Neener, neener, neener

This Goddamn squid.

I have no idea what possessed me to think that house training a cephalopod would be easy. There's ink everywhere and I just ruined my domestic partner's limited edition Frank Kosik Cure poster with it. Hell, he'll be in a little mascara-smeared ball all weekend over this, and will threaten suicide by eating a whole jar of Flintstone's Chewables. That's OK cause the next pet's gonna be even better.

I have a friend in the Congo who's sending me a new specimen for the old collection. Good Morning Mr. Marlburg! I'll have "Circus of Contagions" up and running by week's end. Ebola on the high wire, the high dive into the Petri sub-strate by HIV, a grand chariot race between Polio and Small Pox, of course Whooping Cough and Old Fashioned Croup have their Feats of Strength, and Rubella the Beautiful on her galloping Humbolt Squid. Goddamn it! There's fuckin' ink everywhere!

Moonshine and Ex-Wives of Mine

Stinkin' Pete Woodlin was an old friend of mine. He was a trick roper and a whip cracker of some fame. He was gifted to say the least when he wasn't balls deep in a cheap piece of carnival snatch or on one of his patented four-day benders. I mean the motherfucker had drunk rubbin' alcohol so many times his stomach lining, more than likely, looked like a burn victim's taint, and the sumbitch couldn't eat nothin' but milk toast (or for you limey bastards out there - milque toaste). That's where you take a loaf of Bunny enriched white bread and brown it and shred it and pour a quart of butter milk over it till it turns into mush. Now believe it or not, this concoction does not have that many vitamins in it and Ole Stinkin' P was slowly digesting hisself just to keep the old home fire burnin'. The process of slowly dissolving, and digesting one's self with the added bonus of an even coating of your own shit and piss on you, plus the rank smell of circus cunt he couldn't stay out of, resulted in Stinkin' Pete Woodlin gettin' his handle.

Now Stinkin' P, I'll refer to him as "Stinky P" from here on out, like I said, was a goddamn genius with a whip, lariat or firearm. The firearms becoming more of problem as his DTs advanced, but I never saw him ever open a bottle by hand. He would pop that kangaroo leather cracker of his whip around a cork or cap and sling that fucker off without splllin' a drop, which, wastin' a drop of likker to Stinky P was a crime tantamount to killin' and eatin' a family of six.

He was... wait a minute... Fuck the Sheriff’s at the door... I'll finish this later, there's three or four out there and it looks like I'll be taking a blue light fast taxi for a while this afternoon.

Part Redux:

OK chalk on up for "Whoremundula" seems her "New Beau" beat the ever lovin' slut outta her and she told Barney Fife I did it. Well as I was writting to you by way of the Great American Novel here I was able to show them that I was on line at the time and was saved a vacation swingin' a yo-yo. The problem being now I don't feel like talking and I'm gonna go get Judy Garland style drunk. I have a new half gallon of Dawsonville watermelon hooch and me and the mandrill are gonna huff some Freon.

See you on the other side.

A Bouquet of Turds.

Well for God's sake he's gone and done it (I refer to the lodger in my home that serves as my room-mate.) I feel as though you need some background on him. His name is Armando and we met each other on the Romeo Franklin Combined Show. I was coming out of my fourth protracted and bitter divorce, while he was, well... coming out. He had been a sword swallower for years and hind sight being twenty twenty, he had taken his work home with him, so to speak. The swallowing I mean.

Armando was always the fancy Dan, the blowsy silk pirate shirts he wore, the baboon skin mariachi pants he sported, the plum colored nutria smoking jacket he was always in, and that fuckin' fox stole... Christ he looked like Oscar Wilde had found a taxidermist to be his tailor. Anyhoo, he cut quite the dashing figure with his Cuban heeled boots and Italian rapier ever present (in case there was a call for swallowing to be done) and I figured, "what the fuck, I'll see if he wants to share a bunkhouse to save some scratch." What a maroon I turned out to be. This has turned out to be the worst roommate I've ever had, my third wife, the cooch dancer, or as I like to call her, "Whoremondula," not withstanding. The trick roper Stinkin' Pete Woodlin was better to co-habitate with, and that motherfucker smelled worse than tiger shit, and that's fuckin' awful. Ole Stinkin' P had even give us those Topengan burrowing lice, and he was still preferable to Armando. That lice thing is a whole nuther story.

So's I come home from the church, see I'm doing some community service thing and I had to get in 8 more hours before the end of the month, but again that's another story, and it smells like Armando is boiling a turd.
I'm like, "Jesus man what are you doing?"
"I'm trying to clean my fur," he minced.
"Clean it with what, you moron, a fucking corpse?"
"Well for your information your little dog defiled it," Armando said.
OK so I have this little dog named Lipstick of unknown heritage, and he weighs about 8 pounds, but by God 6 and a half of that is cock and balls. I mean this fucker is hung by the chimney with care, if you know what I mean. Well he's pretty ill tempered, and spiteful, and if he takes offense, good luck to you my dear sir. I mean I've stepped on his tail by accident and had the fucker shit on my pillow. You come home polluted, like John Huston kinda drunk, and flop down on the bed, just to smear dog shit all over the side of your face. Wonderful. Fuckin' brilliant. He also outta some vendetta, will piss down the grate on to the furnace. You know we've got one of those in the floor like at your Grandma's, and the bastard will wizz on it. Have you ever smelled buring piss? He even taught the Ocelot to do it to. Ocelot piss does not ever fuckin' go away. It's the herpes of piss.

He also likes humpin'. I mean he'll hunch shoes, dirty socks, underwear, the sofa, the poor Ocelot and now Armando's fox stole. But he didn't just hump it though, I mean the nasty little cur raped it. He buggered bald patches in the thing, spilling his evil little seed all over it. I think he even had Sparkles, the "chimp" I bought that turned out was really a mandrill, again another story, fuck it. This poor wrap was done "Last Exit to Brooklyn," style and Armando had tried to wash it. Well lemme tell you a wet 60 year old red fox stole smells like the back crease of a fat man, and baboon and demon spunk aren't pleasant in the least so you have an idea of where this is going. If it ended there I would have appologized and gone and gotten Armando a chinchilla, kicked the fuck outta Lipstick and beat Sparkles with a phone book, but Armando had to do it his way. He dumped my entire bottle of Club Man on the fucker, which on a good day smells like New Orleans, and follows that with the last of my Hai Karate Lime. I won't be finding any more of that now will I? Why not use some of his "Morrissey for Men" or "The Smell of Truman Capote?" Goddamn it.

Awright so I hide my "medicine" in the stove. We sure as fuck don't use it... Till today.

Armando douses his rat wrap with my stink good and throws it on top of mommy's lil' helper I've got stashed, and cranks the oven up to 525. The wagon is hot enough to give George Hamilton a burn, and smells like an ape fuckin a salesman who's farting brimstone and eatin' dead skunk.

"Whatta you have to say for yourself?" I rage at Armando.

"I want you out of here immediately!" he shrills.

It's my fuckin' wagon.
He'll start packin' as soon as he comes to.
He's also gonna clean that turd off my pillow.