Sometimes

Summertime is a time.

Springtime is a time.

Wintertime is certainly a time.

Fall? Fall is not a time. You will not hear someone utter in the months of October, November, or December; "Well Malorie, it's 'falltime' should we muster up some eggsalad sandwiches, hike up to the moutains, breath some crisp 'falltime' air, and shove things into our vaginas, and assholes?"

No.

Not in 'falltime'.

Challenges

So Ian, You've had lots of free time, as of late.

Yes, I have, Ian

So, why have you been neglecting your writing?

Well, I've been busy doing plenty of other things!

Oh ya, Ian, like what?

Well...I...I went to the store and bought olives!

That took you three months, Ian?

Yes.

You're and idiot, sir.

I stand by your assesment.

Good.

Well, Ian, now that you're on the fucking blog, writing the fucking blog itself, at this exact fucking moment, why don't you spend this time coming up with a productive, and witty entry...

Um...Sure, OK, just let me run and get some olive's first.....

More Than a Lady

Dear Diary,

It’s been a while, but I need to get pen to paper. I need this off my chest...How can I resist myself? I’m a 55 year old, married man. My wife, (together 30 years) and I have raised three beautiful children, all have become successful adults. Life has been a Silver Platter, it has been charmed...But still I ask; how can I resist myself?

I hear my thoughts saying to me constantly “Goddamn it Jim, get a hold of yourself”, but I can’t, I just can’t get her out of my mind. It’s getting really bad now, I think about her at work; she’s in my dreams and I am even finding myself less attracted to my wife! Just last night, she was practically begging me for sex, and I wanted nothing to do with it – that’s the first time that has ever happened! Usually, Beth gets me going like a rocket to Mars, but last night, I was cold, I was distracted.

She was in my head again...The way she walks...Her legs – I melt. I just melt.

I first noticed her a few weeks ago. It was 7am, and I was reading the morning paper, before work. She walked by my house, so casually, yet so interested in her surroundings, I could tell she was new to the area. So fit, and trim, clearly, health and fitness were a priority. I knew she was well taken care of... I had half a mind to go out there and introduce myself, but I just felt that it would have been awkward - my true intentions would have been too obvious. I would have been seen through, like a thin sheet in the sun, I mean, I was practically drooling in my coffee. But still, nothing had ever turned my crank like that before, and all it took was a glace, a first walk by. That was it. I was hooked.

It has now become a bit of a tradition in my life, a ritual. I get out of bed every morning like a kid on Christmas; it’s time for a glance! Oh my God, it’s time! I feel so pathetic, but I cannot resist.

A few days ago, 7am came, and just like clockwork there she was. Winter is setting in, and for the first time I saw her wearing a coat, and boots - I was instantly hard. She looked so Goddamned hot, but also cute. It’s like a cute bomb, collided with a sexy rocket, and landed directly on her legs. I was fucking entranced; in fact, in one of my more embarrassing moments, my wife came down from the shower, and caught me with my hand down my pants. Luckily, She was entirely too shocked to say anything, and we both pretended that nothing had happened...Poor Beth, so innocent to the nature of my addiction, yet so worried. She knows something is amiss, but it seems like she is too afraid to ask me what it is...God this is hard for me. My wife truly is a special women, however my hear t is no longer hers, and it is killing me, killing her. I see it in her eyes, I see it in mine.

Today, as I write this, I feel as though my addiction is coming to a head. It’s getting worse. I called in sick to work, a few hours ago...Why? Well, Beth is out of town, on business, and I have an insatiable urge to act on my...My God...On my...Illness...I feel like crying, but at the same time, I’ve never felt so exhilarated.

You should have seen the look on the cashiers face when I rented all those movies. I think he knew something was up. And, the women at the calendar stand? Who buys 15 calendars? But I couldn’t help myself; they were all so provocative in their own way. So many choices...

So here I sit, calendars scattered on the floor, open to meaningless months, high gloss pictures looking up at me...Beethoven, on the DVD, Turner and Hooch on deck, and Lassie, the icing on the cake.

It’s 6:45am; soon she’ll be walking by my window, gracing my life with her presence yet again. All four legs bouncing rhythmically to the beat of my heart...

It’s going be a long day.

It’s going be a long life.

Jim

Hello M'lady

Hello M’lady,

We met, (well, I stared at you), on the Subway a few days ago. You were sexually attractive, although, it seems like you might need some advice, so I am here to help. Please allow me to refresh your memory:

The other day, I was taking my usual ride to work, southbound on the Fuck-Tube (Subway). I happened to be extremely hung-over, from a raucous night of Scotch Drinking, and Pot Smoking. I was not the least bit happy to be scuffing along - in suit and tie - preparing for another day of "work" (which encompasses me avoiding actual work, by taking 25 minute dumps - frequently).

