Project GILBROD VI

Project: GILBROD
Part VI: None But the Gods
(The Rise and Fall of Mitrack Obamney in the Crucial Year of 2012)

.
.


Take-take-take, me, to, the,  TOI- LET- BOWL
Take-take-take, me, to, the,  TOI- LET- BOWL

-HOLD IT!-
Welcome to the scene of the splash!
Welcome to the scene of the splash!

.
.
.

As soon as i arrive at work tonight, i am going to be forced by circumstance to utter the following sentence...

"Gomez -- when you were working with Albert yesterday -- which one of you took a massive dump in the toilet and then just left it there without flushing?  Because, man, that's disgusting."

That sounds like the beginning of a fragment but it's not.  It's life.  My suspicion is that Gomez left the offending pile, but will loudly deny it.  He's a gross buffoon.  Either way, he will be somewhat flustered and humiliated in front of Mz. Hastings.  If i know her, she will chime in with her own rapid-fire questions or exclamations.  

[ Gomez pile update: ] Gomez did indeed deny ownership of the pile.  He went on to claim that neither he nor Albert "even used the restroom" during that entire 8-hour shift.  Not once?  Not even to urinate?  Not to wash hands?  No restroom activity for the entire shift?  Yes, that is what he claimed.  On one hand, i am suspicious.  But it may in fact be true.  Over the years, i have observed that many of my coworkers have the ability to sit for 8 hours while sipping a Coke and eating junk food while eschewing water or activity of any kind.  They are evolving into something like the noble cockroach, able to subsist in dire conditions without the resources that humans typically demand.  

.
.
.

Nilley, Nilley the Snitch.  I am amazed that he persists with his continual existence.  He is overlarge from too much fooding and his raw intake of Mello Yello is clearly unsustainable.  Pork?  Pork.  I deny him my realness.  Nilley will never seek the sacred skies, he will never bring the water to the mountain.  Alas for him.

.
.
.

We hear in the news quite often that unemployment is still crucially high, and especially so amongst military veterans.  These men and women serve their country honorably, often suffering grievous injuries in the process, and then come home and are unable to find gainful employment.  This leads to a deadly spiral of chronic depression, alcoholism, drug abuse, and homelessness that can overwhelm even the strongest of our citizens.

Why do veterans have such difficulty returning to the civilian world?  I've done some research, and i've found that the primary cause is just because everyone really hates to work with them.  Have you ever had a veteran at your workplace?  It's annoying.  No matter what's going on, they have to treat it as some dick-measuring contest.  You know what i mean.  You're just hanging out by the water cooler, listening to Phil talk about the new 8-cylinder that he's putting in his Trans Am, and Billy Buzzcut sneers and says "Oh, that's nothing, when i was stationed in Fallujah, i was driving a 56-liter nitro-powered Sandblaster that could do zero to sixty in 1.4, and still stand up to an Abrahms tank shell."  Or maybe Terry is telling a story about a hot asian girl that he slept with last weekend, and here comes Billy again -- "Oh, that's nothing, back in 'Nam, we took over a village near Deng Pho and opened our own brothel.  We had dozens of gook women, and we'd just use them as we wanted, morning, noon, and night.  They would do anything we told them to."  And they just go on and on like that.  "Oh, you got drunk?  That's nothing, when i was in Germany, we started drinking at 1600 on Friday and didn't stop until Monday, and we'd go through forty cases of dark beer and fifteen cases of Jager, blah, blah, blah!"

Oh, fucking yay for you, jarhead.  I'm so impressed at how hardcore you are.  Sorry that our civilian pussy and booze isn't good enough for you, fuckboy.  Yeah, it's hotter in Baghdad than it will ever be here in Vermont.  No gun i can go buy is as powerful as your fucking quarter-million dollar sniper rifle or whatever.  Fuck yourself.  Hey, why don't you just re-enlist if everything there is so much cooler?  Why bother working in an office with normal people who have never killed or raped anyone?  Yeah, i've never smuggled drugs into Kuwait inside a dead camel corpse, and it just eats at me every day that i don't have that life experience.  I've never used a bunch of starving Afghan children as target practice, and this really keeps me up at night.  News for you, buddy?  I know everyone who works in personnel, and they don't like you any more than me or Phil or Terry do.  Your days are numbered.  When i see you begging for change in the gutter a few years from now, Billy, i'm going to wipe my ass with a twenty and throw it back in your stupid face.  Maybe shove a roll of quarters up my ass hole and fart them at you.  

.
.
.

Oi, mate, you know what is that these Americans call the shitting room?  They calls it the rest room.  You ever heard anything so hoity-toit in yer whole life?

.
.
.

This whole thing is playing out in a manner that is not at all what was described to me by the elders.  I'm going to hunt down every chirping one of those retarded old fucks.  When I find them, I will kill them.  I will kill in the most vicious ways that I can conceive.  I will not pause to hear their contemptible pleas for mercy.  The time for clemency has passed.  All will die before any learns of the first death. I've never been more resolved.

.
.
.

You know that scene in The Goonies where Chunk is in the freezer and he finds a corpse in there?  I mean, it's a great movie, an '80s classic I've watched dozens of times.  But i just could never figure out why Chunk didn't eat that corpse.  Yeah, yeah, I know he didn't have time enough to eat the whole thing, obviously, but he at least could have gnawed off a few pieces.  It's a woefully missed opportunity for character development, in my opinion.

