Daily Archives: February 19, 2017

Toilet Gator – Chapter 1


After the show, a tired, sweaty, worn-out Countess Cucamonga walked through a backstage hallway. She was flanked on each side by her burly, bald-headed, sunglass sporting security goons. Meanwhile, her dutiful manager Irving, a spindly little twerp stuffed in a designer suit, heaped praise on his client.

“Outstanding performance, Countess,” Irving said. “Positively outstanding. Butt Peace is climbing the charts even faster than Buttstravaganza ever did.”

“What fabulous news, darling,” the Countess replied.

“I think we’re going to see a dramatic decline in violent outbreaks across the world thanks to your song,” Irving said.

“Yes, well, I do what I can darling,” the Countess said. “I really do.”

Irving craned his neck to see that his client was being followed down the hall by Natalie Brock. Struggling to keep up behind the affiliate reporter was Walter, her hefty, huffing and puffing cameraman.

“Goddamn it, Walter,” Natalie said. “Hurry up. We’re going to lose her.”

“I’m union,” Walter groaned. “I don’t care.”

“Countess!” Natalie shouted. “Countess!”

The entourage came to a halt. The two goons formed a human wall.

“Countess,” Natalie said. “Natalie Brock for NN1’s Miami affiliate. Can we get a few words?”

“This is a secure area, ma’am,” the first goon said.

“We need to ask you to leave,” the second goon added.

Natalie struggled to look around the goons but they blocked her at every turn.

“Irving!” Natalie yelled. “Irving! I know you’re back there.”

Natalie and Irving resorted to having a conversation between the goon wall.

“Natalie, this entire floor has been blocked off for the Countess’ safety,” Irving said. “I could have you arrested and carted off to Guantanamo Bay on celebrity harassment charges.”

The intrepid reporter belted out her question. “What would you say to critics who believe that Butt Peace is just an example of the Countess recycling her same old tired buttsploitation songs into a faux humanitarian package?”

“The Countess does not have to answer such outrageous accusations!” Irving said. “Get out or be thrown out!”

“No,” the Countess said as she pushed her way through the goons to Natalie’s side. “I want to speak. ‘Faux,’ you say?”

Natalie held her microphone up to the Countess’ mouth. “Yes, some say that you really don’t care about world peace, that this song is just your way of scamming the public into thinking you care about the world while still raking in the dough from perverted men who love to pretend that you are singing directly to them about your butt, as well as women who wished they had the kind of butt that would motivate perverted men to give up all of their many. Is your interest in world peace fake?”

“I assure your there’s nothing fake about it, darling,” the Countess said. “What is war other than a conflict over limited resources and why do men fight over limited resources in the first place? I submit that men go to war in order to prove themselves worthy of women with fabulous butts. All I’m trying to say to those angry men is that they should abandon their violent ways, for whenever they feel like committing mass genocide in order to placate their feelings of sexual inadequacy, they should just put on one of my butt songs instead. My butt doesn’t just belong to me, it belongs to the world, and as long as everyone has a chance to stare at it, there’s no reason for us not to come together in the spirit of peace and harmony.”

Natalie blinked. “That was actually the nicest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Thank you,” the Countess said. “Now if you’ll excuse me.”

The Countess and her contingent pressed forward down the hall.

“Tell me you got that, Walter,” Natalie said.

“Uh huh,” the grumpy cameraman replied.

The entourage reached the Countess’ private dressing room.

“Countess,” Irving said. “We’ve got to talk about your stop in New York. The choreographer was thinking about switching things up a bit, maybe adding at least seventy-percent twerking. Our focus groups can’t get enough of it.”

The Countess’ stomach gurgled. “Ugh. Not now, darling. I think all that twerking shook something loose. Ta ta.”

The pop star entered her dressing room and slammed the door. Her goons took up their positions.

“Wow,” Irving said as he squeezed the first goon’s arm. “That’s solid. You guys must work out. You work out?”

“Ergh,” the first goon replied.

“Do some curls, work on your biceps?” Irving asked. “Triceps? Lats? Delts? Quads. Yeah, I like to lift myself. I’ve got these little red dumbbells that I…”

“Ergh,” the first goon said.

“OK,” Irving said as he lightly slapped the first goon’s arm. “Good talk.”

