SugarFree

Let the world know...

2012-02-06T15:57:00.000-05:00

"The Whole World Will Know My Name!"

2012-01-12T12:59:00.003-05:00

“You know I want to,” Harold said, turning away, “but it feels wrong.”

Ricky, reclining nude, leaned forward and gently caught Harold’s earlobe in his teeth and then began to suckle it. Harold closed his eyes and groaned. Ricky’s hand ground into Harold’s half-hard penis through the thick denim of his jeans. He let go of Harold’s earlobe and whispered into his ear, “Harold, oh Harold. We can do whatever we want. We are adults. We can make decisions for ourselves.” His breath was hot in Harold’s ear, tongue moist as it darted in and out, a promise.

“Can’t we just do it with our hands?” Harold pleaded. He was weakening, his protest becoming feeble as his penis grew harder. Ricky undid the button of Harold’s jeans and slipped his hand inside, unzipping with his thumb as he went. The dorm room was dark, a chair pushed up under the door knob. Harold’s roommate was gone for the weekend, but it was stupid to take chances.

“I can’t put a baby in you, Harold. Stop being such a girl. It’s 1977 and we can do what we want.” Ricky stroked Harold’s erection quickly, and then bent to lick off the milky pearl of Cowper’s fluid that formed. Harold shifted his dancer’s hips and let Ricky pull of his jeans and underwear.

“Just don’t hurt me, Ricky,” Harold said, turning over. On all fours, he looked back a Ricky, expectant and afraid, his cow eyes glistening in the dark.

“Just relax. I went to Catholic school. I know what I’m doing.”

As soon as Ricky slipped his penis in, Harold ejaculated forcefully, shuddering and moaning.

“Yeah, you like that, cunt?” Ricky grunted, thrusting. “You like it when I fuck your cunt? Yeah. You like getting your cunt fucked? You fucking whore. Stop fucking crying, you goddamn pansy. Faggot. Faggot whore!” Ricky fell over backwards onto the filthy rug.

While Harold struggled to his feet and pulled on a robe, Ricky pawed through his own jeans that were puddled on the floor. Harold pulled the chair away from the door and stumbled out of the room, the light from the hallway slashing across Ricky . Ricky lit the joint he found, and stared at the ceiling. Harold came back in as he was almost finished. Harold lay down beside him and Ricky passed him the joint.

“How does this work,” Harold asked, “Do I do you next?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ricky said, yawning. “I’m not a faggot like you. I don’t take it in the ass.”

“Fair’s fair,” Harold whined.

“Shut up, Harold. I got big dreams and being a faggot like you isn’t one of them.” Harold began to sob. Ricky ignored him. “I’m going to find some dumb bitch to marry and pump her full of kids. I’m gonna be lawyer. Maybe go into politics. This country needs somebody like me to set commie faggots like you straight.”

Harold’s sobs became low laughter, rising steadily in volume. Ricky sat up, and began pulling on his clothes. Harold was howling with laughter by the time he got dressed.

“What’s so goddamn funny?” Ricky asked.

Through the peals of laughter, Harold managed, “You’ll never be anybody. No one’s ever going to take you seriously.”

“Why not, faggot?” Ricky kicked him in the leg.

“Your name,” Harold managed, “Your stupid name.”

“Yeah, yeah. Everybody laughs. But I’m going to change it. And faggots like you won’t ever laugh at me again."

With a final kick, Ricky Cumfart stormed out of Harold’s room.

+5 Eggplant Of Anal Assualt

2011-12-06T10:21:00.001-05:00

“I knosh shings about you, Newt,” Nancy slurred, as she jacked off the Japanese eggplant with a handful of rancid bacon grease. Newt was hugging Lady Justice, his hands tied together on the far side. He weakly struggled to get free and sobbed. He was nude and his pale buttocks and pallid thighs puckered in the cold rotunda.

Nancy leaned forward and rasped in his ear, “I’m nowsh Diana! Of the Hunt!” Newt screamed in pain, the agony of hearing your own shitty prose read back to you.

“Are are a Nazi sex kitten?!?” he yelped, uncontrollably. The script was locked in by Nancy’s words. There was no going back. He needed to pee very badly, but he knew that would only make Mother angry.