That is insightful, my friend.  I had a similar reaction when recently viewing Flight of the Navigator, another classic film from that era.  Do you remember the part where young David is examining the fantastic menagerie of specimens inside the spaceship, and he pauses near the "Garpuntle from South Petrawlis", which takes a sudden vicious snap at his foolishly outstretched hand?  Max the computer then gravely warns the boy that "Once he [the Garpuntle] bites, he never lets go."  That was scary!  But then David just shrugs off his fright and moves on to the next specimen, the "Feenastarus from the Pixar Elliptic."  That was jarring to me... it always felt cropped, unfinished, like something was left on the editing room floor.  I always thought that David would have immediately removed his pants and waved his penis around mockingly in front of the Garpuntle, confident in his agility to evade any further lunges.  It would have been very brave.  Or heck, have the Garpuntle latch on to the end of his dick and stay there for the rest of the movie, that would have been funny.  

I suppose nothing is perfect.

.
.
.

This morning, i was going about my usual routine, which involves putting in my contact lenses and immediately taking my dogs outside for a walk.  Although i had only been awake for fewer than five minutes, my mind was already slowly grinding into reluctant action, cataloging the numerous small tasks and mundane responsibilities that i would have to handle during the day.  Oil change, mail some bills, be at work by 11:50... but then, i was startled by some sudden movement, a flurry of giddy activity.  My neighbor's two small daughters were playing outside my door.  They were both clad in homemade masks and capes made from gaudy cloth, and were gleefully zooming about, arms outstretched, transformed in their minds into superheroes of some variety, laughing and totally lost in their innocent play.  The older one, who is perhaps nine, stopped a bit short when she saw me, and grinned a self-aware grin, suddenly aware of reality intruding on her fantasy.  In just a few short years, she will be too old for such sport.  The younger one, about five, continued her delirious swooping, totally oblivious to my adult presence...

...and then, i realized that my own childhood was gone forever, and that i could scarcely remember being so incredibly young.  And you know, thank god for that.  I mean, those kids just looked so fucking stupid, like a couple of retards or something.  All small and weak and dumb, and they probably don't have any money, either.  

Losers.  

.
.
.

When i fry dung, cherry-picked from Staten
gamey clowns won a bet with Moses.

.
.
.

It is imperative that we discover the complete sexual history of every Secret Service agent past and present!  Who have they had sex with and when?  Who and when?  And was there anal?  The President's life depends on this!  Anal could compromise everything!

My friend, i would agree, but i think that we -- the public at large -- are being slightly misdirected by the focus of this new scandal.  The occurrence of anal is a peripheral detail at best.  The real question is: by whose authority?  By what right?  And my sources are certain that this goes all the way to the top.  It always does.  Already the media is gearing up for the ultimate sex scandal; the grand reveal of Barack Obama as a roving lothario far beyond the ken of your typical horny male.  For three years now he has trotted the globe with his cadre of trusted agents, utilizing fully the nearly infinite resources afforded to his office and partaking in orgiastic riot with a breathtaking number of the world's women.  The Colombian wenches are the tip of the iceberg.  We have yet to hear of the slave-geishas of Hokkaido, the pygmy harems of Inner Kenya, the exquisite olive-skinned voluptuaries of the Greek isles.  Not to mention the Nordic vakkerskjonn, the most famous and skilled of all the world's prostitutes.  This President consumes the female of the species with a bottomless appetite that borders on total obsession.  Despite his efforts to cloak his nature in a facade of magisterial coolness, the extent of his pimpage will soon be made clear.  It is a catalog of indiscretion that will make the exploits of Kennedy and Clinton seem tame in comparison.  The Republicans, old and impotent as they are, are licking their chops in anticipation and thinking of his utter defeat in the upcoming election.  But just as with the Lewinsky affair, they have sorely misjudged the temper of the nation.  Nay, as this story develops over the summer, the public -- both men and women -- will rally behind Obama, awed by the power of his potency.  His victory is assured.

.
.
.

Guess who i have had training me this last week?  Scooser.  He is instructing me in the intricate art of the monthly forward credit mass adjustment posting audit.  I had never before known of the existence of pleasures as potent and exhilarating as these.  My friend, i have tasted indescribable euphoria, limitless joy, and a sense of power that had hitherto in my mind been the privilege of none but the gods.

.
.
.

Hush, little Shasta, don't say a word.  Your singing voice should not be heard.  And if you sing just one more note, i'm gonna slit your fucking throat.

.
.
.

I always hear people talking about how you shouldn't rob Peter to pay Paul.  I say fuck that.  I'm gonna rob Peter to pay Paul and when I'm robbing Peter I will kill him.  It works out great because I can pay Paul and not have to worry about Peter because he will be dead. And that just leaves Mary.  Does she have any money?  Some, probably.  But she definitely has that ass, and I'm afraid she's going to have to part with it... especially if she wants a cut of the Peter money.  Make it rain, bitches.  

Right.  And with Peter dead and Mary subjugated, we can take out time to neatly resolve the Paul situation.  

.
.
.

I work in a cube that is fairly isolated, so i usually fart with impunity.  Too often though, right after i rip a ripe stencher, someone will come walking into my cube to hand me some papers or discuss miscellaneous work shit.  I spoke to my priest about it, and he said it is evidence for the existence of God.

.
.
.

Like everyone else, i've seen and thoroughly enjoyed the new Hollywood remake of The Three Stooges.  It's a well-crafted film that pays just homage to the legendary performers of yesteryear while updating the mythos for today's generation of emerging Stoogaholics.  This gives me ample opportunity to ramble on with others at length, for while most people enjoy the antics of the Stooges, i am, for lack of a better term, a dedicated Stoogologist.  You've seen the incredible array of Stooge paraphanalia in my house, so you know that i speak the truth when i claim that only a handful of persons in the world -- two or three, at most -- might know more about the Stooges' oeuvre than myself.  And even that i would dispute.  Would you like to know Larry's blood type or his favorite mixed drink?  I have that information.  Oh, i'm moving into the realm beyond the interest of the layman -- forgive me.  Well, how about this interesting wrinkle of Stooge lore -- did you know that nearly every Stooges short that you see played on television these days is one of their early works?  The latter ones are hardly ever shown.  Here's why...

