There was once a shoeman. All he did was repair shoes. He had a shop for it. It was called Darrell's Shoe Repair.
One day, Darrell was shining a particularly ugly shoe. It was garish and arab-looking. Also very hard to the touch, like metal might be. Darrell did not like it.
Suddenly, a genie popped out of the shoe. Turns out, Darrell had been shining a lamp. The genie told Darrell he had three wishes.
For his first wish, Darrell asked for Daryl Hannah. For his second wish, Darrell asked for Darryl Strawberry. For his third wish, Darrell asked for a copy of D.A.R.Y.L. on DVD. Then the genie was gone.
"Hello," said Daryl.
"Hello," said Darryl.
"Hello," said Darrell.
"..." said D.A.R.Y.L.
Daryl took off her clothes and pulled Darryl's pants down. She began kissing Darryl's penis.
"Oh yes," said Darrell.
"Oh yes," said Daryl.
"Oh yes," said Darryl.
"..." said D.A.R.Y.L.
It went on like this for a while. Then they all ejaculated, except for D.A.R.Y.L.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Thursday, February 10, 2011
A Bad Orgasm
Sometimes in life, life throws you a bad orgasm. This is a story of that.
1982. Barcelona, Kansas. The bar stinks like a cheap skunk, but the patrons are plentiful. I am sipping an opaque martini. It is the town drink. It is called 'Darkness'. It tastes how it sounds.
Suddenly an urge comes over me. The urge is to purge. I make my way to the bathroom like a fireman down a pole and piss thick yellow all over the wall of the urinal. The fiery splashback stings my mitts. The steam rises off the waterfall like souls passing to heaven. I am instantly hard.
I begin stroking my meat sword. After a few pumps, the spermatozoa are ready. But I am still streaming saintly saffron from my urethra. What would happen if I orgasmed during?
I declare 'fuck it' and let myself cum. Bad idea. The sea men mix with the lemonade, causing them to fuse together. I now have a hard icicle connecting me to the urinal. I rip at the icicle to break it, but cannot. I bite at it. No avail. I am stuck. Stuck forever.
I am now a staple at the bar. Just like that godforsaken drink. Come see me. I sign autographs. My name is Urinal Penis Man, but you probably already know that.
1982. Barcelona, Kansas. The bar stinks like a cheap skunk, but the patrons are plentiful. I am sipping an opaque martini. It is the town drink. It is called 'Darkness'. It tastes how it sounds.
Suddenly an urge comes over me. The urge is to purge. I make my way to the bathroom like a fireman down a pole and piss thick yellow all over the wall of the urinal. The fiery splashback stings my mitts. The steam rises off the waterfall like souls passing to heaven. I am instantly hard.
I begin stroking my meat sword. After a few pumps, the spermatozoa are ready. But I am still streaming saintly saffron from my urethra. What would happen if I orgasmed during?
I declare 'fuck it' and let myself cum. Bad idea. The sea men mix with the lemonade, causing them to fuse together. I now have a hard icicle connecting me to the urinal. I rip at the icicle to break it, but cannot. I bite at it. No avail. I am stuck. Stuck forever.
I am now a staple at the bar. Just like that godforsaken drink. Come see me. I sign autographs. My name is Urinal Penis Man, but you probably already know that.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Cake
Body shots on her breasts, but all we can see is their cake.
"That cake, baby, it's got be at least four feet high."
"So many tiers, we could sure make a mess with that bad boy."
"Perfection, incakearnate."
The bride shimmying to dubsteps, spreading out from her husbands hands. We told them that we were happy for their marriage and their twins, but what we really wanted was a slice cut fresh from a baker's dream.
This wasn't some love you long time cake, this cake was classy. Fondant was no where to be found, royal icing covering a plethora of flavors: white, yellow, chocolate, red velvet. We really weren't picky.
Sweat dripping from his naked body the groom pulls up wife in one hand and a knife in the other.
