willpowerbutch - Tumblr blog

[willpowerbutch]

Willpower Butch and the Son of God

By the Reverend Willpower Butch

We found ourselves in a dour, tangled wood, having strode excellently to the north of the ruins of London. We were safeguarding ourselves from the Homosexual by burning his nail polish and thrusting our pelvises as we walked – I, by virtue of my untrammeled virility, and Timpani Gayparade because I was repeatedly kicking his ass – for this display of breedful lumber-hauling intimidates even the most unhyperbolic Gay into hours of aesthetic crying. My un-non-sodomized companion, Paragon Shag, halted us before a gully, grimacing as he did at its detestable and wet resemblance.

“Quite Anti-Rimbauded Stoics,” spake he into the gap in the David’s pants, “were you capable of womanly regard for your environment, I should caution you now to take protective hold of your erections. For I scent among the pungent mosses a grievous concoction of defensive sarcasm, elderflower, and fear of guns.”

“No!” shouted Top-a-mée Christopherhitchens tremulously at Shag’s injunction. “That odor could only announce one thing: an Anglophilia of Transgendereds!”

No sooner had the flaccid, strawberry-incensed brat danced this were we come upon by these self-same Transgendereds. They were crudely crayoning beards and boobs onto the yearbook photos of children while singing the “Internationale” in Esperanto. And they were, without exception, slathered in a gloopy, glittery sludge.

“Alas, they have fornicated with Boy George,” Shag supposed.

“Nay,” I overruled him, speaking the truth because I am a Man, “they are the undead. See how they rise from the ground like a Gay asshole thrashing up toward Papalism. See how they have returned from Tim Curry’s House to torment their enemies.”

For, in the center of that discoing mass, there stood the trifecta of swallowing come at somebody else’s orgy and then complaining about the taste: Graham “transplanted his ass onto his face” Linehan, Germaine “spectacularly missed the point of her own life’s work” Greer, and JK “spent the nineties roleplaying a little boy and is desperately trying to deflect” Rowling.

The trifecta hailed our entourage, noting that we were not party to the Transgenders’ Dostoevskian lower bureaucrat fetish. “Help us!” they cried.

Marzipan Dostoevsky, friend of Vladimir Purina and King Gay of Sierra del Fuego. His infamous bent nose is the result of giving too much head.

Forthwith, we left them and continued on our way, crossing the border into Scotland.

As we plowed further into the wilds, we encountered a strange portal carved into the rockface of a proud spire. Drawing closer, Michael Sheen exclaimed, “This is it! The secret cavern where Franc’n’o has kidnapped God. But how may we come inside?”

There was, indeed, no discernible way through, for the doorway was a mere carving on stone. Near the top, there was a message scrawled in Scotlandenisishlatin.

The David stepped forward, the arches of his hips and back as sturdy and graceful as a yew, and his mouth as red-pink, as inviting, as absolutely forbidden as yew berries, gyrating as he read the words to himself.

“Read homo in the face of Man, and enter,” he translated for us. Turning toward me, his expression was puzzled. “Homo in the face of Man?”

“Shag,” I said frowningly, “what do you make of this?”

“Perhaps it’s a riddle. Omo represents the eyes, the ridges of the brow, and the nose in the face of Man, for facial hair is too powerful to render in this Nancy language,” Shag considered. “What we do not know is the symbolism of the ‘h.’ What could that be?”

“A cowlick?” suggested Gayparade.

“One ear?” ventured Michael Sheen.

“The tongue, sticking out?” lilted the David.

“The tongue, sticking out,” I murmured, repeating him. “Why else would Franc’n’o construct such an opening? He means for us to enact something that no Man would ever do, for the genital of the Gay is magnetized to the tongue of the Straight Man.”

My companions were much astonished at this, but also greatly impressed that I had retained so many facts about the Gay from only one drunken viewing of their episode on the Discovery Channel.

Looking between them, I could perceive the fear in their rapid flacciding. “Nay!” I shouted, mustering all my strength, “MEN!” And thus, I kicked through the doorway, sending out a shockwave that turned every blushing, pristine flower for miles into beer-soaked charcoal, scented with entitlement. And we were through.

Treading into the dark, it was several minutes before we came upon a peculiar thing. At the end of the hall was a garish, stadium-lit roller-skating rink, but unlike any we may see in the world above, for this rink was tiled with a material smoother than any quality of marble or varnished wood: twinks. Our metal-toed boots clanged as we approached, and upon this clamor, the twinks rolled around, alarmed, and like cats puffing their tails, they sprang their stiffnesses at us.

“Gentlewomen!” exclaimed the vile Franc’n’o from his throne of unsexiness. “You think that I’m greeting you to your faces, but in fact, I’m admiring your thighs!”

It was in this moment I knew that Franc’n’o had succeeded in becoming a Gay at last. And I mourned, my lords. I mourned the children unborn because Ben Whishaw and his cohort have made western Europe into a writhing accumulation of sexually ambiguous style magazine cover-shoots. I mourned that the poppy fields of yesteryear are become the pansy fields of today. And most of all, I sprayed three-in-one shampoo/conditioner/bodywash into Franc’n’o’s eyes, for this confuses the radar of the Homosexual.

Notwithstanding this, Franc’n’o pounced. And, like a quietly imposing youth who always sits alone at the bar and vanquishes toxic masculinity by making engaged straight men curious about bottoming, his fierce countenance froze me to the spot. But just when all hope seemed lost, there emerged a shot a pearly white from behind him, disintegrating the villain into innumerable molecules of coming-of-age movie nosebleeds.

At first, I could not make out the source of this blast through the shimmering dust of a thousand twinks vanishing back into the realm of the fae. But as they dissipated in the air, I saw him directly. He was a titan of a Man, impossibly contoured, possessing flawless bronze skin and a statuesque comportment. He had hair that no beauty appliance had homosexed, and yet it was both as firm and as silken as victory garlands. He beckoned Shag and me to him, and when he spoke in his engorging baritone, it was a language otherworldly and supreme, far too masculine to pass the lips of any mortal man.

Gesturing to me, he boomed, “У него толко серп, но у меня большой молот.” And then, he turned toward a large set of doors, and we could only infer that he meant for us to follow. We passed into another long, dark hallway, which culminated in a yet larger portal which emitted an indescribable glow. “Зови меня капитаном подлодки, потому что я углубляюсь,” he spoke again and urged us inside.

We were blinded altogether, so bright was that interior. Droplets rose to Shag’s eyes and to my hardness. A voice still deeper, still richer, still more impossible accosted us. “Do not fear, my good Men,” it said. “This is my Son, whom mortals have met before. He returns to you rebranded as his true form, and his name is Panzer Dzheesaskrist.”

Dimly, I made out the irresistible figure who had addressed us. At once, all was clear. Such a vision met me, my indomitable brothers with extreme personal space, that I shall remember and love forever: it was God, the Manliest Man of all.

About the Author

The Reverend Admiral Willpower Butch, who recently topped the human race by releasing God from a pervert’s Scottish underground fetish athletic studio, is hard at work on his petition to remove fruit from public markets on the basis that it is gay propaganda. Paragon Shag, his brave correspondent and roommate, is coming out with a line of deconstructed cars to raise money for Brothers In The Comintern Have Enlarged Scrota, an anti-communist mission. Their secretary and Russian fairytale character who gets no dialogue, Dead Summer Days, is treading on thin f*cking ice with his decision to start wearing sweatpants.

[willpowerbutch]

The David of the Apocalypse

By the Honorable Willpower Butch, PtSD

It was the cruel snarl of the earth beckoning us down, to the black maar which had been an ardent English plain. The wind was picking up. Out before me along the freshly formed rocks, perfidious French papaya jockey Dickinmée Cumdelay had tripped upon something bulbous and unseemly; and falling, falling like the Homosexual’s horns when he reaches maturity, he was rescued only in the immense and muscularly twined groin of my own deplorable, Gay un-former friend, Paragon Shag. Devouring Cumdelay’s sigh of gratification with his nascent-yet-overpowering communism, Shag hoisted him into the acrid air and commenced trying to find the tip with his own Internationale organ.

