McQuie Ch. 1 and 2
McQuie Ch. 1 and 2
I hate my ex wife. I've always hated my ex wife. Ever since I met her I stopped taring the house apart looking for the dictionary everytime I forgot what the hell that word meant, I just looked at her face. So in a sense she saved me time, but I still hated her. I started hating her from the moment we met. I hated our first date, I hated our first fuck, I hated the first time she fisted me. A fisting, that was her mother's idea of a wedding present. No no no, her mother didn't fist me, the present was supposed to be in the fact that it took my ex some convincing. "All men secretly love to be fisted," she told her. "And what better way to let him know you're in on the secret, then on your wedding night?" Believe me, that fisting will forever go down in history as the time yours truly was introduced to the world's worst gift. Wait. Hold on, there's more to this then you think. Take a seat, relax. No one's gettin' fisted. Not impressed? Well you will be.What can I say, I'm a bastard. I have a big dick and a short temper, and all the fisting I could ask for. Here's the deal: I don't ask, I take. That's my thing. It took me 46 years to learn that and Im givin' it to you for free.
So who am I? Aint that the question. Ive been asking myself that all my life. I suppose I should start with my conception. As the legend has it, my father was the exact same age as King Kong was when that fuck King got off his damn island, as my father was when he finally stumbled off his private island of celibacy and konged my mother. I was my father's first fuck, you could say. And nine months later my mother returned the favor. They named me Kong, but I renamed myself Stanley the day I turned 30. Stanley McQuie. What sort of name is McQuie? I don't know, and I certainly don't give a fuck. I've never been one of those pussies who dig through that shit. But for most of my life my name was Kong McQuie. Holy shit, try making it through life with a name like that.
I was born somewhere in Texas. Where? Who the hell knows anymore. All I think about these days is sex. But that's all I've ever thought about.
I was first introduced to that famous Texas sky through the narrow window of my mother's pierced muff. I remember the sun was setting, it was a beautiful red sunset. All my life ive been looking for that sunset. And I still havent found it.
"You piece of shit, get out! You've been in that outhouse for four hours!"
Eh, go to hell. And bring me some toilet paper while youre at it.
He was fuck ugly. But why should I care, I wasn't horny.
"I said get out of the fucking outhouse. I need to take a crap."
"Oh do you? Why don't you use your pillow you fucking moron."
One of these days, Im going to punch that motherfucker. Who am I talking to? Well that's a long story, but I have a long time.
His name was Al Blot. Yeah, Al Blot. We had known each other ever since I found him prick deep in my girlfriend. We were in San Francisco at the time. I brought her along with me so that she could see the Golden Gate Bridge she had been yappin about for so many months, but she ended up seein' a whole lot more. I don't know what that bitch saw in Al, except an open mouth and a dick that was willing to go anywhere. That's a big difference between Al and I. My dick only goes a few places, his doesn't give a damn. Anyway, I caught them doin' anal in my hotel room.
"Sally, who the hell is in your ass?"
A man named Al. That's who it was. I tried to shoot him. I aimed for his dick but it was too small. Nice goin' Sally. So I shot the wall on accident, and the bullet went into the other room and hit some idiot in the ass. My mother told me, "Son, if you aim for a guy's dick at your age, the laws of nature dictate that sooner or later you're gonna end up in his ass." Thanks ma.
"Shit!"
"Oh you shut up."
Wait, who the hell said that? I think the wall is talking.
You guessed it. Now back to the outhouse.
"I said get the fuck out of that outhouse."
I couldn't take it anymore, and that's exactly why it all went went to fuck.
Before we go on there's something you need to know about me. Ive always liked to drink. I'll drink anything as long as it will get me to the place I need to be. Wine, beer, gin, rum, vodka, the whole mess. Eh, call me anything you want. I love it all. And im a mean drunk, the kind you want to avoid when you see me walking down the street. Yeah, Im him. Im the guy. Not every night, not even every week, but when im the guy, that gut full of booze plays me like a fiddle.
"Get the fuck out of there Kong."
