Friday, December 4, 2009

Golgorath McNipplemilk

Golgorath McNipplemilk

hard times D & D
tiny weiner, apathy
da revolution

So I know I have been less than forthcoming on posts, and the only thing I can say right now is I will try to update as I can, but in these poor economic times I must at least pretend to have some semblance of productivity. I so miss the Clinton days, even though I began working on the tail end of them, knowing that even though I made 4.75 an hour I would be alright because someone was taking a shot in the mouth for America. Now I make all of 5.13 an hour and I am wondering from whom I can take a shot in the mouth to make it in ths world... great times.

Anyway, lots has happened, and I will try to post as I can, but today's post is about guns. Yes, guns, helping conservatives seem relevant since 1860.

As you all know, I teach the k-rat. I also teach jujitsu (and if you would like a day getting all hot and sweaty rolling around on the floor with the Stevester, email me and I will send you sign up sheets, Will and Tylester). My main student for jujitsu, for even though the class is free to k-rat denizens, no one but this young lad has lasted longer than 2 classes, is a pretty staunch conservative. He's a great guy, him and his mother both take karate and are like family to me, but sometimes their standpoints on things makes me want to abort my own asshole with a rusty pitchfork.

When the talk turns to politics, which happens WAY too much in k-rat, it usually ends up being my instructor, who is I think pretty centric, which means liberal, against them, and it gets awkward pretty quick. I know none of this appears to have anything to do with guns and you only logged onto my site to read about Smeagol, but it does, so wait a second, let me lay down the lyrical foreplay before I get into the main hot, sweaty throbbing thrust of my post.

Anyway, I have a lot of ideals that are somewhat conservative, so usually I will mosey over after one of these awkward confrontations (did I mention this happens after class while everyone is lined up waiting to leave so they have to listen to it?) and try to smooth things over as they usually look pretty riled up. Some of the stuff they say though, like the reason we are in a recession is because of Clinton, that George W. was the best president we have had in recent memory, that Democrats are hell bent on taking their guns away from them, that being gay automatically makes you a Democrat (I SO want to counter with the fact that 95% of the allegations of child molestation, inappropriate sexual comments to male underlings and hurried weiner on weiner frottage has been PROVEN to have been perpetrated by Republicans, but I am a diplomat of sorts, so...), among other thing, and the worst part is these people actually believe this is the truth.

OK, now back to guns. A week ago I was invited by said student to go skeet shooting. I immediately wondered why some dude would want to see how far I could shoot jisms from my chowdermaker, but learned that skeet shooting is actually shooting at moving clay targets with a gun, and not what rappers say it is (curse you Soulja Boy!). I accept the invitation, as I have never really felt black due to my lack of firing a gun. I traded a gun for a sega game, but that doesnt count. The only way I know I am black is my poor credit scores and strange almost unstoppable urge to mount all large white women (I can't stop thinking about it).

Anyhoo, I get directions to their house, which is in Klanland, or Northern Missouri (I have no idea if the klan is out there, but let's assume there is nothing else out there just for the sake of comedy HMMMMM?), and we head out in their car, the whole time them talking about how when I shoot a gun I should feel great about the freedom to do so because Democrats (and I got the feeling they believed I) wanted to take their basic freedoms away. I leave all the obvious mistakes and idiotic believe alone, as we are in the middle of the woods, I am outnumbered 2 to 1 and they have guns, and pray neither of these guys has seen Deliverance.

We get there and get out of the truck, and what do you know, I am the only black guy. I am also the only black guy not wearing suspenders, camoflauge (if thats not how you spell it, eat my shitmaker) or a combination of the two. I am also the only one who does not have a beard. Strangely I was pleasantly surprised when other than a sideward glance every few seconds like "Hey Cletus, izzat nigger still here?" I got little to no attention.

So anyway, the first gun they give me is a pump action shotgun, very nice, and show me how to load it, I assume since I am black my negro instinct will take over and I will wow these rednecks with my accuracy, the first clay pigeon flies, I aim, fire, annnnnd....miss.

Oh well, second one annnnnd.... miss.

in fact, first 10 in a row are all misses. I am saddened and horny. The dad walks over and informs me the problem is that I am "aiming". I look at him like he just got done pounding my wife and told me he was checking her cervix instead of what I saw, and he explains that aiming screws it all up. I look at his NRA hat and figure he might know what he's talking about. He tells me to aim at a milk jug about 50 feet away. I aim, and miss. WTF? I can't hit a huge milk carton 50 feet away? I feel saddened and not as horny anymore, so I look sad and slump my shoulders. Long story short though (too late) I learn that aiming is for suckers, as once I quit bothering to aim the gun or take the safety off when I was reloading I realized my day got better by tenfold!

Ah... great times. I will update on the Thanksgiving from Hades later, and also on how Smeagol can make your life better!

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

I got Crabs!

I got crabs

organ donor time
hot beef injection is here
talking about ham

So I just wanted to share with you all that I got crabs. 2 little fiddler crabs from the local Wal-Marts. They are adorable, but I should have done some more research on them... I put them in my tank and watched them scurry around, and then one of my fish, an African cichlid that I bought because it was a pretty fish, promptly moseyed over and ate one of their claws off. The worst part of this whole ordeal is the crab then turned toward me and just stood there, and I dunno if you have ever looked at a crab but they always look sad, but this one looked like I had just....well, just put him in a tank to die. I almost started crying, I felt horrible. I have a 10 gallon tank in the basement that I am gonna clean up and probably put them in, crap I'm a jerk.

Anyway, as we all know (and I am sure care) Sunday was my birthday. Yes, it's true, yer old pal Stevester turned a delectable 29, and I feel every friggin bit of 70, except I can still get it up and I don't shit myself...yet.

Anyway, the day started with my mom and JJ calling me at 7:00AM and yelling "Happy Birthday" into the phone, then laughing and hanging up. I of course did a great Danny Glover impression by saying "I'm gettin' too old for this shit"... the awkward part was when they guy with the greasy jeri curl with the sax played that little hook from Lethal Weapon and then walked out the garage (for Prit, that's "gair-awjj").

Anyway, after receiving phone calls from my whole family, I get up and that's when it hits me. Smeagol. The raptor. The Life-Stealer. The Thong-Wearer... known by many names, answering to none.

I get a call, and it's him. Foolish foolish me, I assumed he was calling to tell me happy birthday, which would have been a nice change, but as we all know Smeagol never does anything unless it will benefit him.

"Hey Niggie, how you doin well enough of the small talk I got a computer from Rent-A-Center and I need some help with it" he moaned sassily, I can only assume scratching another barnacle out of his thong.

Before I go any further, I must explain something to those of you who read this blog who are not IT techs:

For the most part, we enjoy our jobs. Some, like me, got into the field simply to make money and become useful members of society, while others found a way to make money doing something they love. We also love our family and friends, and every once in awhile do not mind helping with a technical issue if they need assistance with it.

But make no mistake, it is still work for us. My uncle is a mechanic, and I used to call him all the time asking idiotic questions about my car and what was wrong with it, never realizing he didn't want to come home from working on cars all day to work on more cars. It is the same with your IT friends. We don't mind helping you, and sometimes even if we do the genuine love and friendship and good will will outweigh our annoyance with working on your computer, but there are a few ground rules:

1. Don't make the call for computer help the ONLY fucking time you contact us.
2. Don't EXPECT us to jump at the chance to remove all of your split beaver shemale porn.
3. No matter how well you try to hide the nasty shit you put on your machine, during the normal course of things we will find it unless you delete it.
4. I dunno about my colleagues, but we do NOT enjoy "being alone with all that techy stuff", and will more often than not get annoyed when you go in the other room and enjoy your day like I am a fucking plumber. Bitch you ain't fuckin paying me, the least you can do is entertain me.
5. Don't assume that because we CAN that we WANT to.
6. You are not the only asshole who calls me for technical help. I WILL answer people who are not pushy a LOT sooner than you. If you don't follow any of the above rules, I will NEVER answer you and put you off until I get annoyed with your calls or the next holiday when you inevitably corner me and ask why I ignore your calls all the time.