All was silent about us, and as barren and wet as Tom Rob Smith when he forced Ben Whishaw to top. Nothing grew, not even wretchedly, but the indignation and fury blooming in my sweltering and hectic loin. The End of Days had slumped hard over our backs, thou unimpugnable Excellent, and there had not even been the dirge of wang clarinets to herald it. We were living in the new world – and had had our first, infernally slippery taste of the Really Quite Abrupt Coming.

“Butch,” spake Shag to me, stepping aside in consideration of my sexual fitness and the superiority of my gender, as an un-tragically-wristed Man, “God hath eluded us, and we have drunk in all of His night clubs before leaving London, and now we have incited Him with our vile Homosexing all over His virginal nature, to no avail. Where is there left to look?”

And through all the splatter, I saw realization cross his face. He knew as I did that such blue-balls could only be the work of James Franc’n’o, who also recurs in the spectacularly drunk. For we had trudged into the nadir, and there, crumbling like suburban fathers before packs of flamboyant volleyballers hitting on them at the beach while they’re trying to grill, at our feet was not a God but the impression of one, one who had already left us ere we found Him.

“No,” Shag breathed beside me, betraying by this gay emotion the stole-bedecked predilection of his ticklestick. “Oh, my eternally special friend, we are too late.”

And it was so, the crackling obsidian and pyric sludges gaping back at us, empty where the Lord had been when He fell from the summer firmament.

“Like, are we sure God was here? Maybe there are other, more swollen craters around,” impeded Shag’s foul life-European, Cumdelay.  

“Not unless He came careening out of space and into your frontal lobe, slut,” I danced back righteously.

“Or into Hugh Dancy,” said Shag, shaking his coil. “Let us consult our Women. For it is well known that Woman is made in the image of a broken rib, much like James Franc’n’o’s penis.”

I addressed them thus. “Woe-unmen!” I thrusted. “Reach into yourselves and tell me, where has that weaselly, gross virgin Franc’n’o lollipop-lured the Lord God to with his unbearable squalidness?”

They did not answer, for the voice of a Man is too powerful for anyone to respond to without significant prior hydration, but one pointed across the caldera, toward the Grecian pleasure palace concealed innocuously behind towering, burnt trees and erotic statuary. We made for it at once, betraying no fey gratitude. And then, there: methought upon our advance that I heard an auspicious sound, the heralding of men watching Ovaltine commercials in the midst of sexual crisis.

Bursting through the door, a dozen marble breasts crushed in my hand, I roared, “Where is God, you incestuous fop?”

“I can show you something even better, my dude,” Franc’n’o reprehensibled, nodding toward his lab assistant, Michael ‘Is that an ice cream in my esophagus or am I happy to see you?’ Sheen. We were led aside to a large, glass case, filled with glitter glue and ‘90s children, where was suspended a specimen I hesitate to call a man – such a specimen, as though carved from the frustration of anyone who’s ever seen a butterfly wing and thought, ‘What a shame it hasn’t got a Scottish accent and whorelike proclivities.’ That is to say, an incalculable sluttastrophe.

“Wow!” Rimamée Alladay’s jaw dropped hard, like Tom Holland’s ass at the sight of leather pumps. “What is he?”

“The apotheosis of androgyny,” Michael Sheen declared. “A Force Majeure of fellatio. Oh, he is the North Wind of bi-curious wetness, torrential gay-sex, a tea and sympathy-ed superweapon of randy propositions. He is—”

“My David,” Franc’n’o cut in, strumming his terrible poetry against the glass. He addressed us, effervescing, the overhead lamps caressing his vacuous unsexiness. “This, my ripped masters, is the David to end all Davids, Goliathed over by even the most underaged of my girlfriends. Ben Whishaw is trembling in his chaps and edible nipple clamps. Check out that tiny waist, man! And wait ‘til you get a load of his accent. Bet it’ll sound good when I’m railing him with all my rolled-up restraining orders.”

Franc’n’o skanked up to the control panel, oblivious to the tension his words had convened among us, but I did not miss Michael Sheen’s jarred expression, nor how his erection flagged beside mine.

And then the disgusting troll doll recited this ode:

“Oh, David of discotic unchastity, of summer camp showers Where two schlong-endorsed youths, such as he and I, Get into a golden and innocent kerfuffle of lashing Just over the sphincter as he writhes and licks The camp master, and turns us all just effete enough That less people pound our asses in the bad way for being insufferably pretentious. His legs splayed and yielding, lithe David, Whose rich hair resembles a steed of fine breeding, sleek When it is not tempested with spend, or with fragrant Candlewax, or with both, or with motorcycle grease Or pale dust from taking it in the grass, Or the bramble and beetles that live in the nether Of Mark Gatiss. Yes, Willowy and perfect, most excellent homo, The end to end forever no-homos, David of Davids, you bane of bourgeois Furniture and public decency, mouthpiece made flesh: You once did come to me in this meth lab And sit in my lap, your feet on the ceiling And we made an experimental short film where you Tenderly sucked my ego all night, and then I woke And you were only a dream And I, a pervert. Amen.”

Then, Franc’n’o cranked the lever, and out tumbled the David, manifesting as he did a Dom suit, landing atop his foul master.

“Ahah!” the David whooped. “This is where I like to be! Where are all the ladies, ya ponce?”

In disgust, Franc’n’o threw the David off, spewing aghast. But Michael Sheen went unto him, cooing jazz-handedly as he helped the creature up. “There, pretty one. Give those hip joints a good breaking in before I do it for you.”

He moved among us then, this David, uneven on his feet – slipping on embryonic fluid disarmingly, as though he had come only from one of Benedict Cumberbatch’s charity dinners-cum-man rodeos and not from the very alembic of mentioning your neighbor’s wife while he’s sucking you off at a mutual friend’s garden party and then not speaking to each other again for twenty years  – arms loping around the Women possessively.

Franc’n’o, the while, was muttering his discontent, which I heard in snatches. “He’s wearing a vest, Michael,” he spat up like an amateur. “Who the fuck told the Scottish about outerwear?!”

So the gay homos went on chattering as is there wont, for they must keep their tongues well exercised in order to withstand the toughened skin of the penis; therefore, it fell to myself, the sole and heroically spineful Man, to address this Thing, this elastic and raging slut. Widening my stance, I spoke unto him. “Tell us, vile David, who hath emerged in Grave Fabulance to destroy the corporate family with natural cosmetics and velvet: art thou a Gay?”

He looked upon me with an inexplicable smirk. At length, he gulped and opened his summer-ripened lips to answer. “Maybe not,” said he, “but you never know.”

We were much astonished at this response and did not speak for a while.

“In fact,” he began again, jutting his hips, maneuvering the ladies to him, “I’ve never been sure that I do it quite right -- well, conventionally, I mean.”

“I could show you,” Michael Sheen interjected in a whisper, licking his lips, “if you’d like.”

The David chuckled at that and then folded his body in a languid arc to expose his baby bird waist.

“Just you? That would be anecdotal at best. You know what I think?” concluded that most obscene, unmanly Man, cracking the ‘k.’ “I think that the gay community needs to get off of Oscar Wilde’s dick... and onto mine.”

Striking while the ass was hot with that erudite reference, the David was at once deluged by Michael Sheen and the enraptured Women. And although what followed was the first beauteous instance of heterosex I had witnessed with mine eyes since Rasputin, before the British Invasion turned red-blooded American men into prissy bottoms in the ‘60s, I could not bear to look on. A heavy sorrow came upon me, and a chill entered my posterior, and I thought on that lost generation, my generation, that had spiraled into such unrepentant unisex nipple worship.

