mcsquiggans

A Real Pot-Boiler!

Top Gun 2: The Rise of Iceman’s Stiff Cock

Maverick got up off of his knees and wiped his eyes and put the wreath on top of Goose’s gravestone. “Jesus, Goose. I sure do miss you, pal.” said Maverick. “I can’t believe that I’ll never again spread apart your hairy butt cheeks and gaze in stupefied awe at the horror that was your devastated sphincter.” He once again broke into inconsolable sobs and turned and strode off to his rusted shit-heap from the Miramar motor pool. Back at the base in the locker room, he ran into Viper who said, “Hey, Mav, you look terrible. Did you just get back from the cemetery?” “Yes I did. I still can’t believe that he’s gone.” said Maverick with his head down. “No offense, but I’m glad that he’s dead. From my perspective, if he were still around I wouldn’t have been able to slide into his spot as your boyfriend, and I would have missed out on the pleasure of repeatedly sodomizing you.” said Viper with a grin. “I wish that I could say that I see your point, Commander, but your fly is still zipped.” said Maverick. Viper immediately pulled down the zipper on his flight suit and unfurled his exocet missile as Maverick knelt on the pillow that Viper had placed on the ground in front of him. Viper leaned his head back and started moaning as Maverick went through all of the ancient intricacies of fellatio. Suddenly, the door burst open and Jester ran in with Slider close behind.  “Have you guys heard the news!” screamed a very excited Jester. “Iceman is finally getting out of the hospital tomorrow!” said Slider, who put his arm around Jester’s shoulder. They both looked on patiently as Viper pumped a load into Maverick’s face and then handed him an official Top Gun hand towel so that he could swab his face. “Thanks, guys. Great balls of fire, Viper, you’ve certainly still got the stuff!” said Maverick. Viper could only nod his head and continue moaning. “Just give him a few minutes to get his act together. It’s like this all of the time now after he spoofs.” said Jester. “Aye-aye, sir. You were saying about Ice?” said Maverick. “Oh yeah right, he’s getting out early tomorrow! The surgery went really well and his recovery has been better than expected, so we’re going to get him tomorrow. Are you coming with us?” said Jester. “He really wants you to be there, Mav.” said Slider who heaved out three high pitched farts in quick succession. “Slider… you stink. And hell yes I’m coming!” laughed Maverick. The next day at the hospital, Viper approached the duty nurse and said, “My name’s Commander Mike Metcalf, call sign Viper, and we’re here to pick up Lieutenant Tom Kazanski, call sign Iceman.” “Oh yes, sir. He’s in recovery, right through those double doors. The doctor would like a word before you gentlemen go back to get him.” said the nurse. The doctor approached the four men and said, “Gentlemen, everything went spectacularly well. We increased his penis length from 4 inches to 13,” at which point Slider whistled, “and his anus has been completely re tuned and tightened. You’d be lucky to get anything bigger than a wet noodle in there now.” Jester laughed and said, “We’ll just see about that, Doc! We might be bringing him back again next week!” at which point all of the men laughed, shook hands and back-slapped each other. Viper gave Maverick a high-five and then fist-bumped Slider. “Let’s go get him!” said the doctor. As they approached the bed, they could see a whole team of beauticians surrounding Iceman. He was getting a manicure, pedicure, tooth whitening procedure, chest waxing and the barber was just finishing up with the highlights on his freshly clipped flat top. “Oh my god, hey you guys! I can’t believe that you all came!” said an elated Iceman. “We haven’t yet, that will happen as soon as we get your rebuilt poo-hammer and coal-chute back to the base!” said Viper. Maverick picked up the fouled bed pan and began eating part of the giant loaf that Iceman had crapped out after his veggie shake earlier that morning. “Oh man!” said the pedicurist, who vomited and then passed out on the tiled floor. Slider wasted no time. With the speed of  an Olympic wrestler, he jumped behind the unconscious man and ripped off his Bermuda shorts while fishing out his pumped-up hog and held out his hand so that Jester could squeeze some industrial grade lubricant  out of a gallon pump-jug. He hoisted the man’s hips up for a solid maximum torque angle, tested the wind with a licked finger, which made everyone laugh, and stuffed his schlub home into the dude’s asshole and began to hammer in and out as the rest of the beauty team scattered like roaches and Maverick pulled the privacy curtain closed. Iceman sat up in bed so that he could blow Jester who was standing on the bed in front of him spread eagled, and Maverick mounted Viper in a reverse cowboy formation in the rocking maternity chair. The moaning became so loud that one of the orderlies who was unable to stop them grabbed a fire extinguisher and pulled the curtain aside to empty the whole contents onto the gyrating pile of men. Viper stood up and wiped the foam off of his face and grabbed the rolling I.V. tree and started bludgeoning the orderly, as Iceman utilized the distraction to pull Jester down and strangle him with his own belt which he tied into a noose. Jester started to expectorate foam, but it only blended with the fire extinguishing agent, so it went unnoticed. Iceman was laughing maniacally as Jester’s eyes bugged out of his head as he finally died. The men got themselves together and called for a gurney so that Jester’s remains could be taken down to the crematorium. The buggered, unconscious beautician that Slider had ravaged had to be taken quickly to the ICU when his pulse flat-lined. “Let’s get the hell out of here, gentlemen.” said Viper. “YES SIR!” the men replied. Back at the base the pilots got seated in the pre-flight briefing room. Viper got up to the lectern and said, “Gentlemen, this hop is code named Iron Penis. The mission is to rendezvous with Flight Team Bravo aboard the USS Admiral Hogie aircraft carrier out in the Pacific and then scramble from the carrier once further orders have been issued by CAG Stinger. Gentlemen, this is the real thing. Dismissed.” The pilots ran to their planes as the siren began to wail. Maverick teamed up with Viper and