King Shit

King Shit (by Checkered Demon 1, circa 1991)

All these excrement stories are stirring up memories of a fine foul day, some 12 years ago, when my little brother decided to give anal birth to the biggest turd I have ever seen.

I was raised, in typical appalachian style, as poor white trash without running water. The outhouse is the center of many fond and wondrous memories for me; spiders, the combination of summer heat and the overpowering stench of centuries-old feces and urine allowed to fester, wasps, billions of biting flies, freezing cold winters, and little or no privacy available. But then, I am tasteless. My brother is not.

To his little-kid brain, the outhouse was a place of great terror and fear. He had been stung, as I remember, one time while trying his first on-my-own poop. He was terrified, and decided that the shitter was a BAD place, and little kids didn't even poop in bad places. So, with that knowledge, he decided. "I am not going to poop anymore."

My parents and I first noticed his odd behavior four days into his Ironman Sphincterclench Endurance Competition. He seemed to be sick, as he would occasionally get glassy-eyed and stand in deep concentration. Mom was concerned, but didn't say much other than "Are you feeling well? Are you sick?"

He was fine, he just hadn't shit in four days. And, his little-kid brain had neglected to realize that if you don't want to shit anymore, you must AT LEAST cut down on the amount of food you intake. If anything, he doubled the amount of food he ate, since he was not going to have to poop anymore.

He tells me now that day four was the worst day. After that, his butt seemed to enjoy the vacation, and didn't mind letting its work pile up, so to speak. Days five and six passed without much difference, but his odd attacks seemed to be more frequent and of a little more intensity than before, but a lot briefer. Mom really began to get worried. She thought he might be epileptic.

Day seven rolls around with a force that would not be denied much longer. Struggle and strain though he did, my brother decided that it was better to do that than ever have to dump anymore. He tells me that at this point, he had decided to poop again, but was afraid to, because of what might actually come out of his butt. (His brain, most likely). And the final clincher, he has an anal spasm during a vacation bible school meeting, and they bring him home because THEY think he is having an epileptic fit. I would wager that my anus would have puckered up about that time as well. Also, I'll bet that several of them thought he was going to speak in tongues, and kiss a rattlesnake, or somethinglike that.

Mom would not let him talk his way out of this; the truth had to come out. He confessed his crime against nature, and said he would start shitting again if Mom swore she wouldn't punish him, and that she would take him to the doctor if anything... unusual happened to him while he was excreting. She agreed, under the condition that he use a potty chair in the house, so that we could run to his side and laugh hysterically if something happened. That last bit wasn't strictly a part of the negotiations, but that is what happened.

By God's grace, I happened to be in earshot when the ThunderFudge(tm) decided to part company with my brother. The actual sounds went something like; " oh. Oh. OH. ow. Ow. OWWWWWWWWWW! OWWWWWWWWW!OWWWWWWWW! OWWWWWWWW!!!"



Oh, the humanity of it all.

I knew that he could hear me if I snickered, so I tried to suppress the urge, which, as we have seen in the last few paragraphs or so, urge suppression does not run in my genes.

I laughed out loud.

Repeatedly.

Louder each time.

He was pissed, but then, I wasn't the one who had decided to pinch a loaf for the rest of my life.

He and Mom then left to apply some medication to the area, leaving me wondering if I ever had children, would I ever have the inner strength to cope with a son as brain-dead as this one?

I snuck a peek into the storage room they had been in. What I saw astounded me. The butt-monster had run the length of the pot, a good seven inches, and then formed an L-shape and continued upwards for another solid (heh) foot. Towards the end of the process, my brother must have stood, to be able to fully excrete this DungO'Death (tm). It was smooth-surfaced, and looked like it was about five inches around. It was about the same color as mahogany.

It was taken to the outhouse, and laid to rest 15 feet below the surface of the seat. It didn't even break when it impacted with the mound; instead, it just sank in, like the King Shit that it truly was, ruling over all the other worthless pieces of shit around it. Nobility suited it well.

My brother recovered, eventually developed something similar to intelligence, and later on we both moved out of the house. That particular outhouse was abandoned, and another was constructed. But I still think of King Shit, covered now by many others, still the greatest one of all time.

A herpetological horror

Subject: A herpetological horror
From: ksm@abb-sc.abb-sc.com (Ashley)
Date: 25 Jun 93 19:39:50 GMT
Organization: Kaos Laboratories
Keywords: venomous lizard, penis, hemotoxic venom.
Lines: 56


As a result of the little kitchen knife incident, a friend of mine and I where discussing interesting ways to loose your penis. He mentioned a person who got snipped by a snapping turtle while pissing in a river. Then I remembered something I read about in a herpetological journal some
time ago. Thought it might be appreciated here.


