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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.
ACT III
Chief, I just received a call from granny. Because they do not have an outhouse—
Miss Hathaway, tell them to shìt in the toilet like everybody else. I am busy right now.
...Because they do not have an outhouse, the Clampett's are leaving for back home tomorrow. They want to know if we have enough sacks for their money in small bills.
No, no, this can't be. What have you done, Miss Hathaway?
It's not me, chief. Elly's stool is so foul, the Clampett's feel they need an outhouse to disguise the smell, if Elly is ever to find a husband.
Those scoundrels on the city council! How dare they deny my largest depositors an outhouse again?
Chief, fear not, I already have Jethro half potty trained.
Half? What do you mean half? Consider yourself on half pay, then. Get over there and get him fully trained, so you can start on the rest of the family. This is all your fault. I hold you fully responsible.
Chief, you can only go so fast with a young un'.
Young un', my foot. You get over there and finish his potty training.
I don't know how to go any faster. He is gradually accepting the idea.
I don't care what you have to do. Give him a blumpkin, if that'll help.
I will have to look that word up.
While you do that, I will get a hold of the studio. I want to see Dash Ripcord and Bolt Upright in my office within the hour. Those two musclebound Oliviers are finally going to work for their money. They will fight over Elly May's turds, or neither will have their contracts renewed next month. We want a down home, hillbilly engagement.
Brilliant, chief.
What are you still doing here? Get down home.
* * * * *
ACT IV
Now, Jethro, dear boy, drop your trousers, like a big lad, and sit down and grunt like I told you.
I cain't, miss Jane. It just don't feel right without a bed pan or a stump.
Perhaps a blumpkin might help.
I loves pumpkin, if its anything like that.
Even better, dear boy. Now you grunt, while miss Jane polishes your fireman's hat to a high gloss. Ummm, ummm, so good.
Why, miss Jane, them blumpkins beats pumpkins all to heck. No! don't stop now!
But you are standing up, dear boy..
No I hain't. That's a big ol' turd jacking me off the seat. I done done it, miss Jane. I shìt me a beaver tail in the commode.
Why, yes, that is a merde royale, isn't it, you young swain?
I ain't through yet. This un'll jack me up another three or four inches yet. Then I'll take the hacksaw and start to cuttin' on it. Can I have me some more blumpkins, please, miss Jane?
How sweet of you to ask, Jethro. Since your feet are now off the floor, balance yourself on that emerging log and grunt just a few more times for Janey, and you shall have your blumpkin. Glug! Glug! Glug! Glug! Glug!
Miss Jane, I sure loves them blumpkins.
Yes, dear boy. You blew two monster loads at once. O-o-o-o-o-h! You are now fully potty trained. Of course it may take a few more expert lessons to cement the knowledge permanently.
Yes, Ma'am, miss Jane. Will you be goin' with me to the commode all the time from now on?
Ummm, you young Casanova, as often as I can. But I have other duties, you know? Of course, there is a way around that, if you carried me over the threshold of a doorway.
Hot diggity! Now I'm gonna get me blumpkins all the time.
Put me down, Jethro. That is not what I meant about a doorway.
Shucks, miss Jane, I done forgot anyhow. I won't be able to get me no more blumpkins from ye. Uncle Jed says we goin' back to the hills tomorrow. I don't know why he all of a sudden changed his mind. You said it yourself, I'm done potty trained. I'm ready for Hollywood so-ciety.
The problem is not you, dear boy.
Well, what is it then?
Elly May's stool.
Her stool?
Her stool stinks so bad your uncle and granny think she will never get a husband in Beverly Hills.
Why, that's plum crazy. Why don't they just throw it out?
Oh, they have been, and Mrs. Drysdale's roses are benefiting. But Granny and Jed do not feel that being a good neighbor outweighs marrying Elly May off.
Shucks.
This author really seems to appreciate the beauty of Elly May. More acts coming up presently.
ACT V
It ain't like Jethro to be late for lunch.
Yeah, I wonder what's keeping him, Granny?
If he's missing lunch, then it must be a jailer.
Why, he ain't never been in a lick of trouble in his en-tire life.
School kept him out of trouble. Those were twelve lucky years it took him to finish up through the sixth grade.
Yeah, he always was fast. But I still didn't expect us to come out here and him to finish college in just three hours. They sure grajiated him fast. That boy is uncommon bright, except when he isn't, of course.
