Thirsty on a hot summer day?

If I had an ice cream truck I would sell only semencicles to the children. I would carefully watch the girls to see which ones really enjoyed the taste, and I would try hard to weed out the fakers, the ones who say, "Mmmmm, this semencicle is the best I've ever tasted!" They say that to impress their friends and that's not what I need. I need a fan.

I'd look for the girls...or boys...who were sitting aside and devouring their semencicle making sure that the wooden stick was chewed to ring out every last drop.

I would then get samples of their DNA and make clones...millions of clones. Then my dream of being the wealthiest semencicle maker in the world would be complete and I could retire a billionaire.

I'm off for a few days...out into the country so I can live deliberately and all of that such sweet stuff.

trippin the rift

With a wad of ones I flashed a churlish grin to the ladies at Starbucks.

"How are you doing, today?" they ask.

"I'm trippin the rift, oh yeah...trippin it hard!"

I want them to know that I'm up on all the risque sci-fi cartoons. The chicks dig that...big time.

"Yeah, I'm trippin the rift and I want extra head on that Frappachinoooo...if you...know what I mean." I give a sly wink and reach into both pockets at this point.

I pull my pants a bit with my hands to extend my fly. I hope they point out to me that it's down, though, of course I know it's down...I put it down for a reason.

If they mention it I have my stock answer in hand, "Oh, laugh-laugh, that penis of mine has a prehensile head and he's always getting into the greatest mischief. Always taking down the zipper for air...always...tripping the rift if you see what I mean."

But they don't mention anything, they just charge me my three dollars and twenty cents (plus tax) for my Frapppppachinnnnooooooooooo and I'm off on another clean living day of work and fun.

Is that a screwdriver in your pocket or a ROCK HARD COCK?

If I were Dr. Who and someone came up to me and said, "Hey, nice retardis." I'd shoot back faster than a hot Timelord's butter knife through Timelord butter, "What did you say?"

He'd be all, "You heard me."

Then I'd be all, "It's go time, boooooy. It's time for some Master Ass Blaster on your ass..." And I would know that it didn't sound right because I used ass twice but I'm angry, can't you see that? I'm defending the valor of the Tardis and also retards. So much rides on this. Concentrate, Ho...CONCENTRATE!

I'd whip out the Sonic Screwdriver and then I'd stand, legs akimbo, one arm on my hip, flashing the blade of the driver out in crazy jabs and jibs with the good arm (the non claw hand arm) and he'd get the hell out of my face.

You don't fuck with a Timelord, baby. You just don't.

Hominid Humduggery

If I had the monkey's paw from that one story I know for sure beyond all measure what my third wish would be. It's the first two that leave me at a bit of a loss.

I first thought I would just waste them...you know..."I wish for nothing." But that monkey's paw is very crafty, very evil mojo going on in that little tight fist freak.

After much thought I think the first wish would be for CoCo Puffs...because well, I'm kookoo for CoCo Puffs. In college I was third captain on the CoCo Puff Squad. I didn't ever get a lettered jacket but I gave the other guys a run for the fucking money you can believe.

For the second wish...Vasoline. Who can't always use an extra tub of the sweet jelly? Some say KY because it's germ free. I say fuck KY. Fuck astroglide too. Give me my bacteria infested vasoline. Those germs on my cock will make me stronger, I swear to you.

Ok...dig if you will the picture. Ho standing there, pants around the knees, rock hard cock supported by the palm of the open monkey's paw.

First wish and a shower of CoCo Puffs. First finger closes.

Second wish and a shower of Vasoline...which kind of makes me regret that wish but it's too late now. Second finger closes.

Third wish? Get jerking, paw. Close final finger.

Who can say they've been jerked by a monkey? Ha! Well...ok, Michael...you got me there.

But who can say they've been jerked by a dismembered monkey! Ho ho! Now who has the getting, my friends? I believe I...got you.

Happy Monday and please, never pull the outstretched finger, for that is where the danger truly lies.

Gay the easy way

Well, I've had an interesting weekend, so far. Recently, one of my neighbors left the Homo Agenda for the year 2005 at my house. I'm not sure which one left it...I'm pretty sure it's the guy who keeps offering to "wax my pole." Hey, buddy, I wax my own pole, ok? It's one of a handful of hobbies that I really enjoy, so back off.

