Yngvi, The Icelandic Pimp Daddy

I began the morning with glorious sex. Raven was really on fire today. Three bouts of "the old in and out" and then it was off to work at the "London Torture Museum Exhibition" on Fisherman's Wharf. When a co-worker noticed the dazed grin that seemed to be frozen on my face she inquired as to what I was so happy about. I explained to her in a tasteful way that my girlfriend had fucked my brains out this morning and that the hot XXX action had brought me great joy. She seemed disturbed by this information and excused herself, asking me to man the ticket booth in her absence. I agreed to do so.

Thirty minutes later she returned with a police officer, a social worker from Child Protective Services and a psychologist. They asked if I would consent to speak with them about the events that had transpired this morning between Raven and myself. I agreed to talk to them, if only to clear up any confusion caused by my co-worker's interpretation of the sexual activity that I had casually mentioned this morning. We adjourned to a storage room and the psychologist presented me with an anatomically-correct doll and requested that I point to the places on the doll that my girlfriend had "fondled" on my body earlier in the morning. "Well...that penis...that's where she touched me" I informed them.

The police officer asked me if I had ever heard my "parents" use the term "sexual abuse". I informed him that, being a grown man, I knew full well what the term meant and pressed the officials to explain what exactly was the point of their visit. The psychologist then began to ask me a series of questions concerning the history of sexual activity between Raven and myself. How long had this sort of activity been taking place? Were my parents aware that I often spent the night with Raven? Did Raven explain that the sex was a "natural" thing between two adults? Did Raven make me perform cunnilingus on her? Did she perform fellatio on me?

The psychologist, the policeman and the social worker then manipulated the anatomically-correct doll as if it were a puppet, making it perform a funny dance as they sang a silly song. "Fucky, sucky, cluck, cluck, clucky, you should change your name to Chucky" they sang, all now dancing about, waving sequined top hats and canes. A shower of glitter poured onto them from above as a man dressed cupid was pulled across the ceiling on a wire. My co-worker donned a feline costume from the musical "Cats" and screamed at me to call her "Licky Pussy". This was all getting a bit too strange for my taste, which, believe me, is saying a lot.

From my coat pocket I withdrew the Power Sword, lifted it to the sky and exclaimed "By the power of Grayskull! I have the power!". This, of course, transformed me into He-Man, the most powerful man in the universe. The rest of the events that transpired following my transformation into He-man are better left unsaid and are not for the squeamish. It was simply a bloodbath. A bloodbath with just a touch of necrophilia involved. Well, maybe more than just a touch...maybe I should say "a lot" of necrophilia.

Marvin's New Breast Implants

Today I found out that just because it's called "chewing tobacco" doesn't mean that it's "eating tobacco". My epiphany came soon after I had swallowed a mouthful of Red Man after briefly savoring the delicious wintergreen flavor. I had crammed the entire bag into my mouth at once, attempting to impress the members of an angry lynch mob that was about to hang me. When the stunned rednecks asked me how the tobacco tasted when eaten, rather than simply chewed and spit out, I replied "Simply delicious! I'd like some more! It's just like tobacco-flavored candy!". This prompted them all to hungrily devour the contents of their bags of chewing tobacco. As the nauseous racists vomited up black blobs of undigested tobacco, I was able to escape by hastily creating a wax likeness of myself that was of museum quality. I created the likeness using a wad of mortician's wax that I had crammed into my pocket that morning. My motto is "You never know when you might need mortician's wax". Boy, you can say that again!


Question : Why were they going to lynch you?


Answer : They couldn't fathom why a grown man would be trick-or-treating in the deep south during the month of June and they insisted that my Spiderman costume revealed the fact that I was Jewish.

Question: Where did you get the mortician's wax? Did you break into a funeral home to commit necrophilia with a dead body and simply find it in the embalming room?

Answer: That's a good question, Skippy. I did ,in fact, break into a local funeral home to have sex with a corpse. It was there that I found the mortician's wax and subsequently came up with my motto, "You never know when you might need mortician's wax".

Question: That's a wonderful motto. How did you actually come up with that?


