Dauna Robinson is a 3000-year-old Fijian shark goddess. She works for Interpol. Her job is to protect the gifted ‘God Whisper,’ Bernie ‘Eggs’ Benedict the newly hired agent. Bernie was dubbed ‘Eggs’ because of his public conversation with Jesus, who appeared on his breakfast plate, when the disguised Dauna ran her Bolsa Chico diner. Bernie has hobnobbed with many gods lately, and Jesus wants a date.
Together, their job is to preserve peace in the Pacific and protect Dauna’s Fijian people from the brain eating mad cow diseased New Guinea cannibals who have now taken their ancient slaughter across the American continent.
Dauna the Fijian Shark Goddess relished watching the silly mortal turn into easy-to-digest molten, runny, squishy mush. Bernie fell into an angry chair. The disappointed chair didn’t like hairy man butts.
Dauna Robinson spun again, this time into her office bathroom, she said, “Make yourself comfortable while I adjust my goodies.”
Goodies. Bernie took a deep breath and tried to relax. Relax. Fat chance. “How do you like working with the Crimes of Exotica Division (COED), hun? she asked from the behind the door. “FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!”
“Agent Robinson, is something wrong?”
Dauna poked her head around the corner. “Just having my morning Tourette’s, sweetie.” She stared. “Can I ask, where in the fuck did you dig up that wardrobe? At Bad Will?”
Bernie had been asked by T.K. (his half-human, half-tiki partner, to study up on the subject of Panpsychism (“All things have a soul”) before moving to Hawaii. He didn’t know why he needed this knowledge — until now. Bernie had a feeling that everything in Dauna Robinson’s office was alive. The newly adjusted goddess returned wearing a fresh white top and a matching tight skirt and set her soft bottom upon the ‘thrilled’ window sill. Bernie’s heart paused in deep silent reverence for the wooden board. Dauna paused to light another ‘happy’ cigarette while she admired the Hawaiian scenery below her office, derelicts sleeping in their pee on the sidewalks of Chinatown.
Suddenly….“SNAP OUT OF IT, BERNIE!” demanded a second woman’s voice from the ‘the Bernie file’ on Dauna’s desk.
Bernie jumped up, staring at the folder. “Dammit! Who the hell?”
“What is it, Hun?”
Both of them saw the image of the Virgin Mary spreading like a coffee stain across the manila folder. Uh, oh shit…sorry, ma’am, Bernie apologized to the folder. Mother Mary had appeared on his browser a couple of times, but the two never spoke. Mary scared all of her lonely son’s buds away with her icy condescending looks.
“I said snap out of it, cupcake! Or it’s your funeral!” said Mary.
“Funeral? Please! Not now!”
“Who are you talking to, hun?” asked Dauna. “Is there someone on the folder? It isn’t your new pal, lion chow, again, is it?”
“Lion chow? No. It’s his mom, Mary. Uh…Ms. Robinson, did you just call Mary’s son lion chow?”
Flat Mary rolled her eyes toward Dauna, then Heaven and said in Latin, “Odio hoc canis (I hate this bitch).” The mother of God shook her haloed head in disgust and disappeared from the folder.
“P-leeeeeease, Ms. Holier-Than-Thou,” said Dauna, “Fuck off!” It seemed that Jesus’ mom had already left the building. Dauna looked at Bernie, “Agent Benedict, let me tell you the truth about Mrs. Goody Two Sandals.”
“Jesus. His mom, the Snow White of the desk set thinks that I’m trying to corrupt her precious little boy. Do you know what I think? I think that your melancholy hippie pal wants ‘a taste.’ The kid should be dating. Did you know that his dad, or mom, or their family cat cursed me with Tourette’s after I used the old man’s name in vain? So, I, Ms. Potty Mouth, have a free ticket to call Merkin Man whatever I want.”
“Merkin Man?” Merkin Man sounds like a commercial.
“What? Should I ask Mr. Love-In to forgive me? He knows that I’d just start cussing again.” She smiled at Bernie. “Do you know what? I think that it turns him on.” Dauna turned away and lit yet another overjoyed, happy-to-die cigarette. The small smooth scars on Dauna’s neck caught Bernie’s attention.
Dauna knew what the new agent was thinking, even as she faced the window. “On my island, we call these scars ‘shark hickeys.’” Bernie’s eyes drifted from stem to stern, settling on her stern. He thought about spinning her slow, like a rotisserie chicken. He was only thinking it, when…
“Stop that. Interpol needs your special powers, sweetie. You can see beings that I can’t, and I can see plenty. I could see, in my mind, that you were staring at my ass. Give your peepers a rest, chew toy. Because if you were looking for panty lines, you’re shit outta luck.”
Dauna sucked down another ‘very-Lucky’ Strike.
And, as you see, it will be Action Packed!
