the assembled Warties.

“You know what? Fuck this shit, I’m going home.” He flashed out of existence as the others ran toward him.

THE END

Wednesday, July 10, 2013

Why Aren't There More Women Libertarians?

Maybe because this is the experience of most women in libertarian settings:














I propose we recruit more women who like having hot dogs thrown in their face.

Monday, July 8, 2013

The Horror in Whoresmouth

There came a dread knock on the door. A monstrous slithering could be heard beyond, the writhing of eldritch snakes brought forth from an older world. I was compelled to open it, forced by the flow of my patrician blood to know the face of horror.

I flung the door open in defiance of my dark fate. There stood two of the most beautiful creature human eyes had ever glimpsed. Their tresses were an otherworldy blonde, like savages of the frozen north, and their teats were as bounteous as a Negro wet-nurse.

Their immodest dress made me forget the usual treacheries the weaker races indulge in and I rushed to embrace them. They held me in place with just their eyes, some terrible force emanating from their eyes, eyes a color that no human can describe.

I know you must receive missives such as this with depressing frequency, but my experiences must be known and shared with the fragile world at large. They did soil me and exact terror upon my soul and loins.

Idea for a Lovecraft letter to Penthouse from BakedPenguin

Such Pleasures

Barry made the final turn of the puzzle box and then clicked it into place. Wind began blowing trash around the filthy apartment as the rift in reality tore open. He had been working on the box for weeks, feverishly trying to solve it before the mid-term elections. "Lame duck," he thought. "Let’s see how lame they think I am when I drag them all to sex-hell."

A figure appeared from the endless storm of chaos on the other side, walking slowly toward him. The far-off clanking of a million-million chains could be heard over the howling of wind coming through the portal. Barry was naked, the device encasing his erection painfully tight. He shielded his eyes from the blowing dust, holding out the box with the other hand. An offering if they demanded it, an apology if he needed it. The wizened oriental that sold him the box said it contained pleasures beyond anything the human body could withstand. And pain so delicious that the distinction between the two was meaningless.

The figure finally stepped through into our world and the rift sealed itself with a roar of shattering glass. As Berry cowered from the sound, the box was ripped from his hand. He saw her then, silver hair standing out in a shocked nimbus, wearing a suit of creaking black leather made from no Earthly beast. The hell Barry summoned was an ancient white woman, indistinct in the gloom.

“You solved the box and I have come,” she intoned. She held a hand out to Barry; the flesh was slack and wrinkled. Barry’s eyes adjusted enough to see that the palm was that familiar inverted V, and a swollen clitoris pulsed at the base of her thumb. He looked up and her face and neck were the same, all her exposed flesh was knotted and folded into labia of different sizes. The odor overwhelmed him, the sharp reek of two dozen exposed hell-cooters.

“Come with me,” she said, her voice a thousand screams of ecstasy and terror.

“But I can’t just go. I’m the President. I wanted to bring hell here. I was doing pretty well on my own, but you know how it is…”

“Silence. You opened the box. You summoned me here.” She ripped open her outfit, revealing hundreds more writhing, seeping labia, and two gaping assholes in place of nipples. “Now it is time for you to know all the pleasures of the flesh.”

Barry squinted in the gloom. “Kathleen? Is that you?” he asked?

“No. I am an… explorer of the farthest regions of pain and pleasure. Cabinet secretaries to some, demons to others.”

“Seriously, is that you Kathleen? Because, you know, except for all the, you know, all over you look just like Kathleen.” Barry’s fear drained out of him and he rocked back on his heels.

“Mind if I turn on this lamp?” he asked.

“No!” she screamed, flames leaping from her glowing eyes. “I’m here to take you to hell!” Chains shot from the corners of the room and wrapped themselves around Barry like ice cold snakes.

“Neat! How’d you do that, Kathleen? Can you show me?” Barry was raised off the floor.

“You shall drown in an endless ocean of night!”