Sorry, BTW I am not talking about anyone who reads this site, mostly I am talking about a couple people in my family, it's REALLY annoying when they call 1 time every other year and it's only so I can remove all the gay porn their kid downloaded onto their computer, "completely without my knowledge", which is why it is in the quicklist on WIndows Media player. RIIIIi-i-ight...

Anyway, this post is about Smeagol, so back to the story. He calls and after I spend an excellent 15 minutes walking him through getting his computer configured and set up, he remarks that he needs a mouse. There is a long pause as I wait for him to ask where to get one, or what kind he needs...

....and am wrong. " if you can bring me one, that would be great niggie." I blink a few times as the realization sinks in. What?! This fuckin' raptor wants me to bring him a mouse. A mouse. a 3 dollar fucking mouse. He wants me to get in my FUCKING car, on my FUCKING birthday, and drive for a half hour to bring him a mouse. You know what, fuck it. I do it. Because I am a spineless piece of shit who will bend over backwards to help my family out, I fucking do it. Well also because I wanted to know what was up with that raptor so I would have something fresh to post. It's also a lovely drive from Smithville to Liberty via the back roads, so I pack the kids up, grab a mouse and head out. I leave at 2:08PM on Sunday, with the full intent on being back at 3:00PM to watch the Chiefs play the Raiders.

I get to Smeagol's coven, tell the boys that we are not going to be there for very long, walk in, ignore his "Thank you so much" as I know the thank yous will not replace the 5 bux I spent in gas money driving over there, plug the mouse in and prepare to leave. Then Smeagol notices my oldest son holding a Harry Potter book. This is significant, because had he not taken that fucking book inside I would have happily enjoyed the rest of my day Smeagol-free. And yes I am blaming the ruination of my and my dad's day on my 9 year old son.

Smeagol pounced on him, talking about wizard school, Hagrid and all manner of fantasy nerd bullshit (I say this knowing I installed and am currently playing Dungeons & Dragons Unlimited on my computer - it's free!), even comparing books and plot twists. THis does 2 things: It gets me thinking maybe Smeagol is not so much of a douche, and keeps me close by long enough for him to lay his question on me:

"Hey niggie, you aren't going by Mom's house are you? I need tog et down there because I have orientation tomorrow..."

No. Not in a million years, no. My kid tells him I just filled my car up though, so I can't use that as an excuse. Think, Stevester, think!

Nothing. I tell him to call Mom and Dad, and if he can't get ahold of them, to call me after the game and I will run him down there. As I am leaving he leaves no indication that he plans to call anyone by saying "I'll see you after the game niggie!"


The only joy in this whole thing is going to be when my dad sees that raptor at his house and gives up HIS will to live. I get home, call my dad, ask if he will go pick Smeagol up, listen as he and JJ and my mom laugh in the background for a couple minutes then hang up on me, and realize I now can't wait to take that wily raptor down there to share in their lives and take their resources and stop up their toilet.

After the game, Smeagol of course calls, tells me he couldnt get ahold of them (I called right before he called me and he never called them), and I prepare to go pick him up. I get to his house, and I call his cell phone; I'm sorry, "Francisco"s phone, and get Mystery. I tell her to send him out as I don't want to get out of the car, then wait 10 minutes to see him hobbling out the door with a couple huge bags, and smile internally even as I get out of the car annoyed to open the trunk and help him with his bags.

The ride down to JJ's house was for the most part uneventful, except Smeagol remarking over and over how great my 1994 Dodge ran. Seriously?! I mean for all the jokes and shit I know it is a piece of crap car, I hate it when people patronize me. Notice that Smeagol still hasn't said anything close to Happy Birthday or "Hey let me give you gas money for making a 95 mile round trip"... nothing like that.

We get to JJ's, I happily take Smeagol's bags in, and grin internally as the look of joy at seeing me quickly turns to deep, face-creasing frowns for my dad, my cousin and JJ at seeing Smeagol hobble in... and head straight for the kitchen.

JJ mouths "What the fuck" as my dad just sits there, shaking his head, and I instantly feel bad for what I have done. What have these poor souls done to deserve a raptor in their lives? As we are shooting the breeze, Smeagol pokes his head around the corner and asks Dad if he can have one of his beers. The awesome thing about this is my dad's name is "Toboggan Boy" if Smeagol doesn't need anything, but it's "Daddy" or "Dad" if he needs something. My dad asks how many beers are left, as he doesn't want that raptor drinking his last one, and Smeagol walks off, supposedly to count the beers. We talk for a minute, my dad promising to drop Smeagol off at my house one of these days, and Smeagol comes back in slurping noisily at a Miller High Life, the Champagne of Beers. Dad asks how many were left, and Smeagol holds the can up while proudly proclaiming "I took the last one!" and we all laugh and enjoy the good will and cheer as he drinks it right in front of everyone, then lets us all know he has to be at orientation on 110th and Troost (I didn't even know Troost went that far) the next day. There is no way I am going to call in to work or show up an hour early to drive that asshat all the way to fucking Joplin or wherever 110th and Troost is, and I turn and leave. Great times. I enjoy the annoyance, the genuine, unfettered annoyance everyone displayed when I took him by. They will all be REALLY surprised come Thanksgiving time.

Friday, November 6, 2009



gentle brook bubbles
clear cold water bubbling down
shit I pissed my pants

Porn time

Smeagol is a thief. This is well known. From his "house cleaning" excursions when not only is the house spotless, but less cluttered with your personal belongings, to his "I thought it was mine, niggie" when it is fairly obvious no person with a double digit IQ or higher would believe that, especially since your name, address, DNA/Urine/Stool samples are permanently affixed to whatever the item is, I mean come on!

I have a penchant for collecting classic video game systems. I HAD everything from the original NES (can't find a decent Atari 2600) all the way up to the XBOX 360, including handheld gaming systems. I even for a while had them all hooked up, until my lovely wife came home that day I was in nerd heaven, and after that I was a true nerd, completely sexless masturbating on the sofa whilst crying softly. Sorry, didn't mean to go into that much detail...

Anyway, JJ is my brother. I love my family. SO when JJ asked me if he could borrow my Sega Genesis and my Sega Dreamcast, there was never a second thought. He had never stolen from me before, so there was no reason to think he would now...

I gave him my Sega and 22 video games with it, lots of them quite rare, each one with my name and most with a picture of a cock being plunged into either a vagina or puckered asshole crudely inscribed on them as I am wont to do, and my Sega Dreamcast with 15-20 games that I had burned over the years, since I long ago lost the original copies... note that these games were fucking BURNED onto cd-rs, had my name on them, and were very obviously not the original games as they had no artwork on them, well save for the aforementioned pubic regions.

Anyway, JJ asked a few days ago to borrow a few PS1 games, which I gave to him, including Final Fantasy 7, Metal Gear Solid, and Xenogears, a game I paid more than 125 dollars for. Like I said I don't mind helping.

JJ called last night and asked if he could borrow some Dreamcast games. I was like "sure", went to my inventory closet in the basement, past the shelves and shelves of porn, and realized the Dreamcast was gone, as were the games. I then remembered I had loaned it to him. I called and informed him of this, a little put out, and he mentioned with some trepidation that Smeagol had been by recently, and had cleaned house. He also noted that of the original 33 Sega Genesis games, there was now only the actual game deck, 1 controller out of the 2 I loaned him and 2 games. Smeagol had actually stolen a controller and the FUCKING power cord. And how do you steal 31 game cartridges without being caught? Apparently it had not all happened at once, but every time Smeagol came over to clean he would steal 5 or 6 different items, tuck them under his shirt or down his sweat pants (really) and then ask for a ride home from the very people he had stolen from.

