Flaming Chords

This is my front page. All comments here are screened; if you don't have my email address, you can drop me a line here. If I know your email address, I'll reply by email -- if not, I'll reply to your comment, and then rescreen both your comment and my reply.

It's also got every tag I have -- this is because my current LJ style doesn't include a tag index. (At least half of my participation on LJ is on my Treo. I chose this style because it loads quickly and it's still readable on a small screen.)

I'd tell you more about myself, but that's what my profile -- and the rest of my journal -- are for.

(Note: this short story includes characters from the Cyrillic alphabet that haven't been in common usage for centuries. If you see empty boxes, you may need to download a Unicode font.)

This is Ot. She's a lovely Russian Girl. She has both a very nice ass, and a tramp-stamp.
Ѿ

This is Ot's boyfriend, Big Yus. Along with having a very nice body (check out those shoulders!), he's so well-hung he walks bow-legged.
Ѫ

This is Iota, Big Yus' Greek friend. Sure, he may look kinda scrawny, but he's got it where it counts.
Ι

This is Ot accidentally walking in on Big Yus being Iotified. She's always known Iota and Big Yus were close, but she didn't realize that they were this close.
Ѿ Ѭ

Naturally, Ot feels a little betrayed, but Iota is also really well hung, and tries to make her feel all better.
Ѥ

Then Big Yus joins in. Ooh, threesome!
ѤѪ

And from out of nowhere, this is Ksi, the terrifying tentacle monster that will devour them all!
Ѯ

Baskin Robbins needs to start a new ad campaign. It would be slow pans over lots and lots of chocolate ice cream cones, as if they're waving ice cream tantalizingly under your nose saying "ooh, you want this chocolate ice cream, don't you?" It would have a voiceover talking about how wonderful their chocolate ice cream is, and how romantic it is to share a cone with someone you love.

For the background music, I was thinking Lover's Theme, by Hervé Roy.

This is the beginning of a Christmas story I'm thinking of writing as a joke.

---

Once upon a time, there was a small boy named Timmy. He was cute as a button, and his parents just loved him to pieces.

On his way to school one day, Timmy found an old hat made of brown felt in the street. Old and dirty though it was, Timmy saw something special in it, and picked it up. It was in bad shape, being not only dirty but slightly burned, but little Timmy knew that it could be good as new with just a little love.

After school that day, Timmy made a snowman. Snow was plentiful that day, and easily packed, perfect for making snowmen. Timmy had to build this snowman next to the doghouse, so that he could make it tall enough, but his efforts were well-rewarded, as this was a magnificent snowman when it was done. All it needed was a face. Timmy pulled a carrot out of the freezer and used it for a nose. Then, he took some charcoal briquettes from the patio and made eyes and a mouth. Then, having heard countless times in songs -- well, in one particular song -- about snowmen being brought to life by magic hats, he put the old brown cap on top of his snowman.

Alas, what little Timmy did not know was that this particular brown hat, which was indeed magic, had originally belonged to a child murderer who had escaped conviction for his crimes on a technicality, and was promptly burned to death by his neighbors...

Recently, a friend mentioned the Aleister Crowley poem "Leah Sublime" (NSFW!) in her LJ. One of her friends replied, "I dare you to rewrite that poem in Nicky style." And then, she passed the dare on to me, and this piece of crap practically wrote itself.

I don't expect you to read it. Along with being really disgusting, like the original, it includes a lot of whining, bitching, and homophobia, like everything Nickolaus Pacione has ever written.

(For ease of reading, I have kept the spelling and typing clean, and imposed a few paragraph breaks here and there. In all other respects, I've tried to be true to his... ahem, writing style, which is usually a vomited stream of words in combinations that rarely make any damned sense.)


Leah's Exuberant Garden of Unearthly Delights

Leah Sublime of the words of the images of the goddess as she stands above me like a slimy snake that I command that she love me in the name of Alostrael of the mummies of Egypt. For I am truly damned, and you are damned with me, and the devil masters us and bids us pleasures of the sins of the flesh.

Stomp on my heart with your patent leather shoe, and crush my heart like all those posers crush my dreams of being paid for my writing. Write your name on my heart and claim it for your own, like those insignificant cocksuckers who claim the rights to my writing.

( Read more... or better yet, don't. )

Every tour has its whores.
Just like every night has its dawn.
Just like every hairband has a bad, bad song:
"Every Rose has its Thorn."

(We're now required to demo the Eighties station on our Satellite Radio. Twenty years of nostalgia do not make it any better.)

Sometimes, friends bring out the best in each other. This isn't one of those times.

A friend and I were talking about a bad idea I had on a flight a few years ago. In my defense, I was in a small metal can, in mourning, and bored out of my skull when I came up with this idea. Picture a puppet show, with handpuppets all made from the sickbags they have on airplanes...

"Hi! I'm Valerie Vomit-bag!"

"I'm Velma Vomit-bag!"

"And I'm Violet Vomit-bag! And we're..."

"THE VOMIT-BAGS!"

