Alternative Comedy – Page 18

SpaceDog & Dullard’s Inter Dimensional Demise

Well hell I just don’t know wtf to begin with this little ditty but we must start somewhere. The Kiddies (Staff) mentioned in their post that as far as they knew SpaceDog was MIA, but they also stated I claimed to know the current whereabouts of SpaceDog and at that time I did. SpaceDog had taken sometime off during our move to live out his dream of true inner vision out in some god forsaken desert, and brought our Chief Editor Dullard Dillard along for the ride. As luck would have it while transversing the barren beauty of the vast desert plains SpaceDog and Dullard came across a small commune. The commune was a Hippy dinosaur disillusionment hangover from “The Love Generation” founded by Dr. Nirvana Namaste (who founded to commune in 1961 after fleeing from Berkley University where he was a professor of Geology.)

SpaceDog and Dullard were invited by the current Commune leader and son of Dr. Nirvana Namaste High Hippy Freedom Haberdasher or Clive for short. SpaceDog held lengthy conversations over the next 4-5 days talking about transcendentalism with the members of the Commune (dubbed The THC Ministry Farms by its 78 full time inhabitants) well into the wee hours of the morning.

SpaceDog had always dreamed of actually whipping up a big old punch bowl with what he called “Electric Kool Aid”, and figured he had an apt audience. So SpaceDog asked Clive if he could repay his and Dullard’s stay at the commune by making a metaphysical meditation medication. Clive not being to concerned of the risk because well they were 117 miles from anything remotely resembling civilization. SpaceDog went to work (as Dullard watched wide eyed in shock and Awe) without pause concocting his Enlightenment Elixir. First Spacedog filled a massive punch bowl (25 gallon to be exact) with cheap fruit punch that consisted mainly of water, sugar and red dye. The SpaceDog added the list of secret ingredients (which is a bit foolish to say as SpaceDog had told quite a few people over the years about his Holy Psychedelic Venture)

This is now time for our Disclaimer & WARNING:

The views, opinions and actions portrayed in posts ARE NOT THAT OF f-yourblog.com.
We DO NOT Advocate, Encourage or Endorse ANY AND ALL extremely dangerous acts that our subject (or subject manner) may pertain to in a post, we are just mere reporters, Documentarians, and Story Tellers.

WARNING TO ALL READERS!

We at f-yourblog do not condone drug use and believe Addiction to be a serious and dire subject.

DO NOT ATTEMPT ANYTHING REMOTELY LIKE what SpaceDog did EVER. If you do the list of severely sick shit that can happen to you include but are not limited to:

HOSPITALIZATION, SEVER NEUROLOGICAL DAMAGE, SEVERE BRAIN DAMAGE, DEATH, EXTREME MOOD SWINGS, LACK OF REASON/COMMON SENSE, DIZZINESS, DELUSION, HALLUCINATION, HEART ATTACK/ STROKE, SELF DESTRUCTIVE BEHAVIOR (IE. SELF HARM), INSANITY, PSYCHOSIS, PARANOIA ,AND DEMENTIA and thats just for starters.

NOW back to our story…

Spacedog proceeded to add MDMA, LSD, Ecstasy, Magic Mushrooms (Psilocybin), Peyote, Mescolilne, PCP, Micro Dots, DMT, Ayahuasca, Salvia Divinorum, DXM, Areca catechu, Kava (Piper methysticum), Ipomoea tricolor, Khat,Fly Agaric Mushrooms, Datura Stramonium (Hell’s Bell’s or Jimson weed), Wormwood, Heavenly Blue Morning Glory Seeds, Areca Catechu (Betel Nut), Plants containing Atropine/Scopolmine,Lysergic Acid Amide,Eboga,Mexican Calea,San Pedro Torch Cactus,Blue Egyptian Water Lily,Colorado River Toad Poison, and Cannabis Sativa. There were also likely a few more ingredients that were added in an impromptu manner in the making.

SpaceDog’s psychotic psychedelic punch made its debut at that nights Feast of the Full Moon Festival. Now this is were shit gets really fucking weird, and the details are sketchy as sketchy can get. According to the surviving Commune Members some of the things that occurred that evening are as follows:

9 Members Brains liquefied and drained out of their Nasal Cavities
2 Members Spontaneously Combusted
17 Ran off into the desert night claiming that they were going in search of The Gumdrop Gods to request that they be allowed to live in Candy Land Board Game, and have yet to be found.
Several members climbed large cactuses nude.
3 Members became convinced they were ancient desert Tortoises and still believe that to this day.
4 Members were transported back in time, but their destinations in the historical timeline are uncertain.
11 Members blasted off into outer space to have a foot race using the Rings of Saturn as their race track.
1 member reverted from a full grown adult into a barely viable fetus.
A Couple of Members listened to Chumbawamba and Tub Thumped one another to death.
6 Members actually jumped out of their own skin.

But what happened to SpaceDog and Dullard Dillard you ask? Well I can tell you what I’ve been told so here goes:

Dullard Dillard allegedly came face to face with his Doppelgänger. A Doppelgänger is a German word that means “A Ghostly/Paranormal identical double or counterpart of a Living Person”. The Myth is if you encounter an apparition of yourself is/was an Omen of imminent death. The best way I can explain this subject further is “The Omen of Death” refers to a similar belief in Doppelgängers that if you encounter your Doppelgänger you will cease to exist. Think of it this way its the same as adding a positive number 1 and a negative number 1 together (-1+1=0). It was reported that when Dullard came face to face with his own Doppelgänger (No one else there saw Dullard’s Doppelgänger based on what happened though its considered the cause of Dullard’s disappearance) he exclaimed “I’m You, Your Me, together its We”, and then proceeded to turn inside out, outside in, inside out, outside in again then he simply imploded.

