May 12 2017

What the Fuckery Friday: Coffee

Kona-D got her eyes on you, mahfuckah.
Kona-D got her eyes on you, mahfuckah.

“What puts the cream in your coffee?” you ask.

Who might be the better question,” says I.

If it weren’t for cream and lashings of sugar (or sugar substitute in the event of emergency, which is every single day), I wouldn’t roll out of bed, fresh as a paisley with stars in my eyes and fire in my heart. Those valves sometimes stall and lurch, but pay no mind to the magician behind the aorta. It’s all electric pulses and beams from foreign governments, not the whimsical fancy of a feckless god playing pool and using you as the cue ball. The blue chalk can choke your pulmonary vesicles if you’re not careful, so don’t inhale. Never inhale. We saw where that got Bill Clinton.

Another of those Bills (there are ever so many) was the one who went after Beatrix Kiddo. A damn shame, too, because that Beatrix made a lovely bride, reptilian codename and all. You can bet your sweet ass she had plenty of coffee on hand when she went after the Crazy 88s. A quintuple shot. It was the music that moved her. You could tell Tomoyasu Hotei got off on some major feelings when they wrote the tune.

If I were a gangster, my name would be Kona-D. D for “dangerous.” Kona coffee is smooth like butter, but you might get the shits if you drink too much. That’s what my gangster specialty would be. Giving people the shits. Many argue I do that already. I’ve been sent the hospital bills for late-term colonoscopies to prove it. The point is, Kona-D would be a righteous gangster with a red and black pinstripe suit, pimp hat, and Band-Aids on each middle finger.

Fingers are made for probing, which happens a hell of a lot more than one might expect when Kona coffee is involved. Might have something to do with that badass Pele surfing the slopes of Kīlauea in search of Halema’uma’u crater. Big fucking hole that one made. The cleaning crew had a righteous mess on their hands, but nobody said a word about it. They didn’t want Pele bringing any more shit down on them. How much you wanna bet she shows up at the capitol tomorrow wearing a pinstripe suit, toting a mug of Kona coffee as big a blue whale’s heart? I predict shit will go down when she targets her wrath on those asshole Asian palm civet farmers, toting their kopi luwak coffee shit-beans. Anything to make a fucking yuan.

Kona-D wouldn’t have none of that shit. Vegetarian coffee for all, motherfuckers! Rumor has it you can make a vicious vegan chocolate cake with strongly brewed coffee, and I stand by it. Glob some peanut butter cream cheese frosting on it if you like it leaded. The cows probably won’t mind. I imagine their tits hurt if you neglect them too long, though I wouldn’t want to touch those hairy bags. Every time I drive by the pasture, a herd of cud-chomping bitches follows me with their eyes like they’re plotting to steal my car.

I triple-heifer-dare you, vache.

May 5 2017

What the Fuckery Friday: Lady Fingers

Slender and long, tipped with hot pink like a hippie granny’s misplaced lipstick, those lady fingers get me every time. They get me in the lady-nads, in the lady-biscuits, but most often in the lady-homeopathic receptors. You know what that feels like. A thousand eels wriggling through your urethra on a quest for scones but deterred at the last moment by an unexpected tiramisu flare-up that can’t stop the painwheel it’s flying on. Or, to put it another way, the urethra’s connected to the colon bone.

If it weren’t for lady fingers, who would be there to make ticklers? I’ll tell you who. Johnny Depp, most likely, and nobody wants him to show up wearing a pair of those shallow, scathing lady fingers sans polish, unless he’s dragging Hunter S. Thompson behind him by the hair. Or lack thereof. We don’t need another trip to Vegas. Uh-uh. Not after filming that flailing bird episode you tried to push under the cargo hold. Episode six, I believe it was. The one that got us banned from the Bellagio and detoured us to that carnival for deer stains not long for this world but eternal for the next. And with those stamps they gave us came a few coupons for free bobble heads of Shakes the Clown, which was a damn funny movie, but it missed its mark on the shoe front. Nobody wears shoes like that. Not even that hot-ass fucker Tyler Durden from the subway fiasco.

