Darlin' there aint no getting over ewe! Part II

Each day, at his first convenience, Johnny Paint would half skip (as best his large clumsy body would allow him) up the stony dirt road to the Fir Tree nursery where Nadene lived. It was a narrow road the farmers would use to run cattle or sprint horses, but mostly it was where the locals would drag and dump the waste from their outhouses, which would then seep off into the fields and fertilize the crop. The road was uneven, hilly, and almost completely covered with sewage. Yet, everyday Johnny made the trek to his beloved Nadene. In his head, he was prancing through fields of bright flowers singing wonderful airy tunes of joy. However, to the average onlooker he appeared as some fat retard splashing around in every ones shit. But, isn't that what almost everyone looks like when they are in love?



On his way, Johnny would sneak behind Crabby Jacks barn and pick a handful of daises or any other plant that looked fancy enough. Crabby Jack (named both for his temperament and body lice) would never leave the chair on the front porch of his house unless he needed more whisky or tobacco. He would sit up there all day getting drunk and shooting at things that he thought might be trying to steal his dentures. Johnny would often take on fire when he made his way around the property, but Jack was so blind he couldn't hit a target even one as large and slow as Johnny. So, Johnny always could escape with a bouquet for his dearest Nadene. (stay tuned)

Notes on a meditation about the current state of our economic growth and the future of Social security benefits

(.)(.) Boobies!!!

About Roller Boy

Many of us have seen the the great P. T. Anderson film "Boogie Nights", a fantastic character study paying homage to porn stars from the 70s and 80s. One of the them, known as roller girl, famous for putting almost anything in her mouth and never taking off her roller skates (played by Heather Graham) was actually based on a man.

Harvey Wheeler, born Hank Prescott Bush III, in Grove City, Ohio near the end of the Korean war, a star quarterback, debate club champion, two time student body president, and first viola in the Ohio State University Symphony Orchestra. Hank was an all American and, at heart, a true Bush.

Tragedy, befell the Bush's, when at the tender age of seventeen, a sailing accident left Hank comatose, paralysed, and partially devoured by Mako sharks. Hank would spend the next year of his life alone in a hospital basement.

In all the time Hank spent at the hospital his one and only visitor was none other than German film maker Oliver Klosshov. Oliver was a former performance artist who had purposely contracted the AIDS virus as well as syphilis by sharing needles with lemurs and koala bears. His one man show on Broadway, where he would unicycle around the stage cutting himself and spitting all over the place while singing Joan Bias tunes was shut down by the board of health, and he was blacklisted in Hollywood for his obvious ties to communism. The only steady work he could get was directing pornographic films. "On golden blonde" and "Full Metal Jockstrap" each had won several awards and earned him a place among the inner circle of porn directors.

Oliver had been looking for a healthy liver when he secretly bought the semi lifeless body of Hank Prescott Bush III, from a first year security guard at the hospital, but what he found was a true gold mine! You see, just moments after Hank was transferred to the abandoned warehouse where Oliver was going to remove his liver and toss the rest of him in a tub of ice, he sprung back to life muttering incoherently and flailing about as if someone were holding his head under water and he was fighting for air. And seconds before Oliver injected him with morphine he noticed that Hank had an erection. Oliver looked at Hank and said "son, I'm going to put you in the movies!" And he did just that. In the first few films they would just throw hank on to a bed with some naked people and film what ever happened. After a while Oliver had a budget to hire writers like Penny Marshall and Ron Howard who would add plot story line and some dialog.

The rest is history, so they say, with the use of wires and other special effects Oliver and Hank made 84 films together before video tape, Compact discs, and the Internet ruined the porn industry.

There are some who say that it was wrong to exploit a severely handicapped individual like Hank, yet still some others who believe that being in porn must have been better than to just die alone in a hospital basement. In a recent interview, Hanks last before he passed away after choking on a ham sandwich, when asked "do you feel like you have been exploited in any way during your career?" Hank, throwing his arms in the air and jerking his body about, said "pancakes... firetruck...shine, shine, shine."

