Illustration by SHALTMIRA
Losing your loved ones just got a whole lot naughtier. Now you can cure your corpse melancholy by filling a dildo with 21 grams of Gram and cramming it slam up your rim-ram. Cadaver? I hardly knew ‘er, but I’m putting her in a sex toy forever. Spending a lifetime with a cherished person and then shoving their remains way up inside your guts is basically like being a really good hacker, but on the world. I recognize that many amateur memento moriphiles want to wise the hell up and fuck dead people ashes, and you don’t even need a ghost dildo to do it—anyone can can get a spectre to haunt their holes. The following are a few tips ‘n’ tricks for whaling on your cavities with the deceased until you make that gash splash or those nards barf. Bless ye.
The Momster Mash
Clean my room? How about I clean the floor with your pulverized bone and ash, mom? Not getting a job and doing yoga from Youtubes earned me my real payday. Once I crush and smush cremated birthgiver grit into the floor like zee finest wine then walla, my mushy hooves are going right inside. Now I’m pregnant with my feet.
Back when I was a teen (and occasionally as a tween) my uncle would take me to Taco Bell. Now he’s dead, and I live in Berlin, where Taco Bell doesn’t exist. Well listen up, Taco Bell’s Twitter. I’m here on a different social platform (a website) to talk about the mounds of my meaty tweets that you continue to ignore. “Hey how about a Taco Bell in Berlin” is one. “Where’s my gross one hundred percent beef burps and barfs? Where’s my late-night fourthmeal Deutsche-deal?” is another. Pile them on and wrap them up for recycling because nobody wants them. Taco Bell’s social media people just don’t care for me and my tweets much. That’s because every Taco Bell product is cooked to perfection and I’m just too raw for them.
“We’ve Heard the People, and They Say Taco Berlin Me” —Taco Bell CEO
If you believe Taco Bell should open a location for their vile liquid spume pre-pressed into pleasing tacoshape, tweet #UnWrapped because I need to consume something—anything—from Taco Bell. Bless me, Padre, for I have skipped meals one, two and three. It has been ten days since my last digestion. I’ve begun hanging around crust punks dogs and smelling their breath because it reminds me of lunch-nap dreams of Crunchwrap Supremes: a flour tortilla (warmed, softened) filled with beef (seasoned), nacho cheese sauce (warm, piquant), tostada shell (the crunch—this is the big one!), sour cream (fat reduced), lettuce and tomatoes all together, grilled up by a weedteen and ready for me across an ocean of tears and expensive plane tickets. I wish that all the crust punk dogs would run away and find homes and be happy even though their owners don’t smell like a pissed-on fart, and I wish Taco Bell existed in Berlin.
Grandpa Jeff Is Poop Now
I still remember the last thing you said to me: “Xbox doesn’t build character.” Now I’m putting the dung in bildungsroman by feeding you to a sextuplet of sows, sweatin’ an gruntin’ packed pork heavin’ to go hog wild on peepaw’s flesh and then releasing it as waste, in the manner of many animals. When I am reborn as swinekin (I have suid ether), the DNA of the pig who ate him will flow through me as well. Goodbye to rules forever. Seance results say feed my six hungry pigs.
A Bird In The Hand
Sometimes I’ll choke myself out instead of eating so I can pretend I’m choking on chalupas, nachos, flyspeck salad with extra hot sauce, funny dog commercial and kitten turd steak, and whenever someone finds me I just laugh it off with a wink and a, “Whoa, haha—too many Baja Blasts, m’man!” If they’re a cop I say it while discreetly reflecting a middle finger giving “the bird” from my smartphone gadgetscreen off my mirrored shades. Tweet #UnWrapped if you believe that social justice and equality are false concepts served for shit breakfast and stuffed inside a soggy fetal waffle shell. #UnWrap the flavor of death.