John McNee > Recent Status Updates

"Mr Schaffer, I implore you. We must stay within the radian of the nexus or else the consequences will surely be dire."
"Speak English, you douche," he says.
"We must stay within the radian of the nexus," I repeat. "I don't know how I can be any clearer than that."

I nodded in agreement, even though I'd never personally tried having sex with a corpse. Sometimes it's important to agree with things just to keep the conversation going.

Both cops are morbidly obese, folds of blubber bursting from the seams of their uniforms, fat guts hung over their holster belts, giant bitch tits rubbing against their dress shirts. They cut off the sleeves of their uniforms, similar to muscle shirts, except instead of bulging biceps, overflowing hocks of drooping lard burst out of the edges of cloth, like the way a tree grows around a concrete fence.

The last line of the nutritional information said, "WARNING: THIS PRODUCT MAY HAVE A LAXATIVE EFFECT, AND MAY CAUSE DIARRHEA, LOOSE OR BLOODY STOOLS, OR ANAL LEAKAGE. DO NOT EAT MORE THAN THE RECOMMENDED SERVING SIZE OF TWO PIECES OR EXPLOSIVE DIARRHEA MAY RESULT." I'd eaten at least 50 pieces. Fuck.

Maybe he predicted the air disaster, but maybe the TV show did. Or someone watched the TV show and decided to crash a plane. Or the TV producers staged the accident, as some kind of viral marketing tie-in, like the time that J.J. Abrams TV show infected all of those babies with AIDS.

"My name is Police Chief Marvin Blake," the policeman started as he sat down between them. "I've been in the Oaks Bluff Police Department for over thirty years, and I've never seen anything even close to that mess you've got down there. It does explain quite a bit though. All those missing children over the years..."

The man in the black mask climbed into Michael's car and drove away, leaving Michael naked in the park with the baseball bat still protruding from his bleeding asshole.

"Then he started punching me, so I bit him. I tried to bite his nuts off."
"You did," the detective answered without looking up from his notepad where he was scribbling down my account of the assault.
"What?"
"The guy's nuts, you bit them completely off."

It took me a moment before I realized she'd been masturbating the entire time I'd been sucking her massive tits. Her hand was between her legs, rubbing her clit with quick, aggressive motions, as if she was punishing herself rather than pleasuring.
She sighed, then let go of the back of my head.
"Thank you," she said then turned and continued working on the slab of beef ribs she was seasoning.

Tears wept from my eyes as I struggled to keep from regurgitating all over Kenyatta's magnificent penis.

He masturbated me to orgasm as we watched 'March of the Penguins' in the back of the theater while a classroom of eight-year-olds sat up by the screen enraptured by the sound of Morgan Freeman's voice.

Between the pain in my anus and the sudden loss of oxygen, I began to panic.

(Yet to encounter a passage I feel comfortable quoting...)

Let the psychotics take over. They alone understood what was happening.

His burly figure, trousers open to expose his heavy genitalia, glared at him from the mirrors in the bedroom. He was about to break the glass, but the sight of his penis calmed him, a white club hanging in the darkness. He would have liked to dress it in some way, perhaps with a hair-ribbon tied in a floral bow.

"The model here seems to be less the noble savage than our un-innocent post-Freudian selves, outraged by all that over-indulgent toilet-training, dedicated breast-feeding and parental affection - obviously a more dangerous mix than anything our Victorian forebears had to cope with. Our neighbours had happy childhoods to a man and still feel angry. Perhaps they resent never having had a chance to become perverse..."

Almost everything possible had been vandalised - lobby mirrors fractured, pay-phones torn out, sofa upholstery slashed. The degree of vandalism was deliberately excessive, almost as if it served a more important secondary role, disguising the calculated way in which the residents of the high-rise, by ripping out all the phone lines, were cutting themselves off from the outside world.

During the previous hour a few trivial incidents had occurred - the middle-aged wife of a 28th-floor account executive had been knocked unconscious into the half-empty swimming-pool and a radiologist from the 7th floor had been beaten up among the driers in the hairdressing salon - but in general everything within the high-rise was normal.

Five floors were without electricity. At night the dark bands stretched across the face of the high-rise like dead strata in a fading brain.

Telephones rang continuously, and Charlotte and Laing were invited to no less than six separate parties.
One of the invitations had come from Richard Wilder. Instantly, both he and Charlotte declined.
"Why did we refuse?" Charlotte asked, her hand still on the receiver. "He was expecting us to say no."
"The Wilders live on the 2nd floor," Laing explained.

During the electricity blackout the eighteen-year-old wife of a fashion photographer on the 38th floor had been assaulted in the hairdressing salon by an unknown woman. Presumably in retaliation, three air-hostesses from the 2nd floor were aggressively jostled by a party of marauding top-floor matrons led by the strong-shouldered wife of the jeweller.

Laing had first met Charlotte in the 35th-floor swimming pool, where he usually swam, partly to be on his own, and partly to avoid the children who used the 10th-floor pool. When he invited her to a meal in the restaurant she promptly accepted, but as they sat down at the table she said pointedly, 'Look, I only want to talk about myself.'
Laing had liked that.

- So what is this place?
- It's hard to give it one single name. It's part Narcokleptocracy, because the drug runners of the solar system fund the whole thing; part Kerdocracy, because the ultimate rules are based on material gain; part Raubwirtschaft because they plundered our economy; part military junta...
- Ok, so it's a shite-hole.

- There was a fellow who lived in this building, not far from your own apartment actually, who wanted to experience The Eye. He was so sure he was transmatic.
- What happened?
- His head exploded.
- Oh...
- And then his arms fell off...
- Oh...
- And then his legs fell apart at the knees...
- Oh?
- And then his genitals ruptured and his anus prolapsed.
- OK, I think I'm about sold on this product.

"The first lines of clear saline dribbled down her cheeks" is an actual line from an actual book I'm actually reading.

The barking and the yipping and the yapping and the gangsta rapping had all but subsided by this point, and the pale, luminescent glow of the seadogs slowly receded as if some unseen, nailed-up dog had pressed its paw against a dimmer switch.

After their parents were trampled to death in the mosh pit at a Rico Suave concert last year while the band was in the middle of their hit song "Gerardo", Why-I-Oughtta had stepped up to the plate to become his sister's legal guardian. The teenage boy had never touched his sister in any inappropriate manner, but that didn't stop Courtney Cute from crying rape every time she didn't get her way.

And would it not prove far better sense to put cribs inside of infants, instead of infants inside of cribs?

At one point during the penetration, the rough action of Ashley's savage thrusts jostled her mother's eyeballs loose inside Kranline's colon. Free at last, Maureen Perkin's eyeballs wasted no time working their way deeper into the old man's GI tract, like two adventurous kids exploring a sewer tunnel.

It sort of boiled down to a simple logic problem. It just made a whole hell of a lot more sense for us to blow each other and drink each other's semen like water gushing from a damn fountain than to not blow each other and not drink each other's semen as if it were water gushing from a damn fountain. That's not homosexuality, my rifle-toting Norwegian friend, that's pragmatism.