A RANT FROM A RUNT IS BETTER THAN A CAN'T FROM A CUNT

I have been seeing a lot of negative comments around about those who publish e-books and what having an e-book says about the quality of ones writing and the product produced from said writing. Look, opinions are like assholes and we're all assholes. I get that. But I am an e-book author for the simple reason that I have not yet found an agent or publisher and am merely trying to get my name and work out into the public eye any way that I can. E-books seems like the way to go. Many veterans are doing it as well for whatever reason. Reasons that are like assholes. Unique in their own stinky way, depending on the diet and hygiene of hole owner.

The market is saturated with work because of E-books and while I have heard many voices crying about how this is part of what is killing our precious world of literature I must disagree. You know what is killing our precious world of literature? Not enough quality and too much crap. The crap gets discovered somewhere by someone who thinks their opinion is something more than just an opinion. They have an office and chew pens for a living, so they must be right. I could care less what gets published and what is hailed as the newest masterpiece by Rolling Paper or Jit Girl Magazine. I understand that writing has to be read in order to be valid. In order to be read widely it must be sold. When writing becomes all about selling and no longer about writing anymore then it loses the very essentials that make writing good. This is heart and soul.

I read as much as possible and I love to discover new writers. The market being saturated means that every which way I look I am going to possibly find someone who could blow my mind. This is not an easy task, though it is hardly an impossible mission. I happen to know what I like, and don't like, and that saves me from wasting so much of my time sitting around reading a bunch of garbage that is best left in the can. The truth is, I won't know if something is garbage, or not, until I have at least tried to read it. Can you dig it?

For those of us who love to read there has never been a better time than right now. Good writing and good writers are everywhere. They are not only at eye level but practically falling out of the sky and landing at our feet. Whenever we want to read something, and can't afford to buy a new book, all we have to do is open our eyes. Look! There on your computer screen. You want something to read? Well, there you go. It's that simple.

Good writing and good writers are to be found everywhere these days. Blog sites and web sites. I have even discovered new writers because I liked reading their statuses on Fuckbook or Shitter. It might seem easy to dismiss someone because their work is so available. We always hear them say "You get what you pay for." If it's on the internet, and it's free, and therefore we didn't pay anything for it..... well, it must be crap then. You know what? "They" don't know shit and I wish that "they" would just sit behind their desk and chew their pens and let the rest of us do our thing, an enormous part of which is to figure out what we like for ourselves and hold those likes as close to our hearts as possible and let everything else stay right where it's at and fester for all eternity.

One might think all of this browsing to be quite time consuming. I can tell if someone is worth my time within reading a couple of sentences. I know what I like and I know what I don't like. A philosophy that is basic, but quite effective. If I don't like something, guess what? I don't read it. The more time that is spent not reading shit that I find to be worthless is time that I can use more productively. No, that does not mean bitching about who or what gets published. It means I can read better stuff and write more stuff. Can you dig it?

I am a damn good writer. I believe in my work because it comes from my heart and soul and just because I am unpublished as of yet doesn't mean a squat of piss in a world where drivel like "Fifty shades of shit" is considered literature. I have been a veteran myself of blog sites for several years now and everybody who reads my work has enjoyed it thoroughly, unless they didn't. I take pride in that as well. Even if someone doesn't like what I have to say, at least they read it. Part of being a good writer is getting a reaction, good or bad. A whole other blog entirely though. Every single person who has read my e-book has enjoyed it whether they purchased it or it was given to them. Before anybody chimes in with "I am glad to hear that your mother enjoyed it" let me state that yes, my mother did enjoy it, but only somewhat because it was way out of her genre preference and she barely got through it, though not for lack of credible content.

I know the world is changing and I know a lot of older writers are bitter because of this. Those who have been around the block or the globe for a few years like to think they know everything there is to know. You don't. You know what you know, which is YOU. This is no reason to slag off anybody who is up and coming. If you have not read my work then you don't know shit. If you did give me a chance and read it you would enjoy it like everybody else who has been kind hearted and curious enough to read it. If for some reason that you didn't, well then. Opinions and assholes, ya know?

The bottom line is that I am happy you were fortunate enough to have a career doing something that you enjoy. But on behalf of those who have yet to make our way into the limelight, and for no apparent reason find ourselves and our work scrutinzed and degraded, this despite the fact that you haven't read it because you're too busy fingerfucking someones dirty doughnut hole.... let me just say this..... please keep your rhetoric to yourself, and while you're at it..... go fingerfuck another doughnut hole. Oh, and when you're done, after you fumigate your entire arm thoroughly, if you are looking for something to read might I suggest "50 shades of shit"? Can you dig it? Can YOU dig it? Cannnnnnn youuuuuuuuuu dig iiiiiiiit?

HORNDOG AND THE BEARCLAW HAMMER

Fucking Canada, man. If it weren't for the fact that my only lady friend lived there I'd never even bother. Then I wouldn't have to go through the mess I do each time I want to cross the border. Regular people probably get a wave on through after being handed a complimentary bearclaw. Me being a freak and all though means I get dogs sniffing my balls because they think we're related and fat women with latex fingers probing the outer regions of my ass. Sometimes they let their fingers slip and go beyond the fringes of the rim. Just seems to depend on how sloppy and desperate the volunteer reach 'rounders that offer up their fondling dibs for any given night  turn out to be.

I live in Detroit. It's the shits. I think the female population that would consort with the likes of me must all be infected with AIDS. Canada is much more hospitable. I just despise what I have to go through sometimes for a little affection. I'm not exactly the most attractive male ticket in the slums I call home sweet Hell. This on account of that freak thing I got going on. Such are the spoils of inbreeding. Ma and pa being brother and sister growing up in the same sweatbox of a bedroom somewhere South of Heavenly in a dwarf trailer made for some interesting bedtime manner. Next thing you know they developed a thing for each other and even though they was always warned about the dangers of flipper babies in them training films one touch lead to another and then all them touches became too pleasing to ignore and before they knew it they had me. I was a damn unsavory excuse for a child, let me tell you.

I've often been referred to as "horn dog" on account of I got horns growing from my noggin and more hair on me than an Alaskan malamute. I have been called ugly as sin. Sin don't usually win no trophies either. Had there been a trophy though I would have gladly taken it. Guys that win trophies seem to get laid an awful lot. But me? No prize, no pies. Hence the drive on I-75 so as then I find myself shat over the border into Ontario and meet up with a girl that just wants to be called Lacey. Our dates fall on a week night typically due to traffic reflux. Obvious setback though is more time being hugged up and down and the feel up process tends to make me late sometimes as a result of the more eager types.

If I wasn't so picky I'd be relishing the fact that I always got a free coconut juggle instead of the bearclaw. They're pigs though. Always. Even a freak like me has standards. That is why I have to pay for it and let me tell you if you saw my investment walking towards you in a pair of red garters and a firemans hat you'd slap yourself silly trying to reach around and grab your wallet out of your pants because she is worth every cent in every sense. Oh, and about the firemans hat .... I got standards and preferences. Who doesn't?

I got poked and pawed pretty heartily tonight. This one was ready to play and never seemed to mind the fact she had a steaming hot and filled cup named Joe waving in mists of freshness to her from inside the office  and a bearclaw that looked so damn appetizing I thought of sneaking to the can so I could swipe it off her desk. You thought I was kidding about the bearclaw I would imagine. Hardly. As I posed spread eagle against the glass with her fingertips just inches from my insides I saw the pastry on her desk with my own eyes. Sometimes they even stick one hand in my crack with the bearclaw in the other hand. Lacey has told me I have crumbs in my shorts and glaze on my ass hairs quite a few times. She licks it all clean though for a little extra. What a goddess.

