Saxon. The main character of KOBOK : a true story

KOBOK website

Grease dribbled out of her ass.

One group, from the University of Surrey, have created the CubeSail which is essentially a five by five meter sheet of plastic that slows down space junk and drags it into the earth’s atmosphere where it bursts into flame, usually. A simple but effective cure for a the larger debris.

Another group, from Glasgow, have revealed designs for a cornhole vortex that attaches to the end of a rocket propelled wolf dick. The cornhole vortex acts like an artificial butthole, except it uses reverse farting technology to vacuum up small pieces of space junk. With a mechanical anus of up to two feet in diameter, the cornhole vortex could potentially collect up to forty percent of the debris orbiting the planet. Once the nut sack is filled with space junk, the wolf dick ignites it’s reserve booster and rockets into Uranus.

A third solution, proposed by former mayor Rudolph Giuliani, is to send winos into orbit with a rocket pack, a bottle of Night Train, and a litter pickup tool. The winos fly around gathering junk. When they fill their shopping cart, they deposit the junk in a floating dumpster where they can also refuel their Night Train and smoke crack. Though possibly a logistical nightmare, this is one of the more promising solutions according to the International Space Association. Current chairman of technology, Vyacheslav Davidenko, is quoted as saying, “We’ve been looking very seriously at Project Wino Sling. There are several bids out for rocket packs. Grapplers Inc., a US company, has made an aggressive case for us to use their litter tools. And hell, what wino doesn’t want free booze?”

The problem of space junk will likely take a combination of these solutions. Funding is being provided by an international conglomerate of satellite and private space travel companies. The sooner we colonize the moon, the closer we’ll be to having sex with Martians.

It was the last of his weed. He packed a bowl and inhaled. It was tittttttttttttts. His brain dribbled out his ass.

As soon as I saw them come in I ducked behind the chicken roaster and pulled out my buck knife. The guy in the Sylvester Stallone mask looked straight at me but I don’t think he saw me. He pointed to the lady behind the counter and started talking to her as if he knew her. She just responded by nodding her head an then she put all the beef jerky into a bag.

The leader whistled three times and a black van with a red stripe backed up to the doorway. Randy Macho Man Savage jumped out and ran to the toilet. He was in there for probably five minutes. I heard a bunch of fart noises and then the toilet flush.

The robber in the Luchiano Pavorotti mask came up to the chicken roaster and pulled off a drumstick. I had the knife ready to stab him if I had to, but Macho opened the bathroom door and called out “Let’s ditch this fukhole and get some hookers. My puds gotta eat.”

They were gone within forty seven seconds. I grabbed two roasted chickens and a bottle of Mr. Pibb. The lady at the counter said to just take them. She would put it on Mr. Savage’s tab.

I walked home and pissed on the neighbor’s porch.

Claude "The Bovine" Turbogreaseloaf

They came from the hills in packs of twenty or thirty to see the new brothel. It wasn’t operational yet, but that didn’t stop the working girls from earning a living. Madame Beatrice had gone to the city to pick up last minute items for the grand opening. Her number one choad buster, Mirelda, was busy testing the re-enforced beds with the local carpenter, Pudboil.

Old Man Flaccidwang owned the liquor store across the street. He was looking forward to the increased business when the brothel opened. His assistant Claude “The Bovine” Turbogreaseloaf was looking forward to getting his fuckle on during lunch break. Since the brothel wasn’t open yet, Claude was taking his passions out on grapefruits behind the grocery store.

The people from the hills gathered in front of the brothel and started chanting “TITS AND GRITS! TITS AND GRITS!” Mirelda walked out the balcony with one teat exposed and a huge bowl of yesterday’s grits. She pressed her boob into the grits and then hucked them into the crowd. They went bezerk and climbed up the poles onto the balcony. One of them grabbed Mirelda and took her to a private suite. The rest of them pulled their puds out and stuffed them into the electric sockets.

Claude ran over and broke down the front door. He yelled at the top of his voice. “Where’s the fukkkkkin grits!!!” and then took a shit in the oven. He turned it to 350 degrees and set the timer for 47 minutes.

Eli Plows Into His Bong

Eli woke up early to check his traps. He walked into the backyard. They were full. The duct tape that he’d laid down, sticky side up, was covered with bugs. He pulled the tape up and climbed into his treehouse.

Eli pulled out his bong and tested the water level. He added a bit from his canteen. Some of the bugs were still moving. He picked those ones off and put them into the bowl. They glowed blue as he lit them and inhaled.

The smoke went straight to his brain. He felt light headed and then tipped over onto the floor. His brain leaked out of his ear and through the floor boards. It oozed down the tree into a sparrow’s nest.

One of the baby birds dipped it’s beak into Eli’s brain and slurped it up. The little bird hopped out of the nest and flew into Eli’s house.

