Jaycinth's BOGUS BIOS contest - the entries!

It started out as a normal night at the Cabaret. Cindy's python boots were zipped until it didn't matter any more, and Mel had finished heaving his guts into the deep fryer.

Note to self: don't order chitterlin's

I'd balanced the books until Cirque de Soleil was begging for the choreography, and true to form Ray was hiding those weird toads in III's derierre...again.

Everything was normal, as normal as it gets in this place,

Until.....

UNTIL 19 of the most unusual protagonists that have ever intruded upon my sanity came in.

Don't Believe me???

HERE ARE THEIR STORIES:

PM you votes for the best bio to Jaycinth. You have a week

ONE VOTE PER MEMBER

Winners get a choice of :
$25.00...

'Love Me'

'Naked came the Manatee'

and
Cookies. Perhaps with worms.

Well.....have at it now!

Untitled # 1 Limey Dog

I wish I had been born rich instead of good looking. Good-looking does nothing for you when it comes in a 5’1”, 280lb package, but you can’t have it all I suppose. Papa was a rolling stone, but since a rolling stone gathers no moss, that must have been where I inherited the baldness. I’m not sure what the attraction was between him and Mama. The way he described it was “Mama got a squeezebox.” “Squeezebox” must be French for pale and splotchy, because that was what I inherited from her.

For some people, life is a bed of roses. Me? I sleep naked…on my stomach. For others, life is a bowl of cherries, but I was born with one loose tooth and a nasty case of gingivitis. I’m not trying to complain, but when life gives me lemons, I get lemon juice…in my eye. No, for me life is a rabid wolf, and he eats me, and then craps me over a rocky cliff.

Some of you are probably guessing my name is Lucky, but you’d be wrong. Lucky was the huge kid who was my bunkmate in reform school. My name is Gaylord Farqhuard, and like I said, I was born good looking.

Untitled #2 Jenan Mac

I haven't always been the delicate flower of Southern womanhood you see before you now. Until my thirteenth birthday and the unfortunate incident in the cotton fields of Mississippi-- not that one, the other one, with the evil-tempered mule and the rusty plow-- I was known as Ali ben Phentermine, son of an itinerant drug rep from Bayonne, New Jersey.
My life was changed that day, changed in ways not just physical but psychological and, dare I say, professional. Gone is that sweet awkward boy, the manchild known to family and friends as "Scooter", purveyor of pinworms. No more is that child with the seven cowlicks in his hair, and a strange affection for the cow that bestowed them. Adieu, darling Ali, only preteen ever thrown out of a pie-eating contest for gross impropriety with peaches. Because of that accident, and the rude surgical skills of a backwoods Pontiac-mechanic-turned-parttime-doctor, I'm now known as Toula, the Transgendered and Tattooed Tartlet of Georgia (what, you were expecting Tallahassee?).

But now...

Come, my love. Come to the Casbah, greatest show on earth and home of Madame Macallister's Mamboing Man-women. See us snake-dance across the stage and out into the audience, clad only in sequins and a few strategically placed query letters. See my almost hairless shoulders with their full-color tattoo of Pamela Sue Anderson (complete with lovely, 1/16 scale silicone-implanted breasts). Linger at the shrine of my humid, jasmine-scented semi-feminine pulchritude. Listen to my musical stylings, my spot on interpretation of Gilbert Gottfried doing Debbie Reynolds.
Come, my children.

Come worship the divinity of Toula the Love Goddess, mistress of the hot Atlanta nights.

So full of...Kevin Yarbrough

Bio or "so full of s*** you need waders on"
I was born 31 years ago, a secret experiment that was using a combination of the drugs Mt. Dew, Rock-n-Roll, and Viagra. When I was born my mother told me the doctor spanked my bum and I belted out a tune of "Do the Dew but if it lasts longer than four hours find a few good hookers". If it's true or not I don't know but when I drink Mt. Dew I found myself cruising the streets, blasting AC/DC and always end up with an empty wallet.

I now find myself lost on the dark side of the moon, chased by the denziens of a Universe called Absolute..that's write, absolute. Their leader, a crazed but gorgeous femdemon known as Jaycinth has seemed to take an interest in me, her relentless pursuit to capture me is scary but somehow erotic. It leaves me confused but aroused. Her right hand woman (cause her left hand is busy doing other things) is another gorgeous femdemon named Inky. She is almost as scary as Jaycinth and it is said that if you touch her knee she will bite your...well, bite off something that men are scared to wake up without.

