by TJ Akkers
Katy, Texas
Jive, bitches! Class of '07 represent...sort of. I got to go to summer school because my faggot-ass economics teacher, Mr. Pelham flunked my ass. My dad and step-ho went up to school to straighten his ass out and he all threw some numbers in their face: "TJ has turned in one out of eleven assignments, has a 21 quiz average, and got a 38 on his final." Tard. Then I said that he failed me because he didn't like me, and he goes "No, TJ You didn't like me and you failed me. The supply of knowledge was there, TJ. The demand just wasn't high enough." Fuck that noise. All I know is the supply of gay-porn is not meeting his demand.
I thought, "No worries." I knew I'd score my graduation gift. My push-over step-bitch-mom was all like "Come on, Dan, we can still give him his graduation gift. Perhaps it'll give him the proper motivation." Hells yeah! Hello, brand new Nissan Maxima! Then I'll be able to cruise Cinco Ranch, throwing the vibe out to all the hippie ho's workin' at Central Market. But then everything took a terrible turn.
"Yes, let's give him his graduation gift," said my dad. I didn't like that sly tone in his voice. Then they handed me this small gift that turned out to be a mother-fucking book. The Purpose Driven Life. "Oh, my fucking god!" I yelled. "You have got to be kidding--" I didn't get to finish that sentence because my dad went all Jerry Falwell on me and yelled how I was going to hell because I dropped an f-bomb and god in the same sentence. So I got sent up to my room.
Let me tell you, bro. This book sucked fucking hobo-balls. No pictures. No explicit sex stuff or violence. Just straight up encouragement...for pussies. It was talking all about how you got to get your priorities in order and your house in order. Shit. I got my house in order. First I leave the house. Then I come back to the house and pass out in my room after getting high as a muthafucka at my man Chris' house, over on Serene Pines Rd. They even had a note inside the cover that they both wrote: "Dear TJ -- We hope this book helps you get your life back on track. Love, Mom and Dad." It was enough to make my ass vomit, yo.
It only got worse a few days after graduation (which I missed my chance to get high for, thank you very much, Nazi-dad), when my step-bitch was all like "What do you think of the book? Your father and I each have our own copy because we kept hogging it." I was all like "You should be hogging the Dexatrim." She just sighed and went on about how the book would help me examine comments like that and realize their inappropriateness. Then she was like, "Your father and I want to discuss chapter 3 with you tonight." And I had to think of an alibi, quick. So I had to throw out the first thing I came up with. "Uh, I can't because Chris' parents gave him a copy and we're going to discuss it together at his house tonight." That seemed to pacify her, but I could tell she was disappointed we weren't going to sit down with the three of us and whack each other off while talking about the damn book.
I took the book to Chris' house and he was all like, "Dude! Don't you see the possibilities here?" Then he takes out a box-cutter and starts fucking up the book. "Asshead!" I yelled. I don't much care about the book, but I don't want my dumbass parent-anals getting in my shit about something happening to the book. But when Chris was done he'd hollowed out a space in the middle. "Here's your real graduation gift, bro." He had put a fattie in the compartment. It was sweet! Just like some James Bond shit. I'd been looking for a way to transport my mota around, especially since my dad confiscated my back-pack and started randomly searching my pockets.
So, what started out to be the gayest graduation gift ever turned out to be a pretty throwed weed-transportation-device. And you know the fool that wrote that shitty book probably knew a few people were going to hollow out that damn thing and do just that with it. And he'd probably be cool with it, too.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Curious George Becomes an Accomplice
This is George. He lives with his friend, the Man in the yellow hat. George was a good little monkey, but he was always curious. One night, George was masturbating while he waited for the Man to return from what he had called "a date with a hot piece of ass, named Geoff." George didn't know what that meant, but he hoped the Man would not get burned. Or trampled by the mule involved.
Suddenly the front door flew open and the Man entered. He was very sad and angry. "Godammit! Why does this always happen to me!?" The Man staggered over to the kitchen and began drinking water straight out of the bottle. "Story of my fucking life! I meet a nice guy -- a hot guy. Things are going well, and then he tells me I'm not his type. I sure seemed like his type when I was sucking him off in the dressing room at Old Navy!"
George was concerned. He stopped masturbating and walked over to the Man. "Oh, George," said the Man. "I wish my life was as simple as yours. Laying around all day, spanking your monkey." The man began to laugh and then began to cry. Then he did a silly thing! He started slapping himself in the face! "You're never good enough! You're never good enough! Geoff was right! Aaarrrggh!"
