Thursday, November 09, 2006

Honkin' On Bobo

Fuck Aerosmith.
Fuck Steven Tyler.
Fuck Joe Perry.
Fuck the other guys in the band whose names no one knows.
Fuck their stupid fucking music.
Fuck every dumb album they've made, especially Honkin' On Bobo.
Fuck whoever came up with Honkin' On Bobo.
Fuck anyone who actually likes Aerosmith's shitty music.
Fuck Ragdoll.
Fuck Amazing.
Fuck Crying.
Fuck scarves.
Fuck big lips on a lead singer.
Fuck the radio stations that still play Aerosmith all the fucking time.
Fuck Steven Tyler's stupid daughter.
Fuck her for speaking Elvish.
Fuck the movie Be Cool because Steven Tyler is in it, plus it's a dumb movie.
Fuck the fact that Steven Tyler is alive and Steve McQueen is dead.

Wednesday, November 01, 2006

Yeah, I Can Reproduce


You might be sitting there, wondering to yourself whether or not I possess the ability to pass on these genes god blessed me with. Well, I'm here to tell you that I can. Right between these slender thighs is about three pounds of swinging meat, just aching for the chance to repopulate the globe in the event of a nuclear holocaust or some kind of wierd virus that wipes out all the healthy males but me. I can impregnant females until I die. Nature made me that way. Why? Because men, like myself, need to be able to spread their seed. It gives us the ability to select suitable females into a herd, or pack if you will, from which we can choose our nightly bedmates. I usually choose two at a time because this doubles my chances at having many, many, many, many children. Sons hopefully! Being a bold alpha male, I am forced to dominate those around me. As a result the females are drawn to both my masculine strength and my musk. It is sometimes necessary for me to drive off young males who would like to steal females from my pack. This is normal and usually occurs around spring break. The females go into a sex crazed frenzy when I return to the pack, dripping with the blood and sweat of my foe, my chest heaving with lust. I have a penis and it was made to impregnate females. Who am I to withstand the force of nature within my loins?

Monday, October 30, 2006

I just found my dream job


Toss my what?
Originally uploaded by Jorge Ragtime.
After ten years in a maximum security prison, I was worried that my experiences inside wouldn't give me proper training for the real world. After passing by my local deli, however, I see that I was sorely mistaken. You've gotta respect a deli owner who advertises their personal needs so publicly, and it amazes me that our society has progressed to the point where a request for a professional salad tosser can be made in a shop window on Main Street USA, instead of the back pages of Juggz Magazine.

I think I'll go for the part-time gig...40 hours of tossing salad each week seems a bit much.

Saturday, October 28, 2006

Here Comes The BOOM!


I said...
Boom! Here comes the Boom!
Ready or not, here comes the boys from the South.
Boom! Here comes the Boom!
Ready or not, How you like me now?

Tuesday, October 24, 2006

Gilbert Blythe Took A Shit In This Hat

Being forced to wear a hat that makes you look like a handjob is all part of the job when you're an actor, it just goes with being a professional pretender or make-believe artist as some call themselves. But Jonathan Crombie hated the hat he had to wear in Anne of Green Gables so much that he smuggled it back to his trailer on the set and took a massive shit in it. The hat does not reappear in the film, but he does continue to wear a stupid expression on his face and the top two buttons of his shirt undone. For some reason these two seemingly unrelated things worked in harmony to score him the sweet virginity of Anne Shirley. Unfortunately, that doesn't happen until the second movie, Anne of Avonlea, when everyone meets up at the Gables for a giant, drug-crazed fuck-fest. I suggest skipping the first movie and diving straight into Anne of Avonlea as there are more milk white breasts and hairy triangles of death than you can shake a stick at.

Saturday, October 21, 2006

God Speaks To 15 Year Old Gay/Dancer/Thespian/Dork

It could have been the black velvet pants. Possibly the tight tank top. Maybe even the fingerless leather gloves that finally did it. Whatever it was, God finally chose to respond to cries of love and devotion to His almighty power. It was a Tuesday afternoon in October when the booming voice echoed across the cloudy, grey sky and changed the life of a fifteen year old boy forever. Dressed in a synchronized dance outfit fit for the stage, Joyce Plumfugger found himself on the receiving end of a message from the Heavens, but the words that rattled the very teeth in his head were nothing like what he had imagined.
High school was a time of wonder for Plumfugger, though there was a period of his life when he could not have been convinced that it could be. The trouble started around the time of his tenth birthday, when he began to realize that he was not like other boys. He had feelings of emotion that the others didn't seem to have and his voice came with a lisp that seemed beyond the powers of any therapist to correct. It was a dark time for Plumfugger and much of his time was spent weeping under his bed, dressed in one of his mother's old evening gowns. It wasn't until he stumbled into a dance studio that his life took a turn for the better, and the hours spent sobbing in darkness were soon spent training his lithe young body to become an instrument of grace and beauty.
Everything was looking up for Plumfugger by the time he reached his sophomore year at Nagalfar High School; he was captain of the jazz dance team, he wore tank tops every day and there were two boys on the soccer team who didn't call him a fag. He was on his way. The joy of a life going successfully rang out across the football field as the other boys suited up in pads smashed into each other and Plumfugger squealed with joy, praising God for making something as sublimely handsome as a male ass. It was then that a voice crackled across the sky, silencing everything, the football team, the coaches, the birds, even the cheerleaders who were practicing on the sidelines of the field. Everyone froze in place, electrified by the words vibrating through the air like a living thing.
It took a while for things to go back to normal, but in time, they did. Years later, most of those who had been there that day barely remember the incident, as if it blurred from their minds like newsprint in the rain. Maybe it never held any importance in the first place. They went about their lives, living as they had before the voice had come. All that is, except for Plumfugger. He decided to remember those words and remember them he did. In dance. Using the words to be his music, he danced his heart out, hoping that in some small way, his dance might show the beauty of God that he had known one October day. Unfortunately, no one really got it and thought he was just this wierdo dancing around like an idiot.

Wednesday, October 11, 2006

You Wanna Die?


Anyone out there got a death wish? Huh? You looking at this fucking color guard? You better not be unless you want to get stabbed with one of this swords or take a nice rifle butt to the skull. You take a butt-strike to the chin and you are going to be knocked the fuck out, it doesn't matter if the gun is yellow and made of plastic, these individuals wield it like it's the real thing. See those swords? They aren't sharp and they have plastic knobs on the end but they can still carve your still-beating heart right out of your cowardly chest. You know, if it comes to that. Being in a color guard isn't just about twirling shit around, it's about maintaining some ground and fighting to the death to protect it. Even if it is just a twelve square-foot section of basketball court near the free throw line. The color guard has the duty and the priviledge to be a force of power and prestige within an academic institution, and they alone have the cajones to repel attacks from rebel forces. You might ask where the color guard was at Columbine, and that would be a fair question, but no... fuck you! That color guard was out on the track practicing one arm take-downs and shoulder rolls. They were blasting Metallica's One so fucking loud they couldn't hear the gunfire. If they had, that day would have ended very differently. The trench coat mafia would have themselves the victims of a fullisade of vicious butt-strikes and twirling streamers, all delivered with the precision and grace which are the trademarks of a high school color guard. I hope for your sake that you never make the mistake of referring to a color guard team a 'dance team.' They are para-military squads that move under the clever guise of unoffending synchronized dancers. What better way to infiltrate, assess and eliminate?

