Monthly Archives: December 2011

I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus

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I saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus. On the tee-tee.

I’m fairly certain this means that Mommy and Daddy will be getting a divorce and that Santa is my new Daddy. I can’t say I didn’t see it coming. Dad doesn’t appreciate a g-darn thing that she does for him. He’s a slob. He’s a racist. He’s a busive. He’s a Baptist. He sits around all day in his fruity-booty whitey-tighties, scratching his nutsacks, eating beef jerky, and listening to REO Speedwagon. His only friend is the dog and he’s been dead for two years. You wouldn’t know it though, by the way Daddy keeps setting food out every morning and talking to the spot where old MustardFarts died. He treats that ghost-dog better than he treats us.

Mommy comes home after slaving away at the Waffle House. Like literally SLAVING. See, she picks cotton at the Waffle House. And when she comes home her dogs are barking. But does he ever thank her? Does he ever whip her up a little din-din? Does he ever give a deep tissue rub down? Does he ever take his jerkey smellin’ fingers off his balls long enough to give her a handjob? No. He doesn’t. He just yells at her for forgetting to get his order of h-browns chunked and smothered. Seriously. If he doesn’t get little chunks of ham on his h-browns he gets all loco, esé and starts throwing bows. Chris “Ludacris” Bridges style. Mad bows. 2 Fast 2 Furious. He flings Mommy to the ground and stomps on her rib cage until her bones making cracking sounds. Then yells at her for gargling up blood all over  the carpet and ruining the chances of get our security deposit back.

I’m GLAD Mommy was kissing Santa Claus on his candy cane striped dick. Santa seems like a real legit guy. A straight shooter. Real salt of the earth type a cool cat. He’s a giver. He’s an animal lover. He was really funny on Home Improvement in his younger years, back before he became Santa. Always busting Al Borland’s chops. Bustin’ em hard too. Like, bustin’ harder than Billy-Boy Murray, Dan-the-man Aykroyd, and that black guy back in the 80s. Anywho, maybe after the divorce with Daddy, me and Mommy can move up to the North Pole and live with Santa and the Elves and the Reindeer and Frosty and Jack Frost and Robert Frost and Michael Buble and the whole gang. And maybe Santa will learn to love me as the son he never had and train me as his apprentice to eventually replace him when he dies. Just like Kim Jong Il and his son. Oh, how I long to know love like Kim Jong Il and his son. Once I’m the new Santa, I’m going to find out where my old Daddy lives and go to  his house at night and sneak down his chimney and drop a Yule Log in the tank of his toilet. That way every time he flushes dookie water comes out.

Elevator Diaries

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“Elevator Going Up”

You’re never more alone than when standing in a crowded elevator.

My eyes were fixed firmly on my feet. In moments like these I keep them under the strictest regulation.  No sidewards glances. No eye contact. No acknowledgement that I was sharing this confined space with 5 other lifeforms. Head down. Staring at my shoes. Dems the rules.

Then I felt a twinge of electricity. A pang of something magical brewing in my nethers. First it started in my toes. Then I crinkled my nose. Wherever it goes, I always know: I was about to chub out.

I felt my pleated stain-resistant khakis tighten around my thighs and firmly latch onto my clinched fanny parts. My pupils dilated, their focus climbing up to the emerging lump in my lap. It began to grow in slow motion like an ash snake lit on the 4th of July. Beads of sweat began to aggregate on my brow and I could feel the blood pumping into the sleeping behemoth. Pulsating. Thriving like a hearty turnip.

By the time we reached the 12th floor, my humble erection was at a 45 degree angle, glaring straight into the eyes of my fellow elevateurs like a shackled cyclops- drooling and veiny.

The trembling young nipper next to me clung to her mother’s dress, shielding her eyes from my rock hard dick. An old Babushka clutched her rosary beads and murmered low and quick for her God to save her. The Chinaman pointed and shouted at my cocksicle as if Mothra was setting the city ablaze with his laser vision. After making eye contact with my throbbing member, a young businessman nervously reached into his briefcase. Rifling through his stock reports, he retrieved a pistol. In an instant his lips were wrapped around the barrel like it was Pete Wentz’s cock and he was a valued customer at Hot Topic. Swallowing that metaphorical load, his brain matter painted each wall of the elevator. The Chinaman, stunned, said nothing slowly backing into one corner. The Babushka dropped to her knees, threw up her hands and began to weep. The mother put the back of her hand to her forehead and fainted, collapsing into the pool of blood, brain, and business papers that had amalgamated on the the elevator floor; her young daughter standing there, motionless, not knowing what came next. Our eyes met, then like two kittens following a laser pointer, slowly panned down to the unreceding mound of flesh pulsating the button-fly of my khakis. A small grin appeared, then somewhere in the distance, a bell rang.

Ain’t nothing but my Bone-Daddy, y’all!

If I Were a Mystical Beast

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I swear to God up in heaven above, people are always asking me, “Hey mister, if you were to be a mystical beast, which mystical beast would you be?”

