Cruelty: Cooked Alive

From an333569@anon.penet.fi

1 Dec 1995

Ever think "I'd like to cook him alive." What a way to go (BTW the NE American Indians used to roast people alive as a torture). But how to drag it out without actually snuffing the meal immediately. Several solutions follow:

"So, you hungry?"

Meal licks his parched lips, bleeding from a round of 'meat tenderizing' with paddles and clubs. "Y-y-yes.... water."

"No, no water. Let's cook. Boys carry him to the pit!"

Ahhh, the BBQ pit! Built of black obsidian. The fire pit is glowing red with coals. Above it, the baking pit, encased in stones smokes with readiness.

"See, my tasty treat, your leg is going in the baking pit! Your screams will entertain us as we eat our appitizers!" The boys are already preparing by binding the meal's legs so one sticks out and the other is bent (painfully) back. Bubba, the fellow with the jagged teeth, piss stained polyester pants, and drooling, picks up a rusty hatchet. He looks like an ape, unsure what to do, then his eyes gleam! He swings and swings, trying to liberate the fingers from the meal. But Bubba is kinda far sighted and, well, braindamaged, and the blade has seen its better days, so the fingers are mostely pounded away from the hands and require some scraping with the edge.

We spear the fingers like hot dogs and roast them, while Doc with shaky hands administers morphine and adrenaline to the meal, and what the hell, a few of the boys too! The meal revives from his faint, groaning in pain and horror, just as his leg goes in the baking hole. More pain! Terrible heat! Eyes stinging as Bubba lets loose a load of cum from his tiny cheesy prick.

But will the meal die? OH no! Not yet! his leg is tournequetted to prevent the cooking blood from causing damage in the uncooked parts. The meal lays, well really wriths, on hot but not cooking stone. We often soak him with water to keep the body temp. down. And to keep him conscious. Now a peice of meat as large as a leg takes some hours to roast, so we have another round of shots from Doc to keep the meal conscious and us half conscious. How can anyone feel pain and horror when knocked out?

Our meal kicks and screams away the minutes. Hmmm the smell of a home cooked meal! Look at it bubble up! Of course, with all the blood trapped in the leg, it'll soon expl... well there it goes now! A pop and burst of steam and blood! Congealed blood oozes out like a pimple. Look at it sizzle. Most of the flesh is now cooked and dead, but the pain isn't over! No, no, no! The blonde is still alive and cooking. We know that our meal is ready when we hear a load crack and insane shreiks of pain when the bonecracks from the heat!

"Come on, boys! Set the table!

"Come on now, wake up! wake up! Doc, quit poking splinters in that jew and help me out! Stupid old coot still thinks he's running a camp. No, don't try to sit up (or jump rope or bycycle, HAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA). Those straps will hold you tight to the dinner table.

"Bubba, come on over and carve us off a few slices!"

Mmmmmm, nothing like a hot meal! Want some? No? Is that what you are trying to tell me with all of that screaming? Are you sure? You make a fine roast, you know. Well, look here! It's fido your poodle! I forgot to feed her! Well, 'round here, we don't set much on fancy manner. Bubba, get your cock out of that dog and put her on the table."

"well looks like fido thinks you're pretty tasteless. What a bitch!"

More wine! More flesh!

KBar (or: The Writhing Somali Death Dance)

From Sgt Zeno

25 Jan 96

Here's a story that my coworker here at the Pentagon shared with me. It's an experience worthy of being posted, and also a true account. If you have any comments for Jay, just drop me a line.

BEGIN MESSAGE TEXT

Let's begin with a little background information on some of the players in our little story. We will start at the top and go down; seems logical enough. First we have Carson Horatio (not his real name ::deeeeeuh::), the man in charge-company commander. Carson hails from sunny Miami, Florida. Captain Horatio was an intense man and invariably difficult person to get along with. He began military life as a jarhead, but came to his senses and transferred to the Army. Our next character is Lee Addison, genius. Now Lee was about as smart as Forrest Gump, but he more than made up for his inept, pea-sized cerebrum with his physical prowess. Lee put his choad in everything that would let him. Finally, there's me; the principal. I'm Jay, and I'm a homicidal maniac by modern definition.

Our unit deployed to the beautiful resort community of Mogadishu, Somalia on 13 December 1992. The place was just as Dan Rather described on the news days before our arrival. Folks, keep in mind that our first glimpse of hell came after a 72 hour flight (troop seats are for kids). We were immediately assigned a sector of the capitol city and began our patrols as early as the following morning. Morning to a G.I. in the field is when the C.O. gets up and decides--too early (ex Marine, remember?)--the day should begin. Our team consisted of Horatio the commander, Addison the driver, and Jay (yours truly) the gunner from hell. We patrolled as a lone vehicle wheras the other patrols cruised around as squads--at least two vehicles. Horatio swore that we did this for speed and mobility. He wanted to be everywhere double-quick. I secretly believe the little ball-sniffer wanted the Somalis to attack our vehicle; which was 85% more likely to happen to a lone vehicle.

One fine, starry evening we were tooling down MSR Blue at a scorching 10 miles an hour looking for something to get into. We were in total blackout--by mere mortal definition anyway. I had my trusty PVS-7 NVGs on and could see all the zipperheads running around in the dark.

So anyway, this worthless Somali comes sashaying up to the Humvee as if he were totally invisible. I m staring right at him! My 9mm Beretta in hand, I jumped out of the turrett and slid down the back of the truck. I looped around behind this guy and saw that he had a rifle in his hands and he was in the process of creeping up to the commanders side of the vehicle.

I ran the rules of engagement through my mind (for good measure)...I couldn't seem to find a reason to not shoot this moron, and I raised my pistol to do so.

::crack:: ::crack:: ::crack::

The Beretta sounded like a wimpy version of a child's cap gun, but the results were astounding. I popped the mentally challenged native three times in the back of his thighs, ran up and kicked his weapon away from his flailing hands.