They have a sexual love slave by the name of Sparhawk, a man of renown prowess that women swoon at the name. The saying is that he is suppose to be getting up there in age, or another is that he is being wore out by the two femdemons that he is on the brink of meeting death, a man known as Ben. If it is true I don't know. Maybe they want me to take his place?

I'm trapped here in Absolute, that's write, with no way home. I'm scared, aroused, and down right curious. What will I do? What happens if they capture me? I hear them outside, will write more later..

The Debutante Werencole

The Debutante


There was once a time when I was the Greatest and Most Powerful of all the debutantes in South Carolina. I was the golden child of the Old South, the only girl on the plantation that could measure up to Scarlet O’Hare and beat her with a stick, a big ole ugly stick. That little wench did not even hold a candle to my beauty. Really. Women wanted to be me and men wanted to be with me. This is the source of my downfall.

You see, when you are at the top of the social hierarchy there are many avenues of vice and debauchery that can lead to your downfall. The veracity of my sexual appetite was limitless and, god damn it, I was good too. I remember my coming out party. There was a lot of coming and I was out. . . of my dress that is. There is no amount of cleaning that could remove the stains from that dress which is a shame really, it was a nice dress. I still have trouble remembering the disappointment on her face when she found the dress in tatters in the ditch by the servant’s quarters. That day goes by in a tizzy but I clearly remember little Timothy O’Dett’s face when I gave him the first burst of pure pleasure that his thirteen year old member had ever received.

It was the scandal that rocked the county. I was betrothed to a prominent planter’s son, William (Bill) Claysworth and the match was supposed to unify our families into the largest and most powerful plantation in the Old South. The problem was that Bill was shy and I could just not wait for the wedding night for him to pop out of his trousers. I am not sure what I was thinking when his sister, Margaret, came over that night. All I can really remember is that she was hotter than grand mother’s buttermilk biscuits and ripe for sensual conquest. I had been seeing the stable boy on the side, a young fellow named Richard (Dick) Moreshead and together we went about taking Margaret’s innocence and leaving her in a misshapen heap on the side of the road. The night was victorious, but, as they say, there were consequences. Little did I know that little Dicky Moreshead had been flopping around with every chambermaid in the county and that Margaret was the second biggest whore (outside of me) in all of South Carolina. When they found us, in a ditch on the road to Charleston, all naked and sun burnt it was the talk of the entire state. Bill disavowed me and father disowned me and caste me out from the family and the inheritance.

Here I am now, living in the poor house, scarred from the French Pox and burning from the diseases that I so blissfully acquired. That being said, if not for these warts, I would not trade a second of it for anything else.

Here's My Bio Train of Thought

On the dark side of town, a feeble man rocked on his heels and blew in his hands while waiting for the bus. The breeze brought his comb-over to attention about four inches in mid-air until the wind's fierceness found another victim. He closed his eyes and thought about last night, the night he met the love of his life, yet forgot to get her name and number.

It is his favorite bar, peanut shells on the floor, overused stools rocking to the beat of Willie Nelson crooning from the jukebox and dried vomit decorating the Pleather booths. This was home. He was on his third beer and chaser when he noticed her sitting across the bar. When she looked up, he smiled his Some Are Teeth smile, which received a smile as black as a blind man’s sight. His focus went to her drooping leopard bra strap. He never saw such a fair, blotchy woman in his life. His vision blurred (his glasses fogged from the cold), so he shook his head to help the… beer and scotch flow through his limbs. It took him years to find his place in this world, on a cracked stool that pinched his ass, and he didn’t want to jeopardize it. Even so, he couldn’t keep his eyes off the multi-colored scrunchies decorating her hair, the two day old make-up and the way she held her beer bottle as if it was his… er… like a vice.

Then the moment came when he knew they were meant to be. A loud fart drowned out Willie Nelson’s lyrics, and since his pants remained dry, the only other source of the shart was her. This uninhibited act, this thing of commonality they shared, made him daring. Stumbling over to her side with the fresh smell of her recent consumptions (beer, peanuts and eggs) he kissed her peeling lips. The rest took place on the floor of the washroom with yesterday’s sticky residue, the alley and the backseat of her car.

One year later…

How he wished he could find her. The bar felt empty this passed year (he was the only regular). Like every day since their chance meet, he swayed into the bar looking for his favorite stool. It was gone. The sound of a locomotive rumbled through the place. He held onto the bar until it subsided only to find his love sitting on his stool with a child in arms calling its daddy.

