You see, readers, this all started many moons hence…
I was ambling home late one evening, just minding my own business, since that is always by far the most important thing going.
A sudden chill crept up my spine as I heard a peculiar howl in the distance. Quickly, I hastened my steps and my business-minding. Many fine ladies had kept me out longer than I intended.
Suddenly, out from the shadows leapt… a Jesus!
“Wash your feet?” he asked rapidly, nervously. “Wash your feet?”
“Uh, no… no thanks,” I stammered “I don’t have leprosy.”
This seemed to give the Jesus pause. Still, after some brief yet uncomfortably long eye contact, he looked down at my feet hungrily.
“Thanks—uh, thanks though,” I said and tried to scooch past him unobtrusively on the sidewalk. No sooner had I turned my back on the world’s most famous sandal enthusiast than… he leapt upon me!
I was unused to being jumped upon so savagely by those of the same sex as I, and was knocked to the ground immediately! The Jesus grabbed at my shoes with his holy hands, trying to rip them off! Unwilling to accede to something so gay as another man washing a part of me, I bravely pushed him away, right in the face.
“Ow!” shrieked I, masculinely—the Jesus had bit me in the hand with his razor-sharp Jesus-teeth. Stepping up my game, I kicked him right in his holy nuts. He yelped similarly—if somewhat more effeminately—then bounded off back into the shadows again.
Having recovered myself perfectly, I stood up and began to examine my bitten hand, hoping that its breast-grabbing functions would prove little impeded. Much to my surprise, the wound from the Jesus’ teeth had closed itself already. There was no pain and no blood.
“It’s your lucky day, ma’am,” said I to the first hot chick I passed, as I confirmed that I was able to grasp her breast and even tweak her nipple with my injured hand with my typically ample dexterity.
However, I soon realized that not all was unchanged. Night after night, as I lay in my bed among several fine ladies, I had the same dream over and over again—one of being accosted by the Jesus the same as before, but this time acceding to his offer to wash my feet. For the remainder of the dream I would sit contentedly as the Jesus worked my feet over in ladylike fashion, paying special attention to any dirt between the toes and under the toenails. He even used bubbly, soap that smelled like bubblegum.
“No!” I would scream upon awakening, yanking back the covers to look at my feet. They were filthy, every time… just the way I liked them. “You’d never let a man wash your feet for you,” I’d tell myself over and over as I lay in bed, shuddering amongst the babes, “that’s totally super-gay and you’re totally macho.”
I had little idea what lay in store for me, however. But I found out night of the very next full moon.
I woke up the next morning feeling strangely cold, except around the loin. As though my sheets had been removed, except around the loin. I am, of course, used to waking up feeling weird around the loin, but something was different this time…
I nearly screamed when I realized that my sheets had been removed, then turned into… a makeshift loincloth! I wore that and little else. I sprang to the edge of the bed and spotted on the floor… neatly arranged sandals!
Most suspiciously yet, there was none of the usual bevy of busty babes with alliteration fetishes!
As I stood up, I saw that I had left a large wet spot in the sheets. Nervously, I leaned down and sniffed the wet spot. Unsure, I then felt the wet spot, at at last licked the wet spot… Just as I had feared, it left my tongue with a certain acrid taste… it was holy water!
Clothed again, I dashed from my abode in search of some sign, any sign, of what had happened to me the night before. I hadn’t far to dash before I found a trio of familiar ladies—the very same trio who should have been in my bed when I awakened that morning! But instead, they were standing at the street corner where I had first found them… this time, handing out leaflets.
In a panicked frenzy, I turned to the stupid one, asking “What happened here? What—What happened… last night?”
“Last night?” she repeated stupidly as she blinked stupidly with her stupid eyelids. “Oh! Last night! Last night was amaaaazing!”
So far, so typical.
“You convinced us to stop being stupid whores!”
I stood dumbly agape as the stupider one approached.
“ ‘It is a sin in the eyes of you for us to sleep with you,’ you said. You said you were a shepherd and we were a flock, which we figured was just a sex thing, but you told us not to put the costumes on this time!”
“I was gonna be the wolf!” the stupidest of the three volunteered.
“Yes,” said the first and least stupid of the stupids proudly and stupidly, “through you, we learned that our holy holes are sacred things to be reserved only for our eventual husbands and sometimes for pickling our own fingers in the meantime.”
I collapsed to the ground in shock, lacking even the strength to stand in my typical masculine pose. As I stared at the ground trying not to retch, the last thing I remember was their feet… their perfectly clean feet…
Since then it has been an ongoing nightmare. Each night I dream of watching feet. Each full moon I break free of my usual sexy self to become… a werejesus.
As this decidedly unsexy beast, I roam the streets of the city proselytizing. When I awake the next morning to see the spiritual carnage I have prevented the night before I near as much collapse with sorrow and anguish. These mornings, I continually I find myself clad in a loincloth, or doused in holy water, or bleeding from the hands and feet.
Indeed, I tried to prevent these holy rampages by crucifying myself, but quickly discovered that it hurt a fuck-ton, and decided I would just deal with it.
And so, should you ever find yourself amongst the streets of the city at night when you hear a howl in the distance, beware! If it is a full moon, it may be me, in werejesus form, stalking along to convert your soul! If it is not a full moon, some dumb bitch probably just bit down on me.
In either case… beware!
I am now in a flux of passion well nigh unequaled over the span of my short life—if such it may be called, for there were parts of it wherein I knew neither your face, nor your person, nor even my overwhelming and present desire to insert objects into each of these.
What manner of objects? I survey the room and discover myriad items of erotic potential. A television remote. A mouse. A steak knife. A light bulb.
But stay, my love! Why shrink back? What threat has yonder shampoo bottle now that it so lacked earlier? Indeed, I say there is no “threat,” but instead “potential”. Love, allow me to explain the genesis of my passions, for scarce a thing could suit me better but that I might also shove my ideas into you.
Quick, now! Examine this cucumber. Green. Lumpy. Sedentary. A thing plucked from the vine in the full of life and left but to die to our digestive juices.
Truly, it is a sad existence that this cucumber leads. It makes a plain meal; will anyone truly relish it? A few morbid crunches—then a quick swallow, and some hours later it is flushed into oblivion.