Suddenly, the man stopped and said "Well this time he's not getting away with it. Let's go George!" The man grabbed George and put him in the car. George liked going for rides, but it was very late and he was sleepy. "Don't go to sleep on me now George. Here, take this." The Man gave George some white powder in a baggie. George put some on his finger and tasted it. It made his tongue feel funny. "No, George, you don't eat it! You snort it! Like this." The Man took his hands off the wheel and snorted some of the white powder right up his nose, using a straw! "Now you try, George." George took the straw the man had used and snorted the powder. "There you go, George. Now you're big-time." George didn't feel "big-time." He felt a little sick. But there was no time for that now.
The Man stopped the car in front of a little house. "Okay, this is where that bitch Geoff lives." The Man noticed a Tercel parked behind Geoff's GEO Tracker in the driveway. "What's Dennis doing here?" Suddenly the Man got that look in his eye again. "MOTHERFUCKERS!" he yelled. The Man got out of the car and opened the trunk. He grabbed a can labeled "gasoline." He poured it all over the grass in front of the house. "There! 'I wear too much yellow' heh, Geoff? Well, we'll see how yellow you like your lawn...Yellow with fire!" The Man reached into his pocket and looked confused. "Dammit. I lent my lighter to Henry the other day. I need some matches."
The Man spotted an open window in the house. "Hey, George, I need you to crawl through the window and bring me some matches. Can you do that George?" George was actually feeling better than he did earlier. He truly felt "big-time." He felt "big-time" enough to crawl through that window and fight fifty baboons! George lept through the window. Except he was feeling so "big-time" he didn't even jump through the open one. He crashed into the one next to it.
"Oh, shit," whispered the Man. He stood on the lawn. He heard some yelling and some crashes. He heard Geoff shouting "I thought we said no animals this time! Not since the thing with the ferret, Dennis!" Then he heard Dennis shouting, "Well, if you untie me, asshole, I can help you catch that fucking chimp!" Suddenly George came crashing through another window. "Come on George, let's go!" shouted the Man. They both jumped in the car and the Man slammed on the gas and away they went!
As they were driving home, the Man said "Whew! That was some excitement, huh George?" But George was asleep. "Big-time" needed a nap. The Man saw something in George's hand, but it wasn't a box of matches. It was a prescription bottle with Dennis' name on it. The bottle also read Valtrex. "Well I'll be a monkey's uncle!" laughed the Man. He didn't stop laughing for fifty minutes.
Suddenly the front door flew open and the Man entered. He was very sad and angry. "Godammit! Why does this always happen to me!?" The Man staggered over to the kitchen and began drinking water straight out of the bottle. "Story of my fucking life! I meet a nice guy -- a hot guy. Things are going well, and then he tells me I'm not his type. I sure seemed like his type when I was sucking him off in the dressing room at Old Navy!"
George was concerned. He stopped masturbating and walked over to the Man. "Oh, George," said the Man. "I wish my life was as simple as yours. Laying around all day, spanking your monkey." The man began to laugh and then began to cry. Then he did a silly thing! He started slapping himself in the face! "You're never good enough! You're never good enough! Geoff was right! Aaarrrggh!"
Suddenly, the man stopped and said "Well this time he's not getting away with it. Let's go George!" The man grabbed George and put him in the car. George liked going for rides, but it was very late and he was sleepy. "Don't go to sleep on me now George. Here, take this." The Man gave George some white powder in a baggie. George put some on his finger and tasted it. It made his tongue feel funny. "No, George, you don't eat it! You snort it! Like this." The Man took his hands off the wheel and snorted some of the white powder right up his nose, using a straw! "Now you try, George." George took the straw the man had used and snorted the powder. "There you go, George. Now you're big-time." George didn't feel "big-time." He felt a little sick. But there was no time for that now.
The Man stopped the car in front of a little house. "Okay, this is where that bitch Geoff lives." The Man noticed a Tercel parked behind Geoff's GEO Tracker in the driveway. "What's Dennis doing here?" Suddenly the Man got that look in his eye again. "MOTHERFUCKERS!" he yelled. The Man got out of the car and opened the trunk. He grabbed a can labeled "gasoline." He poured it all over the grass in front of the house. "There! 'I wear too much yellow' heh, Geoff? Well, we'll see how yellow you like your lawn...Yellow with fire!" The Man reached into his pocket and looked confused. "Dammit. I lent my lighter to Henry the other day. I need some matches."