Friday, October 06, 2006

This Is Esmirelda, Her Breath Stinks.

Esmirelda is the new employee who has been hired into the pricing department. She has two cats, a blue Nissan Tercel and chronic bad breath. She came to the company from the State Health and Welfare Department where she spent fifteen years adjudicating disability claims. Her coworkers at HWD were happy to see her go, mostly because of the promotion, but also because her unpleasant halitosis made working conditions difficult. They often left Lifesavers and other various breath mints on her desk, but she never seemed to get the hint. Esmirelda likes to chew on pens and she brought a collection of them from HWD, so folks, watch your ballpoints! She is a welcome addition to our company and we will all do our best to make her comfortable here. Hopefully, her godawful fucking breath will chill the fuck out so we all don't die.

Thursday, October 05, 2006

Saturday, September 23, 2006

What're you looking at bitch?


Grover
Originally uploaded by Jorge Ragtime.
I bet you're wondering if I have a mustache. Come on, look closer. Still can't tell? Get the fuck out of my face.

Monday, September 18, 2006

Where there's a will, there's a whale tail


Ahoy!
Originally uploaded by Jorge Ragtime.
That's right fuckers, Maximillion is back and he's got whale tails on his mind. I am completely uninterested in a thong unless it's poking out for some air from the top of a woman's jeans or tracksuit. Preferably if that woman is between the ages of 34 and 37. That's when a woman REALLY blossoms.

I went to Macy's yesterday and asked the clerk if whale tails were on sale and he said that if I was looking for what I thought he was looking for he was going to call security, and anyway I was in the men's suit section and he wouldn't know.

I guess I'm just like Captain Ahab, searching for a white whale tail so I can photograph it from a distance and add it to my collection. Captain Ahab with a high-powered camera and mirror sunglasses.

Wednesday, August 30, 2006

Neo Finds Own Beard Nauseating

It appeared to be a typical August afternoon in sunny Los Angeles; the sky was almost blue, smog drifted in a dust haze across the horizon and the buzzing thump of trunk mounted speakers pounded out a cacophony of competing bass rhythms. Despite these signs of normalcy, the star of My Own Private Idaho was feeling anything but typical. Racing along Century Boulevard in the passenger seat of friend and co-star Alex Winter's Benz SLR, Keanu Reeves couldn't shake a feeling of unease. He was working his way through a pack of Tums, tossing the empty foil wrappers into the ash tray and peering nervously out the window at passing traffic, trying to puzzle things out. "I really feel like crap," the 42 year old actor admitted as he tossed yet another pastel colored disc into his mouth. He crunched wearily on the medicinal tablet and slumped tiredly down in the plush bucket seat, trying to get comfortable. He laced his fingers together over his stomach, which was rumbling discontentedly. "Try taking off your sports jacket," suggested Winter, the acclaimed director and Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure co-star. He looked at Reeves for a moment, then switched off the air conditioning and rolled down the window, suggesting "some fresh air?" Reeves nodded thankfully and sucked at the wind, which began to buffet his face in refreshing blasts as the car cruised through traffic at high speed. The healing powers of California air didn't help for long, however. "Uh-oh," Reeves barely managed before clamping a hand over his mouth. "What?" Winter asked and cautioned a look at his companion as he piloted the car serenely through a yellow light. The bulging eyes and puffed out cheeks of Reeves were enough for Winter to send the SLR to a screeching halt at the curb in a cloud of burning rubber and hot brake shoes. The passenger door was immediately flung open and Reeves leaned out against it, vomiting in a violent gush onto the curb. Winter's peered out his side window, embarrassed for his friend. After a moment, Reeves managed to sit up, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand. "Oh god," he mumbled, then pulled the door shut. "You okay?" Winter asked. He was genuinely concerned as Reeves did not vomit often during the day. "Yeah, lets go," Reeves directed with a wave of his hand. Despite his face being flushed and coated with perspiration, he said, surprisingly, "I feel a little better." The SLR pulled smoothly back into traffic and disappeared into the throng, just another expensive car in an ocean of similarly valuable vehicles. The two never again discussed the incident, preferring to let it pass out of their memories in favor of better times and places.

Tuesday, August 29, 2006

I'm The Guy Dating Your Daughter

I know I look forty, which is not that big of a deal because that's how old I am. I drive a BMW. It's black with rims and a system. I met your daughter in the 7 Eleven parking lot last weekend when she was hanging out with some friends of hers. She was skipping school and I joked with her that she looked like a model and that I could take some pictures of her for my modeling agency if she was eighteen. She said she wasn't but I took the pictures anyway back at my trailer. She and her friends had a good time. We drank some wine coolers and listened to rap music until three when I drove her home. We made out in the driveway for a while, which was cool, but she wouldn't let me come up and see her room because moms was supposed to come home soon. That's no big deal, I'll see it tomorrow when I stop by with some roses. Moms is doing some volunteer work and will be out until six. I'm going to surprise her. I won't wear a shirt and that will usually take care of any second thoughts she might have. I have some tattoos you see. Girls like that, especially teenage girls. Maybe I'll wear a wife-beater and spill something on it so she can watch me take it off really slowly, like a male model. I've modeled a little and put the pics on the net hoping to get a contract. I've gotten some responses but they turned out to be scam stuff so I'm holding off on a few deals until I can get that sorted out. I need to go do some crunches. Laters.

Saturday, August 26, 2006

Just Look What Nice Abs Can Get You!

Some people date for love, some date as a result of mutual interests, but I prefer women who are into my looks and money. It isn't always easy letting a girl know that not only do I have a gorgeous face, but the body beneath the designer t-shirt is free of fat and chiseled beyong comprehension. Often times I have to flat you tell her, 'look, my name is Darren. I have a rad body, cut abs and my dad is really rich.' That pretty much breaks the ice immediately and sorts out any kind of girl who tries to pretend that she's looking for more than that, which is a bunch of crap because they all are. Some chicks are all like, 'well Darren, maybe you should go fuck yourself with a big role of your dad's money,' and I'm like, 'that's fucking lame you ugly lesbian.' It works out pretty well most times and I don't have to deal with too much shit because I'm so hot. I wear red swim trunks because they're kinda Baywatch, kinda lifeguardish, totally hot all the way through. I'm good looking. You probably aren't if you're reading this. HA HA!

