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"Fortune and Glory" said the pale politician, a ghost of himself. His bad breath was obviously a liability in the campaign. The woman he was toasting with had the feeling that he was rotting from the inside. The picture she had in her mind was of a pale piece of turd lodged in the back of his throat.
He was rotten all right. His political career had spanned the odorless fecality of the 80's: that fat decade of digital sadness. Now the smell was around him, and there was nothing left to do but drink drink drink. He poured another J&B.
Like Reaganomics, 80's fecality had back-fired on his ass, sending (literally) a ton of shit back up his hemmeroidal asshole. The effect was a constant need to shit, forever unrequited: the sad pining of held in childhood shits, the incredible private melancholy of those unshitted unfortunates, those dried out, constipated hopes, those suburba-
As she smelled his breath she noticed something strange going on with her pussy. Was she urinating? What the fuck was happening? She felt a warm liquid running down her left leg and her revulsion turned to outright lust.
"You've got my vote, you smelly bag of shit. Now let's get naked and DANCE! I want to see your pallid flabby white ass shaking to 'The Big Chill' soundtrack. You yuppie fuck. You degenerated ivory tower shitmonger. Dance. I hate you piss streaming from my vachinawhina. whiny vagina."
She continued, beside herself. "And at a certain point I will step outside of the narrative all self-reflexive like you see I can rise above it anytime. In fact I am the girl alter-ego of 'the gay actuary', one of Jon Feldspar's earlier characters based on hardened real-life experience in the office. Oh, but I have said much too much."
Date Written: December 30, 1899
Author: Phony Millions
Average Vote: 4