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Matt Bahr
post Nov 9 2007, 07:44 PM
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A Cold Night

by Matt Bahr


It was cold. Damn cold. And it was night. Inside of a hideously putrid yellowish shack two fornicators fornicated profusely. There isn't much else to do on a damn cold night inside a putrid yellowish shack. Fuck.

On the other side of the tracks it was hot as hell on the inside of the Maxwell residence, but damn, damn, fucking cold outside of the house of Maxwell. Mrs. Maxwell controlled the weather inside the shittily insulated house and cursed the weather outside.

On a cold night, Mrs. Maxwell would create semi-tropical conditions inside the house and hula around the place while she monitored strategically placed room thermometers and whistled some jazzy tune. On a hot day the Maxwell house became a meat locker.

On a goddamn, freeze your nipples off if you're in a putrid yellowish shack with no heater unless you fornicate profusely, damn, motherfucking, cold as penguin shit night, Mrs. Maxwell deployed the reserves. That bitch had more heaters blowing than half the fucking village combined, all at full blast.

Mrs. Maxwell basked in the heat and then suddenly lept to her feet to retrieve something sweet to wash down salty meat pieces of unknown specificity. She threw a handful of bargain sausage into the griddle and turned on the stovetop. The griddle was preheated to 95 degrees Fahrenheit on account of the three heaters in the kitchen serving as loyal assistants to the central heating system, all at full blast of course.

Mrs. Maxwell turned the oven to broil and set the dial for 500 degrees Fahrenheit and pulled the oven door half open in an attempt to combat the frigid temperature outside. She poured for herself a tall glass of the cheapest fake iced tea available and cursed a foul stream of obscenity at the lack of ice cubes in the freezer.

Out in the garage, Mr. Maxwell drank obscene amounts of straight whiskey to stay warm. He entertained himself with a small greasy television set tuned to a station that broadcast infomercials every minute of everyday and also with experiments in pyromania. Burn baby burn !

The teenage daughter was upstairs in her room with her window partly open in a vain attempt to find a suitable compromise between the inside and outside weather forces. She pondered as to whether she hated her mom more than her dad or vice-versa.

Her brother was outside. He had determined that the ideal spot to be was not in the immense heat inside the house of rumoured insulation, nor the garage with liquid liver punisher, but outside the kitchen window where the draft from the house mixed heavenly with the damn, damn, damn cold night. Dammit.

From this piece of heaven the boy made full use of a pair of binoculars and scanned distant place in the cold, so cold, damn, damn cold night. He looked out past the railroad tracks upon a shack where the occupants had no heater. They were doing what he was anxious to do, what his parents should be doing, the only thing you can do on a cold night with no heater inside a putrid yellow shack. Fuck. You don't want your nipples to fall off, do ya ?
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Dr. Death
post Nov 9 2007, 08:58 PM
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Too much swearing too early on. Undesirable. Your paragraphs do not transition well either. Choppy-chop chop chop! Poor structuralization.


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Goatgirluk
post Nov 10 2007, 07:37 PM
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I liked it, but have one burning question.

Seeing how it was so, so cold in the hideously putrid yellowish shack , did those two fornicators fuck or make love ? There is a mahoosive difference in heat levels d'ya see ?

ps Doc...blow it outta yo ass. Try a constructive comment once in a while whydontcha.


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" The world is a wonderfully weird place, consensual reality is significantly flawed, no institution can be trusted, certainty is a mirage, security a delusion, and the tyranny of the dull mind forever threatens -- but our lives are not as limited as we think they are, all things are possible, laughter is holier than piety, freedom is sweeter than fame, and in the end it's love and love alone that really matters."

- Tom Robbins'


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Light
post Nov 11 2007, 09:07 AM
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I enjoyed that. Especially the sentence structure; short, short, long. If that story was a song it would be quiet quiet LOUD.


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Everyone knows scientists insist on using complex terminology to make it harder for True Christians to refute their claims.

Deoxyribonucleic Acid, for example... sounds impressive, right? But have you ever seen what happens if you put something in acid? It dissolves! If we had all this acid in our cells, we'd all dissolve! So much for the Theory of Evolution, Check MATE!
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charismagician
post Nov 11 2007, 04:45 PM
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QUOTE(Dr. Death @ Nov 9 2007, 09:58 PM) *

Too much swearing too early on. Undesirable. Your paragraphs do not transition well either. Choppy-chop chop chop! Poor structuralization.