So is that all? It existed merely for this?
No! That vegetable has greater gifts to grant this world than mere essential roughage!
Imagine: the cucumber transformed! For, once it has been all up inside your Midas hole, it is become a mechanism of pleasure and of joy. And then it is outside you, and then inside you, and then outside you, and then inside you again! Each plunge as transformative as that of Achilles into the Styx, and we its Thetis!
Coated thus in the succulent juices of desire, this hitherto humdrum vegetable has transcended its own existence. No longer a mere physical object, it has obtained an aura uniquely human; uniquely alive; uniquely passionate!
Imagine, thereafter, the infinite pleasure of consuming it! No mere viniagrette could bestow such flavor upon the meal. Would we not savor together the juicy crunch of it between our molars, and run our tingling tongues over its seeds? What more pleasurable meal might exist?
Do not, love, limit your imagination to this one mere example. We live in a world of objects, of things, bereft of any true meaning to us. How often in the day does one manipulate some pedestrian utensil toward which one could scarce rouse the most trifling thought of affection or attachment?
I want to change the channel with a remote that absolutely pulses with eroticism! I want to sign my name with a pen that writes in a scrawl of lust. I want to drink through a straw that’s been through you. I want only to stretch my belly with foods that have in turn stretched you. When my phone rings, I do not want to lift it from its cradle, but rather retrieve it from yours.
Did not Friedrich Nietsche—Cupid’s own court philosopher—write in his famous “Über Wahrheit und Lüge im außermoralischen Sinn” that we conceive of reality only through a series of veiled metaphors and anthropomorphic associations? Did not that old romantic William Blake lament that we experienced the glory of existence merely through our imperfect senses, and only five, at that?
If, then, what we see and hear and smell and taste and feel is but a vague representation of reality, why not color it by sticking more of reality on up there? Our senses interpret only the vague impressions of reality, and the associations we draw between them are no less real than those other electrical impulses. If I must live in this world, then I would have it be a magical kingdom populated by objects enchanted with the divine thrill of having been in there. There is no place for the droll while I could experience the transcendent. We speak, m’lady, of a world wherein the sweetest word is “shove”.
So tell me, my sweet, is not the measure of an orifice best taken by yardstick? And is not our love better weighed by scale? Where else might the plainest carrot find sweeter spice? Or celery stick find more complimentary condiment? In what gentler oven may the eggplant bake?
So, my love, why not give a quick push outward and roll the dice?
Know that the thrill of some whispered words may fade… but a stapler is forever.
There is, you see, a peculiar tool named “Google Analytics” that allows up-and-coming internet magnates like myself to view various details about traffic to our websites. How often people visit, where their computers are located, and so forth.
Most relevantly and entertainingly, each time a reader arrives at www.shaunshaunshaun.com, I receive a log of the search terms that led them here. Now, how or why these search terms got them to this page I often have no idea. Frankly, why anyone would ever search for some of these things, I also have no idea.
Regardless, in celebration of a year of Shaun, and to reward you readers as well as, I suppose, accidental visitors to this page for your… “creativity” in your use of Google and Bing (but who am I kidding… pretty much just Google), I now present you with the coveted “Shaunie” Awards. Below, you will discover each category, followed by several nominees, and that category’s winners. Congratualations, recipients, you’ve earned this!
Most Delicious Search Term
chocolate syrup lesbians
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plumbers sausage in pussy
Winner: sexy woman covered in nutella paste
Most Educational Search Term
dos & don’t of eating wife’s pussy
guide to pussies
plumber dildo faq
self fucking guide of pussy
Winner: guide how to have a gaping vagina
Most Historically Minded Search Term
pussies of note
what does “three butts” mean in history
who the fuck invented hot pockets
Winner: aesthetics was not of great importance back then; the female emcees of this era wanted to let people know that they could flaunt their beauty in a respectful way, and not base it off of lust.
Least Arousing Pornographic Search Term
big fat women in big undie pics
child smooth pussy
fehl my sexy breast
often used pussy
plumbing the depths of mom’s vagina
Winner: elderly peculiar pussy
The “Good Luck” Award for a Search Term Entered by Someone Who Needs It
bull head clapper penis picture
can i stay in a hospital waiting room?
ferocious pussy whip
i’d like to port natalie portman
i had a shitty wedding
Winner: inserting dangerous things into puzzy and fuck
Most Fashionable Search Term
adult gi joe underwear
men hairy ufc naked
miley cyrus muff
pope has mad hats
women admit to shaving their pussy
Winner: foreskin represented by popes’ hat
The Columbus Award for Exploratory Search Term
depth test vagina fuck
in the depths of the pussy
whats does a la france jaunty parlay voo mean
testing pussy depth
Winner: the bermuda vagina
Best Pornographic Search by an English-Language Learner
dissolution of underwear
intonation pussy fucking
this thing is used to pry it open a woman’s pussy
seducing her inlaid chest implants
which part of pussy they can take a lot enjoy
Winner: what is depth of pussy how long dick pussy can get under it
The “Stay Away” Award for Reader Most Unhealthily Fixated on Shaun
adult page “shaunshaun”
shaun and a very fat wife
shaun fucks unknown female
Winner: and taking off her clothes shaun of your vagina up close
Search Term Most Hateful Toward John Cusack
celebrities are assholes john cusack
i hate john cusak
i fucking hate john cusak
john cusack hate him
john cusak hate
Winner: john cusack where is my fucking face
Search Term Most Likely to Have Been Entered by John Cusack
joan cusack sexy
john cusack, chest
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Winner: john cusack why people hate him
The Most Popular Search Term Resulting in a Visit To shaunshaunshaun.com:
Winner: i hate john cusack (9 searches, exact wording)
And last, the coveted :Spirit of Shaun® Award for Search Term Best Capturing the Spirit of www.shaunshaunshaun.com
Winner: i can’t help my superior intellect is wasted upon the masses. it over flows with levels of win that cannot be comprehended with the force of one thousand suns.
ONE DAY several years ago, I opened the door of my car into the side of the vehicle parked in the adjoining space, a red 2001 Kia Sentra unremarkable except for a miniaturized crystal ball hanging from the rearview mirror.
