Guests and such

If I were a home-invasion robber I would be the kind that snuck in while everyone was away. My first task would be to straighten up the place. Ho knows what it's like to come home to a dirty house...it can make or break an evening. When you walk in and the dishes are done and the floor is clean of scrappy bits of paper and cat litter and laundry lint--it can really brighten a day.

After the cleaning is done I would put on the marinara. A good sauce can take hours to stew. I would make two kinds, one with the finest of sausage--the fat slowly leaking out into the tomatoes and impregnating the spices with fatty joy and also a vegetarian sauce, just in case i've invaded a house of homos or haris.

While the sauce is cooking, I'd sit down for a rest and watch Oprah. Perhaps I'd make some tea if they have green tea, which is what Ho prefers. The Japanese really have it down where tea is concerned.

At around 5 o'clock I would mix the martinis. A double traditional for the man and a cosmo for the women. Cosmos are pretty but they taste like shit. They also pull your balls up into your abdomen so they are best avoided, gentlemen.

I would hand off the drinks and quickly usher them to the prepared table and sit them down. We would discuss their day and that retard feeding tube girl and we'd laugh and laugh about how the pope also has a feeding tube and the similarities and how we're all going to hell for thinking about that.

After dinner I would do the dishes while they watched TV and got ready for bed. I would tuck them in with a gentle kiss on the brow and an unintentional grope of the Mrs. saying, "Oh, sorry young miss, was that your boob? It was very soft and firm, but surely I did not mean to grope you."

We would laugh about the mishap. Not her husband though. He can be a real bastard sometimes.

After I heard their rythmic sleep sounds I would steal all of the good things. The money, the pron and the rest of the vodka, but not the cranberry juice, no. Not that. I mean, a fair day's labor for a fair day's pay, that's what I say.

I've been really lifting weights

If I were a vagina I would build up the smooth muscles of the soft vaginal wall until the muscles rippled like pink sheened six-pack abs.

On the wall of my vagina...THE VAGINAL WALL...I would tattoo the prettiest pictures of soft flowers and brands of beer so that when the penis came in he would feel right at home.

After the penis got comfy I would trap him with the iron grip of the vaginal walls.

He would go from, "Hey, this is pretty sweet."

To, "Hey, you have a pretty strong vagina...so strong I can't even move."

I'd say, "SILENCE."

Then I would take my GREAT VAGINAL ARM and reach deep into my fallopian tube (the left one, of course) and bring out an egg.

The penis would say, "Hey, now...careful...what are you going to do with ..."

He would break off there because I'd plunge the egg down through his penal eye and plant it right in the vas deferens.

Then I would shoot out the penis and seal the vagina with a thick mucous coating having passed on my seed.

Please enjoy the pictures of the story.

Ipods and stds

The word clamidia makes me giggle when I hear it. Except when the doctor says, "You have clamidia." Kinda loses its fun when that happens. Not...that it has ever happened.

Now on to the meat of the subject. There's this Ipod commercial that is on all the time where these dancers are in sillhouete (Did you mean: silhouette? probably). There's this one dancer who is in a mini skirt and she just dances around w/ the popular Ipod.



At first I didn't really think about her. Now I do all the time. Is it bad to want to fuck a silhouette? I'm pretty sure it is, but I can't help myself.

If I met her, I would dress up in my nicest outfit. I'd have a martini in hand and I'd saunter over and say, "Nice skirt." That nice skirt gets them all the time.

She wouldn't hear me, of course, because she'd be rocking out to the Ipod.

Then I'd probably yell it, "NICE SKIRT."

"Huh?" she'd say, removing one earpiece.

"Nice skirt," I'd say while swirling my cocktail and giving her the smoothe gaze of my ... gaze.

"Whatever."

I'm sure she'd say, "Whatever."

Then I'd have my dog attack her. I never was good w/ rejection.

Etymology

As many of you know, I am an amateur etymologist. I have been feverishly studying the word idealist lately and I think I've come upon its true meaning.

The first part of the word I stands for I as in I'm an idealist or I love sex. It's a pointer letter/word that points to I. The letter D stands for deficiency. I didn't give my homework. Well you get a D slack-ass slackah.

Here's the tricky part. Eal should really be eel. Like the creepy fish that live in rocks and shoot out and attack you at the beach.

