Herpster
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Wednesday, May 8, 2013
When Herpsters Play With Phallic Straws
Brunette Katie’s lithe luscious litheness makes Sutekh’s glowey eyes vibrate with synaptic desire.
Sadly, the cost of buying Brunette Katie an appletini makes the DB1 punch an arthritic donkey nadsack with a rotten plum.
Whether I punched that arthritic donkey’s nadsack with a rotten plum, or whether the arthritic donkey’s nadsack contained a rotten plum when I punched it, I will leave to the vagaries of the English language.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013Herpster Elijah Gets Down with 30s Hott Karen At an Annoying Bar in Sheboygan
Unearned Dog Tags on Herpsters with extensive vinyl collections and no TVs.
Still out there.
Still douchey.
Monday, April 29, 2013Indiana Herpster and the Kingdom of the Missing Chromosome
Fakes.
Why did it have to be fakes.
Tuesday, April 16, 2013Herpster Frankie Designs Apps That Are Totally Gonna Make Him Millions
Most of Herspter Frankie’s apps won’t fly in a competitive marketplace.
But “Booblocater” has an outside chance of being acquired by Facebook.
Wednesday, January 16, 2013Fwippy McJohnson Goes Full Herpster, Scores Kelly
Looks like Sears had a sale on wrinkled herpster ties. Two for $9.99.
Kelly has the smirking attitude of suburban New England mixed with delightful boobie suckle leg chomp potential. For lo and hark!, Kelly is that rarest of New England woodland creatures: A hottie from rural Massachusetts.
Monday, November 12, 2012Mitch Dillon Grasps at Fame
Unlike his far more famous brothers Matt and Kevin Dillon, Mitch Dillon does the best he can.
Acting classes and whatnot.
Mitch is sure that his life would’ve been different if Deep Space Nine had called back.
Monday, November 5, 2012Hurricane Sandy and Herpster Van
Hurricane Sandy had the name first, and she’s not giving it back. Not even if Herpster Van finally shaves his Movember scruff.
Those douche-glasses are automatic stage-3 alert groin punch, offensive on so many cultural, theoretical, and historical levels.
I shave a schnoodle’s nadsack as a humble apology to Vishnu, and softly curl up and nap in Sandy’s heavenly leavened loaves of manna boobie prod.
Thursday, October 25, 2012THE INNSMOUTHBREATHER
Nancy never signed up for this.
It had been just over a year since she turned a blind eye to exactly how tight and attractive Carl’s new rock climbing instructor was, and just over nine months since Carl moved out so that he could rappel into the little whore’s crevasse with relative impunity and annoying frequency. Now, with two divorces notched in her belt, the only men in her life were Ben, Jerry, and the pimply checkout boy at Pavilion’s who rang up her Triple Caramel Chunk. Also with annoying frequency. Tonight, though, was different. Tonight she had acquiesced to Ellen’s constant coaxing and agreed – just this once – to join her on her weekly pilgrimage to the Happy Hour at Joe’s Crab Shack. Nancy’s makeup was worn from 10 hours of eye-rubbing and face-palms, and she had actually planned to wash her hair later that evening but still, she went anyway. Not because she was a good sport, but because she hadn’t given two shits about this sort of thing since Valentine’s Day and now lacked the necessary energy to blow her friend off any longer. Whee.
Within 15 minutes of arriving, Ellen was off. That made sense, thought Nancy. Of all the gals at the office, Ellen was the least encumbered by current relationships and the least frayed and shopworn by past ones. She also had the best tits and made sure everyone knew it. When the waiter brought Ellen’s order of buffalo wings to her empty barstool, Nancy helped herself. Wings for the winggirl. She allowed herself one acquiescent chuckle at the symmetry of it. There was no reason to be alone and hungry.
But what Nancy didn’t realize was that she was not alone.
“Izzzh thizh zhtool taken?”
Nancy politely covered her mouth to prevent spewing chewed chicken from flying out of her mouth. There was something fishy about the mannish creature that half walked, half hopped up to her table. And not “fishy” in the metaphorical sense, either. Her admirer had a moist translucence to him that one rarely witnessed outside of a dim sum cart, and with each breath his lips visibly parted, as if he were a koi waiting to be fed.
“It zheemzh a crime that a lovely lady like yourzhelf zzzzhould be zhitting alone. May I?”
“F@#k no, Kermit!” was what her brain told her but her lips had gone dry, as she realized with mounting horror that the smell of crab shack dumpster that she had assumed was an errant breeze from the kitchen was in fact emanating from her new boyfriend. God damn you, Ellen.
Kermit waved to the waiter and Nancy forced herself to blink. Were his fingers webbed? “Another Zzzzzzzhima for the lady, por favor.” and with that entitlement, the creature pulled itself onto Ellen’s woefully vacant stool. “I haven’t zheen you around here before. My name izzzh Howard. But my friends call me Kermit.” Sweet Jesus, seriously? Nancy felt reality losing its grasp on her. Had some deep, genetic memory told her its name was Kermit. Had some unearthly…wait, it has friends? Nancy’s head pulsed with the math of it all. Two Zimas were not enough to make her feel like this. The wings, maybe? She drowsily scanned the room for Ellen, but she was doubtlessly hip-deep in a personal trainer somewhere. Awesome.
Suddenly, the author realized that he had to pick up his buddy at the airport in 20 minutes and he hadn’t even showered yet. So Nancy ended up in a bathroom stall with Kermit, started talking in italics and was never heard from again. The End.
Wednesday, October 17, 2012When Herpster Collides with Tablecloth
The hair will pokey, the hott will drop out of pre-med to go on indie label tour to nowhere, and the Pabst Blue Ribbon will continue to suffer the taint of ironic herpster appropriation.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012Herpster Pukes Buy a Casio
Somewhere in Echo Park, Timmy buys a loaf of artisanal bread.
