Harold Sphincter for President

Hello.  For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Harold Sphincter, and I am running for fifth grade class president.

My opponent, Kelly Krang, has chosen to besmirch me with a decidedly negative campaign, focusing on my personal life, fabricating vicious hit pieces, like Harry Sphincter eats his boogers.

I could distract you with lofty promises like my unscrupulous opponent.  Promises of vending machines in every classroom and extended recess.  But I want to convey that Harold Sphincter is all about the truth.  And I’m here to set the record straight, right here, right now.

I was a dumpster baby, born prematurely to an unwed and unprepared teenaged mother, and subsequently tossed in the trash as an infant.  I survived 17 hours in an alley way dumpster on a hot August day, before my cries were heard, before I became a ward of the state.  My birth mother did time in a juvenile facility for discarding me like a half-eaten Big Mac.  I never knew my father.  Could have been anybody.

If you can overcome being a dumpster baby, my opponent’s nasty, abhorrent campaign is a fart in the wind.  She can drag my good name through the mud all she wants.  Dumpster babies are born leaders, and I was born to be fifth grade president at Felcher Elementary.

At four years old, I received a hair transplant.  I was in diapers until second grade, but I never let it stop me from performing musical theater, even as I was branded “Pampers” and mercilessly teased by many of my peers.  If you are among them, I hold no ill will.  I shall cast no stones, and come election day you’ll be calling me President Pampers.

My opponent, Kelly Krang, is woefully unprepared for public office.  She has lived a privileged life, has no perspective, has had zero adversity to overcome.  My opponent has never been tossed in a dumpster, abandoned, unloved.  She has never lived in a foster home with a meth dealer and her lover, Bruce.  She was never misdiagnosed with leprosy.

Kelly Krang is unfit for the presidency because she hasn’t been challenged.  The duties of public office would overwhelm her, and Felcher Elementary deserves better than an overwhelmed and incapable fifth grade president.

One of my foster moms forced me to run a lemonade stand, and kept all the money for herself.  But through that experience, I learned about entrepreneurship, about responsibility.  I worked with a quota, and vastly exceeded that quota, just as I would outperform expectations as your president.

I will fight for the rights of transgendered students to use whichever bathroom they choose.  I will fight for greater diversity in our morning announcements crew.  I will make the tough choices, so you won’t have to.

So let Kelly Krang attempt to assassinate my character.  A desperate move from a desperate, unqualified candidate, offering nothing but a slew of empty promises.

The administration will not push back the start of the school day till eight ‘o’ clock.  Coldplay will not perform at our spring assembly.  We have to be pragmatic, and I, Harold Sphincter, am the reasonable, realistic, and capable candidate our class deserves.

If this race is nothing but a popularity contest to you, then I honestly don’t know what to tell you.  Kelly Krang sits at the “cool” table, and doesn’t wear a retainer.  Congratulations are in order.

*** SARCASTIC APPLAUSE ***

We should all laud her crowning achievements.

I am the only viable candidate for the Felcher Elementary fifth grade presidency.  I am a centrist with the ability to work across the aisle with our administration, to strike compromise, all the while lobbying for the interests of our wonderful class.  I have the necessary relationships with our faculty, to bridge the gap between student and teacher, student and principal.  I will even draw the attention of the schoolboard, on such hot button issues as the reduction or outright elimination of standardized testing, so we can let our teachers educate us their way, rather than teach to the test.

I cannot and will not promise you victory, but I guarantee I will fight for our interests, every day I am in office.  I am Harold Sphincter, and I will be your fifth grade president.

Thank you.

To My Furry

You were my favorite furry, my lover, my friend.  But now you won’t even speak to me.

I hate this.  Your cold silence echoes in my head.  I can change this, I can change this.  No.  False hope.

Slapped a restraining order on me.  Was that really necessary?  I would never attack you again.  I promise.  Please, baby, let me back into your heart your life your world.

Me in my lion suit, you the hyena.  Your raucous laughter turned to screams as I bore my bicuspids and bit through plush, straight down into the blade.