Finally ist. Ist is ... well, ist. Ist is complicated. Basically it means ist. Like linguist or journalist. See?

Anyway, it turns out that it's a lack of eels that make people idealists.

"Hey, we should ban all wars."

Nice job, eat your eel, hippie.

"We should legalize pot."

Yes, we should. We really should. But eat your eel, hippie.

These would be special eels. Eels that are inserted...predictably into the vagina or the anus...or the nose. They'll be like the gooooaaaaaauuuuulds of Stargate SG-1. I happen to have extra eels if you know anyone who needs some.

Well I've been reading

On vacation I read the following:



Precious short on cod, though. I got it for the fucking cod. Weak, I know but it made me laugh.

Am I the only guy that thought this book blew? Work that into an anagram, I dare you. My next book will be an anagram of Dan Brown Sucks. That's it. One long, tedious anagram.

On to more interesting things. At least to me.

I wish my name were Scott. Scott who occasionally reads this site...you're the luckiest guy ever because of your name.

If my name was Scott and I met new people I'd extend my left hand...as that's always distracting... and say,

"I'm Scott and you're not."

Most people would say nothing...being confused or irritated. Because I'd say it in a tone of superiority. I'm Scott...pause...and you're (extend the you're and make sure they know I spell it right IN MY MIND) not.

This is great until you actually run across another guy named Scott. Mostly they wouldn't say anything, but sometimes you'd run across a Scott who replied, "I'm Scott, too."

I'd reply, "No, you're not." Quietly so they didn't think I was defying them, but they'd hear and they'd say, "I heard you. And I most certainly am Scott."

Then I'd kill them and eat their body because I'm 1/2 cannibal.

Best not to be named Scott when I'm around.

What for Lent

Many of you don't know this, but I am a very good Catholic. People who know me call me the best Catholic ever. Really they shout it, BEST CATHOLIC EVER. I think it's a sign of decreasing membership that anyone shouts Blog Ho, Best Catholic Ever, but I take praise where I can find it.

We Catholics believe in this one thing where ... at the end of days ... we all come back and get back into our bodies. I forget what it's actually called, but it's very scary and also very exciting. I can picture me getting into my dead skeleton and walking around scaring people.

Then it ocurred to me. Other people's bodies. I would totally get into someone else's body and walk around. Hang out with his old friends--laugh at their lame inside jokes. Drink his whiskey, drive his old car, nail his old girlfriend, pet his old dog (dogs go to heaven). I think this person would be Arnold Schwartzenegger. I know he's old and short, but he's rich and has a hot wife and nice cars. And that's what I'm about. Hot chicks and nice cars. And nice dogs. I was bitten once by a german shepherd. I have the scar if you want to see it.

Which leads me to my next topic...consumerism. As you know, I'm the consumate Capitalist. Some call me the Best Capitalist Ever. That being said, I have decided I want to sell t-shirts. Mostly to my mom, but to other mothers as well. Or fathers. Or anyone, I suppose.

The t-shirt will be white and cotton, two very fine things. It will feature a logo which is my face and down the left will be my name...Blog Ho. But maybe in caps and dripping blood. Or maybe not. At the bottom will be a clever slogan. Right now I have Daily Dose of Profanity, but I'm not sold on that.

Any suggestions for clever captions are welcome. I'm also tempted to append a huge rack of boobs to the shirt like those t-shirts that feature lovely young boobs or giant pecs and swimmers w/ surfboards.

I was nigh struck down dead

Sorry to those who have come before...I was reminded to note that this particular post is ... not safe for work. Unless you work in pron. Then it is safe. Or you work in a church. Then it's double plus safe. A penis may, or may not be visible later. But count more on the may side of things.

I recently received something in my e-mail that was so profoundly disgusting that I first retched, then re-retched, then finally did a small twist and landed in the full-on-splits, and not the sissy front way, but the side way. The tearring sound was two things, loud and painful and I nearly deleted the picture from my machine a la military delete, but I could no longer stand.

Later, after ice and hot packs on my strained ligaments I decided the thing to do would be to share my shock, pain and horror with you--because I love you.