The Man spotted an open window in the house. "Hey, George, I need you to crawl through the window and bring me some matches. Can you do that George?" George was actually feeling better than he did earlier. He truly felt "big-time." He felt "big-time" enough to crawl through that window and fight fifty baboons! George lept through the window. Except he was feeling so "big-time" he didn't even jump through the open one. He crashed into the one next to it.
"Oh, shit," whispered the Man. He stood on the lawn. He heard some yelling and some crashes. He heard Geoff shouting "I thought we said no animals this time! Not since the thing with the ferret, Dennis!" Then he heard Dennis shouting, "Well, if you untie me, asshole, I can help you catch that fucking chimp!" Suddenly George came crashing through another window. "Come on George, let's go!" shouted the Man. They both jumped in the car and the Man slammed on the gas and away they went!
As they were driving home, the Man said "Whew! That was some excitement, huh George?" But George was asleep. "Big-time" needed a nap. The Man saw something in George's hand, but it wasn't a box of matches. It was a prescription bottle with Dennis' name on it. The bottle also read Valtrex. "Well I'll be a monkey's uncle!" laughed the Man. He didn't stop laughing for fifty minutes.
The End
Sunday, May 27, 2007
From the Diary of Samuel W. Thornchesterworthingbergerton
the 26th of May, 1899
Dear diary,
I can see summer's sultry sun growing closer, which means I will no longer be able to take my afternoon martini on the veranda, without sweating through my pants. No more leisurely strolls through my vineyard or parasol-shielded walks in the fields to oversee my colored laborers. No sir. Summer tis' near.
My wife has yet again taken up her ludicrous campaign against my mustache. She claims it may lighten the burden on my face during this time year. God only knows it has enough trouble contending with my pendulous jowls. I can forgive her, since she is only a woman with a brain the size of a Irishman's. Little can she understand that a man's manhood is embodied in that mustache. If she really holds designs on people's facial hair, perhaps she should start with her own mother.
It seems as though I will be relegated to the cool of the parlor for the major part of the day. Luckily a man with deep coffers like myself can afford an extra block of ice to rest his feet on, while he watches his progeny play with their porcelain dolls and wooden acrobats I bought from a Chinaman in a rather unscrupulous part of town. I would tell you why I went there originally, but alas, I am beginning to feel weak. I shall retire to my solarium.
Dear diary,
I can see summer's sultry sun growing closer, which means I will no longer be able to take my afternoon martini on the veranda, without sweating through my pants. No more leisurely strolls through my vineyard or parasol-shielded walks in the fields to oversee my colored laborers. No sir. Summer tis' near.
My wife has yet again taken up her ludicrous campaign against my mustache. She claims it may lighten the burden on my face during this time year. God only knows it has enough trouble contending with my pendulous jowls. I can forgive her, since she is only a woman with a brain the size of a Irishman's. Little can she understand that a man's manhood is embodied in that mustache. If she really holds designs on people's facial hair, perhaps she should start with her own mother.
It seems as though I will be relegated to the cool of the parlor for the major part of the day. Luckily a man with deep coffers like myself can afford an extra block of ice to rest his feet on, while he watches his progeny play with their porcelain dolls and wooden acrobats I bought from a Chinaman in a rather unscrupulous part of town. I would tell you why I went there originally, but alas, I am beginning to feel weak. I shall retire to my solarium.
Friday, May 25, 2007
What Do You Do With a Druken Sailor?...I'd Have Sex With Him.
by Jennifer Lewellyn, 38
Davis, California
manager, Blockbuster Video
So it's Saturday night and it's time for me to engage in my routine of watching MadTV, talking to my cat, snacking on some Keebler Elf treats and crying myself to sleep, as I listen to the sound of my ovaries dying. But a little song found it's way into my Scott Baio-obsessed brain: "What do you with a drunken sailor?/What do you with a drunken sailor?..." I don't know what most people in healthy, satisfying relationships would do, but I know what I'd do: I'd take him back to my apartment, make sure my mom was passed out from her meds and let him have sex with me for days on end.
They say every sailor has a woman in every port. Well I couldn't be happier with having a sailor in every one of my ports. It would certainly break up the monotony of get up, go to work, come home, eat a frozen meal, watch Lost, set the vibrator on "Viggo Mortensen," shower, and pass out. Yes, indeed.
All the movies and t.v. shows depict sailors as girl-crazy. Why not me? Sailors have been around forever. Certainly the odds are tipping in my favor. I'm so sick and tired of throwing myself at every Mr. Sulu who shows up at Trek-Con and getting nothing except an inadvertent ass-grab when they're really reaching for the door-knob of the restroom I cornered them in. Sick and tired.
