Hey, I’m not dead!

8 12 2012

Though I came close this week, given a horrifying bout of Whathefuckery/flu/sore throat.  

I am making it a New Year’s Resolution to post more, though.  So tune in for 2013 for my continuing adventures in reading and teaching.  


Threepenny Opera (Bertolt Brecht)

3 03 2012

By Sorcia MacNasty

First things first:  Mack the Knife?  He’s in fucking charge.  His pimptasticness knows no bounds.  He’s equipped with some kind of magical gauntlet cock that is drenched in bitch-attracting perfume, and he swings that thing all over Victorian London, not even stopping for a lunch break.  He is up to his tits in whores, people, just swimming through a veritable ball-pit of hookers.  Also, he’s pretty much an early Tony Soprano.  When the mood strikes, he gleefully goes on stabbing sprees (in between his mighty fuck sessions) and ALWAYS gets away with it. If you don’t believe me, take it from Bobby “I fucked Sandra Dee” Darrin:



Anyhow, this is what we’re told in the Prologue of Threepenny Opera.  And it’s a hobo singing, so we should totally trust him.  At least it beats Newsies.  *shudder of horror*  Side note:  Don’t you bet Christian Bale just hears the word “Newsies” and it makes his butthole cringe into a time warp?



Sadly, Act I is more about the Hobo King, Peachum, and his bribe patrol.  He runs the beggers, pick-pockets and every other dirty Victorian asshole in London.  They’re all like, “Please, sir, can we have some more, guvner?”


Pictured: The real Oliver Twist


Whereupon he just chortles at them with a turkey leg in one hand and a bag of money in the other, probably getting blown by the lone hooker who isn’t chasing Mack the Knife around with her free boobies.  I haven’t seen a live version of this, so I’m assuming this picture in my head is dead fucking accurate.  Regardless, Peachum is all peeved that his GROWN ASS daughter, Polly (fact: Peachum is also a dick when it comes to naming kids) is probably off banging Mack like a screen door in a hurricane.  It’s not that he doesn’t get that Mack is vagina-bait incarnate, it’s more that he’s mad Mack has “stolen” his property, i.e. his daughter.  Since he clearly does not have any idea what he’s up against, he vows to destroy Mack, master criminal who is famous for ALWAYS GETTING AWAY.  Peachum, you dumb shit.

Meanwhile, Mack is marrying his favorite dirty pirate hooker, Polly, in a barn.  This guy is just class, class, class, you know?  Then he sends his pals to go steal them a wedding feast, which they do promptly.  Polly sings her dirty pirate hooker song and they all get drunk and rejoice, like you do at weddings.


Sophia, you naughty minx


Until BWOOP!  BWOOP!  PO-PO ALARM!  Yeah.  Chief of police strolls in, but instead of handcuffing these obvious thieves, he’s just all, “Yo, gents, what’s good in the hood?”  He’s actually BFF with Mack since they were in the army together and because they are both fond of ass-kicking names:  point in check, Chiefy McPolicepants = TIGER Brown.  Motherfucking TIGER.  Rawr!


Internet = "Google and Ye Shall Receive"


Finally, Polly is like, “I know when a party turns into a sausage fest, I’m out.  Love you, punkin.”  She strolls back into her parents house, reeking of elopement and sexy times with Mack, probably cradling her joyously sore vagina, whereupon her uptight parents pounce on her and try to shake the happy right the fuck out of her.  She’s having none of this nonsense and sort of stupidly tries to rub it in that Mack in un-goddamn-catchable, mentioning it’s because he’s all tight with the 5-0.  Bitches just be fucking up everyone’s game.

Act II is pretty much an act about various whores and their whore-nanigans.  Polly agrees to take charge of Mack’s shady mob maneuvers while he plans to leave London and thus avoid an arrest on his criminally spotless arrest record.  But he can’t resist stopping off for some travel poon, one lay for the road, as it were, with his old hooker pal Jenny.  Jenny turns out to be a squinty-eyed narc, though, and turns him into the cops, like a total cooze.  At jail, both Polly and Tiger’s kitten daughter Lucy show up and have a sing-off/cat-fight over who really owns Mack’s man-pudding.  Lucy then helps him escape, like a boss.  Peachum, that colossal turd burger, is fucking pissed at this turn of events, and threatens to unleash a veritable tidal wave of hobos on the streets for Queen Victoria’s coronation, which would make poor Tiger look pretty fucking retarded.  Tidal waves of hobos, as it turns out, are pretty disruptive during parades.  Duly noted.

Act three finds our Horrible Harlot Jenny demanding her pay from the Peachums and turning over Mack’s whereabouts ONCE AGAIN to those ass circuses.

