The Anusrasiertleckenman

by Balls Malone

In the olden days of the Bavarian Alps, folk would whisper of the Anusrasiertleckenman.

As the story goes, on the vernal equinox if you slept out of doors or in a barn or shed, the Anusrasiertleckenman would visit you.

Wearing only undersized lederhosen, the Anusrasiertleckenman appeared in the form of a small, rotund man, perfectly hairless but for his marvelously swirled handlebar mustache.

Now, if as you went to sleep, you left beside you a pitcher of fresh cream and a bowl of newly churned butter, the Anusrasiertleckenman would strip you naked, massage your body and his with the cream and butter provided, and then shave your anus skillfully with a razor-sharp hatchet. Only when your anus was perfectly smooth would the Anusrasiertleckenman lick the rest of the cream and butter from inside it.

However, woe to those who might fall asleep out of doors or in a barn on the vernal equinox without providing the Anusrasiertleckenman his dairy offering. For this offense, or for providing cream and butter not of the utmost freshness, the Anusrasiertleckenman would exact a fearsome toll with his hatchet: adding the offender’s anus to the collection he would tote around in a sack made from a troll’s scrotum.

What an exquisite torture it must have been, to feel that blade’s edge in your anus, wondering the whole time if your cream was fresh enough to prevent your hole’s extraction! Thrilling!

These days, cultural anthropologists who can be persuaded to speak of the Anusrasiertleckenman tend to regard him as a cautionary folk tale emphasizing the importance of hygiene standards in dairy production. Of course, the hatchet ass shaving and rim job stuff is just Germans being German.

German hand axe, late 16th century.German hand axe, late 16th century copy

I’ll Give Em a Jolly Rodger

by Balls Malone

If I was a pirate captain in the days of yore, I would name my ship “Forcible Sodomy.” However, I’d only sodomize the captives that looked disappointed when I told them the name is strictly metaphorical. And even then I’d be gentle and use lots and lots of whatever was the best lubricant in those days, because even piracy should have its limits.

Enough is Enough With This Guy

by Balls Malone

Okay, you know what?

Fuck you, Quaker Oats Man! Fuck you and your little self-satisfied, twinkle-eyed, shit-eating smirk. Fuck your stupid neckerchief and your puffy, dandy hair, you goddamned chubby-cheeked sack of shit. What are you anyway, some kind of nineteenth century pimp?

Don’t fuck your hat, though. I’ll give you this one: your hat is pretty cool. For a pimp.

You think you’re real fucking special, don’t you? What the fuck are you smirking about, anyway? Like you got some real secret, special info, or some shit. What could you possibly know about oats that anyone would give a fuck to know? Nothing, that’s what.

Your only fucking secret is that you’re balls deep into farm animals every night of the week. Raper Oats, more like it.

And what the fuck does your stupid religion have to do with anything? I have no interest in knowing what religion the guy providing my breakfast food practices. I’ll eat your goddamned oatmeal, sure, but you can take Quakerism and shove it up your ass with whatever else you put up there for your jollies.

So, in short: fuck you, Quaker Oats Man. Fuck you.

Hitchhiking

by Balls Malone

She’d have been a very big woman even if she weren’t fat, and she and Mr. Christie had definitely been around the block more than once. She lay there, like a manatee in a Walmart negligee and then slowly, teasingly, pulled her knees wide open.

Her cunt was huge, shaved, and wet. I got right to it. It glistened before me like a big plate of thickly sliced Virginia ham, all layered up. I never even knew her name.

Marvelous.