$h!t girls think

 

Maggie Perkins plopped herself down in the wild garden full of wild flowers to have herself a rest and a think.

I think that guys who wear Old Spice understand what I like. As she thought this, her eyes scanned over the wild grasses for any wild catnip. Her cats loved the ‘nip. She sighed.

I wish that my cats could understand me like those guys.

She sighed again, then applied simple logic. Her next thought was birthed almost instantaneously.

I think that if I spray my cats with Old Spice… they’ll better understand me as well!

Maggie finished thinking and flashed a teethy, teethy smile. She then got up to continue her never-ending search for more stray cats to add to her never-ending collection that was back at home. 

July 1966

July 1972

hello my name is Shari Lewis

Staying single is easy when you have a vest that makes you look like Lamb Chop. 

Little Red in the hood

Not long after the “incident”, Little Red Riding Hood ditched the little red getup, and switched to rugged denims. Not long after that she purchased a large caliber, double-barrel pistol, and passed her driver’s test.

Her grandmother had survived the vicious wolf attack, praise Jesus; however, while the little bad wolf lost his life that day, Little Red had lost her innocence.  As a result of the incident, the girl's daily life had been reduced to a never-ending state of paranoia. As a result of her incessant paranoia, Little Red now owned a large caliber, double-barrel pistol and had developed a decent shot.

She also owned a Dodge Charger, which was a result of her grandfather’s will. It had hefty V8 power.

Over the years, Little Red had remained close to her little wrinkled grandmother, who, in her geriatric state, was more needy than ever. Every morning, Little Red would pack a bunch of snacks into her Dodge Charger and deliver them to her grandmother’s bedside.

This particular morning, Little Red was running late for her Crossfit class. She decided to take a shortcut through the sketchy, ungentrified part of the woods. She loaded two bullets into her pistol, placed it in the glove compartment, and buckled her seat belt. She was paranoid. And she was running late.  

Little Red set out towards the dark hood of the wood.

TO BE CONTINUED MAYBE

those naughty goods

The trench-coated man cautiously and confidently opened his coat to reveal his goods to the girl in front of him.

Marilyn rolled her eyes. She really wished that the man didn’t choose to do this in broad daylight. Wasn’t there a discrete alleyway close by? A park perhaps? Actually, a park would be bad news, Marilyn thought to herself. The innocent eyes of young innocent children do not need to see this.

She looked left and she looked right. The coast appeared to be clear. Her eyes focused back on the goods that were being surreptitiously displayed in front of her.

Broad daylight did have its benefits, Marilyn realized- she could see his goods perfectly without having to hold them up close to her face.

The man had exactly what she wanted. She pointed to the small package at his waist.

“That’ll do.” She stated matter-of-factly as she felt for the wad of bills in her pocket

“Alrighty then,” the man smiled and winked. “Let’s do this.”

He lifted the trench coat up over his head and approached the lass.

Inside the man’s coat it was very, very dark. Marilyn grabbed the package in her hands and handed him the money.

“Anything else today, miss?” His breath smelled like onions.

“Nope, we good, thank you very much.” Marilyn replied. The man immediately backed off and closed up his coat. He adjusted his sunglasses and walked away.

Marilyn placed the package in her purse and skipped home. 

She really had to start budgeting her money better.

that man smell

Why in the world does Mrs. Tony Randall love that man?

That man swears. He curses. He chews, he spits.

He burps and leaves the door ajar whenever he shits.

He forgets anniversaries, he never says sorry.

He most likely smells like bad calamari.

But he doesn't. 

That's because he wears "That Man" by Revlon. 

It smells ohsogood. And when it comes to smells, Mrs. Tony Randall is ohsoshallow.

when nature calls

"I say- I say- I say- I say whaaat?" Leroy looked down at his phone in surprised disbelief, breaking his cigarette in the process.

"You heard me, Leroy" responded a raspy voice. "I'm going to be coming for you, in the future." 

(The voice was from the future, apparently. The voice also apparently smoked a copious amount of cigarettes between now and then.)

"You for real right now?" Leroy narrowed his eyes and continued to look into the phone's mouthpiece, puzzled. He lowered his voice. "This some real talk?"

