Pumpkins on Pumpkins
January 22, 2012 By 3 Comments
“I’ve been referred to as the black Jesus, mostly by people who don’t understand how words work.”
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“I was passing out in a shallow pool of my own vomit while fratboys drew dicks on me and filled my butthole with Rice Krispies before it was cool.”
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“Let’s just say I have a lot to learn about sequestering the hot French biscuits.”
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“I take my coffee like I take my men, homeless and full of MRSA.”
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“I wish I could write a melody so sweet it would bring tears to all of your eyes. Then I would accuse you all of being gays.”
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“Well, the doctor says I have hair cancer.”
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“I’m getting ready to blow the lid off The Mystery of the Human-Sized Turd in the Litterbox.”
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“I think I’ll cuddle up in bed with a crusty old British gentleman named Arthur C. Clarke. And maybe I’ll read a book too.”
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“I need a transition period between hats.”
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“I’ve been spending most my life living in a gangsta’s Paradise Hotel & Casino.”
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“Prepare to fall in love. With me, not the stupid Asian baby.”
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“Well, I looked back. And I turned into a pillar of shit.”
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“That would offend me if I wasn’t actually packing three hot inches.”
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“I’m the straw that stirs the murder. I’m a murder straw.”
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“I’ve been having a pretty Labeoufy day.”
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“I’m the Jesus of mustard.”
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“I watched you shave your balls for this?”
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“My New Year’s resolution is to take it to the limit, one more time.”
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“My New Year’s resolution is to gain 110 pounds.”
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“So that was 2011, huh? I’ve been thrown out of nicer years than this.”
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“I’m the sort of guy who enjoys looking at pictures of animals who don’t usually fuck each other fucking each other.”
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“I told my friends you have two vaginas. Sorry.”
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“I would use you as a human shield so fast your head would still be spinning as the bullets ripped into your torso.”
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“My sign of the Zodiac is the one where the giant mantis fucks the two- headed ladyboy while getting raped by a tsunami. Which one is that again?”
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“I can quit anytime I want, but since I’d rather die than quit, I probably won’t want to.”
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“Has there ever been a boredom suicide, or will I be the first?”
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“I’m feeling sexily cantankerous today.”
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“Werewolf? Vampire? Which one will win my heart?”
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“I DON’T have a penis-carving fetish.”
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“I like my rations warm, my babes German, and my guns self-propelled.”
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“I have a lot of bad tard karma.”
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“Oh, and also, my shit is bananas.”
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“It’s not necrophilia if you’re dead inside.”
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“Now if you excuse me, I have a lie to live.”
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The Four Stages of Love
January 12, 2012 By 1 Comment
Sometimes it is hard to experience the reality of eldrich abomination in our lives. Romantic relationships, properly understood and properly practiced, are a highly effective means by which to invite interdimensional terror into our hearts. It is written in The Book of the Keeper of the Secrets: “There are four stages of love, none more none less, permitted by the Nameless Mist, which shalt not be named. Any being that claims differently is lower than the Worm that Gnaws in the Night.” The Four Stages of Love are symbolically depicted in the portraits below.
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Stage One: Crimson
The first stage, Crimson Love is an intensely erotic, yet supportive, style of love. The lovers are not permitted to look directly at one another, especially in the eyes, nor are they allowed to touch each other in any fashion other than leaning or standing back-to-back. Speech is only allowed in dire emergencies. Only wholesome, unassuming clothing can be worn by the couple. The female must grimace in an unattractive fashion that makes her look like Julianne Moore’s much older sister. The male must never think of perky, youthful breasts, as this will cause his desire for his betrothed to falter. However, he is permitted to hide smoked sausage within the waist area of his tucked shirt. The lovers must hold their forearms tightly to ward off the corrupting influence of the Mother of Pus.
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Stage Two: Mojave
In Stage Two, Mojave, the lovers grow closer. They can now touch shoulder-to-crook-of-the-elbow. The male may gaze up the female’s ear or jawline, but they must always be oriented face-to-back. The sharing of the Breath of Gol-goroth is not permitted. The couple can sometimes change clothes, as the seasonal rites dictate. The female may take on the appearance of a horrid crone, despite claiming adamantly to be 23 years old. The male may resort to protest behaviors such as making love to the mayonnaise jar, as long as he does so behind the back of his consort. Both must pose uncomfortably at all times, to remember the suffering of Ulthar.
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Stage Three: Daydream
In the Daydream Stage of Love, the male may rest his hand on the flank of the female, but only if it is ritually paralyzed with the Blood of Vulthoom. The lovers may assume the Putrid Handshake pose in order to allow intimacy to fester and to disguise stigmata wounds from curious bystanders. The female may wear jewelry that honors Yog-Sothoth, the All-in-One. The male may brandish the Timepiece of Dead Kings. At this point, the lovers should be wary of lurking slime molds and should avoid man-made shelters.