About the Author C. Bronco

Morga'nieae L'Arwenne Nightwings was born as Myrtle Lipschitz in 1969, in a small garret in New Haven, CT. Both of her parents had died a year before in a tragic produce-scanning accident at the local Stop and Shop. Her kindly Aunty Bug took her in and raised her as best as she could, teaching her the basic rules of grammar and the art of the family business in shoe repair.

Morga'nieae's pre-school cobbling skills and ability to identify subjects and predicates astounded the homies in her hood. Her Aunty Bug knew she was destined for more, and took the midnight shift in keg delivery at Yale University to save for college tuition.

Morga'nieae's studies at Wesleyan University formed the basis for her future novels. The coed bathrooms and astronomy classes set her imagination on fire, and she began her first fantasy trilogy, Fairy Flakes, during her junior year. Though the books received poor reviews, her complete lack of misplaced modifiers created a cult following among the college crowd.

An unfortunate golf cart collision at a summer job rendered her lactose intolerant. During her convalescence and depression from forsaking dairy products, she began writing the Pulitzer Prize winning six book series, Eggplantia.

She received a number of awards for her books Ferret Weilder, Les 'Occer Momme, and her sci-fi departure Just 5150.

In 1994, she married the spooky writer, Rowling Thuender. They had two beautiful daughters, Tsuki and Maddy, and settled down on a shady lane in Collinsfort Village, CA.

After years of domestic bliss, tragedy struck yet again. Her husband lost his train of thought, and moved to a banana farming nudist commune. He continues to write from a palatial futon.

Morga'nieae continued to produce best-selling works and, at last, received the Nobel Peace Prize in 2002 for her 3,000 page opus, The Silver King and the Eraser, a fantasy-action-adventure-fiction-novel about two fishermen who travel through time and enlighten the masses about wide-mouth bass and peaceful coexistence.

She now lives happily with her second husband, Orlando Bloom, her two daughters, and their monkey C.bronco.

The townspeople of Collinsfort often see her driving her blue lucario sportster, buying biscuits at the local bakery and helping old fashioned girls cross the street.

All About ME Jeanne TCG

It came upon a midnight dreary, that I was born, all tired and weary (yes, yes, it’s redundant. Meter, people, METER).

The doctors were instantly amazed with my precociousness. “A prodigy,” said one. “A phenomenon,” said another. “No, a person would be a phenom,” said a third. “Whatever,” said my mother. “Just get me some drugs!”

I walked at six months and talked at nine. My mother lamented my presence, but since I could mix a perfect dry martini at one year, she put up with me. I spoke seven languages fluently by the time I was eight, so I could mix a drink for anyone, at any time, properly.

Shockingly, my mother died of a combination drug, alcohol and ‘Fantasy Island’ rerun overdose. Left alone on the shores of the Pacific, with no one and a trust fund with a special clause, I was in trouble. In order to collect my ducats, I had to be gainfully employed. But I was a phenom. Or a nomenon. Or, as my mother so eloquently put it, whatever.

I was tending bar at the Sunset Grill by the time I was ten. I soon became the talk of the town. Well, of Venice Beach. Or at least the Gold’s Gym workout area.

It was there, surrounded by my alcoholic fans, that it happened. The Writer, who was a close friend, brought The Director and The Producer in to ‘take a meeting’. Sure, I was only twelve, but The Director was willing to overlook it. So was The Producer.

The Writer pulled me aside and offered some advice. “The Producer’s been around a long time, and has boatloads of cash. The Director’s considered to be a genius and has deals with all the major studios. I’m funky, creative, and, unlike the other two, only about ten to fifteen years older than you.”

I shared that The Writer would always be dear in my heart, and while creative genius has its place, chose to go with The Producer. After all, a phenomenonenonwhatever has to cover all her bases.

The Producer was a wonderful adoptive sugar daddy. I was showered with all the usual toys and some unusual ones (I mean, really, who’s ever heard of giving a thirteen-year-old a Lamborghini?). I enjoyed most of the toys, especially the battery-operated ones.

I turned eighteen and my life changed forever. I received the contents of the trust. Then The Producer died, leaving me his sole heir. The Director swept me up and we were happy for a while, but he passed on, too, leaving me, again, his sole heir. The Writer tried to fill the gap, but passed, too, just after making me his heir. I’m back at the Sunset Grill, making new friends every day, like The New Producer.

