Post-Fucking-Xmas Comic

Christmas for me this year wasn’t all that different from last year. No Clown-Faced Girl for me. I’m thinking that Santa did visit some of you. Well, congratu-fucking-lations.

Here is my post-Xmas comic. It doesn’t really have a title. I was going to call it, “Santa Gets His Groove On.” But that sucks. So, let’s just call it, “Stoogepie’s Post-Fucking-Xmas Comic.” Merry Post-Fucking-Xmas.

This fucked up year will be over soon. Good riddance, 2009. Don’t let any anvils fall on your head on the way out. Also, fuck you 2009. You sucked ass.

Happy New Year and Happy New Decade. Stoogepiety is coming. Men: eat cake with your porn, shave your pubes, stop wearing underwear, and start treating pigs with the respect they deserve. Women: wear thigh-highs, find more revealing outfits with very short skirts, stop wearing underwear, and start treating pigs with the respect they deserve.

That’s all I have to say about the holidays for now.

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Porn for Chicks

A while ago, in her post on the Toy With Me website, Crissy had this idea about Porn for Chicks™.  It intrigued me.  I like porn and I like chicks.  And I like porn chicks.

It’s true that most non-porn chicks do not seem to like porn.  And by “porn,” I mean the porn that dudes like: dude porn.  As an example, if I wanted to create an awesome porn movie for dudes, I might hire, say, four hot sluts and fifty whatever dudes.  I might tell the sluts to skip the obligatory colon-cleaning enema before the shoot, and I would have the fifty dudes fuck the four women up the ass.  I would call this epic Shitty Shitty Ass Bang.  Voila!  Instant bestselling porn classic.

But chicks would not find this entertaining.  Only dudes would buy it.  I have no idea why.

And women don’t like those awesome sex moves you learn from porn, either.  Like, for instance, I have not yet met a woman who wants for you to lean over and spit on her asshole right before you fuck it.  Go figure.  Women are strange.

Anyways, my point is, Crissy is right: chicks do not like dude porn.

In my epic, Shitty Shitty Ass Bang, notice that I did not even try to come up with any plot.  Who cares?  I could just do it gonzo, with almost no plot at all: the fucking is the story.  Or, I could come up with some flimsy set-up and call it a plot.  In fact, it could end, just like Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, with a fudge recipe.  I am all about The Irony, peoples.

Women want a better story.  For men — admit it, dudes — Ron Jeremy epitomizes everything that is wonderful about porn.  He is pretty much a huge dick attached to a hair-covered Hot Pocket®.  One of those meatball and cheddar Hot Pockets® that fell behind the stove and got covered in grease and hair and who knows what the fuck else.  Dudes think, “But look at that dick coming out of it! And that Hot Pocket® sure knows how to use that dick, too!”

But women want a story.  Why is that slut fucking a hairy, greasy Hot Pocket®?

That’s why Crissy and I got together to create Porn for Chicks™: porn that has the story women want but also has the fucking that men want.  Our first efforts to storyboard our ideas follow.  We used the stories from timeless literary classics — Chick Lit — and stayed utterly true to those storylines.  But we also provided the sordid details left out by the censors.

So, you know, go over to Crissy’s or to her latest Toy With Me post and let us know which of these ideas you like best.  Crissy has some time off around Crissymas or something so we plan on shooting one of these straight to video then.  Or something.  But don’t even bother telling me which one you like unless you’re ready to either fork out twenty bucks for the DVD or, you know, accept a leading role or something.

That’s all I have to say about Porn for Chicks™ right now.  We are going to start producing these right away, so place your orders now.

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Ninja Rape Gang

Usually I have something to say about the shit that I post. This time, I don’t really have all that much to say except that I get a lot of hits owing entirely to my infrequent mentions of porn and zombies and religion. Google and Bing like those topics almost as much as Google and Bing like that story about that teenage vampire dude so thoroughly pussywhipped by an utterly uninteresting teenage girl that he has clits on his face instead of zits.

Well, I am straying from those topics this time. I am going to share with you the sad tale of the Ninja Rape Gang. Gang-raping ninjas won’t get me any fucking hits, but I have to tell this story because it is based upon a true story I made up a few weeks ago when I was so drunk that even cake couldn’t give me a hard-on. But this story did. I mean, this story plus cake.

So, without further ado, I present Ninja Rape Gang.

