Testimony of a Real Wiseguy

So me and Vinnie Grotto were waitin outside to get the okay from the boss on a hit we was supposed to do on a two-bit gamblin’ son of a bitch so-called “wise guy” from the suburbs when all the sudden we see Faceless Johnny Mezizzoula come up from behind the car. We both came heavy in case things went South and when we spotted Johnny both me and Vinnie had our hands on the heat in preparation for unforseen circumstances. “The fuck is this?” I ask Johnny when he gets to the window. Faceless Johnny comes from a different crew, not rivals exactly, but not necessarily with us. It’s complicated. They call him Faceless Johnny cuz the poor prick ain’t got nothing on the front part of his head, no face at all. So when he talks it sounds like it’s coming from two rooms over. Well he starts talkin’ and neither me nor Vinnie got any clue what this son of a bitch is tryin to intimate. Completely unintelligible. Meanwhile the phone ain’t ringin and we’re starting to get a bad feeling about this job we were supposed to do. Vinnie looks at his phone and the numbers are all scrunched up, moving all over the place. I start to get a feelin it’s got something to do with Faceless Johnny and I decide to take action. Well it turns out it ain’t as easy as you think to clip a guy without a face. He keeps blabbin’ out about something from inside his head while Vinnie and I are sitting back unloadin’ magazines on him as casual as if we was readin’ magazines. Finally Vinnie gets out of the car and bites into his neck. He holds the position and gives me a shrug as his teeth rip into Faceless Johnny’s flesh. Still the poor prick is talkin’ like nothing was happening. Vinnie is sawing into this guy’s neck like a chipmunk. “A little fuckin’ help here!” Vinnie says. “What da fuck you want me to do? This guy can’t be killed!” I get my chainsaw and extension cord out of the glove compartment and walk across the street to plug it in outside the gas station. “The fuck you lookin at?” I ask the attendant, who immediately turns and goes back to sleep. I rev up the saw and start in on his trunk. Vinnie and I were covered in leaves and sap by the time we finished him. Who the fuck knows what the boss is gonna say when we tell him about our little mishap. He ain’t gonna be happy the job we came for didn’t get done, that’s all I gotta say about that.

COP WORLD

This normally a quiet neighborhood, "he thought." But not today. Full of cops and sirens. He wasn't sure what was going on so he asked one of his neighbors. "Limited signal," his neighbor, old and made of bones and strung together with tape, retweeted in response. Reply unsatisfactory. Cops everywhere. A child screams under the heat of a novelty torch shaped like a nightstick. All of the cops have enormous wads in their cheeks and are spitting up the neighborhood. This infuriated him. "Look, can we please just talk about this?" Minimal connectivity. He watched as his plea reached its peak volume and then dissipated like a weak spit-wad, spraying into the tiny invisible pores scattered across the sheen surface of the neighborhood paradigm. THIS IS HELLA FRICKED UP! All he wanted was to be back in sleep-world. Naps were banished from the present paradigm: naplessness. Suddenly he was wisped up. A beautiful flying angel. Probably a cop, he thought. Stick to your guns, buddy. Don't let them fool you. "I'm the angel of love and joy," she whispered. "I'm here to save the children and to save this quiet beautiful neighborhood." He opened his mouth to respond with a slew of frantic queries but was interrupted by a forwarded text message from the #ClichePortal. "sshhh there's no time. ill explain in time. game time. swag" Suddenly he realized he was thousands of feet high in the air, swooping over the whole fucked up paradigm down under like a caged bird being free'd from it's bird cage. The view was beautiful and serene, much like the angel guiding him. He wondered if he could do Street View but the reply from his beautiful angel guide was hasty, you asshole, the whole paradigm is cops, it's cops everywhere, if you zoom in it's just going to be cops and cops as far as the eye can see. This when he began to realize what was truly going on. This paradigm was the paradigm of cops and it had to be stopped.

To Be Continued

How to Determine False Dogs

1. False dogs can be born but never die. If your dog reaches the normal age of dog termination but resists the natural forces of decay, your dog could be a false dog. False dogs outlive all humans. If you realize you have purchased a false dog, and you reach the age that you may want to consider partitioning your estate to your loved ones, include the caretaking of your dog as a condition in your will.
2. False dogs are indestructable. If you attempt to kill a false dog, even by burning or mutilation, the dog will reassemble seamlessly.
3. A very subtle, mostly inaudible, static accompanies a false dog's bark. It is as though the radio is all fucked up in the dog

