April 21 2017

What the Fuckery Friday: Clowns

Clown fuckeryClowns can suck my ass. Those creepy white faces, reminiscent of dead fish bellies, with the paint extravaganza tied to balloons for happy-happy fun time that’s more like scary-terror cry time, haunt my dreams and fog my delusions into perfect little chaos squares and triangles and circles. Geometry can eat a big bag of fried tulip dicks, those line-thin pistils that wish they had pistols so they could shoot the fucking clown in his creepy brown eye. Bang, bang, you’re Fred the Cunnilingus Clown. Except no one wants that anywhere near their linguals—bi, tri, or otherwise.

Flash in the pan, I always say. Like scattered leaves on a Friday, late for the gym and racing through the parking lot to the circus from eloquence and pride to emotional fatigue and scary eyebrows. High those finicky whiskers soar, taking out the trash on every day except trash day. I’ll bet it chaps the garbage collectors’ asses when people do that shit. Should’ve gone down the plank at the end of the driveway, straight into the maw of that harlequin from hell, its tongue lolling, pierced with a tanzanite stud muffin, eyes hooded like Emperor Palpatine after an exhausting game of Yahtzee. He never could win that one because the Force wasn’t exactly on his side when the dice rolled and trolled across the velvet plain. Poor Palpatine.

He was like a ghost clown, wasn’t he? Shrouded in white, balmy skin, wrinkles on his pinkies while he drank tea with the Queen of New Caledonia among the flowers and wandering cats, their buttholes exposed beneath puffs of fur and giblets. Those cats are the only ones who don’t fear a goddamned clown. Cats look at him, chew their cud, and say, “Nonchalant, is it not, Theodore?”

And Theodore replies, “Whenever I encounter the swooping eyebrows, intent on selling cream for the face that comes from a looooooooong tube made of flesh and boners, I attack with my mighty claws, ripping that foreskin and fur off at the root, bedraggling the man behind the myth of trailers and three rings and elephant dung. That shit smells tidy as a seashell wriggling through a urethra, man!”

Theodore is a very wise cat. He also knows his clown DNA. GACCTGGATCC for the win. Except really, who knows what all that DNA talk is about anyway? Not Theodore. He speaks in their language, but he knows not what he says. Some consider him a genius with the genus, but the species takes a little more effort. Digging up bones is a hard job, but Theodore doesn’t mind. As long as the bones belong to that white-faced clown motherfucker sitting at the end of the table, fork and knife in hands, waiting to dig into the heartiest meal of soul he ever did climb.

Theodore eats clown souls for midnight snacks on occasion, and when they give him indigestion, he belches and farts in tandem, and the world breathes a great sigh of relief. For Theodore’s castaways can heal even the scariest of nightmares.

Long live Theodore, the Clown Atomizer!

April 14 2017

What the Fuckery Friday: Astroglide

Astroglide fuckeryAstroglide is my best friend because she keeps me wet and sane and happy with her electrons flying hither and thither, bouncing into particle beams of sunlight and darkness in the wells of coochies and butts.

“Give ‘em hell, Glo-Glide!” I say.

She nods her oil-slicked head.

“Much obliged!”

Gotta keep the juices flowing, inside and out. Bring it on home in time for Sunday dinner. Can’t be waiting around for the priest to finish his rock-hard sermon about drugs and alcohol, hookers and blow. Get ‘er done and do it fast, I always say.

If it weren’t for Astroglide, where would those horny sphincters sphinct? Into the black holes of their souls, lost to the darkness and hurrying to find the light down the alimentary canal of joy. Almond Joy. Nutty goodness and tweaking ball sacs captured in radiant hues of gold with flakes of white like dandruff dropping down to the shoulder blades of hell, deep across the waters of the River Styx, ferried by the Psychopompous of gourds and reindeer and finger foods. Rejoice! Hallelujah! Our asshole king has come. Off he shoots, like a rocket seeking water on a forbidden planet littered with monkeys who eat only the rinds of dead lemons, sniffing their lemony asses for freshness they will never find.

