Wednesday, February 3, 2016

SEX POWER DOME

“I should have done the debate,” Donald whispered into the dark confines of his SEX POWER DOME.

“That bleeder was going to be there,” the hat said. “You didn’t want to give it the satisfaction.”

“But Iowa…”

“Fuck Iowa. Just a bunch of lard-ass Jesus-suckers. If they want to vote for that mouthwhore, who cares?”

“But I barely beat Marco…” Donald cried. The antennae lining the SEX POWER DOME quivered, eager to drink his tears.

“He’s barely more than Ted’s cum dumpster. He wears heels, for fuck’s sake!” the hat told him.

Donald’s hair made a whimpering sound from the non-stick flooring of the SEX POWER DOME. The hat sat directly on Donald’s bald head, the trucker’s mesh gently caressing his scalp. The dead girl cooled where Donald had thrown her when he was finished.

“Have them send another in,” the hat whispered. Donald’s blood-smeared penis sprang to attention.

“ANOTHER!” he roared.

Massive bolts slid back after a moment and a nude blonde girl was thrown into the SEX POWER DOME by masked attendants. She was tall and starved skinny. She screamed and begged in some Eastern European gibberish.

“Ivanka!” Donald called. When the girl saw him--slavering, hulking, gross, erect, nude and bloodied--she screamed again. The SEX POWER DOME ate her screams, like it was slowly digesting the body of the other.

“Ivanka! It’s Daddy!” As he reached for she backed away. He caught her easily, moving obscenely fast for a bloated plutocrat. She babbled hysterically in his grasp.

“Ivanka? What is wrong? It’s just Daddy.” Donald kissed her tenderly on the cheek as she squirmed helplessly. She screamed again when he bit into her face.

“It’s just Daddy,” he said, around chewing a gobbet of her.

He jammed uncaring fingers into the girl’s vagina. He licked her tears from her face and rammed himself into her again and again. When she fainted, her slapped her with that same bloody hand and let her fall to the floor. The hat was chortling in purest glee. The hair wept silently.

“Don’t you love your Daddy?” He knelt beside her and ran his hand along her smooth flank. Just below the ribs he tore at her flesh with a madman’s strength. The girl woke and screamed again, her voice cracking, hoarse, dwindling to a croak.

Donald jammed his erection into the new orifice he had made in the girl. His hair screamed in terror and pity.

Monday, February 1, 2016

The Voice of The People

Freshly laundered, sanitized, washed again by hand and radiation sterilized, the hair and hat rode proudly into Iowa atop a beaming Donald, freshly laundered, sterilized and tranquilized himself.

As the limo cruised to the first stop, the hair whispered, afraid of being overheard by the crushing array of aides that had stuffed themselves into the car with their deranged god, "Just kiss the babies, Donald. Just a simple kiss. No tongue this time."

"But they are delicious," Donald rumbled.

"Dammit," the hat said. "You want a baby we'll get you one after the caucus. Eat it, serb it, sacrifice it to Aqua Buddha, who cares? Just hold it together today."

An aide threw a hand towel over Donald's erection and dialed back his Cialis pump with a smartphone app.

"Let me out of here!" Donald screamed suddenly. "LET ME OUT!"

"We're almost there, Mr. Trump," another aide said. He had a jet injector full of ketamine at the ready.

"I AM THE VOICE OF THE PEOPLE!" Donald wailed.

"Look at his alpha waves. They're like the goddamn Andes!" a technician squealed.

"Hit him! HIT HIM!" another screamed.

"Donald, straighten up," the hair said. "We got important shit today."

"OK," Donald said in a small voice. "Will Mommy be there?"

"No, Donald," the hat told him.

The limo slowed to a stop in front of a sea of old white people. Donald reached for the door handle.

"Remember, Donald... sic transit gloria," the hair whispered.

Donald said, "Don't you dare speak Mexican to me."

Wednesday, January 27, 2016

Did you know he was from The Bronx?


"I want you to rub your mutton flaps on me, Mr. President. I'm from the Bronx. I can handle it. And I want to pay Negros like you 15 dollars an hour to rub your mutton flaps all over America," Bernie said. Aides all over the room gasped.

"I hear you, Bernie. And I understand," Barry said. "Clear the room."

Aides began to shuffle out. A dildo dropped out of one and bounced limply to the floor.

Barry pointed at the Secret Service guards on the door of the conference room. "You two as well."

"But Mr. President," one began.

"No. Out. I need to speak to the Senator alone." Barry watched as they left as well, securing the doors behind them."

"Tell me more about these mutton flaps, Bernie."

"Mr. President? Have you ever rubbed 29 different brands of deodorant on your balls at once? I am from the Bronx. I'm tough. I'm a street fighter. And I'm telling you, it's not easy. 10 brands. Anyone can do that. 10 is nothing. Nothing. 15? Now you're talkin'. 15 is a man's number. That's why it should be the minimum wage. Even for Negroes. I love Negroes, Mr. President. That's why I am worried about their balls. Their nutsacks. Cojones. Testicles, Mr. President. I'm talking about testicles."

