the black cocaine

My Charge, Kirstie Alley.

August 16th, 2009

kirstie fucking alley


The details by which Kirstie Alley became my charge are lengthy and boring, so it will suffice to say at the least that she was placed under my legal guardianship when God himself disowned her for becoming too enormous. Apparently some long running dispute whereas she would have eaten all the turkey, ham, biscuits, penne in cheese and scallopini before any of the other guests had even the chance to ask if there would be pudding. So He, in His infinite wisdom, cast her out from his kingdom on Earth and bestowed her upon me. I discovered her behind my house one morning while I was setting the laundry to dry and she rolled out from behind a dumpster in the alley, bits of bread and soured mayonnaise dotting her lips and chin. She has lived here ever since.

A few days ago I was driving Kirstie out for a ride in the country. We were on our way home from the fair when she exclaimed that she was hungry for breakfast and that she was starving. I told her gently that there was no inn or diner on this road and that she would just have to wait until we got home for Nana to whip her up some pancakes and macaroni. “FOOOOOOOOOOOD NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW” was her reply. Unsure how to satisfy the crossed behemoth, I decided to pull over next to a farm, thinking that having a look at the horses would calm her down. Sure enough, she seemed to quickly forget about food and panted excitedly at the window, fogging it up a slight yellowish color. Her flapping tongue hit the glass three times before I opened her child safety door.

Much to my chagrin, the rotund satanbeast flew purposefully from the car as though discharged from a gun, and ran straight to the barn! I tried to stop her, but it would have been like a small child trying to catch a 12 pound bowling ball hurled at it by its father. It was no use. She stormed up to the barn, gallumping through the brittle wooden doors which threw splinters aside without protest. I jogged after her and peeked inside. To my horror, the insatiated rumpleprawn began her putrid ritual of grabbing up the live pigs and sinking her quivering jowls straight into their backs, tearing flesh from bone as blood sprayed like so much red sea foam crashing upon a bubbling shore of fat and teeth. This wretched theatre of squalor was made even more eerie and brain-melting by the splitting tremolo of pigs squealing their last mortal screams. Unable to stop the madness, it was all I could do to stay and watch the hellish scene unfold as she went from pig to pig, peeling hot bloody strips of bacon from their wrinkled pink backs with her machine-like jaws, her glazed eyes spiralling wildly under specks of blood and spittle. Finally having enough of this grotesquery, I ran outside to vomit in the pasture. A few minutes later, as I kneeled still in a pile of my own discharge, I looked up to the sound of the east wall of the barn exploding in a shower of splinters. There stood Kirstie in the hole, several mangled corpses of pig in each monstrous hand, her face and entire body covered in a fantastic chili of blood, entrails, eyes and what-have-you. She raised the corpses up to the sky and exclaimed, “IN THE LAND OF THE PIGS, THE BUTCHER IS KING!” To which I had no answer.

At home an hour later, she enjoyed her normal late-morning fare of pancakes and macaroni, but not before a thorough sponge bath. I have since invested in a harness and chain system for the car.

My Partner in Crime, Robert Downey, Jr.

July 28th, 2009

this guy

he invented cocaine.

I want to tell you about my good friend and partner in crime, Robert Downey, Jr. Now I know you all are thinking that he is amazing, based on the sheer mass of his drug experience and of course being able to have a black accent in Tropical Thunder, but there are lots of things you don’t know about him that, in my opinion, should elevate him to the level of God, or maybe even God’s rich uncle. Rich in talent, that is. But Robert’s story goes way beyond talent.

You see, few people know this, but Robert Downey, Jr. and I are members of the rarely believed Immortals. Really, we are just good old folks who have been around since the creation of time and space. We didn’t always know each other, however; it has been many years but if my memory serves me the first time our paths crossed was during the Crusades. We were on opposing sides, of course (I’ll leave it up to you to figure out who was the Norwegian Christian and who was the Palestinian Muslim, because I am decidedly ornery this afternoon). Though we were both foreign, we actually knew English, as it was the custom of Immortals to learn all languages of mortals. It was a form of Olde English, of course, in order to make the story more authentic.

