This is the story that was written in the subject line!

And this is the story that wasn't! This, instead, is the story that was raped by Kobe Bryant but he had semen from another man in his vagina so he must be a slut so that rape was ok!

Semen Eater

Sometimes I understand things and sometimes I get so angry about them.

One thing is that I know how to run a vacuum. I know how to run one and that is a basic fact that I want everyone to know. Spelling vacuum is another matter, but the act...I know.

I know how to make a bed. I know how and I would, too. I would do it. If I could. I would make bed after bed scraping off the semen from the sheets, even. Scraping with a credit card into a special collection bag for eating, later.

This is where the anger lies...why must you be required to know Mexican to be in housekeeping?

Totally racist.

Where is America, people?

Head scarves breed terrorism

I wanna mine your vagina
till the coal turns a shiny red

I wanna mine your vagina, baby
till the coal turns a firey red

and if that canary stops singing
i'm going to mine you till i'm dead

I wanna plant some charges
all up and down your lode.

I want to lay some dynamite
all along that silver lode

After a fair amount of digging
I'm gonna let those charges
let them all explode

I am the best blog you will ever see. Including yours. Does that make you cry? I hope so.

I once read that if you put a million monkeys in a room with a million typewriters and let them type for a million years that they would, by virtue of just random typing, re-type every great piece of literature ever written; even that verbose bitch Ayn Rand (here I use bitch in the meaning of that she's a bitch, not the black way of referring to all women (nice job black people, that is elegant and fancy)). Even, dare I say, the humble Ho.

Well, I am sure I don't have to tell you that a million years is a long time. Too long to wait for all those monkeys, but I had an idea that I don't think anyone has ever thought of that could streamline the process...make the monkeys use their feet, as well as hands!

Their feet are like hands, you see. They are very agile with their feet, too! Genius.

So that takes it down to about 500,000 years by my reckoning, though you'd need two million type-writers.

But then if you could get a hundred million monkeys...and two hundred million typewriters... you could get it all done in... well, the math escapes me becase I'm a liberal and not a Jew and we all know that liberal, non-Jews are terrible at math, but I think you see what I'm saying.

So go do it.

My cock's a glock and I'm ready to rock

A lot of people have been asking me about the movie Brokeback Mountain on account of how I'm almost gay. I have a fancy, slick hair do, I have a fancy, slick car and sometimes at night when I masturbate I think of women with smallish breasts. If that's not near gay then I don't know what is.

Anyway, I want to tell the people that I have not yet seen this movie Brokeback Mountain though it is about gays.

People, it's also about a lot of camping. And camping? Sucks. Camping is several things, none of which are fun when combined: Cold, boring (no tv), dirty, sleeping bags (filled with roaches), bears (kill you), cajuns (kill you after sodomy), canoes (sink), misquitoes (give you the aids), etc.

So, no. No BM for me.

If it were called Humpback Mountain and detailed how two humpback whales swam up the mighty Colorado river and had to be rescued from the tiny ski town of Veil and then how the fun Promise Keepers prayed to God for a giant bobsled and then they sledded the whales back down to California (much like the Grinch who Stole Xmas, but with a God-driven bob-sled and Promise Keepers) and then when they got to California they killed the liberal-fornicators with some kind of x-ray/disintigration ray from the eyes and turned Arnold Schartzeneger into an American and made him President...well, that movie I just might watch. But not camping gays, no matter how gay I might be.

Please excuse the spelling errors. Your mom's vagina doesn't have a spell checker that is very reliable.

If I click it, will you lick it?

In spite of furious and firm protestation to not vote for me for best of blog in the whore department, it has come to my attention that someone did. Not only did someone vote, but two people voted (thanks mom) which was just enough to make me a semi-finalist as one of the dirtiest whores on planet earth.

As you may recall, I didn't want this. I wanted none of it. If this award were poop, I would not have scooped it. I would have let it lie for the maggots to turn to dust. The maggots would have fattened themselves, turned into flies and flown off to the writers who deserve it.

Sadly it is a glory which has been foisted upon me, as one would foist the heaviest calf into the weak man's hooked hands.

I have resolved to win.

I know that I cannot win in a fair fight. These other douchebags are clever and young and fast. Faster than me in most respects. As such, I have decided to kill all of the other people in my category and perhaps expand into other categories if I get the urge. I'm not sure who my competition is, yet; I haven't taken the time to check their sites because I'm not interested in putrid trivia. But today I will stoop my broad shoulders, visit their web sites, cull their information from google and hire a hit man or perhaps a hit woman (preferably a virgin nun if I can find one) and discuss a plan of action to win what is rightfully mine.

I hope I can find someone to do it for under five dollars, or I'm going to have to think of a new plan.

In the future, God wears a red turban

If I were a particular flavor of ice cream, I would be the flavor that masturbates whenever his family leaves for church and he says he's not feeling very well and will probably stay back and rake leaves.