My friend Chief, as you may know, failed out of whore school. It's more appropriate to say he was pushed out of whore school by a pack of jealous whores. He scored a 33 out of 33 on the final whore test which has only been done once before...by Madonna. That's right...and not the virgin Madonna, no. By poor Guy Ritchie's aging Madonna.

Well, the jealousy and anger and pissyness raged so high that a whorish lynch mob came to the dorms and he was forced to flee and ended up taking an incomplete in his last course...How to Make Friends and Influence People.

That said, I bring you his version of Megalodong, which he likes to call, Boneshark.

Game Show Idea #37

Featuring me as the host who also fights the contestants. First contestant would be Bono from U2. He looks like a real pussy what with his slicked back hair and his little earring.

Rules for this celebrity wrestle (not to be confused with celebrity death match) are as follows, steel cage, tennis shoes and t-shirts only. T-shirts not to go lower than pubic hair. First person to cry loses.

He’d be all…let’s resolve this peacefully and right then, right as peacefully gets out of his lips…CHOP. Knife-hand-strike to the adam’s apple. Bring on the tears, puss-face.

If I win, I get the cash from the fight and half of Ireland. The cool part, not the fucked up part. I'm not sure which is which, though, I'll need some advice on that. If Bono wins he can go on and on about Tibet or whichever fucking thing he's crying about these days.

The celebrity after Bono is that Falwell guy. The task will be to seduce his sweet but chaste daughter...just like that Malchovich guy did in that Dangerous Liasons movie. I'll seduce her and drive her to madness and then a convent, then I'll fight Falwell with rapiers.

But I won't let him kill me like that pussy Malchovich, I'll kick his ass. He's old, I'd take him like this: *snap* I’d stab him in the fucking neck then drink his blood like a vampire.

If he wins I'll start going to church. If I win, he'll be dead plus I get television rights.

Do you hear me Bono? Falwell? It's on.

Sci-Fi Channel

Well, good news. I think I'm going to quit my job. I'm not sure how I'll replace the salary yet, but I'm not too worried about that detail.

This weekend my amateur paleontology hobby exploded with a massive insight based on actual fictionalized footage on the Sci-Fi channel, Shark Attack 3: Megalodon.

So I'm watching this giant shark...all but forgotten by time and history when one word starts to buzz through my head, Megalodong.

I'm not quite sure what it looks like since the penis doesn't have bones. Well, most don't. Mine does. A giant one that vibrates and whispers sweet songs.

Anyway, I have painstakingly drafted a couple of pictures of what Megalodong might look like. If you see it, or bones from the fossil, please let me know at my usual e-mail address and I'll be right over.

Lumber, lumber, lumber, glide

pump-pump-pump-pump-pump-pump-slide

There are two guys at work who are brothers. I have never said one word to either of them. They hate me.

I think they both played football because they have the look of ex-football players. They are both tall and the lean muscle of youth has decayed into fat causing them to lumber about, sneering at the little people.

When I walk past them, they will not move out of the way. Always I have to move or I'll be knocked to the ground. When they think I'm not looking they make goofy faces at me. It's funny, really. The only thing they haven't done is come up to me and pretend to pull a comb out of their pocket while pretending to hit me in a swift...comb-pull-type action.

Omaha lumbers. It is a town of the lumbering mass. When people see me they say I glide. I'm a glider in a lumbering town. I think that's why they hate me because I glide on by.

It could also be that I fucked their mom. It was a slumbering night, a lumbering night, a night of rap on MTV and not a tissue in my house. She called and she begged, I broke down and legged over there. I left her a fiver on the nightstand then foolishly asked for change. A fiver was all I had, I had nothing smaller, you see.

I think it was the asking for change that makes them hate me. I've learned my lesson. When I go back to their mom's house I will bring ones and quarters. And dimes. And...pennies. But not nickels, I don't like the lumbering nickels.

Slurpee

If I had a vagina I would surely get a job at a 7-11 and demand the graveyard shift.

Late at night I would stretch out on the counter and fill my vagina with a slurpee. A cherry slurpee. I would slide the slurpee nozzle right onto my vagina and it would be a perfect fit. I would twist the little twisty knob and just fill and fill.

The slurpee would be cold as the sweet sugar-ice rushed through my cavernous vagina--into my fallopian tubes and tickled my ovaries.