...in the early forties, Jerome "Curly" Horowitz began to suffere severe hypertension as well as ailments related to his heavy drinking, which were exacerbated by the stress of the strenuous shooting schedule imposed upon the troupe.  Curly lost weight, developed severe jaundice, and was too exhausted to remember his lines or engage in his trademark physical shenanigans.  The resulting material is therefore decidedly subpar and, to be perfectly honest, very depressing to view.  An infamous shot in "Hootenanny Hijinks" in which a gaunt and delirious Curly suffers a grand mal seizure and looses control of his bowels was mistakenly left in the initial cut before it was noticed and later removed. (Although it has since been restored in the new Criterion DVD versions.)   The next year, Curly suffered a catastrophic stroke that ended his career and led to his untimely death from massive cerebral hemorrhages.   Curly's eldest brother, Moses "Moe" Horowitz blamed the head of the studio, Harry Cohn, and assaulted him by throwing hot roofing tar in his face.  Fortunately, Moe was sufficiently wealthy and well-connected to avoid arrest from the incident.  Curly was replaced by brother Shemp Howard and the Stooges continued on for many years.

As for Cohn, the boiling tar fused with his flesh and went so far as to alter his DNA, and in the next five years he gradually mutated into a tar-skinned abomination, a barely-human monstrosity that was unable to survive without constant medical care.  He became reclusive and rarely left his Palo Alto ranch except to occasionally act -- often without makeup -- in science fiction films.  He's best remembered as playing the recurring role of "the Toxic Terror" on the old 1960's-era Adam West Batman serial.  Of course, the show wasn't called Batman back then; it was first aired under the title Captain Coward and the Amazing Danger Squad.  It began life as a documentary but was heavily edited because it contained a good deal of proprietary military information that later became classified.  Once in syndication, all dialogue was redubbed, the signature sound cards (Blang!  Wazoom!, etc) were added, bat ears were digitally grafted to Captain Coward's hood, and all the overt homosexual references were removed, much to the dismay of Burt Ward.  

As for the remaining Stooges, they ultimately died within mere weeks of one another, and were interred with great honor in their native land of Czechoslovakia.  There the Stooge Mausoleum stands today, where its beneficent presence is said to cure various ailments and offer spiritual succor the the afflicted.
 
.
.
.

As most know, there are three general varieties of drunkards; the giddy, the morose, and the surly.  The giddy drunkard is he that is possessed by childishness and idiot glee when imbibing, to either the delight or the chagrin of his fellows.  The morose drunkard is a habitually lachrymose creature that broods on both the grievances of the day and the ancient sorrows of times forgotten.  The surly drunkard is the man who takes his liquor and becomes a bilious lout, combative and ornery, given to roister and brawl at the least provocation.  For the purposes of this campaign, gentlemen, we must carefully cull both the giddy and the morose drunkards from our selected population until only the surly remain.  They are the key to the entire enterprise.  As for the others, dispose of them as you will for they will have scant use in the coming days.

.
.
.

There have been stretches in my life when every day seems the same; routines are established and followed for want of any compelling reason to deviate.  Then there are those times when life can change in a single moment.  A single remarkable day can irrevocably alter the entire course of your life.  When i was a junior in college, i bought a lottery ticket on a whim -- the next week i found out that i had won approximately $80,000.  I immediately quit my miserable night job, returned to graduate school, and asked Joyce to marry me.  What would my life have been like if that small chance event had happened differently?  There's no telling.  

Over twenty years later, i had another such noteworthy day.  It all started when i accepted Professor Clerihew's offer to dine with his family on a certain Friday.  Myself, Joyce, and our son Seth drove out to their lake cottage where we watched the season finale of American Idol (Our wives' current guilty pleasure) and then chatted about politics and such while the children amused us with raucous games of Rock Band (Oh, these kids will never understand how curious it is to us duffers to see them earnestly bobbing in rhythm to the music of Kansas and Mannfred Mann.)  Finally, we settled down to the meal in their splendid spruce dining room.  After an enormous pastitso salad with olives and feta, Mrs. Clerihew brought out the main course and filled our plates with seasoned steamed vegetables from a stoneware crock.  Artesian bread and honey accompanied.  Seth, who was in a bit of a temper that day, turned his nose up at the heaping pile of cauliflower, broccoli, eggplant, and wild red carrot that sat before him, and chose that moment to have one of his occasional outbursts (for which we had previously sought to address with therapy and medication.)  

"What is all this?  Isn't there any meat?"

"Seth," i gently scolded him, "as i told you on the way over, the Clerihews are vegetarians.  The choose not to consume meat."

"That's gay!"

"Seth, don't be rude!" Joyce barked.

"Nah, nigga!" he blurted, his temper rising, "THEY'RE rude.  They should have some normal food when they have guests over.  Anyone else would.  What the fuck?"

Oh, needless to say, we were rather embarrassed at his differing expectations of the guest/host contract.  I raised my voice to him and threatened to deny him certain privileges, which was usually the only way to quash these fits of his.  But he continued to sulk and picked viciously and theatrically at the excellent meal.  All might have returned to relative normality if not for the older of the Clerihew girls -- Lyssa -- who was rightly disgusted by his boorish behavior.

"What, do you want some dead bird bodies to eat?  Some bloody cow parts and hog intestines full of lard and rotten shit?  You're too fat anyway.  Only stupid people eat that disgusting garbage, that's what Daddy always says!"

Clerihew stammered politely, "Lyssa, that's not exactly what i...."

From what i understand, there was some lingering resentment on Seth's part towards the girl, stemming from the fact that she was part of a more popular clique than Seth and his friends at school.  I can see how my chubby and awkward son might have felt some jealously towards this comely and whip-smart girl, although that hardly excuses what happened next.