The Somali is screaming at the top of his lungs AIEEEEEE!! AIEEEEEEE!!

And I'm yelling at him to shut his fucking hole.

Lee stops the vehicle and they both jump out to catch a glimpse of our first blood. The look on the commander's face is nonchalant. He rolls the Somali on his back and shines a MAG LITE on the groundchuck that was once this pitiful shitball's quads. Flecks of femur speckle the open wounds and blood pumps rythmically from the one hole in his right thigh.

Ahh, the femoral artery, no doubt.

I'm quite pleased that the guy is obviously in alot of pain. If his country had their shit together, I wouldn't have been there in the first place and he'd still be a camel rapist, but at least he wouldn't be laying there dying

::big grin now::

The C.O. finally says, and I quote: "If that fucker had tried to get my commander, I would have killed him."

Then he turned, got into his seat and closed the door. Lee and I exchanged awkward glances and looked at the writhing fool at our feet. He's looking up and holding my leg as if to ask for help.

I unsheath the K-Bar strapped to my left boot and gaze at the length and width of the blade. Addison looks around like a cop might show up, which is ironic, since we were the law. The whites of the zipperhead's eyes are as visible as the headlights of an oncoming truck when I bring the blade down overhead and drive the seven inch blade into his skull about one inch.

It was harder than I d imagined--his head I mean. I figured the knife would easily pierce the skull and enter the brain. But bone proved to be thicker than water, I guess, so I used my free hand to hammer the knife home.

The Somali is convulsing now--I assumed death would be instant. I know I wouldn't want to feel anything jabbed into my head. I did the old horror movie jiggle of the knife. Amazingly the blood wasn t spurting out like in a Tarrantino film, but it was coming out fast. I ain't never seen brains like that. Blood is really warm when it comes out of a fresh kill and my mind drifted to the scene in Red Dawn when the kid kills his first deer and he drinks the blood. Sheeeeeeeut. I'd cut out Magic Johnson's colon with a butter knife and eat it before I drank Somali blood, So we just jumped in the vehicle and left.

We stay in, the three of us. Horatio doesn t like to talk about the good times we had over there, but Addison and I laugh like lunatics when we think back to the Writhing Somali Death Dance we were obliged to see that fateful night. One show only. What a hoot!

END MESSAGE TEXT

Have a tasteless day,

-Zeno.

"Actually, it's more like deliberately slamming your balls in a car door, over and over, until you realize that slamming your balls in a car door really hurts, and you stop doing it. However, when you stop slamming the car door, half of the car magically vanishes." * Michael Booye, on marriage.*

My anal fissure Bob

This is an alt.tasteless classic!

From Joe Cidoni

Part 1: 20 Oct 93

After lurking about in the wings the required 2 months I have felt the need to tell you about my anal fissure Bob.

It all started about two years ago in Thailand. I had just fired a round of green chile liquishit (patent pending) down the hole that the Asians call "toilet" when I noticed an odd sensation just inside the rim of my sphincter accompanied by a blasting spray of rich red blood.

After living in Asia for six months I thought that I had experienced nearly every digestive tract malady known to man. Worms, burning and colonic liquidity on a huge scale. Butt (hehe) this was something completely different.

It was a singularly unique feeling that I know now to have been the actual tearing of my rectum. It was Bob making himself known to me.

At first Bob wasn't so bad. Occasional itch and discomfort. Nothing that I couldn't handle. A mint flavored suppository now and again seemed to do the trick.

But then about a year ago my cruel master Bob began requiring more and more from me. Itching on a scale that can only be described as "hellish" was the order of the day. I had a permanent brown stain on my index finger from trying to scratch the inside of my colon through my troubled anus.

I had lost all sense of decorum. I no longer cared what people thought. I often walk around in public with my hand down my pants, finger firmly implanted, trying to appease the evil God Bob.

In my spare time I would daydream about modifying various farm implements to deal with the overwhelming itch. I even went so far as to order a tined hand trowel.

Finally, I went to see a doctor. He made a quick diagnosis of hemorrhoids and let me go with a prescription for some industrial strength hemlube(tm). The doc never saw Bob, who had retreated into his tear in fear of his only natural enemy, the medical practitioner.

This only made Bob more angry and he visited wanton terror upon me. I began babbling to myself and have conditioned myself so against shitting that it is only with a great gnashing of teeth that I can make my approach to the bowl. As the chocolate tube steak descends I feel my rectum tear asunder like the curtain of the holy tabernacle. Bob laughing. Bob laughing.

Now, I have finally found a doctor that can help me. She made the diagnosis with a flashlight clamped firmly in her teeth. I had met her in a bar and Bob was not expecting a midnight diagnosis on my living room floor. "No problem" she said.

I have since been scheduled for surgery on October 29th to exorcise Bob from my most tender of parts. He seems to have accepted his fate and has been more peaceful as of late. We spend our time singing and reminiscing about our last two years together. We talk about the life after this one and I comfort him with rectal salve and oatmeal.

I will post details of the operation, and details about the demise of Bob.

I hope that he will be brave.


Part 2: 10 Nov 93

KEYWORDS: YOUCH!, VIOLENT ANAL DILATION, OH JEEEESUS, HELP

Some of you may remember my previous post regarding my anal fissure, Bob.

The surgery that had been scheduled for October 29th has been postponed until December the first. Bob has had a stay of execution, a reprieve if you will.

Bob has become a holy terror of an anal fissure and my surgeon has informed me that the most effective way of dealing with Bob is a form of surgical exorcism that is know to the medical profession as VIOLENT ANAL DILATION. I am not making this up! They are going to anaesthetize both Bob and me, and then dilate my asshole to a diameter that until that moment it has never known.

My greatest fear is becoming conscious and out of the corner of my eye seeing the medical staff zipping up their trousers.