My spirits were lifted however, when I spotted you. You were seated, with your Mac Laptop open, headphones on, looking rather engaged. Your face was quite stunning, and in my hung-over state, I began to fantasize that you were watching hardcore gangbang pornography, on said Mac. And, in turn, that you would be getting up from your seat very soon, to approach me, and cordially invite me to gape you in the bathroom at Bloor Station.

As I pictured myself flicking my spare change into your stretched-out asshole (my boner, hard as Thor's Hammer), you began to fumble about in your purse for something. I assumed that it was going to be some lube (as Bloor Station was rapidly approaching), and I continued to watch you, with pressing interest.

To my surprise (disgust), you pulled out a circa 1992 yellow Sony walkman. Yes, I am talking about you, you stupid idiot. It seems as though, side one of your Jesus Jones’s Doubt had ended, and you just could not wait for side two! I had assumed that your headphones were hooked up to a device such as an IPod, or perhaps directly to your Laptop, since both of those devices have the capacity to play literately thousands of songs with ease - with no need to stop, and change sides.

Just so you are aware:
Most people do not purchase a Laptop, just so they can balance their typewriter on it.
Most people do not purchase a Car, just so they can have it towed by horses.
Most people are aware that the current year is 2009.
----------------------
Now, I was forced to draw one of two conclusions from this societal folly:

1) You are a Luddite, the computer is stolen, and you have no idea what it does. You were simply so entranced by “Right here, right now”, that you were giving off the impression that you were actually engaged in some sort of techno jibba-jabba, while in actuality the screen was as blank as your feeble mind.

2) You are an ironic whore, who loves cock in the mouth and ass.

If you are 1) write me a letter, as to where and when you want to ass-fuck.
If you are 2) Email me a letter, as to where and when you want to ass-fuck.
Cheerio,

Apoeminapoemspoem

Limerick and Haiku, were on their third date

Limerick; a strict young lad, Haiku; a bit of a waif

Still, they were star crossed, their fates entwined

After all, they were both organized lines

They strolled through the park, comma to comma

From a thick wooded area, they heard someone holler

As they approached the brush somewhat cautious

They heard a voice, “these 14 lines are making me nauseous”

They pushed back some brush, and to their surprise

A Sonnet was crying, a dazed look in his eyes

“I am sick of my rhyme scheme, sick of being a ‘little song’”

At once, Limerick and Haiku knew that something was wrong

They offered him advice, “Sonnet, you’re not alone”

“And, no one said it was easy, being a poem”

Together they sat, under a tree

Discussing their fates; patterns, lines, Kireji

Hours passed, and Sonnet began to relax

He saw how his lines were simply the facts

How he was used so wonderfully by Shakespeare

Indeed, Limerick and Haiku had made that quite clear

They said their goodbyes, and went separate ways

Limerick and Haiku, skipping, a trail they blazed

Again comma to comma, they were so entranced

Just then something stopped them right in their tracks

Coming towards them, a smile ear to ear

Was a Pun – with a joke, that promised a jeer

“Oh I can’t Stanza that Guy!” Haiku had cried

“I couldn’t agree more”, and they ran, stride for stride

Movie Genius

Disaster Movies: A Professional Overview

Characters:
• Rough and Tumble Hero - Perhaps with moustache, perhaps hung over

• Innocent Hero - Who is going to have a very bad day

• Saviour - Someone who helps Hero become violent, and not a sissy

• Villain - Usually Mother Nature (that trollop!), or Aliens (those trollops!)

• Families (Children, Wife) - Who are useless, and need to be saved

• Government Officials - “We need to build a missile and fire it at ‘ _____’”

• FBI Agents - “The Dang Government is gonna build a missile and fire it at ‘____’”

• Police Officers - We do not know much, but we like donuts, and we hate the FBI

• Masses of Humans – “O.K., on the count of 3, let’s all run around screaming! 1...2....”

• News/Media – “I don’t know why I volunteered to report in the midst of the world ending. I suppose I really should be running around screaming, like everyone else”

Locations
• Hospitals – Bad day for Surgery

• Military Bases – Bound to be destroyed in some way or another

• Forrest, or Country – “It was nice out here, until the sodomizing aliens came”

• City, or Urban Sprawl – “It sure is hectic in this hustle-bustle city...Hey, is that a Giant Wave?”
• “The Pentagon” – Dimly lit. Old official barking at Young Radar guy. They both dislike Godzilla.
• Outer Space – “Now is not the time to determine if farts smell worse in space, Jim! Aliens are afoot!”

• The Ocean, or body of water – “Well I’ll be damned! That IS a Giant Squid, riding a surfboard, loading an AK-47!”

• Abandoned something or other – Terrible time to investigate the “Old Farm”, as it is currently the main base for the sodomizing aliens.


