Isn't this guy gorgeous? Melts my heart!

Fifty Shades of Grey Satirical Fan Fiction Part III

Christian whistled and a servant remotely opened the small door to Colossus’s cage. The Irish Setter (which Christian really did love) came bounding into the room. Christian gave it the hand signal for sit, then stay. Ana, thankfully, was already blindfolded. Grey took a small ball gag from the bed post and climbed atop Ana’s body. Oh my, she thought, he’s going to do something really interesting. Triple crap! Her minded screamed that she should order him to take off the blind fold. Her sex was ready for him, down there was flowing like a river.  Christian slipped the ball gag in her mouth and thanked all that was good that she could no longer talk. Christian had discovered her mouth was basically useless. When she was talking, it nearly bored him to suicide. When they were engaged in coitus, it was like slipping his cock into an eel. Before the gag went in, she inhaled sharply and her inner goddess screamed to not let this shit continue. Double crap! She hated the gag. But damn if his cock wasn’t a magic wand that could melt her problems away with fresh ejaculate. Oh my! Her inner goddess murmured this may not be so bad. Another voice muttered that she needed her mouth to tell him how this was like masturbation because if she couldn’t see him or talk to him, she might as well be alone.

Christian murmured to Ana that he was going to try out a new sex toy on her. Ana’s inner goddess murmured that would be great. Her sex quivered with anticipation and she almost had an orgasm in anticipation of what was about to happen “down there.” Oh my! She was horny. Christian hand signaled to Colossus and he rose to all fours. Christian moved Ana into position, her ass in the air. From under the bed, he removed a small foam platform to give Colossus a bit more leverage. He signaled and Colossus jumped on the bed and onto the platform. Before she knew was happening, Colossus mounted her. Anyone could see why he had earned such a name. When his paws hit Ana’s back she screamed. Triple crap! What the fuck! Her inner goddess screamed and writhed. Christian began murmuring to her about a trip to Paris he would take her on and Ana began to calm as she imagined all the shopping they could do in Paris. Christian had taken her to New York a couple weeks ago in exchange for her masturbating in the ball pit at Chuck E Cheese. While in New York, Christian had business to attend to and he’d turned her loose on 5^th Avenue with her very own American Express Black Card. Nearly having to register as a sex offender (had she been caught) had all been wiped out when she bought a pair of Ferragamo pumps to match her Coach handbag and $7,000 Gucci dress which she nearly ruined later that night by spilling wine on it from the shock of Christian penetrating her with his toe. The beautiful diamond tennis bracelet had made Christian’s request that she not wear underwear to New York’s finest restaurant seem reasonable. Sexy and imaginative. Something a horny jock high schooler might ask of his uninhibited cheerleader girlfriend.

A TV screen in Richard Branson’s private jet allowed him to see the entire disgusting act play out in high definition color. Colossus was really going at it and Branson was sure he’d never seen such a cock on a dog. The damn thing was like Lyndon Johnson. Branson sipped his martini and listened to Christian soothe Ana by telling her of all the amazing stuff he would buy her in Paris next week. And then, if she were good, he’d take her to Budapest. Brans noticed he had his fingers crossed when he mentioned Budapest and he would find out later that he had guesses right. Although, Christian was pretty sure the empty headed Ana wouldn’t know the difference between Hungary and Romania. Listening to Christian was far better than listening to the dog whimper or Ana’s moaning. The sound of Colossus’s dog tags clinking together was downright unnerving and Brans had to swallow two Xanax and a Klonopin to keep the eerie sound from driving him mad. When Colossus finished, hopefully not inside Christian’s living plaything, Branson picked up his phone and called his banker in Switzerland. It took only minutes to transfer the $2.5 million into Christian’s account. Branson watched Colossus head back to his cage and then watched Christian undo the ball gag from Ana’s mouth. He toasted the screen as Christian moved Ana back into the doggy style position. He went for his riding crop and went to work on Ana. Now that his real urge had been satisfied, Christian generally needed an orgasm to help him sleep. Branson watched Christian enter her like a group of White Walkers attacking the Wall of the King’s Watch. Quickly losing interest, he turned to Family Guy. In a few hours when his plane landed in Dallas, Texas Branson had a plan to win back his $2.5 million and make a famed Dallas Cowboy cheerleader do something so twisted even Christian would give him a standing O. A bag at Branson’s feet contained enough cash to make the starry-eyed, innocent cheerleader do anything he wanted. Which was good because this would take some convincing.

