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Rule #1: Make it filthy.
Rule #2: Make it funny
Rule #3: Make it so filthy it's funny
Rule #4: Make it any style, in any form from poetry to a play, any length.
They may shut this thread down. Who knows? I see the place is dying slowly and I would like to pick it up a little if possible. Proper filth increases foot traffic.
Sexual filth is not necessarily it. That is called pornography. I might have said more accurately: make it Gross.
I guess judging will be done by the readers.
My own entry coming up next post.
Get ready....
***** * *. ***, ******** *** ** * ********* * ** ****. **** *******, ** **** ***** * ****: *****.
*, (******) ****. "*****."
**** ** **** ******* **** ****** * ** **** ***, ***, ****, ***, **; * * *.
**** ******* ***** ******** * *** * ** ***** * ** *** ** * ***. *** *** * *.
* **** ** *** * *** *** ** ** ***. ** *** * *** **** *** ******* ********* *** ** * ***** *** ** ***, ****,
**.
* * * * *. * * * *. ********.
Thank you. I urge anyone not to be too offended, but to read it philosophically.
Can I have a T please, Pat?
Those darned automated censors.
I'll have folks know I had a great response from this thread, but it was all underground via private e-mail. It seems a lot of forumers write filth, but do not want their names attached publicly to the genre that is their first love, literarily speaking, in case parents or co workers are watching. I understand. The good part is, none minded if I published their filth right here in this thread anonymously. Next post, I will begin doing just that.
First up is a piece of nano flash fiction, which weighs in at exactly 100 words. The author wrote it for the Carrot Ranch prompt of Fish Tale, but then thought better of it. Instead, they sent it to me. I 'm glad they did. I thought it was delightful, and I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.
His date spread wide. Mike smelled strong fish.
“I'd like to drop a line near you some time,” he hinted.
“Near me?” she puzzled.
His mind drifted toward the fishing contest.
“Yeah, say next Saturday at ten o'clock.”
“Another date? What should I wear?”
“Fishnet underwear again, for best effect.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind.”
“Where'll we go?”
“The lake.”
“I'll douche good, big Mike.”
“You do and I'll kill you. Rinse afterwards.”
“Men,” she said.
“Don't douche all week,” he instructed her as she looked up proud.
“Is that funny smell your bait box, Mike?”
“It will be, said Mike patiently.”
I would love to give the author of the last piece proper kudos, but she was firm about remaining anonymous. I will keep working on her.
The next piece is by a lady forumer who says I can use her first name but not her last, in case clients or relatives are watching. She works at a Chinese restaurant. I will say right now if you know any women named Harold who wait tables, she is probably the one. But that is her business. Following is her story--another nano prompt.
Catarog come today. You think I not want new bug shierd add-on for lickshaw? Lickshaw not need bird bath, or set of snow chain from lickshaw accessory catarog. And only need airbag if lickshaw clash. But bug shierd beautifur, man—keep guest reraxed. Wife say buy mini outhouse for lickshaw. I threaten buzzsaw add-on quick. Then she think frat tire kit good idea. I fight back, choose mounted moose head—to make guest feer at home. Finarry, we complomise, an' I get mini cement mixer add-on. It come with own mount. Now evlyone happy—wife, guest, me.
I didn't really think that last piece was filthy, but the author insists it is. My piece which was fully redacted--now that was filthy. However, the censor mistakenly left a set of parentheses up which gives serious hints as to the content of the redacted area.
Publishing the filthy efforts of forumers has encouraged others to try their hand at filth. I just received another anonymous entry this morning.
Now remember the original criteria as you are judging these pieces.
You won't even believe it! As I write this missive another submission of pure filth has arrived, setting off the elephant trumpet mail announcement.
The next piece was a real surprise. It is long, for a piece of filth anyway. The gentleman who wrote it says he is a big fan of the television show. He wrote this as a potential episode. Guess what? I don't think so. Thanks to this author and all the others for sending in their filth, though. Love it.
The piece is so long I am going to publish it in installments, since it is written in ten Acts anyway. The author says he knows people will not like it and doesn't care. He is someone we all know and love around here. I was surprised he was so defensive about it. And I would not be so sure, if I were him, for I liked it. But I am crude anyway. Maybe this gentleman came closer to the target I erected than the first two, maybe not. You decide.
Beverly Hillbillies Outhouse
Opening Song:
Granny's in the kitchen
Cookin' up some grits & jowls,
Elly's in the bathroom
With her monkey pals,
Jethro's on the telephone
Sweet talkin' some gals,
Uncle Jed's a-wonderin'
Where a man could move his bowels,
Sh¡t, that is—take a dump, drop a load.
(Jethro, where's the outhouse in this God-forsaken Beverly Hills, boy?)
Verse II
Here comes that greedy Drysdale
Speeding with miss Jane
The Clampetts are upset again
They're driving him insane
Their stomachs are explodin' with
A deep and rumblin' pain,
They've got to find a place to sh¡t
Or else they'll catch a plane,
Leave, that is—close their accounts, head for the hills.