Nancy slipped the greased eggplant into Newt’s slack anus. It grated against his enlarged prostate, blown up to the size of a baseball. Newt moaned.

“Get s’hard for you Nashi sex kitten!” Nancy screamed. Newt could feel her wiry nipple hair grating across his hairless back. She reached around and squeezed his flaccid penis. “Get S’HARD!” she screamed again, her shrill voice ringing in his giant round head.

“I can’t,” Newt gasped, “Not even Callista, my sweet Apple of Discord, can make Hades rise from His work in Tartarus.”

“No allusions!” Nancy ordered, digging the eggplant deeper.

9 of 99

2011-10-12T09:02:00.003-04:00

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

2011-10-12T08:56:00.000-04:00

Indeterminacy

2011-10-04T17:52:00.003-04:00

Rare Photo of Episiarch and Warty Surfaces

2011-08-16T10:27:00.000-04:00

The Dread Male Gaze

2011-07-12T10:50:00.012-04:00

Joe Bob and Jim Bob grinned and giggled and nudged each other in the ribs as Michelle struggled from her white polyester dress. The three were alone in the convention hall. Streamers and balloons were everywhere. Tom Petty played softly in the distance. Joe Bob and Jim Bob moved closer to the edge of their folding chairs as Michelle finally shucked off her panties.

“I’ve had 27 kids,” Michelle said, framing her huge modesty of pubic hair with spreading hands. Joe Bob and Jim Bob nodded. Joe Bob licked his lips ponderously. “Ah bet you got yourself a right-nice pussy under all that.” Jim Bob let out a high and hysterical giggle, and said, “Bend over and turn around. Ah want to see your butthole. Ah like buttholes.” Joe Bob guffawed so convulsively his mesh hat fell off.

“Get undressed,” she said. Joe Bob and Jim Bob scrambled to comply. Greasy hands and filthy fingers fumbled at jeans and zippers, shirts and buttons, and tighty whitey underwear gone loose and yellow.
“I want you two to touch each other,” Michelle cooed, straining to narrow her eyes to a leer. Joe Bob sputtered, “I ain’t no fag, missus!”

“Of course, not. Of course not. Even if you were, I could cure you. But touch each other a little bit. A little bit never hurt anyone, right?” Jim Bob had been nodding and staring at Joe Bob’s jutting penis while Michelle cajoled. As Joe Bob ruminated, Jim Bob reached forward and tentatively cupped his balls. Joe Bob stared about wildly. Jim began to gently rub his thumb into the base of Joe Bob’s penis, where it met his scrotum. Joe Bob groaned; it sounded loud in the echoes of the empty hall.

“That’s how ah like to touch myself,” Jim Bob said, eager as a puppy for Michelle’s approval. Michelle ignored him, focused on Joe Bob’s erection. Absently, Joe Bob began to grope in Jim Bob’s crotch as he continued to groan. He began to tug insistently at Jim Bob’s penis once he found it. Jim Bob ejaculated on the fourth stroke.

Michelle snorted and grabbed at Joe Bob, “Come on, Jim Bob. Let’s fuck while you still can.”

“But, I’m Joe Bob, ma’am.”

“Does it look like I give a fuck?”

She backed herself to the stage and pulled him into herself. Joe Bob flung himself over and over again into her dark passage. Jim Bob stared at his semen cooling on the floor. He stalked toward Joe Bob with his thumb stiffened before him. It was in Joe Bob before either understood what was happening.

“Gawdammit, Jim Bob!” Joe Bob, bellowed. But he didn’t slow his assault on Michelle’s vagina.

“Oh, yes, Jim Bob!” Michelle exclaimed.

“Oh, Gawd, Jim Bob!” Joe Bob exclaimed.

“Ah like buttholes!” Jim Bob exclaimed.

“Oh,” Michelle screamed, “Oh, oh… Whichever Bob! Spill your filth in me!”

6-on-1, Half-a-Dozen In Another

2011-06-14T15:38:00.003-04:00

this is all R C Dean fault...

Newt ran his tongue around Tim’s gaping anus in a lazy spiral, seeking the center to dart and dip within. Tim was still strapped down ass up, offered like a ruined buffet. Blood leaked in slow rivulets down his scrotum; his wrung-out penis glued to his leg with dried semen. The room stank of sweat and shit.

