Posts Tagged ‘Fake News Column’

The Lankville Daily News Guide to Great Sex

November 17, 2014 1 comment
By JoLayne Fasters

By JoLayne Fasters

JoLayne Fasters is Lankville’s premier authority on sexual intercourse.

Was it good for you?

If you’re like most of Lankville, chances are it wasn’t. Chances are it was really bad and maybe even scary. You were addled with anxiety, there was an otherworldly piercing noise you couldn’t identify, you were worried about your physical worth. Even if the act achieved the idealized heights of a romantic novel or the back of one of those juice cans, you still harbor your suspicions. Sure, you thundered like a bucking stallion, sure, you melted at his touch like candy on a particularly hot Easter. And yet, you still think- you’re pretty much not getting it anywhere as often as everyone else.

You think to yourself– can’t we all just have great sex???

Of course we can. All the time. But first, we must decide what great sex is.

“Great sex starts in here,” says clinical psychologist Patti Cooks, pointing to her breast. “What, in your boobs?” we asked. “No, no, in your heart.”

“Great sex starts in here,” says clinical psychologist Patti Cooks, pointing to her breast. “What, in your boobs?” we asked. “No, no, in your heart.” We nodded slowly. “It starts in your heart and great sex is about what is in your particular heart and in the heart of your lover and then the two hearts come together to decide what great sex is. It could be multiple orgasms throughout an entire raucous night, it could be a lot of chatter and then some quick sort of breezy thing. But first, you have to do this.” Cooks then pointed to her wide open mouth.

“What…? Oral…?” we asked confusedly.

“No, no,” she admonished. “You have to open your mouth. You have to talk.”


Maybe you want your lover to dress up as a happy, smiling tooth and distribute dental supplies while you videotape the whole thing. You'll never know if they're up for it without an open, honest line of communication.

Maybe you want your lover to dress up as a happy, smiling tooth and distribute dental supplies while you videotape the whole thing. You’ll never know if they’re up for it without an open, honest line of communication. (Photo by J. Fasters)

So, as we found out, the mouth is great for kissing and for orally-administered forms of arousal but it’s also a tool of communication. Try it. Tell each other what you want. Maybe you want something simple like a particular part of your body rubbed sensuously. Maybe you want your partner to dress up as a happy smiling tooth and distribute dental supplies on a street corner while you videotape the entire thing. But you’ll never know any of this without an open line of communication. Shoot for trust and openness.


Don’t believe all the bragging out there about sexual potency– everyone is apt to exaggerate their exploits and paint distorted pictures of their sex lives.

“About 97% of people are liars,” Cooks says. “A lot of people think they’re missing out on something because they read all the crazy talk on things like Lankbook and at amusement parks. “Don’t think the pleasure ship has sailed and left you behind. The pleasure ship is still docked. It’s ready for you to hop aboard.”

Cooks excused herself momentarily.


Commutes. Computational devices. Calculators. Challenges. “The Four C’s”. And they all lead us to stress.

Stress is a great enemy of sex. So is anxiety about performance. Minimizing both helps maximize your enjoyment of your partner. “If we can quiet our minds,” Cooks says, “put away those calculators for just a minute, we can open ourselves up to better sex.”

Cooks recommends a mentra: FOLPS (Focus on Luscious Pleasurable Sensations).

“There are techniques ranging from quiet leering at your partner at close range to a sort of synchronized breathing that helps keep you in the moment,” she notes. “Great sex happens in the present. It never happens in the future.”

The author and Dr. Cooks suddenly got into an argument about time machines and this segment came to an abrupt end.


No two people are built the same (fact) and it’s important to have compatible body parts. For some women, men of a modest size may be a perfect fit. For other women, they need the good stuff. Nevertheless, it’s a matter of physiology and personal preference. Perfect-fitting penetration isn’t the only avenue to satisfying sex.

“My goodness, no,” Dr. Cooks laughed. “Small men can be perfectly useful. There’s kissing. Cooing. They can sit in the corner and coo at you. It’s a full panoply of pleasure giving.”

Next time, we’ll continue with a few more great sex tips. In the meantime, try a few of these out and let us know how they go. We always appreciate your letters, electronic mails and telephone calls.

Woman in a Man’s Game by Robin Brox

November 11, 2014 Leave a comment


Robin Brox is Lankville’s most successful female entrepreneur. She is the founder and CEO of Brox Uncolored Condiments, Inc.

