The Parable of the Gay Fox

Once upon a time, and a very good time it was, there was a moo-cow coming down along the road where Baby Roger lived. Baby Roger loved life in the country, where the cowboys dressed like ladys and a date with a sheep was a simple pasture's walk away.

But one day Baby Roger was running late and needed to get across the river. It was swollen with a torrent of water from the Spring Thaw, and what with his morbid fears and paranoias Baby Roger didn't think he could quite cross it on his own. He sat down by the polished stones on the river bank and began to cry.

"Waaaahhhhh!" cried Baby Roger.

"Don't cry, Baby Roger!" interrupted a stranger's voice.

Baby Roger roused himself from his tears to see the Gay Fox standing beside him with an inflatable raft and a bottle of "poppers".

"Don't cry, Baby Roger! I'll take you across the river," said the Gay Fox.

"Really?" Baby Roger questioned. Baby Roger was inherently suspicious of all modes of transportation, particularly planes and rafts.

"Yes, really," said the Gay Fox, and smiled with his large, foxy teeth.

"Hmmm, hey, wait a minute..." Baby Roger thought to himself, out loud. "You just want to get me out in the middle of the river so you can recruit me to gaydom through sodomy and oral sex!"

Baby Roger had heard about Teh Gheys from his local Christian Ministry.

"Oh, no, Baby Roger! I wouldn't do that!" said the Gay Fox, taken aback.

"Hmmm, all right then. But no funny gay stuff!" Baby Roger said, thinking his most macho thoughts of football.

The Gay Fox quickly inflated his raft and soon they were on their way across the river. Baby Roger was actually enjoying the ride across the velvety rapids. Then, they reached the half-way point and the Gay Fox began to fellate him.

"Hey, I thought you said no funny gay stuff!" Baby Roger exclaimed, surprised.

"I can't help it. (mmmpphhh) It's in my nature! (mmmppph)" mumbled the Gay Fox.

"Okay!" ejaculated Baby Roger.

And to this day the sound of running water gives Roger a raging hard-on.

The End.

A little something ...

...Because I want you to know.

Vive la revolution Quailtard!

A "quailtard" may best be defined as a small domesticated fowl, lacking any survival skills whatsoever, bred for its own destruction by its release from captivity moments before being killed at the hands of bourgeois businessmen or politicians with guns.

The "clever" or "outwitting" Quailtard is capable of flying up between these suburban "warriors" inciting them to discharge their weapons in each others' general direction. These most dangerous of Quailtard are the scourge of corporate boardrooms and smoke-filled political pork-barrel parties across the nation.

P.S. What's so wrong with shooting a load in your friend's face? Haven't we all done that at one time or another?

P.P.S. The similarity to the former V.P. is just gravy.

A Moment of Silent Lucidity

Just so we're clear on this: I wear chaps because I want to, not because I have to.

My Night of Passion with Seamus Heaney

People frequently get confused about cultural or sexual stereotypes. This is no big deal, and easily understandable given the poor quality of the American educational system these days ...So let me lead you down the garden path to the unbridled passions of poetry and a raging Irish alcoholic.

I came across The Poet in the back bathroom of Jo's Place. (Remember, Jo used to be married to K.P. before she became a Lesbian and joined the union. Then, oddly enough, for a while she was a Pipe-Fitter, then inherited some money and got her M.F.A. Hence, the poetry-friendly lesbian bar). I have a standing invitation chez Jo as the cabbie of choice, since I'm so lesbian-friendly I've been made an honorary lesbian by over 40 women's organizations. Hell, last Halloween I went as Bea Arthur playing Emma Goldman. Now if that's not Lesbian-Friendly, you'd better pry yourself loose from the toothy grip of Angie's Clam.

Anyway, spank my ass for my mental wanderings. As I was saying, I had to use the little boys' room to powder my diverticuli when I noticed a strangely attractive Irish man sitting, or rather laying, in a puddle of his own sick while being fellated by my friend the Man-Poet and his buddy Hippo Butt! "Schwing!" - I was instantly standing at attention, but didn't want to cut in on the Man-Poet's action. He was obviously calling the shots, mostly letting Hippo Butt lap at the vomit puddle.

I then noticed that the barely conscious, in-his-own-sick laying Irishman had written several poems, with his own feces, on both several yards of toilet paper and the restroom walls. The poetry was incredible, although I can't remember any of the particulars. It was way better than Cooter's, and even better than the Man-Poet's! (By the way, the Man-Poet even has an Associate's degree in poetry!)

Then again, I'm not much of an appreciator of poetry, what with my disability and all (the Color Blindness, not the Ass). So anyway, I fucked all three of them and then we got drunk and I fucked them again. It was pretty hot.