Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Friday, December 10, 2010
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Good job getting us started, JW.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
“I’m still a virgin, Sarah,” Christine gasped. “I’m not married yet.”
“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.
Monday, October 4, 2010
I'll gape and gag you ass-to-mouth,
Aurelis the Cock-Gobbler and Power Bottom Furius,
Because you think that if my poetry
is soft, that means I am soft.
While it is good for the poet to be civilized
himself, the poetry can be savage.
But well-written lyrics,
if they are thought-out and sexy,
Can excite the mind of men,
And I don't mean just twinks, but even in hairy old bears,
who can't get it hard any longer.
Because you two have read my "Thousand Kisses,"
you think I'm some prissy pussy?
I'll gape and gag you ass-to-mouth.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
"I can't believe that whore stole my Stanza!"
"I can't believe that whore made it through the lake of acid!"
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
They eventually changed Joe's look, but not his message of terror.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Friday, July 30, 2010
So a chilling theory has been posited: There is more than one Krugman! Public records have been thoroughly searched and there is no evidence of multiple births from the medical files of the broke-tooth whore that bore him. And, of course, there has been rampant speculation on who or what Krugman's father(s) were, but none have ever been conclusively identified.
This suggests a monstrous possibility... Krugman is some form of contagious disease. Close contact with a Krugman--a bite or shared by-line perhaps--turns you into a Krugman, halving your IQ and stimulating the worship of the gibbering idiot-god Keynes.
-If you see a Krugman near you, flee the area immediately. If confronted by a Krugman, kill it with fire if you can. Head shots do nothing, there is nothing there to damage.
-If a Krugman bites you, disinfect the wound immediately and seek medical attention.
-Keep a close eye on on your companions. If you see signs of one of them becoming a Krugman, remember that they no longer are the person you knew--the person you knew is dead. Kill them at once and burn the body and all clothes and bed-linens.
Remain vigilant my friends and we may survive the greatest threat the human race has ever seen.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
The room slowly resolved. She realized she was in a surgical theater. She was naked. Windows lined the round room along the ceiling. She could see faces, hazy and indistinct, yet somehow familiar. Scraps of a well-worn nightmare, perhaps. And then he stepped into view. Naked except for surgical gloves, he loomed over her before turned to address the audience.
"Please don't put your faith in market forces. It's a popular idea: that Adam Smith's invisible hand would do a better job of designing care than leaders with plans can." The audience brayed and clapped.
She blinked in confusion and tried to scream. Only a hoarse cry came out. “I’ve paralyzed your vocal cords, dear,” turning to look at her, “so please be quiet and let your betters talk.” His deranged eyes worked at cross-purposes to stare at her before he turned away.
"And it's important also to make health a human right because the main health determinants are not health care but sanitation, nutrition, housing, social justice, employment, and the like." He crossed to the foot of the gurney she was strapped to. He selected a scalpel from the cart nearby and deftly cut a deep circle at the base of her right big toe. Her cry came out as only a gurgle.
“If we can't standardize appropriate parts of our processes to absolute reliability, we cannot approach perfection." He grunted to work latexed fingernails under the skin of her toe. With a sigh of pleasure he de-gloved the skin of her toe and tossed it on her belly.
"Young doctors and nurses should emerge from training understanding the values of standardization and the risks of too great an emphasis on individual autonomy." He flourished with the scalpel as he spoke. When he turned, she saw that he had a full-on erection.
He ran the scalpel along her legs as he grew quiet, cutting the faintest of lines into her skin. She looked away, desperate to dissociate herself from the pain. The hooting faces behind the glass were finally clear as they pressed ever closer and jostled for a better view. The tightly drawn face on one, perpetually surprised at her own pustulence; the sagging bitch-tits and rape whistle of another; and, finally, the pinched face of Vinegar Joe attempting to leer and distain simultaneously.
He picked up her toe skin and toyed with it. “"Health care is a common good—,” he droned, “single payer, speaking and buying for the common good." She watched, gagging, as he tugged her toe skin down over the turgid tip of his penis.
With a series of quick slashes, he cut a deep slit into her side, between her ribs and hip. Still in shock from that pain, she could barely react when he stabbed his toe-skinned penis into the wound.
Thrusting with every word, he jabbed frantically into her. "The unaided human mind,” he laughed out as she began to weep, “and the acts of the individual,” he snarled, “cannot assure excellence.” Blood smeared them both. “Health care is a system,” he growled and then spat into her tear-filled eyes, “and its performance is… A. Systemic . Property!" He finished and turned to the windows, gore and semen dripping from his dwindling member. He bowed to the hooting and gibbering legislature.