God, I’d love to score a piece of Tyler. Preferably with a dollop of Ricky from Trailer Park Boys. My mouth is watering just thinking about them and a couple of lady fingers, rolling around the hay. If the pollen doesn’t get you, they will. Totally. My spirit animal Ricky moves me in ways only the devil knows about, and I’d like to keep it on the down-low, thanks.

Oh, holy fuck! I just got the title! SHAKES the Clown! HAHAHAHA! Fucking brilliant! He’s got the fucking DTs because he drinks too much. Jesus, it only took me twenty-six years to figure that shit out.

We now return to our regularly scheduled program …

When Ricky waved that fishing line around and said it was his cock, I fell in love. He’s a piece of master, always ho-ing and humming about important things like weed and dope and little lady fingers, Mizz Mary Jane. With a man like him behind the wheel, Jesus would sit in the backseat and giggle the entire trip.

Dip your nuts in these beautiful Kahlua-soaked drippings, my friend, and see where the journey takes you. Up the creek without a saddle, into the wild blue marauder, wielding Jaffa cakes and Triscuits and avoiding the pitfalls of Tim Tam slams and other assorted menaces.

A Tim Tam slam would be fucking heavenly right now. If only I had the lady fingers to employ such a glorious beast. Is it me, or does “poutine” sound incredibly dirty?

To the lady fingers, it does. No lady would ever dip her fingers in that mess.

Ladies are such fucking prudes.

April 28 2017

What the Fuckery Friday: Saurian Brandy

When you’re as drunk as a skunk, you can usually blame it on the brandy. Or the lack of restraint on that seatbelt you’re wearing, you goddamned backseat driver. If this Star Trek video doesn’t hurry up and end, I’ll probably dream of Captain Kirk swinging from vines, picking up the ladies in the forests of Vulcan (pre-apocalyptic sun explosion), like a caveman, his toga tatters flipping off the breeze like tiny little fingers. He always did love the ladies. Especially had a kink for those hot, sexy-ass ears. But the truth of the matter wasn’t the Vulcans. It was the Romulans with their schemes and machinations. Machiavellian, if you will. Brandy snifters shattering under the weight of hefty anger and occasional horniness had nothing on those badasses, green blood or not.

I understand Machiavelli was an Italian gentleman of modest means and excessive voter turn out. If not for him, how would those Russians have ever gotten away with selling ice cream tax-free in Mexico? THEY WOULDN’T HAVE. Trust me. I know big words and bigger Russians. But despite Machiavelli’s escalations of capitalism in war-torn luxury apartments, he never could get it right, the poor bastardo. It was like cream pies all over again, except the cream wasn’t cream. It was CREAM. The kind that comes from a dingus hole, if you catch my blatant drift. Oh, to float along the currents and set adrift on memory bliss like those ancient people from the 80s. Before the dawn of p.m., it was ante meridiem, if you believe the papers, which I do not.

Even in the darkest meridiems, you can still find Saurian brandy in some of the stores that prescribe to nondisclosure agreements, patent pending. If this throbbing in my ankle doesn’t stop, I will go to that store and arm it with floggers and shotguns and Saurian brandy bullets. That’ll learn the fucker. And his momma too.

One of these days, I’ll see the ballet in Spandau. I hear it’s quite tantric, if a little dated. They have a song called “Sudoku,” which is a spin-off on Galadriel’s Scrabblewoman wings. Personally, I find it rather offensive for them to be discussing her “wings” out in the open, but whatever. I’m not the costume designer.

Ah, Saurian brandy, you cure my ills with delightful metaphors set in strange lands brushed with red iron rocks in sedimentary poses, freshly licked by the tongues of the perverted sea. Next time I visit, I’ll do you the honor of a toast with butter and a thin layer of Vegemite. A little dab’ll do ya. Preferably pita toast, by the by. That white shit has nothing to do with the world in these delicately balanced hours of wakefulness and thankfulness, slipping into dirges at dusk and freewheeling poetry at dawn. You make me want to juggle dildos interspersed with knives, pointy ends down. Cuts on the sleeves, but my are palms clean.

You win, Saurian brandy. Enter the dragon. If you dare.

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!