Just seconds before I could cleverly drive away, I heard someone begin to yell angrily. I could see some ugly-ass bitch in a kerchief yelling at me and running toward the car. I lowered the window.
“Sorry!” I yelled at her as I pulled out, “But you can’t complain if it’s only a Kia! It has to be a Toyota or better!”
As I drove away, in the rear view mirror I very distinctly saw her raise her hand, palm-out, and pass it across her body slowly from left to right as she said two words. There’s no way I could have heard her—the window was back up and I was driving away—but I could swear I could hear the words in my head just as she mouthed them.
Of course, had I known she was a gypsy I would have run her over before she had had the time to curse me. But unfortunately, I did not. However, ever since that day I have lived with the curse of John Cusack. And damnit do I hate that man.
The first time was on a train, not long after the above incident. I sat minding my business when I saw something of a commotion at the front of the car.
A disparate group of people were standing around one of the seats, which was facing away from me. Under other circumstances, I might have assumed some sort of altercation, or perhaps a fatty having a heart attack and needing attention. But some of the people appeared to be smiling and laughing, which ruled out an altercation. And I usually make note of any nearby fatties so that we do not accidentally bump into each other, resulting in having grease smeared on me. So it probably wasn’t that.
At this point still only passingly curious, I watched as some people walked away and others approached. A couple held pens, one seemed to have a notepad with her. Then it hit me… it must be someone famous. People were approaching that person and asking for an autograph.
It still did not hit me, of course. Since the incident I had thought but little of the woman, only occasionally thinking with a smile of having caused some damage to a Kia, or else of my evident wit in yelling out the window at her. It did not yet occur to me that there might be consequences.
Only when the woman in front of me returned to her seat from a visit to the front of the car did I first recall the incident. She leaned over to the man beside her and, clutching what I presume to be a signed sheet of paper to her chest, said gleefully, “You’ll never believe it… it’s John Cusack!”
John Cusack. John. Cusack. It took only a couple seconds for me to realize why those two words rang so in the dark recesses of my brain. Involuntarily, a shudder ran down my back.
Still, being above all else a levelheaded, rational man, I decided that there was no reason to fear for myself. Never mind that John Cusack, as I have since discovered, lives hundreds and hundreds of miles away from me. Never mind that it was only a scant few weeks after I had dinged the gypsy woman’s Kia.
No… I thought myself safe, and thought only how trite it was for the woman to be so excited for the celebrity at the front of the train car when she scarcely realized the man behind her was in fact me—Shaun! But… I did not then have a website through which to broadcast my amazingness to the world, and so I suppose that she may be forgiven.
Regardless, the hubbub had died down quite a bit when I finally disembarked, but morbid curiosity had reared its head within me: Was it really John Cusack? Did he look just as bland and talentless in person as he did in his films?
I chose to walk down that side of the train on my way to regain my vehicle, and as I did so passed a casual glance towards the window that would have been his. I am sure now that my glance must have frozen into a stare.
It was indeed John Cusack, and he was staring at me. Right. Fucking. At me. On his face was neither hatred nor surprise, but only the sort of utter disintrest that would seem appropriate to watching paint dry, or perhaps a woman’s sporting match.
And then, as the train began to pull away, he raised one hand and pointed to me—still with the blank stare. Just as the train pulled far enough away that I would have lost sight of him, I could swear that he had turned his hand around and flipped me the bird.
Shaken but not altogether worried—he was just then traveling away from me on a train you recall, so what had I to fear?—I proceeded onward to my car. What an odd coincidence, I thought.
My car was smashed to bits. Someone had clearly taken a baseball bat or other implement to it. The headlights were smashed, every window was smashed, the rear view and side mirrors were smashed. The sides had been keyed, scraped, and banged. The roof, hood, and trunk had been either jumped or stomped upon. The tires were all flat—not properly slashed, but shredded, even stabbed. The interior, I noticed as I got closer, reeked of piss. And right on the hood, where other cars might have a hood ornament, was a colossal shit of such breadth and length that had I not immediately known whose sphincter had gamely released it I would have denied that a human body could have produced it.
Was my car a Toyota or better? Perhaps, reader, perhaps. We all have our taste in cars. But yes, I did indeed complain.
The police seemed utterly disinterested. They refused to acknowledge John Cusack as a main suspect. They refused to even perform DNA testing to match the feces to him (yes this is possible, look it up). As time went on and I grew more insistent, they even seemed to grow exasperated and did not appear to feel very sorry for me.
Suffice it to say that the mystery of who smashed my car has not been officially “solved.” Justice, for sure, has not been done.
I have seen him since, or else I think that I have. It is never for long. I only get a glimpse of him before he disappears behind a tree, or a wall, or through a doorway. Each time I drop whatever I’m doing and rush to my car—but it always appears fine (save one time a flock of birds appears to have flown over it but whatever, it’s still better than the monstrosity Cusack left on there).
I know it is a matter of time before he strikes again though. Had the gypsy’s demented lust for my misfortune been satiated by the mere destruction of my car I am sure that I would simply never have seen him again. Now he haunts my dreams, always staring, sometimes flipping me off, other times shitting on the hood of my car.
Now, as for John Cusack himself… I don’t know. Is he a man? Is he a demon? I don’t understand how he trashed my car since he got on the train before me and presumably left it afterward. Obviously he did. Perhaps he is possessed? Or part gypsy?
All I can say for sure is FUCK THAT FUCKING FUCKER. YOU TRASHED MY CAR PISSED INSIDE IT AND SHAT ON THE HOOD SO FUCK YOU AND DIE. I HOPE ALL YOUR MOVIES BOMB LIKE THE FUCKING RAVEN YOU HUGE-SHIT-TAKING FUCKING HACK.
FIVE HOURS. Five hours of agony as my throat burned with the heat of a thousand suns that had all caught fire when spaceships crashed into them. Hours alone and neglected in the waiting room of Bridgewood Hospital. Would I die? Would I ever again see the millions of women who love me? There was no way to know.