“Boldizsár, I Came to Kick Your Bony Ass.” With only a few of the fine illustrations by Anita benson-Bradley
For decades, Lazlo Toth has been one of the world’s most famous authors. Until 2019, he always wore a wig of thick brown hair that made him appear young, healthy and virile. Last March, while he was being interviewed on the Red Carpet at the Oscars. That night, in front of a billions, a sudden gust blew the expensive toupee right off of his head, exposing him as the vain “cueball,” that he is.
Laszlo wrote novels about the supernatural. They were based on scientific fact and he prided himself on being a rational man. He became interested in genetics while working on a new novel, and joined the group called BlameYourAncestors.com.
Within two weeks after sending in his DNA sample, Laszlo discovered he was 87% Hungarian and, apparently, 13 percent cheese, citing a few stray genetic threads to Luxembourg, Switzerland and four other cheesy countries.
Thanks to BlameYourAncestors.com he was also able to narrow his search back his Hungarian family.
With a little bit of digging, he discovered an old Tóth family portrait. The Tóths in the painting, all the men, some of the women and even a few of the children and even a few family pets suffered from severe baldness (alopecia). Alopecia was also his grandmother’s name.
Laszlo allocated another fortune, that he’d saved on haircuts, to expand the DNA search and finally received the results that he’d been hoping for. The ‘bald problem’ that plagued his life was traced back to a singular human ‘monster.’
The creature’s name was Count Oszkár Tóth. He’d been a rich landowner in sixteenth century Walachia.
The Count was legendary for his long flowing locks that made him look like a golden hero on the cover of an ©Infinity Upton Downes’ bodice-ripping novel. The vain Oszkár combed his proud mane day and night. One evening, when a hair was out of place, he summoned his magic golden comb — Magic comb? Yeah, right, Give me a break — only to find out that the famous comb had been stolen.
Oszkár’s mother, The Countess Cynthia, told her son that she had seen a well known local magician, named Mah-dik, running away from the castle and into the nearby Petrifying Forest carrying a shiny yellow object in his hand.
Laszlo ordered the local police to “find Mah-dik!” Once captured, he ordered the Magician to be burned at the stake.
At the Barbecue, Laszlo, was cornered and cursed by the magician’s wife, a powerful witch named Eegahd.
The next morning, as Oszkár combed, his glorious mane shed. The hair that made him such a ‘wench magnet’ fell to the ground.
As a result of the Eegahd’s curse, all of Count Oszkár’s children, male and female, became bald as well; that is until in October 31, 1712, when the entire clan were tortured, murdered, dismembered, and turned into a savory paprika goulash by a nomadic Gibors.
Only one Tóth escaped the massacre, the youngest noble in line, Boldizsár, who continued to selfishly spread the Tóth baldness curse throughout the western world.
“The Bastard!” Thoughts of revenge pushed their tendrils in into Laszlo’s vain and twisted mind. Online, he hired a Hungarian scholar, to help him track down ‘Baldy’ Boldizsár’s resting place. That is when Laszlo made the first irrational decision since his eleventh failed marriage, to visit his cursed ancestor’s crypt and ‘kick his bony ass to Hell.’
The following October…
Before the frost set in,Laszlo made his trip, alone, to Walachia.
Unfazed by local superstition, Laszlo arrived ten minutes before midnight at Tóth Citadel in Ploiești. He quietly drove his rent-a-car around the back of the ancient structure to the bone yard, parked and opened the trunk to remove a lantern and a heavy Road Rager Crowbar.
Laszlo found the rusty cemetery gate open, and by the light of the full moon, jimmied his way into the Tóth Mausoleum. Once inside, he lit his lantern, shooed away the vermin (Bald rats?!!!!) and quickly began to go to work. He located Boldizsár’s resting place and slid the heavy lid off the count’s stone coffin, only to find out that most the bones had already been defiled.
Luckily, the pelvic bone, the skeleton’s ‘ass,’ was still in tact.
Jubilant, Laszlo carried the pelvis outside among the gravestones.
‘Q-Ball’Laszlo kicked Boldizsár’s bony ass all over the churchyard until he could kick no more. After a short rest and a drink from his flask, Laszlo gathered up the broken pelvis parts back inside the mausoleum, dumped them back into the coffin and took a few cellphone photos — including one of the inscription on the wall above:
“Lehet, hogy rúgta a csontos seggem, kemény fickó. De még mindig kopasz vagy.”
The author, satisfied with the bony ass kicking, didn’t review the inscription until he arrived back home in the states.
“Lehet, hogy rúgta a csontos seggem, kemény fickó. De még mindig kopasz vagy.”
(Translation: “You may have kicked my bony ass, tough guy, But, guess what? You’re still bald.”)
Swimming in The Sea of Kosher Bacon. (Acrylic and ink) 2-20-21
In Print: https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B002N60GRQ
NSFA (Not safe For Anyone)
“Rock n’ Roll! The kids will love it!
It’s the perfect music for busting sh*t up.”
On March 18, 1955, Terpsichore, an ancient muse, opened a bar in LA called The Duck n’ Fishes. On that day, she updated her name to Cheri and began to create much of the great music that we enjoy today.