Iceman had Slider as his RIO. As the canopy closed on Iceman’s cockpit, Slider farted very loudly before Iceman had time to put on his helmet. “You asshole!” said Iceman into the intercom. The planes took off out over the Pacific and flew to the carrier in tight formation, Maverick/Viper in front. As they approached the carrier, Viper got on the radio to Iceman, “Ice, you land first, and Mav and I will come in behind you.” “Nothing new there, you bull queer!” said Iceman as Maverick peeled out of formation. Maverick got on the radio to the ship, “Permission to buzz the tower?” “Negative Ghost Rider, the pattern is full.” the tower replied. Maverick switched to the intercom, “Viper, I’m going to wake those boys up down there.” “Just hurry the fuck up, you imbecile, I accidentally crapped in my flight suit and my seat is soaked in urine.” “Roger that, Commander, I’ll expedite our landing.” said Maverick. He fired on the afterburners and swept the wings back full as he pushed the throttle all the way up. Unfortunately, Maverick misjudged the flyby and quickly realized they were going to impact the tower. “EJECT, FOR FUCK’S SAKE! PULL THE HANDLE, VIPER!” screamed Maverick. Panic stricken, Viper pulled the ejection handles and they flew out of the plane just before it crashed full speed into the tower, completely obliterating it into a massive fire ball. Their parachutes opened, and they both drifted slowly down toward the flight deck which was swarming with fire teams heading toward the smoldering tower. Viper looked over at Maverick and gave him a quick thumbs-up. Maverick steered himself toward Viper and pulled out his service pistol from his belt holster. Viper’s smile quickly disappeared and he desperately tried to maneuver himself away from Maverick’s approaching parachute. Viper realized that Maverick had his penis out and that it was fully stiff as Maverick raised the pistol and fired point blank into Vipers face. His head exploded like a sledge hammered cantaloupe, as Maverick dropped the gun into the Ocean and veered back on course to land on the ship. Viper’s headless corpse fell into the Pacific and green anti-shark dye started to form a cloud on the water. Maverick landed to a hero’s welcome. After disconnecting his parachute, Iceman ran up and lifted him into the air. “I heard about what happened to Viper. I can’t believe that you need to go through it all again, but just know that I’m here for you. You can be my crank-blower any time.” Iceman said to cheers. “Bullshit, you can be mine.” said Maverick as they began to kiss on the fiery ship.

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The Lieutenant’s Butt-Hole

Reveille ripped Private Jonny away from the safety of his hedonistic unconsciousness and transformed his newly awakened world into a hellish nightmare.  “Oh Jesus.” he moaned, as he rolled over in his rack to get up for the morning inspection. He’d had a particularly rough evening the night prior and was in bad shape yet again.   The back of his OD green service pants were torn out at the seat, and he was still wearing a shit-smeared rubber.  “Medic! Corporal, get over here, dude! I’m not going to make it!” he screamed to Corporal Bloer, the unit corpsman.  “Shut the fuck up, Jonny. I can’t believe that you fucked the general’s son in the ass again!  You’re supposed to be my twink!” said Bloer.  “Well, you always said that the worst thing on you is a drunken Irishman, so don’t get too upset, you fucking fag!” chuckled Jonny.  He staggered to his feet and hastily pulled off his shredded pants and dangling jimmy-hat and threw on his fatigues.  The platoon assembled in front of their racks and stood at attention just as Sergeant Rahmjobb kicked open the doors to the barracks and began screaming at the nearest set of troops. When the sergeant got in Jonny’s face he said, “Jesus-H-Christ. Well, you obviously take it deep in the ass!”  “YES, SERGEANT!” screamed Jonny.  “I’D ALSO LIKE TO CRAM MY BONER IN YOUR CHEESY ASSHOLE, SIR!” he added.  “Is that so, private?” said the sergeant with a faint smile. He brushed a crumb out of his bleached soul-patch and eyed Jonny for a response.  “YES SIR!  AS A MATTER OF FACT WE COULD GO INTO THE LATRINE RIGHT NOW, SIR!” the private screamed at top-volume.  At the other side of the aisle, private Emmons let out a barely audible chuckle.  Rahmjobb turned around and with unmerciful swiftness, grabbed Emmons by the throat in a chokehold, bent him over and rammed the end of a grenade launcher in his rectum and fired the projectile while simultaneously kicking him behind a row of metal gear lockers.  Poor Emmons didn’t know what hit him.  He exploded with a wet pop and in an instant the wall of the barracks and the back of the lockers were covered in meaty chunks of gore.  “Anyone else have anything to say?” said Rahmjobb.  “NO SIR!” came the reply in unison.  “Very good.  Private Guzelspouph, form a detail and get this shit-hole cleaned up.  Jonny, you come with me for a latrine inspection.” said the sergeant.  He did an about face and followed a bow-legged Jonny to the shitter.  Once inside, Jonny pulled off his pants but left his codpiece on as the sergeant took off and folded his crisply starched uniform.  “What’s with the banana hammock, private?” said the sergeant.  “That’s for you to find out, sir.” said Jonny as Rahmjobb got onto his knees and pulled it aside so that he could trumpet his own rendition of reveille on Jonny’s skin flute.  As the codpiece gave way, a coiled spring snake like you’d buy at a joke store burst out and rocketed into the sergeant’s face.  Rahmjobb was so stunned that he sharted and then looked up at Jonny just as he was bringing down a ten pound sledge hammer at full force.  “YAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!!” screamed the private as the sergeant’s head turned into a splattered pumpkin.  His inert body slumped to the floor and Jonny donned his fatigues to get prepped for work at the mess hall.  “Sorry, sarge.  You were a serious piece of ass, and you know that I don’t say that lightly, but today was just not your day.  I hate it when you wear that damned musk oil.  It reminds me of getting schtooped at the barber shop when I get my high-and-tights.”  Private Jonny walked out of the latrine and formed up with the platoon and marched to the mess hall for work detail.  