Mom, wherever you are, thanks. “Mark Hofmann’s Guide to Writing Like Others” and “Velma Barfield Explains How To Do It Perfectly” have been, as you said in your misspelled note, all I could have ever wanted.

***big flashing neon lights*** Lost Girl

I was born on a balmy afternoon in the adult diaper aisle in Wal-Mart, which when you think about it, explains a lot about me. Unfortunately for me that backstabbing, idea stealing Billie Letts stole my life’s story and turned it into a best selling novel and a movie before I had a chance to. Well, okay so I never had any intentions of writing an autobiography. I mean really, who wants to read about a baby born in Wal-Mart? Apparently Oprah, which means EVERYBODY!! I’m still kicking myself in the butt for that one.

I always knew I was gifted and meant for great things. When I was in Kindergarten, I wrote a play entitled “Major Mouthwash and the Great Cavity Caper” and then starred in every role. West Side Story has nothing on me. When you’re a molar, you’re a molar all the way. From birth until dentures. You resist plaque and tooth decay.

I had to go into hiding for many years, due to the paparazzi and my huge fan base, but I couldn’t hide my talent. So, I spent those years as the mime, Mildred the Magnificent, doing street performances and birthdays. But alas when I became world renowned for my trapped-in-an-invisible-box impression, I had to wipe off the black and white face paint and rejoin the dregs of society to escape the mime cult following. I so did not want to drink the purple kool-aid.

[FONT=&quot]Now I spend my spare time (when I’m not thwarting the elaborate ruse to steal my great American novel) as the Geriatric Avenger, beating old people silly with newspapers. But don’t let it get around to Billie Letts she might just steal my next story, “Where the Plot Is”. [/FONT]

Fanny Stace001

Fanny Foggybottom lives deep in the searing pits of Hell, just across the border from the flaming courts of Botulism. Her award winning “Fanny” series has just gone universal, sending her debut novel “Fanny on the dashboard” to number one on the Mars Malarkey Muster. Her second novel “Fanny and the black hole” was recently released to rave reviews at the Universal Scribblers Show held last month at the previously-a-planet-now-a-rock Pluto. Her third book, “Fanny and the Uranus Conspiracy” and fourth “Fanny and the backdoor bandit” will be released Christmas 2008, with the final book in the series “Fanny and the doughnut cushion” due for release in early 2009.

Untitled #3 Graig Gosse

I was born in the Year of My Lord 1796. (Of course, since My Lord is the Dark Lord Posys-Goy, (All Hail The Multifaceted One!), the dating convention will probably differ somewhat from whatever insipid system used by your own pale imitation of a Lord, but that is neither hither nor thither.)

Unfortunately finding myself to be the by-product of a one-night stand between an itinerant Mongolian Yak Herder and a certain, fairly well-known author of 'Bodice Ripper' Romance novels, I perforce grew up with my mother.

So, as I was herding the Yaks across the great steppes of the inner, upper edge of lower Outer Mongolia with my mother, I was forced to self-educate myself. Always precocious, with no teacher or textbook aside from my own innate wit and the faded label from a can of José Canusee's American-Style Haggis, I gave myself the equivalent of a high-school education by the time I was twelve.

Based on my staggering intellect, I had no trouble securing a full scholarship at a prestidigous university. I promptly disappeared into the campus library, escaping the chains of the hum-drum world in study, and was soon able to put forth the most obscure or eclectic facts as if pulling them from thin air. This was hardly the only trick up my sleeve, however; by the end of the first year, fame had already come to me as students stood in awe of my B.S.

Bidding a fond farewell to the puissant Ivy-covered walls of dear old Houdini University, I set forth, and soon found employment with the Birnam & Baycom Carnival of Artists. Not only did I soon prove that my wayward fathers literary genes resided, (much improved), in myself, but I also gained secondary fame as the World's Tallest Midget. Whilst touring London, I found myself involved an altercation in which I was, quite unfairly, accused of short-changing one of my fellow art carnies, Norton - not coincidentally, the World's Shortest Giant. His manager, Marky, (the sod!), suggested an archaic stretching punishment; which led to a rather quick and unceremonious departure of myself from our campsite near the Thames. Even today, I shudder as I recall fleeing down the streets of Whitechapel, cries of 'Rack the Gypper!' ringing in my ears...