With them hands rubbing over my back stuff I got to thinking about Lacey and am not entirely ashamed to admit that I found myself becoming aroused. The pig tonight was one of the cuter ones. If you have ever set foot in a barnyard and really looked some of those pigs in the eyes after they come rolling out of a GREAT BIG MUD PUDDLE they almost seem so serene that it's kind of cute. It was like that. She asked me if I had anything to declare and I damn near told her that I wanted to smear my beef stick all over that pastry of hers and give her some clawhammer while glazing her with some high fructose corn flavored jiz syrup. I have no doubt she would have obliged. It was getting later than late though and I didn't want to keep Lacey waiting any longer than I already had.

My will to get going would sychronize with my eagerness to be strapped in a chair and have a woman dressed as a judge bang a gavel on my sac. My preferences had long since passed any intention of being simple. I began to fidget but then I felt her hooves exiting my anal cavity and she cleared her throat. Before I could turn around she started gushing like a river of pork pus.

"You know, I have been watching you come through here for a few weeks now-"

She started slurping and laughing and then just stood there staring at me with a post shit eating grin due to her teeth being brown. It was about that time her cuteness faded into the night right alongside of my once hard-on.

Her laughing and slurping continued in lieu of words being spoken and had I not been strongly against animal abuse I would have punched her in the shitty teeth. Still, I was becoming vastly annoyed.

"Can I leave now?" I asked.

She seemed to be deflated only in her expression as her bulges remained pulsating outward. I almost felt bad for a second. Almost. Then I realized that I was starting to feel dizzy from my yogurt being backed up. This was not cool as I still had some driving to do. Lacey would have to wait. It was time to visit the barnyard and do a little swine canoodling. Standards be damned. Horn dog had a date with Bertha the border pig. It was a slow night at the border but if I worked it real fast I would make it to sex court within the hour. I might even grab me that bearclaw off her desk on my way out. Glaze up the old ass hairs. I think I'm developing an addiction to those things.

*****This was part of another old writing challenge. Not sure of the date. Original post was sometime in 2012.*****

DO ZOMBIES TAKE VIAGRA?

 In shadow-
just stretches outside of moonlights path-
there my own closet sits.
Upon the silken throne of my GREAT BIG BED-
obscured by nightfall-
I cling to want of sleep as if it were a jungle gym-
there I am but mere baby steps from the entrance to the fiery pits of Hell.
Inside each and every one of us there is a closet-
that is all life is really-
opening and closing the door that isolates us from our own damnation.
Closed doors only equate us with closed minds-
but if you leave the door open you'll let the bugs fly in and before you know it-
a halo of flies swarms down your throat and blackens your tongue and intestines.
Damned if you do-
damned if you don't-
you're in-
you're out-
what difference does it make?
No matter what side of the door you're on-
you're doomed to walk the earth-
and the only thing that will ever separate you from being like a zombie at the mall-
is deliberation-
like knowing whether you need to wear sunglasses.

*****Scribbles writing challenge. Original post date 8/10/2011*****

THE GIRL WHO LIKES PENIS

She touches me in places

that I didn't know exist-

she's a flicker of lightning

with the flick of a wrist-

but when I get excited

I start to get pissed-

'cuz her lips taste like wine-

yet, there's milk in her kiss.



She begs me to love her-

so I give her a rose-

but where she has been-

nobody knows-

I sweep her off her feet

then she steps on my toes-

there is beauty in truth-

so, what's with the nose?



She talks a good game

but I see through the lies-

there's softness in her voice

and venom in her eyes-

she comes on so sweet

but, there is no surprise-

she falls into me

and brings with her the flies.



She also brings baggage

that I leave at the door-

she asked to come in-

but, I just cleaned the floor-

she makes lots of giggles

and promises to adore-

though I am not tempted-

for I know she's a whore.



She claims to be chaste-

appearing to be clean thus-

she comes from a place-

I think she said venus-

she stands in my light

there's still miles between us-

the girl whose lips

taste like another mans penis.


*****Original post date 1/25/2010*****

LIFE IN DEATHS EYES

You have never really lived until you have watched another person die. Surely a point that could be disputed or questioned altogether, but from the side of the fence that I stand on, it is gospel truth.

All the things that people go on and on about wishing to find meaning in are in essence meaningless. Largest examples being love and life in general. When I first got on here I blogged about love while being blue in the balls and until I was blue in the face. I still blog about it, but one thing that can never be argued is that a man who knows love is a hell of a lot more knowledgeable than a man who knows of love. Same goes for life. I have often heard people say that life is shit. I once lamented this very same chorus. But the reality of this particular duo is simple really. Life and love have no true definition. They vary from street to street and so therefore one way of summing it all up would be to say each of them has no meaning. It's all opinions really and to the solitary heart and mind an opinion doesn't mean shit outside of its own walls.

Love is obviously something that you either do it up or you never live it down. If you find it you realize that when you are standing next to that one person who completes you there is no greater feeling in all the gallery of soul to ever be found than what you know solely from this person being in your life. Love is the shit, my friend. An opinion, yes. Mine based on how fast my own heart beats with only the mention of a name. Love means what it means. Whether that meaning is that it's all you need or that it stinks (to quote John Lennon and J. Geils band) is up to you to decide. Stop trying to define something that you'll never figure out. It's a mystery and we all love them shits. There simply are no greater mysteries to behold than love and life. Love is not the street we are traveling on today though.

Life, then.


Life is shit, huh? Well, if that is the case then you're not doing it right. In fact, if your life is shit then I don't even think it can be defined as life. We all know what shit is. Why would anybody wish to exist within that? There are all sorts of little anecdotes that people throw at you. Not real people with actual substance. It tends to be either those annoying fucks who walk around whistling all day because they can't memorize song lyrics or some street urchin who slumbers and rises, caked in the swill of their own bodies. There are too many to even begin contemplation here, but one nugget of wisdom that instantly springs to mind is "life is what you make it" or the more eloquently spoken variation "you are the captain of your own destiny." On the flip side you have my personal favorite and still going strong and proud philosophy.... shit happens. That says it all in two simple words. Shit happens (or it doesn't if you wish to elaborate even further). In that respect I suppose that life is indeed shit. Why? Because it happens.

People can work their fingers to the bone and then get bone enhancement to make up for their lack of skin and run themselves into the ground in efforts to make ends barely clip each other and still not have a single moment of pride or ecstacy to be checked at the door. You are doing what you were raised to do. Provide for yourself or a family. A noble transaction, absolutely. But, you never can get ahead of the game and one particularly gruesome day that drives you into this ground can sever all spirit and break all of your bones until  you can't even afford further enhancement and so.... you stay in the ground because that is where you will need to be in order to be buried and thus relieved from your miserable existence. So, yeah.... life is what you make it? Okay.... fuck you. Stop whistling. Take a shower.

Whatever. Shit happens. Get used to it.

Sometimes, things just are. It's that mystery thing again. Life. Death. Shit happens and there are no other reasons for it other than it happened. Stop trying to figure it out. You'll give yourself a headache. But life and death are infinitely locked in coalition. Can't have one without the other. Everything that lives is eventually going to die because you can not die unless you were living in the first place. It's not a trig problem on the blackboard of life. It's just life in general.

Living. Dying. It's all the same shit. It takes equal amounts of one to fully understand the other. Although, while everybody does seem to feel an overwhelming need to get a handle on this life thing, nobody even wants to think about death. They are connected, so why not?