Thursday, August 03, 2006

The Bum Rush





I know I'm not the only one who is sick of seeing these guys with these stupid signs standing around wanting money for nothing. Unfortunately for them, the signs tell me two things about them that does not help their cause; they are not very hungry if they are still making jokes and the mere fact that they own a huge Sharpie lends to the fact that they aren't hurting that badly for money. If they are so down on their luck, why go out and buy a $4 marker? Maybe there is one big Sharpie that they all use but I truly doubt it. Homeless seem to keep to themselves and don't really work together because if they did they could form a homeless union and send delegates to the state senate to appropriate money for fresh needles and cardboard boxes. These people hound everyone with clean pants walking down the street and seem to think that anyone who actually seems to have a purpose for being on the sidewalk in a metropolitan area has plenty of extra funds to support their drug habits. They do not want money for food because they line up around the block for free meals every day. If you are ever hungry yourself, just ask a bum where the nearest soup kitchen or meal cart is and they will tell you three different options within a five block radius. With that in mind, cast your thoughts back to the last skinny bum you have ever seen. Can't recall one can you? Even the crack heads are fat. Go figure that one out. They eat more meals than your average housewife and still get more exercise. The biggest worries a homeless person faces is finding the next bottle or fix and trying not to pass out where they can be lit on fire. Occasionally the news will run a story about a homeless person who freezes to death and everyone will be momentarily upset about their plight but that is in the absence of the true facts. Homeless people living out in the elements are those who choose not to spend their nights in a bed at a shelter because they cannot drink or do drugs in a shelter. They would rather spend the night out in freezing weather than go without a drink or a pipe and that is a fact. Homeless people have been known to trade their coats for drugs even when the temperature is in the single digits. That is how bad their addictions are and while it is sad that they are that deeply in the grips of a chemical craving I have yet to hear of person who was forced to become an addict at gunpoint. Every one of these people has a sad story to explain their situation but nothing is an excuse to becoming a parasite of society and an eyesore to all. There are always those who stand up for the rights of homeless, championing their cause to allow them to live on city streets across the country, but why is it that these people who argue so strongly for homeless are not seen sweeping up the trash they leave in parks and doorways they inhabit? They do not mind that every public park within a major metropolitan area is almost completely unused by the general public because the drunk and drugged-out homeless who descend on these areas and cover them in trash? People who work all morning in a cramped office are not about to take their lunch in the park next door because they will be treated to harassment by stinking druggies looking for a handout or a screaming match between two drunks fighting over a bottle of wine. A great place to enjoy a ham sandwich. All this being said, there are those who are so mentally deranged that they cannot care for themselves in even the most basic ways and should not be left to their own devices. These people, who are generally not seen with witty signs asking for money, should be institutionalized because they are danger to themselves. Unfortunately for them, they have some wonderful people who care so much about them that they have fought to free them from state care and give them the right to be out on the streets. So until they die or hurt someone else, they are free to live in filth and eat garbage. These are the people who deserve compassion and help, but rarely receive it. That is why when you see some idiot standing on a corner with a funny sign they should be the last person you open your wallet for, it is the guy with no shoes and blackened feet that needs the dollar.

Wednesday, August 02, 2006

I Call This Mustache The Peacekeeper

Though my ridin' and ropin' days are done, I can still work the ranch as good as any other cowboy who ever lived. I grew a mustache as a young man and wore it proudly until it greyed and faded, just like the memories of my life have over the years. I ain't much of the man I was but the spark of life that fueled many a barroom battle has yet to extinguish. I hope that flame burns just a little longer so I can tell one last tale that needs to be told, if I can remember it all that is. The whole things started back when I was a handsome buck of about nineteen years of age, riding the circuit out in Montana and Wyoming, living the carefree life. Those were the days when a strong back and a pair of hard working hands were all you needed to make an honest living, not like the backstabbing faggotry that men are required to perform nowadays. I was riding an Appaloosa gelding at the time by the name of Fancypants, and boy oh boy did I love that horse. We spent more days than I could count wandering the clover valleys and lion's back ridges of those backwoods states and it was a sad day in my life when the horse up and collapsed one day and died. I whipped all hell out of Fancypants trying to scare away the demons come to take her to hell but she stayed dead and I stayed without a ride for some time. Anyways that was years after the story I'm telling happened, and that one starts with Fancypants and I pushing our way through a snowdrift up in Saddlestring Pass. It was too late in the year to be up that high but a fifth of sour mash had put enough fire in my shortleg to convince me that I might be able to make one last trip up to Sally McRatchet's alpine cabin for a roll in the hay. Old Sally was the type of woman who chose to live off the land as opposed to the fat sows in town who sucked off the teat of mankind, but being alone as she was, she was prone to getting what we used to call the 'carnal hunger.' It'd get so bad that her female parts would actually eat clean through her drawers. That might frighten some men but the more experienced one's will tell you that a crevasse with that level of eagerness is nothing to turn your nose at. Anyhow, Fancypants and I were in the snowdrift halfway through the pass when the temperature took a big drop, at least twenty degrees in an hour, and we found ourselves suddenly encased in a block of ice. It was mid-March before we thawed enough to bust loose of our nature-made encasement and by that point heading back to town sounded a little more appetizing than a romp with some old mountain woman. It was a good thing I felt that way too because when Fancypants and I finally hobbled our way into the saloon in Jackson Hole we learned that old Sally had skewered herself on some type of spindle apparatus and was dead as a doornail. I was mighty glad I didn't waste any time going all the way to her cabin because the bears had eaten most of her face, chest, breasts, neck and head before she was found on her homemade lovemaking contraption. 'Impaled' was the word those that found her had used but I found it a tad indelicate in reference to a lady. These days I think back about what might have been if I hadn't been frozen for all those months, Sally would be alive and I'd probably still have some feeling in my fingers and maybe I'd even have a son to take care of me in my old age. But it happened that way because that is how fate decided it should be and I ain't one to thumb my nose at fate.

This One Is Better...

For those of you who liked the last clip of the 285 slab of man, I think this one is even better:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fMBHmCuKvK8

This is a taste of what his yahoo group has to offer (I didn't fuck with the spelling either) :

This group is for Narcissistic bodybuilders (love of or sexual desire for one's own body) Muscle men who worship themselves in a mirror daily and want to express your total Narcissism of your own body. Bodybuilders who find that they are sexually turned on to themselves and are only satififed by admiring their own incredable built masculine muscles or mutually with other Narcissistic bodybuiders. This is for men who get into and off on themselves an like to share their bodys with others who want to admire their body as much as they do themselves. Feel free to talk about your Narcissistic feelings about youself and what its like to be a bodybuilder who is in love with his own body. I am what turns me on, my thick massive size. my strength, I can be all my muscle fantasys. My stats are current an acturate.
Here's some good comments too, my favorite is the second because the comments are on the guy's yahoo group page:

Hey, man, The body is great. The attitude is masculine. The total package is manly and virile. You're morphing YOURSELF in real-life, bro, you hardly need

That's really hot man. I feel the same way about myself. nothing like getting pumped up & kooling in the mirror. Do you have a yahoo group?