“OK, Kathy. I guess I can spare a few hours. I sure hope this night job as a demon whore isn’t interfering with your other duties.”

Kathleen’s scream of rage stripped the flesh from his bones.

Monday, June 17, 2013

The Disappointing Cave of Neolithic Over-Intimacy: A Warty Hugeman Time Travel Adventure

Warty Hugeman surveyed the group of huddled savages in the valley below him. The image intensifiers worked perfectly, resources well-spent during his last excursion to The Engineering Theocracy of 2340s. The STEMlords would trade anything to access technology to further their temporal jihad against The Matryoshka Egg. Warty knew they would lose in the end, and it was difficult to not laugh in their veiled faces.

Warty had gone back into the deep past for one reason: caveman pussy. At The Eternal Time-Traveler Poker Game a neo-Australian, its scarred face aglow from the enormous pile of neutronium chips on the table, had assured Warty that the only cure for the unending torment of the wounds he received at the hands of the sentient Pornships of the Ejaculate Empire would be caveman pussy, and lots of it. When Warty asked it if it meant "cavewoman pussy," a shot rang out and the neo-Australian's face exploded.

"Gonna get me some caveman pussy," Warty hummed tunelessly. He was touching himself through the impervious material of his time-travel-proofed clothing. The touch and the sensation of being touched were so removed that Warty could pretend it was Marissa touching him. But Marissa was dead. Dead everywhere and everywhen.

Warty descended on the group of cavepeople, his SmartCape billowing out behind him like a big dumb cape. He landed beside their crude and smoky fire and struck a pose that had gotten him laid in numerous time periods. Even time periods that you have never even heard of. And long before those time periods got all popular and touristy.

"I am Warty Hugeman. I am here to have sex with you," Warty's voice boomed in the quiet Stone Age night.

Three subjective days later, Warty wiped away the tears as he centered the crosshairs of his Ultrarifle on the neo-Australian’s brain case. Thinking of Groocluck and Kuh, their dirt-streaked faces looking up at him pleadfully, Warty flexed his enormously over-muscled trigger finger.

THE END

Monday, May 13, 2013

Watery Shits Future-Boy: A Warty Hugeman Time Travel Adventure

"I just bought these shoes, you little fuck," Warty bellowed. He bellowed everything he said while in the future. Future humans had evolved to have numerous tiny eardrums all over their nipples. Men and women both wore soundproof bras.

The boy from the future looked at Warty blankly. He was dumbly chewing on a mouthful of future bugs that might have also come from outer space or something when Warty arrived from 2236, the most fashionable all years in all of human existence. Even more fashionable than the 2480s, when humans were beautiful floating bearopotami that wore space gowns of space silk woven by space arachnids from beyond Pluto's misshapen moon. When Warty materialized in front of him, the boy from the future had let out a stream of watery shit in his fright.

Warty backhanded the boy from the future and said, "I'm going to call you Watery Shits Future-Boy and name the future novel I will write about you in the past the same thing." The boy shit some more and ran away.

Warty returned to his underwater tomb in the past and began writing.

THE END

Tuesday, February 5, 2013

snapshots make a girl look cheap

 Diane eased the flash suppressor between the grey flesh of her labia and into her dusty vagina. She grimaced as she moved it back and forth, producing the grating scrape of dry friction. She pulled it out and tossed it away.

"The pistol grip," she demanded, the loose flesh of her arm bouncing with frustration. Nancy's pendulous breasts swayed like a drunk going to vomit as she rifled through the pile of gun parts from the presentation.

"Iz thish it?" she slurred, handing a part to Diane. It was a bayonet lug. "God-dammit!" Diane screamed, "Can't you fucking doing anything right?" Nancy's startled face made the perfect target; the lug caught her right above the eyebrow and it began bleeding. She blubbered for almost a mintue, blood and tears joining mascara and snot in a thick black river down her face.

"Are you finished?" Diane screamed finally and Nancy nodded miserably.