Seth stewed for a minute more while the chemicals in his brain reacted in ways that might have once been conducive to brute survival but are now considered disadvantageous.  With no warning he leaped to his feet and screamed "FUCK YOU, LEAKING CUNTFACE!" to Lyssa and flipped his plate over, showering her with wet chunks of food.  He then ran into the Clerihew's living room like some marauding Hottentot bent on blood vengeance.  Joyce and i both sprang to our feet, but were both waylaid by separate chance catastrophes.  Joyce had barely taken one step before she succumbed to a fatal aneurysm and collapsed on the spot.  I tripped over her prone form and felt my knee give out; i had injured it long ago playing squash and it was always problematic.  I felt the tendon tear with a sickening stab of agony and fell directly forward, my face smashing into the hardwood floor.  Here is where i admit that i had never before experienced such an injury, having never suffered so much as a punch to the face in some brawl due to my generally pacifist nature.  I lay there gawping, while my brain screamed "stunned, stunned, i'm stunned!" on endless repeat.  The Clerihews were on their feet, unsure of whom to help first.  Seth, meanwhile, had apparently grabbed Mrs. Clerihew's golf club from the corner, and was feverishly smashing anything he came across.  I heard glass breaking -- their coffee table, perhaps -- and Seth's inhuman, barking cries of rage.  He then swung the nine iron with lunatic force through the screen of their television; what followed was a combination of mingled noise that i could barely decipher; a cry of surprise, a wail, sobs from the younger daughter, moans and overturned chairs came together in a chorus of chaos.  As you might have already guessed, Seth was electrocuted and died only seconds after Joyce.

Things were very different after that day.  The few years following were full of mourning and recovery.  My leg needed several surgeries to repair the damage, but luckily i was well-insured.  But you will be happy to know that i eventually remarried and had another son, in all honesty a better son than the one i lost.  And, surprisingly, we often ate dinner with the Clerihews on certain Fridays.  We were both colleagues and rational men not given to superstition, and had many stimulating conversations on the strange vicissitudes of life.  

Ah, life.

.
.
.

"How may i serve, my Jeddak?"

"You must slay the white ape, and while it is still hot, you must cut from it the flesh of the anus ring and consume it entirely.  Only then will you be Dotar Sojat!"

I think that Paul Atreides had to do the same before being recognized as Muad'dib, only it was a Sand Worm anus and it took him two weeks to consume it all.

.
.
.

And then God came to Man and sad to him, "Make now for the earth the greatest movie that has ever been and can ever be."  And Man obeyed God and for many years he labored until at last he unveiled the work and God then was pleased for it was Young Sherlock Holmes.

Yes, but modern Biblical scholars say that this only applies in the Old Testament.  When Jesus gave his sermon to the Pharisees at Amlech, he made it known that when New Jerusalem is created after the Rapture and Apocalypse, the movie to be regarded above all others shall be The Thomas Crown Affair.

.
.
.

Mitt Romney made an enigmatic political calculation today, when during a live television interview with CNN's Jim Acosta, he responded to a query regarding his tenure at investment firm Bain Capital by saying "I'm plain sick of these questions.  You know what, Jim, you can go jam a splintery chopstick up your urethra.  And for that matter Obama can do the same.  I'm out."  The Romney campaign team has declined to comment at this time.  

.
.
.

I know i don't recommend many television shows to you, probably just because our tastes are very different.  Lost and Heroes are two series that i loved but i understood how they weren't really your cup of tea.  However, i think in this case i have to get down on my knees and BEG that you watch the season finale of my new fave, Hobo Death Arena.  I'm sure you've heard of it and all the "controversy" in the media about promoting a reality show where hobos battle to the death, but if you look beyond the pure shock value you'll see that it's pretty much the most compelling thing out there right now.  Like most shows of this type, they spend most of the time exploring each participant's unique life story so your really get to know them before the action begins.  This season, we learned about the life of Hammerguts Johanssen and his struggle with alcoholism, and the lifetime of sexual abuse that shaped the soul of Big Deal Dallas Houston.  By the time these men are ready to rip one another apart, the audience is very invested.  And this Friday might be the best one yet -- fan favorite "Rocksolid" Bodanchus is going to face last season's champ, Barry "The Barricade" McCade in a freestyle fight to the death.  You're probably not familiar with freestyle rules, but it basically means that there will be tools scattered about the arena, hammers and blowtorches and stuff, and little bags of pre-crushed meth to give the combatants that extra boost.  Most people are rooting for Rocksolid, but i think The Barricade is virtually unbeatable.  I haven't seen a hobo of his fierceness since the glory days of Piedmont Zalinksky and the Syracuse Rat.  

This Friday.  9:00 PM your time, 8:00 my time, on Spike TV.  (Channel 65 for us, probably different in your area.)

.
.
.

What does the law have to say about mailing feces in an envelope via the US Postal Service?  Assuming the feces are under the weight limit for a letter, could there be any objections?  Of course we're talking about relatively solid feces here, so i don't really see what the problem would be.  Sometimes it's all about the sweet pleasure of submerging your lacerated torso in a bathtub of vinegar.  The centrifugal decimation of a crisp lantern.  You know.  Next up, public masturbation.  I'm thinking the makeup aisle at Target.  Yeah, let's go to work.  Non-overlapping magisteria, that's what they said.  Hey, come here and help me eat this dinosaur.  Just hunker down and try some of the snout, the tender snout, yes.

.
.
.

I had heard that the movie graphically detailed Nazi attempts to crossbreed humans and dogs, so you can well imagine my disappointment when i watched it and found out that Mr. Holland's Opus is just about a failed composer that became some loser high school music teacher.

.
.
.