Anyway, I found him slumped under a water dike on the Jordan River. When he saw me approach, he immediately hid what he had with him and exclaimed, “halt ye, sirrah! Forsooth wat goes thereof?” To which I put away my sword and replied, “calm ye self wiry heathen. I am not wat for which would poketh thee with mine swoard. I greet thee with armes wyde. ” Seeing there was no danger, he told me, “mine eyes tell me thou dost speak throoths. Mine name is Israel Mohammed van Dowwny Junior. Careth thee for some of mine fyne jenkem?” He then uncovered that which was hidden by burlap behind his back, a small dried stack of cattle feces, that he had been sniffing up the nose. “Thus ware thy breued for the best, as the book tellis, ” I replied, “but spareth me that which I do not ken. Cometh thee to the public house for a flagon. ” We got up and entered the nearest pub. Along the way we had been getting on and he mentioned to me his profound love of subtances and his lifetime quest to discover the lost Temple of Cocaine in the far east, for which he had prepared a Hot Aire Ballo’on in a field nearby. He was in the process of getting jenked up, as he put it, when I approached him, in preparation for his journey. Fearing the end of my life in the crusade, I agreed to go with him, but only after a drink. We entered the pub and the barman leaned over to us and said, “What’ll it bee, kind sirrahs?” I ordered a flagon of High Life, and Dowwny Junior asked for a Martinus. “Don’t thou meanest Martini?” asked the barman. Dowwny Junior summoned up great tides of anger, reached across the bar and lifted the barman off the floor by the collar, and screamed into his face, “LISTEN, IF I HAD WANTED TWO OR MORE DRINKS, I WOULD HAVE ASKED FOR THEM. ”

Within the hour we were well on our journey. Up and away, it was just the two of us, a basket, a balloon, and the heavens. I had with me most of my personal effects, but Robert (as we would later be known) had nothing but his royal blue velvet robe and stash of cattle droppings. After a few hours I began to tire, and asked him how long he thought this journey would be. He replied, “Oh, about as long as my dick!” To which I laughed. “No ”, said Dowwny Junior, “really, look how long my dick is. ” Sure enough, Robert’s dick was so long that it stretched out into the sunset, towards the ancient Temple of Cocaine. “How do you know it is pointing in the right direction?” I asked. “Are you kidding, ” he said. “what do you think my dick is stuck into at the other end?” I began now to realize that the very end of his godlike wangsausage was plugged firmly into the Temple of Cocaine itself, and that this was his energy source, and why he kept smoking and talking about all the films he had been in for three hours straight. He was using it as his infinite energy source! “Works a fuck ton better than that arc reactor, ” he claimed. I was impressed.

Unfortunately, when we arrived at the Temple of Cocaine, he had already absorbed all of it into his massive schlongenhammer, save a few lines. He offered them to me, but when I handed him the rolled-up shilling note, he waved it off. “You take the last one, ” he said. “I HAVE ENOUGH IN ME TO LAST UNTIL 1992. ”

To this day, Robert Downey, Jr. remains largely misunderstood.

My best friend, Shannyn Smith.

July 24th, 2009

it's snake blood.

I would like you to meet my best friend, Shannyn Smith. She also goes by the nicknames Shannabis, Nanner, Shanberry Juice and Grumpy Waittress.

We first met way back in ‘02 at the goth club known as Club Orpheus. You know, back then it was legal to actually perform human sacrifice in the basement, and Shanana was a trained master at human dismemberment. The first time I wandered into that basement, the walls and floor slathered in blood, gristle and various amusing entrails, she was not only in charge but a successful businesswoman. She had a funnel cake stand and bead jewelry for sale, some of which had human teeth laced into it. I was intrigued and had several long and complex conversations with her over the unhealthy screams of the blade-smitten victims on the slab.