As the manager walked down the hallway, he spotted Natalie going over her notes.

“You ever pull a stunt like that and you’ll never work in broadcasting again, capiche?”

“Oh, don’t you ‘capiche’ me, Irving,” Natalie said. “Besides, this is a win for you. For once in her life, your girl didn’t sound like a total moron.”

Irving’s face turned red. “That’s the image we’re going for and if you ever publicly imply that she is anything but a total moron I will sue you for slander!”

Meanwhile, the stoic goons were unable to maintain their rugged facades as loud fart noises emanated from inside their client’s dressing room. “Pbbbht…pbbhht…pbbbhhhhttt!”

“Huh huh,” the first goon chuckled.

“Must have been that chimichanga,” the second goon said.

Back down the hallway, the manager continued to lock horns with the reporter.

“I want that recording erased,” Natalie said.

“Not happening,” Natalie said. “She gave a statement voluntarily and it’s going on air.”

Walter stared at the back of his camera, slapped it a few times, then scratched his head. “Hey, Natalie…”

“I am her agent,” Irving said. “All press inquiries must go through me. That statement was unauthorized.”

“She authorized it herself,” Natalie said.

“Hey Natalie,” Walter repeated.

“Fine,” Irving said. “You want to go tit for tat on this? Mano y mano? Tit for tat? You want to bring down the god of thunder to make it rain all over you?”

“Knock it off, Irv,” Natalie said.

“Let’s get nuts,” Irving said. “I’m not afraid to go to court over this. I love going to court. I live for litigation. You call your Jews, I’ll call my Jews.”

“That’s racist and offensive,” Natalie said.

“That’s not racist to say that Jews are good lawyers,” Irving said. “Do you know how long it takes to go to law school?”

Walter interrupted again. “Natalie…”

Natalie snapped. “What?!”

“I didn’t get the thing where the girl with the big butt was talking,” Walter said.

Irving grinned. Natalie clenched her fists. “Are you kidding me?”

“Yeah,” Walter said as he stared at his camera. “I mixed up the buttons. There’s so many of them, you know.”

“Damn it, Walter,” Natalie said. “You know, I try my best to be nice to everyone. I try not to be one of those catty news bitches who thinks their shit doesn’t stink and they have a God given right to shit all over everyone, but damn it Walter, a monkey could do your job. A literal, honest to go, chimpanzee could work that camera and save the station a lot of money.”

“Take it up with my union,” Walter replied.

Irving laughed and laughed.

“Oh, blow it out your ass, Irv,” Natalie said.

Suddenly, the hallway was filled with a loud rumbling sound, followed by the noises of porcelain and drywall being smashed and bashed. Then there were screams. High pitched, blood curdling, female screams.

“What’s going on?” Irving asked.

The first goon tried the door knob, but it was locked. The second goon threw his weight against the door again and again until finally, he broke it open.

“Stay back!” the first goon shouted to everyone in the hallway. He drew his sidearm and followed the second goon into the room. Irving ignored the command and entered.

Natalie wagged her finger in Walter’s face. “Look at me Walter. You’re going to turn that camera on and you’re going to record every single thing that happens and if I find out that you didn’t, I’m going to drop kick you in the balls until you can’t father children anymore.”

“I’m filing a grievance,” Walter said.

“There,” Natalie said as she pointed to a red button on the camera. “That’s the record button. Push that one, then don’t push anything else. Got it?”

Walter pushed the red button. “Got it.

Irving’s shocked voice carried out into the hallway. “Jesus H. Fuck!”

Natalie’s eyes lit up with the twisted delight that only a reporter gets upon learning that something has gone awry. She and her cameraman entered the dressing room, where Irving was holding his hand in his hands.

“I don’t get it,” Irving said. “How is that even possible?”

The goons stepped out of the bathroom. The first goon dialed 911. “We need everyone you’ve got down here now…yeah…Sunnyside Arena…I don’t know how to describe it…there’s been a murder…”

Natalie sidestepped the men and poked her head into the bathroom. There, she saw that the toilet had been smashed to smithereens, little pieces of porcelain everywhere. A hole had been ripped open in the floor. The pipe leading to the sewer system had been split apart.