"That one," Diane pointed at a pistol grip by itself on the table. Nancy shuffled over and handed it to her. Diane ran her fingernail along the reticulated surface of the grip. "Perfect," she said. Nancy grinned idiotically, showing that blood and mascara had dyed her false teeth black.

Diane snapped her fingers again and waved at the table. "Get me a clip too. A high capacity clip just like the one that killed those kids." She gasped between words as she worked the grip between her legs.

"I thinsh they're called maguhshinzes," Nancy ventured.

"I DON'T GIVE A FUCK WHAT THEY ARE CALLED!"

Saturday, September 22, 2012

A Truth Too Monstrous To Comprehend


General Halftrack moments before he disappeared. In all subsequent daily strips, the General was played by the leader singer of a popular Beetle Bailey cover band recruited in secret. Readers never discovered the truth until it was revealed in an episode of Behind The Laughter that aired in 2015.

Thursday, June 28, 2012

Your Handy Guide To The SCOTUS Fuck-up On Obamacare


The Conscience of a Liberal

After dipping, he's going to make you taste it
“Awake!” Paul yelled, after a few seconds of tugging on Ezra’s chain and receiving no response.

“Nobel-Prize Winner Dr. Paul Krugman Ph.D demands that you awake!”

Matt looked up from the opposite side of the chaise lounge, his sad beard dripping. He had fallen asleep in his water bowl again. Soon he felt the yank of his own chain.

“Matthew! Wake up, Matthew! Nobel-Prize Winner Dr. Paul Krugman Ph.D demands that you see why Ezra will not attend me!”

Matt pulled himself of the cushion he slept on. The morning was already hot and the leather pouch Paul let him wear was already filled with sweat. Matt sniffed the air cautiously. He smelled old chicken salad and death. Edging around the flailing bulk of Paul, he could see Erza face down on the patio, his bare ass presented to the sky.

“Dr. Krugman,” Matt ventured, “I think something is wrong with Ezra.”

“Wake him. Nobel-Prize Winner Dr. Paul Krugman Ph.D demands his morning pail of mimosas.”

Matt nudged Ezra’s side with his foot. Ezra toppled over, a thin river of blood, shit and semen dribbling out of his gaping asshole.

“Dr. Krugman, I think he’s dead.”

“Nonsense. Nobel-Prize Winner Dr. Paul Krugman Ph.D never told him he could die. Quickly, Matthew bring Nobel-Prize Winner Dr. Paul Krugman Ph.D his computer. Nobel-Prize Winner Dr. Paul Krugman Ph.D  must blog about this tragic failure of the disgusting  American for-profit health care system before the Supreme Court rules! SCOTUS must know! Damn you, Scalia!”

Matt found the laptop, half-buried under the pile of empty Chardonnay bottles, fast food wrappers, squeezed-out lube tubes, and raw cookie dough hunks melting in the merciless sun that was always piled up next to Paul. Matt made no move to clean them up. Paul would just scream at him if he removed it before his questing fingers scraped the last of the cookie dough from the deck.

Paul grabbed the laptop from Matt greedily and balanced it on his distended, hairy stomach. The computer slid off and Matt caught it.

“Sweaty. Damn this heat! Matthew! Remind Nobel-Prize Winner Dr. Paul Krugman Ph.D to write another column about the global climate change crisis! Nobel-Prize Winner Dr. Paul Krugman Ph.D must find away to get through to those rednecks and fucking teabaggers that it shouldn’t be hot in late June. We are doomed, Matt! Doomed! Take the bus! Matthew! Buy Nobel-Prize Winner Dr. Paul Krugman Ph.D an electric limo. Nobel-Prize Winner Dr. Paul Krugman Ph.D demands an electric limo!”

“Dr. Krugman, should I call an ambulance for Ezra?”

“Most certainly not. An ambulance trip costs, what three, four million dollars? Just roll him off the side of the deck. The poor and the downtrodden of the city can find a use for every part of him, like when dear Elizabeth dresses a buffalo.”