Anyway, I have it sitting by my toilet and I read it when I poop--which is when I do the lion's share of my reading. Pretty interesting reading, so far. A few of the bigger items were to get Madonna's lesbian card back (apparently they've asked her to return it several times but she just holds onto it) and also to get that dancin to the oldies guy to bring it down a notch or two.

I read on and they hit their most important goal for 05...convert Ho. I nearly shit my pants. An exact quote...well ok, not quite exact but damn close, "Get ho...big time."

They even had a comic book where Matthew Damon played the role of Ho and all the gays were converting him and at the end...well, I won't tell you how it ends, that would ruin the surprise.

So, anyway...To the gay ruler: Thanks, I'm ... well, I'm grateful that you think so highly of me, but I'm not going to convert. I dig the chicks far too much for that. Unless you have some more dudes like that girl in The Crying Game. She was hot!

Oh, well, back to the beer.

Ten Pound Tumor

People are so cavalier about cancer eating.

They're all, "Sure, I'll eat your cancer."

Well no one's eating my cancer, by god. I'll eat my own damn cancer, thank you.

If I had cancer and someone came up to me saying, "Hey, I'll eat your cancer..."

I'd cut them off mid-offer and push their face in the dirt. "How do you like that, cancer eater? Does that taste good?"

Fuck. Go get your own cancer, you know?

Fat Thursday

Two things. The first is that I've been invited to offer social commentary on one of the biggies. Madonna. That's right. Who invited, you ask? None other than the fat man himself. That's right...Santa Clause.

So, please go check out the Madonna monologues if you so desire. You'll love it...with leather.

Secondly...because I am the WORLD'S GREATEST WHORE, I have stolen all of your ideas about how you found my site and also...how people find your sites.

I'd apologize for this, but I feel no shame.

Tim is a total fucking prick and I wish he were dead
enima
enima queen
hardcore porn (hardcore pron)
anal plug (ring pops)
squat pee
if you meet the buddah give him the fecal ray
give it all up and go to the ho
cunt poop (cuntpoop)
Michael Phelps pubic hair
hypothetical ho
A Hollywood Producer (THE Hollywood Producer)
free porn (free pron)
i've got a cock in my pocket named for your wife (i threw that one in for good measure)

Been to the Movies

If I owned a chocolate factory I would NOT poop in the river of chocolate no matter how tempted I was.

Not even if it was just diahrea.

Now here is a list of how people have been finding my site.

I think this sums up the site pretty well, don't you?

coin slots
blow me and i'll tell you
vagina pumping
akimbo
mtv short flight shoulder
love sheened
tolerate everyone
my wife's great legs
dirty cunt
legs akimbo
what do you call a cannibal that only eat their friends
ho blog
address-list
site:blogspot.com cunt
if you meet the buddah
cuntface

Wasn't it so sad when Ron Weasley died?

I wanted to correct yesterday's post. I was disturbed by the number of people who believed me that Hermione died. I'm sorry to lead you astray.

The truth is...without giving too much away...Ron Weasley dies.

And Hermione? Half-Blood Prince. All this time she's been a dude in masquerade! Can you believe it!????

I hate to spoil so much of the plot but I felt so bad about lying to everyone, yesterday.

Happy reading!

And wasn't it so funny when Harry did that Fippendo spell!? Oh, I laughed. I'm laughing now.

Hermione Dies in the newest Harry Potter book

I found out that AB has returned and I was looking at his site and he had a review of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince when it occurred to me...I should do a review, too. I mean, I've read the book, I can write...sorta...

Warning, spoilers ahead. Don't read any more if you haven't read the book and don't want to know that Hermione dies at the end.

Well, it was a pretty good, but I was pretty sad when Hermione got blasted by good-turned-evil Harry Potter.

And Ron was so gay. Who knew?

Eat me

i wish death smelled like popcorn. that would make it a lot more fun.

Help me to understand, please

Sometimes I just get so angry at the cows.

How is it fair that they can take steroids and our own human athletes can't?