Michelle emitted a long, rumbling queef as she sat up. Her startled eyes narrowed for just a moment before springing open again. Mitt was masturbating furiously, intent on ejaculating again in Tim’s hair. Michelle crawled over and began to lick Mitt’s flailing scrotum. He smacked her with his free hand and she tumbled backwards, rolling on to Ron with an inhuman grunt.

Ron was nude, wearing nothing but bright purple surgical gloves. He had assisted Gary in stuffing Rick’s testicles into Tim rectum early in the night, and then passed out. Ron had snored through the quadruple anal, a feat of sexual acrobatics and contortion only attempted once, years before in the pleasure pits of Columbus, Ohio. Two people had died that day and one lost the use of his penis, forcing him to fuck on crutches for the rest of his life. The Ass-Pleasure Overseers had declared the position impossible.

New Hampshire had proven them wrong.

Herman had proven them all wrong.

The Loneliness of the Middle-Distance Runner's Asshole

2011-05-26T12:05:00.003-04:00

Harry turned the lock on his door as quietly as he could and was rewarded with a muted click. It was lunch time and the interns we deep in the bowels of the Rayburn building, swapping pudding cups and STDs. Harry stepped out of his shoes and Haggar slacks and slipped off his shirt. He was naked underneath, except for drooping socks, bunched around his ankles like dark blue foreskins. He carefully placed both pants and shirt on padded hangers and zipped them into a wardrobe travel case.

All 342 pages of the PATRIOT act sat on his desk, fresh from the copier, warm from its light and smelling of fresh toner. He sat in his overstuffed leather chair, a present from Nancy, and placed his feet on the edge of the desk and leaned way back. He groped for the stack of papers. He crumbled the first page tightly and inched it slowly into his gaping anus. With a sigh of pleasure his forced the page back out and it bounced away when it hit the floor. He crumbled, inserted, and defecated another, and then another.

By the time the interns got back from lunch, Harry was a hundred pages in and already thinking about which one of them would lick him clean when he was finished.

Tool-Using? Egads!

2011-05-03T08:33:00.000-04:00

You Are Both Right

2011-04-26T09:07:00.003-04:00

TheZeitgeist|4.25.11 @ 2:29PM
Makes me wonder what his own daughters (especially the older one) have pasted on their (hallowed) White House bedroom walls? It would serve Obama right if he found himself raising a Belieber.

R C Dean|4.25.11 @ 3:51PM
I'm thinking Che posters.

Delicious

2011-04-01T08:59:00.000-04:00

The River Of Forever Flows Into The Sunless Sea

2011-02-05T13:54:00.008-05:00

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

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

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

The Statue Of Episiarch Already Exists

2011-01-18T18:34:00.000-05:00

As Per R C Dean's Suggestion

2011-01-18T18:18:00.002-05:00

Warning

2011-01-14T13:36:00.002-05:00

Rape Van Reported In Area

2011-01-06T10:23:00.003-05:00

The Early Years

2011-01-03T14:45:00.004-05:00

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

I Wish I Had Not Seen This

2010-12-14T12:45:00.004-05:00

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

NSFW, obviously.

Who Will Save Us From Stephen Dorff?

2010-12-10T10:21:00.001-05:00

They see me trollin', they be hatin'.

2010-12-08T15:20:00.002-05:00

Angry Hillbilly God

2010-10-28T10:57:00.002-04:00

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

Whole tread

Good job getting us started, JW.

Meat memories...

2010-10-26T16:03:00.003-04:00

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

I'm waiting...

2010-10-12T14:20:00.000-04:00

Technical Virgin, The Best Kind Of Virgin

2010-10-05T11:44:00.011-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sarah slapped her sharply across her face.

Seni supino colei culum tegunt

2010-10-04T10:00:00.004-04:00

for Pro Libertate

Catullus 16

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.

Now He Can Rape Your Mind

2010-09-01T11:05:00.000-04:00

For those craving a concentrated blast of ramblecrazy, go the site where I found it.

"We are not Jet Boy and Jet Girl, I don't care if I get to be Jet Boy."

