Tuesday, November 16, 2010


damn you homeless guy
why do I even bother
you shit on my tire

First, before I begin, if you haven't already gotten it, At Home by Bill Bryson is one of the most interesting, thought provoking, fantastically chock full of useless facts that will annoy people and bring out your inner elitist books I have ever read. It really is fantastic, it's a history of the home and how it has evolved over the millenia, from the lowly bus station skank, to the high class, sophisticated, Fifth Avenue, bus station skank.

Smeagol update: Well kids, he's doing better, but still not to his normal self. He talks at about half speed, and moves like he is in water.... I'm not going to lie, it hurts to be there and see someone you love and who owes money to you going through that. Am I EVER going to get my 10 dollars back? All jokes aside, he is displaying glimpses of his old self, as when I guess Mystery got a ride from her mom's house 120 miles away, and he told her to get the hell out of his room as he had just woke up and didn't want to see that shit. Classy times. I am torn between forgetting about the past and feeling sorry for him because no one deserves what happened to him and wondering how much of this is karma and could have been avoided with one trip to the doctor's office, or, you know, asking someone at WORK because he works in the medical field. I do know Thanksgiving will not be the same without him... not looking good for him being able to make it out by then...

Anyway, on to other things. I recently picked up one of those Chinese knockoff ipads, and am pleased to say that for only 100 dollars you can safely rub one out to some bondage goat porn as they surf the web at a pretty decent clip! I also like letting people check it out then tell them I only really use it on the can after they touch it and lick their fingers. I do that because I am a classy guy, and because 80% of the time I am using it I AM on the can, so there's that.

Anyhoodles, we took the kids around for Halloween recently, and it led to some observations, observations I would like to share with you:

1. The child molesters that are not allowed to participate, do you think they are jacking off while looking out their curtains? Like I do when old ladies walk their dogs by my house? Well I'm not behind the curtains but still...

2. How fucking lazy have kids gotten? I remember when I was a lad we got dressed up, Mystical and Toboggan would drop us off at Mr. Z's on 39th and Volker Boulevard in Westport, and told us they would be back at 1030. We usually got dropped off at about 6. Smeagol was told to watch over us, so naturally as soon as the car pulled off he would tell us to go fuck ourselves, take what little candy we had started out with and run off with his buddies, probably to assault another wino who was just down on his luck.

We would walk ALL over Westport, and this was the 80s, when 3 out of 5 houses looked creepy anyway because back then the weird molester look was in for some reason, or maybe we were infested with the back then, I dunno... houses without lights on, fuck it we didn't care... and every once in awhile Smeags would come by, assault us and relieve us of our bounty, and disappear again. I miss those simpler times...

We get outside, and first, about every 7 out of 10 kids is getting DRIVEN from house to house by their cell phone yakkin moms, almost running us over and glaring at us when they have to stop talking long enough to apply the breaks..... WTF?! is it really that taxing on your fat ass to get out and walk around for 20 minutes?!

Anyway, kids are fucking lazy too.... my jizz-spawn walked around 2 fucking blocks and then started whining about being tired and could carry them. ?! I mean I thought I was a lazy shitsniffer because I would get tired before we made it to Gennessee, thinking back that was almost 2 miles in... I know, I know, I am old now because I am whining about how it used to be, but shit!

And the trust thing... we get home, I take my thong and nipple clamps off, the kids are already balls deep in candy, candy that could have razors or jizz or arsenic in it, I thought that was a well known tradition: wait until the parents check it and take all the good candy. It's a tradition passed down for generations, yo!

I recently had to have "the talk" with my oldest. How awkward can things get? Try explaining to your kid that if he plans to rub one out make sure he erases the history and uses a laptop so I don't have to walk in on him. Funny side fact: after we got done talking, later on that night, one of the checkout laptops was gone and he was downstairs. I had already heard that he was on some Harry Potter site but told the wife he was rubbing it out to necro porn. She was less than impressed both with my knowledge of the various types of porn but with my insinuation that our kid liked seeing dead people ravaged, but you know, fuck it if people can't take a joke.

So that's about it for now, I will be uploading my elvis pictures on facebook soon and will post some in here as well, I ought to start a business or something, I may have found my calling.