On a side note, I have met a man named Ream. This is his name. Word of honor. It just seems so appropriate that I meet him at the stage of my life when violent anal dilation is required. Maybe I should spare myself the trauma of surgery and spend more time with Ream.


Part 3: 1 Dec 93

Anal Fissure Bob Returns

As you know, my anal fissure Bob and I were due to be separated today. By that most tasteless of medical marvels, violent anal dilation, Bob was to be no more.

The hospital scheduled the dilation over a week ago. They had sent me some medicine that I was to take the night before, and the morning of the procedure. It consisted of an overdose of some kind of laxative pill and two suppositories the size of a sputnik.

Yesterday evening I had ingested the pills and inserted the Grogan Buster(tm) industrial strength stool liquefier. Around ten, I began to feel the need, and by 10:15 I was sitting on the throne enjoying one of the most massive squats of my life. Everything, and I mean EVERYTHING that was not original equipment that came with my digestive tract was madly scrambling for the exit.

Sound like fun? Well, for a while it was. Then things began to go wrong.

I had evacuated myself from stem to stern. Enough already I thought. Things slowed down, and I showered off.

This morning, I awoke at 4:00 am and as according to my physicians instructions, inserted the remaining suppository. Mistake. By 5:00 I was fully in the throws of the colonic "dry heaves." There was nothing to shit, but my colon was receiving a chemical message to evacuate at any cost. What had started out as a good time was rapidly turning into a nightmare.

I arrived at the hospital at 9:00. I was greeted by a nurse who looked as though she belonged in the WWF. I surrendered my trousers and at her command was treated to not one, but two enemas. There was some kind of chemical added to "help clean you out." I once again began desperately trying to expel the contents of my digestive system. Alas, it had been empty since the night before. I sat on the bowl, my sphincter twitching in and out as it tried to pass the phantom grogan that it thought was there. It began to hurt. Bad. For the next half hour I was in such terrible pain. My asshole felt as though it had been beaten with a baseball bat. Eventually, the pain began to subside.

I was led into an adjoining examination room. A doctor that hadn't seen or fingered me before was there. He explained that my surgery was postponed for a week because they had decided that one final test should be performed.

I should stop here to tell you that I am an American living in the country of Finland. Yeah, I speak some Finnish. But it's limited to things like "Gee, those are nice tits." So I wasn't too hip to the terminology of Finnish speaking proctologists.

If I knew what was about to happen, I never would have laid down on that table.

THE SCOPE! OUCH! OhJeesusOhJeesusOhJeesus.

Never do this! No matter what they tell you! No matter how hard they plead and cajole. Believe me, death is preferable.

What happened to me next was this: A doctor snaked a 60 cm fiber optic hose up my fundament. It had a viewing scope on one end, and a device to pump air into my colon on the other. As he manipulated it up my rectum I could feel the head move through the colon. I could imagine the bright light moving through the labyrinth of sphincters and valves. It reminded me of a motorcycle headlight racing through the Holland tunnel.

The searing pain was intense. At one point in time, I felt as if the thing was pressing on my lungs. I definitely felt it try to enter something that I was sure was some kind of door to my stomach. At that moment, I began to sweat profusely. The world began to spin. My stomach tried to retch, but again, nothing to barf. There I was, lying naked on a cold table with a scope up my air-filled colon, when a plan for revenge crept into my mind. With all my might I pressed my diaphragm down into the pressurized shit chamber. A tremendous wet fart sang around the hose and out my asshole. It was accompanied by the overwhelming stench of impacted fecal matter. A small smile crossed my lips. The doctor and nurse pretended as though nothing had happened. It was only moments later that the tube was retracted and the nurse had to wipe my liquishit smeared rectum.

Needless to say, a good time was had by all.


Part 4: 28 Dec 93

It's been a while since my violent anal dilation.

I'm afraid that I have neglected my duties by not telling you about it sooner. But I have been at some loss for words about it.

My anal fissure Bob who had plagued me for the last three years is in the process of dying.

After the violent anal dilation I had expected to awaken from my anesthetized slumber to find that Bob had been completely destroyed. Annihilated by modern medicine in a small sterile room of a hospital in Seinajoki Finland. A rich heritage of blood and pain wiped out in minutes by strangers in mask and gown.

It all started a couple of Mondays ago at 7 am. I hadn't slept much the night before. Bob was quiet, but I lay awake thinking about what was to come the next morning. I was a little worried. I was about to experience something called violent anal dilation and I was a bit concerned. I found out later that my fears about the procedure where in fact pretty close to reality.

I arrived at the hospital in good spirits. I was shown my bed and given the button up the back surgical minidress. Even though the procedure wasn't scheduled until 1:30 I was required to change into the garment. I suppose that it's a mandatory indignity to humiliate and degrade potential troublemakers. Maybe word had gotten out that I had been asking questions about the procedure. What kind of drugs that they would be giving me, if my physician had performed many of these procedures etc. Medical personnel here don't like being quizzed by foreigners with anal fissures. It had taken lots of explaining just to get permission to have a videotaped documentary of the procedure made and released to me. I had to get my local practitioner to request it. It has since been explained to me that most procedures are taped anyway. They just don't release the tapes to the public.

I was in bed dozing when I felt a sharp pain in my ass. I whirled my head around in bed to see a rather stern and matronly looking woman with a large enema bag. Presumably it was her and her nozzle o' fun that was causing the distress. I admired her technique. I was asleep. She probably figured that I would sleep right through it. What, and miss all the fun? Not likely. Besides, she was about as gentle as a bull elephant. Anal fissure Bob let out a sharp cry of pain. And so did I. She smiled and patted my head like a lap dog as she filled my rectum. As I looked around the room, I realized that we were not alone. Not 10 feet away was the wife and 2 teenage daughters of the varicose vein strip down in the bed next to me. They were all checking me out. I smiled my best grimace and tried to enjoy myself.

