Ashes for the Asholes!

 

Once upon a time… there lived a pathetic, churlish child; a bona fide, boneheaded bully, who, somehow, managed to masquerade / market himself as a grown-up.

Oh, how he loved to egg on bedlam and brutality on his playground; doing so by forcing his odious, oppressive self on whoever he singled out. Typically, that nasty bastard would, first, pit one faction against the other, next, incite riotous blood splattered brawls and, in the end, go online (ya know) just to get off while recounting and reliving the emotional misery, physical pain and inevitable carnage he had inflicted. Ofttimes, he’d end each of his thick with sadism Tweets ROFLMAO!

Sometimes he’d even bogusly boast that he was the Super Hero, who, just in the nick of time, with cape all aflutter, had swooped down to save the day!

Seeing how he had never, actually, done one lick of work in the real world, and coupling that issue with his state of arrested development, it shocked nobody when that freak would frequently wish aloud…

“I wanna be either a truck driver or a fireman when I grow up!”

Well, then came the day where fantasy, kinda sorta, met up with reality. Indeed, the little hellion even got to park his yuge keister behind the wheel of big, badass rig. Hell, he even got to TOOT-TOOT the horn!

Later that very night, with visions of vicious violence dancing and prancing within his twisted, warped little noggin, he actually dreamt in phantasmagoric magnitude, virtual reality. He was now the driver of a firetruck; not loaded with H²O, but instead with the highest octane gasoline ever refined. With each passing highway marker, he was nearing his destination: Blue City.

Upon arrival, he instantly spotted two diametrically opposed, infuriated factions. It was The Goods vs. The Goons; their bitter battle already in progress (uh, if progress is even the operative word, in play).

Coming to a screeching halt at the epicenter of that war zone, he leapt out of his firetruck, took aim and hosed down that entire metropolis. Just then, an ill-timed bolt of dry lightning (supercharged by climate change) crackled down from the sky. Whilst The Goons fled from the scene of their crime (ya know) in order to totally flout justice, nary one Good person survived and Blue City burnt to the ground.

For four fortnight, into early November, the ferocious conflagration spread all across that once great nation; only burning itself out when nary one combustible twig remained.

To the malevolent “victors”, The Goons, went the spoils of war; namely, Ashes for the Asholes!

The End

 

Stay Safe at Home! Stay Publicly Masked! Stay Healthy!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Diarrhea of a Dictator

 

Once upon a time, within a homeland… hopefully, not like your own… there existed an amorphous 150kg / 330lb blob of ferociously fetid, fecal matter.

Owing to this dung heap’s proximity to a deregulation dilapidated, radiation spewing, nuclear waste dump and the multiple lightening strikes from an amped up by climate change, freakish thunderstorm, that oddly, orange hued lump soon was able to manifest its newfound superpowers, lickety-split, to take on, more or less, human attributes.

In essence, IT had become a shapeshifter and IT had become a HE and henceforth, HE became Dungy Dump. Alas, any other reports of any other resemblance to humankind would be greatly exaggerated, for he did not possess a humane disposition. In fact, ol’ Dump did not give a shit about anything… uh… anyone… other than himself. And so… it was what it was.

For one fortnight… to avoid the sunlight’s purifying rays… Dungy lumbered thru the inky darkness of night until he stumbled upon the shoreline of a nearby swamp… where he giddily slogged through the knee-deep muck and mire and even took mud baths.

It was shortly thereafter, when churlish Chad, the chairman of the Archconservative Political Party (whilst on a mission to bury subpoenaed, incriminating evidence), spotted a frenzied swarm of blue bottle flies heading southward.

As all buzzed on by, he bellowed out, “Hark yonder flies, where go thee?” The leader went into a circuitous holding pattern, just long enough to query back, in his gruff gangster growl, “Hey, yooze fuckin’ nose blind, ya jerk? Just take a whiff!”

Indeed, “Dr. Fly” (not his real name) could’ve been an ENT specialist and a shrink, too. Consider his instantaneous, spot-on diagnosis and intuitiveness… i.e., knowing he had met up with a totally impervious to corruption’s stench, shitty politician.

However, upon fine tuning and refocusing his olfactory talents, Chad finally caught wind of the situation. He muttered, “P.U., how the hell did I ever miss THAT?” He also exclaimed, “Oh shit! This should be fun!”

On foot, it took about an hour for him to finally wind up swapside. However, Chad and Dungy had no sooner introduced themselves when Chad sensed it’d been worth the trip. And, once they got to shootin’ the shit… as it were… they both knew it was love at first sight! The air about Dungy had so overwhelmed / enraptured Chad that he swooned and nearly passed out… especially whenever his newfound BFF spewed forth his verbal diarrhea… a veritable shitload of icky autocratic, sociopathic, misogynistic, homophobic, xenophobic rhetoric.