Fifty Shades of Grey Satirical Fan Fiction Part II

Ana was trussed up in his playroom. The playroom had cost $100,000 but it was a good investment because luring gold digging cooze in there helped him win bets from Branson. Not all the time, of course. Branson had playrooms of his own, one of which was on his private jet. The last bet saw Branson nailing a chick cuffed to the posts of a spinning bed. The Brans had instructed the pilot to roll and pitch the plane as much as was safely possible. Branson said she’d puke her large dinner of oysters, clams, and chocolate between 5-10 minutes. Christian had witnessed her suck raw oysters down like there was no tomorrow and wagered her stomach was made of iron. He’d given her 15-20 minutes. If she puked between 10-15 minutes, it was even money. Over 25 minutes and Mark Zuckerberg would win. Zucks and Grey kissed $5 million each goodbye when she hurled her dinner all over her leather outfit and Branson’s very unhappy cock. The time? 6 minutes 31 seconds. The Brans had been on a winning streak and it had to stop. Grey was down $40 million.

Ana was too dewy eyed with the prospect of being railed by a billionaire whose penis was apparently magic to notice the video camera in the corner of the room. There was no magic, Ana was an easily manipulated naïve talking vagina with dreams of a life of luxury and Grey was a psychopath with a hedge fund. It was almost too easy. Brans had made another side bet for a considerable $2.5 million if Chris could convince her to boff his Irish Setter, Colossus. Grey was getting her armed and ready, getting her pussy (which felt like a sack of wet sand) all revved up so when she was past the point of caring, blindly in pursuit of pleasure,  he could introduce Colossus and by then she wouldn’t mind a bit. He could promise her another helicopter ride or a trip to Paris or something if more convincing was needed. No, wait. He seemed to remember she wanted to go to Budapest. Or was it Bucharest? It was hard to remember because Ana Steele was so fucking tedious and boring; it physically hurt his brain to listen to the airheaded cooze. She’d been prattling on for what seemed like millennia about Thomas Hardy or Thomas Paine or Warren G Harding at dinner and not even four martinis could blot out the migraine her grating, entitled college girl voice induced. God, listening to this bitch go on about subjects no one gave a shit about was so fucking taxing that he considered getting up and leaving the restaurant to go to a brothel. It would almost be worth losing the $2.5 million or, hell, even the $10 million big bet. Somehow, he managed to get through the dinner because he’d made another bet. Through Facebook he’d found out her favorite food was chicken marsala. Using Grey Marketing Metrics Inc. and a favor from Zucks, he’d managed to target a review of the restaurant to her Facebook wall. She jumped at it because it proclaimed the chicken marsala, prepared by a world class chef, was probably the best in the world. She’d been foaming at the mouth and almost getting her panties wet to try it. So, for fun and $100,000 from Brans, he’d forbidden her from eating it. When she reluctantly agreed to go to the restaurant anyway, Grey received a text from Richard. The words “Fuck you faggot,” preceded a wire transfer confirmation for the hundred K. Damn that felt good. Christian immediately bought a sculpture of a Roman man with an erect penis. He bet Sergey Brin $10,000 that he could make his housekeeper suck off the statue for $500. It would arrive in a week.

Back in the playroom, Ana was wet and slick as an oil spill on a beach, the aforementioned sand included. Christian pulled out of her and leaned down to kiss her depressingly small tits.

                “I’ve got a surprise for you,” he murmured.

                “I can’t wait,” Ana murmured. 

