Australopithecus krugfarensis

Warty is vindicated in his beliefs.

"I am nude as a chicken neck, does nobody love me?"

Olympia slid her hands between the loose folds of Barbara’s flimsy robe. It fell aside and the sodden weight of Barbara’s breasts fell in her hands. The wrinkles in the flesh raced toward her ragged nipples. Olympia felt a shiver center on her clitoris. Already it had nosed its way past the dangling folds of her labia and stood out from her sparse, iron-gray pubic hair. Olympia began to palpate Barbara’s ponderous breasts in lazy circles.

“We have to take care of ourselves,” Barbara whispered hoarsely, “being a woman is a pre-existing condition.” Olympia shuddered anew when Barbara pulled the heavy speculum from where it was warming in a pan of water. She felt wet for the first time in decades.

“Your mouth, Barbara. Your mouth looks like the sweetest asshole I’ll ever know.”

Iron Penis

His name is Iron Penis ‘cause he fucks people up like a giant iron penis. The camera is so he can film his enemies before, during, and after really fucking them up. And then he sells the tapes, to make money to fund training and shit. And he wants to build a PenisMobile. He got his powers by bareback fucking a radioactive hooker.

And no, he’s not gay. It was a female hooker.

Hero Machine

The Beard Curse

"May thy beard be consumed by dandruff and scabs. May thy beard crackle and sway in your slightest rancid breath. May thy beard become infested with the foul worms of the Earth, the stinging insects of the sky, and all that which creepth in the oceans unlit depths. May thy beard blacken and turn to ash with your every prevarication. May thy beard never know the sweet pressure of a woman's thighs or the sweeter nurselings of a babe in arms. May thy beard whither for all eternity.

Let your wizened and ill-haired face forever be a mark of calumny upon thee."

If you see this creature, don't not approach!

A blank for your convenience.

"she spread her legs so wide, I could see her liver"

Xeones rolled off the bed and onto the hotel room floor. All his teeth felt loose and his bulbospongiosus muscle spasmed against a full bladder. The room smelled like shit and Tang and rancid spunk.

“Where am I,” he thought. “Where are my clothes,” he thought. “Why not go ahead and vomit just to get it over with,” he thought. He rolled off of his left arm, trapped under him when he instinctively cupped his genitals to protect against the fall. They were sticky and his testicle felt drained.

A guttural, bubbling queef sounded from the bed as its occupant rolled over. Xeones scrambled to the bathroom to vomit in the toilet. With every shuttering heave, more came back to him. The limo ride. The party. The key tucked into his tuxedo’s cummerbund. Shot after shot of bourbon, sickly sweet and fiery. The key in his hand. Oh, God. Oh, God.

He fell back from the toilet, cracking his head on the lip of the sink. He had to get out. Maybe she was still asleep. He felt the warm tickle of blood worming down his scalp. He crawled past the acid reek of the toilet, afraid to flush it. The light sneaking around the closed curtains was just enough to make out his clothes. On all fours, his anus puckering in the hotel’s freezing air conditioning, he found pants and shirt. Enough to make his escape.

As he reached for the door, she mumbled something. He froze, still naked and holding his clothes. She stirred on the bed. “I didn’t know,” she said. Her small, yet sagging breasts lolled as she rolled over. “I didn’t know it could be like that,” she said, scratching absently at a dark patch of pubic hair populating up to her belly button.

“Uh, yeah, baby,” he said. “I’m going to go get some ice.”

She belched as she reached for her think-rimmed glasses. “Come back to bed. Teach me more.”

“Sure, uh, Rachel. I’ll be right back.”

The Legend of Weresquatch

It's an old word among my peoples. I sat at my grandfather's knee and heard tales of the fearsome weresquatch. How it would come in the dark, when the moon was full. It would find the huts of the women ripe for child and carry them away into the night. They would return days later, reeking of its musk. Soon they would grow heavy with child. A monster child. It would claw its way from their stomachs, making a noise like glass shattering on slate. The mothers never survived. And the child always was gone whenever someone gathered the courage to go and look for it. A blood trail was all that was left, disappearing into the darkest part of the forest. A son that finds its own father by some bestial instinct. Grandfather said that they had not come in many years, but he still bars the shutters on the full moon. And waits.