Objects/Things
• Guns! Guns! Guns! - Even lasers, and missiles, and whatever else can inflict pain on aliens or stop a tidal wave (although I do not know how a missile would stop a wave)

• Getaway cars – Get to the car, so you can retreat from the rapidly moving lava. Hurry the FUCK up Granny!

• Planes – The world is about to end. Better make it to that giant plane, which is headed for Mars. Will my iPhone work on Mars? Of course it will; Steve Jobs is a Dictator from hell.

• Some sort of wacky “key” or “code” – This, of course, is all that is needed to save the world.

• Radios – You have just got to radio you baby; tell her you love her, before you body is turned into vapour.

Mood
• Tends to be action packed music, with a hero shooting aliens in the face, or pulling a baby from a squids grasp.

Plots and Events
• A wonderfully sunny day, (perhaps with some numerical significance: 7/7/07!!!) perfect for having recreational outdoor park-sex with your friends and family. That is, until a laser toting Godzilla enters into a wrestling match with a giant Moth, in your back yard. Pull up your pants are run for your lives, dorks!

• Johnny-Common-Military has been slacking at this shoot-shoot practice. He is a rebel folks, He is a badass, who does not play by the rules! He definitely does not listen to his superior officer(who is a dork). However, when the Aliens come to town, it is time for him to kiss his wife on the face, and go punch a menacing creature in the dick! Huzzah!

Disaster Movies
• Independence Day
• 2012
• The Day After Tomorrow
• Twister
• Dante’s Peak
• Encino Man

Chocolate Chicken

"Faaak", Jim Calden, sitting alone in his large office, behind an expensive looking oak desk, was at his wits end. His chocolate business; his family's chocolate business, was about to close its doors, and he was about to lose his shirt. The Calden's had been making gourmet style chocolates since the 1950's when his Grandfather Fredrick Calden opened the business, in a tiny little store, on the main strip of Brogberg, Manitoba, a small quaint town of about 1500. Business was always steady for Calden's Chocolatiers, however since he had taken over as President, it had really been booming. With his savvy, he had taken their small store, and built a miniature empire, of sorts. Focusing on their town-famous "Calden's Chocolate Chicks" ('delectable chocolate eggs, filled with an array of flavours, from peanut butter, to mint and all things yummy'), he invested heavily in marketing and advertising, taking these "Chicks" from 'town-famous', to North American phenomenon.
It couldn't have worked out better; a big factory on the outskirts of town, a sexy mansion, and a fleet of cars were his rewards. Oh, and of course a rampant drinking problem, that proved to be his downfall...

"Werre did'a ulll g'wrongggg?", he mused to himself. Looking towards his outstretched hand, which casually grasped what was once a full pint of Drambuie. "Uoooggohya! Thas'werre!", laughing, he climbed onto his desk, and began a slow waltz, shuffling his feet about, knocking items to the floor, with no regard.

Drunker than a Muskie, Jim closed his eyes, and recounted the fateful events that lead to him driving the company in the shitter.

It all started one day, when Jim arrived for work, drunk (as usual), wearing only underwear, with his legs painted bright orange, and declared the need for a contest to, "spice the fuck out of the shit". Confused, and ashamed, his round table of advisers, listened in to what they all knew would undoubtedly be another one of Jim's drunken follies (such as the time he brought in two call-girls and declared it "Hooker Day", or his attempt to banish shoes from the workplace, and replace all of his employees, with empty bottles of vermouth). These drunken tirades had become rather common place, however today's idea seemed even more strange...
Jim began "Owwkay, so we'needa Willy Wonka the fuck outta this friggin place! We need'a contest that'll make people love us chocolate eggs, an'a I gotsit figered, while you jerks were'asleepin'! We need'a magic egg!" ...He paused awkwardly, looking confused, as it he had suddenly lost his train of thought... "Ah! Ahhha!", He continued, "What da chickens have in their eggs? Ug? Eyh? Ennawun? Eggsalas, thatswha! Eggmotherfuckinsalas! One lucky egg'll be full'd up with eggsala', an'a the lucky winner'll getta come here, and have a whiskey-slut party wi' me! Wi Jimma, and his band'a sluts!! Yeaaaaaahhhhhhhh!"

After his speech, Jim felt his heart demand for rest, and fell asleep in the boardroom for 6 days. He woke up to his C.F.O., Farley Jenkins wrapping him on the back. The look in Farley's eyes suggested something was indeed wrong.
Mr. Jenkins explained that after his latest drunken exploits, they put his plan into action, and filled one chocolate egg with egg salad. Jim explained how he remembered none of this, and suggested that Farley stop talking to him, as he was very weak, and hungover, and that his urge for McDonald's prevented him from "giving a fuck".