I clawed through the breast of your suit with my sharpened nails, tearing the stuffing out with animalistic avarice.  Fuzz falling falling.  I felt you tremble with fear, your lust evaporating.  My jovial submissive no more.  You became my prey.

Chest now exposed, faux fur scattered everywhere, I bit into your breast, nearly dismembering your nipple.  The sudden taste of your flesh triggered me.  I felt a beastly rage within me, as I ripped through  your tattered suit, entrails of fuzz blanketing your twin bed.

Lions don’t acknowledge safe words.  Yours is “regurgitate”.  You shouted it over and over, but I k ept clawing biting clawing biting.

Regurgitate!  Regurgitate!  Regurgitate!  Fuck you, no.

I felt compelled to chow down on your filthy hyena hole, but I resisted, let my want fall short of need.  You’re lucky.  I would have prolapsed you beyond repair.

I never intended to hurt you, my sweet baby.  We met on Fetlife, me tired of the online search for connection and conquest.  You, too pert and pure to pass up.  I stitched my lion suit by hand.  I wanted this to be special.  It was special, wasn’t it baby?  If just for a moment.  Before I vanished into my role, hungry lion on the hunt.  Ghost in the darkness.  Rip Chew Fuck Flesh.

Please forgive me, Sweets.  I’ll do anything to bury myself deep within the flanks of your fur again.  I’d even flip roles, let you dominate me, humiliate me, mock me.  Cuckold me with a tiger, beautiful stripes, young so young.

I have a feverish need to be with you, my transcendent furry.  I’ll do anything, baby.  Please, please drop the restraining order and let me invade your soul.

I’m watching you…

I VANT to Suck Your Toes

toesI VANT to suck your toes!  Rosy, posey toes, dangling over the foot of your Victorian canopy bed.  Purple press-on nails, sucker’s delight.  Your left index toe is sublime.  I want to gather it in my mouth like a mother bird holding food for her babies.  Chirp Chirp Chirp.  Oh how I love the taste of feet.

You’re wearing the bodice your husband gave you on the day Princess Diana died.  I want to rip it off and set it aflame.  I VANT to scare you, but only a little.  Really I just VANT your toes in my mouth.  I can fit 3, maybe 4, if you push my cold vampiric mouth to the brink.  Push me, push me, Pretty.  I VANT to make those perfect toes glisten.

I VANT to swirl my swift tongue over your cuticles.  I VANT to taste nail polish, let it crack and crumble in my greedy mouth.  I VANT to bite through the tumor on your right middle toe, spit it out, and deep throat those toes until the sun rises and I retreat to the Shadows once more.

Darkness lifting reminds me of everything I am not.  I will never be a daywalker, soaking in Vitamin D, tanning my flesh.  I must suck toes in the dead of night.    I must turn my midnight tricks, comforting lonely night toes with my nurturing mouth.  I don’t VANT your blood, I just VANT your toes.  Rosey, posey toes.

Big toes, small toes, man toes, so it goes.

I drape myself in my own dark desire, my mouth foams at the site of demure toes squeezed into restrictive heels.  Oh how they swell, nice and plump, ready to be suckled.  I VANT to rub my gums against the edge of your sharp, glossy toenails.  I will toe-suck my way to ecstasy, transcending time and space with my mouth engulfing your foot-fingers. Give thee your toes, or I will sever them and place them in a tin jar, sealed tight until sundown, at which time I will inhale those lovely disembodied digits and suck them to the bone.  I VANT, I VANT, I VANT to suck your toes, live or dead.  Oh how I salivate.  Your tantalizing toes will submit to me before the Dawn.

 

 

 

 

The Throne

“Don’t you love it?” She asked, entirely without sarcasm.

“It… it looks like an anus!”

“Well, sure, to you! But that’s the beauty of it – is it an anus, or is it not?”

He stared at her, mouth agape, searching for the joke. “I’m not going to spend $14,000 on a picture of an anus.”

“Well, it could also be where an asteroid hit earth. Or the top of a volcano. Or a very strange insect!”