Hi, uncle Jed! Hi Granny! What's for lunch?
Whatever you left in the house after breakfast. Where have you been, that you're late to eat?
Solving all of you and uncle Jed's problems, Granny.
Did you swear off eatin'?
Nope.
Give your granny a straight answer, boy.
I done hauled Elly's stool down to Mrs. Drysdale's roses.
Weee-l, that was right nice of you, but it don't exactly solve all our problems.
Just a minute, Jethro. You wouldn't haul the stool I am thinking of.
Oh, yes, ma'am. That ol' three legged one she sits on in her room with her critters, when the critters isn't sittin' on it by they selves.
One of these days I'm gonna have to have a long talk with you, boy.
Right now, you just march down there and fetch Elly's stool back. And watch out that Mrs. Drysdale doesn't see you. She doesn't know we been giving her roses a special treatment.
Shucks. I don't see what good it does to take her ol' stool down there, if it just keeps bein' brought back up here. Miss Jane said you been taking it fer weeks, yet I've seed it back in Elly's room ever single day, I swear.
Jethro, do you want me to take a skillet to you?
Yes, ma'am, I'd love to eat.
Jethro, do as your Granny tells ye. Go get that stool. Granny, you can settle that skillet right here in front of me. Dish me out a passel of them mountain oysters. What kind is they?
These is horse, Jed, from the tallow works.
Yeah, they is right sizey all right.
Dang it! It's Elly's stool that stinks so bad. I don't even have a stool. Besides, even my turds is good enough for Hollywood courtin'. Miss Jane gave me ever indication of that.
Hurry up, boy! I am apt to get all these things eat, if you don't run fer it.
Yes, sir, uncle Jed.
That lit him out. You made the right threat.
ACT VI
That's right, get them both up to my office. They are going to start earning their keep around the Clampett empire.
Yes, sir. Shall I hang up now?
No, I will. Get busy! Now!
* * * * *
ACT VII
O-o-o-o-h, Mill-burrrn? There you are, dear. Why is miss Hathaway not at her front desk?
She is out on an errand for me. What is it, Margaret? I am busy.
The flower committee from my ladies' club will be previewing my roses today.
Yes, have a good time.
They smell extra sweet this year, Milburn. I am so proud.
Yes, have a good time. Oh, and make sure none of those teetotalers from your club kicks up the dirt around your flower beds.
Why, that is the first interest you have ever taken in my roses, Milburn.
Not quite.
What's that?
I said frost bite.
Oh, Milburn, don't be silly—at this time of year? The reason I came at all is because you promised to keep those dreadful hillbillies out of sight while my ladies are there.
Don't worry, Margaret, if those dreadful hillbillies have their way, your ladies will mistake them for the movers.
Why, Milburn. Are you crying?
Out! Out of my office. I am expecting two big actors from the studio who are up for contract renewal. If I can show Jed Clampett his studio is making a profit, his money might decide to stay—I mean he might. You take care of your ladies, I will take care of the businesses.
Milburn, don't shove me out the door and growl. I am your wife. Your behavior is positively foul today.
Ah, Ripcord, Upright. I didn't see you there. Step into my office. Do you boys want the good news first, or the bad news?
ACT VIII
Granny, what's that racket outside?
Sounds like them young uns' is fightin' again.
You give me back my stool, Jethro Bodine.
Uncle Jed said for me to sneak it back up to your room.
Young uns', settle down and don't knock the door in!
Uncle Jed, she's a-tryin' to keep me from sneakin' her stool back up to her room.
It don't matter now.
It's her ol' stool that stinks and is makin' us move away, gosh dang it. How many times is you all goin' to bring it back to her room, anyhow?
Pa, what's Jethro talking about? I caught him with my stool in Mrs. Drysdale's garden.
That ol' thing stinks so bad you can't even get a feller.
Does not. Only me and my critters sits on it. An' you better not say they stink, neither, 'cause all of them bathes in the cement pond ever day.
It stinks.
Does not.
Does too.
Jethro, give her stool back. She can fetch it up to her own room. Don't pay no attention to him today, Elly. He's been actin' and sayin' mighty peculiar things. Granny's got to give him a big dose of her catfish liver potion to clear his mind up.
Dang it. That ain't fair. I ain't sick.
Simmer down, boy. Now that yer cousin's gone for a minute, Granny an' I will let you in on a little secret. Stool is another word for turds. It's one of them old-timey words.