Oh, Happy Turkey Day if you celebrate that holiday or watch football or eat like you won Lotto: The Food Stamp Edition or whatever. This Thanksgiving, I am going to my mum’s house like I do every Thanksgiving. She will tell me to eat more and then we will sit on the couch and make small talk until I turn on the TV. And then, usually during a L’Oreal or Garnier commercial, she will see some actress and say to me, “Oh, isn’t she lovely, dear?” Because my mum is a subtle lesbian like that. And then my mum will tell me that even if I order ten wives from Russia — she just adored Chicken Kiev when that Russian restaurant was still open near Carnegie Hall — I can still be a reckless philanderer but I will have beautiful children.

So I might order a few dozen Russian brides, soon.

Also, I am working very hard, peoples, so I am not around that much. And when I am around, I am obsessed with gang-raping ninja comics. Because that’s just my way. So, I will answer all of your emails very, very soon, meaning never or maybe even a few days before then if there is no new porn on the internet.

Anyways, that’s all I have to say about the Ninja Rape Gang.

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CSI: Stoogetown

So, I had a funeral for a friend to go to recently.  That’s a downer, except that when someone relatively young and well known dies there are, in general, some sweet women there and often one of them is definitely available.  Also, there is usually a pretty good story about the death itself.

But I won’t dwell on all of that.  So here is a cartoon about death.

For all you fuckers who complain that I don’t post often enough, this is 29 fucking panels. If I did a panel every single day, it would take two weeks or something. You get belated quantity, not timeliness.  But I will admit that I have missed me almost as much as you have.

That’s all I have to say about death right now.  Next up, literature or something.

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Mister Shorts Number 9

So, it’s time for a Mister Shorts. But first, stoogepie’s sad tale of credit card woe.

I lost a fucking credit card a few weeks ago. Maybe I left it at a bakery in the West Village when I made a pretty goddamn large baked goods purchase. I don’t fucking know. I went back to that bakery but I didn’t even ask the baker chicks about the credit card. I just bought some more cake and left.

I called the credit card company because, yo, that is what you do when you lose your credit card. It is not like when you lose your virginity or your mind and you just say, “Well fuck me. I will never get that shit back.” And it is not like when you lose your girlfriend or your wad and you just say, “Whatev. It will take me twenty minutes to replace that.” When you lose your credit card, you have to call the credit card company and tell them your sad tale of credit card woe and answer a bunch of questions and then it’s up to them whether or not to send you a brand stinking new credit card. I had never lost a credit card before, so I was kind of nervous about this.

So, you know, I called the credit card company over in Calcutta or wherever and told them I lost my credit card, and I got a very nice plastic lady who told me that, fuck my sorry ass, it looked like someone had been using my card to make illegal purchases. She asked me when I had lost it and I said I did not know. Maybe a few weeks ago. I thought it was on my desk or at the dry cleaners or fucking an ATM machine or what the hell ever. How should I know? My credit card has a mind of its own.

So the very nice plastic lady said, well, it looks like there is some suspicious charge activity, so let’s go back a month or so. And she said, “There is a charge for a website, it looks like some kind of adult website.” And I asked which site. And she told me and I said, “yeah, that’s the one with the ass smoothies that Ken turned me on to a while back. Nah, that was me.” See, I have that credit card in AutoFill in my Google Toolbar, so I just click to use it. I don’t need actual plastic at all. I might have lost the card by then, but who the fuck knows?

Anyways, the nice plastic lady goes through like fifteen more porn purchases and a few cake purchases until we got to that last live purchase at the bakery, and then just more online porn. And at the end of the call, the lady actually asks me, “Do you work in the pornography industry or something? That is a lot of porn.” And I said, yeah, I am a porno dude. If she watches porn, she might even recognize my dick. It’s the veiny reddish one that tilts up and to the right at the head. And then she just said my new card will arrive in a couple of days and hung up on me.

I got the card and promised myself that, this time, my signature on the back would not look like I took ten meth tabs, then dug my eyes out with a spoon, and then signed with my left hand while jerking off with my right. But that did not happen.

I won’t even tell you about how both graphics cards in my computer failed last week because that is even more fucking boring than my tale of credit card woe. But I will say this: good day, graphics cards! I said, good day!

That’s all I have to say about woe is me and all that shit. Next time, I will have a comic so badass you will not even get past the first fucking panel before you rub one off.

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