"Barry Dingle vs. the Agents of P.O.o.P." has been published in Gratuitous Fluids by Look, Man, I Don't Know, We Smoked a Lot of Weed Right Before We Did This.
Barry Dingle -- in his late twenties, unemployed, single, and wearing plaid pajama bottoms and a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles t-shirt -- stared at the enormous turd sprawling in the bowl before him. The fecal brick was gigantic: the tapered end squeezing down the drain, the vast remainder still pretzeled around the inside of the bowl. It had taken the better part of five minutes to push the super shit out of his anus. He had now been staring at it for twice that long, trying to figure out how to get it to flush.
Barry thought about plunging the poop, but there was nothing to plunge. The stool wasn’t clogging the drain, it was just too damn big to go down in the first place. He was going to have to break it up into smaller shits.
The anthology is currently available for Kindle and will be released as a paperback soon.
Saturday, November 22, 2014
Tuesday, November 18, 2014
Please Allow Me to Introduce Myself...
Nathan W. Taynthoemer is an anomaly among men, but just a regular dude among anomalies.
Nathan W. Taynthoemer is the pen name of a rabid jackrabbit that just doesn't give a fuck anymore. Say anything to the contrary and he will viciously attack you and your mother with a sharpened spoon and there won't be a God damned thing you can do to stop him. He fucking dares you. Nathan is a Virgo and enjoys papercrafting, artisanal pork products, and long walks on the beach by candlelight.
Nathan W. Taynthoemer is the pen name of a rabid jackrabbit whose satchel of fucks-to-give tore a hole and is currently coming up empty.
Do you want an example? I think you want an example.
There was this mime, right, with a baguette in his pants and tied to a telephone pole with an orange extension cord. Nathan saw this and was understandably perplexed. Who would take the time to find a baguette just to stick it in this guy’s pants? Exactly how many feet of extension cord does it take to tie up a mime anyway? And what the fuck is a mime doing on the streets of Baltimore in the first place?
So Nathan asked the mime: “Dude, what the hell are you doing?”
The mime began a lengthy charade, hands gesturing everywhere, his eyes glazed over in desperation. As near as Nathan could decipher, the mime had climbed a rope out of an invisible box and nailed himself to a kite. Not seeing a kite or any wounds in the mime’s hands. Nathan figured that that was probably wrong and repeated his question. The mime again started to gesticulate frantically, his body writhing against the extension cord. He worked himself into such a frenzy that his eyes began to tear, his veins began to pop, and he looked as though he would pass out.
Nathan slapped the mime as hard as he could.
“Speak, damn it! For the love of God, talk, you goofy bastard!”
The mime composed himself as well as a French street performer tied to a telephone phone in Baltimore could be expected to, and apologized for his spastic fit.
“If you could first, please, monsieur, move zee baguette. She is in a very uncomfortable place.”
Nathan, with no small trepidation, slid the baked good over a little, and the white-faced street performer exhaled deeply.
“Merci.”
Then he began his story.
“I was performing here in zee street when I was hastily brushed aside by a large roving black bear and a midget on a unicycle. Zee bear, she was wearing a tutu and running on all fours like someone had yelled ‘free croissants,’ when suddenly she up-righted herself and threw me bodily into zee storefront over here. She bellowed, she did, at something behind her and ran down zat side street back zere.” The mime motioned with his head. “Zee midget, however, he did not make out so well. When zee bear accosted me, zee small one lost his balance and fell off zee unicycle. Zee unicycle then, she fell on top of his tiny frame and he was trapped! I went to help the little man when suddenly I hear a gunshot! Bang! Turning my head, I see a crowd of men dressed in black suits near zee end of zee avenue running toward us. One of zem, he ordered, ‘Anozer street performer! Get him!’ Not knowing what else to do, I immediately surrender, but still zey feel zee need to kick me in my face. Zee next zing I know, I am blacking out and waking up tied to zees pole.”
“So where did the baguette come from?”
“I am not really sure, to be true. But it feels kind of nice now zat you moved it, no? She is kind of soft and like a cushion for my crotch. Feels just like zee bread Mama used to make. But I am digressing. Can you help me down now?”
“Um, no,” said Nathan. “No, I can’t.”
