Is STEVE SMITH a robot? Disturbing new evidence emerges...

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.

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

A Quick Programming Note

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

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

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.

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.

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

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

The trees say I'm their favorite

snapshots make a girl look cheap

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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