Tuesday, August 01, 2006

These Are A Few Of My Favorite Words...

1. Shunt
2. Hoggle
3. Crotch
4. Blubber
5. Blumpkin
6. Moist
7. Intercourse
8. Flange
9. Flutie
10. Plump
11. Chunder
12. Swole

In Case You’re Wondering, These Legs Go All The Way Up

I’ve been told that these stems are worth their weight in gold and I tend to agree. Even though they have been carrying me around since the day I first dropped even I recognize just how bitchin’ they really are. My legs are not unlike my ass; perfect and full of wonder. Men have been worshiping this particular piece since I can remember and my memory goes back a long way. I got my first mini skirt about the time Kennedy got popped and I have been wrapping my ass in eight inches of fabric ever since. The boots only accentuate my legs and being called ‘fuck-me boots’ doesn’t hurt either. I do have to point out one drawback to wearing knee high fuck-me’s: they cover up my absolutely delicious calves, which is a loss. That much divine flesh, even covered by sexy boots, is a tragedy of almost epic proportions. There is currently a bill being passed through congress which, if passed, will force 7-Eleven to allow me to enter their store without shoes or shirt because I am so fucking hot. Two congressmen bought my used underwear from my online store. I also have half-smoked cigs and dirty socks available for those interested. On a more serious note I have to announce that I will no longer be performing the bathroom segment of my live webcasts despite their wild popularity. If you’d like to know why, you should call up Jim Krupa of the Office of Health and Human Services and ask him. Instead I have worked out a new bit where I strip down to the boots and dump a bottle of extra-virgin olive oil over my body. I then drop into the full splits, letting the boot heels scrape across the hardwood until my groin area smacks the ground. This makes a sound like a toilet plunger being sloshed into a loaded toilet bowl, which should make some of you happy. If the sound doesn’t get you, the visuals definitely will, because nothing makes a man stand at attention like a hot bitch covered in oil with her thighs wrenched so far apart the tendons in her hips groan like green tree boughs about to snap. It’s these extra’s that makes me so popular, I’m convinced of it. I just don’t think the young women of today know the value of a little self-degradation for the satisfaction of a man. They will learn though, when the men all come to women like me and those perky little asses are left high and dry. There’s a reason I wear this skirt, you know. My scent attracts young bucks like clover to a honey bee.

Wednesday, July 26, 2006

I'm A Fucking Beefeater!


She was the lady of the faire...
The thong she wore was in disrepair...
So mend it I did with threads of my codpiece...
And trimmed it out with strips of fleece...
The mating we had was so very good...
In the deep piney wood she road my wood...
Betrothed to another she gave only anal...
Though I don't see how I lost out in the deal...
Rays of starlight twinkled in her eyes...
As she gazed from betwixt my thighs...
Enchanted was I at that beautiful sight...
Her skin I saw was so milky white...
A Beefeater I am called because that's what I am...
She showed me her tits on a webcam...

Thursday, July 20, 2006

This Is Buzz And He Doesn't Wipe


Working as a fishing guide brings me into contact with all types of personalities on a daily basis. From the uptight executive to the beer guzzling middle-age software techs, I see them all. I enjoy my ability to interact with people from all walks of life as if they are equals, even if they are complete lowlife scumbags, which they often are. Being good looking, I have a unique obligation as an ambassador of attractiveness, trying to show them that I am both a good looking man as well as an effective fishing guide. So I wear several hats, so to speak. I just want you to know a little bit about me. What it is to inhabit my particularly tan skin.

One of the difficulties that arises when I do my job is that my friendly and outgoing personality is often misconstrued as a sign of true friendship by the clients of my charter service. I equate this to the problems faced by Hooters Girls and strippers where the patrons of their establishments cannot grasp the concept that they are actually paying for these people to pretend to like them. When I first started working as a guide it seemed to be common sense that after the boat hit the dock and the gear was unloaded, I was no longer obligated to be friendly towards the people I'd taken out that day. Boy was I wrong about that. It didn't take long before I learned just how uncomfortable things could get when I ran into these guys over at the Cook Shack Bar and Grill after work.

The Shack is my favorite hang out and being situated near the docks the guys who I guide usually wind up there sooner or later. More often than not these idiots have been drinking most of the day and the beer has made them friendlier than usual. Because of this they often come over and try to hang out with me, expecting me to be as friendly and genuine as I was on the boat when I was vying for a bigger tip. Now that I am off the clock and trying to hook up with the babes that frequent the Shack, these old dudes really jam things up for me. I usually try to play things off or just make fun of them in front of the girls until they get the hint and go away, saying things like 'this is Boner and he shit his pants on my boat today.' That line usually works because the girls laugh at them until the dude gets embarrassed and leaves, but sometimes if they are really drunk I am forced to get really intense about things. Spilling a drink on the crotch of their pants usually works in this situation, but if that fails I go to Defcon Two, which is 'accidentally' elbowing the bottom of their beer bottle while they're drinking from it. I have yet to reach Defcon One. No matter what I have to do to get a little breathing room at the Shack it is still not cool for dudes to impose on my game, therefore they get what they deserve. It has not escaped my attention that I have virtually no repeat clients, which is the bread and butter of the guiding business, but I truly do not care. I get numbers when I am at the Shack, and as we all know, numbers equal handjobs.

Monday, July 17, 2006

What The Fuck Am I?





















Maybe you can help me because I am at a total loss as to my sexual identity. I have the soft, rosy lips of a German maiden, but the closely cropped hair of a strapping young man. My plain white t-shirt suggests I am a black man but the baby soft skin of my face seems to be that of an eighteen year old Swedish bar maid. I keep trying to look between my legs to find out for sure but of course I can't because I am just a stupid photograph. I have no sexual identity it seems, but that might not be so bad. I can move between both hemispheres of gender with ease, using any and all restrooms I want. I can freely enter the changing rooms of any public swimming pool and enjoy the view while going unnoticed and unchallenged. Just think for a moment how good of a bank robber I could be. Without so much as a mask I could so befuddle those I am robbing that any positive identification would be impossible. How can the police hunt for a suspect when they are not even positive of the gender? I am really starting to enjoy the idea of being a complete sexual non-entity. Of course, dating is going to be something of a trick, but seeing as how even I don't know what I am it is going to be quite the exciting evening for some lucky bisexual. I wouldn't even be able to give a hint as to what I am until my jeans are torn from my shapeless body.