SpaceDog Fared a much less detrimental outcome though it is equally bizarre. SpaceDog is alive but is still tripping his celestial balls off thus details as to his exact whereabouts are unknown. SpaceDog keeps referencing a “Emerald Triangle” (a infamous area of Marijuana Smuggling Routes) so we assume at this point he’s headed North West possible to Canada.

Thus we find ourselves at the end of this tale of Oddities, and I leave you to make up your own minds as far as wtf went down that night in the vast Desert.

Thanks for the Read,

Les Sober

Old Man Wheelchair Fights a Short Story

This is one of the funniest little story I’ve heard in far too long.

The Players:

Mr. Static: Is in his mid 60’s, Schizophrenic, had a stroke self medicating himself for his schizophrenia buy smoking a great deal of Crack, and lives in a Nursing Home.

Mr.Bobo: is in his is in his 70’s, wheelchair bound, and living in a Nursing Home.

Place: The hallway that leads into the Day Room of the Nursing Home that Mr.Static and Mr.Bobo live in. While the following exchange happened there was a Church Service being held in the aforementioned Day Room. So those who didn’t see the exchange did have the benefit of hearing it.

The Exchange:

As Mr.Static was inching down the hallway in his wheelchair Mr. Bobo was also inching his way down the hall in the opposite direction in his wheelchair. When Mr.Bobo got too close for Mr.Statics’s comfort (approximately 12-18 inches between the two men) Mr.Static growled possessed by some form of Old Man primal aggression blurted out at Mr.Bobo

“I’ll KILL YOU!!!”

Mr.Bobo Immediately responded because obviously he wasn’t taking shit form a schizophrenic angrily and rather loudly by stating that Mr. Static

“Don’t talk to me like that!! I’ll kick your fucking ass!, I’ll fuck you up!!”

A Staff Nurse named Duty interviened quickly by wheeling Mr.Bobo away in the opposite direction while telling Mr.Bobo

“Don’t listen to him you know he’s not in his right mind, you know what your saying….”

Thanks for the read.

Les Sober

Midnight Madness 2017: Textmaniacs Trivial & Torrid Textversations

For what seems to be several years in the early hours on the morning Spacedog and Les Sober have been having extreme, hilarious, absurd, obscene, hardcore, offensive, Lewd, Brain Warping, Crude, Insane, Demented, Ungodly, Disturbed, Severely Mentally unbalanced conversations by phone or text. Les is working on recording and posting said phone conversations, but is dragging his ass post move. In the mean time it was decided that there was NO reason whatsoever not to start transcribing the conversations via text I mean how fucking hard is that?!

Now without further ado here is SpaceDog & Les’s most current Late Night Text Conversation or Textmaniacs Volume 1.

WARNING TO OUR READERS: Textmaniacs by its nature alone is full of Obscenities, Vulgarities, Violent Imagery, Drugs, Blasphemies, Drinking/ Booze, Anti Authority Themes (i.e. Fuck Cops in their Criminal Asses), and is Extremely Sexually Explicit. TEXTMANIACS is for OUR MOST DIEHARD FANS, all others need to think twice and very hard at that before continuing to read further. Thank You and Have A Splendid Day.

Les Sober: We’re so far out in the Woods we had to go old school and get a fucking land line.

SpaceDog: A Landline? Hmmm Should I send you a free AOL Dial Up Trial?

Les Sober: No Next I’m getting into Bootlegging Counterfeit Grits or invent GritShine, Moonshine derived from Grits.

SpaceDog: Ok I was completely different types are a bit of that shut shut shut shut shut down to get in on the water with me at the casino in a week trying PvP is it to be honest. Will also tell them they are a bit drunk in love and will also be there was an old people drink in celebration of me. Know a time pause onion on with a silver cock, Silver Cock, SILVER COCK in his mouth and the reason why the men, and will be a fugitive this is is guaranteed to get your ass flagged or vomit to get in with a Silver Cock in in his mouth, and I have, have, have a Citi MasterCard. The reasonI wanted you traveling journey with me emails from people bit drunk in luv with a Silver Cock in his mouth of a bit drunk too many of of the casino in a week trying PvP. Is it to be honest I was completely sober, but I’m not sure if you want to go to to go to to go to s and the reason I was, was an awkward pause awkward you are not, not or

Les: Did you say Fugitive Night at some fucking point?? Fugitive Night sounds liken of those Lady Porno Smut Books at the checkout line at the fucking grocery store LMFAO.

SpaceDog: Like the kind you used to have in your car? LOL

Les Sober: Thats Me Baby 55 years old, and Thats Me Baby.

If You Want To Be a Navigator You’ll Have To Navigate This

Who doesn’t enjoy the freedom provided by a good old American road trip? A communist thats who!

Here at f-yourblog.com have just launched “ROAD TRIPPING with f-yourblog.com” Our objective is to scour the land looking for art and artists in places no one cares to look. This project is still somewhat in its infancy only being approximately 4 months since its inception.

As per usual we have a shoe string budget and are currently in need of volunteer Navigators to accompany our tireless drivers. I know your thinking volunteer means for free, but f-yourblog.com will pay for gas, repairs, food (hope you like rest area vending machines) ,and lodging as to avoid volunteers from paying for anything out of pocket.