Why shouldn't we try and understand one in our efforts to understand the other? I will admit, I was the same way. I only thought about death as a release from the horridly shitty life that I was once non-living. I never really thought too deeply on any of it actually. Life sucks and then you die. There you have it. The truest wisdom that could ever be spoken along with "shit happens." Okay, if your life does in fact suck and then you die..... what is the point of any of it? Isn't that what life is all about? Having a point? We all like to feel that we are here for some cosmic cocktail party or something of equal relevance. It just doesn't work that way. We live.... we die. It's that simple. The fact that we were even able to get out of bed today should be enough to give us wood. Maybe this explains that morning wood thing for men. Maybe we are just so happy to wake up and be given another day that it gives us a chubby. Sounds good enough to me.

I suppose on one level I do agree with the statement "life is shit." It certainly can be. If your life is shit then you need to do something about it. This is not to say you'll be whistling "zip-a-dee-do-da" and jumping over bushes like Dick Van Dyke or anything. But if you make some sort of effort to at least figure out why your life is shit and try and change that then just maybe.... I am not saying for sure now.... but mayyyyyyybe.... your life at least won't be shit anymore. We're all different and labels are irrelevant. We are all living to die and as well we all are dying to live. Except for the ones who feel like their life is shit I would imagine.

In keeping with the whole understanding one to get to the crux of the other thing, my personal opinion is this.... none of it makes any fucking sense so why bother? We have certain control over these lives of ours. But not total. What happens happens. Sure, we can do our parts to make it a little easier but okay.... a man lives his whole life never smoking or drinking or doing drugs because he wants to enjoy his life and then he gets cancer or gets hit by a bus and dies anyway. What is the point there? There isn't one. Shit, like life or death, happens.

I think that really all we can do is concentrate on that which is our own. Before you cry foul ball this CAN include friends and family for those who actually have them and do in fact care to whatever degree. What works for you.... works for you. Babies.... love too. If that is what makes you happy, then do it. but fucking hell man (or woman), just DO IT. Stop sitting around theorizing on it or wishing for some kind of solidarity. Just figure out what keeps your life from being shit and then.... yeah, go do more of that.

I used to sit around and wax myself silly over everything. The day I woke up and decided to ignore all of the bullshit and just concentrate on what makes me happy was the single greatest decision making in my existence. I have blogged about much of this stuff before. Love. The baby thing. Not reading the paper or watching the news and stressing myself out over shit that has no meaning in my grand design. By grand design I am referring to what I see in the mirror. Plain and simple.

We all want to understand why we're here and worry ourselves that there is actually something before, during or after any of this. Classic case in point.... this athiest thing. It's like a fungus growing on my balls here lately. Who gives a shit? Really. I mean, you are alive. Be alive. You'll have plenty of time to debate what mud hole we all crawled out of or what test tube we spilled from when you fucking die. For now? Just live and be happy. If you can't be happy, at least shut the fuck up so the rest of us can have a go at it!

You really want a front row seat to the meaning of life? You are so empty or inquisitive that you really wish to know what or why you are here? Watch somebody die. Seriously. You should try it sometime. All those philosophies and bumper stickers will cease to enlighten you any further and the truth will hit you in the face like a brick. The meaning of life is simple. Don't die. When you're standing there watching another person lose the value in this statement then you will figure out what it's all about.

This all obviously works better for the final exam if the person in question is somebody close to you in some way. Although, if you have a heart at all this won't really mean so much. The fact that you are afforded the luxury of getting out of bed every day and can walk outside and smell the stink in the air and feel the concrete burn the bottoms of your feet, all while you are front and center to what could possibly be another persons last breath, will be all the education that you need be present for.

If you really do want to learn something about life you are going to have to at least shake deaths hand. Visit it one on one and talk to it. Sit down and drink your coffee with it in the morning and say "goodnight sweet death" when the pillow is calling your name. Dream about it so that when you wake up the first thought of the day can be to go bedside and check for a pulse of the person who would probably love nothing more than to be waking up and smelling that stench with you and yelping because their feet are scorched.

If you look deep enough into the pits of their eyes you just might be able to actually feel them slipping away with each passing moment. I can say from firsthand knowledge that is what it's like and with each empty space that furthers the distance between you and the other person you almost feel like a part of yourself is dying. With that much said, let me also tell you that nothing makes you understand life more and wish to cling to it yourself than this sinking feeling of experiencing someone else dying.

What is the meaning of life? Not dying. What is the meaning of death? Not living. What does any of this shit mean in the grand scheme of things? Live while you can because when you can't you'll be dead and wish that you lived more. Death is thought to be the end. The final episode. That remains to be seen by any of us and will in fact only rightfully be discovered upon checking out. Just know that death does make you stronger. Unless you are the one who is dying.


*****Original post date 6/5/2011*****

DIRTY LITTLE SECRET

 Dirty pavements and a clean temperament. It's what I live for.

These two things make the wheels go round and round on this machine I call existence.

Call it apathy-
Call it denial if you must-

I'll just call it Tuesday, thank you very much.

The GREAT BIG WORLD hinges on its axis and might even move way too fast for me sometimes.

As long as I keep my heart and mind sterile and the dirt stays at my feet
I can get by well enough.

This world is so damn ugly.
I am not blind.
But I am also not judging a beauty pageant either.

There is probably beauty on every corner in every city of this slum that I inhabit.
You just have to look for it pretty deep and I admit not being overly gifted in the patience department.

I'm alright though.
Except when I'm not.

Red light!
Green light!
Stop!
Go!

Where was I?
Oh, yeah.
Which way is up?
I kind of lost my sense of direction a long time ago.

FUCK YOU!
I KNOW MY RIGHTS!

Or was it left?
I never was very good at geography.

You wanna hear a secret?
You're gonna have to come closer, so I can whisper into your ear.

Don't worry.
I won't bite.

Not unless you're into that sort of thing.
In which case, just call me jaws.


Human is my cancerous nature.
Thank god it's in remission.

I love me.
I'm the shit.

You?
You're just shit.
I know because I can smell you all the way over here.

We're good though.

At least on my side of the street.

 Okay. NO.

Who am I kidding?

This world gives me gas and I am one burrito away from being an accident waiting to happen.

How I wake up each day and not find myself stabbing to death the first warm body within the jurisdiction of my samurai sword is my minds dirtiest little secret.

*****Scribbles writing challenge. Original post date 11/30/2010*****

WOOD IS GOOD

 The silky rhythms of Ludwig Van caressed his senses as he walked by the sapling in his neighbors yard on his way from backwashing their pool. It was then he began to feel a certain sense of warmth overcome his parts. A flood of elation no doubt compounded by all the wine being distributed throughout these parts, causing an effect not unlike his very soul being fellated.

With his neighbors often in travel mode, having once been a very reputable pool guy, he was asked to keep an eye on their chlorinated oasis. With his responsibilities came a key bearing full dibs on an outdoor cooler locked and stocked with enough beer and wine to intoxicate the church choir girls so abundantly they could all end up becoming pregnant.

He had lost track of all the pool care given and alcohol consumed just as much as he had miscalculated the number of miles that his mind found itself wandering as he passed by their tree with each step. The weird little dancing girl tree he had called it. Though some found it to be an eyesore on an otherwise bountiful garden alex had grown rather fond of this particular sprouting. It's branches chiseled with most exquisitely unique detail by Mother Nature so as that it curved in all the wrong and yet so right places. Upon initial glance it's appearence evoked a grace not unlike that of an agile ballerina. Not having even casual female presence amongst his current existence found Alex dubbing the unusual tree his dream girl.