It is? You mean I done took the wrong stool over to Mrs. Drysdale's?
I told you the boy caught on fast, Granny. Now, we don't want Elly to know it's the smell of her turds that is driving us back to the hills. That would like to shake any girl's confidence, I reckon, especially if she figured it might increase her dowry. Back where they allow outhouses, no one can much tell whose stink is powerful before folks is married, because the smell of ever one is all mixed together. So that works out just right for courtin' and dowries.
But, uncle Jed, I'm a- tryin' to tell you and Granny, Elly can dump it in the commode, like I does. Miss Jane done potty trained me.
Huh! Why, that's nothin' but a bunch of city slickin' nonsense. You beat a young un' until they stop soilin' their britches. Yer ma did it fer you when you was nine. Has miss Jane been beatin' you?
Well, a little. But mostly she gives me blumpkins, Granny, which is even better.
Oh, cookin' for ye, too, is she? What'd she put those blumpkins in, a pie?
Uh, yes, ma'am. But I'm a-tellin' y'all, Elly's possum sausage turds can be flushed right down the toilet.
Toilet?
Sophisticated Hollywood folks calls a commode that. We don't have to bury our scat out back no more. We can flush it away.
You mean flush it into that tub on the back of it for someone else to clean out, don't you?
Why, shucks no, Granny. Them there turds is carried in underground pipes all the way to something called a septic tank. But I don't know where them tanks is yet.
Ummm, doggie. That's a powerful heap of learnin anyhow, boy, an' we're right proud. First a toilet and now this.
Well, what happens to them turds once they gets from the toilet to that septic tank?
I don't know, Granny, but at least they's out of the house, an' you cain't smell 'em no more.
Okay, y'all hush. Here comes Elly. We'll figure this out later.
That reminds me, Jed, I still hain't dumped that turd of Elly's I showed you earlier.
Well, there's a good deep hole to throw it in now, Granny. I had pretty near five feet dug for that hairy three legged stool to go in.
I hope you didn't mess up Mrs. Drysdale's garden too bad.
I didn't get me a chance to cover it up, nor dig it any deeper, neither, once Elly jumped me.
I heard Elly run back upstairs just now. I wonder what fer? I know she couldn't hear us a-whispern'.
I think I know, Jed. She had her a triple helping of possum sausage and gopher gravy for breakfast. Poor thing had a woman's premonition it was her lucky day for finding a feller, heaven help her. Looks like I'll have me a double load to dump at Mrs. Drysdale's now.
ACT IX
Jethro, see who is knocking at the door. Elly isn't downstairs yet. I want to get these dishes done an' then run Elly's scat over to the roses.
Maybe I should run them turds over, Granny, since that hole has to be filled back in yet.
Jethro, boy, it is good of you to think of yer Granny like 'at.
Yes, sir, uncle, Jed. First, I'll get the door.
* * * * *
Elly, what is you doin' downstairs? You can get the door now.
Shhhh! No, you get it. Scat!
No, Granny will get that. Why are you hiding behind that curtain, Elly?
Just forget me, Jethro, an' answer the door.
Okay. Why, welcome Mr. Dash Ripcord and Mr. Bolt Upright. I don't have no idea why you're here at all.
You don't?
No, sir—I mean, sirs.
Well, we are here to court Elly. Is she here?
Why, shucks, I had done forgot all about her, but I can't hep it if you went and reminded me. Sure, she is right over behind that curtain. Elly May!
Golly, hi fellas.
Why, Elly, you're red as a rose. Let me kiss that hand.
No you don't, Upright. That hand is mine to kiss.
Stand back, Ripcord. Let a man do the job.
What's in the pan, Elly? It looks interesting. You are redder than ever.
It's just somethin' I had to take out and bury somewhere on our fourteen acres. I will be through in just a minute, if y'all would care to wait in the parlor.
I wouldn't think of letting you bury those beautiful things while I sat in a cool parlor, Elly May. I insist on burying them myself.
Yes, why don't you do that, Upright, while Elly and I sit in the parlor?
I meant for Elly to accompany me. I am sure she wants to see her...critters put away proper.
I was only trying to lighten the mood, Upright. I will be steadying Elly's other arm at the ceremony. From their odor, she has grieved over her critters quite some time. She has given them a long and proper wake.
Well, I suppose we will have to put up with you, then.
