Rare Photo of Episiarch and Warty Surfaces

The Dread Male Gaze

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

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

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!

You Are Both Right

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

The River Of Forever Flows Into The Sunless Sea

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

As Per R C Dean's Suggestion

Warning

Rape Van Reported In Area

The Early Years

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

I Wish I Had Not Seen This

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?

They see me trollin', they be hatin'.

Angry Hillbilly God

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 thread

Good job getting us started, JW.

Meat memories...

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.

Technical Virgin, The Best Kind Of Virgin

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

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

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."

"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

Anthropodermic bibliopegy

I Can't Stop Shivering

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.

Do you even want to know what he raps your knuckles with?

From an idea by the delicious BakedPenguin

Coming Soon To A Disreputable Theater Near You

A SugarFree Special Report: A Growing Menace

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

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

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

for commenter Apple

Libertarian Bingo!