Poop-fist is exactly what it sounds like: a fist made of poop punching it’s way out of your butt. Sure, you can fight back-maybe even last a couple rounds for show-but poop-fist will always win. Poop-fist is the undefeated heavyweight champion and that day it was working my butthole over like Rocky Balboa on a side of beef.”Don’t make me laugh”, I begged as I scooted my way towards some bushes. Jeremy was of course laughing hysterically at my predicament and I thought even Kenny Rogers-who knew when to hold ’em-could never hold back this tsunami wave of beer batter. I made the lethal mistake of laughing, displacing enough muscle control from my brown star, and the floodgates opened up.
Within seconds my underwear was filled to capacity-a good 4 pounds. A second wave pushed the standing room only crowd over and out of my shorts, hanging onto my legs and stage diving onto my shoes. Without mercy or remorse, poop-fist was literally beating the shit out of me. I finally got behind the bushes and pulled off my pants, trying to find something to clean up with. Jeremy’s laughter by now had reduced him to tears and as he watched me, pissed into the bushes. But he who laughs last doesn’t always laugh alone. As his giggling got the best of him he became another victim of poop-fist’s victory “streak.”
“Holy shit”, he cried out as poop began falling out of his shorts. He ran over next to me and repeated the same drill as we both spider walked over some rocks, spraying mud without restriction. The voices of hikers were heard in the distance and I wondered what would befall us if we were caught. 2 grown men porky pigging it(shirts but no pants)in a national park cleaning shit off our legs with what little was left of our underwear next to what looked and smelled like someone had gutted a pig. It was so unreal, I felt like I was having an acid flashback. It was hilarious, but also terrifying. Plus the fact that our wives were awaiting our return from our little adventure.
We wiped up the worst spills with what whatever untainted scraps of our underwear was left and then put our poopy shorts back on. It was a huge bummer. “The coyotes are gonna eat well tonite”, Jeremy remarked. ‘Yes they are‘, I thought to myself as I glanced down at the carnage left behind. “Damn the ‘nam!”, I cried out as I fell to my knees. “Damn the ‘nam!” We embraced on the ground and wept as we looked upon our fallen brothers before beginning the long task of giving them a proper burial.
Oh-and then 6 months later I was totally divorced. Party.
Before we begin this mystical journey together I would like to point the sad fact out that I no longer need to spellcheck the word “diarrhea.” This here yarn I’m about to unfold is a luckless hand to be laid, and Kenny Rogers ain’t around to advise through song. Let’s just say shit got real ugly.
For those uninitiated to the bottomless debauchery of Las Vegas, I like to say that Vegas is to heathens what Africa is to black people-it’s the motherland. During the day Vegas looks like the the Mall of America gave Donald Trump a blow job and then barfed up its guts into the desert-giant, corporate hotels covered in jizz. However, at night with all the overstimulating and hypnotic neon, it’s like a giant midway for ne’er do well adults to be “naughty” and set fire to their money and inhibitions.
I arrived in the a.m. with my then wife(I was married once-whoops)to meet my best friend(we’ll call him “Jeremy”) and his wife at the time(double whoops)and was rather disgusted at the giant monument to western capitalism and greed. After welearned we could drag 12 packs of beer around and smoke anywhere we pleased, I immediately lost my moral compass and we indulged our heathen tendencies, almost to a point of self-reflection, and pretty much figured ‘fuck it-let’s puh-puh-puh-party.’
The days were spent with the wives doing tourist activities and behaving like civilized adults until they eventually got sleepy. Then we’d give the car-keys to our inner savages and say, “have at it, dickholes!” and drink and gamble til the awful and unforgiving sun came up, retreating back to our hotel rooms for maybe 2 hours of sleep. And by “sleep” I mean “being unconscious.” Wake up, eat ancient Greece-sized portions of MSG filled buffets and repeat.(Weird side-note: in some casinos they get bummed if you swear. I know-that’s weird, right? This was mentioned to us at a black jack table around 5 am to which Jeremy responded, “you’re fuckin’ kiddin’ me?” to which they responded by calling security.)