Answer: Thanks, Skippy. I like my motto, to. I simply looked at the big blob of mortician's wax in my hand and the motto just sort of popped into my head. I'm going to have some t-shirts made that say, "You never know when you might need mortician's wax".

Question: Wow! I would love one of those! Will the t-shirts feature an air-brushed rendition of R&B singing sensation Peabo Bryson?

Answer: They certainly will, Skippy.

Flapjacks for Himmler

This morning, as I tucked the children into their coffins for a day's rest after a nocturnal, blood-soaked feeding frenzy at the Golden Years Convalescent Home, my daughter Willamina asked me the inevitable question that every vampire father anticipates and dreads. "Why couldn't those people ever escape from Gilligan's Island?" she inquired, her bloodshot eyes wide with youthful wonder. I responded in pantomime, running my fingers through the air as if they were a large tarantula and then performing a few head spins on a piece of cardboard that I had left in the crypt for that specific purpose.

Next, she dropped another H bomb of a question, "Why does God create people like Grammy Award-winning R&B and soul singing sensation, Peabo Bryson?" she asked. My heart sank.

"Because God is inherently cruel and hates all living things" I answered. "He's a real douche bag, that guy" I added.

"Who? Peabo Bryson or God?" she asked.

"Both of those fuckers!" I hissed

Jackie Gets His Freak On

This morning Miss Helling, the English lit teacher, dared me to drink an entire bottle of Elmer's glue for $10.00. Now I'm ten dollars richer and constipated as all hell. As the art teacher at Satan's School for Girls, I should have known better. "Never, ever eat or drink the art supplies", my professors used to tell me. Now I understand why. At first I just thought it was weird to say something that obvious...but hey...then I drank some art supplies. It's like that old saying my grandfather used to tell me, "Never attempt to make a beaver skin top hat out of a live beaver". He knew this tidbit of valuable info from first hand knowledge. And boy do I mean "first hand". As a hat maker, he'd experimented with live beavers in the hat-making process and each time he came away with fewer fingers than he'd possessed before each groundbreaking experiment.

According to my grandfather it got rather dicey during the felting process.

"I could never successfully coax them into the hat block", he'd explain, somewhat ashamed. "If I could have done that I might not have a hook instead of a left hand", he'd say, displaying his blood-stained handicap. "Not that I mind the hook", he'd add optimistically. "It came in handy, so-to-speak, when I later became infamous as The Butcher of Baltimore". Apparently it made disemboweling people a hell of a lot quicker and easier.

The Puss in Black Panties Review

When my grandchildren asked me if I would join them in a game of hide and seek I was happy to oblige, despite the fact that, at the ages of sixteen and eighteen, they both seemed a bit too old for such shenanigans. In their teen years, my grandsons had grow more and more distant from their old grandpa and seldom came to visit these days. My daughter, Suzie had asked me if I could have them both over for the week while she gave birth to an illegitimate child that had been fathered by a wandering gigolo who referred to himself as "The Mexican Humping Bean" and I happily agreed.

Young Jimmy volunteered to be the first "seeker" and said that he would give me a head start to find a hiding place since both boys were younger and more agile than me. Moving as quickly as I could, I made my way up into the attic with a flashlight in tow and shut the hatch behind me, at which time I heard the latch click shut, locking me inside the dark, cave-like space above my living room. "Hmmm that's odd", I thought. I couldn't figure out how the latch could have actually locked without being manually maneuvered by a human hand. The next thing I knew, my frantic bashing on the hatch and cries for help were drowned out by loud rock and roll music coming from my living room below. Moments later I smelled refer smoke seeping into the attic from between the floorboards . I'd been around enough jazz musicians in my day to know the smell of refer smoke and I'll be damned if my house wasn't full of it a few moments after I was "mysteriously" and "accidentally" locked in my own goddamn attic