-Update- this post was written a couple days ago, I am just finishing it. JJ went to Smeagol's hovel, and apparently saw all the games and assorted memorabilia sitting on his table next to let's assume his genuine thong collection. Upon seeing my name on them, he asked Smeagol where he had gotten them, to which he first replied "I bought them all at the pawn shop, niggie!"

When confronted with the notion that pawn shops aren't in the business of selling 20 year old video game systems, and the coincidence that the games and stuff had my fucking name on them, Smeagol changed his story right there to "Oh, well I had these for years".

I am now torn between taking all of my things back from JJ, and thus depriving him of the opportunity to ever play these great games again, and actually going to Smeagol's hovel and taking my shit back, though I know that will only lead to Smeagol somehow raptoring to my house and never leaving. At what point would you just say goodbye to your belongings, no matter how precious?

I know I harp on this a lot, and a lot of you are getting tired of hearing about it, but dammit!


Well it's that time of year again, Thanksgiving. This year I invited everyone, and already some battle lines have been drawn. Here is what we have so far:

I invited Smeagol (because my fucking mom told him and so he invited himself) and Mystery. No one knows they are coming, but all 30 people who came last year (my lovely wife included) have threatened to kill him if he shows up simply because he owes them money, has propositioned and/ or dry humped them into oblivion.

JJ wants to have Thanksgiving at Mystical's house, which is in the ghetto. My wife informed me that since the dangers of being shot are at roughly 1 to 1 there, if I go it will be alone. Her family also refuses, and my mom's kitchen/ dining room is smaller than my bathroom.

My wife's sister, who lives out past Lexington (like an hour and a half drive) informed us she would be completely insulted if we did not pack up and go to her house for Thanksgiving, which is awesome as if we all go there then my family will hate me as most of them planned on eating at my house.

JJ and my mom said if my aunt (my mom's fucking sister) goes to my house after showing her ass last year and being a douche all year this year, they are not coming. This will lead to more bad blood as my aunt is one mean lady.

My sister said if Smeagol is going to be at my house she is going to murder him, and she also doesn't want to see my aunt.

My cousin said if my wife's "fat white bitch ass" shows up she is going to "cut some gravy out dat bitch". The infraction? Last year said fat white bitch butt-bumped my cousin out of the way on the way to the turkey.

I hate children and most if not all of them are bringing their kids and more than 5 of said children's parents have already asked about leaving their kids with me for the night, which will not make me happy.

I hate the holigays.

Monday, October 19, 2009

Smeagol, the Sausage Thief

Smeagol, the Sausage Thief

Love is like a rose
delicate, beautiful, yet
the thorns fuckin hurt

First things first: I got kicked in the goddamn taint. "What the fuck is a taint" you may ask yourself? A taint, or taintius holestinkius in Latin, is the small sensitive area of skin between your asshole and your ballsack or lovehole if you're a lady... and while you may wonder why I am not glad I didn't get kicked in the balls, sit back and listen and I will regale you with the tale, and form your own opinions...

So we are sparring at the K-Rat last week, and things are going well... I couldn't find my sparring gear, so I wasn't wearing a cup (I usually don't anyway, they're too constrictive. I'm not saying I have huge junk, I'm prolly wearing the damn thing wrong, but I always have one ball or my wiener hanging out cause there isn't room... OK this is too much info... Sorry) and wasn't planning on sparring anyway, but I get there and everyone already is, so I borrow some gear and saddle up.

Things go well initially, until I am sparring this fucking little girl about 10 years old and she punches me right in the fucking dick. This is not a particularly painful experience, but when it smashes your balls into your leg and that fart you had been desperately holding in because you had fried chicken with gives you horrible rotten-egg-and-brussel-sprout smelling farts escapes with all the velocity of a Taepodong missile (LOL) and almost kills the other patrons of the building, something bad has happened. I pretend it doesn't hurt by balling up in the fetal position and crying loudly, and after the pain subsides we go back to sparring. I told you all of that to tell you this.

At this point I REFUSED to get kicked/punched/licked in the fuckin' cock again, and was quite willing to take a shot in the ass if that meant no more (not that way, sickos). We line up to spar, and I throw a back spinning hook kick right into this guy's sternum, resulting in a very satisfying "WHUMP" sound and him hitting the floor. Yeeaaaaaahhhh. He gets up, and as soon as the ref says "fight", he bull rushes me. Let me take you in slow motion what transpires at this point:

As he is hopping toward me, he is throwing all manner of hard front, side, round and gay kicks, following them up with punches meant to stun. I coolly assume since he is a much lower belt rank that somehow he will not see me move, even though I am a fat black guy and it is a brightly lit area, and move to the side, turning so I can trow a backwards roundhouse and snap his ribs. As he gyrates around like a wind up toy that is hooked up to a car battery, he throws a perfectly times front kick, which I am not incredibly worried about as I had received more than one toe IN MY ASSHOLE before (no, seriously, all the way in there). As I lift my leg up, my pelvis kinda arched back, and his whole foot barely missed my shitbox and pounded said taint. This is met by me again balling up on the floor and crying for my mommy.

It sucked.

Aiight, anyway, you don't care about my taint (or if you do, you're so sweet), face it: the title intrigued you, you feel cheated that thus far you have heard no mention of (and let's be honest here) the only reason you even bother logging into my blog: Smeagol. Hold your horses, here it is.

Apparently Smeagol got relieved of his position at the nursing home. This is the same nursing home that had fired said raptor for infractions such as bringing in a doberman and letting it run free, and allowing it to bite people; assaulting residents (verbally, but let's assume for comedy he was going in and punching old people in the face as they slept), sleeping on the job,and many others. Our favorite raptor was saddened, and had apparently moved in with the ladyboy and her friend who sucked my cousin off, in the hopes of possibly maxing out on said ladyboy again and also attaining sloppy seconds on said young lady (it sucks, she is REALLY pretty, she could do so much better for herself... whatever though), as he had his mail sent to her house.

JJ informed me Smeagol is still an avid player of Pokemon (or as he calls it, and I shit you not, "Pookee Mans"), and is constantly writing codes and various crap down on any paper he can find, and in this case he got a letter from said nursing home, and after glancing nonchalantly at the contents, commenced to writing said codes all over the back of it.

During one of his many, many naps, apparently Kareema (the girl who sucked my cousin off, not the ladyboy) saw the notice, and called and informed JJ, who informed me. It was a termination letter, and under "Reason(s) for termination", right there in black and white, was the cryptic sentence: "Caught stealing sausages from the kitchen".


Seriously, What. The. Fuck. Apparently said raptor was caught, on surveillance camera (and how much would you pay to see that), raptoring into the kitchen, opening the refrigerator, and stealing delicious sausages, much as his ancestors stole live young and suckable eggs from the nests of more successful creatures. JJ said one of the sad side effects is now Smeagol is coming by MUCH more often, and things are disappearing at an alarming rate... I loaned him 22 sega genesis games, there are only 13 left. JJ went to Smeagol's house and saw them, and remarked that those belonged to me, to which Smeagol replied he had "bought" them. When confronted with the fact that my full fucking name had been written on said games as I knew something like that would happen, Smeagol repeated the edict that he had bought them at a pawn shop, nevermind pawn shops would NOT still have Sega Genesis, what kind of coincidence that there's another Stevester out there who just happens to have the same 7 games and pawns them at a pawn shop down the street from our intrepid raptor?

None, that's what.

Anyway, I know we all got a little sad that no one could find a job for Smeagol, but now joy of joys the search is still on.

Wednesday, September 30, 2009

Love, Happiness, Steveshaikus

Love, Happiness, Steveshaikus

the budding writer
begins on the shithouse walls
and ends writing shit

Good morning,

Here at steveshaikus we use only the finest completely nude midget hookers to bring you the stories you know and love - from Smeagol making sweet love to a hermaphrodite, to Toboggan Boy sliding down stone steps in tight burgundy boxers, to Mystical Retard proclaiming with much gusto that her salsa was so good it made her want to suck a man's love appendage.... to my sister telling me not to put my arm out the window of her 1984 Ford Fairmont as it would slow the car down, the list goes on and on and on.