Readers, let me tell you a tale of the torturous journey that I have made into the depths of one of the most hellacious realms known to man. Or the man that counts, e.g. me.
The day began inauspiciously enough; I awoke with a slight tickle at the back of my throat. Though I could hardly say that I was surprised that it would later pain me, I scarcely could have imagined that so slight a sensation would prove a harbinger of the most intense pain that has ever existed.
Some hours later, I emerged from my abode blinded by pain. Desperate, I struggled to crawl to my car, clutching at my throat as the demon pinpricks assaulted my uvula. Never before have I so realized the reality of the term “blinding pain,” as at least two mailboxes were lost to my front bumper as I struggled to control the car in the face of this horror. Eventually, I reached Bridgewood Hospital, hopeful that the experienced medical staff there would hold within their grasp the knowledge to relieve me from this incredible suffering, or at least perform a quick mercy-killing if they could not.
Little did I realize how wrong I was.
Obi-Wan Kenobi once referred to Mos Eisley spaceport as a “wretched hive of scum and villainy.” Little did he realize he spoke not of Mos Eisley, but of Bridgewood hospital; not of aliens, but of “doctors” and “nurses”; not of scum and villainy, but of total assholes.
A pain scale of one to ten? What the fuck is wrong with you? TEN! Ten, you dolt! I am not going to the hospital for a fucking “one”. I am not silently miming the answers to your inane questions because my throat is merely at a “one”. If anyone enters the hospital emergency room with an issue that ranks a “one” on the pain scale you have every right as a professional medical care provider to stab them with a screwdriver and to ensure that they really do need to be in the emergency room and that they are not simply wasting everyone’s time.
And so many questions! Why do you need all my personal information before you can treat me? The street I live on is not a clinical indicator of an illness. My place of work is not a test result. My phone number is not a symptom. No doctor is going to say, “Oh! You live in the five-oh-two area code! Well, you probably have appendicitis then.” At least no doctor at a competent hospital, I cannot speak for yours. There will be plenty of time to take down my personal information when I am not fucking dying.
Little did I know that I would shortly look back upon the ceaseless queries posited by this blithering ninny so fondly. Soon, this distraction lost to me, I was alone with only my boredom and my pain. On each occasion that I checked a clock I found that shorter and shorter increments of time had passed.
It is perhaps true that the face of real pain and suffering is horrifying to see; as I writhed and screamed in my hospital waiting-room chair, I caught furtive glances from several of my co-occupants, who would then refuse to return my looks, and would gradually move away from the source of the tortured moans. They simply couldn’t deal with even seeing the level of pain that I was at. That’s how bad it was.
Multiple times over my protracted five-hour stay a nurse would approach with the gall to ask me to be quiet. Can you imagine? What, ma’am, do you know of pain, precisely? Spend but a second in my shoes and you will understand the torments that can afflict one’s nervous system, and the agonies that take one to the very brink of death. Much as the universe is a place so large that the mind of man cannot properly conceive of it, so too can pain expand beyond one’s merest abilities of understanding, to such a point that its very scale may very well rival even its sensation in producing anguish and horror.
Few, if any, besides me can comprehend this level of pain. But I can. Because it was in my throat.
None of the other people waiting to be seen in the emergency room exactly jumped up to assist me, either. No brave souls leapt to their feet to demand that I be attended to. No injured hotties offered soothing massages or conciliatory blowjobs to distract from the pain.
Several of these silent accomplices to the hospital’s negligence looked as though they might well have responded with a “one” to the nurse’s previous queries. Certainly none of them looked as though they were in straits so dire as mine; to be sure none moaned or writhed nearly so much. What were their paltry reasons for joining me in these halls of pain? Being old? Mere vomiting? Broken leg?
Please, allow me to take on the role of doctor a minute. The cure for being old is death, the cure for vomiting is a cork in the throat, and a broken leg isn’t so much a condition as a symptom of being too stupid to avoid whatever you did to break it. There. Problems solved by Dr. Shaun, M-fucking-D, bitches.
Finally, after hours of wailing and contorting, the nurse summoned some attendants to assist me in getting up off the floor, where I had wound up curled into a fetal position, that most primal and vulnerable of postures. Eventually they were able to carry me to a room where a doctor could inspect me.
At this point I scarcely cared any more—I fully expected to die. And yet I continued to hope, to strive for life on some level. Because I’m a survivor.
Now of course, a nurse insisted on shoving some device down my throat to probe at whatever was wrong. Thus did the most pain I suffered in this entire ordeal come at the hands of a “medical professional”. Honestly. Just then, I was at an eleven of pain. Even an eleven-hundred. To be honest, I am glad that I vomited on her, and were I given the chance, upon passing the woman in the street I would do it again, chasing her down the sidewalk with a finger down my throat.
But all this waiting, all this torture, all this indignity and needless suffering came to a head as I finally got to see a physician some moments later. At least, I expected a proper doctor. Maybe that’s just what I was lead to believe by crappy hospital dramas on TV.
Instead of a caring, intelligent, competent doctor who made the pain go away with a wave of his magic syringe, I got cold, indifferent doctatrix whose unseemly corpulence hardly painted the picture of perfect health that one would expect from any real physician.
And strep throat, you say? No shit. I could have told you that myself 5 hours ago if I weren’t rendered unable to speak from the pain of it all. And yet I had to suffer through all that agony, negligence and—eventually—downright mistreatment, as I was “escorted” from the hospital after trying to punch that fat doctor bitch in the face when she refused me morphine.
I would never, ever, ever return to that hospital again, even if it meant that I might die in the street. And I might, just to prove a point. But right now, I don’t care. I don’t even care if they thought I was creating a disturbance. Frankly, I don’t even give enough of a shit about that godawful place to put forth enough effort to create a disturbance. I don’t even… fuck… who am I kidding, I’m going to fucking firebomb that place the first chance I get.
In the end, just another fine www.shaunshaunshaun.com article brought to you by Obamacare.
Every so often, I realize that my incredible intelligence and abilities would allow me an unbelievable amount of success in a certain field. Whereas before I pointed out to you that I would make a great crime scene investigator, please allow me to today point out what a great lead actor I would be. And not just because it looks pretty easy.