Where's Flan?: The Untold Story of Newt Gingrich, the Hydrophobe

Newt Gingrich never cared much for the beach. He never really understood what all the hype was about. You get all covered in sand, you've gotta bring this and that and the other, and, for a celebrity like Newt, there's always a chance of being harassed, photographed, "glittered," et cetera. The beach seemed to him to be, frankly, a hassle. But it was his granddaughter's birthday and she wanted nothing more than to go to the beach and splash around in the waves with her best friend, Flan, so off the Gingrinch clan went: Newt, Callista, Maggie (the granddaughter), Robert (her brother), the grandchildren's mother Jackie, and her husband Jimmy. They were escorted in a bigass Hummer limo with plentiful acoutriments and by about an hour into the four-hour trip Newt had quite a buzz on. "Global warming...impending doom...this country's gone to fucking hell...faggots and immigrants running around..." His family--the children playing and screaming violently, the young couple making 'small talk'-- paid no attention to his mumbling, except for Callista, whose tiny gap in her lower teeth excreted a tiny squirt of drool as she smiled nervously, patting his back at an attempt to placate him. By the second hour of the trek, Newt was roaring drunk, and his mood changed from eschatological despair to nervewracking, insane elation. "I might not win this election but when...when doomsday comes, baby...when the big dark day comes I'm gonna be ready with open arms, baby, with open arms..." he paused. Nobody was listening except Callista. Disney's "Cars" was on and the children, far too old for that sort of thing, were screaming obscenities at the television while Jackie and Jimmy talked church gossip and sipped sodas. "I need to fuckin' piss..." Despite his wife's attempt at restraining him, he rolled the limousine window down and stuck his body out awkwardly. As soon as he removed his penis from his pants a swarm of bats flew by. Most of them did not bite Newt Gingrich on the dick but unfortunately one of them did. Blood flew all over the place. Newt screamed with laughter. Callista dabbed his penis clean with a cotton ball. "KILL THE FUCKING FAGGOT! KILL HIM WITH A GRENADE!" screamed Maggie incongruously at "Cars." She made an exaggerated throat sound and spat a giant wad of saliva at the television. Robert screamed with violent laughter. The interior of the vehicle was covered in fluids: intentionally spilled soda from the kids, Newt's penis-blood, saliva, whiskey. Callista awkwardly tried to fit a bandage on her husband's penis while he slugged down another glass of bourbon, spilling it intermittently all over her face and chuckling. "Hold still, Newt," she said. "I'm holdin, babe...I'm holdin holdin holdin." Finally the bleeding stopped and, soon enough, they had arrived at the beach. Newt stumbled out of the limo first, and vomited all over the parking lot. It was a cold day, cloudy and dismal. "Fuck this beach," Maggie said. Callista calmly but sternly explained to her that this is where she wanted to be, and now she was going to enjoy it. "I was just fucking with you, Mom, you idiot." Robert and Maggie laughed. The family trudgingly started towards the beach, which was sparsely populated. Newt stumbled, looking mainly at the ground. Suddenly the hellish specter of the water appeared before him and gave him a sweat to the bone. Newt was briefly incapacitated by the image. He crumbled to the ground in fear, sweating, shivering, and foaming at the mouth. "Grampa got rabies when that bat bit him on the cock," Robert announced. "I learned about that shit in class." Newt's face was now blood-red and veiny. His eyes looked about ready to completely pop out of his skull, and his mouth emitted a foot-long stream of greyish-white foam that looked like dirty month-old snow. Newt had fucking rabies! Lmao
To be continued

SUM NEW PIX

I NEVER POST PIX ON HERE I ALWAYS POST WORDS SO HERES SUM GODDAM NEW FUCKIN PIX I MADE ON PAINT

 