"Look at that blade. What. a. blade. As long as his torso as broad as her chest. That blade could cut a cake in twain. Hell it's a wonder that the two of them can even lift it."
"We could offer to help..."
"No, no we could never..."
"They would never know, look at them covered in each other's fluids, they can hardly tell where they are. They don't DESERVE to deflower that cake."
Mozying slowly closer we reached ever so slowly for the handle. The anticipation on our lips dripping down our chins. Though it was easily buried six inches into the hard wood of the floor, it released easily with the slightest tug. Our hands intertwined we hefted it's glinting shaft into the revolving lights of the dance floor.
And gently we cut the cake into pieces specifically designed to satisfy no one. Each cut exposing more of the perfectly baked interior. Unable to resist we plunged our fingers into the frosting, breaking the extremely thin and delicate outer crust. When our fingers were finally pulled from the cake's distant interior, we turned and left. Leaving as our only trace a mound of frosted waste, which only hinted at it's former glory.
"That cake, baby, it's got be at least four feet high."
"So many tiers, we could sure make a mess with that bad boy."
"Perfection, incakearnate."
The bride shimmying to dubsteps, spreading out from her husbands hands. We told them that we were happy for their marriage and their twins, but what we really wanted was a slice cut fresh from a baker's dream.
This wasn't some love you long time cake, this cake was classy. Fondant was no where to be found, royal icing covering a plethora of flavors: white, yellow, chocolate, red velvet. We really weren't picky.
Sweat dripping from his naked body the groom pulls up wife in one hand and a knife in the other.
"Look at that blade. What. a. blade. As long as his torso as broad as her chest. That blade could cut a cake in twain. Hell it's a wonder that the two of them can even lift it."
"We could offer to help..."
"No, no we could never..."
"They would never know, look at them covered in each other's fluids, they can hardly tell where they are. They don't DESERVE to deflower that cake."
Mozying slowly closer we reached ever so slowly for the handle. The anticipation on our lips dripping down our chins. Though it was easily buried six inches into the hard wood of the floor, it released easily with the slightest tug. Our hands intertwined we hefted it's glinting shaft into the revolving lights of the dance floor.
And gently we cut the cake into pieces specifically designed to satisfy no one. Each cut exposing more of the perfectly baked interior. Unable to resist we plunged our fingers into the frosting, breaking the extremely thin and delicate outer crust. When our fingers were finally pulled from the cake's distant interior, we turned and left. Leaving as our only trace a mound of frosted waste, which only hinted at it's former glory.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Ted Danson
Theodore "Ted" Danson is one of the tallest people ever made. He is also one of the most world-renowed. So you can only imagine the surprise of mine to find out he is the attendant at a gas station in Sandusky, Ohio.
I was taking a piss in the gas station rest room when he came in. He was holding a mop and a bucket. I was holding my penis. Both of us were using both our hands.
"I'm sorry, I thought the bathroom was empty," said Ted.
"I should be the one to apologize. My piss stream is near-silent. Only dogs and children with exceptional I.Q.'s can hear it."
"I'll come back later." He left and shut the door behind him.
It wasn't until while wiping urea off my foreskin that I realized who I'd been talking to. And by then it was too late. I was already back in my car, headed down the freeway at upwards of 200 MPH. For just like my father, Dale Earnhardt Jr., I do my penis-wiping while driving.
R.I.P. Ted Danson (1966-1978)
I was taking a piss in the gas station rest room when he came in. He was holding a mop and a bucket. I was holding my penis. Both of us were using both our hands.
"I'm sorry, I thought the bathroom was empty," said Ted.
"I should be the one to apologize. My piss stream is near-silent. Only dogs and children with exceptional I.Q.'s can hear it."
"I'll come back later." He left and shut the door behind him.
It wasn't until while wiping urea off my foreskin that I realized who I'd been talking to. And by then it was too late. I was already back in my car, headed down the freeway at upwards of 200 MPH. For just like my father, Dale Earnhardt Jr., I do my penis-wiping while driving.
