Posts Tagged ‘humor’

“Hello?” It was a deep gravely voice.

“Dad?” David recognized the voice.

“Hey boy. How are you doing?” It was his father.

David was accustomed to talking to his parents when he was high, but, at the moment, he was sober, which was going to make things difficult. “Fine. What’s up?”

“Oh I just wanted to check up on you and see how you were.” The bedroom door swung open, momentarily filling the room with the din of about a thousand girls screaming at the top of their lungs. It closed just as quickly as it had opened, and Kari waved giddily at David. David was doing his best to push out the image of the last time he had seen her, where she had a wad of cum pooled up in her hand after blowing some guy in the parking lot. She held his wad in her palm as she came up the stairs, knocked on the door, and threatened the entire party with it before finally washing it off in the kitchen sink. David always wanted to ask her why she didn’t just spit it out or wipe it off in the parking lot, but it’s a difficult question topic to transition to. “How’s the weather? Oh, by the way, why didn’t you leave the baby batter in the bushes?” David tried to imagine what would’ve prompted her to carry a palm full of man goo from the parking lot into the apartment. He couldn’t imagine it, though. He never found himself in that situation. At least not with someone else’s spunk.

“Hi,” she squeaked.

“Son, where are you?” David almost forgot his dad was on the phone.

“I’m at Mike’s house.” This was his common excuse for everything. Mike was possibly the trustworthiest person in the world. He was universally trusted by everyone from drug dealers to overprotective parents. Not that David’s parents were overprotective; they were rather laid back. If they were overprotective, he couldn’t have gotten away with half of the shit that he did.

“Oh, I thought I heard some girls.”

“Just the TV.”

“I just wanted to remind you that your grandma’s birthday is coming up and I thought…” David lost track of what he was saying because of what Kari was all of a sudden doing on the bed. She had completely removed her jeans and her panties and left them on the floor. She was sitting near the edge of the bed, bottomless, with her legs spread wide like she was posing for Hustler. Squinting at him through excess skin and wrinkles was Kari’s carefully shaven pussy. With no hair to hide behind, David was almost blinded by her hairless lips. Shining snatch. Gleaming gape. Vivid vulva. Cocking her head to side while she shared her pussy’s gaze, Kari smiled at David as she rolled something metallic between her thumb and forefinger. David’s curiosity of what she was playing with was only amplified by how erect he was. Although he didn’t know why, he resisted the urge to rip off his pants and wildly jump on top of her.

Her attention moved to what she was playing with in her hands. David hoped for some exotic sexual device, the egg, or a mini-dildo.  Her hand opened up and revealed a shiny metal thingy. Shiny metal thingy? She pulled it apart in the middle and brought it down to her lips between her legs. Pinching her clit, she inserted one end of this shiny metal thingy in one side and capped it off on the other. Where did she get her clit pierced?

“…I hope you bought her something nice.” My dad’s voice suddenly came back into my head.

“Huh?” was all David could muster in response while he was still slack jawed, watching as Kari pulled her panties up, buttoned her jeans, and cheerfully waved goodbye as she left the room.

“Your grandmother.”

“Who? Oh, yeah. Never mind. I gotta go.” David’s father mumbled something inaudible before David hung up the phone.

For hours after the clitoris incident, David’s brain was pushing the words clit-ring around his head along with the image of Kari, spread eagle, bedazzeling her crotch in front of him. His brain was occupied with trying to disassociate the words and images with the circumstances that they had recently been experienced. It was busy finding a nice place to nest the image of Kari’s bare vagina that had nothing to do with David’s father. While his brain was working it through, David fell into a conversation with someone that he didn’t recognize at the moment.

“So, who were you talking to?” David knew it was a girl that asked him the question.

“Dunno. Three years maybe?” David shrugged confused.

“What are you talking about? I asked you who you were talking to on the phone.” She sounded slightly agitated.

David’s brain caught “who” and “talking” out of the air and pieced the rest of it together. “My dad. He wanted to make sure I remembered my Grandma’s birthday.”

“Really what did you get her?”

“A clit-ring.”


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It didn’t take long for James to come along and nudge him with his fat stump of an arm. As large as a mountain and twice as silent, James didn’t say anything when David staggered up and glared at him sharply. Indifferent to his glare of protest, James turned his attention to the rest of the cafeteria, scanning for any more stragglers.

