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!

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. "...so... 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!"

Fuck.

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.

Smeagolaise

Smeagolaise

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!

Anyway...

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.

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".

HmmmMMmm.....

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.

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

1.

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"!

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!

*sigh*

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.

D-M-V!!!

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

inspection

lien release

insurance

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.