I was sitting in my office at the arena, bored out of my skull.  There was an empty wire trash can and I took it over to the window and dropped it down five stories to the street.  It just missed hitting a suit eating a hot dog.

“YEAH, SHITCUPS!” I yelled as a small crowd gathered.  I found some condiment catalogs nearby and tossed those out too.  The lunch throng had now gathered round, staring up at me.  I suddenly got moist as a muffin downtown, I knew it.

I scanned the suite of third floor offices.  There was an IT guy there– he was a bit wall-eyed but he had big hands.  I shut the door behind me.

“How’d you like to earn yourself a tidy little bonus?” I asked.  “That kind of scratch, you could buy yourself a bunch of those little medieval playcards.”

He liked that.  He was a smart kid.

That kind of scratch, you could buy yourself a bunch of those little medieval playcards.

Condiment set. Shortly after this photo was taken, there was a period of vast confusion and the set was destroyed.

Condiment set. Shortly after this photo was taken, there was a period of vast confusion and the set was destroyed.

Later, I walked down to the cafeteria.  I didn’t like the look of the egg and chicken dish so I went for the mouth hoagie.  A couple of the executives came over and started on business.  One of the assistants leaned over me.

“Ms. Brox, your speech for next week.”  He handed me a folder.

“Yeah?” I said, my chin glistening with a complex potpourri of sauces.  “What’s that about?”

He looked confused.  “It’s…well…it’s a continuation of your series on the essence of uncolored condiments.”

“Let me see you put the folder down your pants.”

“What?…I…”  He went red.

“Go on, put the folder down your pants.  Do a little dance for me.”

He ran out.  I finished the mouth hoagie and left the folder.  Someone’d bring it up.

I went back to the office and ordered a couple of loud sequined kaleidoscope dresses online.  In the comments section I wrote, “MAKE THEM HUG THE HIPS AND ADD THE SHIMMERY BIB”.  I placed the order and went back to the window.  The trash can was gone and someone had cleaned up the catalogs.  I was slightly disappointed.

I’m a woman in a man’s game, alright.

Royer’s Madcap Experiences: The Girls at Washington Flats

November 10, 2014 Leave a comment
By Ric Royer

By Ric Royer

There were some girls that operated a little bakery out of an old gas station.  There was an ample little weedy parking lot and an old sign that had been changed out to show a close-up color photograph of a muffin. Dilapidated mill houses could be seen in the hills behind.

This was Washington Flats.

One day I waltzed in.  I pretended to admire the fancy embroidered tea cozies and girly, racked greeting cards.  Then I made right for the counter and the bakery case.  One of the girls came out from the back.

She was a brunette with a round but pleasant face.

“So, what you got here, cookies?” I asked.  I very slowly moved my index finger to a spinning basket rack of bagged heart-shaped chocolates.  She watched me all the way.  I fingered the metallic edge and then spun the rack furiously.  She was going for it.

“Yes…here’s what we have today,” she said, not even pointing at the case.  Everything was breaking down for her.

“Looks like you’ve been busy,” I commented.  “Give me one of those chocolate tops.”

She removed the tray from the case and started to bag it.

“No, no,” I said gently.  “Feed it to me.”

She was trembling now but she held the cookie to my mouth.  At first, I allowed my tongue to tickle the edge and then I suddenly bit into it ferociously, shaking my head side to side like an animal.

It was done.  With one arm, I cleared the counter.

Later, in the back room, I turned to her.

“I actually am hungry.  Why not bring one of those trays back here?”

She proudly brought back a full tray of tea cakes.  I ate them half-heartedly.  I hate tea cakes.

But that’s what you get when you allow for a trip to Washington Flats.

Funny Stories by Dick Oakes, Jr.

August 7, 2014 Leave a comment
By Dick Oakes, Jr.

By Dick Oakes, Jr.

The first time I ran afoul of Gee-Temple was in the Outlands.

He had come out there with a vice squad from the capital to bust up a fruit stand ring. Completely normal roadside fruit stand– completely normal-looking country people running the thing. You’d buy, say, a handful of grapes and the next thing you’d know, they’d reveal themselves to be complete perverts. I couldn’t figure on any of it.

I was standing outside an electronics shop on some hick main street and the next thing I knew, a van pulled up. People started to climb into it, so, I figured, what the hell, and I climbed aboard. The thing drove for miles in complete silence and eventually pulled into some highway motel. Everybody got off– I figured on it being some kind of a jackpot, so I got off too.