In closing, I suppose I could mention how I finally ended up as a necro-bestiality flagellator, but that's merely flogging a dead horse...

KID Czjaba

Kid. That’s what my mom called me. Oh, and sometimes You Little Prick, but I guess most of us have three names, anyway, right? My mom constantly reminded that I was the most difficult to pass. All that walking, day after day, I thought my mom wouldn’t ever stop moaning. I was constantly jostled around. When I was floating in water, I felt comfortable, almost protected.

But I remember the day I came out. No bright lights, no warm blanket. I saw my mom and another person, (my dad, maybe?) staring at me. I fell with the warm water and landed on a wire surface with holes all around. The water fell through, but I couldn’t fit. I was too big. “Whew, I feel better now that it’s out,” were the words of comfort from my mom. She dumped me in some warm water, where I was finally comfortable again. I could see everything.

That’s when I met my two older brothers for the first time. Even though they didn’t look like me, they sure stared at me enough. Big eyes, they had real big eyes. I didn’t like them too much; they never talked to me. Just said, “What is it?” with scrunched up faces.

I heard my mom talking about taking me to the doctor. She walked over, picked me up, stared at me a few minutes, then put me in a dark bag. It was nice, cozy. I fell asleep.
Bright lights surrounded me when I awoke. A person dressed in white looked at me through my glass barrier. I enjoyed how he played with me – swirling my water around in a circle.

One day, I heard my oldest weirdo brother ask my mom, “Can I take it to school? For show and tell.” My mom told him no, but he reached up and grabbed me and put me in a bag anyway. If school was anything like the doctor, I was ready to go. My mom never let me go anywhere. I stayed quiet and still as I could, hoping he wouldn’t get caught before we got to school.
I must have drifted off to sleep again because the next thing I saw was bright lights and big eyes. Bunches of faces stared back at me. Then one huge hand grabbed my glass barrier, put his eye right beside me and shook me so hard bubbles came up all around. I hit my head on the top and all went black.

My mom was furious with my brother and said I was an embarrassment to her and carried me everywhere with her. I was always in her dark bag and never saw anybody, but heard lots of conversations.

Then one day, my mom got a different bag. I saw her pens and wallet get to go to the new bag, but she left me behind. The last words I heard were, “This bag can go to the dump.”


From the memoirs of Kid Nee Stone

Untitled #4 Tika

On a cold and gray February morning, another little baby tadpole was born; mama wore stilettos.

Not that I blame my Mama, but I've had problems all my life. Big ones. Serious ones. It all started in prepubescence. Things were changing! I lost my tail and I really had to come to grips! My body began sprouting things. I had legs! I had toes! They weren't so bad, but I had such difficulty deciding whether to polish my nails or wear Mama's stilettos. The other guys laughed at me, but I didn't care. I loved the way my legs looked.

As I matured I found a passion for backgammon. I live, eat and dream backgammon. I became an addict. I wear my lucky backgammon shirt daily. I'm afraid to take it off. I might lose. When it looks dirty, I go for a long swim in the lake. I shampoo my frog hairs and wash under my arms at the same time. I think that makes me time thrifty. I do my laundry, take my bath and get my daily exercise all at the same time. Finer than frog's hair, know what I mean?

When I go to a live event people tend to look at me kind of funny. I've had my lucky shirt since the fifth grade. It's a little small and there are a few holes here and there. I simply hold my head up high and hop to my assigned table. I NEVER sit down first. It's bad luck.

I'll never forget the time I faced a Japanese opponent. You know how wonderful their manners are! He was waiting for me to sit down and I refused him; politely, of course. He waved his arm as a gesture for me to sit. He bowed his head while waiting for me to take my seat. I said "No, please. You sit." I held my arm out in a sweeping fashion as a gesture for HIM to sit down. He didn't sit. I had no choice but to hop over there and pull his chair out for him. I have no idea how it happened, but I suddenly had some kind of a spasm in my leg. It jutted out with the speed of lightning and accidently kicked him behind his knees. He sat. I apologized profusely; explaining that it was an old war injury!

I hopped back to my side of the table and hopped in a clockwise circle around my chair. Once, twice, three times. I said one Hail Mary, turned around and hopped in a counter clockwise circle, once, twice, three times. I took my seat, wondering why my opponent was looking at me instead of paying attention to his own business. It was time to roll to see who would begin the game.