Once inside, the mess hall commander Lieutenant Tom Hotdork mustered the men and assigned them their duties.  Jonny, along with specialist Pendergrease and private Pypedyner were given the prep station as their “command.”  Jonathan walked over to Pendergrease and Pypedyner and the three of them marched to their station to get everything set up.  As Pendergrease was pulling plastic buckets out of the lowboys, Jonny got behind him and ripped his pants off, slathered his veined dick with astroglide and stuffed it into his scabbed asshole so quickly that Pendergrease jerked his head up and hit it on the bottom of the counter.  That didn’t seem to matter really, because he started to moan and ram his butt into Jonny’s thrusting waist.  Pypedyner definitely liked what he saw.  He pulled off his tear-away warm-up pants and jumped up on the counter top.  He rapidly jerked himself stiff and hammered his schlong into Jonny’s slack mouth.  He grabbed the back of his head and started to violently skull-fuck him.  Jonny’s eyes bugged and he blasted a soupy load into Pendergrease’s gizzards and then ate one himself, the poor bastard.  Jonny pulled down his own pants, squatted over and defecated a steaming pile of mush onto the tiled floor.  “Cleanup on aisle 5!” he said, laughing.  “Jesus, Jonny, you are a fucking madman!” said Pypedyner.  Pendergrease didn’t have too much to say.  The initial bonk on the head when Jonny penetrated him, plus all of the subsequent knocks as he was getting jack-hammered had put him into a coma, and he was now laying basically lifeless on the floor with jizz running out of his bleeding ass.  “Oh man.  That fucking pansy.  Now what are we going to do, Jonny?” said Pypedyner.  “There’s only one thing to do, my dear friend.  Pick up that sack of shit and we’ll toss him into the meat grinder.  Fuck, we’re low on ground beef anyway, and the menu tonight has burgers, tacos and Swedish meatballs, so the timing couldn’t be better.  How could you not see that, you fucking imbecile!” said Jonny.  All Pypedyner could come up with was, “Oh, right.”  Jonny flew into an immediate and uncontrollable rage and grabbed the back of Pypedyner’s head and dunked it into the deep fryer.  He had to use tongs to hold it down as it fried up, lest he burn his hands.  He needs his hands un-marred so that he can constantly jerk-off and wipe his stinking ass!  “This is working out better than expected.  Now I’ll have enough ground beef for the rest of the week, plus a surprise fried calf’s head!” said Jonny to himself.  He walked back to the Lieutenant’s office and rapped on the door.  “Yes, private, come on in.” said Hotdork.  “I’ve been meaning to talk to you.  You’ve gotten some really high marks from your co-workers, so I’d say that you, my good man, are up for promotion!”  Jonny was flabbergasted. He’d killed everyone that he’d ever worked with, so he had no idea where the lieutenant got his information which was obviously bunk.  “Uh, sir, I…” muttered Jonathan.  “Now, now, there’ll be none of that, private.  Come over here and immediately perform fellatio on my pumped-up poo-pounder.  THAT’S AN ORDER!” screamed Hotdork.  “YOUR WISH IS MY WILL, SIR!” said Jonny as he got to his knees.  He fumbled with the lieutenant’s fly and fished out his skipjack tuna tube steak and gobbled it up with an immediacy that he hadn’t known since the last time that he had explosive diarrhea onto the wall of the shower stall.  Hotdork said, “OHHH, OHH YEAHH, AAAGGGHHHH!!!”  He pulled Jonny up from beneath the desk and turned around so that his butt was right in Jonny’s face.  He then said, “Come on, make my butt-hole feel good.”  He spread his cheeks and pressed his anus to Jonny’s face and heaved with all of his strength.  In an instant, there was a sound that could be heard across the kitchen and into the dining room. Officers and Enlisted alike looked up from their pots and pans; their dinners and deserts, as the lieutenant’s bowels gave way.  At first, the fart exploded flecks of fibrous debris which formed the cap of what was to become the main bore of the poop log onto Jonny’s face, creating a camouflage-esque crust of warm slop.  Next came another baritone fart, which quivered Hotdork’s bung-hole.  Since he was at such a close range, Jonny noticed a couple of boils which, he deduced, were most likely herpes pustules at one corner of the lieutenant’s puckered poopie.  Oh well, that was probably from me anyway, he thought to himself as Hotdork shrieked, “AHHHH!” and the main log came out like a crowned skull and then launched like a booster rocket into Jonathan’s mouth, filling it with sludge and knocking him to the side as if he’d been cuffed.  “UUUGGGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!” moaned Jonny.  “THAT’S RIGH!  AND NOW LOOK AT WHAT’S NEXT!!!!!” yelled lieutenant Tom Hotdork, who spun around revealing his boner spraying jizz in flying arcs.  The lieutenant was moaning uncontrollably and fell backward behind his desk.  Jonny took the opportunity to wipe the poop out of his mouth and run outside.  He jumped into the seat of the bulldozer that was in the parking lot and fired it up as diarrhea started to run down his leg.  He brought the machine forward at full speed and demolished the wall of the mess hall and drove into the mess hall office obliterating everything in his path while yelling, “IT’S FIVE O’CLOCK SOMEWHERE, DARLING!”  Hotdork peeked up from behind his desk and saw his doom approaching, so he desperately started to reinflate his rubbery weenis.  When that failed, he laid on his back and thrust his hips into his face in a last-ditch attempt to blow himself just as private Jonny drove the bulldozer through the office wall and crushed him like a walnut husk.  Jonny calmly turned off the engine and dusted himself off.  He had to double time it back to the barracks so that he could watch the movie where the farmer fucks one of his sheep in the ass and then sends it stampeding into the 4H craft room.  “Damn, this sure is a fucked-up world we live in.” he said while saluting his barracks watch officer.  The officer looked down at the bulge in Jonny’s fatigues and winked at him.  “Yep, here we go again!” he said and immediately started to finger his own butt-hole as the lights went dark on another day in the life of the man who really had all of the answers… Private Jonny.

