Raindrops

In 1990, I wrote a videogame that revolutionized the Christian cartridge industry. It was originally a pornographic 8-bitzer game for the Nintendo Entertainment System entitled "Leathercock: The Quest for Delicious". I was working as a programmer for CarlCo, Carl Cornwalis' XXX manga imprint and coding in my spare time. While my prg'ing was mostly mods for Super Mario Bros that turned Luigi into either Chevy Chase or Jackie Mason (Caddyshackerz), I was given some divine inspiration by our receptionist, Deborah Lee Fensler. Deb and I had a protracted courtship that consisted of driving to the Westwood Chili's and necking like mad in the parking lot before gorging ourselves on chicky popperz and Miller tall boyz. When I was putting the finish touches on a Leathercock's last level -- a crudely drawn homage to Caligula where, due to the technology of the time, most of the orgy participants looked like Kid Icarus, Deb peaked her doughy head over my shoulder and screamed.

"That's the last half of Luke 3:21!" I looked at her incredulously, my fists balling up in rage. I took a breath and repeated my anger management codeword, "Cookies", to calm me down. Taking a second look at my erotic creation, I noticed that this dumb bitch might actually be onto something. We printed up 10,000 copies of Leathercock that night, slapping a logo that said "Spiritual Warfare" on it, and prayed to Satan that purchasers would confuse the milky cumshotz I included with Zeus' lightning bolts. Luckily, Christians love to see Jesus on a waffle, so they did. We sold out of that first caseload in two weeks, and at $35 a pop, I broke up with Deborah Lee and took off to Italy via time machine with a young Amanda Knox on the promise that we would be able to engage in real games that would fulfill my wildest fantasies.

Give 'Em Their Own Show

Starchild here. As a workaday reality producer, I have the opportunity to provide precious wealth and celebrity to people that have a pre-ordained contract with Satan: Evan Marriott, Sarah Kozer, Paul Hogan (butler), etc. After witnessing the miracle that was "Balloon Boy", I came up with the idea to do a reality show about reality show contestants: find 5 families and tell them that they are in competition with 4 other would be "reality families" and the most "compelling" family wins. We'll watch the families try and top each other's zany antics and the most outrageous family will be tabulated by the amount of tweeting, blog posting, "fizzing", etc. Maybe in season 2, the family that actually does "win" for being the most obnoxious, fattest, "realitiest" family will be featured on national TV in a series that will make "Jon & Kate Plus 8" look like "7th Heaven". If there's any god in the Earth's crust, the people that win will be millionaires and be able to start their own line of salad dressings, cookbooks, wines, or graphic tees for babiez.

In other news, I got an email from an old co-anchor of mine, Suzy Salmon. She had just left her husband, a professional "footballer" for the Premier League's Chelsea. He was apparently verbally abusive and used to call her "Tiger Woods" in bed. I invited her out for a drink to celebrate her newfound freedom. I've been single my whole life, with only one illegitimate child and a Pearl Jam "10 Guy" tattoo in the piss bucket. We went to an Olive Garden and got drunk on bread and olive oil. Not wanting to drive home in my condition, we stopped at local Motel 5 where I rented a room under the same "Surf Ari". Suzy lit up a roach she had clipped with a butterfly knife. I coughed out a couple of hits and went in for the kill on her, but she told me she was re-virginized and we could kiss a little bit if I needed to, but she was saving herself for marriage. I ripped a fart of disgust and spent the rest of the night getting spooned by her and watching the Simpsons Movie for the umpteenth time. I don't even laff at Spiderpig anymore. Suck it.

--Bobby Cocks

Fall in Love With Me

Man is a tornado and when he craves cocaine, not even a branding iron to the cock or a chance to win big on the price is right can save him from his certain fate. I learned this lesson the hard way when I took my best girl, Weekend Wendy, down to the barrels of Alvarado Street in search of the white dragon. I ran into a few line cooks who promised that they only cut their shit with roach powder and bacon grease. In this part of town, that's the best you can hope for. I asked to a key bump out just to get my wallet loosened up. They cut me off a slice of the corner of an old, reused Ziploc baggie and I took a big rip, trying to swallow the key up my nose if I could. At least it might puncture a nerve and kill me then and there.

Unfortunately, all it did was make me loose. Made my shirts fit better. I gave Wendy to them against her will in exchange for the rest of the bag of dope and a McCafe gift McCard. Ended up in a Biloxi casino placing bets on which loser would take a quarter out of a pissed over urinal cake. I always bet against man, assuming the best, and lost every dollar I had in my wallet and those pit bosses took my moths too. New Orleans doesn't like a loser in their city, so they choppered me back to LA where I'd fit right in.

Got home. Forced out of a first floor walk-up (and rob), I dragged a queen size mattress out onto the streets of Pico Boulevard with a sign that said "Fall in love with me:)" Made a quizno's a day for 6 months and replaced that sign with one that said "A sandwich a day keeps the reaper away" and starved to death.

The Lady in Red

I arrived on scene with my Air Jordan’s and Lite-Brite to collect some samples from the scene. Some girls can’t stomach the work I do, which is why I demand so much respect at suicide sites. “Here she comes! Lilly will solve this case and see if there is any foul play. She demands respect!” I walk up to the Sergeant and grab his ball pouch and say, “Fuck off! Let me do my shit!” He tipped his KFC bucket-hat to me and stepped aside.