So if your still reading and interested in becoming an f-yourblog.com volunteer Navigator here is a list of the duties preformed by a f-yourblog.com Navigator.

f-yourblog.com’s Navigator To Do List:

You will be in charge of snack (again no worry it all goes on f-yourblog.com’s tab) so you must be a Snack Master. What does being a Snack Master mean exactly?! Heres an example: The driver requests meat orientated snacks. At that point you should already know that “Meat based Snacks” include but not limited to Slim Jim’s, Vienna Sausages, Beef Jerky, Hot Dogs (hot off the roller), microwavable Hamburgers/Burritos, Biltong, Pepperoni sticks, Salami, Spam, pickled sausages, Pork Rinds, Epic Exotic, and Protein Bars.
You will be in charge of all tech. That means GPS/Paper Maps, Stereo, Camera, Video Camera, Walkie Talkie (used to communicate with other members of the group), Phone, updating social media with photos on the go to f-yourblog.com/Twitter/Instagram/FaceBook etc.
A Navigator is also responsible for keeping the driver aware of traffic jams/tie ups, construction zones, highway accidents, Police presence, rush hour and other assorted delays
You will be the sole companion for our driver so NO SLEEPING on the job/road
You will be responsible for keeping tabs on basic mechanical issues such as Tires (do they need inflating? Is there a leak?), making sure at a quarter tank your driver refuels and lastly checking the oil to make sure the level is correct, and replacing windshield wipers if they become worn out.
You are responsible for keeping tabs on the drivers driving. If he/she is excessively speeding, driving recklessly or violations traffic laws you are required to call Les Sober and report said behavior immediately. Remember its ALWAYS SAFETY FIRST!
If there is a mechanical or medical emergency again call Les Sober IMMEDIATELY for help and instruction.
If your driver gets into a confrontation its your job to back them up and if shit gets outta control its your job to call the Cops (use your own discretion)
If at any point along the trip you feel like tapping out call Les and he will send you transportation back/home and a replacement asap.
You will be required to keep tabs on the driver to insure he/she is safe and sober. NO DRINKING or DRUGS while driving and to make sure they aren’t too tired to be driving.

So after reading this if you are still interested in being a f-yourblog.com Navigator and can handle the various responsibilities listed above Please let us know by leaving a request in the comments section, and we will be in touch.

Thanks Again to all our readers for their help,support and encouragement we truly do appreciate it.

Handyman Herb the Heinous Handyman’s Man

As my Wife and I were prepping/ repairing our little house in the Great Southern Swamp we had a list of certain handyman jobs (i.e. Hanging a Door, Patch a Wall, Replace some damaged base boards etc.) very basic tasks. Awhile back when we had a similar list we had contacted a local general handyman named Handyman Herb. Herb obviously didn’t graduate at the head of his class, but he was capable of doing elementary tasks with decent prices. So when we found ourselves in need of handyman services again we called Handyman Herb. My Wife talked to him via the phone and told him what we needed done and then scheduled for him to stop by on the coming Monday at 9:00 am.

My Wife was working that Monday leaving me to handle Herb which made me a bit wary. I have no illusions about my unruly behavior at times with other people especially if they annoy or disappoint me. Little did I know that Monday would test all of my strength to keep from going absolutely bat shit crazy on the entire known fucking world.

9:00 am Monday comes and no Handyman Herb. Twenty minutes later I have to hit up the shitter and did so as fast as possible incase Herb finally decided to show the fuck up for work. As I was walking back from the crapper my cell phone went off, it was Handyman Herb.

Now I thought Herb was calling to apologize for being late and would then give me a realistic ETA, but that wasn’t the case. Handyman Herb had brought a belligerent attitude with him, and as soon as I answered he demanded to know if someone was indeed home. Well I thought to myself your talking to me and theres a car parked out front so yeah I’m fucking here. I informed Herb that I was the only one home and I had to hit up the pisser (not to mention HE was now 30 minutes late but asshole didn’t want to talk about that shit) Herb responds by grumping like a gimp that he knocked and that he was now in fact here.

I already felt my blood pressure rising as a serious pet peeve of mine is if I’m paying you DO YOUR JOB (i.e. SHOW UP ON TIME) and BE A FUCKING PROFESSIONAL. You come to work for me leave your bullshit at the door. I instinctively started to text my Wife to channel the increasing irritation and shitty speculation of the Handyman Herb situation.

I opened the door to let Herb in (apparently he had brought a sidekick assistant who resembled a English Bulldog in both looks and mentality) as Herb entered it was BLATANTLY FUCKING OBVIOUS by the SCOWL on his face and agitated body language that this shit show had just begun. I gave the repair list containing 10 issues that needed to be addressed/remedied hoping at this point that Captain Crap-a-tude would just shut the hell up and get to work. Nope that didn’t happen.

Handyman Herb and his Sidekick proceeded to slowly pace around my house aimlessly assessing the project list. Not only are Herb and Sidekick wasting more time but their actively bitching about the jobs on the list like what a pain in the ass they may or may not be. This horseshit went on for 10-12 minutes as I continued to text my Wife updating her on the on going circus of shit as it unfolded.

Then shit really started to go down hill. Every fucking job that was on the list (which my Wife discussed with him one on one via the phone) in his opinion wasn’t an problem/worth fixing. The biggest issue was his total lack of preparedness. Herb read down the list while he moseyed around my house like a vagrant informing me that he didn’t have the tools for each said job. Around number 7 on the list Herb try to switch the blame for his grossly unprofessional bullshit was actually my Wife’s fault. Blaming my Wife (not to mention like I said I was in the room when the 2 of them talked on the phone so he’s lying to my fucking face) was a massive mistake.