So after 3 days of buffets and 3 nights of heathenry it was time to leave the city for some more tourist bullshit. It was time to go to Red Rocks Canyon. (Oh-and if yer ever in Vegas get the kobe beef bloody mary at the MGM. Holy shit-it’s like drinking a steak.)We stopped for big coffees on the way and began some ol’ fashioned trash talking about how that canyon better be deep as we planned to fill it with irresponsible amounts of diarrhea(no spellcheck-holla!)brewing from the irresponsible amounts of alcohol and buffet food we’d ingested.
As we pulled into the park we saw that the tourist info building was closed and man, I really needed to take a shit. The restroom was also closed but I figured I could hold it for awhile. We pulled up to a scenic view point with a trail leading into the canyon. For some reason our wives(oopsy daisy)were wearing high heels along with dresses that weren’t exactly hiking friendly so we decided to go down together, leaving the women behind in hopes that the men would return-possibly with food. Wow-things got kinda western. Anyways, as we began the descent, poop-fist landed it’s first blow…
Let’s start this shindig right by blowin’ some shit up.
Holy shit that makes me happy. I’ve watched this over and over and man does it never get old. Never ever.
Over 10,000 people have now viewed my blog, many of which I’d assume they wish they hadn’t. I’d like to delude myself into thinking that my name alone would be enough for thousands of people to scour the Internet in search of my prose, but that would be a huge load of horseshit. I’ve brought in, like, maybe 2. No, over half of the poor souls who have been tainted by this blog(a colonic for your sense of decency, as described by afriend)have been mercilessly misled here by one Mr. Stevil Kinevil.
Well guess who’s watching you and possibly jerking it?
Not only has he gone out of his way to support my horseshit blog, he will also indulge my whining whenever I phone him, crying with a diaper filled with existential crisis. I’m also lucky enough to call him a good friend. And an asshole when we’ve been drinking. He once whacked my helmet so hard my head rang. After I refused to hit him back he derbied me into some bushes to even it up. I also attempted writing “I eat poop” on his forehead since he broke the golden rule and passed out with his shoes on. The time we’ve spent together in the physical world has been limited, but to quote Linda Hamilton at the end of Terminator, “in the few hours we had together we loved a lifetime’s worth.” For those uninformed, check out all hail the black market often, and at least buy a sticker, for shit’s sake. To borrow a page from Stevil, I’m toying with the idea of adding some merch. I’m sure there’s a heathen bike slob or three that would appreciate a “KNOW BON SCOTT, KNOW AC/DC-NO BON SCOTT, NO AC/DC sticker and as those in the know remember, I used to co-own a t-shirt shop which became a medium to express myself via textile, so some sweet threads may be available as well. Some examples:
Pretty self explanatory
Triple down in moose knuckles town
Bon, could you cover up those moose knuckles for once? Thank you.
Oh-and check out the new shirt at Stroker Ace for all you Minneapolitans:
So there’s that. I was also toying with the idea of utilizing AdSense to maybe make a little spare change on this here blog. Of course my knee-jerk punk rock reaction to this was, “fuck that shit-that’s the man, man!” cuz we all know being punk rock means being shit-ass broke and indignant. Luckily, google made the decision for me:
Hello John Schreiner,
Thank you for your interest in Google AdSense. Unfortunately, after
reviewing your application, we’re unable to accept you into Google
AdSense at this time.
We did not approve your application for the reasons listed below.
– Inappropriate language
Inappropriate language: We’ve found that your website contains content
that isn’t in compliance with our program policies. We don’t allow
websites with excessive profanity or potentially offensive content to
participate in Google AdSense.
Potentially offensive? That’s almost insulting! This blog is totally offensive! Oh well. See? Fuck that shit-it’s the man, man!
And who could forget my dead grandpa’s cock? Speaking of which, here are some amazing search keywords-misspellings and all-that resulted in showing this site:
*in the back-end of blogger you can see where traffic comes from, referral sites, views, search keywords, etc.