Fifty Shades of Grey Satirical Fan Fiction Part I

                Christian Grey was indeed a twisted, depraved sadistic motherfucker. Yeah, he’d whipped that dippy cunt Anastasia until she cried and then she ran off in a tizzy, whimpering like a child who’d been caught in the cookie jar. This held no pleasure for Christian because it wasn’t his game. Christian creamed his $500 designer jeans over money. Lots of money. If he could convince (probably by murmuring in her ear) that naïve ginch to wear a dog collar and walk around Kerry Park, then he would win a $10 million bet he’d made with Richard Branson. She had to bark occasionally and do the whole performance on all fours wearing a furry bikini. Branson and Grey had similar bets between them for years because when you’re a billionaire who can do just about anything for recreation, the hardcore fun drained out of life pretty damn fast. The bet was simple: get some stupid tramp to do their most depraved bidding just by the power of charm and a ten figure bank account. Branson had gotten one of his to attend a black-tie gala (in Washington DC no less) wearing a French maid outfit and then proceed to unabashedly hit on every married man. She was ordered to be as overt as possible and always in front of the men’s wives. Branson had been startlingly clear, his eyes sparkling like ice chips with drunken malice, tinged with unhinged depraved lust. He hissed his orders, nary a slurred word to be found despite the 5 martinis, into the money-grubbing 19 year-old college slut’s ear:  “no fucking exceptions or you’ll be walking back to Penn State, Lyla.” She touched, flirted, laughed and showed off her tits with impunity to the married men because Branson told her it turned him on. One wife, drunk on six glasses of champagne, had slapped Lyla’s face. Branson had a $50,000 side bet riding on the prospect of physical violence. A $10,000 bonus included for hair pulling. That was very good; Branson was a clever, twisted, delightfully psychotic son of a bitch. But oh, he had nothing on Christian Grey. If he could get Annie Steele to walk in the park like a bitch dog then he would win the $10 million which he could blow on sports cars and clothes. It was taking more time than Grey had anticipated and to make things interesting, they had their side bets. The NDA netted Grey $500,000 but when she struck out anal fisting, he’d had to give it back to Branson. That was an unconditional part of the bet. Only ole Rich could put ‘anal fisting’ in a legal document and get away with it. Yes, Branson was very good. The only problem facing Christian was that he’d chosen his target very unwisely. Anastasia had all the intelligence and good sense of a tree sloth. A smart woman was easier to manipulate because she could see all the angles from which she would benefit by screwing a billionaire. Anal could set her up for life; Donald Trump proved that one. But, oh, Anastasia was dumb as a sack of potatoes that had been left in the sun too long. She couldn’t see things quite as well and thus needed more convincing. While more trusting than an intelligent woman, she also held onto her values a bit tighter. She was a 25 year old virgin, after all. He’d managed to blow out her pussy at the four day mark (he’d won $50,000 from Branson on that at least) but damn she sucked in bed. Ana Steele moved like a metronome with twice as many sharp edges. But, he was getting closer. Christian was so close he could smell the seductive scent of crisp hundreds and the beautiful interior of the custom Nissan GTR he’d buy with Branson’s money. He, of course, could afford such a conveyance without the Brans but it felt so good to spend someone else’s money. Well…that wasn’t quite right because he often spent other people’s money: Grey Capital, a subsidiary of Grey Enterprises, was a giant Ponzi scheme that made Madoff look like a street hustler bilking the yokels with Three Card Monty.  No, it felt good to spend Branson’s money. Grey thought Branson was slovenly dunce of a man with stupid hair. Branson thought Grey was a weak, weasely, faggy little twerp who would benefit from a frontal lobotomy. They got along well over Martinis. 

A story I am working on...

I like this story better so I am replacing the old one with this new one. I'm not sure if I will continue on this story but I might try. 

                

                                Judge Damien Goldman was plastered to the fifth power when he attempted to sentence a habitual shoplifter to death by hanging. The shoplifter, who stole for the sheer thrill of it, got himself in more trouble when he responded to the sentence with an indignant “Have you lost your fucking mind, your honor.” Judge Goldman then ordered that the shoplifter be killed immediately. Right outside the courthouse. No one knew what to do. When the defense lawyer objected to such lunacy, he was sentenced to 30 years. The prosecutor stood up and questioned Judge Goldman’s insanity and was promptly sentenced to a public flogging and six days in the stocks. Bailiff Jorge Torres decided this shit had gone far enough and attempted to forcibly remove the judge to his chambers. Bailiff Torres was rewarded for his efforts when the judge stabbed him through the hand with a small Swiss Army knife. Bailiff Torres then came to the realization that he should head to the bathroom and clean himself up. He would’ve gone for his gun had his shooting hand not been impaled.

                Judge Goldman pinged his gavel off the head of the court stenographer when she asked him to repeat what he’d yelled to the bailiff. The judge did in fact repeat it, his words slurred and soupy, but it didn’t really matter since 81 year old Madge Frtiz was unconscious and bleeding from the head; she was still slumped over in her chair.

                “I said get the fuck away from me you taco bending bastard.”

