recent things i found out

HOOOOOOO!!!!

When I was young I had really bad asthma. In fact, I had such a bad asthma attack when I was two, I was taken to the emergency room and given some odd drug. My parents said that when we got home from the hospital, I started running around like a crazed fuck. I couldn't stop going crazy and for hours i ran around the house (luckily i kept my clothes on, HOOOOO!!!).

Anyway, I had a heartrate of 130 bpm, and for a two year old, that's fucked. My mom thought I was going to die, which would have been hilarious (for me, not for her).

My parents called the emergency room back and asked what to do. They said to give me benadryl, and after three more hours, I slowly began to fade fade fade...

I think this fried some shit, hopefully.

Three or four years later, while at a gas station in rural georgia, my brother was pumping the gas into the family car. He was about eight or nine. He took the nozzle out of the intake, but left his hand on the trigger. He pointed it into my face. WHOOOOT!

I was taken to the hospital and they shoved charcoal into my stomach to sop up the gas. They also put glow in the dark eye drops into my eyes to search for signs of gasoline damage to my retina. WHOOO! Talk about a sweet halloween costume! GLOW IN THE DARK EYES!

I asked my dad over dinner if he could score a bottle of glow in the dark eyedrops next time he was in the emergency room. He said FUCK YEAH because we're the coolest family in smyrna, ga.

When i grow old and have kids, i'm gonna fuck them up, and they're gonna be great artists.

Scope Hamptons <3

Scope Hamptons opens today: who better to ask about the long and forbidden history of the event than Richard Gere? I met up with him after a publicity shoot for Pretty Woman 18 years ago.

Tip Tuddley: Any plans for this evening, Dick?

Richard Gere: Well once I get out of these sweaty clothes (Mr. Gere removes his shirt, flexing his abs when it gets stuck over his head) I was going to hop in the shower and do a little meditation. Maybe catch a tea.

TT: Sounds like a good night to me. So you’re not planning on heading out to the Hamptons for the vernissage?

RG: No, you know, I was thinking about it but the scene last year was pretty slow. Plus I did tons of pretty bad coke.

TT: I’ve been meaning to ask you about that: does the hypocrisy of a drug-addict Buddhist ever bother you?

RG: If I had my leg-pit tickled for every time I was asked that…well you know it does turn into an interesting conversation almost inevitably. It’s all about destruction of the ego, Tip. It’s like Rimbaud said, “I often enjoy getting drinking blue wine in the bowels of the cocaine vessel.”

TT: Oh Arthur, you had so much to teach us!

RG: So I don’t think I’ll be heading to Scope this year. The art market has really become a chance for…(continued next page)

I had a large monk friend named brother Raphael who loved soda to the point that it makes me sick to remember him. He used to shit these great lumps, and when they plopped into the water below his balls, they would fizz like antacid tablets due to all the carbonation stuck in his gut.

I remember walking into his room once (the door was always closed) and I found stacks of soda cases (cases!) from the floor to the ceiling. The bottles were not empty, but filled with cigarette butts, and his desk was rotting because of the sugar in the air.

Europeans were singing american songs outside, like YMCA, but they have no idea how to pronounce the letters so it came out "YAYYYY MA CEE YA! la la la la la la YAYYYYY MA CEE YA!"

It was actually an amazing medley, with air guitar to the tune of ode to joy and beethoven's fifth, and under pressure, but they only knew the refrains that we all know, so each tune lasted fifteen seconds, and then they stopped clapping and things got awkward. not for them, for me, because I was trying to sing with them, and not being drunk or european I became incredible shy and withdrew from the window back into my raphael's room with the bottles of Coke and cigarettes.

The singing was mainly done by men, but the talking afterwards was done mainly by the women (girls). Had I killed myself then, I would have missed all the stuff that happened now.

I require a tug: zulu

John Bolton's first foray into politics was for the failed campaign of Barry "call me betty and slap my tits" Goldwater of nineteen thirty three. A few years later the stock market had "failed" and we were in a "depression". But here's the rest of the story:

While trekking (as in star trek) through the wilderness of arizona (maybe his home state?) Big Barry came across three large naked men approaching. The men were coughing up red foam, but did not look pained or in discomfort. Goldwater began scribbling down notes which were to later evolve into his epic "The Conscience of a Conservative". By 'notes' I mean, he wrote down the title "conscience of a conservative".

"Ahoooooo," said one of the naked men as they walked up to goldwater's carriage.

"hello good fellow, may i offer you some of my libido?" responded Goldwater.