Jonathan: A maniac that’s obsessed with wiping his ass

 

            ‘Twas another shameful night at work for Jonathan, who was the resident beertender at Thor’s Hammer – a male review and bottle shop in Portland, Oregon. Jonathan had spent the last two hours prancing around on the bar, wearing tan chinos, no shirt, a plaid bow tie and a stovepipe hat. He had a contraption the he himself had invented strapped to the inside of his leg which consisted of a plastic bag filled with fake semen, a hand pump, and a plastic nozzle that threaded onto the huge rubber penis that protruded from his pants. He was tasked with running up and down the line and indiscriminately grabbing the back of patrons heads and dousing them in the face with loads pumped from the bag while yelling, “Hoo-Ha-Hoo-Ha!” The tips were good and the crowd loved it, but Jonny-boy had other, more important things on his mind. He needed to get to the latrine immediately, and there was nothing that was going to get in his way. He ripped off the huge rubber schlong and tossed it in a garbage can, unstrapped his goo-machine and raced for the can yelling, “Get the hell out of the way, this is an emergency!” He walked into the bathroom and, of course, all of the stalls were filled with groups of men. The floor was covered in paper towels, toilet paper, condom wrappers, spent travel sized bottles of astroglide, pictures of Doogie Howser and a shirtless Mario Lopez, peanut shells and baskets of hand towels. “Jesus” said Jonny, “I can’t wait to wipe my ass.” The only sounds from inside of the stalls were shrill moans and the sound of liquid splattering onto the walls. In a near panic, Jonathan went to the stall on the end and kicked in the door. What he saw startled him, but he’d seen many strange things at work before and this was a genuine emergency. There was a man lying on top of the bowl with a stag handled knife sticking out of his back and behind him was Troy, one of the dancers from the club. He was standing there with his pants around his ankles, his massive crooked boner coated in what appeared to be mustard. Jonathan kicked him as hard as he could in the balls, which sent Troy sprawling on top of the dead man, and then pulled a Smith & Wesson 500 out of his pocket and blew his brains out. The stall and Jonathan were now completely covered in gore, so Jonny turned around and walked out, bumping into screaming patrons who were heading for the bathroom exit like rats from a sinking ship. “Well, that problem’s solved!” said Jonny. He went into the adjacent, just vacated stall and sat down to finally go doo-doo. He put his head in his hands and started straining, the effort monstrous. Capillaries in his forehead and nose started to rupture, and his grunting intensified into a heaving wail. “HHHHGGGGGGGGHHHH!” At last, the first product of his effort came forth in the form of a chainsaw-like fart. “Oh god. At least I finally have the dump all lined up. Come on, baby, let’s rock!” said Jonathan. The excrement came out with such force that Jonny was rocketed into the wall, thrown like a scarecrow. He climbed back aboard and grabbed a wad of toilet paper, douched his butt-hole and didn’t bother to flush. He pulled up his chinos and walked back out into the bar to have a little chat with Smitty, the owner of the place. Smitty was in his office getting blown by Stuart, who was the beer rep from Barley’s Chubb Soda. Un-fucking-real, thought Jonathan, who had only last week stuffed his bloated crank into Stu’s bung-hole. It hadn’t been just another tryst for Jonny, not this one. This time he was in it for the long haul, and he was prepared to do whatever necessary to defend his honor, consequences be damned. He ran into the room and pulled Stu off of Smitty’s fat cock and pulled the gun back out and fired a bullet into Smittys forehead, which, you can well imagine, blew his brains out all over a poster of Sylvester Stallone as Cobra that he had thumb tacked to the wall. Stu got up and wiped off his face with a napkin that Jonathan handed him. “Thanks, man. That poor bastard had it coming. Fuck, he hasn’t paid a bill in over three months!” said Stu. “I hear you. By the way, WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU DOING?!!!!!” screamed Jonny. “What the hell did it look like I was doing, dumbass? I was sucking on his immense pipe with the full intent of gobbling his load! You’re awful touchy tonight. What gives, amigo?” asked a concerned Stu. Jonathan, who at this point was weeping openly, looked up in the air and shook his head and then started laughing hysterically. “Why me? Why the fuck does this shit always happen to me? I’m a good guy and yet I always seem to get the shaft!” cried Jonny. Stu laughed and said, “You sure do, you homo, but isn’t that the point?” Jonny laughed too and then quickly grabbed a baseball bat that Smitty had in the corner and proceeded to bash Stu’s skull into a mashed pulp while yelling, “YAAAAAAA!!!!” Bruce, the appetizer cook, ran in and said, “What the hell is going on in here? Jesus, Jonathan, what’s this?” Jonathan turned around and said, “Nothing Bruce, I was just tidying up. I’ll be out in a moment. Hey, by the way, can you start me an order of taquitos? I’m famished.” “Sure thing, J-dog! Sorry for the interruption, but I heard the screaming and now, you know, there are two