Vincent Van Moe nee Van Mogh

born Van Mogh

GOP calls Obama Timid… WH: Get Over It…

Republicans congressmen called the actions of the President, “timid” in his response to the disputed Iranian election. The White House line, in reply, has been a pejorative, “Get over it.”*

Spokesman for the party, Rush Limbaugh, is expected to rebut the comment with something un-researched and without bearing on the situation. Few individuals with a triple digit are expected to accept the corpulent former drug abuser’s words as serious.

* http://electionlawblog.org/archives/002445.html

ANY-thing more…

Is there anything more annoying than a rhetorical question?

Leaked memo from FOXNews

MEMO for news depts

inre:       Swine Flu gets new name:

In keeping with “newsworthy” and interesting titles of illnesses for broadcast (i.e. Mad Cow Disease) the Swine Flu will now be referred to as Hog Wild Syndrome. Expect new pandemic soon: undisclosed name; possibly Melancholy Tuna Palsy, Choleric Celery Diagnosis, Apoplectic Chicken Disorder or possible product placement deal–ADHD Breakfast Cereal (company to be named later i.e. ADHD Wheaties or Frosted Flakes et cetera). Be prepared to insert one of the above at a moment’s notice.

Food and religion…

Praise Cheeses!

AND

Cheeses is my co-pilot

 

 

Always keep ‘em guessing, mack…

iGive Up

Today Macintosh Computers announced several new products in the development stage.

iBet-will allow gamblers to contact local bookies without using a normal phone line.

iQuit-users can tender their resignation without face-to-face confrontations.

iVay-a portable Talmud reader.

iDunno-this product is undergoing further definition.

Hot Crossed Nuns

A petite naked figure pulled a nun’s habit over her fresh-scrubbed flesh, shrugging her narrow shoulders to accommodate the starched coarse black fabric. She cocked her head so the stiff outer layer would open, allowing her short straw colored hair to emerge as though she were being reborn into this austere life each morning anew. Rummaging through the top drawer of her simple furnishings she pulled out a white wad of silk. The fishnet stockings felt lighter than ether in her hands as she opened them up to the light. A beam of sunshine shot through the wide-knit threads to bounce off the bristle-scratched wooden floor and caromed, from the mirror in the 20-year-old novice’s room, to dance on the wall above her simple cot.

 

A spider’s spun web of sensual threads tugged at her bellybutton when she unfurled the diaphanous fabric embracing and kneading her recently shaved legs. She knew banishment from the order would be immediate if her secret were discovered. The danger of it tickled at the damp spot between her legs, a spot that grew more damp each time she took a new risk. What would the Mother Superior look like wearing these? she pondered as she measured the wide-spaced threads atop her shiny legs.

 

For that moment Sylvia was back “on the block” where she grew up, before she was rushed into the conventual discipline. She was a young silly girl who fell in love with a married man, who offered her corporeal indulgence on an erudite platter. His world came replete with orgasms and pillow talk: two realms the married man was well versed in. Sylvia cried the night she lost her virginity, not because it hurt or that she felt short-changed but because this man did everything in his power to please her. She had discovered self-gratification at the age of fourteen but this older, masterful man was able to coax supreme physical delight from her body at his whim. Not just a simple orgasm but a sheet-clenching, pillow-biting climax that made her weep when the blue sheets of pleasure consumed her vision. The center of her lust would then wrap her in his arms and pull her close to his body while whispering sweet nothings into her ear. Little did she know that his whispers were mere nothings and that his promises held less weight than the stockings she now secreted under her nun’s habit. With her emotional stability trashed by the older man she fell directly into the orbit of one of the twin priests from the local parish.

 

The two identical brothers joined the seminary together after twelve years of Catholic education within the neighborhood diocese: Our Lady of Sorrows on the Bay Shore Business Loop Turnpike. The twins began their denominational life as a celebrated pair. Each proclaimed their devotion to a life in the service of God at an early age and, though more handsome and athletic than almost all of their peers, they were never observed in teenage sinful indiscretions. Legions of young females had plied their feminine wiles in an attempt to sway the pair’s faith, to no avail. Sylvia had, within the period of one short month, sullied the reputation of the oldest twin—a full fifteen minutes older—and might have brought about his ultimate downfall if she had not grabbed the wrong twin’s cassock directly below the sash knot in a moment of childish ardor.

 

With the secret out, Sylvia was labeled a Jezebel, packaged as the same, and offered few options for her penance. One of those choices included a gold band on her ring finger as a visible indication of a nuptial commitment to the Jesus Christ of the Holy Roman Catholic Church. 