Today's steveshaikus will take a slight detour, though I promise more Smeagol/Mystical/Toboggan Boy goodness in the near future...

My lovely wife enjoys reading. A LOT. She reads these totally lame Harlequin novels and love stories with the default picture of the shirtless guy wearing some sort of hat (seriously, she has one called "Captured by the Sheikh", and it is the same fucking white dude but now he is wearing one of those dinner cloth helmet towel things...) carousing with a woman who is NEVER naked enough to pique my interest... and said novels are full of complete crap that would never fucking happen in real life.

I hate these books, forget the fact that she gets all hot and bothered and dances on the Stevester skin pole more often, these books are the bane of men the world over, because NO real man would act like these assholes in these books. After a prolonged discussion last night, your old pal Stevester decided to write a short novella that is just as romantic, but much more realistic... Like Stephen Colbert;s Better Know a District or Alpha Squadron 7: The Tek Jansen Adventures, these will be peppered throughout my posts, and much like soap operas it will take months for anything to happen and when they do happen it will be on a day that none of you are reading (not that I watch soap operas, I do love Bridezillas though, that show kicks ass!)

And with this short introduction, I bring you the first short chapter of my own romantic novella,

"The Way of the Shaft"

By Stevester


Lindsey woke up with a start. It was cold outside, late fall in the hills of Vermont tended to be cold, and the wind was howling outside the bay window, throwing rakish moving shadows across her fuscia colored walls with little gay flowers on them, VERY tasteful. She looked down at Burlap, her dark chocolate colored Labrador, who was snoozing peacefully at the foot of her canopy bed, his hind leg barely moving as he dreamed about catching rabbits or tearing the throats out of those smelly coloreds.

What was making her so jumpy? Could it be that her biological clock was ticking, and the conversation she had had with her mother that afternoon was getting to her? Or could it be that Smithers, the snivelling yes man at her job as a fashion magazine editor, was vying to get her fired for snubbing his awkward, infantile advances at the company Halloween party? The thought of Smithers dry humping her as she frantically tried to get away from him made her shiver subconsciously, and she felt a quick stab of pure hatred for all men because of it. Why was she having trouble attracting a decent man? She turned to look at her face in the large vanity mirror, scrutinizing her straight dark brown hair, falling haphazardly onto her shoulders; her large, emerald green eyes and her decent tits. Fuck dudes should want this shit!

She lay back, trying to get into position, fluffing the comforter up and drinking in the smell of her juicy sounding fart that had been festering like a boil for what could have been hours, and drifted off to sleep, dreaming of a gentler time when men were gallant, women were worshipped, and Roseanne was still a popular show.


"....and you tell that son of a bitch that I will wrap up the Johnson account today if it kills me!" Dirk yelled into the speaker phone, clenching his fist in unrequited anger. Damn why all of this bureaucratic red tape when his construction/architecture/investment firm was just trying to turn over a profit? Why must he endure this endless parade of middle managers, thankless snivelling leeches who had nothing better to do than mire these negotiations in the proverbial muck?

"Well you'd better, because Mr. Genovese doesn't like it when people are late making their payments, and Mr. Genovese particularly doesn't like when he is made a fool of," the connotations of the underlying message were deafening. Mr. Genovese, kingpin of the Genovese crime Family in Rutland, Vermont, was someone to be taken very seriously. He was also one of the only people to turn to when you were in a pinch. He was also totally gay and loved the cock. Dirk took a moment to compose himself, wondering if these people even had hearts in them, and promised to make a payment soon. Sated with his extortion for the day, the lackey hung up, and Dirk gladly took the speakerphone off of his knee where he had been balancing it as he dropped a clunker in his half bathroom, half office on the jobsite. He had won the bid to build the Gordon P. Chesselbaum office building, and things had so far not gone to plan. First the illegal aliens he had been carting around had died because he forgot to let them out of his van, and after burying them in the cement foundation of his building. covering them in lime and quik-set concrete, he realized that Orloff, the Ukrainian refugee with a heart of gold, had all of his building permits tucked into his pants for safekeeping. Then the building code inspector, Ilsa Jenkins, had been pestering him about various things, like why was the foundation already poured when there were no steel beams or girders sit in it to, you know, support the building?

Dirk Ventured outside to check on his crew. It was a cool day, and being a little after noon the crew had taken up their usual spot, in front of the privacy wall cat calling any woman, man or animal that dared cross their path within earshot. Funny how some things change and some stay the same, Dirk thought as he ambled lackadaisically toward the crew.

As he stepped around the fence, he heard Antoine, his most senior employee and token black guy on the construction site, say in his best Boston accent (for, seriously, the only way to catcall if you work in construction is with a Boston or New York accent) "Hey hey hey! Wouldja check out the legs on dat broad! Hey baby! I bet you're looking for a commitment with a strong man with good family values who is unafraid to cry! A-WHOOOGA!", making the other workers grunt in agreement. Dirk looked around to see who he was talking to, and saw her: the beautiful woman who took this route about this time every day, always alone, walking quickly with her head down as if she were always wading into a hurricane. He watched her walk across the street and into the fashion magazine building across the street, and wondered if she might be the one his astrologist told him was the woman for him...


A few excerpts to keep your interest piqued until the next chapter:

"...Lindsey knew this was wrong, that this was all happening too soon, but she also knew she must feel the rock hard shaft of a man plow into her stinkhole of love, or she would go insane..."

"... Dirk wondered if Lindsey knew how much he cared for her, how badly he needed his dinner ready for him when he got home from work, and how much he enjoyed maxing out on her naked ass during commercial breaks during NFL Sunday..."

"... Smithers looked down in disgust. Yes, he had fucked his dog in the ass again..."

"...Dirk wondered, 'did she really love me?' ... 'Would I ruin this love if I told her how much I care?'.... then he bunched up and dropped a brown bowling ball in the shitter, wondering if there was a little brown baby in there..."

All this and more in the next chapter of the steamy novella, "The Way of the Shaft"!

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

Smeagol and the Ladyboy: A Love Story

Smeagol and the Ladyboy: A Love Story

corpuscle madness
things begin to not make sense
more baconnaise please!


I want to get back to the cars, I really do, and I was a little apprehensive about posting a story about a certain raptor allegedly making sweet love to a ladyboy, as I am starting to feel bad about it (hasn't Smeagol been through enough? I mean getting his magical ring stolen from him and now this)....

It's a terrible battle being waged. On the one hand, sweet lovemaking between a raptor and a chick with a dick is the kind of story that launches these kinds of blogs; on the other hand, such sweet love is something best shared between those two parties, a sacred bond that no man, woman or woman with a cock should tear asunder, and I am a little guilt-ridden to share this.

The only reason I decided to go through with this story is because Smeagol is going out of his way to cheat on his loving wife, and though she once got caught allowing come janitor dude entry into her shitbox at a nursing home (allegedly), I am sure she doesn't deserve this.

Well, here's the story:

My cousin, Rhinoxx (not his real name), recently found himself de-hoed. This led to his yearning for the gentle feel of a young lady's mouth on his man-shaft, and he relayed this concern to JJ. JJ informed him that Kareem was available for such endeavors; nay, all Rhinoxx need do is walk up to her and display said appendage and suckitude would most surely commence with little to no negotiation, as Kareem is apparently a "hoe". Upon learning this your old pal Stevester was most saddened that JJ could not recount her address or whether she was home, but that's another story (I kid).