Wednesday, May 19, 2010


trachea cock storm
testingtest out the throat with flesh probe
prison love is back

It's been a while.

I had hoped I would never have to write this post, that by the time it became apparent this post would be needed it would be ok, or even wanted; that hasn't happened.

If you came here looking for giggles and laughs, I point you to the online photos of my genitalia.

Since you all know him mostly (only) as Smeagol, I will continue to refer to him as such.

Make no mistake, all I have written on him is true, and no amount of sepia toned glasses or fond remembrance will fix that; he has always been, and hopefully will continue to be, a self centered, self absorbed, womanizing, jail-going raptor of the highest caliber... but things have changed.

Let me start from the beginning.

Last year, apparently around August, Smeagol got into a car accident. I was not aware of this. In this car accident he apparently cut his foot up pretty bad. As a diabetic, any fucking shit-flinging retard would go to the local hospital and get immediately checked out. Being in the medical profession, you would naturally assume Smeagol would know this. Working in various nursing homes and being summarily dominated in all manner of fisticuffs by sundry old people who also have diabetes and all manner of complications from the disease coursing through their veins and causing issues like an unstoppable rebel force, you would also with a certainty think that wily raptor would have the presence of mind to get his dumb ass checked out.

He didn't.

Apparently, the rapid swelling, lack up unswelling, turning purple, smelling worse than his thong, or seepage from open sores 7 months later did little to deter him from seeking help. The horrible cacaphony of his coughing and hacking that I made fun of that has gotten worse over the recent 7 or 8 months has also not clued him in that something was possibly wrong.

This takes us to about 3 weeks ago. Smeagol caught a most terrible fever, I mean 104+... he was taken to Truman Medical Center.

Truman Medical Center, if you are not in the know, is well known as the only place you can go and die from a runny nose. My favorite (true) story is when I was going to Northeast, a ghetto school, I went there to get a sports physical for football. During said physical, the doctor looked more and more confused, and at what I will call the low point not only for the physical but for my illustrious career as a heterosexual male, I had to instruct the gentleman to touch my balls for the hernia test. Thankfully he looked both surprised and dismayed at this prospective idea.

Anyway, TMC is also known as the best place in the region if you have to go to ICU, depending on whom you talk to (certainly not JJ, who got shot in the leg and received gauze and a band aid). It was to this ward that our intrepid hero was taken.

Long story short, I got a call at work (completely unaware any of the previous story had occured) and am informed that Smeagol was at the hospital, and that he had for all intents and purposes, gangrene. I rushed to the hospital, hoping that since they had never worked on a live raptor, that they were wrong in their deduction that they would have to amputate his foot.

You read that right. They were going to amputate Smeagol's foot.

I rushed to the hospital, and was completely and totally shocked. What I had assumed I would find was Mystical, maybe Toboggan, JJ possibly, but that was it. What I found, was the entire clan, all huddled in the waiting room, more than 15 people waiting to talk to that crazy raptor... aunts, uncles, his real dad, my sister... I waited my turn and went in.

What struck me first off was that my sister and mom were being unnaturally caring, and I remember my first reaction being "I hope this never happens to me" because I hate hugs and compliments and handjobs (unless they are free) (for the record the handjob part I just wanted to throw in there). Smeagol was completely loopy, his voice had risen another octave, his eyes were glazed over and he was absolutely giddy. I instantly felt embarrassed for him and saddened that it had come this far. Mystical kept lifting his sheet to look at his junk, and tried to show it to me, and luckily I was able to turn away each time. I also saw his foot, which was almost 3 times larger than his other one...Fuck, dude.

I will try to finish this sage tomorrow, the writing helps take the focus off of what is happening right now... I know it sounds like I am having fun and enjoying all manner of debauchery, but I'm not. I am not an emotional man, I don't cry or feel sadness or pain (because I'm not gay), but I'm not going to lie it hurts. RIght now Smeagol is on a ventilator, after blood poisoning which had been left free to multiply for 8 months had made it into his lungs caused complications after his lower leg was amputated and caused him to fucking die for a minute or so, and the doctors (I at first wrote "coctors" and thought about leaving it) brought him back and have been trying to revive him to no avail... and are wanting to meet with the family to talk about options.

I am putting this down for posterity, and like I said it is not a funny post but one I feel needs to be made...

