Category: Content

A plow

It was a chaotic panoply of monochrome — all black — yet it seemed somehow more vibrant than it had any right to be. It was sturdy like a tool, solid like its sculptor, with a bewildering firmness like a mountain. But it had wiggled when Avery leaned on it, and now it gently swayed in the delicate breeze from the far-off industrial fan that kept this basement cool. It was a plow at heart — an old design, an ancient and functional workhorse that looked already as though it had been used in the fields — but it had the looping whorls, looming grandeur and shimmery sheen of modern space-age materials. Its curves echoed of timelessness, the past and the future leading together into a present that made this very moment feel like a lifetime.

Then he turned around and gripped the metal thing Thickman had been welding — was it a plow? It kind of looked like a plow, but Avery assumed that couldn’t be right. Why would any modern-day American human weld a plow? Weren’t they made in factories? In… presumably like Vietnam or something? Avery didn’t know. But he assumed they weren’t made by one middle-aged American with a welding torch in a college basement.
“What is this?” Avery finally asked as he jutted his ass back. It hit Thickman’s cock, and he rubbed it up and down — teasing him once more by making it difficult to aim for his hole.
“What is what? That’s my dick-“
“No, this… thing I’m leaning on,” Avery said. He rattled the plow-like collection of steel. “What is it?”
“Oh. It’s a sculpture,” he said. “It ain’t done.” He slipped the tip into Avery’s ass, then wrapped one arm around Avery’s neck to keep his head in position. His other hand brusquely spread Avery’s asscheeks.
…
Now that he wasn’t getting cornholed, Avery could take a closer look at the sculpture. It was intensely complex, with different kinds of welded joints combining each piece of steel. Some of the steel was more polished than other steel. There was a pattern to it, something consistent in the seemingly haphazard collection of steel beams and rods.
It was a chaotic panoply of monochrome — all black — yet it seemed somehow more vibrant than it had any right to be. It was sturdy like a tool, solid like its sculptor, with a bewildering firmness like a mountain. But it had wiggled when Avery leaned on it, and now it gently swayed in the delicate breeze from the far-off industrial fan that kept this basement cool. It was a plow at heart — an old design, an ancient and functional workhorse that looked already as though it had been used in the fields — but it had the looping whorls, looming grandeur and shimmery sheen of modern space-age materials. Its curves echoed of timelessness, the past and the future leading together into a present that made this very moment feel like a lifetime.

From The Basketball Coach

He added a inscrutable hand gesture and sound effect

Then he added a inscrutable hand gesture and sound effect that presumably signified the inevitableness of entropy, the creeping spread of chaos in a post-capitalist society and his stoic acceptance of dhukha, the imperfection and dissatisfaction inherent to existence in Buddhist theology.

Miguel shrugged. “Prison got rats, gringazo,” he said. Then he added a inscrutable hand gesture and sound effect that presumably signified the inevitableness of entropy, the creeping spread of chaos in a post-capitalist society and his stoic acceptance of dhukha, the imperfection and dissatisfaction inherent to existence in Buddhist theology. “Hszhurhppaa.”

From Buck the Dumbass

Goddamn modern music was awful

The limp-beat rap music from the party drowned out his voice and threatened to ruin Thumper’s erection — goddamn modern music was awful, no wonder every male under forty was impotent incompetents.

The limp-beat rap music from the party drowned out his voice and threatened to ruin Thumper’s erection — goddamn modern music was awful, no wonder every male under forty was impotent incompetents.

From Thumper on Parole

Like dance music for people with retarded ears

He called hisself a deejay, which meant looking studious when he played a pointless track of beats, no funk, no rapping, no singing, no guitar, just some boom-tiss, boom-tiss bullshit, like dance music for people with retarded ears.

“Yo, yo bro,” Vimook said, sidling up to Thumper like a side of spicy rice, after Vimook finished his ‘deejay set’ — he called hisself a deejay, which meant looking studious when he played a pointless track of beats, no funk, no rapping, no singing, no guitar, just some boom-tiss, boom-tiss bullshit, like dance music for people with retarded ears. “Heard you got out the big joint.”

From Thumper on Parole

Disappointing rock music dribbled out the speakers like a pansy’s nut

Every nobody in this bar stared at him, none them listening to the disappointing rock music that dribbled out the speakers like a pansy’s nut. Music was awful nowadays.