Many a bony digit from the diocese pointed towards the nunnery as the only just atonement for this temptress of the fabled twin priests. She agreed to this rather than the alternative, a nursing assistant in a leper colony stationed on Prince Edward Island: a flyspeck on the map some 400 miles off the coast of South Africa. It was an island deemed ideal for a colony of this sort being far from civilization and yet marginally livable. Sylvia felt a nun’s habit was preferable to an island where penguins outnumbered humans 3000 to one during the summer months. 


 

 

The silk fabric of the stockings gliding along her smooth thighs brought a lump up into her throat. Unfurling the filmy white fabric to the top of her thighs, her thumb nudged her pubic mound and a sticky thread of fluid tethered her digit to its wetness, seeping out from between the warm folds of her body. A shudder coursed through her flesh bringing her nipples to attention, threatening to give away her secret arousal to any who might glance in her direction. A hard twist of her nipple, between her thumb and forefinger, only accentuated the problem rather than relieve it and it shot a current of sexual electricity deep into her belly. “Shit,” she whispered, only to suck her lips into her mouth in an attempt to swallow the words already in a balloon hovering above her head.

 

After six months in the nunnery she still felt as awkward as a ham sandwich at a Bar Mitzvah but her illicit pleasures built a nest for nervous butterflies in her stomach each time she broke the rules. She swallowed hard and took a deep breath to calm her trembling hands before she walked slowly to the door. Each step brought a tingle in the young woman’s sexual depths as the fishnet alternatively clinched and released the silky smooth skin of her legs. By the time she reached the end of the hall, she was nearing an orgasm. Staggering slightly, Sylvia made her way out into the garden through a side door and sat on a gnarled bench that contained several raised knots on the wooden seat. One of these knots had become Sylvia’s favorite. She rocked herself to a climax, strangling a rosary between her sweaty palms hoping that no one would notice her exceptional devotion to this early morning ritual. With a shudder, she was finished. She paused for several minutes to regain her breath and with a sigh—both of emptiness and physical satisfaction—rose to take her place at the convent’s breakfast table.

 

“You look flush and rosy, this morning,” the Mother Superior chirped when Sylvia scurried into the room, late as usual. Sylvia shot a weak smile at the head of the convent and sidled to her chair with her head held low, hoping to disguise her body’s lingering response to her recent climax.

 

The day she smuggled the stockings into the convent stood out in her memory. Before a weekly trip to buy groceries and necessary “feminine supplies” for her cloistered sisters, Sylvia telephoned a merchant—Randie’s Trampy Fashions and Lingerie Shop—near one of their usual stops to put in an order. Breaking away from the habit-clad gaggle, Sylvia slipped in a side entrance of Randie’s to spirit away her purchase. To the raised eyebrows of the proprietor, she prevaricated that she was a call girl who had a “special client” in town that begged for a certain look, which included Sylvia’s present clerical garb. The store was out of the black fishnet but still had one pair of white in her size. Sylvia took them knowing she would not be able to come back when the black ones were due in. She needed to don the stockings to hide them from her sisters’ prying gaze and in the fitting room; Sylvia had to masturbate twice in order to control her trembling. A quick lie about getting lost and no one suspected her surreptitious absence.

 

The buzz around the convent that week was about the twin priests. One of them had decided to leave the priesthood. No one was quite sure, at first, which priest because they were identical but eventually the truth came to light. The twin that had been tempted by the pretty Sylvia had found himself questioning his commitment to the service of God and had gone missing from a leper colony south of the equator that was sponsored by the church. A consensus of the cloistered women put Sylvia at the eye of the ecclesiastical hurricane. Their distaste for her grew rapidly and Sylvia was inconsolable. Even her daily “tickle-my-Elmo” sessions couldn’t bring her the ease her heart ache.

 

One bright summer morning as she sat brushing her hair the window to her cell squeaked as it tipped open rousing her from a lusty daydream involving creatures from an 18th-century Flemish painting representing hell and punish for sins of the flesh. She spun to face the intruder that clamored through her window. It was none other than the wayward twin priest. He smiled at her and she felt herself melting under his gaze. He shook his head sadly before he spoke.

 

“I took the assignment on Prince Edward Island, but was miserable there. Every penguin I saw, reminded me of you in miniature… wearing a habit, of course… and without breasts… or blond hair… and um…” He paused to gather himself: feeling like a small indecisive boy before her overwhelming beauty. “And I realized I didn’t really want to be a priest. I did it because my brother did it, that’s all.