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Stage Four: Ironstone
In the final stage of love, Ironstone, the creeping horror of true love escalates to berserker levels. The lovers are finally able to utilize the Soul-gaze of Summanus. They may face each other at angles of no less than 45 degrees. They may no longer hold worldly occupations, but may accept alms from most animal spirits (except ferrets and badgers).
Once the Rites of the Black Lord of Whirling Vortices have been performed, the female bears Cxaxukluth, the Androgynous Offspring of Azathoth, to term in her chest cavity. The male may, during the gestation period, wear padding beneath his jeans to ward off The Dick-punches of Ngirrth’lu. Once Cxaxukluth claws his way out of the female’s rotted chest-womb and unleashes ultimate destruction upon the world, the male may finally lay with the female, using her-still warm chest-womb opening as a velvety sheath for his phallus. As he spills his seed in her, he will be taken to the Far Realm by Atlach-Nacha, the Spider God. The prophecy is now fulfilled.
The Wonders of the Modern Puppy Industry
December 20, 2011 By Leave a Comment
Somebody release these Jews, er, dogs!
As with the printing, music, and information industries, the march of innovation has made the puppy industry more efficient, humane, and adorable. The term “puppy mill” has garnered many negative connotations in recent years. It may cause you to think of a breeding farm where dogs are confined in tiny cages stacked on top of one another like the world’s saddest game of Hollywood Squares, bred with whatever animal happens to be handy until they are dried up husks by the age of three, allowed only to watch basic cable (no Dog Whisperer!), and shipped to stores in packing crates marked “Punch Me: defenseless animal inside” with nothing but their own feces for padding. Thanks to science and our unsung hero the profit motive, that’s the puppy mill of yesteryear.
The Korn Files: I Want To Believe
December 13, 2011 By Leave a Comment
May or may not be Jonathan Davis. Note watermark.
Holy shit. Fuck. Guys. Guys?
Remember the band Korn? Christ! How embarrassing — me neither. We totally forgot about it!
Guide to Nazi Milk-Girl Photo
December 9, 2011 By 6 Comments
The clenched iron fist of awesome punches you right in the balls. The picture is too white-powerful to take in all at once. Only by focusing on one small portion of the photo at a time can you avoid having your pupils burn like a Swastika on the Ark of the Covenant. Is this the best picture of all time? In a word, yes. Is Nazi Milk-Girl the love of my life? In a different word, probably. A few thoughts on the shit that just changed everything we thought we knew about everything forever:
Figure A.
There he is, the man with the plan! Teen Heartthrob Hitler absolutely sizzles with fuhreriness in this tasteful 3×2 oil rendering. Frame is available white-separately and comes in your choice of blond maple or faux Jew-molar. The perfect gift for that special someone who spends her days purifying milk with her feet while surrounded by Nazi memorabilia!
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Figure B.
Your standard 14-year-old girl’s Nazi shrine, replete with adorable cat figurines. Some may call them a real NOT-zi touch, but I say the cats delicately humanize the future mother of the Fourth Reich. Nazi Milk-Girl, you’ll be a Nazi Milk-Woman soon.
And I mean real soon because next to the cats a cigarette lighter and ashtray can clearly be seen. You know what they say, “If she smokes and purifies milk with her feet, she pokes.
In the upper left of the shrine there is some fan-art commemorating Soundgarden’s masterful 1991 album Badmotorfinger. Nothing soothes the savage Aryan beast and helps break the “Rusty Cage” of creeping Zionism like rocking out to jewey grunge guys.
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Figure C.
And the shit just got real! Any poseur can cut a few cute pics out of Tiger-Tank Beat or Hitler Parade magazine and declare themselves a milk-purifying Neo-Nazi. But for those serious about removing the taint of the Jew-claw from their beverages and ushering in a new age of White Nationalism, being unarmed is not an option. By casually hanging this bitchin’ and white-powerful Airsoft rifle on the wall, Nazi Milk-Girl has put the inferior races of the world on notice that if they mess were her or her ideology, they are liable to get showered in a slightly annoying hellstorm of soft plastic pellets.
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Figure D.
I’d like to think of this as the Master(race) Clock, counting down the seconds until the (Final) Solution to all my milk-purifying needs. “Is this batch of milk pure yet,” you ask quivering with anticipation. “Nein,” Nazi Milk-Girl would answer, “It needs three more minutes of feet.”
Du scheissenkopf! That’s why she’s sitting in the milk bucket and you’re not.
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Figure E.
