If this doesn't offend you, then I have failed...
WARNING: The contents of the following essay/short story may constitute obscenity in your state, province, region, country or territory and CANNOT be read if you are below the suitable age to view obscene materials. Furthermore, it may: ruin your appetite, temporarily decrease libido, make you join a radical feminist association (even if you don't KNOW you're in one), or it might just have the intended effect of making you think.
On a personal note, please criticize as harshly as you can. I can't wait to recieve the kind of constructive criticism needed to make me a truly masterful transgressive writer. Feedback is greatly appreciated and, to some degree, required.
I watched her, the sniveling bitch, as she left her seat and took the podium in a state of forced mourning. Her son Jeffrey had been killed in a drunk driving accident a year ago to the day and the memorial--an oddly vaginal sculpture encased in a faux Roman Revival shitstain on an otherwise well-landscaped piece of land--never let us forget the political clout she now carried as her poor martyred son shed his sacred last bowel movement and annointed her the deaconess of righteousness. She walked with the gait of a common street walker, loping from the friction burns of her tortured and distended labia rubbing together underneath her cheap skirt that revealed a prematurely sagging ass. The stairs were proving particularly tricky. Her doctor, fearing possible repercussions, had illegaly prescribed her large amounts of benzodiazapenes to "cope with the stress." The poor cow was having more trouble than most bovines have going up the slaughter ramp.
She looked at the audience, her eyelids slack from medication and natural stupidity. It was very clear that no one would miss her when she was gone. She knew this, and took her sweet time basking in the glow of a captive audience, soaking in their feigned adulation the way the girl in a Max Hardcore film absorbs a torrent of geriatric piss into her gaping eyesore of a mouth. Hemming and hawing pretentiously, she looked at some pages of notebook paper covered in the dysgraphic scriblings of a simple semen-covered piece of filth hastily preparing to mountebank once more.
I took in the long pause with joy, also. I thought about how many men she had let ride their cocks between her loose folds of gluteal flesh because she could no longer hold a hard-on in her cunt, which was battered and torn long before little Jeffrey arrived and ruined her easy life of being fucked in the ass. At least her life was lead with honesty, getting paid to have strange, unattractive men ream her and never expecting anything except for the occasional embrace as john after john left their mark along her descending colon. They never embraced out of affection or a need for warmth, but out of the agony of feeling their frenula and glans being lacerated by the hardened streaks of semen combined with lack of lubrication and crystallized shit on her hemmorhoids. To the men who paid her, these were mild inconveniences, tire spikes along the Hershey highway. I wish I could cut off their insignificant dicks and ram them down her throat until she died in a sea of blood and piss. She began speaking right as I imagined her ramming a sewing needle into her ureter in the futile hope of feeling like a woman again.
"mmmladies and genmmhmmen," she slurred, "I have commhmm before nyu today tohmm remmmber mah snnnn, tsakereh." Her nose was resonating with the rancid tone of cocaine abuse and made comical through the tranquilizing effect of Valium.
"Hemmmhwas a gnnd snnnn." I wished so dearly that I could rip out what little the drugs had left of her wheezing septum and watch her bleed and writhe in agony. She thoroughly deserved to recieve what I held, the deadliest weapon I could possibly concieve.
"Ms. Dalle, are you aware that your son..."
"Eh hmmm srrrrry..." she drew back her breath hard, almost as if she already knew.
"...was the star in a series of gay porn videos called 'Dirty Davey Does Dallas'?"
She hiked an eyebrow in confusion.
"Furthermore, he was dissatisfied with his own sexuality so much that he committed suicide. Your son chose to end his life and selfishly endangered the lives of everyone on that highway."
"This hrrrrr is hrrrr the frrrrst hhhhhr timmm hhhhhr I heard of this."
"The driver of the car that struck him was, in fact, only originally charged with vehicular manslaughter until you tampered with evidence."
"Whmmm the fuck ahhhhhhr you?"
"I was your son's lover. He told me you died a long time ago. Your bloated corpse proves it."
She wheezed and started to lean more and more on the podium which sank under the weight of her flabby arms covered in bruises and the remains of sterile cysts, the byproducts of improper intravenous drug use.
"He wasn't a fucking hero. Hell, he just wanted to die in peace... but you won't let him, you self-aggrandizing slut." I shed a small tear of frustration and the last few words trailed off into a bitter froth of saliva. It brought back all of the things I had felt at the funeral, the funeral I had paid for and the one she didn't even attend. I stood before the director and confessed that I felt less than guilty. Why would he take himself away from me? Why would that insignificant cum-sponge take all of those emotions I had invested in him and throw them away as his brains leaked across the dashboard? The next day, I contemplated joining him, but then I thought about how little he really meant, how much he beat me and freeloaded and lied. I only knew about his mother when she sent a birthday card two months late and tracked her to this festering shithole of a town.
