Category Archives: Literature

R.L. Stein Book Review

Posted on by

0

We can sum up R.L.’s new magnum opus “Halloween Hell-Fire: Smokin’ In The Boys Room” in one word: GOOSEBUMPS.

Serious. Got some real ass goosebumps on this one. Fa really doe. Lookin’ like geese up in here with hundreds of bumps covering every square inch of our torched bods. Laying eggs and shit. Eating little pieces of bread. Chasing kids. Trying to peck their eyeballs. Our bumps, our bumps, our loosey goosey bumps. Like that Black Eyed Peas song? But we changed the words a little bit? Weird Al style. He should totally use that for one of his epic polka parodies. With his accordion. We saw Weird Al in a Ruby Tuesdays once, munching out on some bacon ched sliders. Shit looked di-vine. He’s not as weird in real life as he pretends to be on the TV. The bizarre tale in R.L.’s latest Goosebumps was way weirder than Al. Believe that.

Stein’s literary masterpiece is a modernist quest to define the self. There ain’t been chops like this from the Stein family since the days of R.L.’s lesbian grandmammy, Gertrude. R.L. explores the human condition like only R.L. can. Shit had me going through the works. The water works. I cried. I screamed. I shivered. I hooted. I hollered. My hair stood on end. I hid my head under my blanket. I nearly jumped clean out of my skin. The only thing I couldn’t do was PUT IT DOWN. LOL. CuZ IT WUz sO GoOoD!!! Talk about a page turner.

The protagonist, Xander Magoo, is everyman. Your average Average Joe. His parents’ working class background makes him the symbol of the proletariat’s hopeless quest to transcend social stratification. Stein uses Xander’s hamster, hopelessly running on it’s wheel, to represent the capitalist charade. Deep Mon.

This Marxist masterpiece follows Magoo as he is flung into the world of bone chilling fright along with his best friend and fountainhead of comic relief Blaine “Earwig” Jewstein. Their adventure begins when they find out that their Chemistry Teacher, Mr. Gorbachev, has been catnapping the neighborhoods’ felines. And by catnapping, I don’t mean taking a quick snooze on the couch after inhaling a can of tuna. I’m talking about kitty abductions! Pussy snatching!

So Xander and Earwig plot out a wicked scheme to catch Mr. Gorbachev red fucking handed on none other than ALL HOLLOWS EVE. WoOoOo! SPoOoOoKY.  So they sneak into Mr. Gorbachev’s house and set up a camera crew so that they can bust him To Catch a Predator style. Dateline NBC Y’all. Chris Hansen eat your heart out.

Long story short, one thing leads to another and they end up in a high speed chase on
their Huffy bikes. Then there’s like…a swamp….And….there’s this whole thing about Mr. Gorbachev keeping his teaching position because of tenure…maybe there was something about a golden amulet? I’ll be honest, I might have just skimmed the last couple chapters. But it really was good! I swear, like the first 30 pages were fucking fire ass fire. It just got late and I had one of those weeks.

Like for instance on Wednesday, I went to Belk’s to get some of these fucking Ralph Lauren ties like James Franco wears and they CANCELLED my Belk’s Rewards Plus Credit Card. What kind of jergoffs do they got running this place? How the heck do these royal jergoffs expect me to buy any Ralph Lauren ties if they cut me off? Like, Ralph is a personal friend of mine and with one fucking phone call I could BURY YOU, Belk’s. Like, he invited me to his nephew’s baptism in Milan and if I gave him the word, he would pull his entire line from your stores so fast that your jergoff heads would twist clean off your little chode bodies.  Don’t think I won’t, Belk’s. I’m not the kind of guy you want to fuck with. All I want is my fucking Belk’s Rewards Plus Credit Card with the 10% discount so I can buy some fucking Ralph Lauren ties so I can look like James Franco. HE IS HANDSOME.

Did you see Pineapple Express? So Funny. Talk about range. Just when you think you’ve got James Franco’s figured out, he comes out of left field with a doozie like this. God damn it, he’s good. Rise of the Planet of the Apes? He was like a super smart monkey scientist that taught them how to read books. Nailed it. Spider-Man 3? He’s was an evil goblin and ripped Toby McGuire’s dick off. Pure gold. He’s like a shape shifter or something the way he goes from role to role. Like a shape shifting mighty morphing changeling chamillionaire or something. God bless.

Elevator Diaries

Posted on by

0

“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!