“Darling, it’s an asshole. And those are two butt cheeks. And over there is the small of the back…”

“According to your interpretation! But you see naked women everywhere. I see some brilliant brushwork and vibrant colors.”

“Can’t we just get the other one? The respectable landscape over there?” He gesticulated wildly, exasperated, and suddenly feeling choked by his top shirt button.

“This one might be a landscape too. And it’ll match the shower tiles so perfectly.” She was staring intently at the puckered picture, with a furrowed brow, taking in every line.

“Wait, you want this for the bathroom?!”

“Well yes, that’s what we’re shopping for, aren’t we?”

“You’re asking me to buy a $14,000 picture of an asshole! For us to stare at while we we’re on the shitter?!

“Well, if you’re going to insist that it looks like a woman’s posterior, then yes. Frankly, I think it looks more like a beautifully wizened peach…”

“A goddamn, rotten peach, what in the world….” He began to mutter incomprehensibly, even to himself.

“Well it’s abstract, dear.”

“There’s nothing abstract about it. Look at the goddamn title.”

“It’s called The Throne. That could mean anything! Mother Earth has a throne, too, I imagine…”

“I’d rather have a photograph of my own damn asshole than this $14,000 piece of crap.” He almost chuckled at his own pun, but refrained, lest she begin to think he was softening on the idea.

“Well, with enough filters, I’m sure a photograph of your anus would be quite lovely, sweetheart… if a bit…woolly.”

“Oh, now we’re talking about how kempt each others poopers are, is that it?!” He suddenly became aware of eyes on him, and looked behind him to see a very stern gallery owner staring at them over her thick-rimmed glasses.

“It was just an observation, dear, nothing to get defensive about. You know I like how furry you are.”

“I’m not going to stare at a $14,000 anus while I’m pooping.”

“Darling, you’ll be staring at your phone, and you know it. What else do you do for hours in there?”

She had a point. “Then why hang anything at all?!”

“Because I like to be inspired, dear, and this painting inspires me!”

He searched her face again, desperately seeking a sparkle of jest. But, finding none, he was defeated. “Eating prunes would be a lot more inspiring – and cheaper,” he replied, as he walked to the counter to pay.

Death and Birth of a Dick Pic

  • Every time a woman is harassed in the workplace, cat called on the street, or is told to “smile more,” a dick pic gets its wings… And thus… starts it’s journey.

    Once winged, the dick pic goes upwards and onwards into the cloud,  to hover, mentor, and nurture younger, newer dick pics. From the moment of conception, when there’s only just the idea of a dick pic, a twinkle in the owner’s eye, a neurological phallic spark fires and the guardian dick pic swoops in and gets to work:
    Lighting: Is there a shadow? Does that shadow help elongate its subject like when you stand with your back to the sun? Or is it too dark? Where does the dick end and the shadow begin? ” No! Not the fluorescent light!!! Never the Fluorescent lights!” Guardian Dick Pic (GDP) screams in horror. Public restrooms, hospitals, and classrooms have fluorescent lighting and we don’t want those associated with an otherwise glorious penis!
    Grooming: Neat and trimmed back far enough to make the dick look bigger? Not too far back or it’s porn star territory, not too bushy because it could be covering that extra 2 centimeters of shaft that could make all the difference. Is there enough hair in that one spot to cover what might look like a herpe but really it’s just an old jerk off callous? Are the small wispy hairs on the dick visible in the shot? That’s death for a dick pic. “Use the scissors,” whispers GDP… “Not the razor…. Remember the razor…. Always remember the razor…” But is it GDP, or just the wind?
    Context: GDP is there to guide the premise… What do you want your dick pic to communicate to the recipient? Is this a great gift? An honor to receive? Must it look stately? Should it wear a tie? Or is this advertising?  An exclamation point at the end of a persuasive argument… No… It IS the argument. It needs to say, “you need this,” or “you want this,” or a less ambitious, “this is OK, right? Please don’t show this to all of your friends and laugh.” GDP is there to help set the stage, the mise-en-scene for the fledgling dick pic. And one thing GDP will NEVER say is, “This is a bad idea. Don’t do this.”
    And thus, as one dick pic dies, a hundred more are born… Wherever there is a choice to be made: do something productive and kind,  or send a dick pic? GDP is there. Whenever someone innocently grabs their phone to check their messages, to see how their mother handled her chemotherapy that day… GDP is there. And whatever shape, size, or disgusting disfigurement, GDP is there to wrap it in the warmth of it’s wings and tell it, “don’t worry. Everyone wants to see you. They just don’t know it yet”…
  • By:  Jennifer Kinkade

