Speed Xmas

Future Gasps

whhaaaaaaaaar'sssss maaaaahhhh hunnnnnneeeaaaaayyyyy?

steal your pants right off your ass

We stole a backhoe and all the ROAD CLOSED signs from the unfinished overpass and were all set to desecrate graves when Escho suggested we go over to his girlfriend's place and see if we can modify the scoop shovel fast enough to use it as a catapult. Mark, who had some schooling, tried to explain the impossibility of this idea and told Escho he wouldn't get any more potato vodka if he kept postponing our immanent greatness with petty distractions but by the time he finished his speech we were already at Maryanne's house and halfway through her front hedges when some dude (Mandy's husband, I learned later -- Escho had not been forthcoming with certain critical mission details) started throwing shoes at us from what remained of the porch. I'm not a big guy but I'm a scrapper, so immediately I ran into action, and by action I mean the mailbox, so between head trauma and the moonless night the next part is a bit fuzzy, but I do remember Mark swinging the boom like a slow-motion tail trying to knock Maryanne's husband Dwayne off the porch while Escho took out his lighter and started blowing fireballs at Dwayne between screaming "I'll burn you, man! I'll burn this whole world to the ground!" and I decided it was time to make my exit, so I ran a couple blocks to the Guns N Likker and passed out in the bathroom. This act of alleged cowardice is the reason I no longer get to drive the backhoe, and I *guess* that's fair, but I figure since I'm the one who actually bought a shovel and went out to the graveyard to finish the job while those simps caught 72 hours of cushy observation at Mercy I should get a pass for actually doing what the woman in the television told us to do.

A Year in the Trenches

Picking up where he had let off, Lloyd drifted into the accounts, nay, escapades of Colonel Man Officer: … bombs fell short, fifty yards out in no-mans land, a curtain of mud and men-bits rained upon them. Rained upon their fatigued, soaked bodies, uniform and filth clinging terminally. He clung to these wretched, these shadows hunched into the wall of the trench. A high pitched scream razored through the fugue of bombardment. It came from further down the line, from the latrines. Colonel Man Officer shoved himself upright into a stooped I may get my head blown off position, and started to make his way down the line. He acknowledged each man as he passed, and entered into a hazy mantra of reassuring officer speak, nods, gazes and strained polite grins, fixed, broken, grimaced. A scene of freneticism met him at the latrine, dull brown, green and a splash of fresh hot red. Private Colloquial was laid out, the splash of red was his, and his groins’. He motioned manic to Colonel Man Officer.
“It got one of me balls sir! It got one of em! A rat in the shitter!”
“Latrine Colloquial, latrine!” barked Colonel Man Officer.
“You gotta get it for me sir! Mable will be at a loss without it, she likes to suck em see!”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Colonel Man Officer approached the latrine, and the black hole pointed out to him by his men, the hole with the rat in, the hole with the nut scrumper. He reached in slowly, fingers, hand, arm ready to recoil. He, ready, in front of his men to stop such a loss of face, a reaction, something natural, something of their level. As he groped through the excrement slop for the testicle nibbling rat he could feel his personal lice copulating in the sweat on the nape of his neck, along with the dead lust eyes of his men, watching with itching red bulbs. He reached in further, elbow deep, he felt it, grabbed its squirming form. His face folded a little in disgust. He regained control, flattened out his facial constriction and yanked out a shitted rat with an orb impaled on its incisors. With a swift well practiced movement – one usually reserved for pheasants – Colonel Man Officer dispatched the rat and retrieved the Private’s piece of privates, plucking the orb disdainfully – for he hated to be seen by his men to act usefully, and felt uncomfortable, lower, in acting like them – from the rat’s pronounced teeth.
“You got it sir. You got it!”
“What of it! So I got it Colloquial! Got it from a whore in…”
“No sir, my testicle!?”
“Oh, yes, yes of course.”
Colonel Man Officer held the ball before him, amongst gunfire and general warfare bric-a-brac. A brief reverie washed across him as he held the pink sublime. He was interrupted by the whiz of a bullet that whispered into his ear as it passed: “give the soldier your trophy.”

The Grand Deceiver

quattrotitanicus (vomitus skink)

;)

since...