Cum meet “Liquid Groove” – the newest of new music sensational sensations!
This hot band of hot boys is so hot that it will melt lava.
Their new album “Glazed by Sweat” is poised to be the hottest nut-busting open-mouth kiss of a chart-topping hit machine since the invention of sex.
From party-groin bangers to post-coital cuddle jams these hot boys are pumping out hot tunes at 1,000,000,000 BTU’s.
Take a doe-eyed gander at the mind and soul and body stroking poetry of lead off super-smash single “Spray It (Don’t Say It)“:
Spray it
don’t say it
let the moisture play it
the game
of love
that comes dripping
from the sky
stare into the sun
and melt the
apple of your eye
like caramel
my love
is sticky sticky sweet
like a magma barbeque
that cooks your magic meat
spray it
don’t say it
let the wetness
do its thing
the bell is whistle
that blows
dripping from the clouds
that make up your booty
onto the flesh that is the field
that grows inside you
Like a dirty, throbbing
Rotten toothy
Purse your gilded lips
and kiss the golden ocean
blow the horn

of flesh emotion
the smooth juice
washes you
until your sex reaction
spray it
don’t say it
spit and polish
banana splittin’
get it deep inside you, baby
the chocolate melting
soul parade
is dancing on
you sex sex grave
Spray it
Don’t say it


The Plan is in the Pan

Picture This: two dudes staring up at the stars.

“I’ll never forget the last time something like this happened.”
“I’m too busy still trying to.”
“Busy what?”
“Trying to forget the last time.”
“Just let it lie, man, we’ve got a bigger freaking fish to fry here now.”
“Yeah, but how’re we supposed to do that? We ain’t got no frying pan.”
“Shut up.”
“Thanks. Right. Now, just like the last freaking time, we’re stuck neck deep in the stew.”
“You don’t fry stew, you cook that in a pot.”
“Shut up.”
“Just sayin’–”
“Don’t. Listen, okay so, also like last time, time is of the essence.”
“Essence is the time of life. Gotcha.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m still just sayin’–”
“Double don’t.”
“Okay, but what I’m sayin’ you’re sayin’ is like lives, we ain’t got a moment to spare.”
“Not a one. So, first things first you’ve gotta get outta them soiled drawers.”
“That a required action based on our previous experiences?”
“You don’t recall?”
“Well, like I said, I’m repressing it so–”
“Shut up and strip.”
“Okay, fine, if you say so. But what’ll you be doing?”
“I’ll be in the van having a sip.”
“Of what?”
“Cherry wine.”
“Just like last time.”
“I thought you repressed it.”
“Somethings you just can’t keep down.”

The Almost Exactitude of Infinite Love.

Picture this: two dudes staring at the sea.
“Whadya mean nope?”
“It ain’t exactly.”
“It’s not?”
“Nope, it’s almostly.”
“That’s not a word.”
“It sure is.”
“How’s that now?”
“‘Cause it ain’t all so much as much as you think.”
“How much is it then?”
“Almost as.”
“Almost as much as what?”
“What it should exactly be.”
“And how much is that then?”
“Not quite.”
“Not quite what?”
“Exactly that.”
“Which is?”
“As much.”
“I’m asking you.”
“I don’t understand the question.”
“And I don’t understand why I married you.”
“I shoulda just got a dog.”

Loose Talk

0MjY2tR“Whoa there, slow down, kid.”
“Aww c’mon mister, I gotta cruise, man.”
“I can dig it, buddy, sure, but safety first.”
“Who needs safety when you have God on your side.”
“Son, that’s very wise of you, but still, you have to be responsible.”
“Yeah yeah, I get it. But if I ain’t cruisin’ I aint livin’ and that ain’t what God wants.”
“Another wise thought and yes, it’s true, God wants–check that, needs you to cruise ’cause he wants you live. But still, like I said safety–”
“Safety smafety, I ain’t got no time to be putting on the pads, old timer. I gotta cruise, baby, I gotta cruise.”
“You remind me of me when I was your age. I used to cruise so hard it’d give God diarrhea.”
“What changed? You could still cruise hard and loose.”
“I could cruise harder and looser than you’ve ever dreamed.”
“What’s stopping you?”
“Ask my wife.”