The confirmation process was complete.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Monday, May 24, 2010
Elena walked into the shadowed rotunda and took her place in the exact center. Deeply recessed lights around the perimeter made tight circles on the granite floor of painfully bright light. From in-between the lights stepped nine robed figures. At the gesture of the tallest, a light stabbed down from the ceiling, pinning Elena. She could see The Justices now, grim and filled with hate.
“Who now comes before us?” boomed Roberts, his voice clashing with its own echoes in the airy confines. “Kagen,” the others intoned, “sent to Us by The One.” Elena stood up as straight as possible at the mention of The One, the effort making her wattle quiver queasily.
“Who speaks for this woman?” asked Roberts, with all the hollowness of meaningless ritual. “No one must,” the rest answered, “For she was sent to Us by The One.”
Roberts walked forward and after a beat the others followed. He pulled from his robe a crumbled sheet of thick paper. He tilted it so that she could read it in the light. Elena could make out the familiar words: “We the People…” The rest was obscured by nine fat lines of dried shit.
“On your knees,” Roberts said.
Elena dropped down, accustomed to following orders without thought. Looming over her, face shadowed once more, Roberts said “Hold out your hands.” Scalia let out a hysterical giggle and Roberts turned and backhanded him to the floor. Scalia’s smug grin was filled with blood when he finally stood. Ruth stooped down to run a finger through the blood when Roberts turned back, and then began to massage it into her crotch under her robe. Elena caught a glimpse of iron gray pubic hair and gagged.
Roberts crumbled the paper into a rough ball in Elena’s hands. “What We do today, We do for Expediency’s Sake,” Roberts continued. “Expediency’s Sake,” the others replied. Roberts produced a match and struck it quickly on his front teeth. The paper in her hands caught quickly.
“Wha-What are you doing?”
“SILENCE!” Roberts thundered. “WE DO WHAT MUST BE DONE!”
Elena looked away from the flames getting closer to her hands. The Nine were all holding their palms out toward her, each twisted and furrowed by scars. Elena knew what was expected.
The fire was over soon, raising a mass of blisters. Elena rocked back and forth slightly as she waited for it to be over, the acrid stench of burning shit filling the rotunda. She waited until the last ash went out, hanging her head in pain. A warm splash hit her hands. Roberts was pissing into them--spraying really--through a small but tight erection.
“Stand,” Robert’s said, almost gently, “and be welcome.”
The Nine all pulled large, crude knives from the sleeves of their robes. Stevens tottered over and handed his to Elena. “Do it quickly, child,” he rasped, “and with no mercy.”
Roberts stabbed him first, in the right kidney, but only lightly. Ritual demanded he survive for eight more. The rest fell upon him as Elena watched in horror. Bleeding, gasping on the floor Steven reached out for her. Knowing her place, she cut through the hanging folds of his neck as efficiently as the dull, pitted knife would allow. Stevens died, a constant stream of blood bubbling from his ripped open throat. They wiped their knives clean on his tattered robe and stored them. Elena tried to emulate them, but the sleeve sheath was unfamiliar and the knife clattered to the ground.
“Leave it,” Roberts commanded, “it is time you know Our final secret.”
The eight of them stepped back and dropped their robes as one. Elena thought first to look away, but then stared in terrible fascination. All eight of them had penises.
Ruth and Sonia giggled as she looked as closely as she could. A distended clitoris. Just a distended clitoris.
Roberts lifted his penis. “Behold,” he said. His scrotum had been split along the seam and the edges hung like veined labia around the testicular void. Elena’s bile rose at the mutilation.
“All Supreme Court Justices are hermaphrodites. They have always been and will always be,” Roberts said. “And will always be,” the rest responded.
“But… I’m not…” Elena protested.
Roberts let out a grotesque chuckle.
“You will be.”
Monday, May 10, 2010
One day the camp took us to a water park. Murray was running around like a moron, flabby and white and still reeking of piss even after all day in heavily chlorinated water. They were herding us from area to area, and finally we got to the water slide, the real tall and fast one. Murray was all mock-brave insisting that he got to go first, but he got shuffled to the back of the line like always. At the top, the water park guards told you--with numbing repetition--to keep your ankles crossed as you went down. Not why, mind you, but to just do it or else. I went down and was waiting at the bottom when it was Murray's turn. He let out a retard whoop and went down the slide, his legs wide apart, the edges of his feet scraping the sides of the slide.
You keep you feet crossed so that you don't force a whole lot of water up your ass on the way down. Murray's landing in the splash pool was followed by a spreading brown stain in the pool and on the ass of his swim trunks. No one could imagine that one fat kid could really have that much shit in him. Murray started crying and wouldn't come out of the pool. The counselors all had a furious debate amongst themselves over who was going to go down in the shit-tainted water to get him out. It was the first time I laughed so hard I got really close to throwing up.
