It was after the debate,
and Joe Biden needed
The urge was just too strong
to whip out and stroke his dong.
Known as the ‘hands on candidate,’
Senator Biden was a huge reprobate.
Frottering the ladies and sniffing hair,
Joe’s wayward touching was everywhere.
He just had to find a room quick and soon
to drop his pants lest he become a buffoon.
Where was a bathroom, a closet, a trash bin?
Somewhere to commit his secret sin
Suddenly the senator’s ears were as alert as his dick.
A kerfuffle was going on in the thick.
A midwestern squealing,
shrill and unappealing,
wafted through a closed door.
“I said I wanted Perrier, not La Croix,
you thoughtless, dim-witted whore!”
The sound of a can hitting a wall,
frantic apologies, and a voice saying ‘damn ’em all.’
Out spilled an intern and an aide,
running away like their boss was the plague.
Red faced with hands on her hips,
it was Senator Amy Klobuchar in a fit.
The eyes of Satan flashing firey hell,
suddenly, on Joe Biden her glance fell.
“Senator Biden, what a nice surprise!”
Amy’s voice, saccharine sweet,
declared without missing a beat.
‘Oh, Amy, you were so great!
You caused Senator Sanders’
socialist ideals to deflate…
And looking so beautiful too.
Let me give you a congratulatory hug
and a little kiss. Hold still, I won’ t miss.
Mmm..Is that Pert Plus?”
“Well, you know me,
I don’t like to make a fuss,”
said Amy, patting her hair.
Mr. Biden reached subtly her derriere.
“You’d make a great VP, Amy.”
“Joe, do you have a VD?”
“Nope, not me.”
“Then close the door; let me see.
I’ve always wanted to fuck you,
“Well, Amy, my dick was made for ridin’.”
And ride is what she did,
frantic liver spotted hands
clawing against her soft skin.
“I’m not getting off,” moaned Klobuchar,
Bouncing up and down on his cock.
“You better make me come, mother fucker,”
she said, in threat and demand.
She perched on the dressing room table,
Joe went down with his mouth,
on a vagina that smelled like cheese
but tasted like stale ale.
“Wait, I know what I need.
Get up and get me my purse.”
She dug to the bottom of her bag,
And pulled out a plastic fork.
“Fuck me by that wall;
I want to look in the mirror
and see it all.”
“Ma’am, I aim to please,
But what Amy did next
the geriatric man to his knees.
Amy shoved the fork’s handle,
without much preamble,
up Biden’s behind.
who was about to
shoot his load.
“It’s my kink,
plus I shudder to think
of ever being without
Andrew Yang Math Professor and Pete Bootyjudge Student Porn:
“You wanted to see me, sir?” asked Pete Bootyjudge. Pete’s cheeks blushed crimson as he looked at his math professor, Mr. Andrew Yang. Was it apprehension or the shyness of a young man horny for his calculus professor, calculating how fuckable he was.
“Son, take your ‘Math’ hat off and close the door. Don’t you have any respect?”
“I..I’m sorry, sir. Forgive me,” Bootyjudge said, almost in a whimper.
“Yeah, I bet you’re sorry. Do you have any idea why I called you into my office, Booty…” Mr. Yang trailed off. “Bootyjudge, is it?”
“It’s Gaitise,” said Bootyjudge.
“Gay? What did you say, boy?”
“No, no. Gai. Tise. Gay. Tease. My family is from the Island of Gaita in the Mediterranean.”
“Well, that’s interesting. Gaita. Never heard of it, but we all got to be from somewhere.”
” Yes, yes, sir.”
“So, Bootyjudge” Mr. Yang snickered. Do you know why I asked you into my office?”
“Look at this grade! Mr. Yang shook the test in his hand. “A big fat D.”
“Look, I’m no good at calculus. I’m good at theology, the arts. Not math…Even though I bought your math hat,” said Bootyjudge, a hint of a smile on his face, as he ran his fingers over the hat that hid his massive 4 inch hard on.
“There may be something that can be done to get rid of this big fat D you got here.”
Mr. Yang crooked his finger, beckoning Bootyjudge to him. “I want you to judge my booty, Bootyjudge.”
Mr. Yang stood up, went to the the wall, and unbuckled his belt. He turned around, dropped his pants, showing his bare ass to Bootyjudge. “Well, what do you think?”
Bootyjudge looked at the man’s round, almond colored bottom and felt himself salivate. “It’s beautiful,” he whispered.
“Would you fuck an ass like mine?” Mr. Yang spread his cheeks, showing a perfectly bleached asshole.
Bootyjudge gasped. “Oh, heavens, yes!”
