IN LOVING MEMORY OF BILL “SANTA” McREYNOLDS
By Bob Freville
Has “the stranger” become a bit too familiar to seem strange anymore? Do you require a level of advanced stimulation that no vibe or butt plug could ever provide? You are not alone, my perverted pal.
There’s a reason that the French refer to the human orgasm as “la petite mort.” At the end of the day, there is simply no lover more galvanizing than that Grecian bone smuggler, Thanatos. Think of this son of Darkness as a power bottom, only somehow he’s still the one on top.
Confused? You should be. Nobody escapes the greasy clutches of Death, especially not those who tempt him by wrapping a belt around their neck while they burp the worm.
If that hasn’t scared you off then you are probably one of those brave boys or girls who welcomes His gelid embrace with open arms…if not open palms. In which case, I say crack on! Here are some tips for you and your bits.
If you’re looking to go out gagging, there’s no method more effective than utilizing nature’s finest as your sexual aid. Just ask the unemployed twenty-something who knocked on his neighbors’ door, seeking assistance after an afternoon bout of making the bald man cry resulted in a zucchini getting wedged in his throat.
According to the official report, “Removal of the trousers showed the penis to be semi-erect; around the base of the penis was a rubber band. On the lower abdomen and in the groin was dried, white coloured material, subsequently identified as semen…Internal examination showed a zucchini impacted in the larynx and oropharynx, totally occluding the airway…”
Spark things up with a little electricity; if it’s good enough for that ole lady killer Egidius Schiffer, it should be good enough for you. Schiffer showed the world that his creativity extended far beyond murdering hitchhikers when he removed a cable from a table lamp and wrapped it around his nipples and dick.
[Note: If you survive the same, you’ve totally gotta start a phallus-obsessed punk band called Nipples & Dick.]
Schiffer then stuck the end of the cable into a power socket, thus creating world’s worst weenie roast. When the electrical current flowed through his chest, homeboy had a fatal heart attack. But hey, all great orgasms require great sacrifice and if you don’t believe me, just look at this!
Sometimes, rubbing one out won’t cut the mustard; some might even say rubbing six out isn’t sufficient. Any artist will tell you that it can take multiple tries before you create a work of genuine perfection.
Don’t be afraid to really get in there and rock out with your cock out till the clock stops ticking. This guy certainly wasn’t when he flogged the bishop until it quite literally fell off. For this brave young man, it took 62 consecutive tries to achieve an orgasm so incredible it blew his baguette clean off.
If we’re being honest, we all know you suck, but you know what sucks even harder? A vacuum cleaner. That’s right, don’t be shy, let your freak flag fly. If a 57-year old man can do it, so can you.
If you’re anything like him, the vacuum cleaner won’t be enough, so be sure to take a page from his playbook and bring along a bottle of wine, some pantyhose, several jars of lubricant, a glass of urine and a wooden table leg. Remember, vacuum cleaners can suck, but it’s your prostate that’ll really makes you blow.
Some direct contact with your testis, a couple of knots in those pantyhose and you’re off to see the Wizard.
Not everyone’s satisfied to go out in so simple a fashion as death by household appliance. Some true warrior whackers insist on something far more complex. Consider the case of a 25-year old Canadian man who didn’t settle for the mere risk of drowning while jacking it but rather committed in the most overly complicated way possible.
This colorful cobra charmer met his end at the bottom of a river wearing what was politely described as “homemade diving apparatus.” That’s a euphemism for a hockey helmet, a two-piece snowmobile suit, beige ski boots and a bondage system “joining together the waist, knees, and ankles of the victim was observed with meshed metallic chains and straps and accessories usually used for horseback riding…
“…A section of electrical wire was also used at the knees. The whole bondage device was secured at the pubic region by a padlock, consequently maintaining the victim’s legs tightly joined together…
“Furthermore, a meshed metallic chain was attached to the hockey helmet and straps were also present at each wrist…Under his winter garments, the victim was wrapped in a transparent plastic jumpsuit covering him from head to toe…”
If you don’t consider that dedication, then your dong is in trouble.