 

“I wanted you. I’ve wanted you since the eighth grade. Remember when your fifth-grade class visited ours to reenact the flight from Sodom and Gomorrah? You were one of Lot’s daughters and I secretly wished that I had played Lot, instead of God, so that you would’ve offered yourself to me in that cave.” The former priest sighed heavily and fought back the tears filling the corners of his eyes. Sylvia’s stomach twisted into a knot. This man was everything she ever wanted: handsome, thoughtful, and desirable beyond simple words. His confession tugged at her heart and an overwhelming sense of desire filled the young woman’s entire being.

 

“I…” Sylvia choked on her words. “I love you more than anything.” She squeaked out her proclamation before she fell to weeping against his chest. His hands roamed up to her shoulders, down to her waist and back up again as he tried to soothe her trembling body. Gently, he kissed the top of her head while pressing her body flush against his. She sniffled quietly before she pushed him away stating softly, “I don’t want to sully these holy garments.”

 

She crossed her arms in front of her slim body and balled up the fabric in her tiny fists near her hips. In one smooth motion she pulled the vestments that separated her from the physical completion she craved over her head and free from her slender form. She wore only her white fishnet stockings under her habit.

 

The former priest drank in her delicate curves, his gaze lingering on the portions of Sylvia that made her a female and at last came to rest on the tops of her stockings a mere inches from the entrance to her womb.

 

“Daddy, likes.” He whispered.

 

“Good…” she whimpered before she pressed his hand to the wetness between her thighs. His fingers pulled the sticky lips of her labia apart while a clear fluid from deep within her fought to keep them closed. A tickle from his middle finger at her clitoris caused her to moan aloud and paw at his shirt with her free hand.

 

“…’cause from now on daddy’s gonna wear his baby like aftershave,” she finished, weeping.

Why hasn’t somebody come up with this before?

Newest coffee table book—”Ships That Pass in the Night: The Role of the Human Thumb in American Photography.”

 

One on One: The Ultimate History of  Sex

 

A new hit comedy based on the 1960’s television show, “My Mother The Car” and the recent smash comedy, “How I Met Your Mother,” combined with the recent glut of ‘reality’ shows: get ready America for, “How I Met Your Grandmother’s Uterus”

OR

If the 1960’s television program “My Mother the Car” was remade now it could star Will Farrell and would revolve around a down-on-his-luck NASCAR driver. This summer be sure to see: “Edselus Rex” or alternative title, “110 Octane Antigonne.”

Sons of sons…

In response to numerous photos and internet-forwarded tales of male children doing “male children stuff” presented along a specific format (i.e. if you have sons you have observed, these rules) I present to all readers (without admission of guilt and/or legal acceptance of any culpability in regards to any and all investigations or cases not closed by statute of limitation or any other legal… bullshit) a brief addendum of… “other lessons learned.”

The roof on the average single story house is not high enough to actually “open” a home-made parachute but IS high enough to turn an umbrella inside out thereby defeating any parachute-like capabilities it was thought to possess. The roof on the average single story house is high enough to break a seven year old’s leg even when utilizing an umbrella as a parachute. Leaving another parent’s son stranded atop the roof of the average single story house, because they were afraid to “parachute” off after watching someone else sustain injuries, will also warrant a beating from an irate parent. Parents may “laugh about stuff” between themselves but that does not mean they will laugh about those same things with the the guilty parties.

 

Using the Grandma-told-me-you-did-the-same-sorta-thing-when-you-were-my-age argument will invariably involve a beating while the parent exercises the yes-and-I-got-a-beating-for-it retort.

 

Drano and gasoline produce a violent reaction when mixed together. A reaction so violent that it’s impossible to outrun it on foot, regardless of the number of times and differing methods used to outrun it. The violent reaction of gasoline and Drano burns the skin no matter how times it splatters onto the same spot.

 

Stuffing mono filament fishing line inside a device containing multiple firecrackers duct-taped together, when ignited, sprays the nearby area with a burning debris that resembles napalm. Water will not extinguish a loose pile of burning mono filament fishing line, but instead will spread it out as the water floats the burning fishing line. It’s always wise to have a fire extinguisher at the ready when you have sons in your care. It’s even wiser to teach them how to use a fire extinguisher properly. That white powder in fire extinguishers tastes awful.