There was a long line at the front desk. People were asking all sorts of questions about the kind of carpet, the shower curtains, ply details on the toilet paper. It made no sense, none of it.

Finally, I reached the counter. It was a sour-looking couple, slow-moving, suspicious– the woman looked like a bird. The guy kept putting pieces of gum in his mouth and lighting cigarettes. It was all senseless.

“Well…how much for a room?” I opened.384469
“He doesn’t have $37,” the woman said slowly, carefully to her husband.
I pulled out two twenties.
“Listen, whyn’t you go down to the Ranchito. That’s more your speed, buddy.”

I drew up a story about a daughter from the East. She was coming out on a plane and I was going to take her to the amusement park. It was pure nonsense but they bought it. The woman even gave me a couple of extra towels. They were folded in some weird way so that they slightly resembled swans. She fished for a compliment and I gave it to her. Big boy handed me the keys.

It was furnished in bright blues. Everything was bright blue. After a shower and about fifteen minutes sitting around, it was burning my eyes out. I tore off the bedspread and shoved it into a closet that was locked with a chain. I could clear just enough room to push the damn thing in there. Then I took down a couple of bright blue paintings from the wall. They were just unframed canvases painted bright blue. I couldn’t figure on any of it.

I went up to the second deck to get some ice. There was a grown man standing there, playing on some kind of hand-held game. He put it away as soon as he saw me.

“Nice…beautiful night out, huh?” he said. “Look at them stars.”
I couldn’t see anything but I gave him a little nod and dropped a quarter into the slot. That’s when he grabbed me from behind and flung me backwards. He was holding me over the railing. I could see a couple of cars below me, had to be a good fifteen feet. I heard the bucket clatter away in the distance. Looks like you’re finally a goner Oakes, I heard myself saying. Then, I got a hand free and knocked him out. I dragged him into the shadows and looked through his wallet. Couple of tens in there, couple of restaurant tokens, no kind of identification. I pocketed the money.

And that’s when I came face to face with Gee-Temple.

He took me downtown and booked me for armed robbery and perversion. “What’s the perversion charge, Chief?” I asked him. “I can’t tell you now,” he said, kindly. “We’re going to set you up with a little chicken dinner in your cell. I think it’s chicken breast with green beans and a little side of ice cream.” He thought about that. “It sounds really good, doesn’t it? I could eat that right now, even if it was in a cell, I think I could eat that.” He was really mulling it over.

I didn’t eat the dinner.

Feelings by Dr. Kevin Thurston

March 14, 2014 1 comment
Dr. Kevin Thurston

Dr. Kevin Thurston

Dr. Thurston is an expert on men’s feelings.

Recently, I led a group of eight clients on a masculine journey of rediscovery, exploration and fear.  The journey was originally planned for the Great Lankville Pyramid Area but, regrettably, funds were rather low so we ended up renting a motel– utilizing the weedy area out back as a sort of conference room.

During our first session, I asked all the men to hold hands.  “Breathe in the healthful air, all the way down to your belly and beyond,” I commanded.  The men did as told.  “Now breathe all of that air out– expel all that intangible waste.”  Again, the men complied.  This time, I went around and offered some items from a tray that I had stolen from a cafeteria– travel coffee mug, $5.99, gapless 5″ binder, $19.99, chess set that could also be turned into a table, $12.99, all good deals.

“Let’s move on to our varied spiritual loads.”  I turned to Wayne, a fairly new client with a pleasant, round face and a strange habit of removing his shirt at odd intervals.

“I mean nothing obscene by this Dr. Thurston but my spiritual load is located in my nuts.”

There was a tittering among the men but I raised my hand.  “Let Wayne finish,” I commented.

“Yes, it’s in my nuts.  I think all my negative energy has migrated to my nuts.  And so they hang there, needing release.  I’m not sure how to do that.”

“Clearly, your aura is not centered,” I said.  “Your energy field is beginning and ending with your nuts.  You are not grounded to earth.  I have seen this before.”

I made a prong with my hand and began massaging the aura around Wayne’s nuts.  “I want you to imagine an energy fountain moving up out of your nuts and through the midline of your body.  As you breathe, allow the fountain of energy to shower back to earth.”  As he did this, I offered him an opened box of glue sticks— $9.99, great deal.

“How do you feel now, Wayne?”

“I feel a little better, Dr. Thurston.”