Saturday, July 15, 2006

Butt Rape Under The Big Top


A good majority of people who have been raped by clowns are not amused by them anymore. I can attest to the revulsion felt by those who have been brutally attacked by these seemingly harmless and childlike people because I too suffered an encounter which I have mostly blocked from my memory. Only flashes of what occurred continue to tumble around in my head, but those haunting images have seared my very soul. I can still hear the laughter, the disgusting panting and the incessant honking of the big bulb nose as the clown satisfied himself. Luckily, I don't recall the money shot. Now when I see clowns I feel the frustrated sickness envelope me in a cloud that is as inescapable as death and as revolting as man-on-man, lube-free sex in a Eurovan in the blinding mid-summer heat of an East Texas July afternoon. Of course, I may have been partially to blame for what happened to me, but I still do not think wearing cut off jean shorts and a tummy shirt is any excuse for what followed. Though I now believe that had I picked anything else off my closet floor that day I might have avoided an unpleasant date with destiny. I have heard rumors that clowns are on the move, leaving the saftey they find in larger urban centers and descending upon quiet, helpless towns. This must be stopped. If you decide to kill one, before they die I want you to tell them Buff Tan Honky sends his regards.

Wednesday, July 12, 2006

I, Pakistani Man



In Pakistan we do not have such women with the bright white skin like America. I like to see them in the light of candles and smoky incense when the thong is up above the pants. These women are so pale that they look like great big toadstools with flowing yellow hair. I talk to them and I become so nervous my moustache becomes heavy with sweat and when I talk put one hand on my hip because that is the way of a Pakistani man. One time a woman of white skin placed her hand on my shoulder when I am having food at a Mexican restaurant. She asks me for a refill of margarita drink in punchbowl and I laugh so hard because I cannot because I am not a worker of restaurant. She becomes embarrassed at my handsome face and is unable to look to me anymore. Her friends laugh as I ask her to dinner again and again but they are shy like schoolgirls and run away. I grew angry and want to show her how a Pakistani man cannot be laughed upon but they are fast and lithe like thick, pale gazelles. Tomorrow I am to spend time at community college to meet the girls. I sometimes stand by classroom and smoke to appeal the women. They know I am a handsome Pakistani man. At party we go uninvited and stand with whites and talk to only ourselves so why do we go? Ha ha ha. In Pakistan we court women by hiding behind sofa and watching her with big eyes of the Pakistani man. I see large pale white woman I think of large dowry and the penis of this Pakistani man becomes hard like the ivory we use to make small ornametal chess pieces as children. I do not own a rickshaw but have taxi which is same.

I Think Three Six Mafia Said It Best...

Slob on my knob... like corn on the cob.
Check in with me... and do your job.
Lay on the bed... and give me head.
Don't have to ask... don't have to beg.
Juicy is my name... sex is my game.
Let's call the boys... let's run a train.
Squeeze on my nuts.
Lick on my butt.
The natural curly hair... please don't touch.

Tuesday, July 11, 2006

Beards, Jesus and Full Extension Pushups


There are a few things that need to be said about beards before any real attention should be paid to the man in the photo. First, it is important to realize that beards are effective disguises for those whose identities need protection. A dense copse of hair shielding the lower half of one's face is the best way to avoid being notice by authorities if under active pursuit, though once your identity is discovered it will be necessary to remove the beard because it does make one stand out in a crowd, especially if the beard is exceptionally long or lusterous. Secondly, a beard can be an attractive addition to a man's face if well groomed and if the growth is sufficiently thick to provide a full masculine coverage of hair. Thin, wispy beards that grow in mosaic patches are never found appealing by anyone except by cripples who have had their eyes poked out (they are out there, take a look for yourself.) The last thing that needs to be mentioned about beards is that if you are a homely person to begin with, a beard will only mask half of your ugliness, which, as we all know, is never enough. In reference to the man in the photo, it is not incredibly difficult to surmise the reasons behind the incredibly long, bi-colored mat of hair growing beneath his eyes; he is Jesus and he can do whatever the fuck he wants. If you are a religious person you know deep within yourself that you are peering into the haunted eyes of a man who has been reborn, yet again, into a world of ugliness and torment. He is said to have already died once for our sins, and being drug back down to Earth to see just how massively his efforts were misinterpreted has got to go a long way towards wrecking the guy's day. It is interesting that those who are devoted Christians envision Jesus as a beautiful man with radiant skin and hair, a set of square edged, pearly white teeth and a persistent glow of golden light around his head. I think common sense can dispell a majority of this as the over excited fantasies of his followers because it would have been difficult to find a single person walking around at that time with any one of these attributes let alone all of them rolled into one lucky person. Of course, the argument could be made that he was the son of God and therefore endowed with physical attributes that other men of that time did not possess. Taking that viewpoint as reality is it excessive to postulate that Jesus was incredibly fast as well? Was he capable of breaking the four minute mile mark almost twenty centuries before it would be done by a mere mortal man? Could he do the splits all the way to the ground without cheating? What about pullups? Even a handful of decent pullups is a challenge for an average man, but could he do twenty? Thirty? Forty? Of course, there is no way we could ever know, that is, unless we put the man in the photo to the test. If he really is Christ reborn then he should be able to do at least... two hundred pushups in five minutes. It seems a little uncouth to stand over the savior with a stopwatch and count out full extention, chest-to-the-ground pushups, docking him for each miss, but we have to be sure don't we? Isn't the future of mankind at stake? It would be pretty embarrassing to find out the living god we put at the helm is just Denny Maxwell of Gunnison, Colorado, a junior college drop out who liked to smell the purple magic marker in art class. Someone would be in deep shit if that went down. It is difficult to say how the subject of this article made its way to the present topic... but hey! Look at that guy's beard!

Thursday, June 22, 2006

Suck The Fuckin' Wool!


There are few things in life that so readily create sexual desire like a nice bushy female underarm bristling with hair. The position of the hair under the arm, the armpit itself being quite crotch-like to begin with, makes this a secondary erogneous zone that even surpasses the breasts in their erotic appeal. Though some may scoff at this idea at first, few who have been nose deep in a mound of sweat-laden armpit hair have ever been so fully aroused in their lives. To understand this phenomena, one must simply try for themselves the delicate aroma found within. Of course, women with woolen armpits do not simply grow on trees, they must be cultivated from local health food stores and environmentalist meetings. Though elusive, these creatures can be quickly found based on the general flaxen look to their hair (a by-product of vegitarianism) and the general proximity of burning incense sticks. Now that the reader has a very basic knowledge as to the location of these highly desireable partners all that is required is to make a selection. Happy hunting!

Saturday, June 17, 2006

Great Names That You Won't Find In A Baby Book...






















I thought of a few cool names that I'd rather have than the one found on my birth certificate. Feel free to use these to label your newborn as you see fit, of course using the provided surname is a requirement.