Shucks, fellas, them ain't what you thinks they is. You don't have to feel bad. Them's—
—Elly, I don't care what they were. If they were dear to you, they are dear to me.
Cut the sweet talk at a time like this, Ripcord. Can't you see she's bearing herself with strained dignity.
No, I already strained, fellas. Them things is—
—I will do the digging.
No, you will watch me dig.
Will you fellas quit a-squawkin' like my critters? You can both he'p.
ACT X
So tell us the story of exactly what happened next, boy.
Yes, I want to hear about Margaret's ladies.
Mr. Drysdale, Granny an' me wants the boy to take the story from the moment he went to answer the door and we was still out here in the kitchen.
Of course, Mr. Clampett.
And then afterwards he can tell us more about those blumpkins miss Jane has been a-plyin' him with. I want to try some of them fer my own pie, the way Jethro's has been raving.
O-o-o-o-h, Jethro, you haven't?
Why, no, miss Jane. I promise.
Miss Jane, honey, I know how secretive a woman can be with her old family recipes. I'm sorry I even mentioned it. Jethro, you go on with yer story.
Well, I went to answer the door and found Elly coming down the stairs. She jumped behind a curtain and made me answer the door. It was Rip and Dash, and they commenced to throw a fuss over Elly. I hid and watched the whole thing. When they saw she was carrying out her turds—
Jethro!
Sorry, miss Jane.
What did he say wrong, miss Jane?
O-o-o-o-h!
Anyways, when they saw she was taking out her stool to bury it, they commenced to fightin' over who got to dig the danged hole. By the time they reached the buryin' spot, them two was rasslin' on the ground over who would dig first. While Elly was breakin' them up, I ran out of the bushes and run off with their pan and shovel over to Mrs. Drysdale's rosebed. Just as I was getting' ready to throw them tur—I mean, that stool in the hole and fill it up, Mrs. Drysdale walks up and catches me in the act.
What are you doing? she says. Nothin', I says. I was just fixin' to he'p your roses a mite.
Oh! What is that hole doing there, you awful creature? Don't you dare dump those things in there.
Why, these critters will help your roses grow, Mrs. Drysdale. I reckon that's why they been growin' so nice.
No, you stupid fool, she says, they are always nice. I picked the one spot in our yard where things seem to grow particularly well. Now, you get that hole filled in before my ladies arrive. And get those rotting baby armadillos off this property, or I will have the whole clan of you incarcerated.
Why, you don't have to do that. We don't want any money fer 'em. And we want you to have all the credit, too, I told her. Then she kindly shrieked and almost fainted.
Now see what you've done! My ladies are already here. There is no time to fill in this ghastly hole. Get out of here with those dreadful reptiles!
So I climbed through the hedge and watched. She told the ladies I was from a sprinkler company that came on the wrong day. Well, as those ladies was admirin' and sniffin' those pretty roses, the ground around 'em began to shake and rumble. It felt like one of them Californy earthquakes. But then it stopped and the ground spouted like a little volcana, right onto all of them. I guess I had done hit me one of them there septic tanks with all of my diggin'. Now at least we knows where them tanks is.
Okay, that's enough, Jethro. We don't want Mr. Drysdale to have to sit through the details.
Oh, that is all right, I want to.
No, Mr. Drysdale we don't want to remind you of your wife's misfortune.
But Margaret's rose wasn't touched. It is still in perfect condition. And now all those women have had their hepatitis shots, including Margaret. Half of them weren't inoculated, you know.
Well, then we're mighty glad we could do them a favor, and we're mighty glad Mrs. Drysdale still has her rose. We think it's a sure prize. She should get a blue ribbon with all the care ever body has heaped on that bush.
And now that Jethro is evacuating his stool in the toilet, I trust you will all begin to do the same. Granny, Jed, why did you look at each other that way?
Well, miss Jane, Granny and me will do it, but we don't want Elly to know about it right yet. That batchelor-catching advice from the Bugtussle Gazette has done worked a miracle. Right now that girl is out with two famous movie stars who are fighting over her. Yesterday they fought over her turds. Even Granny didn't know pure possum sausage and gopher gravy turds could draw suitors like that.
It just goes to show what sensible young men they are, Mr. Clampett. I have never known actors to fight that hard for a contract--I mean...