“choking grandpaw with my cock”
“cock grandpa cock”
“cum fraom grandpa”
“grand pa cocks”
“i dick my grandpa”
The ironic thing is compared to the rest of the sites those search words pull up, mine is pretty tame. Lately, the entry “my grandpa’s cock” has taken off like a rocket. Pun intended. I honestly don’t know what I’m doing with this blog thing. I basically stir the awful thoughts in my head, poke the gag reflex in my poor taste, and then barf it out onto my keyboard. I will continue to do this with greater frequency and as inspiration strikes. Speaking of which, to me this is the definition of bringing it. I could give 2 shits how popular these guys are now or that pitchfork media sucks their cock with every album. This is just an honest performance that made this heathen well up the first time and gives me goosebumps with repeated viewings.
I’m just fucking with you. Here’s the real deal:
Dude, even Letterman is stoked afterwards.
I would also like to give quick shout out to my good friendNicole Clemetson who has been sweet enough to photographthis dirtbag, giving me the head shots that have allowed me to win such roles as “wolfman on pcp”, coming soon to something somewhere. She has also graced the cover of the Portland Mecury of few times now and as I like to say about Portland, it’s like moving into Whole Foods. I would also like to thank mygood friends that have braved possible tarnish after sharing my posts as well. Lastly, I would like to thank you, the person reading this right now. You are a horrible person for being here and I love you for it. To quote the late, great Bill Hicks, “it’s just a ride.”
“I came in about the sign,” he said with little confidence. “Have a seat-I’ll go get Riley,” was barely muttered from a bored waitress. He recognized the look. He hardly registered as little more than breathing meat in her eyes. Get fucked, Judge Judy, he laughed to himself. You wouldn’t know dick if it was balls deep in your dull existence. He sat down at a table to await the arrival of Riley, a faggot name if he’d ever heard one.
Why do I do this? Oh yeah-fucking money. Blood pooled in his warming fingertips.
A man barely in his 30’s approached, the smell of stale judgment kicked up in each step, looking at him like the asshole that knows the twist-ending to the movie. He sat down across the table from him, wrapping his hands around each other like spooning lovers who’d lost it years ago.
“So you’re a bartender, eh? What’s the difference between a Merlot and a Cabernet?” he asked, barely masking his sarcasm.
“Well, Cabernet is actually a good wine, while Merlot is merely a gateway to better ones,” the old man answered. Hot worms burrowed and made their way down his fingers.
Riley wasn’t amused. He knew the old man was just gonna waste his time and from the looks of him, he had applied the same horseshit technique to his own worthless existence.
What’s the difference between a lager and an ale?”
The question hung in the air like stale cigarette smoke. The old man had heard enough. His hands were on fire. With little thought he thrust his right arm out with his index and pinkie fingers extended, throwing the horns like some rocker kid at a metal show. His digits went deep into Riley’s eye sockets and he was surprised at what little resistance the eyeballs fought back with. What appeared as a mixture of blood and semen ran down his face where a look of disdain and loathing had laid earlier. It was a vast improvement.
The waitress, still bored.
He reached under the table with his left arm and got a strong grip on Riley’s equally worthless cock and balls. As he yanked off Riley’s manhood, he realized it was probably the most action they’d seen in years. He held the bleeding cock over the table and in a circular motion began drawing a pentagram with blood. As he put the finishing touches on his masterpiece, two small demons arose from the middle, grinning big yellow with rotten teeth. Without so much as a thought, the old man handed Riley’s bone-wand over like a baton to the knowing demons. They shared the booty in one hand, held their free hands in each others, and began doing a ring-around-the-rosy before diving back into the pentagram and straight into hell.
By the time they reached Satan, he was in mid-stroke. He grabbed Riley’s cock with his free hand and pulled it over his own like a condom and climaxed, filling and expanding Riley’s four times larger and into the shape of a baseball bat. “Now get lost, ya crazy fucks!” Satan winked. “The devil’s work is never done but goddamned if I’m not enjoying it!”
