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.