“Did you want the glue sticks?  The box is opened but it’s never been touched.”


Everybody made out pretty well on the deal.

Ric Royer’s Recipe for Thanksgiving Larded Roast Hare

November 6, 2013 Leave a comment

By Ric Royer
File photo

Incarcerated business magnate and sports club owner Ric Royer (who elected to use his given name for this recipe) is not just an innovative executive.  He is also quite the gastronome.  He shared with The Lankville Daily News his recipe for Thanksgiving Larded Roast Hare.

“Well, we’re going to skin, draw and truss the little motherfucker,” said Royer, from the kitchens at the Foontz-Flonnaise Home of Abundant Senselessness.  “Then, you want to lard the back fillets with finely-cut lardons and braise them in a sauce Irlandaise.  While you’re doing that, you want to get a square piece of buttered wax paper and just roast the holy hell out of it for twenty minutes.  Just incinerate the bejesus out of it.  Then, we’ll remove the paper, meanwhile keeping it well-basted, remove the strings, the cheese cloth and the clippers and serve the whole load of bullshit up on a hot dish.

Have the Irlandaise sauce ready to go in one of those old god damn sauceboats.  Make a fucking mess of it with watercress– just pummel it diabolically and serve it up with some trenches de jambon aux tomates.

Christ’s ass, it makes a big bitch of a meal, I’ll tell you.  You get some of that green gooseberry sauce on the side and you can write yourself a fucking ticket to the goddamn moon.”

Ramping it Up With Some Mail with BIG CHIPS

November 6, 2013 Leave a comment

Special Correspondent
Photo on 2013-02-05 at 17.33
File photo

Yo, man, “The Cut” and I were hanging out on the porch real late the other night.  And “The Cut”, he goes, “Hey man, you ever think about the mail?”

Big Chips was a little discombobulated for a min but then I started to see where he was going.

“You got this dude, man, and he brings you mail.”  “The Cut” let the sentence waft through the air and out past the pines.

I looked out at the mailbox– nailed to a stake in the ground by the driveway.  I had walked past it a million times without any realization whatsoever of its purpose.

“They could put things from anywhere in the World in there,” I stated aloud.  “The Islands, the Snow Regions– man, you could even write to your next-door neighbor and they’d have to put that letter in their mailbox.”

“That’s what I’m saying, dude,” “The Cut” answered.  We slammed fists together and “The Cut” made one of those explosion sounds because truly it had blown our minds.

I woke up at 3PM the next day and waited for Pops to come home.

“Hey, Pops.  Big Chips wants to know what kind of mail we get,” I said.

“As a matter of fact, Big Chips, I forgot to get it.  Why don’t you go grab it for me?”

I didn’t feel much like crossing the yard but I went anyway.

And yo, man, there was like a summons in there.  For Big Chips.  Something about serving on a jury and all.

“What’s this, Pops?” I said, once I had returned to the kitchen.

“Looks like jury duty,” he said.  He started looking through a newsprint circular advertising Decorative Hams.  “Everybody has to do it.”

“Pops, it’s like “The Cut” predicted this, man.”

Pops looked at me funny.  Then he went back to the Decorative Ham ad.

So, dude, pretty soon Big Chips is gonna’ be ramping it up in the courtroom.

Oral Histories of Some Former Lankville Pugilists

November 6, 2013 Leave a comment

By Oort Cloud Cook  (1949-1950, 8W, 1L, 6KO)
File Photo

I boxed for a long time in the amateurs– never getting anywhere.  And it killed me because I had bought this nice little ice cream truck, painted it green, ran a good business in the summer.  I’d take that truck through the alleys and rake in a hundred a night on the hot days.  “You’ve got a career in that,” my wife used to say.  “Forget about boxing.”  Then, she’d wipe down the plastic tablecloth and I’d think Christ to Hell I want to get that wire foundation bra off of her and get all over those cans.  But you gotta control yourself.

One time I was careening through an alley and this guy we called the professor stopped me for a Frozen Mallows Bar.  Started talking about random comets or some such nonsense.  But I thought it sounded good so I wrote down this Oort Cloud rubbish on account of it sounding good.  And my agent, he worked up a whole thing about my punches being like comets coming out of nowhere.  The press bought it up.  And that’s when I went professional.