Not enough sex, drugs or rock and roll in your critique. Not enough information to do a re-write and the specifics are too broad and general.

Like your mom's pussy.


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Dr. Death
post Nov 12 2007, 03:11 AM
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Yes, tell him it's good. Who's done him the greater disservice?


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Matt Bahr
post Nov 13 2007, 03:42 PM
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Traffic Stopped

by Matt Bahr


Reba Wilson had perfect breasts with bright red nipples and her ass was worshipped by every attentive male who had the opportunity to gaze upon it. She was driving. Fast. Cruising and smoking and blasting the song Slave To The Traffic Light by Phish. She laughed to herself as she slowed down to stop at the only traffic light between where she was and where she was going. Where she was she was visiting the elderly, where she was going was to her boyfriends house with plans to fuck his brains out. Good exercise.

There was a gigantic SUV in front of Reba Wilson already stopped at the traffic light. Stuffed inside was a family of nine. All catholic. All miserable. All damaged from constant imposed limitations and upsetting fairytales. Nobody in that SUV had an original thought. Never. And if they did, they would bludgeon it to death with Hail Marys.

On the other side of the traffic signal were three cars. The first was a rusty shit bucket piloted by a nervous individual trying desperately to be calm and cool because a police car was right behind him. The nervous driver had to pee really bad because he had been drinking like a fool at his favorite bar. It was a short drive from the bar back to his apartment, with one traffic signal to cross. With the aide of Bloody Marys back at the bar, he had successfully bludgeoned away ideas of quitting his dead end job to become a full time artist.

Reba Wilson became impatient with the red light shining at her and wished it would turn off and allow another light to shine for awhile. A fly landed on her dashboard and without flinching, she crushed it to death with her flattened hand and wiped the guts on the back of the passenger seat.

As the five vehicles waited to cross, swarms of cars, trucks, motorcycles, RV's and big rigs passed between them on the busy road. Behind the police car was Lyda Washington. She was fat, smelly, and had an annoying personality. She drove alone with a suspended license eating pop tarts and sardines. Lyda was convinced that the fuzz was on to her and that she would be busted at any moment for not having a valid license to drive.

Reba Wilson was becoming more and more angry about the green light taking so long to make its appearance. The swarms of traffic thinned out to a trickle. The busy road became less and less busy until it became still and quiet. Still the red light shined bright red onto Reba, the Catholics, the drunk, the cop, and Lyda. Reba Wilson would have totally just drove through the red light if there wasn't a gigantic SUV in front of her and a cop watching. The coast was clear. The busy road was deserted. But still the light shined bright red onto Reba Wilson.

Inside the cop car was a lunatic. An individual whom all would agree should not be given firearms. He was Ryan Jefferson and had escaped from the insane asylum 35 minutes prior. He was not a cop. Next to him in the police car was a fully loaded bad ass shotgun. Ryan Jefferson had stolen the police car with the intention of going on a rampage at the nearest shopping mall. It never crossed Ryan's mind to use the shotgun on his rampage, he planned to use a squirt bottle filled with his own urine. Oh, how he lusted to gleefully spread fluorescent cheer amongst the holiday shoppers.

As the busy road became busy again, the traffic light finally changed and halted swarms of vehicles to allow five vehicles passage. Reba Wilson passed the SUV moments after passing through the intersection and drove fast. A twinge of anticipation grew inside of her ass.
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charismagician
post Nov 13 2007, 08:47 PM
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very nice. Is it finished? I get the feeling that there is a sequel.


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Matt Bahr
post Nov 13 2007, 10:05 PM
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You write the damn sequel !

Dammit.

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Dr. Death
post Nov 15 2007, 12:10 PM
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I'm working on a pornographic rendition of Rapunzel. Except with pubes.


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Goatgirluk
post Nov 18 2007, 09:06 AM
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QUOTE(Dr. Death @ Nov 15 2007, 12:10 PM) *

I'm working on a pornographic rendition of Rapunzel. Except with pubes.


We're still waiting on that one. In the meantime......

It began as a mistake.

The first time that Dr Death met GoatgirlUK she was holding a football. He didn’t care for the game, baseball was his thing. Still, she held out that old football.

“Just kick the fucking thing,” she said.

“Listen, babe. You just hold that thing steady and I’ll kick the shit out of it.”