Do you have a story about a time when you were pronounced clinically dead from playing Tiddlywinks with Mr. Winky? We’d love to hear it. Drop us a line in the comments below and get us off with how gut-wrenchingly gifted you are.
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The following Halloween treat was originally published by Bizarro Central as part of their Flash Fiction Fridays series. It appears here in its unedited and unabridged form.
By Bob Freville
They’re spilling out on to the rickety termite-ridden runway. Woo daddy! We can see them lumbering out now! Oh yes! Those adorable little gals! Our bright shining stars of the tomorrows that may never come!
Yep, ladies and gentlemen! They’re a sight for sore, empty eye sockets fer sure! Why, if this were the old days, before the blast leveled our entire infrastructure, why, I’d say you could bet yer bottom dollar that one of these girls is gonna be a princess one day!
Yes, you guessed it! It’s the second annual Miss Residuum Post-Apocalyptic Beauty Pageant, my dears!
And you can bet your meat rations that anticipation is high right now as the pageant judges, the Four Freds of the Post-Apocalypse—Rogers, Gwynne, Savage and Durst—clear their phlegmatic throats and slobber all over themselves, awaiting the young ladies.
And here they are, in our dimly-lit barroom, as Mr. Rogers gropes himself til he’s bloody and leers at nothing in particular and what’s that? Oh yes! Savage grins zealously and sticks a hypo in his empty eye socket. Yowzers! And we’re off to the races!
Every contestant has filed in now, powdered and primped all! They sure are adorable in their charred pageant wear. Banana satin bleached by the scorching sun, organza eaten away by age and radiation, ruffled carnation crumpled and withered by rain and heat, but everyone of the petite princesses inhabiting them just utterly darling!
To the left of the stage you can see Lil Ms. Lilith Puck, fourteen, of Hell Broth Province, spittle curdling on what’s left of her dangling mandible. Weighing in at a bone-crunchingly svelte sixty-one pounds, Lilith is a leper who is blind in one eye. But she’s a visionary when it comes to capturing our hearts!
Beside her sits Orca Gibbons, eighteen with the morbid obesity of a woman at least five times her age. Immobile but immaculate in her cobalt steel electric wheelchair, Orca is, pound for pound, the prettiest BBW here and smart to boot! Just ask her parents who died in the nuke fallout two years ago. They would’ve told you, young Orca has an I.Q. that’s nearly as high as what registers when you roll her on to a scale!
In the middle here we have the lovely Lonnie Licorice in her lavender and mold colored costume that brings out the natural sheen of the chains secured to her wrists and ankles. Despite her living dead status, I’m told she prides herself on dental hygiene and one glance at those great big pearly white chompers tells me it’s true! Just look at her smile as she gnashes at the air! Darling! Simply darling!
Next we’ve got Fantasia Brillo! Sixteen, silly hot and fresh from a spinal tap, Fantasia is wearing a twinkling tiara that tells us she’s either preparing to win the crown…or wants desperately to hide her lobotomy scars! Either way, it’s a delight to watch her sashay around…and around…and around, until she dry heaves and her eyes roll up in her head.
Oops! Down she goes! Unfortunately Fantasia will no longer be competing, as her wounds seem to have split open upon impact with the band stand.
But there’s still the alluring, the attractive and the down-right abrasive Penny Pigtails. We’re told she’s a real cunt and that can only mean one thing. DIVA!!! Oh yes, this four-foot and two inch tall lil Tinkerbell is a real heart-breaker, folks. And if I didn’t know better, I’d say she was going to win this thing!
The stage is littered in mutants of every stripe and sexual persuasion, from skin-headed unicycle-riding cyborg Sybian riders in frumpy lace to zombie bitches in bustiers, their decaying flesh flanked by Christmas lights. But the front-runners are already clear at this year’s Miss Residuum Beauty Pageant—It’s Lilith, Orca, Lonnie and Penny Pigtails.