At length, the David approached me in my stiff-thighed anguish, huffing breathily as he appraised my trouser dinosaur, and he winked at Shag. “Will you look at that? I could have too much fun with these ladies,” he celticked while easing the toothbrush from his throat. Leaning closer, he swung his awkward telephone pole legs about my waist, confident despite the fact that the skin of a Man is toxic to such nancified sailor otakus. His breath by my superiorly ensconced neckbeard came in a deep suck and a chuckle. “You’ll keep out a sharp eye that I don’t get carried away, won’t you, Master Butch?” he allured flamingly.

Drawn up so close, I found that the David, despite looking like an evil wizard had turned the essence of wind into a stripper, and having no impulse control over his lower half, did not taste overly sweet and milky like a Homo, but rather of rival handshakes and monumentalism and curtains that don’t match the furniture. But it was not this that struck me most. It was, in fact, the lack of dangling fury I felt at his obscene behavior, and therefore I wondered if Franc’n’o had not succeeded in his pyrrhic experiment after all.

“Look,” he tipped his head toward the revelers, chin handsome and stubbled, half-grinning despite the seriousness that had overtaken his voice, “my fellow superlative Man. There is a special providence in the fall of a dipsomaniac. I’ve had two drinks now, and I, a stalwart Top in my sobriety, am falling into the depravity of plausibly deniable bottoming. What say you?”

I drew a loud breath as the David flicked his tongue over my chainmail, gaze shifting over the unkinkable musculature of my manhood, and his throat clenched, lips hot with shame.

Then, he turned his spooky anime eyes back upon the undulating crowd.

“Master Butch?” the David frowned, creeping a hand up toward that structure which would be my clavicle if bones were not Gay. “Where has Franc’n’o got to?”

“Alas!” cried Shag, genuinely crying because he is a twink. We extracted Michael Sheen from the David’s broadside and dragged him along with us, more or less swishily, after Franc’n’o, in pursuit of God.

Such debasement, sinuous Impenetrites -- as lurid, as tensely and palpably unromantic, as senseless for all its loftiness, as demoralizing for all its oversaturate color as a Tom Hooper film. As we went again into the wasteland, I knew that I had not seen the End of Days, but the end of my day – the bright world of tradition and civility, of Heterosexual copulation, sundered; the cultural prominence of abjectly phallic architecture and culinary vagina metaphors, crumbled to dust. And we may spend a long and arduous night having Gay Sex, my lords, before we see the dawn again – eclipsing us like a female breast, and quite as distant to behold.

 If you give a monkey nitrous oxide, it will eventually write something gayer than this fucking book. But it will probably compose Shakespeare first.

 ~ Nail Gaymen and Ser Vic Etop, Satanic Nanny Sluts

 About the Authors

Since declining into a Gay, correspondent Paragon Shag has become a millennial, destroyed the global economy by refusing to be able to find a job, and died. Unwilling to grant him the sweet release of angst, his eternal Master and the preeminently epic magnanimite of Straight Tops, Willpower Butch, forced him back to life with his throttling BBC 4. Their secretary and minor de Sadean viscount, Dead Summer Days, pursues German philosophy solely to prove to strangers that he is a bitch.  

[willpowerbutch]

[willpowerbutch]

Willpower Butch Infiltrates the BAFTAs

It was my twenty-seventh scotch, noble reader, of the hour; Tom Rob Smith, world-renowned proponent of gay death, was with me, but not in the way a full-lipped apprentice attends to an aging poet, nor as a former classmate who comes to share a booth with one at a bar after a chance meeting which culminates in a divorce pact – for such follies are the province of the Homosexual, that Cyclops, who became so since his loss of depth perception did not enable him to notice breasts. In the midst of the nigh-on soft chatter of our female militia, my companion could be heard making overtures, squalidly, for me to play “snooker” according to his specious and altogether sun-bathed program:

“Willpower, you must use your pole to hit the balls, or else I will best you, and that is improper for a loathsome pervert to do to a manly man.”

“Spare me your monologues, Elton Yawn!” roared I, for I had made excellent progress at ramming my rod into the table’s holes with sweltering masculine virtue.

We had come, concretely, to destroy our health sufficient to the task of passing among the British unobserved.

Although I, a stalwart and heterosexually-attracted Man, would have taken emotionless, ungay pride in eviscerating Tom Rob Smith at golf, we were interrupted by the blaring sirens which indicated that the BAFTAs were soon to begin. So, we left, along with the women – a wolf and an inconvenient rabbit among their flock of sheep – for the Imperial BAFTA Hall, where the Gay-Transgender makes one of its many covens outside of Tom Cruise. Despite our unstoppable approach, my heart was gripped suddenly with incredible weight-lifting, and TRS himself exclaimed:

“Do you see it, Willpower, at the door? There is a vision of extreme displeasure, and a stench arising from it which would make nancies of a lesser constitution die outright. What can it be? Alas, this is why the Gay is impelled toward a lifestyle of superficially confrontational languor, of blasé splendor, because we are so surrounded by the impertinence of heterosexual childbirth. Do you imagine, Willpower, how it is to be imprisoned in this world, to exist in the presence of Neanderthals who think that drunken subway arguments which end in daredevil stripping have no place in public life, and not to be able to set them on fire as they have done countless times throughout history to my scripts? Woe, for this is the fate of the homosexual to endure such preening boredom. Oh, it is Germaine Greer.”

So it was, as we drew close, that we could make out her contemptible visage, which conceals a mass of disgusting platitudes where other persons might possess a brain. Thinking quickly, I sent the contingent of women over, who becalmed the creature with pretty nonsense about uteruses as I and my companion strode bulgingly past.

(Germaine Greer, right, bravely checks a ‘woman’ for beard hair.)

It was at the threshold of the BAFTA Hall that TRS addressed me, insofar as his perniciously pretty physicality would permit, for what the Gay-Transgender lacks in muscle mass it accounts for in spite. “Willpower,” said he.

The remnant of my beard extended and cut into his throat, which he understood correctly to mean that I was about to kill him. He reconsidered whatever soliloquy he had been formulating along our frightful travail through the throngs of disco-dancing initiate necrophiles and on-fire SLAM poets. Instead, he spoke a modicum of sense: “Master Butch, whatever feelings of soulful longing for male love we may have assimilated ‘til now, we must put them further out of mind than Bryan Singer’s career. It is time for us to assert dominance, or we shall be in pulsating danger.”

Manly reader, I was not greatly concerned. “You are aware,” I growled, “that everyone under the age of twenty-five is a woman? and that the Gay has tried many times – deliciously, immensely many times – to convert me and has not more than thrice succeeded? I shall need only to eviscerate those virgins by the power of forthright apoplectic flexing, which is my attribute as a noble Excellent.” 

But TRS shook his head dolefully, like all of mankind who have had the misfortune of reading his books. “That won’t work. What we need, monsieur, is for you to think like a Gay.”

“Like a Gay...”

I pondered this, although I was aware of the degradation to my unmountable masculinity in so doing. Because the Gay is inscrutable to the manly man beyond his suspiciously smooth-faced desires, because the Gay’s entire psyche is ruled by those desires, am I to believe that the key to thinking like a homosexiphone is to slander women until the straight man becomes confused?

I strode in willfully, gloriously, the light glinting off my pectorals sending those hideously Eurythmicsed gargoyles into a fearful advance. It was a vision of such heroism as in Hellenistic days could not be depicted, for the limp hand of the poet shall not wield anything as thickly engorged. Facing down their trimmed stampede, I released unto them:

“Gay homophiles! I am indeed one of your horde, as you can plainly tell by my wet cough. Shall we discourse together on the evils of Woman, who are essentially redundant since the invention of canned corn? Shall we convince the Genuine Man to leave her and her ways, her wiles, her rejection of fully equipped samurai decapitations at family restaurants? Let us stand together, heathens, for I can see an acknowledgement of the truth in my words by the erect posture of your varnished pincers.”