Anyway, Rhinoxx made the trek to Kareem's house, I am assuming rubbing his junk gently while riding the Metro (he has a car but this is funnier so I will go with it) and possibly grumbling incoherently, much as every other Metro patron in that neighborhood is wont to do, and is most surprised to see Smeagol at Kareem's house. This is not too far out of the realm, JJ informed me Smeagol hung out with Kareem a lot trying to "get at that hoe", whatever THAT means, and this was evident as Smeagol informed her even with Rhinoxx in the room that he could give her a "schlip slop sally whop sassafrass spicy tuna roll" labial tongue lashing that she would not soon forget... so his default conversation topic with the ladies (I'll pause here for any ladies reading this to finish with your steamy fantasies of Smeagol....)

So anyway RHinoxx, who as I noted before was desperate for the mouth of Kareem, informed her he would be much obliged if she would suck his rock hard shaft. Kareem, as a true lady should, balked, informing him she wasn't that kind of lady, and then as soon as Smeagol left the room, proceeded to suck said shaft most convincingly and with much gusto.

Where had Smeagol gone? According to my mom, JJ, and Smeagol himself, Kareem was not the only love hole in that lovely apartment that day. Apparently there was a young lady, who JJ noted would only accept it from the back because she had a sizable cock in addition to the vag and butthole package your garden variety bus station skank carries. Smeagol revelled in his recounting of the tale of "munching away on that pussy niggie!", and therein lies my conundrum, which for the sake of clarity I shall put in numbered format for the more astute observation and debate amongst all 5 of my stalwart readers:

1. If you have sex with a hermaphrodite, does that make you gay?

2. If you are not gay, and are munching said hermaphrodite's twat, and her/ his cock touches your forehead, does THAT make you gay?

3. Is it possible to pound a hermaphro's twat without touching said cock?

4. JJ said she was not ugly, yet all the shemale pics I have sent and been sent show what look like a dude with a 5 o'clock shadow and horribly misshapen fake boobs. Can Hermaphrodites grow beards?

5. Was Smeagol making sweet love to the old guy with gorgeous boobs on that people of walmart website? If so, did he then suck room temperature creamed corn with cottage cheese chunks out of the old guy's beard at the completion of the act?

6. Why was Smeagol so proud of that, and how does Mystery stay with him when everyone within a 50mile radius of Smeagol knows he cheats on her?

Conundrums worthy of the best Sherlock Holmes novel, to be sure....

More later.

Tuesday, September 22, 2009


steveshaikus: sweet, kind, nice
like willow branch in a pond
swaying in the breeze

D-M-V! (Sang to the Ruff Ryder's theme on DMX's album (...And then there was X))

OK, So here is the story. It's finally time to get my car legal, after replacing the entire engine, transmission, and one brake light (which was the hardest part)...

First, a little backstory (like a backpussy, warm and moist. A little stinky, mostly gentle pink, unless there are poor wiping habits, then a thin shade of brown... ok I'm done)

My K-Rat instructor lives in the country (for this story, anywhere north of Smithville Missouri but South of St. Joseph counts as 'country'), and goes to all manner of delicious estate auctions out in the middle of nowhere. On once such estate auction, he happened upon a totally sweet 1994 Dodge Shadow, the precursor to the Dodge Neon, with a 5 speed manual transmission and a 2.5L engine. Awesome.

He buys said car, and, remembering a certain Stevester loves such cars (I promise I will finish the cars thing soon), he decides he will sell said automobile to me for the paltry sum of about 600 dollaruskies. The car has a little over 100k on it, so it's not too bad, and I decide why not, I always make great decisions when it comes to automobilia, let's go with this.

Upon road testing before selling said car to me, my instructor finds out why he got the car so cheap. The previous owners, who he works with, ran the car out of oil, and it promptly throws a rod, which after a little diggin on the internets I find out does not mean the same thing as it does in the films I keep under my bed. Apparently, to "throw a rod" means one of the pistons breaks and shoots through the cylinder, or is in danger of shooting through the cylinder. I won't bore you with the details, it's pretty manly though...

Anyway, all the stuff I did (replacing the engine, transmission, brakes, rotors, hoses, etc) is going in another post that will have pictoral documentation and funny quips and anecdotes, this is about the (ongoing) saga to get this fucking car legal.

I am not an angry person. I like to think of myself as patient, kind, funny, huge-cocked, with a penchant for snuggling and a mind of the arts. Probably none of these is true, but whatevs. Going to any DMV in the state of Missouri, however, turns me in to a complete and total asshole, and I shall explain why.

Here's the deal: The old guy who sold the car to my instructor gave him the title, lien release, a scrap of notebook paper that had both his and my instructor (let's call him Bob) names and a date on it, like that constitutes a bill of sale, a legal bill of sale from when HE bought the car from his son, and other assorted documentation that for the sake of brevity (too late) I will not divulge. My instructor, upon learning that the car needed a new engine, was just going to junk the car rather than sell it to me, but I told him I wanted it anyway, so he dropped it off at my house. I looked online and found an engine at a local junker that had less than 60k on it.....

Anyway, my instructor gives me all the paperwork he has, and tells me I SHOULD be able to send the paperwork off and get the title sent back to me, no problem. Having dealt with the DMV before, I was skeptical. I decide to drive from Smith-fucking-ville to Ray-shithole-town to get the old guy to sign off on my title and a fresh bill of sale, to hopefully circumvent the unstoppable rebel force that is the shithole DMV.

I drive to the old guy's house, kiss his ass for a few minutes, and get him to sign. He signs the bill of sale as the buyer, which annoys me but I decide to let it go, and I go on about my way, happy that I will have no trouble getting said car legal. If I had no trouble, though, there would be no need for this post. I give all the paperwork to my wife, who goes to the DMV, waits 3 hours in line with my 3 year old, only to be told that since Old guy, who the title is signed over to (we signed on the second assignment line) originally, never got the car registered, that it was an illegal sale and we would need to get the ORIGINAL guy to sign said title over to us, or the old guy would have to register the car and pay the fees and all that shit just to give us the car. In other words, take it in the hole Stevester, take it hard.

At this point I am pissed. Now I have to drive ALL THE FUCKING WAY back to RAY-FUCKSHITASSCOCKPUSSY-Town, find the ORIGINAL asshole, get him to sign it, and then I can get the car legal. Fine. I drive to Raytown, wasting even MORE gas, stand there and listen to this guy piss and moan (rightly so, I mean this is retarded that he has to even be a part of this), but after a while sign on the third assignment line, and we crossed out Dad's name and he wrote his on there. Should all be good, right? I now have:

Title (with 3 assignments filled out on back, but the last one is what counts)
bill of sale
lien release
property tax
2.5 inches of rock hard cock should I need to persuade any of the old ladies at the DMV to see things my way

I go into the DMV at Petco, feeling good about myself, when that old apprehension hits me. Did I forget something? Are they going to balk at the 100 dollar selling price? Would this lady in line in front of me get mad if I rub my wiener on the back of her shorts?

It all falls away when my number is called. I know this will go well, I have been through too much shit for it not to. I get up to the counter, confidently throw the paperwork in the young lady's face, and say with all the courtesy I can muster "Gimme those plates"...

She sorts the paperwork, looks at it... it's taking too long. Fuck me, she starts shaking her head.

"OK this isn't going to work, this is called title jumping and it is illegal. This guy here-" she points to the first assignment, showing the original owner selling the car to the old man -"needs to get the car legal and in his name then he needs to sign it over to you, he can't sell the car to you if he doesn't own it."

I point out that the guy whose name is on the FRONT of the title DID assign it to me 2 assignments down, and start trying to explain, and she cuts me off. "Well this guy-" still pointing the first assignment, which I already told her doesn't matter -"has to get the car legal, you have to go to him, have him get it legal, have him sign it to you, then you have to start over. There's too much writing on this, it's illegal."

I snatch the paperwork from the bitch smirking smugly behind the counter, mouth a growling "fuck you" and stomp off.... then sheepishly mosey back and ask her to hand me my sunglasses. Karma is a bitch yo!

So I go to another DMV to try and get SOMETHING done.... and long story short, get the same answer but get a temporary tag while I wait for the original owner to jump through hoops too.