>> Haven't heard of one of those yet. I did hear of a fellow who somehow
>> got bitten by a gilla monster on the schlong though....
>
>Aren't they those black and red poisonous things?

Big, fat, ugly, slow, venomous lizards. Black and pink nocturnal desert dwellers in the american south west. Hemotoxic poison. Somehow some joker got bit on the dick by one. Haven't any idea how, but I suppose the gilla monster probably crawled inside his sleeping bag just before sunrise. When the wake-up woodie appeared, the lizard saw it and bit.

Now to understand what must have happened to this guy, we need to know a bit about the poisons in reptile venom. There are two kinds, neurotoxic and hemotoxic. The gilla monster has a hemotoxic venom. Hemotoxic venom destroys blood, prevents oxygen from reaching the cells,
the tissue dies, huge blood blisters form, the nerves in the area die causing local loss of motor function control. If the venom gets to the heart in high enough concentrations, the heart tissues and muscles deteriorate and the heart fails. Nausea, delerium, immobilty, vomiting, hallucinations. That's the effect of a viper bite. It's usually survivable, although it can
cost you a limb.

Now imagine a big lizard with a hematoxic venom biting someone's dick. Instead of the clean, long, hypodermic like fangs like a viper, the gilla monster has poison sacks in his gums and grooves in the teeth. He bites, clamps on, and begins working his jaws. He does not let go. So he
*grinds* the poison in. Slowly. You usually have to kill a gilla monster to get them off you if you get bit. And they don't die easily, nor do they let go when they are dead. The jaw muscles lock.



Now imagine the effects of the hematoxic venom on this guy's penis. The amount of blood in a penis is pretty big, so the blood blister would be huge and it would come quickly since the swelling would prevent blood from leaving at the normal rate. It would continue to swell until the blister burst. No oxygen to any of the cells in the spongeotum, so you'd have necrotic rot in a matter of hours, and the blood that did leave the penis would go straight up to the heart. Dying in terror, nausea and delerium with a big lzard chomping on your dick, while your dick swells up with discolored blood, oozes, explodes and rots.


Gilla Monsters. The ultimate blow-job.

________________________________________________________________________
Ashley, a psychotic, depraved and reprehensibly morbid individual.
"My sex life is defined by the thin line between a love
ksm@abb-sc.com tap and murder with a blunt instrument."
------------------------------------------------------------------------

Cunt-rag

From: cunt@cc.tut.fi (Lauhanen Rauli)
Subject: Cunt-rag
Date: 31 Jan 1995 17:31:03 GMT
Summary: Why not Kleenex ?
Keywords: Cunt`s, Their rags, Their smell, Punishment, Bible, Anal thunder.


I wonder how usual is this habit around world. The thing I'm talking about is "vittu-ratti". It's popular here in Finland especially among women in countryside. Vittu-ratti is used to clean cunt after their twat has been washed or processed any other way. I was quite impressed to saw one in my friends SO's bathroom last weekend. And that cunt was _so_ raunchy that she even haven`t tried to hide it by any means. Stupid cunt. Anyway, that rag gave me the best wank for months, not to mention her increased probability to get pregnant now. What ever will happen, I'm proud and happy I did that, because if somebody is _this_ stupid she deserves to be surprised in a most humidiating way.

Now, are only finnish women this tasteless, or is this maybe a global habit, exposing that almost every woman in this planet is a stupid cunt in a need of a violent spanking ? I'm interested about this phenomena only among white race. Dagos, spics and niggers can wipe their cunt anyway they like.

Rauli ?
--
Rauli Lauhanen

A spot of the old ultra-violence...

From: misc061@csc.somewhere.ac.nz
Subject: A spot of the old ultra-violence...
Date: 16 Sep 94 23:14:17 +1200
Lines: 114

A spot of the old ultra-violence
--------------------------------

Last weekend I lost and maimed a friend--but that's OK, because I learnt a moronic beer trick in the process. It's the kind of thing that you see oily twentysomething boys doing in cheap night clubs while they work on their nascent beer-guts. Lots of fun.

What you do is this: grasp your stubbie (Australasian for 12oz beer bottle) firmly by the middle, wait until your friend is deeply in the midst of a pick-up speech (this is an important point of etiquette), listen for some particularly witty line (that is, wait until the pompous git squeezes out something that obviously needs deflation), and smack the top of his stubbie, hard, with the bottom of yours. This should be done with a minimum of arm movement and a blank lookon the face; ideally the woman shouldn't notice. Your victim's beer will "cum" vigorously all over his delicate proceedings. Repeat often during larger promotions.