"That is kind, but not kind enough. We want more - we always do - but we are willing to let chance decide whether we put you into a vegetative state so that your family and friends will have to battle over whether to pull the plug or let you live, constantly dribbling like we do," answered the man.

"but you dribble red foam from your mouths, and you walk and breathe like ordinary people." said Goldwater.

"Yes, but we are even more ordinary, and for this we have been cursed by the great Native American Gods: Utu and Lenorammamamamamamamama. They ride on the shoulders of white men and negroes alike, making love to whomever, whenever," said the man.

"I have no idea what's going on," said Goldwater

There was a pause in the talking as Goldwater looked at the three men standing in front of him, became slightly aroused, then slightly less aroused as he thought that he did not size up to any of them - not in the penis, but in the sassiness and areola size.

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Whenever typing John Bolton I want to type John Roberts instead, maybe baby?

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John Bolton is the greatest statesman to ever have liver.

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Tickly my snatch

Here's a fun section: a newly-minted list of people or things it would be pleasurable to have your leg-pit tickled by.

And the inaugural tickler is.....A TABBY!!!



He's so darling!!!!

An Explanatory Node

Where Buttter introduced himself with concession I will introduce him via parable: a short tale of a young colt in fevers ashore.

Some four years ago, while resigning himself to his afternoon routine of trot, banter, shit, reflect, a certain Category III stallion faltered: a carriage had arrived, rare for this time of year. The air had become suddenly still. Birds stopped chirping, rabbits receded into their dens. On the side of the carriage was painted an oyster, of the worst type of kitsch, surrounded by matte foam. The door to the carriage opened and out of the shadows emerged a flank the likes of which he hadn’t seen in years. The ass continued, followed by a ribcage and shoulder sublime. There were dots where he had seen lines, hooves where there would be dirt. This alien vessel was treating him to a nee parfaite and he was all too happy to play the Paphosian oarsman. A whisper – peeeee – escaped his anus. In his tunnel vision Boundary (the horse) finally caught a glimpse of its head, the most perfegg of all. He didn’t have to look down to know his reveries had left him with something of a horse’s boner.

The days that followed were spent on a cloud, floating over the river. His trainer had arranged for an introduction. Sparks flew. Dreams were of love and piqued with sorrow. Before long he inserted his gigantic dick in her vagina for about fifteen seconds. It was harmony unseen since that rabble of pre-Caelusian chaos, when dark was light mixed with moisture-semen.

Almost one year later Mien (the mare) gave birth to a crumpled little package, wet. It stumbled at first, as most foal do, and went nose-deep into a heap of father’s newly-placed shit. And this is where it got its name, Big Brown, executor of the biggest flop in horseracing history.

The next few years have been consumed and regurgitated and as such aren’t worth your or my time. It seemed fit for some light to be shed on the genesis of a life misinterpreted and dismembered, questioned and cajoled. Crescent. Crisp. Big Brown may have failed his Triple Crown foray, but does that discount the rare souvenir his father deposited deep inside his mother? Will our modern times relinquish its bloodthirst for meaning?

With these words I bid you remain attentive to the insightful whore residing in these pixels. His services are yours, his cavities agape.

John Bolton is The Dream American Dream

John john john john j=j-j-j-j-j+j john Johnny johny Joooohn Bolton, the first American. The last American. The first American. and now the last again

Sometimes, when you are feeling lonely, just think how lonely it must be for angels, who can probably not have sex because of how many things are illegal in heaven. Demons have sex, but only anal, and lube is never allowed. This is what John Bolton fought for.

He was born with a three piece suit on, in the United Nations headquarters, and it's funny because Margaret Thatcher is his mother. She gave birth to him while voting on UN resolution 838483 which outlawed Africa. His father is Father Time.

He was not raised, but whatever the opposite of raising would be: lowered. It doesn't make much sense, but because of technological advances in physics, he was able to lower himself from old age to middle age, back to not too old, but not too young, so he's about 60 I bet right now even though he was born in the mid-80's.

Our first interaction was during the first Iraq War in the late 80's or something. Luckily, history repeats itself. George Bush was president, and Reagan could still wipe his own ass (meaning before he got retarded because of dementia and crack (little known fact, but the whole say no to drugs was started by Nancy to get Reagan off drugs! LOL)).