Will the posts stop? No, as soon as we get something worked out they will continue.
Will the posts about Smeagol stop? No, he would disapprove of us being all nice and lovey dovey now...

Anyway, that's whats going on here.

Oh, I forgot, I play 8 man outdoor football for the Missouri Mustangs. We are 7-0 right now, and our last game of the season is this Saturday, then we have the "playoffs" and the "Superbowl"... stay tuned, I will post pix of that, my newest retarded outfit I wore to work, and more later... honestly I just don't feel like it right now.

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

Food poisoning...at the hands of the Mexican tamale vendor

bursts forth from cocoon,
new wings drink in fresh spring air
the raptor is back


The raptor sat in the darkened room, pondering; no, plotting his next move. How had the world turned it's back on him in his hour of need after all he had done? Had the adversity of his ever full flagon of failure not brought about a togetherness that had united a once greatly and deeply divided populace? How dare they attempt to eradicate that which will not be eradicated!

He grunted hard as he squatted over his raptor litter box, his acidic waste, from all of the 30 day old Taco Bell and Kim Chi burning like acid as it melted through the freshly shredded activated credit cards. Oh they thought they had beaten him, but he would be back.

It had started out such a mundane affair: He had asked that whelp JJ if perhaps he could "Pay you to lick on your honey's pussy a little bit niggie", and had been laughed at. By golly he wasn't going to take constantly being declined the sloppy seconds he so desperately needed to regain his full power so blithely!

He had gotten into his new car, a Ford Explorer with no door handles running on poorly photocopied temporary tags, purchased from the fine automakers on 44th and Troost, just like all the other cars he had bought, and decided the town, like a coveted piece of candy in an infant's hand, was his for the taking (negating the fact that those damn infants usually defeated him in unarmed combat on a regular basis)! He hardly noticed that he has physically pumped his fist and muttered an evil laugh as he drove away, a faint unpleasant odor, stopped up toilet and wafting sounds of Wham!'s "Jitterbug" the only sign he had even been there, and went to the finest restaurant in Kansas City, nay in the world: The tamale vendor outside U-Wrench-It.

Purchasing a few tamales with his hard earned monies form all that booty ass overtime he worked assaulting the infirm, Smeagol sat in his car to think about how he would reclaim the world that had so wrongly been stolen from him in the Middle Tyme, when he was promised a partnership in ruling the world if only he would cast out the dragon-folk of Middle Uberion with his flaming +4 Cloak of Enfeebling Failure, which had like a +50 instant mana burn and took strength, constitution and Dexterity down even lower than that of a halfling. Believing the Fabled King Arthur was nowhere near as crafty as he, Smeagol had cast his cloak about, whomping up on those bitch motherfuckers with extreme rage niggie. The devastation would cause the very Earth to cry over the deep chasm the cloak had created, pulling the dragons and valiant Orc-trolls into what we now know as the Marianas Trench.

But treachery had been afoot. The fiend Arthur had tricked Smeagol, had stolen his preciousssss.... his Rent-a-center Preferred awards card, and Smeagol had been cast out of Upper Ilyarnikka into the dungeons of his own lair, never to see the light of day again. A seal of valid credit cards, approved credit applications and the Runestone holding the spell 'Bob' had sealed him to his fate.

But the economy had failed, and the cards and apps had disappeared, weakening the barrier, and finally the foolish Tylester of Kansa had spoken the name Bob, freeing Smeagol from his dungeon to wreak havoc upon an unsuspecting world, and thats what he would have done right after his nap, but then it happened: what he had assumed was another innertube of poopy had in reality turned out to be food poisoning from the tamales, and since failure had permeated his very being, there were no longer defenses to keep the poison from attacking his frail body like an unstoppable rebel force. Would this be the end of the Raptor's siren song?


Sunday, February 7, 2010

Old people should be exterminated

Super Bowl is on
Smeagol's out of hospital
world back in balance

So as none of you know Smeagol was recently in the hospital for food poisoning. I will post more on that later. Tonight I have a more pressing topic.

I don't normally have any problems with old people. They smell funny, want to talk way too much and constantly want to tell long boring stories with no discernable start, end or plot; in this way they are not unlike women. Women, though, make up for all of this by having breasts and vaginas. Old people, not as much.