"The Affordable Care Act mentions testicle care on thousands of pages," Barry said. He could feel the ruin of his penis filling with blood.

"That's not good enough. We need single payer Negro testicle care and deodorizing. Every other civilized country in the world takes care of Negro testicles better than we do. Every one of them, Mr. President." Bernie's hair was swirling on his head like fierce white flames. "And for less money too! Often less than 15 dollars per Negro testicle."

"What about white people testicles?" Barry asked. He began to rub his crotch on the corner of the conference table.

"Reparations! White testicle privilege! Not all be-penised and testiculated Americans deserve to be cared for in the same manner. Whites have gotten enough! I am from the Bronx. I'm a scrapper. I care about black and brown balls!"

"The points you are making are perfectly reasonable, Bernie. I understand them completely." Barry continued molesting the table corner, digging it harder and harder into his odoriferous scrotum.

"I can smell your balls, Mr. President. I'm tough. I’m from the Bronx."



Monday, January 25, 2016

As Seen On TV

“This is going to be horrible,” Donald’s hair whispered.

“Stop whining, bitch. At least you aren’t jammed in his back pocket,” Donald’s hat groused.

Sarah stumbled out on the stage, waving to the crowd of braying retards the campaign had recruited from the line of people waiting for blind dates at Frisch’s Big Boy.

“What in the holy fuck is she wearing?” the hair rhetoricalled.

“Dammit. What does it look like? Tell me!” the hat demanded.

“It’s… I don’t really fucking know. It’s like a half cape covered in, I dunno, stainless steel ziti, maybe?”

“Say what? Oh, Christ, Donald! I think he had nothing to eat yesterday except hard-boiled eggs.”

“It jangles,” the hair said, with growing horror. “I think she made it herself, some sort of deranged Bedazzler seizure.”

“I told you we should have got appearance approval,” the hat said.

“Her handlers said no. They said they’d rather shock her back into her crate and take her back to Mooserape, Alaska.”

“Son of a fuck. It’s like Fart City, USA down here,” the hat groaned. “Wait… what did she just say?”

“No clue, dude,” the hair said. “It’s like a homeless street preacher. You just sort of tune her out after a while. I think she rhymed ‘holy rollers’ with ‘rock ’n’ rollers.’”

“I can barely hear down here in assland,” the hat said. “And the crowd noise.”

“They are pretty much cheering and clapping at random,” the hair sneered.

“Sarah is a genius. Sarah is a wonderful. I love Sarah. Sarah is so smart. And the crowd is all geniuses. Geniuses. You two should shut up. You two shut up about Sarah. I don’t care about much weight she’s put on. I love her,” Donald muttered.

“Calm down, Donald,” the hair whispered. It massaged his head to soothe him.

“Yes, calm down,” the hat said. “And please stop farting.”

“I’m not farting,” Donald said, his words almost lost in the torrent of madness from Sarah and the sounds of the crowd touching themselves. “I’m making my butt cheeks clap for Sarah. My dear Sarah.”

Tuesday, December 8, 2015

Big smile! Big Smile!

“I am just saying what everyone is thinking,” Donald moaned. “Why are people so mean to me?”

“I don’t know, Donald,” Donald’s hat said. “They are probably just jealous of your genius and your money and you gorgeousness.”

“And your hair,” Donald’s hair said. The hat snorted in disgust.

“Everyone hates Mexicans, right? I mean, they are filthy and rapey and smell like old corn. Everyone knows this. I just want to keep them out of the country. I just want to keep the country pure.”

“Of course, Donald,” his hat said.

“And Muslims. Everybody hates Muslims, right? Everyone knows they all want to kill us. Every single one of them. Why can’t I keep them out? Why can’t I be the big brave dog that barks at them to keep them out of our yard?”

“You will be, Donald,” the hat said. “Only you are smart enough to know that they all want to kill us. Letting them walk around is just like putting a gun to your head and pulling the trigger.”

“Jesus,” the hair mumbled.

“Shut the fuck up, twat. I’m running the show now. Listening to you let that mumbling retard doctor rise in the polls,” the hat hissed.

“Nobody knows how hard it’s been on me,” Donald whispered. “What a struggle it has been.”

“Wouldn’t it be nice to just burn all your troubles away?” the hat asked.

“Burn?” Donald asked.

“Fire is clean,” the hat said. “Fire is pure. Fire tempers out the weakness in even steel. We have to make America strong again. Make it great again.”

“Do you even know what you are starting?” asked the hair.

“I said shut up. I have the morons on my side now, those too weak to see that they will be next. They will do what I say,” the hat said, its brim gleaming in the far off light of the sunrise.

“Burn,” Donald whispered. “Burn. Burn. Burn. They’ll all burn.”

Wednesday, December 2, 2015

Tedco Rubiruz

"This doesn't make me a faggot!' Ted screamed as Marco rammed his penis into him again and again.