Tengo las pulgas en mi culo

I'm writing this in a vi editor and that makes me alot better then you.

If you don't know what vi stands for then I'll tell you; the v stands for vagina, of course and the i stands for (in your mom's).

It's hot and sticky in here and I keep getting poked by strange men's dongs. Please tell her to knock the shit out.

If you do know what vi is then you're a white male in good standing with the Klan. Hello, brother.

I don't love Raymond. He's a cunt

Last weekend I built a vagina in my backyard out of plywood and old nails.

It turned out pretty well, but it's not finished yet, I still have a few things to add to it.

One thing is I need to paint it black. There's lots of colors of vaginas but the best color is black. There's a range which starts at the pale blonde -- limpid and weak -- through black and into the eternal red, the flaming flag that is reminsicent of flow. No, it's black for me.

The next thing to do is to make the entrance scary and intimidating yet strangely enticing. Then I need to fill it up with bacon grease.

Finally, I need to stand guard over it day and night and make sure that no other man tries to enter under threat of death. Except perhaps a doctor weilding sharp, ugly tools to probe for the cancers that can destroy a weekend worth of work in the blink of an eye.

I'd let you visit...if you're a girl and want to help me build a second vagina in my backyard.

Sixteen dollars and a pack of chewing gum

I would buy a lot more things from Best Buy if its name was really Breast Buy. But I'd keep my receipt because the packaging can hide so much and once you unwrap an item it can really be disappointing.

Plus Best Buy has a very rigid exchange policy.

Talapia is not perch

I have made a discovery that I must share with the internet; morning wood, when left to time and a terrific amount of patience and restraint will eventually return to its flaccid state.

I marvel at all of the time this discovery will bring to me. All of those years of tedious pounding, wasted!

If you consider it takes anywhere from 30 seconds to 1 minute to climax, and there are 365 days in a year...well, I'm not good at math but that's a lot of time I'm going to save!

And think of the tissue!

Lazy Bankers and Whores

I wish Martin Luther King had been a white man so that I could have this day off, too.

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

There is an inverse relationship between the rate one pedals on a stationary bike and the passing of time. The faster you peddle, the slower time progresses. This is science, it is fact, it is an observation I made and sound and approved by God and his small son, Jesus.

Using these principles I have developed a time machine and here's how. By peddling very slowly I was able to actually speed up time and my stationary bike propelled me far into the future!

Let me tell you, for those who have not been the future...it's effin great! Wars? Gone. Disease? Gone. Sex? Free! Oh, it was glorious.

Actually? That's a lie. Everything is pretty much the same except the futurians look back with a sense of superiority and feel that they are doing things much better than we did and that we were illiterate savages, etc.

To be honest, it was kinda boring, so I came back. By applying the similar principles of time travel and peddling backwards I was able to arrive back in my very own time.

As a secondary note of sadness...my work has blocked blogspot and that will cut into my fun should the work ever slow down. Not...that I ever check blogs from work.

Plecostomus is love

It has been said to me recently that as a rule of law you cannot slander the dead and that is what makes me think of your mother, I suppose.

Your dead mother and how she reminds me of a plecostomus with her hungry fat lips always sucking at the dirtiest things and her wanderings on rocks and gravel and always the sucking and that lip that could use the smallest shave, not quite a man yet not quite a woman.

Further I am reminded of the starting slimness of her when life was new and her gradual leaning toward the obese and how much I loved that woman. Oh, how much I loved her in spite of her sucking ways and the pointless man who trailed in her wake.

God bless your dead mother and her too wide mouth and gentle, probing tongue and extra sharp teeth.

I have peed my leg for about the last time, today

Today was one of my darkest days. I face a gloom that is unbreachable by any light or wisdom or happiness and as such, I tried to kill myself.

Suicide is indeed heavy news and I hate to share it with the general public, both out of personal shame and also a deep hesitation to burden the sublime reader.

The method I chose for the attempt was of the breath holding. I held my breath for what felt like 45 or 50 seconds and I probably turned beat red.

Then I did it again, just for the thrill of the rush of death.

Then I stopped.

It's harder than you think, dying of a held breath.

Next time I'll shave my wrists with a trak 4 razor or maybe eat myself to death. Pain is just so hard, you see?

Is that a Koran in your pocket?

With a joy similar to the knowledge that I will never contract cervical cancer and need a gynecological oncologist I was notified of being a finalist of some BoB award.

I tell you this not so that you will vote for me but to bring up a terrible and tragic error in the scheme of events. Instead of being nominated as one of the best Gay/Bisexual blogs on the internet I was nominated as the best whore.

I don't need any award to assure me that I am the best whore on the internet. I am. I have charts and documents of science to prove it so don't bother voting for me. Vote for the other douchebags in my category, they likely need it.

But if you would do me a favor and please write me in for best gay blog or best Jew blog I'd really appreciate it. So would God. He told me with a lazer beam from heaven that went right into my eye and carved the smallest message of Truth.

