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

Chapter One


"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

The trees say I'm their favorite

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!"

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.

Best. Comic-Con. Evar.

Damn, Girl... You know I put the "Thunder" in "Thunder Lizard."

Your Handy Guide To The SCOTUS Fuck-up On Obamacare

The Conscience of a Liberal

“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.”

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?

A Bad Idea Whose Time Has Come

An Immoderate Man for Moderate Times.

(Live Free or Diet with the slogan assist.)

Let the world know...

"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.

+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.

9 of 99

I've seen a lot of fakes in my day...

Indeterminacy

Rare Photo of Episiarch and Warty Surfaces

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!”

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.

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.

Tool-Using? Egads!

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.

Delicious

The River Of Forever Flows Into The Sunless Sea

John's hot tears spattered Nancy's whithered breasts. Her pangolin hide drank them greedily, starved of moisture as it was by the precious fluids of Nancy's carapace rushing to her dessicated fuck-parts. She wanted to be wet for John.

His leathery tail of a penis flopped out of his open pants. It bounced with every sob and blubber. John's eyes were raw from crying. His tears drippedon his purpling glans. Nancy slapped John's penis hard, grabbed it and jerked him off intently. He sobbed even harder, struggling to catch his breath after each strangled cry. "Nancy!" he moaned, "I want in your minority cunt!"

He mopped his face of tears and massaged them in to the dark slash between her legs. Her shriveled labia, black and dry as tangled raisins, plumped briefly with blood and bile. John came immediately after thrusting himself into the sandpaper walls of her vagina, a thin dribble of greenish semen pooling around Nancy's puckered cervix. She clung to him while he shuddered inside of her, drawing him in close, suckling his cheeks to drink his precious tears.

The Statue Of Episiarch Already Exists

As Per R C Dean's Suggestion

Warning

Rape Van Reported In Area

The Early Years

(l to r) Pro Libertate, Episiarch, JW, SugarFree, and Warty.

I Wish I Had Not Seen This

I'm not going to even post it, just a link. Never has the caveat "There are things that once seen, cannot be unseen." been more apt. Don't be fooled by the innocuous .jpg title.

NSFW, obviously.

Who Will Save Us From Stephen Dorff?

They see me trollin', they be hatin'.

Angry Hillbilly God

One night I had a dream. I was walking along the beach with the Angry Hillbilly God, and across the skies flashed scenes from my life. In each scene I noticed two sets of footprints in the sand. One was mine, and one was the Angry Hillbilly God's. When the last scene of my life appeared before me, I looked back at the footprints in the sand, and, to my surprise, I noticed that many times along the path of my life there was only one set of footprints. And I noticed that it was at the lowest and saddest times in my life. I asked the Angry Hillbilly God about it: "Angry Hillbilly God, you said that once I decided to follow you, you would walk with me all the way. But I notice that during the most troublesome times in my life there is only one set of footprints. I don't understand why you left my side when I needed you most." The Angry Hillbilly God said: "My precious child, I never left you during your time of trial. Where you see only one set of footprints, I was riding my four-wheeler."

Whole tread

Good job getting us started, JW.

Meat memories...

I remember the first time I fucked a pork chop. Her name was Jennifer and I made love to her until the wee hours of a chilly Sunday morning. She was bone-in, of course. I was no pervert, there was nothing immoral about our love, no matter how the patrician harpies looked down their beaks at us. Our love was pure and without a trace of gristle. I fried Jennifer in a shallow pan of olive oil and dressed her with capers and admiration. And then I ate her. And then I fucked the skillet.

I'm waiting...

Technical Virgin, The Best Kind Of Virgin

Sarah ground her crotch forcefully against Christine’s face as she sat upon it. The left side of her distended labia dangled into Christine’s throat like a monstrous uvula; the other slapped loosely against Christine’s right ear. Christine’s nose was buried in Sarah’s anus, forced deeper and deeper as Sarah leaned back to let Christine gasp for a bare half a lungful of air. Christine’s breasts lolled across her chest and into her armpit and back out again with every forceful thrust of Sarah’s hips. They had pierced Christine’s nipples with a safety pin before they began and a thin smear of blood covered them.

Sarah slipped her hand down Christine’s pale, doughy body as she rocked away, stealing toward the dark thatch of pubic hair sprouting between her legs.

As Sarah began to wind her fingers like veiny snakes though the hair toward Christine’s clitoris, Christine began to buck. She exhaled forcefully, Sarah’s labia flapping to creating a drawn out farting noise and filling her cavernous vagina with air. As Sarah swung off of Christine’s face, a protracted queef quickly filled the air with the scent of old scallops and regret.

“I’m still a virgin, Sarah,” Christine gasped. “I’m not married yet.”

“Then what are we, you know, doing here, you know?” Sarah asked.

“I just need to keep myself pure for my husband, so he can have my ladyflower on our wedding night all to himself,” Christine said in a small, meek voice. “I’ll do whatever you want to you, but I need to stay untouched. My peach is still fresh at 41 and Jesus needs me to keep it that way. Jesus knows everything about our vaginas, after all.”

Sarah slapped her sharply across her face.