This windup toy is a choking hazard by Savage

Oh, no. Lord, oh no. Damn. Oh shit. The blood was fucking everywhere.

I calmed myself, and tried to take everything in. It looked like every single one of my pores had menstruated simultaneously.

Oh, here it comes again.

I turned my head to vomit, not really looking where it would go. I heard the dog growl and run out the door before he spontaneously combusted. I wasn't too worried, this had become commonplace, if not annoying. He would return soon in all glory as a Phoenix, reaching my house at any moment. A sudden crash at the window startled me out of my reverie; I slowly crept over only to see the dumb bird laying dead in the snow, victim of a solid window I had forgot to open.

Wait, it all made sense. It was a set up. I was nothing but a straw man. Of course!

Getting back to base-ics; Chem 101 by Savage

This radio interview was broadcast from a personal antenna in someone's garage near the industrial center of Copenhagen. The identity of the persons involved remains a mystery, but it has been determined 3 people were in the room at the time of the broadcast. Positively identifying those involved is a top priority of INTERPOL, and a reward is being offered for any information which could further the investigation.

(Side note: The broadcast was made at a frequency which deviated between 88-91 MHz, but on average modulated @ 90.1 MHz. The energy the broadcast used was enormous. For simplicity, we have given code names to the speakers. Man #1 is codenamed Titanic, Man #2 is codenamed Mary, and Man #3 is codenamed Spaniard.)

*27 seconds of static*

Titanic: ...Hvorfor blir stoffet av Turin drapert over (indecernible) Flodhest?
Spaniard: Hvorfor er jeg som selv skriver dette. Denne posten er forferdelig, fortjener jeg til å dø.
Mary: *KLAPP*

(At this point the frequency modulates to over 90MHz, and for some reason the language changes from Norwaydish to English.)

Spaniard: And the lawyer looks at the deli owner and says, "You should have used business reply mail!"
Titanic and Mary: Ha ha ha!

Spaniard: But seriously. Mumbai was a success, now we can concentrate on the Western Lands. Our sources are scouting possible locations as we speak, their cover is Rastafarians on leave. Think Cool Runnings. We might start with a US territory such as Guam to hammer out any kinks before heading to the mainland.

Mary: Why are we broadcasting this?

*End transmission*

Nino and the Bike Kid by Coop

This last friday I went out to Frankie's with my room mates Asher and Nino. Asher, as you might remember, is the guy with warrants out for his arrest in Alaska, on top of a couple felony counts for destroying a public high school's baseball field in his 4x4 a few years back. Nino, or “Jeremy Motherfucking Ginino” as he calls himself, is another Alaskan born deviant with a look faintly reminiscent of a balding Robert Downey Jr. and a chortle that simply ooses bong resin. I met these guys when I moved in to The Asylum, and though we started hanging out because of our mutual love for playing guitar, I quickly found myself 'too busy' to hang out;they only play Metallica.

Only.

So the three of us had gone down to Frankie's and spent a good four hours tooling around the pool tables and hitting on the bartender when, in a five minute period, both Asher AND Nino got kicked out.

I shit you not, one second Asher is sweet talking the bartender, the next she's screaming at him to leave 'cause he apparently robbed her friend (never happened) after going home and messing around with her, drunk (probably happened) and then went to where her boyfriend worked and bought smokes while laughing at him (definitely happened). Nino was booted shortly after for yelling at the bartender and calling her a string of names I've actually never heard before.

I followed him out, ducking under a barrage of insults and alcohol-veiled threats.

Once outside we tried to think of another bar to go to, at which point I found out that getting kicked out is a nightly occurrence for these two, and the nearest bar that would take our unholy triumvirate was in fucking Gresham. We started home, hoping to pick up a twelve-pack at the Korean market, when the real highlight of the night happened. We were stumbling down the sidewalk, reeling from bush to telephone pole to bench when a scrawny hipster rolled up to the next light on his eco-friendly Schwinn, about a block away.