Now, if I were the Peachums, and knew fucking anything about Mack, I would just start trolling the brothels until I found the horny bastard.  But I’m smart.

Shockingly, Mack is located in yet another whore house, with one Sukey Tawdry (which, incidentally, will totally be my stripper name if this teaching bullshit doesn’t work out).  He is rolled out of the warm lady meat into prison again, this time to hang for his crimes of awesomeness.  Apparently, he is the brains of his entire criminal operation, because those dumb fucks can’t even squeeze enough cash from helpless bystanders (of which there would be many, one would assume, on the goddamn parade day) in order to come up with bribe money.  Whomp-whomp.

Things are looking bleak for our forlorn hero, but that’s what Deus Ex Machina is for.  A messanger swoops in at the last possible second saying that, per the QUEEN, it’s now “SIR” Mack the Knife, thank you very much.  He’s been given a castle and money and shit, because even royalty is susceptible to his manly machine gun of love.  Victoria probably just smelled him in the vicinity and was all, “That smells like a penis I’d like to give money to!”  There’s another fucking song and BAM.  Happy ending.

Twelfth Night

19 02 2012

Spooky shit for a comedy, right?

By Willie Shakespeare

Snarked by Sorcia MacNasty

So, I’m still working on The Awakening, people!  In the meantime, I wrote the following as an homage to a fellow blogger, Mr. Myths Retold — if you haven’t been to his site, you have to.  It’s really fucking funny.  I printed out his Retold version of Faustus for some of my current devil children and they loved it.  They wanted one for Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, but alas, Mr. Myths doesn’t appear to have done one.  I promised them I’d do my best instead, and here is the result…   Again, the style is a deliberate tip of the cap to Mr. Myths — it’s his trademark, I am just humbly borrowing it for the day.

Oh, Twelfth Night.

A play about dead brothers, nearly dead brothers, socks, and penis envy.

Also, tons of pussy jokes.

They even spell out “CUT” (stand-in for ‘cunt’) on stage.

Because that shit has always

Been funny.

Thanks, Shakespeare.

This is a play written for

Crazy people at Christmas.  Foreal.

12th night?  That’s epiphany.

Epiphany in Elizabethan language

Seems to translate to:

“Wild fucking ho-down

With costumes

Identity crises

And probably some rape o’clock.”

Picture your craziest relatives

All snookered on Egg Nog

But dressed in costumes

And playing elaborate games

That essentially make fun of

Poor people.

Kind of like I picture

Christmas at Mitt Romney’s house.

Read the rest of this entry »

The Docket

11 02 2012

Hi troops!

Just to give you an idea of what our docket looks like these days, here is what I’ve got planned for snarking in the near future:

The Awakening by Kate Chopin

Last of the Mohicans by James Finnemore Cooper (possibly a guest post by Drek??)

Other possibilities include:

Milton’s Paradise Lost

Several horrible German/Japanese lit titles

Hedda Gabler by Ibsen

The Cherry Orchard by Chekov

Fahrenheit 451 by Bradbury

Frankenstein by Shelley

The Scarlet Letter by Hawthorne

Heart of Darkness by Conrad

Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by Joyce

We may be having a guest post by Anna, who is considering doing Dune for us, hurrah!  Also, Luker is planning on taking on some 50’s pulp erotica for your amusement and/or Wicked.  Drek, a strong candidate for tackling ol’ Leatherstocking, has just finished his screamingly funny analysis of Glenn Beck’s nightmare tome, The Overton Window.

What are your thoughts on the docket and possible future titles, loyal readers?  Anything in particular you’d like to see here?  Let us know!  Also, we’re always open to guest posts, so if there is anything you want to write about (or have already written about), let us take a look!

Perfume: The story of a murderer

5 02 2012

It doesn't end well.

By Patrick Suskind

Snarked by:  Sorcia MacNasty

This is easily one of the creepiest goddamn things I’ve ever read, and I’ve read some, well… just look at this blog.  It’s also a totally compelling read, for reasons I have trouble working through.  For one thing, the main character, the eponymous murdering perfumer, is kind of a total sociopath.  Hard to relate to a guy who wants to kill a bunch of virgins just to make a snazzy magical perfume.  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Because this was written by a German, it begins and ends with complete horror.  I’ve seriously been teaching German lit for about 4 years now and I am continually amazed at the sheer volume of HOLYFUCKINGSHIT that is replete in books written by German authors.  Full Disclosure:  I have not read ALL German literature, so maybe there is some cheerful shit?  If so, please let me know in the comments.  Really.  I’m starting to worry about the Germans in a very serious way.  The books I have read?  Full of rape, creative murder, guys trying to fuck robots, castration fear, sexual innuendo that is either lost in translation or the scariest way to discuss bang-bang time possible.  Everyone seems fucking depressed, repressed, and most of the books end with gory suicide, failed suicide or people living in nut-houses, smearing their own feces on walls and gibbering.  WHY, Germany, why?!  Are you unaware that there are kittens in the world?  And an internet?  CHEER UP.