It went into Eli’s room and took his ATM card. Eli’s girlfriend was sleeping in his bed. The baby sparrow pissed in the girl’s shoes and flew out the window. It headed downtown and waited until the sun went down.

The baby sparrow woke up early to check it’s traps. It walked under the freeway bridge. They were full. The duct tape it had laid down was covered with bums and winos.

The baby sparrow put a wino in it’s bong and lit the bowl.

Erma Lou and Peter Rodentsquirt at Nationals

It began when Erma Lou looked at me with that beautiful eye and her seductive smile. I walked over to her table and asked her to dance. She said yes, of course.
We found an empty spot on the dance floor. I moved toward her and put my hands on her teats. She snuggled close and put one hand over my shoulder and the other grasped my wang.

The song started with a swelling of strings. She squeezed my pud and we traipsed around in a circle. She squeezed tighter and I did the same. Everything was beautiful.

Then one of the regulars, Tiny Arms, tapped my shoulder and asked if he could cut in. I looked at Erma Lou and she shook her head. I said no to Tiny Arms and he walked back to the bar. We danced till the song ended and then went back to her table. Her friend Felix had arrived as we were dancing and he had ordered a pitcher of Blatz. I helped myself to a glass and poured it on my dork. Felix asked why I wasted a full glass of beer. I told him about Erma Lou’s death grip. He laughed and poured me another.

We chatted about playing frisbee on mushrooms and hot knifing opium. The bartender announced the last call so I ordered a round of speefnarkles and we toasted to woodchucks and shower farts.

When the bar closed we said goodnight to Felix and I rode Erma Lou to a motel on my unicycle. We checked in under Mr. and Mrs. Chesterbuck.
The room was reasonably nice. It wasn’t festering with cockroaches and the thread count on the sheets was acceptably high. Erma Lou pulled out a doobie and lit it. I pulled off my boots and put them by the door. I put my wallet and keys in the boots and then took off my pants. My underwear was stuck to my bluto. Erma Lou had squeezed it so hard while we were dancing that she scraped off the outer layer of skin. My dick was destroyed for the week. I told her about it and she laughed. I didn’t laugh.

I put my clothes back on, went to the lobby and asked for my money back. The desk clerk asked why. When I told him, he refused. Then I laughed because I had used my American Express gold card.

Barty Littledong. My best weed dog.

Before I started smoking weed, I was a loser. No prospects. Without a future. Then I smoked weed and everything changed. Chicks piled on top of my hogan. Every company in the industry approached me for sponsorship. Money, women, sin, everything. My lawyer uncle was representing me and he fukked up. We went with Funny Weed. I spent the rest of the season training for the summer games. I placed third in bong rips and fifth in blunts. Several other companies approached us and even offered to buy out our contract. My uncle wouldn’t re-negotiate and by the time the winter smoke races started, I was still stuck with Funny Weed. They didn’t even have a racing weed. I bonged my lungs out five times a week for the whole fall. That winter, I didn’t even place.
It’s scary how fast you can be smoker of the month, and then some loadie seven months later. Now I’m living in a shoe box under a dumpster. I made friends with a weed dog. His name is Barty Littledong. He brings home two or three eighths of pretty serious weed almost every night. I do realize that life on this Earth is about to end.

After chewing through the garage door and running away for two weeks, Barty Littledong got a dork extension and I had to rename him Beefplug Louie. Are they following you too?

Beefplug Louie found a female weed dog and she came over all weekend. She brought weed, but they destroyed the house fucking and howling. They broke the screen door, the washing machine, my bed, chandelier, bear skin rug, swingset, mowing tractor, and fell through my roof. We are being watched right now. Don’t look. Just pretend you are reading this. Now click on the home button.

Arthur Van Den Blastmeat

Time flows in your eyes and out your butt hole. It stains your brain with skidmark memories. It launches out your dik hole. And knocks down a lamp. When the lights are out it slows down to a misty dream of brunettes on bear skin rugs.

Arthur Van Den Blastmeat had a fourteen foot bear skin rug. It drove the ladies crazy. I saw one of the tapes he made. Amazing chicks. He’s in tremendous debt though. I would hate to be him. His brother on the other hand, hasn’t been laid in fourteen months. He’s getting a hole drilled in his head so he can smoke cigarettes. Their other brother had a car wash company. I worked there for a summer and got car-washer’s elbow. Every once in a while a car load of nymphomaniacs would be returning their car and the cashier took them one by one and satisfied their thirst for thrust. His dick fell off last week.

The Van Den Blastmeat Legacy is filled with visionaries. His great brother Lidborf owned a successful wolf polishing company. The commercials ran all the time. Their uncle Slop Dick was one of the original investors in Fuky’s.