The disease-ridden cunt wheezed hard and the podium fell. Her swollen heart collapsed on itself as the xyphoid process detached and lodged in her heart. I was disappointed she died so quickly.
There, that wasn't so bad. I'm sure my next essay on feminism will be much more satisfactory.
On a personal note, please criticize as harshly as you can. I can't wait to recieve the kind of constructive criticism needed to make me a truly masterful transgressive writer. Feedback is greatly appreciated and, to some degree, required.
I watched her, the sniveling bitch, as she left her seat and took the podium in a state of forced mourning. Her son Jeffrey had been killed in a drunk driving accident a year ago to the day and the memorial--an oddly vaginal sculpture encased in a faux Roman Revival shitstain on an otherwise well-landscaped piece of land--never let us forget the political clout she now carried as her poor martyred son shed his sacred last bowel movement and annointed her the deaconess of righteousness. She walked with the gait of a common street walker, loping from the friction burns of her tortured and distended labia rubbing together underneath her cheap skirt that revealed a prematurely sagging ass. The stairs were proving particularly tricky. Her doctor, fearing possible repercussions, had illegaly prescribed her large amounts of benzodiazapenes to "cope with the stress." The poor cow was having more trouble than most bovines have going up the slaughter ramp.
She looked at the audience, her eyelids slack from medication and natural stupidity. It was very clear that no one would miss her when she was gone. She knew this, and took her sweet time basking in the glow of a captive audience, soaking in their feigned adulation the way the girl in a Max Hardcore film absorbs a torrent of geriatric piss into her gaping eyesore of a mouth. Hemming and hawing pretentiously, she looked at some pages of notebook paper covered in the dysgraphic scriblings of a simple semen-covered piece of filth hastily preparing to mountebank once more.
I took in the long pause with joy, also. I thought about how many men she had let ride their cocks between her loose folds of gluteal flesh because she could no longer hold a hard-on in her cunt, which was battered and torn long before little Jeffrey arrived and ruined her easy life of being fucked in the ass. At least her life was lead with honesty, getting paid to have strange, unattractive men ream her and never expecting anything except for the occasional embrace as john after john left their mark along her descending colon. They never embraced out of affection or a need for warmth, but out of the agony of feeling their frenula and glans being lacerated by the hardened streaks of semen combined with lack of lubrication and crystallized shit on her hemmorhoids. To the men who paid her, these were mild inconveniences, tire spikes along the Hershey highway. I wish I could cut off their insignificant dicks and ram them down her throat until she died in a sea of blood and piss. She began speaking right as I imagined her ramming a sewing needle into her ureter in the futile hope of feeling like a woman again.
"mmmladies and genmmhmmen," she slurred, "I have commhmm before nyu today tohmm remmmber mah snnnn, tsakereh." Her nose was resonating with the rancid tone of cocaine abuse and made comical through the tranquilizing effect of Valium.
"Hemmmhwas a gnnd snnnn." I wished so dearly that I could rip out what little the drugs had left of her wheezing septum and watch her bleed and writhe in agony. She thoroughly deserved to recieve what I held, the deadliest weapon I could possibly concieve.
"Ms. Dalle, are you aware that your son..."
"Eh hmmm srrrrry..." she drew back her breath hard, almost as if she already knew.
"...was the star in a series of gay porn videos called 'Dirty Davey Does Dallas'?"
She hiked an eyebrow in confusion.
"Furthermore, he was dissatisfied with his own sexuality so much that he committed suicide. Your son chose to end his life and selfishly endangered the lives of everyone on that highway."
"This hrrrrr is hrrrr the frrrrst hhhhhr timmm hhhhhr I heard of this."
"The driver of the car that struck him was, in fact, only originally charged with vehicular manslaughter until you tampered with evidence."
"Whmmm the fuck ahhhhhhr you?"
"I was your son's lover. He told me you died a long time ago. Your bloated corpse proves it."
She wheezed and started to lean more and more on the podium which sank under the weight of her flabby arms covered in bruises and the remains of sterile cysts, the byproducts of improper intravenous drug use.
"He wasn't a fucking hero. Hell, he just wanted to die in peace... but you won't let him, you self-aggrandizing slut." I shed a small tear of frustration and the last few words trailed off into a bitter froth of saliva. It brought back all of the things I had felt at the funeral, the funeral I had paid for and the one she didn't even attend. I stood before the director and confessed that I felt less than guilty. Why would he take himself away from me? Why would that insignificant cum-sponge take all of those emotions I had invested in him and throw them away as his brains leaked across the dashboard? The next day, I contemplated joining him, but then I thought about how little he really meant, how much he beat me and freeloaded and lied. I only knew about his mother when she sent a birthday card two months late and tracked her to this festering shithole of a town.
The disease-ridden cunt wheezed hard and the podium fell. Her swollen heart collapsed on itself as the xyphoid process detached and lodged in her heart. I was disappointed she died so quickly.
There, that wasn't so bad. I'm sure my next essay on feminism will be much more satisfactory.