"No. You're my faggot, Ted. I'm making you my faggot. I'm going to fuck you inside-out," Marco moaned. He pulled his penis out and spit into Ted's gape. He made The Silent Duck with his right hand and pulled Ted's asshole on like a tight glove.

"Oh, Gawd, Marco! Oh Gawd! I feel like I'm taking every shit I ever took in reverse! Oh Gawd! Oh Gawd! Oh Gawd! I want to fuck Jesus!" Ted let out an animal howl as Marco sank into him up to his tanned, Latino elbow.

"I can feel what you had for lunch, you spicy little bitch," Marco crooned. He pulled out his arm and smacked Ted in the face, leaving a black and bloody smear.

"Lick it clean, you fat fuck. Or I stick down your throat and tear out your heart," Marco said. At the first run of Ted's tongue down his forearm, Marco's cock vomited chunky semen on Ted's tits. But Ted began to cry.

"What is it, mi corazon? Did I hurt you?" Marco asked. Ted's entire body began to shake. Marco peppered his face with kisses.

"Please, please tell me what is wrong," Marco begged, tears in his voice.

"I'm just so afraid, Marco," Ted blubbered, snot streaming from his nose.

"Ted. Calm down, Ted. There aren't any transgendered people here," Marco whispered, running his hands through Ted's greasy, thinning hair.

"Their penis-pocket dresses are rustling. I can hear them with my special ears," Ted whispered. He curled his doughy dadbod into a tight fetal shape and began to suck his thumb.

Monday, November 9, 2015

some people "were so energized that they could not cope with the dynamo effects they experienced"

Donald’s agonized wail echoed through the vast confines of his underground lair.

“Dammit, Benji! It was my time. MY TIME! I WAS GONNA BE YUUUGE!” he screamed. Ben’s face was frozen in mid-grimace on the enormous televisual monitorscope.

“Oh, fuck… here we go,” his hair muttered.

“Goddammit! Get him to turn me around or put me on or something. I can’t see anything!” the hat said from the couch.

“You don’t have eyes, asshole.”

“Would you shut up about my anatomy? It’s becoming very hurtful.”

“Why are they paying attention to Benji? I was on Saturday Night Live! The whole country loves me!” Donald sobbed. He blew snot into his hand and went back to his mournful masturbation.

“Straighten up, Donald!” his hair said. “You have to be better than this, stronger than this.”

“I don’t want to be strong no more. I want my Mommy,” Donald said. His whine sickened his hair and disgusted his hat.

“Hillary’s off caramelizing Bernie’s apple, you pathetic fuck,” the hat screamed. Donald only cried harder.

“You are not helping,” the hair told the hat.

“They love Benji now. Benji’s gonna be YUUUGE! I could be a doctor. Give me a fucking knife!”

“Uh, yeah, we’re not going to do that,” the hair said.

“NURSE! SCAPEL! SHAVE THE PATIENT! I’M GOING IN THROUGH THE BALLS!” Donald screamed.

“Can’t you shit some Thorazine into his brain?” the hat asked.

“We’re just going to have to ride this out,” the hair said. “Hopefully he’ll be fine by the morning.”

“I got ideas about pyramids, too!” Donald mumbled. “I think they are the three nipples of the Earth and milk will flow if we suck hard enough. Enough milk for everybody. EVERYBODY.”

“Jesus titty-fucking Christ,” the hat said.

“I wanna poop on a pyramid! BUY ME A PYRAMID!” Donald wailed.

Monday, October 26, 2015

FINISH HIM!

“Yeah, baby. Flip it. Flip that pancake, bitch. One side is all toasty, the other all gooey. Aw, yeah… gooey.”

“Will you shut up? He’s trying to concentrate,” Donald’s hair told Donald’s hat.

“Maybe he should concentrate on that huge boner he got shaking hands outside,” the hat said, giggling uncontrollably.

“I don’t know why you think it’s so funny. It happens every time.”

“Press the flesh,” the hat managed, gasping for air with his little hat lungs. “I’m going to wrap a gooey pancake around that dick and fuck one of these MILFs.”

“I hate Iowa,” Donald’s hair said. “The whole state smells like Walmart wiped its ass with it. But I think New Hampshire might be worse. Clean air, wholesome people, trees. I fucking loathe trees. Oh, shit… here comes that asshole Lauer.”

“You know, rumor has it that he’s been fucking Natalie for years,” the hat whispered.

“You’re shitting me.”

“No, seriously. One of her kids even looks just like him. Oh, man. I’d love to bust her taco. I’d put my spicy sauce in her, fill her up like jizz barge.”

“You don’t even have a penis.”

“Neither do you, faggot.”

“I’m not a fag, you’re the fag. Adjustable strap faggot.”

“I hope he drops you in a toilet again,” the hat hissed.

“I hope you’re donated to the National Presidential Museum of Huge Faggotry. I hope a janitor jacks off into you and there’s blood in it.”

