This morning, residents of Horseheads, New York awoke from a collective nightmare.
Since late May, the small town has been terrorized by a large, unidentified creature, one that has claimed the lives of over a hundred thousand men, women and children…and, in what will forever be remembered as “Horseheads’ 9/11,” caused minor structural damage to the village post office.
Yet, at approximately 1:33 AM Eastern Standard Time, shortly after civil defense sirens cut through the night to warn of another attack (the first since October 8th’s mid-evening rampage that devastated the red light district of Hanover Square)—reports were flooding in that the beast was in captivity. By the time the National Guard arrived, both the menace and its captor were gone.
Eyewitnesses were shaken; unable to identify the man who undoubtedly saved them. “He was a strong man with chiseled abs and a well-oiled chest,” said Linda Bradstaff of East Franklin St. “I wanted to personally thank him, but he was gone before I was able to fully expose my vagina.”
Of the beast, one witness claimed it was an “enormous wolf, the size of full grown horse; with the head of a horse and a horse’s body and horse hooves…almost like some sort of large, horse-shaped wolf.”
The only known photograph (pictured above), taken by area carpet salesman and contemporary ballet instructor, Andrew Marshall, depicts the two in the heat of battle, fully engaged in a violent life-or-death struggle. Though a spectacular raw portrait of selfless, unparalleled heroism…it offers few clues to officials desparate for answers.
“We’d like to know more about the man who saved our town, our families, our friends and neighbors,” said police chief, Barry Stanford. “However, we need to know if he’ll be back to protect us, should this monstrous wolf with horse features ever return…or, god forbid, if there are more of them out there.”
Stanford continued, “I know the whole town would love the opportunity to thank him…I don’t think a parade is out of the question. We’d pull out the retired fire engines, get the high school marching band to do their thing, have some floats made in his honor…and, of course, every man, woman and child would be there proudly exposing their genitals.”
sig·na·ture / ˈsignəchər; -ˌchoŏr/
• n. 1. a person’s name written in a distinctive way as a form of identification in authorizing a check or document or concluding a letter.
Sorry for downplaying your intelligence up there, but I just got into an argument with a store clerk over my signature. Tell me how this bitch goes all day seeing illegible scribbles, careless dashes, lazy wiggle lines that (perhaps, symbolically) match the final moments of life on hospital heart monitor…and when something with a little pizazz comes by, she’s gotta flip shit over it?
Two decades ago, when I first started signing my name in an unconventional manner, it was merely a young boy’s protest against ol’ wacky-loops cursive. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the art of calligraphy…it’s his mentally challenged little brother, cursive, that I don’t care for. More often than not, cursive is written in haste, the results are ugly and it’s difficult to read. I like my eyes to glide smoothly over a sentence—opposed to straining them and wrestling the paper into different viewing angles while trying to locate my decoder ring. All these years later and I still get motion sickness trying to follow those obnoxious squiggles around. Man…fuck you, cursive.
By the time I graduated high school, my parents noticed my signature remained relatively consistent with it’s humble beginnings in Mrs. Karabaich’s fifth grade classroom. They warned me of the trouble I was setting myself up for, particularly, signing legal documents as an adult. Perhaps that’s all I needed to hear, because I appreciate easily avoidable confrontation.
So, I can admit that much. I’m well aware of it being an issue for some people. The question is…how is it an issue? The very definition of the word “signature” negates the entire argument.
I’ve got it partially figured out…and for the confusing remainder, I’ve come up with a possible workaround. The incident with this specific clerk caught me off guard because she was young. See, I’ve run into trouble with my signature four times prior to this, all with bitter old women. Now that is to be expected. There’s no sense trying to hide your misery when your tits haven’t been presentable in decades and your vagina is crustier than a sourdough roll in a hobo’s armpit. Of course you’re going to get mad at me for “doodling” on my credit slip when your vaginal lips are ashy and you haven’t felt an erection since menopause. However, if your private area is still adorned with a big, wet, pink bull’s-eye, don’t let something as trite as uncommon looking pen marks rile you into an ol’ beaten-hag frenzy.
Angry young women of America, hear me and hear me well. Your pussy will be a dilapidated mess soon enough…stressing out over a signature sure as hell isn’t slowing the process any. Do yourself a favor and enjoy life until the semen’s tapped and those labias are chapped.
Toilet paper should come in rolls of plush, absorbent, flushable gloves…not awkward, difficult-to-maneuver, foldable square sheets. Each finger on T.P. Gloves™ would provide for easy insertion, allowing you to get in there and really dig out any unwanted brown moisture (or unpleasant crust, depending on how long you typically sit on the toilet reading Cosmopolitan with an open hole)…then again, T.P. Mittens™ would offer a unique scooping alternative for those of us with looser anal cavities.
