8 Minute Scabs

September 15, 2011 Leave a comment

So I’ve been doing 8 Minute Scabs again. It’s a great exercise routine, and blah blah there are better blah blah fuck it. It’s working for me. 12 days in and my abdomen is just one massive scab, so fuck paying like $80 for a gym membership or whatever I’m expected to do. This is better. It’s better because I like it.

Earlier today I wasted like three hours trying to pick at it and see what’s underneath. Trying to just tear off the entire mound is fucking impossible. It’s like a purple tank has adhered itself to my stomach. I mean, it wrinkles a little and gets cracked and crumbly when I bend over, but it’s still way too tough to just yank at. Anything that falls off just grows back anyway. It looks very similar to the way they tar up an old street to fill the cracks and potholes.

You can pull clumps off the top–they’re pretty crumbly, not sticky at all–but it’s impossible to dig deep enough without sending eruptions of puss everywhere. It’s cool if you want that, but my bed is now entirely coated in sticky white shit, and I look like a stupid pervert.

I was finally able to lift the corner up near my right pec. It took forever, but by prying at it with a kitchen knife and then sawing around the edges I got in and took a look inside. I can see some of my organs in there. They’re becoming scabby, too!

Categories: Fiction, Horror

The Boylet!??!

September 1, 2011 Leave a comment

The boylet is a lot like the toilet, except it is a massive ceramic dildo. When it is time to evacuate, the person sits on the curved tip of the boylet and allows it entry into their anus. A slit in the tip–powered by a massive suction–collects and removes all fecal matter. The boylet patron then pisses on the floor.

“Use a boylet. It will be cleaner.”


August 7, 2011 Leave a comment

With seven flavours, including FROG’S LEGS, Rudebeer is sure to be the LICE of the party. Pour yourself a glass and have a gas with Rudebeer’s special FART formula that makes you have to CUT ONE. You’ll love the smell of your BURPS and FARTS when they smell like BUGS and SKUNKS. OOOOOOOOPPSSS! Smells like you just drank a Rudebeer!

Watch out, because Rudebeer looks rude, too. Available in three WEIRDO bottles, you can sport a TONGUE, MUSCLE ARM, or EYEBALL shaped guzzler sure to whoops up your friends and make them think you’ve gone CRAZY from all your FARTS.

Categories: Fiction, Kid Picks

I feel like my house is being plagued by a Special Effects Horse

July 26, 2011 Leave a comment

For those not in the know, a Special Effects Horse is a cruel horse’s essence which has become lost without its body. These haunting beasts are tireless, mean spirited spirits. Although they are without form, cannot be heard, nor felt, nor seen, they can interact with this blessed realm through the medium of the special effect. Like magic, they burst into our world as they pass by a green screen, and CGI may give it a wireframe form that will be painted by computer magic over time. Despite the beauty of these modern marvels, the Special Effects Horse is a PLAGUE and a SIN, and there is one roaming about my house. I feel it, not physically, but where I am tethered to my fantasies. There is an empty space there, cut out in the shape of a horse. It has left the fantasy world and come into ours.

I currently have green screens set up all around my living room, my kitchen, and one another room, and it contually passes by them. I see it staring at me. Although it wants to be made into physical things, it doesn’t want to be seen before it has fully crossed the gap into our world. Only once it is a physical horse, whether it is made from computer graphics, clay or stone, can it properly take a human life. It will eat you, rip out your throat, and bury you under your own floorboards. Thankfully, we don’t have any horse makeup in my house, but I’m worried about any fireworks it might find. I lost the fireworks, and I’m becoming worried that a plague and a sin might find them.

Flooded with pyrotechnics, its impossible shell will become a brilliant spectacle of light and fire, and it will trample me, branding me with its hooves. A sparkle horse made from light and magic, and me, trapped beneath my floor boards, dead as hell and broken, too.

If it cannot be made physical, it will still hurt you and hurt you and hurt you. It creeps into you and steals your breath. It steals your breath and it turns it into sickness and it spits it back into your stomach and makes you filthy and filled with plague and sin. You will be worse than you were before, burdened by the sins of this goddamn horse. This horse–this Special Effects Horse–is both a plague and a sin. A PLAGUE and a GODDAMN SIN.

Categories: Fiction

Molest 100 GODDAMN children and become a Centipedo.

July 12, 2011 Leave a comment


Lower than a bug, you cumming slum-dive bum. Lurking the alleys for the children of the dead, dead feelings caught in their eyes, trapped like gray corpses beneath where you jerk them off and finger their pussies and their assholes, stick erections in their mouths. You are the centipedo, 100 severed limbs from broken lives sewn onto your back. Lay back on them, you fucking piece of shit. Lay back on them as they prop you up, lower than a bug, but still above them. Nothing is beneath the dead.

Categories: Fiction, Horror

Gravestone Highway

June 30, 2011 Leave a comment

A gravestone found its way into the highway outside my house this morning, upright and with large font text. It has smoothly risen up from the pavement, and it is apparent that it came from beneath the ground, not from above it. It was driven upwards from beneath, or it grew there. Something wanted us to see it, but I don’t know why. I don’t think they wanted us to feel it, because I don’t think they know what that is. I watched half a dozen cars slow down and drive around it, eyeing it as they passed by. It didn’t feel right just passing by. Josh Renfield is dead after all, even if I don’t know who that is. It seems strange to me that I’m contemplating why he’s there, not who he was. I don’t think you could remove that stone. It would just come back.

I feel like that grave passes through all of the Earth, a slender slab of stone descending and emerging in the oceans off Australia’s coasts. It’s a hazard out there, peaking up just above the ocean. Some days it might be covered by a wave. A boat might crash, and people might die, and if they do, they won’t be named Josh Renfield. It won’t be destiny, or irony; it’ll just happen. People will die because someone has died.

It’s a plain red stone, smooth and lightly marbled with the black flecks that give it its character. It says Joshua Renfield, and then it says when he died. He died yesterday, and he was born in 1981. I can’t help but feel that he didn’t die like a person, or in a place that a person might be. Where did you die, Joshua, that you were made into a mystery?

Categories: Fiction, Horror

My new pants as compared to my old pants.

June 24, 2011 1 comment

My old pair: Sometimes got caught under my shoes. The backs were frayed at the bottom from wear.
My new pair: They don’t do this at all.

My old pair: If my phone was in my left pocket, I couldn’t put my iPod in my right because I needed to put my cards there, and pulling out the iPod made the cards spill everywhere.
My new pair: There’s a card pocket on the left side so I can always carry my iPod.

My old pair: The change pocket was a little too large and sometimes change fell out.
My new pair: Not only is the change pocket smaller, but it’s closer to my belt, meaning my belt essentially becomes a lid.

My old pair: The back pocket had several holes in it where my keys had actually broken through the fabric and come out the back.
My new pair: Leather inside the back pocket so that my keys can’t do that.

My old pair: There is still a photo of my little brother in the back left pocket.
My new pair:
I miss him so much. It’s so dark out there.

Categories: Comedy, Fiction