When that winding path leads them to salvation on the dunes of Planet 10 where the Black and Red Lectroids roam, how will that swanky Astroglide fair? She’s got the swing down, bippity-boppity-boo with her jiggly hips and fair lips. Pussy lips, probably, but maybe a butt shank has a pair too. Never been close enough to notice, but my money’s on SCROTUS’s pucker to be sure. Unfair of ass, smelly of scent, incorrigible of bodily fluids wreaking destruction on various members of Parliament in their Tory and Whig headgear, flatulating, masturbating, complicating the science of the known universe and quelling fears of rogue seminars blaring tiny dollhouse wares. I don’t need another goddamn plate in that wee little kitchen. Give me an egg or at least a mighty waffle to dunk in this rebellious Grade B amber syrup, stolen from the veins of an ancient botanical orgasm.

Why would you ever feel the need to steal such thunder from a noble being of breast and highfalutin neck braces with Swarovski crystal collars? Because we’re greedy as fuck and can’t get our shit straight no matter how hard we try. The waters of Astroglide’s glorious bounty can’t even help this civilization find the path back home. We are truly lost, out of rocket fuel, a sun about to go supernova with no more solar power to spare once the dirty deed is complete. But Asssssstroglide pussies up for us when we need it most. You can bow to its awesome power or drink it for an after-midnight snack, but it ain’t gonna do nothin’ except give your trolleyway a sweet, slick home with a tacky aftertaste.

Lick the Astroglide well, for your very life may depend on it. Imbibe in the fruits of no-man’s land where only the welling tears of ass can fertilize your lost soul.

Praise Psychopompous and the gluttonous revenge of Charon!

April 7 2017

What the Fuckery Friday: Bigfoot

Bigfoot fuckeryBigfoot. She’s a dirty old girl, slumming through the forest city, chomping on bits of foliage and twigs with the best of the creatures. She swings her bigfoot titties and sways her long, swanky bigfoot arms, trolling for a hairy beast of a man to quench her healthy, if somewhat sickening desires of the flesh. Trollin’ and swollen, she is.

Once Bigfoot sets her sights on something, she won’t relent until she attains its glory. If it’s a trophy in the form of a man’s head, she’ll hang it on her tree wall. If it’s a bunghole cut from the anus of a stripy zebra, she might eat it for dinner or savor its delicacy for a special time later. If it’s the remnants of a shit toboggan gone off the Colorado rails, she’ll rub her face in it to mask her scent from other bigfoots who might try to prey on her feminine wiles. She’s full of candor, and she’s not afraid to use it, especially with those big testosteroney males looking for a poo-well to dip their wicks into. Fire! Fire! My candle’s on fire with flaming shit and bird nests and seagrass and worms! Blow it out, big Bigfoot with your staunchly republican values and your emaciated testicles, hungry for the man-fuels of your forebears.

If the violence doesn’t get them, the tsunami will. It washes the shores of Bigfoot country, snuffing out their scent, rendering copulation virtually impossible because those sperm need a place to swim. Upstream like a salmon on its way to die. Death is the great beginning for those Bigfoots of the forest. Like her, they wear their tits on their sleeves, shaking them at foreigners with their strange currency and ideas.

“Don’t bring those horribly tasteless pants into this country, mister! You’ll never live those things down with your balls dipping out the cuffs of the too-tight shorts.”

The least they could do under the circumstances is share their languages with the Bigfoot people, who are inherently brilliant with languages. Those linguists can curse with the best of world leaders and the worst of priests and cardinals and blue jays, mocking the “normals” for their loose ideas on women and guns and profiteering. Get back in your cave and sort things out. One day, your ship will come, and Bigfoot Queenie will captain that bitch. She will pitch the wide sails high and ride the seas until they mount the dike, all the while wearing their favorite death clogs, painted blue and white for posterity.

And when the curtain falls on the darkest night, Bigfoot will rally against the light and drag some bitches into hell, screaming like meddling kids on their way to solve a mystery. Those bitches will melt with ice and snow, fire beaming from their eyes, and they will lament their coarse lives as men who wished they could be as good as Bigfoot. She who has the biggest feet blows the biggest farts.

Amen, sister Bigfoot. Amen.