Show Me Your Junk

2010-04-26T08:59:00.000-07:00

Read this shit from first to last:

Smoking and Fucking
2/7/08 by howie
Howie's first post of advice about vice.

The No-Mind of Writing
4/26/08 by howie
Howie's first and last class as a writing teacher.

I Forgot I Wasn't a Magical Elf
10/26/08 by Samubri
Samubri brings the failure train into self-hatred station.

I Just Want Your Dad To Say "I Like Fucking Fat Chicks."
3/4/09 by Samubri
Samubri knows what your dad did last summer.

A Graduation Speech
3/4/09 by Samubri
Samubri graduated. From AA or NA or something that should be "anonymous". The point is, Sammy is a friend of Bill, but I say fuck that guy. But... graduated... Yay?

I Am The Fiat King, I Can Decry Anything
3/5/09 by howie
Howie goes power crazy. OR just crazy. Hard to tell. This is the first time we break that all important fourth wall of the fourth estate. Bye bye, Crazytown. Hello Loonybin.

My Editor is a Dick
3/8/09 by Samubri
Samubri is a whiny pussy.

It's True. Samubri is a Bad Person.
3/12/09 by howie
Well, there goes journalistic integrity.

Reviews on Drugs: Run, Bitch, Run!
3/17/09 by howie
Back to reporting, we concentrate of doing drugs and movies.

Howie Made Me Horrible
3/19/09 by Samubri
Samubri is a pussy. A Giant, Drug-fueled Vagina!

How to Dirty Talk, for Women
3/27/09 by howie
Howie is full of advice that is only useful for making his dick hard. Surprised?

Howie Got Fingered
4/8/09 by howie
Finally, some fucking journalism. Painful and embarrassing journalism.

Mission Incompetent
4/26/09 by Samubri
Oh yeah. I love this article! Watch Samubri making the world a better place. Samubri is back in the writing game with his newest article dealing with the super top secret mission that he's been on (which also conveniently explains his absence from the updates for the past few weeks).

Reviews on Drugs: Into the Blue on X
4/30/09 by howie
Howie is very dedicated to masturbating to Jessica Alba, and you should be, too.

Samubri: Origins
5/3/09 by howie
I can't explain it. It's just too meta. Forget about some big budget hollywood starlet Canuck with metal claws, the origins story you've been craving is right fucking here. He's the real drug-fueled fat ninja you've been yearning to know more about: Samubri.

World of Warcraft and Crystal Meth: Two Great Tastes...
5/7/09 by Samubri
Face it, you're an addict. But there's no reason to just have one addiction, when you could increase the value exponentially by adding a second. That's right! Samubri is comparing the similarities between speed and MMO addiction, and he's encouraging you to take up both simultaneously.

So hop on, get hopped up, and hop out of that funk. It's time to grind your teeth and your xp. Cut your enemies and a line. Snort.. umm... shit. Snort stuff.

Reviews On Drugs: Your Junk, Drunk
5/17/09 by Samubri
Give a man a fish and he'll eat for a day, give Samubri a fifth of vodka and some grotesque pictures of genitals and you can laugh at his drunken ass as he tries to type coherent sentences while holding down his lunch. That's right, Samubri has something to say to you and your ugly balls.

The Importance of Seeing Tubgirl
5/21/09 by howie
What is pornography? What is art? Why is there an image of tubgirl burnt into my monitor? Answers to these fucking crazy questions and more can be found in this article.

Space Madness, Great Egress, and the Death of Samubri
6/8/09 by Future Samubri
The future? The future is all about choices. Chose to live your life, to give to the world, to express yourself, to waste away on drugs and sex, to blow your brains out with some stranger's cock in your mouth. Samubri knows about the future and about choices. Join him in a journey from the future where the choices have been made and life is lived on the edge of space with designer drugs and holographic fucktoys. And twins. This time I think we break the fifth wall.

The 5 Most Offensive Fake Names that People Gave Themselves
6/30/09 by Samubri
Who the hell do these twats think they are? You don't get to make a name up out of the thin air and start calling yourself it. If you could, then we'd all be Awesomerock McHugecockoton. Samubri does his usual half-cracked job of 'investigative' journalism to present you with the a list of the most offensive fake names.

The Vagina Interviews
9/19/09 by howie
With employees like this, I need an enema. What the fuck is up with not updating, you ask? Well, Samubri is off fucking himself and Howie is too peculiar to care. But here's how we remedy this stupid situation: hire new writers!

But before we can hire them, we've got to interview these twats.

The 16 Easiest Things I Did That Still Fucked Me Up
9/22/09 by Samubri
Samubri has quit his day job and begun writing for you (for free!). He wants to tell you about how easy it is for a sack of shit like him to suffer injuries doing fuckall.

In Search of Whores
9/27/09 by howie
My Great-grandmother always said, "If life gives you lemons, fuck a hooker." And I'll be damned if that crazy bitch wasn't right. That's why we're going on a journey through the desert to find love... wet, sticky, antiseptic smelling love.

Howie Faces Reality
10/11/09 by howie
Reality is a sandpaper-dry cunt filled with shards of broken glass that lubricates with rubbing alcohol when it gets excited - and no matter how much it hurts, it's going to fuck you slow and hard until you cry blood. Oh, and sometimes it's bad, too. Ask Howie... he's recently run into reality.

Everything I Do, I Do It For Poon
10/28/09 by howie
Some long winded and clever introduction about it isn't really necessary. It's all I really ever think about. It's all that matters. It's no surprise. Everything I do, I do for poon...

What Makes Me Hate Me Makes Me Stronger
11/1/09 by Samubri
Samubri has looked into the abyss and the abyss has looked back, and it's overrated. The abyss turns out to be just some asshole that sings "All You Need is Love" over and over again. Fuck you, abyss! Now Samubri hates himself, but he hates you more. Why? Find out, you delusional asshole, by clicking the link and kissing your unexamined life goodbye.

A Shit Shade Less Brown
11/4/09 by Samubri
Drugs. Hey, who doesn't love the hell out of them? And friends... Friends are like a fine wine: they get better with time and go great with cheese. Drugs and friends... and a celebration! It's everything you love best about everything that you love! And drugs! And it's right here!

Cat's Eye View
11/12/09 by howie
It's called phoning it in. Quality is secondary to quantity. But, hey, it's got pictures of kitties. Well, one kitty. One mean motherfucking kitty.

Cat's Eye View

2009-11-12T20:00:00.000-08:00

by Howie and a cat

Streets flooded in a moonlight haze at noon due to the thick smog, car alarms and rape whistles keep time with the pulse of a thousand dreams being smashed, a world of hatred and sex and money. The city. My city. City... city... ummm...

CLICK

"COSMO! What's the name of the city we're in?"

"Darnassus."

"Doesn't sound right."

CLICK

My city, whatever it's called. I stare out from the 13th floor, a sweeping vista in front of me. Glass shards in my hair. A strange cat clawing my leg. The wind blowing; my cigar flapping in the breeze. It's beautiful. Damn hell fuck beautiful!

CLICK

"Cosmo! What are you doing?"

"I'm playing World of Warcraft and, well it's hard to explain... Have you ever seen Leaving Las Vegas?"

"No."

"Then... nothing."

Knowing Cosmo, he's probably playing Elisabeth Shue's part.

"The computer won't stop typing what I say."

"LOL. AFK."

"WHAT?"

"Listen, I'm not your fucking tech support!"

"You're not?"

"Am I?"

"I hate you, Cosmo."

"Ten-four."

CLICK

The cat has been talking for hours. He's possibly brilliant, possibly a madman. Possibly both. Unfortunately, I don't speak a lick of cat. Luckily, I've got "Kitten Naturally Speaking" to translate. Let's just fire this puppy up.

What? No, Kitty. I didn't mean that kind of puppy.

My new writing partner. Suck on that, Samubri.

Transcription begins:

Meow. Meweeeeow. Rarrrreow. Rar. REooooowwwWWW. No puedo creer que usted comería un taco delante de mí, usted humano. Meorow. Reeeow. Woweeraer. Rearow. Wow. ¡Un taco de PESCADOS! I'm un gato. MMMEEEEOOOWWWWW ¡TACOS DEL AMOR DE LOS GATOS! Ahem. Fucking idiot pink skins. You unfurred idiot. Can you not hear me? Do you speak any other languages besides English? What is wrong with you. Your feet smell like cheese. REOWR!

Transcription ends.

CLICK

"COSMO!"

"Who is this?"

"It's me again. Get Samubri on the phone. This computer is going crazy."

"Fuck you."

DIAL TONE

CLICK

"Herro?"

"Sammy? Howie! What the fuck is wrong with my computer?"

"Why, dear God, WHY? WHY HAS THOU FORSAKEN ME?"

"Sam, no time for your anti-semantics. This is serious."

"I'm not Jewish?"

"You're not? You're black, though... right?"

"No."

CLICK

Pictured: Not Samubri, I guess.

The computer is still going. It's typing everything I say. Why does it do this? It's supposed to only work on the cat. Why am I talking out loud? I could just be thinking these things.

Cat, where did you get that gun? It's not loaded is it? Shit. Why cat, why?

REOW ¿Dónde ahora está su dios!? MEOW!

EL BLAMMO

A Shit Shade Less Brown

2009-11-04T18:50:00.000-08:00

two hopeless fuckers feel a little bit better now.
by Samubri

An intervention sounded so easy. It's not- drug addicts don't want to stop doing drugs. It's not like getting someone to stop watching Scrubs because it's embarrassing you.

So fuck it, I lock my friend Professor Slashy McStabn'kill in a bulletproof cage.

THIS IS NOW, BUT ALSO HAPPENS LATER

The room is bone white to better simulate the natural environment of purgatory. I sit in a plain chair. Next to me on a table, I have enough drugs in a rainbow of colors and types at arm's reach to put down an elephant, raise it from the dead, and then teach it to fly. It's taken a lot of drugs to get to this point. Naturally, an intervention has to have a message.

I am rock-bottom. You can only go up from here.

I take a pill and wash it down with Wild Turkey. I crunch up a rock of meth between my teeth and savor the horrible taste as it burns down my throat. I pass gas and shit myself a little. I'm worse than I've ever been. It's all for him.

It’ll be two more days until his plane leaves, but it only takes two hours for the wall of Slashy’s prison to become opaque from smeared blood as he bashes against it with every troubleshooting tactic he’s got. He ain't got much though.

Tactics are for pussies.

I’m sitting on the other side of the cage (which I’ve dubbed Cube 2: Hypercube) with the rest of our drugs and a chemically-induced grin stretched across my fat face. My heartbeat is coming and going. The uppers and downers are fighting for control of my body, but my brain belongs to the hallucinogens.

"Why are you doing this to me?" the good Professor asks.

Good question... I'm so high that I don't know anymore. How did we get here? How did it start?

THIS IS HOW IT STARTED

Professor Slashy McStabn'kill gets off the plane at Burbank Airport wearing Bermuda shorts and a gas-mask strapped to his face. My swords quiver in their sheaths- they know this man, who I love like a brother, is a threat. They're not wrong: Twenty said he was dangerous.

“This shit doesn’t hurt my skin anymore,” he says casually, removing the mask. “Well, not anymore than it already hurts.”

The plane dissolves into a frothing mass of acid-burned circuitry and screaming, whatever horrible chemical hangs on his paisley shirt has now killed everyone in a 300 yard radius except for me and him.

We’re already used to poisoned air and hopeless fuckers here, though- this is Los Angeles. Our city seal says it clearly: All Will Hurt as We Hurt. Welcome home, Professor.

In my 1981 Trans-Am, I put the pedal to the metal as we drop onto the I-5 south. It’s taken me half an hour to find the exit, for in anticipation of his arrival, I did half the drugs I bought to supply us for this whole trip. I’m totally fucked out of my gourd, and here’s my drug soul-mate.

His face is covered in stubble; his teeth are all titanium like that mongoloid 007 motherfucker. He smells like Hepatitis C. I vaccinate myself stealthily with an air hypo to the throat. I vow to burn the passenger seat of my car.

My wife is scowling with disapproval as we enter the house carrying enough liquor to kill an NFL franchise. Crappy white drugstore bags and a receipt longer than both of us tell the tale of two men ready to break everything in the house. Prof. Slashy, true to his profession, has enough lab equipment and chemicals to turn a doberman into a snortable drug. We've only just begun when the acid starts to kick in and my wife is suddenly green and giant.

“Damae… two fucks are here,” she says, flicking a bifurcated tongue at me. "You bring home man for momma? Momma like. I make him beg for jolly ending."

I have a comeback, but I say “Spirit gum,” for some reason as I pat her distended pregnant belly. Inside the future twin Antichrists of 2010 try to kick me in the face.

The Wretched...

A day passes. I have no idea where it went or where I went or what went where. I open my eyes from the darkness and silence of a chemically induced coma and suddenly Trent’s words ring in our ears, asking us if we fucking know who we are and telling us that now we’re one of us. Dawn approaches and sleep is a week away. I’m blowing the back of Slashy’s head off with the deluxe SACD of The Downward Spiral; the Quads have never sounded finer.

I'm obsessively extending and retracting his automatic knife and he's waving my wakizashi around like a madman. “I didn’t know it could sound like this,” he remarks as he discovers my hidden stash in the hilt. He mixes his invention: Attitude Seven (Doom) with my scrounged evil and stabs the back of his hand for ten minutes trying to get the needle to pierce the vein. He seems discouraged, but not as discouraged as you'd think.

I close my eyes and watch a movie on the back of my eyelids.

It didn’t turn out the way you wanted it to.

I open my eyes again. Imagine that, I'm sitting at the dinner table. The smell of my own breath confirms that we did our drinking before dinner, top-shelf grub feels like a lump of ethanol-soaked play-dough in my slumbering guts.

It’s 3:30am and he’s shaking me, yelling at me to stop singing that they’ve come to snuff the rooster… it’s too damn loud.

It’s 6:00am and I’m cradling him in my arms begging him to stop screaming. The landlord’s downstairs.

It’s 12:00pm and I’m naked, puking into the toilet. I’m fetal, deaf and begging. I just did a line of coke the length of my forearm.

“I just don’t want them to find out about me,” I plead. “I just want to get away with it.”

He’s stabbing himself again and again, his hands can’t stop shaking and the train has left the station. He’s trying to catch it again.

Night falls and he's still shaking like a leaf. We’re both sweating like fatter Marlon Brandos. “Visible signs of IVDU are going to fuck my shit up,” he grins, "but seriously, I’m having a great time."

This isn't meant to last... this is for
right
now.

When tragedy or misfortune is offered up in abundance to an individual, other people flock to them. All kinds of motherfuckers that have no business giving advice to anyone (like me) suddenly become caregivers, council, and judge all at once. The whole concept of ‘intervention’ implies a self-righteousness that is patently misplaced.

Here’s a tip: Better make my intervention an armed one.

I like to get close to a train wreck to feel better about myself, even though I haven’t done a fucking thing to improve my own situation. I should say: I would like to… because this never works for me.

He says, “Sam, I think you might need some help.” He sounds totally serious, although he is content to slough off any comment recalled for scrutiny as a joke. He says this, totally deadpan every few hours that we’re hanging out. Apparently, I’m always the train wreck. I think he’s actually starting to feel better about himself the longer we spend together.

This vacation has suddenly become an intervention. I'm afraid he might lock me in a cage and chemically melt everything I hold dear - and then make me watch as he shoots it into his rotten cock with a dirty needle. He's grinning at me, flashing silver, demons out. I've got to fucking get him first.

His eyes narrow. Does he know what I'm thinking?

"You know, I've never overdosed before," he says. "It's actually kind of cool."

Nope. He has no idea...

IT'S NOW AGAIN

I’m casually sipping mushroom tea in my bathrobe, watching Slashy stomp around his cage, cursing unintelligibly. My shoulders keep twitching. My balls are purple. I can feel my skin starting to peel away from my muscles due to the lack of fat and connective tissue. I've never been higher or lower in my life.

Prof. Slashy has put up a good fight, but watching me destroy myself on a smorgasbord of poisons has reduced him to a quivering mess of hatred and broken teeth. Suddenly lucid, he vows to bite off a sizable chunk of my flesh.

The ride to the airport is somber, silent; our brains are wired together with shoddy soldering.

Standing outside of the security checkpoint, Slashy empties all the contraband out of his pockets into mine. The security personnel just keep their hands over their mouths and noses and thank Gold we're not focusing on them.

"This is it," he says.

"All things considered, I think it was a productive trip," I say, then silence. "I'm quittin."

"I give you a week, tops," he says, shaking my hand.

I embrace him, "I feel slightly better now."

"Me, too. The shit smear on my life just got a little less brown." He pushes us apart and pretends to smile through the background of agony. "I love you Sam."

He heads through the security checkpoint. Nobody makes eye contact.

It's not less brown, I think. There's just more blood in it.

What Makes Me Hate Me Makes Me Stronger

2009-11-01T20:00:00.000-08:00

and secretly, it makes me better than you.
by Samubri

Every morning I wake up with one tiny piece of knowledge reinforced by my awful existence: I hate me. I'm a horrible person with very few redeeming qualities, and all this self-love rhetoric is really starting to bring me down. I just can’t allow myself to feel self-satisfaction in good conscience. I'm so deeply immersed in the shallow, stagnant pool of my self-obsession that if I don’t constantly critique how I’m fucking up every second, I'd end up recording movies of me jerking off to jerk off to later.

Self-love is Elf-love. Fuck you, hippie!

While it's obvious to anyone within 50 yards that I suck, it's obvious to me that you suck even more.

You’re saying, “But I don’t suck,” and it’s ok that you’re wrong. It’s a self-indulgent life; the biological need to procreate necessitates that you're not allowed to look at yourself with openly critical eyes. If you could see you the way I see you, you'd never humiliate yourself by sharing those ugly genitals with another sentient being. Apply it globally, and our species would die out. Really, it's the least we could do.

While it's true that pride and arrogance run worldwide, there's nowhere that encourages you to suck your own cock more than the good ol' U-S-of-A. Confidence building is part of our educational curriculum for fuck’s sake. We go out of our way to make sure future fry fluffers feel good about themselves no matter what the truth is. The children are our future, and we will definitely win!

Self-esteem: it takes a team!

Nope. Self-delusion is our national pastime, our religion, our political agenda, and the security blanket of each and every mind that tries to reconcile the irreconcilable.

"I want to survive,
but I'm definitely going to die...
Shut the fuck up, brain, I'm awesome."
- You

We're lovin' us; we can feel our heartbeat in our assholes (collectively) so we shit on everything that isn't us or doesn't reinforce our fantasy self-image. You're first in line for the shitting, universe. You're our greatest enemy; you're not the boss of me.

From the beginning of time, the human brain has tried to assert its right to Bushi’s Privilege over all non-humans. Our wanton rape of the environment since the second we could craft bone weapons is proof of that. Don’t get me wrong, you can’t really rape anything that’s not alive, and I love that every time I say ‘culpability’ a fairy gets it wings- but seriously, we’re all fags.

Existence: it's really really really really really really
really really really really really really fun.

The more I’m exposed to delusional self-love, the more it threatens to infect me further. I'm constantly mentally wrestling my own ego, and therefore my own survival instinct. In order to be me, I must deny that I'm cool enough to be me. You should try it, you hypocritical cunt. Nobody has ever liked you, Ted.

Me vs. Ego usually ends in make-up sex.

If your brain is shitting out all kinds of reasons that I'm wrong, hit it with a hammer and keep reading.The synergy of survival instinct, ego, and imagination lead to the totally untrue belief that we are worthwhile. I assert that our very will to survive demands that we ignore the multitude of facts to the contrary. Witnessing the brutal truth of your own shittyness ejects you from the gene pool faster than Howie getting booted from a lingerie show.

Keep up with THIS Samubri, you fucker.

But don’t worry, we're all so rooted in denial that even a full campaign of proactive self-hating can’t kill your delusional belief that you have value. In fact, it can barely dent it. I promise you as fat as I am, as hairy and spotty, as bent and bulbous, no matter that my body has lost symmetry, no matter that my hair grows wild and my nose constantly bleeds, no matter that my wounds don’t heal---- I still think I look hot in the mirror sometimes.

The brain is trying to maintain the status quo. The more you suck, the more your brain lies to you and tells you you’re awesome. The more you believe it, the less accurately you see the world.