1. Bronson Jackworth
2. Chuckton Bruntley
3. Swole Fister
4. Boon Fuxley
5. Fingers Brohamptordly
6. Boost Manley
7. Milter Fruckton
8. Ronk Blessedly
9. Bruise Sweetly
10. Chunt Lister

Tuesday, June 13, 2006

The Wandering Minstrel: Rapper of the Middle Ages

They had no chains, no contracts either, but their passions were the same; spreading the joy of song and telling tales that would have otherwise been forgotten. The wandering minstrel of the middle ages lived a simple life, moving from town to town and earning their meals and coins from those whose lives they brightened with song. Much like the modern day gangster rapper, they often added racy ballads of sexual exploits to spicen up their catalogue of songs. Tales of battles fought and won, love gained and lost, and the politics of the day predominated the subject matter of their music, but it was not entirely uncommon to make jokes or include silly limericks as well. Rapping today is very similar in that it involves simple rhymes sung over a rhythmic background of drums or rattles. Minstrels also used drums and rattles, though their instruments of choice tended towards the mandolin or flute. Rappers today do not play instruments and instead focus on making clever rhymes between words that actually do not rhyme. By mispronouncing words the modern day rapper is able to create a massive arsenal of lyrics that would not normally come into play. Minstrels were either not so intelligent or were held within the boundaries of law when it came to the use of their lyrics and therefore were curbed in their creativity. Few of the popular songs of the minstrels survived to today, though a handful, such as 'Juliette Had Buboes,' 'Two Holes For Father Lockett' and 'The Doctor Bled Me Last Fortnight,' are still sung at Renaissance festivals around the globe. Hopefully, with the advent of the compact disc and the 'record deal,' the profound and moving music of rappers will be available for the enjoyment of generations to come.

Sunday, June 11, 2006

The World's Most Interesting Photo


Few photos ever taken have captured such a tiered extravaganza of wonderous things to see as this. It is almost difficult to absorb everything that is happening here but I have to admit that while the woman's striated chest muscles are pretty amazing, the real jewel in this pic is the superhero in the pink headband. I'd like to think he's looking in a hand mirror at his hairdo, but I feel it is more realistic to assume he's looking through his fanny pack for another gold chain. Obviously taken at some kind of bodybuilding-health expo, this photograph is a great example of the types of people that can be seen at such events. I have actually been to one and the people watching, while not as amazing as what is shown in this picture, was worth the $10 admission fee. I saw juiced up bodybuilders in jean shorts that were little more than daisy dukes, mannish-female powerlifters getting pumped up to bench press, mullets beyond counting, spandex-aplenty and a hypnotized man strip to Elvis Presley. That was a magical day and I look forward to many more where I may be presented with a photographic opportunity such as the one posted here. Another interesting aspect of this photo is the man in the middle whose expression can only be described as 'troubled.' What I find interesting about him is that he is not actually looking at that freak in front but past her towards something that can only be worse than her, if that is even possible.

Thursday, June 08, 2006

Not Atreyu The Child... Atreyu The Warrior!

If Atreyu is a good representative sample of what the plains people had to offer think about how hot the chicks been. He is so feminine and soft looking the women of that tribe would be unbelieveable. Only the bravest of men will admit that they became aroused by Atreyu's tawny mane of hair and those eyes you could lose yourself in, and not saying I'm one of those men, I just imagine that there are many men out there like that. Many. That being said it is important to notice the soft pink lips and the improbably perfect teeth. How could things such as this exist in a world devoid of dentistry? Because the tribe is so good looking, thats why! People forget that world's do exist in this universe where both a buffalo can be purple and a teen boy can walk around in a shirt collar cut low enough to piss through without the threat of violent rape hanging above their heads like a thundercloud. Things like this happen, maybe not to us, but they could! A normal man meeting a band of plains people would be struck by the Indian complexions covering Anglo-Saxon cheekbones and become driven to enter every person in the tribe, regardless of age or gender. The flury of partners would become a blur with the clapping of their sweating stomachs keeping tempo. Personally, I'm glad I haven't met any plains people, because I don't think I have in me whatever it takes to screw an entire group of people.

Wednesday, June 07, 2006

Welcome To The Jungle


There are few men who can handle the rigorous elimination process that precedes all inductions into the coveted Batboy Club of East St. Louis, but those who do join a brotherhood. The bonds that are formed during the hours of humiliation and degradation scar the psyche, but they also bring these young men closer, both mentally and physically, than they ever thought possible without the aid of lubrication. They are pushed to that edge, then shoved beyond in a grueling test of wills that matches cock against ass, dick against balls and teeth against urinal cake. These men come to the Batboy Club full of pride and strength, and while all eventually leave the hallowed Clubhouse, only 10% withstand the process to become full fledge members. The rest, those who are found wanting, are sent back to where they came from with an ice pack and a heart shaped card signed by each and every member, thanking them for their time. Tears are shed in parting, which is not at all unusual when men who have pitted themselves against one another in battles of the mind and of the flesh are forced to go their separate ways. Those who remain, however, cry tears of a different sort, those of pride and gratitude and anticipation of things to cum.

Watch Out For Those Fucking Rocks!

It's obvious that the state of things is completely out of whack when a bunch of rocks needs to be fenced off so some stupid fuck doesn't walk into them and sue someone. How fucking dangerous are those rocks anyway? They aren't even piled on top of each other. The only way you could possibly get hurt in this situation is if you were to sprint into them with your arms tied behind your back or fall out a helicopter onto them. But of course the fence really won't help in either of those situations so what is the point. Then again, the fence itself is pretty dangerous because a mentally retarded blind man with no arms could be out jogging and not know that someone put a fence up around the rocks he usually does the splits between and he could crash into it at a full sprint. The resulting injuries would yield a minimum of $1.6 million in damages and with good reason. No one should ever be held accountable for their own actions because everyone is too fucking stupid to do anything correctly. Therefore this fence should be equipped with bumper pads, strobe lights, warning sirens, a safety net and a pleasant, non-invasive paint job. I'm going to go cordon off the paving stones out by my car and strap foam pads to all the trees in the neighborhood. Wish me luck.

Wednesday, May 17, 2006

The Five Sided Fistagon Is Actually An Engineering Marvel


The Pentagon is virtually a city in itself. The original site was nothing more than wasteland, swamps and dumps. 5.5 million cubic yards of earth, and 41,492 concrete piles contributed to the foundation of the building. Additionally, 680,000 tons of sand and gravel, dredged from the nearby Potomac River, were processed into 435,000 cubic yards of concrete and molded into the Pentagon form. The building was constructed in the remarkably short time of 16 months and completed on January 15, 1943 at an approximate cost of $83 million. It consolidated 17 buildings of the War Department and returned its investment within seven years. Stripped of its occupants, furniture and various decorations, the building alone is an extraordinary structure. Built during the early years of World War II, it is still thought of as one of the most efficient office buildings in the world. Despite 17.5 miles of corridors it takes only seven minutes to walk between any two points in the building.

Monday, May 15, 2006

I don't usually brag about my intellect, but...


Howdy Y'all
Originally uploaded by Jorge Ragtime.
I'm ridiculously smart. Ask me for the smallest ten-digit prime number and in like 20 seconds tops, and I'll rattle that shit off like I'm reciting the alphabet. Ask me to predict the trajectory of a meteor flying across the night sky and I'll have a diagram drawn up for you in no time. Ask me to name the five largest African countries by population density, yep I know that too. Ask me whether it's cool to wear Oakley sunglasses that have no tint, and top the outfit off with a cowboy hat, polka-dot scarf, shiny badge and blood-red shirt - and I'll say fuck yeah it's cool! I'm a fucking GENIUS.