Although James was barely 5’8” and exceeded 375 pounds, he was possibly the fastest thing on two legs. The gazelle can reach speeds of 50 mph, and, as anybody knows, the Cheetah beats this by at least 20 mph. In times of conflict, James could easily double this. There were many times when David witnessed a fight break out halfway across the ground floor of the school, and, in a breath, James was there strangling one guy with his left while holding another to the ground with his right. Watching James mediate conflicts was like watching a large beast overcome its prey on the Discovery Channel. It had the same magnificence and the same gore ridden climax that satisfied the savage bloodlust that all of men share.

One morning, David was unfortunate enough to feel his wrath. Walking past and courteously waving to James, which was returned with a smile, David passed him at a leisurely pace with a grin on his face from a more than satisfactory wake and bake session with true kine buds. Suddenly, he had something that could only be described as a giant orangutan on steroids on his back breathing hot breath into his ear molesting his ass. All the breath was pushed out of David and the substantial weight that was on his body wouldn’t allow any to come back in. Two hands scrambled around David’s ass, and his eyes went wide with the realization that the orangutan was trying to ass rape him. Afraid that if he screamed, it would only excite the beast more and entice it to donkey punch him in the back of the head while it vigorously pounded his ass. David tried to scream anyway, but all that came out was a whining whimper that sounded like it came out of twelve year old girl that had scraped her knee on the playground. The orangutan pulled something out of his pocket, and, before his cherry was popped, the weight lifted. At that moment, he knew how sailors who had been drowning must’ve felt when they finally found which way was up and found the surface. Taking in that first breath of cool air almost tears the lungs, but you’re not able to restrain yourself and you do so as if you may never be able to breath again. It was the breath of freedom without an ass rape.

James observed the black comb that was torn out of the young man’s back pocket with only a glimmer of regret. “Sorry, I thought it was a gun.” He held out the comb, handing it back to David in an unspoken gesture of peace, which David found unusual considering that James’ gesture was returning stolen property that had been obtained through fear and brute force.

David reached for the comb and took it without a word, gently nodding as he put it back into his pocket. There were no words for him to utter anyway. Some may say that he should’ve raised some voice of protest, stand on a soapbox and proclaim his tactics as abuses and demand reconciliation. David would submit that he was just happy to walk away with his cherry intact. Besides, David couldn’t help but respect such an animal in his natural environment, and when the animal nudges, you move.

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For those of you who don’t know, I moonlight as a guitar god. Well, maybe not a god. But maybe an Daemon at least. Check out the video review I did for TheToneKing.com


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Vasovaga Syncope is a fainting episode mediated by the Vagus Nerve. Tabor’s Medical Dictionary describes this as a “feeling of impending death.” David compared it to already being dead. No dreams, no ability to tell if any time has passed, one moment you’re sitting on a couch with a girl drooling on your crotch, the next, you come to sick, quivering, and covered in sweat with a beam of light burning through your retina. In spite of his knowledge of the subject, this had happened to him only once before.

David was shaking and sweating in an apartment bathroom where some asshole had already passed out on the floor in a pool of his own piss and puke. Sitting on the sink with his feet on the asshole’s back, David kept himself from getting the contents of someone’s stomach on his Converse. As he waited for his head to stop spinning, he gazed at a half-digested pepperoncini that surfed on a sea of bile with other formless masses of undigested whatever. David wasn’t sure, but he thought the poor bastard had also shit himself, which was deduced from what seemed to be a brown warshak forming on the back of his pants. If this asshole had managed to cut himself and ejaculate before he passed out, the floor would’ve been the ultimate mélange of bodily fluids. David’s feet rose with every labored breath that the asshole took, which didn’t help with the nausea. Combined with the aroma of half-digested Papa John’s and Vodka, the breathing motions swelling under his feet were only making David feel worse. He hoped that the asshole would just stop breathing, but, considering a liter of Smirnoff didn’t get the job done, David suspected that his hopes and wishes wouldn’t be able to kill him either. “Fresh air,” David swallowed. Using him as a floor mat, David balanced on the asshole’s lower back, opened the door, and leapt over the river of puke that separated him from the hallway. Throwing on his coat, David almost got out of the door before some other asshole asked where he was going.


“Hey, where you going?”

David wasn’t sure. “Get some food,” is what he assumed he answered with, and he was correct in his assumption.