Is that fair to you? Does it seem like some cows are getting special treatment and poor Barry Bonds can't hit homers because of the cow situation?

I'll eat steak tonight in protest. Or maybe veal. That'll show those fucking cows.

3 pomes that have the stink of Friday

This is my poem to all of the gays
who sneak up behind me with
sneaky gay rays


this is the poem about my black cat
who bites when she's happy
and jumps around
eating bunnies and all of their babies.
the small ones whose eyes are
peep, peep, peeping
and whose bones are like
peanut brittle
with the crunch of summer
i save on catfood


poor people are so funny
with their dirty little hands
and sharp, ragged clothes
the rotten teeth and the hump
that makes them stump shuffle slump
but when they dance
and their cares stumble
then they're not funny anymore
and then the hate

Snack Cakes and Tacos

The balls of a man are not stolen overnight. It is not a theft that occurs suddenly but rather happens in slow, quiet stages. Small nips at a time. The tiny bite of a tiny fish that gradually gnaws the monster into a puppy.

When I was first married I roared the most bellicose bellow. My long-married neighbors shook with a fear that was laughable. I shit in their yards and stole ripe grapes from their vines.

I rolled with their dogs and their children cried to see me covered in grass and happy with a great golden glee. A sick glee that could not be contained. A glee that shone out of my giant, hard balls that clacked when I walked; clacked like brass beaters--brass well shined and stone hard.

The first bites came in stages, slow stages. They were stolen from me like the braided hair of Samson. Would you like another taco, dear?

I shouldn't. Why not.

Would you like a snack cake? They're little debbie.

I shouldn't, but I will.

Through tacos and little debbie (that slut) did my great sack full of giant brass gonads become soft and weak.

No longer do I roll with the neighbor's dog and when the new man bellows I cower.

I should warn him but I'm too full of snack cakes and tacos.

To my mother on her birthday

roses are red
violets are blue
you're 57
and i'm not a jew

Raise the cross, raise the cup

If churches were also whore houses I would go to church a lot more often. As it is, I rarely go. Weddings and funerals, weddings and funerals.

I imagine the women being priests and whores at the same time and as I lay in their gentle embrace they would tell me tales of Jesus and God.

In my moments of ecstasy they would ask me if I repented, if I really accepted the teachings of God and I would scream out, "Yes, yes, YES!"

"Oh, God, I do, oh, sweet God I do."

I picture it kind of like church but also like an IHOP where people come by and offer you pancakes while you're merrily humping. "Can I get you something, sir?" (They would call me sir in spite of the fact that I hate to be sir to anyone.)

"Yes, please. A short stack with a pot of coffee. I have a long night ahead of me."

If doggie style I would place the short stack on the back. If missionary I would dump the cakes onto the chest and eat them with great gusto and slurp with sad debauchery.

The one thing I would never do is stick my penis in a blind hole that had a sign nearby that said, "Cocks go here for salvation" with an arrow pointing to the hole. That's where the Catholic priest sit waiting. Waiting for a host. Waiting for salvation.

Parenting in the y2k

I hate kids, I think they're so ugly. Except for rich kids. When rich kids cry it breaks my heart and when they laugh I know God loves us. Well, loves me.

Diary of a Bird

Thursday, July 7th

Woke up at dawn and started flying around.

Found 3 grasshoppers.

Thank God tomorrow's Friday.

Friday, July 8th

Woke up at dawn and started flying around.

Found 4 fat beatles. No plans for Saturday, maybe a workout.

Saturday, July 9th

Woke up at dawn and started flying around.

Found one giant worm. He didn't want to come out of the ground but with enough tugging he came. I'll eat well tonight.

Muffins and Ringcakes

I once bought a muffin from a local baker and bit into it. Inside was a wedding ring which must have been his new young wife's for the ring was narrow and the diamond small and the gold unscratched.

I quickly stuffed the ring back into my mouth and swallowed it down with the muffin as if I had never found it.

I do not know if it was the love of the woman toward the man, the grief at the loss of such a precious symbol or the gnawing jewel and metal in my stomach but I soon began cramping.

The pain was small at first but grew and grew until I was retching with false vomit and doubled over in terrible agony.