However, Mr. Jenkin's persisted, and what he said next struck fear into the head of Jim's Penis:
Some schmuck had eaten the 'Magic Egg'; that schmuck had been deathly allergic to actual eggs, had dropped dead, and in turn his Family was suing Calden's Choclatier for many millions. Farley then slapped Jim in the testicles (which were flopped outside his underwear), handed in his resignation, and prompted left the boardroom.
Jim began to cry. What had he done? What had he become? Watching the tears trickle, and blend down his still orange legs, he knew he was finished.

That was three days ago. It was night now, and Jim, coming back to reality, fumbled down from his desk, and left his office. He proceeded through the empty factory, looking dreamily at what once was, and outside into the brisk Manitoba winter. He began to solemnly walk down the main road, and after a few minutes, reached his final destination. At the large farm, he entered the Chicken Coop. Those dastardly Chickens! Those wicked egg hatching Nazi's! I see it now, he thought, yes, it was all their fault! It was time he thought, for the Chickens to have their ultimate reward; to take his life. Drunkenly, he lay on the floor of the coop, awaiting the razor sharp beaks, and vicious talons.

The chickens did nothing, but in his state, Jim passed out in the floor of the coop.

His body was found the following morning, frozen solid, and covered in chicken shit.


Fin

Guinness Rational?

Recently I have developed a rampant, and insatiable taste for Guinness. It is a fine ale that can be enjoyed during a hearty meal, or simply whilst taking a bath.
This lust however has landed me in hot water, morally.
Guinness, of course costs money, and I am unable to procure its essence for the price of "free". I must pay one green Canadian Bill, and one Silver and Gold Canadian coin for 8 tins of Liquid Jesus Beard (Guinness).
This is unfortunate, since I have been unemployed for many months. This personal streak of Sloth, has left my bank account whittled, like an un-loved petunia. I cry for money, yet it evades me like an attractive woman.

"Fuck", I say. What a pickle. What a Dill.
I want Guinness - no, I need it. Thus, I purchase it on a credit card, that has no merit; a credit card that mounts heavy, and depressing monetary woes into my soul. A credit card, that I have absolutely no intentions of dealing with in a responsible manor.

Here is my pickle: Can I sleep at night? Can I lay head-to-pillow, with such heavy "Fake Money" debts? In short: Yes. You see, if I was not to procure said Guinness at the LCBO, I would crave for it to the point where I would push innocent humans towards concrete, in order to dive into my local dive, and drink sweet Guinness at an inflated rate. My initial denial of Dark Beer, will undoubtedly lead me to a shameful bar hoping state, in which I will eventually adorn a tight fitting Jean Jacket, and seek out only the dimmest parts of bars, and intimidate members of the opposite sex, with calls of "Yo, Butter Nipples", or ",Heyyyyyyy there sweetheart, wanna let me churn your baby faucet?".

This will lead to ostracism, from all but the filthiest of purveyors of Guinness. I will live a life of Fast Paced Walks Down Yonge Street; hands akimbo, swears a'prevalent. I will subsist off pure Street Vendor Sausage, and ill gotten canned meats.

Since I need Guinness, I must confine myself to "Cheap Guinness". After all, it keeps me at home, and that also happens to be where I keep my extensive pornography collection.

MBW

Rain

It is raining today. I feel like I need to be in a basement. I want to ignore you, rain. You are not my friend today. I am not in a desert, I am not in close proximity to a raging wild fire - I do not need you!
I am a lazy human. A lazy human, who even on nature's very best of days still struggles to accomplish even the most maligned tasks.
A delicious 25 degree summer day, offering itself to me - in all of it glory - will still be ashamed to know that I rebuke its offer by watching low-grade American talk shows, while it shimmers, and fills the streets with sunshine. A Homoslothpian like myself is reluctant to activate its "do something productive" receptors on even the most blessed of days; so how do you expect it to be active on a gloomy poop-infused day such as this?
Would you like me to don rainbow suspenders, and skip at a rapid pace towards the lake, picnic basket in hand? Shall I go for a bike ride, and wave gleefully at other bike riders? No. These activities, when done in the rain, cause people to assume you are mentally unfit, and I do not wish to stumble upon any chums of mine, on any rain-heavy skipping adventures. The rumours will spread fervently: "Did you see him, skipping in the rain? What a Ass-rash! What a Gizzard! He's lost his tits!"
Shall I be ostracised from my friend circle, due to your lousy water dumping? You would like that wouldn't you rain, you communist. When you spit, you spit on everyone, regardless of events planned. You pitiful attention seeking bastard. You have ruined my sandcastle, you have waterlogged my sandwich.

Take me to a basement.

MBW

The Hoki Poki

*Disclaimer: Yes, I frequently muse about Fast Food - I am simply unable to stray from this topic, as it has had such a profound impact on my life, socially, and emotionally.

---------------------------------

I have been known to say "Ah yes, the Fillet o' Fish; good choice. She is a darkhorse of the McDonald's lineup, and represents a tasty aquatic option, on their otherwise mammal-tastic menu of depression"

Alas, I could not have been more wrong. "Darkhorse", in my worldview implies that not many a'people are aware of said "Darkhorse", and that it is indeed a good choice, or option regardless of its limited appeal.

The Fillet of Fish is clearly not a "Darkhorse", it is in fact, an ocean depleting murder factory, placed on a heavily buttered babybutt-soft bun.

Peruse this electronic document: http://www.nytimes.com/2009/09/10/science/10fish.html

You see, The Fillet of Fish is in fact a marvel, a legend. It has just gone largely uncredited -until now...

Can I be more satisfied! On a Micro level, The Fillet will leave its victims feeling depressed, and full of shame, staring at their unappealing bodies, wondering why they just ate a fish sandwich alone, in a taxi, at 4am. They will try to make conversation with the taxi driver to alleviate their shame, however he will shun them, as he is not a man who converses with people who eat Fish Sandwiches at 4am.

However, even more impressive, is that on a Macro level, the Fillet of Fish is a damning hell spire up the anus of every environmentalist on earth! The Poor Hoki, tasty and innocent on the ocean floor, is violently shaken from its docile world, off the coast of Australia. It is then ripped into bits (most of which are casually discarded) and formed into a "sandwich", which is then consumed by confused/mindless drunken humans worldwide!

Oh Capitalism, you are giving me an erection!

Wiping out an entire fish species, not for any other reason than to sell woefully processed, and dreadfully unhealthy fish, to an already woefully depressed, and unhealthy public.

Sorry Hoki, but The Fillet of Fish makes me wish I could high-five Satan!

MBW

Levels of Hell

Heaven? Hell? I do not know. No one knows. Who is to say what happens when we pass on? Do we go to heaven, and eat buttered English muffins, on a cloud made of happy? Or is it straight to hell, where we shovel hot bugs into the assholes of people worse than us?

Who knows - and better yet, who cares? Although if we are to assume the "bible" is "correct", and not some crazy fairytale, well then, I am off to Hell (especially since I just masturbated five minutes ago).

...I have been mulling this over recently: I am going to Hell.

Well alright then, I succumb to my fate, to hell with it.



However I have been troubled by the talk of levels. I am interested in these levels. Where did you come up with this jibba-jabba, Mr. Dante? Have you been to Hell, Mr. Dante? Do you know Satan? And if so, is He any good at table tennis?



Well these are all interesting questions, that clearly cannot be answered...Back to the level nonsense (the crux of my worries)...

The levels (perhaps) work thusly; the deeper one descends into Hell, the more objects are inserted into one's body (there is a direct co-relation). A zip lock bag full of hot mustard in the dick-hole, a hot toaster into the anus, and the like...

My word, that certainly sounds ghastly. Not something that I would like to be a part of, no matter how drunk I was, or how much food I was being offered.

However, going on the theory that no two people are alike, it stands to reason that some Hell bound freak would quite fancy a hot device in the rectum.

Therefore, my thinking is that The Levels of Hell, should differ between individuals; no two people shouold have the same levels of Hell. Sick anal fetish man's levels of Hell would not include any anal funtimes. He wants the funtimes, but this is Hell, and he sure as heck isn't going to get what he wants in Hell.



Indiana Jones? Lots of snakes, and not a whip to be found.
The Crocodile Hunter? A shallow pool full of Stingrays, while a man killing rare snakes reads him the definition of "Irony" over and over again.
Hitler? Sunshine, Lollipops, and Rainbows everywhere.
Etc...
My own personal levels of Hell are still up for internal debate. I know that the words "no" and "alcohol" will be prominent throughout, and perhaps, so will "small" "public" "washrooms".
I will indeed rehash this topic in the near future, once I have been able to assess my own misgivings, and create a reasonable outline of my own personal Hell.
Until that point, I will continue to live my meaningless life of petty sins.

MBW

The Buffalo Bills

"The tragedy of life is not that man loses, but that he almost wins"

- Heywood C. Broun

Mr. Broun, you have hit the needle on the head, sir. The needle being the collective soul of all Buffalo Bills fans. Mr. Broun, your quote rings so true, that I am assuming merely reading it, would give any beleaguered Bills enthusiast violent heartburn. (Perhaps the heartburn is derived from the woeful diet of sodium-laced cured meets, and numerous bloat-inducing ales, nonetheless, the burn still presides itself within the heart of the Bill supporter)

Oh Fortuna, how you wreck havoc on the people of Buffalo. Yes, they are blessed with world class wings, at a decent price, however the residents of Buffalo also have, crime, poverty, genital-scarringly cold winters, and the unfortunate distinction of being unofficially known as the "Armpit of America". On top of that heaping mess of misfortune, the once prominent city of Buffalo is home to a team that seems to corrode and break to pieces, in a markedly similar manor to it's once booming steel industry; now drearily known as the "Rust Belt".