“I said I was going to get food.” David misunderstood the question.

“Where are you going to get food?” he clarified.

If the guy wasn’t so damn blurry, David might’ve punched him for asking stupid questions in a time of great distress. “White Asshole,” roared out of David’s mouth, but he wasn’t sure that he responded at all. He was too occupied watching the rest of the room filled with people dissolving into a hazy mass of drunken blurs.

“Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?” One of the other drunken blurs called out.

Wasn’t it obvious? David didn’t say anything.

“Hey! Are you all right?”

David knew that ‘Hey! Are you all right?’ is a phrase that he would never want to hear while partaking in massive amounts of drug and alcohol abuse. ‘Hey! Are you all right?’ is a universally redundant question. If it’s asked of someone, the person is already pretty fucking far from all right, and the person you are asking is already well aware that he or she is about to die. By the time the question hit his ears, David was already on his way down to the floor. Even though he didn’t feel anything, he knew he hit the floor hard by the unanimous roar of “Holy Shit!” called out by every drunken blur in the living room.

David couldn’t see anything and couldn’t move, but he was able to hear, which was even more terrifying. No bright light, and he didn’t notice any relatives at the other end of a tunnel. Probably better off anyway. I’m sure that if any of my relatives were aware of how often I masturbated and snorted coke, they would just shake their heads and wag their fingers. Although David didn’t see any signs of an afterlife, he did hear a single voice calling out to him out of the black.

“Dude, Don’t be dead.”

After the poorly timed Bill and Ted quotation, David’s next memory was of him sitting on the couch, breathing heavily, where the drunken blurs were just a minute before. He guessed that he was still alive, but he wasn’t relieved.


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Monday finally decided to show its ugly face, and Dom welcomed its ghoulish grin as a relief from a weekend wrought with unrelieved sexual frustration and drama. While belligerently stumbling down the halls of Streamwood High, he lifted his head just long enough to see Tara distracted with someone else. Didn’t know who it was and didn’t care. He wanted to be left alone in a puddle of built up angst, and the fact that Tara was torturing some other poor bastard was a good start. He walked past her without being noticed and dragged his squeaking Converses down the linoleum halls till he reached Algebra. Slamming his head down on his desk with a smack, Dom closed his eyes, hoping to catch up on the precious sleep that utter turmoil had robbed him of throughout the weekend. Kids always sleep much better when someone is trying to teach them something.

There wasn’t any sleep to be had, though. Cursed images coursed through his head in a steady stream of bloody entrails and semen. Like A Clockwork Orange, where that guy had the things holding his eyes open while he was force fed brutal images of rabbits raping a puppy, Dom too was being force-fed the results of the savageness of nature and human kind. A malicious omnipresent being was skull-fucking him, ejaculating into his frontal lobe.

Besides the gruesome carnage, which Dom believed he could deal with, various images of vegetable girl would occasionally interject themselves between acts of bestial-necrophilia and homoerotic-cannibalism. He wasn’t so sure he could deal with that. One moment, she was lying peacefully in Tara’s bed in a sundress with one strap hanging off of her shoulder, staring at him from behind sleepy eyes, then her image quickly left and was replaced by a gorilla donkey-punching a dead monkey. “That’s better,” he thought to himself. Then, she came back, and the blood in Dom’s body slowly made its way to his penis where it bore an erection. At least, he was hoping she was the reason for his erection. He knew it would’ve given him good reason to be concerned if a dead monkey was getting him hard. Although, he figured it was hard to tell since the dead monkey did look like it was enjoying getting donkey-punched.

For some reason getting wood while thinking about vegetable girl felt like getting hard looking at naked pictures of his cousin. But he knew it would’ve been better off to masturbate to naked pictures of his cousin than to let this tragedy invade his brain. “At least my cousin has bigger tits,” he mumbled to himself hoping afterward that nobody had heard that out of context. Well, even in context it would’ve been difficult to explain. It would be best just to kill anyone who had heard him, bury them in Bode Woods somewhere. He tried to bring back the comfort of gruesome images to his mind and push her out, but she mercilessly eliminated them like a five-foot-four Charles Bronson with long hair and perky tits. It was too damn easy for her.