"And thanks to people like you, we're just chock full of nummy-nummy goodness!"

...followed a few cans of fruit cocktail, creatively applied, and lots of unpleasant noises. I even had a few ideas for what the theme music would be: spritely flutes and strings for two measures while the Vomit-bags are eating, followed by two measures of tubas and descending trombone glissandi while they're, well, not. Repeat as needed, for about thirty seconds.

Well, this friend took my idea, which was merely disgusting, and made it nearly unspeakable. Valerie is to be burst the way one might burst a paper bag after having inflated it, except that since she's filled with fruit cocktail, her big scene would resemble the death scenes in the movie Scanners. And of course, her grisly death would trigger nausea in her puppety brethren. Or sistren? Whatever, they'll all be vomiting either way.

Now, we just need to find a way to work a hot-button political issue into the skit. Bulimia? Nah. Too obvious.

I suspect that this would actually go over really well on YouTube, though I'm sure that any benevolent god would strike us both dead before letting either of us get our hands on video equipment.

You know those AT&T ads, where they talk about "more bars," and put lots of visuals in the background? Five stacks of newspapers, each one taller than the one before it? Five skyscrapers, each one taller than the last? Five baguettes in a grocery bag, sticking out to varying degrees? Five flagpoles in a straight line, viewed from an angle that makes them look like those little bars that tell you how much signal your phone is getting?

What, you've never seen one? Here, take a look.

Then, picture what this ad would look like if it were filmed in a sex shop. Five stacks of DVDs. Five dildoes lined up on a counter, ranging from "shot glass" to "Mr. Ed." Five butt-plugs in a row on a shelf in a glass case, ranging from "noob" to "Kirk Johnson." A flogger sitting on a shelf, with five strands of different lengths spread out under it.

There's a sex shop in my town. I wonder if they'd help me film an ad like this -- I feel safe in guessing that no one's ever asked them that before!

Every now and then, an idea pops into my head that convinces me that I should never write movies. Two weeks ago, it involved Celine Dion singing "My Heart Will Go On," and then screaming as she's attacked by waterlogged zombies, one of them wearing a big blue diamond and being being played by Leonardo DiCaprio. (Come on, every other damned movie has a sequel these days. Why shouldn't Titanic have one, too?)

This week? Take about a hundred feet of scaffolding, and make it secure enough that one can safely run and jump on it. An air mattress below, to catch anyone who falls off, wouldn't be a bad idea, either. Then, make a whole bunch of barrels, I-beams, and other hazards out of styrofoam. Especially barrels. Lots and lots of barrels, please -- these will be rolling down the scaffolding like steel balls in a pachinko machine. In between scenes, you'll naturally want to rearrange the planks on the scaffolding.

The cast: Ron Jeremy dressed as a plumber, Jenna Jameson in a skimpy dress, and Lee Stone in a monkey suit.

I read a hilarious bit of Jesus/Muhammad slash over at Godawful Fan Fiction, and I was inspired. Fortunately, this doesn't happen too often, lest I find myself lightning-bolted. For the benefit of the Christians on my f-list, I've hidden it behind a cut. As with most of my slash bunnies, I've aimed for "comically bad."

---

( Click for hawt Jesus/Judas action! )

(Side note for swtalmnd: if for some reason you looked at Clark and Lex from Smallville today, and found that you didn't really think they'd go well together, don't worry. It's only temporary, and it's because I've borrowed your slash-goggles for the purposes of writing this post.)

Anyway, here goes...

Someone needs to write Rayne/Noel, from Least I Could Do. And that someone might very well be me. I may even post it in their forums, just to see if I can make people's heads a splode. "Rayne wouldn't do anything like that, he's all man!"

Come on, you don't even need slash-goggles for this one. In one storyline, Rayne goes on a date with a gay man. It's clear he's interested in Noel: he's offered to shower with him, he went with him to a couples-only resort (by accident, or so he says), and there was that kiss on New Years. And he does seem to enjoy those cavity searches from airline security just a little too much... it practically writes itself.

Hey, slash-goggles are fun! I can see why Anne Coulter loves them so, what with her calling John Edwards a faggot and claiming that Bill Clinton's philandering is a desperate exercise in denial. I just need to remember to put the goggles away when I'm discussing political figures.

...except for Michael Moore and Rush Limbaugh. They're totally getting it on. BWA HA HA HA HA HA!!!

Once upon a time, there was a boy named Kevin McCallister, a gifted boy who at a young age had a talent for booby traps. Sadly, his was frequently neglected by his parents, and after the second time his family abandoned him, he was removed from his home by Child Protective Services.

He was a troubled child, and at one point stole some art from a museum. After that, however, he changed his name to John Kramer, and turned his amazing mechanical skills into a rewarding career making toys. Then, he was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor, and after a failed suicide attempt, his life took a new, darker direction...

Fast-forward to the present, where we find two aging small-time crooks locked in a dingy basement, both shackled at the ankles to a drain-pipe. One of them wakes up, and finds a tape recorder in his pocket, with a tape labeled "play me."