The demons arose again from the table and began beating what was left of Riley’s head like a pinata with his herculean cock that was now eternally hard with the devil’s seed. The scene played out like a child’s joyous birthday celebration except for the fact that the pinata was Riley’s stupid head. And the stick was his cock filled with Satan’s load. And the kids were demons. And so on.
The old man almost felt regret.
The waitress, still bored.
“What’s the difference between a lager and an ale?”
Riley’s voice was much louder this time, the question posed with contempt.
“Who gives a solid fuck?” the old man cried. “Whiskey is all a man needs, you fucking pussy!”
He was up and out the door before Riley could respond. The wind was cold and ambivalent as he made his way down the street. His disgust with himself was in fierce competition with his disgust for Riley, as if locked in a thunder dome death match. Two men enter, one man leave, he laughed to himself. The sign up ahead was more inviting. “Happy Hour-6 til close!” it called like a sweet siren. He sat down at the bar and ordered a whiskey. “The devil’s work is never done but goddamned if I’m not enjoying it!” This time he laughed out loud.
I drove down to New Orleans last year despite my preconceived notions of hillbilly rape that never came to fruition. And by “notions” I mean “wishes.” Oh well. Easy come, easy go. Notice how I didn’t make a horrible “big easy” joke? You’re welcome. However, I was unfortunate enough to have one of the worst culinary experiences in my life. “Well, fuck my virgin ass,” I hear you sayeth, but friends and neighbors, put down your freshly microwaved shoe-horns and sticks of butter, for I speaketh the truth. Here are 2 things I’ve learned during m’ travels if’n you find yourself in an unfamiliar city: 1. Ask a bartender where to eat. 2. Find the nearest gay bar and get ready to party. Gay bars are awesome cuz drinks are strong and cheap, plus they love a foul sense of humor so you can talk about poop and wieners ’til the cows come home and when they do you can say, “Hey you cows-I’m not through talkin’ ’bout poop and wieners-not by a damn sight! So get fucked, cows!” Or something like that. Normally these pointers are gold, but like everything in this horseshit existence, not infallible.
We sat down to gumbo in a modest cafe, confident in the advice bequeathed upon us from the bartender tending the gay bar the night before. The end of that sentence was fun. Oh yes, some crazy shit went down that eve but I’ll get into that another time. I greeted the first bite with a neighborly smile, excited about the journey ahead into ambrosia, as the food made it’s pilgrimage into my trusting mouth, nurturing my appreciative body, and then….well, out of my ambivalent butt-hole. I was obviously unprepared for the betrayal I discovered with that first bite, and my world imploded as my taste buds cursed my foolish indiscretion. Fear, palpable and crippling, had manifested in flavor. It tasted like Chef Boyardee had choked down some Slim Jim’s and washed ’em through with a can of Campbell’s soup-no, scratch that. More like the off brand at the cheap grocery store like “Best Yet” or even “Wait’ll Next Year” soup and then gagged and barfed it into my bowl, as he’d been watching his figure. Then, to make matters almost unbearable, I heard it.
I recognized the lyrics and melody but only faintly as the structure seemed different. Hmmmmm-is that a doors song? Oh crap-it’s a doors song but done reggae style……great bleeding buckets of shit! It’s fucking UB40!!! Now, for those lucky enough to not know UB40-and oh, how I do envy you-UB40 is basically a shitty white guy making shitty black music out of shitty white music with a couple token black dudes for credibility. At his worst, he will even destroy awesome black music. I feel sick to my stomach and would like to apologize to the uninitiated, but the links are for a point. Now, I’m not a violent person but anyone performing or enjoying a reggae version of a doors song should be taken out back and beaten with a shovel. In fact, I’d be up for following UB40 on tour just to beat every audience member mafia-style without an ounce of remorse. I’m talking teeth in their stomach, blood in their stool, and a limp in their walk. A scene so horrific Martin Scorsese wouldn’t film it. I’d wager they wouldn’t even fight back. “Well, we kinda had it coming. After all, we are at a UB40 concert.” It would be like finding an old Nazi hiding in France. He’s not gonna argue when he’s caught-he knew it was only a matter of time. Now, I’m sure some of you are thinking that comparing a UB40 fan with an atrocious war criminal is a tadexcessive but it’s my blog, so suck it.