We each put one die in the cup. The one who threw the higher die would play first. I had one eye on the table and was still glaring at my opponent out of the other eye. He had thrown a 5. I picked up my die and put it in the cup. I slowly shook it 3 times over my right shoulder and then 4 times over my left shoulder. He was staring at me and waving his arms around. It was SO annoying. I emptied my cup when I was good and ready. YES!!! Double 6s. Oops, I had picked up both of my dice by mistake. I apologized as he rolled his eyes and shook his head. I explained that it wasn't my fault. My finger tips were sticky because I'm a tree frog. Sheesh!! Have some patience!

I eyed him defiantly and carefully picked up only one die. I waved it around in the air to show everyone, including 'Mister Not So Polite After All' that I had only one die. I tried to drop it in the cup but it was stuck to my finger. I had to put the cup down and remove the die with my other hand. When it finally plopped into the cup I picked the cup up and carefully shook it 3 times over my right shoulder and then 4 times over my left shoulder. I was still shaking, as the tournament director disqualified me. Can you imagine? What did I do?

"HEYYYYY, one of my stilettos fell off! Waitttttt! My shoe!!!"

Untitled #5 KTC

In my hay day, I was the sexiest chantreuse in all of Paris. Legs as long as eyelashes and twice as flimsy. I was a window dresser for Abernathy & Pinkernell, the tres glamorous pencil boutique/haberdashery in the Rue Dauphine. People came from miles around to see my windows. The King of France himself said I had a lovely way of aligning pencils in the most precise of ways. He shivered whenever he stopped by to bear witness to my pencil pizzazz.

Even the King of France, though, will tell you one cannot live on pencil decoration alone. I was also a potato chip prep girl (PCPG) for Olivia DeHavalot. I remember her still—the way she barked her orders at me day in and day out. “One cannot eat chips from a bag, my pretty. One eats potato chips from a bowl. With gloves to protect one’s pretty little hands from the damage caused by salt. One must never touch chips to one’s lips, lest they become parched like the deserts of Egypt.” The lady was more cracked than an egg in a mosh pit. She made me break each chip into pieces small enough to pass into her mouth without touching the collagen injected monstrosities she was trying to pass off as lips.

I also did time as wallpaper designer in the Hangitall Emporium in Winslow, Arizona. It was a lovely gig, really. I was fresh from England and excited about design. I learned the fine art of Road Kill Rub. RKR was a technique much like decoupage. I used the day’s road kill in the wallpaper designs I created. If you ever rubbed armadillos across a blank canvas, you would know just how lovely a design they make. I felt like I was back in The Factory—that cute little studio my friend Andy inhabited in New York. Andy didn’t like my rubbing techniques, though; said they were too Tennessee for his blood. Weird little man, but an absolutely lovely Backgammon player.

I learned quite early that one must seal one’s road kill wallpaper designs before hanging. Enter the decoupage technique. I used a plastic gold leaf bond I patented myself to seal in the designs’ aromas. Every nouveau riche home from Tulsa to Little Rock hung my paper. I was the belle of the Home Depot aisles.

The piece de resistance of my life and career was my tenure at the Bovine and Beast School of Academics and Agriculture in Montreal. My colleagues are fond of saying that nobody in the history of agricultural academia has ever taught abattoir décor the way I taught abattoir décor. I have always said, “It doesn’t matter if your slaughtering cattle or having a dinner party for your closest friends, you must first learn to live in style.” I was a visionary in the world of design first…a teacher last. One must pass on their secrets to making the world a prettier place. That is my legacy.

Untitled #6 Rhymegirl

I was born on the planet Pluto. I know what you’re probably thinking. Life doesn’t exist on Pluto, ya dimwit! Little do you know. Have you ever actually visited Pluto? We don’t exactly advertise the place through travel agencies and such. We prefer to keep a low profile. After all, it’s a small, intimate kind of planet and we like it that way.

So, about me, yes, Plutonian by birth, but I have visited other planets in my long life. I’ve even been to Earth a few times, but I must admit I hate the place. Too crowded, too much pollution, crazy drivers, and the rudeness! One time, cloaked in human disguise, I popped into something called a Supermarket to do a little Earthling observation. (That’s something we Plutonians are asked to do from time to time; it’s part of our educational process.) Anyway, the things I saw! Shopping carts crashing into each other, young Earthling children running amuck in the aisles or screaming for something called candy, Earthling mothers slapping their young ones in the head or worse, giving in to their demands, teenaged Earthlings using foul language, pushing aside elderly shoppers or ogling scantily-clad cashiers. Shivers! Made me homesick for my planet and fearful for my life.