At 1:00 my doctor dropped by for a chat. The first thing that I noticed about him was that the hand that he extended in greeting had a slight palsy. Actually, it was more of a tremor. This is true! "Halloo," he said with a poorly forced smile that revealed his large yellow teeth. "I spoke anglish warry badney."

"Uh ... hi," I stammered. "I speak a little Finnish; we will try to talk."

"OK," he agreed.

We chatted about the usual stuff ... pain, etc. I'm trying to ask the guy about the procedure when out of the blue, he looks up and says "We will tear you a new asshole." I am not making this up. By this time, I am not feeling very confident about what's going on and am giving some serious thought to just getting up and leaving. I knew about A.F. Bob. He was something that I could understand. I could live with him. This surgeon was something else. An unknown X with a license to dilate. He gave me two tiny white pills to swallow. "For made you relax" he said. Hmmmm ... now this guy was starting to speak my language. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all. "Seee yuuu in da operashunn place" he said, and was gone.

I began feeling a little light-headed from whatever drug it was that he had given me when two orderlies came in. They spoke low and softly to me in Finnish. Who knows what they were talking about. I just kept nodding my head stupidly. I couldn't have answered them anyway as my tongue was stuck to the roof of my parched mouth. As they rolled me down the hall I tried to count the number of acoustic tiles in the ceiling.

Eventually, we arrived at the big swinging doors of the operating room and are met by two others in surgical greens. It is like a prisoner exchange at the Rhine. They greet each other. The two that transported me there wish me a happy dilation, hand over my file to the others, then turn and leave me with the dilation team.

As we enter the operating theatre I begin to feel quite apprehensive. My tongue is thick in my mouth. I am transferred to the main operating table. The anesthetist walks in and without so much as a hello starts tapping my forearm to find a suitable vein. I try to greet him but all that comes out is a horrible squawk.

I am relieved of my meager garment and I lay there, alone and naked. I look down in horror to see that my penis and testicles have completely withdrawn into my abdomen. Perhaps they had seen it first and were trying to warn me because there, on a stainless steel tray, nestled amongst strange looking devices is the object of my apprehension. It is some sort of anal battering ram.

It is stainless steel and is about a foot long. It has two handles bolted to it. And for all the world it looks like one of those Stanley thermoses.

By this time, a vein had been found and been hooked up to the Anesthetist. He still hasn't said anything so I find my voice. "How about a little valium to get thing started." He surprises me by speaking perfect English. "Here," he said, "Try this" and injects something into the hookup that *IMMEDIATELY* makes me feel secure and right at home. No more problems. I chuckle at the prospect of the stainless invader.

As this all was happening, the nurses were quite busy. They had stainless steel poles that they were affixing to the sides of the operating table. On top of these poles were large plastic blocks that were deeply indented to accommodate what could only be my thighs. A more compromising version of the stirrups that doctors often use to examine women. And truly, the video has born my theory out. My buttring is bright, exposed, and nearly eye level to the wielder of the dilation tool.

The chief dilator strolls in, and nods at the anesthetist. The latter hooks up a large syringe full of what looks like vaseline to my I.V. line and says "See you later." I remember trying to fight it just to see if I could. I couldn't. A monster head rush, I try to speak, and that's the last thing that I remember.

It's only now that I review the video that I realize the horror of what actually happened to me.

It's strange to see yourself lying on a cold slab, with your penis retracted, falling unconscious. Right after I go out, a nurse puts a black rubber mask over my face. Two attendants raise my thighs into the "stirrups" and scrunch me down so that my ankles are bent straight back towards my head. The camera angle is from straight overhead, so you get a weird out of body feeling watching the whole thing. One nurse manipulates what's left of my genitalia out of the way while another unceremoniously paints my asshole with some sort of red tinted disinfectant.

The doctor wastes no time and before you can say "Is he asleep?" has two of his fingers deep into my ass. He checks around and during the examination gives my prostate a mighty push. I swear that I shoot a load of something straight onto my belly where it just sits there through the rest of the procedure. The doctor gives a grunt of satisfaction and reaches for the dilator.

Nurses squirt some kind of lubricant from a large syringe into and around my ass. The surgeon then inserts the end of the dilation unit into my ass and begins rotating it left and right. Soon he has my poor asshole fully dilated. And I mean *DILATED*. There I am, out like a light, with a stainless steel thermos up my ass. Every thirty seconds or so the doctor does a 360 with the thing.

Everyone is looking pretty bored, especially me.

After about a half hour of this, the doctor removes the dilator and PUTS HIS ENTIRE HAND UP MY ASS. This is the best part of the video. If you have had a few drinks and squint a little it looks for a moment like some kind of bizarre bondage/fisting film.

A satisfied nod and the nurses move in for the clean up. Someone has the presence of mind to wipe the manually ejaculated fluid off of my belly. Someone swabs the shit and blood from my ass.

I get another syringe of something in my arm. The mask comes off my face. A nurse shakes me gently and my eyes flutter open. "Is it over?" I ask with wondrous shining eyes. Lots of nods around the room. "I dreamed" I say. "Wow, I feel fine!"

End of video.

They wheel me into the recovery room where I try to sit up. I carefully reach down in a cautious exploration of my asshole. It is confounded with a giant tampon like stuffing. "Uh oh" I think to myself and try to ignore it. It's only later when they pull the stuffing out do I realize the full extent of what's happened.

The next day, I took the first effortless shit that I had in sometime. Oh joy! Oh nirvana.

After the surgery, Bob was still his usual self. In fact, he was more terrible than usual. He had expected sudden death and when he awoke, believing that he had survived a professional ass (hehe) ass (hehe) ination attempt, he was even more pissed off and motivated than before. He had felt betrayed, and had amused himself for the first several days by visiting a torturous itching upon me, his host.