The Ayn Rand Diet: The Only Logical Path to Weightloss

Oslo On My Mind

As Paul rolled over to embrace Barry, their Nobel Prizes clanked together. "Prizes are mine," Paul murmured. He hiccuped and burped, the bleach reek of semen roiled forth. Reaching past Barry, Paul could feel the cold buttocks of Ezra. He dully recalled that he and Barry had fucked him to death at some point last night. He smiled at the memory and playfully slapped Ezra. Gases from his bloated corpse filled the room with putrefaction. Barry grinned in his sleep.

Paul grunted and strained himself out of bed. He kicked aside cutlery and broken china that had spilled off the overturn room service cart. A whimper from the the corner. A woman huddled in the fetal position, sobbing, a line of bruises marching along her ribs, barely visible in the gloom of the hotel room. Flashes of the previous night came back to him through the fog of cocaine and Presidential ballgargling. She was the whore the prize committee had sent up. The three of them had stripped her and Paul and Barry had held her over the service cart, trying to make Ezra fuck her. He could never get hard for a woman. They had beaten the whore, stuffed her cunt with geitost, and worked on Ezra instead. He had choked on vomit halfway through.

Paul washed his balls in the bathroom sink and squatted on the toilet. He was so full of shit is was almost half an hour until he realized there was no toilet paper, not even the cardboard and fish scale kind Europeans preferred. He slipped the Nobel Prize from around his neck and scraped his anus clean. He dropped it in the sink; the whore could lick it clean later.

Desert Passions

Nancy ran her veiny hands over the chocolate expanse of Art's chest. They rasped across his nipples. Art felt himself harden. Nancy grabbed his erection suddenly, the warm and sour smell of Ensure and vodka on her breath. Art was a bar of iron in her hand, still hot from the foundry forge.


She dug her fingernails between his scrotum and penis, seeking the spermatic cords. Art groaned and groped blindly for her pendulous breasts. Nancy began masturbating furiously with her other hand, the rings and studs her labia clanking dully.

A spotlight swept over them both as the helicopter landed in the distance.

Lingering Questions

The cigar never made much sense to me. Wouldn't it be hard to light? Do you dry it out for a while? Are you just dipping the tapered end? What about those cheesy clots? Flick off or smear? What sort of smell comes off burning dried vaginal mucus? How much nicotine can you absorb through the labia and vaginal walls? Did she get a buzz? When do you smoke it? Right then? Later? "Excuse me while I puff on my scallop and Taleggio cigar."

It's The Little Things

Sure, it took a little getting used to, but now I can't manage going even one day without my morning blood bukkake.

Psycho

All I really watch is the shower scene over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over again.

And then I watch it again.

Xeones' Word, Made Flesh

Ezra Explains It All, pt. 1

A Sonnet

Whither the zombie health care plan,
Creeping, crawling, shambling, sliding
And forcing our retreat into hiding?
Let us make war while we can.
So much change in such a short time span.
Why must we be racing,
To the disaster we are facing?
No one hears the voice of one man.
There are the grasping dead,
Reaching for our wallets
And braying for our compassion.
Do not be mastered by your dread
And be careful of your bullets...
For theft will always be in fashion.

On Rand

Meanwhile, Back At The KrugCave...

Paul rubbed more oil into his matted pelt of chest hair and crumbs. The sun was rising behind the Washington Monument and the lounger groaned and creaked as he struggled to reach his tofu and rum smoothie. His other hand scratched absently at the angry red strips of assflesh that squeezed themselves out between the lounger's elastic bands. The Nobel Prize that he normally wore around his neck was tucked in the crevasse formed by his left moob.