Every nobody in this bar stared at him, none them listening to the disappointing rock music that dribbled out the speakers like a pansy’s nut. Music was awful nowadays.

From Thumper Meets the Ultimate Evil

Radio ain’t a thing no more, Thump

Thumper kept poking buttons on the dashboard in hopes of finding some magic combination that would make it 1985 again.

“Radio ain’t a thing no more, Thump,” Jaekwel said.
“It is! It is, I got radio last week, swear to God!” Thumper kept poking buttons on the dashboard in hopes of finding some magic combination that would make it 1985 again. “Oh! Do it podcassed, I know ’bout that, there’s nigga shit on that. My parole officuh said it, there’s radio on satellites. Google it. It’s called podcassed, they do podcass it on Youtube.”
“Thumper, podcasting, satellite radio and Youtube are all different things.”

“Well, there’s Fatback on ’em! Put on Fatback!” Thumper leggo the buttons on the dashboard. Fatback was some old-nigga shit. Thumper assumed Deon and Jaekwel knew about Fatback, cuz every nigga oughta know Fatback and in prison Thumper put a smackdown on any nigga who ain’t show Fatback proper respect. “Put in Fatback on yo’ phone, nigga. I put in Fatback on my phone and it did it.” He made a little sound effect and a inscrutable gesture. “Scrrp. Just type it in, nigga. Fatback. One word.”

From Thumper the Mover

Yo’ daddy was listening to some nutty-butter rap when he put a baby in yo’ mama, so you end up short

Luckily, Thumper heard a song on the TuneBleed that he curled his lip at, and he couldn’t resist mouthing off about music nowadays and how it made him wanna crawl in a cave and cut his ears off.

Luckily, Thumper heard a song on the TuneBleed that he curled his lip at, and he couldn’t resist mouthing off about music nowadays and how it made him wanna crawl in a cave and cut his ears off. That nigga be listening to Lionel Richie and shit. Prince. Some nigga named “Eric B” and some other one-name nigga “Rakim”. Michael fucking Jackson — not even proper Michael Jackson, Thumper listened to the Jackson Five! What kinda granddaddy nonsense was that?! Deon ain’t wanna get his goat going, so he kept quiet, he just let that old fool harangue the Lil Nas X song on the TuneBleed.

“I like music. I like propuh music, nigga, not some pisspuffin smackin’ his lips like a retard, whisper-rappin’, shit, goddamn, makes my dick shrink…” Thumper looked Deon up and down. “Bet that’s what happened to you. Yo’ daddy was listening to some nutty-butter rap when he put a baby in yo’ mama, so you end up short. If he was listenin’ to proper music, you’d be my size.”

From Thumper the Mover

Some plastic-twang twinkie-fried country music that never seen a trailer park

He typed in fatback, cuz that was what he was looking at, what his ears was craving, what his mouth was hungry for and and what his pecker was currently deep within.

On came music, but it was some plastic-twang twinkie-fried country music that never seen a trailer park, so Thumper turned it right off. He typed in fatback, cuz that was what he was looking at, what his ears was craving, what his mouth was hungry for and and what his pecker was currently deep within.
Luckily, Frank Johnson’s honky phone got Fatback in it, and that was Thumper’s kinda funk, so he pumped up the volume.

From Thumper the Booty Bandit

A water-brain retard screaming obscenities over a romantic movie soundtrack

Like rock and roll, but you could just tell the singer ain’t never get laid — plus it got a banjo.

One foursome used they phone to play something that sounded like a water-brain retard screaming obscenities over a romantic movie soundtrack and then took phone-photos of theyselfs listening to it.

But just off campus, there was a house with a rowdy party going on. Thumper’s ears hopped onto that sound like a city bus. He heard young’uns laughing and carrying on to loud music — like rock and roll, but you could just tell the singer ain’t never get laid — plus it got a banjo — and all them deep on the slur.

From Thumper the Booty Bandit

The kinda music faeries might make if they was smoking crack

Something, Thumper thunk, done gone wrong in music. They oughta just rewind it to thirty-four years ago.

The music — picked by her — made his ears wrinkle. It was a out-of-breath woman huffing like a fat dragon alongside bells and whales and gales of webby twinkles, like the kinda music faeries might make if they was smoking crack. Something, Thumper thunk, done gone wrong in music. They oughta just rewind it to thirty-four years ago.

From Thumper the Booty Bandit