2010-09-01T11:03:00.002-04:00

"I can't believe that whore stole my Stanza!"

"I can't believe that whore made it through the lake of acid!"

Otakon 2006

Non-Euclidean Geometry

2010-09-01T10:55:00.000-04:00

Anthropodermic bibliopegy

I Can't Stop Shivering

2010-08-31T08:25:00.003-04:00

A bus company newsletter (1945-1958) we have in the 'Chives runs a perky little cartoon character named Joe Green. Joe likes to give tips about driver safety. They start off pretty innocent: “Watch out for tykes on bikes!” or “Keep ‘em rolling, but not in the aisles!” But they get darker and darker in tone, until they are downright creepy. Especially if you read them in the perky, Joe Green voice.

They eventually changed Joe's look, but not his message of terror.

You know even want to know what he raps your knuckles with...

2010-08-12T16:14:00.005-04:00

From an idea by the delicious BakedPenguin

Coming Soon To A Disreputable Theater Near You

2010-08-03T11:37:00.000-04:00

A SugarFree Special Report: A Growing Menace

2010-07-30T08:14:00.007-04:00

There have been a few vague reports coming in from the blogosphere. The sources claim that there is more than one Paul Krugman. The thesis is that no one person could be as much of a hack and willful idiot as Krugman on so many issues simultaneously. He appears to to be the stopped clock that managed to stop on a time of day it never will be again.

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.

The Confirmation Process

2010-07-28T15:56:00.002-04:00

The room was still dark when she felt the sheepskin–lined cuffs fitted around her wrists and ankles. When she was secured, he lights came on without warning, stabbing through her frightened pupils. She issued a low moan as ice-cold but expert hands slipped a needle into the pale flesh of her elbow pit.

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.

Look Into The Eyes Of Madness And Despair

2010-07-13T08:45:00.002-04:00

Steve Smith Jerky. I was afraid he was near by and didn't have the wits to see if is merely Steve Smith brand jerky or jerky made from Steve Smith. Either way, I'm not buying it.

Eco-Greeting Cards For The Expecting

2010-06-09T11:09:00.006-04:00

for commenter Apple

Libertarian Bingo!

2010-06-07T08:40:00.000-04:00

Expectations Are Our First Mistake

2010-05-24T11:22:00.002-04:00

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.”

Damn, girl!

2010-05-21T11:12:00.001-04:00

lolwhitehousedinner

2010-05-20T08:54:00.002-04:00

The Kagan

2010-05-10T14:25:00.002-04:00

She looks so much like this fat kid named Murray from summer camp that his face is all I can see. Murray was just the shittiest little fucktard ever. He laughed like a farting pig and smelled twice as bad. He sweated constantly, a greasy sheen all over his body. The worst part about Murray is that he both thought he was hilarious and the smartest guy in the room. Everybody hated his guts, even the adults.

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.

The Love Loveultion rEVOLution Ution

2010-05-06T10:05:00.008-04:00

Ron stood before Sarah wearing nothing but the folds and wrinkles of his 75 years. But his manhood was erect, as hard as it ever was in the 1950s.

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.

The Nickclegg

2010-05-06T09:58:00.004-04:00

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:

Nickclegg, Nickclegg
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

She had that Innsmouth look about her...

2010-04-29T10:04:00.001-04:00

Tardscicle

2010-04-05T11:20:00.003-04:00

DURR!

Terror Tales, 1971

2010-03-29T10:10:00.003-04:00

Let's name a few of the many things wrongs with this cover...

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.

LOLhork

2010-03-26T11:18:00.002-04:00

Looks About Right To Me

2010-03-25T13:13:00.001-04:00

From “Citizens of the US according to Popular Impressions,” Harper’s Weekly, January 12, 1867.

Hyperbole: The Best Thing Ever

2010-03-24T15:03:00.002-04:00

Shooting From The Hip

2010-03-16T09:59:00.000-04:00

The Shit Facktory

2010-03-16T09:51:00.003-04:00

“What do I have to do to convince you, Bart?” Nancy cupped her gelatinous breasts through the thick foundation garment under her pant suit. "Do you like what you see?" Bart’s eyes widened as Nancy flicked at the area her nipples should have been. Her drunken stroke-victim slur intensified. “Quish Prow Crow, Bart. I have thumbthing you want, you have thumbthing I want.”