You're welcome, Germany.

Ok.  So our protagonist, the murderer, is born in a fish stall in Paris, in the 18th century.  His mother births him LIKE A BOSS under her table, cuts the chord, assumes he’s dead like the other 4 kids she pooped out in this fetid market, and leaves him among the discard pile, which consists of blood, guts and FISH HEADS.  But the baby wakes the fuck up and proceeds to bawl his face off, alerting her terrifying birth plan to the local authorities.  She is hung for infanticide and he gets sent to a monastery.  Where he’s rejected by both his wet-nurse and the monks because he has no smell.  Read that again.  Yep.  No smell.  It freaks everyone out.  Also?  Babies should smell like caramel, we’re informed.  He is named Jean-Baptiste Grenouille [Grenouille is French for “frog”… see what Mr. Suskind did there?] and booted off to a Roald Dahl-like orphanage run by a woman who, luckily, cannot smell so doesn’t get that the baby is evil, you know, because he has no smell.  What a bastard, amirite?  Also, he has the superhuman power of being able to smell everything, ever, like a fucking madman.  Which, well, just wait.

People do not like JPG, ever.  It’s the scentlessness, in part, and also his complete creeptitude.  He gets a job in a tannery and then weasels his way into a job with an aging perfumer who is astonished by his mad skillz in essential oils.  Somewhere along the way, he smells this perfect goddamn smell.  It’s coming from a young girl.  He follows her, sniffing her out through the alleys of Paris, and eventually catches up to her as she slices her plums.  Instead of showing her the business end of his meat stick, though, he just wants to sniff her to bits.  Welp, that can only mean one thing in German literature — It’s Murder O’Clock, people!  Yeah, totally strangles her and snoots her all up one side and down the other, until her scent fades as she, you know, begins to ROT.  He has a sad.

Eventually he heads off to learn better distilling methods in Grasse, spending a quality-time side trip in a cave on a fucking mountain where he finally realizes he has no smell.  This pretty much solidifies his cheerful hatred of all humanity.  Remember that part.  It’s gonna be a theme.  He has a sad.

He gets a job and starts learning about how to distill scents.  You know this ain’t gonna end well, now.  After snooting out a few delicious virgins and ending their lives, he eventually masters how to distill their smell, using animal fat and gauze or some shit.  He also shaves them, using their hair to get all the scent possible.  Now, the reader has been treated to a few lectures on how perfume is made, and we know he’s gotta have 24 of these smelly bitches to create his ultimate perfume, plus a 25th, elusively awesome scent that he’s gonna add in for kicks.  Then the cops start noticing all these dead, shaved adolescents all up in their business and it’s like, “Hey, maybe we should catch this insane motherfucker, even though he’s not cocking them — they all die virgins.”  There is a curfew and JPG is temporarily slowed down in his murder parade.  He has a sad.

Finally he gets all the dead smells into his bottles except for the 25th.  That one he’s saving for the scent of the richest girl in town.  She’s also the hottest.  And *ahem* a redhead.  Just sayin’.  But!  He’s awesome at being stealthy and murdery because, ha-ha on you fate, he has NO SCENT.  Dogs don’t even know he’s there.  No one ever notices this spooky bastard.  Anyhow, hot redhead = Laure.  Her dad, magically guessing that she is about to be killed and scent-stuffed into a bottle, takes her the FUCK out of town.  No problem for captain olfactory, though.  He just snoots her out and hides in the barn.  Waits.  Totally murders her with her dad in the next room and extracts her sweet, sweet smell.  I am telling you — this dude is remorseless.  But see, he HAS to make this magic scent because it will finally make people love him!  No one notices or loves him!  Aw!  SAD.  Murders are kinda justified, then, right?  No?  Ok.

Meanwhile, his shit gets discovered back in Grasse.  Like, all the dead chicks’ hair and clothes and whatnot.  Whoops.  They gonna get you, sucka!  He does get arrested, finally, but he’s got his magic bottle of Smelltastic now, so, joke’s on you, French Police.  He’s all about to be nailed to a goddamn cross and have his joints all busted, in public,  but he slips some perfume on right before trooping up the scaffold.


The whole town gets a whiff, declares he’s an innocent angel and then THEY HAVE AN ORGY.