dead bodies lying in front of you, so I thought that something might be amiss.” said Bruce. “Haha, nothing is always as it seems, my good man!” said Jonathan, who gave a big horse wink to Bruce. “Got it, muchachbro! You’re the doctor!” said Bruce who winked back. He had every intention of butt-fucking Jonathan later and didn’t want to shit where he eats. Well actually he did, but that’s another story. In any case, he walked out and headed to the kitchen to prepare Jonny’s treat, so Jonathan wiped himself off again and went back out to the bar. The lounge was about half full of mostly older gentlemen. Jonny walked to the front of the room and climbed onto the stage and picked up the microphone. “ARE YOU GUYS READY TO FUCKING PAR-TAY-HAY?! My name’s Jonathan and I’m your beertender. I also, as some of you already know, am the person who mans the bulls-eye glory-hole every Tuesday and Thursday from nine to eleven, so put it on your calendars! Ha, well I’m standing in front of you tonight with a little confession to make.” Cheers from the crowd. “I slept with a woman once…” Boos from the crowd. “Just kidding, you homos, hardy-har-har. But seriously, I apologize to any of you that had the corn chowder this evening because when I came in earlier and it was being prepared, I defecated in the tureen.” said Jonathan. At that point, four people in the crowd started projectile vomiting onto the ground. Jonathan said, “Yep, that’s about right. It usually doesn’t sell too well. AND NOW YOU KNOW THE REASON WHY! WOO-HOO! Come on, come on, you guys need to lighten up. I’m just trying to keep things interesting. Speaking of keeping things interesting…” Jonathan hit a foot switch and a Gatling gun rose from beneath the stage. Jonny grabbed the hand crank and started mowing down the shrieking crowd by maneuvering the gun from side to side. The patrons were literally cut to pieces. Heads were blown off, as were arms and legs, and one gentleman (one of the corn chowder guys) had his entrails come out and land on top of his dinner companion who screamed and, while trying to pull them off, was decapitated by raging gunfire. Jonathan finally stopped cranking the gun and jumped off the stage to survey the damage, which appeared at first glance to be total. He found one victim who’d been cut in half trying to scramble under a table by pulling his upper body forward with a table cloth. Jonny went over to him and crushed his head like a cantaloupe with the heel of his boot. He walked back into the kitchen to check on his taquitos which were sitting in the pass-thru under the heat lamps. Bruce and the head chef, Dominic were busy behind the line preparing a whole laundry list of food for the now deceased patrons. “Hey, y’all! You can cancel all of those orders. I’m afraid to say that the patrons have all crossed the River Styx.” said Jonathan. “If that were actually true, I’d bugger you right now in the walk-in!” said Dominic. “Me too!” chirped Bruce. “Well, it’s your lucky night guys! Take a look out in the dining room and then meet me in the walk-in!” said Jonny. They both went to the window and, sure as shit, everybody was wiped out. “Holy moly! That bastard was telling the truth. Let’s get back there and commence with the gay threesome!” said Dominic. “Sounds about right.” said Bruce. They proceeded to the cooler where they found Jonathan wearing only his g-string, sitting atop a crate of cucumbers. “Am I great or what?” said Jonny. “You are indeed, sir!” said Dominic who was trying to get his belt off. Bruce was already undressed and was grabbing at Jonny’s pecker which was now fully pumped up. “Dinner time, bro!” said Jonny as he shoved his meat stick into Bruce’s grouper like mouth. Dominic got behind Jonathan and began pumping his fist into Jon’s exhaust-chute while fondling his ball-bag. Jonathan turned Bruce over and began reaming out his tail-pipe while Dominic jerked off into a five gallon bucket of chicken stock. Jonathan said, “Hey-Ho-Hey-Ho,” and then, “Hiya-huma-hiya-huma” as he blew a massive load into Bruce’s large intestine. He then grabbed Bruce by the neck and shoved his head into the lobster tank and held him there until he drowned. “That’s some crazy shit, dude!” said Dominic.  “Life certainly can surprise you.  Hey, Dominic, don’t take this the wrong way, but I think that you give crummy rim-jobs.” said Jonathan. “I do admit that it’s my weakest skill, but I have a rubber molded butt in my apartment that I’ve been practicing on, so with time and effort I’ll be able to get there eventually.” said a shrugging Dominic. “Well, here’s the bad news, you’ll never get the chance because your number just got called.” said Jonny. “That stinks. Can I at least eat first? You know, a last meal type thing? Asked Dominic. “No.” said Jonny who pulled out a Mac-10 that he’d stashed behind a bag of potatoes and fired directly into Dominic’s bloated face which, very quickly, became decidedly un-bloated. You guessed it, his brains were blown out onto a case of smoked oysters. “Well, that’s all she wrote for this shit-heap.” said Jonathan, who put his g-string back on and waltzed out of the club into the crisp night air. He was hoping that the Chinese restaurant was still open so that he could grab some late night crab rangoon and then, with luck, bugger the new busboy that had just arrived from Canton.