She threw her head back and laughed. She laughed long and hard and propped up the football. Doc took a running start and he reared back his leg and kicked as hard as he could. GG was laughing too hard to hold the ball steady and it slipped out of her hand. Doc missed the ball and flew straight up in the air and landed flat on his back.

“AUUUGGGGHHH,” he said.

“You should have seen your face, Dr Deathski,” she said. Then she laughed twice as hard.

“Listen, you crazy bitch. I think I broke my ass. Jesus Christ!”

She helped him up. “Look, I’m sorry about that. You try it again and I’ll hold it real steady this time.”

“O.K., GG . I’ll do it on more time, but that’s it. You hold it this time, got it?”

“I promise,” she said.

He dusted himself off. God o' mighty, his ass ached! He walked a little ways away and GG set up the old football again. He took a deep breath and a running start. He could see she was holding it tight. He was really going to kick the shit out of that old football! He threw his leg forward with all his might and GG yanked the football away just as he kicked at it. He landed on his ass again.

“AUUUGGGGHHH,” he said again.

GG laughed and laughed and left with the football. Doc laid there and groaned. Good grief, he thought. What a cunt.


--------------------
" The world is a wonderfully weird place, consensual reality is significantly flawed, no institution can be trusted, certainty is a mirage, security a delusion, and the tyranny of the dull mind forever threatens -- but our lives are not as limited as we think they are, all things are possible, laughter is holier than piety, freedom is sweeter than fame, and in the end it's love and love alone that really matters."

- Tom Robbins'


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Matt Bahr
post Feb 7 2008, 02:14 PM
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T.I.T.


by Matt Bahr



What kind of man was Turk Tugennoff ?

Well, since I asked, I'll tell you. Yes, this goddamn story is all about Turk Tugennoff.

Can't you just smell the excitement of the imminent tales of Turk Tugennoff ?

That wasn't a rhetorical question you fucks, I want answers submitted promptly by each and every one of you along with pictures of your nipples.

Turk Tugennoff's middle name was Ivor. Turk Ivor Tugennoff never forgave his mother for dying at his birth. He never forgave his father for naming him Turk Ivor Tugennoff until he reached the age of 17. Little Turk was ashamed of his initials until he reached the age of 17 when he began engraving them into anything and everything.

T.I.T. was highly skilled in the art of vacuuming, a talent which went virtually unnoticed by the world. Turk excelled in menial tasks. His secret was to let his mind go blank and to just ponder nipples. You'd be surprised how quickly a day of shoveling the shit goes by when your mind is occupying the magical world of nippledom.

Turk Ivor Tugennoff's most proud accomplishment was his role in promoting every full moon as International Boob Appreciation Day.

T.I.T. was a constant inspiration to the Pro-Boobs movement. Of the Anti-Boobs movement Turk Tugennoff said this, "Boooooo...........booooooooo..............BOOOOOOOOBS !"

You know those packets that are included inside packages of beef jerky or seaweed that say DO NOT EAT on them ? Of course you do. Well, Turk Ivor Tugennoff was once offered $43.82 to eat one. He wisely refused and licked dollops of whipped cream off of some chicks nipples instead.

Tragically, the world lost T.I.T. in a censorship accident.
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Light
post Feb 8 2008, 06:57 AM
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Just dug this one out from...Christ, 7 years ago now;

I Could Have Loved You

When I look back with the benefit of hindsight, it was that first encounter that emptied me out. I may not be dragging my carcass through the streets, and I may not eat those whom I butcher but believe me I'm as dead as they are.

It's not as if I really even knew her that well. We both got the same train in to work, day in and day out. If I'm honest, I can't even remember speaking to her at all before that last week. If only I'd spoke to her sooner, maybe showed then some of the courage that my little troupe finds so admirable now, then maybe I'd have something to live for other than my simple instinct for survival. As it is, the ache of remembering her last words is worse than any zombie bite.

Perhaps I should clarify myself a little. My name is Andrew Watts and I think I'm 28 years old. I would be more specific, but to be honest I've had more pressing worries than the passage of time. Being so scared of becoming a midnight snack that you can't sleep more than 2 hours at a time…well, it rather takes the edge of any birthday celebrations, don't you think?

In my former life, I was a trainee accountant, that most dashing of profession, and I was 22 when I first saw her. I had just started my job at the firm and my astounding lack of any mechanical expertise precluded the use of a car to get me to work. (Now that I come to think of it, the look of terror on my driving instructors face almost matches anything managed by those I've seen lost since. Almost) I also lived over 20 miles away from the city, hence the train to work.

