Horse Rage (uncontrollable)

KNEBRASKA, HORNSLIVER - It's probably not known that some of our staff members and their loved ones have mixed feelings about musclecries, but as professional journalists, we've set our opinions aside and have decided to cut straight to the sop.

In a friendly rolling hills county among the weeping willows and the howling church goers of WalMarg Amirka, you can't find a more animal-friendly region. There is no industrializing of meats or unafraid-of-god modifications of green no-tastes or peppered flesh sauce. Ecosystems are respected and so is the proven science of leaving shit how it is. I won't mince words here as I adjust my sun blocking fag stomp-er hat, no sir. However, since the conserving of Classic Car Juice has so starkly inhibited the refuel-ers of NASCAR, a new "breed" of entertainment has emerged, one that has left several spectators with mixed reactions. Omaha bred beef grind corn spit Jibkif Whitelight calls it unnatural.

"Horses used to jis' bite 'en kick 'in give tha people a good nature-d tussle romp. Ain't no sense in invoking the word ah gawd." says Jibkif.

Another man, Tennessee shitstacker Quiggers Kuck, said, "teachin' horses how tah ask the Almighty Lord to smite another horse is jus' as natural as votin' for what's true and right."

Regular horse wars used to include two furious beasts and a fresh hot dog inserted into each animal's anus, which would spur the creatures into attacking each other in a standard manner. Now, lordlovers have decided to train their combatants in the art of invoking the power of Christ, by way of modifying a gold spell called Pulsa diNura. The steeds can then perform harmful and sometimes fatal miracles, including but not limited to levitation, transformation, blinding speed, vengeful strength, telekinesis, summoning angels, massive erections and God Eyes.

Tryumphs in Food Eating: Hall of Legunds

Whenever I think about the Hall of Legunds, my eyes suddenly well up with wistful tears and a terrible groan begins to lumber fourth from my lower bowels. I wish so badly I could go back in time to when I competed in the MEAL FINISHERS CHAMPIONSHIP... before I lost everything I had to those god damn Courn Boys. But there's nothing I can do now. I am, at this moment, a shriveled and incontinent old man with no hope for redemption. But one thing I can do before I pass onto the holy rivers of yore, is tell my story to you, the Pepsi generation.

When I was a young man, I had the world at my fingertips. Not only was I handsome young man, but I was a good food deposit. In fact, my friends used to call me "Hoagie Todd" because I liked to eat Hoagies sometimes in my lunch sack. My mom was my biggest fan. She supported me in my food hunger. Sometimes, she would even sneak in my room in the middle of the night with a hot kettle full of beans and dump them under my sheets to get rid of bed demons that lusted after young boys like myself. (I would of course eat the beans in my sleep.)



A picture of me. "Hoagie Todd," as I was known.

Anyway, as I grew, I realized I had a natural talent for finishing my meals. That's when my mom recommended I compete with at that year's MEAL FINISHER'S CHAMPIONSHIP, so I could be forever emblazoned in the Hall of Legunds. But there was only one problem... the Courn Boys were the reigning local champions 5 years in a row.

The Courn Boys were three brothers who ate Hobs of Courn for breakfast lunch and dinner. Rumor has it they were born in the middle of a cournfield under a Harvest Moon while their pregnant mother was walking through the cournfield eating a hob of courn. Suddenly, after her last bite of courn, all three brothers fell out of her open birth passage onto the soft dirt and proceeded to grab fresh courn off the stalks and feast upon their moist innards.



"The Courn Boys" Circa 2002

Eveer since then, the Courn Boys have earned a wicked reputation for finishing nearly every meal they've ever been given--and destroying anyone who got in their way. Their leader, Fern Vucker, even claims to have a 100% clean meal deposit record for his life, a record current WURLD CHAMPION Chor Bloodheart won't even claim to himself.

Despite my fear of competing with the Courn Boys, I decided to sign up for the Meal Finisher's Championship anyway. On the day of the event, I was terribly assaulted by the Courn Boys. They all approached me in the men's bathroom and begin prodding me with hobs of courn. Soon, they removed all my clothing and begin poking me in the dark passage and under my toenails, leaving me with yellow nuggets dropping out of my body for weeks!

Now, as I think back on those terrible moments, I wish I would have had the courage to finish the Meal Finisher's Championship. But those god damn Courn Boys ruined everything for me and left me with a red, raw inner highway for weeks to come.

Smoke Force: Marijuana Jetfighter's Academy

It's a well known fact that the United States military recruits at high schools and junior colleges because they know they'll always be able to pick up a few slackers and green-nugget tokers. Whether it's crumbling under pressure from family, or succumbing guilt about their lack of accomplishments, over ten thousand students sign up per month.

Up until recently, the military would frown upon their troops "ripping a bullhorn," "sucking a babyfinger" or "puffing on a jammer," especially while on active duty. But now, things have changed...

The military has officially recognized the unanimous admiration for "green dope" among the long-haired, tribal-tattooed youth of the American mainstream. And the military has adjusted it's rigorous standards accordingly. As of today, the military is now offering special "enlistment bonuses" to young men and women with "toke mouths." What is the bonus, you ask? A special-edition US military fog-tube, so the young people can huff in style.