Soon, arm-in-arm, they sauntered back into town, which just happened to be their nation’s Capital. Within one scant year, Dungy Dump’s gross, grotesque disposition and malodorous verbal diarrhea / dogma had so bowled over the masses, they too, had became noseblind… so much so that 51% of them first emboldened, next empowered him.

From that day onward… no questions ever allowed or ever asked… they’d eat up whatever shit Dungy Dump fed them… and asked for second heaping helpings, too.

The End

 

 

Stay Safe at Home! Stay Publicly Masked! Stay Healthy!

 

 

 

 

Breaking News! Raw Footage!

The Republican National Convention is slated to run from Monday, August 24 thru Thursday, August 27, 2020 in Charlotte, North Carolina (day 1) and at various other locations remotely (days 2–4).

While this blogger cannot disclose sources, I have obtained raw footage… REALLY raw footage… of presumptive nominees Donald J. Trump and Michael R. Pence practicing their upcoming convention acceptance speeches (during a sound check).

The in the field journalist and crew… this REALLY in the field team of professionals… should have appropriate medals pinned to their uniforms for braving inordinately odious / adverse conditions while snagging this Breaking News Exclusive!

Considering the magnitude of this stomach turning, turn of events (wink / wink –> ) I must now turn this matter over to the U.S. Occupational Safety and Health Administration (OSHA) and the U.S. Department of Labor.

According to the latter federal agency, stringent rules and regs (re compensation), as set forth by Fair Labor Standards Act (FLSA), do expressly stipulate:

“Hazard pay means additional pay for performing hazardous duty or work involving physical hardship. Work duty that causes extreme physical discomfort and distress which is not adequately alleviated by protective devices is deemed to impose a physical hardship.”

Considering the disgusting, reeking manure, which our intrepid news gathering team had encountered, most assuredly, they’ve meet those FLSA standards, and as such, have all earned every, last damned penny of their hazard pay!

Gratitude and Kudos for an extraordinary job superbly done!

By the by, from the “Ahem” Department: This blog’s fake news is loosely based on a political joke, circa 1967, where (then) President Lyndon B. Johnson and (then) Vice President Hubert Humphrey were purportedly walking thru a Texas barnyard when, all the sudden, the latter, not really looking where he was going, first, encountered a cow pie and, next, quipped, “Look boss! I just stepped onto a Republican Platform!”

 

Stay Safe at Home! Stay Publicly Masked! Stay Healthy!

 

 

 

 

 

Beating the Conundrum Drum

 

Just thought I’d post a “secret message” in a code
that only a select few will ever crack. You know, uh,
to gleefully yank the chains of only God knows who.

Actually, this is just a bunch of gibberish… Or is it?

Maybe the real code is in these readable words and
not in the blockquoted section below? Or vice versa?

And if I say I’m a liar, how do you know I’m not lying
about that? What a tangled web we weave… ha ha!

I mean, these days, can anyone really say for sure?

OK sleuths… whoever ya are… knock yourselves out!

 

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Stay Safe at Home! Stay Publicly Masked! Stay Healthy!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Just Desserts? Just Deserts! [Part 3]

[Read Part 1 Here]
[Read Part 2 Here]

 

When we last left Brutus the Barbarian, his entire Kingdom of Doom was doomed… at the mercy of a take no prisoners, know no boundaries pestilence. That bloated, 250kg/550lb egomaniac, desperately ISO even one survivor (uh… beyond the one he admired, hourly, in his mirror) had taken to waddling about his palace… first inside… next outside. And he wasn’t having much luck. Not paying attention to where he was going, he had just taken a bellyflop into the royal pigpen’s mud puddle! And owing to a nearby passel of piglets, these oinkers’ “end product” had, little doubt, “bio-enhanced” that muck.

It was then and there that Brutus had his muttered “Oh sh…” interrupted by a big booming voice from above… way above! From the intonation, alone, there was little doubt someone was tsk-tsk’ing him, too…

“Brutus… Brutus… Brutus… just how the Hell am I to deal with you?”

The mentally muddled, muddied and mucked up monarch could not even correctly place the locale of that scolding voice. Despite his disorientation, belligerent Bru bellowed…

“Do with me? DO WITH ME??? Who the HELL are you? Dropeth down from yonder sycamore tree and presenteth yourself for punishment! NOW!! I COMMAND THEE!!!”