The hard part about his slow strangulation is that I can feel him dying. He groans and complains like any other terminal patient. I must take him with me wherever I go. We are like the Siamese twins Chang and Eng. Can I survive without my symbiotic buddy?

Well, at least fire and blood won't shoot out of my ass every time that I try to pop a stubborn grogan. I will no longer know the joys of crying real tears when I shit. For a long time I was told that painful elimination was unnatural. Now, I truly understand.

Now, two weeks later, Bob is only a faint echo of his former self. He is still hanging onto life, but only just. He is still there, an ugly slash of an anal fissure. But there is just the occasional itch, and even that is fading rapidly.

And oh yes ... my butthole has sprung back to a more manageable size. Your asshole really is an incredible machine.

I had a small dinner party on Christmas day. After dinner I put on the video. It took about twenty minutes before anyone realized that it was me. I guess they thought it was Nova or something. Ho Ho Ho. the end

Thank you for your interest in my anal fissure Bob.

-Joe

Re: Potential extinction - please help

Ok! Ok! I have been slacking off. Blame it on the meds, Christmas shopping, and a touch of the blahs. Normal service will resume on a more semi-regular basis - dr. grogan


From Geoff Miller
18 Dec 1995

Speaking of worms, is there any information about whether eating lots of spicy food helps to prevent tapeworm infestation? I'm not terribly afraid of contracting a tapeworm, but since I'm a devotee of extremely spicy food, the thought *had* occurred to me.

ObT: When I was about nine or ten, I was checking out one of the piles of crap left in the backyard by our German shepherd, and I saw what I later learned were roundworms writhing around in the grogan-heaps. I mentioned this to my mom, who ordered some worm medication from the veterinarian. Looking back on it a few years later, I thought it was kind of odd that she never asked me what the fuck I was doing looking so closely at the dog's shit to begin with.

Then there was the time, during the same approximate period in my life, when I discovered that *I* had worms. I could feel the little bastards crawling around just inside my asshole, and it sometimes itched like crazy. So one time while I was taking a dump, I thought "fuck it" and jammed a finger up my ass. It came out with a small white nematode writhing on the tip. I found this fascinating in a detached, scientific sort of way, so I took it in to show my mother.

She was on the phone at the time, yakking to one of her friends, absorbed in conversation as women will often be when captives of Mr. Bell's invention. And I was still of an age where my mother hadn't yet acquired that sense of her child's privacy that mothers only seem to absorb via traumatic, emotional arguments when their kids hit adolescence. She was still at that stage where she was blabbing everything that I did and said to every other woman of child-bearing age in the goddam neighborhood, the word "discreet" not yet having entered her vocabulary as far as I was concerned.

I showed the worm to her as she stood talking on the kitchen telephone, and the resulting conversation, I have to admit, was pretty humorous from a tasteless point of view. "Geoff just showed me this little worm," she volunteered to her friend at the other end of the line (I had no idea who she was even talking to). "I asked him where it came from, and he pointed to his rear end!"

A couple of days later, my mother brought home a bottle of pills that were supposed to de-worm me. She passed along the doctor's warning that the medication would turn my shit bright red, and not to be alarmed if I noticed that. (My mother, Ghod rest her soul, was in stark contrast to my father when it came to matters scatological. I remember being emotionally berated by my dad when, as a budding ATer of five or so, he caught me looking at the paper after I'd wiped my ass. Then again, that bathroom farting incident I wrote about several years ago really did happen, so he isn't totally prudish.) Anyway, the medication's side effects were a let-down. I turned and looked eagerly into the bowl whenever I took a shit for the next week or so, but the most interesting thing I ever saw was a normal grogan surrounded by a faint, aqueous miasma of crimson. Big deal -- and that was just one time. If that happened today, I'd probably sue the doctor for false advertising.

Geoff

--
"Mother Teresa haiku:
Selflessness is a
Ploy that gets me
Laid almost enough." -- Jim Kister

Placenta a la Carte

From big-iain

Date: Sun, 3 Nov 1996

Found this in a major UK paper, admittedly reprinting it from another publication. Any other recipes ?

"THE FIRST time, I fried it in olive oil with a bit of seasoning and disguised it with afew vegetables. The second time, it looked a lot more like a piece of liver and so I just flash fried it for a couple of minutes and heaped on the mustard." Greg a stock-broker, is describing a take-away meal with a difference - his wife's placenta. No longer just hippie health fad, placenta cookery has a new following. Polenta people are getting into placenta, nature's very own raspberry coulis.

Forget ladies who lunch; there are an increasing number of ladies who put people off their lunch. "I'd describe the taste as gamey," Greg's wife, Jane, says nonchalantly. "I think the biggest mistake Greg made first time round was putting it into the freezer whole. He got through three hacksaw blades trying to cut off a bit each day. The last thing he felt like when he got back home was cutting it into portions."

This mistake was not repeated when Greg's second daughter was born recently. Once again, freezer bag at the ready, he took the placenta home -- "it was half the size of a rugby ball'' -- but this time he immediately cut it up into individual oven-ready portions which he froze and then served up to his wife over eight days with pasta or salad on the side.

The growth in popularity of this pseudo-cannibalistic practice is due to the increasingly widespread belief that it can ward off post-natal depression. Given that baby blues are not contagious, most men have a ready-made excuse not to treat it as a dinner-for-two experience, although Sting apparently tucked in when Trudie Styler gave birth.

Placenta cookery is not for the fainthearted. "It looks like something you would refuse if the butcher handed it to you," says Claire, another enthusiast. Merely hearing about it can be enough for some people. "Our unwanted guest of several weeks instantly announced,'I really must be going,' " adds Claire. "The line 'let's see what's in the freezer. Oh dear, we're down to placenta or fish fingers' will get rid of the most insensitive or the totally drunk. "

Anthony Worrell Thompson's Crostini of Placenta with Vin Santo: Cook with olive oil, onion, Vin Santo, capers and anchovies. Blend in a food processor and spread on toasted crostini. The perfect canape for a christening party.