The fact that I can even get an erection knowing how freakish I am is proof that reality and I haven't seen each other in years, and I wear my flaws on my sleeve- you other delusional fucks are even worse. You're still thinking we're gonna make it after all.

If every snowflake is unique, how important and special is the quality of being unique? It's only a condition of the massive scale of the universe, after all. Shit, you could say that everything in the universe is unique simply because of its location in spacetime. Take two otherwise identical objects. One's here, one's there. So they're different. Big fucking deal. Imagine sculpting 10 billion snowmen. All of them would be 'unique', but where's the significance? They still all fucking suck; you're not even an amateur sculptor, damnit.

Hopefully this will get you started on your way to realizing you're terrible: understand that unique does not equal 'special'. Some poor fucker identical to you was probably born in 4000 BC, then again in 22 AD, then again on your fucking birthday. All of you sucked in your own special way. Evolution saw to that.

Is the fucking you're giving
worth the fucking you're getting?

I encourage you self-centered cuntnuggets to catalog your accomplishments and weigh them against the awfulness of being - just remember, every second you spend patting yourself on the back is a second you’re no longer doing anything worthy of acclaim. Better to chock up your wins as a stroke of amazing luck. Only in a world this incoherent could any of us believe we've succeeded at anything. Only through lying to ourselves could we ever think that we cosmic eye-blinks of flesh could ever be considered successful in a universe of such massive scale and hostility.

The next time you feel self-satisfaction, punch yourself in the balls. It’s ironic, but actively feeling bad about yourself actually does make you a better person.

And pointing it out makes me the best of all.

Knowing-it-all feels so good- wish you were here!

Everything I Do, I Do It for Poon

2009-10-28T20:30:00.000-07:00

if I see your butthole within my reach, I'm stickin' a finger in it.
by Howie

I don't care about money. I don't care about kindness. I don't care about charity, or love, or your hippy bullshit family. You don't matter to me at all. I don't matter to me. It's all just a front for poon.

The slit, the clit, and the taint. I especially treasure the sweet swirly sphincter below. The whole package. Everything I do is in the pursuit of those wet folds of pink stink that envelop me like a self-lubricating blanket of warmth. Furry, shaved, sculpted, medically restored, bleached, or torn out meatflaps: I love them all.

Even seeing mudflaps kind of gets me hard

But, I can not disguise my crassness. I have no time nor inclination for subtlety. Even at the biggest panty-wetter of parties possible, a wedding reception, my inability to fake my way through genteel conversation bites me in the ass when I am approached by an old friend.

Dressed in a tight pink outfit that flattens her breasts and pushes out her little bubble ass, this poor idiot approaches me with a drink in hand and half in the bag.

This is what 'half in the bag' means, right?

"Howie! I didn't recognize you! You look so good," she says, putting her tiny hands on my rock solid chest. "What have you been doing?"

"I'm never sure," I answer, a bit confused by my sudden lack of backstory. I shake it away. "What about you? What are you doing?"

She giggles, "I work in sales."

"Oh," I say, my eyes bright and shiny. "Like a prostitute?"

She takes her hand away. "No." She crosses her arms across those tight, tiny titties. "I sell fiber optic cable."

I nod sagely. "So... not sex?"

"No," she says, looking around. "Listen, I have to catch up with... him," she points indiscriminately. "We'll talk more later."

She leaves and, while I see her many times over the course of the evening, she never approaches me again. I don't care. If she can't take a joke about being a whore, then she probably isn't going to appreciate anything else about me. And let's be honest here, I was actually hoping she might be a prostitute. I'd rather pay cash for it, anyway.

Pictured: Romance

While every move I make, from working out to reading to even writing this goldforsaken blog is all in the pursuit of getting laid, I have absolutely no intention of actually pretending to be a good person in order to get a little freaky fucky.

Just because I do everything for sex that doesn't mean I'll do anything. Sure, I'll whore myself out, pay cash, and beg and cry - but I'm not going to lie. That's just sick and wrong and totally unZen.

Which is exactly how I feel until the next prize horse steps up to the gate and starts whinnying for my affection. She's a strapping young doe with big brown eyes and a little white tail that makes my heart skip a beat in my pants.

"I usually don't approach men," she says, her eyelashes batting Morse Code for 'fuck me'. "But you look so familiar. Did we go to high school together?"

"Yes," I say. "Yes we did. I sat behind you in biology."

"Right! Johnny, isn't it? Johnny..."

"Sure," I say. "Johnny Petersburg. All-Star. Honor Roll. State Finals." I list off my accomplishments.

"This is so weird," she says. "I had the biggest crush on you."

"Sounds right," I say.

"What have you been up to?"

I channel true Zen. "I've been saving retarded orphans from hut-fires in Africa."

There's like, a shitload of orphaned 'tards inside that car.

I don't know if she hears me or not, because she's still talking. It's a buzz of drunken incomplete run-on sentences and blathering outbursts.

It doesn't escape me that none of my behavior is designed to entice a woman into spreading her thighs for me to dive headfirst into tongue-bathing her cute little cunt. I have no qualms about being a sick fuck, an idiot savant of cunnilingus, and a socially inept fuckup.

I could listen to this silly cooter talk all night if she'd wrap her legs around my neck first, but she hasn't even made the slightest move toward the bathroom for a quick up-skirt shimmy.

I'm temporarily distracted from the little tart as the hairiest man I've ever seen walks by. His face is a marshland of curly black hairs wrapping around two of the biggest, reddest, wettest lips I've ever seen. "That guys face looks like my mom's pussy in the 70's," I say.

Probably smells about right, too.

The half-lit lightbulb next to me suddenly blinks out. Silence.

So much for that one. I don't even bother to look at her. I know what the look on her face is. She's more slack-jawed than a whore with ten cocks in her mouth.

True love is hard to come by, and true kinky love is even harder to find. Sexy bitches willing to Tubgirl themselves for a gregarious pervert are almost impossibly scarce.

It's an hour later when I find the only girl I'll ever need. She's tiny and Japanese and she has a confused look on her face that tells me she might not speak English. Which would be a huge bonus for me...

"Ten dollar, you sucky?" I say in my best Mexican accent.

"Hey asshole," she says. "No cheap sucky. Thousand dollars, you never forget."

"Do I know you?" She seems so familiar. I just can't place it.

"You call every night, 3 am. I hate you. You smell like pee."

"Nope," I say. "That doesn't help. Have we slept together?"

"Asshole," she says. "My husband send naked pictures of me to you. You send back pictures of you asshole."

"Sounds like me," I say.

She lifts up her skirt. Ohhhh... That's right. It's Samubri's wife.

"Wanna fuck?" I ask.

Outstretched claws go for my eyes, but before she can rip into me, Samubri steps out of some shadowy empty area of the room and grabs her around the waist. He sets her down. "Easy, there, my sweet tanuki."

"Hell of a wife you got there," I say. "I didn't recognize her from this angle."

"What are you doing here?" Samubri asks. He's dressed in a powder-blue tuxedo with a bright red cummerbund. He looks amazing. "You don't know the groom, and I'm sure you don't know the bride."

"I'm on the prowl. I need loving. Your wife said one thousand, but I can't buy my affection tonight. Tonight, I need it the old fashioned way."

Samubri narrows his eyes, "Rape?"

"No," I say. "Charm."

"Oh, you're fucked then."

"I know, right?" I say. "I need a distraction."

The level of distraction necessary
at this point is pretty ridiculous.

"My swords don't go with this suit," Samubri says. "All I've got are my funky dance moves and my freestyle rap."

"That'll have to do. You get the action started. I'll join in. We'll rock this motherfucker like it's the Shinjuku subway station."

"I have no idea what that means," Samubri says.

"Just go," I say.

Samubri cuts into the crowd, pushing burly lumberjacks in wife-beaters out of his way. He's not exactly a small man himself, but these monstrous creatures dwarf him. One grabs him by the shoulder, but Samubri doesn't even break stride as he reaches back and snaps the guy's wrist.

Not the distraction I was looking for. Samubri's freestyle looks more like a bar-brawl than I had intended. I can't help but join in. I kick the knee out from beneath a fat bitch to my left and jump head first into the knockers of a rotund elderly lady. Tits swamp my head as I punch my way free.

Samubri has a pile of bodies forming at his feet. He's starting to lose his balance as he begins dancing on top of the unconscious drunks beneath him. I knife-hand a bitch in the throat and push her toward Samubri. She never recovers.

It's the last I see of him for a while as hands grab me and wrap me in a small ball and then try to pull me apart while at the same time punching me into a stain. It's very exciting and painful and would be assault if I weren't so turned on by it.

It seems like an eternity in a painful pile of my own broken bones before Samubri comes to my rescue. He axe-kicks some sodden fuck in the face and blood geysers out of the poor bastard's nose. Samubri picks me up in his arms and begins shouldering his way out.

"I've got you, boss. You're alright. I'll take you home and get you fixed up."

I see his wife holding off the crowd with a kitchen knife as she backs out behind us. "Ok," I croak. "But I'm gonna fuck your wife."

"That's right, boss," he reassures me as I nuzzle into his shoulder. "We'll both fuck my wife."

You think you could photoshop this so I don't look so feminine?

Howie Faces Reality

2009-10-11T20:30:00.000-07:00

and that's never a good idea
by Howie

I’m pretty sure I was alone in my office... let's say editing articles (and definitely not photoshopping my face onto the naked bodies of barely legal nymphets) when there arose such a clatter that I sprang from my desk to see what the fuck was happening out there.

"What the fuck is happening out there?" I screamed like a man with his pubes on fire. Luckily, I was shaved smooth as a pornstar's bottom.

I leapt across my desk in a manly fashion and did not scamper in a frightened manner to the door. I definitely did not crack open the door slowly and peek out with a terrified expression on my face. I probably flexed my huge biceps, too.

In the cesspool that was once my beautiful waiting room there stood a woman of beauty and strength, wearing a black mini-skirt and high-heels that kept her lovely feet from touching the strange, green carpet that Cosmo had grown around his desk. Beneath a stiletto, pinned to the ground, looking as if he enjoyed every ounce of sexy pain he was in, squirming like a little bitch, was Cosmo.

At least I hope that’s carpet.

The angry, blonde valkyrie above him hollered at the top of her lungs, "Veni, Vici, I FUCK YOU!"

She had something raised above her head that looked an awful lot like a police baton. Her blue eyes aflame, she looked down at the fallen creature beneath her, who seemed to be momentarily distracted by looking up her skirt, and declared, "Feel the pain, bitches!"

Fuck it, I was a little intimidated. But I didn't shut the door oh-so-gently so as not to alert this woman to my presence as she brought down the baton over and over again. I didn't scamper back to my desk to the rhythm of Cosmo's tortured screams and horrible crunchy thumping. I didn't crawl beneath it and stick my thumb in my mouth. Fuck what you heard.

The sounds of Cosmo's beating became less bassy and more wet. The noise made me throw up a little. I regretted eating frog legs for breakfast.

Cosmo's women-problems were none of my business- but how that slug of a greenish toad got a striking Greek goddess like that, I would never understand. But I'm sure he has some strange charm... had some strange charm. Ok… he never had charm.

Oh shit- tiny, almost imperceptible noise. And so faintly tapping, as if someone was gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. Or maybe rapping along with their headphones on the Shinjuku subways with their pants baggy and their hair cropped short.

Venturing out of my little cubby-hole for just a second, I grabbed the phone and pawed the speed dial for an emergency, all-staff conference call. I heard the clicks of connections being made even as another soft rapping came from the door. “Bitches be fat, where da money at?” it said.

"Hello?" said Signifcunt's strangely hypnotic voice.

"I didn't do it, judge," said Barry as he clicked in.

I’m pretty sure the sound of farting heralded my #1. "Is this my phone?" slurred Samubri.

A scraping sound as the blonde with the stick rubbed something across my door.

"Silence," I whispered in a forceful tone. "This is your leader. The office is under siege. Code Fuchsia. Code Fuchsia."

“You're all fucking idiots,” Significunt said and hung up.

Barry seemed relatively considerate as he lamented, "Sorry Boss, I might be under house-arrest. On a totally unrelated note, did you know that dressing up like a pixie and telling kids about the dangers of drug use by going from classroom to classroom in a private highschool is totally illegal?"

"Yes, it’s pretty commonly understood, even by the homeless-insane," I said.

"Huh,” Barry answered. "Now that I say it, it does sound pretty unreasonable. But what can you do? Acid. Right?”

"I'm not switching my long distance provider," spit Samubri suddenly. I realize he had the rare presence of mind to hit the ‘mute’ button while coughing his nuts off. Now he was back. “I don’t care where I get to dress up like a pixie!”

"You scum fuckers!” I articulated. "I'm being threatened by a blonde in nine-inch stilettos. She's got a large, black stick. I think she's beaten the secretary into gooey submission."

"I'm missing that?" Barry bemoaned. "House arrest totally sucks. I want that. I want that!"

"HELP ME!" I yelled into the receiver and threw it away. It was a corded phone, though, so it only bounced back into my face.

Then the door crashed open.

I didn't peek from my desk meekly. I'm sure I was an imposing figure, in my torn open shirt, tie hanging loosely from my veiny throat, and a frilly tutu around my waist. Sometimes, I need to dance. With frills.

I don't have to explain myself to you. Fuck you.

A shadow in the doorway. A statuesque woman holding up Cosmo's limp body by his thinning hair. A weapon in her other hand. I recognized my earlier mistake - that baton was no baton but a 12-inch, thin, dark purple dildo.

Cosmo had been beat to death with a cock. Just the way he always wanted to go. I saw the mushroom-head welts raised on his smiling face as the blonde threw his limp body into the light of my office.

"Howieeeeee..." she howled with laughter. "Come out and play-ay!"

I stood up. I looked. I smiled. "You crazy bitch. I don't know what you want or who you are, but you've made one little mistake."

"You don't know who I am?" she said.

"Dude," Samubri said, standing up straight from his slow stalk and sheathing the sword he was about to plunge through the blonde's back. "She's your ex-wife."

"Balls! I don't have an ex-wife."

"Twelve years, you fucking egomaniacal prick. 12-fucking-years!" She seemed taken aback.

"Twelve whats?" I said.

Samubri seemed to know her. He said, "How's it going, Betsy."

"Fine," she said. "Just coming in for the child support check."

"Is it the 1st already?" Samubri asked. "Hey, how is Tinkerbell? Has he been a good boy?"

"I have a son?" I yelled. I slammed my fist into my face. "His name is Tinkerbell?" I kicked myself in the balls.

"Dog, you asshole. Our DOG!" Betsy said.

Betsy raised her dildo at me in a threatening manner.

"I see you got my Christmas present," Samubri said proudly.

"I'm going to fire you if you don't kill her," I sung at him.

She ignored me. There was something so familiar about it. I almost had it.

Nope. Nothing.

"Blurgle," Cosmo moaned.

"Take care of that," I said. "It's grossing me out."

"Just gasses escaping," Samubri said. "Come on, Bets. I'll cut you a check."

I collapsed into my desk as they walked away. My doors were trashed. The floor was a mess. Blood leaked from all of Cosmo's orifices. I sat back and pondered it. What had happened here? Why was Cosmo bleeding? Had I done it?

Where was my phone?

Oh, there it was, under the desk. That's strange. I dialed my attorney's number.

"Barry here," he answered. "Legal and tactical defense at your service."

"I think I beat Cosmo to death," I said. I looked at the body and recognized the marks across his face. "And I think I did it with my cock."

"This sounds like a job for Barry!" Barry screamed in a deep, very impressive voice.

I heard laughter out in the waiting room. From the phone’s receiver, Barry was pontificating about leaping bullets and being faster than a speeding building or something. I looked at the phone and wondered where it had come from.

Where was I?

In Search of Whores

2009-09-27T14:45:00.000-07:00

and now, frankly, we could use a hug.
by Howie

We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the pornography began to take hold. I remember saying something like "I feel the chubs coming on; maybe you should drive...." And suddenly there was a terrible ripping sound from my crotch and beneath the wheel a purple eruption of blood-engorged flesh thumping with my heartbeat and a voice was screaming, "God Fucking Jesus! What is that goddamn animal?"

We had two audiobooks of Violet Blue, seventy-five minutes of Cheyenne Silver, five hours of gaping anal, a milkshake’s worth of creampie, and a whole rainbow of multi-racial amateurs, chokers, squirrels, and squirters... Also, a dvd of Suicide Girls, a dvd of Dana DeArmond, a vhs of hidden bathroom cams, a terabyte of bukkake, and two dozen all-anal-Asian divx. Not that we needed all that for the trip, but once you get into locked a serious porn collection, the tendency is to push it as far as you can. The only thing that really worried me was the bukkake. There is nothing in the world more helpless and immature and depraved than a man in the depths of a bukkake binge, and I knew we'd get into that rotten stuff pretty soon.

You scum. Death isn't going to stop me from
digging up my lawyer and fucking suing you cockanapes
into evercockfucking oblivion.

In the seat next to me, Samubri was pantsless, his erection poking up at the sky. He calmly poured one shot of gin down his gullet and then one shot onto the head of his cock. He said, "One for me; one for my homies." The piney smell of gin reminds prostitutes of Christmas, gets them all weepy. He liked it when they cried while sucking his dick, he said. Especially when they shuddered in uncontrollable grief and hiccupped in big breaths of his cock and balls.

“But thish dick is about to be resh-ur-erect-ded,” said Sammy. I couldn’t understand a word of it.

The steering wheel was hot, baked by the desert sun, and every corner caused it to rub a burning streak across the underside of my cockhead. "That's it. I need drugs. Sammy, I can't take reality!"

We pulled over to the side of the road, slamming the goldshitting car into a ditch and possibly over a hippy. I jumped out before the car stopped moving, though, so what the fuck do I care? I surfed safely to a stop right behind the back bumper. I could see my dick all super-wide in the chrome of the bumper.

Magnificent.

The hallucinogens were in the trunk along with the mountain gorilla we'd stolen from a local zoo. This strange creature, covered in coarse black fur and sporting a goatee, had been trained to play classical guitar. He refused to play anything but Warren Zevon.

Get in line, Thompson, I'm suing these wankers!

I found the beast charming, but drunken-sodomite that he was, Sammy feared the silver streak of monkey fur that ran down his majestic back. He thought the creature was probably some sort of caveman-ghost with a hunger for decadent souls, so we had dosed the huge abomination with poppies and cough syrup and stored him in the trunk.

Without a word, the Gorilla handed me a bag full of caps, stems, vines, buttons, and little pieces of paper. I didn't trust any drug, so I liked to keep them ‘mixed together where da money at’ - if you get too deep into any one belief, it tends to take over.

I grabbed a handful from the mixed bag and choked it down. "Sorry, Joe," I said to the gorilla. "Sammy isn't sure you're real, yet."

The gorilla managed to gesture that he’d never tell anyone if I let him out, and that he loved me. Those deep brown eyes… I sighed and smiled and slammed the trunk closed. Nobody likes a smart-ass monkey.

Samubri was pissing all over himself, unfortunately still comfortably in the backseat of the car. "That soulraper still in there?"

"No, you cumdrunk fool," I said. "Just a sasquatch."

"I'm not cum," he said, pouring gin down his ugly gullet. "I'm just happy to drink you,” he belched. “Shit, that came out all gay.”

That's not the only thing that came out all gay.

I looked at the damn parking job. There was no way to get us out of this ditch. No way. Around us, this damn desert had suddenly been populated by singlewide trailers and campers, all pulled into a tight circle as if fending off an Indian raid. Also giant, fanged vaginas with bat wings circled overhead. The second might have been the drugs.

A large sign on the side of the road read "Miller's Whorehouse and Rattlesnake Farm."

"Holy cockshit, rattlesnakes!" I said. "This is gonna be the shizzle pops!"

We knocked on the door of the only doublewide trailer and were greeted by a giant albino man, easily 14 feet tall, his bald head wreathed in green flames. Small thorny protrusions pocked his skin, threatening to ruin my horny.

"Where the shit is Miss Mona?" I said to this demonic gatekeeper. "Good golly Miss Molly?” Wait, I mean-"

I can’t decide whose tits I want to motorboat more.

The ugly monster took a deep breath that sucked all the oxygen out of the sky, along with some tiny purple fairies that had been circling his head. "We've got writers out here," he yelled over his shoulder, "they think they're funny."

