I bet your dirty ass that Cookie Monster can eat the hell out of some snatch. Not that he would gobble box mind you, at least not on his usual television program. I doubt it has ever been a consideration for him, never even crossed his mind. He is a stone cold cookie eating monster machine after all and there is a huge fucking difference between devouring a plate of delicious cookies and feasting on some random furburger bonanza.
I am just saying that if he wanted to, it would be super on, it would be so fucking super ON dude. He would be all over that shit. If he was a gentleman and he cared if his lady climaxed then his lack of a tongue could be an issue for his woman. He would not have the necessary pinpoint precision available to him. It would be like an old man with no teeth trying to eat an apple real fast. That old man isn't getting anywhere.
As my completely awesome and totally pretend kick your goddamn ass karate teacher once told me in my imagination dojo, "Eating lady snatch is totally like punching a dude with totally fucking awesome karate. You punch through the target, your fist makes the hole."
Then I heard a thunderous gong and my imaginary karate master slowly took a bow inside my head and he said to me "Hellwagonson, you must eat all up on the snatchola like you want your head to come out the other side. You must eat your way through like digging a dirt hole to China. You must be like the nature of a crack addled Pac Man monster with lockjaw and a mouthful of honey and chunky peanut butter. You must eat the ghost."
It is like eating a ghost, thank you mystical subconcious kung fu master, that or trying to blow up a giant balloon. It's a hole, it is the absence of space. How do you eat nothing? That is some zen ass shit for you holmes. Open your fucking mouth, how the fuck you think you eat anything including some nothing you dumbass. Konichiwa and sayanora, yo soy Senor Fuckface.
I bet you use a vacuum to suck your weiner. If you don't, you should. I am not responsible for anything that happens if you do that. It might be awesome, you might lose your dick. I don't know what kind of vacuum you have, it could be called the Dickeater 3000. I have never done it, but your Grandmaw says it's awesome, how do you think she lost her dick?
I sincerely hope someone takes my advice and goes down on their lady like Cookie Monster, because that is going to be the worst night of two peoples lives. Someone will end the night with a hand up their ass or missing a tooth. This is becoming the second worst description of monster love and all time worst how to manual for painting the fence that I have ever heard. Who in the fuck is wrong with me. Me, that's who.
My imaginary awesome karate teacher who teaches awesome karate to my imagination also says that farts are the ghosts of turds that die inside your body. My asshole has been described as a graveyard many a time, and it has almost killed many a time, so this has to be true.
The more tragic the turd death, the louder the fart will be. If your turd dies in a fiery Tabasco and hot pepper fueled matchbox car crash in your large intestine, you will bust a super hot fart resoundingly two hours later in honor of its turdy demise. 21 guns out yo' buns salute motherfucker.
Yeah, that's right, farting just got all kinds of serious. Your ass should be playing taps. If your turd dies of old age, it comes out in a soft painfully pitiful whisper and climbs slowly up the crack of your ass whispering its way to heaven. Old dead turd farts have no glory, they sneak out in silent shame.
So, do what I do. The ghost of my imaginary ass beatin' karate teacher instructs you to bow down when you fart. Pay your respects to your own dead shit, plus bending over makes it louder and gets skidmarks all on your gi.
Now, back to the monster box lunch. I imagine that it would be distracting for the woman bearing the brunt of Cookie Monster's beaver eating fury to hear all of that "Nom, nom, nom, yum, me eat pussy, aaarrrgh yum num num." What woman is going to be able to get her rocks off hearing all of that nonsense. Plus them googly eyes have got to throw you off, even if he isn't looking at you, he's looking at you.
Just like Jesus or Santa Claus, Cookie Monster is always watching, even when he's cold eatin' your box.
Realistically speaking, Cookie Monster's mouth does kind of resemble some old and sick and worked over blue haired gash. An ol' blue hair's gaper. That being said, I bet that fuckin' monster could pull some high end tail if he tried. He is The Fucking Cookie Monster after all.
Out of all of the gang on the Street, he is the only one who has a rough side. He might have a real life outside of that show, how in the hell would you know. It's not like you run in famous circles and go to high end restaurants where the stars dine and recline. Anybody can put on that act like they are a total saintly goofball and be nice and teach kids to spell C words and shit, but his monster ass wants to get paid and laid just like the rest of us. Cookies ain't free motherfucker, especially ones as big as the goddamn moon. He's earning that shit and we are all buying his act.
There is a dark side to him. He has a total lack of self control, he's a bit dangerous and hella famous, and shallow chicks dig the bad boy with money. You know he is getting all kinds of ass. He just rolls up on a girl at the bar....
"Me want PUSSY!!!!"
"Sir, you've got a fist up your ass."
"You ass next. P is for Pussy, that good enough for me. Oh, pussy, pussy, pussy start with P. Now sprinkle some chocolate chips on that shit and I'll get to work."
You are probably thinking that I am straight fucked up, and I'm really not. I just get caught up in my imagination, which is fun as shit. I know none of it is going to happen, which really is a shame. You know what does happen though, people dress up in giant animal costumes so much they have a convention for it. Wearing a dog costume and having someone tug you off while you bark at the mailman is totally normal for thousands of people. That is their reality, not my imagination.
