She had that Innsmouth look about her...

Tardscicle

DURR!

Terror Tales, 1971

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

Looks About Right To Me

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

Hyperbole: The Best Thing Ever

Shooting From The Hip

The Shit Facktory

“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

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

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

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

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?

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

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

The Male Gaze

The Male Gaze

Tik-Tok, Tik-Tok

Australopithecus krugfarensis

Warty is vindicated in his beliefs.

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

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

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

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

Iron Penis

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

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

Hero Machine

The Beard Curse

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

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

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

A blank for your convenience.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Legend of Weresquatch

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

The Ayn Rand Diet: The Only Logical Path to Weightloss

Oslo On My Mind

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

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

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

Desert Passions

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


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

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

Lingering Questions

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

It's The Little Things

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

Psycho

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

And then I watch it again.

Xeones' Word, Made Flesh

Ezra Explains It All, pt. 1

A Sonnet

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

On Rand

Meanwhile, Back At The KrugCave...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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