He had often joked that one of these drunken nights while minding the pool he was going to join the tree in it's supposed dance. Tonight as he hummed along to the classical music that orchestrated from within his head he felt the moment overtake him. Though his vision would be impaired he smiled at the weird little dancing girl tree and his agile ballerina lead him into buoyant frolic. With one hand on her tiny waist and another in the grasp of wooded palms the magic of drunken dance impelled his body in mirthful waltz.

The wind flapped it's glorious wings in a whipping frenzy of his delusion. Through alcohol fueled hazing there were mutual smiles exchanged    between himself and the weird little dancing girl tree. With the magical strains of Ludwig Van reaching outward from his skull into the night air rhythm cradled on the flapping winds driving his gyrations mad with delirious ferocity. It was as if his loins were consumed by urges augmented of their own ultra-violence. No amount of toxic liquified consumption would be able to justify the fact that Alex was now infected with full blown horn dog disease. Through drunken meditation there existed miniscule regret for his lack of companionship. A rendering that would trump overlooked knowledge that tomorrow morning he would be extracting splinters from his fleshy regions. As above so below.


*****Scribbles writing challenge. Not sure of original post date*****

THE REAL STORY OF REALIVES

The man sitting alone in his underwear caked with days old filth laughed out loud in his mind.  Since discovering this new website called realives dot com he hardly ever did anything in the physical sense. Smiling, and all of its more exuberant variables, had been replaced by announcing via internet speak to all the rest of the dis-affected world class that he was currently LOL or LMFAO. Affection had been replaced with rampant smacking of the newly installed hugs and kisses keys on the function pad that allowed him to interact with the only friends and family that he had ever known, or not, so well.

He had given up all rights to his birth name in lieu of becoming a rather notorious cowboy on the cyber ranch under the guise of an avatar he snatched from the young male section of the Kohl's online catalogue. According to those who loved him best, mostly because they were the only ones who claimed any sort of affection for him at all, he was an attractive Hispanic adolescent with rippling biceps, and an impressive bulging down there in the sexy mezzanine, who went by the name of Chico Google.

Life had been somewhat of a rollercoaster ride that dipped more so in valleys than ascending peaks, and after losing his well paying office job, Chico Google now relegated himself to a shady corner of his living quarters only illuminated by the rays of his social activity. There he would maintain an authority that hog-tied lovingly and beat the shit out of anything he had experienced from instructional or employment outlets and in between ranting and hugging he would re-discover the joys of Chinese delivery through the fondling of his Tyrannosaurus Rex sized nest egg. 

This half-existence he had thus far endured, against his better judgment, now became worth leaping from his skank ridden mattress every single morning and logging into where he truly mattered. The love that he felt in places that he often times neglected to bother washing, because there simply wasn't enough time in the day, made him tingle so greatly on many nights that it overjoyed him into fits being able to hide behind his computer screen. Where else could he smell like an ass pocket of a newly crowned swamp racer, and touch himself merrily, all while being praised and heaped upon affectionately?

Life had meaning now for this rogue buck and stud puppy named Chico Google. He flirted with any avatar remotely feminine. Sometimes he would do this without checking the gender box on the person’s home page. This caused him no stress though as it was the internet and, if no one could see his true identity or smell him, who cared what they thought of his Romeo skills?

His sexual conquests paled in expense to verbally attacking anyone and everyone that he pleased though. A good beat off session would hardly exert Mickey’s seconds ticker on his limited edition Disney watch that he purchased from sleaze-bay a couple of weeks ago. But ruining the cyber experience and bungling the daily grind for some worthless boob or bung-hole? That was like winning the ego lottery.  

His active wardrobe consisted of sticky underwear that chafed his skin as he paused leaving a thumbs down or a middle finger on the blog of a competitor to answer the door and collect his yum yums from Mr. Wang’s carry on and carry out. The fact that it all sounded so pathetic would be eclipsed by his status as a Blogstar who had overtaken the popular list. This was a numerically sequestered collection plate made up of the most drama addicted bulldozer slinging, wilted worm, stone penny loafers the kingdom of cyber huggers and fuckers had to offer anyone lacking enough substance to create an account there. Chico had never slept easier night or day than with the full on knowledge that at least a third of the buzzing fly posts and celebrated blogs were the excessive drivel he posted there daily. Thoughts and non-thoughts strategically allocated from clicks and views of equal parts adoring fan base and those who hated him for being such a motherfucker but just had to look anyway.

Outside his doorway he was nameless and faceless. But in his hole lived the wicked king of realives dot com. A site that according to its home page allows real people to disconnect from reality and connect to other real people who are as well equally or more so disconnected. This was his real world now. Occasionally he was prone to step down from his throne and rub the body parts in his mind of fellow members like weensy beensy bunny hole, fukfuk, urinal suckdress, moonwhore and ppfloyo. These were some of his favorites to chat it up with daily. Well, except for weensy beensy bunny hole.

She was only his stalker. But the rest were friends and family that really cared about him because they told him so often onscreen.

Even the president blogged on realives dot com, though Chico had only just gotten to know him recently. Chico enjoyed hugging and flirting with female avatars way more than male ones. Nothing could make him feel better than a really suggestive comment from someone with a sexy female avatar. There had been a scandal involving the president on the site. After several postings claiming that his presidential avatar was in fact his own image it was discovered these claims had been falsified when the president gave his, now famous from multiple re-ups in the buzzing fly posts, going in and out and coming clean from the closet speech that was looked at and liked on and licked all over around the globe. Everyone loved the fact that the president would wish to blog in their backyard so they all begged him to stay. This prompted him to change his avatar sex and now Chico could feel so much better knowing that he was flirting with a woman. Not to mention that he takes immense pride in telling the president he is only wearing a tube sock on his tube steak. 

Every day, while he filled his belly with crab bang spoons and rocket red chicken gizzards from Mr. Wang’s, Chico touched himself and in turn touched others. Of course there were many who defiled the tunnel vision of his pinheaded beliefs. First there was the shrouded incarnate of evil herself. Red_queen_b.

Her desperate attempts at stealing the bloglight from Chico sometimes managed to work only because her avatar was sometimes entirely nude. He knew that wasn't her in the picture because she had blogged regularly about having houses in San Tropez and San Dimas populated with her illiterate progeny and the woman in the avatar did not so much posses a single stretch mark. This infuriated Chico. His mirrors hardly reflected the boyish wonder of a barely clothed super boy model from Guadalupe. But when he logged in to his world his rules were all that mattered to him and nothing else. Fuck these people and their fake avatars and made up adventures. He even questioned the members of the atheist club on their whereabouts Sunday mornings.

His other nemesis was bell BIG bob joe.

A "white gangsta' boy frum da' drrrty south" according to his about me section. His postings were often rendered incomprehensible from his over usage of stupid and slang but he regularly found his way into the buzzing fly posts because his avatar showed him not wearing a shirt and having rippled pecs. This avatar deception was such bullshit. He felt like he should be the only one able to fake and take. But his other two blogger banes had nothing to do with their avatars. They were just shit.

Floppydick was an out of work semen dropper who blogged heavily intoxicated and attacked all the young women who posted blogs about how big their boyfriends dicks were or how little food they managed to digest that day. Floppydick gave ruling and trolling a bad name because he was so drunk and stupid that he couldn't even spell words like cunt ( KUNT) or whore (HOR) that he littered his many posts a day with. There is nothing wrong with attacking someone for being a cunt or a whore on an internet social rally provider as long as the attacker spells correctly or doesn't slaughter their native language with dimwitted lingo like that ass monkey bell BIG bob joe.

By far the most detestable piece of blogging excrement to be found in the cyber toilet bowl would be the gender bending dual sex addict who goes by the name of i_luv_cock.

