Paperback Classic

 

Behind every tempestuous life stands a wanton woman.

 

 

Kay might give you a fling, but looking through keyholes is a violation of privacy. You filthy pervert.

Click for------------>>>>>>>More info about a great American author.

Kind of interesting.

Paperback Classic

Hypodermic needles filled with tranquilizing drugs? Drowsy, naked women? A big-eared, sunburned freak peering longingly into a beaker filled with pre-menopausal urine? Undocumented Aliens?

Sounds like an Indiana trailer park on any given Saturday night.

Paperback Classic

This one appears to be a work of non-fiction. I'm a bit confused. Does the term Sin Strippers refer to the belief that those who would disrobe on stage to provide entertainment are of poor moral character? Or is a Sin Stripper a modern-day Carrie Nation attempting to strip society of sin through public awareness, axe wielding vandalism and bathing suit tops with mandatory nipple stars?



.

If this doesn't make you want to crack open a cold one, nothing will.

Paperback Classic

In my neck of the Backwoods the trailer park bimbos weigh considerably more than the almost tramp pictured here, a bi-product of soft drinks, beer consumption and hours spent watching daytime TV while slamming fried chicken by the bucket. The mannish face is pretty close, the bi-product of inbreeding and heavy cigarette use.


Noted author Gil Brewer had a bestseller with 13 French Street and then went and sold out and wrote Backwoods Teaser. But what the hell, a guy’s gotta’ pay the rent and it’s still pretty good entertainment for two bits.

Paperback Classic

Before the internet and such spell-binding diversion as "Survivor" and "Honey Boo-Boo" people entertained themselves with thirty-five cent literature and ten cent movie matinees.

Ernie Weatherall, being a visionary, probably knew that Real Gone Guys and Dolls on Dope would never go out of style.

Guardian of the Realm

"Some call him the Gangster of Love,
Some people call him Maurice. ..."

....but he's not. He's Mudflap, a dog of unquestionable integrity.  Whelped 'neath an abandoned pickup truck and wet nursed by a she-wolf in the vast Canadian wilderness, he grew to possess a combination of raw speed and astounding brute strength. He is quite capable of running down swift antelope or snapping the femur of a bull moose with his vise-like jaws. With his incredible quickness and uncanny reflexes he can snatch a freshly broiled pork chop off the table with the flick of his tongue, like a lizard catching flies on the outhouse wall. One time, in a formidable display of willpower and determination,  he swallowed a dish rag which passed completely through his digestive system with little or no affect on his personality or unflappable self-confidence.

Even though his testicles were snatched from the jaws of victory in a painful, pre-pubescent surgical procedure, he's forgiven me and has become a trusted companion and an effective protector of the vast and complicated Interplanetary Hermit Hovel Compound.

Paperback Classic

Some people look at the glass as being half-full, others see it as half-stoned.
I guess it depends what's in the glass.

Chick needs to quit crying over spilled wine and find her car keys.

Paperback Classics

American Literature is replete with excellent authors. Steinbeck, Hemmingway and Michener are all brilliant, but they ain't got nothin' on Thomas Stone, Hank Janson and perhaps the finest of them all, the incredible E.B. Stuart. (See Below)

Paperback Classics II

.
Many would find this kind of thing too sentimental and sweet, but as a hopeless romantic, I find it heartwarming. This is the type of Shakespearian, poetry you just don't find in the Twenty-first Century.
Call me nostalgic, but I think we're missing something in modern literature. Courtship, it seems, has gone the way of the horse and buggy and The Rhythm Method.

Daddy, Can I Borrow the Car?

This pistol-packing mamma exudes attitude as she stares vacantly into the camera lens with a menacing, snub nosed dignity. You mess with her and you mess with a faded leather valise full of piano-wire garrotes, heavy lead-pipe nightsticks and lip-gloss death stars. She’s got copper bore-bristles and gunpowder under her chipped and faded fingernail polish and a copious trunk full of pineapple hand grenades and Thompson automatics. She wears spike-heeled dagger pumps over bootleg nylon panty-hose and her bladeless wipers squeak a frantic, ineffectual dance across a scratched and dirty windshield.