I dialed 911.

X-rays were taken and the ring was discovered and removed.

The day I returned the ring was the same day I sued the young couple for their carelessness.

I now own the bakery and the young couple? Who knows. Perhaps they eat their love.

When I'm in hell tell Jesus I love him

My poor old dog. His eyes are cloudy with cataracts and he's really quite blind.

It diminishes him.

When I raise my hand he no longer cowers. I like to think that it's that he's blind but I worry he's lost his fear.

I will be busy this weekend buying a new dog. I'll train the new dog to attack my old dog when I raise my arm quickly.

A dog should never lose fear.

When I Die Dress me in satin

I hope that I die when i'm 38
with a mouth full of tit and a gut full of hate
and i hope that my mortgage remembers me fondly
as one who was never late but paid on the first
and i hope that my neighbors remember me fondly
and bring my grieving wife a scratch lasagne
and I hope it's a nice day, god let it be a nice day.

warning, this warning may not be apropos to all viewers

You have been warned.

Warning, the post following this one might have reference to the homo problem and anal sex. It may also contain references to drinking the fecal blood of a constipated man.

Living by me is danger

Every night I have a ritual of trimming my toenails and fingernails. I use my wife's sharpest clippers and carefully trim the edges so that they will not snag my fine satin sheets.

I then take her red nail polish and write in flowing cursive messages on my penis. The usual message is this, "Please leave the people alone, they are frightened."

Then I write about my devotion to God and how with his wisdom we will heal the Homo problem. Then I transcribe Atlas Shrugged and The Fountainhead. Then I write a letter to my mother...the one I never send because it has so many cuss words and repentance.

Then I lay down and sleep the sleep of the wicked. Every night my penis grows and grows and spills into the sidecar that I had specially built for him.

The nail polish is torn like the purple pants of the hulk and when I hear it rip off I wake up and stand on him--stomping him to get back into his cage--shouting that he is shame and that he is not helping the Homos like he should be, but he never listens. He doesn't care about the Homo problem or the problem with the sluts--he cares only for himself.

I entreat him not to do anything rash but I can tell from the steam pouring from the fuck hole that rash is on his mind. And I don't mean rash like VD or herpes. I mean rash like anger. He does look kind of cute, though, like a frappachino but he stinks of sperm.

He runs off and I ride him like an untamed gorgon, steamy semen trails us and the dogs follow and lap it up. Dogs dig sperm.

I scream to my neighbors, "Lock your door, it's moving again. It can smell your orifices. The stinky ones."

They never listen.

Fair Warning Come Too Late

It has been suggested...and probably rightly so...that today's missive is both offensive and crude. A collection of bloody images that assault the senses and also put one on edge. As such, if you are prone to disgust I suggest you stay away from the musings below.

Instead I will tell you that Jell-O was never well liked by me because it is a staple food in Utah culture and also because of those terrible grapes that were stuffed in there while frozen. Much prettier than good tasting as are so many things in this life. Especially cherry flavor.

My apologies to those who were not forwarned.

I want to suck your blood

If I were a vampire I would only drink the blood from the vagina and I'm not talking about menstrual blood, that's old blood and filled with pesky seeds.

I would get myself a job in the maternity ward and I'd carry around a tin cup everywhere I went. I'd tell people I was nurse Cunt and that if they didn't like it I'd call their HMO and have them ejected.

Most people would wonder why I wouldn't just push my face into the vagina and drink the blood that's pouring out when the baby comes. Good question. The simple answer is sometimes that thing will spray pee and who wants pee in their face? Not me.

When collecting the blood I would place the tin cup against the perineum and let the blood drip, drip, drip its way in. I would be extra careful not to let any amniotic fluid in because that shit is bitter and it's also been peed in a lot by the little ones.

I suspect a doctor would try and slap my hand before I collected it all. I would recoil and form myself into the shape of a question mark with my head tilted to the side and just let out a giant HISSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS.

Saving the world, one cock at a time

I have a new goal. To be linked by EVERY BLOG ON BLOGGER. The only thing is those fucking right wing Christian blogs. They totally don't get me. God this, God that, blah blah blah.