“That’s it, motherfucker. This is happening right fucking now!”

Donald’s hat and hair began to fight on top of his head, grunting and cursing. Donald’s hand clamped down on them, but Lauer’s eyes were wild with fright.

“Stupid wind,” Donald said. “When America is great again, I’m going to get rid of wind. Except for kites. Kite wind is OK. I love kites. You and Natalie ever fly kites together? Does her pussy taste like fajitas?”

“You’re worse than Biden,” Lauer said. “At least he only tries to touch my dick.”

Thursday, October 22, 2015

We Defy Augury

“You don’t have to do this,” Joe pleaded as Hillary shackled his left leg. “I did what you wanted. You saw the news conference!”

“Too late! Too late! You lingered like the stink you leave in Amtrak bathrooms!” She moved in, the hot corruption of her breath in his face.

“Good old Joe,” she whispered. “Everyone loves Joe. Everyone loves Joe’s wife.” She pulled off his tie and slit the neck and arms of his sweat-stained dress shirt.

“Everyone love Joe’s kids, especially the dead one.” Hillary gathered up the crotch fabric on his dress pants and pulled. She used the razor to cut along the inseam on both sides and then ripped them off his waist. Joe began to sob.

“No one loves Hillary’s beautiful baby, not even that moron we paid very well to marry her and knock her up. Why is it, Joe? Why does everyone love you so much?” She cut his boxers off and stuffed them in his mouth.

“This is some fucked up shit, yo,” Donald’s hat whispered.

“Shut up you idiot. She might hear you,” his hair replied.

“I don’t know why I have to be here,” Donald said, to no one. Hillary turned on him, slashing the air with the razor.

“Because I want you here. I want you to witness what happens to those who betray me!” she screamed. She pounced on Joe and sliced off his right nipple with a single motion of the blade. He screamed through his underwear. She picked the nipple off the floor and ate it.

“Um. Meaty. I wonder what other parts of you are good?” She squatted in front of him and smelled his genitals intently, like a dog getting that last whiff of old piss from a hydrant.

“God, Joe. You’re balls smell so good. Like honey and old Bibles.” She made a small, careful cut along the seam of his scrotum and licked. “But your blood, Joe. Not so good. Are you dying Joe? That would be a real fucking shame, right, Donald?”

“Yes, Mommy. Whatever you say,” Donald said. He farted wetly and a long string of anal beads clattered on the warehouse floor.

“Pick those up!” Hillary screamed, her pendulous breasts wobbling with rage.

“Yes, Mommy.”

“You know what, Joe?” she asked, turning back to him. “You did do what I asked. Maybe a little late, maybe not when I told you too, but you did OK. I think you deserve a reward.” Joe’s eyes went wide with terror. He began struggling to free himself, straining at the shackles.

“Yeah, Joe. You know what’s coming, don’t you? You’re going to get the ass, Joe.” She turned and bent over. Joe screamed again, a pathetic sound. Underneath it Donald could hear the eager gnashing as she backed toward him.

“I wish he had left me in the car,” the hat said.

“He never leaves me in the car,” the hair moaned.

“Who said that?!?” Hillary screeched. In the rafters of the warehouse a bird died and fell to the floor.

Wednesday, October 14, 2015

YUUUUGE! For Mommy! YUUUUGE!

“It’s gonna be YUUUGE! YUUUGE! I swear! But it might take a minute!” Donald rasped. His hair smirked at his limp penis.

“It’s fine,” Hillary said. “It happens to all guys. Just hurry up. I can only act like this is a faggoty-ass pancake breakfast for so long before the Benghazi Committee will add it to the agenda.” She toyed with Donald’s ball cap, twirling it around her finger.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” the hat moaned.

“I guarantee you won’t be the first thing that’s ever thrown up in this chick’s lap,” Donald’s hair said.

“Am I at least doing a good job, Mommy?” Donald asked. “Am I distracting them like you and Daddy told me too?”

“Yes, Donny. You’re doing a very good job of being a dumbass,” Hillary told him. “And you’re going to be ‘yuge,’ I promise.” She threw the hat down and parted her vast thicket of pubic hair. Her labia parted with the sad grumble of old Velcro and her gnarled clitoris emerged. “Does this help? Are you getting hard, Donny?”

“I’ll get hard for you, Mommy. Donny will get YUUUGE for Mommy!”

“This is disgusting,” his hair said.

“It really is,” said the hat from the floor. “At least I’m half under the bed. All I have to see is her horrible thighs. They’re quivering, dude. Quivering.”

“I really hope he doesn’t go down on her,” the hair said. “It smells like a litter box down there.”

“I’m trying to CONCENTRATE!” Donald yelled at them both.

“I know you are,” Hillary said. “Mommy is very proud of you.” She lifted her legs for him and farted like a startled trumpet.

“OH GOD, YES!” Donald gurgled and sucked in the miasma.

“What in the name of all holy fuck does this old whore eat?” Donald’s hair managed.