Speaking of my life, I must tell you that Plutonians have a very long life span. Three hundred years or so is the average. I am just past two hundred at this point, but don’t look a day over one fifty. How do I do it? Lots of space travel, expanding my own mind by squeezing out the brain matter of other creatures’ minds, and of course, conjoining myself with other Plutonians in a ritual you barbaric Earthlings refer to as sexual intercourse. I must say we find your ritual both laughable and primitive. On Pluto, we pride ourselves on our ability to connect with others in a superior mind-melding session Earthlings are incapable of engaging in and wouldn’t appreciate even if they could.

Oh, by the way, any fool who maintains that Pluto is not a planet or part of the Solar System has been eating or sniffing too much glue. Do not believe these individuals! Skeptics abound on every planet. Plutonians such as I (who've been around the galaxy) could write the book on Pluto. And as a matter of fact, I have! How did that come about? Well, since I love to learn, I’ve recently joined what you humans call an Internet web site. This one is called Absolute Write, and as you’d gather from the name, it’s a web site for writers. Fascinating place! Just from surfing about I’ve discovered lots of helpful information and rubbed elbows (not that I actually HAVE elbows) with some interesting writers who might possibly be fellow Plutonians.

In closing, I’d like to throw in a shameless plug for my upcoming book: Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Pluto But Were Too Chickenshit To Ask. I think it’s a winner!

WTF (caution..OY such language!)Donna Duck

I'm a fucking fairy.

I was borne of sunshine and hobgoblin farts while Big Bird pranced around in a set of crotchless panties with bells hangin' from his nipples chanting to the transvestite gods of confusion. Some wires got crossed in his hand job howling and some Italian god must've thought he said 'cannoli' when he was really saying 'come blow me' 'cause now here I am. Just call me Capo di tutti Pixie.

I more closely resemble your Uncle Vinny in his beater wear with a set of pink (fuckin' bird) wings than my slut sister, Tinkerbell. Yeah, don't let her glittering blonde tinkle fool you. For one thing that's all bottle and for another, Pimpy Mouse over there whores her out under the name Snatcherbell down at the local Suck 'N Fuck. Hey, us Fey don't hide nothing from no one and, from what I hear Snatch's got the best game of Peek-A-Hoo in the dell.

So I piss around all day, sitting on top of mushrooms and shit, watching them big ass giants walk right on by like I don't exist. Hello? Did my gold chain not just blind you or do I need to give you a good old fashioned backhand like Ma always did?

See, I'm not the only fairy that was screwed by a big yellow bird so I started this group, like this organization, Costa Feystra or my personal favorite, FWBPR, Fairies with Balls and Pinky Rings. Fwoopar if you just wanna say it. All the unicorns and shit, they know Fwoopar. And we're Fwoopar. We got the gold medallions to prove it. Our company car is a Shamdillac, tinted windows, of course, and our calling card is bustin' your wings with a knotted twig. Don't got wings? That's ok. I'm sure you got elbows. We're equal opportunity brokers.

The wife, Tina, sits at home in the raised maple, living the sweet life thanks to the coinage I bring in. She uses it to buy furs. She prefers ogre. Baby like it rough, I guess. Personally I just go for elk. Less club-bashing and grunting but they sure can squeal.

Don't got no kids. I couldn't catch a hobgoblin in time. Just ask Tina. Twat reminds me about it every day. Like it's my fault they only poot out child-rearing farts once every seventy-five years and they all happen to be cycling together. Sounds like a bunch of harpies I know.

Fuckin' Fey. So help me, you woodland elfin gods, when I die, reincarnate me as something with a little more testosterone than a couple of berries in a bubblegum sack. And for the love of Sprite, if nothing else, at least make the fuckin' wings blue.

THINGY Haggis

The day I was born, the doctor held me upside down and whacked my ass. Even at this late date, that's been the highlight of my life. Why, you ask? Because I had two older sisters.

Older sisters are proof that God likes slapstick--with emphasis on the word, "slap."

Those two harpies hated each other, but they were united in their loathing for me, and took every opportunity to abuse me. One time I'd had all I could stand and whacked one of them back. My father saw it though, and, naturally, he whacked me too. Why? Boys don't hit girls. There I was. Whacked by dad, and whacked by some arcane rule.