“I’m sorry? You are going to leave me here? Like zees?”
“Yup. Later, Frenchie.”
And so Nathan walked away and into the night, wanting nothing more to do with the mime and his fetish for large bread rolls.
He found out the next morning that the mime had died from his wounds. But not the wounds he already had. New ones, added violently and maliciously, by at least six different parties, all coming later that night, after, what was referred to by police as, “a period of time in which the mime probably could have gotten far enough away to not get maimed had he not be tied to a telephone pole by an extension cord.”
Nathan felt nothing.
Nathan W. Taynthoemer is the pen name of a rabid jackrabbit that just doesn't give a fuck anymore. Say anything to the contrary and he will viciously attack you and your mother with a sharpened spoon and there won't be a God damned thing you can do to stop him. He fucking dares you. Nathan is a Virgo and enjoys papercrafting, artisanal pork products, and long walks on the beach by candlelight.
Nathan W. Taynthoemer is the pen name of a rabid jackrabbit whose satchel of fucks-to-give tore a hole and is currently coming up empty.
Do you want an example? I think you want an example.
There was this mime, right, with a baguette in his pants and tied to a telephone pole with an orange extension cord. Nathan saw this and was understandably perplexed. Who would take the time to find a baguette just to stick it in this guy’s pants? Exactly how many feet of extension cord does it take to tie up a mime anyway? And what the fuck is a mime doing on the streets of Baltimore in the first place?
So Nathan asked the mime: “Dude, what the hell are you doing?”
The mime began a lengthy charade, hands gesturing everywhere, his eyes glazed over in desperation. As near as Nathan could decipher, the mime had climbed a rope out of an invisible box and nailed himself to a kite. Not seeing a kite or any wounds in the mime’s hands. Nathan figured that that was probably wrong and repeated his question. The mime again started to gesticulate frantically, his body writhing against the extension cord. He worked himself into such a frenzy that his eyes began to tear, his veins began to pop, and he looked as though he would pass out.
Nathan slapped the mime as hard as he could.
“Speak, damn it! For the love of God, talk, you goofy bastard!”
The mime composed himself as well as a French street performer tied to a telephone phone in Baltimore could be expected to, and apologized for his spastic fit.
“If you could first, please, monsieur, move zee baguette. She is in a very uncomfortable place.”
Nathan, with no small trepidation, slid the baked good over a little, and the white-faced street performer exhaled deeply.
“Merci.”
Then he began his story.
“I was performing here in zee street when I was hastily brushed aside by a large roving black bear and a midget on a unicycle. Zee bear, she was wearing a tutu and running on all fours like someone had yelled ‘free croissants,’ when suddenly she up-righted herself and threw me bodily into zee storefront over here. She bellowed, she did, at something behind her and ran down zat side street back zere.” The mime motioned with his head. “Zee midget, however, he did not make out so well. When zee bear accosted me, zee small one lost his balance and fell off zee unicycle. Zee unicycle then, she fell on top of his tiny frame and he was trapped! I went to help the little man when suddenly I hear a gunshot! Bang! Turning my head, I see a crowd of men dressed in black suits near zee end of zee avenue running toward us. One of zem, he ordered, ‘Anozer street performer! Get him!’ Not knowing what else to do, I immediately surrender, but still zey feel zee need to kick me in my face. Zee next zing I know, I am blacking out and waking up tied to zees pole.”
“So where did the baguette come from?”
“I am not really sure, to be true. But it feels kind of nice now zat you moved it, no? She is kind of soft and like a cushion for my crotch. Feels just like zee bread Mama used to make. But I am digressing. Can you help me down now?”
“Um, no,” said Nathan. “No, I can’t.”
“I’m sorry? You are going to leave me here? Like zees?”
“Yup. Later, Frenchie.”
And so Nathan walked away and into the night, wanting nothing more to do with the mime and his fetish for large bread rolls.
He found out the next morning that the mime had died from his wounds. But not the wounds he already had. New ones, added violently and maliciously, by at least six different parties, all coming later that night, after, what was referred to by police as, “a period of time in which the mime probably could have gotten far enough away to not get maimed had he not be tied to a telephone pole by an extension cord.”
Nathan felt nothing.
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