I mean, laughing? Crying? Angering? I do those things every day! Well, except crying–I’m too macho for that, but really any movie (or “film”… because when you’re good at it, you call it a “film”) to contain a man crying cannot be considered believable anyway.
I cannot help but suspect that an audition process would provide little challenge for me; any actor hopefuls would simply leave the audition once I entered. Why wait around only to be beaten?
I would burst into the auditioning room screaming, “Director, director! Your wife is dead!”
“What?” he would gasp, “That can’t be true!”
“It is!” I reply. “Look, I found her head on the stairs on my way in,” and hold out to him a mangled woman’s head by its bloody hair.
“Noooo!” he screams, with much less pathos than I would. “Noooo!”
“Ah-ha!” I exclaim to the director, who is cradling the head and weeping like a total pussy, “I have fooled you! I was merely… acting!”
“What? Huh?” he looks around, his confusion infinitely less believable than it would be if I had portrayed it, “Who… whose head is this, then?”
“Merely a hooker whom I killed before the audition, then ripped at her face with my teeth until she was unrecognizable. Your real wife is home right now, more alive and sexually satisfied than ever before. The rest was just acting.”
For a moment, there is silence. Then I slowly start clapping. Then they get it, and they slowly start clapping. Then they really start clapping. Then they slow down at it a bit. But then they start clapping even harder, whooping and standing up and so forth.
After perhaps an hour of clapping, the director says, “I would love to give you this role! But we have already cast Adrian Brody for the role of the heroic husband, this audition is for his loyal wife. Whatever shall we do?” Once again, he is crying like a pussy.
“Well,” I say slyly, “why not change it so the wife is the hero? Then change the wife to a husband, and the husband to a wife, and Adrian Brody to a woman.”
The director gasps. “Brilliant! We shall schedule his surgery immediately.” And so it is settled.
Six weeks later, the cast, crew, and Adrienne Brody are all on set. Some anxiously await my arrival, but most are caught up in the hilarious antics and delicious frozen treats of Bill Cosby, whose unexpected arrival on set has put everyone in good spirits.
Soon, the director arrives.
“Where is Shaun? Where is our lead actor?” he asks. “I have looked in his actor’s chair that says ‘Shaun’, but he isn’t there, so I can’t find him anywhere.”
“Here I am!” says a be-sweatered me, stepping out from a crowd. Jaws drop and eyes pop out of their sockets, causing some panic as newly-blind crew members scrabble around on the ground looking for parts of their faces.
“It was never actually Bill Cosby, but instead me, the Shaun, acting like Bill Cosby!”
I stroll over to my “Shaun” chair and sit myself down. Once they see me in the chair they realize I really was Shaun all along, and when enough of the blind crew members are replaced with seeing crew members, they decide to begin the actual filming.
It’s a love scene, and Adrienne is beside me in bed, wearing a skimpy negligee that really shows off her new double-D’s.
“Action!” yells the director. Then he crumples in pain as my fist breaks his face.
“YOU DO NOT TELL ME WHEN TO ACTION” I state fiercely. “I TELL ME WHEN TO ACTION.”
The director cannot speak for all the blood in his mouth, but fiercely nods his assent.
“Excellent,” I say, cuddling up to Adrienne again. “So… action!” I intone suavely, looking at the hot (very) new starlet, “… sexy action.”
Having decided that the script was stupid, I begin showing off my amazing improv skills:
“So baby, we should really have sex one last time before the terrorists kidnap you and I have to fight to get you back. Later in the movie I’ll be too tired from killing them to put up with you trying to service me.”
We begin our tender smoochings, but then Adrienne gasps as I begin to enter her.
“What are you doing?” she asks, shocked.
“It’s called ‘method acting’. Trust me, you’ll love it.”
I rip off her clothes to reveal her sexily scarred and uneven new boobs to the camera.
“…and the fans will love this part.”
After several takes the prop department has finally secured the bed enough to withstand the incredible G-force of my powerful method-acting thrusts, and we are finally getting good footage of Adrienne getting her brains fucked out, when I have an incredible thought that could only magnify the amazingness of the movie.
“Bring on the bad guys!” I call out. “We can shoot the action scenes now, I’ll do that while I’m fucking Adrienne Brody.”
The stunt men obligingly trot up to the bed, where I lay waste to them with a variety of acrobatic kicks, punches, chokes, and throws. I pick up Ms. Brody and swing her about from my waist, smashing the moaning starlet into several tough-looking men. Eventually I pull two Uzis out from under her pillow and begin firing two-handed into the group, mowing them down heroically. One of the prop guys keeps trying to shove a fake gun into the frame so I shoot him too—he clearly doesn’t understand method acting.
Eventually, I realize we have run fresh out of stunt men and production assistants.
“Well,” I say, dismounting Adrienne, “that should do it for the film. Just loop that and put it in theaters… kids’ll love it.” I motion toward the bed. “She’ll probably have a broken hip bone. Also, get someone to clean up the blood. I don’t know if a doctor inserted a hymen or I just tore some stitches, but she’s a bit of a mess.
“Makeup girls, meet me in my trailer if you wanna get some of that,” I say, motioning toward the semi-conscious Adrienne. Luckily, they don’t have much choice, since every man in Hollywood except for me is gay, anyway.
From that point on, I’m retired. What’s the point in continuing? I’ve created the best movie ever, broken every box office record, and instead of giving me any Academy Awards they just cancel all future awards ceremonies and let me take the giant Oscar statue home that they use for the stage. I’ll retire with more than enough money from residuals to take care of child support for all the out-of-work makeup girls—since they don’t bother making new movies anymore—as well as Adrienne Brody’s child, which doctors assure me is a miracle, anyway.
But my accomplishments as a medical wonder of fertilization are a matter for another post. In the meantime, ponder the above and rest assured that I would make a pretty great actor.
FROM THE moment that I opened the door of the breakroom refrigerator on Friday May 11 until now, time has had no meaning. My life stopped.
So far, the worst time was during those first few hungry hours, wondering whether my sandwich would be returned. Was eaten or not, and what had happened to it? I dreaded someday going to my grave without knowing.
My lunch was taken from me. The sneaky, conniving method of the theft has only intensified my grief.