“I’m not going to back down on the abortion language, Nancy. No Federal funding for abortions. Ever.” He gasped as Nancy stepped forward and grabbed his scrotum. She squeezed, just a few pounds of pressure below his pain threshold. “These chompersh come right out, Bhart.” Nancy sucked down the top plate of her expertly made dentures and used her tongue to dart them in and out of her mouth. “You ever have a gum job, Bart?” Nancy asked, clacking the dentures back in place. “Throat fuck me, shit in my mouth, I don’t care. Just vote my way.” Her fetid breath carried a whiff of corruption. Nancy was dying, but Bart’s wife hadn’t touched him in years.

“Turn around,” he said thickly. “I’m going to fuck you right in the shit facktory.”

I'm Just Asking Questions

2010-02-23T16:22:00.001-05:00

What is proper tea-bag etiquette? Should the penis rest on the chin? Or along the nose? The chin option seems to plant the bagee's nose directly in the anus of the bagger--a feature or a bug depending on personal perference for both parties--or, at the very least, the toilet-paper-shreds strewn rear taintal region. But the eyeward orientation seems like it would result in the penis slapping against an eye. (Although the nose could be very effective in stimulating the bulbospongiosus muscle.) I also guess you could go in at an angle or even perpendicular to the nose ridge, if agile and limber enough. But the general shape of the scrotum, even sagging under steamy conditions, suggests that it would fit in the mouth of the bagee best aligned along the chin/nose ridge meridian.

Phtirius pubis

2010-02-12T15:50:00.006-05:00

Harry scratched his balls through the binding crotch of his suit pants. They had been itching for days; he even tried showering for the first time in weeks to make it stop. Harry pulled his underwear away in order to reposition, but only ripped out four ball hairs bunched in the elastic instead. His phone rang. Nancy. Again.

"Stupid bitch," he muttered. His secretary looked around the corner of his open office door. "Not you," he said, "the other stupid bitch." With a frightened squeak she disappeared. Rahm had broken her in at Sarah Lawrence but she was slipping. Time for a new one that would be still be impressed with working for Harry, show him the proper deference. This one had already been knocked up four or five times. Chuck’s supply of under-the-table levonorgestrel wouldn’t hold out forever.

A phone rang again. His personal cell this time. Nancy again, her pinched asshole mouth and startled eyes on his caller ID. She had been naked when he took the image, twisting his thumb in her rectum. She was begging him to take another Viagra. Begging him to again writhe and wretch over her wrinkled skin and grotesque genitals. He had cropped the picture down to just her face to help him feel nauseous when he wanted a drink.

Harry scratched his balls with the phone until it stopped ringing.

The Secrets of Muscle Mastery

2010-01-27T12:54:00.003-05:00

Sick of having sand kicked in your face? Sick of having flabby stick arms available to the world for pinching and mocking? Ready to learn what “beefcake” really means?

Then don’t be a sissy and sign up for my 5 week muscle mastery class. I will bulk you up. I will make you the man you want to be. I will make you JUST LIKE ME!

Do you want to know the secrets of muscle mastery?

Call 1-800-WARTYUP, so you can Warty UP! Just like me!

His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash

2010-01-27T12:35:00.004-05:00

Epi walked back and forth in front of the haggis case, examining each of the bulging beauties in turn. “That one,” he said, to the butcher’s hand hovering over them. “That fat one on the left. Let me see it.” The butcher held it up for him. The tight little balloon-knot of the stomach was perfect.

“Can I?” Epi asked. The butcher nodded and held it closer. Epi slapped the plump rump of the haggis. It was firm. Ripe. Ready for him. “I’ll take it.” He got a far-away look as the butcher weighed and wrapped the greasy lump. He barely noticed the price, numbly handing over notes that meant nothing from his wallet.

“Have you ever cooked one of these, lad?” asked the butcher, “You need instructions?”

Epi stumbled out into the street without hearing a word.

What Does Joe Know?

2010-01-22T09:15:00.004-05:00

Andrew and Eric each swirled their tongues around the mouth into a tornado of desert lust. Their mustaches were wet with each other and excited, stiff like the spine ridge of a threatened dog.