I go in and realize the monkey in the sequined red dress is sprawled on the floor with an empty 200-count sleeping pills mason jar next to her lifeless face. “She was a famous actor in the Piccadilly Square in London,” one baby said, “but she recently lost her only hamster, and the grief was too much.”
I examine the drool and banana bits coming out of the primate’s mouth and realize no foul play was involved. I took out my Lite-Brite, made a skull and crossbones, threw up and realized I wasn’t wearing any clothes.




I woke up in a cold sweat, realizing my brown bear husband was still in hibernation. I felt relief knowing I still had work in this economy even though I was a greeter at Hopscotch-Mart. His Monster, Inc. bed sheets were keeping him warm. There were deer corpses in the fridge for when we he gets up in April. I licked my eyelids and fell into a coma.

Scarlett O Haira

The year was 1992. I was thirteen and Dan Cortese was teaching me how to snowboard every Sunday morning. Susan le Crema was a neighborhood virgin that I desired from deep in my stone-washed, elastic-banded Bugle Boys. The hair on her head was minimal but she had a condition where she would pick it out and eat it. I found this erotic at that age.

One day after school, we began watching Ladybugs starring the great Jonathan Brandis. “He’s gonna be the next Mel Gibbons,” Susie claimed. She was right. He was wonderful on camera and made cross dressing not gay for adolescent males, which was good because I spent the previous summer tucking my junk like that cool dude from Silence of the Lambs. As she admired my dad’s Vietnam memorabilia, I told the tale of how he sneezed on twenty four gooks there in one day. Her eyes lit up like Winnie Cooper’s did the first time Kevin kissed her. So I moved in, pulled down her shirt and licked her right mosquito-bite nerp. She slapped me and I never spoke to her again.

But on the anniversary of that day, I crack open a can of Juicy juice, turn on Ladybugs, and lick my nipples as my dick sneezes into those same jeans. She’s a lawyer and I find jewelery for rich MILFs for a low cost. I saw her at the high school reunion and she had married an extremely famous reality star named Puck. I lived my years since that day doing what Dan Cortese did: living life on the edge. Autoerotic asphyxiation is the tits.

--Jorts McGee

Metal Postcard

She dressed my leg wound with a bandage made out of three glued together cruellers and one jelly donut. I looked into her eyes and saw scorn. She cycled through her lenses and the next set of peeperz brought love and empathy. We dragged my buddy Roach back inside. He dranked three quarts of moonshine and a bottle of Thunderbird. Thought he was jesus. No exaggeration on the liquor because this took place over a month in a centrifuge. He said he was ready to die so we killed him then and there. Ate the body to cover the evidence. I went straight for Jenny's neck. Saw it on Twilight. Still waiting for first Twilight copycat murder by two 13 year olds, but since they're still lighting each other on fire, I guess it's still Beavis & Butthead. She pulled me back, stabbed me through the leg with a spoon, dug the tissue out of my bruise. Begged her to heal it. We had done Krispy Kreme fundraisers for the middle school that morning and tried a 5K but made it 3. Made it better to know that they let the wolves loose at the finish line. The only people that survived were the quitters.

Made it down to one of the British pubs in Santa Monica. They were showing Premier League games and had expensive pints. I felt alright, to wit Steve Earle. Tony's got his own process, to wit Silvio Dante. We were in tracksuits by age 22 permanently. Getting fat on everything in the fridge. I cut an invisible bullet out of my stomach with a metal postcard. And when I woke up in the morning, you were gone. A smoldering ashtray in your place in bed.

Bowling

My brother Chaz was in town for our cousin's wedding. I didn't get invited even though he lives in Santa Monica and I live in Venice, but I wasn't super bummed because I had a bowling tournament that weekend with my 3-man "God" squad, The Green Lanterns (named after comic book). Chaz managed to snuggle in a bar of hash he wrapped in a Three Musketeers wrapper and then buried in a jar of peanut butter, and we broke it out before my tourney and his journey, mixing it with an eighth of the medical marijuana I take for my swimmer's ear, Dr. Destructo #9. We rolled up two B.M.'s and smoked them on my sex swing before Chuzz got into his tux and I got into my bowling shirt, mongrammed "No Raid" and hiked a few blocks to the AMF Venice Dirt Shop Lanes and Buffalo Wing Bar. Me and another rotund gentleman had a little snafu with the electronic doors, which did temper my high a hair, but other than that, I got in scott free and my bowling (and life) partner Apron had a cold Coors Cutter waiting for me and my lucky ball Bustieros polished and being air-dried by our son's fake hand.

The Witchdoctor started things off by shooting two dead roosters out a canon, both of whose throat's had been slit, arguably 7 or so hours ago judging by the rigor mortis. I was a bit shaken by the sight of two lesbians making love in the middle of Lane 9, but I knew this meant we were bowling for keeps. I cut a nice thick gator tail up on the edge of our computer and snorted it all up before I rolled two strikes and a spare. Confident in my skill, I decided to switch from N/A to real beer and that's when things got UGLY: I ended up on stage with this band: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jLsOWiqQbO8, playing a keyboard I'd never touched and singing background vox on a song I'd never heard in some Abilene, TX horsehole. I stuck around to dry out a bit after the gig and ended up falling in love with a Mexican senorita named Luz whose chocolate chili never failed to bring him a blue ribbon at the state fair, and whose innovations in the data entry field led to the formation of the Texas Instruments corporation, of which I am an honorary charter member although all I really do is race Go-Karts with the employees' kids at the company picnics.