Started out against Wayne Lemons down out at the Boulevard Theatre.  They had taken all the seats out and put a ring in there.  I beat Wayne in four rounds– it was a simple jab to the jaw and he went down like a stack of pancakes.  I went to him later in the dressing room.  “Good fight, Wayne,” I said.  He gave me a sneer and told me he was going to wait for me outside.  I couldn’t believe it.  Sure enough, when we went out to the parking lot, there he was– he even had a little blade.  “I’m gonna cut you,” he said.  A bunch of guys intervened and that pretty much ended Wayne’s pro career.  You gotta control yourself.  A few years later, they cut Wayne’s head off.

I won eight straight, six by knockout.  But then I came up against Andypop Lennus.  Christ, this kid wasn’t even a pro yet and when he did become a pro, he was terrible.  But he kicked hell out of me that day.  In the seventh round, we snuck a piece of chain into one of my gloves– we were looking for an edge, I admit it.  I let the chain come out just below the bottom edge of the glove and raked it across Lennus’ face three or four times.  Damn near took his nose off.  Then, I hit him with a folding chair.  “Getting close there, Cook,” the ref said.  “Might have to call that next time.” But Lennus, he still knocked me out.  And after that, I lost my taste for boxing.

My wife was wiping down the plastic tablecloth after that– I recall it was a checkerboard sort of pattern that amused me.  And she said, “Forget about boxing.  Think of your ice cream truck business.  Think of the children.”  We didn’t have any children but I figured on her talking about the ice cream kids.  So, I said, “Alright, I’ll retire”.  She looked real pleased by my decision and I was able to get that wire foundation bra off that night.

I retired in 1981.  We vacation at a trailer at Lankville Beach every year.  I think boxing has gone downhill.  You got all these foreigners and hillbillies now.  I don’t have no thoughts on it.

The Mystery of the Slick Model (Part One)

November 5, 2013 Leave a comment

By Dick Oakes, Jr.
Senior Staff Writer
File Photo

It was a family out in the suburbs.  They had a living room carpeted in greens with thick brown drapes that blotted out the sun.

Pops was a bookish type– an engineer maybe.  He had a little brown case of mysterious tools sticking out of his shirt pocket.  Mom sat off in a corner– distant and detached.  There was some coffee but it was instant.  I complimented it anyway.  No cream was offered.

“We want you to find our Jennie,” Pops said suddenly.  He handed me something that felt like a magazine, encased in ancient, flaking brown paper.

It was an old pornographic slick– saturated colors, clearly shot in a rented hotel room– I put it about ’72 or ’73.  There was a buxom blonde on the cover.  She was on all fours leaning over some asshole in tight briefs.  There were a bunch of decorated paper fans on the wall behind them.  I couldn’t make any of it out.

“This is Jennie?  On the cover?” I asked.  Nobody said anything.  Had to be.

I opened it up and scanned the copyright page.  1973.  Damn, you’re good Dick, I silently congratulated myself.  King Barry Productions– little fucking crown over the “King Barry”, some office address in Western Lankville.

“This is forty years ago,” I said aloud.

“I know,” the engineer said.  “The…police…they stopped searching a long time ago.”  He looked grey and ancient– too old even to have a daughter now in her sixties.  “That…that magazine is all we have.  All we have to go on.”

Nobody said anything further so I flipped through it.  It wasn’t a bad issue– a little on the fancy-pants side– bunch of complicated positions but no penetration.  The guys weren’t even hard in most of the shots.  I tossed it on the coffee table.

Mom cried out and Pops ran over and shoved the damn thing quickly into the bag.  “Mr. Oakes, it’s odious for us to have this– you understand?” I nodded and finished off the coffee; got out of there and huffed it over to an adult magazine dealer I knew in Western Lankville.  Fat piece of shit named Fritts but he was alright.

“What do you know about King Barry Productions?” I asked.  He was pricing some lubricants and watching a game show on the TV mounted to the ceiling.

“Yeah, sure, King Barry.  They put out 10 or 11 slicks back in the 70s.  Owned by a guy named Dean Nettles.”

“Yeah?  Where can I find this Nettles character?”

“Nowhere.”  He stopped and looked at me awhile, then looked back at the TV.  They were giving away a dinette set and he seemed suddenly distracted.

“Nettles? Where can I find him?”

“Right.  Dean had a lot of problems.  He was living in a tent for awhile and then they just took him out and cut his head off.  That was in ’79 or ’80, I’d guess.”

“This King Barry Productions– they must have had employees– photographers and the like?”