They finally coaxed Murray out of the splash pool, his shit-filled shorts riding low on his blubbery hips. He cried all the way into the locker room, a disgusted camp counselor dragging him by his ham-hock arm and doing nothing to comfort him.
They shut down the water slide for the rest of the day.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Sarah slipped her glasses from her face and twisted her mouth into a grotesque parody of a wry smile. She struggled out of her blouse, slowed down by armloads of cheap jewelry and fumbled buttons. She couldn’t take her eyes off of Ron’s erection. It was Texas-sized, hopefully a tight fight for a vagina pried wide by a series of children. She clawed at her pantyhose to free her throbbing sex for him. She was wetter than she had been in a decade, the dry lack of response for Todd’s clumsy pawing and squeezing a thing of the past. Her dampness filled the small, dark office. Ron breathed it in greedily and slapped his turgidity sharply, making his penis bob expectedly.
Sarah unhooked her bra and her heavy breasts swung free. Her areoles were brown and baby-gnawed, slowly contracting to form deeply wrinkled, but hard nipples. Ron grunted. Sarah fell to her knees in front of him and took him roughly into her mouth. His penis was meaty and saliva dripped from her lower lip in long ropes as she forced him deeper and deeper, choking herself. She ringed the base of the shaft with strong fingers and dug her thumb into the base of its underside. Ron groaned when he could feel the convulsions of her throat as she gagged on him.
Sarah came up for air, tears running down her face, dragging long black trails of mascara down her chin and neck. Ron leaned in for a rough kiss, his tongue jamming in and out of her mouth. Pulling back, he spit in her mouth.
She broke away and Ron motioned her up and over to a chair. Sarah got on her knees and spread herself wide for him, a whispered fart escaping as she did. Her genitals gaped like a ragged wound.
Ron punched her right in the cunt and got to work.
A nickclegg is a cross-eyed well monster from Irish folklore. Since it possesses no genitals or brains it really only presented danger to especially stupid children who play in wells. Also the inspiration for the nursery rhyme:
Fall down the playing well
and he'll dry-hump your leg
No matter how very much you beg
or kick or scream or rebel,
There's no escaping foul Nickclegg
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Monday, March 29, 2010
Awesome cover. I definitely want to pick this one up. Problem is, in none of the stories do you see a werewolf driving a wooden stake into a chick vampire. In fact, the only werewolf story in the book doesn't even have a vampire in it, much less one killing the other. Boo.
And I'm pretty sure he's not hitting the heart, maybe try a few inches your way, big guy.
Also, the second story is Ghostly Gardner? Could that be less scary? Beware my haunted eggplant! Blah.
But the book does redeem itself somewhat for my whopping 60 cents.
One Very Wide Coffin presents the charming tale of Jack and Bertha Spratt. Jack hates Bertha because she has grown grossly fat during their marriage. The artist ain’t screwing around either.
She looks like she wears a wristwatch on her ringfinger. She can even get one wheezing sentence out unless she's eating. Jack leaves Big Bertha and decides to hide in his remote cabin until she gives him a divorce.
"Fattie, Fat Face?" Harsh. Bertha refuses to grant him a divorce and tells him she is coming to the cabin. Jack begins to fixate on murdering her.
Now that is a line for the ages: Too bad it ain’t against the law for your wife to be fat, it ought to be! There is about six women’s studies theses wrapped up in that little line. Jack rigs up his shotgun so that it will kill Bertha when she opens the door, but she doesn’t show up. Instead, while hanging around the train station he meets a svelte blond. This is of course Bertha, because weight-loss, a dye job and talking funny would fool me into not recognizing my wife of many years. She then calls him up and reveals herself.
Although you must be pretty starved for female attention to call this beautiful.
She looks like she’s getting ready to drain his bone marrow so she can reinforce her exoskeleton.
After a car accident and a bump on the head he forgets about the death trap and leads them to the cabin for a “second honeymoon.” They enter and are killed by a blast of powerful air.
A blast so powerful in fact, he gets blown into the previous panel. Which means this shotgun sends people back in time! Shouldn't his hand be able to warn the rest of his body that the gun trap is still armed? Maybe that would be a temporal paradox...
So these kinds of horror comics are always little morality plays, but what’s the moral of the story? I can see why the husband got killed (hint: he's a dick), but why did the wife die? Is it because she was vain now that she’s thin? That she’d take an ass like him back? That she fooled her husband into flirting with her? And, would the wife really want to get back with him? Wouldn’t she just show up all thin and dead-eyed skull-face and tell him to piss up a rope?
And think about the rest of the story… your wife is a gigantic food-crazed maniac… the best way to get her to lose weight is go hide in your hunting cabin and scream obscenities in the phone when she calls? OK, I guess. Wait till Jenny Craig finds out about this.