Yummy !

ObT: If Clinton wins again, next time round will you have a choice of voting for 4 more years of Gore ? Or will the Repub's put forward a candidate of Lionel Squicking... "Vote for Sqicking". Tricky choice ! ...and all I get in the UK is the choice of John Major, Tony Blair or "Screaming Lord Sutch" (Official Monster Raving Loony Party)

--

Big-Iain

"Awkward Beasts, Winkles. My Brother Hubert Uses them as Ear-plugs !" Sir Henry Rawlinson

Boogers

From Steven J. Crisp

Date: 18 Dec 1995

Dr. Mellow wrote: "I like it and look forward to hearing about the after effects of his Christmas Dinner."

It was truly magnificent. Val and I entertained two friends who recently got engaged (can't say yet who it is since they want to tell the families first prior to going public.) Anyway, I fixed chicken tenderloins fried to perfection accompanied with tiger shrimp in my own special batter. Now, you must realize that our friends are in their early 20s as is Val. I, on the other hand, am 39 and my internal digestive organs are rapidly deteriorating.

As I said, dinner was wonderful...all the fried food with green beans, white corn, wheat rolls, and some of the finest hot-horseradish shrimp sauce on the planet. The after effects left much to be desired...

You see, the fried food mixed with the horseradish and such began the heartburn. I thought four Rolaids would take care of that problem and it certainly did. Unfortunately, the Rolaids mixed with the corn and began producing gas. Now, that would have been fine and dandy if it were not for the green beans and the fiber in the wheat rolls.

As the mass churned in my stomach, it began mixing with the hydrochloric gastric juices along with a bit of mucus (you know, the type that kinda forces its way out of your salivary glands right before you hurl.) So here I've got the acid combining with the Rolaids producing more gas on top of the beans and the corn interacting with the grease as well as the salivary enzymes breaking down the wheat bread into basic sugars with a non-digestible fiber residue.

Well, my stomach began to swell and since there wasn't any room for it to go upward (lungs, heart, and all that) it moved right toward my liver. That action squeezed my already active gall bladder (since activated by the first drools of fat slipping into the duodenum) and the bile began gushing forth into the intestines. At the same time, I started to feel the then now putty-like food mass squish through the pyloric valve. At first it was a little "squirt-squirt" but it quickly developed into a torrent that sounded like a wino vomiting on the street corner. Then the pancreas kicked in...

So now I've got raw fiber, gas, salivary enzymes, grease, bile, acid, corn, and bean mush getting dumped on by trypsinogen from the pancreas and the protein begins to digest.

All of a sudden, I wanted a glass of chocolate milk.

Now, normally I would rarely drink milk since I have a rather vicious lactose intolerance, but on occasion, I get this craving and I say "what the heck." So I go for the Nestle's Quik and the milk over Val's vehement objections and find that, though we have plenty of Quik, the milk is a bit out of date. December 9th to be precise. Anyway, I sniff the milk and it smells OK, so I pour myself a big glass and mix in my usual ten or 12 tablespoons of Quik. I probably should have remembered at that point that my sinuses had been acting up what with all the warm weather this week and I really couldn't smell much. The little milk clots should have tipped me off as well.

The milk goes down and immediately my stomach yells "fuck it." Normally, I would have just leaned over and did some pretty cool projectile vomiting, but all the gas pressure apparently was forcing the top of my stomach into my diaphragm and, though it was obvious that my stomach was trying desperately to heave out the contents, all it was doing was forcing basically undigested, rotten milk through the pyloric valve into the duodenum with all the rest of the stuff that was already sloshing around in the bile and such.

It seems that at that point, the lactose intolerance kicked in full force and produced a prodigious quantity of gas. It wasn't going up so the force just pushed everything down through the intestine at full bore. At one point, something got tied up in a loop cause I got this real painful cramp, you know, the one where you try to fart but the gas is really no where near your asshole, but is actually still in the small intestine getting ready to pass into the large intestine?

Then the neatest thing happened...I could feel this wad that now had the consistency of wet concrete ramming its way up the large intestine back toward the liver. It moved across - back under the diaphragm and then slammed downward to the anus (didn't want to say asshole again just in case there are kids reading this.)

In a typical event of this type, I would simply get to the toilet and let go, but I was having problems. The hemorrhoids have really been flaring up this week. See, at my age you have a tendency to develop these little hemorrhoids from time to time - perfectly normal and usually not a problem. Just a bit of an itch then they go away in a day or two. Every once in a while, though, the little boogers really flair up and produce these protruding and pustulant boil-like things around your ass. Those develop adhesions and when you try to shit everything gets rather violently pulled apart. If they are young hemorrhoids, its not much of a problem; just a lot of blood and you hope the venous pressure is maintained to the extent that shit does not get forced into your bloodstream. But when they get to festering like these did, you get this vile pus that bursts out. Has a ph of about 2.5 and smells like the sour milk would have if my nose were not stopped up.

Anyway, this stuff is much stronger than the milk so it broke through the stuffed nose and the smell kinda embedded itself way up in my sinuses and ear canals. And even though I'll probably be smelling that for several more hours, that was the least of my problems at the moment. For what was causing the expansion of my ass and the emptying of the roids to begin with was the pressurized hose of shit that was pumping out of my ass.

Have you ever seen a garden hose at full bore? Well, that is about what was coming out of my ass. A thick stream of greenish, brown, mucus infiltrated stream was jetting out of the now pus-laden hole and pumping into the toilet. Oh, and there was corn in there, as well as partially digested bean mass. I guess the beans just got shoved through so quickly that they didn't have the time to fully decompose (although they did just enough to add to the gas.) Speaking of which...