He drained his glass and roared "Servants! I demand service!" Ezra and Matt bounded from their cubbyholes like retarded hounds. "Herr Doktor," Matt slurred past the zippered mouth of a gimp mask, "vhat do you deshire?" Ezra's high-pitched giggle ended with a hiccup and a fart.

"What prizes have I won today, Matt. I barely tan through all this hair and I need a pick-me-up." Paul flicked away a fly feeding on the insensate flesh around his nipple. It fell to the ground at Ezra's feet, dead.

Matt stammered. "Noshing, Herr Doktor. Not shince ze Nobel."

"Nothing? NOTHING? I'M A GODDAMN GENIUS!" Cats scurried from where they lay in the sun. Paul winged the empty glass off of Matt's exposed genitals. Ezra automatically dropped to his hands and knees, exposing the deep anal fissures that radiated out onto his pale and pimply buttocks. The stench was unbearable. He would die soon of Fournier gangrene, but there were a hundred more like him coming out of Sarah Lawrence College every year.

Paul struggled to stand. Corporashuns had used advertising and unbearably hyperpalatable food to balloon his weight. He shoved the moaning Matt to the ground and kicked him over onto his back. "Oh, I'll get a PRIZE! PRIZES ARE MINE!"

Paul began pissing into Matt's mouth. Matt choked and gagged and swallowed and smiled.

The Enemy of My Enemy Is Their Friend

The Typical Libertarian Template

For Radley

UN ZE POPULAR GIRLZ!

Nancy shrugged out of her blouse and unfastened the high-tension wires supporting her bra. Her breasts fell out, bouncing against her stomach with two soft plops. She gathered them up, withered and wrinkled like day-old crepes, and pinched the nipples viciously to stimulate blood flow. They were cold in her menopausal hands as she offered them to Dianne.

"Do youh want thu protesh?" Nancy slurred provocatively. Her mouth, as always, was filled with saliva. "No," Dianne said, "I want to fuck on the Astro-Turf."

Nancy stepped out of her support underwear. From the bed, Dianne could see that Nancy had shaved her enormous thatch of gray pubic hair into a swastika. Dianne let out a moan of pleasure as she shat out the riding crop she had been masturbating with.

From the closet, frustrated by the obstructed view, Rachel ground the lock of Keith's hair into her vulva so hard that the cords in her gigantic neck stood out like bridge cables.

On The Run, Hunted, Weary

Xeones’ shadow loomed on the sides of the rain-slicked alley as Warty dodged between abandoned shopping carts and split-open garbage bags. Sweat trickled down between Warty’s shoulder blades despite the cool night air. His breathing was ragged. He coughed and Xeones’ shadow shifted.

“W-W-W-Warty,” Xeones voice echoed in the night-empty city streets, “I’m coming for youuuuuuu.” The Ripper gleamed in his hand. He licked the teeth of the blade, cutting a shallow groove into his tongue. He let the blood fill his mouth as he chased the fleeing figure.

Warty ducked behind a dumpster to catch his breath. The frightened rabbit of his heart beat madly in his chest. The alley smelled of vomit and gardenias; he clapped a hand over his mouth to keep from retching. As he rocked back and forth, gagging and beginning to cry, a tremendous fart crept out--slow at first, then gathering speed and volume and wetness.

What felt like thick rain sprayed down on Warty. Xeones had crept onto the dumpster under cover of fart and had spit the blood out so he could snarl. “The eagle,” Xeones rasped, “I shall have your lungs out and fuck your heart to mush.”

Posters

The Invisible Pimp Hand

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They Wouldn't Understand Their Love...

Jack gently parted the hairs around his partner’s anus. The smeared headlights of the cars passing them on the highway lit up the tender folds of Bill’s balloon knot. Jack felt sorry for those drivers. They could never know, never understand what he felt for Bill or what they had been through to get them to this place. Those passing motorists could not understand the unbearable sexual tension that builds when you taser a smartmouth in the crotch or rattle the teeth of an insolent teen or shoot some uppity professor for looking you in the eye. They could never understand the furtive glances that passed between them as they got their story straight or the soft brush of Bill’s knuckles against his hand as they faked incident reports together.

