Sunday, July 06, 2008

Dirty Ass Humor, Monkeybicycle Issue 5

You see the little Monkeybicycle icon in the sidebar? Take a look, ga'head. See it now? That's a link to order the Monkeybicycle dirty humor issue NOW on sale. <-- You can click there, too. Guthy posted about this a few days ago and mentioned what a tough time the publishers had getting it printed because it was it was considered too dirty. Being a part of a collection of work considered too filthy to print is something to be proud of.

Check out this line-up: Sarah Silverman, Patton Oswalt, Myfanwy Collins, Johnny Ryan, Davy Rothbart, Wendy Molyneux, Aaron Burch, Bret Scott, Elizabeth Ellen, Matt Craig, Timothy Bennet, Pete Grosz, Liliana V. Blum, Katie Schwartz, Tyler Smith, Michael Frissore, Antonius Wiriadjaja, Amy Guth, J. Marcus Weekley, Matt Summers-Sparks, C. J. Kershner, Ben Tanzer, Jennifer Dziura, Peter Bognanni, Charlie Anders, David Hart, Noria Jablonski, Bob Fingerman, Vince LiCata, Jack Pendarvis, Christopher Monks, and an introduction by David Cross.

You must buy a copy! I just got mine in the mail and started reading it-- Each essay is sicker than the next, it's so wrong on every level, it's right. Run. Read. Now. Loving....

New Interview Posted at Dear Thyroid

You know DrugMonkey, yes? Yes. Of course you do! Anyhoodle, he graciously agreed to an interview about thyroid disease from the pharmacist perspective. Check it out, yo.

Dream or Nightmare?

Let me start by saying, parents and family, bypass this post. Thank you. Loving...
I don't dream. I have wicked dark nightmares, so dark, I kept each to myself and compartmentalized them as one-of-life's-dirty-little-secrets. Recently, I dragged them out of my shame closet by writing about them and discussing them with Shrinktail. It took 8 months of shrinkdating to spill, but spill I did.


Last night, I think I had my first hybrid. I had a thing with a guy for a while. We had a weird ass sitch. Our intimacy issues and bad timing led to disaster. Here's what happened in the dreamare:

He knocked on my door wearing a wetsuit and fins (he's not a diver). I was living in a dilapidated, massive tree house with oddly shaped large, dirty rooms and slanted floors. I had three bedrooms with mattresses on the floor, tattered posters of Journey on the walls and plastic pee cups everywhere, it was severely crack denish.

In Bedroom A, I threw him on the bed and said, "I'm giving you a God damned blowjob." After what felt like hours of fighting with his wetsuit, he was down to his boxers (white with little Ralph Lauren logos all over them, again, so not him). Once I made it to his flaccid peeny, I devoured it. He was so bored, he picked up a Mad Magazine. As he flipped through it, his giggling swelled to uncontrollable belly laughter, while his limp cock bounced around my mouth like a dying fish out of water, seriously.

I chased him around the house wailing, "I'm giving you a God damned, mother fucking, cock sucking blowjob and you will fucking like it." In two more bedrooms, I sucked myself into cheekbones, that's how hard I sucked this man's pleasure plunger. Bupkas-- nothing, nada, not an erection for days. He glared at me disdainfully, rolling his eyes, literally bored to tears.

Before waking up, the door slammed. And I was alone in the center of the tree house / crack den with two bags of frozen peas on my face.
Hence... hybrid.


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