Old Gabber Von Palaver over here wagging his chin like it was a see-saw watching a tennis match, up and down back and forth in and out my god this guy’s sick with the tittle-tattle so hard his maundering blither is firing like a goddamn prattle cannon. Slow down, buddy, I like a good blether session as much as the next guy but this gabber gossip babble blasting is worse than VX nerve gas. If you’ve gotta kill me now fine go ahead but do not take all the time in the freaking universe to tell me about it first or I swear to god I just might die. Listen, you do not need to explain it to me, okay, I know grandiloquence, if time, I do, some might say I talk with a gilded tongue in the various styles of many different yet equally revered jazz greats. My mouth is three kinds of saxophone horning smooth and sweet beneath the pleasuring rays of an alien moon. So don’t look at me like I’m hyperbolating when I’m saying that buddy over here is running off at the mouth like a million motherfucking chattering monkeys from some god forsaken backwater on the far side of a dark planet in solar system way over in some other part of our space jammed into a barrel and tumbling over some magnificent waterfalls. Do not say that. If you choose to say I’m running my mouth because some buck is running his mouth then you are about to get run in the mouth. Via karate. As in kickpunch. As in black dot. As in dojo. So there. Now will someone please pass the freaking paprika because this freaking steak is like freaking Macadam in my freaking mouth. Who the fuck picked this restaurant anyway? Dollars for donuts it was Motormouth McGee over here. There should be a law.

Global Thermal Nuclear Bureaucracy! (or how I learned to stop worrying and love the paperwork.)

The office was teeming. Teeming with insect-like action that saw paper and ink and everything in between fluttering about to and fro and here and there from one end of the fluorescent lit structure to the other and back again.

A zillion pieces of documents and signatures and stamps and initials and yes’s and no’s.

It boggles his mind as he stood there, the brain behind the perfect moustache searching for clues to answers he knew he needed.

The war depended on it.

He picked a crisp perfectly pressed soldier that was marching by with an armful of folders.


“Yes Colonel sir!”

“One question.”

“Ask away, sir.”

“Just what the hell are you doing over here?”


“I mean I want to know the goddamn function of this goddamn ridiculous place.”

“It’s an office, sir.”

“No it’s not. It’s a goddamn butthole.”

“If you say so, sir.”

“And I see nothing to my eye that indicates this butthole is doing anything short of taking a goddamn shit and nothing more.”

“Sir, you’re wrong, sir.”

“About the function of a goddamn butthole? Or that particular butthole is not taking a goddamn shit?”

“What we’re doing here is far from shit, sir.”

“Well, What is Then? It doesn’t seem like goddamn warfare.”


“I mean this butthole in this man’s army is nothing but a bureaucratic brown stain.”

“Sir, I beg to differ.”

“Corporal you better tell me what the hell you mean.”

“I mean that we are here to ensure the butthole of our illustrious fighting forces is as spit and polished as the tip of the spear. One dotted i and crossed t at a time.”

“Corporal, I asked for a status report not a goddamn staph infection.”

“Understood, sir.”

“All I hear about this place is it’s a place where there’s a place that’s making places. It’s got untold members of this mans army here and there and all over nowhere far as we can tell, and all these good and useful people, people in uniform, soldiers in this person’s army, doing fuck knows what.”

“Sir, if ensuring maximum possible productivity is spread seamlessly across all departments in one hundred percent gung-ho efficient synergy is doing fuck knows what then we are knowing the fuck.”

“Gung-ho synergy is fine as long as it’s ACTIVELY KILLING THE GODDAMN ENEMY!”

“Not all wars are won on the battlefield, colonel.”

“And not all shitheads are idiots, but they sure as hell most of ‘em are! Jesus, Betsy, and Moses Malone if all I’m not just hearing is just a chickenshit pimple poppin’ paper pusher who felt cock throbbing huge in his clean and pressed jodhpurs behind his big desk with his funny face thinking that if I create the paperwork that gets filled out and processed and filed in order to oversee the oversight then I will be the oversight and on and on and on because if we just make it a big scaredy-cat parade full of forms and memos and meetings and committees and donkey dongs and ape pussy and fear and corruption and infinitely high piled piles of cowshit, then I’m an asshole and an idiot. (Cups his hand to his ear, listens) Yup, that’s what I hear.”

“You know we have form for that. If the Colonel would wish to fill one out. To make it official.”

If only they could bottle this guy, the Colonel thought, he’d be more effective than nerve gas.

He saluted, turned on his heel, and marched off. He needed a shower and a smoke and to kill some people.