I never realized that it was possible to spray a fart like that. But wait, I'm getting a bit ahead of myself. The whole process took about six or seven minutes and the bulk of the pressure was off. I flushed the toilet, got up, and slipped over to the sink. Looking in the mirror, I realized that I had built up a healthy sweat from the ordeal and leaned over slightly to splash water on my face. At that very moment, I remembered that if one leans over, the large intestine, rather than having to make a ninety degree turn to get to the asshole, then become a virtually straight pipe out. And obviously not all the gas had dissipated yet.

Recall the garden hose? Well take that solid stream and put it on full pressure spray. Must have been another half-gallon of liquid green/brown shit plugging up a large gas pocket because all of it decided to come out at that moment. Lucky for me that when I am bent over at the sink my bathtub is directly behind my ass. I was rather surprised, though, that I had that kind of artistic ability in me; the shit-splatter pattern on the back wall of the tub was stunning. I hadn't noticed that little slug that had crawled into the bathroom until that moment. And I never realized that they liked to eat shit so much.

I just hope in all this ordeal that my inguinal hernia did not let some of the liquid shit through into my nuts. If that happened then over the next several days I can look forward to having a case of epididymitis flare up. Normally that would not bother me since it just takes a few days of antibiotics to knock out, but I get real embarrassed when I have to give a urine test and the piss comes out looking like a combination of juicy shit and the stuff that drains out your ears after a really bad infection. Oh well, such is life...

Steve Crisp

Self-Circumcision

From Greg Bernath

I once chopped pieces of foreskin off my penis with a pair of cuticle scissors.

Now that I've got your attention, I'll go back and tell the whole story. Apologies if it gets a little lengthy, but this yarn deserves to be spun well.

BACKGROUND

After I was circumcised as an infant, the wound was not taken care of with sufficient diligence, and it healed incorrectly. Portions of the raw edge of the remaining foreskin bonded to the glans, a little bit above the lower edge of the glans. This left a series of "skin bridges", basically sections of foreskin which can't be retracted, because they are fused to the glans at one end and the shaft at the other. These varied in width from about 1/16" to 1/4", and were attached off and on over about 2/3 of the circumference.

This was never a major problem. It was a long time before I even realized it was abnormal. Everything functioned properly, but there were a few minor problems with it which made me wish I could fix it. Mainly,

1. It was a cosmetic defect -- it didn't look good.

2. It was tough to keep clean under the bridges -- I had to swab it with a Q-tip now and then to knock down smegma buildup.

3. Some of the most sensitive parts of the glans were hidden under relatively insensitive chunks of foreskin, robbing me of the proper stimulation which was mine and every man's birthright.

Over the past few years, I'd been thinking of getting it corrected, but there were problems. Doctors cost money, and I didn't have it, and student insurance sure wasn't gonna cover it. Plus, the thought of some strange doctor chopping at my peepeehead gives me chills.

Now, all a doctor would do it sterilize it, numb it, cut it and bandage it. "Hell, maybe I can do that!", I thought. The problem was how to kill the pain. I experimented with cutting myself (with an x-acto knife), but seeing as it always hurt like hell before I even cut anything, I never went through with it.

Recently, I came back and studied the situation. Again, the problem with the self-surgery approach was dealing with pain. There had to be some way of numbing the area, but how? One winter day, it hit me. If cold can make fingers go numb, then cold can also make a ManTool[tm] go numb. With this in mind, I pioneered a the "home penile self-surgery procedure".

SURGERY KIT

Cuticle scissors (1 pair)
Rubbing alcohol (1 bottle)
Antibiotic ointment (1 tube)
Anti-bacterial soap (1 bottle)
Gauze pads (lots, various sizes)
Ice cubes (iodine added to water for sterility)
Clean Washcloth (freshly laundered with lots'o bleach)
Well-lit work area (the kitchen table)

PROCEDURE

Wipe down work area with alcohol. Clean penis with soap and water, then with alcohol. Wash hands thoroughly. Soak scissors in alcohol.

Holding the ice cube with the washcloth (to prevent your fingers from going numb), apply the ice cube to the target area. Hold for 5 to 10 minutes, until area is numb.

Using the cuticle scissors, sever the skin bridge as closely as possible to its connection with the glans. Then sever the foreskin end of the bridge in such a location as to leave an even edge on the foreskin.

Use gauze pads and direct pressure to stop the bleeding, then apply antibiotic ointment and bandage.

THE OPERATIONS

Though the operations are not painful if done correctly, the healing process is a real pain in the ass. It also takes a certain state of mind to be able to cut your own flesh. I would kind of put myself into robo-man zombie mode for the operations, in that I never dwelled on what I was doing, I just mechanically plodded through all the steps without thinking about how totally gross it was. Since the ice cube could only numb a small portion of the penis, and since I could only tolerate so much trauma to my dick in one session, it took 6 separate operations, spread out over a two week period, to cut/remove all of the skin bridges.

Operation #1 (Day 1)

The test cut. I chose a small thin skin bridge, about 1/16" across. I held the ice cube on for 5 minutes. The ice caused a peculiar kind of "cold ache", but it wasn't that bad. I gingerly made the cuts, and sliced through with no pain at all. There was some minor bleeding, but because of the speed at which I worked, I had finished and had the gauze on it before the wound had any chance to bleed significantly. After about 10 minutes the bleeding was stopped and I bandaged it up, no problem at all. Only a tiny little speck of flesh had been removed, rather unimpressive looking.

Operation #2 (Day 3)

Operation #1 turned out so well, I decided to go for big game this time. The target was the mother of all skin bridges, about 1/4" across and very thick and meaty. Again, I made the preparations and applied ice for 5 minutes.