He thought about that.  “Yeah, there was a faggot by the name of Trent Nettles.  I remember thinking it was funny ’cause they both had the same last name but they weren’t related at all.”

“Fucking hilarious.”

“Yeah, right at that.  Anyway, this Trent Nettles guy came into the office one day and Dean hired him on the spot as his graphic designer.  I think he’s still around.  You should look him up.”

I thanked him and bought some lubricant just for show.

I caught a cab out to the address from the slick.  It was long gone– the building had been demolished and they had put up a Buntz Mallows Palace in its place.  Meanwhile, I had had my secretary do a little research on this Nettles character.  She called me with some gold.

“He works for Pappy’s Chicken and Biscuits,” she said over the phone.  “Draws little chickens and umbrellas on bags, umbrellas, that kind of thing.”  She gave me an address.  I thanked her and tried a couple of lines I had heard the night before in a bar.  Nothing doing but I was working my way in there.

Forty minutes later I stormed into Trent Nettles’ cubicle.  I’ve found over the years that it’s difficult to storm dramatically into a cubicle; nevertheless, I’ve developed a sort of a system.  I generally just take a wall out.

This, I did.  Then, I grabbed Nettles by the collar.  He was a thin, pasty sort.  Pretty easy to man-handle.

“Who’s Jennie,” I demanded.  “Spring 1973.  You know what I’m talking about.”

He opened his mouth to speak.

And that’s when the mystery of the slick model began to unravel.

Royer’s Madcap Experiences: The Checkers Grandmaster

October 23, 2013 Leave a comment

By Ric Royer
File photo

She was a checkers grandmaster.  Young, from some jerkwater Island town, a little on the cocky side.  She needed to be knocked down a peg.  I knew I was the man to do it.

She challenged me to a match.  I put a bunch of gum in my mouth and started snapping it loudly, nodding in between snaps.  I knew something she didn’t.

Then, I pushed five of my pieces suddenly over towards the left side of the board.  Some of them fell off.  I leaned back.

“That’s right,” I said.  I snapped the gum and winked.

“You can’t do that,” she countered, in her thick, jerkwater accent.  “You can only move one piece at a time.”

“FUCK THAT SHIT.  That ain’t how we play in LANKVILLE”.  I got real loud towards the end of the sentence.  “You don’t like it, you can haul your little ass on back to the islands or wherever the hell you’re from.”

And then I knew I had her.  And then I had her.

We smoked a bunch of cigarettes and stared at the patterned stucco ceiling in some derelict hotel room.  There was the noise of something large and conical being slammed repeatedly into the wall of the room next door.  I yelled for the asshole to can it and for awhile it was quiet but then the conical slamming started up again.

Later, I would wait for the guy and beat an apology out of him.  But for now, I turned up the TV and held the grandmaster in my arms.

There was a show on about a canoe that was attacking a beach with explosives.  Some people in spacesuits were hiding in bushes.  I couldn’t make head or tail of it but the grandmaster seemed to like it.  “We don’t have the TV in my country,” she said.  “There are radio shows about the farms and people sit around and listen.  But we don’t have the TV.”

“Shut the fuck up,” I said.  “Don’t talk in hotel rooms.  It’s improper.”

I couldn’t think of anything else to say after that.

Ramping it Up with Some Pumpkins by BIG CHIPS

October 23, 2013 Leave a comment

Special Correspondent
Photo on 2013-02-05 at 17.33
File photo

It’s about that time of year again when Big Chips starts ramping it up with some pumpkins.

Let me break it down for you.

First off, Big Chips came into a little moolah.  Sold off all my Richard and the Postman action figures and playsets on the internet.  Then I drove straight out to the country to look at a 1977 Neptune Chariot complete with mag wheels that “The Cut” had told me about.   When I first saw that car, I knew it was like having a cool breeze blow through your mind.

A fat old guy in overalls came out to show it to me.  There was a big stack of pornography on the passenger seat.  “The magazines stay with the car,” he insisted.  That was cool with Big Chips, so I handed over my wad.  He counted it out and seemed satisfied.  Then, he started complaining about foreign masturbators.  I didn’t quite get the vibe but I heard him out.

A cow wandered out into the road, followed by the younger version of My Man.  “You gotta’ crush a tart in there!” the old man started yelling.  I figured it best to head.

I showed Pops the car when I got home.  “This car is almost 40 years old, Big Chips,” he said.  “What will you do if it starts breaking down?”