I didn't see her until my second week of travel and I am sorry to be so cliched but my heart simply stopped the moment I saw her. She was jostled onto the train in the midst of a gaggle of braying businessmen, and had I not fell in love with her beforehand then the way she rounded on them would surely have done it.

"Do you know, in all my 20 years on this earth the only person that has touched my arse without prior permission has been my mum." At this point she raised the hand that she had presumably found planted there. I confess my initial thoughts of "Lucky bastard" purely to save you the trouble of thinking them yourself.

"And you know, if you were my mum, she wouldn't be nearly as distressed at this;" And there was a blur of movement at about waist height, a strangled gasping noise and a rapid collapse on the part of the possessor of the wandering hand. I watched in awe as she heaved him to his feet and hissed a further threat at him through clenched teeth before dropping him and stalking away. Towards my seat. Towards me.

I suppose she must have thought I was non-threatening, and frankly who could blame her? Possession of a copy of The Guardian, spectacles, and a briefcase hardly marks one out as an aggressor. She took a seat next to me. It was than that I noticed that she was shaking, so I asked if she was okay. I single, curt "Fine" was all I received in reply, and so I returned to my paper and contented myself with sly glances for the rest of the journey. Come to think of it, I contented myself with that for the next 8 months.

She was beautiful, it was that simple. I remember her as being about 5 and a half feet tall with blonde hair and fair skin, a real English rose as my old mum would say. (Actually, my mum would say "Uuuurrrrrhhhhhh" and then try and take a bite of me but that's beside the point). She had grey blue eyes, or at least I think she did; to my shame I never plucked up the courage to look into her eyes until the end, and who knows if her eyes had always been that colour?

If I had to pick a fault with her (no easy task in my hormonal state, I assure you) it was her choice of morning paper. Having completed an Economics degree at a prestigious University, I fancied myself something of an intellectual, hence The Guardian every morning. She, on the other hand, used to read quite the most appalling shite on our morning journey. Every morning I would despair as she chuckled along to The Sun, The Inquirer, and more women's magazines with lurid headlines about how to get better orgasms that I still blush to think of it.

And so I continued to live my life for the next half a year. I went to and from work and drank in her image every day. Whenever she wasn't there I would spend the day distracted and listless, a pit of gnawing despair eating away at my gut as I worried whether I would see her again. When she returned after those (thankfully always) absences my spirit did not so much soar as backflip across the room gibbering with glee all the while.

By now, it should be obvious that I am (well….was) painfully shy. I had never considered myself the finest looking chap in the world. Schoolyard teasing about my glasses had weakened my self-esteem. A few desperately disappointing University fumblings only served to destroy it. I never mentioned her to any of my friends, nor to my mother and father (I still lived at home, which was yet another nail in the coffin of whatever hopes I may have had of making her mine) I kept my longing to myself.

It was on a wet Tuesday morning in November that everything changed in our relationship. We started to have one. She was sitting opposite me flicking idly through her morning rag (A week old copy of The Inquirer with a lurid headline that screamed "Dead Man Walking!!" and a blurred cover photo claiming to be that of a reanimated corpse somewhere in the U.S) when she looked up, as if seeing me for the first time.

"You're the bloke who tried to be nice to me after that arsehole had a grope of me, aren't you?" She smiled, half nervously half defensively as if I was going to favour her with as abrupt a response as I had received. "I'm probably overdue with the apology I owe you for being such a bitch…" She let her words hang in the air.

"Er…well yes, umm, no you weren't much of a bitch (much of a bitch?!? Hey Andrew, you old smoothie you), I mean you were entitled to be a bit…um…" She laughed at my fumbling attempt at a response and saved my further blushes. "A bit of a cow? To that wanker maybe but you were only being nice. God knows there's few enough decent guys around these days, and here's me scaring off the only one I've met since I got here." Another smile from her, another skipped heartbeat from me.

"Our stop I think. Look, will you be here again on the way back tonight?" I dumbly nodded affirmative. "Tell you what, d'you fancy going for a drink after work? There's a good pub 5 minutes away from my stop. What do you think?" If I carried on nodding the way I was she would know I was an idiot. " Cool. See you later." And with that, the train pulled up to its destination, and we disembarked in the city for what turned out to be the last time.