This Milk Tastes Like Shit


After I work out I always enjoys a big tall glass of foamy whole milk to rejuvinate my muscles. The only problem is that after I get all hot and sweaty exercising, the cold milk hurts my teeth so much that it really takes a lot of the pleasure out of consuming it. I thought I had found a way around that by letting the milk sit out while I'm at the gym so it's more lukewarm instead of icy cold, but the milk tasted pretty sour after a few days of that. I put on my thinking cap and sure enough I came up with the perfect plan; I would put the cold milk through the coffee maker (without grinds of course, lol) and in that manner I would have a nice steaming cup of milk to enjoy each day! I came home the day after I dreamed up this ingenious plan and fired up Mr. Coffee, already pre-loaded with three cups of Darigold Whole Milk, my personal favorite. About ten minutes later I found a nice white brew bubbling in the pot, ready to drink. I poured myself a generous helping and took that first sip. What happened next can only be described as an extreme event in my life. I regurgitated the hot milk all over the naked, waiting breasts of my roommate's girlfriend, Heather. Her massive love globes were immediately scorched a bright red like a naughty, spanked little bottom. I apologized and she accepted, but things have been awkward between us ever since. Now I just drink the cold milk really, really slow. The way I like sex.

Wednesday, May 10, 2006

John Travolta Is A Fat Fuck Loser

John Travolta has struggled with his weight and the length of his trousers since his first big hit with Saturday Night Fever. Unfortunately for Danny Zuko, all that plumping up has only helped him garner one pointless the role as a fat, chain-smoking angel in Micheal. With a scruffy three day beard and a beer gut he charmed his way into the pants of quite a few women in that movie, but mostly he just looked fat and stupid. Now that he has completely destroyed his career with horrific films like Swordfish, Faceoff, Battlefield Earth, and Be Cool, he has turned his attention towards a second career as an airline pilot and scientology minister. Flying around in a really huge bomber jacket and tight jeans Travolta has effectively trotted the globe without breaking a sweat, spreading the gospel of Hubbard. As always he was overdressed for the occasion when he wowed a group of Zulu natives with his own interpretation of their fertility dance. With tight bluejeans barely brushing the tops of his stylishly untied White Hunter boots, Travolta was hard pressed to lift his knees to a right angle, let alone pull out any real dance moves. Nevertheless, the crowd loved it and even pretended to listen to his strange stories about aliens, body thetans and membership fees. In the end, he boarded his huge jet and flew away after swearing to the Zulus that he would grow his hair out like it was in Swordfish for his next visit. "I'm a shitty actor!" He screamed from a small cockpit window as the plane began to taxi down the runway. "How did you fucks like my overacting in Face Off? Fuck you!"

Tuesday, May 09, 2006

Punch My Flapjack Tits


Do it Paco, punch my flapjack tits until I shoot the milk. You know how I like that rough, punchy-fuck sex. I'll lay them over the edge of the tub so they get sooooo long and flat that you can almost see through them. I know you like that and it gets you sooooo hard. You buy me a long bra to cover them long boobs and I love you so much for that I cook special dinner all week. You love the long boobs and I love the punching of the long, flat boobs. Respect my flapjack tits. They sooooo sore from punching but I want more punching on the flapjacks. Punch the fucking flapjacks if you want special dinner.

Kamp Kumdumpster Hiring Counselors Today!


lets go to camp
Originally uploaded by Buff Tan Honky.
Ever wanted a whole mess of young boys under your control? Dreamt of spending late nights snuggled under a blanket fort with five ten year olds with nothing but the feeble light of a dying flashlight to make out their innocent yet succulent bodies? Let me ask just one more question if I may. Who the fuck hasn't? Here at Kamp Kumdumpster we are looking for a few extra counselors to round out our stable of education and fitness conscious teens interested in molding the minds and backsides of this summer's batch of youngsters. Culled from the nation's foster homes, these young, impressionable boys already know the drill so you don't have to teach them a thing! If you like the 'sit on my lap game' then just wait until Joey Kendall (age 10, Akron, OH) shows you the 'What's a gag reflex?' game his stepdad taught him since last summer! Hours and hours of fun and excitement are just a phone call away at Kamp Kumdumpster!

Thursday, April 20, 2006

Do You Think I Can Take A Punch?


So...do any of you bastards out there think I can take a punch? If I were a betting man I'd put a brand new FIFTY dollar bill down that I can. See this rugged complexion? Padding baby. The beard protects my chin, the glasses my eyes, the long hair adds a life saving layer over my ears, etc. This type of thing is something I have been planning for since I was twelve. That was the year Denny Myers beat me down on the playground like a fucking bitch. Yeah, I'll admit it, I went down like a sack of grain and wept like a girl, but times have changed since then and I changed along with them. I've cut the girlish fat off my body and along with it the loser mentality that clung to it like the stink following a log of shit. I've stripped it down to the bone homes. Some say I look like I did a five year stretch for molestation and came out better for it. I take that as a compliment. Being a man of iron means the rain may rust my surface but the integrity of my insides will never be compromised. So go ahead if you're feeling frisky, take your best shot. I'm ready for it. Are you?

Wednesday, April 12, 2006

Rub To The Lotion On You, Yes?



Hallo! Yes to the lotion I rub you on, yes? Yes? Yes? Lotion good it feels on skin. Yes? Love to you I make tonight on bed, yes? I am Gregor. You are sex pretty. Yes? Yes?

Tuesday, April 04, 2006

I'm The Guy Who Stole Your Car, Wallet, Backpack, Purse, Bike, Gold Chains, Etc...

Okay, confession time. I need to get this off my chest as it’s weighing me down, making it hard to breathe. That might be the smokes too, but who knows? Most likely the guilt I guess. The thing I want to tell you is that I’m a thief. I have been employed as such most of my life, whether I was gainfully employed at a real ‘job’ or not. Even when I’m walking home with a paycheck, earned legitimately in my pocket, I am likely to smash the padlock off a bicycle and wheel myself the rest of the way rather than hoof it. Stealing just comes naturally to me and I feel it has been something I’ve excelled at. I took the small amount of natural thieving talent that I had and reworked it into a real profession. Snatch the purse from an old woman on a bus, snag the backpack from some visiting tourist while he’s asking directions, these things seem to be simple tricks on the surface but they are anything but. You know any old women? See how tight they are with their money and you know they don’t take their hands off their purse too easy. A great trick I learned to handle that is after I squeeze in next to them on a seat I let one go, you know, blow a big juicy fart that just reeks up the whole place. People get embarrassed when that happens, including the ones that didn’t do it and they just keep their eyes away, whether to laugh or cover their noses. When those old crotches cover their mouth with a hankie that’s when I snag that old pleather handbag, neat as you please. I don’t do this type of thing because I’m a lowlife or a cretin as you might think. It’s just what I do. It’s my ‘natural talent,’ if you will. You don’t blame a ball player for being good at catching pop flies do you? I didn’t think so. But you walk out to the driveway and see your 1992 Honda Civic has gone missing and you curse me like I used your child’s soft pink face for a snot rag. I am not a bad man, I simply have a mustache and a penchant for taking things that didn’t start out belonging to me. Actually, I’m a pretty fun guy when you get to know me, just don’t leave your wallet sitting out on your coffee table when I come over. That might just be too much for a guy like me to withstand.