 

Nothing is as easy as it looks on television. Having a adult nearby to determine what is and what is not “easy” to do, even when seen on television, can prevent many injuries.

 

The concept of brakes and braking (or the safe egress from a speeding vehicle) should be considered before any exhibition of speed is attempted. At high speeds the cushioning effect of lawn is not as great as one might expect. Objects in motion tend to stay in motion (even when no longer under the control of a son) especially if that object is careening down a steep hill towards an uncontrolled intersection. Automobiles make short work of most unmanned wooden go-carts careening into uncontrolled intersections. Adults do not take such scientific experiments lightly. It’s tough to run away from an adult when nursing a broken collar bone. Parents always know when a child is hiding broken bones or serious physical injury. Adults will go to great lengths to find the parents of high-speed scientific experimenters AND will attempt to make any such financially responsible for the cost of vehicle reparation while completely overlooking the cost of wooden go-cart replacement and those parts involved. Parents will punish all sons involved even if one (or more) thought the planned act was dangerous and foolhardy. Just the afore knowledge of a planned dangerous and foolhardy act is, in the eyes of parents, a culpable act and ergo punishable by a beating. If the steering mechanism of wooden go-cart is found to be reversed (through faulty design), it’s best to fix it upon discovery of the fact rather than choosing to repair it “after primary high speed tests” have been affected. The phone number for medical emergencies is 911 but most children during those emergencies situations will either A) pretend they not injured in order to avoid punishment. B) threaten younger children if they report such injuries to any parent. C) deny it was their idea. D) run away from home. It’s difficult to runaway from home while sporting broken bones… Lastly, the beatings received after the fact are usually worse the initial injury.

 

In regards to the go-cart revelation let me further qualify. Of these “most infamous” past events the “go-cart affair” was the most studied. The male children from my neighborhood got together and built a go-cart (a design “by committee” is always bad) after seeing it done on TV. Wrapping the steering-control ropes around the steering column (surplus water pipe actually) and through the system of pulleys (we ‘requisitioned’ from dad’s work bench) actually set the steering function in reverse. Stan, my next oldest brother, begged to be the first pilot while… somebody, maybe with triple digit IQ… thought it best to change the steering (and even adding brakes) before we tried zipping down the nearby hill (which dumped out into a fairly busy cross street). No! Stan replied this was far too important to wait. We’d tend to the “details” after initially testing was completed he finished with a confident grin. Well, the damn thing bolted like a rabbit and ran away from us (we were trying to hold it, my brother claims otherwise). Stan, unable to steer the vehicle correctly, panicked, bouncing our timbered conveyance over a curb (where he affected an escape tumbling out of the vehicle onto a neighbor’s yard breaking his collar bone in the process). Our, now unmanned go-cart, careened downward into the cross street where it was immediately met by a speeding… [I don't remember what make or model car it was but since it was the mid-1960s when this tragedy played out it was no doubt some American-made behemoth created of steel and concrete, I'm sure] instantly disintegrating our experimental vehicle before our astonished eyes. After the smoke cleared (from the wheel wells of the cars formerly speeding along that avenue but now skidded to a complete stop) I swear to God there formed an angry mob like the one that hounded Frankenstein’s monster. All they needed were torches to complete the scene.

“There they are!” coming from a red-faced man, his finger pointed uphill towards our young clan was all I needed to hear to set my feet moving briskly. I climbed up onto our roof (yes, the one that broke so many bones and spirits over the years) to view the melee from afar. Stan was cradling his arm to his chest as he sprinted for cover, weeping the whole way because every step he took was torture, what with his broken collar bone. I was laughing and crying, because we, all of us in the neighborhood, were gonna get a beating but on the same hand it was a wholly glorious to see that wooden body disintegrate in an instant. The drivers from the go-cart destruction derby drove up and down the street until one of the “mom squad” (that was the elite ‘undercover division’ of neighborhood matriarchs ready to spirit through the neighborhood in Mrs. Smith’s Country  Squire wagon, flying around corners in a full four-wheel-drift, the engine screaming as these adult figures pursued us) figured these citizens were looking for one, or all of us. Yes, we ALL got beatings and yes, we ALL had to pitch in to pay for the damages on the guy’s car, but that incident is still recanted in hushed tones by the mom squad et al around the bar-b-que on summer evenings. Ah, youth. Where hast thou gone?

more junk

She had a V6 brain stuck in a V8 body…

 

My neighborhood was tough… The cockroaches were either Crips or Bloods

 

If time is money, my sex life is small change