No Nazi Milk-Girl worth her weight in lampshades and soap would try to pull this shit off without a trusty Nazi Milk-Gimp at her side. Wearing the same Tuxedo-Tee as that kike Sean Penn in Fast Times at Ridgemont High, (and evidently a ski mask to prevent hair or boogers from falling into the same batch of milk that currently has feet in it) the Nazi Milk-Gimp is Eva Brauning like a sumbitch.
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Figure F.
And then there was her. Look at that sassy, Hitlerian hair-part to the left! That creamy white skin! Those hateful, pouty lips!
If someone had asked me yesterday what love was, I probably would have quoted them a Hanns Johst sonnet, mumbling something about reaching for my gun when I hear the word “culture.” But I had never before looked at a Nazi Milk-Girl and been totally vulnerable– a Nazi Milk-Girl who could level you with her eyes.
Summers in Vienna. Winters in Argentina. Begging, coaxing, praying her philtrum whiskers into existence. NASCAR races. Tea Party rallies. Watching Riefenstahl flicks over and over and over again. I’d even be willing to forgive her Mathias Steiner calves and her penchant for wearing mismatched men’s suits while begging me to shit on her chest as Nazi Gimp-Girl jacks off 240 black guys into clear plastic containers.
We may struggle at times, but in the end, our love shall triumph where others who came before have failed.
Send in the Mexicans
November 20, 2011 By Leave a Comment
Late Fall. The time of year when Mother Nature is at her cooziest. There’s a shit-ton of leaves everywhere, and many Americans just aren’t willing or able to go through the back-breaking rigamorale of raking and bagging that shit. On top of that, there may be special leaf-bag laws and special leaf-bag stamps, and special leaf-bag pickup days and special designated areas to cram your leaf-bags. It’s all very depressing. So you do a shitty job. Maybe you spread the leaves around a little. Maybe you classify several areas of your yard as new “compost” areas. Maybe you make exorbitant promises you’ll never keep to your shithead kids in exchange for them pretending to rake. You swear, by God, that next year you’ll just pay some fucking Mexicans to do it.
And well you should. Fucking Mexicans are awesome at it!
Forget about that “doing the jobs Americans won’t do” crap. If Mexicans sucked as much ass at leaf-removal as you do, they wouldn’t do it either. Nor is raking leaves perfectly suitable for Mexicans but somehow below you and your exalted station in life. Nothing is below you, gringo. It’s just that over the past 20 years or so, Mexicans have pioneered some breathtaking leaf-removal shit that you and your little rake and soft, ivory hands weren’t privy to. Make the fucking call.
Ok, so you’ve made the fucking call. Pull up a chair and don’t blink, motherfucker.
In the distance you hear a low rumble. You can see a cloud of dust rolling across the horizon. The rumble and dust quickly build to deafening and blinding proportions and the next thing you know, you’ve got the fucking caravan from Mad Max pulling into your drive. Dozens of little men in little hoodies and bad little mustaches are leaping off the still-moving machinery and fanning out across your yard like stim-packed storm troopers. Leaf-blowers howl. Leaf-vacuums whine. Leaf tarps are hoisted by mini leaf-cranes. You’ve never seen so many goddamn late-model riding mowers in all of your life. And then in a flash, it’s over. Shocked, you fork over your $120 in cash while surveying your now perfectly leaf-less lawn. The dust begins to settle. The last Mexican jumps onto the last truck and is gone before you can even perform a dopey wave. What would have taken you 14 hours and a marriage to accomplish has been completed in a hot Latin minute and a half.
Call it Capitalism, bitch. And don’t you dare putz around with your little rake ever again.
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Double-Secret Recusal
November 15, 2011 By Leave a Comment
28 U.S.C. § 455 : US Code – Section 455: Disqualification of justice, judge, or magistrate judge
(b) He shall also disqualify himself in the following circumstances:
(4) He knows that he, individually or as a fiduciary, or his spouse or minor child residing in his household, has a financial interest in the subject matter in controversy or in a party to the proceeding, or any other interest that could be substantially affected by the outcome of the proceeding;
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28 U.S.C. § 455 : US Code – Section 455: Disqualification of justice, judge, or magistrate judge
(b) He shall also disqualify himself in the following circumstances:
(3) Where he has served in governmental employment and in such capacity participated as counsel, adviser or material witness concerning the proceeding or expressed an opinion concerning the merits of the particular case in controversy;
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Opinion:
Despite what Republicans and Democrats will argue in the coming months, Supreme Court Justices Thomas and Kagan are both in violation of 28 U.S.C. § 455 and must recuse themselves from ruling on the Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act. In light of the clear language of 28 U.S.C. § 455 highlighted in the sections above, any attempt by the parties in question to obfuscate the issue of disqualification should be viewed as an assault on our intelligence.