“It ain’t gonna’ break down Pops.  Big Chips’ new car is a ramped-up, exquisite journey-maker.”

Two nights later though, Big Chips’ chariot broke down in the drive-thru of a Taco Horn.

So, it’s gonna take a little longer than expected but Big Chips is gonna’ get there.  Some pumpkins are most-definitely gonna’ get ramped up.

Royer’s Madcap Experiences: The Chill of the Institution

October 8, 2013 Leave a comment

By Ric Royer
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I pulled into the parking lot of a large institution– might have been a University, might have been a Pappy’s Chicken.  It was impossible to tell.

There was some mail on the passenger seat.  Bunch of fat bank statements, bills, important-looking notifications– I rolled down the window a bit and dropped these out.  There was also a large brown envelope.  I tore it open violently to find an old wrestling magazine.  I hadn’t remembered ordering it but was pleased nonetheless.  As the sun came up, I read an article on small motel girl wrestling.  I found myself rooting for Kendra but, as it turned out, she was vanquished in the end.  I threw the magazine into the backseat.

I walked across the parking lot and entered an anodyne brick and glass structure.  There were some tables and the pungent odor of biscuits wafted over me but there were also some classrooms. I had no idea what was going on.

I noticed a brunette in the corner reading an oversized textbook.  There was something familiar about her.

And I thought: “How can I make her love me?”

Time passed.  I was brought some biscuits.  “Do I pay you?” I asked the waitress.  She said nothing.  It seemed, for all intents and purposes, that I was invisible.

A man-boy walked through the door.  He was carrying a gigantic skateboard.  He sat down next to my brunette.  He was loud and raucous but she seemed impressed.  They went outside together and she watched him perform a series of little stunts with a wood box and an orange cone.  I threw up into the biscuits.

The waitress came back.  “She will suck him,” she noted suddenly.  She seemed to stare at nothing at all, not even the incredible tableau of vomit, biscuits and wax paper.  “You could take her textbook as revenge.  It’s just sitting there on the table.  There is a grand assumption that it will be safe, a grand assumption made by these lovers.  You could teach them a lesson far greater than anything learned in a classroom.”  Then, she walked away.

I took the textbook.  It was worth $50.

I’ve Had Just About Enough of These Hippies and their Sex Magazines

October 3, 2013 Leave a comment

By Fingers Rolly
Man on the Street

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I swear to the Lord Christ, I’ve had just about enough of these fucking hippies and their god damn sex magazines.

You walk into the drugstore.  There’s Fat Sam with his apron.  You look at the magazine rack.  Nothing but god damn hippie sex magazines.

“Why you carry this degenerate shit?” I asked once.  Fat Sam looked at me kind of funny.  I didn’t press it.

Then I went over to the post office.  A whole wall full of god damn hippie sex magazines.  It’s unbelievable.  I don’t know what the fuck’s going on.  I get home to my trailer in that lousy whore of a desert and there’s the Evening News.  Guess what’s inside?  A god damn hippie sex magazine.

I scream at the desert often.

The Lankville Daily News would like to apologize for the preceding article.  Mr. Rolly was assigned an article on the wetlands of Lankville County.

Small Motel Girl Wrestling: Lankville’s Newest Sport?

October 3, 2013 Leave a comment

By Dick Oakes, Jr.
Senior Staff Writer
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There are times when beauty can penetrate a man’s soul and awake senses which his mind cannot control.  Then, with the sort of helplessness usually reserved for the drawing of a moth toward a flame, he must obey his instincts to possess the wonder which has excited him.  Often, this lust-fueled turmoil is accompanied by the consumption of an alcoholic beverage or perhaps a particularly thick desert.

It is then that the man will find himself attending a small motel wrestling match, Lankville’s newest sport.  He will know upon entering the small hotel room that he has infiltrated a den of unabashed iniquity.  Sweaty, spellbound men form a mean ring around the room– they are all here to be erotically aroused.  A pile of gambled money rests on a battered bureau, pushed into one corner– a squat, brutish thug monitors it from a little stool.  The combatants, beautiful heavily-lipsticked women, suddenly throw open the bathroom door and make their way through the ring of bodies.

At times, bikinis are ripped off and yet, the girls continue to wrestle across the carpet in their nude glory.  The men exhibit a certain sophistication at the proceedings before them– no matter how aroused they become, they will continue to calmly stand and watch the proceedings.  The brutish thug sees to it.  Unfortunately, there is a first time for everything.