Hot diggity! A marriage contract, Jed. Possum sausage and gopher gravy turds have turned the trick for Elly May and worked their magic. Jethro, for the time bein', you stay plum out of the possum sausage and gopher gravy, it all goes to our bride-to-be, to keep the suitors swarmin' like hornets.
You can bet all your money they will, too. How is that possum supply holding up, Granny?
Just fine, thank you, Mr. Drysdale.
Beverly Hills is plum full of them critters. Yes, sir. Now Granny, we'll keep Elly on the bedpan until she is married up to a feller, then we'll tell her, or let him do it. I got a feelin' that girl is goin' to be eatin' so much possum sausage and gopher gravy comin' up, that even her farts is goin' to draw suitors like hogs to a waller. It kindly warms a man's heart to know that the language of courtin' has stayed the same all over the world since the olden times. When you have seed two men fight over a woman's turds—the way it should be—you know you have seed true love, not just wantst, but twiced in the same day. It's only a shame one of them boy's hearts has got to get heartbroke, for only one man has a right to smell a woman's turds for life.
* * * * *
Closing 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,
****, 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
It's making him insane
Their stomachs are on fire with it
A deep and rumblin' pain,
They've got to find a place to shìt
Or else they'll catch a plane,
Leave, that is—make withdrawals, close their accounts.
(Miss Hathaway! What have you done with my largest depositors?)
Y'all come back now, ya hear?
THE END
That last piece was by a chap comfortable with the initials PB, but who does not want his name or handle displayed. If an author of such filth wants to remain anonymous I can understand that. The main thing is that we get to read them so we do not gain a one sided view of literature. We are usually only allowed to see the decent side of most authors anyway.
The next authoress is comfortable only with the initials KP. (We think you are a sweetheart for just submitting, doll). This lady examined the target laid out for her by the filth contest organizers, and the following is what she came up with. What do you think of her aim, folks? Don't be shy about telling any of these hard working authors your opinion. They would probably appreciate it. I think nearly all authors would, even those who remain anonymous.
First, a couple of creative spacing edits to see if we can learn a few basics.
I like it indented.
I like it indented more.
There we are.
Welcome To
Coprophagia's Fine Dining
Tonight's Special: Proctologist's Combo Plate
Regular Menu:
1 Rack of Sechway, quick-pinched, then cooked to perfection ina skin of melded herpes blisters
2 Turd Wellington, primped into a loaf. Baked and buttered then
garnished with venereal wart shavings
3 Presto-log. Served in a tureen. If there is no steam, you don't pay a stinking dime
4 Poop Patties. A traditional favorite. Loved by the kids.
5 Shìt On A Shingle. Another tradition for young appetites.
6 Dingleberry Stew. Аsshole hairs reduced to a broth make up the base.
7 Mont Merde. For the really big appetite
House dressings: 1 Tartar of Turd
2 Condensed Diarrhea Extract Sauce
Desserts:
1 Scum of Аsshole Herpes Pie. Mamma's Famous Mudpie with whipped scum of ạsshole froth. Our herpes shavings are scraped daily from volunteer crack whores. *Documentation available. Guaranteed fresh.
2 Fart-infused pastries. Five odors of infused fart so you can sniff out your favorite.
3 Rectally cured mints. Our after dinner mints are a luxury dessert in themselves. Every mint is wrapped lightly and inserted into the ạsshole of a registered crack whore, where it is aged discreetly for ten days. *Documentation available. The end result is a retch.
Bon appetit
The next piece is from a xxxxxx who does not even wish their sex to be revealed. They do not want to know it, I guess, so I had better respect their wishes.
Q: Dear Genie. I had sex with a horse while my husband was away on business, and he found out. Is there anything I can tell him to save my marriage?
A: He didn't cum inside me.
Q: Dear Genie. As a mulatto rapper, I always loved the stage name Fifty Cent, and wish I could use it. What should my own stage name be?
A: Half a Buck
Q: My boyfriend beats me black and blue, Genie. What should I do?
A: Next time threaten to leave him if he doesn't buy you a big steak.
Q: Dear Genie. Can you suggest a good, not-much-used name for my cuddly new dog?
A: Penis
Q: When it comes to cigarettes, Genie, I just can't stop. What should I do?
A: Smoke two or three at once and see if that works.
Q: Dear Genie. I have a terrible, hocking cough. What should I do?
A: Try spitting afterwards.
Q: Dear Genie. I have a terrible, hocking cough? Who should I see?
A: No one. You don't want to spread it.