Week after week I would return and we would converse elaborately about world politics, cooking, taxonomy and ancient history. It was only when the talks began to tend towards what she called the secret labors of the Hindu clans that constructed the Angkor Wat temple in ancient Cambodia that I began to suspect this was all going somewhere, rather than just everyday Friday evening chats over torture victims. It was also around this time that I started to notice the strange movements along the walls of the dungeon chamber.

One Friday she was not there, and her succubus informed me she was out of the country on a business trip. Ignoring the shrill cries of the imprisoned souls awaiting their doom for me to release them, I decided to take this opportunity to more closely inspect the strange activity on the wall I had been seeing. Close up, I could see what appeared to be thousands, if not millions of very tiny arachnids, all quickly working to neatly parcel and carry away tiny bits of the various rotting entrails and sputum lining the walls. They seemed to be shuffling the morsels to various carefully concealed holes scattered about the corners of the dungeon, which was itself of an unusually deceptive geometry, as there was no real way to tell its size just from a glance.

Indeed, it was then I noticed that for the size of the building above, this dungeon was of an unnatural depth and shape, and it seemed to me that the height of the ceilings should well extend beyond the level of the street outside, though I knew this could not be. Chilled, I decided to take my leave for the evening, pocketing my funnel cake for eating later, perhaps when my senses had calmed.

I abstained from returning for a few weeks, a result of that uneasy encounter with the spiders, but eventually my curiosity drove me back to that place. Again I found Sha Nay Nay, back to her usual rituals, slicing, slaughtering, teasing and the like. She seemed not to notice that I had stopped coming; she just greeted me as usual. Carefully I inquired about the spiders, the holes in the corners, the obscene angles of the walls and seemingly impossible dimensions of the basement.
Smiling, she began to tell me her secret. As it turned out, she was actually descended from an ancient race called the Cenotex, a primitive race of giant gray forest-dwelling spiders. Based in old Cambodia, they were actually the original constructors of the Angkor Wat temple, and in exchange for building this temple they were allowed to freely consume the sweet blood of humanity for all of time, as long as it was done in secrecy. This dungeon, as it were, was actually the feeding chamber for her Little Ones, as she called them.

I can’t say I was anything short of amused and, in a way, relieved. That explained everything to me. That night we went out for beers and slaughtered a few homeless people and we have been friends ever since.

My Girlfriend, Zooey Deschanel.

July 21st, 2009


We do it.

I would like you to meet my girlfriend, Zooey. She is 30, two years older than me. She has a screwball name, but she was named after a book by J.D. Salinger. Please don’t make fun of her. I think she’s pretty, and that’s all that matters. You might know her from Once Upon a Mattress, or Elf where she acted with Ricky Bobby. She’s in an OK band called She and It with some douchebag named M. Ward. Despite all of this, she’s actually kind of famous. She starred in a movie with Cobra Commander, called 500 Gays in Summer.

Zooey and I have a lot of fun together. We make dinner together every Monday night, which is usually hot dogs and cheese. Every other Wednesday we go to the movies, and see some Hollywood dreck that she is not in, but occasionally some Hollywood dreck that she is in, because she’s famous and that happens sometimes. Fridays are our “special” night, which is where we lay out three pounds of cheese outside by the dumpster under the window, and when enough rats come around to eat the cheese, we pour a few gallons of melted wax out the window onto them, making little wax rat sculptures that we package up on Saturday and mail out to our family, friends and Ron Howard.

Sundays are really the best days, I think. That is the day when Pamela Anderson shows up at our door naked with a panda bear and gives it to us. Pamela Anderson leaves, and Zooey brings the panda bear inside and has sex with the bear in front of me in the living room for six hours. Then she takes a knife and slits the bear’s throat, smears the blood all over herself and the bear’s body and screams “WHAT’S BLACK AND WHITE AND RED ALL OVER?” Following this we have missionary sex in my parents’ bed for another two or three hours, and then have a cigarette. And that is how we get ready for church.

I’d like you all to meet her one day. We should go out to the Olive Garden.

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