The best way to save face when this happens to you is to jam the bottle firmly in your mouth, suck hard, and hope your eyes stay in your head. This is especially effective if you can keep a straight face while sinking vast quantities of warm, foamy beer, but does tend to come unstuck a little if you blow chunks all over the person you're trying to pick up.

John, the friend I mentioned at the beginning, taught me this in a bar. It was near the end of the night... we (John, me and a few friends) had been drinking for eight hours. Our faces were red and glistening with sweat, we were talking too loud and had somehow formed the idea that we were the funniest people on the planet. We had been smacking each others beers incessantly, so our shirt fronts, and the surrounding floor, were soaked. The bouncers had started to edge closer, trying to pick the delicate point at which we would be costing them more than they were making out of us--or maybe they just wanted to pound seven shades of shit out of us. One of them looked pretty excited; had a hard-on, even.

Being a keen spotter, and veteran cause, of the sort of bad craziness that involves large quantities of alcohol and huge bouncers, I went to negotiate peace with the doormen. As I'm a spotty little gimp, my usual negotiation technique involves lying on my back and pissing
myself like a crippled dog. However, eight hours of drinking will bestow a little courage on even the lowliest little shit, and so I begged time for another round. Regrettably.

By this stage of the evening we had given up all pretensions to normal drinking etiquette (no pointing, no showing of teeth, no use of consonants... that sort of pratty crap) and had started to lunge and flail wildly whenever we saw an unprotected bottle. John barely got his last beer off the bar before I hit it. He was expecting this, though, and immediately stuffed the stubbie in his mouth. Fair rammed it home, he did. Which was unfortunate, because the top had busted
off.

His eyes went wide as the glass slit through his top and bottom lip, and sank into his tongue. He fell to his knees, trying to hold the bottle still, but the foaming beer forced its way into his wind-pipe and he coughed explosively, spraying us with a fine mist of blood. He dropped the bottle and clamped his hands to his mouth, letting out a loud, low wail. The whole bar went silent. Even the arsehole bouncers were staring white faced at the mess. He was bleeding rivers. In about fifteen seconds his hands had been covered in slick red gloves, and the front of his shirt, once a cheerful shade of larger, had turned a violent crimson. He just knelt there, staring at me with enormous yellow eyes, making pathetic mewling noises and letting out small coughs whenever blood ran down the back of his throat. Blood was dripping off his elbows.

Two of us picked him up and hauled him out the door, pulled him into the back seat of his car and drove to Accident and Emergency. On the way there he went into deep shock. The bits of his face that weren't dark red were white. His fingernails were showing dark blue through
the coagulating blood, he was shivering uncontrollably. By the time we got to the hospital he couldn't walk, so we carried him inside.

Saturday night in A&E is one of New Zealand's national institutions; drinking and fighting is one of our national sports. When you walk through the doors of a hospital's emergency department in the weekend you're greeted by the smell of freshly processed alcohol; the cloying funk of acetone and vomit. The lobby is generally crammed with groaning rednecks and blue, spew-choked corpses. Still, John received attention fairly promptly, probably because of his cute injury.

The attending doctor soon worked out that he wasn't in a life threatening condition, but was concerned about giving him anaesthetic because he was so pissed. She did give him a few injections, but he still started whimpering and shaking when she began to stitch him up.
She started mumbling a few platitudes to encourage him to stay still, but hadn't got far when, Quite abruptly, he stopped shivering and his eyes lost their focus. He burped. A weird, hollow, relaxed burp. The doctor went all quiet and stared at John, her nostrils flaring slightly with fear. Suddenly John's entire lower body convulsed, unloading a couple of litres of warm beer and clotted blood down the young doctor's front. She jumped backwards, swearing, and leaving the
needle dangling from the suture in John's lip.

A few litres later, John heaved himself upright, blowing vomit out his nose to clear his airway. He gawped at me accusingly before his eyes rolled back into his head and he fainted, rolling sideways off the gurney. His head hit the ground with a sickening squeak, the sound of skull plates sliding against each other, and his arm folded under his body unnaturally. Rather than stunning him, this seemed to bring him out of his faint. He rolled his head around to look at me
and vomited again. His cuts had reopened; the sutures had torn out. After a few rough breaths he fixed me with his best "fuck off and die" stare, and started to spit black blood and ill-formed words: "I'll 'ill 'ou, 'ou 'uck. 'Ou 'ick 'uck. 'Ou 'uck. 'Ou 'uck. 'Ou 'uck..."

