For Down the Rabbit Hole Day I offer this:

speeding down the frontage road of 290 in a red convertible john mused my sister had a cock like a baked potato. he dangled precariously over the door. which reminds me, he diverged, you know how when you’re in cross country, they say you should run like you have a baked potato on your forehead?

no, i replied, a bus coming dangerously close to his head.

it helps you find the wall of pain. he was quiet for a second as he turned a corner. the first time i saw my sister’s cock was freshman year during recess.

* * * *


dressed in homemade bellbottoms and a patchwork shirt, addy would play her bongos by the trampoline on the playground. a blunt hung from her lips like soft cereal hung from gramma’s. she sang tunelessly her version of hotel california:

come and take a hit off my joi-oint
only ten dollars
(only ten dollar)
plus some change
you’ll be so high you won’t believe it
seniors there’s a bit of surcharge attached so it’ll be eleven dollars but hey! hello freshmen! first jump is free. yeah yeah, see you on the streets.

john and jeremy hung on the monkey bars, fascinated by addy’s balls and her business aplomb.what do you think of my sister? john asked jeremy.

she ‘s ok, he noncommittally commented.

woooly steve popped up behind the boys. they could hear his felt cap itching. dark talon! he exclaimed. when wooly steve’s eyes got wide like that it meant he was in love. what about janice? john asked.

he shrugged.

i can’t believe my sister is your back-up hippie!

he shrugged again, like california. john went to addy for the lunch money she had bullied from him earlier. their mom would give her what-for if he fainted in english class. before john could beg, science teacher howard hesseman, his long hair rustling in the trees approached the siblings. i need one of you to show me your cock. he said without preamble. it’s for my afternoon class.

yeah. right. here ya go, addy said dropping her trousers. john stared. he was unsettled by the wave of jealousy he felt. how could his sister be better hung than he was? her cock was bulbous and long tapering down to a mushroom head. uncut. of course. there was no denying its resemblance to an idaho russet. herman hesseman snapped a few shots, then said, see ya in chemistry.


* * * *


i found out later mom’s was like an acorn squash. i stared incredulously. dad told me, john explained.

can you keep your eyes on the road, please? i asked, wondering how i could get addy’s phone number from him. and a stick of butter.

It’s not quite cake, but it’s surely a tasty doughnut. So to speak. PhotoFunia places visitors’ photos into any one of a few dozen scenes using facial recognition software. I don’t think the program recognizes faces like a police program does, but more along the lines of “Hey, this is a face over here! Get it in a picture!” Having very little else to do today (except grading, the bane of my teaching existence), I finally settled on these pictures with these faces:

Like the photomeme, if you create a picture you’d like to share, send it to me and I’ll post it!

UPDATE I: Jeni is money.





UPDATE II: Scott is famous.





UPDATE III: Scully gives us new ideas for Harry Potter slash:

I sent this email out to my friends earlier this week, but I find myself unable to keep the horror out of the public arena anymore:

if i’ve sent this to you it means i know you to have a sick sense of humor or that i think you’re a filthy, filthy whore. maybe both.

so, who hates the family circus with their traditional values and unfunny observational jokes? no matter how much you THINK you hate them, you will never, ever bring them down to the depths of shame that “the other family” has. so VERY much NSFW!!!! in fact, it might not even be fit for private consumption.

oh god. i can see forever.

That was the least offensive of all the comics I could find. The Other Family is affiliated with Weird Ads, which proves that there really are no boundaries to people’s taste in what they consider to be a fairly good time.

Oh! I’m a week behind in posting this, but American Idol: totally scripted or judged by a woman so high on Vicodin that she thinks she’s Mother Shipton?

Discuss.

Is rhythm genetic? Proof of the negative lies below. Try not to watch more than once, but I’ll be you can’t. The swaying penes keeping their own beats to the song “Adultery” are strangely hypnotic. Oh, yeah: this is art, too.

see the curious hotness beneath the fold