"Bullshit. We're here for pussy," Samubri slurred. "I have a magical penis. I'm Johnny-Megaseed 00 - emphasis on the mega. My terrifying sex-to-pregnancy ratio speaks for itself."

The demon stepped aside. His huge girth had been hiding a line-up of beautiful women who, unfortunately, seemed to be sinking into bright yellow quicksand.

"They're already up to their twats in sand," I whispered. "If we don't do something soon, they'll be swallowed by the desert."

Samubri nodded in agreement. A change had taken place in the last few seconds. He had the look of a leader; a rare sparkle of pride shined around him. I knew that I could trust his judgment, his tactics, and his cock. I would follow him anywhere.

"Go fuck yourself," he said to me. He turned to the ladies. "I’ll fuck your head off," he said as if it were incredulously true. He waded into the warping desert.

The muck was spreading toward me. The talking coffee table began to sink into the yellow sand with a slurping sound. I got defensive, "I’m not fucking nothing, you vicious cunt. We'll all be swallowed."

Samubri walked across the quicksand like Jesus walking across a river to fuck a hooker. My power for similes was quickly fading.

He reached down and pulled a strange puma-headed Japanese woman from the quicksand. A flying Oriental rug whisked Samubri and whateverthefuckshewas away.

I jumped on the couch, standing tall and proclaiming this my new land. It seemed impervious to the strange sinkhole. I threw out couch cushions as life preservers to the whores.

"I love you bitches," I yelled, and began paddling my new dinghy around the room and toward the door. Hehe… dinghy.

Sweat pouring down my face, yet only halfway to the door; that damnable erection lodged between two couch-cushions that seemed intent on sucking me dry. The rest of the whores had long ago sunk into the quicksand. Suddenly out of the darkness there was a scream and Samubri came running. Damnit, I was so close.

On his heels was the Japanese catgirl he had saved. She screamed in an almost unintelligible language, "I say shit on the froor. Shit on the Froorrr. Ash-hore! You pooped on my rug!"

The demon reappeared, hovering on a blackened cloud of hatred and broken hymens. He held a silver shotgun in one scaly claw.

Samubri grabbed me, carrying me with retard strength under one arm as he ran toward the door. Using my head as a battering ram, he bashed through the door and ran for the road. Behind us, I heard the bitches of hell unleash a scream that shook the world and finally allowed me to climax (mostly on Samubri's back).

We got to the car with haste, but it was still in a ditch. I popped open the trunk and out jumped the missing link. The damned dirty ape seemed more humanish than I had remembered - the drugs must have been finally kicking in.

"Gorilla Joe, car stuck. You fix?" I said ripping the duct tape from his mouth.

"Why do you keep calling me that?" the strange monkey-man screamed in pain and frustration. “My name is Terry!”

Sorry, Terry.

"Shut your mouth or it's back in the trunk. If you can’t get the car out, we sacrifice you to your cruel god."

“And get me a fucking towel or I’ll cut you in half,” slurred Samubri. I realized I was now holding him up. He was waving his katana around with one hand, looking mad crazy yo. For rizeal.

The creature walked over to the front of the car and lifted it up. He slowly walked it out of the ditch. His strength was amazing. Evolution hadn't been kind to us in that regard. All apes fuck mean. Thanks, nature.

Samubri was already in the driver's seat, the car jumping with his anxiety over the strange demonic swirl of purple skies vortexing above us. "Forget the monkey, Howie," he yelled. "We've got to go!"

"I'll always love you, Gorilla Joe," I said, jumping into the passenger's seat. I threw out a handful of hundred dollar bills. If that crazy yeti survived the encounter with the demon, he'd need cash for gash. "Go with Gold," I told him.

Samubri slammed the accelerator down, shifted into drive, and we took off like a pocket rocket that blew up in your hand. You bastards, you blew it up.

***

Some back alley, darkness. The sky was a black womb cradling the moon-child behind the inky afterbirth of clouds. The world smelled like ass, but not in a good way. I could taste my thoughts. Samubri kept pushing me further into the alley.

"Where in the fuckall are we? These trees are made of brick and the sky keeps yelling for release, it's happy ending for the moon or the tides will be crazy all year," I said.

"You're the one that gave me this address," Samubri said. "I have no idea where we are. I'm scared."

I tried to pull myself together, but there were too many of me and we were all going in different directions. I would have to trust in Samubri, which was deliriously dangerous under even the best of circumstances. Sammy had his sword, but I was naked without a hockey stick. I hoped I wasn’t really naked.

"I brang me here?" I asked. “I’ll kill me for that.”

"Yup. Now, we’re fucked.”

A shadow stepped out of the other shadows like a shadowy shadow. Her face was lined with years of eroticism, but there was a softness around her eyes.

“She rubbed a lot of cum in that area,” whispered Samubri.

Yup, that's the one.

She wore fishnet everything and toothpicks through pierced nipples. The sight of her sobered me up. Nope, it didn’t.

"How long you in town for?" she said without introduction. Nobody needed to be introduced to sex for money.

"5 days," I said.

She looked me up and down and smiled. ”Money."

Samubri shook his head 'no'. I said, "Yes."

"You look like you haven't seen the inside of a pussy in quite a while," she said to me. To Samubri, she said "Don’t point that baby fertilizer at me without a major credit card, bub. I could make you a deal, but first you’re going to have to answer a few questions.

She pulled out a notepad and some reading glasses. She already knew I couldn’t resist a hot bitch in glasses. “What kind of work are you two into?"

Before I could say ‘tonight, I’m fucking the librarian’, Samubri blurted, "We write for the internet,” out of his stupid, stupid mouth.

There's no need to fight- we'll all fuck the librarian.

"Jesus Cuntloving Christ," the whore said. "Real sickos... Well, that’s going to cost you.”

I glowered at Samubri. "What kind of deal were you thinking of, M'am?"

She bit her lower lip. "5 days, 2 guys, internet writers. 10 grand and we'll do anything you sick fucks can think up."

"What kind of money you think we make writing for free?" Samubri asked, but I gloved-slapped him across the face in a way that let him know I demanded satisfaction. A single oily tear dripped from his left eye.

"That's a fair transaction. We are disgusting. As Internet Writers, our knowledge of the profane is vast and, at times, unsettling," I said. "But we operate mostly in the theoretical. You're a professional. I’ll give you 20 thousand and you give me all the kinky shit you’ve ever seen."

Even Samubri looked surprised by this twist. He never recognizes foreshadowing.

"But know this," I warned. "If you hold back for even a second, I’ll load this fucking guy over here full of meth and Cialis and we’ll get our money’s worth from a double-anal ass-to-mouth creampie-filled scheisse gangbang marathon that’s going to come out at about three bucks an hour.”

Beats telemarketing though...

Her toothy grin was genuine, but there was a threatening edge to her voice when she accepted, "You boys are really, really fucked. Well, you’re about to be...”

***

Five days later we were driving across the desert with limp dicks and blown out o-rings. Son of bitch, but I couldn't sit down without a little bit of shit leaking out. Samubri had the worst of it, though. He wouldn't look me in the eyes. She gave him my money's worth, for sure. Maybe someday he'd be able to speak of it aloud, those awful things that left him unable to utter any sound. Finally, he had shut the fuck up, though.

For now, he just kept his head tilted to the sky, staring straight into the sun, searching for some way out of his own head. Occasionally, I would empty a shot of gin or vodka or a hit of acid into his mouth. Anything to kill the shame, pain, and agony that a good whore could put you through. He was a ruined man, as any good internet writer should be.

I smiled as I gunned the engine and blew myself.

Now that's fuckin' teamwork!

The 16 Easiest Things I Did That Still Fucked Me Up

2009-09-22T09:00:00.000-07:00

"Caw, caw! Bang! Fuck, I'm dead."
by Samubri

#16. Extended Blurred Vision From Smoking Too Much Pot and Watching TV All Day

It should be obvious that it seems like a great idea to me to wake up fairly early and lie in the same spot all day smoking grass and watching Simpsons re-runs off my DVR. Stoned and hungry, sooner or later I have to go on a food-run. This disturbing blurry eyesight haunts me all the way to Arby's and back. Oddly enough, I just can’t see straight again until I sleep for a full night (and stop smoking uber-honeypot spliffs every 15 minutes).

#15. Super Videogame Blister Because You're Out of Shape Even For a Gamer

If you’re a habitual console gamer, chances are you’ve gained absolutely nothing except 15 pounds and a hyper-callous on your left thumb that can withstand molten rock.

Personally, I kick the console-gaming habit every few years (hey, I gotta quit something), and since my frivolous career doesn’t require any actual physical work, my callous disappears, leaving me with a once-again silky-smooth girl hand. Months later when a drunken boast forces me to put my money where my big fat mouth is, I’m doomed to the humiliation of being pwned by controller-wielding assholes. The blister I receive the next day is the proof that not only have I failed to learn any useful skills in life, but I now also suck at even the stupid shit.

#14. Wounds From Fat Thighs Chafing Because I Threw a Party

I threw a party at my house a few weeks ago to celebrate my ability to get arrested for a DUI. I was really into it; the day of the party I was up at 6AM to start on my list of preparatory tasks. 42 stock conversations, one dead snake, and .22 BAC later, the party was over. I'd moved around so much all day that my fat, cellulose ridden thighs chafed to the point of blistering. Fat blisters! That’ll teach me to wear pants.

If I have to look at them, then so do you.

#13. Painful Indigestion From Speed Eating

My 'fast and loose', ‘feast or famine’, ‘binge and purge’, ‘high or crying’ lifestyle leads to plenty of hastily wolfed meals, either for expediency, out of sudden ravenousness, or simply inherent pigishness. That barely-chewed meal becomes a cannonball of doom hours later when I beg to an uncaring cosmos for mercy as my stomach acids try in vain to digest 2 pounds of roast beef and horsey sauce.

#12. Trying to Fuck Like a Pro and Nearly Suffering a Heart Attack

If your only exercise is sex, not only are you an awfully charming fellow, but you’re also in what scientists call the Inevitability Zone for cardiovascular Armageddon. Take it from me: doing fuck-all and then trying to mimic the professional twat-conquerors featured in your daily smut surf is the fast-track to ticker turmoil. Note to fellow tweakers: when you’re on huge doses of amphetamines, you forget to breathe regularly as matter of course. So try to remember when you’re about blow the party-snot that you haven’t been breathing for, like, three minutes.

#11. Debilitating Agony From Drinking a Cocktail

When it hits 5pm and I’m still completely sober, sometimes I feel the need to seriously get down for my crown before dinner. When that juice glass full of vodka hits my empty, ulcerous stomach, there’s often an initial wave of belly agony that incapacitates me for five to ten minutes. During that time I can only roll around on the floor and grunt in pain. Of course, this is easily avoided if I just prime the pump with a glass of water before I start chugging booze, but even sober I'm just incapacitated enough to forget all the fucking time.

#10. Fifteen Minutes of Power-Drinking Leading to Violently Vomiting Bile For Hours

If you’re a sedentary alcoholic (hi, Mom), eventually you fuck up the equilibrium between planned passing-out and obvious abuse-driven alcohol poisoning. Late night liquor-chugging can lead to a tomorrow full of excruciating barfing as you void the contents of your nether-bowels out your mouth until you feel like cursing the good name of Johnny Walker forever. Just remember, it’s your fucking fault, drunky.

"Nuh uh! Ish YER fault! Think yur bettur than me?"

#9. Chronic Ache From Sleeping Too Much

“Life’s hard, so let’s sleep as much as possible.” That’s what I might say if giving a graduation speech to pre-schoolers. But take it from a derelict that knows: sleeping twenty hours at a time for weeks can lead to a crazy new kind of aching soreness that can’t be shaken no matter how much more you try to sleep away your problems.

#8. Retarded Curiosity Leading to Permanently Scarring Burns

You’re high and you’re wondering: is that shit on? So, fuck it, you touch it lightly with your finger. OH FUCK! The electric blast of pain reminds you of how fucking dumb you are. At first you don’t tell anyone about it, but then realize you have no choice but to reveal it; the pain keeps you from lying at this point. Unless this is the first time this has happened to you AND you’re a toddler, you probably have a fork stuck in your brain.

Yeah, I touched it.

#7. Massive Headwound From Attempted Milquetoast Marital Sex

So it looks like the wife is going to put out, and you’re really wanting to hump like an inconsiderate rodent without leaving a bad taste in her mouth (so to speak). You have to give her the pleasure first or you might never get another chance at the sideways pussy you love so much. You’re kissing down her belly, determined to eat that snatch until orgasm or bust, but you’re an out-of-shape fatass and you’re perched precariously on the corner of the bed. Before you know it, you’re in this weird legs-akimbo crouch on your knees. The brutal leg cramp that ensues sends you tumbling to the floor. The bookshelf tips over, something hits your head- blood gushes into your eyes. Not getting laid is the least of your problems at this point, Baryshnikov.

#6. Dehydration From Apathy

If you do nothing for long enough, eventually you start to die. Although it doesn’t take much to sustain someone that lies in the same spot all the time, it does take something. When you haven’t moved for long enough that your lips are chapped and your head is throbbing, your depression has officially consumed your survival instinct. Congratulations, fuckstain- you can die now.

#5. Walking at a Casual Pace on a Level Surface Leading to a Sprained Ankle

Ever been walking and suddenly folded your ankle for no reason? Guess what, you’re so fucking lazy that you forgot how to walk.

Thanks a lot, you fucking cunts.

#4. Walking Around in Socks Leading to Compounded Ass Contusions

A large set of hardwood stairs in any home are just fucking dumb. Period. I don’t give a fuck what they look like, every once in a while you want to roll in your socks around the homestead and not pay meticulous attention to your footing. When you’re shitfaced and stoned all the time, you’re bound to stop paying attention while drunkenly descending for another cocktail at some point. Ass-bruises for a month should be a good enough reminder that you should be dead. Instead, you’re me, and you fall down the fuckers drunk again two weeks later, now compounding the heinous bruises that haven’t even healed yet. It’s so true I’ve depressed myself writing this. I need a drink (which is down the stairs).

#3. Absentminded Fat-Scratching Leading to Grotesque Torso Scarring

Most of us have gotten fat fast at some point, and cruelly, fatness is often localized. Regional flesh ballooning is something one’s skin can’t possibly keep up with, and viola- stretch marks. When you absent-mindedly scratch at them all the time, they tear open and become peppered with little sphincter-looking wounds that take forever to heal. Yes, you skinny fucking bitch, this is true.

#2. Sudden Uncontrollable Vomiting From Gently Using a Q-Tip

One day when I went to clean my left ear, I think I rubbed over the opening to my Eustachian tube or something. It totally was like gagging myself through the ear-hole and I immediately vomited into the sink. It was like I tapped the barfing G-spot in my ear. I think the medical term for that is: "Fucked Up."

#1. Hemorrhoids From Being Vindictively Cursed by God for No Reason

If you're one of those ridiculous cunts who buys into the concept of an omnibenevolent God and/or intelligent design in the universe, then here is the proof that you’re embarrassing yourself: hemorrhoids. This one deserves extra attention- it’s so fucking fuck fuckity fucked, I can’t help but take it personal. Fuck!

Who knew that sitting on my ass for hours splicing 10-second porno .mpgs together while pretending to write would lead to angry blood vessels in my asshole? That's right, I got this from sitting. SITTING!

Imagine a grape coming out of your ass. A dark purple grape the size of your thumb. See the grape? Really visualize it. Now realize that grape is connected to your asshole. It's actually part of your asshole. The pain, itching, and humiliation are impossible to ignore. Welcome to hemorrhoids.

The impact of hemorrhoids’ power to synergize agony and shame changes how you feel about shitting. After thorough research, I’ve come to one clear conclusion: it’s true you hopeless magic fairy worshipping fucks - there is no God.

And sometimes when they're hanging out,
you have to push them back in. Where's your god now?

The Vagina Interviews

2009-09-19T23:40:00.000-07:00

I recruit new blood because I’m tired of waiting for you to do it, slacker.
by Howie

"Cosmo!" I say into my desk where my phone should be. What the hell happened to my phone? "COSMO!"

A green-fur covered foot boots open my door. Shambling out of the darkness stands a creature of some tit-squeezing mythical proportions. 300 pounds, covered in fur, slouching forward toward mayhem. The light glints off the single white snaggletooth poking out from a black beard of this strange feral sloth.

"Shitsharks, you’re ugly. How many twits outside?"

The great beast just shrugs. "I‘unno. Lots.”

This Goldfucking job. What a bunch of hippy crap cocksuck fucker. I can't launder money OR run the town through investigative reporting with my only staff writer being that on-again/off-again Samubri. Fucker. That flaky cunt never writes, he’s too busy searching for drug dealers that take a company AMEX. The last thing he submitted was ‘Top 10 Reasons Howie Should Give Me a Cash Advance’. It was just a few Xeroxed buttholes from the internet, but fuckdamnit, it distracted me long enough for him to steal the water cooler by the door.

Cosmo’s getting anxious since he’s been away from the computer for 30 seconds. Maybe it’s that watching my internal dialogue parade by with the mute button depressed would drive anyone insane. He's subtitling me, that tricky fuck.

“Blargerence,” I shout.

Cosmo reflexively congeals at attention.

I pull a sock out of my desk drawer and start putting rolls of quarters into it. "Send in the first applicant." Whoops, where are my pants?

The wicked beast turns back to the waiting room, a great paw points toward the dank darkness of his lair. The murky finger curls inward. "You. In."

Number the First: Dr. Jangles

A hipster cunt struts into the room snapping his fingers in time to his footsteps. Beneath his lavender beret, his hair sticks out in precisely planned imperfect spikes. He's wearing pink-lensed John-Lennon sunglasses. The doors close behind him with an ominous squeak that sounds a lot like Cosmo.

"Have a seat," I say. Of course, there is no chair on the opposite side of my desk, so this dufus just sits on the floor and pulls a pair of bongos from behind his back.

I glare at him. "Your hippy-voodoo doesn't work on me, pachuco! I know your hypnotic tricks. You can't induce betawaves in my mind with that neo-pagan horseshit!"

"Cool, man. It's cool," the cockstain says. "Just try to understand it. It's beyond the level. It's sweetness, baby."

I swing the sock-o-quarters into my desk with a thud like an erection hitting a baseball. "I've got your level, bitchface. Now, drop the drum or I drop your head."

"Calmness, duder. It's all cool," the douche says. "Chilling. We're chilling here."

His voice is mesmerizing. I suddenly crave slightly burnt coffee. I want to kill him now, but I figure I better get down to his pitch. "What's your deal?"

"I'm here to add some poetry to your life, man. I have the intimate tunes to help you fold your consciousness with the universal whole. No paradoxes, no contradiction, no traffic. I have the effortless sexy beats, baby. I'm with you, in your mind, already jamming you along the path to an entirely new language."

I walk around the desk, the sock-o-death gaining enough momentum to dislocate my shoulder.

"I suck the sweet marrow from the bones of jazz. Dig? A modern mortal saint of words and flow."

"You've got about one goosefucking second to flow your patchouli goatee right the fuck out of my office," I say.

"Dig it, man. You're missing the acoustic soul of the funky blues that'll leave you feeling nothing but positive. I've got the mutant powers for golden showers of love and peace of ass and grass, Cat."

I let the sock swing loose, knocking the bongos across the room with a satisfying "CHA-KONG!" Dr. Fuckin' Jangles crab-walks backward, his smug face distorting into the ever-fucking-lovely face of true fear.

"Get out, you cockfondler," I yell as he hits the door.

He reaches up, pulls open the door and falls through the opening into the darkness of Cosmo's lair. I hear small creatures scuttle through the darkness. A muffled scream escapes the mound of writhing hipster-toned flesh.

"NEXT!"

Act 2: Barry Legal

A jackboot crushes the discarded pink sunglasses as a thin man dressed all in leather steps into the room. He closes the door gently behind himself and takes everything in. He's got a flawless grin.

"Just who the cunt are you, then?" I say, already exhausted by this horrible fuck of a day.

"Barry," he says. His voice echoes around the room. "Barry. Barry. barry... barry..."

I look around to see where the sound is bouncing from, even though I'm pretty sure I can't see sound during normal operating hours. I look back to Barry. He softly mouths the word 'Barry'.