It was my third time (strictly for journalistic purposes, you understand).  The matchup was Tara vs. Shayna and they were a little late arriving.  The thug, in an unusually charitable mood, passed out extra bottles of champagne.  The heat was terrible and the windows of the small motel room began to fog up.  “Sorry about the air conditioning boys,” the thug noted, though no further explanation was proffered.  We waited.

There was an engineer there, guy named Harold Martin.  A university man, this was his first slip into the pit of Small Motel Girl Wrestling.   He drank not wisely and admitted that he had eaten nothing all day.  “We had a robot that went off down the hallway and entered a classroom,” he stated quietly.   He loosened his cheap tie.

It was a jolly crowd by the time Tara and Shayna made their way into the ring.  The men lifted their glasses in unison, however the ladies were far too focused on the coming match to notice.  Neither one would state later that they noticed anything strange about the crowd.

The two lithe but busty beauties locked arms immediately.  The clinch went on for some time– swaying back and forth until finally Shayna was able to crush Tara into the carpet, shedding her bikini completely in the process.  The men politely cheered.  The match continued on– the women tore at each other with savage abandon.  Shayna’s bikini suddenly popped off to moderate applause.

It was then that Harold Martin, his shirt torn off to reveal a sunken, hairless chest, jumped into the ring.  “OH NO!” cried the thug, who got up from the stool as quick as his little legs would carry him.  The crowd of men stood stunned as Harold attempted to insinuate himself into the match, only to be viciously beaten by both women.  He seemed to be enjoying the thrashing and the men turned their heads– the sight was sickening.  Finally, the thug and two other men grabbed Harold out by his legs and pushed him up against a far wall.  The match was immediately ended and the hotel room emptied.

“This is what we try to prevent,” said the thug, later.  “Small Motel Girl Wrestling insists upon decorum from the crowd, it INSISTS,” he continued, slamming his fist into his hand.  “You must understand.  This is NOT ACCEPTABLE!”

“What will you do?” I asked.

He thought about this.

“We may have to move Small Motel Girl Wrestling out of the small motel room and into a venue that allows for better protection for our fighters.  That may be the only way.  The future of Small Motel Girl Wrestling depends on it.”

The thug promised a decision within days.

“I’ll need to meet with the other organizers.  Reports will need to be issued.  The commissioner will be consulted.  It’s a process, Dick.”

Stay tuned for updates on the future of Small Motel Girl Wrestling.

Ramping Up the Dance Party with BIG CHIPS

October 1, 2013 Leave a comment

Special Correspondent
Photo on 2013-02-05 at 17.33
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“The Cut” borrowed his Mom’s station wagon last night and we headed out to the dance party.  It was in an abandoned warehouse downtown.

On the way there, “The Cut” goes, “We gotta’ stop and pick up my boy Grant.  He’s a spray-paint artist.”

“Yo, that’s awesome,” I said.  But I was kind of confused.

“Skinny Grant.  The Granter.  Grant Money.”  “The Cut” fired up a blunt and screamed something out the window.

We picked up Grant.  He had a girl with him.   Gorgeous dark-haired beauty in a sun dress with a sweet face.  I fell in love immediately.  But she didn’t really look Big Chips’ way.   Just had eyes for this Grant character.  “We’re gonna’ make out,” he said, as they climbed into the back seat.  “Nice,” “The Cut” said.   I stared straight forward and tried not to listen.

We stayed at the dance all night.  Big light show, couple of dj’s spinning some electronica.

“Yo, ethereal,” said “The Cut”.  He horned in on a couple of girls, started dancing ’em up.  I noticed he had on these giant flared pants– “seventy inches, yo,” he said at one point, holding up his leg.  I couldn’t even see his foot.

I watched Grant and the girl.  They’d dance, then they’d make out between songs.  Someone snapped a photo.  I couldn’t take it anymore.

The sun was coming up when I finally walked outside.  Climbed up onto an old train bridge and watched the lights of the city flicker off.  There were a few cars on the underpass.  Then, I took the subway and a taxi home.  Pops paid the fare.

“How was your night, Big Chips?” he asked.  He had on a short tie and was loading papers into his battered briefcase.

“I tried ramping it up, Pops.  But I got distracted.”

“By what, Big Chips?

I didn’t want to talk about it.  We had some Buntz Mallows Cereal and then Pops went off to work.

I think I slept until three.

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