Annoyed, he opened his eyes but kept his head down, staring at a sliver of light that reflected off of the top of his desk. Someone told him that you could smell a storm coming. Probably one of those southern sayings that his mother had thought to impart to him. Occasionally, his dialect would fall into southern speak depending on his company. If he was around it enough, he would be stuck talking like he was from Alabama for days, confusing the hell out of everyone, including himself. Anyway, yeah, so, you can smell a storm coming. He speculated if the same could be said of shit-storms. After a lot of thinking, he came to the conclusion that you can only smell it after you’ve already stepped in it.

Irritated by his mind’s fascination with vegetable girl, he started bouncing his forehead off of his desk, bludgeoning himself in the hopes of making a hole big enough to let the images escape. He didn’t think there was any reason for enthrallment; he had definitely seen better-looking girls, and most of them never even tried to puke on him. At first, he thought it was because the only hands to touch his dick at the party were his own, but he knew, unlike most days of his life, this time it wasn’t his dick that was the problem. Remembering when she called him her “guardian angel” caused his stomach to spasm, pushing bile to the back of his tongue, reminding him of the first time he snorted heroin. After projectile vomiting all over the side of his Bronco, warmth pulsed from his head, pushing itself down until it touched his toes. Not knowing that when you snort heroin, it’s best to find a place to sit as quickly as possible, his knees buckled and he slammed his forehead against the passenger side mirror and knocked himself out. After waking up face down in a pool of blood-vomit milkshake, Dom put his heroin days behind him. After careful consideration, he realized vegetable girl’s words had the same effect on him, compounded with an erection that could hammer a nail through mahogany.

Nauseated and aroused, he didn’t wait for the bell to ring and bolted out of class, holding his book bag in front of him in a Navy-Seal-stealth-like attempt to hide the fact that he was looking for a good time. Mr. Tack knew by now it was best not to ask too many questions and continued teaching the Pythagorean theorem to a class of kids that would much rather be doing something that would force Mr. Tack to question his belief in god.

The first recluse of the newly damned is seclusion. Keep yourself from the rest of them. Don’t let their sin soak into your skin. Dom was doing an admirable job of avoiding confrontations with them for approximately twenty-six hours and twenty-two minutes and thirty seconds before one of the sinners hit him square in the nuts. And, with a baseball-bat-like erection, he regarded getting hit in the berries not dissimilar from having his dick split by an iron boot.

Caving, falling to the linoleum floor in a lifeless heap, he tightened his lips to keep the vomit that had erupted into his mouth from spewing out. A savage perpetrator fell on the linoleum in front of him with a smack. “Poor guy must’ve really hurt his knee on my nuts,” Dom thought in-between blinding flashes of searing pain. His eyes quickly blurred with tears, which made him briefly wonder if anybody would mind if he started to cry. The crippled young man only hoped that, when the haze cleared, whoever hit him in the scrotum would be a ravenous monster thirty for blood and organs so that it would just devour him completely and get it over with. Unfortunately, he was sure that the blurry form was human and unlikely bloodthirsty. But it was still a bastard nonetheless.

After his tear ducts were spent and the blurry forms in his sights began to coalesce into form, he noticed an auburn-colored mane of hair whipping from one side to the other in confusion, and connected to the whipping form was vegetable girl, fully awake and seeking ball-crunching vengeance. Apparently, vegetable girl’s hair was auburn when it wasn’t soaked in greasy sweat. He thought about how etiquette would require him to say “hi” and to politely thank her for cracking his testicles into fragments, but he was afraid he would only inconvenience her further by puking blood all over her face.

She stopped, flipping her head around in confusion, and stared at him wildly like she was going to say something like “Watch where you’re going!” or just call him a dick, but she didn’t. Instead, she smiled like a puppy that had just shit on the carpet.

Dom jumped up so quick that he almost fell on top of her. With bruised nuts and a still waning erection, he didn’t think it would be a good idea to slam his body on top of hers and get arrested for attempted rape. When he finally steadied, he tried to say something witty like ‘I’ll take this as a thank you for saving your life?’ but all that came out was “I’ll take this…” before some of the vomit that had filled his mouth moved into his lungs, choking him like a bastard. Dom threw his hand around his mouth to keep from throwing chunks all over the smiling girl. Uncontrollably, he twisted around and stumbled away as he gagged and coughed. As he ran away, he noticed a warm wet sensation in his crotch. Unsure if it was bloody semen or piss, he didn’t bother to stop and check.