Worse of all, every square inch of the bathroom was covered in blood and guts. Ever so timidly, Natalie walked into the room, being careful not to get any blood on her clothes. She waved for Walter to follow.

The news reporter kneeled down and stared at a blood soaked plastic bag filled with gloppy silicone.

“What is that?” Walter asked.

“Ungh,” Natalie said as she pulled a kleenex out of her pocket and wiped the blood away. In doing so, she revealed some writing.

“Plastilox Buttock Implant – Left – Patent #10999428432”

“I knew that ass was fake,” Natalie said.

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Toilet Gator – Network News One Transcript #1


Network News One Transcript #1

(Open on Kurt Manley, stereotypically perfect looking news anchor, complete with square jaw, perfect hair and teeth).

KURT MANLEY: Witnesses on the scene reported that the Pope was heard to say, “That’s the last time I’ll go to Tijuana without a passport and a reach around. Coming up in the next hour, the ayatollah has released a series of photos of himself mooning a paper mache version of the president. Also, there’s a new report out in which seventeen out of twenty scientists claim that one of the breakfast cereals in your pantry might cause you to literally vomit out your entire spleen. We’ll tell you which cereal that is after sports and weather. But first, controversial pop star Countess Cucamonga is kicking off her highly anticipated comeback tour tonight. We take you live to Miami, where our local affiliate…Jesus…local affiliate…is that the best we could do?

(Local affiliate reporter Natalie Brock, an average looking brunette, appears on screen. She’s standing on the floor of a packed concert around, surrounded by screaming fans).

NATALIE BROCK: Good evening Kurt. I’m here at the Sunnyside Arena…

KURT MANLEY: Where’s Dan? Hey, Dan, we couldn’t have done better than a local affiliate reporter for this? Yeah…uh huh…sure but I mean, for Christ’s sake man, look at her tits. They’re A cups at best. Barely a handful.  Utterly useless.

(Natalie stares blankly at the camera).

KURT MANLEY: Oh right. Take it away Natalie.

NATALIE BROCK: Kurt, I’m coming to you from the Sunnyside Arena in downtown Miami, where fans have turned out in droves for Countess Cucamonga’s first concert since her arrest and subsequent hospitalization for moki fish huffing addiction. For those unaware, moki fish huffing is the latest celebrity addiction to hit Hollywood. An addict will spend upwards of three hundred thousand dollars to illegally important the rare, virtually extinct Japanese moki fish, spoon model airplane glue into the fish’s hind quarters, and then somehow the combination of the glue and fish pheromones creates a potent high that can be achieved by sniffing the glue filled fish’s anus.

KURT MANLEY: Don’t bore me with information I already know for…um…news reporting purposes and only news reporting purposes, Natalie.

NATALIE BROCK: Sorry Kurt.  Now, we’ve gotten word from Countess Cucamonga’s press agent that the Countess plans to debut a new song tonight, one that will showcase her range as a performer. According to the statement we’ve received, the Countess is tired of churning out the same old vulgar, sensationalized songs that capitalize on her ample posterior. Her time in rehab has given her perspective and now she wants to give back and do her part to bring about world peace.

KURT MANLEY: Aw, what the hell. I really love those butt songs. Countess Got Back. Cucamonga Crack. Twerk Dat Booty. Stuff Dem Jeans.

NATALIE BROCK: Indeed, Kurt. In fact, the Countess’ most famous single, Max Out My Extra Strength Stretch Pants, went quadruple platinum, but apparently the Countess has become a more civic minded entertainer now.

KURT MANLEY: Isn’t Countess Cucamonga’s posterior insured for three hundred million dollars?

NATALIE BROCK: There has been talk of that in the tabloids but I don’t believe anyone in the Countess’ entourage has ever given official confirmation. However, it is undeniable that Countess Cucamonga has one of the most infamous derrieres in show business.

(The lights dim. The crowd goes silent).

NATALIE BROCK: That’s our cue, Kurt. Let’s listen in as the Countess starts her new life as a world peace advocate.

(Countess Cucamonga, an insanely beautiful woman, flies over the crowd via wires attached to her body. She wears a pink wig and a sparkly gown. Her butt is enormous. She lands on stage. Smoke clouds burst and then dissipate, allowing her backup dancers to appear. The crowd goes wild. The Countess begins to sing a slow song.)