“Come here. Kiss me, boy.” Their lips met, their hands clasped together. Tongues thrust in and out. Mr. Yang licked up the side of Bootyjudge’s face, as the young man shivered. Mr. Yang opened the drawer of his desk and pulled out a half empty jar of Vaseline. They looked into each other’s eyes.
” I want you to fuck my ass until I come, then I want to drink all of your cum, every drop.”
Bootyjudge and Mr. Yang were naked, Yang bent over the desk as Bootyjudge lubed up Mr. Yang’s taut hole.
“Aww yeah, fuck my ass, harder, harder!”
“Ohhh I can’t hold it anymore!” cried Bootyjudge after 2 minutes, pulling out his dick and shoving it into Mr. Yang’s mouth as he came. Mr Yang couldn’t help but notice that Bootyjudge’s hot jizz tasted like mayonnaise.
It’s long and cringy, so if you don’t get through it, no worries. I drink, eat, and talk to my phone. Quality content.
I made my BFF (read: only friend offline) angry, and when she gets super mad at me, she lashes out at me verbally. Today’s sin, and it was bad, was I didn’t get a stray cat ready to go to the vet a day earlier than I did. Now the vet doesn’t want to take her since it’s a Friday and she’s a colony cat. BFF won’t tell me if they took Callie in. She has a right to be pissed at me, but I think calling me a ‘lazy retard,’ saying my videos are ‘moronic,’ and not to expect her to spend a minute on me was a bit of an overreaction. Especially since I babysat her cockatiel who she was afraid was sick yesterday. Just saying. I think it will be OK to vent here, because she’s said before, “I don’t read your shit because I know you.”
This video has been up a couple days, and I have a few more to spew out upon the world. Oh, to be unappreciated in one’s own time!
Fun Fact: This was actually seen by someone from one of Walmart’s YouTube channels and they commented.
As you can see, I have made yet another thrilling Youtube video, and if you have 6 minutes of your life that you don’t mind not getting back, give it a watch. I’m up to 13 subscribers. Will you be number 14? It might not be as exciting as MAGA Smirk Boy, but not many things are.
Is it just me, or has 2016 gone down as one of the most awesomely horrendous years in history? Well, post-plague, post-Hitler, post-mom croaking anyway. It was bad. Can it get any worse? Probably.
I’ve been treated for bed bugs three times, the last time was today. They aren’t all dead. I fully expect a bed bug or two to outlive me, enjoying the last flowing drops of my lifeblood on my death-bed. #Optimism.
Philippe, my cat of 15 years, died in the early morning hours after Mother’s Day. A friend kindly offered to allow me to bury him in her yard among her feline deceased. I wrapped Phil’s mortal remains in a sheet, taped him up in a box, placed the box in a vinyl laundry bag, and boarded the bus for her house. No one knew on he bus, but someone was singing Amazing Grace, a funeral favorite in my family. #Icantmakethiscreepynessup.
And well, Donald Trump got elected. I just knew he would. Maybe it won’t be so bad. Maybe it will just all be a real hoot. Maybe under the narcissistic, sociopathic facade lies a heart of gold. #Seigheil.
Hauling cast-offs from your neighbors’ trash is kind of like autoerotic asphyxiation: It’s all fun and games until you’re well hung.
Oh yes, I’ve hung myself well. Cimex lectularius, aka the bed bug, has taken hold of my home and lecturously clung to me, tying my noose in a rust colored bow. A creature smaller than a pencil top has wrecked my life emotionally, socially, and reduced me to semi -penury.
There are two things to do when you find you have a bedbug problem. First, tell everybody! Brag to your 1.5 friends that your previous state of having no blood relatives has been remedied by playing host to a growing family of consanguinious creatures. Your 1.5 friends may become .05 friends that are willing to touch you with a 10 ft. pole, but now you will have many bedfellows who find your society delicious.
The second thing is watch how you become as popular as a prostitute with mouth herpes on a Tuesday night. Watch as your friends inspect their domiciles as you wait with bated breath for the horror that your new family might have jumped ship for tastier fare. You will begin to see your bug relatives in every speck of dust, feel them, and itch from them when they aren’t there. You begin to wish for a bolt of lightening to strike your apartment and incenerate your tiny family. Your new relations are about as well esteemed to you as your Appalachian cousins, but unlike your cousins, your bed bug family won’t abandon you. Lucky you.
I began suspecting when I killed a tiny blood red critter walking its merry way across my pillow. It’s a baby bed bug, I inwardly squealed. No, came my angry reply to the voice within, it’s a spider mite tracked in by one of my cats. I told my psych nurse about the sighting and she agreed with my surmise.
A few nights later, I saw another insect, chubby and waddling. That’s an odd looking cucarocha.