I left.

--Will (w.hoyle@csc.somewhere.ac.nz)

Pyrotechnic schoolboy prank

Subject: Pyrotechnic schoolboy prank
From: David.Cockburn@somewhere.edu (David Cockburn)
Date: 2 Aug 1994 03:52:19 -0500
Lines: 78

Story starts in a Chemistry lesson, with Teacher demonstrating that when you bubble acetylene gas through some standard lab reagent (can't remember what I'm afraid! - maybe I'll x-post this to the rec.pyrotechnics mob for comment) you get a black precipitate of god-knows-what, which when dried out, forms an exceedingly unstable powder which explodes with a helluva crack at the slightest provocation. Not surprisingly, Rick the class boffin leaves the lesson at the end with a bottle of said reagent and a bag of calcium carbide (+ water = acetylene, y'know) in his school-bag.

So Rick shortly goes into production of this stuff in a big way, and is soon to discover that for optimum effect it can be detonated by packing it v-e-r-y gently around a short length of eureta wire, and hooking this up to a 9-volt battery via a nice long cable (battery heats up eureta wire,
causing detonation). Much mirth is then had by hiding tiny packets of the magic powder along the road and rendering innocent passers-by almost airborne by remote control from behind a nearby wall or wherever.

But this isn't enough to fulfil Rick's creative urges. Final refinement of the technique comes with the realization that by tightly wrapping the powder and wire with cling-film (saran-wrap in 'Merkan-speak?) it can probably be rendered waterproof, and then...

But unfortunately supplies of raw materials are by this stage running pretty low, so there is no opportunity to test the theory before putting it into practice. Rick therefore packs his entire remaining stash around the detonator, and tightly wraps the whole lot in clingfilm.

The stunt was to be staged in the school crapper after lunch one day, when an unsuspecting kiddie could be predicted to arrive promptly to plant a post-prandial pooh with a reasonable degree of certainty. Rick locks himself in a cubicle with his kit, and carefully sets his charge inside the porcelain, well below the water-line. The very thin cable is led up
the side, under the seat and through to the adjacent cubicle. Removal of all the light bulbs in the area ensures that illumination is low enough for the trap to be invisible to a cursory inspection. Rick shuts all the cubicle doors except the booby-trapped one, installs himself on the adjacent crapper, and waits...

The rest of us wait outside, watching from an overlooking balcony. Sure enough, not long to wait before some kid saunters in for a nice relaxing dump. So picture if you will Rick sitting there on the next bog with a wire in each hand, with a half-crazed expression on his face like Anthony
Hopkins in 'Juggernaut', waiting for precisely the optimum moment...

Door shuts... lock clicks home. Belt undone... trousers down... buttock touchdown... bladder voids... sphincter dilation commences... CONTACT!!! Rick touches his wires together. For just a second, nothing happens. Rats - the stuff must have got wet. Then K-A-B-O-O-M!! there's the most almighty explosion... and then: complete, utter, total silence.

Pretty shocked by what's just happened, Rick hops down from his perch and makes rapidly for the exit. What now? We all heard the bang and were all now more than a little worried as to the potential consequences... "Oh shit..." "Well it was *your* idea..." "I *told* you there was too much charge there..." etc etc. In retrospect, God knows why nobody went in to administer first aid or whatever, but no one did: we just hung about ouside nervously biting fingernails. But eventually the youth totters out of the lavvy, and amidst much relief, everyone crowds round to find out what had happened.

Apparently the poor kid had just sat down and 'opened up' when the thing detonated. Subsequent examination of the crimescene revealed what had happened. The porcelain was covered in soot from the rim to the waterline - not that there was the slightest trace of any water left in the bowl. The cubicle walls were soaked to about waist-height, but most notable was the wet line which ran from straight up the door almost top the top - resulting from the piss-stream still emerging from the lad's flapping tool as he went flying into the air upon detonation.

Mercifully and miraculously, it turned out that no damage had been done to the boy or his wedding tackle. He hadn't had a clue what had happened to him - he'd thought there'd been some sort of explosion in the sewers. Afterwards he'd just sat there quaking in terror, unable to move himself, let alone his bowels. In fact the word was that the poor little sod was
constipated for a fortnight afterwards... funny, that.


David Cockburn (who *always* checks before sitting down)

My favorite dog story (true!)