This lowlife scum of the afterbirth was a regular fixture on the sites accolades as a result of curious viewers clicking onto blogs that detailed such riveting subject matter as how to swallow loads of cum without burping and finger fuck painting with urine and feces used for stink ink. Chico hated this blogger more than any other and had even created several phantom accounts with names like i_luv_dick_violence and i_hav_cock_and_snatch to antagonize and rival this extremely well esteemed blogger fuckhead.

Chico logged onto the buzzing fly posts and right away his erection dissipated at the sight of the first ten blogs accompanied by an avatar depicting a she-male in self-fellatio mode. Thus indicating the sites biggest rectum licker, i_luv_cock, had won the previous days blogging wars. This was un-acceptable on so many accounts. Even the ones Chico didn't know that he had opened.

Immediately he posted a new blog entitled "two sex organs and zero brains."

Within fifteen minutes his genius nonsense explaining that anyone who spends the bulk of their time filling all of their orifices with meat and fish had skyrocketed into compost heap with 47 views, 18 of which left comments that he didn't read because he was too busy finger tapping his, now back to stately, rod piece.

Just then, a blog from bell BIG bob joe sprung up into the recent blog section with the title "Mexicans are mexi-cants.” Chico didn't click on the blog because he didn't have to. He knew that he could and he did quite often, way more than he couldn't at least. What difference does it make that some gang rapper from the caspar ghost ghetto felt differently?

Ppfloyo logged on and posted a blog called “eye positive equals nose negative." She was such an uplifting blogger. Sometimes just the mere sight of her avatar made him skip his thumb across the knob of his wiener. If this was indeed her she really should wear a bag over her head for optimum primus. There was a black toothed grinning, rats nest wearing, snookums puss faced dick softener with a nose best resembling a flaked off piece of pie crust. But her positive outlook on her life without mirrors put lumps in the throats of bloggers everywhere. She was a gem amongst ugly women and right after Chico busted a nut in thirty seconds of fantasizing about a way less putrid picture of her that only shown her sparkly toe nail painted feet he was going to wipe his joy juice on a flyer for dominos pizza that had expired and say HI to her and give her a GREAT BIG HUG.

He spurted from the hole of his helmet but before he could wipe his gooey discharge the instant chat window popped up and weensy beensy bunny hole said "I am watching you." To this he replied "yes I know." After this exchange repeated itself for a good five minutes and ppfloyo logged off, before he could hug her real tight and perverted like, he grumbled to himself about how weensy beensy bunny hole was so clingy and weird and shut off his chat window.

A few minutes later a blog showed up in the recent posts accented by her bunny nosed, puke green dyed hair avatar that was labeled “I am watching Chico Google.” Chico ignored her just like everybody else because he had more important things to blog about and masterbait to once he hit the refresh button.

With a poetic gleam of inspiration Chico spat out a blog titled "A favorite poem that I just made up" that went something like "farting in the month of May, as brown cows are lead astray. Meat I shall never chew. I'd rather sniff armpits just like glue. " He sat happily in a soiled stain that he could feel spreading its warmth across his unkempt buttocks but his joy was short lived as weensy beensy bunny hole posted a new blog called "I love poetry about armpits." There was only one thing left to do. Place her in FUCK OFF mode. This was another new feature added to his keyboard down the next row underneath of his hugs and kisses button. With a click and a greasy sputtering of fumes, from the swordfish fighter cakes he shoved down his throat without chewing, she was gone. Right down the brown bunny hole. 

He noticed that i_luv_cock had racked up several thousand more views a piece for the top blogs in the dung heap so Chico quickly logged into his i_luv_dick_violence account and posted several gory post operational dong shots. One particularly gruesome image that displayed the no longer attached organ wearing a sombrero and sporting a penciled in moustache was flagged by an annoying site member called blogglefuck. Before Chico could blog about his anger he saw that floppydick had posted several blogs in the recent posts area stating that he wanted to KILL ALL KUNTS. This made Chico dribble from his noodle because now the best thing about floppydick was that when he went on a drunken blog rampage against all the KUNTS and HORS the staff spent the entire day moderating his outbursts by correcting grammar and then posting several blogs that graphically detail the one anal two fisted love policy the site adheres to. Chico could now set his attack meter to red zone and give this he-she-it-whatever a run for the buzzing border.

Moonwhore began posting several blogs that begged for people to stop her from logging out and logging back in repeatedly. Fukfuk, whose about me section claims "eye Chinese yay mee wow yoo" was leaving the same comment on all of her blogs that said "mee yoo moon fuk". This apparently angered her and she posted a blog stating she would never return until after she decided to log in after eating a fruit salad for lunch that day and after all of this drama nose dived the activity in the recent posts and buzz section compost pile seemed to stabilize itself. This gave Chico the perfect opportunity to regain his blogging crown from the dreaded he-she-it-whatever who had now just re-posted a blog from last week where he-she-it-whatever pissed their pants on video and then squeezed salty lemonade from the seams and drank it out of a Fred Flintstone mug.  

One way to blog correctly is give your audience some good old fashioned drama. Chico took several rants from his drafts that he had been saving for a rainy day and labeled them "I fucking hate faggots!" parts one through five. He smiled, knowing that should get him a good few legs up and farts down that he-she-it-whatevers throat. While he waited for his blog magic to overtake the dung heap he got caught up on some messages and comments. There was a comment on one of his recent blogs called "I fucking love maggots!" from Dane Bramage that said “As I was reading this blog I began to contemplate how one might indeed love a maggot. Would this be pre or post larval state? I once let a maggot crawl on my genitals and this was quite fulfilling in a molecular and yet quite overall delightful type of tingly way. The title of this blog made me curious as to whether the writer of said blog had indeed given over to pleasures of the same." This was all that Chico could get down of this mind-numbingly uninteresting diatribe. His retort was an all caps rendition of "I FUCKED YOUR MOTHER AND THE MAGGOTS WERE BETTER.” This made him smile BIG. Dane Bramage would contemplate that for several weeks.

Chico felt really bad about missing ppfloyo earlier so he put a comment on her home page wall. He was feeling very romantic today so he informed her that "I would love you and hug you close even if you had crab-lice in all of your furry regions. " As he refreshed the page to leave her home base there were tears in his eyes. She was such a beautiful soul and therefore deserved nothing but the most beautiful in return. His comment of love would no doubt bring tears to her eyes as well and he hoped that she would reply with something equally as elegant.

With weensy beensy bunny hole and floppydick out of the picture now Chico began to wonder where red_queen_b was at today. Maybe she had written another one of her "goodbye I’m leaving" blogs that she was extremely well known for. These usually would keep her away for a couple of minutes tops. Just then bell BIG bob joe posted a blog called "ET fingered my redneck aunt and phoned home sick.” This asshole was always trying to pass work that he stole from other blog sites off as his own. Chico had seen him do it. But the damage was always done because the time other bloggers spent clicking on these plagiarized master works was time lost on his own deep and thought provoking wisdom waste.

As Chico began working up several more blogs in his "I fucking hate faggots!" series to dazzle the popular suction he noticed that greenie beanie had posted a new blog. She was the deepest thinker of the blogging bunch. His curiosity got the best of him and forced him to pause his enlightening responsibilities because when this lady blogged everybody simply must stop whatever they are doing and read because life as they know it will be changed. Greenie beanie was the be all know all of the universe. Sort of like Dr. Spock, Dr. Phil, Mr. Spock and Mr. Ed all rolled up into the body of a woman that, if her avatar was in fact her, had a wandering third eye.