And then December 26. D Day. I saw a bug close enough for me to grab and I captured it alive in a pill bottle. Oh dear God, that sure looks like an unfed bed bug. The poor little thing couldn’t keep itself right side up and flailed about so pitifully I had to stop looking at it.
I drew a bath and stripped off, afterward using jackets to keep me warm on the couch and benzos to lull me to sleep. It’s going to be a great new year.
Much of the next day I stayed on the couch, deep in the depression only suspecting bed bugs can do to you. You know no one will want to be around you anymore, that your life is over until your home is napalmed. I looked online for stories of losing friends due to bed bugs. Of course there’s stories of lost friends and one Yahoo Answers contributor answered to the fearful friend of a bed bug sufferer, “just get new friends, eww.”
I took my prisoner, who had croaked on its own accord to a nearby exterminator. I caught one of the guys towards quitting time, and he turned up the bottle, made a face, and replied, “yeah” when I asked if it was a bed bug. I promptly went to McDonald’s and ate two Big Macs.
What is worse than a bed bug problem, you might ask. OCD, bed bugs, and mingling your worst fears into that mix. I feared telling my landlady for fear of being evicted, because around this time last year I was threatened with eviction. I feared telling my social worker for fear of losing the assistance I get on my rent.
Both scenarios led to the same conclusion in my mind,the trifecta of my worst fears, a game show called Rest Home, Homeless, or Dead. Read More »
The day was agonizingly beautiful. The sky was an endless robin’s egg and the bright sun bade me release t
he bonds of my apartment walls for the worthier pastures of mass transit and dumpster treasure. What is 87 F (31 C) for those of us seeking adventure, the Holy Grail, and something besides potato chips in our cupboards? Apparently, 87 F is a lot, as I felt all 220 pounds of my glorious body begin to broil medium well in the afternoon sun. Three huge bottles of dish washing liquid, Lisa Frank magnets, and a squished bottle of generic fruit punch and I began to feel the ill effects of heat exhaustion setting in . Outrageous fortune beset me yet again when I realized the bus I boarded was air conditioning free. Once I got home, the effects of my romp, plus the thoughts in my head erupted. And I vomited. In the trash can by my bed. In the commode. In a bucket of Pinesol by my commode. In the bathtub trying to calm down.
“Either I got heat exhaustion or that tooth that had that mild abcess is going septic,” I told my friend.
But back to vomiting. In the yard waiting for my friend to come get me. Desecrating a Walmat plastic bag in the car on the way to the hospital. And once in a nifty vomit bag as the wheel chair I was in made too many jerking movements -but I apologized to the waiting room as any genteel southerner would. I vocalized that I wanted my mom, never mind that this section of the waiting room was where I finally was away enough from my mom to shed a tear at her impending demise back in 2011. Now, four years later, Lisa the Stoic, is replaced by OCD Lisa chanting a mantra of “I’m so scared.”
Then the nurse, while taking my medical specifics gave me a pill, Zofran. Zofran, named for the ancient Greek god of Emesis and Refusing to Suffer in Silence. I was fine in 15 minutes. Not sepsis. Not this time, Mom. I felt like an idiot as my panic subsided. I’ve vomited many times alone without alerting the media, but the heat exhaustion, sepsis in the tooth scenario weighed deeply in my mind along with other anxieties. I asked the triage nurse if it would be OK for me to go since I felt so much better. “Absolutely!” She said with a trifle more enthusiasm than necessary. But here I am a month later alive and well, and I see they’ve moved the entrance to the emergency department, probably they’re hiding from me.
You’d think after approximately two years of riding mass transit, I’d remember that the bus stops running at 6pm on Sundays, not 6:30. Since the driver offered me a transfer, I thought maybe I still had the chance to get on another bus. Nah.
“Where you getting off at?” asked the driver as we neared the downtown transfer.
” Uh, I was hoping to get on the 202.”
“No, the bus stops at 6, so you going downtown?”
“Yes, I guess I am going downtown,” I said with affected cheer. Now, I could have got off earlier and went to a different grocery store location with more of a walk, but the dread of extra walking made me take my chances with a transfer. Fail. Well, I’m here, I thought. Might as well enjoy myself a little while, then walk 10 blocks up to a Family Dollar and do my shopping there. All downtown were the signs of life being lived: people drinking, eating, and sightseeing. I drowned my sorrows in frozen yogurt, saving the colorful plastic spoon for my collection. Then I began my quest for the 10th Street Family Dollar. Passing by Ye Olde Church, a sight caught my eye. The gate to the oldest cemetery in town stood open. Before now, the gate was always locked. My mother and I always wanted to tour that cemetery, but Mom was a little ‘late’ to this Land of Dead Episcopalians. So it was just me and her ashes around my neck. And this is what I saw: