Friday, April 13, 2012
Shamble to Me, My Love: Zanticore and Cthulhu Watch Zombies Fuck
"Cleo my darling, shamble to me, my love. Let me unhinge my jaw and pleasure you."
"Muuuuuhhhhhhhhh." Cleo groaned with either enthusiasm or dismay. Brian could no longer tell as so much of her face had rotted away. It didn't matter. Cleo was his moon and sun. Among her many positives, Cleo retained her breasts. Usually, the breasts were the first pieces to go, falling to the earth with two soft thumps. Most zombie women tripped over them, never noticing the loss. The preoccupation with acquiring brains was far too pressing, oddly more so for women than men.
Preparing for sex Brian unfastened his rags and secured his penis with an extra layer of duct tape. For although his right foot was now a distant memory, the penis was one appendage he planted to keep.
"Should we be watching this?" Zanticore whispered to Cthulhu.
"YES, WE SHOULD WATCH THE ZOMBIES FORNICATE." Cthulhu shouted.
Zanticore flinched, halting his movement on the playground swingset. The zombies didn't react. Perhaps, they had lost their hearing. Or possibly they were simply disinterested in a pair of non-humans. Although, Zanticore looked human, he retained an otherness that clearly marked him as the god of au gratin potatoes.
"How many times must I ask you not to yell?"
"I AM THE GREAT CTHULHU. I ENJOY YELLING. ESPECIALLY IN THE PRESENCE OF THOSE THAT WOULD SCARE OFF ALL THE CRUNCHY FUN SIZE HUMANS."
"Please."
"Fine." Cthulhu grumbled waving his tentacles. "I'm just angry that all the moving displays are vacant of snacks."
Zanticore sighed, raking fingers through his shaggy mane of cheese colored hair. "They're called children. This is a playground. It's not a moving buffet."
"I'm hungry."
"Don't start that, you ate that woman at the dollar store only 15 minutes ago."
"Her lower casing was marked juicy. She was NOT juicy!"
Zanticore smirked."Humans call them sweatpants, not casing. Albeit, pants with "juicy" prominent on the backside are not considered elegant couture. You really should keep apprised of such matters since it pertains to your cuisine! "
"She still was not juicy."
"The dollar store is always a myriad of disappointment. We really should have gone to K-mart."
"BOTH STORES ARE IRRELEVANT. WHY DO YOU LOVE SHOPPING AT IRRELEVANT STORES? WHY CAN'T WE EVER GO TO HOME DEPOT? ALSO, YOU ARE DISTRACTING ME FROM WATCHING THE ZOMBIES FUCK."
Zanticore stood doing an unnecessary cape florish. "The shouting Cthulhu!"
"You just have your panties in a knit because the boxes of potatoes au gratin would not worship you, no matter how long we shouted at them."
"20 minutes of shouting "Worship me!" and still they did not bow." Zanticore sighed.
"They will learn their lesson when you devour them tonight. That's why I like you. You eat your followers, like me."
Zanticore smiled. "It's good to have a friend who gets me. Oh, look they've begun the fellatio!"
"FINALLY!"
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Zanticore and Cthulhu Go to K-mart.
"Hello, I am Zanticore the great god of potatoes au gratin."
"AND I AM THE DARK GOD CTHULHU! ZANTICORE IS GIVING ME A RIDE."
"There's no need to shout Cthulhu. Use your indoor voice." Zanticore chided, turning his attention once again to the bewildered K-mart employee. "We are looking for a specific kind of wrench."
"WE SEEK THE WRENCHES OF ALLEN."
Zanticore sighed. "Honestly, Cthulhu. Again with the shouting."
Cthulhu glared at Zanticore. "IT HAS BEEN 14 MINUTES SINCE I'VE LAST EATEN."
"Yes, you relayed the message that you are hungry 12 minutes ago."
"15 MINUTES NOW!! LET ME EAT THE HUMAN!"
"You can eat later. For now I simply need to pick up some allen wrenches and some drain cleaner."