Chico could not help but be mesmerized by her every posting like everybody else and when he clicked on her new blog called "I spy third eye pumpkin pie" he was instantly reminded why because he felt like he had just stepped into a pool of words melded together so masterfully that he was now cooling himself in an ocean of insight and out sanity. Greenie beanie's words and wisdom touched him all over and by blogs end he had jizzed all over his keyboard in an orgasm of ferocious pud pounding intensity and had not even been physically fondling his fuck stick. Though his thoughts began to wander his feet were nailed into place when he saw the recent blog posts.

Red_queen_b had returned. It was announced in the title of her blog that "I am back and I am still naked.” Chico knew that it was all over. Since she had apparently had her fallopian tubes mashed in with a monkey wrench and could no longer have any drooling imbeciles she had taken to playing a game of "I’m coming/I’m going" which the rest of this site seemed to be playing eagerly right along with her, their attention and nerve endings focused on her every here and theres and backs again. Chico didn't stand a chance to the naked avatar and constant whining that she treated everybody with each day she was present. Even the days she was absent left people to blog in agony of her disappearance and query "where oh where might our red_queen_b be at." No matter how strapping he appeared in his avatar Chico Google was no match for the crimson bitch whore. The only reason he stood any ground against greenie beanie was because she didn't blog very often. After all, her blogs were so crowded with intellect and depth that it took days and days and sometimes months to compose them, not to mention comprehend them.

Chico felt all the veins popping and dropping within his head piece and began posting blog after blog called "fuck the red queen slut bitch!" After he posted too many of these blogs to count he let out a sigh of relief and upon his massive exhale he saw that all of his blogs had taken up the entire front page of the popular post buzzing fly dung heap. He couldn't believe it. He felt like more than a blogstar. He was a rock hard dick star with curled toes and back hair generating an electrically charged afro.

As he opened back up his chat window he was flooded with praise and so many friend requests poured in that he thought he might have to touch himself. In fact, he did touch himself because he realized once again that he was touching others. This meant that all of them were touching each other and it felt so good that he could burst. In fact, he did burst. Realizing the mess that he sat in he hoped that when the delivery man brought his dinner tonight he would not find himself stuck to the chair. 

As he lifted each of his cheeks on their own to make certain that he was not sticking to the chair from all the hot mess he noticed a new blog posted in the recent section. It was from his great friend and undisputed leader of the site, urinal suckdress. The blog was called "how to deep throat a platypus.” It had pictures too!

Urinal suckdress was the heroin and crack cocaine of realives dot com.

Everybody loved her and followed her every command and move. Once she told everybody to leave the site for another one. The place became a ghost town. Once the competition site folded up shop she then told everybody to come back and since then things have been livelier than ever. She was the number one blogger there and always would be on account of she sucked all the cocks and ate all the moon pies of the staff. She deserved to be number one because not only did she service the staff orally and anally but she blogged about it on a regular basis (with visual aids!). Chico was in the top ten. He fluctuated between numbers seven and nine but as long as he never slipped out of the ten he would be happy.

I_luv_cock posted a blog called "fucking fake fony assholes!" that was complaining about how other people who posted blogs about swallowing loads or pissing their pants had never really done either one. This was not right he-she-it-whatever said. Family spirit filled Chico's cup as the recent posts and buzzing turd pile was littered with all the familiar faces that Chico knew and loved (and loathed) so well. Petunia cloudsniffer posted a blog called "I am so happy I could shit my pants. " Rim jim job bob (another cracker gangster from down in Southern septic tanks) posted a blog called "sock puppets and meat sacks." Fukfuk posted a blog called "yoo r mee eye cum on yoo. "

Moonwhore was back. Everybody ignored her. But she was back and they couldn't be happier for her. Red_queen_b became upset at all the attention not being paid to her and posted another one of her "goodbye I’m leaving" blogs. Urinal suckdress left a comment on the blog that said "don't let the computer screen door hit you in the ass." After that everybody stayed away from the blog and her plea for attention and cyber titty twisters didn't even go near the buzzing pile. Just goes to show that when urinal suckdress writes you off, so does everybody else.

Ppfloyo posted an absolutely beautiful blog called "Me and Mandela and Martin" that featured a homemade video of her having a threesome with a Nelson Mandela look-alike and a Martin Luther King Jr.  look-alike and grunting through uplifting poetry that spoke of sexual freedom with much intense anal articulation.

It was like they all were all having a blog block party on realive street. Blogglefuck began flagging all of the posts. After all, he was not invited because everybody thinks that he is a douche. When he saw that he was no match for all the fun that was being had he got in on the act and posted blog after blog filled with pictures taken inside of the anus of his ex-wife, and blogger moron, snookie puss. The pictures were disgusting because she is an actual beast liberated from the zoo, but Chico still found himself masterbaiting to them because he had never had such a good time in all of his life. Neither had anyone else. It was like one big happy family hugging and touching each other.

While Chico was touching himself he began to realize just how much he really belonged here. These loathsome malcontents were his family. A family of freaks that would soon make history. Urinal suckdress was going to lead them all into the internal gas chamber on the side of the information superhighway right next to where she peed in cups and sold it at her lemonade stand on sleaze-bay. It was there that all of them would touch each other so deeply they would induce the world’s largest orgasm in the goonies book of world records. Though society had shunned them, along with blood relatives and work place assholes, the gang over at realives dot com was changing the world. Their world. A fake world indeed. But it belonged to them as nothing else ever had.

Chico called in an order of duck bill dick sausages at Mr. Wang’s and prepared for the cyber orgy. He was going to rub duck dick grease all over his already filthy body and then spend the night hugging and rubbing all over his family because that is what family does. Before his food would arrive he took one last look at the buzzing fly posts and tried to think of another riveting blog that he could share with his community.  He smiled because he had to take a shit. Then he grimaced and let forth a lusciously ripe nugget of brown pride into his boogie toilet internet rocker bench. Simply the most convenient invention ever bought and sold on late night television by a crazed entrepreneur hopped up on crystal meth and a healthy dollop of "yay wow.”  Even before he could courtesy flush and begin to wipe Chico set about writing his newest blog-ster-piece that would dazzle those not exactly by his sides and at his back but forever in his pockets even though he never wore any clothes. This excited him so much that he began to fart the theme to "Three's company" and knowing full and well that a real bloggers duties are never done he sang aloud

"Come and knock on our door . . . . . We been waitin' for youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu. . . . . . . "

*****Original post date 9/22/2011*****

HOUSTON HAS A BIGGER PROBLEM NOW

Madonna squirmed in her chair as the material of her underwear rubbed her private area in all the wrong ways. She looked over a few rows at her once girlfriend, and now nememis, Elton John and gave him the devil horns. Soon the Granny Trannys would announce the winner for the queen of the ball and both her and the man who no longer answers to the name Reggie were favorited to win.

The evening had dragged on like unfinished roadkill oozing its way onto the shoulder of the road. Nobody wanted to be there anyway because of Whitney. Everybody was depressed. Well, except for Madonna and Elton. They could care less about the death of a diva unless that diva were to be one of them and even then they would probably rise up and demand their award posthumous.

At the start of the week all had been well in preparation for ego's grandest celebration on the musical front. Live from la la land it was to be the 1000th or something within range Granny Tranny awards. All the men who were nominated wore cod pieces to highlight their wardrobe and accentuate their bulging genitalia that was only a result of equal doses of accolade and viagra. All the female artists who pleaded and groaned on digital medium to be taken seriously each year wore their best fuck me pumps and dresses slit all the way down to the cockpit. It was a night of extravagance that few outside of those in attendance cared anything about. Still, each year the masses must gather and hand out cheap platinum plated trinkets to all of these assholes, otherwise they would cry foul and no longer bless the world with their fetid drivel disguised as music.