This kid was the quintessential portland biker; Too-tight, too-short black jeans, moldy chuck-t's, a ratty german army sweater with holes chewed in the elbows and a mop of black hair protruding frantically from his head and face. Clinging desperately to this ensemble was a pair of coke bottle glasses with a thick patch of black electric tape holding the right lens in place. His bare white knuckles shook in the frigid air as he waited for the light to change.

In a blink, Nino took off in a dead run. Towards the hipster.

"Oh fuck," the kid screamed, seeing what looked like Mr. Hyde on a bender tearing down the street towards him. I’m not sure of exactly what ran through his mind at that moment, but I can only assume that he looked at Nino, barreling silently towards him, and assumed that he was getting bike-jacked. On a busy street. At ten thirty. On friday. In south east portland. On the safe side of 82nd.

Apparently a lot of that shit happens in this part of portland.

To chicks.

Bike Kid literally STOOD on his pedals, and in the frigid evening air I was certain I saw smoke rising from the blur of his back tire, but Nino had a good half brewery coursing through his veins and was quickly approaching the sound barrier. Bike Kid screeched away down the street, looking in terror over his shoulder at the Italian juggernaught thundering after him, all the while yelling at the top of his lungs.

"NO MAN, NO! NO! Come on man, NO!"

Three blocks away, Nino was thirty feet behind and giggling like a drunk squirrel.

"NO DUDE, PLEASE, NO! NOOOO!"

Four blocks away, Nino was six feet from Bike Kid but laughing too hard to keep going. He stumbled to a drunken jog as Bike Kid tore off in to the night, and by the time Asher and I got up to him he was collapsed against a scooter shop's front steps, panting and laughing.

"I...I...I...I wasn't gonna," he panted, "I wasn't gonna...d...do anything to him! I just wanted to run, man!"

Two months later Bike Kid moved in to The Asylum. He still hasn't recognized Nino.

Cochlear Assault (With a Fucking Tank) by Savage

This actually happened.

Saturday night I was riding around on Buttercup, my restored '57 Harley, when I decided to notice how cold it was outside. Seeing a trendy bar/grill up on my left, I decided to grab a drink and warm up a bit. I parked my bike and stowed my prize 60 inch pink tassels in my bags and went inside. I grabbed the doorhandle when - crimeny - some broseph rams through the door in an attempt to get his popped collars and faux-hawk through with his ego intact. He gave me a toolish headnod; I punched through his torso. Shaking the blood off my jacket I stepped inside where the sounds of bad kereoke and the smell of dead metabolisms greeted me. I got out a cigarette from the case in my pocket and lit up. I took a few steps when I remembered smoking in bars is now illegal, so I walked over to the petting zoo and extiguished my coffin nail in a pile of hay, which started a fire. Hilarity ensues.

I mosey'd up to the bar and ordered a beer. The barkeep places my pint before me, then reaches for her megaphone under the counter. She recants insults at my hops for 30 seconds, which I can only imagine raises the alcohol content. One of my ears was bleeding, but that's normal. In the back I see a crowd of people surrounding the pool tables, it looks like tonight a high-stakes pog tourney is going out. On person misses with the slammer, they are taken out back and shot. I decide not to play. That turns out to be a great decision.

I then leave and go home.

The Good Shepherd by Coop

by Coop

Imagine, if you will, a pose more religious than Missionary. Imagine a true celebration of Christ's suffering upon the
cross, a sexual coup de gras upon the implement of your lord's demise. I give you The Good Shepherd.
You: Tied spreadeagle to the local church's giant cross, via the use of an extremely large ladder or some tall, sexually deviant, friends. Strip to your skivvies prior to mounting the cross, but once your hands are tied (or for the hardcore, nailed) to the crossbar, your friends should remove any garments you may have absentmindedly left on. Except, if you have one, your Vestigial Collar.