Marijuanathan

Marijuanathan, during a recent interview detailing his meteoric rise to the posh heights of the Host position at Dino’s Supper Club, let one slip.  One, being a loud, wet fart, the genesis of which began the night before in the hat-check room of the club where Marijuanathan and the Dining Steward, Bennie, ingested large piles of blowcane and rifled the customers pockets looking for loose change, cell phones, condoms, sanitary napkins, small bottles of lubricant, and other meaningless curios.  Marijuanathan said to Bennie, “Dude, hurry the fuck up, I’m losing my boner.”  You see, he gets cheap thrills going through other people’s stuff, especially with Bennie, who happens to be Marijuanathan’s roommate and gay lover.  “These people are all fucking deadbeats.  We need to get with Marty (the valet parking attendant) so we don’t come up totally empty tonight.  This is bullshit.”  “It’s not going to be a total wash.  This is that fat dude’s blazer from that 8-top at table 27.  Check this out.”  said Bennie.  He pulled out a small baggie which contained a few nuggets of hydroponic dope.  “Perfect, make me a snow-cap, you fucking fag, I’m dying over here.” said Marijuanathan.  Bennie stuffed a bunch of the dope into his chillum and dusted it with blow and then pulled out his “Pocket Torch” and held it up for Marijuanathan, who began to take deep drags from the pipe.  After exhausting the contents of the chillum, Bennie fixed himself a treat and got chiefed.  “I have to get back to the podium before Dino realizes that I’m not just taking a dump.”  said Marijuanathan, as he brushed the white crumbs from his goatee.  He put his Brixton Brood cabbie hat back on and strode out into the dining room where Dino was waiting at the host’s station.  “Where the hell were you, MJ?  I just came back from downstairs, so don’t tell me you were in the can!” screeched Dino to a haggard looking MJ.  “I popped out for a smoke, man.  I seated the Boober party and didn’t see anyone else come in, so I took a small break.”  said MJ.  “Well, you might as well stay on break because, I’m sorry to announce, you’re fired.  You’ve been nothing short of a total embarrassment to this restaurant.  You can keep the tuxedo.  It has so many burn holes that it looks like a damned moth eaten rag.”  MJ burst into tears and said, “How can you do this to me?  This place is all that I have.  I’ve given you everything!”  “Like hell you have.  I shouldn’t have to list the voluminous reasons, but here goes:  you take twenty smoke breaks every six hour shift; you take at least three dumps every shift; I’ve busted you butt-fucking Bennie four times in the store room and twice in the back of customers cars; you constantly reek of essential oils and patchouli; you’ve been written up for stealing strip steaks, pork loins, lamb chops and chicken gizzards; you humiliated the Town Alderman by making a pass at his brother; you’ve been tossed from the bar too many times to count for drunkenness, and the list goes on.”  said a red-faced Dino.  “Get the hell out of here!”  MJ lost his cool and pushed Dino aside and then upended the podium which sent a jar of mints and a UNICEF donation box flying.  “Eat shit, Dino!  You always hated me because I’m gay!”  MJ ran out of the restaurant.  He decided to go to the Boom Box male strip club to decompress after such a monstrous blow, but he went home first to go poo.  He walked into his duplex and booted his Chihuahua, Antonio, who flew into the wall above the gaming chair and there died on impact.  His corpse fell down and landed in a bowl of Hot Cheetos that MJ was binging on the night before during his World of Warcraft session.  “Dammit.  At least that solves the litter box problem.  Oh well.  I always hated that fucking dog.”  He walked upstairs to the master bath and sat down on the excrement laminated commode.  He brushed aside a dog-eared pile of Black Inches magazines and bared-down to try and void the massive pile of goop that was about to turn his large intestine into a pastry sleeve.  As expected, the first guest to arrive at the party was a blapping succession of machine-gun-like farts that stirred the water in the bowl.  I can’t stress to you enough the magnitude of his fart.  It was truly a stiff breeze.  Next, as MJ grunted, dingleberry sized chunks started to cascade into the roiling seas beneath his fat, hairy butt cheeks and puckered anus.  Finally, the coup-de-grace, the dump proper jettisoned his arse with the force of a potato cannon and sent the excreta infused toilet water cascading up onto his buttocks and out the sides of the toilet bowl beneath the seat, spraying the shower curtain, Black Inches magazines, piles of jizz stained towels, and dog bowl with a ropy splat of poop.  MJ tried to mop up the goo on his back-side, but couldn’t get it all, and so resigned himself to the fact that what remained would be absorbed into his boxer briefs and then would be subsequently forgotten just like the jizm stains on his bead spread.  Now, off to the club!  He hailed a cab and was ushered to the Boom Box where Jimmy the bouncer groped his bum as he went in the door.  He waltzed up to the bar and said, “Hey, Pete.  I’m going back into the champagne room.  Send Eric back, will you?”  “Sure thing, MJ, he’ll be back momentarily.  Do you want to add whip-cream service, or do you just want it straight?”  said Pete.  “No whip-cream, and, believe me, there’ll be nothing STRAIGHT about what’s going to happen!”  MJ chuckled.  “You always get me on that one, you fag!”  piped Pete.  “That’s because you’re a fucking moron.” said MJ.  He went through the black curtain which separated the main club from the champagne room and found a booth in the back corner of the room.  There was a lava lamp on the table and an assortment of prophylactics and lubricants.  The Pet Shop Boys were blasting out of the sound system and there was a pornographic film playing on the massive flat screen TV.  The movie featured a man fucking a bull-mastiff in the anus.  “Jesus, I’ve seen this four times already.” MJ said as he looked toward the curtain.  What he saw made his miniscule penis jump in his shit-stained briefs.  Eric was coming toward the table wearing his Egyptian costume, screaming “Heeeyyyy-eeeeeyyyyy!”  He sat down next to MJ and said, “What’s up, lover man?  You missed me I see.  It looks like you’re in camping mode.  That’s quite the tent that you’ve put up!”  “Shut up and go to work.  I’ve had a hard day.” said MJ.  “Hard indeed, big boy!”  said Eric as he pulled down MJ’s tuxedo pants and removed his cummerbund which he tossed aside.  He then took MJ’s hot-dog-like penis into his gaping mouth and began to handle his ball sack like chiming stress balls.  Within two minutes he heard MJ gasp, so he pulled his dick out of his mouth and started pumping it like a jack-hammer, at which point MJ blasted a load into Eric’s scowling face.  “The makeup, the makeup!” shrieked Eric.  “UUUGGGGGHHHHH-AAAHHHHHHH!” moaned MJ as he grabbed the back of Eric’s head and rammed it into his groin area which smeared jizz all over his face.  He then turned around very quickly like a ballet dancer and ripped a high-pitched fart into Eric’s surprised face.  “That’s just what the doctor ordered.” croaked a smiling MJ.  “You bastard!  Don’t ever come here again!” said a weeping Eric.  The makeup on his face, mixed with the hot load gave him the look of having been sprayed with jesso mixed with oil paints.  The curtain parted and Pete came into the room carrying a bazooka, which he promptly pointed to the corner where Eric and MJ were located.  The man had apparently gone nuts because he tilted his head back and yelled, “GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH” and fired the rocket at the two stunned fags.  The RPG impacted the wall next to MJ’s head and detonated, vaporizing the two gay dudes and most of the room.  Pete turned around and left the room to call the fire department.  He had a thing for one of the brutes that worked there and couldn’t wait to eat his creamy load later on that horrible evening.