As the medics spirit Fantasia away…to the incinerator in the rear of the auditorium, a hush falls over the otherwise agonizingly aroused crowd.
A surprise understudy takes her place in a sopping wet swivel chair. It’s Susie Sliver, last year’s winner and yesterday’s dinner from the looks of her skeletal cadaver. She says nothing, but the rouge applied to her last surviving flap of face skin speaks a thousand words! Gorgeous!
Aaaaaaand SHOWTIME!!! The girls are squeezed into too-small swimsuits by men in purple surgical gloves and spun around so the Freds can see what they ate for breakfast. Lilith’s jaw comes completely unhinged and hits Savage in the side of his head. Eww!! He blinks twice, either in disbelief or from a tic borne of radiation poisoning.
Lilith is eliminated from the contest on grounds of insolence. Her jaw is stomped into splinters by Fred Gwynne’s platform boot. It is not returned to her.
Next up we have the elegant evening attire. Just look at that Penny Pigtails, waving jazz hands at the brown stain on the front of her gown! A true sibyl, this one! The frothy-mouthed mutants groan in abject disappointment as she and Orca fight for attention, throwing out their hips in the process.
It would seem Penny is about to be eliminated by the judges by way of an infrared sniping, but wait! Penny jumps up and down, throwing a temper tantrum and, O Cod! O Cod! Yes, Lonnie mistakes Penny’s furtive movements for those of a sizzling plate of sirloin and sinks her maw into little Penny’s throat.
The Freds raise solid nines as their grills are bathed in guano-hot arterial spray. It looks like ole “Zombie Lonnie” just might have this one in the bag!
The highlight of any beauty pageant here is always the pustules, my peasant pals! That’s right! It’s the Miss Residuum pustule-eating contest! And all the girls are doing so well, sucking back their scabs and sores and even reaching over and consuming them off each other, that the Four Freds call a draw.
Now the real fun can begin in earnest. The girls are gonna get sweaty.
Lonnie looks mighty confused as the stage hands throw her a jump rope, but never mind that bitch, boys and girls!
Orca is out of her wheelchair now, struggling through eyes blinded by beads of sweat, and huffing and puffing toward the spotlight. She’s got something in her hands, something she’s dragging along the ground.
Yes! It’s her colostomy bag! Yes! And she’s using it to skip rope! Wow! Don’t that just beat all?
Look at her go! I haven’t seen a mastodon jump that high since the Nazis electrocuted them in World War II propaganda footage! Woo!
The Freds are about ready to make a judgment call here.
Yes, they’ve just removed their hands from their trousers and are ready to announce the winners.
And the Jon Bonet Ramsey Runner-Up Award goes to Suzie Sliver, for really giving it her all despite her obvious immobility! Give ‘er a hand, folks. Hers don’t work after all.
And the winner of the Second Annual Miss Residuum Beauty Pageant iiiiiiis…Orca Gibbons!
She wheels herself to center stage as Suzie Sliver stares off vacantly. A spider skitters across the spotlight overhead and somewhere an Andalusian eye is slit straight down the middle. The night is young, but the time has come.
As the ribbon is strapped to her substantial midsection, a commotion is heard off camera. What is this we’re hearing? Aww, look at them trying to shove twenty pounds of shit into a ten pound bag with that tiara. What? Huh? Oh no!
O my Cod! If you’re listening at home, this just in! As Orca attempted to accept her flowers without wheezing, gunfire echoed out in the room and four hundred stone of Second Annual Miss Residuum winner Orca Gibbons went flying back, dismantling the stage as bullets riddled her in her gargantuan chest.
It…it appears as though we are under attack by militant feminist lycanthropes who smelled the fresh blood of poor Fantasia and found where we were by snout. What’s this? I’m sorry, I’m having trouble hearing anything over the explosions of tee-ee-hee-hear gas.
What’s this…ah…okay. Okay, it seems the lesbian lycanthropes have come to reclaim the crown. The leader says she and her sisters are the true Miss Residuums, having fought on the front lines in the battle against the Radioactive Ones.