I'm going to do something rare, I'm going to compromise with you God blogs. I'm going to convert all the homos to hetero and that should make you happy. I'm also going to convert the Jews. That's like...a billion conversions right there, that should be worth a small link.

First the Jews:

To the Jews
I love Jesus,
yes I do
I love Jesus...
how bout Jew?

You see...when the Jew reads this they will see Jesus associated with you which is then associated with Jew which will lead them to Jesus. Phew.

Now the homos.

I'm going to go to a park by my house and sit in my car and listen to Juice Newton or Queen or Stix or Foreigner. Those groups are like a mating call to the homo, I assure you.

When the homos come I'll take them into the tree-lined boundary of the park and start to give them a blow job.

Just at the very moment of climax I'll stop and ask, "Do you accept Jesus as your personal savior?"

"Yes, yes," they'll say, "anything, just please finish!"

"I will finish if you next pledge to give up this abomination of homo-erotocism."

"I'll do it," they'll yell. "I'll do it!"

Then I'll say, "Now go fuck a woman, ex-gay."

And in that way I won't have to finish the worst part for the head giver..the sperm in the mouth. For the givee it's the best time, of course. Giver...quite another story.

They won't want gay head anymore, they'll be shocked that they ever wanted it. They'll run right out and be saved by the love of hetero sex.

Now where's my fucking link?

Come fly with me to France and We'll eat cheese and pate and lay in the hot summer sun

If I were the captain of a mini hovercraft I would take the people on tours of boobs.

We would fly around all day and look for the big ones. Especially the giant big fake ones, those are what the people want to see.

I would say, "Seat belts, seat belts, there's dangerous cleavage ahead!"

Then I would run at full speed and just smash into the giant fake boobs and we would bounce back and all say, "Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee."

Even the girls would say it. Even the good girls. Even the nasty rotten girls who are my specific and particular friends. We would all say it.

When passing someone of more modest boob I would say, "This is as close as I want to get...there are shoals hidden on that chest. But it's lovely, right?"

And the people would say, "It's lovely, Skipper."

The Joy in Bouncing

If I were the last man on earth I would go straight to the trampoline store. I would go right in and there would be no one to ask if they could help me with this or that for which I would be grateful because I haven't the time for wasting on salesmen.

I would go to a mighty trampoline and not one of those ground level ones, no. I would go to a big one with massive steel springs and black nylon stretched tight and ready for bouncy-rum-bouncing.

I would remove my shoes and climb up on the trampoline. My first few jumps would be tentative. It has been so many years since I have jumped, so many lost summers in my tattered recliner.

It would come back to me quickly, though, and I would soon be jumping madly, legs and arms lashing the air and legs pumping mighty pumps into that free floating joy that is the trampoline. The grin on my face would stretch the frowns into dust.

I would jump for hours into days and my legs would lose their vigor and they would grow weak but I would not stop. Like a madman I would jump until my guts wanted to fall out of my rectum, I would jump until my legs begged me to stopped, offered me anything; I would jump until I was dying of thirst and my stomach shriveled and spasmed.

I would jump until I fell down dead.

My dying utterance would be, "Dear wife, I told you these things aren't dangerous. But you...wouldn't listen. And now it comes to this."

If there were anyone around to notice they would plainly see a satisfied smile on my gaunt face.

The coldest winter...

Of course if I were ever gay I would immediately change my name to Bart. The gays recognize Bart to be borderline hetero I've been told. I have a neighbor who's gay and he told me about the name Bart, he said it was a well known fact.

Secondly I would move. Omaha is really a nice town for regular ole people. We have common ways and are predictable, but we don't like the homos very much. We tolerate them, sure. We tolerate everyone, but we don't embrace them. It's not a good homo culture, you might say.

Where would I go? That's not even a good question. I'm ashamed of you. San Francisco, of course. That's the homo Mecca--no offence to Islam (meaning, please don't suicide bomb me for using homo and Mecca in the same sentence--I'm not quite ready to go).

When I got there the first thing I would do would be to go to the homo place and shout out, "Who wants to ride the Bart!"

Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

The gays love to ride The Bart. Of this I'm quite sure.