Another day at the office

“Good evening, sir, madam, please let me show you to your table.”  I have repeated this line so many times in my career, that it’s gotten to the point where I have to run to the bathroom after they’re seated so that I can belch and gag into the toilet bowl and then wipe the bile out of my mustache before I go back to perform the table service.  I hate every customer that comes into the restaurant, no matter their gender, age, race, religion, sexual orientation, political affiliation, prison record, net worth, etc.  These people come into my restaurant and want to pay me a pittance to be their servant for a short while so that they can feel important and act important sitting on their leather asses in some crummy booth that’s adorned with a garish Paul Klee print of some splattered artwork and the cheapest grade of naugahyde that’s had food, drinks, and excreta splattered on it and then wiped off repeatedly with a filthy cloth that’s stored in a plastic bucket awash in grey water.  My fellow waiters and waitresses tell me to get a grip, and I often do – that being a firm grip on the handle of a fillet knife in the kitchen that I grab with the intent of ramming it full force into their eye sockets, hoping to turn their heads into soggy pin cushions, the fucking bastards.  If I could have my way with the customers, I’d dress up in a burlap sack dress and put on a straw hat and then run out into the dining room at full speed with a pitch fork and start running people through and hoisting them out of their seats into the corner where a large pile of fresh offal would start to accumulate.  It would be interesting to me to see if the cloud of flies that hovers over the food by the heat lamps would migrate out to the dining room to find purchase on the fresh pile of gore heaped next to the dessert case.  I used to be a cook, but the stresses of the kitchen got to be too much for me, and one day I snapped and threw a sauté pan that was filled with sliced egg-plant and hot grease into my bosses face.  He shrieked in agony as his face started to bubble and pieces of fried egg-plant stuck to his chef’s coat like wilted army medals.  The rest of the kitchen staff was aghast as I quickly ran to the cleaning closet and got a mop handle and started to beat him senseless, after which I turned my attentions to the twenty or so entrees that were cooking on the stove in their respective pans.  I started bashing in the stove which created an arcing cascade of splattered food raining down in the general area of the steam table, which I upended in short order.  I then grabbed the printer that spits out the food order tickets and hurled it at the dishwasher who was looking on in disbelief.  He cursed at me in Albanian after dodging the projectile, so I ran him down and tried to suffocate him with an undulating pile of uncooked pizza dough.  At that point everything went dark as I was hit from behind with one of the tureens that was picked up off the ground by one of the waiters.  I woke up in the hospital restrained to my bed in a pile of rags that used to be my kitchen whites.  A policeman was sitting bedside, and the owner of the restaurant, Bridgette, was pacing behind him.  “Because of you I’m ruined!”  she kept repeating.  What a dumb bitch.  Didn’t she know that it was actually her own fault?  “Listen,” I said, “Obviously I’ll never work in that damned kitchen again, but you can’t just kick me aside like so much rubbish.  I’ll go to the front of the house and try my luck there instead.  I’ll never misbehave again, really.”  The policeman laughed at that, telling Bridgette “I’ll run him down to the station now that he’s awake.  I expect you’ll press full charges?”  “I know that I should, but he’s my son.  If he really thinks he can change then perhaps I’ll take him at his word and try and put this ugly episode behind us” she said.  The policeman was shocked.  “What about the chef and the dishwasher that are right down the hall in their own rooms?  The dishwasher will be fine, but the chef just got out of the burn unit, and will need skin grafts and multiple surgeries to even get close to normal!”  “I know, it’s not good, but Pasqualdo here obviously wasn’t himself.  I’ll pay the hospital bills of all involved and we’ll just act like this never happened” she said finally.

