Kitty Sand

What’s your favorite toy at the park?

The sand!

And why is that?

Because it tastes good and the kitties make it lumpy!

You shouldn’t put the sand in your mouth.

But I like it and the kitty lumps taste like peanut butter that makes me throw up.

Oh my… Who looks after you while you’re at the playground?

Handsome Pete.

Who’s handsome Pete?

He’s a man who live in a trash can that my Daddy paid seven cigarettes to take care of me while plays naked wrestling with our neighbor Mrs. Wildebottom.

Oh…

Yeah! She feeds me paint crackers when I sand her toes.

She makes you sand her toes?

No, I like to. She lets me lick them too.

You are gross.

Nuh uhh!! I like toes and kitty sand! You’re just a fat potato face!

What? How did you know about my face! WHo told you about my potato family?!?!?!

Your face just looks like potatoes. And you’re a fatso!

Oh… so you don’t know that my father was a potato and my mother was a vegetable lover who was disowned from her family for having romantic relations with various vegetables?

…no.

Ok… I must be leaving.

I’m going to eat more kitty sand!

Goodbye.

Bye-bye Potato Fats!

Rusty’s Boner Grind

Do you know the way to the Greasy Bowl? What’s the Greasy Bowl? It’s a public pool where the owner has emptied all the water and replaced it with children. Yes, children. It’s stinky and very difficult to swim in, but all the local teenagers like to hang out there and spit loogies into the pool of kids. Well the kids belong to only one lady. Her name is Milfred Bilfington and she is the estragned Mother of these 312 spit covered children in a pool. She is the world’s record holder for octuplets. She lives in Venezuela where she is a living tourist attraction. People pay money to watch 5 chickens and a small monkey parade out of her worn out vagina. Now that’s all I have time to tell you about the Greasy Bowl. I have to get down there and free all those children, and then I have to head on down to Rusty’s Boner Grind. You know, that sandwich shop where they pee on all the bread? Yeah, I’m going to set it on fire. See you later!

The Power of a Handshake

As our hands met, our nervous palm sweat mixed and immediatly we knew by the shared look in our eyes that a chemical reaction had begun. A warmth radiated from the two fluids combining with the added pressure of a firm and hearty handshake. We shared this suprising experience with our eyes for a moment, and as the warmth grew we looked down looked to see a bright light emanating from where our hands met. It odd to say the least, but what was most confusing was the the light was not burning our hands. It was giving them power. I could feel the veins in my forearm swell, increasing the now inhuman strength of our handshake. We both did. As the light intensed, so did the strength of our mutual greeting. We were bonding as soul brothers brought together by the magic of true greetings. As the light grew, the other businessmen in the room started to take notice. Soon a small amazed crowd formed as we continued to squeeze palm sweat into bright white light and brotherhood. The light in the room was now blinding and all inside were watching this miracle of greetings between myself and this Asian business man. Then suddenly, when the light had rendered the room all but white, everything went dark. Silence.

It took a second for our eyes to adjust. As our eyes normalized the Asian Tech Manager and I opened our palms to reveal a small but growing dragon. The chemistry of our foriegn palm sweat, combined with just the right pressure and our mutual resepect for business had created the first dragon to come into existence in 10,000 years. As we stood in awe, the dragon rapidly grew to the size of a horse. Just as it stopped growing, the dragon turned to the Asian Man and myself. It said, “Come. Ride on my back. Together you shall be the new Kings of Westeros.”

And so we were.

Pig Dresses

Grandpa always liked a good pig’s foot in the gut. Not to eat mind you. He used to make me smack his fat belly as hard as I could with whatever pig parts happen to be lying around the slaughterhouse that day. It just so happened that pig’s feet were his favorite to get a good punch from. He said the welts it left behind looked like little hearts that matched the dress he made me wear every time I smacked his lard gut with handfulls of dead pig. Now one thing Grandpa didn’t like was dresses. That’s why he made me wear them. I don’t know why we had them in the first place, but it was Grandpa’s philosophy that nothing should go to waste. And that meant if there were dresses in the closet, someone had better wear them out. That’s why from the ages of 9-13 I was usually seen wearing a sleek evening dress cleaning up the slaughterhouse after hours.