"Eh? What did you say, I cant hear you over this nice dump im taking."
"Kong you listen to me. You get the hell out of there. They don't call it an OUT house for nothing."
Keep poundin' Al, Kong is gonna be here for a while.
"If you don't get out of that outhouse, I'm going to scream!"
Why was I in an outhouse in the first place? Good question. You don't usually find me in an outhouse. This was a rare occasion, sort of like when the Beatles played on Ed Sullivan: you only had one chance to catch those sisies in the act. I was part of a construction crew, working out of some old armpit-town in new jersey. We were building a hotel called Hotel Vulture. Why it was called hotel vulture, I'll never know. The owner looked like a vulture, that's for damn sure. He came to the construction sight a few times to check on our progress. He was the kind of guy who acted like your best friend, but when the stakes were high would get right down there with the rest of em, slide himself down there between those tired old cheeks of yours and fuck you right in the ass. Good afternoon ass, nice to meet you. Holy shit. So anyway this guy would swoop down and watch us as we nailed, drilled, screwed, hammered, and worked our asses off. Im getting angry just thinking about this guy. So what was Al doing there? This is where things get fucked. Al was there because I was there. Confused? Get this: after being caught with his dong up sally's back door, and after seeing the misery it caused me (mostly due to the fact that I was the one who had to wash the sheets), he slowly lost faith in the purity of his axioms. He started reading books, going to church, snoopin' around a different kind of backdoor: metaphysical mining he called it! He began to believe that, in order for his soul to attain true spiritual beauty, he had to, in his words, "get sally's ass off of his conscience." Her ass wasn't on your conscience, it was on your prick you fucking moron.
"Get the fuck out of that outhouse Kong!"
Fuck!
"Im about to explode out here!"
"Well Im exploding in HERE!"
So he started fallowing me around, trying to win my forgiveness by acting like a groveling little shadow. There were several reasons why I didn't go complete apeshit on him (after the initial misfire). No 1: I didn't really care that he konged Sally, thus the flame of jealousy which had instinctively ignited within me, my eyes like two match
Saturday, Sep 20th 2008
Chapter I :I hate my ex wife. I've always hated my ex wife. Ever since I met her I stopped taring the house apart looking for the dictionary everytime I forgot what the hell that word meant, I just looked at her face. So in a sense she saved me time, but I still hated her. I started hating her from the moment we met. I hated our first date, I hated our first fuck, I hated the first time she fisted me. A fisting, that was her mother's idea of a wedding present. No no no, her mother didn't fist me, the present was supposed to be in the fact that it took my ex some convincing. "All men secretly love to be fisted," she told her. "And what better way to let him know you're in on the secret, then on your wedding night?" Believe me, that fisting will forever go down in history as the time yours truly was introduced to the world's worst gift. Wait. Hold on, there's more to this then you think. Take a seat, relax. No one's gettin' fisted. Not impressed? Well you will be.What can I say, I'm a bastard. I have a big dick and a short temper, and all the fisting I could ask for. Here's the deal: I don't ask, I take. That's my thing. It took me 46 years to learn that and Im givin' it to you for free.
So who am I? Aint that the question. Ive been asking myself that all my life. I suppose I should start with my conception. As the legend has it, my father was the exact same age as King Kong was when that fuck King got off his damn island, as my father was when he finally stumbled off his private island of celibacy and konged my mother. I was my father's first fuck, you could say. And nine months later my mother returned the favor. They named me Kong, but I renamed myself Stanley the day I turned 30. Stanley McQuie. What sort of name is McQuie? I don't know, and I certainly don't give a fuck. I've never been one of those pussies who dig through that shit. But for most of my life my name was Kong McQuie. Holy shit, try making it through life with a name like that.
I was born somewhere in Texas. Where? Who the hell knows anymore. All I think about these days is sex. But that's all I've ever thought about.
I was first introduced to that famous Texas sky through the narrow window of my mother's pierced muff. I remember the sun was setting, it was a beautiful red sunset. All my life ive been looking for that sunset. And I still havent found it.