I would then squeeze my vagina tight and shoot all of the icy cherry slurpee into my stomach via a special vagina-slurpee-to-stomach-straw. 7-11 would try to copy these straws but I would hold the patent.

I would then move to the fake cheese machine and fill my vagina up with the odd cheese pumping warm goo into my vagina. I would pump and pump until my vagina was packed with Velveeta. I would then seal my vagina and walk to the nearest party.

I would lay down on the counter at the nearest party, unzip my vagina and say, "Who wants nachos?"

In this way, I would make many friends. I would let only one or two people lick out the vagina, though. I'm no slut. Whore, yes. Slut, no.

Haloscan commenting and trackback have been added to this blog.

Poems and books

I've had this little rhyme going through my head for the past week:

Short flight, short flight, long flight, long
This is a penis, this is a dong.

I'm happy with that little ditty. It goes well with my idea for creating new and pornographic reading books for adults that teach them how to read and keep their interest.

The problem...I cannot think of an inverse part of the rhyme. I have this:

Long flight, long flight, short flight, short
This is a long dress, this is a skort.

Now, I am not a fan of the skort, it occludes sight to the hidden triangle and that wilts a large part of my psyche. Plus the last part has nothing to do pron or keeping a grown man or woman's interest. I could use some help, I'm afraid.

On a serious note, over my vacation I finished the final draft on a long project that I've been working nights on to finish, that of a novel. I announce this only to see if anyone has any sterling advice for publishing or agents. I'm tempted to print out 10k copies and hand it off to strangers, but something tells me that approach is foolishness. If anyone has any sage advice, your email to me would be most welcome. Thank you.

I have a tan that makes that pussy Adonis cry

So, I'm back. Vacation was lovely. Let's just say my penis is callused like a log-cutter's palms. My palms are too, not coincidentally. I was on a masturbation tour of the west coast and boy are my arms tired. My wife wanted to come, but I’m a selfish bastard.

I stayed in a hotel that used single ply bathroom tissues, though. Ho is angry with the single ply bathroom tissue. My first wipe...my fingers broke through and touched the poop and my hairy ass. Under normal circumstances, this is not a bad thing, but when your hands are red and raw from hours of self....flagellation...the last thing you want on your hands is human feces, particularly your own.

So on the spot I made up my mind. I used three times the tissue just to show those cheap fuckers who they were dealing with. Six times I overflowed the toilet. Six times I called the front desk and sheepishly admitted that my toilet was running turds into the rooms below. Six times they sent plumbers. I don't know if they understood my point, but I feel better about things.

I also stole all of the extra rolls. And some towels. But it's good to be back and I missed you. It’s late. Go to sleep. Oh, and I stole the free bible. I had to, don't you see?

Vacation

I'm off for several days of vacation consisting of all of the carnal pleasures plus the rare beach book, perhaps. Take care.

I'll eat you up, I love you so

If I had a vagina I would use it to save the world. When aliens landed they would say to me, "Show me your geintials, human."

I'd quickly drop my sweat pants--because that's what people with vaginas wear, it seems--and say, "Look here, alien, I have only a furry patch."

Aliens are easily fooled and this one would say, "Where is it?"

That would stump me for a minute, and I'd have to think fast. My first response would be, "In my pocket." But I'd quickly stifle that because the alien could just reach into my pocket...plus, sweat pants don't have pockets...

Think, Ho, THINK.

"At home," I'd say.

"Go get it, I'll wait here," is what the alien would say.

I'd head for the first rock, and pull out my newest invention from my vagina: Fecal Ray 2, twice the fun...twice the poo (Now with vibrating action).

I'd shoulder it up and shoot that alien down. No one would know I saved the world, but I don't really seek glory. Just money. I'm a simple whore.

ESPN2

As all know, last night was Tuesday night and also masturbation night in HO house. It started calmly enough.

I flipped on MTV and some show w/ that blonde girl w/ the big boobs and her skulking husband...some honeymoon show, or something where they run around with beautiful people and fight... Jesus, I can't believe people watch this show...but she does have big boobs, and that did get me going, but her skulking husband and their too hip friends fucked it for me. So I changed the station.

As is typical late at night, there were only infomercials and lame sports shows...so I ended up watching the strongest woman in the world championships on ESPN2 and climaxed with a long sigh and a reminder to start a pron company that's not ppv—those women are many things, but hot is not one of them, but it was all I had, can’t you see that?