Please let them hold a lead. Please let them win a game against a division rival - Oh how they must rue the New Englanders. I would not be surprised if many a Bills fan would gladly pour scalding hot Clam Chowder into the eyes of a Patriots fan; and in many ways it would be justified.

I must say that I am not a diehard fan, however, my worldview causes me to naturally root for the fly to break free of the spiders web, for the gazelle to flee from the lions claws, and for the Bills to actually win a game without depositing hot shit into their beds.

Please Fortuna, bless these Bills. Winter is coming, and a man can only consume so many "pity wings".

MBW

Food, fastly.

Convenience is often times my downfall. I am hungry, and I am not in my house (perhaps, it would not matter if I was indeed at home, for the food that I possess is shameful at best; a mouldy block of cheese, two cans of bargain-priced tuna, and coffee), and therefore I must satisfy my hunger via vendor.
Now, I am not a fastfood coward. I do not particularly care how these animals are murdered and ground up. Are we to assume that (succulent)Cows, (tasty)Chickens and (lip-smacking) Pigs, would be much happier about their own murders if it were done in a "humane" manor. Can I sleep easier in the evening, knowing that Wilbur is slowly being put to sleep, and then mauled apart by rapidly moving steel? No. Who cares? Ninnies, that's who. But I am not a ninnie, I am a hungry man, who is away from his homestead.
So I eat Arby's. Now, I do not know you Mr. Arby, however I would love to sit down and have a chat with you. I would demand that you give me the name of your meat supplier. I need to know how you can procure enough "high-quality" "roast beef" to feed millions of people daily, for under 4 dollars. Whats that you say? The meat is actually 40% discarded military boots? Ah, well that explains why my heart feels itchy, I am currently depressed for no reason, and in 40 minutes I will excrete Beelzebub himself, from my rectum.
Let me wash my depression down, with some "Bacon" "Cheddar" Curly Fries, and sugar water. Now, I must remand myself to my bedroom for hours, as I have suffered injury, due to your food. I am beginning to think that it would have been less detrimental to my well being, to have consumed various "foods" from a dumpster, behind a homeless shelter.

I am ill, and I am unable to escape the reality, that is the complete, and total lack of fire, or grill in your establishment. How are you preparing my roast, since fire is not present? Am I to resign myself to the fact that you are "cooking" "roast" "beef", with a machine that could charge my cellular phone?

My asshole has been penetrated by the spiked ceiling of hell.

MBW

Excuse Me, Loud Planes

Yes, hello there Jet. Good day, large, aggressively loud WW II fighterplane. If I may be so bold as to ask you to shut up.
I am not interested in aviation. For the most part, I am terrified of being in the air, speeding through clouds at 1000 miles per hour. I am sure that you feel happy to know that you are entertaining various people with your acrobatic maneuvers, and death defying fuckery. However, as mentioned, I am not a man of planes. I will watch Top Gun, only when extremely intoxicated, and I have never been able to procure a bomber jacket that sufficiently fits my girth.
It is for these reasons (and many more) that I was NOT in attendance at this years Air Plane Fun-Fun show. However this did not stop you from zooming by my place of residence, blaring your engines like a Nazi.
These sonic booms woke me. They shook me from my dream of Sexual Intercourse, and Freshly Baked Cookies (so you know; my erection was powerful, and happy). No, I was not engaging in Sexual Intercourse with said cookies - they were merely an after-shame treat, which I was getting ready to enjoy when The Red Baron (You), fucked my Vanwinkle.
You owe me a sexual dream, Jet Plane. I will shake my fist at you for at least 4 years due to this, and hopefully you will rue this day. Rue it proper.

MBW

Purple Rain

Music is important to some. Not important to others. That pretty much covers it. With that overtly generic statement being said, I am one of those individuals who falls into the "important" categorie. As my life has gone on, I have been introduced to varying forms of music, bands, styles, etc...Many of these introductions have been positive. I have loved blasting Biggie in a car whilst old white people look terrified, and confused. I will never shy from dancing to Mark Morrison's "Return of The Mack", like an asshole, or smashing various objects into oblivion with the help of amp-crushing, speaker melting Motorhead. And the like, and the like.
However, one song has always resonated with me passionately. A song that will stop me in my tracks every time; a song that would cause me to ignore a robbery, or casually step over a bleeding body.