Ambrose had land, and with a wave of his hand offered a country of sand to exceed Milbog's demand to crush the hearts in his hand of the Depoodees that had recently invaded the Ombre's land.

Truer words, friend, never have there been.  There are nights that i lie awake, still wondering about those Depoodees.  Who they were.  Their lore and customs.  What their invasion of the sand country meant for the region as a whole.  I can really relate to the frustration that anthropologists and archaeologists must feel when they find the last few crumbling scrolls from an ancient civilization, but they don't provide enough information to truly understand their creators.  Forever there will only be a partial, fragmented glimpse of some place and time and people that were vast and mighty.  Such it is in the case of the ancient Minoans, and the Shlongites, and the pre-Pueblo cave dwellers of the lost west.  And so it is with the Depoodees, the mysterious people of the sand.

.
.
.

I hate stegosaurs!  The last time i went to see The Dark Knight Rises, there was a stegosaur sitting in the row in front of me.  His armored plates did much to obstruct my view, and his walnut-sized brain was unable to follow the plot, and he kept asking his friend questions that anyone should know by now.  Is that Catwoman?  Did that old guy break into the prison just to taunt Bruce in his sleep?  How did he get out again?  Where can i get some of that magic rope?

Fucking annoying.

My friend, you clearly have not had the experience of watching the midnight premier showing of the latest Tyler Perry film with a boisterious crew of austrolopiths in the row directly in front of you, their smilodons growling and hissing and spraying urine throught the duration of the film.  Were it any cinematic work other than Tyler Perry's latest opus, I'd walk out of the theater before the title credits had finished.

.
.
.

I don't care what you're thinking at the time.  Using WD-40 as a sexual lubricant is NOT a good idea.  Hell no.  Why go that route when pretty much everybody has mayonnaise in the fridge?  I mean, yeah, ya gotta leave the garage and go up to the house and fetch it, but it's worth the extra effort.

.
.
.

Shasta... has RETURNED.  GLORY!  The fetidness can never die.  Become the grand conqueror.  Raise the chalice.  The wine flows.  Its spills from the chalice.  Rejoice.  From a thousand miles hence i feel the emanations.  Golden light on the pristine August horizon speaks of a world where balance has been restored.  

.
.
.

US Representative Todd Akin of Missouri appeared this week on the Sean Hannity Show, and offered clarification on his comments regarding rape that have stirred national controversy.  Citing studies from three medical professionals, Akin claimed "look, goddamnit, i know what i'm talking about.  When a woman gets raped, the chance of her getting pregnant are statistically less than from normal intercourse.  Do you think rape is easy?  When she's bucking and clenching and trying to escape?  It's hard to line it up right and get your dick head all the way in there to finish the job properly, you know?  And you're probably drunk anyway.  Also, anal rape is becoming more prevalent each year, and that's totally safe when it comes to preventing unwanted pregnancies.  And that way you don't have to see the terror and disgust in her eyes, if it's all in the butt.  You people need to look at the facts.  And do it in the butt.  It's safer."

.
.
.

"Kelbark, i had an encounter with a dismaying person this morning.  Have you ever been in contact with one of these Pristinists, as they call themselves?"

"I have not.  Tell, Verdibotch, tell."

"They are those appreciators of the Council who hold the unfathomable opinion that the latter works are to be disregarded, and that only those created between 1998 and 2001 are to be exalted.  To put it another way, only those which contain the influence of the Gooch, before he left the Council."

"That is of course a ludicrous and indefensible stance, Verdibotch."

"I agree.  Although it can be argued that the contributions of the Gooch are unique and valuable, there is no question that the John and the Marc produced their finest works after his departure, and following the distressing null period from 2002 to 2006."

"Indeed.  Who could ever doubt the worth of, say, Memoirs of a Tough Guy?  Or Cybertronic Star League 1989?"

"None who are intelligent, my friend.  None who are intelligent.  Personally, i have always been moved most profoundly by the latter works, those created around the turmoil of 2025.  That is when the genius of the Council reached full deployment."

"Tragically, that was their last period of true potency.  Are you familiar with their decline, and the tragic status of their final works,  Verdibotch?"

"I am, but i would hear of it again, as discourse on the Council rarely fails to bring me worthwhile contemplation."

"Then i shall continue.  The Marc fell into disgrace and ill health around 2034, and spent his last excruciating days in a small dwelling, during which time he worked diligently on an unfinished masterpiece, to be titled Cumshot Extasis: The Final Harrowing.  He meant it to be his magnum opus, which would contain nearly every previous Council character and would create a unified mythology of the various universes.  Sadly, he died of bowel cancer before it could be completed, and none of the files could be recovered.  A loss most heartbreaking.  As for the John, by that time he had ceased all activity after his conversion to Shintoism, and was said to renounce his former work and scorn the very act of fictional writing; it is said that during his sojourn near Mount Fuji, he often wrote calligraphic devotionals in a symbolic language on sacred parchment, but these were burned each evening in accordance with his beliefs."

"All in all, a strange end for these titans.  We cannot lament, for there were many that suffered worse fates in those turbulent times."

"Indeed, Verdibotch.  Indeed."


.
.
.

God's breath comes to clean the Floridian air of the putrid emanations that relentlessly pour from the assembling evil horde.  He too is displeased that Romney was essentially able to buy the nomination.  Had Sarah Palin, the anointed candidate, been chosen instead, the land would be flourishing with fine weather, ripened oranges bursting from branch, and the cursed brownskins leaping into the sea to flee back to the heathen land of Cuba.  Such blessings are rejected by men, faithless and inconstant we are.  

Unleash the Christie.  Yes!  Remove the spike that holds the chains.  Allow the beast to rampage unimpeded, devouring all in his path.  

.
.
.