Q: I am broke and unhappy, Genie. Should I kill myself?
A: I guess you'll have to.
Q: My boyfriend snores at night, Genie. Any suggestions?
A: A night job
Q: She beat the stuffing out of me again last night, Genie. What should I do?
A: Keep trying to get to second base. I think she likes you.
Q: My girlfriend was raped by a mugger, but has decided to keep the triplets, Genie. Should I marry her and give the girls my name?
A: Only if the mugger was your great uncle by marriage twice removed.
Q: Dear Genie. What if cousins want to marry?
A: Twice removed is incest approved.
These authors have certainly touched the hearts of us all. More on the way. Right now I am sorting through a mess of additional submissions.
Next, a couple of poems from a lady who calls herself JB. She promises a longer work in the near future.
She farts like a foghorn
And ****s forlorn,
Redly straining with a wince.
Where is her prince?
Her turds pretzeled
As if by machine-press,
Their odor hints
Of last night's peppermints.
Sad, she squalls at both ends.
No squall offends
Her alone in her stall,
Words on the wall.
Her ***, so taut its cheeks
Once farted in squeaks
And called dogs from hence and thence,
Opens for the rinse.
What brings her here
Every day of the year
To piss and groan and fart
Like a fine art?
No reason for Hades—
Just a lady's
Weakness for the chowder—
Rinse, wipe, powder.
She couldn't get prouder.
So don't you doubt her.
She farts like a foghorn
And shíts forlorn,
Redly straining with a wince.
Where is her prince?
Her turds pretzeled
As if by machine-press,
Their odor hints
Of last night's peppermints.
Sad, she squalls at both ends.
No squall offends
Her alone in her stall,
Words on the wall.
Her ąss, so taut its cheeks
Once farted in squeaks
And called dogs from hence and thence,
Opens for the rinse.
What brings her here
Every day of the year
To piss and groan and fart
Like a fine art?
No reason for Hades�
Just a lady's
Weakness for the chowder�
Rinse, wipe, powder.
She couldn't get prouder.
So don't you doubt her.
She farts like a foghorn
And shíts forlorn,
Redly straining with a wince.
Where is her prince?
Her turds pretzeled
As if by machine-press,
Their odor hints
Of last night's peppermints.
Sad, she squalls at both ends.
No squall offends
Her alone in her stall,
Words on the wall.
Her ąss, so taut its cheeks
Once farted in squeaks
And called dogs from hence and thence,
Opens for the rinse.
What brings her here
Every day of the year
To piss and groan and fart
Like a fine art?
No reason for Hades�
Just a lady's
Weakness for the chowder�
Rinse, wipe, powder.
She couldn't get prouder.
So don't you doubt her.
Lon started to back a big mitt out of her, then changed his mind. He stood up and walked to the refrigerator, with her still hanging from his arm well up her midriff, swinging it casually but carefully as he strolled to the appliance. That little gal never stopped moaning all the way, and maybe never even realized they had left the bed. He swung her back onto the covers, as she squealed slightly--or was it that dirty little hiss of hers? Right back to work he went, and she did not resist. He yanked out his fist with the sudden sound of a toilet plunger, then jammed it back again. She only squeaked and squealed with pleasure, without a hint of protest. Her rhythmic moans 'twixt his plunging were to him like assurances he was Casanova's star pupil. He rolled her over and gave her other side the same treatment. After twenty minutes of love he brought his fist out with a sudden pop and kissed the back of her neck quickly and gently. Satisfying his partner was more important to him than achieving satisfaction himself.
'Everything all right?" He heard little squeaks as he rubbed her backside. "Good," he said. There was a long sigh of deep satisfaction as he unscrewed her air valve and her ạss went flat. With this woman, it was like she was not even in bed with you. Her weight did not bend the mattress and roll you downhill into a hole toward her, and she did not fart equine all night, either. Now that she had restored sanity to his life, he could tell the difference. He wished she could cook and was better with the kids, but you couldn't have everything, and at least they did not hate her. As for conversation---Mandyquin knew how to silently support her man, and was not constantly nagging with demands and advice.
Females start out divine and quickly turn bovine in life, he had found, but Mandy would keep her shape. In fact, it was guaranteed.
He had underestimated his desire tonight. He reattached the hose and turned on the air, as she began to make sexy sounds. Then he was on her like a hog on a corn cob.
The dreaded double post.