"Sleep is Dumb"
Flash Fiction Friday, Bizarro Central, May 2017
One sun-brewed Monday in July, there was a monkey.
He was incredibly drunk.
For no real reason at all, the monkey bellowed “Fuck you, God!” toward the heavens at an ear-bleeding volume. The monkey god didn’t take too kindly to this, so he summoned a plague of locusts upon the monkey’s town. Thinking better of it, he called off the locusts and rained down flaming toads instead and set the entire town ablaze.
"The Dongs of D'kk'sulu"
Horror Sleaze Trash, Feb. 2015
Mary came, absolutely ruining the comforter with ladyjuices, her thighs convulsing and her toes clenching. Her naked body jiggled like Jell-O on a pogo stick, shuddering so violently and for such an inconceivable amount of time that not-Dave briefly considered calling an ambulance for her.
Eventually she collapsed backward onto the bed.
“Ten minutes,” she said in between huffing breaths, her breasts heaving, “and we’re going again.”
The man held his limp penis in his hands.
“I may need a little more time.”
“Fine. Ten minutes and I’m going again. All you’ll have to do is choke me. Unplug the lamp and bring it over here.”
“This is – This is getting weird.”
“Dave, sweetie, you haven’t seen anything yet.”
"Barry Dingle vs. the Agents of P.O.o.P."
Gratuitous Fluids, Look, Man, I Don't Know, We Smoked a Lot of Weed Right Before We Did This, Nov. 2014
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.
"At the Cooch of Craziness"
Strange House Saturdays, Strange House Books, Sept. 2014
I’m writing to let you know that I plan on killing myself later, probably right after I finish this letter. And also after I take a shit and let the dog out one last time. I’ve heard about how dead bodies evacuate their bowels when they cease functioning, and I’d rather you didn’t see me like that or have to deal with the clean-up. I had a burrito this morning—I hadn’t made up my mind yet—and that’s not fair to you. Same thing with the dog; you’re going to have a lot on your plate dealing with my electrocuted corpse in the tub. The last thing you need on top of that is a dog with a bladder about to burst.
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