"Good enough. What do you have for me?"

"I'm versed in law and law breaking. I have one degree in law, a second degree in journalism, and a third-degree burn over half my cock. I'm a recognized, dignified, and certified professional Reverend and the leader of a small cult of highly motivated and easily confused young women - which is always handy. I'm three-quarters Mapuche and half Irish."

"What about the other half?" I ask.

"Russian," he says with a squint.

This fucking potato picker was eyeing me. But in a good way.

"What's the 9th amendment?"

"Just cause we didn't mention you by name, you're covered by the laws."

"What's the legal age of consent in Poland?" I ask.

"15."

"What are you on?"

"LSD. Speed. Marijuana."

"You're hired."

"I know," he says. He takes a paper out from under his jacket. It's an article entitled "I Didn't Fuck Your Sister, but I Will."

And then that smooth sonofabitch walked out of my office.

Even I'm not publishing this.

I push my finger into my ear and say, "Send in the next applicant."

Dénouement: Significunt

"I heard that," says a female voice from the doorway. She's beautiful. Dark hair, milky skin, a red smear of a smile that could make your dick hard and your balls wilt simultaneously.

"And who the bitchhelldamn are you?"

She puts her balled-up fists on her hips, pokes her magnificent chest out, and puts her chin up in the air. "I'm Significunt," she says.

"No way," I say.

She holds up a piece of paper. I've seen that look in many a woman's eyes. I can tell from here that I'm screwed.

"BARRY!" I scream. "LEGAL COUNCIL. NOW!"

Barry saunters back in. He takes the paper out of Significunt's hands. He nods. "Yep." he mutters. "Uh huh," he confirms. "Sure," he agrees.

"Well," I say. "What's the damage?"

"Yeah, you're fucked. Gotta have a female on the staff if you're operating under -"

"We didn't go to war with half the world twice just so I could be forced into some bullshit politically correct handicapped parking! Fuck it. Fine. None of your mumbo-jumbo, legal person."

I turn to the woman who seems to be controlling me with her amazingly dignified, yet sexy, eyes. "You're hired, too. But both of you meatsacks remember why you're here: JOURNALISM! Real dirty writing about important things. I don't want reporting - I want you bloody in the muck."

A tear appears in my eye. "I want the good old days! I want true JOURNALISM! Truman Capote killed a family of immigrants just to make a story. A great fucking story about hatred and inbreeding. Bob Woodward deep throated Nixon because he knew Nixon fell into a talkative coma after ejaculation. Woody did his fucking homework and then he took one for the team. Took one right in the mouth. He didn't bitch-out!"

"What's he talking about?" Significunt asks.

"Once he starts, it's better to just walk away with your hands in the air. Back up slowly," Cosmo says.

Unfazed, I continue, "There are diseases, wars, elections, tornadoes, zombies, and cute cats. I want them. All of them need investigated. Reporting on their natural state won't fucking do the job. Get your fucking prissy hands dirty. Dig up the story. If you still can't find one, then you make one you insipid ballsacks."

Everyone looks horrified. My erection is made of pure steel.

"Get out there and shit on a stripper's face for the Fourth Estate, you silly bitches."

They shut the door. I take a deep breath and slam my face into my desk as hard as I can. Fuck, I'm beautiful.

The 5 Most Offensive Fake Names People Gave To Themselves

2009-06-30T17:00:00.000-07:00

Because my fake name is so fucking cool, right?
by Samubri

Everybody wants to make a name for themselves, but some fucksticks take it to the extreme and literally make up their own name. It’s mostly golddamn actors, but then you have the assholes like Rodimus Prime. Hey Hot Rod, we haven't forgotten who got Optimus killed, and we never will.

That’s not who I meant, but fuck him too.

#5 Karl Urban

Not since Barry Pepper have we seen as bullshit a pseudonym as Karl Urban. It should make everyone hate him no matter what the fuck he does on screen (not just me). Damn his beady eyes and frequent tail hairstyle. One day, this fuckin’ guy went into a government building all coked up, fresh from laser electrolysis and a $5 BJ from a tranny named Carl, and triumphantly signed his old name (Karney Urfustavanavich) away and became as-bad-as-I-wanna-be Karl fucking Urban. I thought ‘urban’ meant ‘Black’. Check that shit, mayo’.

Alternates: Hans Prefecture, Bruno Streetwise, Strongy McTufferson, Lady Deathstrike.

This summer, Pepper in some FUN!™ (Sponsored by Chili’s.)

#4 Treat Williams

I don’t know what’s worse: parents cruel enough to name an infant boy Treat, or that any man who isn’t already a gay-for-pay internet sensation would deliberately change their name to fucking Treat. Not that he’s great, but the most trollish, untalented actors have gotten way more work than him (see Paul Giamatti). It’s not bad luck, it’s just that lots of other actors’ names aren’t totally retarded. I imagine the humiliation of having to scribe ‘Treat’ onto a SAG pre-production cast list has kept most straight producers from booking this weirdo.

Alternates: Snickers McAllister, “Sweet” Sweety Peters-Johnson, Brunch Allen, Snack Baxter.

You could have been “Sweet” Sweety Peters-Johnson, dumbass.

#3 He-Man

I don’t give a shit what the fucking Sorceress says, when you hold aloft your magic sword and transform into the most powerful man in the universe, if you call yourself He-Man, you’re also the biggest asshole in the universe. Thanks for trying to clear things up for us Adam, but you’re a seven foot tall, mostly-naked mass of magically-transformed twitching muscles packing a fourteen inch cock barely concealed by a fur speedo. I think we know you’re a dude. And wouldn’t it be ‘Me-Man’, or is your name referring to someone else? Your enormous cowardly green housecat transforms into Battle-Cat, why not at least call yourself Battle-Man and let the tiger be fucking He-Cat? I can’t believe this meathead tapped Teela's sweet ass on a regular basis instead of me.

Alternates: Me-Dick, You-Jane, She-Male, Cod-Piece, Ho-Mo, Me-Fat, Chow Yun-Fat

That’s right kids, steroids occasionally
cause you to rip off your own dick.

#2 Ralph Fiennes

Luckily Hollywood downplays the silly-ass douchey correct pronunciation of RAIFF FINES. Meanwhile, RALPH has spent his whole brit-bastard existence correcting people at cocktail parties with a whiney: “No, it’s actually Raiff.” He can act, but that won't keep me from getting him in a headlock the first chance I get and applying brutal noogies until he admits his fucking name is Ralph. Like ‘Ralph Wiggum’, or ‘Ralph Macchio’, or ‘ralphing Taco Bell drunkenly at 3am’. “SAY RAIFF TO ME ONE MORE TIME, I DOUBLE DARE YOU MUTHAFUCKA!”

Alternates: I dunno, just pick a normal name and mispronounce the shit out of it.

“AIFF” would have gone straight to the autopsy table.

#1 Barack Obama

So you’re the first Democrat in the White House in years, and the first American president in history that isn’t pasty white like my freshly shorn ass. Do you really have to have a weird-ass Dark Continent name? Who do you think you are, Cat Stevens? You obviously made that shit up due to your hero worship of B.A. Baracus, and I understand, we all love him. But you just had to stick it to whitey; you love it whenever a fat honky in overalls has to pronounce that shit. To me, you’ll always be 14 year-old Walter O'Reilly, endlessly scratching stuff like 'Emporer BaRock oBLAMa' or 'Captain BareRock O’Awesome' into the cover of your spiral notebook by using your eraser to rub out the color. What happened to you man? You used to be cool.

Alternates: B.A. Baracus Jr., Rock Strongo, Petey Wheatstraw, Congo Jack

Editor’s Note: Please don’t NSA our asses into oblivion for this…
I wanted to do P-Diddy instead.

Space Madness, Great Egress, and the Death of Samubri

2009-06-08T00:00:00.000-07:00

58 Years From Now I’ll Write This… But By Then Nobody Cares
by Future Samubri

Tuesday, November 1st, 2067, 12:09am

I’m watching the Earth whip past through a proton shielded window that’s rapidly closing off the swirling stars and occasional blue blur of the ocean in a sheen of frost. It’s getting very cold very fast in the corridors of Egress Station, out of control in an awkward orbit, spinning on every axis in a drunken lope at 35,000 miles an hour. Twelve-trillion dollars of hyper-science, engineering, and insane debauchery tumbling above the world like a fat kid plummeting down a rocky slope in a trash can. Only this kid is farting atmosphere and purging cargo holds full of frozen corpses into space as his hull is sheared open by the stress. I’m impressed at how a thousand people going completely batshit at the same time managed to utterly destroy one of mankind’s greatest achievements in under ten minutes. We’re barely even in space, fuckdamnit. Only now as my certain death approaches does it seem so fucking silly that we built it at all.

A blast of frigid air rushes through the corridor, causing my limp left hand to slap me across the face. I bet you would have laughed if you saw it, but it was a final ‘fuck you’ from the side of my body that decided to get itself paralyzed years ago when I had my tenth stroke. I was 43. My sword flies from its sheath, clutched proudly in my good hand. I try to shout the filthiest swear word I can think of (I’d print it here but it hasn’t been invented yet) but the air is sucked out of me as a freezing wave of silent nothingness swoops in.

My Gigabrain headware processor buys me an extra 30 seconds or so before brain-death, and I use the time to finish this story and bounce a transmission off a satellite down to Earth. From there the file runs through my time-fax and beams right into Howie’s office, circa 2009. If I did it right, the signal should also cause his fax machine to vomit its remaining toner all over his bitch ass. That would be sweet.

Monday, October 17th, 2067 3:21pm

The shuttle ride to Egress Station patently blows; I’m not the rollercoaster, stunt plane, skydiving asshole so many of our more Xtreme™ brethren turn out to be. Suffering the g-force of breaking out of Earth’s atmosphere into a stable orbit is the last thing I’d usually volunteer to endure. I would have vomited all over myself just out of principle, but I’m trying to maintain some kind of dignity in front of the astronauts.

The harness holding me to the seat fits different in zero-g. It bites into my shoulder on the side that still has feeling, ruining any majesty that could have been inspired by spotting Egress Station growing larger through the view-port. Our space station looks like a spinning insect peppered in solar-panel wings and mutated thoraxes, all colored a creamy white that reminds me of a suppository. That makes me wanna poop. So much for dignity.

The shuttle matches the spin of the station and docks successfully toward the ass-end. Gravity grips me once more and I manage to roll out through the airlock and into the security checkpoint on my own power. Well, my own wheelchair’s power anyway.

Time has not been kind to me.

Sora 4.2 appears at my side as I enter the promenade. This once-humble robotic fuck-doll has evolved by my guidance into a fully sentient A.I., a being more complex and enormous than any human. She’s still my little slut though. She allocates an impressive amount of her computational power into troubleshooting my limp cock. Even now her holographic body is busy bowing continually and approximating sexual sympathy within a micron's tolerance. With a wave of her hand, my personal organizer re-schedules the next week to include a few hours of ‘zero-g fucky/sucky time’ per day. It’s been a while since I had the benefit of her attention without the slight-yet-crippling lag of a satellite uplink. After all, Egress Station is where Sora’s brain lives. This is her home.

I manage to tear my attention away from Sora’s pixilated perfection and take in the promenade. It’s the point of no return for those that pay oh so very much to come here and find their end. Egress Station is a spinning, pressurized paradise of heavenly delights where you can fuck, snort, and shoot your brain into a dopamine-saturated mush before an orgasmic asphyxiation ushers you over the moon into the infinite black perfection of oblivion. It’s the solar system’s most decadent suicide resort. The denizens of the promenade, however, haven’t totally made up their minds yet. It’s up to our Grief Counselors to rope in the few that make the trip and still have second thoughts. Usually the wonderful mind-numbing designer drugs in our Egress Mai-Tai eliminate any lingering doubts even before our resident snake-oil salesmen make their pitch. Not even Billy the Poet would make it out of here alive.

A literary reference? Really?

I roll up to the promenade’s monument to the history of Egress Station, a small booth that features a video presentation explaining how this whole thing got started. Way back in 2012, a close friend and I began living our dreams by aiding in the death of the hopeless multitudes. The video presentation is mostly a narrated slide-show that starts with a picture of McBlaine and I standing next to our very first KevorkiVan. We were so proud in the summer of 2012, wandering the Los Angeles streets peddling a peaceful euphoric death. For $99.95 anyone could climb in to the airtight rear compartment, crank up the nitrous-oxide, and kiss their ass goodbye nice and painlessly. Maybe we were in it for all the wrong reasons, but it was nonetheless a humane option to enduring the continuously worsening economic depression of that time.

McBlaine was the cornerstone of the operation; he could turn anyone into a client with his hometown smile and war-sculpted good looks. He was the kind of successful predator that plays on your desire until you’re practically begging him to bite your throat and swallow you whole. When times were lean, he’d talk perfectly happy people into swiping their credit card and checking out for good.

And now a grey, grizzled version of the man is clomp-clomping down the promenade toward me with one of his sons in tow and a whole gaggle of armed security personnel. He’s guiding me through an airlock marked ‘employees only’ and into the belly of the station. McBlaine is still doing what he does best. Now he’s in charge of finding the perfect time to toss a hood over the client and physically bounce them into the death chamber. He specializes in dropping the hood when they least expect it; not one client has managed to claw their way out of his grip to avoid the one-way trip to the nitrous pod. I wonder when it will be my time already.

My personal pod includes a transparent throne where I can watch TV, browse my computer, and flirt with Sora while Earth and the stars whirl by in the background. Unfortunately I’ve barely settled in when Howie appears in glorious 3D.

“Shit Sammy, you look awful,” says the 3D rendering of Howie’s ugly mug. “Where’s my Top 5 Reasons Zero-Gravity Sucks Balls article you promised me? Aren’t too busy flopping that useless cock of yours all over the young talent, are ya?”

“Howie you eternal cunt,” I reply with a knowing smile, “I don’t fucking work for you anymore. You need to call one of my clones, which ever one you assigned the story to in the first place.”

“Do you know that one of those golddamn clones of yours is dating a WHITE GIRL?” says a suddenly horrified Howie. “I can’t even talk to them."

I hang up, otherwise I could be here all day.

A brief chime heralds the arrival of my twin sons, Xamot and Tomax. They’ve got the station’s itinerary streamlined down to allow for my inspection of every nook and cranny. They have to be in their fifties by now, right? They still look like college kids to me. Maybe these ones are their clones…

“This week is gonna be the shizzle, pops!” says Xamot, or Tomax, I forget which one is which.

Fucking college kids… pfft..

Monday, October 24th, 2067, 9:12pm

I’m floating in an oval shaped compartment, pissing zero-g golden pearls onto the faces of Sora and her holographic entourage. It’s the closest to sex my body is capable of, and I’m just too old for it. All this money and math and trinary computer code can’t repair the collapsed neural pathways that call my cock to attention. Time magazine declared me one of its ten “Superheroes of 2050”- my superpower: I can walk.

It’s exhausting to do so though, so Sora does her best to alter the environment to make it easy on me. She’s monitoring my biometrics at a minute level, feeding direct waves of perversion and guilty sexuality straight to my nucleus accumbens, trying to coax my long dormant manhood from its slumber. Fuckbless her for trying, but I find it ridiculous that a centenarian should have to fly through the air urinating to appease the quantitative sensibilities of his pet A.I. I guess I’m old fashioned.

Monday, October 31st, 2067, 11:28pm

It’s getting deeper into Halloween night and all the inspections are over. Xamot is dressed as a champion tennis player preppy fuck circa 1990. Tamox is dressed the same, but like in a mirror. The sharpness of the costume combo is strikingly grand, but the Doublemint™ concept is making me regret my previous aversion to infanticide. Professor Slashy McStabnkill, that shrunken primordial tattooed mad scientist himself, touts the virtues of his latest aerosol mind-fuck, AttitudeTwelve™, in QuickTime™ on a nearby monitor.

Fuck! Even in the future nothing works!

I object. “Xamot you should know better. He’s just trying to make you puke,” I council.

“We can handle our shit, old man,” quips Xamot.

“We know when to say when,” adds the diplomatic Tomax. “Besides, when I ran it by Sora she said it was just the kind of thing you would love.”

Something about this causes me a small geyser of panic. I wanna shit and be high and be asleep- all the old urges coming at once. Sora knows me well enough that the kind of thing I would love just might cause a sane man to scratch his eyeballs out and replace them with his testicles. My watery old eyes focus hard on her curvy, luscious frame; I can see her anticipatory glow like an aura, confirming my paranoia. Fuckdamnit, I hate being right about everything.

“What did you do?” I ask in that patronizing fatherly tone. Sora’s hologram just giggles. I could slap her.

Tomax starts that fast-talking (never a good sign). “Whatbetterway tocelebrateHalloween than a station-wide-full-on-dosing ofAttitudeTwelve, pops? Momsaidyou usedtodo helladrugs, andyouknow Professor McStabnkill’s home-brewedbraincandy is where da money at!”

Understand this shit:
'where da money at' is a real thing.

Employing my one superpower, I stand up and take two tremulous steps toward Tomax. My good hand draws my trusty diamond-edged katana and I smack that lippy brat with the flat of the blade just-so. Tomax drops unconscious to the floor. If I did it right (and I did) the kid won’t even have a bruise. Yeah… I’ve been looking for an excuse to hit him ever since I saw that cockdamn tennis champ costume.

Xamot isn't having any of it. He’s drawn his wakizashi and dropped into fighting stance with the kind of zeal that reminds me he’s probably been looking for an excuse to kick my ass for 50 years. The time for finesse is long past, so I bust out a dirty move I’ve been saving for a rainy day. With a pivot of my hips and a little force of will, I kick Xamot square in the face with my supposedly paralyzed leg. The secret lead implant in my heel proves to be a fine investment when my son crumples like a wad of toilet paper. Their mother is going to kill me, but at least now there won’t be any trouble telling them apart. Besides, that kid was gonna stab me!

Sora’s in on it, so she’s ignoring my commands to reveal the details of Tamox & Xamot’s Halloween plan. Fuckdamn her self-awareness and the degree of free will that comes with it. It’s clear that a psychedelic drug-bomb is about to saturate the station’s life-support systems with whatever the fuck Attitude Twelve™ is whether I like it or not. She still lets me call to McBlaine and the security staff. I instruct them to pick up my sons and take them directly to the escape pods, where they are all to abandon the station as fast as they possibly can.

Midnight, Halloween Night, 2067

My dick is hard as a diamond as I sit on my throne and review several rows of live video feeds from Egress Station’s most populated areas. I know it’s going to be a shitstorm, but what can I say, I’m on the edge of my seat. A faint hissing is the only sign of the drug’s release into every pressurized compartment on the station, and it only takes moments before madness begins. Am I too, completely insane now and just don’t know it?

Sora’s hologram giggles behind me. “You're too high already, master. This would be like going sane for you.”

Ok, she knows what I’m thinking. Is that normal? Wow, that’s kind of freaking me out. Is this what sanity tastes like? But if I’m going sane, then everyone else on Egress Station has succumbed totally and completely to pure Space Madness™.

In the Gluttonarium (Pod 40), half the crowd is ravenously eating the other half, who seem to love it. Those being eaten are paralyzed from waves of ecstasy, shooting cum and blood all over themselves as their bodies are ruthlessly cannibalized. It's all so beautiful.

In the Painless Zone (a.ka. the Intravenous Drug Wing, a.k.a. Pod 7, a.k.a. Jerks), emaciated, formerly comatose junkies heatedly debate in a language of complete gibberish. One craven ogre philosopher uses the wall as blackboard, writing notes in unintelligible symbols with blood from his chewed-open fingertip to illustrate utter bullshit.

The Orgy Caves (Pod 13) don’t really look that much different, except I rarely see so many on-shift station personnel participating. Note to self: when you’re already in a massive 3-day fuck fest and on all kinds of crazy designer drugs, Attitude Twelve™ only makes you fuck that much harder.

The multi-room Holodeck-style Dungeon (Pod 29) is where the most depraved S&M, fetish sex, and notorious deviance goes down. I’m expecting to see shit that disgusts even me… but now I’m thinking, it’s on! These sickfuck bastards, now peaking on Attitude Twelve™, are arming themselves with whatever they can find, building toward a megasadistic horror that should make Jason vs. Freddy seem like Care Bears vs. Smurfs. I spot a Gimp crouched over the environmental controls. Cuntsure insane or not, that Gimp jacks up the pressure fast enough to crush the inhabitants into a gory mess, then Pod 19's structural integrity fails, setting off a chain reaction of hull breaches that suck everyone out into space.