“Whatever you say, Dr. Krugman.”

“And where are Nobel-Prize Winner Dr. Paul Krugman Ph.D’s mimosas? You know He must write! Only He can save this country!”

“Right away, Dr. Krugman.”

“Wait, Matthew. My darling Matthew. First call UC Santa Cruz and find a replacement for Ezra. Nobel-Prize Winner Dr. Paul Krugman Ph.D is sure they have someone as honest and loyal and intelligent and thin and beautiful as he was in the student body. Have him brought to Nobel-Prize Winner Dr. Paul Krugman Ph.D immediately!”

Matt scurried off to find a telephone, his chains clanking, bare feet slapping on the rooftop. Quietly, too quietly to be heard over the furious hammering of Paul’s typing, the bruised lips of Ezra whispered, “Go Banana Slugs.”

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

Classin' Up The Joint

Leda And The Swan
William Butler Yeats

A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.

How can those terrified vague fingers push
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?
And how can body, laid in that white rush,
But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?

A shudder in the loins engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
And Agamemnon dead.

Being so caught up,

So mastered by the brute blood of the air,
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?

Tuesday, April 3, 2012

A Bad Idea Whose Time Has Come



An Immoderate Man for Moderate Times.

(Live Free or Diet with the slogan assist.)

Monday, February 6, 2012

Thursday, January 12, 2012

"The Whole World Will Know My Name!"

“You know I want to,” Harold said, turning away, “but it feels wrong.”

Ricky, reclining nude, leaned forward and gently caught Harold’s earlobe in his teeth and then began to suckle it. Harold closed his eyes and groaned. Ricky’s hand ground into Harold’s half-hard penis through the thick denim of his jeans. He let go of Harold’s earlobe and whispered into his ear, “Harold, oh Harold. We can do whatever we want. We are adults. We can make decisions for ourselves.” His breath was hot in Harold’s ear, tongue moist as it darted in and out, a promise.

“Can’t we just do it with our hands?” Harold pleaded. He was weakening, his protest becoming feeble as his penis grew harder. Ricky undid the button of Harold’s jeans and slipped his hand inside, unzipping with his thumb as he went. The dorm room was dark, a chair pushed up under the door knob. Harold’s roommate was gone for the weekend, but it was stupid to take chances.

“I can’t put a baby in you, Harold. Stop being such a girl. It’s 1977 and we can do what we want.” Ricky stroked Harold’s erection quickly, and then bent to lick off the milky pearl of Cowper’s fluid that formed. Harold shifted his dancer’s hips and let Ricky pull of his jeans and underwear.

“Just don’t hurt me, Ricky,” Harold said, turning over. On all fours, he looked back a Ricky, expectant and afraid, his cow eyes glistening in the dark.

“Just relax. I went to Catholic school. I know what I’m doing.”

As soon as Ricky slipped his penis in, Harold ejaculated forcefully, shuddering and moaning.

“Yeah, you like that, cunt?” Ricky grunted, thrusting. “You like it when I fuck your cunt? Yeah. You like getting your cunt fucked? You fucking whore. Stop fucking crying, you goddamn pansy. Faggot. Faggot whore!” Ricky fell over backwards onto the filthy rug.

While Harold struggled to his feet and pulled on a robe, Ricky pawed through his own jeans that were puddled on the floor. Harold pulled the chair away from the door and stumbled out of the room, the light from the hallway slashing across Ricky . Ricky lit the joint he found, and stared at the ceiling. Harold came back in as he was almost finished. Harold lay down beside him and Ricky passed him the joint.

“How does this work,” Harold asked, “Do I do you next?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ricky said, yawning. “I’m not a faggot like you. I don’t take it in the ass.”

“Fair’s fair,” Harold whined.