May I also remind you that I’m being subjected to this whilst trying to eat pedestrian-at-best gumbo in New fucking Orleans-the birthplace of jazz, for the love of crap! At this point I may as well have been chugging cold diarrhea while deaf people sang church hymns in each ear. Why cold diarrhea and not hot, you ask? Hot diarrhea I imagine would have an even consistency making it easier to chug while cold would be more lumpy and get hung up, only to fall on your face after tilting the glass like some brown slushee from hell. Like the rest of you, I expected the music to be ripped from the speakers and replaced with an apology telling us that yes, everyone’s meal was free, the employee who desecrated your collective hearing was immediately fired and the state of Louisiana would happily lick all of the hair from your balls like kittens at a milk bowl. Ok, I added the lost one cuz I plum ran out of ideas, becoming bored and listless, relying on immature potty humor to bail me out. It wasn’t even that funny and for that, I apologize. My main point is kill whitey.
One of the luxuries I enjoy most in my horseshit existence is watching “The Love Boat” and drinking shameful amounts of beer. Seriously. You could put me in a basement with every episode along with a fuck-ton of Coors and no one would ever see me again. And I would be beyond happy. Like a joyful version of “Leaving Las Vegas.” Anyone could come visit as long as they knew we would just watch “The Love Boat” and suck down Coors like 2 dollar whores in a beer guzzling contest. There would be intermissions that would include eating steaks, listening to 70’s soft rock compilations, and discussing Gopher’s failed yet comical attempts at getting laid, but then right back to “The Love Boat” and beer swillin’. Its a very strict and paradoxical regimen of being completely irresponsible with your very existence. Of course there’d be anecdotes like, “did you see Isaac in that Wattstax documentary?” Or, “Jesus-Captain Stubing has a mighty bodonkadonk.” However, the sad fact that Gopher went on to become a republican senator can never be broached or you will be banned.
“Republican? Bitch, are you fo’ real?!”
I would probably lose most of my friends and family but you know what? Fuck ’em. After all, I’ve got enough Coors to kill a small town and every episode of “The Love Boat.” Oh yeah-and the steaks and 70’s soft rock compilations. But wait-you wanna bring over some Burt Reynolds dvds? You’ve got “White Lightning” and it’s equal sequel “Gator“? That’s cool. We can party. Oh shit-yer also bringing “Every Which Way but Loose” and it’s equal sequel “Any Which Way You Can“? Oh shit yeah we can party! In fact, I recommend watching both sets of these classics several times as drinking beer like the world’s gonna end can make a man forgetful, and who’d wanna forget thisscene from gator? Plus I’m always down to spend some quality time with Philo Bedoe and the gang, singing along with every Mel Tillis song from those glorious soundtracks. Shit-that reminds me of a special night.
Listen to this as you finish the post. It helps.
The only time I’ve ever witnessed the northern lights was also one of the most magical. My good friend Bob had access to a cabin to which the likes of unfiltered heathenry rarely seen by mere mortals was bestowed upon. We totes fucked that fucker up. On this particular evening it was just the 2 of us, as most commoners on this hairy turd-ball of a planet lack the palette for the finer things. We boarded his paddle boat with only the nécessités: a ridiculous amount of beer and smokes along with our newly found friend, “tape buddy.” Tape buddy was an old school hand-held tape deck with a built-in speaker that became our most valuable asset. The only tape we had with us had the soundtrack to “Every Which Way but Loose” on one side and “Any Which Way You Can” on the reverse. Of course. And did tape buddy ever complain as we continued to flip the tape over and over and over during this hours long marathon of binge drinking? Fuck no! He cherished every minute as we.