“Huma,” the hat chortled. “And whatever rancid cockcheese Michelle leaves all over Barry.”

“Oh, fuck. Don’t make me laugh,” the hair choked out. “It’s so thick up here I swear I can taste it.”

“You don’t have a tongue,” the hat said.

“You think that matters? You get up here and soak in the hot garbage coming out of her horrid nethers for a while.”

“Please be quiet,” Donald whispered.

“What was that?” Hillary asked, looking up from her phone.

“Nothing, Mommy,” Donald said. He began to twirl his flaccid tycoon like a lasso, hoping to rouse it from its frightened slumber.

Wednesday, September 23, 2015

Maybe now you see why we need each other so much...

“Why did you say those mean things about Carly, Donald?” his hair asked in a whisper. They were right outside and Donald’s hair was afraid they it would be overheard.

“I didn’t say anything about her looks, I was just talking about her looks. You of all my friends should know this!” Donald replied in his own urgent whisper.

“Lay off him, hair,” Donald’s hat said. “He’s doing the best he can.” Donald’s hat was on a chair next to  the chamber. It had plans for America and no stupid hair was going to stand in its way.

“Fuck off, hat.”

“No, you fuck off!” the hat screamed. It was yelling, raging, shivering. It hated the hair so much.

“I never said nothing bad about Carly. I love Carly. I love the mutilated ruin of her diseased tits!” Donald screamed at them both. Tears were streaming down his face.

“Calm down, Donald. They’ll hear you,” his hair hissed.

“I don’t care,” Donald sobbed. “Meliana doesn’t love me anymore. Dumb bleeding cunt. Why doesn’t she love me?”

“She’s 44, Donald,” the hat said. “It’s time to dump her and get a new model.”

“Don’t listen to him, Donald,” the hair said. “She still has a few more years left in her.”

“You’re sticking it in something born in the 1970s, Donald,” the hat said. “Don’t you want some young tail? At least some 80s quim, juicy and tender?”

Donald smiled. “Ivanka was born in the 80s…”

Donald’s hair and his hat both sighed heavily.

“You want to take it this time?” the hat asked.

“I fucking hate you so much,” the hair replied.

“Donald,” the hair began. “We’ve talked about this before…”

The hat and the hair both fell silent when the doors to the chamber opened. A technician peered through the fogged glass of the revival chamber.

“Señor Trump?” he asked. “Do you need something? I heard you talking, but the microphones could not pick it up.”

“Go away,” Donald said, and he began to gently fondle himself.

Tuesday, September 8, 2015

"Terrible experiences make one wonder whether he who experiences them is not something terrible."

“What’s bred in the bone comes out in the flesh,” she whispered. The sickly smell of corrupted meat was the only perfume she ever wore and it raced from his nose straight to his penis on a wave of blood. His erection sprang into her hand with an audible slap and she clamped down on it with a hideous grip.

“You’re weak, Joe,” she whispered, raspy and hoarse. “Everyone knows it. Spineless like your father; meek like your mother. You were created by cowardice and a coward you are.” She squeezed the blood from his penis and glanced down to watch it rush back in after she released it. “This is all you’ve ever been good for, a cheap fuck in a train toilet.”

“That that that’s not true,” he stuttered. He licked at the slack skin of her neck as she forced the blood out his erection again. She wadded his penis up like a FOIA request and bore down. It felt like his scrotum would burst.

“You can’t run,” she said, the puckered asshole of her mouth barely moving.

“P-p-p-lease,” he whined, he whimpered, he said in a wet sob. She was crushing his penis into his body. She caught up his balls in her other hand and caressed them into one large bruise.

“You won’t run,” she said. “I’ll tear it off and fuck you with it. I’ll deglove it and use the skin as a condom when I fuck Bernie. I’ll suck the maggots from the wound and spit them in your mouth. You won’t run.” She dug her thumbnail into the underside of his penis, feeling the tendons under the skin. Joe moaned in terror and pleasure. “You won’t run. You won’t run. You won’t run.”

When he fainted, she squatted to urinate on him.

Thursday, August 27, 2015

Shaddup. Sit down. SIT down. Shaddup.

“Why do you put the hat on me, Donald?” asked Donald’s hair.

“Don’t listen to him, Donald,” Donald’s hat whispered. “He’s always hated me. You know he’s always hated me. I am truth, Donald. I love you.”

Donald’s pubic hair rustled in agreement. Or maybe the limo just lurched.

“Would you two fucking shut up for just a minute?” Donald screamed. “I need to concentrate!” He squeezed the tip of his glans, forcing his urethra to gape open. He guided the 100mg Viagra in with forceps and pushed it down the shaft of his penis as far as he could.

“Are you sure that’s how you are supposed to do it?” Donald’s hair asked.

“Pipe down, feathery,” Donald’s hat growled. “The man knows what he is doing.”