All seemed lost – the Gay Vampires had descended upon me, their decrepit digits wrapped in guilt and recently-unstuck Titanic posters, gyrating in a vicious parody of Reddie Sexchaynge during his electro-shock faith healing in The Danish Girl. They had brandished on me their fearsome skincare, which is known to turn straights into the sort of recently single young men who move to the city to purposely trip on sidewalks in front of low-key leather cafes. But it was then that a miracle took place, that the insatiable fabulant Tom Rob Smith came to the rescue of myself, an indestructible master of unweak gigantism.

Slamming open the door, he addressed the crowd. “I’ve seen all of your films. They’re obvious.”

A gasp echoed through the hall as TRS strutted down the aisle, glowering tearfully, manifesting low-budget ‘90s sex comedies in his wake; and I, in pursuit, took great care to strafe past the apollodisiac influence of his posterior -- for the Gay, natural prey of the manly man, has evolved to paralyze him with insipid perception. We arrived in the front lines, with eminent hormonal abundance, where our way was made by those most cocktail-lit transcendentalists.

It was then we were alerted to the presence of Germaine Greer, who had crept into the hall by reason of the existence of her reproductive capacity. She was joined by the well-educated and generally expert feminist scholar Graham Linehan; that personage was invited to the stage to speak, where he was met with much appreciative braying and the open display of genitalia such as might surprise even Ewan McGregor.  

“Evil perverts,” he yelped, gripping the edge of the podium like the neck of a sub. “I have come to educate you. Listen and assimilate the words of your infinite better. This world is divided at its hilt: in one sphere, our sphere, live the real, who accept the existential primacy of boob size. In the other are the transgendereds. Too easily have you upright homos accepted those vermin in your ranks, for now they have tasted the come of anime weirdos and will no longer settle for overdosing on fake heroin in corporate meeting rooms where they have been hired by the capitalists to populate sex parties. Oh, they will destroy reality given the remotest chance: they will take to it with scotch tape and whore makeup like they did to Tom Holland. Thank God that I, a straight man, have emerged from the depths of intolerable self-fellation to inform you benders which of you is queer, you know, in the normal way.” He concluded this declamation with great flourish: a round of tequilas, called “T shots,” was provisioned to each of us, as club drugs rained from the ceiling and a gaggle of clownfish was brought in to be ritualistically basketballed. Then, giving us a caustic grimace, Graham Linehan disappeared, taking my macho sanity and will to live with him.

The night was only beginning, and directly I understood how the Gay-Transgender could be quite so miserable as they are, that they must prowl the alleyways between disparaged Tex-Mex restaurants in search of lascivious marriage – in order to forget, if only for several months, the vivid lunacy of having to murder everyone who discovers your incest fetish. And I was struck with a sudden melancholy, for the idea of the Gay without its Transgender is an upsetting one: it is far less dignified, erudite, and rose-fleshedly proper, lordly reader, to think only of whom the Gay has sex with and not additionally how.

Nevertheless, it is clear why Hollywood must disapprove of these most vacant transgendereds, for if too many of us should fall into their strange genitalia, how shall show business reliably obtain more children to rape?

Abruptly from out of an enormous, glittering, piano-shaped coffin rose the master of ceremonies, the remaining life-force of Rupert Everett, who disco-danced toward the podium nervously and began his address:

“‘All you need to make a movie is a twink and some glycerin.’ Jean-Luc Godard said this in the seconds before he memorably punched William Wyler face-first through the muffler of his Trabi, and it is perhaps truer today than it was even in his prime as a total Otter. Year by year, as gay culture continues to defile the world with men who look like they might be wearing lipstick but are too flushed to tell, we gather here to celebrate the crimes our community has gotten away with because of the liberal globalist agenda, and in particular, those fantasy characters that actually pull them off. And so, the nominees for people who are probably haunted by their teenage years are as follows: Jake Gyllenhaal, in the role of Borscht, a gay who decides to become bisexual, bringing destruction down upon humanity. Ben Whishaw, our High Shaman of Shame, in Posh Homosexual Encounters of the First Time. Chris Pang, who didn’t do anything gay this year but is unfairly hot. And Tilda Swinton, who is genuinely an alien out to replace every person in the world, this being the sort of tenacity to upset the straights that our Academy recognizes. But as you well know, there can be only one foot-gripping Fonzie, so it is with Biblical villainy that I announce the winner of this year’s Silicone Satan: Ben ‘so bottomy it’s almost straight’ Whishaw!”

The crowd broke into revels immediately, a boundless catastrophe which brought the town of London to its knees in a literal sense, for those Englishmen who are not fashionably bicurious are so accustomed to marmite and scotch eggs that they hardly care what goes in their mouths. And amid the dilating chaos, I took Tom Rob Smith by the arm, but it was, most audaciously musclebound king, a gesture neither tender nor rough, which could not in the remotest circumstance be open to lewd interpretations, as there was no occasion for my thighs to greet his glistening back, grazing “accidentally” for one heart-stalling moment when I could not meet his eyes, as any man who has been to Cracker Barrel on a Monday afternoon will well remember; and, I did not, say, growl seductively that my breath wasn’t the only warm thing I could put in the orifice of his ear, nor did I drag my thumb along the line of his bicep while pristine depression tears glimmered on my cheeks outside a gas station where a group of teenagers was either dangerously wasted or speaking Dutch. Thus, did we wend through the pendulating masses in pursuit of that dimensionless maudlin fairy Timpani Gayparade and the sometime-man who had also been my much be-tolerated roommate, Paragon Shag.

(Timpani Gayparade, right, shared many hours of blazing homosex on the set of Ball Me By Your Chains with his former master and effigy pervert, Smarmy Whammer, most of which made the cutting room floor.)

Turning a corner into the corridor of Z-list drag queens who had become ordained online, we encountered Gayparade in the act of performing a sorcerer’s spell which would grant him bodily existence. Timpani addressed us, having to peer up despite the heel of his combat boots, for the heterosexual is size-advantaged by his immunity to pet-play – a fact that is widely acknowledged even among Gay propagandists: “Trot on over here, lover, and face my hot brothers, some of whom would die to protect me, and the rest of whom will die because they have just witnessed Benedict Cumberbatch try to get the British press to stop calling him a gay bitch by licking out a pork pie.”

And sure enough, with a wail that was more in-tune than Marc Almond could ever be, some fifty of them passed into the oblivion of trying not to become second-hand racist from conservative editorialism. There did endure, however, a small contingent, who approached me with the determination of a newly hatched Transgender learning J-pop lyrics.

“Are we on Russian dash cam?” groaned the first passionately. “Because I’m about to slam you in the rear.”

But he could not anticipate that I had concealed pepper spray and an axe in my jacket, which are a great inconvenience to the Gay. So, it came to pass that those notorious hot brothers were immobilized – by their evil lust for my manhood or by the evacuation of their limbs, I could not be sure. While I dealt with them, Trimathee Chaletgay slipped through my fingers, into the bowels of unfortunate shaving. But it was not for him that I had come.

My goal was there, at the end of the hall, his skin bleached out by the industrial lighting and his degenerate lifestyle. And yet, after so many decades of acquaintance, those brave calves and that carefully swooped shoulder mane were unmistakable to me.

“Shag,” said I. “Are you still...?”

There was a pause as he turned toward me icily. “I – I didn’t change my name, so...”

We loafed about and said nothing, but I did kick three separate iterations of Spiderman down the stairs.

“You, ah,” it was most gay, but I could not come up with something dexterous to say nor a timely masculine reflex. Then I remembered the words of Tom Rob Smith much earlier in the evening. “Hey, girl. You look like they let Randy Quaid back in the movies, but with less visible pubic hair.”