There was one thing my sisters and I agreed on--getting a pet. But they wanted a cat, while I wanted a dog. Because both my parents were allergic to cats I figured I would prevail, at least this once. Imagine my dismay when I came home from school to find my mother sitting on the couch stroking a feline fur ball. Mom's eyes were red and runny and crumpled Kleenex littered the floor.

"Mom, that's a cat," I said.

"Achoo," said mom.

"But, mom, I thought you were gonna get a dog. You wouldn't have any problems if you'd brought home a dog."

"Son," sniffed mom, "we had to get the cat. It would have broken your sister's hearts if we hadn't."

"But now my heart's breaking."

"But we don't care about you. It's them we love."

An ego whack. That's the worst kind.

I got back at my sisters, though. Their room was adjacent to mine and I owned a Boy Scout knife, so I was able to bore a small, unobtrusive hole in the wall that gave me a good view of their room. I say "gave me a good view" but in reality, it gave me and my friends a good view. And at a quarter a pop, I soon became a very popular and very wealthy twelve year old.

Dad found out what I had done though, and, you guessed it, he whacked me.

Then he filled in the hole.

I left home as soon as I was of age. I've never regretted it. I married young, which is something I've regretted the rest of my life. One thing though. My ex-wife never whacked me. She left that to her lawyer. And a fine job that lawyer did. Yes, indeed.

Now I'm old, and age has whacked me. I'm half blind, my hearing's awful and my circulation sucks so bad that I shouldn't even be standing. I'd sit, but the hemorrhoids would nail me.

I guess you could say I'm bitter. Well, if I am, it's not without some justification. I mean, here I was, minding my own business, wallowing in my self pity, and then some young whippersnapper comes along and forces me to enter her damn humor contest.

[FONT=&quot]Maybe it's about time I do some whipping of my own.[/FONT]

A Truthful LIVIN

My innocuous existence began with a spermatozoa Resistance de La Womb. As the infantry marched in utero on the Battle of Ovarium de Fetus, it appeared as though the smooth spermatozoa would prevail, against prevailing winds. But, a rebellious clan was forming, over the horizon, through the Valley of Urethra – compatriots, nonetheless.

The translucently adorned infantry, who were lathered in deflective gel, seemed prepared for any blitzkrieg, but not the unexpected push of Colonel Cowper and Sergeant Seminal – a fantastic duo known as the “Fructose Folk.” There would be no vast deference from such a duo. They sought deification and would not be denied, no matter how many stalwart missionaries possessed the fortitude to stand tall in the face of ejaculation. Bowled over like a thundering herd, the seminal Cowper snuck through.

Upon the entrance into enemy territory, the Colonel called to attention, hand to temple. The gate before him was more golden than King Midas could grasp. At full attention, he pondered entry.

“At your cervix, ma’am!”

Once inside, it was reminiscent of Plato’s cave, and so my explosion into the World began.

Untitled #7 Sherry Tex

When I came into being, the world rejoiced, at least as much of the sentient world as knew of my existence and would rejoice at such matters, would rejoice. Indeed, it was an unexpected premature arrival that sent everyone scrambling if no to put the nursery together two months early, to the hospital to offer lots of advice to the new parents of what could only be described as a petite smelly bundle of sheer trouble.

From that moment on, my parents never rested. Part of that was due to their need to constantly provide adoration in my presence, and also to meet my ever evolving physical needs.

When I obtained speech, again the world rejoiced.
I would finally part with the wisdom with which my singular person had been gifted. The world waited while I asked for a sippy cup and asked to watch Lassie.

Once I entered school, the world revelled yet again. For now I would master the written word and be able to better express all these gifts of understanding that thus far I had been unwilling to share.

Adolescence came and the world wept with me, for fear the crushing pain and agony of teen suffering would erase from my soul's memory, the great knowledge I had been gifted.

College came and I became multiply distracted and the world held it's breath for fear excessive amounts of alcohol would destroy those treasured gifts still held in secret, still awaiting disclosure. Perhaps adulthood would pull forth the cosmic truths she held.

Marriage came and happiness sublimated the need to reveal these great meanings to the world. Then children came and stole the meanings for their own creation. And as such, now the world waits for the bits of the soul broken off to create new ones to mature sufficiently to present to the world their worthy knowledge, and hoping that this time, no one screws it up by getting of all things @#$&*!ing happy.