I'm happy to report that the ejaculate came nowhere near my face because of the lazy ejection. I reached out for the closest rag and started mopping up. I'll be damned if it wasn't covered in Pine Sol. At first I was nervous about rubbing Pine Sol on my wang, but the pine scent won me over. It cleaned and also hardened the skin on my penis—cleaned and protected. It was like magic. Until the burning.

Long story short, ER docs can be downright quizzical about stripping Pine Sol from appendages. She was hot, though, so I asked her to please suck it off. I think she would have, but she was clearly a lesbian. And not in a good way.

Memory Lane

If I were a caveman, I would be the kind of caveman who threw lavish parties and invited all of the other cavemen and cavewomen to my own cave for cocktails and mammoth appetizers.

I would travel to all of the caves and villages in the area handing out invitations to parties. I’d make the sweetest chitchat around and men would be jealous of my wit and women would try and peek under my sarong.

If a tribe kidnapped me, like in that movie with Darryl Hannah, Quest for Fire...where they locked that guy up in a cage and made him nail the ladies in the cage--then stood around and laughed at him because he only knew doggie style...remember that movie? And what kind of torture device is it to make a man have sex with a woman, anyway?

Well they would do that to me, too, and I'd pretend like I only knew doggie style, then when they were standing around and pointing and laughing, mid-hump I would stand up, giant wang pointing in accusation, legs...akimbo... and say, "This is how I roll." Every word accented by a thrust of my hips, pointing my main accuser at each of the laughers. This…is….how….I…roll.

Certainly this would calm them down. Then I'd finish up the humping, cuddle for a bit because I'm sensitive, hand out my invites to the party and head home tired but satisfied that I did good for the day and also pushed along evolution just a wee bit.

Soft and smooth but a nasty bite

If I were a squirrel I would never run in front of a car because I would be a smart squirrel. Instead I would run in front of those silly bikers who wear the racing shirts and tight pants.

As one came by, I would zip out in front of the rider, pause just the briefest of moments, turn to run toward the bike in a fury, then zip off to the side and into the bushes.

After the biker crashed I would go over to his bleeding body, lick some blood--because I would be half-carnivorous--and whisper in his ear, "Stop the human aggression against squirrels."

Then I would go through his fanny pack, get his debit card and buy a bunch of pron.

Some Guy in a Truck

I was riding around town today with my oldest son and we were coming up on a red light. I stopped and let this guy come out of a parking lot go in front of me because I'm so kind to strangers. He was driving a brand new red truck.

As he drove out, he raised his left hand in a wave, it was then that I noticed that his hand was missing as well as half of his forearm--just a rounded nub about six inches below the elbow. It kinda freaked me out, I must admit.

My first thought was, that was nice of that guy to wave with his bad hand, then I wondered...how does he drive that thing with only one hand.

"Did you see that guy w/ his hand cut off, son?"

"I did dad."

"Did you see how nice he was...he waved to us when we let him in, no one in Utah would wave if you let them in. People are so sweet in Omaha, I'm glad we live here."

"Dad, he totally flipped you off."

Shit. My son was right. That guy totally flipped me off. He wasn't waving at all, he was shooting me the mute bird.

"Son, use this as a lesson, cripples will fuck you every time they can."

"I know, dad."

Coin Slots

If I had a vagina I would certainly charge an entrance fee. A vagina is a serious commodity and I am Capitalism’s biggest proponent...ever.

I would charge one quarter per visit...one of those rare Wisconsin quarters. Drop it in the slot and you would get a few minutes, but you'd better be fast because if you stay too long the vaginal gates would slam shut and you might be trapped there forever.

The Odyssey

If I had a vagina I would shave my pubes and tattoo a story in place of the hair--probably I would copy the story of The Odyssey..which is one of my favorites. I would do this so that people would have something to read as they went down on me.

I would write the words very small and I would continue the story down into the outer labia...only I wouldn't call it the outer labia, I would call it...the outer reading room. Some people would think the story was abridged, but it's not. If you spend enough time there you can read the whole story.

I guess since I was tattooing I'd also tattoo my left leg with the word Scylla and my right leg with the word Charybdis. Whenever my lovers would ask me, what do these two tats mean, --Scylla and Charybdis--then my vagina would eat them in one snatchy bite like this...*SNATCH*

I would feel bad about this, but really people should be up on the classics or they kinda deserve to get eaten by my vagina.