The Reason I Stopped Doing Cocaine (And Started Doing Karaoke)

Posted on by

0

karaoke

It just wasn’t worth it, guys. The late nights. The constant nosebleeds. The violent urges to wait in the parking lot and rape strippers when they’d leave work at the Titty Castle. Sure, that life is fun for awhile. But it … Continue reading →

The Virus

Posted on by

0

It wiped them all out. All but three.  Jake Sullinger, Martha Smart, and myself were the only ones it chose to spare. And despite what you may have seen or read about the end of mankind in movies or magazines, it actually wasn’t half bad. Jake did a hell of a Sally Field impression and Martha had big ole fat dumpy tits. Like two bags of sand. During the day, Martha and me would sneak away to the abandoned gas station and chug Starbucks Frappachinos and fuck like we were ten again. Jake never asked questions. He was content as long as we came back with his two favorite things, a Citrus Cooler Gatorade just like MJ#23 of the Toon Squad drinks and some Mentos. The Freshmaker. Keepin’ it real fresh in here. Gotta stay Fly-y-y-y til I di-i-i-i-ie. I never told Martha, but I used to open up Jake’s Gatorade and spray fart in it and the screw the lid back on real tight before giving it to him. That’s the stuff you have to do to make life worth living in the post-apocalyptic world. Jake would open it up, slowly put it to his lips, and chug like Vin Diesel swallows cock. So naive to the subatomic doo-doo particles floating inside. He sure loved those citrus coolers. You know, when the world swallows itself up, it’s the little laughs along the way that keep you going.

The virus began when Keith Richards finally overdosed on bug spray in 2089. They buried his body in a grave in Dartford and that is where it remained until June 8, 2093. On this night, two slutty lesbian fans of The Stones unearthed the casket containing Keith Richards’ corpse and savagely cut off his Goldilocks and the Two Bears. They took it home where they proceeded to shove Keith Richards’ decomposed meatstick in and out of each other’s stinktank.  And that was that. They started fucking all over town, spreading what we now know is K.R.D., to everyone. And taking all of mankind with it.  Businessmen, construction workers, high ranking officials, Kobe Bryant, all the women Kobe Bryant rapes. From that point on, it just became a waiting game.

Jake, Martha, and myself were obviously immune for some reason, probably because God liked us more than everyone else. We would stay up at night and talk about the bad old days. When the world was full of shitheads, and having money mattered. A world where I didn’t get to unload shotgun shells full of my pearly white into Martha all day, everyday. A world where there were dictators, terrorist attacks, and Cracker Barrell. That ain’t no world I wanna be apart of. No sir. No thank you. I’m happy right where I’m at.

      The End.

Faulkner’s Lost Short Story

Posted on by

0

I remember that summer with Quinnie. The sun came up early and hot and got damn near oppressive around noon time. When it got real hot, Pa would let me break. I’d go down and climb that lazy, sugar magnolia with Quinnie, just low enough to let those big umbrella leaves give us shade, but just high enough to feel the breeze come racing in every four or five minutes. I remember how her hair would wave in the breeze, like everything was in slow motion.

Some days, the afternoon rain would let up just soon enough to enjoy the cool evening air. Everything smelled sweeter when the honeysuckles were in bloom. Smell of damp honeysuckles after an afternoon shower still makes me think of Quinnie and her hair and how it would blow in the wind, like the entire world was in slow motion.

I remember some afternoons, stealing some of Pa’s sippin’ whiskey and putting it into Coke cans and going with Quinnie down to the creek. We’d talk about this tree and that one, and laugh and toss peanuts in for the fish. Her hair moved in slow motion. I’d roll up my pants and put my feet in, the water just cold enough for me to whince, but not cold enough to stop me from dipping my feet in to the ankles. Once the drinks were all drank and the sun had sunk down real low, we’d go skinny dipping. Then we would fuck on the shore of that creek like two beached sea turtles eager to get inside and move around in each others sea-pussies. I’d smush her face real hard down into that clay creekbed, so hard that it got all in her teeth. I don’t know why I did that. Then I’d pull out just in time, or so I thought, and splooge all over her back, rubbing in some clay, just for good measure.

I remember after a couple weeks, Quinnie came into the stable crying. She told me she was pregnant and that Pa said he didn’t want her anywhere around me anymore. She said that this was goodbye and cried some more. Little Jessie was born in March of the following year. He was retarded as an armadillo. Had teeth coming out of his mouth looking like barnacles or something. His spine was on the outside. It’s not supposed to be like that. I ‘spose it was because me and Quinnie were brother and sister and that our Ma and Pa were brother and sister and their Ma and Pa too, going back about 5 generations. Probably also explains why my eyes are so far apart and why Quinnie’s got two club feet.

We were all sippin’ Pa’s sippin’ whiskey one night after Jessie was born and just left him outside like on accident. ‘Spect the coyotes got him.

Sometimes on moonless summer nights, I lay awake and think of Little Jesse, all hunched backed, with his one good hand waving at me in slow motion, as if to say “Pa, it’s ok. We all get a little shitfaced on Pa’s good sippin’ whiskey, fuck our sisters, and end up losing our deformed little armadillo retard babies.” And seeing that makes me feel like I can take comfort in the fact that, at the end of this life, when I’m buried beside the very creek I used to play by, that I was a good man at heart and that I tried my very hardest each and every damn day to do the right thing. Now I’m going to go rape Quinnie and get drunk.