Subject: My favorite dog story (true!)
From: dehall@hellcat.somewhere.edu (David Hall)
Date: 2 Aug 1994 03:30:52 GMT
Summary: kilt a dog!Lines: 237



A fews days ago, while finishing up a private flame to some PC minded asswipe lawyer (not Canter or Siegal), I realized that it had been a *long* time since I had posted to our illustrious
group. Had nothing tasteless happened to me in recent months? Not that I could think of. I hadn't been sick. Nobody I knew had been sick. I couldn't even claim a good road kill (I ride a motorcycle, hitting a skunk would probably kill me too!). But then the great god of AT posts blessed me: my grandmother died.

So I bet you all are thinking that this post is filled with some tasteless details of her death and or her funeral. Nope, sorry. There wasn't anything good to report about them. BUT!!! During the long drive to Misery (Missouri?) I had time to ponder my childhood and came up with a classic adventure from my youth.....

When I was about 16 years old, my uncle's neighbors owned a piece of shit poodle that they routinely let run loose in the neighborhood. This little rat (not big enough to really be a dog....
it was nothing more than a curly haired, overgrown rodent) would run around, shitting in everybody else's front yard and barking incessantly. The cops had been called about the dog several times but the results never lasted more than a couple of nights (the results being the owners putting the dog in their back yard).

Well, it seems that our favorite neighbors decided to go on a one week vacation one summer and mind you, I *hated* that dog. So, with said hatred in my blood (and a sadistic streak down my spine) I decided that I would use the time alloted to me by our neighbors to take care of
the "problem."

My uncle was all for it, of course, and let me spend the week over at his place. After all, I was 16 and it was summer, did I have anything better to do than kill rodents? Not likely. And besides, this wasn't murder, or even cruelty to animals. No, this was to be a public service.


DAY ONE: RECON

The first night I decided that the best course of action was to see just what exactly I could get away with in regards to noise and neighborhood response. I spent the night pseudo chasing the dog around the neighborhood. The dog barked for *hours*. And yet, not a single light came on. Everybody was so used to the fuzzy fuck that it's barking didn't seem to cause even one raised eyebrow. "Perfect." I thought. The odds of getting caught doing whatever devious deed I should choose were small at worst.


DAY TWO: CAPTURE

Based upon the assumption that prying eyes would not be a problem, I decided that the best course of action would be to capture the shit dog, drive it out into the middle of nowhere, and then kill it in the most twisted, yet entertaining method I could think of. The mission would have three phases: capture, transport, and disposal.

Transport would not be a problem. My uncle had a plastic "instrumentation" case that was about 2 feet on a side with heavy duty latches. All I had to do was throw the box into the back of my truck (with the dog inside it, of course) and proceed to the sticks. Then I could dispose of it in the privacy of 10,000,000 acres of open desert. But how *should* I dispose of it?

My mind reeled at the possibilities. Burned alive, buried alive, bludgeoning, dismemberment, and poisoning. Yes, all were likely candidates, but I chose strangulation for it's simplicity. Oh, and the fact that I would get to look into the pooch's eyes as it died.

Unfortunately, capture was still a problem. Searching my uncle's house for something appropriate, about the only thing I found that would be of use was a 20 foot long piece of nylon rope and a pair of heavy leather gloves. They would have to do.

After fashioning a lasso out of the rope, I began the hunt in ernest. I figured that I would corner the dog with a fence or something, play cowboy (lasso the dog), pick the dog up and away we would go.

No such luck. The moment I would try to approach the dog it would run like a bat out of hell and hide under the nearest car. Have you ever tried to throw a rope over something that is hiding under a Toyota?

It was back to the drawing board...


DAY THREE: BLUDGEONING

After the previous night's fiasco, I decided to beat the dog to death. The plan was based on the assumption that I could run just as fast as any shit poodle (9 years of track, baby!). So when the rodent made it's break for the nearest car I would catch it and crack it's skull *before* it made it to the safety of the Toyota.

But what instrument of destruction should I use? My uncle didn't golf, nor did he play softball. So golf clubs and baseball bats were out. I searched the house for something appropriate. In the garage I found a choice instrument: a 1/2 inch diameter rod of solid aluminum about three feet long. It should do nicely.

That night I stalked the beast as best I could. I watched the dog from a distance of 50 or so yards for the better part of an hour waiting for it to do something stupid. My prayers were answered. The shit decided to take a shit. While the dog squatted in some poor sap's front lawn, I moved in for the kill.

The dog didn't hear me coming until I was about 10 feet away. By then it was too late to avoid my attack. I swung the rod as hard as I could as I ran past him. *WUMP!* I hit the dog sqarely behind his right shoulder. I could see his (hell, I never checked, it might have been a her) body deform around the rod as it transferred it's energy into his rib cage. Feefee was knocked about three feet sideways by the blow (interestingly enough, the dog never yelped). I didn't know how much damage (if any) I had done, but I was sure that I had the dog's *full* attention now.