I have a few questions so far regarding this whole process:

1. If filling out more than one assignment on the back of the title completely invalidates it, WHY THE FUCK ARE THEY THERE?! That is the dumbest thing in the world, why have textboxes there that it is illegal to fill out?

2. Why is it the DMV cannot listen to logic? Apparently it was too tough to comprehend that I was not buying the car from the old guy but from his son, the original owner. I asked if we woulda been able to get it legal if I crossed the other 2 assignments off or wrote VOID over them, and was assured that would just make it harder to get said car legal.

3. Why do you have to wait so fucking long at the DMV? I stood in line for almost an hour, and watched as one after another lady went on break, and the DMV at that point had only been open for an hour. Seriously?! WTF is that all about?!

I know now why so many people just don't bother getting their cars legal and run on bad plates all the time. Missouri is the WORST place to get a car legal in the United States. I could detonate a bomb, wipe the shitty state of Missouri completely off the map, fill it in with Jello, and the economy would magically raise a few points and no one would miss it. Jesus have you ever tried driving for any length of time across the state?! The whole place is a festering shithole! Why is it always overcast when you are driving through Missouri? Because God is trying to blot the whole state out, that's why. "But Stevester, you live in Missouri" you might say, and screw you hippie for pointing out how much of a hypocrite I am! I have the right to be a completely uninformed douchebag opinionated retard, hell according to the election results from 2000 and 2004, more than 50% of America is full of them! Zing!

I will get back to posting on the cars soon, I have a few other things coming up, including Smeagol making sweet raptor love to a chick with a dick, my saga of putting the engine in (with pictures!) and other assorted dementia.

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

Deaf Bob and the Mekanixxx

Are your ear-pussies
ready for my haiku schlong?
I won't be gentle

Deaf Bob

OK so I will get back to the cars and all that shiznit I have been neglecting later, but I had to share this little tidbit. The other day I am minding my own business, looking for a successor to Jeremy, and Deaf Bob (heretofore known as Def Bob) shows up. Def Bob is the manager of our building maintenance engineering technician accompaniment, or janitors for short. He is also, as the name implies, deaf.

Anyway, he come up and kinda taps me on the shoulder as I have my back to him, and you know how deaf people talk you can't really understand what they are saying because it sounds like the adults on Peanuts? Fuck you if you're offended I'm trying to tell a story, but he was all like "A'whugh fat machy idn wonkie" or something like that... I just sit there looking at him because now I am retarded simply for trying to decode his simple but beautiful language...

After 5 or 6 tries and much miming I realize he is telling me his fax machine is not working. When he sends some paper through it it goes, acts like it is faxing, but no confirmation sheet. Proud of myself for figuring out what he had said, I was not totally thinking when I went into technician mode to try to troubleshoot the issue.

Now I want you to read this next part good, maybe twice, because it may qualify for the single most wrong thing I have ever said. My first question to Def Bob is "When you pick up the handset on the fax machine what do you hear?"

It still had not dawned on me, as he stood there blinking at my blatant idiocy, wondering if I was really that stupid or if I was trying to insult him.

Why can I not go more than a week without saying something so wrong there is no way to make it right?

Anyway, one more update for you all, the new hot rod successor to the Escort is almost finished, we got the engine swapped out, and I proved the other day why Stevester should ALWAYS be under direct supervision when vehicles and tools are concerned...

So we have the entire engine done except for putting the front axle and the wheels back on (I have a picture montage in the spirit of my old gateway days that I will share soon), and your favorite Stevester is feeling pretty good about himself. It's time to start filling fluids, or so I assume, and I get the radiator and cooling system filled with NO LEAKS. I am psyched, as I personally hooked the cooling system back up and it's very gratifying to see that it is done correctly the first time.

I move on to putting the oil in. On manual transmission engines, you do not put in transmission fluid, you fill the transmission with oil, which I did not know but was psyched to find out. I fill the transmission with oil, of course overfilling it, and go to bed. Remember, at this point, the axle is still not in the car. The car's front end is jacked up about 3 feet in the air, meaning the lowest point in the car would be where the front axle goes. If you have any automotive knowledge, you would know the front axle is COMPLETELY driven by the transmission, nay, it is an integral PART of the transmission. And, being a moving part, it needs to stay lubricated. The best lubricant in a car engine is oil. If you haven't figured this all out yet, I will spell it out. There was a huge hole in the bottom of the transmission I filled with oil that the axle usually takes up, preventing oil from pouring out of the bottom of the car and onto the floor of my completely flat garage floor, which was nice and dark the next day when your loving Stevester wandered out there in plastic crocs to revel in his handiwork. Not seeing the fucking LAKE of fresh, clean motor oil, and perhaps tired from playing Assassin's Creed on my Xbox while watching Canadian Football and Lockup (I love Lockup, great series), I was walking pretty briskly toward the front of the car, where the old fucking 600 pound car engine was sitting, balanced precariously on a wooden block.

Luckily my awkwardly splaying outstretched hands and feet missed the block and the car, but not the concrete floor, and I learned a valuable lesson as I lay there looking at the ceiling of the garage. Leave all mechanical work to professionals. I hope this PSA does not scare anyone from riding along with me in my new hot rod of justice, as I plan to have it inspected by a competent professional.

Monday, August 17, 2009

Understandificate what I'm Sayin'!

Understandificate what I'm Sayin'!

O Larry Johnson
my man-crush stands unwav'ring,
which is why you rule

Alright, I came in today intent on moving on in my car saga, but this morning's festivities demand I talk about them.

First, I think I told you all I was going to lunch with my mom and JJ last week, well, there were complications...

Apparently, my foolish, foolish mother was telling Toboggan boy about me taking her and JJ out to lunch, and Smeagol, sleeping face down on the couch, woke up, hearing about the possibility of free vittles. His thong leapt into action, informing her that since it was free food, he would tag along, as he had nothing else to do that day (go figure). JJ called me the morning of, whispering as that wily raptor was camped out in the front hallway, making sure no one left without his knowledge:

JJ: (hushed tones) Fuck Stevester, I can't leave, fuckin' Smeagol is at the front door and he can see the back door from there too...

Me: Well, I'm not buying the entire goof troop's damn lunch. I got 50 bucks, and that's it (I had my credit card, but telling them that is asking for the whole damn clan to show up, and I'm not doing that again)...

JJ: (even quieter) Every since he heard we was gettin' free food he's been sitting by the door, all dressed, just looking around to make sure no one leaves without him...and he stinks!

Long story short, he called my mom, who was out paying bills, and informed her she would have to go on without him, as he wasnt going to sacrifice letting Smeagol come along and ruin everyone's life just to get some damn vittles... so I ended up going to lunch with my parents and enjoying a 75% beef fat lunch at Gates. My God, I remember the burnt end sandwich having, you know, fucking MEAT in it. Are times that hard that you raise the price AND slather BBQ sauce on cooked fat and serve it? Wuduppwidat?

Anyway, on another front, I went upstairs to the 4th floor to toilet shop this morning, and man I was laying some rope. It was a huge ringer turd, and there were 6 or 7 clunkers in the middle, which is great times, but all of a sudden, some lady opened the door to the bathroom and called out "is anyone in here?"

I sat there, frozen, and in shock. I had 2 choices: A), I could ignore it, and risk them coming in and seeing me shitting, or 2), I could call out, and anyone out in the hallway would know I was the Bathroom Bandit, much like Desmond was at da Firm. For a split second I contemplated option 1, but with the legal ramifications (can I get arrestified for indecent exposure if I am in a shitter stall and some lady sees me?) went with the second. I called out "I'm >grunt<>

I heard her say to someone beside her "There's someone IN there... what do I do?"