“It’s about law and order,” Andrew murmured, “we can’t let chaos reign.”

“Of course not,” Eric replied in a hoarse whisper. “Our enemies want to kill us. They wait for us under every bed.”

Eric gasped as Andrew’s thumb slipped into the scaled confines of his anus. Eric rubbed Andrew’s slack testicles in response, gently fondling each veined oblong in turn.

“How,” asked Andrew, “how can it be that I love a libertarian? What will I tell Joe?”

“Tell him,” Eric said, between the flutter of small kisses he was peppering Andrew face with, “that I’m barely a libertarian anyway. I hate Mexicans too.”

Chuck and The Gassy Intern

2010-01-22T09:05:00.005-05:00

Chuck's intern farted a little bit when she leaned forward. Just a little fart. A little dainty lady fart like she might let slip in church standing to sing a hymn, or sliding forward into the stir-ups at a gynecological exam.

Chuck pretended not to notice, but he had a hard time denying the burgeoning erection filling the plain but tight cotton panties he wore. He tried to focus on the paperwork before him, but his eyes were drawn repeatedly to the exciting words in the text: tax, mandate, penalty... the sinuous sumptuousness of redistribution.

Re-dis-tri-bu-tion. Five syllables. An entire first line of a haiku. A haiku he would write about her. Her and her little fart.

Libertarian Cat

2010-01-20T13:19:00.002-05:00

The Male Gaze

2010-01-13T16:25:00.000-05:00

The Male Gaze

2010-01-13T09:06:00.000-05:00

Tik-Tok, Tik-Tok

2010-01-05T11:03:00.001-05:00

Australopithecus krugfarensis

2009-12-07T14:56:00.002-05:00

Warty is vindicated in his beliefs.

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

2009-12-03T16:17:00.003-05:00

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

2009-12-01T12:29:00.003-05:00

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

2009-11-30T12:04:00.002-05:00

"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!

2009-11-19T12:20:00.002-05:00

A blank for your convenience.

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

2009-11-16T18:01:00.004-05:00

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

2009-11-12T15:50:00.004-05:00

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

2009-11-12T14:32:00.004-05:00

Olso On My Mind

2009-10-09T13:39:00.005-04:00

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

2009-10-01T08:59:00.006-04:00

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

2009-10-01T08:52:00.001-04:00

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

2009-09-25T10:20:00.004-04:00

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

The SugarFree Healthcare Reform Plan

2009-09-22T16:39:00.003-04:00

Legalize high deductible catastrophic plans and interstate commerce of such. Allow roll-over HSAs up to 10% of gross income or 50% of deductible (whichever is higher.) Allow anything spent over the HSA limit for a calendar year to be written off of your net taxes. Anyone with a pre-existing condition that still can't join even a high deductible plan for less than 25% of net income is allowed to enroll in Medicaid. Tax health benefits from employers like regular wages and mandate that employers carry the option of a HSA/catastrophic plan and that workers who join it rather than regular basic plan can take the difference in wages.

Removes some of the perverse incentives, gives incentives to pay out of pocket for routine care to drive down costs, and we don't wreck a massive portion of the economy for the sake of a few hard luck cases.

Psycho

2009-09-22T11:28:00.000-04:00

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

2009-09-22T10:14:00.001-04:00

Ezra Explains It All, pt. 1

2009-09-22T09:53:00.000-04:00

A Sonnet

2009-09-18T09:42:00.000-04:00

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

2009-09-08T09:42:00.005-04:00

Meanwhile, Back At The KrugCave...

2009-09-03T14:44:00.007-04:00

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

2009-08-31T15:43:00.001-04:00

The Typical Libertarian Template

2009-08-28T09:06:00.003-04:00

Usefulness

2009-08-26T09:27:00.001-04:00

The maximum utility of any government is the impartial assistance to all individuals in asserting and defending their right of self-ownership.

For Radley

2009-08-13T11:23:00.002-04:00

The Portable SugarFree: Epigram edition

2009-08-07T10:05:00.002-04:00

Most of the really bad things done in the world have been thought up and put in motion by humorless people. It's the serious ones you have to watch out for.