Lumberjacked

sweat drips languidly from your freshly trimmed beard. gazing into its magnificent shrubbery, i realize more time has been devoted to its elegance than I’ve given to my own self-preservation. but to hell with survival, you are a pillar of caveman existence, your paleo diet feeding the animal hugging your rough edges like a fly on a windshield. your lips hide beneath intertwined shadows, hearty roots on an ancient tree. to caress your beard is to know god.

teach me how to worship at your brawny altar.  i feel the vice grip of your calloused workman’s hands around my unworthy member, oh how you fill me with purpose.  to love you, to be loved by you, rough and unrepentant.
you pound away at me, I am your piece of meat. You drill me, you thrill me, you own me.  be kind to your possession, but not too kind.  i have a taste for your scorn.
Ugggghhh.  Ayahhhh!  I hear the urgency in your groans as you approach your climax within me, muffled by the Bzzzzz Bzzzzzz, BZZZZ of chainsaws outside your tent.
Bzzz Bzzz BZZZ, UGHHH!  RAWR! BZZZ.  i look back at you as you decimate my dark flower, your essence building, building.
you erupt with malice, working out long-ago heartbreak through my demure asshole.  your orgasm Christ-like, you fill me with the very heart of you, your sweet milk.
you spurt, and I spurt thusly, overcome with emotion. the tears flow down my cheeks as i expel my demon seed.  you wipe them away with your flannel sleeve and pat-pat-pat, you burp me like a child.
we are lumberjacks.  we are brothers.  we are lovers.

Her Name Was Brittany

I came out of a profound blackout for a moment, just in time to realize the gravity of the situation. My hands were shaky from the Colombian grade cocaine coursing through my bloodstream and I had to make sure my aim was dead on. One wrong move and the make-shift blow dart filled with ketamine would miss her ass completely.

I met her at a coffee shop under false pretenses. Her name was Brittany or Brittanie or some forced recalculation of a future stripper’s name. I was nursing a hangover and she was looking for one. We connected over the mutual disdain for the indecisive debutant ahead of us. We were at her house before the coffee was drained from our cups. I had her naked, blowing rails off her perfectly sculpted fake tits when she asked for it.
I was staring into a black hole. Honestly and figuratively. With half-closed intoxicated eyes, a freshly waxed asshole looks like a salty kiss. I asked her to breathe in and exhale, exaggerating the exhale as if it were her last. Her beautiful anus came to life, like the mouth of a diva. In that moment, time stood still and I knew my purpose. I placed the edge of the glass clean against her rim, and blew.
The cigarette smoke halo that left her lips broke apart quicker than her self respect. We discussed her kids, her dreams of owning a yard, even if it was only big enough for her dog to take a shit. She was happy.  I had given her what she wanted. Not connection, not orgasm, just a quick flash pure debased inebriation. That pause between responsibility and reality. We had fucked the system. For in that shaky boof of a second, nothing mattered besides the hot breath of intoxication I was granting her beautiful asshole.
By:  Jester Pepperbottom

Flickering Flame of Addiction

the abandoned clock tower proved to be the perfect squat, sheltering us from the outside world. she and i took solace in our solitude, hidden away hundreds of feet above the bustling city below. no one knew we were here, and we preferred it that way. we spent our numbered days chasing the flickering flame of addiction, wasting away behind the broken clock. the irony of time stopped was not wasted on us. the giant motionless arms of what was once a great feat of engineering cast eerie shadows throughout our abode. in the sticky hours of midday summer, we would huddle in their shade. life passed slower up here, death beckoning, always one boof away.

By:  Jester Pepperbottom