He plays the tape, and a deep sinister voice comes from the recorder. "Hello, Harry. Once upon a time, you broke into a house being guarded, and booby-trapped, by a little boy. Now, the little boy has grown up, and has a booby-trapped house of his own.

"In two hours, one of the machines here will mix a gallon of ammonia and a gallon of bleach into the sink on the other side of this basement. To survive, you and your stupid accomplice Marvin must get around all the booby traps and escape before the chlorine gas kills you. You'll find a rusty hacksaw just barely in your reach, to get you started.

"Live or die. Make your choice."

Don't mind me. I'm just on crack.

Saw Home Alone is part of a series on Shit Sandwiches

The Movies: Saw I • Saw II • Saw III • Saw IV • Saw V • Saw VI Other Comments: I Saw Bunnies • Saw Home Alone • Saw in 15 seconds

Give me Head: (Crossover: Historical/Sleepy Hollow) True love never dies in this tale of hot oral sex between Anne Boleyn and Ichabod Crane, two doomed hearts who are head over heels in love with each other.

It's not a choice, it's a life: (Crossover: Alien/RPS) Senator Bill Napoli gets attacked by a facehugger. Will he stay true to his views on abortion, and grow to accept and love the young life that will be coming out of him?

Opposites Attract: (RPS) Big gay fun between Michael Moore and Rush Limbaugh. Two bitter rivals who come to love each other, a bearskin rug, and lots of vaseline. What more could you possibly want?

Men at Work: (American Choppers) Making custom motorcycles is a tough job. Sometimes, Paul Senior, Paulie, and Mikey just need to loosen up and... relax. Yeah, relax. But how do they do that, nudge nudge, wink wink? Come on, guess!

If anyone from weepingcock or any other badfic comm is reading this, enjoy! (Yes, there be slash here. Bad slash -- deliberately bad slash. You have been warned.)


Jubilee's Purpose (X-Men, Cyclops/Wolvie)

Jubilee sat at her computer screen, and proofread her work. As she perused her writing, she felt tingly. Her descriptions were pretty damned good, if she dared say so herself: the exquisite agony and pleasure that Cyclops felt, as Wolverine drove into his ass like a siege engine, smoldered on the screen; his hot breath, as he bit his pillow and grunted like an animal, fogged up the glass of her moniter.

Scott cried out, in pleasure and pain, as Logan slowly buried his cock in his ass.  Logan held still for a moment, and then slid out, slowly, then back in.  Out.  In.  Out.  In.  He sped up a little, and Scott's cries gave way to long, almost gutteral moans.

Wolvie loved this.  Not just the satisfaction of assfucking the team leader -- though that was definitely part of it -- but driving Scott out of himself.  So controlled, so self-possessed, normally, but here he was on the end of Logan's cock, half-mad with lust, only barely coherent enough to beg for more.

All it needed was some dialog. But what?

This was always the part Jubilee had trouble with. Describing the beauty of male flesh came easily to her, and the mechanics of sex between men were familiar to her through the internet... but lacking any sexual experience of her own, she had to struggle with some of the details. Just what the hell did people actually say during sex?

With a blinding flash, an idea came to her, and she started typing once more.

Wolverine paused for a moment, and Cyclops writhed under his weight.  "Oh, God, don't you dare stop, you bastard."

Logan gave a quick twitch of his hips.  "Say my name, bub."

"Logan.  Fuck me.  Now.  Fuck me hard."

Wolverine smiled, and drove himself into Cyclops like a jackhammer.

Noblesse Oblige (Discworld, Carrot/Vetinari)

Carrot felt himself melt under the Patrician's iron gaze. Vetinari was looking, looking, into his eyes, seeing plainly the nobility he'd always tried to hide. In turn, Carrot looked into the stern eyes of the Patrician and saw something he'd never expected to see in the eyes of a politician: courage. Responsibility. The weight of all the lives in his domain, upon Vetinari's shoulders.

"No, we're not so different," Carrot said, horror and arousal mingling in his blood.

"Wasn't it I who told you where the words 'police' and 'politician' come from?" asked Vetinari, his own blood boiling with desire. "Are we not two sides of the same coin? Are we not both... powerful men?" Vetinari punctuated the word powerful by delicately caressing Carrot's bicep with one hand, and caressing Carrot elsewhere¹ with the other.

For a moment that seemed like an eternity, Carrot admired Vetinari's expert and dexterous hands, and for his part, Vetinari's hands moved over Carrot's powerful body in awe. Then, able to constrain himself no longer, Vetinari kissed Carrot forcefully and passionately, and for both of them, the world moved. And didn't bother with details like leaving a forwarding address.

"Why shouldn't we have such power over each other?"

---



1. I was tempted to make a joke about a really big pair of well-placed socks, but Carrot is innocent of such things. If Vetinari found anything of great substance in Carrot's trousers, it's all Carrot.²
   
   
2. This pune was unintentional. I swear.