Mr. Cain's Problem

Herman Cain was seated in massive wing chair, so large he looked like a baby in it. He snapped his fingers and immediately a thin, tuxeo-clad servant in large prescription sunglasses appeared from "around the bend" and presented him with a covered silver dinner tray, which he opened. In it was a large clock adorned with various cured and spiced meats: pepperoni, capicola, prosciutto, etc. Mr. Cain impatiently thrusted the meat aside and looked at the clock. "Goddamnit fucker. I told you and your faggot twins to go out and wash my hens by half-of and here you are standin' all dumb with your shitty meat." He rose from his wing chair. "FEED THE HENS," he belched two octaves lower than his normal speaking voice, with his eyes wide and veins bulging. He spat and then automatically corrected himself: "WASH THE HENS." A green rotary telephone suddenly rang. There is a moment of great suspense. It continued to ring. Herman Cain did not move, only looked suspiciously at the phone. "Eeeyyyyeeess liiiike gooolldd flooowwweeerrrss," the servant whispered directly into the camera, with a strange accentuated drawl and a knowing smile. The telephone rang louder and louder, as though multiple telephones were cropping up in obscured locations but their utterances were heard as though they were "right there." Herman Cain began to yell over the din of telephones, "IT  BETTER HAD NOT BE"--the servant at this point began to roll his eyes and mockingly lip-synch along with Cain's diatribe, pointing out to the reader Mr. Cain's tiresome predictability--"THESE LIMP LEGGED BITCHES TRYING TO WRAGGLE SOME MORE GOLD NUGGETS OUT OF A DRY-ASS HEN TURD." The telephone rings continued. The main telephone seemed to have grown, and now looked like a giant play-phone: ugly, relentless, and plastic. The servant did a coquettish gasp and covered his mouth, drawling with giddily curious excitement: "Oh well ain't that phone mighty big!" Cain was unamused. Finally he clammered to the phone, hastily and sloppily. He picked up the receiver. "It's me," the phone replied, in a voice reminiscent of a six-year-old boy with a bad cold. Mr Cain made an urgent mumbling sound with closed lips, and flapped his right arm. The servant scrambled to remove the deli meats from the dinner tray, but couldn't pick up the clock. It seemed to be stuck. He ran to Mr. Cain and Mr. Cain expelled steaming black vomit all over the precious timepiece. "Fucking faggot!" Cain yelled, panting and slurping up bits of vomit from his lips. "It's me," the phone said again. Cain turned his attention briefly back to the phone receiver. "I KNOW IT'S YOU YOU CROOK! GIVE ME A GOD-DAMN MOMENT OF PEACE! YOU'LL GET THE EGGS, YOU'LL GET THE GOD-DAMN DIRTY OLD HEN EGGS!" After replying to the phone's veiled demand he beat his servant once over the head with the receiver, which was hollow and plastic. The servant died instantly, his body jerkily crumbling into a compact pile of steaming entrails on the massive Persian rug. Mr. Cain returned to his phone call. "It's me," he said. There was no reply. The phone seemed to have gone elsewhere, and he was left with only the shell of the once-established contact. He began to weep. He thanked the woman for handing him a box of tissues, which he spat into and returned. "All my life," his monologue began predictably, "I've been shooting for the stars, climbing up and selling my shitty old eggs at a peasant's return. And damned if I haven't got to put my dick in a boilin' pot of peas at the first sight of great victory now that all these red faced bitches each want a special egg in return for a couple bygone feels of the sweaty old steam-hole. This is what a man," he wept, farting and gasping, invoking Primo Levi at the defense of his fragile and beautiful manhood, "must come to...to give himself over to the sweaty hand of God. And I will. Twice. Three times. One hundred times."


2 Bacon Tinued

yoooooo wats up guys

Peggers "Peggy" Thawczuck looks at her iphone in total fucking crippling despair. It no longer reminded her of simplicity and beauty and functionality. Now it carried a heavy specter which nagged at her, reminding her of her transparency and her tiny hands. She toggled the screen & looked @ the clock. 66:41. OH SHIT. the narrator informed the reader that the protagonist was late for an event. "Yes," Peggers looked into the mirror, brushing her hair, the film is black and white, "I'm running fourteen minutes late for my own death, which means by the time I make it to the re-birth, I'll already be born, so that means I might die on the way." She texted with one hand and brushed her beautiful soft hair with the other. The text message she was sending looked to be some sort of disgusting permutation. If you listened closely to her tiny hands on the massive iphone you would swear you heard the inimitable sound of mac and cheese being slowly stirred. Suddenly all of her hair fell off in one giant clump like a wig...Blood was "gushing." The floor was literally "covered in blood." Suddenly, a new character appeared, and, through his dialogue, the reader was able to discern that, nvm it was just like a whole thing of sriracha. Peggers gasped on the floor and started2drown. She was dying. Suddenly, Peggers died. "It happened so fast. I didnt know her like super well but she always seemed nice. I helped her carry her intro to management textbook because her hands were too small. This is so crazy. Like, wow. Like when things like this happen it just reminds you of like how lucky you are and not to take life for granted. Also it reminds you to return Top Gun to the library, clean the dog shit out of the inside of your external hard drive, call that guy about the linoleum, eat a fingernail, graduate high school again, look up "topaz" on urban dictionary, get a job, get a handjob, apply for disability benefits, eat a piece of shit, watch your language around babies and flowers, radiate love and wellbeing and discipline, call your ex and talk for twelve minutes doing nothing but "Scary Movie 3" quotes, love your mom a little bit more, think your dad is cool like you did when you were a newborn baby, learn to sculpt and paint and weld and do coloring books, cut back on the aspirin intake, get around to rereading Phenomenology of the Spirit, spit on something valuable, alphabetize your baseball cards."