Often times people are surprised and confused by how specific my answer is. So I drew a detailed diagram to explain my answer and dispel any lingering confusion. If I were a mystical beast, I would be a Human-Centaur (as seen below). The Human-Centaur is 50% human (head & chest), 50% horse (body), and then another 50% human (legs & feet). Now, I’m not a mathemagician but I believe that balances out to somewhere around 75% human and 45% horse.

The Human-Centaur is strong and noble and really really really rare. He has wavy blonde hair that he wears in a stylish yet masculine ponytail. He’s got a square jaw line just like Jon Hamm and bushy eyebrows like Eugene Levy (both total sexpots). Plus he’s got some ripped-ass pecs cuz he does upperbody workouts pretty much everyday. He’s got a membership at Gold’s Gym and I see him up there all the time TORCHING his delts, obliques, lats, bi’s, and tri’s. No fooling. If he’s got em, he’s TORCHING that shit thoroughly. I work the front desk at Gold’s, so I’ve seen my fair share of delt torching, but never like this. I’m talking FUCKING SCALDING.

Not to mention his stout-ass horse body. Like Seabisquick. Imagine him cantering around the forest, highstepping like a regal duke, letting sexy ass nymphs ride him barebacked, total raw dog style, laughing wildly, tossing their heads back in ecstasy with nothing to hold on to but his swoll rock hard pecs and ponytail.

Also,the only movie he owns is Mystic Pizza on VHS (as seen above) and is a huuuuuuge Julia Roberts fan. Like seriously obsessed with Julia. Every time I see him at Gold’s (torching) he drops at least one quote from Erin Brockovich. Last week, I thought I was gonna have to call an ambulance, but he was just acting out the scene where Julia collapses in Steel Magnolias. “DRINK THE JUICE, SHELBY” Seriously. Loves. Jules.

Plus Human-Centaurs have the best mating ritual of pretty much all mystical beasts. To get things warmed up, they do what is known as the “Human-Centaur-Pede”  which is basically like a line of 100 or 200 Human-Centaurs in the woods just eating out each other’s horse butt-pussies. They do this for about 8 hours, then they drink lo-carb meade and honey out of the ceremonial chalice to get the taste out of their mouth.

Finals Week (UGH!)

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Next week is finals week, and I am SLAMMED out of my gorg! Two tests Monday, two tests Tuesday, and my Micro final not until Friday! I knew this would happen. I knew I would get THE WORST schedule in the history of final exams. I mean, seriously, I can’t catch a break. I was hoping to be done by Thursday because I told Brad that we would go see his Mee-Maw in the nursing home and steal some pills from her meds cabinet and get wrecked to shit and see who could fit what inside the other one. He’s gonna be steamed. Like a bowl of carrots.

Trisha gets done with all her finals on Wednesday. That fucking whore bitch. I know she’s going to go to the bars Wednesday night and do VegasBombs and bumps of coke in Seth’s truck until her eyeballs roll back in her head. If I know Seth, he’ll take her back to the Sig Ep house and rape her stoopid. So lucky. She’ll wake up and find the left-overs of last night’s creampie holding her puss lips together like icing between cake layers and totally freak, thinking she’s preggo. Cuz like Seth is her step-brother and when her dad finds out, he is gonna be pizzed. But that’s not the worst part. The worst part is SHE DOESN’T EVEN HAVE TO TAKE AN EXAM ON THURSDAY, so she has time to go to med clinic and grab some plan-B pills to kill all Seth’s spermy egg-whites. GOD! Fuck her. Lucky cunt. She gets everything. 2008 Range Rover. Internship at Urban Outfitters HQ. HPV. And now this. I would give anything to abort Seth’s baby. But no. I’m not done with exams until FRIDAY! I’ve been crushing on Seth since like the beginning of time, when he took me to that swap freshman year. I was perioding all over the front of my panties cuz I ran out Maxi’s, so I only gave him a handy. Granted, I showed him my signature two-handed peppermint twist technique, BUT STILL.

I was thinking, maybe if I convince my Micro Prof that my mom got murdered by black people in the ghetto that he will let me take my exam a day early. I’ll go into his office on Tuesday morning with mascara running down my face and tell him I have to get home STAT for her funeral. Seriously ASAP. All because of the blacks. The ones in the ghetto. I’ll explain to him that upper-middle class, Christian whites are the most oppressed people in America right now. Minorities are seriously taking jobs and stuff, even though they are less qualified because of affirmative actions. And Mexicans too.  Daddy says that’s how Obama got elected. Because of Affirmative African Action. And that’s why I always vote Republican. It’s time white people stop being ashamed and take America back from those people. There’s nothing wrong with being proud of being white. White people are seriously the best. That’s why I should be allowed to take my exam early. After I explain all that to my Prof, he’ll realize that I’m not just some bimbo trying to get out of the final and that my mom really is dead. Cuz of the blacks. Then I can snack down on Brad’s whopper dick all night long without having to worry about getting up early to take some test that I know I’m gonna pass anyway. I mean, HELLO! I know this shit. I’ve got fucking Micro coming out of my twat.