The ‘D n’ F’ bar was also a place where the exhibitionist goddess could dance ‘au naturale.’ (“Her loose overalls were flashing sides of everything except bacon.”)
Everything was good, until…
… the late 70’s ( ‘The Dark Age of Music.’ ) when evil forces lead by The God of Sleaze, Anthony Rubio, began to replace real musical talent with pony-tailed middle-aged lawyers. To save music, Cheri had to gather her collection of unearthly friends to fight Rubio’s ponytailed army of cocaine snorting Hollywood sh*theels.
Johnny Passion was her chief weapon. The washed-up leader of the 60’s rock band, The Love Muscle, was Cheri’s faithful friend. She always protected Johnny and believed that his voice would lead music’s new renaissance.
But despite the goddess’ blessing, Johnny felt that his life was going nowhere, and one day jumped into his Mustang and drove deep into Nevada — to ‘find himself.’
Instead, Johnny found Sheena and the Queens of the Jungle, a statuesque, all hungry, female Las Vegas music revue — neighbors of billionaire Howard Hughes. Johnny somehow managed to become their slave …. their ‘house boy.’
The Amazonian ladies loved their Johnny (every day — and twice on Sundays). After twenty years the aging cougars decided to cut him loose, at midnight, in the middle of the desert.
Back home, Cheri patiently waited.
In August of 1992, Johnny limped back into to LA begging Cheri’s forgiveness.
To accomplish a big Las Vegas comeback for Johnny, Cheri needed to make sure that Johnny had the best coaches, the best songs and, most importantly, a reason to sing.
Cheri also had to find the only cure for Johnny’s broken heart. She needed to find the girl named Rebel, Johnny’s first, lost and last true love.
With the help of ghosts and two aliens,
Cheri would put Johnny and Rebel together again.
The Man From Nantucket
Adapted from The Timeless Children’s Classic
‘The Bountiful Mutiny’
With naughty nautical limericks
The Bountiful Mutiny (unabridged)
“Tales of Salty Sea Men and Soaked Sirens”
(Tragic Lust #65)
Born on the Island of Nantucket, in 1906, Sam Swathorn was the only surviving grandson of the celebrated William “Barnacle” Balls (the sailor). In the early 20th century kids matured early and that is when young Sam sprung forth, like a boner, to take his place in the world as The Man From Nantucket.
When six-year-old Ether Gray and his four-year-old sister, Anesthesia, took their little brown and white dog, Femur (Woof! Woof!), for his morning walk down tree-lined Sunny Lane. During the late morning, the street was normally empty.
The two Gray kids were not welcome in town.
The Gray children awoke to the festive sounds of local kids laughing and stealing all the cookies and candy off of Wingnut’s counter. From across the street, Old Alvin watched — as the well-bred children of Cowsill ransacked his life.
Even a pauper’s death was preferable to listening to those two lifeless whippersnappers who were still inside his store.
The Gray’s classmates had run out of the store with their booty in a hurry, making believe that they didn’t hear Ether and Anesthesia calling their names.
It was dark when Ether and his little sister had left Wingnut’s. Stolen bags full of “free” chocolaty snacks were stacked up in the little red wagon that the two tykes had borrowed.
The Gray kids and their trusty pooch, Femur (Woof! Arf!) headed off for the Fair.
“Observe, Anesthesia! It’s Goofy Moofy!”
Moofy whined to himself as he lay in the gutter.
“I’ve got ‘man tits.’ My suckling babies are coughing up hairballs! Whaaaaa!” cried Goofy. Moofy was Cowsill’s official town drunk.
Anesthesia was puzzled. She looked up to Ether and asked, “What are ‘man tits,’ big brother?”
Ether began to roll on the subject. “Well, my little sister … Wait! … Sit, Femur! Sit!” ‘Woof! Woof!’ Good boy! … Okay, Anesthesia. Man tits. What Goofy Moofy means is … that he is in possession of rather capacious breasts for a male of the human species.”
“Oh! You mean hooters!”
“Uh — that’s what our father used to call them until mom castrated him with the Hamilton Beach juicer, Anesthesia. A sophisticated person would refer to the mammary glands, respectfully, as breasts. Breastfeeding provides nutrition for baby mammals….”
“What are you kids yapping on about? Please! Stop!” said Goofy Moofy.
“Listen, Mr. Moofy, and you will learn! A mammal is a warm-blooded animal, associated with the class Mammalia. Mammals possess a vertebrate, hair, or fur, and bear live young who are nourished by the secretion of milk by the females of the species by way of special glands, or as my Yale Medical professor called them … ‘a nice rack.'”
(Luckily for Goofy Moofy, he was piss-drunk and had already passed out.
Another lucky soul saved from tedium by alcohol.)
Femur, after licking up the booze in the puddle next to Moofy, was trying to bark “Woofth! Woofth!” (which means: “Hey, I love you, Dog.”).
The little terrier could not walk any farther. Femur needed to be put into the wagon with the bags of Wingnut’s candy.
The trio soon entered the Fairgrounds.
* * * *