"Why are you tanking on old people Stevester?" You may be asking, or not, I don't care I am going to tell you wither way: Tonight, I was on my way home from football practice. It was freezing cold, I was dead tired, my car smelled funny because of all the intermingled sweat from myself and numerous dudes, and I wanted to hurry home to watch the Super Bowl.

I pull up to the intersection of Kansas and Ridge in Liberty, and watch, dumbfounded, as this old fucker pulls his crown Vic out and sideswipes me. As if that's not bad enough, this no talent asshat fuckin drives off! As annoying as the prospect is, I follow him a little ways, and a police car that had been sitting at the top of the hill pulls out between us. For the first time in my life, I am glad to see the police, as I really don't want to kick some old guys ass, or have some old guy kick mine. I follow, a smug little smile on my face, and watch as a block later the officer turns right.

I now have a choiceL follow the old guy farther into the depths of Liberty, and risk running into Flanders, or follow the officer and see what the fuck is his problem. I, like a retard, choose the latter. I turn and follow the officer, flashing my lights and honking my horn, and he speeds up and leaves me, thus ending any hope I had of for one sticking it to the man.

This leads, and gives further credence to, my idea that all old people, once retired, should be humanely exterminated, by making them dig a grave and then humanely feeding them through a rusty woodchipper into said grave. I know some of you out there are gonna wine about my idea, but seriously, that motherfucker never even looked around at me after he hit me, and that's not the first time some old shitfucker has hit or almost hit me and then just drove off.

Old people feel like just because they are too old to be of use, that it gives them wanton license to:

1. Steal
2. Make everyone feel guilty
3. talk too much
4. clog up roads, supermarket lanes, restrooms with their inane chatter and funny smells
5. talk to you in the gym while completely naked (seriously?! no one wants to see your saggy ass old balls)
6. Hit people in their fuckin 1994 Dodge Shadow then drive off
7. Wear weird clothes
8. Be old

I think I have made my case here. That is all.

Saturday, January 16, 2010


The time has now come
For Smeagol to take his place
As king of Raptors

...blah blah blah "something about posting more" blah blah...

Your raptor, whom you all know, love and look down to, is at it again.

"Has he been arrested?" Will may ask...

"Who are you again?" Derka must be musing...

"I'm so tired... bitch niggie" Tylester may be moaning, spread eagle on his bed with a 3 liter of urine next to him...

But you are all wrong (and I'm hurt that SOMEONE forgot to give their old pal Stevester a login to their site, I promise I wont send you Jeremy pics anymore!)

Smeagol had apparently moved back in full time with Mystical, thus ensuring I shall never run out of stories again.

Apparently, his short-lived love affair with the young lady who once took 5 cocks in one night (no none of them mine, that woulda been more like 5 1/2) was unreposed, and she told him he could no longer stay with her during the work week and lap up other gentlemen's love milk or whatever he was doing.

So far he has gotten in trouble numerous times for stopping the toilet up, been caught in everyone's bed wearing his gentle thong and... even less (my favorite story is when JJ's girlfriend called him into the room and was standing there laughing at Smeagol's saggy little balls whole they rested unceremoniously on JJ's pillow, great times)... and Toboggan has had the thankless job of picking up and dropping off said raptor every day so he can work booty ass overtime and not pay any bills or rent.

JJ got a job at the corner liquor store, which stereotypically is owned by Koreans. Those who know Smeagol will know where this story is going, but dont ruin it yet... Koreans make kim chi, and Smeagol is aware of this. The first time JJ allowed Smeagol to come up to the liquor store to get "a little" kim chi, Smeagol ended up eating the whole pot, and helping himself to many sundry items that were deemed unfit to sell as they had come into contact with a raptor. More stories on that to come.

Also of note is when I was telling the Tylester about the time when Toboggan Boy would cry on the couch about how he desperately needed pussy, and who should come to his rescue but Smeagol, gently patting his back and telling him "don't worry, you'll get some" and the new twist on that story that has occured recently. Also there's the fact the Mystery is still in the apartment deemed not fit for a raptor, and Smeagol almost coming to fisticuffs with JJ's girlfriend before Mystical came to his aid.

I will post more during the weekend, lots to talk about, but just wanted to pop in and inform you all that that raptor is alice, well and in rare form.