A week later I was back at the restaurant, albeit with a new job as a waiter.  The chef was still at the hospital, so he’d been replaced by this woman named Sherry who was a recent graduate of Johnson & Wales Culinary Academy.  Great, I thought to myself.  Another fucking snob who’s going to make life here difficult.  At least I have an ace up my sleeve this time.  The guy in the next bed over from me in the hospital blew himself up in his dad’s workshop playing around with homemade napalm, and clued me in on some very easy at-home techniques for IED’s.  He lent me a copy of the Anarchist’s Cookbook, which I found to be a fascinating read.  The guy that wrote is must’ve been a real asshole, that’s for sure.  I identified with the poor bugger.  In any case, I was back at it.  The rest of the staff were uneasy, but they kept their fucking mouths shut because my mom was their boss.  I also gathered them all around before we opened to stress that fact to them in my own words.  “Look,” I said, “I know that a lot of you aren’t too happy that I’m back, but you’ll have to suck it up because my mother signs your measly paychecks.  You don’t like me and I certainly don’t like any of you, so stay out of my fucking way and give me the best tables or I’ll be sure to make your life a living hell, you god damned slaves.”  God it was good to be back!  I went back to the kitchen and told Sherry to make me a Porterhouse For Two.  She said that she’d been told that the wait staff could only have pasta or chicken, so I started swearing at her foully and let her know that I was Bridgette’s son.  She made me the food, which I took down to my mom’s office so that I could eat in peace.  The office is more like a dungeon, with an exposed stucco façade and more garish paintings, dim lighting, and empty bottles of cognac.  My mother is such a fucking lush.  What a dumb bitch.  Through the years I have brought numerous girls down there with the intent of seducing them.  I mean, how hard could it be?  I’m dealing with waitresses and bus-girls, please!  It never worked, unfortunately, even when I threatened to have them fired for not committing this or that act of depravity.   After I finished my meal I went back upstairs to the hostess stand and grabbed the reservation book after glaring at her massive boobs.  She looked at me in disgust, and I didn’t really feel that badly about it.  The feeling was mutual.  I poached the best tables for myself and went to work.  I draped a towel over my forearm and strolled up to my first table.  “Hello, how are you two this evening?” I said to an obese, bald man who was probably in his fifties and a thirty-something woman whose hair was so processed, I actually thought about removing the votive candle from the table lest it ignite her hair in a Hindenburg-esque fireball.  “Fine-fine, yes, well-well.  Look, we’re in a hurry.  We have to make it to the theater in an hour for the premier of Not Everybody’s Donkey, so you’re going to have to hurry our order.  She’ll have the Great Meatballs of Fire and linguine and I’ll have the Braised Orangutan Sweetbreads, HOLD THE SHALLOTS!  Do I need to repeat that?” he barked.  “No, I’ve got it.  You’ve made excellent choices.  I’ll get these in right away!”  I said, smiling at them.  I broke into a light jog back to the kitchen to let them think that I meant business, and made a bee-line for the walk in cooler.  “Order up, Pasqualdo?” Sherry said as I ran by.  “No, I’ll take care of this one myself.  Old friends, you see.” I said.  I grabbed a bucket and a colander and dumped two meatballs, the sweetbreads, two whole shallots and some linguine in the bucket and went downstairs to the employee bathroom.  As luck would have it, Eduardo, one of the busboys had just come out.  There was an almost visible wall of putrid stench wafting out of the latrine, so I had to brace myself and know that the end would surely justify the means of the abominable act that I was about to commit.  I dumped the contents of the bucket into the toilet bowl which still had a rotating organic mass of flotsam inside and gave it a good stir with the plunger that was caked with filth.  I then scooped it out with the colander put it back into the bucket and went back to the kitchen.  I plunged the whole mess into the deep fryer and then plopped the goop onto two plates and covered it with orange slices and parsley as a garnish.  Sherry didn’t know what to make of what I was doing and was unsettled by my maniacal laughter as I wiped the edges of the plates and put the tray on my shoulder.  I grabbed a can of lighter fluid and a lighter and walked up to my table.  “Your entrees, sir and madam!”  I said in a very dramatic tone, and I did a little pirouette and put the plates down with much ceremony.  The man was the first to speak up.  “What the hell is this!” he said as all of the blood went to his head.  A moment later, “My God, is this some kind of joke?” the woman said.  “I’m afraid that it’s not” I said.  “But it’s not quite done!  I have to perform the flambé!”  I reached into my apron and pulled out the can of lighter fluid and drenched both plates and set them aflame with my lighter.  Their plates went up with a whoosh and the man and woman slid their chairs back, terrified.  I sprayed the lighter fluid on the girl’s head which burst into flame.  She started to scream, and all I could think was that she looked like an upside down burning broom.  The gentleman jumped on her to extinguish the flames, and as he did so, I picked up his vacated chair and broke it over his back at which point he hit the ground in a heap with his singed dinner companion.  I sat down in her chair and started to rattle off anecdotes of my past sexual conquests in chronological order as the rest of the patrons started streaming out of the restaurant like rats from a sinking ship.  After a minute or so, the man started to come back to life and tried to struggle to his feet.  I went over to the other side of the dining room and pulled a Paul Klee print off the wall and smashed the painting over his head.  He now wore the canvas around his neck like a cartoonish musketeer.  I grabbed the cake knife off the desert bar and ran toward the nearest booth and cut the seat pad into ribbons and threw the stuffing over my head in wadded tufts.  The falling seat pad stuffing reminded me of a snowy day when I was a child.  At this point the sprinkler system had gone off and a drenching rain had begun to fall in the dining room.  My horrified mother had already called 911, and the fire and police departments were en-route.  It was time for me to take my leave now that dinner service was complete, so I ran out the back to the parking lot and got in my car.  I took aim at the back patio where we had four tables and an outside bar and gunned the engine.  The tires squealed and smoked as the car lurched forward full-tilt and smashed into the tables and bar and then into the servers station, completely demolishing everything.  The car became wedged underneath the pile of wreckage and wouldn’t back out.  I grabbed a baseball bat out of the trunk and assaulted the parking lot attendant, just as the police came around the corner with their guns drawn.  “Down on the ground, MOVE!” they shouted.  I ceased my efforts against the parking lot attendant so that I could look up at the police.  I gave them the finger and told them to sod-off, at which point the parking lot attendant rammed a pocket knife into the base of my skull, killing me instantly.  “Dammit!” I said as I started down the tunnel to god-knows-where. “Hopefully I won’t meet any more of these assholes wherever I’m going next!”