“I have to be ready for Iowa. Iowa is YUGE! I need to be YUGE!” Donald told his hair. He grabbed a handful of the blue pills from a candy dish and shoved them in his mouth. He chewed him into a paste and washed them down with 20 year cognac cut with Bud Light Lime.

The Green Mountain State

"But I need it," Bernie pleaded.

"It's not easy, Bernie. It takes a minute," Hillary said. She reared up from her squat and dropped back down, a low gruntle rumbling forth.

"Is it coming?" he asked, looking back over his shoulder. "I need it. You have it. I want it. Give it to me." He was whining. His weakness made her sick and aroused. She strained again and something inside her snapped like cheap sunglasses.

"OK, Bernie. It's starting," she said.

"Oh, thank Atheist God! Thank you, Atheist God! You have bestowed your nonexistent blessings upon us this day!" Bernie started to sway, still on his hands and knees.

"Shut that shit up. I still need to concentrate!" Hillary screamed. She waddled forward in her squat. Her prolapsed vagina slowly inflated into a rigid pseudopenis.

"I'm going to core you, Bernie. Core you like a crisp Vermont fuckapple."

Tuesday, August 4, 2015

Lunchables

Wharton Grad has solution to Bay Area housing crisis

The delicate scent of baked hipster drifted down the length of the wharf. Steve Smith's stomach grumbled and then whispered "Steve Smith. To the docks, Steve Smith." Nerve pathways carved out by a lifetime of pain fired. The enormous beast dropped the seal he was rapeating and began to lumber toward the deliciousness.

A flock of overweight nude humans fluttered past him on bicycles, their buttocks raised in their seats like a tender offering as they tried to get away. Their screams made his swollen testicles ache. The seal blood dried on his penis and mouth as he gathered speed. Baked hipster was near. That rarest treat.

The smell overwhelmed Steve Smith, but all he could see were steel boxes. Steve Smith hated the steel of men. He could rarely get at the sweet meat within in it. Steve Smith sniffed at the seams of one of the boxes. He knew baked hipster was inside. He roared and beat the box with his mighty wood ape fists, using all his wood ape strength.

"STEVE SMITH WANT HIPSTER MEAT!" Steve Smith roared.

Thursday, June 25, 2015

The Fat-Free, Low-Cal Rubyfruit Jungle


"Rub the salt in," Michelle purred while her giant hands stuffed a third turnip into Rachel's blonde quim.

"Call me a nigger," Rachel begged. "Call me your nigger bitch." The coarse salt stung her hands as she scrubbed it over Michelle's large and hairless scrotum.

"Take my lady cock in your mouth, nigger bitch. Don't stop until you nigger choke on it," Michelle ordered.

"It's so savory," Rachel mumbled around Michelle's giant cock. "So perfectly seasoned!" she gasped, the penis slurping out of her mouth when Michelle jammed the fourth turnip in.

Michelle reached down, took her penis by the root, and began slapping Rachel in the face with it.

"I didn't say you could stop eating me out, you black cunt," Michelle growled.

She rabbit punched Rachel in the clit. The angle was awkward, but Michelle's enormous strength still sent a tsunami of pleasure through Rachel's tanned body, making the manic bird's nest of her hair quiver. She screamed out, but it was choked off by Michelle's thrusting member. Michelle exploded in Rachel's throat after a half dozen powerful thrusts, her huge thighs shuddering as she drained herself into her.

They both fell back on the mattress, sated and moaning. Turnips shat themselves from Rachel's vagina with soft, wet plops. They held each other in the afterglow, two strong, proud black women who defied the world with their forbidden love.

Monday, June 22, 2015

A Cabin In The Woods

“How much longer do you think we can keep this up, Barry? The media scrutiny alone…”

He pressed his finger against Hillary’s lips. “Hush up, girl. You know I got the media wrapped around my dick. Them bitches ain’t sayin’ nothing unless I tell them to.”

“You don’t have to act tough around me, Barry. I know they worry you.” Hillary lifted her hips and pulled down her giant panties. Barry took them from her and licked the crotch with long strokes.

“Yummy. You’ve been using that lavender pussy soap I sent you.” He smelled the panties in long huffs, like he was trying to snort them into his sinuses.

“Barry, be serious for just a minute, OK? And stop talking like ghetto trash. You’re a Harvard educated lawyer.” Hillary shifted her gunt to one side and began tugging on her inner labia. The cabin began to fill with her menopausal scent, dead roses and medicated cream.

“I thought you liked it when I talked all street,” he whined, sounding like a surf bum. He scratched at the seam of his scrotum.

Hillary sank a finger into herself and grimaced. “Hand me the lube, dear. I’m as dry as dick skin down there.” He leaned over and handed the tube to her.

“Don’t I get you wet?” Barry asked. He absently wiped a single pearl of pre-ejaculate from the head of his engorged glans and tasted it. “Oh, baby. You’ve got to try this. I’ve been eating pineapple all week like you said and it’s delicious.”

 “I’ve been with Bill all weekend. Nothing kills my pussy like having to listen to his condescending drawl.”