Even then I was still straining with every fucking fiber of my being to get something productive done and not shit all over Not So Handy Herb and his wide eyed, mute, mouth breathing sidekick. As I mentioned earlier I was feverishly texting my Wife about not only what the hell was going on but my reaction(s) to it all. Losing my composure bit by bit I had started to fight fire with fire. I tensed up my body language to match Herb’s, started to angrily glare, and started to say things with a bad attitude. Example “I don’t give a damn about why nothing can get done, I need someone to fix this shit because I’m getting the fuck out of this shithole state.” Herb remained oblivious.

She was very cool about the whole deal as usually in these situations she is the one struggling to get me to chill out. When it got to the point that I texted her “I’m SO fucking done with Herb, I’m about to kick him and his shitty attitude out of the fucking house, she wrote back “O.K. kick him out then and we’ll call someone who appreciates the work.”

I can not BEGIN to explain how INSANELY HAPPY that text made me. I immediately tracked Herb down where he was lingering in my house like a foul fart. I then addressed Herb and the current crap shoot by saying the following:

“Obviously this ISN’T working for ME or YOU so the best thing for you (Herb) is to GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE and take Sidekick Shitkicker with you.”

The immense relief and total wave of satisfaction in absolving myself of these two wannabe handyman half wits was the definition of utter bliss.

The Deviant Detective Ep 3 : Looking For The Cock Rock King

Rock kicked his feet up onto his desk with a solid thud. Rock picked up a copy of the local paper “The Fanatic” because you’d be surprised what ideas one can come up with by just reading the paper.

Rock flipped through the pages casually until he reached the back of the paper. At the back of “The Fanatic” was the local entertainment/art scene.

Rock never paid mind to the entertainment section it was all shit. Today though Rock realized he’d not only have to read the entertainment section, but also pay struck attention looking for any possible leads. His new client the underground self proclaimed Queen of Punk Ivy Savage had little patience and a huge fucking drug habit.

Rock scanned the concert section and found Ivy’s missing boyfriend Eddie Oi’s band The Fuck Me Pumps were scheduled to play that night down at a small hole in the wall called The Boozehound Lounge. The Boozehound was only a couple of blocks from The BarFly Bar which Ivy had mentioned as a possible hangout of Eddie’s.

Rock placed his feet back on the floor, downed 4 fingers of Kentucky White Whisky, lit a cigarette and exhaled with a labored sigh. Rock knew what he had to do. Rock called a cab and headed down to what was referred to as the dive district.

The dive district was a run down part of the city with abandoned factories, dive bars, shitty clubs, Soup kitchens, Hobo Haven (a tent city of sorts consisting of the cities many homeless), methadone clinics, the county mental health hospital, mom and pop liquor stores, Pawn shops, Strip clubs, Old school Porno theaters most converted into sex shops, the slums run by lecherous so called land lords, and the solid waste authority.

On the ride Rock decided it be best to pick the cabbies brain. Next to bartenders cabbies were the unofficial information sources of street knowledge the who’s, what’s, when’s and where’s the life blood of the city.

“Hey buddy how long you been driving the dive district route?,” inquired Rock

“22 years and thats 20 to damn many,” gripped the cabbie

“I’m looking for some punk rock guy named Eddie Oi. You know the prime punk scene hangouts and clubs?”

“Fuck that shit. The Fuck Me Pump’s aren’t punk rock, their fucking cock rock. your looking in the right neighborhood but wrong street if ya know what I’m saying pal.,”

“What in the name of Christ is Cock Rock?,” asked Rock as he reached for his trusty flask.

“Cock Rock,”said the cabbie “Its like punk rock, 3 chord shit played as fast as humanly possible. Instead of politics or social commentary Cock Rock is essentially a shitty porno put to music. Think 2 Live Crew but with guitars and all that shit.”

“Shit and I thought Punk was the soundtrack of the gutter but damn just like always theres something worse than what you think. Wheres a good place to start the search?” Rock wondered aloud.

“Easy you go to The BarFly Bar. When you get there ask for Bloody Sod Bollocks he’s the godfather of underground hardcore scene. He used to be in some famous British hardcore punk band back in the day called Shit Out of Luck or something like that. He’s been here in the city so long he knows every-fucking-body. You looking for a musical you go talk to Bloody Sod.” claimed the cabbie in utter confidence as he pulled up to the curb outside of The BarFly Bar.

Well isn’t that convenient as hell thought Rock. All signs seemed to point to The BarFly Bar and that would be Rock’s jumping off point. Rock exited the cab making sure to give the cabbie a hefty tip not for the ride but the information. Any asshole can drive a car.

The BarFly Bar looked like the kind of establishment one would expect to get stabbed in. The bar smelled foul like a locker room and a well used port-o-potty combined. Jesus Christ Rock thought I’ve been in shitty bars before but this is by far the shittiest. It’s like every other shitty bar came to The BarFly and took a massive shit in it.

The windows where blacked out to spare the bottom dwelling patrons having to face the light of day. Cigarette smoke hung in the air wafting around the lights like restless spirits. The bar was located to the left of the main entrance. The bar itself was lined with decreped and wobbly stools patched together with duct tape.

The bartender/owner was a stout man in his early 60’s whose collection of tattoos had deteriorated into sloppy blurs over the decades. His large gnarled hands with thick calluses spoke hard life of manual labor and long hours. The wrinkles in his face where etched through time like the feordes and ran just as deep.

The handful of patrons were spread through out the bar all of them alone. The exception being a middle aged couple who seemed oblivious to the world around them as the slobbered all over one another. It was the equivalent of watching a extremely shitty home made sex tape.

Rock saddled up to the bar preferring to stand over sitting on one of the STD ridden bar stools.

“Hey Bartender let me get 3 fingers of Westminster Whiskey and an ash tray while your at it,” Said Rock slowly rescanning the bar.

