This article is part of the The Great Authors Series series.
Sparkling Pomegranate Margarita
In the sweaty market of Tangiers they sold a child's teeth, still warm, for the chance to win a cat. Teeth and swirls of blood in aspic, the black Arab wanted them, but the cat was special. The dice were rolled. They didn't win. The black Arab's victorious smile was a saw in their hearts. It was the nature of gambling with a fix. You have to take it. Seize it. Don't play games with a needle or a cat. A child won't always give up his teeth on the first kick.
Tropical Sunrise Margarita
They were onto me. Yarbs, everywhere I turned. They came for me through the darkest smoke-filled pool halls. They ran me out of bars that never close. They caught me pissing on a whore and knocked the needle from between my toes. Yarbs with gray faces, yellow eyes, tan coats, and more teeth than a shark. They got their cold hands on me and threw me onto the boardwalk just before dawn. They were steaming in the sunlight. It was beautiful. I threw up pills.
The Pope of America stood atop the chariot and shouted to the junkies that crawled on scabs out from under the pier. "Let me tell you about the trinity, my children. The big trio. The father, a great pus-filled boil just below the ball sack. The son, a strung-out hand job queen with a razorblade in his mouth, will cut the wrist of a john and try to steal a dollar. The holy ghost, spent change, blown loads into rubbers and tissues and the rotten assholes of junkie whores. Ain't no Christmas this year. All of them living under the pier. And me, in my palace, sipping Chili's ritas, Ed Hardy shirts and porno penis pumps. Beats by Dre and gold collars for my pugs. Fuck you all, I can't die, I'm perfect."
Flavored Platinum Presidente
Raspberry, mango, strawberry, papaya, a curl of onion in congealed grease, cigarette butts floating in a urinal, a bloody bandaid dried to black, ketchup smudged on denim, semen stains on motel curtains. There were wars fought inside his blood. Landing ships and planes and Japs to bayonet. They were all mixed up and dancing to the throb of his heart. Passed out with the needle in and it just kept twitching with his pulse, spitting out a little blood each time onto the white sheets. The election was rigged. The tar always came out on top. El Presidente Caballo. Black as midnight in a Saipan bunker.
Shows up at your table like anti-freeze in a cup of ground glass. You might as well drink a puddle of piss sweetened with rat poison. Do you think I don't know what I'm doing here, writing these goddamn things? Every man has a price. Mine was unlimited Texas Cheese Fries. There's ribcages with heads in South America who would sell their bodies for a month to have one of these cheese fries. Eat 'em? No, I don't eat 'em. Too backed up for food. I sell 'em. A hot plate of cheese fries will get you a spoonful of the stuff that counts. Realer than the real thing. You can have the margaritas. I'd rather French kiss with a knife.
Sir Mix-a-Lot's classic follow up to "Baby Got Back" has serious unintended consequences.
"Really, Holmes!" I dropped into my seat, shocked. "You are remarkably tall! What are you, six foot six? Six foot eight?"
The Something Awful front page news tackles anything both off and on the Internet. Mostly "on" though, as we're all incredible nerds.
Famous authors of renown and infamy find new inspiration when unexpected sponsors pay them to write. Not even death can stop them!