Love, Happiness, Steveshaikus
the budding writer
begins on the shithouse walls
and ends writing shit
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"
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"!