John came up to me and said "Gregoe, I read your op-ed in the Times and I did not like what I saw, sir." This was odd because I had never written for the Times. In fact, I had only written pamphlets describing Oklahoma's historic arsenic factories. But I decided to play this game of mice catching cats in heat. "John," said I, "do you have any idea why I wrote that piece?" and this was a huge gambit because I still did not know which piece he was talking about. "Well," he said through yellow teeth and the eyes of a flamboyant valkyrie, "You're a science crazed freak.

"I thought that maybe you would like to join my cabal. I am looking for advisors and I think you have what it takes, you hillbilly sex mechanic."


The first time you're called a hillbilly sex mechanic, you freeze. Time freezes, your balls freeze, your face contorts slowly, you have daydreams that last for days, but in reality only a few femtoseconds have passed. The second time you're called a hillbilly sex mechanic, you get angry, mad, steamed, pissed, irate, and itchy.

The third time I was called a hillbilly sex mechanic was when john fucking bolton, the teenage ingrate son of Margaret Thatcher, decided to let loose his (totally) fuckable moustachioed mouth. Wave after wave of slime and sex and emotion filled my hair, my teeth, my spine, and I felt like HAL from "A 2001: Space Odysseus", completely emotionless, red, large and mechanical.

"Hubbababrooo!" he shouted to get my attention, "do you want to position or not? It's assistant cabal leader, just give me your salary requirements and a cover letter. My e-mail is Cuddles69@GOOGLEsingles69.com."


"I didn't realize there was an open position," I said. "Besides, you hardly know me, and I'm a writer, we don't get along well with others, especially politicians."

John looked at me, long and hard, and I knew he was undressing me. But it's alright because I already was a little turned on because of the beads of sweat on his brow. He is not afraid to look you in the eyes, and then look at your pants zipper where your wee-wee usually pokes out it's head, and then he looks back at your eyes, and then back at the zipper-wee-wee-hole, and then back at your eyes.

"I'm not a politician," he said. "I'm a statesman, and a card carrying member of the PKK."

"The PKK, aren't they the Kurdish separatists trying to overthrow Turkey?" I asked.

"Yes." he replied.

Awkward silence.

[Scene]

What i meant to say about john roberts that i couldn't say yesterday because he's a super dork

My original comments about John Roberts, the former poster boy for democracy and a poster man for the ointment industry, were flagged by the FCC for being too... too... racist. I called him a dirty cracker jack fingering walrus.

According to amendment 7.08.SC-2 of the FCC's penal colony code, it is illegal to call former U.S. ambassadors words like "cracker" and "jack" and "fingering walrus". What I didn't know, is "if said offensive words are preceded by an identifier verbal type conglomeration, per resolution 17.03.SIO30-393.3, the parties resulting in the words associated above, but not before, the last word stated in the row may be able to finger [sic] yourself."

This is a formal resolution, but the FCC, upheld by the UN and NATO, and signed by the members of both Britian and Liberia's parliaments. This is a legal document, that was not supposed to be read by the members of the public, i.e. my interns, and therfore not subject to prosecution.

What we were also told was that we were also told to edit our newspaper and told that we were was to sit. The bureaucratic language they spoke was translated by our Farsi translator, who took a picture, and then drew an animated sketch to accentuate our asses:



By reviewing the law, we were able to break free, but only after having harsh sex with nazi chinchillas and erotic college mascots.

P.S., I'm the one with the sexiness all over

John Bolton

John Bolton is the smartest guy I know personally. The others ask for regime change; John Bolton is a regime change. His arguments for Iranian regime change in the WSJ's July 15th issue is one of the most influential ever made for now.

The only thing you need to know, however is that "[w]e will be blamed for the strike anyway, and certainly feel whatever negative consequences result, so there is compelling logic to make it as successful as possible."

Yes, but before we do that, let's take a page out of the great vaudeville classics and redirect the pain:

Mr. Bolton is the brother of teen idol Michael Bolton, and together they have created one of the greatest duets in history: the older, mustachioed, bespectacled and general hussier of the two, John, adopted a role as statesman and philosopher, whereas Michael became curly haired and eccentricly sexed. The first Behind the Music ever made was about them, and because this was done before CNN, people thought they were the Presidents of Americans.

Fast forward to three months ago, or something like that. After being politely refused breakfast at the UN eatery for the fifth time, John Bolton realised he was no longer the ambassador to the U.N. (representing the United States and England and China, the first man to be a tri-mbassador, pronounced trimbassador)

Some people like to use the label neo-conman, but I like the nom de gruyere assigned by the great human rights activist Sissy Spacek: ambassadorable

www.wikipedia.org

LInk

www.google.com

SplinterFaith

The splinterfaith thing is going great