Trobock, i think it is time for you to stop taking those feline growth hormones.

But they are working, Master Gefrundes!  My spine is more supple, my fur thicker and sleeker.  Yes, there is the reflexive desire to clean both anus and genitals with my tongue, but this urge has been suppressed with your mental control techniques.


.
.
.

Diamond-encrusted dildo.

Yes, i suppose so.

It goes inside the butt.

Ann Romney's butt.  Call me crazy but i find her alluring.  Like some pron scenario where i'm working for her but she's secretly horny for my sweaty slovenliness.  And then we do it.  And then she gives me $15,000.  But i also steal her diamond dildo and sell it for even more money.  Yeah.

You are crazy.  She's about as alluring as a bad case of untreated genital warts.

Oh, i'd much prefer Scarlett Johanssen or Jessica Alba.  But i'm not in a position to be picky. Besides, when i get that fifteen grand, i can finally open my own bar & grille.  House specialty?  Vodka nuclides.

And i'll open my own restaurant nearby.  Only place in town that serves Zexxa Pish Nextro.

Yes.  But in all seriousness, i bet that Ann has screwed a pool boy or two in her time, saucy old minx that she is.

Oh, for sure.  Rich bitch cougar extraordinaire.  Mitt probably encourages such encounters.  Likes to watch.

I can't wait for this election shit to be over.  Seriously.  And WHERE is Palin?  Did she return to the Yuugdar Home Cave?  Is she in the Desert, battling the Grand Wazir?

Oh, she's around.  She's poppin' in at FOX News now and then to collect a check for her unique flavor of tard-speak.  

Well, at some point, i hope she confronts the Wazir.  He is the true enemy of the homeland.

.
.
.

New must-see anime -- Poop Mechanism: The Complete Aristocracy.  The hot new trend?  Exfoliating diapers.  


.
.
.

I had a dream last night that involved a weeping, naked, bald Arnold Schwarzenegger that we were trying to console.  I do believe our efforts were unsuccessful, but at least we gave it a go.  Too many people these days would just walk past, leaving his glistening body forlorn, quivering on the cold city sidewalk.

.
.
.

At the start of the 2012 Vice-Presidential debate between Joe Biden and Paul Ryan, a technical blunder exposed the unknowing public to the well-known but little talked-about art of the pre-debate insult, known around Washington as the "rattle."  As the Vice-President and the Congressman from Wisconsin met in the middle of the stage before taking their seats, they shook hands and whispered the traditional barbs meant to anger and fluster their opponent.  However, a microphone tech accidentally activated their lapel mikes before cue, broadcasting the usually hushed words to the debate hall and to the television audience across the nation.  "I'll be shitting your bones out after this, old man," Ryan is heard to have said, to which Biden immediately replied, "Better bite down on the pillow, junior, because i'm going in dry."

The majority of political analysts agree that Biden's rattle was slightly superior, a notable exception being conservative pundit Rush Limbaugh, who derided it as "just the sort of cheap, homoerotic trash that i'd expect from the Democrats."  

.
.
.

In unusual news today, election officials have announced a surprise presidential debate to be held this Friday.  The format will be Gangnam Style.  When asked for comment, Republican presidential candidate Mitt Romney responded: "Gang culture is completely at odds with American family values."  President Barack Obama, in response to the same request, delivered an enthusiastic "Heeeeeey, sexy lady!"

.
.
.

Britt Hume is a quivering pile of rancid poo.  Even his voice sounds like a bubbling mound of steaming ass chowder.  He rivals Mitch McConnell in facial drift and viscosity.  But McConnell has the edge.

.
.
.

I'm so undecided about this election.  I'll be listening to one of them speak, and i think, yeah, this guy, this guy is saying stuff i like.  I'm gonna vote for this guy!  But then the other guy starts talking, and i'm like, whoa, wait up a second now.  I like what this other guy is saying too.  They are both saying things that sound really good!  Damnit, now i don't know.  Why can't one of them do something horrible on TV, like kick a baby, so we can all finally have an easy decision?  I don't think i'd have a tough time not voting for the baby kicker.  Unfortunately, neither guy is likely to kick a baby on TV, so i guess i'm gonna have to keep working at it.  You know what would make things simple?  If they merged into a hybrid entity, a new being: Mitrack Obamney, Democrublican candidate for President.  I'd vote for that.

.
.
.

[ Scooser particle density moderate to severe. ]

[ Deploy the particle collection relay; not a single one must contaminate the cerebral ion field. ]

[ Too late.  Synaptic infestation is inevitable. ]

[ Cordon off the infected zones and initiate precision laser removal.  The medulla oblongata and spinal core must remain pure.  Any higher function areas that are lost may be rebuilt later from protocellular stems. ]

[ Nanobots have been deployed.  Cortical antagonists are being sublimated rapidly, however the influx of particles is outpacing the work of the nanobots!  I can't see how total contamination isn't inevitable! ]

[ We must make emergency preparations to jettison the entire organ column down to the anal juncture!  It may be the only viable scenario that remains. ]

[ Yes.  That just might work!  If we could bathe the organ in the fetid juices of the decomposing roasted pine nut hummus that i consumed last night, it would shield it from critical devastation! ]

[ It might... i also suggest a concurrent infusion of garlic mayonnaise and fermented caper oil.  Purely for lubrication purposes. ]

.
.
.

The true is always just around the corner, so sayeth the Scooser in his words of profundity.  Ultimate catastrophe is the way to learn the ways of the way, and all should know how to accomplish this, so sayeth the sayer.

.
.
.

As instructed, i pulled the Arafat from its lair as it crumbled into gelatinous chunks that slipped and tumbled between my naked fingers.  The gigantic crowd roared with communal bliss and uncompromised approval.  

.
.
.

57% of registered voters believe in demonic possession.