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She opened her eyes, finding the coming dawn over a burdened shoulder. The horizon moved up and down with each heavy step, gently swaying a slow swaying dance that moved the horizon and its rising light. Her brother was there, and he held her close, keeping her from the dirt. She lifted her arm and laid it gently over his shoulder. His skin warmed hers, so long without touch, now finding new sensation. Her hand caressed his back, his muscles tightened under his burden. Gliding up his spine, her fingers touched where his shoulders met the neck. He was cold there. It was such a strange place to be cold. She let her fingers wrap themselves around his cold neck in hopes that it would bring him warmth. He needed her. She knew that.

She knew he was so tired from his travel, but he still carried her. Their song came to her, and she started to sing it to him.

She found the melody and let the lyric lie. The song began softly as many songs do, broken and ambient, a slow sweeping minor melody that begins high in pitch and descends slowly like a weary traveler at the end of his path finding rest far away from home. It repeated the melody changing only slightly in its rhythm but still keeping its tempo. After the repeat, the melody subtly changed, moving in pitch and changing its dynamic. The timbre changed as well, but then it stopped. Her voice was tacit. It was a break to be filled with another instrument. There were no other instruments, though, and all was left silent. He always hated this part. He used to fill the silence with some sound, not necessarily music, but sometimes he would just say something, something to her, like how much he needed…

…never mind.

He said nothing. He just walked in silence and waited for the next line. The rest was too long to count, and the nothing seemed to last forever. Even the grinding of the rocks under his feet couldn’t be heard over the nothing.

The pick up brought the line in on meter with force, bursting through the nothing and pushing hard against it. It came in strong. The power behind the subtle line seemed inherent to the melody and the character of the line itself. It weakened the limbs, and, once the measure began, he stopped and fell to his knees. He pulled her closer as his eyes filled, welling up with the song, flowing down his cheeks. He wanted and needed her to keep singing. He couldn’t lose that too.

The song swelled and he swayed in anticipation of the next movement. When she hit the legato, his stomach tightened, and the feeling spread to his fingertips.

He couldn’t hold her anymore. Her burden was too much for him. He laid her to the side and fell to the earth with his face in dirt. Tears mixed with the soil as he pushed his face farther and farther into the earth. If the song didn’t hold him, he would’ve buried himself there. She stopped, leaving the song unfinished. She never would finish it.

She looked away from the rising sun. He was walking away from it, trying to go home. There was no home that she knew of. It was gone, or maybe it was never there in the first place. She hung her head down and stayed silent, but she knew where she needed to go. There was no home there, and she knew that her brother wouldn’t follow. She looked at him with his face in the dirt. She knew what they had lost, and she knew his burden. She stood herself up and faced the heating light of the rising sun and let it pushing away the cold night chill. She turned toward her brother.

That’s when she saw the shadows. They knelt down by her brother and touched his face and the faces of his shadows. Her shadows kissed the cheeks of his and guided their heads to their breasts. They didn’t speak. They simply moved with grace and elegance that seemed foreign. They were such lovely things. She looked to where she was and found another vague and faded shadow lying there in her absence. It looked back at her as she stared it. Its head hung to one side, wondering at the wonder that she shared. She smiled and knew that they were more than just mimics. They moved regardless of her movement. They always moved. Even without her, they still moved. Fine. Call them mimics if you want. It doesn’t matter to me. She reached for her brother and knelt down before him. She lifted his head and looked into his tear filled eyes.

“Ewald, I won’t stop singing for you.” She ran her fingers along Ewald’s face, clearing the tears and mud from his cheeks. She kissed him, her warm lips against his cool, damp, and muddied cheek. She brought his head to her chest.

He listened to the pounding beneath her breast. “I’m so sorry, Lilavati.” He pressed his head closer. “I thought we could go back, but there’s nothing there for us. Is there?”

Lilavati shook her head. “Whatever we have, we make ourselves.” She held him tighter with her back to the path. “You know where we have to go.”

“I don’t want you to go, but, if you go, I won’t argue. I’ll follow.”

Lila broke down. She couldn’t hold back anymore. She shared her brother’s tears. She felt her brother to be the best among men. He was brave and he would gladly give up his in exchange for hers, to make her happy. It won’t, though. It will only bring scars. “Let’s go then.” She smiled.

They walked for a while without speaking and just simply held each other’s hand. It was Ewald who spoke first. “Where do you think we could get some clothes?”