Her; Dressed in the manner of Mary Magdeline, she/he should climb the ladder until they can reach the crossbar, which they grip while they straddle you.

Remove the ladder.

Rejoice and fornicate 'til the cops show up.

Peace be with you. And also with me.

Coop.

The Nightmare Before Thanksgiving by Coop

I had a bit of a fun experience the week of thanksgiving.

My roommate Asher, the felon with an IQ that couldn't prop up a hot weels car, is humping some train wreck he brought home. I caught a brief glimpse of her when he was somewhat forcefully herding what I thoughtwas a fat, homeless wookie towards one of our apartment's washrooms, and I specifically remember thinking, "Oh how sweet, a rescue pet."

Please understand, there is no single trait to this person that earned my scorn or even incited my gag reflex this strongly...it has more to do with all of the traits acting in unison. See, when I glanced away from the commercial i was watching to eyeball whatever it was making the floor shake as it lumbered drunkenly down the hall, my eyes were met with something half Tim Burton, half Honey I Blew Up The Kid And I Ate It And I'm Still Hungry.
Beneath the tangled mess of what I think was hair, I caught sight of a pasty, sagging face, bruised faintly with two purple spots of mascara, as if to remind the world that yes, this is a face and yes, here are the eyes. The lips drooped in something half way between an intentional pout and the grimace of a mouth that just swallowed an infant with a full diaper. Whole.
My roommate saw me, saw me see It, did a glass-rattling about face and shoved It back down the hall. And I went back to pretending that I cared about Vh1.
The Creature, once squeezed back in to Asher's 7x9 room, bitched for a good half hour about how she "really likes him a lot" and though I heard him respond, the only words I understood were "don't you ever call me an asshole." Apparently i missed some prominent plot points in their conversation, but i was fifty feet away in the living room watching music videos on late night TV, so i forgive myself.
The love affair escalated in to sobbing and a couple well timed shouts of 'DUUUUUUDE' when, after a brief silence, she started yelping.
Now, I assumed he was showing her pictures of cake and then hiding them, but it's just as possible she had summoned a gargantuan burst of energy and rolled on her back. A person of her girth could seriously damage any partner if anything relatingto cowgirl is attempted, and in damaging, lose said partner, which is an unacceptable risk for such yetis, so without a forklift or the jaws of life, standard missionary is generally the best way to go. But I digress.
My ears, though impressive and mostly all powerful, can't usually translate crazy woman noises (a redundant title, I know), so I decide there was nothing for it; I turned down the TV and sat back in my chair, intent on figuring out just what the hell Sasquatches baby sister was doing down the hall.
It became readily apparent that they were at least attempting 'the nasty' when her cries became slightly more joyful (ruling out the whole cake+picture+peekaboo scenario), though I was a little taken aback by Asher's dangerous use of the old classic, the switcheroo.
See, technically a crazed, crying zeppelin of a woman is not the same as a girl who's saying no, so I'm pretty sure he's safe, but still the whole idea of bedding a female creature who is messily and negatively emoting is one that I avoid out of self preservation and not a little bit of fear.
Tear and name-calling just aren't sexy or safe.
This whole ordeal had gone on for what seemed a respectably long time when I heard him yelling at her that he'd "got nothing to prove to her," "who gives a fuck if he couldn't get it up," "why the fuck do you like it so much, I didn't even achieve penetration," andmy personal favorite, "no, I don't give a fuck about having my dick in your mouth"
Repeat until sunup, or until vomiting ensues.
Needless to say, I live with some classy kids. Anywho, the sun wasnot up by the time I finished writing this shit down, but I was sick to my stomach, and nausea never blends too well with insomnia, so to stave off madness or boredom I thought I'd share this lovely evening with you via the 'net.
I'd also like to say this opportunity to say that I hope he's drunk, because taking that girl home sober, even out of pity, is an affront to just about anything with a penis.
Except, of course, Lady Gaga.