To say it was a strange day would be to say that the end of the world was somewhat peculiar. I arrived at work to find one of my co-workers (I worked for a large and prestigious firm. Being on first name terms with everyone was difficult, which is quite ironic, as there may not be that many people in the whole country now.) being bandaged by his secretary in the office. He was wincing in pain and pontificating at some length about what this government should do with "bloody tramps and fucking wasters!", especially drunken ones that attacked him. I later found out he'd been bitten by what appeared to be “a pissed up hobo”.

I didn't do much work that day, nor did anyone else. We were all glued to the television in the canteen. The reports that were coming in defied all rational explanation. All over the world and for no particular reason, corpses were getting up and walking. That in itself would have been disturbing. The fact that they were hungry and were most certainly not vegan did not help matters in the slightest. The Prime Minister had told parliament that all steps were being taken to stop the spread of the virus that was causing this (I wonder if he really did know what was causing it. It makes no difference really. I understand the leader of the opposition made a very definitive political statement and ate the bastard 2 weeks later.) and that there was no need at this stage for martial law.

And all of this, the end of all civilisation, it was all just so much padding in the day as far as I was concerned. Most people left early that day, but I stayed. I promised I'd meet her after work.

I arrived at the station at 5.30. I was still there at 11. Not that it made any difference. I don't think there'd been any trains since the morning. It wasn't too difficult to stay inconspicuous, bearing in mind most people were far more concerned with fleeing the city in a panic. It was then that I heard her scream. She staggered into the station, bleeding from a horrific gash in her neck. A man was chasing her or at least that's what I thought it was. I ran toward her and reached her just as she collapsed and the man reached her. I kicked him away from her though in truth I don't really remember the next few seconds. Suffice to say that 22 years of repressed emotion found an outlet via the medium of a half brick and the easily yielding head of a walking corpse.

Christ knows what I looked like as I made my way over to her. She was barely alive, only her soft whimpering indicated any life. I gently turned her head and looked at her, though my tears of mingled anguish and rage blurred her features. I couldn't make out her final words clearly, but you've read the title of my little tale, so you know what I believe they were. What I hope they were.

And that was that. I wish it had been. I held her for half an hour, crying to myself at the injustice of it all. You may think that selfish. Others had lost loved ones; close family, friends but I really didn't care. I still don't if I'm honest. Can you imagine the rise of hope as I felt her stir in my arms? Can you begin to understand my joy at her apparent survival? It lasted less than a moment and when it was dashed by my realisation of what she had become, I was as dead as she was. I don't know where the strength to push her away came from, but the blow that ended her mockery of life came from the last embers of my soul.

- THE END -


--------------------
Light's deeply tedious blog

Everyone knows scientists insist on using complex terminology to make it harder for True Christians to refute their claims.

Deoxyribonucleic Acid, for example... sounds impressive, right? But have you ever seen what happens if you put something in acid? It dissolves! If we had all this acid in our cells, we'd all dissolve! So much for the Theory of Evolution, Check MATE!
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Matt Bahr
post Feb 9 2008, 04:04 PM
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Job Search

by Matt Bahr



Paul hasn't eaten in 5 months and 28 days. He does not have a house or an apartment or a condo or a trailer or a car. Hell, Paul doesn't even have a goddamn cardboard box. Well now, sucks to be Paul don't it. All that is going to change though. Oh yes. Fucking hell yes ! Paul is determined to get..........a job.

Paul don't be having much in the way of skills and his grammar techniques are less than well done. Paul has an idea, he could be a male stripper ! Thats perfect.

Oh shit. Nope. Not gonna happen. Thats just not going to work at all. Paul doesn't have any clothes. Fuckle.

Come on now Paul, don't give up. There must be a job out there for you. If you get a job you can get money which you can exchange for food, a place to live, and some clothes.

I know Paul, you could get a job telling lies and half-truths. Sure. Yeah. You could do that. I'm sure Dick Cheney would be willing to give you a few pointers to get you started. Really. Yeah, it will be great. You could make a killing with a job like that.

Oh, thats right. Shit. I almost forgot, Paul is too goddamn honest for a job like that. Crap.

Oooh, I got it. I know what job is perfect for you Paul. You could totally pull it off too. This is great. Paul, you can get a job masturbating high atop Mt. Rushmore ! No need to thank me, I'm just glad to help. I even have a back up plan for you, but you will need to learn how to stick your head up your ass. If you get laid off of your job jacking it on Mt. Rushmore, stick your head straight up your ass and become a conservative talk radio host.

I believe in you Paul.
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