“YOU COMMAND ME? Let’s get one thing straight, my wayward son! I COMMAND YOU!”

While struggling to park his fat Fascist fanny upon the somewhat firmer, drier, adjacent soil, Brutus’ bluster… for the moment… had kinda, sorta upgraded itself to bewilderment.

“Wayward son you say? That’d be impossible… Dadsy was dead and buried the year just prior to the new millennium.”

“How dense of you… you, who pass yourself off as a Christian… to not know who speaketh to you.

“Haven’t got a clue, mister.”

“And how typical of you, too, to try pivoting our discussion away from your dense drama-cloaked character deficits… your incompetence, indolence and instability… all of which prevented you from dutifully defending the Kingdom of Doom from a deadly attack. It is indeed, stunning, how an insufferable tyrant… a totalitarian such as you… would not jump at the chance to totally wipe out a mere microbe!

“Moi? A tyrant? That’s faketh news! Every last damned one of my subjugated subjects worships the very poop I flush down my royal commode… or else! They LOVE me! They do LOVE me! They really, really do LOVE me! And DON’T YOU DARE even try to tell me otherwise!”

“SHUT The F UP… my son!”
“I WILL NOT, YOU A-HOLE!”
“SHUT The F UP… my son!”
“I WILL NOT, YOU A-HOLE!”
“SHUT The F UP… my son!”
“I WILL NOT, YOU A-HOLE!”

This wholly unproductive “Father-son chat” kept going on and on and on… and at a rapid-fire pace that even a Mac’s command C / V key function could barely keep up with.

Brutus, who believed the entire Universe revolved around him, was obviously oblivious to the fact that he was engaging in a ferocious shouting match with his Maker. More to the point, Bru had so pissed Him off that it left the Almighty little choice but to wind up His pitching arm and sling, Earthward, a warning lightning bolt… ZAP!!! Upon striking the ground within mere millimeters of Bru… the multiple-millions of volts had singed his dyed blond, mangy mane and brows… ruddied the tangerine tone of his frowning, fanged visage.

However, having now amply demonstrated who still had the upper hand, The Voice had now taken on a decidedly testier intonation…

“Originally, my son, my intent had been to give you a second chance. Why, with the snap of my fingers I could’ve easily brought all of your subjects back to life.”

“Even Stormy Stephanie?”

“Not even in your most perverted fantasies!” But do shut your pie hole! Now, where was I? Oh yeah. Upon my having just judged you, up close and personal, well… I now ask… Why would I? Why should I resurrect the dead just to satisfy you?”

“Because by subjects need me!?” Brutus half asserted / half asked.

“Need you? You flatter yourself, you narcissistic parasite!”

“HOW DARE YOU CALL ME THAT!”

“THAT DID IT! I NOW PUNISH THEE!”

“YOU PUNISH ME? WTF DID I EVER DO TO YOU? DON’T YOU DARE EVEN TRY!”

The Creator of the Universe, accepted his challenge by lobbing another lightning bold… C-R-R-R–A-A-A–C-C-K-K! That near miss caused Brutus’ jawbone to tingle… so much so that it had left him momentarily dumbstruck.

With omniscient glinting eyes and smug ear-to-ear grin, God had finally meted out Brutus’ punishment.

“Commencing from this day forward, your kingdom shall be barren of all mirrors, reflective surfaces and pools of calm, standing water. Gone, too, will be your human toys… namely… NO servants to prepare fast food sludge to sate your hunger! NO handmaidens to gratify your own deeply perverted, carnal hungers! NO sycophants to, hourly, stoke and stroke your massive ego and refuel your malignant narcissism.”

So what! I can always find new subjects!”

“You think so, huh? Good luck with that, my son! From this moment forward, you are the last man on Earth. And since you fancy yourself a god, I have deemed it fitting to render you virtually immortal.”

“Virtually? Why not totally?”

“Because you will die, someday, when your Sun enters the Red Giant Stage and, not unlike your effed up fat head, expands beyond your planet’s current orbit.”

“Don’t you dare foist off fake science on me. But… uh… just for the Hell of it… how soon do ya suppose is ‘someday’?”

“7.5 billion years from now.”

“OMG, I cannot go 7.5 seconds without fawning fans who’ll idolize and suck up to me!”

“See ya in 7.5 Billion Years, Sucka!”

“Don’t go God! Now more than ever, I need thee!”

Brutus ceaselessly pleaded while standing up, once again, in the vicinity of pigsty’s mucky mud puddle.

“Just deserts, my son… just deserts!”

“Doncha mean desserts? Chocolate cake maybe? Make mine a yuge slice… hell, let me pig out on the whole goddamned cake!”