If it was prison rules, that would actually kick ass.

In the Reactor Room (Pod 1), my engineers are all holding hands in a big group. One at a time they enter unprotected into the core and disintegrate in a matter of hideously excruciating seconds. It’s causing the power grid to fluctuate wildly; systems start failing all over the station. External thrusters misfire and throw our finely calculated trajectory into a totally fucked-up spin, completely killing the artificial gravity and ensuring that whether you’re out of your mind on Attitude Twelve™ or not, you can’t tell up from down.

Sora takes me by the hand as I wheel myself out into the corridor. I smile up at her with love; she stutters and flashes with static.

With the most realistic enthusiasm money can buy, she asks, “Want to cum on my face, master?” Then main power fails and she disappears, crashed out as Egress Station’s I.T. department gangbangs her main processor, no doubt.

I’m gonna fucking die for sure, but my dick is hard enough to cut glass. You did it baby, but nobody loves me like I love myself. Furious junior-high-style masturbation leads me into death, and I can’t help but grin like crazy. Nothing beats crazy.

Tuesday, November 1st, 2067, 12:09am

I’m watching the Earth whip past through a proton shielded window…

The Importance of Seeing Tubgirl

2009-05-21T19:25:00.000-07:00

by Howie

The debate over what exactly constitutes art began when the first caveman drew a pair of tits on a cave wall. When these fateful hooters were scrawled, some cavejerk (or possibly cavebitch) asked with a whine: ‘Is this Art or Pornography?’ Shortly thereafter, our prehistoric skeptic was most likely beaten to death and eaten.

“Me not know art, but me know what me like!”

Every person eventually decides for themselves where the porno/art line is drawn. The line can blur over time; many instances of art are initially branded as pornography and then later embraced by the masses. The average twit sees only the shock value and overlooks the social significance of the piece. Later, assholes love it and call it Art.

Never before has this line been so notably blurred as with the shocking photo phenomenon known as Tubgirl. Tubgirl challenges not only our ability to keep down the turkey sandwich we had for lunch, but also our sensibilities and societal norms. Pranksters across the internet have linked it repeatedly to cause mayhem, but the radness hardly ends there. Tubgirl turns shitting on your own face into a liquid statement on feminism, gender, taboos, and the idea of personal identity. No shit.

While the erudite explanations for a fascination with Tubgirl are usually espoused only when one is caught staring at a picture of a young woman pooping on herself, I feel no need to justify any butthole displayed on my computer screen. You can trust that this is not an attempt to defend my taste in porn or art. It’s true that using the term ‘taste’ at all while having Tubgirl in my mind makes me want to brush my teeth, I’ll give you that. No more.

I feel a description of the photograph in question is necessary for those that find mind-shatteringly disgusting imagery disturbing.

READ THIS ALOUD TO THE PCs:
“A young woman is lying on her back in a dirty bathtub, her hands grasping her toes which are held near her head. With her both her vagina and anus displayed to the camera, a yellowish watery fecal spray is gushing from her anus and falling downward into the masked face of the young Japanese lady. While her swollen and partially distended anal sphincter is displayed prominently, her vagina is blurred out.

There is a pit trap hidden near the tub that causes 5d6 damage (DC:20 to detect). Whoops, don’t read that last part aloud.”

It's a trap! And a cliché!

WHY THE BLURRED VAGINA?!!! Really?! Perhaps we can accept the vaginal blur here as a consequence of common Japanese censorship practices (where genitals are almost always blurred out), but that would too quickly dismiss this crucial judgment call on the part of Tubgirl’s creator: that a swollen asshole spewing gooey shit is less offensive than a vagina.

A cunt I'd like to blur out.

The mask she wears is more than a shit-shield. As the bilious torrent rains down upon her, the mask does nothing to protect her eyes and mouth. It hides her identity but leaves the most vulnerable orifices exposed. It’s conceivable that this is an intentional statement; the girl is shitting upon the very mask forced upon her by the world. As she fountains excrement on herself, she also crap-splashes society’s preconceptions of her helplessness and innocence.

Her pose exudes an aura of enthusiasm; her tensed exhilaration is overwhelming. She's dirty in a way that most people can't comprehend without throwing up in their mouths a little bit. She's a dirty, dirty girl - and she likes it.

She must have chosen to be there. Fantastic conspiracies would have to ensue to coerce anyone into that situation. You can manipulate a girl into taking naked photos of herself, but not even cocksucking Machiavelli could weasel a girl into shitting onto her own face on camera.

“Shit on your face or the bitch gets it.”

Tubgirl might not have been intended as a statement about female identity in modern society. The creator was probably just a real dirty son of a bitch. But Art and Pornography aren’t mutually exclusive; mankind's ability to interpret is what creates art. The questions that Tubgirl raises, the layers of social commentary it illuminates, and the contradictions it exposes all point to Tubgirl being a piece of artwork that is socially significant, educational, and highly fucking entertaining.

It’s Art even if I jerk off to it, Goldamnit.

I'm a writer, but yeah, I'm also a pervert. There’s more to my enthrallment with Tubgirl. It’s the girl within the art. The woman that puckered into the air and etched her bung into the annals of history. She’s somewhere out there making some lucky guy very happy. Her existence alone makes Tubgirl significant and precious.

This woman is capable of a type of honesty that develops in a woman only once every several hundred years (probably). Not only will she take anything the world can give her- she'll do it while on her back and shitting a yellow geyser into the air, watching with a slight smile as it falls back down into her own eyes. She's honest in a way that even the greatest truth-tellers could never imagine - so honest that words are not necessary - she's transcended the need for sound in her performance. Fuck William Wallace, fuck Neil Armstrong, and fuck the Fallguy; Tubgirl’s bravery trumps them all. She makes me want to be a better person.

A woman who will shit on her own face for art will do ANYTHING for love. That makes it more than art or pornography. That makes it Awesome.

Reviews on Drugs: Your Junk, Drunk

2009-05-17T19:00:00.000-07:00

by Samubri

MATERIALS
Media: Pictures you sent me of your junk.
Drug: Ethanol. Fuckin’ booze, dumbass.

METHOD
Half vodka, half orange juice in a tall glass. Drink half. Refill to top with vodka. Do it again. Do it again. Do it again. It’s been less than fifteen minutes. The bottle is half empty? Now, I stare at your awful crotch.

RESULTS
Is this a horrible nightmare in which two scoops of raisins went oh so wrong and nestled next to a melted pine cone? Nope, those are your cock & balls.

Not so pleasin’.

What the fuck is wrong with you? I know that I (well, Howie actually) solicited this, but I’m fuckin’ reeling at your audacity. Zatarains! Your fucking face is showing in this one!

You sick fuck. I mean Howie, but you too. No man should be forced to look at these Smurf nuts and that weird dick. It's like the foreskin has foreskin. It's so ugly I can taste it. Soon there will be vomit. Mine.

All humans should be burned at the stake for what I’m seeing in this photo. Evolution jumped back, fucked yourself (HeEY!). Science cannot stand in the face of your freaky balls. Why is one darker than the other?

I’m taking heavy swigs out of the bottle now, fuck chasers or mixers, not nearly efficient enough. At any time your dick could turn out to be the mutated Cobra Commander from the original G.I. Joe movie. Didn’t your dick do the voice for Starscream on the old school Transformers cartoon as well?

Although hideous, so much hotter than your dick.

Another shot goes down. I’m making a game of it, each time I involuntarily shudder, I take a shot. The bottle is nearly fuckin’ gone now and there are like 28 more prints to go through. Why, FUCKDAMNIT, WHY!!!?!???!

It can see me. No matter where I move, your cock is looking at me. Make it stop! I'll never be able to look my own dick in the eye again. You ruined my penis for me.

In Hell, these pictures would be considered controversial fringe art. Even deep in the Pit, each lithograph would be required under Demon Law™ to bear a warning label reading: “These balls are hazardous to you and those around you.”

You should see HIS dick.

I showed the pictures to my neighbor; we cried and cried. Then God called and said, “I don’t exist. You’re holding the proof.”

Nah, he didn’t really call.

Gross.

CONCLUSION
Editor’s Note: Is this addressed to me? -Howie

I drank over half a bottle of vodka. I fell down the stairs and passed out. But then I got up, ate dinner, and started drinking again. I'm not that drunk.

You don’t know NOTHING about Tokyo!

I got something to say. It’s my time now. Can I finish? You think you're better than me? Do you? Admit it, you’re better than me. It’s your fault I got drunk and fell down the stairs. You threw me away like a used hilarity condom.

So I pissed all over my porch to get back at you. The neighbors claim I did it to get back at them for when they called the cops after I lit their yard on fire. Really it was a cry for help. I tried to call Twenty but two answering machines and him answered simultaneously. It was so disorienting I had to hang up and turn my phone off. My ass doesn't hurt anymore, and that makes me realize I must be shittyfaced.

I’M ON A NIGHTTRAIN!!! WHOOOOOOA I’M ON A NIGHT-TRAYEE-AINE! RIDING THE NITERAINNN. I GUESS I GUESS I GUESS I’LL NEVER LEARNN!

Igottagopuke

World of Warcraft & Crystal Meth: Two Great Tastes...

2009-05-07T17:15:00.000-07:00

by Samubri

Hard drugs and World of Warcraft are pretty much the same fuckdamn thing: Wonderful.

You can send a shiver through the spine of any hardcore gamer just by uttering the words: “Oh yeah, I was into WoW. I barely made it out alive.” Amongst gamers, surviving a tour of duty in Azeroth (or the Outlands) is like the Generation LOL equivalent of being a crack addict. It’s like smoking a bowl with a group of weekend stoners and then creeping everyone out when you cook down a rock and shoot it into your balls. “Dude, I like getting fucked up and everything, but that’s crossing the line,” they might say. Hardcore console gamers know better than to fall to the temptation of the MMO. Gauntlet-style games are a gateway to buying a Z-Board and gaining 20 pounds, you know.

MMORPGs suck your boring, loveless life away and replace it with a sparkling new life in which things are simple and fun and come with the Executioner enchantment. Your own meager accomplishments are bullshit compared to the oddly addictive thrill of owning two sets of Epic gear (one for PvP, one for PvE) and a useless pet panda. It can’t be explained, it can only be lived (though only lived 'virtually'). And WoW’s millions of subscribers are the proof.

Hard drugs have millions of ‘subscribers’ too. It’s the same empty-calorie escapist euphoria. Whether pointlessly climbing the level-treadmill on yet another hastily-named alt, or pointlessly combing the carpet fibers looking for just one fragment of a hastily cut line- you’re a fucking addict.

Yeah I got your Blinkstrike right here.

Both habits create an atmosphere of isolation while still forcing you to interact with other people. Addicts need other addicts. To ensure you can get a steady supply of tiny baggies, you need a flawless network of connections in an unregulated industry primarily populated by fucked-up weirdoes and career criminals. A similar ‘alliance of shut-ins’ is the essence of the MMO. You need others because most of the goals in the world are group based. You don’t help them out of some kind of altruistic urge; you help them get their Epic Gear so you can get yours. You would do it on your own, but it takes 10 people to do this raid. Same with drugs. You would scrape parasites off your own foot, or squoze the anal gland of your stinkbug, or refine pure devil shit if it would get you your fix and you could do it alone. But it won’t, and it can’t, and so I’m turning to you, level 80 Night-Elf Druid of Darnassus or to you, half-Chinese/half-black gangster with his baggy pants, rapping by the Shinjuku subway station who sells meth to children for half-price (loyalty is rewarded!).

Both WoW and hard drugs tap you into a new enormous demographic of our population with whom you might not otherwise be able to connect. I still marvel at the times in awkward social situations and at work that I was able to get an ‘in’ with the local populace because I was a WoW player. Sure I was horde, and undead, and a mage, and that’s about as pariah as you can get, but I was a WoW player, and I deserved a 10% discount. It’s a little different with drugs, but no less applicable. When you realize that you’re addicted to the same drug as someone else in a social or work environment, you’ve simultaneously found your most reliable contact and your biggest liability. Functional speed addicts around the world holler AMEN at this true-ass shit.

Not you, toothless. You're not functional. You shit your pants.

Thank fuck for the tradition of sexual exploitation that comes with the drug game. Sure, you have to pay a lot more than $14.95 a month to be a junkie, but at least there’s the possibility that you can trade your junk for pussy. As far as I can see, even sucking another man’s dick for coke is more action than the average WoW player sees.

Still, it’s a golden age for pussy for the WoW addict compared to the short spotty dorkulence I knew so very well in the tabletop RPG game. Dorkdom was once the anti-pussy curse that no wizard could remove. It was anathema to pussy moreso than being short and smelling like pee. Now-a-days you can hook up with bitch that plays WoW and cos-play as dueling Paladins at your fucking wedding reception.

Yeah, this is candid. Not staged at all.
Really, this chick does this all the time.

There are similar slang requirements to being an MMO reject and just a normal DARE reject. If you don’t know all the lingo (AFK, LOL, BRB, OMW, ATM, BnB, PvP, AbC, etc.) then forget about doing even the most meager instance on heroic mode. Same with buying PCP, LSD, or MDMA, or anything else that’s a felony for even having heard of it. If you don’t know the terminology to prove you’re not a cop, then you’re a cop, or a Noob, and no loot for you (Dragon Kill Points or not)!

After 28 straight hours of raiding in WoW with the same golddamn group, I can’t fucking believe I was the only one on crystal meth. Then it dawned on me: hard drugs just haven’t been embraced by this new 2009 sub-class of addicts (if millions of people can be considered a sub-class). Most of them are semi-wholesome (slightly perverted) poor slough-off waste of the American dream. Soldiers, teachers, perverts, lovers, shut-ins, badasses, and whores, all together escaping the level-less real world and all its horrible humiliation and disappointment, trading in one sphere of social class for a much more enriching class system including Shaman.

Well, I’ve got news for you mid-western straighties that never made a cool friend from the wrong side of the tracks: you haven’t lived until you’ve raided on meth. Bust a fat line and tap into that wonderful Oz that is Azeroth, and you really won’t ever want to leave. Your wife and career and life will seem like a horrible blurry shit-world compared to a long weekend in the Undercity with a teener of crystal. Hardcore gamers of the world, I ask: Do you want to eliminate the most worthless parts of your day: eating and sleeping? Speed is your answer.

Let's face it: You've got nothing left to lose and only epic gear to gain. So get out there and do some drugs and slay some dragons for me. It's the American way!

You’re gonna love me and hate me for pointing it out. Noob.

Samubri: Origins

2009-05-03T14:00:00.000-07:00

by Howie

After pontificating the relative merits of Tubgirl as the most substantial piece of artwork of the past 500 years, I nudge Samubri awake from his drunken stupor.

It’s ok if you want to think this is Tubgirl,
but *ho boy*, it’s not.

"What in the who now?" he says.

"Not important," I answer. I take the cigar from my mouth and ash onto his drug-riddled head. "The thing is, Sammy, do you have the fucking article or not?"

"Jambalaya!” he says, jumping to his feet and drawing a long, serrated knife from his combat boot. "Who are you?"

"Still not the point, son," I say. "The papers. I need the papers. Where are they?"

He turns the knife on himself, pointing it at his own throat. "Who am I?" he screams and chases himself from the room with the knife.

I sit down and think about it. I take a roofie and then forget about thinking about it. It's hours (days?) later when I come to my senses, laying naked on my desk surrounded by candles. Looks like I had some fun, but it might have been horrid. I can’t tell if it’s a good or a bad sign that my genitals are dyed like Easter eggs.

My dick said “piss piss”.

I climb down from the desk just as Samubri crashes through my doors, the knife clenched between his teeth and a gripful of crumpled papers in his hands.

"I've got them," he says. He throws them down. A trail of paper follows in his wake. "Call your dogs off, you sick fuck. I wrote the fucking article."

"Dogs? Shit. Sounds like me. Were they starving?"

He has no idea what I am talking about. Oh yeah, he’s high as fuck. I decide to join him.

"Who's the person behind the desk outside your office?" Sammy says, taking a long drag off a blunty.

"New secretary," I say.

"What happened to the old one?"

"Turns out it was just a blow-up doll with a wig."

His face turns as purple as my left nut as he holds in his smoke. "Yeah, I know. What happened to her?" he croaks as he exhales.

"I popped it, and the damn computers were making fun of me," I say. Ok, I think I’m high now too.

"Why not hire someone or something that’s a step closer to a real life woman? You know, if you're gonna get a secretary, you might as well get one with tits. I mean, just look at that guy," quips Samubri with a shudder.

"Jesus, man. That's why I need you around here. I never thought of that. Tits!" I push the intercom message on my phone. "Hey, secretary. In here. Now."

"Yes sir. Afk. BRB," comes the reply.

And in walks the secretary: a lumbering beast of a man, partially covered in green fur around his neck area and bald on top of his pointy head. His cheeks are swollen like a squirrel's and probably just as filled with nuts. In his left hand, he carries a dwarf’s skull (I think). "Yeah?" he asks.

"Cosmo, you're fired."

"Meh," he says, turning to leave. He pauses and looks back. "What for?"

"No tits," I say.

He grabs his ample bosom, “What’d ya call these? Ah, fuck it," he shrugs. He lumbers out.

It’s ok if you want to think this is Cosmo,
but *ho boy*, it’s not.

I look at the pages Samubri has left scattered on the floor. "What's all this now?"

"The mission is complete."

"The article," I ask. "It's done?" My eyes glaze over as a stare into space.

"Are you ok, boss?" Samubri asks. "You’re not having a flashback, are you?"

"It's over," I say. "It's finally over."

* * *

YEARS EARLIER...

I'd lost six other agents on this mission. I needed a pro. I needed somebody with unquestionably lethal abilities and a questionable grip on morality. I needed the best at what he did, and what he was about to do wasn't pretty.

I turned in a few favors with some of the highest ranking professionals I knew. Hookers always know the best journalists and murderers. Hell, they knew me, didn't they? And I posted an ad on a secret message board that specializes in illegal activities. It's run by an agent who goes by the handle "Craig".

It didn't take long for one name to come back to me from both sources. Samubri. The hookers liked him, trusted him. Whores don't trust anyone - an easy way to get killed when you're tied up and being flogged by six angry cocks is to not have an escape plan. Prostitutes know better than to trust.

Unless the payoff comes with a complimentary
over/under, you’re no source of mine.

An anonymous fax boiled out of the machine. Forgot I had one of those. It was a resume that read like it was crafted by a consummate professional or drunken madman. It had all the things I needed.

I was going to call him into my office for a face-to-face. Strangely enough, he walked through the door before I had finished dialing his number. He'd done his homework.

He wore a pink kimono with the image of a big, purple dragon crawling up the side of a stiff, thick rock that penetrated the sky. His head was wrapped with a single black bandage that covered his forehead and one eye. He carried a katana on his back, a wakasashi on his waist, and what looked to be a Desert Eagle .45 in a shoulder holster over his clothing.

Was that a ‘Hello Kitty’ tattoo on his forearm?

"You hiring?" he said. He walked up to my desk, leaned over it a bit. The scent of Christmas and pine trees wafted off him, distracting me immediately to flashbacks of my youth and of a time...

I shook away the distraction. He was good. Maybe too good. I could see in his pupils my very own striking personage, and I was showing how impressed I was by the limp, unlit cigar that I sucked at like a baby with a binki.

The son of a whore smiled at me. His teeth were perfect.

FYI: The Crest Whitestrip System also makes
your genitals a pearly white. Trust me.

"Have a seat," I said.

He didn't even look for a place to sit. Instead, he stood up straight. His eyes rolled back into his head. He fell backward.

I jumped from my seat to see him hit the polished cement floor. Stiff as a board, he laid there. Perfect calmness. True Zen. The only chair in my office is behind my desk exactly for this test - to see what a person would do when asked to have a seat. This rock-solid son of a whore hadn't just passed the test, he had destroyed it.

Unwilling to give him the upper hand, I sat back in my chair and waited. An hour passed. I tried to think. He started to fake tiny baby snores. I was charmed, but still too cautious to show my appreciation.

Twelve hours later he stirred. He kip-upped to his feet, drew his katana and pointed it at my face.