As I wandered about the musty loft looking for an escape route, I came upon my old prop trunk from my days on the vaudeville circuit as a baggy pants comic. It had been tucked away under the eaves to rot. I brushed away the cobwebs and unlatched the trunk's lid as a flood of memories, as well as a few rats, poured from the old chest. Before I knew what had come over me, I was overwhelmed with nostalgia, recalling the smell of the grease paint and roar of the crowd. Oh those were the days! The days when I had sent many an audience into roars of laughter taking a splash of seltzer water in the face or performing a wacky pratfall on a banana peel. I reached into the mildewed trunk and took my battered old bowler hat and cane in hand, dusting them relatively free of their fuzzy growth of mold. As if not a moment had passed since my vaudeville glory days, I easily segued into my old soft shoe routine. Fondly, I recalled the time that W.C. Fields had spit on me in a drunken rage, calling me a "scene-stealing son of a whore", and the time that the ever-kinky Mae West had urinated on my face in her dressing room. Oh that Mae West was a spit fire! I tell you what! Wooooooo!

It turned out that I still had a few pratfalls left in me as well, as seconds later I fell through the ceiling of my living room in a shower of Sheetrock and particle board. When I finally lifted myself slowly and painfully from my living room floor, dusting plaster from my eyes and hair, I found myself surrounded by several long-haired teenagers...hippie types...all red-eyed, all puffing refer cigarettes. Slowly but surely they began to roar with laughter at my accident and at the bloody bone protruding from the skin of my now-broken right arm....and then the stoned youngsters broke into hearty applause, each telling me that what they had just witnessed was probably the goddamn funniest thing they'd ever seen.

It was nice to know that I was still a crowd-pleaser.

Skippy's Coffin Emporium

As I sat inside the sweltering tent on the carnival midway, sipping dollar beers that tasted like what can only be described as cat piss, I couldn't help noticing that the emaciated stripper who was lewdly gyrating on the stage before me bore a remarkable resemblance to Popeye the sailor. The stripper who had performed before her could have been a contestant in a Rob Zombie look-a-like contest, and the girl before her had so much body hair she could have been the love child of Robin Williams and a female lycanthrope. The tent reeked of body odor,onion rings and cigarette smoke. I had to fight to keep my lunch down, which wasn't easy considering that it had consisted only of a gigantic mountain of cotton candy. The rats in this place looked like small kittens. You had to lift your feet up constantly to avoid them as they scurried around the sawdust floor scrounging for stale peanuts. Good thing I'd already had my rabies shots after the incident in that cave full of vampire bats. I'd gone in there looking for Count Dracula. Turns out he didn't actually live there. Man, those little bastards went crazy. I don't know why I'd actually believed Ricky down at the barber shop when he told me that bunch of horseshit about Count Dracula being real and living in that goddamn cave. Boy was my face red. Literally...they bit the fuck out of me. Have you ever had a vampire bat caught in your hair? How about three of them at the same time? If you haven't I wouldn't recommend it.



You might ask why the fuck I was looking for Count Dracula in a goddamn musty cave, knee-deep in bat shit. Well I run the spook house here on the carnival midway... though it's not so much a spook house as it is an old trailer covered with Halloween decorations and infested with black widow spiders. I put an old department store mannequin inside with a sheet thrown over it and splattered it with ketchup. When people walk by it, I shine a flashlight on the sucker to make it look like a ghost. Sometimes, usually when I'm drunk, I go the extra mile and put on a stupid looking Frankenstein's monster mask and leap out of an old refrigerator box that I painted up to look like a coffin. Seeing as how my spook house sucks shit, I thought Count Dracula might liven up the joint...hence my initial enthusiasm when I entered the bat cave. Well I sure as hell learned my lesson. That's why I'm here in the strip show tent...to see if I can coax some of these monsters on stage into putting in some time scaring the little bastards in my spook house. God knows these bitches are givin' me the creeps.

Pimp Daddy Johnson Wax

Today I was arrested for visiting the Golden Years Convalescent Home dressed as the Grim Reaper. My entrance evoked shrieks of terror from the elderly residents sitting in the front lobby and the front desk clerk immediately phoned the police as I made my way down the main hallway. At first I thought I would be a great April Fool's gag on Grandpa Jack, but man did this one ever backfire. Apparently my appearance caused three near-fatal coronaries. Life imitates art...if you can call being an asshole an art form...which is what my ex-wife used to say it was..."Hank, you've made being a complete asshole into and art form" she used to say. I feel like such a douche bag.