Host LLcoolj took the stage cautiously so as not to slide on all the soiled panties that littered his path. He stepped up to the microphone amidst drunken hog calls and cleared his throat. Both Madonna and Elton perked up in their seats as if their nipples would burst through their gowns and their mouths hung in gaping pie hole mode as the cool J who dirty old ladies love best prepared to work it through speech.

Both diva douches had endured flights that were far beneath their royal status for this single moment in time. Since Gerard Pee-pee doo-doo had urinated on a stewardess in first class prior to setting her aflame the airlines had been cracking down on delinquet behavior in the first class regime. Madonna was quite well renowned for her own penchant for water sports and Elton John had his pictures posted on every single airplane that took to the sky because he liked to flash his junk pile to the crew as they were trying to man the flight. When asked on the penis show by leading gossip columnists Moppy Ray Cyprus and Russel Crowsfeet about this he simply said "Pfft! It is called a cockpit ya know!"

It was a changing world though and even those who are celebrated in their own heads are no longer afforded the luxury to dish out shit patties on airplane menus.  Since Madonna and Elton John were too stupid to learn how to fly a plane they were unable to have their own transport means like that enterprising fencing metal messiah Bruce Dickinson. This meant they were banned from first class and forced to fly frist class, which is pretty much just like first class except that it sucks. So, horrid traveling experiences had dumped these two jackoffs on the steps of the Manny Tranny building in downtown Los' Angels Ass and here they sat awaiting the moment to stand onstage and chatter incessantly about themselves.

Elton seemed to be taking the whole experience with several grains of salt because his husband David Furniture had given him a tube steak in the mens bathroom in between one of the dreadful musical numbers. He seemed to be patiently awaiting the announcement of his name so he could collect his trophy and tell Madonna to eat his shit politely in his seat like a good little queen and he sloshed around the ocean of salty grained steak juices in between his false teeth. Madonna on the other hand had been heckling Jcool breeze all night because this night was no longer about any of the artists that were nominated for their stupid awards and it certainly was no longer about Madonna, who waxed all of her body hair along with assurance that she was the queen of all balls.

Since it had been announced that Whitney Houston had died the night before every single moment of the evening had been all about her. Her life. Her death. Her career. The whole thing pissed Madonna off and now she just wanted to hear her name called by someone other than a fuck buddy and grab her award so that she could make her speech and thank everyone who ever lived and died and then go the fuck home. One thing she knew for sure though. When Madonna basked in the rays of the ghetto ass stagelights she would not be thanking Whitney for dying. She knew damn well that bitch could have picked another night to overdose instead of right before Granny Tranny night.

LLcoolj stood still and looked annoyed because Biz Markie was flicking boogers at Jughead Beaver and his date, which was a mannequin hand dressed to impress in the infamous Michael Jackson glove he had purchsed from that totally awesome auction site called Bay-bay. There was a moment of silence for everyone and not just Jughead who had globs of nose nodules in his ear canal. Then LL began to speak lovingly as only LL can speak it.

 

"Tonight is a night that we have come to honor those who we pay tribute and give what we can give so as to be as what we all be. In the being of what it be we must all let it be just like my men John Lennon and Paul Shartney said back in the days when they was all beatle juiced up."

There was a pause and Madonna looked over at Elton with a smile on her face before she feigned having a cock ramming her in her also false teeth. This was it. She knew it. Whitney had left more than just the building and Eltons career was nothing more than week old dried and dusted Granny panties. Madonna was now to be the star attraction of the evening. She was so caught up in the moment that she failed to see a photographer snap a picture of her lips sporting a line of drool that, though hanging in one piece, would have measured a solid five roper in porno scale.

LL stepped over the mounds of filthy underwear and stood behind the podium to hide the fact that he was sporting a chubby. As he found himself caught up in the moment and stroking the microphone as if it were a lady who loved him long time he spoke softly.

"Tonight is about art."

This was greeted by a horde of applause and more hog calling.

"It's about love-"

Many calls of "right on!" were heard.

"-Respect-"

"R-e-s-p-e-c-t, motherfucker!" was yelled by Al Green, who apparently was no longer a Reverend, as he jumped up and howled like a fuck hungry wolf mother. This brought laughter and plenty of yay wow looks around the room as LL continued preaching the gospel of orgasm.

"Tonight is about one woman-"

This brought a smile so large upon Madonna's face that it could have jumped from her shoulders and masterbaited in the aisle right next to George Michael, who surely would have liked it more than just on fuckbook.

"The woman who says everything about what a woman really is. I know because back in my day I used to f#%@ many of these bitches proper."   (Oops. Censors got your tongue EL.)

This caused many women in the audience who were sitting next to their husbands to crank their necks floorward and become face to palm.

"A woman ain't just a woman though and every man knows this. A real woman is a queen. Not just for a day but queen of these right here-"

He grabbed his nutsac and grinned from ear to ear.

"Queen of the balls, bitches."

Just then, a voice garbled with static screeched over the frequency landing right in his ears.

"Uhhh .... EL .... its queen of the ball. But we still love ya baby."

LL dropped his hands from his nuts and stood back behind the podium.

"Yeah yeah.... yeah.... ball. I knew that. Queen of the ball. Just one. A mother@*%#*! ( His expletive grabbed away again with no respect what so ever by the seven second delay) haves to keep hold on the other in case of emergency."

This brought a moment of confusion to the mix in the crowd and LL jumped right back into his heartfelt eulogy.

"Tonight we stand up because we is on the rise and to rise is to rea-lize and when we realize that we is standing tall that means we can not be small and so we must open up our hearts and give love where there is love most needed."

Madonna was as close to shitting her pants as she had been in the last 48 hours from the moment she heard the words "open up our hearts" because she knew she had a song called something like that shit. She clenched all the wrinkles in her ass cheeks as tight together as they had been since that night she had a fuck tub party with Anthony Cleetus and Flea Dip Bag of the rod hot smelly petters. The outfit Madonna had on prohibited the wearing of depends without visual confirmation so her bowels would have been on their own. But this was the moment that Madonna had been waiting on with little regard for patience and there was no way she was going to ruin it by shitting herself. She smiled sweetly knowing damn well that she had a grapefruit shoved in her ass cavity for blockage. The night was hers now and as LLcoolj worked his way to her name she stood up and headed towards the stage.

"Tonight we have gone above art to showcase love. Love is better than art because love is beautiful. Art can be beautiful too but art will not give ones jewels that shine it so rightly deserves."

LL smiled feeling large and in charge at his masterful attempt to beat the censors because had he become lost in the heat of the moment he was going to reach down and pull out little EL and start waving it around the room. After all, little EL was way too familiar with much of the women in the room anyway. Should old acquaintence be forgot EL always felt it best to show 'em what you still got. This became his new motto because he was too old to still be knocking motherfuckers out just because of his moms say so.

"With the gracious love that fills this room here tonight so deeply that it feels up the world like a titty," he paused and then broke out with a terminator love smile because times have changed since rap was young and now you can say titty on the tube. Maybe it was because titties ain't nothin' but a tube to begin with. Whatever the case he spoke on and smiled on and on and on much to the annoyance of Madonna who had now stopped on her walk towards the stage because EL wouldn't shut up the hell up. As the rapper and lover genius rattled on Madonna had parked her rose colored wrinkled bum cheeks on the arm rest of the seat where Russel Crowsfeet was sitting.