                A look then passed over the judge’s face. It was the look of a man who had been grabbed by the balls. He had not been grabbed by the testicles but the vodka had finally caught up with him. The judge had elected to sentence the shoplifter after a lunch of a burrito platter, chips, and a half gallon of Grey Goose. The judge vomited his lunch all over Madge Fritz, farted, and pitched over the bench to land at the feet of Mayor Niles Rademacher. The Mayor spit on the judge’s back and sighed.

                “Well we got ourselves a clusterfuck here, yessir,” he said and burped.

                A clusterfuck indeed.

                The drunken judge was not arrested out of professional courtesy but he was sent home for the day while the city council and mayor figured out what to do about him. As it would turn out, sending him home was a very bad thing to do.

                First, the judge didn’t bother to open the garage door before he drove his BMW inside. The door smashed down as the car powered its way in, still managing to stop when the little dangling tennis ball touched the window.  No one thought it might be a wise idea to drive the judge home. Or at least, no one wanted to risk getting stabbed. The judge stumbled from his Beemer, pushing the crumpled garage door out of the way. The door to the house was unlocked and he slammed it open.

                “Honey! I’m home,” he said a la Jack Nicholson in The Shining.

                The Judge lumbered down the hallway to his den, hearing his wife’s hurried footsteps as she came from the third floor sauna, a robe wrapped around her plastic surgeried body. The judge went to his wet bar and poured himself a huge knock of MacAllan. He drank it in three swallows and hurled the glass into the fireplace. His wife turned the corner into the den, her face puffy from a chemical peel. Her teeth whitening strips made her speech comical.

                “What the fuck is going on here Dame? It sounds like a dumptruck drove through the house!”

                “I’m a fucking dump truck you whore,” he said swaying on his feet.

                “You’re drunk,” she said flatly.

                “Correct, I’ll take really fucking obvious answers for six hundred, Alex.” He cackled.

                “Get out, you bag of shit,” she said angrily.

                The judge laughed and went to a small cage in the corner of the den. His wife’s Parakeet, Tinkerbell, lived in the cage. The judge swung the door open, laughing manically, and removed the bird.

                “Oh shit,” he said in a falsetto meant to represent the bird’s voice, “the big mean judge has got meeee! Oh nooooo!” The judge eyes were on fire with evil and malice.

                “I’m hungry, no time for the Colonel,” he said seriously.

                The Judge’s wife watched with horror as he raised Tinkerbell to his lips and bit the bird’s head off. He tried chewing it, broke an incisor on the skull, and spit the head in his wife’s face as she ran to him and her poor bird. She didn’t see the wooden figurine in his hand. He bonked her on the head with it and she went down. He dropped the bird on her back and went to his bedroom.

                Twenty minutes later, fortified with 5 Vicodin and 3 Valium, the Judge sat in the sauna with a whiskey sour in his hand. He drank the sour slowly, savoring the citrus taste that only a fresh squeezed lime could provide. The pharms were really cooking now and he was cruising higher than the fucking Concorde. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. His iPod played the Goldberg Variations and the music sent him riding on waves of ethereal pleasure. Of course, they masked his wife’s approach. She stood outside the sauna for ten minutes and watched with disgust as he began to pleasure himself. When he called out Claudia Schiffer’s name, she’d had quite enough of Damien’s antics.

                She raised pistol, pointed it at the glass, and placed his gut right in the sights. A sneer came across her face as she flicked the hammer back.

                “Goodbye, Damien,” she said and fired.

                She lowered the gun to his penis and fired. She raised the gun to his head and fired. Finally the realization that the glass was not broken and Damien was still alive crossed her mind. She eyed the gun suspiciously and was going to open the cylinder when she looked back toward the sauna. Her husband was still in the same position but the sliding glass door was now open.

                “Blunnngs,” he mumbled.

                “What?” She said, so freaked out she was unable to grasp the situation.

                “Blaangs,” he said, suppressing a giggle of childish triumph.

                She crept a little closer.

                “What,” she said again, crying now.

                “Blanks,” he said clearly and without emotion.