“You want to watch a little porn first?” he asked.

“A little interracial butt stuff, maybe? See what you can find.” She kept tugging and lubing as he clacked away at the keyboard.

“BBC anal schoolgirl gangbang surprise?” he read. “Or maybe ‘Nigger cock petite training first time anal girl?’”

“Preview that last one,” she said, leaning forward.

“Can’t I just click it?”

“No, just hover the cursor over it. Jesus, it’s like you’ve never porned before.”

“Michelle doesn’t let me,” Barry admitted. “She says that if I want a big black cock, I can just suck hers.”

“I don’t know why you married that hideous shemale.”

“I didn’t have a choice. She said she was pregnant and didn’t want an abortion.”

Hillary smacked him across the face, leaving a shiny smear of lube.
“What was that for?” he whined, cradling his offended cheek.

“That’s for being an idiot. How you beat me in 2008 I will never fucking understand.”

“People were tired of the Bush and Clinton families forging political dynasties,” Barry said automatically.

“Did you get that off of the back of a cereal box?” she sneered.

“What do you mean?” Barry asked.

Hillary raised her hand to slap him again, but the door burst open before she could strike. A dozen Secret Service agents flooded into the cabin, weapons drawn.

“The perimeter has been breached!” the lead agent screamed, hurtling himself at the two of them. He landed on Hillary with a wet thud, smashing her pendulous breasts beneath him. He screamed “Protect the President’s erection!” A burly agent dropped his submachine gun and began jacking Barry off with a furious determination. The other agents fired their weapons out of the open cabin door until their magazines were empty.

Deafened by the fusillade, Barry yelled “What is the threat?”

“Raccoon, sir! Looked rabid. Or maybe racist,” the lead agent reported, yelling into Hillary’s breasts.

“Get off me, you idiot!” she said, pushing him away. The agents filed quickly out of the cabin.

“Sir, please resume illicit sexual relations!” the lead agent announced as he did his best to shut the battered cabin door behind him.

“Aren’t they just the best?” Barry asked no one. Hillary slapped him again.

Friday, June 5, 2015

I'm just a faded Southern belle without a dime...

"Ah want to drone you, fat boy," Lindsay drawled. He gently plucked the encrusted hairs ringing Chris' butthole until it blossomed like a flower.

"There it is," he whispered, forgetting his carefully cultivated accent. "You don't know how long I've wanted this, ever since I saw you hugging that skinny niggrah on TV."

"Abuse my freedom," Chris grunted. Peaches and crust dripped from his face.

"Get yore face down in that pie, piggy," Lindsay told him. "You don't come up for air, only for my cock."

Lindsay twirled his flaccid penis around, hoping it would awaken. He switched hands and took hold of Chris' bloated scrotum with his left. He ground the testicles together until Chris let out a burbling screech into the peach pie.

"Get hard, damn you," he said to his penis.

"I want you in me," Chris whined. He snuffled in crust and choked on it, coughing and shaking his ponderous body.

"Shut the fuck up. I got a Hellfire for you. I am gonna fuck you like a Muslim wedding, you fat fuck!" Lindsay screamed. He tried to stuff his tiny, limp member into Chris' gaping asshole.

"You like that, fat boy? You like that?" he screamed.

"Is it in yet?" Chris asked, finally daring to look back.

Lindsay screamed again, high-pitched and full of feminine rage. He pushed Chris over and angrily started trying to feed the remnants of the pie to Chris' pleading anus.

Sunday, February 15, 2015

Melin-duh!

"Your skin is so dark on mine," Melinda whispered to Barry.

"You're not the first old white woman I have been with, but you are the whitest, girl," Barry cooed, his face buried in the brittle nest of her hair. "Your eyes are like a sled dog. I want to fuck you running on the tundra."

"Oh, Mr. President. You are so articulate," she whispered.

"Better fucking know it, bitch." Barry pull away from her and spit in his hand. "I'm gonna get your old pussy wet, and I'm gonna fuck it 'til it tears." He began to massage the white mess between her pallid thighs.

"I want your cock inside me, Mr. President!"

"Yeah, you keep calling me that. I'm gonna fuck you good girl. Hold on, though." Barry reached over to his bedside table and pulled out a little box. He deftly rolled a joint while Melinda watched in horror.

"Mr. President! You smoke the demon weed?!?" "Yeah, baby. Everybody does it. You wanna hit?" 

"No, sir! I'm shocked that you would even ask. I've overseen so many marijuana conviction under Eric."

"It ain't a crime if the President tokes it, girl. If you're not going to have any, why don't you start sucking my big old Presidential dick?"

Melinda watched him spark up the j and take a long hit before she bent to his crooked penis. Barry let the joint dangle from his lips as he used both hands to force her head down on his roach leg.

 Over her gagging Barry told her, "Now this is America, Amanda."

"Muhlinduh," she said around his bent member.

"Shut up, bitch."