-

Heathers is the greatest of the teen angst films because it shows that angst as the vacuous self-obsession it really is, absurd in its murderous earnestness.

-

Repeating a lie over and over never gives it the blush of truth.

-

Environmentalism is a out-growth of the collectivist desire to control how people live. Instead of boot stamping on a human face forever, it's a Birkenstock.

-

You can do whatever you want with your Jenny Agutter.

-

Really, though, if you want an explanation of the success of Starbucks, go into five or six indie coffeeshops. Half the time the waitstaff are insolent assholes who are either smoking out front or too busy scratching their infected nose-ring to help you. The only place in town that sells bulk loose tea acts like it has a five tattoo minimum.

-

The technical virgin is the only proof that a benevolent God might exist.

-

Everybody loves democracy when it's fucking over the other guy.

-

Justice is a washed up whore that will do anything for money as long as it doesn't result in her being too bruised to show up for her day-job.

-

Nothing teaches you a work ethic faster than an empty stomach.

-

The entire continued existence of the government is a massive Sunk Cost Fallacy carefully bespattered with pseudo-Leibnizean "best of all possible governments" claptrap.

-

Libertarianism will never be popular because it would require people to give up the "right" most find utterly precious: The right to tell other people how to live their lives.

UN ZE POPULAR GIRLZ!

2009-08-06T16:06:00.003-04:00

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

2009-08-06T16:02:00.005-04:00

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

2009-08-06T14:18:00.002-04:00

The Invisible Pimp Hand

2009-08-03T15:57:00.002-04:00

"Girl, you just make me so angry. Why you got to make me so angry?" The free-market huddled in the corner of the ruined bedroom, her split lip beginning to swell. The light from the lamp on its side left his face shaded as he stalked back and forth.

"I believe in you, baby. I believe you can make me prosper." He loomed over the free-market; even back lit the free-market could see the dim glow of hate in his eyes. "Now get out there and make me some money, bitch." As always he punctuated the last word with a kick to her ribs. She would have trouble leaning into cars for quickie handjobs. He didn't care as long as he got his money to spend on his friends.

"Healthy whores make more money, but too healthy and they get a lip on them. Start to talk back." He flashed a toothy grin at the camera. The man filming the beating had said nothing the entire time. Balancing the camera on one shoulder, he began to massage his scrotum through the thin material of his suit.

for Voros

They Wouldn't Understand Their Love...

2009-07-27T15:51:00.001-04:00

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.

On defining the limits of rights

2009-07-24T15:12:00.001-04:00

"Don't hurt other people and don't steal their stuff" doesn't require a towering legal mind to work out.

Everything else is negotiable.

On The Police

2009-07-24T15:10:00.001-04:00

The police get no benefit of the doubt from me, not one crumb, smidgen or iota. The vast majority of them I have ever dealt with have been, at a bare minimum, drunk on their own power and adopt a condescending attitude to all "civilians." Even the ones that I've liked or known socially have either been massive unexamined hypocrites (like a drug control officer that got high on his days off) or so blinkered and robotic about "the rules" as to be barely human.

If someone reacts with hostility when confronted by the police, it's the police's own goddamn fault. Every smug grunt and unsmothered smirk has caused people to hate the police. The only people who don't feel a little chill down their spine when they see a cop have either lead a completely charmed life or think that they have.

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

2009-07-24T14:48:00.007-04:00

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.

Sugarfreetionary, pt. 1

2009-07-23T12:07:00.006-04:00

Georgymetry
The advanced mathematical modeling that is required to visualize and create stable multi-person structures in orgy settings.

Ball-Guzzling Ouroboros
It is the same as the snake eating its own tail, but substitute a bunch of guys sucking on each other's nutsacks.

Jerk-N-Weep
A circle jerk with a lot of onanistic regrets.

Outragemunition
A collectible form of self-righteous indignation.

Deep within the bowels of the Rayburn building...

2009-07-23T10:28:00.008-04:00

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...

2009-07-23T09:25:00.006-04:00

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

2009-07-23T09:21:00.003-04:00

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

2009-07-23T08:56:00.002-04:00

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

2009-07-04T11:28:00.003-04:00

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.