“Pig out on this, instead!”

Once more, at the snap of the Creator’s fingers, Brutus the Barbarian suddenly lost his footing and bellyflopped, face-down into the piglets’ “bio-enhanced” muck!

 

THE END?

 

Stay Safe… Stay Home… Stay Healthy…

Stay Tuned, too… just in case… someday… there’ll be another Just Desserts? Just Deserts! chapter.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Short Story: The Imposter

 

Once upon a time there lived an imbecilic, immature, impatient, impulsive, impractical, imperfect, imprecise, immodest, improper, improvident, impolite, impure, imprudent, impudent, impotent potentate, who committed so many improprieties with impunity, he oft imperiled his empire. He also proved to be so immitigable and immune, his destructive rampage became impossible to impair and impede; not even via impeachment. While fully worthy of imprisonment within an impregnable barred or padded cell, no such fate was imminent / impending. The End?

 

 

 

 

Just Desserts? Just Deserts! [Part 2]

 

[Read Part 1 Here]

When we last left the Kingdom of Doom, its bloated head of state, Brutus the Barbarian, was bending over his bejeweled, solid gold, one holer “throne”… uh… “making room” for his morning repast’s dessert course. For the moment, his palace’s hallowed Hall of Audiences had become little more than a disgusting public vomitorium.

Oddly enough, his subjects were so used to their sovereign grossing them out, that they watched unflinchingly, which gratified Brutus, no end. Furthermore… at least in his demented mind’s eye… the no more than 60 total, actual count of these toady attendees, had now swelled to a tremendous 60 million! He even fancied the thought…

“From time immemorial, no king could ever boast of such a tremendous crowd size!”

Brutus’ recurring “Oh to be loved by so many so frequently” fantasy almost brought a tear to his glowering, evil eye… all of that accompanied by surging feelings of untold rapture… i.e., especially when the masses offered up their rhythmic chants of, “Bru! Bru! Bru!” Of course, the far more accurate quotation would’ve been a combination of “Booooo! Booooo! Booooo!” and “Eeewe! Eeewe! Eeewe!”

Well… his purging now a fait accompli, it was time for him, alone, to pig out on that perfect, thickly frosted, three layer, chocolate cake, which his fair-haired handmaiden, Stormy Stephanie, had set before him… mere moments earlier.

However, as he stood upright once more… slowly pivoting to face and flash his loyal subjects… he was greeted by a deathly silence. He hiked up his whitey tighties and pantaloons. Nonplussed, horrified and outraged best described how he felt at the mere sight of everyone lying prone on the floor… flat on their faces and motionless…

“Wake up! I command thee”, he bellowed… but, nobody could possibly obey him… not Harold the Herald… not Miniver the Minstrel… not Jessie the Jester. Even worse… not even his royal mistress, Stormy Stephanie!

All the sudden an unexpected, yet familiar, voice violated the roaring silence… growing in intensity as the delirious, soaked in a cold sweat, royal physician, Quentin Quackenbush, first, made his staggering entrance… next, promptly stumbled over his feet to fall at the feet of his liege lord Brutus. Too weak to even raise his head, his words got muffled by the red carpet’s plush, luxurious pile…

“Your Majesty! I am the bearer of news… gasp… and it’s all bad. Pestilence has stricken down your entire kingdom… rapid… if not instant… sudden death! it’s a novel influenza… unlike anything I’ve ever seen in my… gasp… three score and ten years of doctoring… and… and… alas… it has also sickened… gasp… even me…”

Brutus thought to himself, “Those ingrates! How dare they disrespect me! How dare they make me look bad by dying without my express permission!” He waddled from chamber to chamber… even clenched his fist to pound on the locked door to his estranged wife’s boudoir. Right about then he would’ve even welcomed one of her spit out with spite, “Buzz off you bastard!” commands. Alas, even her anger towards him had died.

Anyway, all throughout his castle, this novel, macabre scene had repeated itself, without fail. Indeed, Quackenbush had not been disseminating faketh news. At the palace’s very entrance, Brutus even found the palace guard unit had perished.

Struggling… huffing and puffing till red in the face… the 250 kg / 550lb Brutus finally managed to lower the drawbridge… his never used muscles immediately growing sore… his dainty hands now all bloodied and calloused.

He was soon stunned, anew, for even the moat’s snakes and alligators were lifeless… floating motionless. Lumbering out to the livery stable, he found the horses, too, had all been sickened to death. Ditto that re the pigs in the sty and poultry in the hen house. Indeed, nary a whinny, oink, honk or cluck.