There seemed to be no end in sight to the speech that LL was giving so Madonna had decided to make a pit stop and engage in flirtacious behavior with a man whose idea of foreplay was to have his women give him a dutch oven and then try to guess what they had for dinner. Madonna had downed a hefty sized bowl of chili in the parking lot she had taken from a street vendor after flashing him her penis. Russel Crowsfeet became intoxicated with the intense high powered chili powder stench. Meanwhile LL kept on going like an energizer bunny fuck.

"Through the genital and generous donations tonight from four out of the five award nominees we have decided that majority is where its at here in this joint and so I am pleased as the Kool-aid kid at one of my moms house parties to announce that the winner of the queen of the-"

He stammered for a second before catching himself nicely and smiling his final words right into the camera to nobody at home because that is who was watching him.

"-Ball for tonight at Granny Tranny 2012 is none other than-"

Madonna slid her ass that was now stuck on the face of Russel Crowsfeet like the embryo layer in alien from its seat and raced back towards the stage.

"The true star of the evening and diva of a lifetime.... Miss Whitney Houston."

The crowd erupted in applause that rivaled the attack at Pearl Harbor and Madonna stopped dead on her stick legs. This could not be happening. But, as she looked over in a nightmarish haze to see Elton John smirking proudly, she knew very well that it was.

"Oh helllllllllllll no!" She screamed so loud that it silenced the room as if she had brought forth a roar from her chili closet.

LL looked down at her and smiled that shit eating grin that he had picked up from one of his German tours.

"Hey, Madonna! What up, babycakes? I almost didn't recognize you without your body hair."

Madonna was pissed off and it showed because after her face turned fire engine red it became piss yellow.

"I am the queen of the ball. I am the queen of all the balls. Everybody here knows it and I have this to prove it-"

She parted her thong and waved her penis around the room. This made LLcoolj extremely angry for the first time tonight because he had wanted to do just that and his angered state caused him to wonder how much of this shit the censors were allowing on the broadcast and he zapped the fuck out.

"Bitch, sit the fuck down!" He yelled with no regard for the censors or the audience that wasn't watching.

Madonna stomped up onto the stage and grabbed the award from his hands very easily because LLcoolj despite being well known for his persona as a hardened lover is actually quite soft.

Just then the doors at the back of the auditorium flew open and the orchestra queued up the theme to jaws as every head in the room turned in a pitiful attempt to imitate Filthy Regan Macneil. Then a voice echoed from the street and bounced off the walls like some old school Johnson magic.

"Back the fuck up bitch! This is my house. I'm queen of this motherfucker now."

A crack smoke fog rolled in the air like Ike rolling Tina down the river and when the air cleared itself and the coughing stopped in walked-

"Whitney??????!!!!" Madonna and LL both exclaimed in a symphony of surprise.

Whitney stumbled in the room and fell down on the carpet. The crowd near the nose bleed section began to gather around her but her waify frame popped back up like a defective Jack in the box. With her flesh eaten index finger bone raised at high noon she hobbled down the aisle towards the stage grunting and groaning her displeasure at Madonna. Their exchange was down in the audience and this year all the studio could afford was cheap ass equipment so their words found themselves uncensored by those certain broadcasting shitheads which everybody knows is what cbs really stands for.

"Gimme my pi- I mean my trophy bitch!" Whitney screamed.

Madonna laughed at the haggard looking corpse of Whitney that had somehow been reanimated. She had obviously not planned for death like Madonna who was going to be criogenically preserved in Wintry sludge straight from the depths of Icelands coronary district and then thawed out at every single awards show.

"Look at you. You're a disgrace to what it means to be a diva and a woman. What did you do? Crawl here straight from the morgue downtown?  I just performed at the Super bowel. What have you ever done in the last fifteen years except time in prison in crack minutes?"

Whitney shook her head slowly because as a freshly raised corpse there was much chance of her neck snapping and her head rolling down the aisle. This would suck because her hair had not been done.

"Mmmmhhhhmmm.... but did you sing the national anthem at the Super bowel?" She retorted.

Madonna looked confused. The corpse of Whitney shuffled further down the aisle as she railed at the still material girl clutching a statue that clearly belonged to someone else in this corpse cold world.

"That's what I thought. Now sit your cracker ass down and rest them wrinkles Grandma and give it up to the real ganggreenstress."

Madonna looked more than a little amused for a wrinkled old haggy pop star diva of douche with a penis bigger than most of her male peers and a grapefruit shoved in her ass as the only thing keeping her from repeating an episode like what happened to Christina Aguilera just weeks ago.

"Whitney, I will have you know I am not yet a Grandmother. My Lourdes is still like a virgin and has never even been touched for the very first time by any of these penis wielding pud wackers of the peasant hemisphere."

Whitney had somehow managed to reach down at the front of the stage without suffering from frail afterlife disintegration, a condition occuring in zombies that caused parts of their shit to break the fuck off and was more commonly referred to as F.A.D. There she stood in front of Madonna and shook her head at the enormous length and girth of Madonna's beef balogna which was clearly visible through her thong dress. After composing herself because Madonna was even bigger than Bobby Brown she ripped into Madonna like the songbird that she once was gobbling its birdfeed through gulps of singing with her beak so full it dropped bird food everywhere.

"Yeah, well let me tell you something ho,' like a virgin ain't no motherfuckin' virgin now is it? So you is a Grandmother. Except there ain't nothing grand about yo' wrinkley ass," She twirled around as if forgetting that a limb could drop off from friction any minute and spoke like a true princess," I on the other hand.... I am forever young like my man Rod says."

Madonna wrinkled up her face like her ass cheeks at this.

"Ewwwwwwwww. Sorry honey, but Rod Stewart is far from young looking. He looks like my old Nana Ciccone's douche bag that she used to hang on the fence and that was back in the old wild West."

"Bitch, I know that! I'm talking about the song motherfucker sings! Such a pretty song. Pretty like a Summers eve."

Whitney raised both of her arms and tried to pay tribute to that beautiful ode sung by her overaged pal Rod Stewart about not having to take viagra or wear depends. As she began to tackle the first verse her tongue spewed dust and cramped up and would proceed no further because corpses are not allowed to sing shitty pop music and only sing heavy metal because the walking dead are creations of the devil and therefore must only sing his music. Since Whitney did not know any Slayer or Dio lyrics she continued to stutter in broken record corpse mode and Madonna found herself becoming more annoyed than ever and stagedived on top of the corpse of dirty Whitney.

As the two worthless icons of shitty music, one actually dead and the other who might as well be, rolled on the carpet to cheering from the audience LLcoolj stared into camera number one because it was the only camera they could afford and he smiled as if he just farted on television. Mostly because he did but since nobody watches the Granny Trannys anyway nobody saw it or heard it. This would be well made up for by the audience having to smell it. Just minutes before showtime LL had grabbed himself a bowl of chili from that same street vendor Madonna had patroned and now he found himself sharting in his suit. As he hobbled back to the podium and dripped shit everywhere he stayed in permanent smile mode.

"That is all the love that we have time for tonight. I have made some love of my own in my drawers and if any of you bitches would like to come backstage and give me a sponge bath lets do this."

 
LL trailed his mess all over the stage as he headed towards the curtain to wipe his ass. Roughly twenty women jumped from their seats and their husbands left the building faster than Elvis because their mistresses were all waiting. All of a sudden there arose a rumble and the grapefruit shot from Madonnas ass followed by a gushing stream of chili juice that free flowed all the way to the ceiling. The janitors stood at the back of the room and shook their heads. The night that celebrates irrelevant artists and their shitty music and flatulent careers had now officially turned to shit.

*****Original post date 2/14/2012*****