Guide to Jian Sword-Dancing Video
November 3, 2011 By 4 Comments
0:00 The video begins and hits you like a Goddamn sledgehammer! You need a moment to take it all in or else your shit melts. From left to right you have Doc Brown, rocking the lawn chair and house slippers, laid back as fuck behind Blu Blockers; the Libyan Nationals’ reprisal for his plutonium double-cross the last thing on his fuzzy mind. Today he’s just here to chill the fuck out on a tasty groove, and get his shit blown by a fucking virtuoso sword routine. Well, you’re in luck pal.
At Doc Brown’s feet is the dog from Frasier, staring way too intently at what appears to be some sort of retarded birdhouse-doggie bowl combo platter. Turn the fuck around you little brown-buttholed-bitch, there’s swordplay afoot!
To the right of Eddie is a shockingly bitching jambox, the likes of which I haven’t seen since a 1980′s rap video. The shit needs to be pumped, and this is absolutely the correct apparatus for shit-pumping.
Pop, Pop! Foreground time, and that tasty little cooz rocking the sword has all the right moves. The perky little tits say “Hey, let’s do this shit,” while the pony tail, Seinfeldian white shoes and the fucking sword say, “Hey, maybe not.” The t-shirt tucked into the Lee jeans is consistent with your classic white people behavior, and when sword time ends, you just know something’s going to get Bedazzled within an inch of its dick.
To Shogun’s right is a garbage can no doubt containing the remains of Grandpa, and a suspiciously ajar garage door. There’s some plastic bags hanging from the knob, which means the entire ensemble is just a tube of model airplane glue from kicking this shit to the next level. On the garage door is a framed painting of a Mexican boy in a sombrero holding an earthen jug. You can tell it’s “fine art” from the manner in which someone made the command decision to hang it outside where birds can shit on it after stealing the dog’s food.
Finally, on the far right is a bucket and mop, which is fortunate because you know that concrete is going to need a good spritzing after God shoots his hot load all over the fucking scene.
0:12 If you can take your eyes off the mesmerizing sword-opera being performed in the foreground, you’ll notice something stirring in the house. Whoa! Who is this luscious fuckboy? Why, it’s the assbaby twin of Sword Girl! After opening and closing what is evidently the heaviest sliding door in all of Hazzard County, Baby Blue joins the fray and instantly hits the ground running. “Hey, I’ve heard this song before, and I fucking love it. I’m going to pump my shit like a motherfucker and drink this beer because dad abandoned us last week and Grandma doesn’t care.” And she doesn’t. So he does. The dog glances up for a moment to confirm that Baby Blue’s crotch isn’t caked with peanut butter like yesterday, but loses interest when it’s not. Yet.
0:35 After a good 20 seconds of All-American grooving, Baby Blue can’t stand not being involved in the shit anymore. He thrusts out his bottle at Grandma as if to say, “Here, my freedom of movement is much more important than yours. Hold my shit with your bloodless corpse-hands you doddering old tramp.” She takes it. She always takes it. BB is going in for a closer look. “Don’t worry about me, Sis. I’m just checking out your sweet moves.” But we know this is bullshit because he’s been clutching a butterfly knife in his dickfingers since he popped out the door! Don’t believe me? Roll back the tape. We know now that the fix is in, so this shit better at least be fucking well-choreographed…
0:49 …And it fucking is! Baby Blue holds his chin in an inquistive fashion for a moment, as if he’s pondering the imponderableness of the sweet shit Sister Shogun is laying down all over the pavement. But it’s only a misdirection ponder because… BAM! He’s in! Stepping up to the plate like a goddamn champion, Baby Blue just doubled your pleasure.
1:02 The shit gets hot with some dual slingbladin’ and you can’t help but feel you’re being double-fisted by Jesus. Matching his sister faggy punch for faggy punch, Baby Blue is truly in his element.
1:05 The dynamic duo go back to back, and you can almost imagine them fighting off hordes of Yakuza together through determination, creepy ass-twin telepathy, and the power of dance fight.
1:16 Sis unleashes a vicious, arching swing at Blue’s head, causing you to cum your pants at the prospect of a decapitation. But surprise! It was all just the product of the tightest choreography since Philo fought Clyde in that barn. Blue’s fine and counters with his own impotent tiny knife attack. This shit is every which way and awesome.
1:23 The video cuts off abruptly. Suspiciously abruptly, even! What happened at 1:24 that they don’t want us to see? Did that little dog get chopped in half? Did Grandma pitch forward face-first into a doggie bowl full of bird seed? Did dance fighting turn into dance fucking? Or more likely, was it an awesome combination of the three?
It’s a cliffhanger. Stay tuned!