Jack grunted from his revelry as Bill twisted the saliva-lubed nightstick into his anus. He tensed against it, forcing Bill to twist harder, push harder. Jack began to lap eagerly at Bill’s man-cunt. As he briefly wormed his tongue inward he tasted ashes and some exotic spice he could not place. Jack slid his tongue downward, lightly flicking along the seam of Bill’s scrotum. Bill engulfed him with his mouth; Jack’s penis throbbed, seemingly begging to ejaculate in the back of Bill’s hot throat. Jack’s index finger slipped into Bill’s rectum. Probing as far as he could, he could feel a gnarled nugget of feces. Jack pressed against it urgently as Bill suckled him harder and harder.

They rocked in and out of each other, in time to the frantic beeping of the radar gun.

He could have been The Belle of the Ponderosa, but that was not the fat man's plan

Joe slid the train bathroom door lock to "Occupied." His shoulders slumped with relief. The poor people on the train always wanted to shake his hand or slap his back in gratitude for his support of public transit. He shuddered at the memory of their proletariat caress.

He washed his hands in the tiny metal sink. The water smelled like machine oil and pennies. He splashed water on his face and groped for a paper towel, but the dispenser wasn't there. He stared at the hand dryer bolted in its place. The start button was covered with a large "Go Green!" sticker. It whirred to life briefly but ignored his repeatedly jabs. With a sigh, he unfastened the snaps holding down his toupee and then wiped his face with it. He stuffed it into the small trash slot. There were three fresh ones still in factory plastic in his briefcase.

He rubbed his tumescence through his slacks. It was already hard, trained to the sights and smells of an Amtrak bathroom. Joe braced a foot on either side of the tiny room and slipped his penis free. He started with a light Western grip, occasionally stopping to pinch his glans so he could feel it refill with blood. With his left hand he cradled his scrotum, pulling the gray hairs at first, and them cupping tightly, the side of his thumb digging into the base of his penis.

Joe switched to an a full-fisted Cleveland grip, sliding the flesh his penis up and down, straining at the circumcision scar under his glans on the down stroke. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to fantasize. The usual image of Sarah at the debate would not come to him, only brief flashes of her glasses and his post-debate hug and the half-grind he managed.

Random images flickered: distorted memories of watching from the bedroom closet as his wife was anally violated by an intern, summer camp and smell of Helen Sartoski's crotch as he lapped at it through her shorts, a brief image of a shirtless Barack that he squeezed away.

Joe opened his eyes. The train swayed and bucked beneath him. It was slowing now, almost to its destination. He cast about for a visual aid as he pumped harder and harder. His vision strayed to the trash slot. A lock of hair from his discarded toupee hung from the slot like a peek of pubic hair during the first week of bikini season.

He ejaculated directly into the toilet.

Deep within the bowels of the Rayburn building...

Nancy kicked a lever under the cold metal table Dick was strapped to. He felt the blood rush into his head as his feet pivoted into the air. Nancy straddled his face, her genital piercings cracking a tooth as she lost her balance. She began tracing his open heart surgery scars with her tongue, paying attentions to every one.

She bit down hard on the disc of the pacemaker she could feel under the skin of his chest. Dick gasped and coughed, fighting for air under the clanking rings and studs in her vulva.

She hadn't washed in days, like she promised. She worked her way down him, sliding her breasts toward his mouth. She began biting harder, drawing blood from his clavicle. She sucked briefly and then spat the blood onto his wobbly neck.

Nancy was squatting over him now, staring intently into his rheumy eyes. Quick as a striking snake, she bit gobbet of flesh from his right cheek, shaking like a rat terrier to free it. She stood and took it out of her mouth. She ringed her insensate nipples with blood and threw the ragged chunk of Dick away.