COUNTESS CUCAMONGA: War…famine…plague….destruction…death. So much can happen to take away our last breath…

(A giant globe depicting all of the continents is lowered behind the Countess. It spins slowly).

COUNTESS CUCAMONGA: Poverty…catastrophe…so much can come between you and me…

(Natalie appears on screen and whispers).

NATALIE BROCK: Looks like she really has turned over a new leaf, Kurt.

KURT MANLEY: Move your stupid head, Natalie. I’m trying to scope out the Countess’ turd cutter.


KURT MANLEY: Aww, who can see it through that long gown anyway.

(The Countess returns to screen).

COUNTESS CUCAMONGA: I’m here to tell you there’s a way that all this mayhem can cease. There is a road to international peace. The road is here, it is so clear, and the road to world peace runs through…

(The globe explodes, shooting confetti all over the crowd. A giant butt takes the globe’s place. The Countess rips off her dress, leaving her with nothing but a skimpy bikini and highly revealing panties printed with various world countries. Lights flash, the crowd cheers as the song picks up tempo…)


(The Countess points her butt at the audience and twerks up a storm).

COUNTESS CUCAMONGA: Butt peace! It’s what the world needs now. Butt peace! You’ll drop your jaw and say, “Wow!” Butt peace! Drop your guns, stare at these buns. No time for war when your eyes are sore from staring at…

(The Countess slaps her right cheek).


(Natalie Brock appears on screen).

NATALIE BROCK: Well, there you have it, Kurt. I’ve just received word that ‘Hashtag Butt Peace’ is trending on Lifebox and Butt Peace can be purchased through whichever music site you prefer to throw your money away on. There are also seven hundred online petitions demanding that Countess Cucamonga be named an official UN ambassador, thus allowing her to spread her message of butt related peace throughout the world.

(Kurt Manley appears on stage, grooving in his seat).

KURT MANLEY: Aw, yeah. Butt peace, baby! Woo! The Countess has done it again.

(Kurt stops dancing and ruffles through a stack of papers).

KURT MANLEY: That’ll do it for Natalie Brock, our Miami affiliate reporter and card carrying member of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee. Keep your TV locked on Network News One because in the next hour, we’re going to asking Congressman Hutchins why he supports HR4900, better known as the “Turn Every American’s Life into a Big Pile of Shit” Bill. But first, are there traces of rat poison in your toothpaste? Find out after this commercial break.

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Toilet Gator – From the Desk of Bookshelf Q. Battler


From the Desk of Bookshelf Q. Battler

Dear Noble Reader,

Your butt. Yes, I want to talk about your butt, for your butt is the most important part of your body. If you’ve got a great one, people tend to stare at it. If you’ve got a flat one, you’ll need to put a pillow under it. If you’ve got an itchy one, you’ll need to scratch it. Sooner or later, some annoying problem is going to crawl up your butt the wrong way and don’t even get me started if you work in a stressful environment filled with backstabbing, duplicitous coworkers. In that case, you’d better cover your butt.

Speaking of covering your butt, do you know where your heiney is the least protected? The toilet. That’s right. The toilet. You go to work, you make sure you do the right thing so the boss doesn’t theoretically bite off a piece of your butt as he fires you. On your way home, you look over your shoulder to ensure that no one is trying to kick your butt. Alas, when you drop your trousers and take a seat in order to make a cheek squeak, your butt is left completely defenseless as it sits upon the porcelain throne.

“But BQB,” you will surely say. “What could possibly go wrong while I’m sitting on the toilet?”

I’m sorry. I know you are my beloved noble reader, but that’s a stupid question. Really. Pull your head out of your butt and get in the game here.

Have you ever thought about what happens to a turd after you flush it? You probably haven’t, you inconsiderate prick. That poop that was once food that nourished you goes down on a pipe, gets transferred through a line going underneath your property, where it travels until it reaches your community’s sewer system. From there, it makes the long journey to your local sewage treatment facility.

In other words, there is a whole freaking subterranean highway lurking below your ass crack and you’ve never even thought about it because you’re all like, “La dee da, look at me, my life is so important that I don’t have to think about what is going on underneath my butt while I’m pooping.”