Darlin' there aint no getting over ewe! Part One

Johnny Paint brushed his teeth today for the first time in eight years. He trimmed his face whiskers, combed back his hair, and even plucked unsightly strands from his nose and ears. Johnny Paint was in love.
Johnny was a large man, almost 400 pounds on a good day. He lived in a pop-up camper that he kept parked outside his fathers house and sometimes would tow behind a 1976 Buick, that his good buddy Jethro welded a hitch to. He had several tattoos that gleefully misspelled sayings like "kash, gas or ass...", "No fat chics", and "Mustash Rydes". He even had one that boasted his undying love for 38 special (which was , somehow, misspelled also). At any time Johnny would have a pocket full of dead flys, spiders, and other insects that he would on occasion eat or put in his nose to make one of his 14 children laugh.
Johnny's wife died a few years ago from some then unknown strain of hepatitis that she contracted while traveling the donkey show circuit in Mexico.
Johnny had 17 dollars, six of his own teeth (the rest were dried up pieces of corn that he super glued to the roof of his mouth), and two pair of underpants (one for church, and the other for... well everything else). Johnny had his church undies on this afternoon.
Nadene, whose name is one of the 8 variant forms of Nadia, which translates to English as Hope, lived about sixteen minutes from where Johnny was parking his home. She was tall and considered quite attractive for her age. Her hair was naturally blonde and very curly, it required almost no maintenance. Nadene was always active and in almost perfect shape, in too many ways she reminded Johnny of his dead wife.
The land that her family's house was built on used to be an Airstrip during WWII, where the pilots would test jet engines. Years later it was a used tractor lot, soon after a Cash n' Carry was built then went out of business and was now a nursery for Fir trees.

Baby, can you dig your time travelin' man?

Finally, after centuries of failed attempts, generations of lonely relatives gone mad, I have invented a functioning time machine! I use the term functioning loosely, considering that it only goes through time forward or backwards in eight minute increments, and the fuel cell requires twenty three hours fifty two minutes to recharge. This will only come in handy for last minute betting, messy bathroom mishaps, and getting through annoying blocks of commercials. I still, for the most part, consider this to be a success.
In an attempt to travel through a substantial amount of time I once built a series of time machines that I would use one after the other. In theory this was a brilliant idea. Although when going backwards I found myself at a place where none of my machines had been built yet, so I had to wait for the universe to catch up to me and rebuild. This proved to be quite exhausting. And, when trying the same method to travel into the future, taking into account the six minutes forty seven seconds to operate the machine, time eventually caught up to me. I was, at one point traveling through time to the present ( I don't need to tell you of all the bazaar paradoxes this created).

Can self pleasure be a pain?

The average persons day usually consists of a series of scheduled events that occur in a prdeceded order, and to fulfill our basic needs. Such as oral hygiene, working, eating, and resting. We also make time for hobbies and friends or have some free time in case something unexpected comes up. But what about masturbation? I mean we all have needs... Most of us who aren't married or in a relationship hardly have the time to "get ourselves laid" on a regular basis, let alone the energy.
I enjoy structure and like to have most of my time planned out. I actually feel better and have more energy when when I know what I'm going to be doing for most of the day (this may be a slight case of OCD). So I decided to add masturbation to my daily schedule, everyday at 7:45 AM I would get it over with, so if later on in the day I had an urge I could simply remind myself that I just did that a few hours ago and can wait until tomorrow to do it again. This seemed like a great idea and worked well for a few weeks. The downside of this was that on many occasions I didn't feel like masturbating right at that time and it would become a chore.
Soon I was unable to enjoy it at all, I felt the same way about masturbation as I did vacuuming the carpet. I started to wonder if, maybe, this was going to cause me to have some deep seeded psychological issues, was this some new form of rape, will I develop strong resentments toward myself, will I ever be able to enjoy pleasuring myself again? Will I need counseling? And why do I suck at baseball?