R.I.P. Ted Danson (1966-1978)
Friday, January 8, 2010
Slept-with-barbs
A tribe of Native Americans dwelt in the Pacific Northwest. They hunted and fished and practiced exercising and sex. They had music and dance and sometimes wore costumes and pretended to embody imaginary beings made real by common consent - thought they spent most of their time sitting about and masticating. Their lives were filled with a sense of infinite mystery and adventure, but also with fear of the unknown and its consequent recourse to the safe rigidities of tradition. These factors made it difficult for anyone to diverge from the quite conservative social norms and values of the community, and even less with the socially established interpretation of the world and events. Thus, psychological eccentricities tended to manifest themselves in subtle quirks and private fixations and even obsessions. This is the tale of one of those quirks.
Will-sleep-with-barbs became Sleeps-with-barbs during puberty. He had always shown an affinity for animals, to the dismay of his father, Notoriously-cruel-to-animals. However, at the onset of the Hormonal Surge, this affinity became an overwhelming obsession. Sleeps-with-barbs apprenticed himself to the best trackers in the tribe, and spent all of his free time following porcupines and smelling their scat. When he finally came upon a member of the spiny race, he would spend an inordinate period of time mumbling pick-up lines under his breath and gathering his nerve before leaping out upon the poor creature and making his ham-fisted advance. The startled porcupine (usually a busy business being, or a chaste virgin taught to flee the sight of a man's Stout One) would flee, and Sleeps-with-barbs would hang his head in shame from the psychological incarnation of his judgmental society which he had internalized, and he would cry.
While it was not uncommon for members of the tribe, particularly lonely trackers away from home for months on end, to become enamored of and make love to animals, Sleeps-with-barbs was ugly and awkward in a way difficult for modern readers to imagine. He embarrassed himself in front of the Fraulein every time, and did a bad job at all the activities his peers used to attract mates. He was thus desperate for sex, and so when he happened upon an exceedingly obese porcupiness one day, he led her back to his village and kept her and fed her. Though she was of an exceedingly crass and slothful character, puerile, greedy, and ungrateful, she nevertheless endured his ceaseless porkings and little kisses. She would never consent to sleep with him, however, and this he always resented - until the day she died, over-porked, on his teepee porch.
It was then that he earned his name. For Sleeps-with-barbs skinned his over-loved lover's hulk and with it he knit himself a barbed blanket to caress his person in the night.
Will-sleep-with-barbs became Sleeps-with-barbs during puberty. He had always shown an affinity for animals, to the dismay of his father, Notoriously-cruel-to-animals. However, at the onset of the Hormonal Surge, this affinity became an overwhelming obsession. Sleeps-with-barbs apprenticed himself to the best trackers in the tribe, and spent all of his free time following porcupines and smelling their scat. When he finally came upon a member of the spiny race, he would spend an inordinate period of time mumbling pick-up lines under his breath and gathering his nerve before leaping out upon the poor creature and making his ham-fisted advance. The startled porcupine (usually a busy business being, or a chaste virgin taught to flee the sight of a man's Stout One) would flee, and Sleeps-with-barbs would hang his head in shame from the psychological incarnation of his judgmental society which he had internalized, and he would cry.
While it was not uncommon for members of the tribe, particularly lonely trackers away from home for months on end, to become enamored of and make love to animals, Sleeps-with-barbs was ugly and awkward in a way difficult for modern readers to imagine. He embarrassed himself in front of the Fraulein every time, and did a bad job at all the activities his peers used to attract mates. He was thus desperate for sex, and so when he happened upon an exceedingly obese porcupiness one day, he led her back to his village and kept her and fed her. Though she was of an exceedingly crass and slothful character, puerile, greedy, and ungrateful, she nevertheless endured his ceaseless porkings and little kisses. She would never consent to sleep with him, however, and this he always resented - until the day she died, over-porked, on his teepee porch.
It was then that he earned his name. For Sleeps-with-barbs skinned his over-loved lover's hulk and with it he knit himself a barbed blanket to caress his person in the night.
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