Though in a very strange way, finally realizing that Todd Voelker had eaten it was a relief. It was surprisingly easy to learn my sandwich had been eaten, but there was also a deep sadness within me.
But although some questions have been answered, others remain. And the culprit has not yet been punished.
I gain a little solace from the fact that the sandwich and my anticipation of feeling its delicious touch in my mouth had been the high point of my day. But my grief and sadness includes the experiences which the sandwich missed out on, in terms of being eaten and digested, and sliding through my intestines.
It was a beautiful, well-made, and fresh sandwich which was destined to taste great. But its role in my life was stolen from it just as it was stolen from me.
The sandwich had fresh roasted turkey, lettuce, and bacon with a light coating of mayonnaise and would have caused anyone who had seen it to salivate. The memory of the the sandwich will always be with me as I eventually recover enough to eat lunch at work again, and I will think of the unforgettable and special taste it would have had.
I will always miss the sensations that accompanied it; smelling the bacon, feeling the spongy lightness of the bread, and me, standing back with pride, imagining what it would taste like when I ate it after the 11:30-12:00 meeting that cold Friday in May.
Sandwich: I loved you as much as any man could love his lunch, and the thought of how much I would have loved to eat you will stay with me always.
Honestly, my thoughts and emotions at this time are solely with the sandwich. I really have little feeling for other things which may be happening.
I have been overawed by the amount of support and practical help from people at work – and especially the witnesses who have admitted to seeing Todd walking around with my lunch bag.
I would also like to thank those who offered me some of their food, or who asked others if they knew what had happened, which generated an overwhelming level of response.
I would like to thank everyone personally, but that would be annoying, so instead please take this as personal thank you to everyone, which is much easier. I have received many comments and even some emails of sympathy. These have been read and appreciated. In time I may endeavour to reply to some of them.
I have, however, found work security most inconsiderate in the way I have been treated despite keeping them informed as events have unfolded around the theft and subsequent sandwich-eating. Nevertheless I will continue to give them my full support and help where I can. I am certain that Todd’s perfidy can be proven, and that he will be punished in turn like the worthless shit he is.
Thus, my never-ending thanks go out to those who showed so much support for me in the events following my lunch’s disappearance. Sadly this wasn’t the outcome that we had all hoped for, but I can now celebrate the life of one of the most lovely and tasty constructions to grace this Earth.
Many people have approached me asking if they can do anything to help me get through this time. Yes, you can.
Please, if you are able, spit on Todd Voelker. Spit on that fat shit.
He sits all day at his desk on the fourth floor, within easy robbing distance of the fourth floor employee kitchen area. Though he is no doubt wet with the sweat that seeps from his pores as he ponders his guilt and coming reckoning, I do not think he is nearly wet enough.
Spit on him. If you can manage it, piss on him. Ask him if he wants a drink to go with his delicious sandwich and then unleash. Dig deep down and hock up a gooey load of mucus. Then launch it as his fat face. You couldn’t miss. It’s huge and round, and it’s disgusting. Feces would be okay, too, but only if it’s very wet. I don’t know why, really; I just want to see him drip with disgusting fluids.
For those who have lost a lunch and are left behind, spitting on the obese turd who thought he could get away with eating it can help to end the heartache and confusion that accompanies such difficult times.
My joyous, hungry day may have been cut short tragically but the finger-pointing and character assassination has only begun, and has certainly made me feel better so far.
It would really help my faith in the blogosphere and those that spend their time fixed to the internet in this modern age if you could all join me in punishing him.
Again, Todd Voelker. T-o-d-d [space] V-o-e-l-k-e-r. Fourth floor. Big fat guy. Spit on that fucker.
I hope you all have a happy weekend. I look out into the remainder of 2012 with a fresh approach to life in memory of what could have been and hope that, for my sandwich’s sake, salival justice is visited swiftly.
HELLO, DEAR newlyweds. I am at your wedding typing this into an overpriced smartphone some dumb bitch at the Verizon store talked me into getting. Let me assure you that the monthly prices I pay are somehow not at all what she had promised me they would be. And yet I must pay them. For two long years. How is this legal? I don’t know. And yet, should I submit to my baser urges, drive back there, and punch her, I would have been the one to go to jail.
But let’s not make this about Laryssa. This is about you two.
The feelings that arise in me when I see you two together and happy is very nearly enough to overcome the knowledge that you will probably be divorced within a couple years. To clarify: thinking about your inevitable divorce is all that is keeping me from vomiting right now.
It seems a paradox that I should, on the one hand, witness bad wedding cliché after bad wedding cliché without end, and yet still be incredibly bored. That this is a surrealist mockery of a wedding should arguably amuse me, but without the enviable position of an outside observer, I lack that luxury.
For one thing, I know she is a vegetarian. For another, I know he is a vegetarian. But what I know above all is that I want some meat, you fuckers. I am beginning to suspect this vegetarian thing is a whole sham for the express purpose saving money by serving us that morning’s lawn clippings.
Now, how it is that she can be a vegetarian and still be so goddamn fat is a mystery to me. My experience with vegetarians is that they are a brittle twig-people forever fighting chronic fatigue, gasping that they might catch enough breath to condescendingly lecture you again regarding their stupid-ass life choices.
I admit there was much gasping after that first dance, but I believe it was less due to vegetarianism than on account of having to shuffle herself around as though the fucking sun had decided to suddenly begin orbiting Mercury.
I don’t know if I’ve heard so many outright lies in one day. “You look beautiful!” “You look gorgeous!” No. You look fat. You look gross. I congratulate the groom on marrying what must be a hell of a great personality. Is it a horrible dress? Perhaps it wasn’t, but then someone had to go and put it on her.
As a keen observer of women, of course, I know as well as anyone that horrifying women often have a hidden bonus: a hot friend.
Which brings us to the bridesmaids. Holy shit. First of all, they have forever ruined the credibility of the one aforementioned reason that any of us have for tolerating unattractive women. Secondly, it as though the garish nightmare-cloth that comprises their wholly insufficient attire is in fact designed to exaggerate the horrors of their flabby, misshapen bodies. Hello–Tim Burton? Do you read this blog? I should hope so, for I have found for you a new costume designer to enliven your increasingly disappointing cinematic excrement.