Bringing myself to a stop about 10 yards past the ratfuck, I turned around to make another pass. But he was on the move, too. As he ran towards the nearest car I could tell my initial assumption was correct: I *could* run faster than he could. Unfortunately, he had a lead on me and it wasn't too far to cover. DAMN! He made it to some pickup truck before I could hit him again. And try as I might, I couldn't seem to get him under there.

It was time to rethink things (again).


DAY FOUR: BLOW GUNS

The previous two nights failures told me that whatever method of destruction I should choose, it *had* to be effective underneath a vehicle. To me, this said that it needed to be a projectile of some sort. Guns were out for two reasons: noise, and consequences of a chance meeting with Mr. Policeman while running around the neighborhood at 4am with a gun. Checking my resources I found three possibilities. The first, and probably most effective was the old bow and arrow set that I had played with as a kid in my uncle's back yard (OK, he spoiled me rotten!). But this too was ruled out as it was identifiable as a weapon from a block away. I didn't want to push my luck. The second, was a slingshot. While accurate and powerful, the balls shot by it lacked the ability to penetrate (or so I reasoned). This left my third option, my trusty home made blow gun.

Feeling like a ninja, I searched for my prey yet again. I found him sniffing a mound of dog shit (probably his) about a block away. He saw me approaching, and, apparently growing lery of me ran for the nearest parked car.

"No problemo," I said to myself as I walked up to the car. Crouching down I loaded up the blow gun. The dog just sat there as I pumped the first dart into his chest. *THWACK!*

I reloaded.

The second shot I aimed at the bastard's throat. *THWACK!*

This time he yelped loudly and ran from underneath the car. Smelling victory, I chased him down the street. He hid under another car.

And I hit him again. This time I hit him in what I hoped would be his intestinal cavity. He yelped and ran again.

And so the night continued. *THWACK!* *YELP!* *THWACK!* *YELP!* In all, I put about 20 darts into him that night. But as my supply of ammo began to dwindle, I realized that despite all the festivities, the dog did not appear to be *hurt*. Perhaps what I was doing was no worse
than letting a vet pump 20 needles into him? I regrouped a third time.


DAY FIVE: POISON

Despite the apparent lack of results from the previous night, I was encouraged by my ability to hit the dog at will. This being so, I decided to learn the lessons taught by jungle bunnies everywhere: I would use poisoned darts. But how would I get poison from the dart into the
animal? Scientists use hypodermic needles to do it. I didn't have hypos. Natives soaked their darts in poison, mine were steel and thus wouldn't absorb jack shit. But where there is a will there is a way!

I took two of my remaining darts and used a file to create serrations along the entire length to the dart (except the cone). Now all I needed was a poison that would cling to the serrations well enough to withstand handling, flight, and impact with the animal. This requirement implied that the poison needed to be a paste of some sort.

But what sort of poison is a paste? After eliminating all available *poisons* I began searching the garage for something, anything, that was both a paste and had a "HARMFUL OR FATAL IF SWALLOWED" warning on the side. I found something (I think it was some *old* paint) and promptly coated my darts with it.

Finding the dog proved to be easy and right on que he hid underneath the nearest car. Taking my time, I loaded up a poison dart and aimed for the heart/lung region on the hellhound. Since this dart was important, I blew has hard as I possibly could. *WACK!* It sounded a lot like a
single hand clap. 30 seconds later the second poison dart joined the first.

My work done, I called it a night.


DAY SIX: ARROWS FROM SLINGSHOTS

When I awoke to the bark of *the* dog the next afternoon it suprised the hell out of me. But even more, it inspired me to *really* take care of business that night.

I surmised that the poison darts had been just as ineffective as the unpoisoned darts, but the ease of weapons delivery kept me clinging to the concept of projectiles as the weapon of choice. Using spearguns for inspiration, I wondered if I could use my slingshot to shoot arrows. Such
a configuration would eliminate the high visibility of a bow while providing excellent penetration. After some tinkering and minor modifications to my slingshot, I found that such a set up could indeed work.

But that night, the dog was nowhere to be found. DAMN!


DAY SEVEN: MIA

The absence of the dog the previous night had me hopeful that the poison had, after all, done it's job. But alas, I was not so lucky. That afternoon I spotted the shit dog lying in the shade on his master's front porch looking quite alive (and terrified of me :).

That night was my last chance. The neighbors would return from God knows where sometime the next afternoon. Searching the neighborhood, I spotted our favorite dog about a block away underneath a street light. It was moving much slower than it had in the past. Perhaps a sign that our little get togethers were taking their toll on Fido.