Snap out of your self-obsessed existence, noble reader, for there is a whole other world full of devastation, death and intrigue going on in the lowly depths beneath your butt. Close your eyes, push with all your might, then wipe and get the hell off of the bowl as fast as you can because just when you thought it was safe to go number two, I present to you, Toilet Gator.

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Zom Fu – Chapter 40


The Clan of the Terrifyingly Unnatural Brain Bite cut a horrific swatch through the countryside, looting, plundering, and replenishing their numbers by converting villagers into vile, undead brain addicted beasts. Towards the end of their reign of terror, the young men of one village in particular were forced to stand for inspection.

“Look at yourselves,” Dragonhand said as he walked past a line of captives. “Weeping and cowering like children, completely unaware that I am about to turn you into the best possible version of your miserable selves. Lickspittle, has the sacrifice been made?”

The toady held up a juicy, goo dripping brain. “Yes, oh infinitely wise one. Our warrior, Quon, gave up his thinking meat so that others may revel in the glory of zom fu.”

“Excellent,” Dragonhand said as he snatched up the disgusting gray matter. “Who wants the first bite?”

The hostages appeared perplexed, surprised that their captor would even make such a ghastly suggestion. The fiend held the brain underneath the nose of the first villager, gave him a good whiff, then continued on down the line, making sure each man got a good nose full.

“I admit brains aren’t much to look at,” Dragonhand said. “And they aren’t suitable for those with a discerning palette but I assure you, once you take a bite, you’ll never want anything else.”

One of the villagers broke out into a cold sweat. “I must have it.”

“No,” another man shouted. “It’s mine!”

“That’s my brain!” a third man cried.

Dragonhand tossed the brain up into the air and caught it, as if it were a ball. He did this twice more, before letting it fall to the ground.

The captives looked at the brain, then up at Dragonhand.

“Have at it,” Dragonhand said. “But make sure you all eat a piece so that you may each learn the glories of zom fu.”

“Yes master!” the villagers shouted in unison. One by one, they dove for the brain, pummeling, biting, scratching and stomping each other just to get the slightest bit closer to their snack.

“Lickspittle,” Dragonhand said.

“Yes, oh extraordinarily brilliant one?” the toady asked.

“Don’t forget to kill them all once they’ve eaten,” Dragonhand said. “Make the cuts quick and clean. I don’t want them getting so mangled that they’re useless in a fight.”
“Of course, oh excessively amazing one,” Lickspittle said.

Dragonhand stared off toward the edge of the village, where undead warriors were busily constructed an enormous device. It consisted of a large bucket pulled back and secured to a rope, sitting on a platform with wheels.

“Lickspittle you insignificant pile of monkey vomit,” Dragonhand said.

“You called, my liege?” Lickspittle asked.

Dragonhand walked over to the device. “What is this monstrosity?”

“Do you like it, my ever so manly god on earth?” Lickspittle inquired.

“What is it?” Dragonhand asked.

“It’s a weapon of my own design, oh fantastic one,” Lickspittle said. “I call it, ‘the zombapault.’”

Dragonhand watched as one zombie sat in the bucket, smoothing out the rough parts of the wood with a hand held plane.

“What does it do?” Dragonhand asked.

“I’m glad you asked, oh indubitably handsome one,” Lickspittle said. “You see, by pulling the bucket back as far as it will go, then securing it with a rope, the device becomes capable of…”

Dragonhand lost interest in listening to his toady speak. He drew a knife, cut the rope, and watched as the catapult set the unsuspecting undead warrior hurtling several miles into the air.

“The short version is that I think it will be good for getting our warriors over the Forbidden City’s walls,” Lickspittle said.

“Astounding, Lickspittle,” Dragonhand said. “For once in your pathetic, useless, poor excuse of a life, you have managed to impress me.”

Lickpittle gushed with pride. “Oh, master. You have no idea how much that means to me.”

“Don’t let it go to your head, worm,” Dragonhand said.

“Of course not, master,” Lickspittle replied.

Master and lackey watched the previously launched warrior continue on an upward arc until he started falling down over the horizon.

“Do you think he’ll be ok?” Lickspittle asked.

“Why would I care?” Dragonhand inquired.

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