Most importantly, the palm coverage of these revolutionary new products would prevent mishaps (like the one pictured above) from constantly happening to innocent people around the world.
I got back to my house 20 minutes from the time I’d left, with a thirst for more than just the morning coffee in my right hand. It is Tuesday, a day in which new music and movies are released nationwide on digital formats for our consumer needs. I hadn’t anticipated any particular new releases, but I knew I’d find something, anything to put further stress on my iPod’s hard drive in no more than thirty seconds of riffling through the iTunes store.
I hit the 128 kb/s jackpot when I discovered AFI had a new album out!
I immediately purchased the album and gulped down my coffee with great anticipation as the songs downloaded to my computer and transferred over to my iPod. I cancelled my 12:30 business luncheon and went out for a long nature walk to really absorb the new songs; to take in every note and become one with the music.
I’d like to share with you my review as it appears on iTunes. I typically write six-word record reviews, but this release is so special, so enchanting…I felt the need to go above and beyond–a reflection, if you will, of the album itself.
(click to enlarge)
Tony, is this your idea of a joke?? It’s like I always say–drunk driving isn’t funny unless you have to stop at a car wash on your way home to spray the remnants of a pregnant pedestrian off your windshield.
Give your readers something a little more riveting next time, and remember: aiming for the sidewalk is like aiming for the front page.
It attacked me from behind, so to speak.
The buildup was fairly steady; there were no complications in the delivery, which was conveniently timed and effortlessly consummated; it had a soft, almost spongy texture and a subtle piquancy…yet, in its wake: a menacing formation…
…a bear claw.
Not to be confused with the pastry delight of the same name…this was more than some inanimate cluster with a coincidental likeness. I’d first believed this to be the gentle paw of some sort of aquatic bear, reaching out to tickle my clean-shaven ball sack…or then, perhaps lacerate it; as a savage, bloodthirsty beast would; and ostentatiously march it back to the darkened sewers of Horseheads from whence he came.
With irreplaceable (not to mention above average in both size and performance) assets dangling within his reach, I ultimately chose not to trust this unknown dweller of the deep and made a harsh, but instinctual move.
As you can see, he fought with every ounce of his life as I flushed the toilet. The claw marks left in the porcelain only hint at the potential damage that might’ve claimed my strapping (yet, given the circumstances: vulnerable) lady pleasurin’ mega machine. Looking back, however…my genitals, ravishing as they are, should’ve been the least of my worries…for I might not have made it out of that Barnes & Noble bathroom alive. I was lucky.
I don’t have any solutions to this problem, shall it surface again…as I, myself, have many questions left unanswered. My only advice for the next time you’re squirtin’ chunks is to keep one eye between the thighs…because you never know just when you’ll have a close encounter of the turd kind.
When I was a boy, the sound of Doug Craven’s pee stream was epic. It was loud, powerful, intimidating. It sent shivers down my spine–not to mention light splashes against my face as I tried peaking over the bowl to see what all the commotion was.
I couldn’t wait for the bathroom to shake with the impact of my golden thunder.
Now, here I am at the tender age of 27, with a cock bigger than two Christmas hams, and–though my stream has respectable width and passes at a considerable rate–the consistency of the pee itself is a bit light-bodied for my taste…it’s just too thin to make the splash I’d hoped for by this point in my life.
I’ve increased the amount of pectin, arrowroot and carrageenan in my diet, which has aided in giving my urine a velvety smooth texture…but not the rich, thick density that I’m really hoping to spank the toilet water with. I guess what I’m looking for is something to augment the viscosity of my pee without sacrificing its astringency.
I’m open to suggestions. I just want results, and I want them now. When I piss, my neighbor needs to hear it over his snowblower. The guy at the urinal next to me needs to know that my stream could cut him in half. Most importantly, without needing to press his ear against the bathroom door, Doug Craven needs to know his baby boy has grown up a man.
Yes, this nearly spherical woman (who waddles into Barnes & Noble Café four times a week, always carrying in an unreasonable stack of books she has no intent of purchasing; on average, will sit for six hours, reading as much as she can–as if she were in a library, drinking everyone out of the complimentary water offered at the condiment bar; never puts away the aforementioned books, generally leaves quite a mess behind and rarely leaves until 5 minutes after the store closes) is actually wearing retail eyeglasses–borrowed from a merchandise rack somewhere in the store…complete with sales and security tags almost entirely restricting her field of vision.
It doesn’t get any better than this, folks. God bless America.
I, Eric Thomas Craven, hereby declare wiping overrated. I’ll let all remaining brown moisture residue and goo chunks dry on their own, for they’ll eventually crust up and flake off as I walk. This new practice will save me time, effort and a few bucks at the grocery store. I may have discomfort, or perhaps even a rash, but at least I’ll have my dignity.