The two immortals fell into threatening silence as the young boy stumbled for words. "If we have allen wrenches they would be in tools, back of the store."
Zanticore's brow knitted. "If?"
"IT HAS NOW BEEN 16 MINUTES SINCE I'VE LAST EATEN."
"If?" Zanticore was not swayed, his voice almost a growl.
"Yes sir." the employee now trembling.
"Do you know what I can do to you puny human? Do you? It is the stuff of nightmares. You can not fathom what it's like to be cheese, potatoes and a casserole dish all at once. For, I, Zanticore, can turn you into a freshly baked pan of potatoes au gratin. Is that what you want?" Zanticore paused to do a dramatic cape flourish. "Well is it?"
"Uhm...what?" The employee now not only violently shaking but very confused.
Zanticore studied the display and smirked. "Fine, we'll go to home depot. Cthulhu eat the human who works in the irrelevant store."
"Huzzah." Cthulhu said politely using his best indoor voice and gobbled the tiny human.
Fin.
"AND I AM THE DARK GOD CTHULHU! ZANTICORE IS GIVING ME A RIDE."
"There's no need to shout Cthulhu. Use your indoor voice." Zanticore chided, turning his attention once again to the bewildered K-mart employee. "We are looking for a specific kind of wrench."
"WE SEEK THE WRENCHES OF ALLEN."
Zanticore sighed. "Honestly, Cthulhu. Again with the shouting."
Cthulhu glared at Zanticore. "IT HAS BEEN 14 MINUTES SINCE I'VE LAST EATEN."
"Yes, you relayed the message that you are hungry 12 minutes ago."
"15 MINUTES NOW!! LET ME EAT THE HUMAN!"
"You can eat later. For now I simply need to pick up some allen wrenches and some drain cleaner."
The two immortals fell into threatening silence as the young boy stumbled for words. "If we have allen wrenches they would be in tools, back of the store."
Zanticore's brow knitted. "If?"
"IT HAS NOW BEEN 16 MINUTES SINCE I'VE LAST EATEN."
"If?" Zanticore was not swayed, his voice almost a growl.
"Yes sir." the employee now trembling.
"Do you know what I can do to you puny human? Do you? It is the stuff of nightmares. You can not fathom what it's like to be cheese, potatoes and a casserole dish all at once. For, I, Zanticore, can turn you into a freshly baked pan of potatoes au gratin. Is that what you want?" Zanticore paused to do a dramatic cape flourish. "Well is it?"
"Uhm...what?" The employee now not only violently shaking but very confused.
Zanticore studied the display and smirked. "Fine, we'll go to home depot. Cthulhu eat the human who works in the irrelevant store."
"Huzzah." Cthulhu said politely using his best indoor voice and gobbled the tiny human.
Fin.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Musings Collected
On being an real adult...
--------------
"You probably play with toys." she told me. I had to stay quiet, because quite frankly, I do. I reminded myself I was at work, a place I maintain a pretense of normality via silence. But, this comment bothered me as I scissored away my day. I wondered, what am I supposed to do? Be a real grown-up? I thought about what that might entail. I envisioned an alternate reality where my free time proceeded as follows.
1. Slip off high heels that I somehow know how to walk in.
2. Pour my self a glass of wine and not spit it out like the Doctor does ala Doctor who. But, instead I some how enjoy it and not complain it tastes like nyquil and goats ass.
3. Reminisce about sonnets?
4. Watch the news instead of sci-fi or cartoons, and not giggle in my pyro trance state when I see fire, but see that it actually is pretty horrible.
5. Grown up me, would never build a fort when I'm sad.
6. Dress in layers for some reason. No capes.
7. Wear real bras, and complain they're uncomfortable.
8. Wipe off make up with some sort of fancy rag? Not to mention know how make up goes on.
Admittedly, things are becoming vague. I play with toys, I build forts, I wear a cape, know the theme to Spongebob by heart and yes I'm 33. I'm different, and I don't think there's anything wrong with that.