Be my guest though, if you want to, please go ahead and think that I am the crazy one. Someday you are going to go out on a wonderful date with someone you think is stable and amazing. Then they are going to leave the room to put on something more comfortable and sexy. You get excited, they might just be the one.
Then they come back dressed as a chihuahua with lady tits and man balls. Why are they holding a pooper scooper and a muzzle? Cookie Monster sounds great about now.
Hellwagon.
Friday, August 31, 2012
Friday, August 17, 2012
THEN THE MONSTER FUCKED THE CORN ALL COBBY
I will go to any length to avoid another human being.
If I am walking toward a door, to a store, to a bank, whatever the fuck ever, I will adjust the speed with which I walk so I do not arrive at the same time as someone else. I will fake a phone call into a phone I am not even holding, it’s just my goddamn hand. I will stop and check my empty pockets for imagination. I have stopped and stared at the fucking sun to avoid making small talk with someone.
If you are a stranger and you are talking to me about the weather, I am thinking about merrily thrashing you to death with a rusty bicycle chain. I am considering what nearby objects I could stab you or myself with, anything to end the conversation.
Weather is the usual icebreaker people use. When you talk to me about the weather, what you are really saying to me is that you cannot think of anything more original to talk about that a dead end subject that I can discover everything about by simply looking out the fucking window.
I don't even have to look. I could just guess, or not give a fuck at all.
I would readily accept you saying "My bowel movement this morning was frightfully loose and ill-tempered." At least you would be talking about something more interesting than rain. Water from ass beats water from sky, conversationally speaking.
This same asshole talks to me over and over again about how much his garden is going to love all this rain we're having. I have seen this imbecile of a fucking moron of a man almost every other day for six months. Every day since day one, I have wished for his death.
Yes. That is fucked up. That I would rather another human being die than have to endure their pointless banalities and observations. Small talk is murderous. I never initiate a conversation. I never ask him shit, but every other day this happens.
Him : How's it going today? (He doesn't even give me time to respond, just leans back in his chair and keeps talking, like we are just two dudes tickling our balls on a porch, not a care in the world) It looks like rain out there today. (Yes, it does you stupid fuckface, because it's already fucking raining.
Me: My cat died. Well, not my cat, just some pussy I know is dead. It's your wife's pussy. It died. It is totally dry and dusty and dead. And it has bugs. You should make it rain pesticide on her crusty muff.
Him: My garden sure is going to love all this rain, and my grass sure is thirsty. It could use a drink...and so could I. (He laughs hysterically at that shit, something he has likely said countless times. No one ever laughs at it. Ever. If no one laughs and you laugh, you fuck dirty donut holes into piles of old cow shit.)
Me: This one time, this guy had a wet garden and a monster fucked him to death. That's how Cabbage Patch kids are made. When monsters attack....and fuck boring gardeners.
Him: I am growing some cabbage myself. Weatherman said it's going to rain all day, maybe even rain some tomorrow. Yep. I don't think we need that much rain. (Sometimes I think he is going to sing Itsy Bitsy Spider to me, possibly as he fists his own anus to wash the spider out.)
Me: I have to go now. I prayed for diarrhea and it's here. In my sock.
And the curtain closes.
It is always pure agonizing hell and the conversation lasts less than a minute. I feel like screaming two inches from his face that I hope everything in his garden dies of aids and syphilis and that I hope he gets fucked by the monster and gets aids from a cucumber and is buried beneath his stupid fucking boring garden and no one ever talks about the garden ever again because it is too sad and painful to think about how he got cucumber aids and how he got horribly fucked by the monster.
Nine months after he was buried in the garden, dozens of dead eyed boring Cabbage Patch dolls sprouted from the ground and they learned to talk. Everything they said was boring. They looked at the sky all day and talked about the rain, even when it didn't rain, so the monster came and fucked them all to death. Then the next gardener down the street got cucumber aids and died with a giant crispy pickle sprouting from his dirty ass because the monster got him as well.
These are the gardens I want to hear stories about. The gardens that a giant fuck monster attacked. There are probably hundreds of gardeners that the monster plowed. He spends his glorious monstery life roaming the furrowed earth, spreading his seed and violently fucking boring gardeners to death. The monster knows that you are talking to people about dirt and water and plants, and he fucking hates that boring shit.
Maybe that is why all the crops are dying. People always blame this shit on the weather. It's too hot, too wet, for too long. That is how it starts, the longer the boring chatter goes on makes the monster grow angrier. The dust bowl and resulting westward migration could have been the direct result of the fuck monster's fury. The monster who so hates being bored by stories of weather and gardens.
Once upon a time, it didn't rain for a while. People kept talking about how it didn't rain. The monster became enraged and fucked the corn to death. It doesn't always fuck people.
He stalked the corn and then he fucked it cobby.
That makes perfect sense. Picture The Jolly Green Giant, only nothing like that at all. Half that size, flesh colored and mean as shit. A real hard pissin' grit eatin' cob fucker.