“I’m Gunny bartending is what I do.”replied Gunny as he angrily pulled the cork from the whiskey bottle “Ive got no problem letting you know that I don’t like dicks in my bar private or otherwise.”

“Well at least you didn’t say cop. I’m looking for Eddie Oi he owes my client money. Thats where I come in.”

“Who doesn’t that grimy little shit owe money to? I haven’t seen him since I 86ed his bar tab, and told him until he repays it all drinks will be on a cash transaction.”

“You have any idea where he might be Gunny?”

“Hell no. But Justin Sane the drummer in his little shit band is in the stock room.” said Gunny as he started to wipe down the warped bar top.

“What the hell is he doing in the stock room?” Rock asked downing his drink in one gulp before signaling for another.

“Some junkie groupie took him back there, sad the high light of this pitiful girls rough life will be sucking Justin’s baby dick in the back of a shitty bar.”

Rock downed his second drink in the same fashion as the first. Turned to face the stock room door at the back of the building. Rock steadily approached the stockroom door preparing for whatever maybe behind it. Rock stopped right in front of the door, grasped the greasy door knob firmly, and shoved it open like a steroid ridden line backer.

Stockroom more like storeroom is more like it Rock thought the instant the door gave way. None the less there was Justin propped up against a pallet of beer boxes with his red liberty spike mohawk, tattered leather vest infested with a collage of various band’s pins and patches, generic white t-shirt with a anarchy sign spray painted on it in a sickly green, slew of amateur India ink tattoos that gave way to the track marks beginning to establish themselves. His cut off jean shorts around his ankles while some skanky bleached blonde was on her knees in front of him her head bobbing like she’d been infected with a potent fast acting poison, and the only cure was located in Justin’s cock.

Before Rock had a chance to react all hell broke loose. Rock was grabbed from behind and thrown violently backward into the door frame . Ivy Savage came barreling past Rock in a goddamn flash, then she snatched the groupie by the hair and tossed her aside like a fucking rag doll. The instant the groupie was sent tumbling into a near by liquor rack Ivy dropped to her knees. She grabbed Justin’s massive member at the base with one hand and the tip with the other. What happened next defies logic. Ivy now with Justin’s huge lap hog in her hands bite down on it full force like she was rabidly attacking an ear of corn. Inspire of Gunny’s disparaging comments pertaining to the size of Justin’s “baby dick” Justin was hung like a goddamn donkey. The kid was 5′ 9″ and a 100 pounds soaking wet and 10 of those pounds were due to his dick Rock thought sarcastically. Justin’s porn star sized cock was inevitably too thick for Ivy to bite it clean in half which seemed to be her true intent.

In spite of Justin’s unforeseen girth Ivy earned her moniker of savage. Ivy gleefully started biting mouthfuls of Justin’s schlong spitting them out one after the other while screaming like a blood thirsty banshee “I’M IVY FUCKING SAVAGE! I’LL POISON YOU LIKE IVY AND BRUTALIZE YOU LIKE A FUCKING SAVAGE!!!!”

Rock had had enough of this bullshit for the day. The groupie cowering in a corner kicking and screaming, Ivy’s genital based cannibalism, and Justine guttural growls as blood splatter covered the entire room. Rock reached over and took a bottle of cheap rot gut booze and brought it crashing down upon Ivy’s head knocking out cold. Rock turned and exited the storeroom shutting the door behind him.

“Holy Hell what the fuck is going on in there?!!,” demanded Gunny scowling at Rock intensity.

“Gunny, your closed for the evening,” replied Rock with calculated calm before promptly leaving the confines of The BarFly for the soothing insanity of the city streets. Then it suddenly occurred he had failed to locate the so called underground godfather Bloody Sod Bolloks.

“Goddamn it! Shit,shit,shit!! Goddamn Bloody Sod!” Rock said aloud in utter frustration.

“You looking to find Bloody he’s at the Methadone Clinic everyday at 5pm to hook up his daily dose.” commented a disheveled homeless kid who was lurking in a dark doorway like a ghost of society.

“Thanks for the tip,” Rock said handing the homeless kid a twenty “Buy some fucking food. Don’t spend all this on dope or drink.”

“Sure thing,” the homeless kid chirped excitedly at the sight of the twenty.

Sure thing my ass thought Rock as he turned away from the kid and headed off towards the City’s sole methadone clinic at a quick clip.

To Be Continued…

The Deviant Detective Ep.4 : Shit Sandwich Lunch Special

The Deviant Detective Ep.2 : Getting Directions From The Blind

Readers: There are a great deal of Obscenities and Blasphemies in the following Story. Heads up and Have A Nice Day.

“Rock Hard that you,” asked the stranger as they leaned against the wall for support.

“Yeah I’m Rock Hard come into my office and tell me what the problem of yours is.” said Rock in his authoritative professional detective voice.

Buy the time Rock reached his office door he knew who the stranger was. It was underground punk rock icon and lead singer for The Furiously Fingered Five Ivy Savage.

She wreaked of cheap gin and cheaper cigarillos. Jesus Christ Rock thought to himself she’s a fucking train wreck. It was obvious the rumors where more than true.

The Meth induced orgies, shooting smack in her snatch, drug smuggling, assault, DUIs, countless rehabs, grand theft auto, drug possession, and possession of an illegal fire arm 4 times in 6 months that fucking Ivy Savage.

Rock jingled his key in the office door until it begrudgingly opened.

The door swung open slamming into the wall so hard the glass shook like a new prostitutes on her first “date.”

Rock walked over to his antique solid oak desk he had salvaged when the city demolished the 1930’s repossession power house Snide, Pompous and Braggart back in 1974. Rock slowly lowered himself into his chair as it creaked in protest.