As we sang along to each song-even the Sondra Locke filler-we turned our gazes upward. At first it appeared to be headlights from the highway illuminating and advancing in the fog. Bob, being Captain Stubing to my Gopher, was the first to realize t’was the northern lights. I was like, “Holy sheep-tits!” or something. We eventually passed out, grateful in the knowledge that we shan’t ever forget that enchanted eve. At least most of it. And then I woke up with a hemorrhoid.
It was my last evening in Minneapolis and I was ready to run with the wolves. I’m not gonna lie to you people-I likes t’ party. Shit-I even like just saying the word. Party. Puh-puh-puh-party. One thing I’ve learned after years of fine tuning my boundless heathenry to laser precision, coupled with the thunder of Thor’s hammer, is that nothing goes together quite like beer and smokes. It’s Willie and Waylon. Now add fire and explosives and brother, you’ve got yer four basic food groups. You’ve got The Highwaymen. So what do you get when you’ve got a shit-ton of cheap beer, fireworks, aerosol cans, a bonfire and a handful of savages approaching a black out? Well mister, you’ve got the perfect storm.
Now here’s a handy tidbit for the neophyte heathen: cowboy hats are an awesome platform for launching bottle rockets. You know what else is awesome? Pissin’ all over yer friends fence. But don’t be a greedy fun-tick. Share this privilege of pure elation and let him finish the job.
However, the most joyful moment of unfiltered bliss is blowin’ shit up. Blowin’ shit up when yer loaded is like making out with a unicorn-it’s magical! It’s like grabbing life by the sack, shoving his balls up his ass and packin’ ’em in with your hard cock-the ol’ 2 shot musket job. Any problems you may be incurring fall like autumn leaves and drift away in the face ofblowin’ shit up. If I had the choice between a blow job and blowin’ shit up? Well, let’s just say my girlfriend would never need to buy mouthwash again. Hell, let’s blow some shit up.
Pissed on fence looks better in ‘splosion lighting.
Have you ever slow cooked a rump roast in a dutch oven? Well, after the holiday debauchery, the smelt and sweat coming off my body at night basically turned my bed into a crock pot. Reptiles warming their cold bodies on my heat rock shoulders would have melted and slid down over my back bacon like pads of butter. The perspiration my liver shoved out of my body, like some heathen play-doh not fun factory , soaked thru countless, unknowing t-shirts. A quicker picker upper massacre that would have made the brawny towel guy trade in his flannel for a sun dress. The sweltering temperature and moisture in my bedroom could have inspired a thousand Tennessee Williams plays. I was awoken in the middle of the night by some one calling out “Stella!” on the street below my window. The harsh and unforgiving swampland much like Florida’s everglades, would have swallowed airplane crashes whole, the bodies never to be recovered. Basically, it was totes gross.
Dude-even my neck was drenched! What the shit is that about? My body must have looked like those pod people from “Invasion of the Body Snatchers”. Not to mention the weakened, stumbling brain cells scratching the air with their sad, T. Rex arms, re-enacting “Return of the Living Dead” and ironically moaning for “brains.”
Oh yeah-and the farts. Sweet Jesus, the farts. Each one coming out hotter than the last, stoking countless cans of Coors coals, smelling like someone rolled a turd in butt-hair and fired it up like a doobie. Farts that smell so vile, you briefly forget you think they’re hilarious. To quote the dude, “this is a bummer, man.” Anyhoo, that’s how you slow cook a rump roast in a dutch oven. Puh-puh-puh-party.
There are a lot of firsts in our lives that we look back on with nostalgia. Our first day of school, our first kiss, our first 4 foot bong-hit of angel dust… you know, kid stuff. One first we rarely speak of is our first cock, and I’m not talking about the first one you tugged or sat on. I’m talking about back when I was a young, Hairless Potter casting pee-pee spells with m’ bone wand. Long before I knew my gummi worm and set of craisins would sprout hair like a werewolf and shoot tons of “loads” or “jizz.”