"No, thank you." His blade didn't waver in the slightest. "I prefer to stand."

I pulled out his resume from my desk drawer. "Impressive, Mister? It doesn't have a last name listed here."

"Neither do I," he said. He slashed his sword to the side, cleanly slicing my lavalamp in half. It slid apart with infinitesimal slowness. He wiped his blade clean with his kimono and then slid it into its sheath.

Motherfucker drank the shit too. Hardcore.

"It says here that you've slain twelve men," I said.

He didn't answer. His eyes were rolling up in his head again.

"Trained in the ancient art of swordfighting as well as an expert marksman," I read aloud. “Says here you can also breathe through your ears.”

Thud. He hit the ground again. The motherfucker was good.

An hour later he jumped back up.

I continued as if nothing had happened, trying to play his game. He had already put me on the defensive, and that had never happened to me. He was already hired. The rest was just formality.

"It says here that they based the movie "Yojimbo" on you. And also the character of James Bond. It also says you're fluent in Powerpoint. An impressive list of talents. What would you say is your strongest suit, Mr. Ubri?"

"Call me Sam," he said. "Or Samubri. No, Sam is fine. Or, no, Samubri. Yeah, Samubri."

"And your strong suit?"

"Drug abuse. Petty larceny. Escaping into the night. Excel." His list finished, his eyes started to roll back into his head.

"Wait, wait. I need to know something!"

His eyes rolled back down and focused on my face. He looked surprised to see me.

"This job, and in particular this mission, will require a dedication that might border on criminal behavior. You'll have to be undercover- possibly for years. You'll have to do things that might make a lesser man weep for forgiveness from an uncaring God and slit his wrists in a bathtub filled with whiskey. You'll have to be high at least half the time. You'll need to stop bathing. You'll have to kill. Can you be that high? Can you be that man? Can you be an internet writer?"

"Let me tell you something, every second of every day that you see me, I’ll be high. I'm fucking high right now, but I ain’t even high yet," he answered. He fell again to the floor.

"You're hired," I said.

* * *

"Chief?" Samubri snaps his fingers in front of my face.

I blink. I think I wet my pants. My dick is hard, too. I have no idea where I am.

"Shit. You're back," Samubri says. "Thought we lost you that time."

"We lost who in the what now?" I say.

Samubri smiles and pats me on the back. "There you go. You're back." He leads me toward the door. "Have a good sleep. Have some drugs. Have an article on my desk in the morning."

"Yes, sir," I say, taking somebody's hat off a hat-rack and putting it on. "You're the boss."

"Yeah, it’s cool, but I’m not in love with it.”

"And don't you fucking forget it," Samubri says, pushing me out of the office and slamming the door shut behind me.

Cosmo is still sitting at the reception desk. He has on strange goggles and a headset. His face is pressed closely to his laptop, on which strange dead creatures are fighting dwarfs.

"Didn't I fire you?"

"I need your wifi. Mind if I hang out here?"

"No," I say. "But I'm not paying you!"

"You were gonna pay me?"

"No." I say. "No, I wasn't."

"Figures."

"Lock up when you leave." I tilt my hat down roguishly.

He looks up. "Leave?" He gives me a creepy smile and then says, "Shit. DOTS incoming. Hold on. HOT me. I've got aggro."

His mind was lost to some other world. I shut out the lights and left him to that world. After all, I had an article to do!

Reviews on Drugs: Into the Blue on X

2009-04-30T17:00:00.000-07:00

by Howie

MATERIALS
Movie: Into the Blue
Drug: MDMA (E, X, XTC, Ecstasy)

METHOD
Pop the pill. Place DVD in DVD player. Drink water. Dance. Push play. Maybe take my shirt off.

RESULTS
I'm a half-hour into the movie when I notice that I'm wiggling. I think, specifically, I may be getting 'jiggy'. I'm just pretty sure that my bottom has never bounced to the beat like this before.

I hate dancing and I hate hugging- I hate moving in general and touching specifically. But this couch is so plush that I'm almost in love with it. I gently gnaw on the edge of a fluffy armrest and slow-motion, dry-hump the cushions. Also, this movie is really pretty.

Look at that slutty bitch. She's begging for it.

Goldfuckingdamnit, I'm thirsty. So much water in this yummy movie. I hate funky beats, but right now I love them. I have to move. I humpty-dance the fuck out of this beat and drink more water. Where did I get this whistle?

Whoa! Jessica Alba is too damn hot, makes me feel like I’m in a bear suit, and the couch is all ribbed for my pleasure. It's so soft and blue. Everything is so blue. Whoa, that’s like in the title of this movie. That really makes it my best friend. I love it so much I could cry. I wish I could hear what they’re saying but it’s all drowned out by some whistling noise from somewhere.

Why do they keep talking? This movie needs a dancing scene, and needs to tilt down more and just stay on my new girlfriend Jessica’s body. Remember Jessica Alba dancing in Sin City? Shit, this movie needs some of that.

We all need some of this.

Damn, that's a lot of coke. Shit, I wish I had some coke. Or some more water. I need to just sit down and watch the movie. Shit, a club scene! And for some reason, I love this fucking song! My asshole has the rhythm in it.

I'm dancing again. How did that happen? Fuck, I'm so thirsty. I take off my shirt and pants. Only the speedo now! Where are the sharks? Isn't this movie about sharks or something? HOLY SHIT A SHARK! That's fucked-up. I wasn't expecting that at all. I don’t know where these glow sticks came from, but I better crack ‘em to make myself feel better. Wow, that worked!

Whoa, I think I missed some plot stuff. It's so fucking hot that my dick is sweating! It seems that I can dance to the rhythm of an outboard motor right now. Rev... rev... rev rev. Man, it's a catchy beat. This is my new jam.

CONCLUSION
I’m gonna prove to my best friend (this movie) and my new girlfriend (Jessica) how much I love them, but first I have to cum all over the couch.

Wow. I think I just went blind. Maybe I shouldn’t have drank what was in those glowsticks, but I’m so fuckin’ thirsty. Where is that fucking whistling noise coming from?

I give my new best friend 4 out of 5 stars, ‘cause like, where da money at?

Editor's note: "Where 'da money at?" is a real thing.

Mission Incompetent

2009-04-26T19:16:00.001-07:00

by Samubri

Today

A blur of neon plasma and brain-death fractals transitions me back to the horror of consciousness. The throbbing above my eyes implies that hell-spawned imps have fucked a hole into my forehead. Nearby my robotic fuck toy Real Doll steps endlessly into the bed astern and exclaims “you promised not to kill me if I woke you up…”

You see, while in Japan doing ‘research’, I’d accidentally published an e-book entitled: ’13 Ways to Score With Young Japanese Girls’ (although it’s much more eloquent in Japanese). As a gesture of gratitude, a small consortium of wealthy perverts and potential sex-offenders presented me an autonomous robotic sex doll last Christmas (or Happy American Shoptime, as they call it). Her name is Sora, and if you were into that kind of thing you’d know why.

Yup, that kind of research.

Nearby a not quite empty bottle of vodka gives me strength enough to drag myself to a mirror. Someone’s slashed ‘rajraj’ into my forehead. Not just someone. Howie.

In the bathroom I find a bloody digital recorder floating in the toilet. As I look in the mirror, my own nasal voice reminds me of what happened…

* * * * *

2 Weeks Ago

I kick in the door to his office to find Howie lying face-up on his desk, bicycle kicking a UPS guy in the head and chest. From the state of his office and the color of the UPS guy’s head, I’d say Howie’s been beating on him a while.

I don't want to miss out on the fun.

My sword flies out of its sheath and the poor bastard in brown's head drops to the floor. This alerts Howie to my presence.

“Sammy you cunt!” he exclaims. “This was an interrogation. Now I’ll never know where my copy of Haircut 100’s Greatest Hits was taken.”

Blood gusts into the air like a fucking walking sprinkler as the headless torso attempts package delivery from beyond the grave. Fucking delivery men! I lift my wooden sandals out of the blood. Then I light two cigarettes, both for me.

Howie continues talking as the headless brown suit hands him a clipboard. “You see, back in ’95 I had 8 CDs for a penny coming to me from Columbia House. Only 7 ever arrived, and I know this now-headless corpse is to blame. Was to blame.” He signs his name and then kicks the stiff to the ground. “Unacceptable!”

After we beheaded this guy,
it was much easier to fuck him.

“Don’t those come through the mail?” I ask idly. My hands are shaking as I take deep drags of the life-stunting smoke. I need a drink.

“You need a drink,” says Howie with authority. “Let's get you liquored up like a good employee and we’ll talk a little business.”

I pour half a bottle of vodka into giant plastic drinking cup emblazoned with a fading Red Wings logo and splash some orange juice in for color. Down the hatch. While I recoil for a round Howie plucks the digital recorder (complete with blinking red light) from my pocket.

“Wait a minute, Babydick. Is this meeting going in your article? ‘Cause that whole shtick is getting pretty fucking old and a little self-absorbed,” rants Howie. “You're just getting too meta for anyone to follow. Next thing you know, we'll jump a shark with your retarded origin story.”

I suck down a new cigarette. I light a fourth. “Let’s publish your fucking origin story.”

Howie looks around for a minute like he’s taking in the scenery for the first time. “No good. As far as I know I’ve always been here.” He sets the recorder on the desk carefully so I can’t easily grab it. He continues. “Besides, I hate prequels.”

I smirk knowingly at the camera.

“That’s all? You could have just told me that on the phone,” I stub out a cigarette and light another.

“I have an assignment for you. Don’t waste 1000 words just getting to my office, golddamnit. But before we get to the details, drink this. A victory shot. For good luck,” says Howie as he offers me something green in a shot glass. He has one for himself too, but that’s not any comfort.

Down the hatch. “Fuck this job,” I spit.

The world swirls down an abyssal whirlpool, I barely feel myself hit the floor. There’s the ‘snikt’ of a box cutter.

“A little note to remind you,” Howie sings menacingly.

Howie leaves me lots of notes.

* * * * *

Yesterday

I have no idea how I got here. I'm standing between two concrete walls lined with razor wire. This is the third weirdest place I've found myself after a blackout. The smell of vinegar and cheap meth swirl around me. I am tying a cheap Japanese headband that says ‘I Will Definitely Win’ in kanji around the horribly painful wounds in my forehead when the drugs wear off enough for coherent and consistent thought.

I take the vial of rust-colored dust from around my neck and sniff hard. The dust does its job: some of my memory comes back. An assignment. The need for blood and for an interview. A million voices crying out for revengeance. I smile and kick off one wall into the other all totally flossy, ninja-style. Then I’m over the outer wall, dropping silently inside the perimeter of Skywalker Ranch.

My landing is perfect. I take a moment to bask in the snug comfort of my Star Trek: The Next Generation underoos (the ones with Data’s face right on the ass). I picked them special just for this mission as an extra ‘fuck you’ to the whole Wars franchise.

I like pretending my ass is an android.

I shimmy up behind a sentry and place the tip of the tanto at his spine.

“You unfuckgodly clones. Life means nothing to you. Why shouldn’t I just slit your throat right now?” I whisper into his ear.

“Clones have feelings too?” he answers.

“I like the cut of your jib, soldier,” I say with a grin that is wasted on him because I'm behind him.

He’s surprisingly casual. “What’s a jib?”

Is this a jib?

I throw my weight into a roundhouse punch to the back of his head where the skull meets the neck. He goes down. Despite my wicked stealth, the alarm sounds. Laser turrets spring out of the well-manicured lawn and begin to sweep the area. Pulse lasers.

Luckily, laser technology couldn’t be disrupted more easily. The best way is simply filling the air with smoke- something I’m quite good at.

I dodge and weave as I light two blunts and proceed to smoke them down in about 3.5 seconds. Out of my lungs comes a smokescreen that even Spy Hunter would be proud of. Thusly George’s death trap is turned into a lame version of Laser Floyd.

This is like, so trippy and totally true. Ya know, dude?

Someone must have tipped George off; I see him barreling down the driveway toward me on the back of an R2 unit. Apparently I’m not the first person to scale the outer walls of Skywalker ranch with a knife.

I dive out of the smoke cloud and into the driveway. Did I mention that there’s a life-size cardboard cutout of Chewbacca strapped to my back? Well there is, and I use it.

“Graaaarrrrlllll!” I yell in my best Chewbacca. I hide behind the cutout, and when the headlights hit it, my gambit proves successful. He can’t do it. I’m sure he could run me down no problem, but not Chewie. Everybody loves a Wookie.

He swerves, but not quite well enough to miss me. I feel my leg shatter as I spring off the front of the car. The R2 careens wildly into the yard and smashes into a replica X-Wing filled with grenades. The explosion so completely rules.

I'm the best at what I do, and what I do is blackout. Often. I do so now. When I open my eyes, George is crawling toward me, clutching fistfuls of grass and dirt as he slowly worms his through the flaming debris. I notice he has a gun in one of his hands. Shit, good thinking.

“HANNNNSSSSS!” he screams as he gets closer.

“You had to be stopped, George. Enough is enough. It’s for the fans,” I say.

“You’re wrong,” he replies. “Look around, I’m fucking rich, bitch! How could I be the one that sucks? FANS suck. Look at you: you’re all mostly fat, spotty weirdoes. Face it, I’m better than you.”

He spits out a mouthful of blood and falls silent. He's finally dead.

"God, you suck at endings," I say.

I put the tanto into its sheath and start wailing, cradling my smashed leg. Sentries begin pouring out of the Ranch. Guns are firing somewhere in the distance. A smoke grenade fills the air with the haunting perfume of war. I feel like blacking-out again, just for the fuck of it. The front gates explode inward. Fire gusts into the sky. From out of the smoking wreckage comes my sexdoll, jogging erratically like a toddler on cocaine. She picks me up, cradling me in her cold robotic embrace.

"Sora, you're my only hope," I say as my manhood stands to attention in reflex to the smell of silicone polymer and WD-40.

"Sluts like me need to get fucked," she replies in Howie's voice as she races me off into the night.

Howie Got Fingered

2009-04-08T20:00:00.000-07:00

by Howie

This speech-to-text software makes my life easier. The cock-sucker Sammy is out on assignment, ruining his life for journalistic integrity and crackwhores, so it's up to me to write something on this Gold-forsaken website. Paragraph. No, make a new paragraph. Son of a bitch. Secretary! GET IN HERE! THE FUCKING COMPUTER IS MAKING FUN OF ME AGAIN! CAN YOU HEAR ME! THE FUCKING PHONE ISN'T WORKING. Do I have a secretary?

---

A real man goes to the hospital only under the direst of circumstances. The average man usually has to be incapacitated and carried via stretcher to get him within 50 feet of a doctor. Everybody has that uncle that chopped his finger half-off and super-glued it back on. My grandfather used to say if duct-tape or whiskey won't fix it, then it's too big of a problem to bother with. Of course, ‘not bothering’ with the sick and infirm meant ol’-fashioned euthanasia via a point-blank blast to the head from a blunderbuss. Nobody dared cough, fart, or even move at grandpa’s house. His vision was based on movement. But I digress. . .

Pride be damned, if a man has a problem with his penis he'll be dropping trou in front of a doctor faster than he would in front of a complimentary hooker.

Enter my cock... errr... that doesn't sound right. Allow me to introduce my penis. I haven't stopped peeing in three days. That's not entirely true. I haven't been peeing. It feels like I'm peeing. Right now. I feel like I'm pissing.

I haven't slept in three days either, because every time I start to fall asleep, I think I'm peeing and it wakes me up. It's like my urethra is wet. Which it should be, right? I don't know.

I called the doctor and made an appointment.

"And what's this concerning?" the receptionist asked.

"I think I'm urinating," I said.

"Do you need to get off the phone?"

"No, I'm not really peeing. I just think I am."

There was a long pause as the receptionist thought it over. "I'll just put down bladder problem."

"Ok, and could I see a female doctor?"

"Yeah," the receptionist said.

"Small hands, preferably."

"Ok."

Now, I'm no fool. I'm high and cranky, but I'm not really stupid. I knew what was going to happen if I went to the doctor with a pisser problem. I was in for a finger fucking.

I was ok with this. I had come to terms with it. Every man must. So, as I thought it was the only right thing to do, I took a nice long shower and cleaned up well for the doctor.

I drove a half-hour to the clinic and got checked in. I sat down and I still felt like I have to pee. There was also this other feeling. A familiar one. Like the time I ate nothing but licorice for a week and shit my pants in the Shopko parking lot.

So I got up and went to the bathroom. It was explosive. I threw mud like a landmine throws body parts - indiscriminately and with extreme malice. I wrecked that place. I cleaned up myself as well as possible, but the toilet was a total loss.

They called me to the doctor's office. A male nurse greeted me with a handshake. His fingers were long and thick as plums.

Not great.

The nurse weighed me (158), took my blood pressure (180/38) and heart rate (127 beats per minute - beat that, pussy!).

"Pretty impressive," I said.

"Sure," he said dismissively. "If you don't plan on surviving the rest of the day."

"I never do," I said.

The nurse told me to take a seat on the paper covered table to await the doctor. He and his ugly, fat fingers left.

The doctor took about fifteen minutes during which I almost had time to masturbate. Almost.

She entered. She was very pretty. I looked to her hands. Tiny hands - short fingers. Jackpot. This woman was the prize as far as getting my ass fingered.

She asked all the usual questions: Was I on drugs (yes), what drugs (long list), could she have some (sure). What was the problem?

"I feel like I'm peeing."

"Right now?" she asked sexily.

"Yeah," I said.

She looked at my crotch. "Are you, in fact, peeing?"

I looked down. "No, that's not pee. I had some free time. Pay it no mind."

She went through a list of possible infections. Nope. Nope. Nope. Not possible. No. My drug abuse may be rampant, but my sexual organs had been restricted to a controlled diet of masturbation and water.

"Could you take off your pants? I need to see the area."

I dropped my trousers to my ankles.

"Is there a reason you're not wearing underwear and your pubic area is shaved bald?"

"Waxed," I corrected her. "Friction scares me."

She palpated the region. "Nothing swollen."

"Well, excuse me," I said, feeling rude. My dick started getting hard.

"I meant there are no signs of infection," she said, making a rookie mistake by turning her back on my penis. She got away with it this time. "But since this is possibly a problem with your plumbing, we're going to have to do a prostate exam."

"I know," I said.

"Ok, now bend over that table. Put your elbows flat on the table. Ok."

"Listen, doc. I tried cleaning up for you, but things might be a little gross back there. I had a stomach problem earlier."

"That's ok," she pulled on a rubber glove. "It's not like I'm here for a social call."

I looked over my shoulder at her. She was frozen with a gob of lubricant on her finger.

She looked at me, "Not that that's what you do for a social call."

I smiled and tried to wink at her without using my eyes.

She got over her embarrassment and sat down behind me. Her hands were warm and gentle as she spread my ass a little.

"Waxed back here, too," she said.

"Friction," I reminded her.

"You're going to feel some pressure here." She pushed. Nothing happened. I felt pressure. She pushed again.

"You're going to have to relax a little," she said.

I took a deep breath. I relaxed my muscles. She pushed again. A finger slid into my ass.

Do these nuts make my ass look fat?

"Good. Your prostate feels fine." She felt around a little. "How's that feel?"

And, with not a hint of sarcasm, I said, "Not too bad, actually."

She froze again. I tried not to clench. She pulled out and it made the kind of sucking noise that you expect to hear when pulling a shoe out of really wet mud but that you hope your ass will never make. I don't know how much was lubricant and how much was wet shit, but I know things splashed.

I refused to look back.

"I think we'll just give you antibiotics and see if that clears it up." The doctor handed me a stack of napkins and then she was up and out the door. The slut.

Freshly fingerfucked, I wiped my ass and pulled up my pants. Great, I still needed to pee, but now I felt like cuddling, too.

HOW TO DIRTY TALK FOR WOMEN

2009-03-27T10:41:00.000-07:00

by Howie

Since I'm paying $4.99 per minute for this, you can at least learn how to do it filthier. I know your livelihood depends on keeping me on the phone as long as possible, and maybe I'll stick around afterward if you just get me off first. I probably won't. But, I might.