“So if it isn’t the infamous Queen of Punk Ivy Savage, your reputation precedes you,” Rock said eying his new client up and down.

“I’m fucking used to that propaganda puke, its all horse shit a huge fucking load of steaming hot horse shit.,” Ivy replied angrily.

Ivy was pacing like a jack rabbit on a coke bender constantly fidgeting with her hands. As she spoke Rock took note of her eyes and how the darted around his office unable to stay focused on a damn thing. These were the classic signs of a rock bottom gutter dwelling druggie.

“Whats the problem,” Rock asked bluntly.

“My motherfucking boyfriend is fucking missing and I can’t find my bitch,” Ivy replied coldly.

“How do you know he didn’t just split or end up in the ER for overdosing something along those lines?!”

“I’m his goddamn meal ticket and that little scummy shit damn well knows it. I pay for our booze, drugs, food and hotel room down at The Opulent Oasis for christ’s sake. He’s a fucking moron but he’s not that goddamn dumb.”

“Alright then when did you see your boyfriend last Ms. Savage?”

“Call me Ivy for fuck’s sake, theres no Ms. about me thats for sure. I saw him just last night when we were having a private party in our hotel room. I went to take a shit, it was round 3 am or so and nodded off on the toilet. When I came to it this morning it was 11 fucking thirty and he was gone.”

“Whats his name, whats he go by,” asked Rock as he started to get rather irritated. To calm his nerves he took a long slow sip from his flask and let the whiskey do the rest.

“He goes by Eddie Oi he’s the base player for The Fuck Me Pumps,” said Ivy mattarfactly her voice void of emotion.

“Where does Eddie and his band or friends hang out at. Where do they spend their time? Where do they go? What do they do all damn day?”

“I’m not his fucking biographer. This is the shit I know bout to answer your fucking questions. Eddie doesn’t have any fucking friends just goddamn dope dealers and drug buddies. As for him and his shitty band they spend a good amount of time at The Barfly Lounge down on the skids. He sees his main dealer at least 8 times a day scoring dope and all that drug shit.”

“Eddie got a record?”

“No and thats a fucking surprise and a half. He’s never even been arrested for drunk and disorderly nothing, not a single goddamn thing so that won’t help your search.”

Rock lazily moved the files on his desk around randomly just to look more than what he was a dinosaur and a goddamn drunk with a violent disposition. Rock shunned technology whenever possible unless it was absolutely necessary, but Rock decided to revisit the idea of getting a computer so he could fain interest while surfing the internet.

“Look just find the fucker and let me know so I can bitch slap his stupid ass back in fucking line,” demanded Ivy.

“Calm down I’m taking your case and I’ll find Eddie no matter where he is or where he may be hiding at I assure you of that,” Rock said in total confidence.

“Thank god for that then.”

“I’ll need a retainer of $1,200 plus daily expenses. Take it or leave it I’m not the one with the problem.”

“Call my fucking manager Harvey Schister. His number is 555-7683 and he’s a real son of a bitch but don’t take his shit because he’s full of shit.”

“Alright then I will call Mr. Schister this afternoon and get started immediately after I get my retainer.”

“Well I’m gonna piss off then, but I’ll be on top of you like a 600 pound prison booty bandit, I don’t take shit from anyone ever.”

With that Rock showed Ivy to the door locking it behind her. Rock didn’t want to be disturbed he had to process his meeting with his new client Ivy Savage. Where could he find the best leads he wondered as he lit a cigarette blowing the smoke out of his nose like a exhausted dragon.

This case is going to be a goddamn drunken drugged out insanely dark horror show Rock was convinced of that.

To Be Continued in The Deviant Detective Ep.3 : Finding The Cock Rock King.

We’ll Make Great Pets? By Spacedog

The first half of my day yesterday was complete garbage. It consisted of sitting in traffic for an hour, getting two different credit cards declined (special shout out to Wawa and Boscovs), sitting in traffic for 2 hours and contemplating peeing my pants because I had a towel to sit on and was on my way home.

As void of intrigue and drama as I tend to be, I chose against peeing myself. This isn’t about pee though. I mean it felt absolutely amazing to do so at that point but that being the highlight of my mediocre day was not quite mediocre enough yet. I decided to do one of the most boring things that the era of the Internet has ever bought upon us. I decided to clean out my e-mail.

Now I have way too many e-mails. I know of 7 different accounts, but there probably exist a multitude of others at very dead sites. AOL, Yahoo, Juno, Hotmail, Myspace. I’d rather not read the ancient e-mails I sent in my 20s or from the dawn of time (the 90s) because well I mostly sit and think who the fuck was that guy.

So I decided to actually open up an e-mail from a random social media site called Hi5. It is not the greatest site but not the worst unless you take into account the people they tell you to speak converse with. I would show my last recommendations but just imagine a cohabitation of meth users, the morbidly obese, and people who look like an attractive young man but sadly the picture is clearly on 1970s quality film.

There is one bizarre thing this site does have. I really have never seen anything quite like it. While Facebook has (or had?) pokes, the gays have their woofs, every site has likes and Myspace has ghosts Hi5 has pets. What is the point of pets? I haven’t the slightest idea. I bought my first pet about six years ago in that time period when Myspace just died and your mom wasn’t quite on Facebook yet.

Every member is up for sale with virtual cash. I don’t know if I started with it or watched a video or two or to earn more but I just started buying cute guys. I wanted a decent amount from each country to diversify I suppose. It was basically just a bunch of clicking and clicking and clicking and I grew tired of it rather quickly.

The entire site as a matter of fact. It is like the Craigslist of social media, an odd blend of when MySpace was legit, old school AOL and creepy guys that lurk in oversized vans. The pet thing made me take the opposite approach though when I got unwanted attention. I would just buy people instead of block them.

And oh I bought them. The straights, the gays, the ladies, I even bought myself a big boned lady with a great big retard smile. I only wasted maybe 2 hours of my life doing this in total of my entire life. I really wonder though what was the point of all of this? I was owned by some lady (or man pretending to be a model, this lady was unreal looking Brazilian goddess). There were many messages of I love you and I love my pets on my page over the past few years which only make me laugh my ass off. I mean I like love and all, who really doesn’t when it comes to it, but this woman took the pet thing all too seriously.

I mean I could message all these pets of mine or meme them to death, but I feel more connected to the people I met on a Greyhound bus 15 years ago, despite not having talked to them in 15 years. I’m clicking on links right now but I am not even really sure why. I could be eating, exercising, masturbating, actually texting more then one person, actually paying attention to my TV or my music which are inexplicably both on for some reason.

I mean I guess it could have been worse. I could have bought only blacks and dreamed of my past life on a plantation but I’m Polish and the only black things we’ve ever owned are prune babkas. I could be a peddler of midgets. This seems like a fantastic type of journey I suppose, except I can’t search for people by height and would probably have to click no about 1,000 times to find one midget let alone an armada of midgets.

I could collect the deformed. I’m pretty sure this would involve way less clicking but since you are the company you keep I would just be the product of looking at ugly people, become incredibly hideous, and 400 pounds while clicking faster then any sized person barring maybe a handful of Korean Starcraft players.

Long story, long… this shit is weird as fuck. In some virtual reality type mall where I could see these people it would be funny to go up and buy people in a window but frankly I’d buy someone naked. So rest assured, I know too will get naked and become one with the night.

If you want to check out these oddities for yourself, head over to hi5.com. Check out the meager selection from the dating pool, the dead accounts, and waste an hour or so buying some pets. I can promise they won’t give you rabies over your connection, but carpal tunnel may be in your future if you happen to be riding the tsunami of boredom.

The Delinquent Detective Ep.1 : Screaming at a Deaf Dog

Heads Up For Readers: There is a good bit of obscene language and blasphemies contained within this piece.
Rock Hard woke with a startle one hand one his set of bulbous brass balls, and in the other empty bottle of Lithuanian Whisky.
The goddamn phone was ringing relentlessly BRING! BRING! like a goddamn banshee. Rock sat up and wearily rubbing his face trying to dispel the thick fog of yesterday.
Rock was no stranger to the endless trials and tribulations of life not by a long shot. Bullshit was his bread and butter.
Rock slowly made his way to the phone his feet shuffling across the thick scummy orange shag carpet barefoot.
Rock lit a cigarette irritated that some dumb son of a bitch had the fucking nerve to call him this early in the goddamn day. Rock reached the phone and unplugged it. Whoever it was fuck them thought Rock to himself.
Finally Rock thought to himself. Rock found people to be unbelievably irritating at best.
Rock proceeded to get ready for the dismal day that lay before him. Once Rock had shit, showered, and shaved Rock headed out to the office.
Locking the door behind him he started down the hall of The Royal Hotel lined with various delinquents. The monthly crew of cantankerous characters that inhabited The Royal Hotel, one of the BigCity’s finest flop house, was an unending revolving door of debauchery.
Rock tolerated these assholes because in a flea bag shithole no one sees shit, hears shit or says shit especially the police.
The residents of The Royal were the lowest of the low. There were junkies, hookers, pimps, cults, drunks, drug dealers, shut ins, welfare cases, white trash, Neo Nazi’s (that hangout at the lobby bar), traumatized Vietnam vets, thieves, bikers,and the mentally ill with no family.
It wasn’t always that way though. Back in its heyday The Royal played host to musicians, writers, artists, film makers running the entire gamete of the art world.
Business men booked suites for their corrupt conferences where they found ways to fuck over the working man. The staff was professional and proud to be part of The Royal.
Now Tina “Two Tits” Earner the local hooker was constantly prowling for pricks in the Hotels shitty dive-like bar. Homeless Hank the blocks beloved gutter dwelling bum was living in the lobby. The rest of The Royal was a fucking freak show a goddamn insane circus.
Ignoring the nasty noises of fighting and fucking that bled through the paper thin walls Rock made his way to the downstairs. Rock stopped briefly to shoot the shit with the front desk clerk.
The clerk was an anciently old man who worked the front desk and had for 52 years named Barnabas.
“Whats going on you nasty old bastard?” Rock asked casually with no real interest.
“I’m just a goddamn gargoyle perched on this goddamn stool watching the derelicts and dopers coming and going, it’s an endless parade of the broken and disheveled . Once the sun sets the city streets flood with sinners,” replied Barnabas weirdly staring off into space.
Rock stared at Barnabas wondering if he was senile or just being a mean old shit .
Rock walked briskly to the front door to escape the scum of the Earth confined within the rancid Royal.
Before exiting Rock checked to make sure he had his two faithful companions with him his flask and his revolver. Once he had established he was in possession of both Rock burst out on to the street.
Rock waded through the littered streets coated in filth and grim. The bums lurking in doorways like living corpses that had abandoned all hope in humanity.
The hookers were returning home after a long cold night on the street selling their souls as well as their snatches.
Junkies posted on the corners heckling change from the few regular folk who hadn’t fled the dying neighborhood bathed in decay.
Over laying graffiti adorned the street plastered across walls and any available space was now coated in spray paint.
Rock didn’t mind the dereliction in fact he welcomed it. People are parasites that don’t belong in palaces was his opinion.
At least when your deep in the shit surrounded by the dregs of society you know where you stand.
There is honesty in hooliganism. You can take everything at face fucking value, no bullshit required.
Rock chain smoked a whole pack of cigarettes on his wayward walk to work. So what if smoking led to fucking cancer Rock didn’t give a rats ass what the Surgeon General had to say on the subject.
Rock picked up a couple of new packs of smokes at newspaper stand around the corner from his office. Rock’s office was a located in the Burner building within walking distance from The Royal.
The Burner was a small building sandwiched between to sky scrappers. The Burner had always been a mega for unorthodox and unconventional professions such as psychics, weapons dealers, and in Rock’s case Private Detectives.
As he approached the front door of his office on the 3rd floor of the Burner he saw a person pacing in the dimly lit hallway.
Rock was already wondering what the stranger was all about when the stranger turned towards him and said……………