Shag had begun to turn from me – I knew because I was tragically subjected to the witchcraft of gay sexy-walking, whereas the straight man cannot be accused of having hips, for he moves by the sheer gravitational force of his erectile prominence. And, my most red-bedecked haruspex of whatever the fuck Jonathan Ross is ever saying, I could not allow such a flagrant display of dandyism to go unimpeded, for that is how one remains a Top; so, did I call to him once more:

“Shag! Hear me and be somber! I speak, and a profound gloom becomes me, for I would rather not open my mouth around these pedophiles. But, I shall say it regardless: I need you, Paragon Shag, for everything you are – to help me destroy James Franc’n’o and his compound of chad gay clones, to graffiti organic supermarkets with ironic caricatures of Chairman Mao which will put at-risk youths off vegetarianism, to pull the plugs of the unabashed and despotic fairies who have made this world into a sheer-underpantsed nightmare of ex-Soviet post-punk, to be my one true ally against the rising tide of gay joy and the tribulations of this erotic disaster we call life.”

I felt the world end, bicepted Lord – for a long moment, when I could discern nothing on his heavily painted face, my heart stilled, which is not dangerous to the Man because his blood courses by its own perfect will – and when his lips twitched into a smile, Comrade of my Coronary Supersession, I felt it reborn.

Racing toward the exit, our pansificious colleagues and female battalion in tow, I began to imagine that after the stretched darkness had come a thrusting dawn. And then an unbearable shriek fell upon our ears. After we had determined that it was not Ed Sheeran, who is easy to kill, Shag and I turned to each other, establishing wordlessly that me must investigate.

We could see wave upon wave of reclaimed fake fur-draped gay cannibals, Z-snapping anxiously. They had gathered ‘round a TV screen -- but from such a distance as I could not make the picture out, nevertheless, I knew at once what had come to pass -- for the manly man, being preferential in evolution’s progress, is vested the power of second-sight so long as it pertains in some way to explosions. So it was that I realized the day of our reckoning had arrived in the image of a smoldering crater: God had crashed back to earth.

About the Authors

The wayward and athletic Admiral Willpower Butch this week celebrated his fifth decade of victory over superior-acting children, among whom he is universally known as the Hospital Man. He is an unparalleled hero, superlative in his muscular immensity, heterosexual prowess, and aptitude for breaking underdeveloped bones. His correspondent, Paragon Shag, his soul reclaimed from the clutches of pastoralism, would have certainly become such a commandant of auspicious slapping had he only been spared from the gay influence of mathematical implements in his school years. Their secretary and loosely-historically-based magic syphilitic gambler, Dead Summer Days, never thought the apocalypse would look so much like a Robert Rodriguez film.

[willpowerbutch]

Willpower Butch: In Profundis

Dawn clambered over the LA quarantine like a wearied soldier storming a hill – the hill that has become the burning bosom of the Gay-Transgender. Since NASA identified God in the night sky, flying toward earth to assess His children, society has been thrust into a state of nihilistic chaos. The Christians rejoice, and the Gay plot on how to turn Him over to their wickedness. The Transgenitalists, banned from public restrooms, desecrate suburban streets with their bodily fluids in an expression of protest, making neighborhoods where once children could freely get hit by cars while playing Pokémon Go into a biohazard.

(God, who is due to arrive this summer, is shooting through space right now.)

Morning threw these degenerates into relief as they staggered over the pavement of Duplass Avenue and into oncoming traffic, waving stolen underwear on long strips of decrepit building vinyl: the art gallery spinsters who invented Mitski; adults who cosplay as memes; “grandfathers” who loiter in the Youth Bibles section of book stores; and, most troublingly, the bodies of fallen straights, levitating up through the storm drains on the wands of gay necromancers – in short, the entire Green Party – were only the first denizens I encountered along the harrowing road to James Franco’s homo-cidal circus. Everywhere, there were the remnants of bar food and suspicious in-laws. All this was the plutonic vision which greeted my trusted correspondent and I as we strode heterosexfully down the block.

Paragon Shag beside me had not been the same since our eviction from the House of Those Motherfuckers Who Wear Sandals. Only the whiff of pedicure oils on a passing European businessman would send him into such extravagant declamations on the aesthetics of marginalization that I would be impelled to beat the fuck out of him.

“Shag,” I spoke unto him as we arrived at our destination, the Villa de Hermaphrodita, that crypt of human bipedalism. “What is this stench wafting from your chest?”

“Deodorant,” said he.

“I fear for you, Shag. You are aware that deodorant is a witch’s brew intended to inculcate children into the homosexual lifestyle.” He knew as I did that those who use it too much become ravenous beasts, mere British culture journalists, addicted to the scent of Orientalism and male crying.

“Precisely so. We cannot allow ourselves to be overtaken by those limping nancies. With this, we shall confuse their predatory instincts.” And just then, a furious piss communist passed us by, navigating by the odor of listless pretension to James Franco. “You see?” said Shag, turning to me suddenly. He took my arm in the manner of the Romans, up to my elbow. “We are brothers, Mr. Butch, and not in a YouTube Red sort of way, nor in the sense that two different-looking male roommates claim to be, nor in the manner of college boys who make out at strangers’ house parties and tell everyone that it’s part of their fraternity hazing ritual, nor like bohemian male friends who have a large age gap in a hot way, nor indeed like the Quakers, who we all realize developed oatmeal as a gateway to eating spunk.”

He spoke prettily, and I could do nothing but convert my doubt into glorious masculinity. We had come to investigate Franco, after all, whom we suspected of creating twinks to try to turn himself gayer.

We entered the villa -- and there he was, directly before us, barefaced and shockingly confident for a man who looks like a toilet squeegee, licking chocolate off the thighs of a servant boy. James Franco: provocateur of the Gay and war poet of their slick uprising against biological persons.

“Wow,” he greeted us running a hand through his hair. “This is, like, crazy. I haven’t been tag-teamed by two bears since I was on the set of Milk. Did you come to see how I kidnap women and transform them into twinks to make myself gayer?”

We were speechless before this display of arrogance, but Franco’s attention had already been diverted. The servant boy’s epaulet had come unbuttoned.

“Well,” said Franco, hooking him by the shoulders, “the evidence is piling up, huh?”

“Sir?”

“Tell me,” Franco mewled in a squalid attempt to sound erotic, “while you’re existing in a state of, like, untroubled happiness because of straight privilege, do you ever wonder how it feels to have ornery fetish sex with glamorous-yet-blasé strangers every second of your life like the Gay-Transgender are expected to do?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, now you’ll have nothing but time for that, man – as the newest member of the Heterosexual Circus.” Turning mercurially, as if astonished to discover that Shag and I had not moved, Franco addressed us. Raising his arms, he shouted, “Birth is Death! Reason is Treason! Empiricism is Imperialism!”

We could not bear to witness the poor boy’s torture by being forced to be bad at dancing in front of gay perverts. As Shag and I shuffled back onto the street, idly kicking the shit out of a taxi that had parked on the sidewalk, I was emasculated by a notion unrelated to the sweating power of my manhood: that we had not heard the last of these frightful slogans.

*******************************************************************************************

It did not take long for us to find a trap door at the other side of the villa, under a cypress tree. It was locked, but not for a man. Reducing it to smithereens with a mere touch of my beard to it, we descended into a lively disco club where, clinging to the shadows, we moved about curiously. There was in one of the dance-floor cages a sight which startled us.

“Gayflame!” called Shag. “Reddie Gayflame!”

“It’s just Sexchaynge now,” she whispered above the music, on the verge of tears because her body was undergoing a dramatic change.

“But, Sexchaynge,” Shag advanced fretfully, leaving enough distance so as not to be endangered by her femininity, “I thought you were a Gay as well.”

“I was, but I gave it up. You see, I believe in doing things as hard as I can, like Hugh Dancy -- but I knew that I would never be the gayest of all. Not while Ben Whishaw still has a career as an international sex fae... So, why not become a transgender instead, I thought to myself, since there’s less competition?”

Shag nodded sagely.

“Anyway, there is somebody else here that you ought to meet. Follow me.”