Maybe The Odyssey isn't quite the right book for a vagina but it's really hard to think of just the right story.

Que Viva Mexico

One time, in Mexico, I was in the middle of this jungle and it was hot. Hot and sweaty, the sun was high and I was sick with heat. Under the hot sun was this Mexican guy who had a sledgehammer and he was just beating the shit out of this piece of concrete. Sweat was running from his face and he was fully dressed--his pits were drenched. People walked by and said kind words to this old man pounding stone and he would look up and smile a peaceful smile.

Then it occurred to me ... even Mexicans hire Mexicans to do their shit work. Very devious.

If I was a Mexican I'd probably try to escape to Los Estados Unidos. At the border I would put on a fake British accent and repeat, "Tut, tut, it looks like rain." Especially if I didn't understand the question.

"Papers?"

"Tut, tut, it looks like rain."

I would tell everyone that I was born in Spain but raised in England and travelling in Mexico just slumming it. That would be my cover story.

When I got to the US I'd go to all the hot parties in San Diego...which is where I would live, probably in La Jolla.

At the hot parties people would talk about The Spanish Armada and I'd jump in and say, "We should have totally won that, you bitches!" Then I'd draw my stiletto because all Mexicans carry stilettos and I'd stab anyone who said anything about weather conditions being a prominent factor of that war.

Other Mexicans would say, yo yo yo yo, wazzup, Ese! And I would shout them down with my British accent, "Go back to school, young man." I would be all about making sure the other Mexicans spoke good, or I would stab them, too.

Olde Days

I long for the days of the French Revolution. I just finished that 2 cities book, and I had the best idea. There's this guy that I work with...let's call him Chief. I would so fucking denounce him. And you know what happens when you denounce someone in France? Guillotine. Pretty slick, Rick.

Neighbors

One of my neighbors has been out of town for the past few days. Last night I sent him this IM, "I fucked your wife, last night. It was kinda fast because your kids were awake and hungry, but not too bad...overall."

I hope he brings my fucking ladder back soon.

One toke over the line, sweet Jesus

Back in whore school, Chief and I were the best of friends. We both had dreams of greatness, him with his funny little accent and me with my supremely large wang, we were meant for greatness.

Whore school had strict standards about community outreach. Very strict standards, and those strict standards eventually got Chief kicked out of whore school and straight into dental school, but that's another story.

One day, Chief and I were out on our rounds and we passed a convent. Seeing opportunity, we stopped in and met with the head nun, Constance was her name...and Constance was her fame.

She asked us in and we sat down and idled away an hour making small talk about this and that. Our interview was up when I looked at her and dropped my shirt off one shoulder and said, "Is it getting hot in here?"

That was all it took. She was all over me like stink on shit, rubbing my chest and tearing at the buttons on my pants, coaxing my ROCK HARD COCK out of his iron cage where he's kept ... for your protection.

So this nun dropped to all fours and started going at ... Ramon, I'd accent the o, but I'm not sure how. In my mind he's Ramon with an accent.

All of a sudden, I see Chief jump in from behind and hike up the long skirt and underneath is the sweetest leather thong a man has ever seen. It looks odd on her old body, but I go with it...this is community outreach and it's not our place to question.

So Chief's back there on his knees and shouting at the top of his lungs, "CHOOOO, CHOOOO, HOLY TRAIN CUMMIN THROUGH!"

He starts pumping his arm up and down like he's pulling on an air horn, I remember it so well, pulling on the air horn and shouting, "CHOOO, AAAAHHHHCHOOOOO!!!!"

And I'm like, "Fuck, Chief, keep it down, you'll wake the fucking monsignor." But you know how Chief is once he gets going.

Chief yells out again and again, "I GET OFF HERE! I GET OFF HERE!" Totally fucking up my concentration.

To my shock the nun shrieks, "YOU WAIT FOR ME, YOUNG MAN."

I'm all, "Damn it, shut up and suck, sister!"

So that was a fun weekend in whore school. As we were walking away, Chief said, "That was just like shooting blah blah blah in Beggar's Canyon, back home." And I knew I would be the best, one day.