Purple Rain. Yes. Purple Fucking Rain. Say what you will about Prince's insane antics, and his outrageous sexual perversions, that is simply Prince being Prince. I would like to argue that he is a musical savant; a genius, and as such, requires various outlets to soothe his vices. Yes, he may be a sodomist, but he is also a brilliant musician, who has created a song that I could listen to 100 times in a row, passionately and attentively. There has been many a time in my life, in which I have arisen, naked at 11am, turned on The Price Is Right, and replaced its manic drivel, with Purple Rain. I am not ashamed to state that on more than one occasion, I have dropped to my naked knees - on my living room floor, and performed an awe inspiring guitar solo. Yes, I am naked and fat, but my soul is transformed, and illuminated, through the sound of Prince's ample musical prowess.

Thank You, Prince

Regards,
MBW

Baby Im a Star

Ya, I might be 150 million Gyaddamm kilometers away from y'all, but Ill still burn your mafuckin' ass. Im the dude, that red's up yo' skin, and makes y'all throw up for hours when y'all forget to wear a hat on the beach.
I mean, shit, smarten up muthafuckers. Y'all thinking, "oh snap, that bitch ass sun can't fuck with me. It ain't that hot".
What? Y'all's is stupid. I'm 1.4 million muthafuckin' kilometers wide, 4.5 muthafuckin' billion years old, and 10 million mafuckin' degrees, of hot skin burnin' fuckyoshitupness. I WILL burn your muthafuckin' asses. I will melt your record collections, and kill yo dogs, and yo old peoples. Don't fuck wit me. Please do not fuck wit me....
Some dumb motherfucker, Ian was bitchin' how I ain't come around, fo June and most of July...Then when I do come out, this dumb ass get so giddy, he dun drank 40 beers on a dock, all afternoon singing my praises. Well, I don't take kindly to punks, dissin' me when I ain't around, so I burnt his mafuckin' shoulders to a crisp. Burnt them shits.
Shit, I may be up in space, straight chillin', but I still laughed when his friends, dun slapped his muthafuckin' burnt shoulders, and called him a "douche bag".

Bottom line is: let me do my thang. I'll be out, so don't bitch when I ain't around, or I'll come down on your punk asses, and burn your eyes out durin' an eclipse, or blind you on the highway, or straight give you cancer.

Cuz yo, I'm a mutherfuckin' Star.

I Would Die 4 U

You have just finished ordering your meal at your favorite seafood restaurant. Eagerly anticipating the arrival of the butter-soaked animals, you casually sip from your Stella. Finally, you see the tray coming out from the kitchen. Your brain sends a signal to your mouth, and you begin to salivate uncontrollably. Your mind is well aware that within mere seconds you will be shoving Alaskan King Crab down your swollen gullet.

Greedily, you reach up towards the steaming mass, for a leg that is protruding tastily off the edge of the plate - the plate that is still in the waiters hands. He gives you a disgusted look that you fail to notice, as you are engulfed in the moment.

The red exterior is of no match to your clenching, bending and prodding, and within seconds the meat is cascading out of its protective shell into your fat mouth. A once majestic king of the ocean floor is now on its way to becoming churned up fecal matter, deposited into a poorly cleaned North American toilet. However, this is of no consquience to you since, well, King Crab is really fucking tasty.

Now, your overwhelming lust for the legs of the paralithode camtschaticus begs the question, "would you die for this, fat man?".

Chances are, regardless of your hunger-passion, you would not be willing to risk your life for crab meat. Chances are, your list of life risking endeavours begins with "family", and ends with "50 gagillion dollars"
Well, their are men who are willing to risk life an limb for this creature. Careful now, do not "freak out" crab-man, I am not referring to some smelly environmentalist, on a quest to protect these beasts. No. Quite the oppostite in fact. I am referring to alcoholic, drug addicted fishermen, who are on the fringes of society.
These brave souls risk their lives to trap the crab, and sell them world wide, so that you can shove the meat down into your gizzards.

One can speculate as to why they simply do not construct a machine to fish for these creatures as opposed to putting numerous lives in danger. Is this a classic case of bottom line profit margins versus human lives? Is this another Ford Fiesta like debacle of human dignity? Is the price of a fisherman's life really that low? Sweet fucking lord, I hope not.

Crab lover, you must realize that with every bite of that deliciously butter-soaked Crab meat, there is blood on your hands....But also realize, that you do not really give a shit.

