A Few of My Favorite Things

Cream colored ponies and crisp apple streudels
Doorbells and sleigh bells and schnitzel with noodles
Wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings
These are a few of my favorite things


Unicorn men with rainbow cum...



Molested puppies with 'N Sync in the bum...



Orson Welles' final role...



Track marks on this nasty hole...



Freddie Mercury pretending he wasn't gay...



Freddie Mercury everyday!

Fuck me up the corn hole Tony Danza

It's true. I'm a dick with humongous tits that you should all punch. I've been slacking like a hardened crust burger found near the dumpster outside of an In-N-Out fourteen days after a little pubeless Mormon kid decided to throw it at his Bro-Bro only Bro-Bro was ready for it because tossin' helluv Animal Style beef patties at each other is the new thing to do for any scrod worth his buzz cut across the great state of Cornifornia. Don't question my similes, copy them. Okay, excuses aside, I flaked hard and the Shelbomaster called me out so I decided to adjust my ass cheeks onto my crooked porcelain can and write you all this "sowwy" letter. I figured the only possible way to really let you know how awful I feel is to be telling you whilst simultaneously pushing the turtle passed the hare.


No, not really. Chicks don't take shits and you should all know that by now.


So let's see... here's a little bit of knowledge that I discovered a few minutes ago while drinking mini bottles of vodka in the chinchilla room I have in my basement (in case you didn't know, smelling rodent urine while intoxicating oneself does wonders for uncovering scientifical facts).



* * GET READY FOR NEWS ALMOST AS MASSIVE AS MY CLEAVAGE * *



On April 1, 1961, Jim Bakker concocted his soon-to-be wife Tammy Faye out of the only living pig-penis hybrid to have ever attended the North Central Bible College in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Holy mother of hog heads, it's true!!



Evidence #1 - The "Penignis" that Jim slaughtered to construct Tammy's face:



Evidence #2 - Rare footage mid-operation:



Evidence #3 - Tammy going through the pig penis portal:



Evidence #4 - Jim, molested pussy, and post-op Tammy (notice the collar holding her "head" in place):




Evidence #5: Jim Bakker loves the cock








P.S. Expect more posts from your friendly fecal token female soon (and if more than a couple weeks ever lapse again then call this bitch out sooner because don't you know a woman only works when you dig the iron claws of pressure into her buttocks and give her a good public spanking).

P.P.S. Let it be known that the author of this post who happens to run her own editing business is not responsible for the typographical error on the photo of the peckerless fat man at the top of the page. The author of this post knows the difference between "to" and "too" but does not unfortunately have the pirated software necessary to modify her pilfered internet images and even if she did she might not make the correction anyway because she enjoys writing post scripts too much.

P.P.P.S. The word "internet" in the above post script refers to the netting in a man's swimming trunks that securely keep his junk in place. That's why it's not capitalized. Duh.

Hold Me Closer, Tony Danza

By K-Rock




Hold me closer Tony Danza


Blue jean man maid, New York Italian, seamstress for the rich
Pretty eyed, pirate smile, you'll marry Angela Bower
Ballerina, you must have seen him dancing in the kitchen
And now he's in me, always with me, Tony Danza in my hand

Sam and Jonathon out in the street
Handing tickets out for little league
Angela gets home late and he makes her laugh
The boulevard is not that bad

Housekeeper man, he makes his stand
In the laundry room
Looking on Mona sings the songs
The words she knows the tune she hums

Hold me closer Tony Danza
I watch your van turn off the highway
Folding Angela’s sheets of linen
You had a busy day today

Blue jean man maid, New York Italian, seamstress for the rich
Pretty eyed, pirate smile, you'll marry Angela Bower
Ballerina, you must have seen him dancing in the kitchen
And now he's in me, always with me, Tony Danza in my hand

hi from the chick jew..

By K-Rock


So I'm writing a post right now about some crazy ass shit that happened to me last week in bum fuck Nebraska regarding the little four inch tall blue men called the Smurfs (and have dirty pictures to go with it, --that is, if Shelby's okay with naked tits on his blog), but I'm currently plagued with my jew bag guilt for being too busy lately to have posted anything on here yet so I'm going to start you all off with a short flash fiction piece I wrote about getting puked on. Although it didn't happen in the 80s, the sound gurgling up from the fucker's throat was not unlike the cum drenched bemoaning of pure metal.

Yo.

k-rock, a.k.a. "Punky Jewster"

p.s. And as a proper introduction of myself, since I'm new here in the world of Illogical Contraception (ha, ha), here's a little something I did about hippies:




* * *


"The worst hostel in Paris" is forthcoming in Fast Forward: A Collection of Flash Fiction, Volume Two (2009), copyright (2009) Kona Morris

The worst hostel in Paris


It’s the hostel where a Gimli-looking Australian man steps on your face at 3:58 in the morning with hard boots while attempting to heave his thick log of a body over you to take his place on the top bunk. He kicks and shoves and flails around for what feels like hours and just as you finally start to drift off to sleep again you hear it. A vacuum grumbling from deep within. Rumble, bubble, pop. Moaning and twitching overhead and you feel your muscles tense in observation. The shaking grows worse and the gurgling louder. Something profound shoots through him and the next thing you know it sounds as if someone turned a fire hose onto the wall. Shshshshshshshsh. It takes you a moment to realize what is happening. You feel liquid spraying across your face. The smell hits you and you try to shield your body and bags with your sheets but they’re far too thin and you can feel them growing heavy and wet with the hailing chunks of his cavity. You are cold and soiled but the shower and office are locked until morning. You have no choice but to try to sleep and let the fumes fill your pores and crust inside you. When you wake up your room looks like a hairless gorilla was ripped to shreds and his bleeding intestines were strewn over every inch around you. The Gimli-looking Australian man is naked and hanging off his mattress and appears to have shat himself as well. Your bags are destroyed. Your other roommates must have checked out already. You drag yourself to the portable shower outside where you will contract a potent fungus that will stay with the big toe of your right foot for the next two years of your life.

Editor's note: "Flash Fiction" is a prose format in which a complete story (beginning, middle, and end) is told in 300 words or less. K-Rock, being a show-off, made the above story EXACTLY 300 words. You can get the first Flash Fiction anthology (pictured above) on Amazon.com