I made the first cut along the glans, and was surprised at how much I had to bear down on the scissors. This skin was surprisingly tough. I finished that cut, and then turned my attention to the cut on the foreskin side. Wanting to get it done quickly, I decided that two large, powerful snips should do the job. I bore down and made the first cut, and realized with a shock that IT HURT LIKE HELL.

Well, it turns out that due to the thickness of the skin bridge on that end, the cold hadn't penetrated deeply enough, and it hadn't gone numb. So, I was left with a problem. I had a half severed bit of foreskin hanging off me, and no anesthetic. My only recourse was to finish the cut. I thought, "Shit. This will hurt.". So I lined up the scissors, closed my eyes, and as quickly and powerfully as I could, I made the snip. My prediction was correct; it did hurt (don't you hate when you're right about things like that?). I managed to avoid shouting out, instead opting for a few simple gasps and whimpers.

I resolved to hold the ice on for much longer in future operations.

Being that this was a bigger cut than the first, it bled much more profusely. It took about 20 minutes of direct pressure and a lot of gauze until I could staunch the main flow. Even then it kept oozing blood for a few hours. I spent the rest of the evening with nothing on below the waist, sitting in front of the TV with a few brews (this became standard procedure for all forthcoming operations). Any motion tended to make it break open and bleed again, so I moved around very little. I was functioning (that is, walking) almost normally again by the next day, but it took about 5 days before this one completely stopped oozing blood.

As I gingerly hobbled back into the kitchen for another brew, I spotted IT, the severed hunk-o-foreskin that I had left on the table. It was of fairly good size, about 1/2" by 1/4" and maybe as thick as a piece of bacon. Suddenly, strange thoughts entered my skull, and a raging mental battle between good and evil ensued.

EVIL: "Eat the foreskin."
GOOD: "Don't do it!! That's gross!!"
EVIL: "Eat the foreskin."
GOOD: "Stop thinking about it!!"
EVIL: "You know what you must do. Eat it. It is your destiny."
GOOD: "But that's cannibalism!"
EVIL: "So what?"
GOOD: "Cannibalism is shunned for a reason! It spreads diseases!"
EVIL: "Look dipshit. It's your own fucking flesh. Any diseases in there, you already got."
GOOD: "But it's SELF-cannibalism!"
EVIL: "So is chewing on the piece of skin you bit off your fingertip. BFD."
GOOD: "But this is weird, deranged and perverted!"
EVIL: "Exactly"
GOOD: (Hauls its sorry whupped ass away and shuts up)

So, I ate it. Turns out it was very tough and chewy, kind of like biting a little piece of rubber. I chewed for about 5 minutes, but didn't make any progress on breaking it down, so I swallowed it. It had a little bit of blood flavor at first, but after that it had no flavor at all; rather disappointing in that respect. Maybe I should have cooked it.

Operation #3 (Day 10)

A medium sized cut. I held the ice cube on much longer (10 minutes instead of 5), so there was no problem with pain. Not nearly as much bleeding, but still a respectable amount.

A word about erections: they were a bad thing. Any hard-on would tear the wounds open and start them bleeding again. This would be a problem for about 3 or 4 days until the wounds had healed sufficiently. Basically, I had to spend a long, long time without even thinking a nasty thought. Of course, when I was asleep I had no control over the process, which would always result in me waking up with a dick that hurt and bloody bandages. I was really lovin' life at moments like these.

Operation #4 (Day 12)

Another medium sized cut, but with the added bonus of having a small vein (about 1 mm in diameter) running through the skin bridge. Now, the blood supply for the penis mainly runs through blood vessels buried deep inside. When you get down the the small vessels, the circulatory system becomes more of a spiderweb, with redundant paths going to every point. So I knew it wasn't actually dangerous to cut it, but it was still a kind of psychological obstacle. I expected this one to be a heavy bleeder, and I wasn't disappointed. It took about a full hour of direct pressure to get the severed ends of the vein to close up. Otherwise, not too much of a problem.

Operation #5 (Day 14)

I was planning on more time to let the others heal, but due to changes in the way skin tension was being applied to the remaining bridges (because I'd cut some others away), one small bridge was getting a lot of stress and starting to hurt. So I chopped it quick and easy, no real problems.

Operation #6 (Day 15)

The problem with operation #5 was that it just transferred the stress to the next bridge down the line. So even though I had about 3/4" of flesh left to cut, I resolved to do it all at once in one last cutting frenzy.

Due to the size of the operation, it took a while to complete (maybe 1 minute total), which gave the blood a chance to flow. I had to stop a few times and wipe away blood so I could see what I was doing. Strangely, this didn't bother me at all. It seemed perfectly normal that I should be wiping up copious amounts of blood flowing from my bleeding pecker which I had sliced open myself. Actually, it seemed kind of cool at the time, which led me to speculate at the time that I had gone insane, which I also thought was pretty cool.

Anyway, except for the excess blood which had dripped on to the chair, it went quite well. The only thing that really grossed me out was when I noticed I had blood all over my hands. If any psychoanalysts want to analyze that tidbit for me, feel free, though I really don't care.


The wounds are now completely healed, and the results are good. Mainly:

1. There are no scars to speak of, just a few bumps on the glans. This is because I didn't trim the flesh quite close enough in a few spots. They kind of resembling little warts. I thought about going back and trimming them off, but I kind of like 'em now. After all, it's not everyone who has the privilege of appearing to have warts, without actually being diseased.
2. Without the skin tension holding things back, total dick length has increased by 1/4". (Of course I've measured the length of my dick. Like you haven't?)
3. It's a great topic for dinnertime conversation. Women generally seem to find it quite interesting. Men generally turn kind of pale.
   

With my newfound surgical skills, I've been contemplating a few more self-surgical procedures. You know, mole removal, wart removal, nose jobs, the whole vista of cosmetic surgery. I'll need some help for that mole on my back, which means training an assistant. Ah, the future looks interesting indeed ...