My correspondent and I were led into the adjacent hallway, where loomed a misshapen yet familiar silhouette. Suddenly recognizing it, I cried out, “It is the Lord of Lust, the fluent horizontal dancer ‘himself,’ Ben Whishaw! You fiend! You devil!”

But when the vampire stepped into the light, it turned out to be only Twinkathee Charlotterampling, who is merely probably an insatiable fairy.

He threw himself into Paragon Shag’s arms, weeping. “I knew you would never go back to Italy, so I came here to find you. Oh, please say that we can stay together, Daddio. Listen, I can even help you out: Gay Franco isn’t only turning women into twinks, he is then cloning the normal homos! Next, there will be enough fit gay guys to have sex with each other, and Franco will be our only option. Then where will I get any action with men who don’t look like a rejected Muppet? It’s a direct assault on bottoms, and not the fun kind, like when Benedict Cumberbatch gets turnt on Corvo and tries to turn my ass into Christmas lights,” spoke Timpani, gulping. “It’s against my huwoman rights.”

The dimensionless sex balloon’s discourse rained down upon me the spume of flaccid object permanence, and I was forced to rebuke him. “You skinny-jeaned Socratic, you purveyor of gay lies. Humans are not women. And the only right you have is to stop dangling your driftwood in front of every sailor you lay eyes upon. Knave!”

We resumed our progress down the hallway, the two of us and our limpid sidekicks, who stopped every so often to slather their tongues over errant broomsticks. At last, we cruised into a large room, which contained in its rear a glass chamber that held a strange, dark machine within.

“It’s the TRANSporner,” said Timpani Gayparade.

Turning to Shag, I asked, “What do you suppose it is, my macho companion? I cannot well understand the cartoon elf’s French.”

“It must be how Franco transfigures women into the Gay. My God,” Shag exclaimed, “it’s full of emo music.” Grabbing Gayparade’s weird jaw, he brought him into his line of sight so he could address him. “You – What else has Franco created?”

“He has an entire lab devoted to cloning the Gay,” Timpani laughed drily. “And it’s completely, like, impenetrable. Any man who goes in there is brainwashed into Franco’s horde. Only a woman could do it.”

“A woman?” we shouted together.

Twinkathee nodded.

“But we have so few in our warehouse. What if Franco merely kills them? We cannot afford to risk one,” Shag bemoaned.

“You see this?” Twinkathee peered up at Shag and shook his head despondently, pendulating his curls like Quentin Crisp’s spinal column. “This is only the first step. Once Franco masters cloning, the gays will be able to have orgies with themselves, and then they’ll spend eternity competing to see who can suck the most of his own dick. We can’t let God know that we ripped off twincest from Leviticus; he’ll think that we’re total fucking nerds. Shag,” Timpani huffed Frenchtastically, “I know this is the last thing you want to hear–”

“Silence, you animated meringue.”

“—but Ben Whishaw is the only homo who still dares to manufacture women. We need him.”

(A diagram of some of the unique anatomical characteristics of women.)

There was little sound then – nothing but the shaking swallow of breath and a distant applause, floating down from the circus where Franco was, variously, receiving his latest recruits. Tears of frustration had sprung up to rim Gayparade’s eyes. There was something accusatory in his gaze at my friend; such a look might have paused me in my celebrations of erectile power, if it had been produced by a man and not by a melancholy bagel fingerer.

Twinkathee lifted his chin, which surprised me because most homosexuals lose executive function of their necks by his age. “You know I’m right. And you know that you have to make him come.”

“He already has,” I interjected, “Whim Bitchaw, Colin Firth, Tom Tykwer, Patrick Stewart, and Judi Dench all at the same time. Oh, you mean come here.” I turned unto Shag, who shirked his eyes. “Why, Shag? What can this eroticized bungee cord mean?”

Slowly and with great shame, Shag reached into the pocket of his suit jacket, right above his heart, and pulled out a condom. “This – this is how we summon Ben Whishaw.”

“With a condom?”

I was surprised, but my skepticism soon changed to heroic terror as Shag tore at the wrapper with his teeth and emptied its contents onto the floor.

“Ben cannot resist the scent of a condom that is left unused. He will come now whether we want him to or not.”

Soon, Ben Whishaw came.

He came – in a flourish of glitter and sharpie tattoos -- attended by his insidious Cummunists: nudists brandishing firecrackers at uncomfortably-pretty busboys, male lingerie models, lions mounted by braless Valkyries, weeping Bavarian youths, the entire population of Barcelona, Michael Shannon, and a parade of cats, all singing “Cake” by Rihanna at the top of their lungs. BBC4 was empty that day; all the mouthwash Mary-Janes were on earth, rutting against children’s harmonicas, instilling fear in all but the most excellent specimens of manliness.

“Rejoice,” Ben Whishaw sang as his silky knees folded to the ground, chafing immediately. “Rejoice, you who have beheld the bawds of my bedchambers, the Greeks of old beachfront restaurants, the harbingers of fantasy sex tours like Ezra Miller’s career. I have come, and so shall you.” Swanning over to address Shag, he bit his lip. “Darling, I am here for you! What do you need, hot stuff?”

“Women!” he shouted manfully.

“What for? You aren’t still trying to figure out which hole is the mouth, are you?”

“Nay,” he replied, “my brother Butch told me. We need them to infiltrate Gay Franco’s hideout and destroy his cloning technology.”

“And you,” the hunch-hip padded towards me, “this is your brilliant plan? You send women to do your dirty work for you? What are you afraid of, big boy, and what can I do to ease that stress?”

“Naw, son,” called out Michael Shannon from afar, “do you want a garden salad with that skewer, or should I just serve you a knuckle sandwich?”

But Whishaw held up a slim, delicate wrist, jangling his fetish jewelry, silencing him. “I will say it to you strai—” he hacked painfully, “directly. I will give you my women, whom I had intended to use to lure fathers into a gay orgy, thereby undermining their paternal confidence. This, of course, would homosexualize the youth. But I will command them to join your cause instead... for a price.”

“Speak, elongated child!”

“Your beard,” said he.

I was struck silent.

“I need your beard,” he repeated, endless tears gathering in his eyes. “It’s for my play. The director is afraid that I’m not hairy enough to be Marilyn Monroe.”

“Why,” I puffed my chest, but it didn’t look gay or like breasts, “of all the evil perversions your kind have committed against man, this is the one that I shall never entertain to forgive.”

“That is the deal, Comrade Butch: your sublime brush for my women.”

There was no canon fire, there were no memorial barbecues where suburbanites play a game of subconsciously adulterous cat-and-mouse over the grill, for the sacrifice I made that day. Dear reader, it is a day that shall be marked forever with infamy, for that is the sin that hangs over whatever circumstance impels a straight man to give any piece of himself over to a queer Nancy. Do not mourn for Faust, do not pity Dante the Pilgrim for his travails in Hell; in the flash of a scalpel, I fell into a greater damnation than those dramatic homos could ever conceive.

*******************************************************************************************

When he had his ill-gotten prize, Ben Whishaw parted our company as he has left each of the tens of thousands of men he’s seduced around the world, with a lachrymose little smile, a wiggle of the ass, and a soliloquy on the transient beauty of tricking straight men into thinking you’re a woman until they’ve already removed their pants. Being a consummate phallic god, I was immune to his European witchcraft; Paragon Shag, I’m afraid, was somewhat awestruck by this coy display. But there was no time for either of us to dwell on his fabulous sorcery. The deal was done, and there awaited before us creatures yet almost as feminine as that enchanted nymph.  

“So,” I said, stalking around their strange mass, “these are the notorious ‘women.’” A slim shadow fell across my face, and a chill entered my heart. “Shag, what do you make of all this?”

He proceeded to inform me, “It is supposed that women were invented by the early Catholics, at the decree of the Pope.”