Considering sudden death’s dizzying display, not all that surprising was Brutus losing his footing in the slimy mud and taking a face down dive into that muck. It was then and there that he heard a booming voice from above… way above…

Stay Safe… Stay Home… Stay Healthy…

Stay Tuned, too, for the next installment of Just Desserts? Just Deserts!

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Nonsensical Scenario?

 

Once upon a time there existed a spineless lawmaker,
who could really talk up a swirling storm; one that was
fully capable of causing his constituents’ heads to spin.
In other words, he lacked sufficient vertebrae, used ex-
cessive verbiage and gave folks a bad case of vertigo!

The End

 

 

 

 

 

 

Just Desserts? Just Deserts! [Part 1]

 

Once upon a time, deep within the far-flung Kingdom of Doom, there ruled Brutus the Barbarian… the foolhardy, blowhard, hard-liner, who fancied himself omnipresent, omniscient and omnipotent. Yet, truth be told, His Highness was as dull as his daily routine.

Each, typical new morn, he’d emerge from his bedchamber… lumber down the flickering, torch lit corridor and pause to rattle the door handle to his estranged wife’s boudoir. Without fail, she had locked it and, on occasion, he’d even hear her snarl,

“Buzzeth off you unfaithful scum wad!”

By that time, Barry the Barber would, for the umpteenth time, bounce on by to offereth his services, but, per ususal, Brutus would shoo him off. His Majesty actually preferred shaving off his royal whiskers for both practical and preposterous reasons. After all, he knew he must not trust anyone to wield a straight-edge anywhere near his carotid artery. Besides, his making this a DIY task did offer him the perfect excuse (not that he really needed one) to gaze longingly into his mirror, primp and preen, comb over his golden, slumbers-tousled tresses and, last but not least, fess up how he was, actually, in mad, Mad, MAD, purple passionate love with… With… WITH…

HIMSELF! Only pangs of hunger could pry him away from his reflected self. And so, with tummy growling, the 250 kg / 550lb Brutus would then waddle down the gradually spiraling, red carpeted staircase, his fur trimmed orange robe all a’flutter in the castle’s musty drafts. Upon his grand entrance into the Hall of Audiences… the adoring crowd (estimated to be 6 million souls) would give him a Standing O and the Royal Trumpeters would fanfare him onward to the very table where he, alone, would be seated. It was there, that a bevy of wrongfully objectified, scantily clad handmaidens awaited him with (faked) bated breath.

While they served up his piping hot, six-course morning repast, Brutus, upon unceremoniously dropping his silk pantaloons and whitey tighties, would seat himself atop his glistening, one-holer gold throne… all bejeweled with sparkling diamonds, emeralds and rubies. As expected, everyone would be “treated” to yet another disgusting, grunting and grimacing, voiding and moving moment. And to top that, this was whilst he’d be chowing down… no less (eewwww)! Ofttimes, while talking with his mouth full, he’d lament over how it was physiologically impossible to outsource each nature’s call to some “lucky” lackey.

Once His Majesty felt a bit… uh… relieved, Harold the Herald, would take that as his cue to enter. In fine baritone voice, he’d loudly attempt to verbally pretty up… to make rhyme or reason out of each and every last damned one of Brutus’ non-accomplishments. He would really shovel on the praise, whilst reciting and regurgitating, ad nauseam, the litiny of royal whoppers.

At that point, it would be incumbent on the note-taking Miniver the Minstrel to, first, mentally string together the appropriate musical notes… to next pluck and strum his lyre to transform Harold’s talking points into lyrical epics. At that moment, Jessie the Jester would literally stumble upon this already strange scene… his mission? To appear so damned outlandish and doltish that, by comparison, Brutus the Barbarian would appear The Very Stable Genius… that he wasn’t.

All throughout the festivities, the enraptured egomaniac leader would gesticulate nonsensically, flash his sadistic ear to ear grin and nod his noggin in mindless approval and contentment.

As one might expect, daily, day long binge and purge, culinary orgies… all accompanied by Harold’s accounts of Brutus’ bogus sham exploits… all set to MIniver’s melodies… all punctuated by Jessie’s gymnastics / pratfalls… left absolutely no possibility for anything of consequence to ever materialize… anywhere… at anytime.

As such, it was dumb luck… not Brutus the Barbarian… that stood between their utterly defenseless homeland and an overlooked, opportunistic, lurking off in the shadows, take no prisoners, genocidal assailant.

Little did the Kingdom of Doom’s denizens know it… but… their luck was about to run out…

 

Stay Safe… Stay Home… Stay Healthy…

Stay Tuned, too, for the next installment of Just Desserts? Just Deserts!