But the best part of the new enlistment program is that no matter your age, IQ or physical limitations, you WILL be issued a personal jet and YOU WILL be able to fly it on fun missions. According to General Zig Ironcollar, of the Military Airplane Guys, most normal "non-drug using" individuals are a bit "uneasy" about doing bombing runs on heavily populated areas. He expects that good tasting snacks like potato crunches and cheese dip will lure young "Marijuana Jetfigher Academy" students into bombers, and while distracted by using the controls and feasting upon snacks, will be able to successfully accomplish nearly any mission--and return home with only faint, hazy memories of what happened--or how many innocents were obliterated.

We've spoken to a few recent graduates of the Smoke Force: Marijuana Jetfighter's Academy to get their thoughts on the program:

"I thought it was pretty cool. My bro Lincoln got inside of a DC-138 and hit a huge fog tube while he was flying upside down. It was sooo rad. The plane ended up crashing into a neighborhood in Syria, but my bro Lincoln parachuted out before anything bad happened. And luckily, he remembered to grab his fog tube before he hopped out. Hahaha. The miliatary wasn't even mad. Those dudes were like 'WE HAVE SO MUCH MONEY.' It was hilarious. Rock on!"

-Ched Falconheart

"I singed up for the Smoke Force because the guy said I'd get a free rip-rod to inhale smoke with. Now that I'm graduated, they gave me an SR-71 blackbird to do stealth missions. Last night I flew over an all women's prison in Iraq and snapped some pictures of naked tits from 60,000 feet. The image is grainy but I still masturbated to it before I went to bed. Tomorrow I'm going to do the same thing."

-Sloan Meatbones

Cat's Crotch Ghoulf Presents: An Interview With Skin-Legend Yang Bogey

Cat's Crotch: I see you've touched a man.
Yang Bogey: Yes, I recently touched a man at the Smelfur Open.
CC: Did you intentionally touch that man, or was it a hand error?
YB: It was mostly a hand error. I am aware of the laws regarding polo shirt shoulder-to-hand contact.
CC: You touched [Prow Ghoulfer] Pause Hampton correct? How did he respond to the flesh to fabric swiff?
YB: He wailed like a dying Marmot and began to empty all of his bowels and bladder onto the shortgrass.
CC: That's a fine reaction I'd say.
YB: Considering the circumstances, I can't blame him for what he did.
CC: Yes, it was acceptable. Did you help him collect his body litter?
YB: Yes, out of sheer nervousness we began to collect his wetness and softspots from the roughage.
CC: Were you able to collect it all? We're aware that the value of a Ghoulfer's excrement is incredibly high.
YB: It truly is, yes. We were able to collect most of it. Wasting it would be a shame to the profession.
CC: And then you went directly to the hospital, correct?
YB: Yes, I rode with Pause Hampton all the way to Mother Mary Of Grace Schwartzburg Hosptial where the doctors were able to forcibly insert most of it back into his slimetubes.
CC: (Groaning) Excellent.
YB: I'm sorry but that noise you just made was inexcusable and rude.
CC: My apologies, I am a man of sensitivity.
YB: I accept your apology.

A Plead: Quit Enchanting Our Young Boys

By Ridge Oakwood,
American Columnist
Outraged American


Let this be a message to all you Popinjays, Coxcombs, Dandies and Woodpeckers: I know what you're doing to all of our young boys and I don't like it. As a large wage earner, I feel that I'm entitled to raise two young, hearty boys who like leather footballs and the soft feeling of a woman's breast at midnight. I don't want to lose them to the pleasures of masculine anal lust. And I feel that all you hairy pixies are trying to use your green-glowing enchantments on boys like mine to make them enjoy fast-paced music and tight-fitting jeans.

I was raised by my father, Cedar Oakwood to be a man of the dollar. A man who climbs the ladder to success and busts the rungs behind him as he climbs, so as not to let any Tootles follow me up and sniff my anal fur. But in these dark days, I feel that there are Slipperies around every corner, just waiting to wrap their dark mouths around the private parts of my teen-aged sons, and it drives me wild with confusion and anger.

Late on Sunday nights before bed time, my father, Cedar, used to set me on his lap and point off to the north star. He used to say "son, do you see that north star? That's the star that represents how much I hate fags." Then he used to go on to explain that Bum Crunchers weren't allowed around our family, because they use special enchantments to convert us to their side, like they did to my dad's brother, Nash.

He used to tell me that Nash was kidnapped out of his bed by an army of Nipple Pinchers and they used telepathic mind rays to convert him to loving pink stars instead of pink canyons. I haven't talked to my uncle Nash since I was a young boy, when he used to let me try on his leather hats.

The point I'm trying to make is, I've seen the damage that has been done to young American stone horses like my boys. My boys are so strong and muscular. They sweat so hard in PE class. The last thing I want for them is to be turned into a bunch of Tootsie Rolls.

If you can, please join me at the Peach Mountian Lodge for a Town Hall Meeting about how we can clean up this great Capitalist Nation by removing the Hoobers and Nonnernots.

In the meantime, please enjoy this photo image of my young boys, taken in my garage late at night: