A Fist Full of Stories (and Articles) by Joe R. Lansdale

Author:Joe R. Lansdale [Lansdale, Joe R.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Horror
Publisher: Crossroad Press
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

FOOTNOTES:

*One written in Latin, reads: Suck Blood From the Balls of Satan, You Ass Wipe.

**We actually say pig skins, but we like to be polite in mixed company.

It should be noted that Lansdale, like Dan Quayle, our erstwhile Vice President, wanted to spell potato with an “e” on the end here. He actually got in an argument with Bambi about it, and Bambi’s supposed to be stupid. Even Gort sided with Bambi and Webb on this one. Lansdale and Quayle, they can’t spell potato.

On a personal note. Need it be said that our opinions do not necessarily reflect those of Mr. Chizmar, whose hand feeds us, and whose hand we bite in turn.

Next time: Trash Theater Anniversary Office Party! Live! Blow by blow account!

(Brought to you by those bastions of good taste, Joe R. Lansdale and David E. Webb, their ownselves.)

Okay, we can’t get back into our offices yet, due to all those damn snakes, which seemed to have bred under one of the couches and produced a whole flock of baby copperheads, and our exterminator is currently in the hospital.

Seems Billie Sue Constantine of We Pest the Pests, in spite of experience, misjudged the speed of a striking copperhead, and is now in the hospital with a vagina1 the size of Richard Nixon’s ego. We’re talking big, so big the vagina sleeps in a chair beside the bed. I mean, you look over at Billie Sue, lying on her side, her vagina in that chair beside her, it looks like someone has put a box of heart-shaped Valentine candy there, rested the box on its side. That’s exactly how it looks, except this box has a pulse.

While we’re on such matters, we’d like to tell you this. Billie Sue, in that special spirit that’s made her the life of many a smoker and bachelor party, told us a story about how her ex-husband, Floyd, who played second accordion in a polka band, while helping her eliminate rattlesnakes from an outhouse, decided to take a leak, only to discover that a rattlesnake had somehow curled up under the rim of one of the two-holers—actually, she said shit had caked up under there hard enough to form a ledge and the snake had gone to sleep on it—and something about the look of Floyd’s Vienna sausage doing the boogaloo above its head, spitting wee-wee, perhaps resembling some reptilian mating ritual, or more likely a snaky challenge, excited the rattler, and in defiance, it rose out of there and struck Floyd four square on the penis2.

Floyd stumbled from the outhouse, fell out on the ground, the snake dangling from his joint3 with the tenacity of a Jehovah Witness with his foot in the door. Billie Sue said the irony of it was, way it swelled up, it was the first time Floyd had a hard-on in a year, and damn if he couldn’t use it. He died too. Billie Sue wouldn’t suck the poison out. She said she’d promised her boyfriend her lips would touch no other bulbous, throbbing member but his.

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