This article is part of the The Great Authors Series series.


You're Busted! Now Pound Me! (Big Tits At School)

Knowledge, that curiosity that exists only in cat, raccoon, and the upright beast of man, and only in some few men does this growing ache provide motivation to unlock the doors which man should not. By device of technological manufacture a man watches forbidden images, put to motion by magic, flickering scenes painted across a flat glass as if the reliefs of Osiris have come to life to dance. But the man is caught, unaware of the woman who returns unannounced, as all women tend to do, when least expected. She reveals her body, plastic with fat, bulging in unwholesome ways like Willendorf's Venus with painted face. What brood or species produces such a creature? What transpires next left me shattered, my mind recoiling from what I had seen, the nauseating sound of rippling tissue still echoing in my ears. Trust that I dare not relate to you the horror that to this day fills my veins with ice.

Happy Anniversary, Slut! (Real Wife Stories)

Since antiquity the cyclical rise and fall of the moon's pale eye has marked the passage of time, and by the seasons we know the years, but man, once cowering and benighted, now stands proudly in electric light and commands his own rituals to mark the years. None more personal can be found than the wedding of man to woman. Man and wife venture out. They are filled with youth, beautiful in the repellently homogenous way of modern skin, their bodies marked by tattoos as if sailors from Araby, as is the custom too. They celebrate their union in a restaurant, not at table to sup, but in the airless cold of the bathroom, performing a ritual too horrid to be imagined. What transpires is an ancient act, older than druid and stone, handed down from the grappling of jelly beasts that tangle in the deep, one devouring the other upon consummation of their blasphemous act. So it is here, though I admit my mind was in tatters long before the act was completed.

Breakfast Squirt Break (Shes Gonna Squirt)

Come closer, Randolph. Let me tell you of what I saw. Do not be afraid, this madness is not contagious, unless you look upon what I have. I dare to say that after you have heard my warning, you shan't. I do not know what became of Manuel Ferrera, I do not like to guess, but the last I looked upon him he was gibbering from exposure to a queer essence I will now describe to you as best I can. It has no colour and only a fool would guess at its odor or taste. It appears with the consistency of water, but my friend, Randolph, heed my words: it is not water. It emerges with little warning, a riot of action that drenches everything in the area, from beyond a human threshold I dare not describe. The winds of the stars shiver the curtain that hangs upon the stage of our reality, then this essence stirs mortal curtains as easily as the forgotten gods lost to history. Go! Randolph, begone! Forget me and my plight. Forget I ever existed! But remember the squirt.

Shiatsu Santa (Dirty Masseur)

It is the heathen island negro of the tropic, untamed by modern vices, who embraces the most forbidden practices of giving gifts. I have heard tales from sailors of entire tribes, debased by strange brews, participating in hedonistic rituals to summon beasts from the sea by physically touching one another. These deep-born nightmares would bestow their vile gift upon the tribe. I can imagine that some of these negroes stowed away on a steam ship and worked as laborers in our docks, all the while their strange cult spreading to the west. So it is that we find our ways, of Providence and Boston and beyond, of Holiday enjoyment, perverted to these vile habits. Saint Nicholas, marked with tattoos, body bulging with muscles, initiates an Oriental massage on a young woman, similarly vulgar, that quickly diverts from Celestial practice to this secret island way. More cannot be said. I have no vocabulary to describe the positions assumed, nor do I wish to reproduce the forbidden words communicated back and forth. Leave it be, my friend. Turn back. Some doors are best not opened and some vistas should not be seen by human eyes. Turn back!

– Zack "Geist Editor" Parsons (@sexyfacts4u)

More Front Page News

This Week on Something Awful...

About this series

Famous authors of renown and infamy find new inspiration when unexpected sponsors pay them to write. Not even death can stop them!

Other articles in this series

Copyright ©2014 Rich "Lowtax" Kyanka & Something Awful LLC.