------------
Is there Twitter masturbation announcement etiquette?
------------
I'm in the habit of following perverts, they are supportive, enjoyable company. Some days, I find my timeline brimming with masturbation announcements. I've never been sure as to the proper response to this, so I simply say "Enjoy your masturbation.". It is no doubt an act they find enjoyable enough to announce it so, I feel the need to wish them well, much like if they were going shopping. I have found I am the only one doing this, however. Perhaps, there are no etiquette guidelines for wanking. I believe that there should be. In lieu of set pleasantries there should, at the very least, be an Irish blessing akin to "May the road rise up to meet you. May the wind always be at your back." I'm not sure what would be a prudent choice for such a saying. "May your stank not linger long upon your fingers." could possibly work.
---------
Pervert Originality (or the lack thereof)
---------
I've denied several follower requests lately all entirely due to lack of originality. Not to mention diversity. As an Aspie it's sometimes a challenge for me to open my mind beyond my personal interests. Not everyone wants to listen to me ramble about Tori Amos. I have to be fair and listen to them ramble about their children too. I may not have much to contribute, but I do try to listen. Or at least read, since the majority of my interactions come in the form of text. However, some twitter types can be entirely focused on sex. I'll often peruse though someones tweets before accepting someone. In my heart I'm always hoping for a someone who can talk nerdy to me. A great many perverts are fantastically nerdy. Geek plus pervyness often combines for an enjoyable perspective. Sometimes in my initial assessment, I realize the unfairness that the label normal buys. There are those in the pervert flock who tweet only about sex. I'm hard, I'm horny, I'm fondling my bits..etc. etc. Pages of it, and nothing but. Yet, I'm the one who is reminded by Asperger's literature to branch out. Almost makes me want to live tweet episodes of Doctor who...
Oh look it's the Tardis!
Rose is dressing in period garb.
Christopher Eccleston is walking!!!!
Yeah.... no one wants to read that.
-------
Pre-mature Ejaculation is efficient
------
I recall watching an Axe deodorant on Hulu. I've seen the ad many times, but this is the first time I realized the ad was hinting at sweat being like pre-mature ejaculation. I understand the embarrassment of it occurring, but not the stigma. It's remarkably efficient. I've personally never had an orgasm with a man, so to me, it makes sense for a man to come in his pants. It would speed things up. I want the experience of being desired, he wants a nice cum. Win/win. Now, I can watch Battlestar Galatica. Although, that may be my inexperience showing. Not to mention the fact that I'm unsure if I ever want to have sex again, currently I'd much prefer a Bobba Fett action figure. Pre-mature ejaculation is the ultimate compliment if you think about it. A man finds you so attractive he positively explodes in his pants. What's not to love? I like the clarity and directness of it myself. I've always thought of sex being like baking cookies for a man. Yes, sex is basically wanking much with someone elses bits but it's like baking too. You get the joy of baking and the pleasure of making the cookies, he gets the satisfaction of enjoying the fruits of the baking. Pre-mature jizz is perhaps more like Chips Ahoy, quick, messy, satisfaction in an instant.
------
Zombies
--------
I was listening to Usher's song "D.J got us falling in love again." while at work. I rarely listen to the radio, unless I'm sleepy. I happened to fixate on the lyrics "Thank god the week is done, I feel like a zombie brought back to life." I had to take issue with Usher at this point of the song. Zombies are technically the living dead. If they weren't some form of alive then how would they go about merrily consuming brains? How would they shamble? Are they not, in fact, alive? It's unclear, and vague, and lacking the essential polish a true wordsmith would bestow. Is Usher comparing himself to a zombie whose humanity has been recently restored? Or a zombie who was beheaded and re-animated but is still a member of the unholy zombie nation. I find this dissonance truly appalling.
--------------
"You probably play with toys." she told me. I had to stay quiet, because quite frankly, I do. I reminded myself I was at work, a place I maintain a pretense of normality via silence. But, this comment bothered me as I scissored away my day. I wondered, what am I supposed to do? Be a real grown-up? I thought about what that might entail. I envisioned an alternate reality where my free time proceeded as follows.