                His hand slowly emerged from under his towel and he raised the .45 caliber pistol with a long silencer on the barrel. Her mouth dropped open, the Colt Python fell from her hand and thumped to the tile, she goggled at him stupidly. The drunken, drugged out, philandering, dangerous bastard had bested her. Her! She’d been sober and lucid and yet: she’d been beaten. She’d been Valedictorian. She’d been popular. She’d been beautiful. Damn it, she’d gone to Vassar college and-

                The judge blew the right side off her head. Her hand went to what was left of her skull and then her brain, well what was left, realized she should no longer be standing. She, like the judge earlier, farted and then fell in a heap. The judge eased the door closed with his foot and went back to his music. The bitch had fucked up his buzz.

                The Judge was pissed. He had been enjoying his buzz and booze in the sauna when his watch beeped. He had set it right before getting in to remind him of the housekeepr’s pending arrival. It would not be prudent for her to see his dead wife. They lived in a large house in the country  and there were no neighbor’s to complain about the shots, the garage door, or any other noise. The judge dressed in a track suit and went down the driveway to wait for the maid.

                Eight minutes later the maid pulled into the drive. The judge silently crept from behind the gate pillar as the maid entered her gate code. The judge had disabled it so she would not be able to get in. As she cursed in Russian at the gate and typed in her code for the third time, the judge bonked her on the head with a small lawn gnome. He’d had a fun time today, bonking people on the head with small statues. It was springtime and bonking was a spring activity. He felt like a schoolboy again. He dropped the gnome to the ground and pushed Helga out of the way as he got into her car. The judge drove the car around to the back of the property. He drug Helga’s limp body out and stuffed her into a garden shed. The judge was not a rapist despite the fact that the Russian maid was beautiful. He had some decency. He locked her in the shed, smiled at the sun, and went back toward the house.  He was whistling Dixie and eating a granola bar.  

Man Wonders but God Decides When to Kill the Prince of Tides

           I pulled out my copy (well it's on my Kindle so I clicked on it) of The Prince of Tides. For anyone who hasn't read the book, it's absolutely wonderful. Great writing, prose, and storytelling. Wonderful in its scope, The Prince of Tides will leave you touched, exhausted, and enlightened. That said, I can only read it once a year. Why? It's full of human misery, violence, and suffering. Everything from 4 stillborn babies, to the rape of three children, to snipers killing heroes, to suicidal siblings, to nuclear proliferation, to divorce, to marijuana smuggling, to terrible family violence. The writing, as I said, is spectacular, but it leaves one wondering just how much more horror Conroy can heap on his luckless Wingo family. The answer? A lot. A highly recommended read.

A couple observations about things today:

1)Why are the music majors so hot? Walking through the music area it's like oh my God. The things I would do to those music majors. There was this one sitting on the couch today. If he plays saxophone and guitar, it'd be perfect. I'll just let you figure out that one on your own.

2) Why do people drive 15-20mph under the speed limit on HW50/Colo 47? The speed limit where I am referring is 60mph yet people plod along at 35-45!! GO FASTER!! It's not being safe, it's impeding traffic. Put your foot down and go. I have places to be. 5mph under is fine, I can deal with that. But 45 in a 60? That's just insane. If I had a tank, there'd be trouble. Aren't I a whiny bitch?

3)Why are people in general insane? How about instead of gassing your own people Assad you just chill. I'll come over, we'll smoke some weed and eat some chips. Trust me, you will see things in a whole new light. You will be much more beloved once we partake in a little green. I don't smoke weed but I'll make an exception for bettering the world.

Moonlit Street

I rang your bell, come on in baby

My tread not so light, footprints in the foyer

Back into the sun, you can’t stand here, boy

And he says hey can you dig it, hey can you dig it?

Play outside, it’s so much fun skinning my knees

I go down the block, to another place address unknown

And he says hey can you dig it, hey can you dig it?

To the approval of this delighted hood, I submit

The essence of it on my chest, trickling off to the street

And they say hey can you dig it, hey can you dig it?

Thank you they chant, polishing their shiny switchblades

I remember the pain of events previous, exquisite and fresh

And I say hey can you dig it, hey can you dig it?

Magic words, a muttered apology for making me feel unwelcome

Blades return to tight blue denim pockets, bulging there

A shared credo, they say hey can we dig it, hey can we dig it?

Looking down these feminine streets, so bright 

Wet cobblestone and fresh semenic scent of lust

I think now hey, can I dig it, hey can I dig it?

The block pulsating now, dying to profess the verboten word

Place my hand on the wet streets, utter heresy from my lips

I love this block, I love this block, Moonlit Street, I love

A gentle whisper from above hey can you dig it, hey can you dig it?