(Miss Hathaway! What have you done with my largest depositors?)
Y'all come back now, ya hear?
* * * * *
ACT I
Jed, I want to talk to you about Elly May?
Why, what is it, Granny?
That young un' sh¡ts some of the fiercest turds I've smelled from man or beast.
Them's mighty strong words, Granny.
Well, it ain't fit and proper. She's a debutante. Don't tell me you ain't noticed the smell from her chamber pots.
Why, what are you doin' emptyin' her bedpans, Granny? She's olt enough to do that fer herseft.
You know how forgetful the child is, Jed. She's too busy with her critters. Them turds she forgets to dump stinks up the house somethin' awful, before I can get rid of 'em over to Mrs. Drysdale's roses.
Well, I reckon Mrs. Drysdale is mighty thankful, too.
I hain't even tolt her about it. I just bury 'em under the loose soil. I know how much that blue ribbon at the flower show means to her. I don't need no credit. Heppin' yer neighbor is enough fer me.
Granny, that's right nice of you. I'm glad to see you are taking my advice. But you know, if it weren't for heppin' Mrs Drysdale win that blue ribbon, I might try dumpin' my own turds in that thing they calls a commode, like Jethro says he's been a-doin'.
Huh! That's the most city-slickin', disgustin' thing I ever heerd of.
Why, no, Jethro says a little whirlpool takes the turd right away.
It makes me want to puke—folks dumping turds in their own house like 'at. At some point, somewhere down the line, Jed, somebody has to empty that commode, and it ain't gonna to be me, neither.
Well, Granny, I reckon we'll know before too long. The way that boy has always sh¡t, I'd say his commode pot is bound to fill up sooner rather than later, wouldn't you?
Jed, that pot on its back wouldn't hold no more than two or three of Jethro's monster dumps.
That's funny, too, he says he's been using it for over a week now. I hain't smelt nothin' foul yit.
Lord have mercy. That pot must be jammed full by now. But there's another reason you ain't smelt nothin' peculiar from Jethro. That young un' may be a human outhouse, Jed, but he eats a well rounded diet.
Yeah, he is most well when he is around a diet all right, any diet.
Elly May is wolfin' down nothin' but possum sausage and gopher gravy, ever since Jethrine sent her that batchelor-catching tip from the Bugtussle Gazette. Oh, sure, that works fine back in the hills. Possum sausage is awful nice for a girl's complexion all right. But mixed with nothin' but gopher gravy for days on end, it conjures a dreadful-foul turd. And where you cain't dig no outhouse, it's awful hard for gentlemen callers to miss where that smell's a-comin' from, since her critters gets into it and drags it on the carpet.
Don't lose hope, Granny. I got Jethro workin' on something. He says he's gonna start shaking his turds loose directly into that commode. It will save him a trip with the bed pan.
It won't work, I tell you. He'll mess things up more. I've heerd of gators comin' up out of those things and snatching peoples' privates off.
Why, there ain't no gators around here, Granny.
You ain't seed Elly's turds yit!
Why, no, but...
Don't leave it up to Jethro, Jed, I'm warnin' you. You'll be sorry.
Granny, you've got to admit the boy is right inventive, and he's a right cipherin' fool.
Huh! I'll grant you that. What we need is an outhouse. Confound these Beverly Hills rules.
Granny, you know them fellas on the city council done forbid us to dig one. Fer now, all we can do is live with Elly May's turds, until she gets off her hankern' for possum sausage and gopher gravy.
By that time she'll be an unmarriable old maid. Is that what you want fer yer only daughter?
Now, don't jump the gun, Granny. My nose ain't what it used to be. Next time Elly drops a turd, I'll try to get me a whiff on the sly.
No need to. I saved one fer ye. It's fresh. She forgot it just this mornin'.
All right, let's go up an get us a whiff.
You better take a drink of my tonic first.
* * * * *
ACT II
Ummm, doggie, that is a right foul looking and foul smelling turd all right, Granny. Do we need a club?
No, it's full dead.
You 're right, Granny, such a turd ain't at all fetchin' for a pretty girl.
No, and it sure won't fetch no suitors, neither.
You done convinced me. Something has got to be done fast, if we's ever gonna marry Elly May off.
Without an outhouse, what else can we do but skidaddle back home to the hills, Jed?
I'd almost go ahead and dig an outhouse anyway, in spite of that there city council. But ever time we do any diggin' around here, we hit oil again, right in our own backyard.
Heaven forbid! It's that same nightmare all over again. I think I hates oil worse than Elly's turds. Well, it ain't exactly the turds I hates—I hates how they has drove the suitors off right under our own blind noses.
Granny, my mind is made up. Call down to the bank and have Mr. Drysdale sack up our seventy-five million. We's a-lightin' out fer the hills tomorrow mornin', bright and early.