Slingshot and arrows in hand, I walked calmly down to the corner where I had seen the beast and looked around. The dog had vanished into the night. After several more hours of searching, I aborted the mission.

Ashamed of my failure, I awaited the return of *the* neighbors and the continued reign of terror that the mutt had inflicted upon the land.


EPILOGUE:

I never saw the dog again. Sometime later I found out that the dog had died a full *week* after the return of the neighbors. It seems that upon returning home they had found their poor pooch sicker than a dog (no pun intended) and had promptly taken it to the vet's office for
emergency care. The dog then spent it's last six days on earth in a small 2 foot by 2 foot cage, unable to roam it's territory, slowly dying of liver failure induced by an "unknown toxin."

And so, I can look myself in the mirror and know that I caused a poor excuse for an animal die a miserable death drawn out over the course of *TEN DAYS*. Yes, revenge was mine. And for that, I will forever smile upon the memory.

But I wonder, did the neighbors find any darts in him?


OBDogs: I actually love dogs. But my definition of a dog is a bit different than most. My definition basically says, "If the thought of that animal attacking you does not strike fear into your heart, then it is not a dog, but an overgrown rodent. *DOGS* can rip you to
pieces."

Hospital

From: st.ool@diku.dk
Subject: hospital
Summary: mommy, I've started throwing up the sedatives.
Keywords: long, boring to some
Date: Thu, 5 Dec 91 12:04:01 GMT
Lines: 122

I've always been very fond of hospitals. Not only have I seen most of my family die there in nice, sterile surroundings, deprived of any pride or human similarity they may have had, but the sheer joy of all the sorrow and despair makes my own life a seem little bit lighter. Where other people can do with the odd I'm-a-cripple-but-very-happy-and-believe-in-God stories that mainstream media is cluttered with, I myself find it hard to get that lovely oh-god-thats-horrible-thrill just by reading about it, so once in a while I put the rescue 911 tapes back in the shelf, zip my pants and go for some genuine excitement.

In the beginning it was enough for me to peek through half open doors, seeing the screaming people fight the syringes, gastroscopes and whatever else the medical staff cured them with. I distinctly remember an old man sitting up in his bed, sorrounded by whitecoats hoarsly yelling out 'No, get lost, you're not taking my (spit) vocal chords (hrk) no get away from me, noo' whilst spitting and coughing up blood. After this precious outburst he looked down, blood running from his open mouth, and started to sob. They let him cry for about 3 min. (inwardly smirking, I'm sure) before they started on the second part of the routine, saying 'Ah, we got a little excited there, didn't we' 'Oh, it's all right, let it all out' and 'I think you should apologise to the
nurses, you know they're just doing their job to help you.'.

'Yes' the geriatric sobbed 'I'm sorry'.

'You want to be well again, don't you' the nice doctor went on. A barely audible 'yes' escaped the mans mouth along with some more brownish blood 'There just doesn't seem to be any hope..'

'Now now!' a nurse interupted him 'A little sting and the next thing you'll know, you'll have a nice new throat mike lying beside your bed, instead of that nasty tumor'.

'Noooo' the man from marlboro country began, but was tenderly given some morfin, after which he fell back, and concentrated on soiling the pillow with his blood.

That night my apartment resounded with cheers and horrays, as I played out the scene with tomatosauce in my mouth and flour in my hair, wanking till my balls ached so much I couldn't do much other than lean back giggeling, oblivious to anything but my joy.

But mere peeking couldn't satisfy me in the long run, and I felt that I somehow had to take part in the action to get a longer lasting sense of well being.

I started by stealing the sick peoples clothes, preferably the elderlys, as they had less control of their bowels and urination. Normally, would put on a white coat, enter the room and look sternly over the rim of my glasses. The geriatric would then normally respond with a 'Is anything the matter, doctor?', sometimes almost incomprehensive as their voices shivered violently, and several of them stuttered during this dreadful question.

'It's cancer..' I'd say, and wait for the sobs and flatus expulsion that normally followed this statement. If they could, and some could, control their bowels I'd follow it up with a 'WE'VE GOT TO OPERATE!', this dead sure to make them piss in their pants, and scream out in agony. Next step was then to scold them for being childish, removing their clothes and bring them back home where I would put them on my naked body and let the piss and caca caress my body.

