Happy Friday everyone. As a special present for making it to the end of the week, we give you the fruits of the HTMLGIANT “When Writers Get Off” contest. In retrospect, it may have been wise to choose a less confusing title to parody, but whatever, it makes for some good ol’ fashioned time wastin’ on a Friday afternoon. Thanks to everyone who submitted!
And now, Annalemma is proud to give you a work of classical literature that has been totally porn-i-fied. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you…
Finnegan’s Wank
force that through the green fuse drove the wildebeest in rear of the long bus with high seatbacks for high school play, untucked oxford shirt, corduroys unsnapped, downzipped to match her plaid skirt split thigh-wide, knees pinked, still drives me to wankshire, memory slick with swells of youth, yea, I was still a boy back then, virginia’s son, unlicensed but with mansome fingers, guitar-licking at the loudhouse, labial mimetics of miss winnie who would whimper first, a chorus, huff-n-hew, then lift me with her muttonbrooch, the niceliest mouthing of fist with slurp hole, oh, imagine the sound, how I would soak the buttoned cotton clean through. learned to launder by eleven, so dear mother, sweet saintly mami, immaculate cleanser of marriott and sheraton, would not know nor touch the spraycrust from breath slide, wring and bell-tongued ball (like wool-white plunge for heaven’s serf) of the selfsame girl who’d heave jameson at the freshman formal, but not before geyswerk beneath cloth table. we told ourselves no one could see, yet when discovered otherwise saw no need for disgrace, groan with willful eyes, glouch before mirrors, windows, open doors, like this one now, upon the aerie annalemma. finn’s splooge is yours.
– jesusangelgarcia
Mastabatoom, mastabadtomm, when a mon merries his lute, he tips un a topping swank cheroot, giving the Paddybanners the military salute, from out the belfry of the cute, to send more heehaw hell’s flutes, comming nown from the asphalt to the concrete, from the human historic brute, schwants (schwrites) ischt tell the cock’s trootabout, to traverse same above statement by saxy luters, and the Beer and Belly and the Boot, in spite of all that science could boot, like to ants or emmets wondern upon a groot, very largely substituted taker of the tributes, for render and prender the doles and the tribute, when rodmen’s firstaiding hands had rescued, the prettiest pickles of unmatchemable mute, when an explosium of his distilleries deafadumped all his dry goods to his most favoured sinflute.
Saddenly now. On a second wreathing, a celt, unwishful as he felt, was pelted (in pelted thongs), lugging up and laiding down his livepelts (birthday pelts), a lad’s thing to elter, and boundaried round with a twobar tunnel belt, where the poules go and rum smelt, and yet smelt the highstinks aforefelt, erning his breadth to the swelt, and devious delts, a bright tauth bight shimmeryshaking for the welt, and candlestock melt.
– William Walsh
Finnegan sat in the corner, spent. He was sad now. The softest part was always the hardest part. He spit on the ground and looked around. He grabbed a dirty towel and weakly cleaned himself. A big fart let loose from his fat ass. The magazine he used was called Phoenix Park, and Finnegan made a note to himself to remember the title. It was a keeper.
The bachelor’s apartment only had one room, other than the bathroom. The only sink was in the bathroom. Finnegan kept a hot plate on a table near the only door in the apartment. He occasionally cooked grill cheeses on the hot plate. He had never cleaned the hot plate. He owned two dishes, and he would clean them in the shower at the same time he showered himself. He owned one fork, and cleaned it with spit.
Through the dirty window, Finnegan spied a bird flying. He coughed once and turned away from the window. He lay back and stared up at the ceiling, scratching his belly. He imagined the two Asian girls he saw at drycleaner earlier in the day. They leaned over a sink, each washing a shirt. One was tall like a tree. The other was squat and short, like a stone. They were both beautiful. They were both perfect. Each time he jerked it thinking of them, he felt closer to them. Every day he felt closer to them.
Finnegan waited to get hard again. It wouldn’t be long.
– P. William Grimm
