Global Thermal Haikuclear War VIII

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Dude’s got th’ lactose
intolerance, bad like, dig?
HE CAIN’T EAT NO CHEESE!!!

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Justice with a capital “G”

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My name is Gus and I am so down with the law, man, you criminal S.O.B.’s had better watch out. I am full on hard as a throbbing slab of fleshy concrete with justice. I am engorged with it. And if you think it’s a good idea to cross the line and commit a crime, I will stroke off like an atomic ape and blow a thick, hot wad of judicatory cum in your ugly scofflaw face. You will feel the steaming stick of Sweet Mother Justice with her sword and scales dripping down off your chin and onto your racketeer’s golf shirt. I will nut the law hard. NUT IT HARD. I am so horny for jurisprudence my balls are blimps and they are floating over the city seeking you goddamn yardbirds who are in desperate need to feel the sick sting of the gooey juice of due process. All you greasy punks making illicit moves on the street staining our beautiful law abiding tarmac with your black-market diarreha hear this, “I AM ASS NASTY HORNY FOR TRUTH AND RECTITUDE!” So get your peccant face down and your indictable butt up and get ready to receive the fairest and most constitutional reaming of your deplorable life. I AM GUS! I AM JUSTICE! GUSTICE!

Here there be pirates! And Doughnuts!

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Yarrr! This doughnut has got no holes. And it be long like my friend Davy Jones’s locker. And there chocolate upon it, like the hair on my chest, dark and thick inside thar be treasure! Creamy treasure! It reminds of the time me and Jack Sparrow and Red Rackham and Wade Simpson went on a rum bender ’cause they wasn’t rationing it then, I tell you! Yarr! Rum and opium and oriental food blow a mighty squall in bowels I tell ye! Yarrr! We all blew a brown typhoon! But this doughnut, avast if it twasn’t holeless and not like them Shanghai wenches at Madame Lee’s Nasty House where me and Lucky Jack Aubrey and Dougie Slavatchek was reaming them like they was cannons and we was the balls and we was broadsiding Lord Nelson’s canoe! Yarrr! But this doughnut it had no holes and was coated in chocolate and was a rectangle and filled with cream and I liked it like I like my ownself. Yarrr! And that’s the tale of the Long John and never will dead men tell it! Yarrr!

Astro Sod

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Burt looked out the window. And gasped. He hammered on the glass.
“Get the hell off the grass!” He yelled, spit spotting the pane.
“What’s going on, Burt?” She called from the kitchen.
“There’s a damn thing on the damn lawn!” He said, eyes staring daggers through the glass.
“Well, didn’t it see the sign?”
“Of course it did!” He cried, “how could it not!” He pointed at the large placard that stood purposefully at the edge of the property upon which large, stern letters declared ‘STAY OFF THE LAWN. ASSHOLE.’
“What’re going to do?” She said, poking her head through the doorway.
Burt shook his head and didn’t look at her. He was studying the interloper.
“Son of a bitch,” he said.
A chubby, pink globule about the size and shape of a couple sacks of shit sat there in the middle of his freshly mowed, perfectly green patch of suburban pride. It casually raised its globby head.
“Blurmp,” it said and a sticky wad of red slime plopped out of the hole in the middle of what may possibly be somewhat accurately described as perhaps its face and splat onto the grass with a sizzle. Where it landed smoke rose and the blades of grass blackened to ash.
“SONOFABITCH!” Burt cried.
“What happened?” She said.
“He’s killing my boys! The squishy creep is killing my baby boys!!!” He turned to face his wife, “Violet, get my gun.”
To be continued…

Butter Truckin’ USA

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ThunderDoug put his foot to the floor and the grease hit the pig right in its honky tonk blowing the fat machine off like a dickless chicken. He pumped that throttle down and blowed it up and the monkey spit spat out of them chubby pipes like a deep-fried monsoon at a Kentucky smorgasbord. He twisted the stick and flipped the switch and the hunk of fat blistered like a boil on the Holy Pope’s stink tit. He filled the bowl with the oil of life, speed screaming sweet mother of flavour into the the night sky like L’il Rick and the Panty Raiders playing live at the Nipple Lick on Tuesday night. The rumble roiled like it was all you could eat chili dogs being chomped by a hot tub full of Japanese schoolgirls and the screams came out of it hard and fast and long and thick as if Big Poppa Moonworm had done the wango tango with the Big Big Bango. He was a nood dood smoothed with rood food. Made them little kiddies undies get skiddy. He tore it down and turned it up and let howl with wind that broke with the smell of a millions stinks. The sky went chocolate and spread itself thicker than Florida Cheddar on a Wisconsin waffle. Man, can this cat ride! Whistle wicked, Willy, you earned it.