Lila chuckled. She didn’t even notice that they were naked until he said something. Well, she did notice. She just didn’t care. She thought of how shy he was. Of course he would be the one to notice. “I guess we have to find something.”

He found a dead rodent and carefully skinned it. Once the skin was pulled free, he rubbed the inside of it with leaves and mud, cleaning off the blood. He fashioned a tie, a bit flimsy, but it seemed like it would hold. He offered his creation to his sister. She put a hand over her mouth to hide a smile. She waved the other at him. “Keep it.“

Being careful not to tie it too tight, he put the skin around himself. It hung loosely, but it didn’t seem like it would fall off. Most importantly, it covered everything that needed to be covered. He looked to his sister who was already chuckling. “What are you laughing at? Least I’m wearing clothes.”

“Is…is…that what you call that little thing…little thing hanging around your waist?” She burst out in laughter.

“Well, it’s my first try. Now we’ve got to get something, huh, to cover you up with.” He started laughing too.

“I’m fine,” she said, calming down.

“You can’t walk around like that! What if we run into someone?” He was almost screaming with his eyes wide.

“I suppose they’ll be naked too, and you’ll be the only one with…with…clothes and…and you’ll be the strange…one.” She laughed again, only harder this time, roaring so hard that she almost fell. She had to sit down.

“I’m serious, you can’t walk around like that!” His eyes were still wide.

“Fine I’ll use this.” She swept up a hand full of muddied leaves and smeared them on her breasts. Then, she stood back up and gave between her legs and her backside the same attention. “How’s this?” She asked when she was done.

“You’re strange.” He rolled his eyes and walked. After the laughter died, it was a long while before either of them spoke again. They continued to walk and moved far in a little time. Again, it was Ewald who first spoke. “Where do you think everyone else is?”

“I’m not sure if there is anyone else.” She knew he was still reaching for the past. He wanted things to be the way they were, however they were, and he would hold on to that hope until the end. Whatever past there was, if there was one, was lost to them both. Still, he wanted that lost past, so much distance from it, so far gone, already so much earth covered, and so much left.  Lila looked down at her feet as she walked, stretching her toes between steps to keep herself occupied.

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I know it’s hard to believe, but sometimes my sunny demeanour slips into a dark arid wasteland where my usually vibrant enthusiastic self settles into a depression from which very few dare to venture.

Then I smile as I recall Calvin and Hobbes. I’m brought back to those innocent days where a kid races down a snowhill with his tiger towards certain doom and only laughs in the face of it. Snowmen lay eviscerated and decapitated in the winter wonderland of a family’s front lawn. An old teacher will find new spring in her step as she has to restrain a little boy whose delusions of space travel and alien fighting bring him to an outburst in the middle of a history lesson.

Then I see this…

As the adrenaline pumps into my blood that sprays from a blood vessel in my head I grip the steering wheel so hard that my fingers start to crack. You see, this purloined image was never signed off on by the magnificent Bill Watterson. In fact, whenever the topic is brought up with him, it is an obvious source of disappointment. And, in his brilliance, Mr. Watterson has every right to be upset. I don’t use the word brilliant easily, but Bill Watterson IS brilliant. He stood firm against the merchandising of his characters specifically because he knew that it would cheapen them, and viola, you have it where one of his characters is smiling as he maliciously whips his dick out and pisses all over the place with his ass hanging out.

The ever gracious Mr. Watterson would never say any of this, but I will. Any sister-fucker who has this sticker anywhere on their hillbilly ride or anywhere else for that matter should wrap their lips around that diesel tail pipe while one of his dick dipping chew chawing backyard yokals heavy foots the gas pedal until his lungs are so filled with exhaust that they combust right out of his ass.

I wouldn’t even look favorably on anyone who looks at this image with anything other than pure disgust. Calvin was mischievous but NEVER malicious. His innocence was part of what made him so endearing. Had he just been a prick, everybody would’ve been hoping that Hobbes would’ve eaten him viciously. For those of us who read Calvin and Hobbes religiously, and understood it, this picture is an aberration on the same level as this…

So, you hillrodcockslurpingmotherfuckers, how did that feel to see your lord and savior as banging himself? Not very good did it. I’m sure I’ll get some hate mail for this, but it’s worth it to make it clear that it’s not funny or clever to have a pic of Calvin pissing on anything. In fact, you would be hard pressed to find anything dumber.


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