"Get on with it, you commie bitch!" Dick growled. Nancy stretched the plastic wrap over his mouth and nose, stood and began pissing on his face. She watched as he choked, writhing against the restraints. The sensation of drowning was perfect, encompassing. His penis got a little larger with every electronically-assisted heartbeat.

Somewhere Off The Coast Of Alaska...

Barry slid the long zipper of Sarah's jeans down, tooth by delicious tooth. Each of the teeth clicking apart sent a shiver of pleasure down the length of her gunt. "Oh, yeah! You bethca!" she exclaimed as he reached through the open zipper and tried to push aside her enormous Wal*Mart panties.

As he leaned in close, the tip of the cigarette hanging from his mouth was inches from her own mouth. Sarah breathed in the acrid smoke. "Cool," he said, the cigarette bobbed as he spoke and ash fell into her cleavage. Barry stubbed out the cigarette on the side of a salmon Sarah had caught for him and let the gentle rocking of the boat guide his fingers against her swollen clitoris.

Sarah's fingernails scrabbled for purchase against Barry's own jeans. "Button-fly, baby," he drawled, "Hold on."

Sarah began to softly whine has he pulled his hand out of her crotch to undress. He wiped his hand on her face and gave her a salty finger to nurse. Sarah stumbled backwards and landed on a pile of fishing nets.

Barry dropped his jeans to his ankles. His POTUS underwear could barely constrain his turgidity. "Hey, girl. Where's the shitter in this place?"

"It's a boat, Barry."

"Yeah it is."

The Surgeon General Will See You Now

I wonder about her position on masturbation.

Standing? Leaning against the stall? Prone? Back? Stomach? Is she a vibrator or pillow-humping kind of gal? Does she do the couch-arm slide? How many attachments does her shower head have? Does she like the realistic, veiny dildos or the smooth kind? Balls or no? Silicone or glass? Does she stimulate the G-spot? Ass play? Is she a squirter?

I'd go on, but there's no call to be gross about it.

El Amor Prohibido

Abuela locked the door behind her with a click that echoed through the attic and back into the cramped room. Sonia and Miguel stayed where they were. They longed to cuddle, to sooth each other after Abuela's accusations, but they were afraid she would double back to catch them.

"Hermana, ¿está usted bien?" Miguel's eyes moved over the huddled form of his sister. Abuela had caught them kissing again and slapped Sonia cruelly.

"Voy a estar bien, hermano." Sonia held out her arms. As she shifted into the light Manuel could see the mark that would become an enormous bruise by morning. "Ven, Manuel. Abrázame, estoy frío." Manuel crossed to bed as quietly as he could. The ancient bedsprings protested under his weight.

"Usted no comer sus pasteles de esta mañana. Usted debe mantener su fuerza hasta," Manuel murmured. "Mi estómago me duele cuando comen," she whispered as she drew him close.

Manuel could feel her breasts against him through the thin material of her shirt. Abeula had taken all her bras when they moved here. She said Sonia was too young.

To Manuel, Sonia did not feel too young.

a steel fist of regulation covered by a velvet glove of emission trading

Henry nervously twirled his mustache as he watched the steel fist being unwrapped from it's velvet hood. The fist was plunged into a bucket of warm water to gently heat it. Nancy ran a coathanger down her cast to scratch her ruined leg. The bruises ran up into her bloomers. She farted and then let out a giggle tinged with hysteria.

The masked man raised the steel fist from the water by the sturdy three foot rod it was welded to. Henry chuffed as the fist was wiped dry and held up to gleam in the feeble sunlight trickling in though the boarded up window of his Rayburn office.

The phone rang in the hallway and an intern in ass-less chaps duck-walked to answer it. The bit in his mouth slurred the words, "Congethmah Wakmah's offith." A thin of line of spittle fell on the floor. The intern dropped the phone to wipe it up and then began to massage it into his scrotum.

Henry nodded to the masked figure. "Do it," he said, "Do it as many times as it takes me to learn." The steel fist smashed upwards into his crotch hard enough to lift him off his feet.

