doing it in the missionary position... part nine

my immediate thoughts were to ditch dippy, grab pokey and run like fuck.

so i did.

 unfortunately, dippy had the same idea.

so the both of us ran head first into each other and fell on the floor.

pleasantries were exchanged. we shook hands and decided to stick the original plan. we sent pokey to the door to scout. he gave us the all-clear beep (i assume... all his fucking beeps sound exactly the same).

and out we went.

doing it in the missionary position... part eight

it is said, ad nauseam, that under great stress, people are capable of much more than they ever suspected. they can summon unknown reserves of courage, strength and willpower. they can surmount nearly any obstacle, through sheer force of determination. they can run farther, swim faster, think gooder and strategize craftier.

dippy and i are not those people.

those people sound like assholes.

doing it in the missionary position... part seven

'dippy... you terrible cunt. you magnificent loser. your fabulous shit. you are a reprobate and a liar. how i've misjudged you!'

i leapt across the table and gave him a huge hug. pokey was getting excited too, ejaculating some kind of fracking fluid onto dippy's boots.

'yes yes... fuck off, then. here's the deal: you remember i went to prison, right?' he asked, clearly not expecting an answer. i interrupted...

'of course i do, dippy darling! i sent you there,' i cheerfully replied.

'... well, as you might imagine, prison life and i didn't quite get along. so i made deals.

'i bet you did. sexy deals, right? were they sexy deals? i bet they were sexy deals!'

doing it in the missionary position... part six

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doing it in the missionary position... part five

there were no sweet memories of lost childhood from a different time that nursed and caressed and cradled me in my unconsciousness. there was instead only one dream... that a huge metal cock was trying to penetrate my skull. repeated, forceful banging thrusts, over and over and over, right against the side of my head... some insensate fucktron trying to get his gears off, joylessly pounding my fleshy skull until, hopefully, in his eye-stalks anyway, it would turn into something resembling an opening. anhedonic infertile copulation performed by an automaton... the most beautiful thing i've ever seen.

which of course i was actually seeing... i wasn't asleep at all. the worn down nub of the fucktron paused briefly while i looked at it, looked back, turned his eyestalks up, and went back to banging...

fuck me.

doing it in the missionary position... part four

like any good careworker who deals with the elderly, it is inevitable that you will wake up, one day, to an old woman's genitalia hovering six inches above your face... just close enough that it's unclear what is up there, and you have to refocus hard and it takes a few seconds for the picture to become clear...only to then realize that what you thought were your normal morning tears of waking to the reality that you had at least another day to live on this shitbox were not in fact tears but streams of thick, pre-diabetic, sweet urine sputtering stop-start on your face.

i'll take flapjack abusing himself in the bed next to me any day. i would rather not wake up this way again. ever.

doing it in the missionary position... the interlude

broken dreams... beautiful geometries dancing somewhere between my cornea and my eyelids... somehow both extruded into three-dimensions and yet permanently evanescent... memories, shuddering into place, then fading like those tessellations... a toy robot i lost as a child... a simple friendly giant who once helped me cross the street... an insect collection burned away in a fire... the wonder of making eye-contact with a chimpanzee at the zoo for the first time... a rotting sponge under the sink where i used to play... a trip to the shore and an encounter with a tiny octopus... cold white winters in some northern waste and the curious moose who nibbled the fruits straight from my hand... a backyard shack, with broken dusty windows, old rusting gear and long-abandoned spider webs... a safe place, away from the constant fear and suspicion of adults... the geometries grow harsher now.... they have edges... they have teeth and fangs... shouting... always shouting... always cruel... always judging harshly whining insulting  evil spiteful dangerous...  the other children, always mocking, always mean, always avoiding... the geometries grow weirder... nastier, somehow... colors that should never do so join forces... no rubbing of the eyes makes them change... they are all encompassing... they take over the robot, the octopus, the sponge, the giant... the colors grow and intensify and intensify and grow until there is nothing left but blackness, sprinkled with a few dots far away... and a giant gleaming brilliant beautiful polyhedron made of mercury, spinning and floating in the void...

then i woke up to some old woman pissing in my face... 

doing it in the missionary position... part three

i'm trying to figure out exactly how this is my fault. first off, they sailed on their own ship. they used their own funds to stock it. all i did was provide inspiration. in fact, i'm pretty sure that from a legal point of view the 'evidence' (fancy legal term) that i berated them and told them how stupid an idea it was may 'indemnify' me (more legal terms). and besides... look at it from the pirates point of view... some rich assholes show up in a fancy ship, berating them, telling them everything they've ever known as wrong and how stupid they are for believing it. what the fuck would you do?

i'd take 'em hostage too

doing it in the missionary position... part two

fuck me roughly with a laser truncheon... i wish i had thought of this missionary thing years ago. it's awesome. idiots come into the shack, i abuse them, they pay up, then they fuck right off to the far reaches of the galaxy, telling everyone how fantastic i am. it's paradise. and the best... the absolute starfucking best part of this whole thing is that they now send money and swag from all over, right back to hangar 23. it's fantastic. it's really helped take some of the sting away what with old skip being gone...

oh yea... skip.

i miss that stupid little robot.

doing it in the missionary position... part one

in difficult times, men find solace in all sorts of vices... booze, drugs, gambling, thieving, whoring, exxxtreme sportz!, family, and (most profitably) religion. for me, the fact that skip is missing has been a strain... but there are only so many nights you can rip people off at zargle's, steal from zog, spy on cute little galactopus girl or abuse yourself to dirty vids. at some point, you've got to fall back on what gave you solace as a kid... what your family taught you... your values... as i have none of those, i decided to go back to the only thing that ever made me truly happy... the shack of beration... with a fucking vengeance