1. Slip off high heels that I somehow know how to walk in.
2. Pour my self a glass of wine and not spit it out like the Doctor does ala Doctor who. But, instead I some how enjoy it and not complain it tastes like nyquil and goats ass.
3. Reminisce about sonnets?
4. Watch the news instead of sci-fi or cartoons, and not giggle in my pyro trance state when I see fire, but see that it actually is pretty horrible.
5. Grown up me, would never build a fort when I'm sad.
6. Dress in layers for some reason. No capes.
7. Wear real bras, and complain they're uncomfortable.
8. Wipe off make up with some sort of fancy rag? Not to mention know how make up goes on.
Admittedly, things are becoming vague. I play with toys, I build forts, I wear a cape, know the theme to Spongebob by heart and yes I'm 33. I'm different, and I don't think there's anything wrong with that.
------------
Is there Twitter masturbation announcement etiquette?
------------
I'm in the habit of following perverts, they are supportive, enjoyable company. Some days, I find my timeline brimming with masturbation announcements. I've never been sure as to the proper response to this, so I simply say "Enjoy your masturbation.". It is no doubt an act they find enjoyable enough to announce it so, I feel the need to wish them well, much like if they were going shopping. I have found I am the only one doing this, however. Perhaps, there are no etiquette guidelines for wanking. I believe that there should be. In lieu of set pleasantries there should, at the very least, be an Irish blessing akin to "May the road rise up to meet you. May the wind always be at your back." I'm not sure what would be a prudent choice for such a saying. "May your stank not linger long upon your fingers." could possibly work.
---------
Pervert Originality (or the lack thereof)
---------
I've denied several follower requests lately all entirely due to lack of originality. Not to mention diversity. As an Aspie it's sometimes a challenge for me to open my mind beyond my personal interests. Not everyone wants to listen to me ramble about Tori Amos. I have to be fair and listen to them ramble about their children too. I may not have much to contribute, but I do try to listen. Or at least read, since the majority of my interactions come in the form of text. However, some twitter types can be entirely focused on sex. I'll often peruse though someones tweets before accepting someone. In my heart I'm always hoping for a someone who can talk nerdy to me. A great many perverts are fantastically nerdy. Geek plus pervyness often combines for an enjoyable perspective. Sometimes in my initial assessment, I realize the unfairness that the label normal buys. There are those in the pervert flock who tweet only about sex. I'm hard, I'm horny, I'm fondling my bits..etc. etc. Pages of it, and nothing but. Yet, I'm the one who is reminded by Asperger's literature to branch out. Almost makes me want to live tweet episodes of Doctor who...
Oh look it's the Tardis!
Rose is dressing in period garb.
Christopher Eccleston is walking!!!!
Yeah.... no one wants to read that.
-------
Pre-mature Ejaculation is efficient
------
I recall watching an Axe deodorant on Hulu. I've seen the ad many times, but this is the first time I realized the ad was hinting at sweat being like pre-mature ejaculation. I understand the embarrassment of it occurring, but not the stigma. It's remarkably efficient. I've personally never had an orgasm with a man, so to me, it makes sense for a man to come in his pants. It would speed things up. I want the experience of being desired, he wants a nice cum. Win/win. Now, I can watch Battlestar Galatica. Although, that may be my inexperience showing. Not to mention the fact that I'm unsure if I ever want to have sex again, currently I'd much prefer a Bobba Fett action figure. Pre-mature ejaculation is the ultimate compliment if you think about it. A man finds you so attractive he positively explodes in his pants. What's not to love? I like the clarity and directness of it myself. I've always thought of sex being like baking cookies for a man. Yes, sex is basically wanking much with someone elses bits but it's like baking too. You get the joy of baking and the pleasure of making the cookies, he gets the satisfaction of enjoying the fruits of the baking. Pre-mature jizz is perhaps more like Chips Ahoy, quick, messy, satisfaction in an instant.