My companions on this journey of pain and boredom? I could scarcely tell you; some gaggle of dilapidated elders, it seems, of origins unknown. What brings them here? Whose near-dead uncles or aunts are they? Fuck if I know, or care enough to ask (I did, however, confirm that none of them are vegetarians). Thus far all they have really done is compare oncologists.
It is possible that they have made some sort of social overtones towards me, but I have been so far unable to detect (and thus rebuff) them due to the crushing, unholy pain of the soundtrack hoisted upon my ears by the godawful wedding DJ.
Stop and think for a moment of the motivations in life that would lead one to become a wedding DJ. One must assume a combination of a powerful motivation to entertain, and an incredible desire to be the center of attention and control, but coupled with only enough talent to emcee low-expectation family gatherings comprised mostly of drunk cousins and bridesmaids of a notorious profligacy born of sheer desperation.
This particular DJ surveys the dance floor with an aloof smarminess that could have no genesis but a thousand nights of watching drunken, doomed bridegrooms fall on their faces while attempting to breakdance.
Songs by Rihanna? By Kesha? All alongside the chicken dance? Could these choices be idiocy? Or… brilliance, of a sort? Each joke presented with the same incompetent confidence… each announcement enunciated with the same uncaring delivery.
How, I ask, do you regard a man like this? Do you detest him for his incompetence, or his self importance? Or do you admire and envy him for sinking to a level so low that he cannot hope but to reign over it supreme? I myself leave these questions to the philosophers, instead sneaking outside to shit on the hood of his van.
That mighty shit was the combined constipation of having to sit with these pathetic geezers and withstand the assault of that godawful music. It was a heaping pile of the godawful cutesy wedding vows. It steamed with the rotten stench of the misbegotten bridesmaid speeches and their baffling, impenetrable in-jokes about their hijinks during first-grade recess. And there were hearty chunks of the awkward, sweaty jokes told by the best man, whose drunken debauchery throughout the night would eventually reach such a point as to nearly exculpate the inebriated idiocy of the groom.
Lastly, it was a harbinger of the spoiled, stupid children that fat cow will frontpoop out in nine months, and the inane, protracted legal battles over their visitation rights once you two realize you each married complete assholes.
However, if I’ve one regret, it is not attending the event… no, oh no.
It’s the blender.
The blender I bought you.
I placed it wrapped onto the gift table when I arrived.
My one regret is that I hadn’t the foresight to shit into that, instead.
SOME WEEKS back, I imparted a small part of my sexual knowledge to my readers by creating Shaun’s Guide to Pussies: Part I. Satisfied by my good deed, I returned to my ruminations over the more “advanced” topics of sexuality, such as whether men can or even should lick their own nipples.
Lost as I was in consulting with varied arcane and learned web pages, I forgot all about the plight of you readers. For you all have proved what the internet says that Alexander Pope is often misquoted as having said: “A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.”
Shortly after I published my guide, emails came flooding in from unfortunate readers who had gotten themselves into a something of a pussy pickle. Which, by the way, tastes disgusting. So that’s fact one.
Let’s take a look at some of the feedback I received:
I read with great excitement your article on pussies. Soon after I read it I knew I had to put my new knowledge into action. I had grown a beard just like yours and so it was a simple matter to get a girl home. I used the compliments you suggested to feed its ego (it was a little uneven) and tousled it’s hair and it opened right up!
The problem is it’s still open and I can’t get it to leave! It’s just gaping at me. What do I do now?
Well, first, Jethro, you can get a new name. Ha! But of course, since you wrote two weeks ago, I doubt you are alive, having doubtless since been devoured by the pussy. Don’t invite a lion home if you don’t have anything to feed it, folks!
But another missive, first:
I need a little help. I was perusing your website and saw the ancient words you had transcribed for us in your guide to pussies. As student of linguistics, I was fascinated! I then read them aloud to get a feel for the words. The problem is, I am a woman! My pussy was immediately wrenched open. Four hours later, I still can’t get it closed, and despite the severe cramping the thing only seems to be widening. I can no longer walk because I cannot force my legs close enough together.
You’re right, being a woman is a problem! Double-“ha”! I scarcely know what I would do if one of those ferocious beasts grew upon my own body.
Now, attentive readers will recall that I did warn against this happening in the previous guide, but even linguists can have poor reading comprehension skills, I suppose.
So it’s time for another lesson. Of course, as the internet says that Albert Einstein said, “A little knowledge is a dangerous thing. So is a lot.” On the plus side, even if a lot of knowledge is a dangerous thing, it might stop you readers from writing me so much.
Both these readers have a common problem, based in what should be common knowledge: a pussy, once opened, will not typically close unless it is filled.
Hold on, though. Don’t just stick any old thing in there! There is some work to be done, first. You still need to determine the temperament and the appetite of the pussy. Stick a dick in there and you’re liable to lose it.
Use something you don’t mind losing. I admit fingers are often used because a clever pussy can tell the difference between a living and an inanimate substitute, and because they tend to be on-hand. (“On-hand!” Man, am I handy with finger puns!)
I have other suggestions, however. Try a hot dog, or a sausage. It doesn’t matter that it isn’t alive, because the vagina’s carnivorous tendencies will overcome it, and it will clamp down on the beefy decoy.
Some companies, further, create a product known as a “dildo”, which can be used to test the depth and ferocity of a vagina. This sturdy decoy is shaped and sometimes colored like a penis, though sometimes they are clear or sparkly or even glow-in-the-dark, which can be a lot of fun! The more expensive dildos can withhold the gnashings of the average pussy, though like any material, they can only hold up to so much.
If you use a penis-substitute, try not to stand directly in front of the pussy. A pussy, once roused in anger, will sometimes spit out anything that has been placed in it. In the worst case scenario, it will clamp down and spin gyroscopically, whirling the object about itself with frightening speed. A man inadvertently flogged in this manner is known as “pussy-whipped”, and there are entire industries of personal injury lawyers known as “pussy-chasers” who will lock onto a woman known to be in possession of a ferocious pussy, peddling their services to any unfortunate boyfriends she may acquire.