To Be Continued in
The Deviant Detective Ep.2 : Getting Directions from the Blind.

McCoy’s Artistic Chaos

Les felt exhilarated and full of self righteousness as he drove as fast as humanly possible towards the freeway. Adrenaline was flowing through his veins like water through a flood gate making his skill feel electrified. His senses were all on high alert. As Less banked a right turn onto the freeway the car to fish tailed slightly. His blue tooth began to ring. Goddamnit Les thought to himself, for he knew it was one of two people. It was either his manager Mortimer, or the goddamn cops, but he’d done a good job at avoiding the police. It’s the goddamn media you can’t out run those vultures constantly circling waiting for tragedy and death to strike. Begrudgingly Les switched his blue tooth on as he felt his undying rage he possessed flare up all over again.
“What do you want?!,” demanded Les angrily.
“Les it’s Mortimer, your agent”
“I know who the hell you are Mort, I sign your goddamn paychecks. Not to mention I pay you to be my MANAGER NOT MY MOTHER. I already have one of those, and I haven’t talked to her in eight years AND COUNTING!” yelled Les at the top of his lungs now enraged that Mortimer has called him in the first place.
“Les your on the news again, thats 5 times this month alone,” Mortimer said in a slow authoritative tone like a teacher or librarian.
“FREE PRESS MORTIMER FREE GODDAMN PRESS!” screamed Les as Les’s driving began to become as erratic as his behavior. Les was preoccupied at that moment punching his steering wheel. This was not at all satisfying Les’s explosive anger. The steering wheel was thin and circular so Les’s fists of fury mostly missed it only fueling Les’s animosity.
“Yes, Les free press is good” replied Mortimer condescendingly as he lost patience for Les’s outrageously unpredictable, temper driven, theatrics.
“Les you’ve really outdone yourself this time. I mean, a hit and run Les? seriously why? Why Les do you feel compelled to create not only fine art but unyielding chaos all around you?”
“DON’T be condescending to me you pion!” Les growled, as emotion started to replace logical thought. “That scum of the Earth deserved what he got, and what he got was hit by a car. I WAS DRIVING! SO WHAT?”
“Les for Christ’s sake you tried to drown a critic in the punch bowl. Then you beat another critic of yours with a lawn jockey. NOW you top it all off with a hit and run. Please do tell why, and how this monstrosity came to be.”demanded Mortimer as he took a long draw from a bottle of Pepto Bismol which he kept in a desk drawer for when dealing specifically with Les.
“I was at my opening Deviants of Art, and Phil Edwards from the New Yorker was there. I over heard Phil telling other patrons that my art is over rated and that this was due to my lack of classical training or some shit.”explained Less occasionally stalling as his mind came up with the words faster than Les’s mouth could say them. “This pompous twit had the gaul to dare criticize my work, my work is goddamn invaluable to the art world. My point, is this Mortimer, art is SUBJECTIVE. If art is SUBJECTIVE, why then do I need CRITICS to comment, judge and condemn, my splendid works? Well, I saw that piece of filth Phil walking to his car, and I jumped into a car the valet had just brought around. I crept up behind him, lined up the front right corner of the car with the back of his leg, pounded the pedal to the metal and clipped him with the car. I wasn’t trying to kill the son of a bitch, though being dead would be his greatest accomplishment. I just clipped him to scare the shit out of him, and send him flying through the air. I figured he’d then land and roll across the asphalt. I cannot turn off the fires of my creative passions just because I’m not painting in my studio, it’s not my fault that my artist passion doesn’t translate in real life.”
“You have a good point Les BUT the way you make it leaves a lot to be desired AND NOW you tell me in spite of the already bad situation that you ALSO STOLE A CAR.,” quipped Mortimer like a peeved off parent. “Well, Les what are we going to do about this? You’ve gone to far. I already called in Art Management’s legal team.”
“Fire them for all I care I detest lawyers they’re the art critics of the legal world. Your right Mortimer I’m done with this shit, the art, the openings, the critics. I’ve decided it is time to retire.” Les said sounding rather insane.
“Retire! I don’t care. I’d live longer if you did,” responded Mortimer “But your in real trouble Les. Assault is one thing. Grand theft auto and attempted vehicular homicide is a totally different animal all together.”
“I DON’T CARE Mortimer I’m headed for the Florida Keys. The police can just TRY and locate me in a chain of 1,400 islands. I’m not a moron I’m not going to the obvious spots like KeyWest or KeyLargo or whatever. I’m going to buy one of the little unknown islands to retire to” ranted Les with growing intensity.
“Well, then it was a pleasure, of sorts anyway, working for you and while you are an artist you need to learn to control your artists passions outside of your studio.” Mortimer said in honesty
“Thanks Mortimer for putting up with all my shit and bailing me out countless times,” said Les ambivalently “It’s five o’clock somewhere and thats where you’ll find me.”