Your blackened whorish teeth smell like sepsis

A lot of people think that having penises instead of fingers would be very fancy and in part they're right. The finger licking would start in the morning and end far into the night.

The thing that people don't understand is that it's very hard to type with limp penis-fingers. The fingers just hang there and when you try to type they smash against the keys and you get several strokes when you intended just one. A person must sustain an erection on ten separate fingers in order to get anything done around the office.

Of course I can do it because of my intense concentration and devotion to both genetalia and also work, but you should be very careful if you get the penis transplants because I'm alot smarter then you.

Remember that spell that goes..

Avada Kadabra!

Haha, you're dead.

Lap lap lapping at my chamber door

Little Pudding Boy's mom is a favorite among the neighborhood boys who often eat at the small island of her pudenda.

They lap up the moist, warm pudding and she lays back and sighs and thinks of the softest things.

Intercourse is strictly forbidden, though, on account of past transactions wherein one over-excited boy bore a new hole into the interior thigh of Mrs. Pudding Boy; a wound that is slow in healing and a wound that aches with memory.

The answer is your crotch, if you're wondering

Let us go then, you and I deep into the breach where meet perhaps the roads, where meet perhaps the roads upon which we stand and look for heaven or at least the smallest touch of heaven I've ever found.

I will tell you of the magic of the mix and explain that the dogs cannot be separated when once engaged because dogs can understand the whispers of the world and they know the facts and they can understand that there are moments and there are moments.

Let us sink into the breach and linger until just the right moment and then let us sigh. Let me sigh. Let us both sigh, but especially let me.

This is the title that stares at your breasts

Dear Junior High Principal,

In the unlikely event you read this I wanted to let you know that despite repeated denial under heated questioning I did, in fact participate in the cow eyeball incident.

To be more specific, it was Ed who took the actual eyeballs from the dissection tables and put them all into a plastic bag, not me. I stood there and giggled, mostly. I'm not sure who it was who found that girl's locker, probably that tall guy, Mike--I forget his last name.

In our defense, the locker was unlocked. She failed to spin the lock after her last visit. It wasn't an intentional act, though I'm sure she felt targeted. It was more like when I walk past a car and flick a big booger on it. I mean no intentional disrespect, it's only by the virtue of your unfortunate parking karma that you must scrub off my dirty snot.

Finally, Ed dumped the bag of bloody eyeballs covering her winter coat and many of her books that rested on the bottom shelf of the locker and we all ran as if Satan were chasing us.

I am prepared to submit to suspension from Junior High or even detention. I would say the same for Ed but he's long dead. Shot himself in the head. Rest easy, I'm sure his death has nothing--or very little--to do with your accusations of cow eyeballery.

Yours truly,

An Repentant Ho.

I have a fear of the vast right-wing homo conspiracy

I have completed my book and I hope to get it out to the publisher tonight. I shall call it Chicken Soup for the Ho. It's a self-help book describing the extraction of splinters from the vagina or penis.

All good books have pictures and this is no different, though they are also ASCII pictures. Here is a sample of the vagina with a splinter in or on or near it: | and here, the penis 1 (note the curved tip. It's deformed and must be rendered as if in twain.)

Secondarily, when referring to the cleaning staff, a phrase that is not oft heard is, "that white custodian. " Cleaning chemicals chafe the white man's hands and those hands must instead count all of the world's money which has no unsafe chemicals.

See you next year was funny in Junior High

On a hot day stepped little Pudding Boy into my kitchen trailing blobs of pudding across the vinyl floor.

He was selling some small trinkets for some small school project and I said to him, "Come in, little Pudding Boy. Come in out of the heat and let me view your wares, your chocolates, your candles, your two pound bags of popcorn."

In the door walked little Pudding Boy trailing blobs, trailing blobs and I had just mopped. I had just mopped can you understand this?

Down put Pudding Boys his wares and it was then that I stabbed him in the face with the larger and sharper of my fine kitchen knives.

The knife cut through faster and deeper than one would expect. Apparently pudding is not as dense as most would think. The blade cut through Pudding Boy's sweet face and into his neck.

Little Pudding Boy looked shocked and a bit stunned as his small artery sprayed gashes of chocolate blood on my wall.

I had just mopped and now I had young, dead Pudding Boy on my small vinyl floor. There was but one thing to do. Eat little Pudding Boy.

I started with the head and worked my way down. He was delicious. It took me three days and he was full of chocolate except for his heart. His heart was a cartilaginous over-sized tapioca curd. I choked that part down with extra gobs of chocolate.

After three days the deed was done. Little Pudding Boy was dead and digesting.

It was on that day I heard another knock.

When answering the door I saw that it was little Pudding Boy's mother.

"Have you seen my son, little Pudding Boy?" she asked.

"Yes, come in, Mrs. Pudding Boy. Please wipe your feet."