O Cod! They’re threatening to level the building. And they’re DOING IT!!!! AAAAAHH!!!!
I’m sorry, ladies and genitals. I will have to cut this one short due to the technical difficulty of losing part of my skull to mortar fire. You will have to excuse me while I crouch down even further to locate my gray matter.
Well, thish hash blin duh Shecond Annool Mish Rowowowaaaaahg, and I’m…plowed to…ablouse dat…thliss beer’s vinner, bry default, ick Miss Shoegee Shliver. Take a bow, Shoegee.
Shoegee shez nothing. And neither can I.
In a world full of bloviating misogynists and chest-pounding Jesus freaks, there is one place that you can go where everyone will actually just STFU and let you do you. That place is the cemetery.
Some people get all freaked out when they think about these domiciles of the dead, but here at Silent Motorist Media, we understand the essential value of a good graveyard. For starters, where else can a Goth teenager go to drink licorice Schnapps and howl at the moon without some pubic safety official giving them shit?
And what better place to honor our fallen legends than in their final resting places? Surely, it means more to pour one out at Graceland than it would if you dumped out a forty in your own backyard and said, “Big ups, Elvis.”
But more importantly than anything else, graveyard are just so damn sexy. I can think of no other place on earth that is as closely tied to Thanatos than a historic grave site. The following is a list of the 10 hottest graveyards around, each one of them guaranteed to make a night lover feel naughty.
Edgar Allan Poe’s final resting place reminds us of where the decadent belong. It also reminds us that ugly men in frumpy attire with dark minds can be beyond delish. Bring a fugly mustachioed
stranger with you and do the The Tomahawk Man proud.
There’s nothing quite as romantic as the notion of immortality and Hollywood Forever’s name conjures up images of just that. Here you can dance naked in the night like the horned up vampire that you are. Just don’t be surprised if you get busted on a 314 and face fines or jail time.
I don’t know about you, but I love Jewish men. They’re so clean, so calculating and their faces were made to sit on. If you’re considering a trip abroad, Prague is the place to be and the Old Jewish Cemetery is a great place to meet plaintive people who need a pity fuck.
Who says graveyards gotta be all about the gloom and doom? The Merry Cemetery reminds us that cemeteries can be dead sexy and fun as all get out! The name also conjures images of Old St. Nick which is great for girls like me who grew up rubbing one out to thoughts of a big ole bear of a man with rosy cheeks pounding the holy moley outta them beneath a Christmas tree.
Come for Elvis then cum at the gorgeous sight of this mansion’s magical atmosphere. If you’re not shaking your pelvis by the time you leave then you’re probably a paraplegic because you’re definitely dead below the waist.
Where better to get some head than the home of the Headless Horseman? Located right next to the Old Dutch Church’s own burial ground where Washington Irving imagined Ichabod Crane and the terrors besieging this slumbering Upstate, New York town, Sleepy Hollow Cemetery is a definite hot spot for hardcore debauchery if you live on the East coast.
Don’t let the name fool you, this columbarium can accommodate swinging couples as well as any sexed up singles. Nestled deep within the woods, this cemetery’s spirits have seen more bacchanalian salaciousness than a custodian at a peep show.
There’s nothing sexy about New Jersey…unless you count this Lyndhurst burial ground which houses pop punk prince Joey Ramone. Bring your leather jacket and your knee pads. Some time in the presence of Joey’s spirit will have you wanting to gag on some D until you gargle “Gabba gabba hey!”
What could be hotter than dry humping your broken hymen away on Jeffrey Hymen’s headstone? Here at this naughty necropolis lies the corpulent corpse of The Doors’ frontman and American poet Jim Morrison and girl, if he says to ride the snake, I’m riding that bitch bareback.
While we’re in France, let’s stop over at Montparnasse, home to existential philosopher Emil Cioran. This Romanian pessimist was also a noted essayists and his brand of staunch anti-natalism makes this baby hater randier than a cane toad on goat weed.