But the sight of their shivering naked bodies, was sometimes just too much and I had to fall to my knees, and lick them vigourisly in the crotch or round their rectal opening. I was good at this, and did it to a lot. One of the geriatrics even recognised me on the street one day, and told me how happy she was that I had scared her by telling her about the extraordinarily painful pancreas operation that soon would transform her life into an inferno of dread and unbeliveable pain. Apparently the real doctors message about her not having cancer but only a harmless infection, had lifted her from the deepest level of sadness to a heaven of bliss, in which she was alive and could do all the things she'd ever wanted to do. She even asked me to come to her home and lick her genitals once more, but I thanked no, telling her that I was a one-dog man now, and wouldn't cheat on Pumpkin. Fate would it that I met her 2 years later.

I was as usual creeping round the corridors of the titcancer department on the lookout for a glimpse of female flesh. Nothing is more pure, more sincere than a fat, heavily madeup bitch crying as if whipped, clutching one of her fat tits, whimpering 'NOOOooo, I don't want to...Isn't there any other way?'.

There never is.

Today had provided me with the sight of an overweight 50 something cleaning lady, who wouldn't stop sobbing and screaming about her tits. For Gods sake! Was she going to use them for cleaning? No! What the fuck was she complaining about then? She could maybe even squeeze some funny cleaning fluids out the tit while she still had it. And I have never heard of any cleaning companies that sack people because they've lost a tit or two. But such people always have to exaggerate. Anyway, the doctor had just escorted the gasping bitch to his office and was now busy trying to call up her daughter, apparently the only one they could think of when it came to finding a person who'd pick her up in this state. 'Good', I thought, 'That will show this daughter what's in store for her' and slid into the operating theatre. Then, just as I was busily licking the acrylic plate on which her cauliflower like thingy had rested, my old flame entered only wearing ninja turtle slippers.

'Oh doctor, my doctor' She exclaimed 'Cannot thou tell me who hast put these stones in my left breast'. She raised her arms toward the cieling as if expecting applause. She was most surely completely senile and couldn't recognize me. How she had found the right department was a mystery to me, but well, these old bitches sort of start to home when they have been hospitalized a certain number of times. She turned, then bent over and spread her buttocks as far as she could, giving me a clear view of her still functional sphincter.

'Look. I'm constipated' she said looking at me from between her varicosed legs.

On the brink of sticking my finger up her naughty hole, I remembered the reason for her visit and told her to stand up, which she did with a cheeky smile on her face.

She was a real mammography pearl, around 70 and with large bumpy breasts. 'Please place your left breast on this acrylic plate' I ordered her, and she did so. A beauty. It looked mostly like a big yellow testicle, only a bit more hairy. I started to lower the other acrylic plate that would soon hold the breast oh so tight and ready for the best X ray tumor shot ever taken. But then just as her breast was beginning to look like a big red lumpy thing, the apparatus decided to get stuck.

'AAAHR, your squeezing my tit!' She yelled in pain.

'Look!' I told her taking off my glasses 'It's necessary that your breast is as flat as possible when I take the picture, otherwise the tumor will look blurred and veritalum coelum et assum, crux in gorgustico!'.

'Yes, doctor' she sobbed, obviously impressed and awed by my proffesionalism. 'Uhhg' she whimpered when I managed to get the plate an inch further. 'Well, mrs. Anderson' I remarked slightly annoyed 'As all of you who survived the war knows: It has to do baddy to do goody!'.

Hearing this her face lit up and she said 'Yes, that's right! I wish some of them beatniks would understand that and get a life'. I nodded to her in acknowledgement, and tried to get the plate further down, but to no avail. 'Aw stuck' I muttered. 'Let's take the picture now' she begged. 'In just a minute mrs. Anderson' I said and put one of my feet on the uppermost plate. As I trod down on it, she let out a horribly prolonged scream, and a milky stream shot out her festering nipple and soiled my trousers just below the zipper.

'Now look what you have done!' I yelled 'WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING, CUNT?'. 'Wraaaeeeeee' she started and tried to get away from me, but her tit was stuck, and there was no escape. I grabbed her around the neck and staring balefully at her I whispered 'Now people will think that I've been wanking'. I tried to brush it off, but only succeeded in smearing it out further. 'That's a big milky spot on my honour' I told her.

'But doctor' she began 'I never meant to...'.

'BITCH!' 'YOU BITCH YOU BITCH YOU BITCH!' I bellowed, hammering her in the face 'YOU FUCKING STUPID DIRTY CUNT! LOUSY BITCH STOOL SHIT FUCK CUNT KRRRRHRRRAAAGH'. Foam flying from my mouth, I leaned back and then smashed my forehead down on her nose. A last scream left her. Her legs collapsed under her, and I left her hanging unconciously in her tit, blood trickling out the nipple.

Would she ever feel the same shame as I?

-Steven