So I'm writing a post right now about some crazy ass shit that happened to me last week in bum fuck Nebraska regarding the little four inch tall blue men called the Smurfs (and have dirty pictures to go with it, --that is, if Shelby's okay with naked tits on his blog), but I'm currently plagued with my jew bag guilt for being too busy lately to have posted anything on here yet so I'm going to start you all off with a short flash fiction piece I wrote about getting puked on. Although it didn't happen in the 80s, the sound gurgling up from the fucker's throat was not unlike the cum drenched bemoaning of pure metal.
k-rock, a.k.a. "Punky Jewster"
p.s. And as a proper introduction of myself, since I'm new here in the world of Illogical Contraception (ha, ha), here's a little something I did about hippies:
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"The worst hostel in Paris" is forthcoming in Fast Forward: A Collection of Flash Fiction, Volume Two (2009), copyright (2009) Kona Morris
The worst hostel in Paris
It’s the hostel where a Gimli-looking Australian man steps on your face at 3:58 in the morning with hard boots while attempting to heave his thick log of a body over you to take his place on the top bunk. He kicks and shoves and flails around for what feels like hours and just as you finally start to drift off to sleep again you hear it. A vacuum grumbling from deep within. Rumble, bubble, pop. Moaning and twitching overhead and you feel your muscles tense in observation. The shaking grows worse and the gurgling louder. Something profound shoots through him and the next thing you know it sounds as if someone turned a fire hose onto the wall. Shshshshshshshsh. It takes you a moment to realize what is happening. You feel liquid spraying across your face. The smell hits you and you try to shield your body and bags with your sheets but they’re far too thin and you can feel them growing heavy and wet with the hailing chunks of his cavity. You are cold and soiled but the shower and office are locked until morning. You have no choice but to try to sleep and let the fumes fill your pores and crust inside you. When you wake up your room looks like a hairless gorilla was ripped to shreds and his bleeding intestines were strewn over every inch around you. The Gimli-looking Australian man is naked and hanging off his mattress and appears to have shat himself as well. Your bags are destroyed. Your other roommates must have checked out already. You drag yourself to the portable shower outside where you will contract a potent fungus that will stay with the big toe of your right foot for the next two years of your life.
Editor's note: "Flash Fiction" is a prose format in which a complete story (beginning, middle, and end) is told in 300 words or less. K-Rock, being a show-off, made the above story EXACTLY 300 words. You can get the first Flash Fiction anthology (pictured above) on Amazon.com