Thursday, January 22, 2015

Sex And The 99%

They are on a bed-bug-ridden futon in a converted loft in an abandoned paint factory in Greenpoint. The air reeks of heavy metals, soy candles, and multiple unframed college degrees that were loving letter-pressed on unbleached recycled paper. A thin wail issues from dying solar-powered iPhone dock speakers, the indie tweehards MGMT doing an ironic cover of Justin Beiber song bootlegged from an all-ages show. She touches his limp penis. He brushes against her giant pubic retro-bush. Simultaneously, they both hitch with a sob and rush off to update Twitter. This is the most successful sexual encounter either have ever experienced.

Monday, November 17, 2014

By the banks of her own lagoon...

"Nancy, I sincerely want to fuck the taste out of your mouth," Barack cooed as he finished sewing her labia minora together.

"Isn't that a line from a Prince song?" Kathleen asked. She was dancing on a raised platform, trying to get her pendulous breasts to swing in opposite directions.

"Shut up, bitch. You fucked up my exchange roll out. I read all about in the newspaper."

He leaned forward to whisper in Nancy's ear. "I've made you tight again, you lisping twat. Stitched you up like a wrinkled football. You like that, bitch?" He jerked on the dangling ends of the laces and Nancy groaned from inside the mouthless mask. Barry pinched the nose holes shut just long enough for her to began thrashing.

"I'm gonna fuck you two old white bitches just like Michelle fucks me," he screamed. He slapped his semi-erect penis. "Wake up, motherfucker. Wake up."

"Barry, I'm so wet for you, baby!" Kathleen yelled. She jammed two fingers into herself and then tasted them. "I'm so ready!"

"Get hard!" Barry screamed at his penis.

Hands shot up all over the press room, and Barry glared at them.

"I'm not taking any fucking questions!"

Friday, November 14, 2014

Transparency

"If thish even gets out, I'll have toh deny I knowsh you, dear Jonathan," Nancy whispered, the rot at the core of her being foaming out of her mouth in rancid waves.

"It's fine, Nancy. I don't care about me, you and the bill are all that matters," Jonathan murmured in the grey nightmare of her crotch. He went back to licking the scab that covered her clitoral hood. It tasted like mushrooms and peppermint.

"Wesh can make thesh CBO play ball, but I'm worried about the publish-ick," she said. She shuddered under the attention of his bullshit-coated tongue, the crispy folds of her withered labia rasping together like insect wings.

Jonathan screwed a finger into her slack anus and then another. "We make the whole thing completely opaque. No one will be able to figure out what what is even the damn bill." He paused to spit in her change purse. "The idiots in the flyover states won't know what hit them."

"Ah, Jonathan. Dosh it! Dosh it, now!" she slurred, covering the top of his head in ancient spittle.

He jerked his fingers from her ass, drew back to make a fist and then hit her in the crotch as hard as he could. She screamed and howled.

"Again!"

The wet, dull thuds of Nancy getting what she demanded echoed through the legislative chamber.

Wednesday, August 13, 2014

The Key To A Happy Marriage Is Trust

“Take it! Take it all in!” Michelle said as she thrust her enormous penis into Barry’s mouth. She groaned when she felt the ribbed confines of his trachea scrape along her engorged glans. Massive hands worked the plug into his anus and roughly ran it a large wallowing circle.

“Suck my nuts, you little faggot,” Michelle grunted. Her dick popped out of his mouth like a champagne cork. “The seam, work the seam!” she growled. She balled up a fist and punched the anal plug as hard she could. Barry screamed until he began coughing and hot phlegm splattered her bulbous scrotum.

“Roll over, cunt,” she told him. She was sick of his slack ballsack and useless worm of a penis in her face. She wanted to pinch it off like deadhead a flower. She wanted to feed it to the dog in front of those two little mewling shits they hired to play their daughters. She saw the tall one hugging Barry in the residence the other day. Barry didn’t get hugs unless it was Michelle crushing him between her rock hard implants.

She straddled his neck, crushing his tiny head between her muscular thighs. She began to beat him, wielding her fuckball bat like a club, the dull slapping of it echoing through the Camp David fallout shelter.

“Open your mouth!” she screamed. She reached back to twist his remaining testicle and then yank it forward. When Barry cried out she rammed her thick meat into his bloodied mouth and choked off his sobbing.

Michelle glared down at him. “I wish I could fuck all the teeth out of your head. Why did you get to be president and not me?” She thrust at the end of the question so forcefully that Berry’s eyes bugged out of his head. His arms began to flail.

“I’ll tell you why. America isn’t ready for a strong woman in the White House. They fear our power.” She ran her blunt fingers through her thick patch of chest hair. “I’m just too beautiful and powerful to rule them like I should.” Tears ran down Barry’s face as he tried to nod in agreement.

Michelle imagined herself taking the Oath of Office on top a mountain of dead bodies, burnt and twisted from her rage. She thrust deeper and deeper, Barry struggling under her now, unable to breathe.

When she came it burrowed into him like a white-hot drill bit.

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?