I'll definitely call you back if you can talk dirty enough to make me blush. So dirty it up, phone slut. If you can't get started, here's a helpful primer - and it'll help all you tongue-shy girls out there who can't ask their partners to fuck their virgin asses [or whatever (NOUN) you're into having (VERB)ed]. Note: For best results, nouns should probably be body parts.

HOW TO DIRTY TALK FOR WOMEN:

(PERSON'S NAME),

You make me so (ADJECTIVE). I've been (GERUND) my (ADJECTIVE) (NOUN) to a picture of your (NOUN) all day. My (NOUN) is so (ADVERB) (ADJECTIVE). I need your (ADJECTIVE) (NOUN) in my (ADJECTIVE) (NOUN). I want you to (VERB) me (ADVERB) until I (VERB). My (ADJECTIVE) (NOUN) is so (ADJECTIVE) for you. I can't (ADVERB) (VERB) until I have you in my (NOUN). Your (NOUN) is so (ADJECTIVE) and (ADJECTIVE) that thinking about (GERUND) it makes me want to (VERB) your (ADVERB) (ADJECTIVE) (NOUN). (EXPLETIVE)! (VERB) my (ADJECTIVE) (NOUN), before I (ADVERB) (VERB). (VERB) your (ADJECTIVE) (NOUN) in my (ADJECTIVE) (NOUN). I need your (NOUN). I'll (VERB) your (ADJECTIVE) (NOUN). (VERB) me!

(VERB) that (ADJECTIVE) (NOUN) and (VERB) your (ADJECTIVE) (NOUN) in my (EXPLETIVE) (NOUN) while I (VERB) your (ADJECTIVE) (NOUN) with my (ADVERB) (ADJECTIVE) (NOUN). I'm not going to stop until you (VERB) on my (ADJECTIVE) (NOUN).

Sincerely,

(NAME) the (ADJECTIVE) (NOUN)

Howie Made Me Horrible

2009-03-19T22:28:00.000-07:00

by Samubri

Upon awakening I was greeted by the familiar morning urge to vomit and shit at the same time. But that morning it was particularly bad. It’s the most despicable time of the day. Enough was enough. I reached under my mattress, retrieved my Glock 17 9mm and put it in my mouth. It tasted like killy. I prepared myself for seppuku.

The only thing I have in common with the samurai: suicide.

Then, an epiphany! I felt my rotten soul stir. I'd finally recognized an extremely significant truth: that I must be eradicated was a given, but first Howie must meet a wet awful death.

I took the gun out of my mouth and tucked it under my jacket. I dug through stacks of old rejected writing for my extra clips. Fuck it. Normally I’d have worked through the nausea to find them; I’m not a very good shot. When murdering my editor in times past, I’m pretty sure I remember shooting my way through at least a few interns. But this is Howie. He has no underlings. Just me.

I booted open my front door with a vengeance. I was filled with vengeance. And revenge. Revengence.

It was pedals to the metal. Pedals of Revengeance. Of course I lost my license again due to a record-breaking run of bad life decisions and drunk driving, so these pedals were attached to a Huffy. And of course, no one bothered to steal my dirt bike out of the gutter. Even the bums wouldn’t be caught dead on my Huffy.

Today, death rides a pale Huffy.

The elevator was broken, so I walked vengefully up fifteen floors. I entered Howie's office like a beaten dog. I slunk.

"Stop fucking slunking," Howie yelled. He was standing on his gigantic desk wielding a hockey stick. Amazingly, his pants were on. "Sit. Watch!"

I huffed and I puffed, but I didn’t sit down.

His pockets deflated as he emptied a collection of filthy rocks onto the desktop at his feet. He raised the hockey stick for a shot.

I covered my face from the inevitable shards of glass as he smacked a rock right out the window. In an amazing exhibit of foresight for Howie, he'd already opened the window. Fifteen stories below somebody was about to have a bad day.

"Fuck, I'm wonderful," Howie said. He tossed the hockey stick out the window. "And just what the hell do you want, Sammy?” He climbed down. “Need a raise?"

I reached into my jacket. "I-"

"Forget about it. I'm not made of money. Have a prostitute on me. That's about fair, right?"

Hand on the grip. "No, I-"

"Haven’t you ever heard, ‘don’t look a gift hooker in the mouth?’” Howie said, walking around to the back of his desk. "Fine, I'll keep the hooker. You just have a seat and let Grandpa Howie take care of you. What's the matter, son? Can't get it up?"

My gun came out. I pointed it at his balls.

“Hey now,” he said, holding up his hands in a mockery of innocence, “it’s a problem facing a lot of today’s men. Well, white men anyway.” He pointed down toward his junk. “No reason to ruin the wedding tackle of the century.”
"I was thinking today about how I'm a horrible person," I said.

He sat down in his enormously oversized brown leather chair and leaned forward on the desk, hands tented beneath his nose. He inhaled thoughtfully. "That makes sense. You are pretty vile. But shouldn’t you point that at your own balls then?"

I considered it. "I know, right? Tell you what, let me finish where I’m going with this-"

"No dice," Howie interrupted. He sashayed his feet up onto the desk, smiled smugly, and stuck the stump of a long burnt out cigar into his mouth. "I'm pretty sure you've been a creep as long as I've known you. How intact my nuts are has nothing to do with it."

I perched on the tiny decrepit stool Howie kept for his guests. I wanted to kinda be like The Crow, it being time for vengeance and all. Then I teetered off balance and almost fell. I was really drunk.

“But that's what I'm getting at, and why shooting you in the balls is relevant. I think you made me this way," I said, righting myself on the stool. I could feel how cool I looked. "You made me awful. You made me shit."

"Let’s be fair. The only one of us that has launched a turd recently is me,” said Howie. “It was around the time that you pulled out Mr. Blasty there.” He picked up a rock from his desk and tossed it out the window behind him. "I suppose it is easier for you to blame you on me than that rice-burning wife of yours. But in reality you know we’re both awesome.”

This guy has nothing on Howie.

How had he shit without me noticing? It was unnerving. I shook the thoughts away. I had to stay focused. “The longer I've known you the worse I've gotten. My drinking, my drug habits..."

"Your obsession with whining about bullshit," Howie offered.

I chambered a hollow-point. I imagined it liberating the flesh of his reproductive organs. "My general hateful attitude," I said. "I think it's really yours. I think you gave it to me."

"Herpes is NOT an emotional state. Just because I came all over your back that one time, you think I gave you hate-AIDS or something?" He spun in his chair and laughed an evil laugh. "Sammy, you dumb cunt," he sang as he spun. "You poor, dumb cunt. I expected better.”

I continued, "I used to care about stuff. I had ideals and ideas and really cared about my fellow man. I accepted humanity’s flaws and wanted to be part of the human team regardless. I didn't use to think about bestiality and poop and masturbation all at the same time."

"Donkey shows are a gateway drug. I’ve told you this so many times the words have lost all meaning.” He kept spinning, the cigar getting wet from the slobber that slowly escaped his mouth.

"You do say that a lot,” my gun slumped downward.

"YOU FUCKING HIPPY!” He spun around faster. The cigar was darkening with wetness at an alarming rate. “Your problem is you can’t stay focused. Are you kill-crazy or just crazy? Pathetic. Let’s get it on, ‘cause my time is where da money at. Your overdue review of seventies tits versus modern tits ain’t gonna write itself.”

The spinning started to make me nauseous. "I might have a real problem," I said. "I'm serious!" Normally this would be his cue to grab the puke bucket.

He stopped spinning. He looked me right in the eyes. I didn’t see him conjure a small package wrapped in aluminum foil, but then there it was. "Here you go, babydick. Just a sniff. It'll be all better. Uncle Howie is here for you."

Inside was blue and white and brown powder. "Fuck...damnit. What is this?!" I caved.

"Bought it downtown. It's an amalgamation of some horrible shit I'm sure. Voodoo shit. The most evil Goldforsaken awful stuff I've ever sniffed. Tastes a little like cherry Kool-Aid."

I shouldn't have sniffed. I should have resisted. I knew there was something I was mad about. I knew I woke up with it all figured out. I put the silver packet closer to my nose.

"That's it, you son of a whore, sniff the tits off that bitch," Howie whispered.

I inhaled as deeply and as powerfully as I ever had and I sucked that silver package of powdery love right up my nose. The world exploded. My dick got hard. I tasted cherry flavored bile and my ears caught on fire.

"Snickle MMrrreegghhhll. *DROOL* Grashnnnn. Mmm," I said to the blazing black sun that was Howie's face.

“Of course you’re sorry. And I forgive you. You pussy. Now, where's the article about nuns and autoerotic-asphyxiation?"

"I turned it in," I said, wiping the blood out of my eyes. "But I think I'm going to re-interview that nun and show her what asphyxiation is all about," I said, pausing for effect, "WITH MY COCK!"

"Atta boy," Howie said. “One more thing... and it’s super serious.”

“Anything for you, Tezcatlipoca.”

He looked like this.

Clearly something big was going on. He needed my help and the powder had left me powerless to resist his pleading eyes.

He reached out to me slowly, “Smell my hand,” he said.

I sniffed carefully. All I could say is, “Balls?”

"That's right, son. Balls," he said with a puzzled scowl, "But the question is - does it turn you on, too?”

I was left speechless as he took his hand back. He sniffed it and smiled.

"This I promise: Someday, I'm going to murder you," I vowed. I leaned back down onto his desk for another rail. “But first I’m gonna choke-fuck a nun.”

"I'm so proud of you," Howie said. "Make her call you Howie."

Reviews on Drugs: Run, Bitch, RUN!

2009-03-17T18:00:00.000-07:00

by Howie

MATERIALS
Movie: Run, Lola, Run
Drug: LSD

METHOD
Place tab on tongue. Place DVD in DVD player. Wait 30 minutes. Push play.

RESULTS
Run, Lola, Run is another in the long line of Bionic Woman-inspired pro-robot propaganda films like The Matrix, Iron Giant, and the Terminator series. What sets Run, Lola, Run apart from those other films, though, is the refreshingly sincere anti-handicap bias. The producers of this film must REALLY hate gimps (especially midget gimps). And who can blame them? There’s one massaging my brain right now even though I keep telling him to stop.

Calibos has perched on my shoulder. He compels me to mention one other thing that sets this film apart from the fractals that cover everything. Tits. Great fucking tits! Ones that talk. Ones that say things I thought only I knew.

"Bah-weep-Graaaaagnah wheep ni ni bong."
This film follows the story of a European war veteran who has had her legs blown off by a 'mentally handicapped' child armed with a teddy bear molded from C4.

Jesus stops screaming obscenities long enough to say it’s funny that she’s referred to as ‘Lola’, since her name in the movie is Holly Daypass (well, really it’s: Redhead McFloppytits). In keeping with the anti-human theme, she seeks revenge for the injuries that have caused her to lose her government sanctioned murdering privileges and her legs. I know, right?

To this end, Lola (known now as Agent Lightningpants Hottytwat) enters a secret government program that rebuilds her legs using nanobots and gyros and other mechanical whatchamawhozits and flambagery. This basically adds up to magical wonder legs. They’re just like mine- all flaccid and scaly with every hair terrifyingly prehensile. Gross!

The new and improved Lola (a.k.a. Tigerhair Musclecunt) then enters the Special Olympics, qualifying because of the injury that she blames on the 'special human' and the little bugs that won’t stop crawling all over me.

Jesus, do you see these bugs? Can you do something about them?

U.S.A.! U.S.A.! U.S.A.! Ahhh! Get them off me!!!
Without giving much away, I can tell you that the pro-robot (anti-retard) message is clearly displayed as Lola (Whipplenips Sextooter) sprints the 50 yard dash on powerful silver legs, crushing ‘tards with every stomp of her two-ton steel feet.

The other strange detail I would like to bring up in this review involves the romantic subplot. When the Kafka-inspired robotical cockroach and our heroine, Boobmother Redsnatch, make love, it's the most touching moment of the movie; watching their warped and twisted bodies warp and twist around reminds each of us that making love is something robots were made for. It also reminds me I might throw up.

CONCLUSION
I fully support the tyrannical rule of our mechanical masters (because they’re watching me). On the other hand, I feel that this kind of obvious pandering in a movie about the Special Olympics is in poor taste. Like the taste in my mouth. The acting is hard to judge, since I’m upside down and the whole thing is in Spanish and I don't 'do' subtitles. Don’t get me wrong, watching Crankylegs Clownhair run does do something for me- it makes me taste some serious Blue! And that points out the one thing that neither robot nor computer will ever be able to improve upon: tits. All-knowing, all-powerful tits.

You can fly. Go try now.

It’s True. Samubri is a Bad Person.

2009-03-12T20:00:00.000-07:00

by Howie

Editor's Note: Samubri sucks. No. He does. It becomes apparent the first time you meet him that he is one of the lowliest drunk fucking retarded cunts you'll ever know. He steals. He cheats. He drinks paint-thinner and kicks puppies. He's also a liar.

This is an e-mail he sent me a while ago, and I have to post it so that the world knows how horrible he really is. Samubri is a bad person.

Shit. My wife's home.

Shit shit shit.

It's that fucking dog's fault. That stupid fucking yippy goddamn dog.

6:30 in the morning that fucking thing was barking like somebody had taken a crap in his food dish (to which I am neither admitting nor denying - it was a long night). But 6 fucking 30?

I called the cops.

"Yes sir," some donutpuncher said. "It's a dog sir. Yes. They do bark, sir."

"Goddamn it that dog fucking hole shit!"

"A valid point, sir."

"Eat munchy dog bung!"

I'm not the most coherent in the morning. I called him a fag and hung up.

Telecommunication's blackest moment.

6 fucking 30? Holy hell, I was awake and thirsty. My mouth tasted like dog ass. It was a hard night. So, I figured I'd have some orange juice for breakfast.

And, hell, why not Irish it up a little. And a little more. And now it's 5:30 in the afternoon and I've been drunk for the entire day and my wife is home.

Fuckdamnit.

I can hear those tiny feet tiptoeing up to the door. Her key sounds like a dirge. I can't stand the light of day as she opens the door.

"You stupid drunk again," she screams as she walks in to find me half-naked in my usual bathrobe. "You like whale! Drunk whale on the floor. You can't even get up."

And that part is true, sure. But I could get up if I wanted to, probably.

Where's the bar? I can drive.

"I work for 10 hours. My feet bleeding." She takes off a shoe and throws it at my face. I nimbly heave out of the way and it hits me in the face. "I bleeding and you like a fat, drunk whale. Need water, fat whale?"

I manage to roll onto my back. I almost black out from the strain. With the impeccable delivery of an elderly British neurophysiology professor mixed with 10% pure awesome, I slur, “I’m only this drunk because your pussy is all fucked up sideways.”

My wife recoils. “Crazy drunk whale stop talking!”

“You know it’s true,” I reply. “I can’t tell if I’m eating pussy or French kissing a senior citizen. It’s not fair, I was raised on pork chops and cheeses; I can’t adjust to this ‘Land of the Setting Sun’ slanted discrepancy.”

I should be divorced at this point. Instead I win everything. She doesn’t know it just yet.

"NO! I come to America. I leave my family. You only get fatter and drunk. Sumo not fat like you. Fat, drunk baby can't get up. You sick!"

I barf into a Target bag and quip, “Your horizontal vagina made me what I am. So I’m the pretty much the Batman, and you… well, you’re the Joker. It's like Japan’s women fell into a vat of chemical waste and it totally mutated the collective pussy of your entire race. Fuckdamnit, it's weird.”

Pictured: Japanese Pussy

My Vulcan logic is super-sound. She has no choice but to surrender as I open up my robe and flick my dick against my belly.

"You make sense,” she relents. “My broken Engrish no defense against big American cock. I poo on you face now. You like it. Drunk whale cock good for make baby".

So we got to makin’ baby. Life is funny. I know I'm a horrible person. Everybody knows it. But here I am getting awesome ass and I'm still a whiney bitch. Somebody should hurt me. Please.

My Editor is a Dick

2009-03-08T20:40:00.000-07:00

by Samubri

It’s your typical weekday, 6:15am, and I shouldn't be awake. I wouldn’t be, if it weren’t for the barrage of new text messages I’ve been getting since 5:58. Stupidly, I’ve left my phone out of arm’s reach and I’m unable to hit it with various objects from my headboard. I throw an empty beer bottle. I throw an empty gin bottle. I throw an empty tube of Anal Eze. I'm a terrible throw. I really don't give a fuck what the messages say, but in the spirit of righteous anger I check anyway. For a brief shining instant I think maybe my long run as an unemployed fat embarrassment is over as I see the words: I’ve got a job for you… then the feeling is gone as I see the message is from Howie.

“See, we’re going to get all our friends to send in pictures of their cocks, pussies, and assholes, then we’ll start a blog writing funny negative reviews of them. We’ll publish it on the internet and in a couple of days we’ll be lighting diamond cigars with 100 dollar bills cast in platinum and getting tired of fucking every supermodel ever.”

How Howie manages to lay out this pitch off the cuff at 6:22am before I can unleash the stream of obscenities that motivated me to call him back is just one of the things that prompts me to ask ‘Which one of us is shooting crystal meth into our dicks? I know, right?’, but instead I go for the obvious objection.

“Dude, no one is going to send us pictures of their genitals. And except for your Grandma, I’m your only friend, and I’m not falling for this again. I’m pretty sure she won’t either.” That should shut him up.

This time she's ready for him.

“Well, we can keep it anonymous. They don’t have to show their face. Shit, no-one wants to see their fuckedup mugs anyway. Golddamnit who wouldn’t do this? Now get out your Macbook and point that iSight at your turdcutter.”

Damn him. This is not the first time we've had this conversation. I should have known this wouldn't be the last. I also should have known that this would be the only purpose Howie would even consider for my Macbook.

Every morning it’s the same. “Wake up, fucktard. Did you get me pictures of your wife’s asshole yet?” or “Don’t you want to eat unicorn steaks glazed with puppy-dreams, pity-fuck Rainbow Brite, and shit Skittles? I mean, taste the rainbow, motherfucker!”

This is NOT what she looks like.

I don’t really know how to answer. I guess the problem is I don’t immediately feel like I don’t want to do those things…

“Well, then call up your pal 20 D and get me pictures of his crooked, shiesty dick right now! While you're on the phone, tell that whore Mary to unblock my number and e-mail. This digital calendar is driving me fucking nuts. Pop-ups keep bitching at me to remind Mary that ‘her pussy’s not gonna photograph itself’. I can’t stand overdue tasks.”

When Howie can’t get others to immediately drop whatever they’re doing and post something to his latest 2-week-lifespan bloggling, well, he just harasses them in what experts suspect is ‘eye-gougingly annoying’. The usually response is (like any sane person) that they cut off his avenues of communication. Unfortunately this doesn’t stop him, it just becomes my problem.

3am and the phone rings. My wife answers it and almost immediately begins crying. I take the phone away from her. "Who the fuck is this?"

"Tell your wife that if she's gonna blubber at me in Japanese, she needs to warn me so I can get my pants off first," Howie says. "And I've changed my mind. We've got to do more than just ridicule the fucking idiots who send us pictures of their junk, we've got to craft a narrative out of these fucking useless cocks and cunts. Like a genital parable, see? They'll teach moral lessons . . . with crotches."

Maybe I’m to blame for encouraging him, but now I’m the hardest working unpaid blog writer in the world. Most people that blog don’t make money from it, but the idea is that it’s their own personal topics and writings that end up there. I get all the ‘zero readership’ and moneylessness of your average blogger, only I have J. Jonah Jameson barking at me via cellphone (or my wife if I don’t answer) pre-dawn to demand the latest ‘shots’ of my cock and balls webslinging around the city.

“Where’s your latest assignment? We’re going to start losing readers if you don’t get that shit posted,” grunts Howie through teeth clenched around a cigar(?).

I roll over in bed and fall right onto the pile of bottles and underwear I casually discarded before passing out the night before. “FUCK I’M BLEEDING!!!” I scream.

I hear Howie’s voice through the phone even though it’s several yards away now. “ALL YOUR HOLES WILL BLEED!” he screams, “I WILL FUCKSTAIN YOUR WHOLE BODY IF YOU DON’T GET TO THAT FESTERING CUM-BUCKET YOU CALL A KEYBOARD AND GIVE ME 500 WORDS ON WHY YOU LOVE FUCKING FATTIES NOW THAT YOU’RE A FAT FUCK-DICK CUNT SHITTER PUKEFAG.”