Well RIGHT FUCKING AFTER I answer her, some guy yells from the FUCKING HALLWAY "Hey is anyone in there?" FUck? What did they expect? That I would disappear between the 4 seconds of silence between her calling for me and him calling? Fuck that asshole, I sat there quietly. Then he comes into the shitter and I hear him say "I can see someone in the last stall" real loud... FUUUCK!

I assumed since someone was, y'know, IN THE FUCKING BATHROOM, they would leave and let me sneak out with what little dignity I had left intact. Not a chance. All of a sudden I hear loud noises, like there is a construction zone in the bathroom, and I am mid-turd so I can't stop... I go ahead and finish, flush and try to sneak out of the stall, and right into the middle of 4 guys tearing the fucking bathroom apart. The soap dispensers are all gone, the paper towel dispenser is open, and these guys are tearing the whole fucking bathroom apart. I stand there, shitty fingers hanging at my sides, and one of the douchebag du jours notices me and says "Oh, hey, you probably need some soap"... then he leaves. I stand there awkwardly, looking at the other guys working within 5 feet of where I had just taken a huge shit, no doubt smelling it, and one of them hands me a roll of paper towels. At this point there is no coming back, so when the guy brings the soap in (we were changing vendors), I am all like "hey, thanks buddy!" and wash my hands.....while the 4 guys watched. It was fucking creepy. I then turned and left, sure they would look in the stall I had just vacated and see the tire treads I left in the bottom of the stool...

The 4th floor, which for 2 years I have loved like a brother, a brother I hide behind to take shits, is now tainted. I must now find a new shit spot. Let us all have a moment of silence, as we remember a friend lost, a comrade who has fallen by the wayside; nay, let us *sniff* remember the good times, the *snort* time I won the superbowl on tecmo superbowl during the harrowing month of December, when I ONLY allowed myself to play whilst on the can...

4th floor, you will be missed.

Friday, August 14, 2009

Cars, cars, everywhere there's cars

Cars, cars, everywhere there's cars

see the mountain blue
heartland vista; majesty
Let the eagle soar

Before I get into the next set of cars in our cavalcade of awesome, I must (as I am wont to do) emit another flurry of barely understood rhetoric on politics. If you are a conservative republican, tell the person reading this to you to skip the next paragraph. Thank you.

I so wish I could be hired on to go to these town hall meetings. I would put everything so bluntly a retarded deaf blind child with an arm growing out of his ass would understand. And then he could explain it to Rush Limbaugh's listeners.

Here would be my speech, verbatim:

"Ladies, gentlemen, child molesters, and mullet aficionados, welcome. I will make this short, so as to save you time and keep you from missing the next NASCAR/ Bass fishin' event. Before you start screaming about Obama bringing 'socialism' to America, you are from now on required to define socialism. If you cannot correctly define socialism, you will be tazed, then pepper sprayed, then sterilized so your idiocy does not infect our country's gene pool, which would lead to some bad stem cells being used to lengthen the penises of homosexual men before they legally marry.

Second, if you truly believe there are going to be 'death panels' (note I would put up the double quotes on all these), panels that tell people to die and try to steer old people toward death, then you are an idiot. While personally I believe that all people (myself included) should be exterminated once they have outlived their usefulness (which does not come at an age, mind you), only a complete and total moron would put that into legislation. And claiming it is magically 'hidden' (note the quotes again) in a document that is 'more than 1,000 pages!', shows you have a shorter attention span than the average Harry Potter aficionado, who is on average about 10.

Lastly, Barack Obama was born in the United States. End of story. If you are one of the many, many idiots frothing at the jowls about needing to see his birth certificate, you should be stripped naked and raped by a prison gang. Nicely though, with like lube and stuff because stupidity is a crime but it's just as entertaining as it is hurtful.

Thank you, and no further questions.... except from that big tittied girl in the third row."


Anyway, political rant over for the time being, let's move on:

10. 1992 Plymouth Sundance
Price - 650
Location bought - Truman Road and I-435 (auction)
* So finally I had had enough with these sheister car dealers, what with their deigo mustaches and their greasy hair (I got that from celebrity jeopardy, not even sure what a deigo is, I think it's someone from California though), and decided to buy a car from the public (pubic) auction this time, as THAT would be a lot better.

Not a lot on this car, except it was one of the top 3 cars I have had the honor of owning. I put 32000 miles on it in 2 years, never had a problem (except that if you tried to speed up to 55 without letting off the gas, the car would yaw until you let off, then it would drive fine) until the transmission shit itself. Like an idiot, instead of getting it fixed, I just got out and walked off, no idea what happened to that car.
THE END - Tranny went out one day, I got out of the car and walked away. Never looked back.

11. 1986 Dodge Diplomat
Price - 250
Location bought - Truman Road and I-435 (auction)
* The steam engine. The bird-murderer. The Life-Stealer. All names given to this well-documented piece of machinery. The windows in front would not roll down, and the heat only worked in full blast mode. It had NO power, even though it had a 318 v8, because it had almost 250K miles on it, but when we DROVE it to the junkyard, it had almost 400k miles on it. I had to replace the alternator once a month, and we had to hose the engine down once a month from all the oil spraying around in there. Great times. Look through earlier posts, I really did love this car. I got it the same day as the SUndance, and it lasted for 5 years, mostly as the backup car but for a LONG time as the only car...
THE END - We sold it to Wyatt Earp, who drove the shit out of it, and finally took it to the trash heap when he got tired of the poltergeist like manifesting of the car shitting itself.

12. 1996 Chrysler Concorde
Price - INITIALLY 2000
Location bought - My wife's dad
* Initially this car was supposed to be 2000 dollars. Long story short, I think at last count we owe just under 4000 now, with all the repairs that her dad covered on said automibile. Not a whole lot on this car, it had 75k miles on it when we got it 8 years ago, we still have it, it had 176k miles on it, my wife plowed into a deer doing 70 on I-435, and THEN finished her drive to work, we put a bright purple hood on it (the rest of the car was an opal color, so it actually kinda matched), and since it was my wife's car it was almost always halfway full of fucking trash. I hate dirty cars. There's no fucking reason for it. When you finish eating your sandwich, throw the damn paper in the trash or out the window at a wino so he can smell success...
THE END - the car never really ran right after hitting the deer, but it is still here, sitting in my driveway... maybe one day I will see what's up widdit.

This post is getting a bit long, so I will pause here. Monday I shall delve into the EBAY years of my car buying career, great times.

*/Post note: If you are a conservative and I have offended you, my bad ho. It just annoys me that I have to listen to people all the time saying stupid shit and I have to keep my mouth shut because I am at work or in some other setting where it is socially unacceptable. /*

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

Cars, Cars Cars!

Cars, Cars Cars!

golden shower time
upturned face, mouth is agape
it's apple juice, perv without further ado, we move on to the second installment of my 5 part series, "Better know a lemon"

6. 1980 Chevrolet Malibu
Price - $800.00
Location Bought - Truman Road across from Elmwood Cemetary
* So when it was obvious that the Skylark had a myriad of problems that had been covered up (it was later found out it had some serious front end problems, but it was tough to find that out since I couldnt keep the car started long enough to find that out), I did what any sane and thoughtful person would do: I got Toboggan Boy and headed down to the car dealership to get another car from them.

It was great fun watching Toby's crack fuelled rage-o-thon, the indignation in his voice as he threatened to "whomp some goat-smellin' ass", his white guy afro and huge lip rug jiggling in awe-inspiring fury, the stereotypical nasty looking lady with the green shirt and filthy pink sweatpants never taking her eyes from her magazine... and finally he calmed down enough to infomr them that we had no intention of ever purchasing a car from them again, and that we were leaving this piece of crap here. We were then informed that they would call the police unless we took that car because I signed a contract. This was somehow parlayed into me buying the above mentioned car.
THE END: This car was another "looks great, runs, not so much" cars, which will become a common theme in my sexy time posts... the front end was so squirrely when I took the car back to them the steering wheel had ceased to turn the car anymore, and it was by pure luck the car just happened to randomly turn enough to bump it up on the curb by their establichment.