------
Zombies
--------
I was listening to Usher's song "D.J got us falling in love again." while at work. I rarely listen to the radio, unless I'm sleepy. I happened to fixate on the lyrics "Thank god the week is done, I feel like a zombie brought back to life." I had to take issue with Usher at this point of the song. Zombies are technically the living dead. If they weren't some form of alive then how would they go about merrily consuming brains? How would they shamble? Are they not, in fact, alive? It's unclear, and vague, and lacking the essential polish a true wordsmith would bestow. Is Usher comparing himself to a zombie whose humanity has been recently restored? Or a zombie who was beheaded and re-animated but is still a member of the unholy zombie nation. I find this dissonance truly appalling.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Wretchedly Clean
Vibrancy shatters into crystalline dust.
Elements of time and the theater of a year dissected.
I drift through your sunlight hoping to be warm again
I can not bring back what once was.
I can not make you want to.
Only the vile dismantle hope into want.
Small victories consecrated in blood.
We hold them like refuse in the morning.
Words felt by touch but never penned on blank pages.
Particles of self drift, longing to be whole.
White light illuminates but does not see.
I can only want and settle like dust.
Defeated particles to gather on a window sill.
Once wiped away, so easily forgotten.
A shuddering scream into the void.
To become clean.
So wretchedly clean.
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Fotc Photoshoppery
Paula Deen and Fotc:
"Hey Ya'll I'm setting fire to your building."
No explanation for this other than I have too much time on my hands.
lPride and Prejudice and Zombies (Jemaine pictured with a casio DG20 as Mr. Darcy)
lWerewolf Jemaine
If Jemaine were my dog bather. (Happy Thought)
No you can't have me Jemaine. I must be free like the wind or sticks.
This has to do with a black seeds song "One by one". In the beginning lyrics you either here the word corn or call. "Summon everything you’ve got. All your forces under the sun
Put the ____ up into the sky." I fill in the blanks firmly with corn! Corn goes in the sky for a very good reason.
lI appreciate your cooking Jemaine.
lJemaine chasing turkeys on a Star Wars AT-AT vehicle.
Parody of a parody of a romance novel cover.
lJemaine unleashing destruction and dancing on our planet.
lBret and Jemaine ready to ride a moose through Target.
Nixon, Jemaine and the Hadron Collider
Jemaine granting the eraser head baby's Christmas wish of watching a Buffalo take a dump.
Hell is Sentient (An Ode to the American Mental Health Care System)
Limp, meaningless heap of girl on the floor. Humanity stripped, in green room, imprisoned.
She screams at the stun guns jolt, head submerged in a drugged ocean.
They watch as she pees. She might leave, before they can help her.
Soon she will be dumped in a room of masturbating men, fighting to stay awake.
If she sleeps, they will rape her. No one will bat an eye. Read the magazine article again.
Words dancing on a page, nothing absorbed. Stay awake. Remain calm. More drugs.
Relief in a ride home in the back of a police car, watching unknown country pass.
Refer to ignore. Pass the cold lumpy potatoes to the next person. Do it again.
The hardest thing is not to ask for help but to receive it.
Hell is sentient and breathes.
Friday, September 30, 2011
Effigy
I'm good at waiting, even while screaming inside.
He exists only because he isn't you.
Another pallid replacement eclipsing shadows of boredom, haunting your trail of breadcrumbs.
I press my skin against the stone divide.
I am not tempted to look, because you do not wish me to.
I belong to your structures, permeated only once by your touch.
It was enough to mark me with a fingerprint of your own.
A scarred etching, painted on the sworls and loops of my soul.
I want to be your peculiar something that can't be quantified or understood.
A conformation to a blasphemy that denies even the most perverse mediocrity.
A walking abomination to even the most libertine societal outcast.
There are no rules, only yours. Only what we deem possible.
If only it were possible.
Acceptance is defeat cloaked in civility, but dream savages it's confinement.
White picket fences burn in effigy.
I come again chasing the remnant ghost of your touch.
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