“Shut up, Harold. I got big dreams and being a faggot like you isn’t one of them.” Harold began to sob. Ricky ignored him. “I’m going to find some dumb bitch to marry and pump her full of kids. I’m gonna be lawyer. Maybe go into politics. This country needs somebody like me to set commie faggots like you straight.”

Harold’s sobs became low laughter, rising steadily in volume. Ricky sat up, and began pulling on his clothes. Harold was howling with laughter by the time he got dressed.

“What’s so goddamn funny?” Ricky asked.

Through the peals of laughter, Harold managed, “You’ll never be anybody. No one’s ever going to take you seriously.”

“Why not, faggot?” Ricky kicked him in the leg.

“Your name,” Harold managed, “Your stupid name.”

“Yeah, yeah. Everybody laughs. But I’m going to change it. And faggots like you won’t ever laugh at me again."

With a final kick, Ricky Cumfart stormed out of Harold’s room.

Tuesday, December 6, 2011

+5 Eggplant Of Anal Assualt

“I knosh shings about you, Newt,” Nancy slurred, as she jacked off the Japanese eggplant with a handful of rancid bacon grease. Newt was hugging Lady Justice, his hands tied together on the far side. He weakly struggled to get free and sobbed. He was nude and his pale buttocks and pallid thighs puckered in the cold rotunda.

Nancy leaned forward and rasped in his ear, “I’m nowsh Diana! Of the Hunt!” Newt screamed in pain, the agony of hearing your own shitty prose read back to you.

“Are are a Nazi sex kitten?!?” he yelped, uncontrollably. The script was locked in by Nancy’s words. There was no going back. He needed to pee very badly, but he knew that would only make Mother angry.

Nancy slipped the greased eggplant into Newt’s slack anus. It grated against his enlarged prostate, blown up to the size of a baseball. Newt moaned.

“Get s’hard for you Nashi sex kitten!” Nancy screamed. Newt could feel her wiry nipple hair grating across his hairless back. She reached around and squeezed his flaccid penis. “Get S’HARD!” she screamed again, her shrill voice ringing in his giant round head.

“I can’t,” Newt gasped, “Not even Callista, my sweet Apple of Discord, can make Hades rise from His work in Tartarus.”

“No allusions!” Nancy ordered, digging the eggplant deeper.

Tuesday, October 4, 2011

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

The Dread Male Gaze


Joe Bob and Jim Bob grinned and giggled and nudged each other in the ribs as Michelle struggled from her white polyester dress. The three were alone in the convention hall. Streamers and balloons were everywhere. Tom Petty played softly in the distance. Joe Bob and Jim Bob moved closer to the edge of their folding chairs as Michelle finally shucked off her panties.

“I’ve had 27 kids,” Michelle said, framing her huge modesty of pubic hair with spreading hands. Joe Bob and Jim Bob nodded. Joe Bob licked his lips ponderously. “Ah bet you got yourself a right-nice pussy under all that.” Jim Bob let out a high and hysterical giggle, and said, “Bend over and turn around. Ah want to see your butthole. Ah like buttholes.” Joe Bob guffawed so convulsively his mesh hat fell off.

“Get undressed,” she said. Joe Bob and Jim Bob scrambled to comply. Greasy hands and filthy fingers fumbled at jeans and zippers, shirts and buttons, and tighty whitey underwear gone loose and yellow.
“I want you two to touch each other,” Michelle cooed, straining to narrow her eyes to a leer. Joe Bob sputtered, “I ain’t no fag, missus!”

“Of course, not. Of course not. Even if you were, I could cure you. But touch each other a little bit. A little bit never hurt anyone, right?” Jim Bob had been nodding and staring at Joe Bob’s jutting penis while Michelle cajoled. As Joe Bob ruminated, Jim Bob reached forward and tentatively cupped his balls. Joe Bob stared about wildly. Jim began to gently rub his thumb into the base of Joe Bob’s penis, where it met his scrotum. Joe Bob groaned; it sounded loud in the echoes of the empty hall.