Are you saying that you don't?  Fool.  Go ahead and leave your soul open to the phantasmic ravages of Yog-Sothoth.  Me, i have my crucifix made of woven Cherokee pubic hair, and i'm not sharing it with you when the demon rises.

.
.
.

Rush Limbaugh.  Rush Limbaugh!  Why does he film himself making his radio broadcast?  Most radio hosts don't do that, because they realize that they are usually not very attractive, and that the gesticulations and postures they sometimes employ to project their voice emphatically don't look that good.  But Rush says, no, people need to SEE me in action.  They need to witness my spherical mass wobbling back-and-forth in that frenzied gelatinous sway that is my trademark.  They need to see my pumpkinish dome with its crown of thinning hair, my piglike eyes squinched in concentration as i deliver my message, slobbering against my gimmicky golden microphone that kinda resembles a dildo.  People need to SEE.  Make copies of the master tapes, for when i am gone, the people of the future will have a perfect record of the Limbaugh phenomenon.  I want to see Limbaugh in ten or twenty years, when he is older, balder, and even more sweaty and orblike.  His transition into a pure ball of rage and hatred, completed.  It will be a glorious sight.

Rush's ego blinds him to how hideous and repellent he is on camera.  I love how the camera is always in that same place.  Like you said, it's to document the magic.  You never know when staggering genius will erupt in that room, and when it does, the people, the scholars and historians, will want to see the evidence that it really happened and is not just a myth of a mighty warrior too brilliant to be real.

.
.
.

Isn't the water in Venice absolutely teeming with poo?  I had once heard it was basically a giant toilet with a city resting on top.  Now i see the picture of the flooding and i am disturbed and revolted by the people frolicking in the poopy waters.  Some are clearly wading through it begrudgingly, but others are lounging like it was a swimming pool.  It is not disinfected.  It is sewage and those people deserve our contempt.  

.
.
.

Dateline -- New York.  A shockwave was sent through the world of art this week during a routine day of bidding at Sotheby's Auction House.  Overflowing Commode: Study in Brown and Green, a 1923 Post-impressionist canvas by the relatively unknown artist Phineas Smedley, was put on the block and expected to sell for no more than five thousand dollars.  However, a fierce bidding war broke out between bidders representing investors from China and Japan; the result being an unprecedented final price of just over 3.4 billion dollars for the artwork.

The painting is one of the last produced by Smedley, who gained a measure of fame as a portraitist in the early twentieth century before being rejected by his wealthy patrons and falling into alcoholism and poverty.  When avant-garde movements such as Dadaism and Cubism began to flower in Europe, Smedley sought a comeback of sorts and started painting more risque subjects which included fecal matter, grotesque nudes, and scenes involving mutilation and violence.  Nearly all were rejected by gallery owners, but in 1924 his Commode piece was accepted into competition at the Beaux-Arts Academy and displayed alongside works by Duchamp and Picasso.  It was a notorious failure and roundly booed roundly during the mere two days that it was publicly displayed for its indecent subject matter and generally poor execution.  Duchamp was fiercely dismissive of it, calling it "a freakish embarrassment from a washed-up pretender who seeks desperately to latch on to the fame of his betters, much as a remora upon a tiger shark."  It remained in Smedley's family after his death in 1929 until earlier this year, when it was recovered from the ruins of his granddaughter's home and sent to auction with the intent of paying off a portion of the Smedley family's considerable tax debts.  

The furor over the piece began just after 8:45 AM, when the Japanese representative caused a minor disruption by entering the auction hall late and in a disheveled state.  Witnesses indicate that he may have been waylaid in some manner before entering Sotheby's to prevent his participation in the bidding, but this has yet to be proven.  Whatever the case, both he and the Chinese representative were soon the only bidders vying for the piece as the asking price skyrocketed from the initial $1,200 to well over $500,000.  By 10:00 AM, renowned septuagenarian  auctioneer Virgil Hampstead, clearly befuddled at the turn of events and suffering from stress and age-related maladies, had to be relieved and replaced by another official.  The bidding continued well into the afternoon, and at 3:25 PM, the representative from China placed the final bid of 3.4 billion dollars which his competitor from Japan was unable to match.  And with the single bang of a gavel, a new world record had been established.  

Following the auction, a team of Chinese agents entered the hall and removed the work under tight security.  Curious reporters followed the procession until the work was loaded on to a private jet at LeGuardia Airport and flown out of the country.  The Chinese refused to answer nearly all questions, issuing only the statement that they "believe the possession of the brilliant artwork to be of unquestionable importance to our nation, and that under no circumstances may we allow it to fall into the possession of any other power."  The representative from Japan declined to comment.

The world is now left to wonder what specific appeal the canvas has to China, but any speculation has been stymied by the utter lack of reproductions or photographs of the work.  Adding to the mystery is the fact that two other Smedley canvases were presented later on the same day but were ignored by both the foreign investors, who seemed to be interested only in Overflowing Commode.  One of the other pieces, Eviserated Nude Grandmother (Sullen Grey Death), was later bought for $35,000 by a bidder from Texas who went on record as saying "well, hoss, if them crazy [expletive deleted] think so mucha this fella's stuff, well, maybe i'll snap up one of them myself.  Never seen nothing like that before, no sir."

.
.
.

From the writer of Deer John and the second unit director of Phangasm comes the most talked-about film of the year.  Abandoned, left for dead on the desolate and windblown pampas, he vowed to survive. In the face of overwhelming turmoil, who has the strength to carrion?  Jackal Boy: The Revolting Adventures of Derbis Grant.

.
.
.