MBW

When Doves Cry

What if things on Earth were switched up a bit? What if Squids could play the drums? What if Lions and humans switched brains?
Well, humans would certainly be in dire straights. We would all be drones, rounded up and harvested for food by our Lion overlords.
My goodness me, a Lion with a human brain is an excellent thought! What a slim chance at freedom the human race would have.
I am assuming that humans are tasty, and I am also assuming that a Lion equip with a human brain would deduce that fact rather quickly.
This is especially troubling for humans, as without our impressive sponges, we are one of the most pitiful and defenseless creatures of earth.
Where is our armour? Our methods of defence? Our cunning? It is no where, without our impressive head lumps.
Give that lump to Lions, and they would be skinning and frying the pathetic humans six ways from Sunday.
I personally can picture myself disemboweled and fried in a soft batter, apple in mouth. What a treat I would be at the Lion semi-formal charity event! The Lion Chef would be mobbed, and asked how he was able to cook the "bald-headed loser" in such a tasty manor - although being a professional he would not reveal his recipe.
There would be McHumans, and Double Mchumans w/ cheese - they would be cheap, but they would make the Lions (especially the lower class ones) obese.
It would be a great world to live in for the mindless drone humans...I certainly would not have a heavy cell phone bill to pay, or any crippling depression.

Perhaps when Doves cry,

MBW

Darling Nikki

Writting in 4 mins 12 seconds.

James awoke; it was time.

Delivery of the deivce was 4 days. It had been and, well, they had been reliable in the past. At that moment, the door bell rang. "prompt", he mused.

The man at the door looked haggard, looked defeated. Perhaps that was fair, as he had been delivering for A.N.A.L for 16 years. How could that company not crush a mans soul. I mean, they were smut peddlers. Thats a long way away from law school. (Altought perhaps not, methaphociaxcllay spkeaing).

James thanked the delivery man, and slammed his door. His reection was massive. The choke suit was here.

100% robot, but realistic as hell. Custom made; spitting image of James's grade 6 teacher - He had provided a photo, and well, they did the rest.

James took her out of the box, "Darling Nikki". Stunning. Sexy. Mechanical.

Oh well, James thought. Im sick of the bar scene. Eharmony? Well thats just not my bag,
either.

James picked up the phone and ordered a pizza - he didnt bother to ask Nikki what she wanted. He ran the show.

He looked at his calander; Yup, he hasd the next 3 days booked off, and, well he was damed sure going to make the most of them.

He leaned in and kissed the machine.

"Darling Nikki", he said plainly

MBW

Computer Blue

Being an avid member of the Christian Community, Gary was disgusted of the perversions on the World Wide Web. Being a top MIT graduate, and brilliant computer scientist, he had decided to take action.

It was in early 2006 that this "action" began. The Internet's cavernous amounts of sin and filth, simply had to go.
Oh, He had heard the stories from his church going companions; filthy pornography, lewd and violent imagery, anti-religious diatribes! Surely this material was responsible for sullying the Earth, Gary thought.

He knew the fate of the world was now in his hands. It was simply time for him to act - if not for himself, then for the betterment of God's Children!

For three years He worked determinedly in his basement, creating a super computer of immense power - its name; Computer Blue. Computer Blue had but one function; when unleashed it would track down anything deemed to be filthy, tasteless, abhorrent, and offensive throughout the entire Internet. When finished its "Electronic Sin Extraction", (as Gary liked to call it), Computer Blue would simply delete, ridding the Internet of all its garbage in one fell swoop. (Ah yes, and once Computer Blue had started, it could not be stopped until the deed was done).

Finally, it was ready. The fruits of his labour were now in progress. Computer Blue had been up and running for several hours, and already it was proving remarkable effective. Pornography on the Internet was all but gone, and nearly 95% of the video's on YouTube were currently being whisked into Computer Blue's powerful sin-free black hole. Brimming with pride, and an overwhelming sense of accomplishment, Gary checked the filth-free Internet to view the world's reaction.

Much to his surprise, his ingenious idea for peace and a God loving World was crumbling in front of his computer screen. CNN.com reported stories of violent raids on pornography stores, by normal citizens on a desperate quest for porno.

Reuters was following the numerous cases of reported fights, and violent verbal attacks worldwide. It seems that the human race, unable to satisfy their lust for taboo in the privacy of their own homes, had taken to the streets.

Within days of Computer Blue's conception, murder, orgies, fire, and chaos were the norm in all corners of the earth. The once mighty Internet was now rendered useless. Without its abnormalities, and sinful content there was little interest in logging on to begin with, and all major sites crumbled. The World's economy was unable to recover, and total anarchy reigned. Gary was perplexed. "How could this be?", he wondered aloud to his cat Sparkles.

"Why Sparkles, why? I merely wanted to cure the earth of its sins, and now in an ironic twist of fate, a sinless Internet has caused the order of the entire world to implode into itself."

"I-I cannot go on, knowing what I have done."

With that, Gary donned his pink vinyl body suit, (with the extra dildo fashioned above the hole where his real penis hung out), put on his favorite air-restricting mask, inserted "My Ass is Haunted" into his DVD player, and hung himself.

Sparkles looked on in bemusement. Who was going to feed him now?

MBW