I dig women who pack heat, they are dignified and self-assured and have a deft and graceful confidence in the bedroom, combining a mesmerizing, gentle touch followed by hard, punishing, hump-grinding hip bruises.

The Truth About Bath Salts

Bath salts gained a bad reputation after last summer’s report of a deranged man shot by Miami police while making a meal out of some homeless dude’s face. Now I'm not opposed to consensual cannibalism but I was always taught better than to misuse a cleaning product.
What many don’t realize is that bath salts have been around for over a century and have many legitimate uses. Take for example dear departed Grandmother Hermit. She was a strict Baptist and a member of the Steamfitter’s Union Local 353. Grandmother was righteous and upright, a woman of impeccable virtue. She would bristle at the telling of lies and tremble with rage at the utterance of profanity. Woe be to the child who dared use vulgarity in her presence. I can still recall the horror of being bent roughly over the Kitchen Sink Altar as a sacrificial offering to the God who abhors filthy language. The bitter taste of dirty hand soap forcibly shoved past my unclean lips in order to cleanse the palate of my iniquity. The gagging and coughing as I gasped for breath between sharp rebukes and numbing blows to the side of my head from Grandmother's swift and terrible hand of righteousness. Make no mistake, Grandma was the last person to use a product in any way other than how the Lord had intended.
Despite her charm, virtue and rock-solid strength, Grandmother had an Achilles heel along with bunions and Plantar fasciitis. To ease her aching feet she would spend her evenings sitting in the living room listening to The Lone Ranger on the radio with a bottle of Johnny Walker Red and a copy of Popular Mechanics across her lap, soaking her sore feet in a tub of warm water laced with Epsom Salts. The salts would soothe her aching bunions and cause pleasurable electrical sensations in her ankles and nipples.



That’s not Grandma in the picture, I just like the bubbles.

Jumpin' Janet

Janet was determined not to follow the path her Mother had taken. Born out of wedlock, Janet was witness to Mother’s endless parade of lovers who grew progressively more sleazy and less wealthy in direct proportion to her advancing age and diminishing beauty. Janet’s own romantic life was a confusing jumble of hurried, backseat sex and promised phone calls that never came. The men who substituted for lovers in Janet’s life smelled of stale cigarettes and false bravado, rap music and chrome rims, court dates and ankle bracelets. The faint whiff of body odor breaching cheap deodorant.
Harvey was a frequent customer at the Quik-Stop where Janet worked. He was middle-aged and overweight and his pockmarked face was testament to some past battle with acne. He was shy and clumsy, but drove a new Audi which indicated steady employment and relative financial success. Janet secretly fantasized about the things she could buy with Harvey’s money and when he began his awkward flirtation Janet flirted back. After just a couple of dates he asked for her hand in marriage and young Janet pounced like a she-lion on a wounded zebra.
Janet’s newfound prosperity was nice, but as those who marry for money soon find out, it comes with a heavy price. The long weeks spent pretending. The tedious visits with his mother. The tacky wallpaper. The suppressed giggles from her friends. His propensity for cross-dressing. But, by far the worst, was Harvey’s foul breath blowing heavily into her face as he pressed his flabby bulk against her small, young frame during coitus. It was more excruciating than any poverty and sent her into soul-crushing despair.
When she finally informed Harvey that she was leaving it was as if the gates of a hellish prison had been flung wide open.
The crushing news, coupled with Janet’s unchecked exuberance, caused Harvey to promptly drown himself in the closest body of water, much to the horror of the miniature deep sea diver, the bubble-blowing clam and the assembled tropical fish.

End of Days

The Angel of Death stands poised to reap his gruesome harvest. He'd been fattening up the masses with hydrogenated corn syrup, gluten and trans fats, weakening them with tobacco and hard liquor, and now he's ready. The pathetic legions had been cupping their hands under the Fountain of Youth but the acid burns, they raise their empty, skeletal fingers to scorched and anguished lips, last days, their thirst unquenched. The Reaper watches, his jaws opening and closing, death spasms, gnashing teeth. The young woman heavy with child scrounging through the last vestiges of civilisation, the panicked flight, the unpaid utility bills, a bowl of oatmeal left too long on the stove. The Reaper laughs at mankind's futility.....

See you tomorrow??????