"This is what I like to call 'futuristic real talk', Leroy." The voice was two-parts cold, one-part foreboding.

Leroy was beginning to feel threatened. He summoned up all of the cool courage in his voice that he could. "H-how about you tell me your name so I can make sure that I watch out for you down the road, in the future, that is." 

"My name's Sandy." The voice on the phone at the very least sounded honest. "And any efforts to avoid me will prove to be futile. I'm one cougar that you don't want to mess with."

The year was 1967. The term "cougar" wouldn't be associated with nicely-aged women for another 45 years.

Needless to say, Leroy was puzzled at the use of the word "cougar". Would cats in the future be able to talk? If this one was able to hold a phone, would cats in the future also have opposable thumbs? Leroy suddenly felt less scared about the future, and much, much more curious.

"Whatever, cat lady. Peace."

Leroy hung the phone up and reached into his pocket for another cigarette. He lit a match. 

A gentle breeze blew it out.   

drink scientists read playboy

Dr. William Mitchell raised the test tube up so that it was eye level. He peered through the bubbling orange liquid. Lowering the tube, he dipped his pinky into the concoction. He inserted his finger into his puckered mouth and smacked his lips with satisfaction as he tasted the bittersweet elixir. He placed the test tube back into the holder. He glanced at the clock. He wiped his brow and began to unbutton his stark white lab coat. 

"Nice work ladies, let's call it a day." With that, he dismissed his attractive, all-female staff, winking at each one as they passed by him and headed towards the door.

Dr. William Mitchell soon found himself alone in his laboratory with his thoughts and his notes. He could still taste the flavorful fluid on his lips. It tasted like success. Piquantly potent, with a smooth and citrusy finish; divinely decadent, with with an orange bite that beckoned for just one more sip. Dr. William Mitchell's taste buds didn't lie. He knew that he had created a breakthrough in fruit-flavored drink. 

The world-renowned drink scientist closed his notebook up, and locked it away in his desk. Leaning back, the  poured himself a gracious glass of whiskey and propped his feet up on his desk. He liked his whiskey neat.

William reached down into his briefcase and took out the latest issue of Playboy. He immediately flipped right to the centerfold and oggled for a bit.

Doctor William Mitchell had created what the world would soon come to know as Tang. Prior to that day in beverage history, "tang" was slang for "poontang." Naturally, Dr. William Mitchell was the sort of man that read Playboy.

secondhand smokeshow

I reached into my spijkerbroek (jeans) and felt for my aansteker (lighter). 




"Alstublieft (please)? Can I sniff your Klompen Kloggen (primo pipe tobacco)?" She repeated herself. She was beautiful.




I took my hand out of my zak (pocket). I looked into her blauw oogs (blue eyes). 




"You realize that secondhand smoke kills approximately 600,000 people annually, right?”

She nooded her hoofd (head). “Ja.” She looked at me intently.

I was in a moral quandary, which was certainly not the situation I wanted to be in. All I wanted to do was puff on my pipe and think the situation over, but that was no longer an option.

“You realize that secondhand smoke contains thousands of toxic chemicals, like ammonia, butane, cyanide, lead, polonium, right?”

She nodded her hoofd once again.

I was not about to give in to her suicidal request.

“I’m sorry, pretty Dutch girl, but the answer is ‘neen’ (no). I can’t be responsible for your slow and painful death. There’s no way I’m about to carry that burden around with me for the rest of my life.”

Tears began to stream down her tender wang. Wang is Dutch for “cheek”. She covered her slender gezicht (face) with her hands and started to sob and stomp her wooden clogs on the ground.

I looked around anxiously, she was beginning to make quite a scene.

“Hey. Hey, girl, stop that. Stop that crying. Right now. Get ahold of yourself.”

She looked up at me, her oogs were watery and bloodshot, her wangs were wet with her salty tears. Then, she went off.