Oh sure, I know about the other type of sailors: The gay ones. But my gay friend, Lyle, at work just got transfered, so I have no one to dish with; no one to discuss Brangelina or Bennifer with. So even if the sailor was gay, it'd make for good conversation.
Most people avoid sailors. Either because they're gay, or because of their unsavory reputations for having syphillis. Not me. When I see a car with the bumper sticker "My son's a sailor" or "Navy Mom" I'm so tempted to flag them down and ask for their son's phone number. Then meet him at Appleby's, get him drunk off Miller Lite Chill, take him home and ride him to sleep.
I'm hesitant to say that's my goal in life. That would just be sad. But it'd be nice to say I banged a sailor. I mean, it'd be nice to say it to my cat.
Davis, California
manager, Blockbuster Video
So it's Saturday night and it's time for me to engage in my routine of watching MadTV, talking to my cat, snacking on some Keebler Elf treats and crying myself to sleep, as I listen to the sound of my ovaries dying. But a little song found it's way into my Scott Baio-obsessed brain: "What do you with a drunken sailor?/What do you with a drunken sailor?..." I don't know what most people in healthy, satisfying relationships would do, but I know what I'd do: I'd take him back to my apartment, make sure my mom was passed out from her meds and let him have sex with me for days on end.
They say every sailor has a woman in every port. Well I couldn't be happier with having a sailor in every one of my ports. It would certainly break up the monotony of get up, go to work, come home, eat a frozen meal, watch Lost, set the vibrator on "Viggo Mortensen," shower, and pass out. Yes, indeed.
All the movies and t.v. shows depict sailors as girl-crazy. Why not me? Sailors have been around forever. Certainly the odds are tipping in my favor. I'm so sick and tired of throwing myself at every Mr. Sulu who shows up at Trek-Con and getting nothing except an inadvertent ass-grab when they're really reaching for the door-knob of the restroom I cornered them in. Sick and tired.
Oh sure, I know about the other type of sailors: The gay ones. But my gay friend, Lyle, at work just got transfered, so I have no one to dish with; no one to discuss Brangelina or Bennifer with. So even if the sailor was gay, it'd make for good conversation.
Most people avoid sailors. Either because they're gay, or because of their unsavory reputations for having syphillis. Not me. When I see a car with the bumper sticker "My son's a sailor" or "Navy Mom" I'm so tempted to flag them down and ask for their son's phone number. Then meet him at Appleby's, get him drunk off Miller Lite Chill, take him home and ride him to sleep.
I'm hesitant to say that's my goal in life. That would just be sad. But it'd be nice to say I banged a sailor. I mean, it'd be nice to say it to my cat.
How much is that bloated dog carcass on the roadside?
Saw a dead dog on the side of the street. I'm not a dog-lover, so it doesn't bring a tear to my eye. But it did get me thinking: Do dogs commit suicide? Did this particular dog approach the curb of the feeder, thinking:
"My life is shit. I've got no home. I've got mange. My bitch done left me. I'm tired of eating the hardened cheese out of discarded pizza boxes. This time I'm gonna do it. I'm gonna end it all, man. Shit, it's a Nissan Maxima, let me wait for something bigger. A Tahoe, or something like that."
Do his dog friends stand at a distance and watch?
"Oh, look. Gary's going to attempt suicide. Again."
"You think he'll go through with it this time?"
"Probably not. He's too scared to even chase after the Jehovah Witnesses."
"He hasn't been the same since Emily left him."
"Did you do her?"
"Totally. You?"
"Twice."
"Nice."
"Oh, look! He's gonna do it!
(tires screeching - thud)
"Darn it. He just got nipped."
"That's lame. Why did he choose a Yaris?"
"Who knows."
"Wanna go see what Emily's up to?"
"My life is shit. I've got no home. I've got mange. My bitch done left me. I'm tired of eating the hardened cheese out of discarded pizza boxes. This time I'm gonna do it. I'm gonna end it all, man. Shit, it's a Nissan Maxima, let me wait for something bigger. A Tahoe, or something like that."
Do his dog friends stand at a distance and watch?
"Oh, look. Gary's going to attempt suicide. Again."
"You think he'll go through with it this time?"
"Probably not. He's too scared to even chase after the Jehovah Witnesses."
"He hasn't been the same since Emily left him."
"Did you do her?"
"Totally. You?"
"Twice."
"Nice."
"Oh, look! He's gonna do it!
(tires screeching - thud)
"Darn it. He just got nipped."
"That's lame. Why did he choose a Yaris?"
"Who knows."
"Wanna go see what Emily's up to?"
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