“The Catholics?” I interrupted him. “But what do those queers need from women? They themselves gave rise to the two cruxes of gay culture: old men who sort of cross-dress, and bottoms who think they can top.”

“Like Michael Kors,” added Shag, “but with less herpes.”

“So, what, by God, did they want with women?” Yet Shag could only shake his head. “Women!” I shouted unto them, for their ears ring incessantly from all the cock they swallow. “What are you for?”

They seemed to consider my question. “We like Shakespeare!” shouted one. “We create life, and we perpetuate culture,” replied another thoughtfully. Said the third, “We’re trying to eliminate baby-faced depressives from the gene pool.”

“Then you’ve certainly backfired on the Catholics.” I stroked the remnant of my beard and turned to Shag. “Sir, we should waste no time in bringing them to the safety of our suspicious roadside barn. Send Gayparade back through the TRANSporner and let us put a plug in James Franc’n’o in a firm and impressive way.”

Shag nodded apprehensively, taking the marionette by the elbow and helping him toward the entry port. “Fear not,” he advised the waif, “for soon you will have no rap career again. Iggy.”

“Iggy,” Gayparade murmured after him. “Iggy, Iggy.”

They came upon the threshold of the TRANSporner, its dilated cavern of unnatural lust that had given Iggy Azalea talent and genitalia so many years before. The twink gulped, appraising it, unsure of how to proceed.

“Timpani?” Shag inflected. “What is the matter?”

But the twisted, hollow-cheeked spaghetti said nothing, impelling Shag to grip him by the hair, repeating his query in a low growl.

“Oh, Paragon!” cried the gimp at unimpressive length, “I can’t do it, brother! Being a girl is bullshit!”

“Truly,” said Shag. “I’ve read Nietzsche.”

“I won’t go back into the TRANSporner,” he wailed. “I would rather die than look like an adult human.”

Shag leant down, menace in his eyes. “Then we must leave, Timpani, quickly -- before Master Butch is able to transfer sufficient power from his penis into his legs to follow us.”

“You mean...?”

“Yes,” my noble friend, my eternal companion responded, turning to me. “I am prepared to accept my animal nature, the amoral truth of my life: there can be no more good taste, because that is for the straights. I am a total gay forever.” And thus, Shag tore the bomber jacket from his shoulders, and it fell away like his erection, revealing a strapless silver gown and taffeta stole. Rising by fabulous vampirism, he glared down at me; nevertheless, I could discern a cold and implicit sadness in his gaze, the gaze of young man after the golden summer of 1914.

“Shag,” said I, my loins quivering, “get ahold of your senses. There is no future in the Homosexuality. Every country where gay queers establish their warrens, penises shrink. This is because the Nancy makes healthy public arousal impossible by constantly bringing up Madonna.”

But he had already vanished, along with Gayparade, into a vortex of passionate mid-century female friendships.

The silence that prevailed in his wake was deafening; it was interrupted, at last, only by the genital whir of the TRANSporner and the soft, incomprehensible chattering of the women. And after much prayer, my noble witness, I still cannot say which of us in that final instant had been more the queer Dorothy: Shag, his crystal-blue eyes darkened with looming cocks, cutting loose to spend his life spoon-feeding treacle to a preteen girl’s gay skeleton; or myself, at the realization that, more than my box of horse condoms, more than my brass knuckles, more than even my beard, I needed Paragon Shag with me. It brings me shame to confess this, but we live in such times as make masculine pride scarce, and I do not foresee Western civilization’s return to glistening worthiness until the metrosexuals have been pounded back into almond butter and adult coloring books.

I crossed myself, still in a state of disbelief, and turned toward the threshold of hell, where Sexchaynge stood waiting. She had pressed her cheek against her fist, and her gaze lifted to me sympathetically. “What are you going to do now, Master Butch?”

In a supreme display of muscular eminence, I diverted my erection away from the heart of the sun, boring it into the ground, quaking the earth with my righteousness. “I must pursue Shag, and I must put an end to his delirious transsexual rampage at any cost. Even at the cost of his life. Before he encounters God and offends Him with Sapphic literature.”

“Take solace,” Sexchaynge whispered. “I don’t believe it will come to that. Shag has become a gay slut, so you will always know where to find him...” She smiled sadly as I considered her words. “And lucky for you, sweet-meat sandwich, I know just the ‘man’ to get you in.”

To Be Continued

 About the Authors

In preparation for the BAFTA ceremony, Admiral Willpower Butch is studying how to act prissy and entitled by sitting in on liberal arts film classes. His former beloved companion, Paragon Shag, hasn’t been seen in public since he scandalized a group of children with a flamboyant Broadway medley at their school vape bar; now, he prefers the privacy of the abandoned crime scene he shares with Timpani Gayparade and his twenty-two hot brothers. Their secretary, international murder victim and street gastroenterologist Dead Summer Days, will never get into heaven, but he will loiter around the gate smelling of weed.

[willpowerbutch]

Christ Stopped at Crema

It was dawn when we left Crema. Our bus, a shabby tin artifact, jolted out of the city, into the enchanted countryside where we saw at an initial distance the location of the villa where Oliver and Elio’s romance had unfolded. It was a long journey for us south to Grassano, to the hell-gates of the Gay Transgender. The distance afforded me much time to reflect on the piteous circumstances which had led to my recruitment.

At our arrival, which did not come until late that evening, our entourage was ushered into an abandoned theater, upon whose crackling screen played the opening scenes of Peaches & Cream, a horror film starring Twinkathée Charlotterampling. It is the tale of a personified French coffee stir who loves and loses the love of a tragic statue fondler. Over the course of one sensual Italian summer, Twinkathée attempts to date a pair of swim trunks, a male Venus, a pond, a pair of breasts, a World War I memorial, and Armie’s Hammer, but it is only when he achieves sexual gratification with a peach that Twinkathée comes into his own as an extravagant layabout. What follows is an orgy of every sort of fruit intermixing with every manner of fluid, the shocking display of which startles Armie Hamster into heterosexuality and causes climate change. Following Twinkathée’s release, a more sinister interpretation of the film began to take root with ostensible “just Trekkies” worldwide. Egged on by the events of Peaches & Cream, which sees a homosexual revolt overthrow the government by defiling state monuments with nose blood, a gay foothold was established in Northern Italy; however, partisan forces, led by Mike Pence, soon reclaimed this partition and exiled the revolutionaries to the south, to the province of Gagthemeno, where my companion Paragon Shag and I found ourselves woefully imprisoned.

(A gay foothold in Northern Italy. Peaches & Cream’s cunning use of symbolism allowed it to sneak all manner of distasteful messages past the censors, such as the scene where Armie Hamster gags on the Bill of Rights.)

As new and unwilling initiates into the gay-transgender lifestyle, it was with a sense of brave dread that we proceeded to the main artery of the bath house, where we and our comrades were lined up on a stage and doused in junkyard confetti and sesame oil. At the far end of the room, a looming, disfigured character stood, parting the rest of the disco dancers, and took a microphone. I could not see through the virile rage and craft yarn in my eyes, but the quivering whisper of someone who had spent a good deal of time pretending to look for lost change in bathroom stalls betrayed that it was none other than that skinny-dipped goblin Ben Whishaw. At his command, a procession of desperate ‘90s music video actors ordered us before the Sorting Police Cap, which was to disperse us into various Houses. Those who stood in the line before us were seduced, one by one, into this depravity. First, the weak-willed Edward Holcroft joined the House of Twinks; those who followed him resisted but could not deny their fondness for pastel sweaters, so they were placed summarily into the House of Bears. When offered a sweater, too, Ralph Fines rent it in half, whereupon he was handed a riding crop and ordered to chew through it. Unable to do so, he was sorted into the House of Leather.