I know that the guy talking about his garden is the normal one. Normal people talk about shit like gardens and thirsty grass and weather and what they had for dinner. Normal people are friendly.
Normal people don't want other people to die from cucumber aids. Normal people pop corn, they don't fuck it all cobby.
But normal people don't know shit about monsters.
Hellwagon.
If I am walking toward a door, to a store, to a bank, whatever the fuck ever, I will adjust the speed with which I walk so I do not arrive at the same time as someone else. I will fake a phone call into a phone I am not even holding, it’s just my goddamn hand. I will stop and check my empty pockets for imagination. I have stopped and stared at the fucking sun to avoid making small talk with someone.
If you are a stranger and you are talking to me about the weather, I am thinking about merrily thrashing you to death with a rusty bicycle chain. I am considering what nearby objects I could stab you or myself with, anything to end the conversation.
Weather is the usual icebreaker people use. When you talk to me about the weather, what you are really saying to me is that you cannot think of anything more original to talk about that a dead end subject that I can discover everything about by simply looking out the fucking window.
I don't even have to look. I could just guess, or not give a fuck at all.
I would readily accept you saying "My bowel movement this morning was frightfully loose and ill-tempered." At least you would be talking about something more interesting than rain. Water from ass beats water from sky, conversationally speaking.
This same asshole talks to me over and over again about how much his garden is going to love all this rain we're having. I have seen this imbecile of a fucking moron of a man almost every other day for six months. Every day since day one, I have wished for his death.
Yes. That is fucked up. That I would rather another human being die than have to endure their pointless banalities and observations. Small talk is murderous. I never initiate a conversation. I never ask him shit, but every other day this happens.
Him : How's it going today? (He doesn't even give me time to respond, just leans back in his chair and keeps talking, like we are just two dudes tickling our balls on a porch, not a care in the world) It looks like rain out there today. (Yes, it does you stupid fuckface, because it's already fucking raining.
Me: My cat died. Well, not my cat, just some pussy I know is dead. It's your wife's pussy. It died. It is totally dry and dusty and dead. And it has bugs. You should make it rain pesticide on her crusty muff.
Him: My garden sure is going to love all this rain, and my grass sure is thirsty. It could use a drink...and so could I. (He laughs hysterically at that shit, something he has likely said countless times. No one ever laughs at it. Ever. If no one laughs and you laugh, you fuck dirty donut holes into piles of old cow shit.)
Me: This one time, this guy had a wet garden and a monster fucked him to death. That's how Cabbage Patch kids are made. When monsters attack....and fuck boring gardeners.
Him: I am growing some cabbage myself. Weatherman said it's going to rain all day, maybe even rain some tomorrow. Yep. I don't think we need that much rain. (Sometimes I think he is going to sing Itsy Bitsy Spider to me, possibly as he fists his own anus to wash the spider out.)
Me: I have to go now. I prayed for diarrhea and it's here. In my sock.
And the curtain closes.
It is always pure agonizing hell and the conversation lasts less than a minute. I feel like screaming two inches from his face that I hope everything in his garden dies of aids and syphilis and that I hope he gets fucked by the monster and gets aids from a cucumber and is buried beneath his stupid fucking boring garden and no one ever talks about the garden ever again because it is too sad and painful to think about how he got cucumber aids and how he got horribly fucked by the monster.
Nine months after he was buried in the garden, dozens of dead eyed boring Cabbage Patch dolls sprouted from the ground and they learned to talk. Everything they said was boring. They looked at the sky all day and talked about the rain, even when it didn't rain, so the monster came and fucked them all to death. Then the next gardener down the street got cucumber aids and died with a giant crispy pickle sprouting from his dirty ass because the monster got him as well.
These are the gardens I want to hear stories about. The gardens that a giant fuck monster attacked. There are probably hundreds of gardeners that the monster plowed. He spends his glorious monstery life roaming the furrowed earth, spreading his seed and violently fucking boring gardeners to death. The monster knows that you are talking to people about dirt and water and plants, and he fucking hates that boring shit.
Maybe that is why all the crops are dying. People always blame this shit on the weather. It's too hot, too wet, for too long. That is how it starts, the longer the boring chatter goes on makes the monster grow angrier. The dust bowl and resulting westward migration could have been the direct result of the fuck monster's fury. The monster who so hates being bored by stories of weather and gardens.
Once upon a time, it didn't rain for a while. People kept talking about how it didn't rain. The monster became enraged and fucked the corn to death. It doesn't always fuck people.
He stalked the corn and then he fucked it cobby.
That makes perfect sense. Picture The Jolly Green Giant, only nothing like that at all. Half that size, flesh colored and mean as shit. A real hard pissin' grit eatin' cob fucker.
I know that the guy talking about his garden is the normal one. Normal people talk about shit like gardens and thirsty grass and weather and what they had for dinner. Normal people are friendly.
Normal people don't want other people to die from cucumber aids. Normal people pop corn, they don't fuck it all cobby.
But normal people don't know shit about monsters.
Hellwagon.
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