"You piece of shit, get out! You've been in that outhouse for four hours!"
Eh, go to hell. And bring me some toilet paper while youre at it.
He was fuck ugly. But why should I care, I wasn't horny.
"I said get out of the fucking outhouse. I need to take a crap."
"Oh do you? Why don't you use your pillow you fucking moron."
One of these days, Im going to punch that motherfucker. Who am I talking to? Well that's a long story, but I have a long time.
His name was Al Blot. Yeah, Al Blot. We had known each other ever since I found him prick deep in my girlfriend. We were in San Francisco at the time. I brought her along with me so that she could see the Golden Gate Bridge she had been yappin about for so many months, but she ended up seein' a whole lot more. I don't know what that bitch saw in Al, except an open mouth and a dick that was willing to go anywhere. That's a big difference between Al and I. My dick only goes a few places, his doesn't give a damn. Anyway, I caught them doin' anal in my hotel room.
"Sally, who the hell is in your ass?"
A man named Al. That's who it was. I tried to shoot him. I aimed for his dick but it was too small. Nice goin' Sally. So I shot the wall on accident, and the bullet went into the other room and hit some idiot in the ass. My mother told me, "Son, if you aim for a guy's dick at your age, the laws of nature dictate that sooner or later you're gonna end up in his ass." Thanks ma.
"Shit!"
"Oh you shut up."
Wait, who the hell said that? I think the wall is talking.
You guessed it. Now back to the outhouse.
"I said get the fuck out of that outhouse."
I couldn't take it anymore, and that's exactly why it all went went to fuck.
Before we go on there's something you need to know about me. Ive always liked to drink. I'll drink anything as long as it will get me to the place I need to be. Wine, beer, gin, rum, vodka, the whole mess. Eh, call me anything you want. I love it all. And im a mean drunk, the kind you want to avoid when you see me walking down the street. Yeah, Im him. Im the guy. Not every night, not even every week, but when im the guy, that gut full of booze plays me like a fiddle.
"Get the fuck out of there Kong."
"Eh? What did you say, I cant hear you over this nice dump im taking."
"Kong you listen to me. You get the hell out of there. They don't call it an OUT house for nothing."
Keep poundin' Al, Kong is gonna be here for a while.
"If you don't get out of that outhouse, I'm going to scream!"
Why was I in an outhouse in the first place? Good question. You don't usually find me in an outhouse. This was a rare occasion, sort of like when the Beatles played on Ed Sullivan: you only had one chance to catch those sisies in the act. I was part of a construction crew, working out of some old armpit-town in new jersey. We were building a hotel called Hotel Vulture. Why it was called hotel vulture, I'll never know. The owner looked like a vulture, that's for damn sure. He came to the construction sight a few times to check on our progress. He was the kind of guy who acted like your best friend, but when the stakes were high would get right down there with the rest of em, slide himself down there between those tired old cheeks of yours and fuck you right in the ass. Good afternoon ass, nice to meet you. Holy shit. So anyway this guy would swoop down and watch us as we nailed, drilled, screwed, hammered, and worked our asses off. Im getting angry just thinking about this guy. So what was Al doing there? This is where things get fucked. Al was there because I was there. Confused? Get this: after being caught with his dong up sally's back door, and after seeing the misery it caused me (mostly due to the fact that I was the one who had to wash the sheets), he slowly lost faith in the purity of his axioms. He started reading books, going to church, snoopin' around a different kind of backdoor: metaphysical mining he called it! He began to believe that, in order for his soul to attain true spiritual beauty, he had to, in his words, "get sally's ass off of his conscience." Her ass wasn't on your conscience, it was on your prick you fucking moron.
"Get the fuck out of that outhouse Kong!"
Fuck!
"Im about to explode out here!"
"Well Im exploding in HERE!"
So he started fallowing me around, trying to win my forgiveness by acting like a groveling little shadow. There were several reasons why I didn't go complete apeshit on him (after the initial misfire). No 1: I didn't really care that he konged Sally, thus the flame of jealousy which had instinctively ignited within me, my eyes like two match