“WAT GA JE ROOK LAASTE BEZWAAR SPRICKEN SE BOOGLE FRUGLE FROZEN FREEGLE (???)!!! FUR TESTIKELEN (testicles) ZWEET (sweat) SCHOUDER FROUDER (?) KLOMPEN KLOGGEN (primo tobacco), MAANDAG (Monday), DINSDAG (Tuesday), WOENSDAG (Wednesday), DONDERDAG (Thursday), VRIJDAG (Friday?), ZATERDAG (Saturday) PREJUGEN BROWGDING FROWDING ZONDAG (Sunday), HAKKEN WANDELSTOK TROUTFLINKEN SPREE-”

I couldn’t take it any longer. “OK! JESUS CHRISTFAGGEN!” I pulled out my pipe and my aansteker (lighter), and lit the tobacco and blew out a puff of smoke in her face. “There, you happy?”

The girl instantly stopped hyperventilating and composed herself. She smiled at me.

“Dank u! (Thank you!).” She curtseyed and then skipped off awkwardly, her clogs clunking loudly behind her. She disappeared into a thrift shop down the street.

I stared after her. She was a secondhand smokeshow. I was intrigued. 

panty-dropping pants

Broomsticks. The official pantage of 1960's pornographia.

"No matter what the pornographic niche, no matter what the ratio of breasts to hairy chests, Broomstick pants stand up for when you want to get down, and strip down for when you want to get it up."

Now available in yellow, tan, bukkake black, penetration plaid, voyeur violet, and creampie!

Broomsticks. Get some. 

pipe dreams

Becky slowed her jog and paused to check her smartphone. Text message. From Steph. Boy troubles. Hold on jog, brb. Becky's thumbs tapped the HD screen faster than her feet had ever moved on pavement.

Phil had been napping lightly in his wicker chair. He was in the middle of a dream when he heard the distinct sound of footsteps on pavement. He cracked open his eyes and spotted a young joggette at the foot of his driveway. Hold on nap, brb. The old man reached for his pipe and in one fluid motion struck a match and exhaled a puff of smoke.

Birds chirped in the trees, leaves danced in the breeze, the sun played peek-a-boo with the clouds. It was truly the perfect kind of day to be on the yoga pants prowl. It was the perfect day to be an octogenarian named Phil.

Becky and Steph continued to go at it textually. Steph had been seeing an "older man" as of late, of whom Becky had yet to meet.  Steph was concerned that her new beau was a pill-popping opioid addict. The last time she was at his house she snooped through his medicine cabinet. She was gravely concerned.

Phil sat there watching the tender young thing switch her weight back and forth from leg to leg with each outgoing text. He nibbled on his pipe and grinned. 

A soft breeze blew across the yard. Phil manufactured a fat smoke ring with his lips and blew it across the yard. The ring hovered over the girl like a halo before dispersing.

Becky was now sitting indian style on Phil's front lawn, textity texting away. Phil was perplexed by today's textually active generation. He soon grew restless however, and got up from his chair. Phil lumbered into his garage with a wrinkled smirk on his face and a youthful sparkle in his eye. 

The sweet spiced aroma from Phil's pipe still lingered in the air. It reminded Becky of her grandfather. 

Moments later the sprinkler system went off, sending jets of water all over the lawn. Becky screamed surprisedly and sprang to her feet.  

Phil poked his head out of the garage and laughed as the girl sprinted away. He continued to chuckle as he reached down to check his phone. He had a new text message. It was from his new ladyfriend he had been seeing as of late, her name was Steph. He read the message.

Phil, we need to talk :-/

Ugh. Phil rolled his eyes. 

piss poor planning

Dennis woke up with a new voicemail on his phone, and a sneaky suspicion that he didn’t get the job he drug tested for the day prior. Nevertheless, he placed his cellular device against his ear hole and listened to the message with bated breath.

[…voicemail…]

Dennis rolled his eyes, he closed his eyes, he kept his eyes closed. He went back to sleep.

Another drug test, another failure.

Warm Gatorade looked like urine. It felt like urine. It even frothed like urine. Alas, no matter how hard warm Gatorade tried, it couldn’t pass for piss like clean genuine urine could. Dennis now realized that.

Not to be discouraged however, Dennis awoke several hours later and called up his buddy Jenner. Together they played round after round of cranberry juice pong until Dennis sprayed ocean piss, err.. pissed Ocean Spray.

Dennis was job-thirsty, there was no denying that.

Dennis was also addicted to Quaaludes, which he often tried to deny, to his urine’s chagrin.