I’d go on, but it gets pretty graphic after this.

So here you go Howie, you fucking cunt. I’m going back to bed.

I am the Fiat King, I Can Decry Anything.

2009-03-05T11:14:00.000-08:00

by Howie

As I was telling Samubri the other day, "I have to be able to trust you to tell me the truth when I lie to you. Our entire relationship is built on that dynamic."

Samubri nodded in eager agreement and I gave him a wink and a glare.

"This is proven mathematically," I said, ashing my obscenely large cigar in his glass of scotch. "Your truth equals 1 and my lie equals negative 1. Adding them together returns us to a state of normality. We can see that two wrongs don't make a right, but a right and a wrong are just right."

Don't worry. Not all math makes you gay.

I considered my excellent point and my magnificent image reflected in the highly polished gleam of my mahogany desk. "Pfft. Who's the giant pussy who first came up with the line ‘Two wrongs don't make a right?’ I’d like to think that when this Morality Squirrel first said those words, right after he pushed his glasses up his nose, he had his skull split by an axe-wielding barbarian."

I looked up from my penis and Samubri was gone, possibly had been gone for a while. Not that I cared. I had a new theory.

Anyway, the Truth/Lie Balance Theorum (as I'd like you to call it) was born, and it was after this beautiful decree that I realized I have a bad habit of making new rules out of nowhere. I start off with a good idea- well, that’s not exactly true… I guess I start out with some obscene imagery- but eventually THAT leads to a “good” idea (at least in my head [where it counts]). Then I start thinking of it as a rule, and then I expect others to follow that rule. I know, right?!

Ignorance of my laws is no excuse. Stupidity will save no one. Ma’am, you’re going to have to calm down or me and Officer Dickert will put you in restraints.

I thought, "Golddamnit, there should be a word for this kind of behavior." Thus did I turn to the bastion of all intelligent discussion upon human behavior from now and for all perpetuity: the internet.

And, holy twat, I found a new word... well, not "Found" because it wasn't really lost. And let's be honest, it isn't really a 'new' word, either. I guess you could say, it's an old word. And I'd heard it before. So I guess I didn't find a new word. Let’s forget about this paragraph.

Gaylord Leeper III says, "Forget..."

I'll start over.

Holy shit, if I didn't find an old word! It's "fiat" and it means: 3) an arbitrary decree or pronouncement, esp. by a person or group of persons having absolute authority to enforce it.

YAY! I love everything about this word, except for the sound of it, which is stupid. It's also an Italian sports car, and while we may have saved their asses in world war 2 (right?), I'm still not going to put up with their mustaches (and they saved our asses in world war 5, a.k.a. Jason Ten).

And if I look up Fiat in Wikipedia, which I do, it shows me a picture of a little car with this written beneath it: "Fiat Grande Punto", which, if I'm not mistaken, (and I rarely am, and even if I am, I rarely think about it and I hear that 'I think, therefore I am', and since I don't think about being wrong, therefore I'm not), translates into: FIAT! Great Point!

Those self-congratulating bastards. “I'm sooo good and smart and Italian and I make-a-you-a consistently fabulous conclusion to my statements! Also, I make-a-you the spaghetti.”

That was sarcasm. I'm good at it. I also excel at irony and eating popcorn and q-tip usage.

My Grande Punto being that a fiat is what I constantly do, or wait... is that right? Can you fiat? I fiatted? Yeah. What the hell, I fiat that I can fiat. It's now a verb if it wasn’t before.

Did that sound like I just said I farted? I fiat that fiatted no longer sounds like "farted". So let it be known, so it is.

I think I'm fiatting here!

And right now I fiat that you (whoever you are) should write humorous comments to this blog - then when I have my morning coffee, I would have something to read that interests me instead of being forced to look up before-and-after pictures of post-op transsexuals to see if I'd do them now that they have/don't have a penis.

That last sentence is long and possibly confusing, but it's not a joke. Just ask my grandmother (and while you're at it, tell that bitch to mind her own fucking business).

I totally would. I'd fuck him silly.
But, no balls-on-balls. That's just gross.

ps. If you've got no idea about what to comment or suffer from writer's block, pictures of your genitals make a nice substitute and a great Christmas present. Just an FYI.

A Graduation Speech

2009-03-04T18:59:00.000-08:00

by Samubri

HOWIE: "It's ok. I still think you're cool..”
SAMUBRI: “Thanks. Oh… shit. I forgot why I called you. I had something to tell you… shit.”
HOWIE: “My praise de-railed you. Let me get you back on track: You’re fat and nobody likes you.”
SAMUBRI: “Oh yeah! I remember. It’s 11:47am and I want to start drinking.”

You know, when I was first told I would have to attend AA meetings, I came with a willingness to give it a chance. That's not like me. I'm the type of person that tries new things only when they're drug or sex related, like snorting donkey cum. But, this is very anti-drug. I thought I'd try anyway. I reasoned that if I was going to sit through these meetings and be charged money to do so, I should get something out of it. I should participate. I should try. You said so. Unfortunately, I listened.

Oh, like you haven't thought about it.

The more I sit through these meetings, the more I have come to realize how self-absorbed and delusional you are. I can see that the whole point of this is for us to have self esteem- without teaching us to improve who we are. Like, loving yourself is ok even if you haven’t earned it.

It's not. Stop it.

I’d practically forgotten: alcohol is a drug. Frankly, I’d dismissed it. Through a strange twist of false pretention, I’d stopped considering alcohol as a viable addition to the smorgasbord of drug abuse that is my life. AA reminded me that alcohol is still quite useful (if a bit primitive).

No other drug is as accepted. You can get pants-shittingly drunk at an Applebee's while you watch the nuclear families practice passive aggressive hatred. You can't smoke in bars but you can get so fucking loaded on alcohol that your breath becomes flammable. I personally have gotten away with screaming about my mother-issues to an equally inebriated blonde girl who would have blown me for even the smallest compliment about her awful face. You can drink anywhere, even while writing!

I drink, therefore I blog

It was the perfect time to be re-educated. With no driver’s license, no money, and no car- I thought to myself: why not be shitfaced all the time? Integrating planned drinking into my life was a fine substitute for the hard drugs I could no longer afford.

Post AA Schedule:
11:00am wake up a second time.
11:30am finish breakfast, gather 7UP & crushed ice
11:45am call Howie, start drinking
12:45pm call Howie again, now shitfaced, until he makes you feel bad enough that it’s nap time
5:30pm wake up, take a shower
7:00pm dinner time
7:25pm start drinking

AA has not only whetted my desire for self-destruction, it has fueled my imagination, leading to daydreams in which I could shove neon-sparkling gems in my various bodily openings in order to get high. Fuck, I'd shove a LSD dildo up my ass if I thought it would get me higher or improve my trip. I’d conscript a velvet painting in which I did so (the dildo would be on fire like Hendrix’s guitar in later versions).

I hope I'm this happy when my balls are on fire.

In the end, the lesson I have learned from AA is that I miss drugs. Real drugs. I miss snorting and smoking strange things bought from dangerous (greasy) people. I want the good times back. I want to get higher than God on PCP- and beat my wife to boot. I want to snort half my paycheck up each nostril. I crave a crack pipe hanging from my dusty lips, reminiscent of the half-swallowed cock that paid for it. I need to smoke dope from an apple bong and shoot crack into a vein in my balls and jerk-off to images that would make my mom cry and start licking the fucking linoleum when I’m coming down - just in case I dropped a single fucking flake of precious powder. I like who I am when I'm too stoned to scratch my balls without forgetting what I'm doing halfway through.

I love being fucked out of my gourd, and without AA I never would have truly accepted this. And I want to thank you self-deluding pricks and whiny twats for giving me the strength to face that truth. My name is Tito Puente, and I love being an addict.

Could I ever be this high?

I Just Want Your Dad To Say: "I Like Fucking Fat Chicks"

2009-03-04T15:05:00.000-08:00

by Samubri

I’ve really had just about enough of your Dad and his bullshit. Who does he think he is? I mean, he’s an adult- not only that, but the father of an adult, and he still feels the need to hide his true feelings. It’s doubly enraging that he doesn’t hide them very well.

Sure, he’s got a pin-up calendar in the garage with typical hot skinny bitches, and I have to say your Mom has maintained quite a figure- but he’s not fooling anyone. It sounds so contrived whenever he spots a svelte model on TV and makes a lewd comment about 'splitting that bitch open'. He’s like, the worst actor in the world, and as punishment for his horrible performances he should have to admit to me in person that he’s the A #1 chubby chaser of all time.

Your mom's so hungry. Let mom eat!

We’ve all seen his car parked outside Jenny Craig. Remember when he first got the internet and didn’t know about the history tab? I found all those BBW message boards and plus-sized porn sites and I totally thought it was you. Man that was the funniest shit ever when you had to blame it on your Dad. It took like 2 years for us to admit that we believed you. And that’s the other thing that sticks in my pisshole. I could have busted your chops about getting stranded on Plumper’s Island for your entire life if your Dad wasn’t so transparent. Goddamn him.

I mean, it’s not even that weird that he’s cuckoo for creampuffs. Sure, it’s not a fetish that everyone has, but at least he’s not a goat-fucker or an underwear-sniffer or Japanese. Strip clubs on Tuesday afternoons could be his new thing, whenever a fat stripper busts a dumpy humpty-dumpty dance, it could be for him. All for him.

Your mom could get off the Stairmaster and start eating pie all the time. She doesn't need that weird leather lingerie; she just needs love handles. We could get him a part-time job at Lane Bryant or Pizza Hut. We could get your Dad so damn laid if he would just admit it.

This cat loves pies, too. Creampies, that is.
It's time for you to call the old man out. You’re his child, it’s your responsibility. Get the fuck out of here right now and go to your parents’ house and get your Dad. Then meet me at Baskin Robbins cause I want to hear your dad admit that he wants a fat chick to slog his hog. And fuckdamnit, I'm not giving up until he does.

I Forgot I Wasn't A Magical Elf, And It Cost Me Dearly

2008-10-26T23:02:00.000-07:00

by Samubri

yup, i forgot for a second to buy my own stream of curmudgeonly bullshit- instead i acted like a naive noob and went off all gung-ho. i let hope & dreams guide my actions, and fucked everything up. everyone loses now, especially me. and i did it at work, so i can point to an actual dollar amount i lost as a result...

i get offered this project- the peeps working on it are a bonus, the money is blah, but the position is solid, and the client is a good person. i'm reluctant but I take the interview. the client and i really hit it off and due to a bunch of factors, develop a genuine kinship with each other in a very short amount of time. although it's micro budget, it's shaping up as good as any micro feature can. the client feels really grateful to have found me, and i feel instant loyalty toward him. the best part is that i'm sure to make at least enough money to have a little bit of xmas lootz for the loved ones. we both get really excited.

Pictured: Not me.

and this is where we both fuck it up completely. instead of hiring me as a line producer, he offers to make me supervising producer. this would give me authority over anyone else that is involved in the movie, and in most cases, even the client himself. i'm just blown away at this point. it's our second meeting and all i've done is give my best, most honest advice. it's so successful so fast... i find myself genuinely touched; i realize that i already care a great deal about the project.

i forget i'm not a magical elf. i'm instantly being pulled along by the nose by hope and ideals. i've been jaded since grade school for fuck's sake- i've made it a point to debate nearly anyone i meet that dares to believe life is good or that things mean stuff, and here i am chasing a fucking star. it's like, "hey who's that guy? oh he's just a fat asshole" then you blink your eyes and it's like "wait a sec, i recognize that guy... he's on the E.L. Fudge box."

i'm unaware of this transition, so instead of putting in my job app with Keebler, i realize that i haven't been honest about one extremely important thing... i hate the script. as a line producer for hire, this isn't a problem at all. i want the project to be as successful as possible, but when they hire me it's time for pre-production- development is over, and it's totally reasonable for me to assume the client has presented me with the script he wants to shoot. if they meet my terms, i make the best possible movie i can with what they give me.

as a producer, more so as supervising producer, and mostly as magical elf, i should totally care. i'm suddenly filled with responsibility and righteous purpose. i feel in my heart that it's time to rise to the occasion and really try to make a great movie. i decide that if i take the position and the title, i can do no less. in the next 24 hours, i sprinkle fairy dust across my keyboard and think of a plan of how i can do it.

one week after our first meeting i've convinced the client to let me find another writer and fix the script. my conditions include equal creative control. i'm 90% along the way to completing this deal in writing. i put the brakes on the project and formally announce my intention to do whatever it takes to make a good movie and apologize to the contact that got me the gig, as returning to the development stage makes it very unlikely we will shoot the movie in 2008.

i wake up the next day and realize i'm a total dumbass. if i take this opportunity, it's sure to interfere with a much more promising, much higher paying job coming soon. i realize that if i obey my own principles fully i probably won't make any money from the project until at least next year. i won't explain why (just trust me, i have reasons) but i can't even cash the check i already got with a clean conscience.

Still not me.

it's time to wrap this up, but the conclusion ends up being the best solution is for me to walk away completely, and for the client to continue on his original course of action. i think that he will really try and get me to stay even still, but it's my honest advice that it's not cost-effective to hire me in this situation. i won't go into it, but my logic is sound considering what's best for the picture.

and that's where i end up. if i would have just followed my instincts as a line producer, i would a) have money right now b) add another feature to my resume c) be working with people i like, etc. etc. and i could probably still find a way to salvage this into something useful, but really i'm just too embarrassed.

i had it in the bag... everything i wanted out of the gig i was guaranteed to get. then i got caught up in hope. i let ideas and ideals dictate the course of my actions. i saw a tiny chance to live the dream- but to even take one step in that direction resulted in immediate implosion. at the very least i've inconvenienced this client by delaying production a week, i've lost immediate income, i've wasted valuable time, emotionally wounded myself, and ruined Christmas.

trying to do the best job i could was wrong. hoping i could make a good movie was wrong. telling the truth was wrong. chasing my dream was wrong. and don't try and tell me it wasn't- now that i remember i'm not a magical elf, i'm once again inclined to define right & wrong by what is successful.

but hope springs eternal...

Me.

The No-Mind of Writing

2008-04-26T07:32:00.000-07:00

by Howie

The first day of class, I pace the front of the room. My feet fall without a sound as I look into the young faces of my new pupils. There is nothing looking back at me. I write the word "you" on the chalkboard.

I walk into the rows of desks and ask, "What does this word mean? Who are you?"

No one answers. Their silence is acceptable in any other situation, but I asked a question. I walk up behind a young girl. She is blonde and proud and pretty. Leaning over her, I say, "Give me one sentence that sums you up."

Her voice is soft but sure as she says, "I'm 19 and I live with my parents."

I say, "I don't care."

I move on, my hands clasped behind my back. A boy with long hair and dark glasses, his skin pimpled and sore, watches me. To him, I ask again.

"I'm going to college to –"

"Who fucking cares?"

"But, I'm answering your question!"

"Too bad. Don't care."

Moving on, one by one, I ask them all. Every time they answer, I cut them off with a bark.

The best writing advice is taught with the back of my hand.

Finally, a boy says, "Stop it. You're scaring me."

"Ok. Now, I know who you are. Now I understand you. Everything else is just a lie that you're telling yourself to justify what you're doing in life. You are nothing. You're worse than nothing – you're a bad writer. The purpose of writing is to get a thought across to another person. You suck at it. Everything you do is wrong."

I stride back to the chalkboard. I ask, "Now, who are you?"

Armed with their clever or pissed off answers, I let them all answer one by one. I am careful that they don't use a single cliché (the penalty for which is a spiritually cleansing shout of the words "CLICHÉ! DON'T CARE," while threateningly brandishing a hockey stick).

"I'm a girl," one meek little blonde says.

"I'll slapshot you!" I roar, jumping upon her desk. The soft glow of my hockey stick's shaft beneath the cold lights highlights my effective teaching technique.

Pictured: a pen. Or a sword. I get confused.

"Do not begin with 'I'," I say calmly as I hide the hockey stick behind my back, still hovering above the meek blonde. "Now, who are you?"

A pause. The class is silent except for the tinkling of piss dripping from the chairs.

"My parents brought me back from the hospital and I –"

"There is no 'I'!" I say, assuming the lotus position on the desk, my sword hand hovering over the hilt of my hockey stick like a gunslinger with an itch worse than crabs. I'm totally Zen and deadly.

"But, I'm scared."

I jump off the desk and pace the room. The whole lesson has taken less than five minutes at this point, but already I am discouraged. The words of my Master echo through my head. Unfortunately, he only spoke in Chinese.

"The first thing you should know," I say, "is that I want you all dead. Not dead in a metaphoric way, like some ethereal lala-bullshit or dead in the "you have no self" Buddhist way. NO. Dead. I'd love to bathe in a pile of your corpses!"

Beneath my breath, " . . . and I just might."

The hockey stick appears in my hand as if it has a mind of its own, my hand barely catching it in time. "My blade thirsts for blood!"

A man screams and I point the stick at him and I mockingly say, "You're on the list, cupcake."

"Lesson two: sooner or later, I will have my revenge on the men that killed my master." Here, I pause and stare into the eyes of every last student. Darting eye movements, paranoia. Are they the ones? Could they be of the ninja clan? How would I know?

Pictured: Badass.

"Lesson three: I have gathered you all here for a special mission. Many of you might not return, but those who do will go on to live a peaceful life of solitude and self-loathing. You are to be writers. Not fucking pussy-bitches, as my Master often said. Now, who are you?"

In unison, the entire class shouts, "Who fucking cares!"

I nod. My work here is done for today.

The battle has begun.

"The lesson you might take from my class is that you are not the ones telling the story; the narrator is. Or, maybe that self-indulgence is boring to a reader unless it's done REALLY well. In truth, I'm just trying to get through to you, especially you, cupcake, that I really don't care and I would rather see my stick's thirst sated."

"Dismissed," I say

Smoking and Fucking

2008-02-07T12:00:00.000-08:00

by Howie

Quitting smoking is a lot like quitting fucking. Sure, there was a time when you didn't. Way back, in some time that doesn't really exist (you're not quite sure it ever did), you lived without smoking or fucking. You were a virgin.

Who wants to be a virgin? Even Mary must have had doubts. I've known a Mary or two in my times, and I suspect that Mary was a virgin in only the strictest definition. Like Clinton said, it depends on what your definition of 'is' is. Blowjobs, handjobs, and anal don't count... right?

Not just a cigar.

That's right, Mary. Remember, my love: it's not cheating if you don't swallow, and eating is not cheating. Just don't tell God. He's wrathful, I hear.

I could live without ever fucking again, but what would be the point? After a week of not smoking, I start thinking the same way. It's the worst part of quitting smoking, when rationalization is just starting to make sense.

You know it's bullshit, but you can't help thinking, "Why bother living if you can't live happy?" This is the worst part of having a brain: its ability to trick itself. Your brain isn't under your control anymore than any other part of your nervous system. Sure, you can tell your arm to move or your fingers to type or your bladder to empty, but if they want to do it on their own, you don't have a choice.

Constantly fucking you over.

Smoking sucks as much as not smoking. I figure it doesn't matter which you do, as long as you stick to one. If you think you can live without lungs, and I'm not saying you can't, then go for it. If you think you can live without fucking, then more power to you, brother/sister.

There's something about cigarettes, though. Like any love, there is an energizing element about cigarettes, as well as a self-destructive element. Something primal and sexual.

Cigarettes are like a beautiful whore spread eagle on an old mattress, brown and yellow stains outlining the pale body. The rent on the room expires in fifteen minutes and a bouncer with a PCP habit is just waiting to stomp you, steal your money, and toss your naked ass into the street if you're a second too long. Then the little slut says, "I love you," and you believe her, and you think that maybe you love her, too.

Love is always dangerous. Any addiction is dangerous. We take it in, we hold it in, and we pray that we don't have to exhale. And we'll do our damnedest not to exhale until we're sure we have another drag coming along.

Quitting smoking is like breaking up. It's a decision to be alone, to put down the crutch, to walk with the painful limp.

It's also a decision to breathe, again. Fresh air, a new love, life. It's all just a choice. Smoke, fuck, love. Choose.

Last words: I'd rather be fucking.

Some of this rant is tangential and sappy, but both are easily explained: my brain is rewiring itself by abandoning old pathways and making new connections; and I always get sentimental on meth.