Archive for raunch

The Dirtiest Insult

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on February 15, 2013 by JC

No doubt the dirtiest personal slam ever wrought by this here pen:

Your cocktail of passive-aggressive jealousy and unaddressed insecurities has been sitting a while now. Reminds me of the rancid clam of an old whore who’s been assfucked so many times she can’t stand up without dropping a steaming river of brown stink.

Feel free to use it if the moment strikes but be sure to give proper citation: JAC, aka Dishonest Abe, 2013!

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Cornflower Labyrinth

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 15, 2013 by JC

Please read this aloud in whatever accent you deem appropriate.

Soh I was ouht with some friends, see, and they tried to get me to drink some putrid shite wine titled “Ohhhhhld Faht.” And naturally I said “sorry, fohlks, but I’m partial to Cohrnflower Labyrinth wine. Don’t you just love the name? Problem with Ohhhhhld Faht is that it simultaneously reminds me of The Great Gohhhhhtsby, you know, Old Spohhhhhrt, and that well-wrought stohhhhry about the jizzy fahhhhht Ricky took in his unwashed mouth.”

My friends, and I had been trying for this sooohhhh long, finally offered dick-in-dick, all of them. I don’t know if it was the Cohhhhhhnflower Labyrinth or the Old Spohhhht reference or the Ricky’s Dead, Time for a Shop reference but either way he-yes I thought I was on my way to that pantwrenching prohspect of dick-in-dick yes.

So then I said “yehhhhs, I’ll go off and pry myself ready for you bucks with my mini jaws of life. Be back in a flash!”

Got back to the table, stretched just right, and they were gone, sadly, must have had other engagements. I still have yet to collect on those offers. I call all the time about it, leave messages, all that yes and still I’m waiting and still I’m sipping my Cohhhhhhrnflower Labyrinth, drunk on it and visions of platonic dick-in-dick yes. I’ll let you all know!

Tooooooootaloooooooooooooooooooo!

No shit, Brook

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , on February 11, 2013 by JC

Boner Brook said this:

“I have a ragin’ hard on.”

I said: “No shit, Brook.”

Sublimation of a Date Gone Awry

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 11, 2013 by JC

“Check it: so I took dis crack ho out to Ruby Tuesday, spent twelve dollas on her ass unda da supposition I was gonna get something–or at least something-something–in return. Bitch ain’t done a mothafuckin cocksuckin thang to date. So I called her up to collect. I said “Listen, cunt: I ain’t gonna be just throwin a Hamilton and Two Washingtons in to da motha fuckin wind, so to speak. You gonna make good on da terms of our agreement. Either you’re gonna pay me, if you can’t pay me your pimp’s gonna pay me, if your pimp can’t pay me i’mma bust caps and then yo momma gonna pay me, if your momma can’t pay me, and you can’t find an alternative means of recompensing me, then have fun sucking my dick, bitch! Damn. That’s fourteen percent of my wealth you took from me! That ain’t nothin to sneeze at! That ain’t nothin to jerk off at! That’s big fuckin bucks to me! What has this world come to? The immorality is rampant, and it’s disgusting. When you can’t trust a ho, then, man, this world’s just gone to shit.

I don’t know what I’m gonna do. I can’t buy booze no more, I can’t buy ganj no more, I can’t buy rock no more…I can’t buy blowjobs no more. All my life’s pleasures is gone because this crack ho felt entitled to my money–the sweat of my fuckin brow. I work hard. I bust my ass. And it’s come to nothing…except if you’ve derived some pedagogical value from my story–if I’ve channeled some wisdom your way. Then, my life ain’t so bad and I’ll live on. Things ain’t so bad.

Thanks for listening. Moral of the story: if you’re gonna be dealing with a crack ho, if you’re gonna be transacting something with a crack ho, then make sure you get your end first, cuz they ain’t to be trusted. All right–take it easy!”

I’m not a john. I went on a bad date with a lady two years ago, partook in a heated e-exchange the next day because of some miscommunications, apologized, and ended up spending twelve dollars that subsequently got repaid on a not-so-bad second date. I made this in reasonable anticipation of default; wrote a sketch of the final product during my accounting lecture. What can I say? I’m expressive.

Ricky’s Dead, Time for a Shop

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 10, 2013 by JC

I came home one night, hard day in wake, expecting to have salad with my steak. I got to the kitchen—having clitted and clatted up the stony steps—and all I saw was an expired spring mix; no steak, no chicken, no salmon! I opened up the spring mix to make sure there was no hope for it, bent down to a suitable distance for testing, sniffed…

So the lettuce smelled like when Ricky took that jizzy fart in his unwashed mouth and plugged it up along with his nose. The stench escaped through his eyes, must have been! Ricky would buttress me there if only to herald his lung space but now he’s dead. Died that same time. Needed to be uncouthest. Couldn’t be anything-elsest, Ricky? I wondered if the gases were noxious or if Ricky wasn’t the athlete he said he was—if his known muff diving failed to live up to his alleged deep-sea diving.

“Lettuce for dinner? Is there nothing else? No peas, beans, oats?” I led.

“Check the ice box and the pantry,” she said.

She read my face, my slanted mouth and furrowed brows, and knew she—cause of the present association, her native herring and bean-induced flatulence co-enablers of Ricky’s last oral stench—should say something. She, after all, likely finished the oats, the beans, and the peas. The oats, the peas, the beans if you like allusions. Played that one in band—really tested my nine-and-ten-year-old lungs. Repugnant Ricky had the same breathing tests I did, plus one yes that jizzy one too many. Hope it at least occurred to him at the end that a hard jaunt would have been better.

Fire

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 9, 2013 by JC

I ask that you read this aloud.

Cucky got that limpy between his palms rubbin em togetha tryin to staht a fiah but you can’t staht a fiah wit cuckystick;

cucky can’t staht a fiah mean cucky can’t staht a fiah mean cucky can’t pack da heat mean cucky can’t burn down da house!