Wednesday, March 29, 2006

Snowbear Looking For Snowcat


Snowbear is a man who knows what he's after. He also knows how to get it. Women with 'compact asses' and 'legs like a dancers' are his cup of tea and he scours the personal ads in search for these things. When he finds a likely candidate he fires them a brief email, something like 'This outdoorsy exercise-nut thinks you look mighty fine with that 'compact ass' and those 'legs like a dancers.' Coffee?' Something as simple as this baited with just the perfect photo has kept a smile on Snowbears bearded face. The photo, depicting Snowbear in his natural habitat of course, shows the sinewy frame of an athletically-toned gentleman reclining against the fallen stump of a tree. Clad in tight fitting jeans and a sleeveless, unbuttoned flannel vest, Snowbear seems at ease in his forest surroundings, almost blending in with the lush vegitation around him. On his feet he bears the traditional skins of the low woodland native, a pair of sleek, white sneakers complete with agressively treaded, basketball court marking, black soles. Women swoon at the sight of the man's toned muscles and bulging groin area as both promise hours of sensual pleasure. The real kicker, however, is the foot-long, snow white, Santa Clause beard that masks Snowbear's weak chin. Women dream of Snowbear running this beard across their naked breasts, the tantalizing softness only eclipsed by the tender kisses of the mouth hidden within. Snowbear is a powerful sexual being, so tread lighty when you find yourself in his neck of the woods.

Thank Heaven For Little Girls


Why does Vladimir Nabokov hold exclusive rights to the underage babe market? Because he's Russian and it is expected of the guy. It's no big shock when a chain smoking, low forehead Slav points to a twelve year old girl and descibes her as the 'fire of his loins' as Nabokov did in his controversial novel Lolita. Everywhere but in the United States and Canada it is completely acceptable to openly gape at the tan legs of a 4th grader. When will society learn that this is healthy and completely natural? There is nothing wrong with an old man's too-long hug or a more than friendly pat on the back that trails down across the top of the buttocks at the very last moment that might seem accident but is absolutely not. This is how old, weather beaten men show their affections! For this, they are treated as criminals and locked away, candy clenched in their arthritis crippled hands. Hands, that crave the delicate, tickling wonder of a child's damp hair, fresh from the plastic front yard pool he pulled them kicking and screaming from. Let them out of their unjust confinement and open your hearts to them. They will give more Granfatherly knee-rides than you could shake a stick at, all for the love of hot, hot underage babes. But not little boys though, they are awkward and they smell wierd most of the time.

Saturday, March 11, 2006

Doug; Fighting Homosexuality Wherever It Bears It's Ugly Head


There is something about the penetration of a man’s ass that sets a select group of males on edge. They fear it, they wait for it, they seek out those who are interested in it. These men are not those who enjoy the act, rather, they fear and hate those that do. Crushing the hopes and dreams of homosexuals is their goal and they are good at what they do. “What are you looking at FAG?” This is their mantra and they repeat it until no one is able to forget it. Ever. Doug is one of these men. He seeks out homosexuals, or gays as some like to call them, and sends them a message from the other side of the fence; ‘You are NOT welcome.’ These same-sex deviants who ply their trade where we (breeders) live are now on the run. Doug is out and he is hunting for them. No same sex couple is going to rest easy knowing that confused men are out there trying to stop them from doing whatever they are up to (we don’t want to know the details.)

Friday, March 10, 2006

These Are John's Nuts and Butthole



Meet John. John has a nice set of balls on him and his asshole is pretty great too. I didn't know that when I first met the guy but I sure know that now. Boy do I ever. As a guy who enjoys fishing, you'd think a fishing trip with a couple of fellow fishing enthusiasts would be a great way to spend a weekend. You know, drink a few beers, have a few laughs, tell some amusing stories, even make a reasonable effort to catch some of the elusive walleyes plying the waters beneath the epic Grand Coulee dam. That's what you'd think. But that's not what happened. After a frigid night spent on a gravel penninsula where there was constant bitching and not much in the way of bites from fish I woke up in a stiflingly hot motel room in Coulee City to the site you see in the photo. Nuts pulled tight between the legs so each precious egg of life was standing out in stark relief, spread ass with hemorrhoids puckering the sweet, sweet anus, it was almost too much to take. Starting to draw in a deep breath I was stopped cold by a long, soothing fart sputtering out of John's ruined backside. Fighting back the bile rising in my throat I did the only thing a normal person would do in that situation; I snapped a picture so I could enjoy that moment forever. Now you can too. Unfortunately you won't be able to experience the unbearable heat of the room, or the wierd odor, but feast your eyes for a while. I know I did.

Meet My Friend Ralph

Ralph is awesome. Ralph can drink. Ralph ralphs too, usually on the bar, but not always. There was this one time he ralphed all over a display of organic coffee at Starbucks. We did a few shots at Applebees and went over there to get an ice green tea frappe and the guy just lost it on a cardboard cutout of a Guatemalan coffee grower who was smiling and trying to look like he wasn't being exploited. The puke hit that farmers face like a bowl of clam chowder that was sitting in the sun all afternoon. It wasn't cold in that Starbucks but I swear to you that STEAM was wafting off that spray of potato skins and Makers Mark. One of the girls behind the counter dumped a big foamy mug of hot milk all over her chest and this guy in a Bass Hunter hat said he was going to jack off to that in his truck on the way home. It was pretty sweet even though I never got that frappe.

Tuesday, February 28, 2006

You Got To Get Dressed Up To Go Out



When I go out, I get dressed to the "nines." Of course, there are a few rules when hitting a nightspot like Applebees or The Iron Horse. Your shirt must be crisp, clean, black and tucked in firmly so that no material 'billows' about the waist. Because the shirt is tucked in there must be a belt. Leather is always preferred but not required. If you have a cell phone and your pants are too tight, an unsightly bulge in the pants should always be avoided (unless it's front and center) so a holster must be used. Clipping a cell phone holster the the belt is very stylish and as with the belt, leather material is preferred but not required. You must use a wallet chain to hold the wallet in place and be sure to use the long, check book style wallet. The long wallet gives the impression of extreme wealth. Since that front pocket can't sit empty, it is the perfect place to insert the pocket knife with the metal clip sticking out. The benefits of this are twofold; the knife is handy in the event of a fight and it shows anyone nearby that you have a knife at their disposal in case they need to cut open an envelope or trim a hangnail. All that's left to do is purchase a pair of white, high-top sneakers and grow a nice flowing Kentucky Waterfall to dust your shoulders.