Rutabaga Loving

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(Note: Sing to the tune of the saddest song you have ever heard in your goddamn life)

Rutabaga, sweet rutabaga,
oh rutabaga, you’re the root of my misery
you’re a big fat turnip
and I can’t get you into me.
You taste kinda bitter.
But the night it comes
and the stars come out
and my tuber floats free from the soil
So I cut a little hole in you, rutabaga
And ease myself inside.
‘Cause you’ve stole my heart
like a midnight train.
A wax-y turnip-y renegade.
Got my loins on fire
like a moonlight roast.
But I can’t get you into me.
‘Cause you taste so bitter.
Oh how your yellow-y flesh-y
is slippery and slidey
and when I make love to you,
Rutabaga. Oh gee whiz,
It’s better than sex.
From the top of the mountain
to the bottom of the sea
to the dirt in the farmyard
where you live until I dig
dig you up
and slide on in
and grease your loving root vegetable
being, with my love!
With my love!
WITH MY LOVE!!!

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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.

Post-work Circle of Verse

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The horn has blown, quittin’ time! Gather round employees and join ye hands, now we are a circle. A circle of the employed. Representing eternal employment, no beginning no end. Close your eyes, bow your heads, open your hearts, let it flow out of you. And let it be free. Your souls have toiled so hard on the job. And now it is time to release. And so each one of you, in turn, make poem make poem make poem:
Take this job
and shove it
up your butt
like a coconut
Prolapse it
Like the stinkhole
This job is.
Where we work away
From morning ’til night
For very little cash, jack
and extended benefits?
Nope. And our families
ask us, “Why are you so grumpy?”
And we do not answer.
We get drunk.
And let our misery fester
Inside our bodies.
Like fucking cancer.
we are jobbers
who are jobbing
The job

And so it floats and gathers and draws away the ire from the employees and they come to love each other and their place of employment. And then everyone kisses each other with open mouths.