(I could not even make this shit up, people.  Germany, my hat is off to you.  Again.)

But, JPG is having the biggest sad of his life.

He didn’t like being loved.  It kinda creeped him the fuck out.  He realizes — this is his actual epiphany — that it’s really better to hate and be hated by humanity.  Wow.  Thanks for the life lesson, Suskind, you bleak asshole.  Laure’s dad?  Kidnaps him because he’s delicious and tries to make him his own “son.”  JPG is having none of this heartwarming bullshit.  He books it back to Paris.  Back to his birthday fish-stall, in fact, or thereabouts.  Dumps the whole vial of awesomesauce over his head and lets the hobos just come for him.  They, quite rightly, cannibalize him.

Could happen to anyone.

Anyone in a German novel, anyhow.

So he’s been eaten and the author jovially tells us that the cannibal hobos are pleased with themselves because they did something OUT OF LOVE.  The fucking end.

Fine holiday fun, people.  Bring the whole family!  Seriously, though, do you know who the other recent male lead is who has a freaky thing for how ladies SMELL?

This douche.


Sweet Furry Muppets

24 01 2012

Apparently, guys and dolls, I share myblog name with a terrifying puppet company:


Did you know it’s a “family puppet experience like no other?”

What the fuck does that even mean?!  You really want to subject your kids to this acid trip:

Her face is just epic.

“What fresh hell IS THIS?”

Now, when I was a kid, we had Billy Bob’s Pizza Palace of Hepatitis.  At least, that’s what I think it was called.  It was a toothless white trash bear and his army of hobo friends.  In retrospect, I believe they were all raising funds to build a meth lab.

A Friendly Note… From One Diabeetus Mascot to Another

20 01 2012

From the Personal Letters of Paula Deen:

January 19th, 2012

Dear Ms. Deen,

Hi, I’m Wilford Brimley.  I have diabeetus.

I heard that you, also, have recently been diagnosed with this terrible condition and wish to express my sympathy for you in this trying time.  Are you on Medicare?  Do you know that the best way to combat the ‘beetus is to check your blood sugar regularly?  As a veteran of the ‘beetus, I thought I’d offer you some friendly advice.  Oatmeal, for example, is a much better breakfast choice for you now than your Cheesy Ham and Banana Casserole.  Quaker Oats™ is an excellent choice, if I do say so myself.  A tasty way to do the right thing, as it were.  Oh, all right, maybe even the warmest bowl of oatmeal is not as tasty as your Brown Sugar Bacon, but we diabeetus-fighters can’t be choosers.

You know, I have to say, I was shocked to hear you’d sat on this news for so long.  Of course, it’s not easy to live with diabeetus – I’m living proof of that.  But I always frankly thought of you as a silent partner.  After all, your recipes have been supplying the diabeetus industry with new patients in record numbers!  I knew you weren’t directly employed by any of my companies, but still.  You have to admit that your Krispy Kreme Bread Pudding is likely to send even healthy young bakers into sugar comas.  I’ve admitted publically that I myself have indulged in the past – apple pie, ice cream, etc.  (Of course, your Fried Apple Pies look like they perhaps have just a tad more fat and sugar than the old-fashioned variety, but I digress.)  I imagine it must have been excruciating for you to choke down a few of your Donut-bedecked Brunch Burgers while knowing that your bloodstream was slowly turning into a river of pure caramel.  Shoot, your show has probably kept me in paychecks for the past 5 years!  And this brings me to my main point…

Bitch, if I hear a single fucking word about you taking my job, I will be on your deep-frying ass like a honey badger on a bad day.  You even think about signing a contract with Quaker Oats™ or Liberty Medical™ and I will end you.  I have carved a niche for myself in this pitiless industry.  You think its easy finding a job in this town, you butter-peddling shit?  I’m 77-years old, for fuck’s sake, and best remembered for CocoonCOCOON.  Want to help me count my co-stars who are dead?  Yeah, I didn’t think so.  These commercials are all I’ve got, woman, and now here you come, high-stepping your diabeetus-ridden ass onto my turf.  When I saw you getting all cozy with a drug company, my mustache started twitching in a rage NOT related to my blood sugar.  My mustache is NEVER WRONG.  Speaking of that mustache, don’t you dare forget that I am the FACE of diabeetus!  No one, especially not someone who uses butter like social lubricant, is going to take that away from me.

So remember, check your blood sugar regularly and try to resist almost all of your own recipes.  Most importantly, remember to get to steppin’, bitch cakes.  I am not even playing with you.  I know where you live.  I can infiltrate Savannah like a motherfucking snake in the grass.

It’s the right thing to do, goddamnit.


A. Wilford Brimley

Poor Wilford


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