Now, though perhaps I should have mentioned this earlier, there are cases where you can tell immediately that a pussy is “sanguinated”—that is, it has formed a taste for blood. A pussy that has drawn blood will constantly salivate a ruddy mixture of tell-tale juices. If you should ever pry open a pussy and notice this crimson warning sign, shoot the woman in the head. Right there, right then. You’ve seen Old Yeller, yes? Just like that. Take her round back. And shoot her.
As for the pussy itself, the only cure is fire. And lots of it. Pussies are able symbiotes that, once they detect that their host-woman is deceased, will frequently detach themselves and crawl about in search of a new partner/attractor of food.
Now, let’s say you’ve soothed the pussy with a snack, or else have determined that you have successfully located a sufficiently docile pussy and wish to have intercourse with it. Well, it’s time! Quick as you can, insert your penis and wait a few seconds. Then finished, you should be able to pull it out of there again before anything “awakens”, shall we say. Good thing, too! This is all quite the adrenaline rush, but sometimes it’s just not worth it. Ask the millions of men out there missing fingers, and even toes!
I myself have an acquaintance whom we all call “One-Finger Charlie” after a pussy with a particularly sense of cruel irony took each finger except the actual offender. Don’t ever let anyone tell you they aren’t self-aware on some level. Some have even been proven to be moderately intelligent.
In the late 1980’s, a pussy that had long since been caged and domesticated was proven able to perform simple math by flapping its labia certain numbers of times in response to verbal questioning and promises of “treats” in the form of those mini hot-dog things. Unfortunately, accusations of “coaching” on the part of the pussy’s handler could never be completely disproved, since all-too-soon after the initial paper was published, the pussy escaped; the handler was soon thereafter found dead of blood loss from a gaping wound in his groin.
Stay tuned for Shaun’s Guide to Pussies Part III – Butt Pussy.
D. Richard Gordon
VP, Hot Pockets Division
Somewhere, Don’t Care
I AM a frequent consumer of your stuff-filled, pastry-based, “Hot Pockets”-brand products, and as such would like to know what it is like to have no soul.
Please explain to me, “D”, why you have decided to make the new Spicy Hawaiian Style Pizza a limited edition. This is a worthy addition to the Hot Pockets oeuvre, and I see no reason why
So how do you like looking down on us from atop your pedestal, “D”? Your office is on the—what? The fourteenth, the fifteenth floor? It must be a relief to be so far from all the little ants… they might track their dirt on your precious product.
You sit your cardboard-crisper throne upon a mountain of microwaveable turnovers. The weight of your expanding waistline gradually crushes the pastries beneath you, that the entire edifice might be said to be slowly oozing cheese filling. You pay this no mind, however. Pile more on! Why not? This is Hot Pockets; we know no self-reserve here.
A mixture of saliva and cheese dribbles down your fat, pasty cheeks. Flecks of broccoli and scraps of D-grade ham dot your robes. You thrust your face into the air and open your mouth lustily, your eyes gleaming. Attached by her neck to the chains at your side, a secretary clad only in rags and fetters approaches with another steaming hot morsel to shove into your mouth. The dripping contents would burn her fingers—that is, if she could still feel anymore.
Meanwhile, the people so far “below” you have a simple dream: one of easily-attainable, cheap, microwaveable foodstuffs. There are the homeless in America whose microwaves go empty for want of anything to crisp in them. There are starving children in Africa whose flat rocks ache to be placed in the hot sun with an unhealthy frozen treat on them.
You know what, “D”? We do want a hot meal. And we want it without a big deal.
We oppressed masses wait at the bottom of your tower of Hot Pockets. And we are hungry.
Sure, for now you are out of our reach, contentedly sitting atop the mountain and licking simulated cheese filling from the back of a high-priced hooker. But your weight continues to squeeze more and more filling from those pockets, and soon we begin to lick at the foundation of your corporation. Our appetites then whetted, we shall begin to gnaw at the crispy, crunchy, tender, flaky crust… all that’s left of your crumbling empire.
Then, you. We will microwave your head, eat the boiling insides, and throw out the skull. Just like your delicious goddamn Hot Pockets.
You see, “D”, our pockets are empty. We have licked every last scrap of filling from the inside. We have scraped out each last delicious morsel. We have nothing to lose.
But your pockets? Stuffed full. , even. And we want what’s inside.
We have nothing to lose, “D”. And you have everything (also: to lose).
You know, “D”, as much as I hate you, I suspect that I am a bigger man than you. Why? Because I would never, ever go on the internet and urge people to burn your house to the fucking ground. Never would I point out the lax security in the area, nor that you will be away at Nestlé headquarters for two weeks next month. Nor that your wife and two young children (how is D, Jr., liking 4th grade? And Annie was so cute in the school play this year) will be home, defenseless, during this time.
I wonder, these days, what the Merage brothers are doing. You remember them, don’t you? They invented Hot Pockets? Built them up into a successful commercial enterprise?
I mean, on the one hand, $6.5 billion is a lot of money. Even to split.
On the other hand, now you run their company, so I can only imaging that they have shot themselves in their respective faces. Or each other’s faces, if it was a mutual suicide thing. Would that even work? I mean, one would have to still be alive to shoot the other. I suppose it could happen, but it’d be really complicated. Actually, nevermind. Dead, is the point. Both dead. By their own hands. Or by their brother’s hands, however they figured that out. I’d imagine if you could invent Hot Pockets you’d be a pretty clever person.
Not like you, you souless money-grubbing corporate machine. I can’t imaging how hard your staff must have had to work to convince you that “Soylent Pockets” aren’t readily marketable.
But you know what, “D”? You know what makes me feel OK at the end of the day?
Hot Pockets aren’t twinkies. They don’t last forever. I’ve tried, and they go bad after several months, even when frozen. Your product will rot. Your empire will fall. Eventually, you will die.
You’re going to die, “D”.
Put that in your pocket and microwave it.
1. Please make the Spicy Hawaiian Style Pizza Hot Pockets a permanent addition to the Hot Pockets family.
2. FUCK YOU D
Yes, The Shaun