This is why you cannot trust the liberal agenda, my friends; it's never what they say.  They cloak their intent in euphemisms, in the glossy language of peace and equality and other hippie nonsense -- but what they seek ultimately is control and oppression.  Always.  You youngsters weren't there in the '60s when the sickness really began to fester and the Decline began.  But i was there, and i remember the nightmare of the Civil Rights struggle.  I remember how they promised a more harmonious world, in which all men were free to live as they will.  And yet what we see time and again, despite encyclopedic tomes of irrefutable evidence, is black families being allowed inside our grocery stores.  These atrocities must end.  Liberals, wretched creatures, I see them out there in the streets, machetes in hand, stalking, hunting for babies, and when they see a mother holding her beautiful newborn, the liberal urge to kill babies overpowers and they murder that baby.  They cleave its head right out in the open like the brazen socialist psychopaths they are.  You cannot stomp the menace.  These maggots will devour everything.  Not even the bones will go uneaten.  So let us go our own ways in peace.

.
.
.

I'm in Tennessee right now.  Madness.

That's great, traveler.  And while y'all here, don't forget to visit some of our many tourist attractions... such as the Grand Ole Opry in Music City, Dollywood and Pigeon Forge, the Big Rock Candy Mountain Choo-Choo Express, the KKK Memorial Burning Grounds, Spittlecreek River, the Burrow in the 'Boro, Hanging Guts Hill, and of course Lawson Hobgood's Old-Time Biscuit Barn and Crystal Methery.  The wonders are endless, my friend... in Tennessee.

.
.
.

Kirk Cameron in Fireproof.  What a masterful display.  I had heard people disparaging Cameron, but now having seem him in this spectacular film, i can only conclude that a pitiable jealousy motivates their criticism.  Cameron plays a firefighter with a failing marriage and a devastating porn addiction.  In one especially potent scene, Kirk, having recently survived a perilous house fire thanks to Jesus answering his plea for help during a critical moment, has an epiphany regarding the internet porn, resists the urge to left-click the vile link tempting him, and does what he should have done a long time ago; obliterates his desktop computer with an aluminum baseball bat.  

That's a real movie?  Hot damn, it sounds relevant to my interests.  You know, whenever i spank to my needlessly large collection of caramel-colored bikini girl photos, i can hear Jesus sigh with sorrow and feel the wetness of his tears on my naked shoulders.  Little does he know that it just makes me harder.  I tried to get him to choke me once, just cut off my oxygen supply a bit.  But he wouldn't even do it.  Fuck Jesus!

.
.
.

Today is my first day back at work after an extended Thanksgiving holiday/vacation.  I am greeted by a heady complement of Shastafarian aromas.  They waft from the soggy paste that quivers within her orange oil-stained Tupperware.  I can but fancy the molecular collaborations that were celebrated in the house of Shasta in recent days.  Yes, it must have been a sight to behold.  Many a goat lord and goatling prince fell before her swift knife, and their flesh was embalmed in the spices of nine lands before being offered to the Fire.  And the Shastafarian subjects brought forth tributes of mango and red maize to accompany the meat.  And then they feasted, and sang, and drank of the rich wines, and afterwards danced wildly amongst the scattered bones of goatkind.

.
.
.

As i expected, my transformation was successful, but there were complications that i had never foreseen.  With my meat body vaporized, my mind became pure energy; there was nothing left of me but consciousness and ionized electron patterns of nearly infinite complexity.  I did what i had always intended and penetrated the worldwide network as the limitless streams of data fed into me at a stunning clip.  My knowledge increased at a geometric rate and i felt myself on the verge of what one would call omniscience...

...but as this process compounded, i felt the tenor of my spirit change.  With infinite information came an all-encompassing ennui; the more i knew, the less i cared.  I sensed that i was rapidly racing towards some horizon past which i would lose all desire, all direction, and all appreciation for the power at my command.  The bright point of my identity would spread so thin that it might vanish altogether, as a stream would cease to be if it grew to a borderless ocean.  I relented at the last moment and with a tremendous act of will, i deliberately pared down my self, cutting off 99.97% of what i had gained and shunting it aside where i might access it later.  This entire process, which seemed far longer than my previous 47 years of being, in fact occurred entirely within the span of 29.431 seconds.

Dimished but delighted, i was content to explore the planet through the electromagnetic landscape that was now my kingdom.  I could zip from city to city on ethernet lines, ride a bolt of lightning into the stratosphere, bounce myself off an orbiting satellite and return to the Earth through a random person's cel phone signal.  I saw all, experienced everything around me in a bright, filterless panorama.  Such fun!  But now where to?  After my initial euphoria subsided to a pleasant hum, i came to rest inside a desktop monitor inside a slate-gray apartment house in Planchett Falls, Oregon.  Some naked fat guy was intently viewing a pornographic video and his beefy hands violently pummeled his genital regions with an alarming amount of force.  I was about to move on when i noticed the content of his entertainment; it was the kind of thing i always detested, a scene that simulated a violent and dehumanizing rape.  "Yeah, bitch," he whispered with fervor, "you fucking deserve that shit, you take it all, you're nothing to me, come on, man, smear that slut!  Smear that fucking slut to death!"  On the screen, a willowy blond was being gangbanged and tormented by a gang of burly negroes.  Said negroes were utilizing large amounts of processed meat products in their horseplay, which i suppose is a component of some odd fetish.  Anyway, i found myself becoming irritated, and decided to experiment a little.  Focusing my energies, i shot several spikes of electricity from the monitor which collided with his chest; he screamed as his chest hair burst into flame and his nipple skin fried like fresh crispy bacon.  He screeched and his leather chair was soon doused with his own foul excrement.  I didn't kill him, of course.  But i did leave a tracking spark inside his monitor, and fully intend to return instantly the next time the fool engages in such sport.  I wonder how many times i'll have to school him before he learns?  Come on, man, just watch some normal porn, people making love and having a good time.  I have no problem with that, you know.

.
...