Nancy caught the fist on the laconic backswing and left a smeared kiss on the knuckle of the thumb.

Count Warty Interrupt

"Have mercy, sirrah," Dagny begged, looking up at the shadowed face of the debauched Count Warty, "me bumhole is frightful sore and spattered." Tears tracked trails in the dirt of her urchin face.

Count Warty leaned over and spat into her open mouth. "You will do as a I say, bumwhore," he growled. His monocle fell from his one unruined eye and dangled, glittering in the flickering light from the coal gas streetlamps.

Dagny pulled up the hem of her tattered dress, exposing a dark thatch of damp pubic hair the size of a velocipede's seat. Count Warty reared back from the smell. He gestured with his cane for her to turn around, his tumescence already outlined against the fine cut of his trousers.

For jester

Barney's cleft palate folds upwards as he wheezes and gulps Rahm's hot-sagging balls into his sinuses. Nancy plays the frantic chicken while Dianne tries to tie her enormous labia around a touch lamp. Flickering on and off and dim and bright as it shakes back and forth, the lamp shows in a slow strobe Rahm struggling to break free of Barney's gagging embrace. Rahm shits a frightened little turd on Barney's neck. Barney, startled and finally erect, kicks out at a squawking Nancy who is masturbating furiously with a loofah sponge attached to a cordless drill. Her leg shatters like a cheap epiphany.

"an act so heinous that it defies one’s ability to describe it"

Homosexual behavior is a ground for divorce, an act of sexual misconduct punishable as a crime in Alabama, a crime against nature, an inherent evil, and an act so heinous that it defies one’s ability to describe it. That is enough under the law to allow a court to consider such activity harmful to a child. To declare that homosexuality is harmful is not to make new law but to reaffirm the old...

-Roy Moore



The doorknob rattled on his office door. A voice from the hall said, "Roy, you in there? I got it. Open up."

Roy locked his desk and then stood. He smoothed down his judicial robes and went to the office door. A hulking figure loomed on the other side of the frosted glass. "Is it you?" he asked. "Of course it's me," the figure said, "who the fuck you think it was?"

Roy open the door and snatched the paper sack out of Billy's hand as soon as he was through. The T-shape of the gavel dildo tumbled out of the torn sack and bounced under his desk. As Roy reaches for it his robe rides up. He is naked underneath. Billy watches Roy's anus pucker, like an eye shutting out the sight of Billy's growing erection.

When Roy stands--the lint-covered dildo in hand--Billy is already dropping his over-alls to the floor. Billy juggles his testicles while pinching the head of his penis and Roy moans. He drops his own robes to the floor and starts to lick the dildo clean.

"I gotta take shit, Roy, but don't you go weak sister on me. You give it to me but good." Billy crossed and bent over the desk. He spread his flabby white ass open for Roy and farted almost silently.

Roy inserted the gavel-dildo in his own anus and waddled toward Billy. Roy felt ready to come as soon as the tip of his glans first brushed the pimples dotting Billy's perineum. The perfume of Billy's colon almost drove Roy mad.

"Why don't we try drinking rats' milk and dogs' milk?"

You don't have to be high to fuck a one-legged crazy chick, just adventurous. What do you think? Leg on or off? Switch it up all the time? Or did she have a special fucking leg she put on for just those occasions? Maybe a silicone leg with a few back-up vaginas up and down its length. Or maybe a reinforced model to hang her up from... leg, sling, and pleasure swing all in one. You think he wished it was the other leg that was gone, or maybe both so she could use him as a pogo stick?

Or maybe he didn't need the fake leg at all. Maybe she had a fuckhole drilled out in the stump for him. Paul could go down on it for hours while she farted up a storm as only a celebrity vegan can. Maybe the marriage wasn't a mistake at all, maybe he'd go through the whole divorce again just to stick his cock in that sweet, sweet legcunt and fuck the bone marrow out of her one more time.