“That’s how ah like to touch myself,” Jim Bob said, eager as a puppy for Michelle’s approval. Michelle ignored him, focused on Joe Bob’s erection. Absently, Joe Bob began to grope in Jim Bob’s crotch as he continued to groan. He began to tug insistently at Jim Bob’s penis once he found it. Jim Bob ejaculated on the fourth stroke.

Michelle snorted and grabbed at Joe Bob, “Come on, Jim Bob. Let’s fuck while you still can.”

“But, I’m Joe Bob, ma’am.”

“Does it look like I give a fuck?”

She backed herself to the stage and pulled him into herself. Joe Bob flung himself over and over again into her dark passage. Jim Bob stared at his semen cooling on the floor. He stalked toward Joe Bob with his thumb stiffened before him. It was in Joe Bob before either understood what was happening.

“Gawdammit, Jim Bob!” Joe Bob, bellowed. But he didn’t slow his assault on Michelle’s vagina.

“Oh, yes, Jim Bob!” Michelle exclaimed.

“Oh, Gawd, Jim Bob!” Joe Bob exclaimed.

“Ah like buttholes!” Jim Bob exclaimed.


“Oh,” Michelle screamed, “Oh, oh… Whichever Bob! Spill your filth in me!”

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

6-on-1, Half-a-Dozen In Another



this is all R C Dean fault...

Newt ran his tongue around Tim’s gaping anus in a lazy spiral, seeking the center to dart and dip within. Tim was still strapped down ass up, offered like a ruined buffet. Blood leaked in slow rivulets down his scrotum; his wrung-out penis glued to his leg with dried semen. The room stank of sweat and shit.

Michelle emitted a long, rumbling queef as she sat up. Her startled eyes narrowed for just a moment before springing open again. Mitt was masturbating furiously, intent on ejaculating again in Tim’s hair. Michelle crawled over and began to lick Mitt’s flailing scrotum. He smacked her with his free hand and she tumbled backwards, rolling on to Ron with an inhuman grunt.

Ron was nude, wearing nothing but bright purple surgical gloves. He had assisted Gary in stuffing Rick’s testicles into Tim rectum early in the night, and then passed out. Ron had snored through the quadruple anal, a feat of sexual acrobatics and contortion only attempted once, years before in the pleasure pits of Columbus, Ohio. Two people had died that day and one lost the use of his penis, forcing him to fuck on crutches for the rest of his life. The Ass-Pleasure Overseers had declared the position impossible.

New Hampshire had proven them wrong.

Herman had proven them all wrong.

Thursday, May 26, 2011

The Loneliness of the Middle-Distance Runner's Asshole

Harry turned the lock on his door as quietly as he could and was rewarded with a muted click. It was lunch time and the interns we deep in the bowels of the Rayburn building, swapping pudding cups and STDs. Harry stepped out of his shoes and Haggar slacks and slipped off his shirt. He was naked underneath, except for drooping socks, bunched around his ankles like dark blue foreskins. He carefully placed both pants and shirt on padded hangers and zipped them into a wardrobe travel case.

All 342 pages of the PATRIOT act sat on his desk, fresh from the copier, warm from its light and smelling of fresh toner. He sat in his overstuffed leather chair, a present from Nancy, and placed his feet on the edge of the desk and leaned way back. He groped for the stack of papers. He crumbled the first page tightly and inched it slowly into his gaping anus. With a sigh of pleasure his forced the page back out and it bounced away when it hit the floor. He crumbled, inserted, and defecated another, and then another.

By the time the interns got back from lunch, Harry was a hundred pages in and already thinking about which one of them would lick him clean when he was finished.

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

You Are Both Right

TheZeitgeist|4.25.11 @ 2:29PM
Makes me wonder what his own daughters (especially the older one) have pasted on their (hallowed) White House bedroom walls? It would serve Obama right if he found himself raising a Belieber.

R C Dean|4.25.11 @ 3:51PM
I'm thinking Che posters.


Sexy! Sexy!