I realize this sounds like we’re going to a scary place, and we are, but it’s not as horrific as you’d presuppose. First, a little back story. My grandpa was a paraplegic. He was also an asshole. I’m not sure which came first. After he lost the use of his legs, he also lost the need/desire to wear pants-which I understand. If I become paralyzed, the first thing I’ll say is “welp, m’ pants can get fucked.” Even worse, sometimes I’d walk by his bedroom and see my grandma wrangling a freshly unleashed corn-eyed brown trout from between the sheets. A strict catch and release program that started from the old mans crippled legs and ended in the toilet. Now here’s where things get ugly…
Despite the uncooperative nature of his extremities, he would drag himself behind a walker once in a while to get some exercise. And as he did everything, did so wearing only a white v-neck t-shirt, yellowed from sweat and time. Clearly, this was no black tie affair. In the grandstands of this totally not merited event was the unwitting audience of me and my cousins, the eldest being 11. Now, if he’d cruised by like Ray Steven’s “the Streak“, you wouldn’t be reading this. No, this was in painful slow motion, like when Lee Majors would run in the 6 million dollar man. The commanding sound of his walker coming down on the floor, like some perverted re-imagining of the tell-tale heart, helplessly drew your eyes like moth to flame. Avast, ye matey: my grandpa’s cock!
The beast hung low between his legs, knocked forward by his lower hanging balls with each step, like some horrible 3 stooges scene. It was covered in white hair, akin to the arm of an albino yeti, and freckled with liver spots. Herculean, blood filled veins such as the ones on a body builders biceps, pulsated like rivers of unspeakable power. Every so often his meaty, mighty trunk would rear back and swat a horsefly off his belly, kicking up a dust cloud of dead skin flakes. His colossal balls, cracking together like the sound of billiards breaking, were hidden in a sack forged from beaten horse skin left out in the cruel sun. Dust mites leaped to their death, the only escape from a stench so foul it would have made Satan himself barf, gather up the barf and chug it, only to barf again
Yes. He drug his balls across our collective psyches, leaving a trail of blackheads and emotional scars in the salty wake . It was almost as if he were saying “Look at it! Here’s where all you shitbags came from!” We awkwardly laughed it off even as the time trials continued. Unfortunately, this was only the beginning. His cock ‘n balls were regularly featured up until his death. If Lorena Bobbit had been my grandma, she would have been given a medal for cutting that bad boy off and throwing it in the drive way. Then Burt Reynolds could have done a burn out on it in the Smokey Trans Am, spraying the side of the house with shredded white dick cheddar.
We never even questioned or spoke of it, so now I’m sharing the so not wanted memory of my grandpa’s cock with you and yours. Anyways, how are you guys doing?
I recently had to steady the fragile nerves of a young heathen-in-training (or “hitman”, to use the known nomenclature) as he’d discovered some hemoglobin two-stepping with a freshly dropped lincoln log. Now, after years of drinking beer like the world was gonna end (or like i was gonna be shipped off to the ‘nam, if you prefer to kick it old school,) I had to chuckle. I looked into his welled up eyes,”Oh, my little bird, you’ve laid your first candy-striped turd!” As all senior heathens know, a little ketchup in your canoe paddle is a rite of passage. I felt obligated to ease his fragile bunny psyche, as I could sense the force was strong in this one. “Have you been drinking a ridiculous amount of whiskey?” I knowingly asked. His awkward glance at his feet was all the answer I needed. “If there’s blood in your stool, it’s totes cool. Lay off the whiskey and stick to the beer, then you’ll just spray mud and wipe til you smear.” As his head slowly raised, his gentle eyes met mine. It was then that I realized-it was fucking Ryan Gosling! I sheepishly asked him to dance, and as I laid my arms around his strong shoulders I wondered, “should I kiss my handsome prom king?” Naw…it totes wasn’t Ryan Gosling, but you should check out the movie “Drive”. Dude is a dreamboat. Did you see him break up that fight in NYC? I’d like him to break up a fight between m’ dick ‘n balls. Shit…I lost my train of thought….oh yeah, the young candy-striper. Anyways, I was all “Dude, fuck it. Let’s just party.” And then I woke up with a hemorrhoid.