7. 1985 Mercury Grand Marquis
Price - $1497.00
Location bought - 52nd and North Brighton (right off of North Prospect, FYI)
* I got this car because the down payment was in my budget (49 dollars) and because it was big and gold. It had an anemic 302 V8 in it, got about 14 mpg, and fell to shit soon after I got it. First, the power windows went down and would not come back up. This would not have been a huge deal, but I bought the car in December. Driving down the highway with it fucking snowing and freezing rain inside you damn car lets police know that stopping you is paramount. Then it started dying. Often. While I was driving. Finally, one day something happened and antifreeze foured out from under the car.
THE END - I took it back to the dealership, having learned my lesson, and got

8. 1992 Ford Taurus
Price - #3495.00
Location bought - 52nd and North Brighton Road
* I never go to drive this car. I had been arrested and my license had gotten suspended previously, for turning when the police were turning, which for some reason equalled suspicious behavior, and my lovely wife drove this car the whole time, so outside of the fact that it always ran, I can tell you little to nothing about said car.

That being said, I will note that during the ice storm that hit that year, she was driving down North Oak WAY too fast, jumped a curb at like 50 MPH and from then on between 45 and 60 the car jostled like we were in a washing machine. Great times.

9. 1978 Chevrolet Impala
Price - $330.00*
Location bought - Northland somewhere
* THis car was a pleasant, and complete surprise. We were sitting at work on break, my wife and I, at lovely Burger King, trying to figure out how we were going to pay 375/mo. rent AND the way too high 152.00/mo. car payment. No we couldnt afford, so didnt purchase, insurance. As we were talking, the lady behind us remarked that she was moving to Montana (why I am not sure. Are there people in Montana?), and that she would sell us her Mother's car, which looked rough but ran great. Her price, 330, was more than equitable, and we went to look at the car.
Well, "ugly" did not begin to describe this car. Let me preface this by saying I LOVE that body style of car, and this one had no dents, dings, or any of that shit. On the OUTSIDE. It was, however, sky blue, gold, rust colored and orange. As in 3 times someone had decided to paint the car, got started, said "Fuck it", and quit. Whatever. The interior left a little to be desired. The cloth on the seats was all ratty and torn up, so we sat on lovely foam cushion, which would of course grind itself into your pants if you dared move. There was also no headliner, so there was orange fluff that rained down on you at all times. By the time you got out of this car, you looked like a Cheeto. All of these things sucked, but this was the best automobile I ever owned. It ran ALL the time. My wife dumped it nose first into a ditch - twice, still ran. I spun out and hit a guardrail, still ran. Did I mention when these things happened there was no damage to the car? It got 20 MPG, city, highway, or lake. It was an ugly son of a bitch, and people moved out of the way when I got on the highway. Best memory though? When I drove that ugly sucka up to the hospital door to take my oldest son home. You should have seen the look on the nurse's face, great times. I sold this car twice, got it back twice, and it outlasted everything I ever had.
THE END - I am literally getting teary eyed as I write this. I fucking loved that car. She finally met her end when a buttfucking JJ got to her, as he wrecked it trying to peel out around a corner. Every year I stop to think about that car, the great times, the lack of air conditioning, the sweet jacked up look it had when I put truck tires on the back, and I let out a remorseful, sad, memory laden fart in honor of my gone friend. Rest in Peace...

Fuck, I will do the next few tomorrow, I...I don't wanna talk about cars anymore. WHY?!

* The price for the car was 330. We told the lady that we had 300, and promised to send the remaining 30 later. She left for Montana that day. To this day I am assuming I owe some lady 30 dollars in Montana. Great times.

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

Vehicular Manslaughter

Vehicular Manslaughter

touch the Whitesnake, girl
Kraken's your QUiet Riot
Take on me, A-Ha

So yesterday, we were all debating cars, with me being the only one in the room who does not enjoy the fruits of GM's labors, and the Tylester dared ask me to explain myself. Well, friends, as I was going through the cars I had, we all came to the completely skewed observation that it was not so much the fault of GM, as it was mine for purchasing cars for less than 600 dollars and then expecting them to be awesome. I figured I would go through, really fast, the more than 20 vehicles I have owned in my short driving career, and let you draw your own sweet and sassy conclusions.

1. 1982 Buick Regal
Price: Free (it was a "gift" from Smeagol)
Location bought: N\A
* In all honesty, this was a really nice car, and I cannot complain too much about it. Smeagol gave it to me to drive, I drove it for about 2 weeks, then Smeagol took it back and traded it in for a 1990 Pontiac Sunbird, which promptly got impounded and still to this day sits in an impound lot, as far as I know.
THE END - Smeagol took it back

2. 1984 Pontiac Fiero
Price: $297.00
Location bought: 41st and Troost
* This was a sweet looking car, kinda like a little Ferrari. Why was it so cheap? It was a manual, had 200k miles on it, and had no 3rd gear. I also remember it not being able to go in reverse either. I ended up trading this to the most shady character I had ever seen (you know when you see someone and you can just tell by the way they are kinda jukin' and jivin', or smoking crack?) for car number 3, which was:
THE END - Traded for Camaro

3. 1978 Chevrolet Camaro
Price: $575.00
Location bought: 37th and Cleveland *interesting side note, it was a junkyard/trash heap, and I had to climb over trash to get to his desk. This should have been an indication of what was to come...
* I got this car because it looked cool, plain and simple. It was electric blue, had turbine wheels, T-Tops, and a cool sounding engine. However, the ENTIRE front end was held together with bailing wire (which is chicken wire, for the uninitiated), it never ran right, and every time I turned a corner I had to hold the door on or it would fly open, which was not cool. The first day I had it, I went outside to admire it after some healthy toilet shopping to find some nasty ass old guy in the front seat. I asked him politely what the fuck he was doing in my car, and let my doberman loose before he had a chance to answer. Turns out I had forgotten to take the "For Sale" sign off of the car and he thought it was for sale... Tee hee!

Another funny thing (not really) is when the skeevy loser came to pick the Fiero up, it ran like a top even without that gear, and I had never driven it because I didn't know how to drive a stick and also because it had no third gear, so that Fiero could have ended up being a great car, I will never know.
THE END - I ended up selling it to some hoodlums, who promptly found out it was crap, demanded their money back, which I gave, and then came back later and stole the car. Sad times. Also I had no title, so there was that.

4. 1991 Pontiac Grand Prix
Price - I dunno, it was technically Smeagol's car
Location bought: 63rd and Troost
* The Grand Prix was a pretty decent car, technically it was Smeagol's, but since he would always climb into the back seat and curl up on the floorboards and fall asleep, gassing me (have you ever tried breathing through your mouth and actually TASTED fart?!)
THE END - I backed out of the driveway and the axle broke. In the middle of the fucking street. I just sat there, cars on either side honking at me (what the fuck am I supposed to do, moron?) and looked, dumbfounded, as all manner of fluid trickled out of the bottom of the car.

5. 1986 Buick Skylark Custom
Price - $850.00
Location bought - Truman Road across from Elmwood Cemetary
* I should have known not to purchase this car because all of these dealerships looked shady, but fuck I needed a car. THis was a GORGEOUS car, it was silver, had a digital dash, smelled fresh all the time, there was one problem. When I bought it, apparently the mechanic covered all the holes in the block over with some thich black grease. I first noticed this when I tried to go up a hill and the car could not do it. This was an indication that something was awry. My second clue was the car died. A lot. Like every 3-4 minutes. I am not exaggerating. It was hilarious, one of the bus station skanks I dated during that time thoguht I was killing the car on purpose to get busy. This could very well be the case, but I would want to get, you know, away from your fucking house first, moron...
THE END - I traded this car in, at the same lovely dealership, for car # 6, a 1980 Chevrolet Malibu...

More tomorrow... I will try to do 5 a day, that way I will be done sometime early next week.