Finally, the Sorting Police Cap came to us, Paragon Shag and myself. We stood before the court of gender clowns who tempted us first with gourmet salsa. “Nay!” I shouted, smashing the bottles to the floor. “Men!” We destroyed the sweaters effortlessly, for they simply unraveled at the first touch of our neck muscles to them. The final test was the riding crops, but given our time in the navy, Shag and I were accustomed to dealing with those. When we had made short work of them, the room was stunned, and Ben Whishaw rose from his conic throne to degrade us.

“Brothers. Romans. Lovers, and those who will soon become my lovers. We are gathered here today to recognize the potency and longevity of our queer lifestyle, which was invented in 1977 to destroy Anita Bryant’s career. It has taken many forms and many missions in the intervening decades, from making art museum cafes an uncomfortable place for family men to go alone on business trips, to uplifting the pointless bitches who distributed Rent. Our power over Hollywood is unprecedented since they thought Gore Vidal was a good idea, and it is now impossible for anyone to insult a gay or transgender person without instantly being executed by Patrick Stewart. And yet, we have also witnessed today the resilience of the heterosexual ‘manly’ man, but fear not: there are ways around this. We will make kinky homosexuals of you all, even if it takes us until Alan Cumming buys normal pants. Willpower Butch, Paragon Shag, I hereby banish you to the House of Those Motherfuckers Who Wear Sandals.”

It was thus that Shag and I found ourselves adopted by that House and its prominent members. Jai Rodriguez was the first to greet us at the villa, eager to discuss his expertise on dating in the early 2000s. Rufus Wainwright was there, too, generally crying. But it was the third face which shocked us, and my friend Shag in particular, whose “fight or erection” response short-circuited. It belonged to none other than Daniel Radcliffe, whom we had not seen since he was a denizen of Paul Dano’s artisan dildo forest market. Not a word was spoken between my friend and the magical yeti, not even a hello, for Daniel grabbed him and led him aside into a spare erotic statuary, closing the door. In the ass-tronautical darkness, Daniel reached out to grope Shag.

“Daniel, we must resist these urges, however beautiful, perfect, and right they feel,” growled Shag in disgust. “If we indulge them, the human race will die, and Jesus hasn’t absorbed enough tears yet to have the strength to deliver us to heaven.”

Daniel Radcliffe shushed him, placing a thickly-furred finger against Shag’s lips. “It isn’t gay.” Shag glared at him incredulously, but Radcliffe continued unabashed. “Answer me this: what is gay love-making?”

“How could you be so base, so vulgar?” spat Shag. “It is of course when two men are corrupted into jamming themselves against each other until one of them slips and has to put on the lipstick.”

“Then it is gay if the johnsons touch?” asked Radcliffe. Shag nodded. “But you see, Paragon, that ours will not touch. Nobody can feel my skin through my body hair.”

Shag had to acknowledge that this was true. Daniel leaned in again with his furry lips, and this time, Shag did not find the will to resist. He laid back in bed, stretched against the gunpowder mattress which smelled of tequila, and gradually began to feel himself overtaken by the evil wizard. However, just as he was approaching a state of pathetic relaxation, a slip of the hand yanked him back to reality. Petting the younger man’s tangled mane, Shag had accidentally ripped off a furry body suit, revealing beneath it not Daniel Radcliffe but the sharp, open-mouthed visage of Twinkathée Charlotterampling.

“Get back, hairless swine!” shouted Shag, rising on his elbows. “What have you done to your mustache?!”

Before Shag could continue his tirade, Twinkathée broke down, his tender cheeks soaked with aesthetic, Oscar-worthy tears. He ran the long bundle of toothpicks that was apparently his hand through his sad-sexy L’Oréal Paris hair and wept until Shag exhaled a sigh of butch indignation. “You mean,” Twinkathée began, lips trembling, “that the picnic is over?”

Shag was struck speechless for a while. “The picnic?” he finally asked. Twinkathée nodded, producing a basket full of fruit and vegetables of every climate.

“Since Armie Hamster left me for The Discus Thrower, these are all I have to keep me company while I wait for summer, when public nudity becomes legal again. Do you – do you want some?”

Shag looked around, eyes wide with macho existential confusion. “I…” he cleared his throat. “I believe that these… are high in iron,” he murmured, reaching for the bowl of cherries. “A manly man must ensure that he is always full of iron so that he cannot be penetrated by fairies.”

“Mmhmm. Besides,” whispered Twinkathée. “This isn’t all bad, is it? Not even half bad?” He held forth a Tupperware container and trailed Shag’s bicep with his fingers reassuringly. “We still don’t have to touch,” he offered, popping the lid and retrieving a cantaloupe. “I’ll show you how.”

Such mysteries are what make the problem of the Homosexual compelling to the manly man – for every thousand or hundred thousand gay-transgenders poised to prey on the flesh of straights, there is perhaps one who has found a less harmful way to express and fulfill his diabolical desires: the fruit bat among a horde of blood-thirsty vampires. Twinkathée Charlotterampling was one such fruit. When I met Shag in the communal showers the next morning, where he was drenched in chocolate sauce and pineapple meat, I was struck suddenly with the most brilliant plan to make our escape.

“Shag,” I said unto him, “you are aware that time is running short for us to prove our homosexuality before Jeffery Tambor gladiatorially castrates us with a VHS of Pink Flamingos.”

“Yes,” replied Shag, “just like he did to Josh Gad.”

“Well, I’ve a plan.” I continued, “The Gay has poisoned the world and brought destruction down upon us with marriage; let us now turn the weapon of the enemy against itself. Shag, we must get married… to each other.”

My friend looked heroically appalled. “My good man, I do not understand. We haven’t tried to make that happen that since we both gave up gin.”

“But there is no other choice,” I insisted. “After we are wed, we will divorce and then rebound with women. That is the vampiric cure: the only way to eliminate Transgenderism is by eating from the plate of a disapproving Christian who has been forced by the Maoist government to bake sexually explicit pastries for our sham wedding!”

I could still see the gay reluctance in Shag’s eyes. When butch reason failed to convince him and he tried to leave, he was eventually persuaded back into manliness by my fishing knife.

*****

I stood aside smoking a Cuban while Shag said his goodbyes. Rufus would not speak to him; Jai gave him a half hug and a kiss before he resumed not particularly doing anything; the affair proceeded summarily until Shag came upon the last figure in the line.

“Do you really have to go?” whispered Twinkathée, trembling as he wiped his eyes with a desecrated mango peel.

“I do,” Shag replied softly. “There are a great many wicked gay-transgender vampires who mean harm to normal men and women; if I do not harass them on Twitter, then what will become of the fatherland?”

“I know,” said Twinkathée, “but what’s going to happen to me once you’re gone? Who will save us?”

Shag pulled Charlotterampling’s cat-whisker leg to his hip reassuringly. “I will come back for you.” He stared deep into the fruit-fruit’s eyes and repeated his promise. “I will come back and save you, my lo-- friend.”

Twinkathée looked on him sadly; he raised his arm but then let it fall, remembering that Shag was no longer a drag show wench. “You won’t,” he murmured. “Nobody who becomes good ever comes back.”

Shag continued to stare out the back window of the prison bus long after Charlotterampling’s gangly, indiscrete-tablecloth-drape silhouette had vanished between the dark earth and glowing amber sky. Mountain fog clogged the narrow strada. When the road forked at last at the bank of the Fiumara di Gorgonzolaglione, and the fringes of Northern civilization came into view, I erupted a sigh of dick dominance, wresting Shag from his effete ruminations.  “Shag, my good man,” I began, “let us turn our minds and our loins from this hellish province of Gagthemeno. We must find some women immediately. Where do they congregate?” Shag turned to me then, eyes wide and startled.

“I thought you knew, sir!”

“Sir, I am not possessed of such nancified, glitter-bombed knowledge as where a woman might be found. They are not at my country club where all the furniture is made of Jack Daniels bottles, nor at the medieval weaponry rearmament reading group, nor have I ever witnessed one to be at our weekly ‘gun tricks’ expo behind the Beef-A-Roo. Where could they have gone?”

The longer Shag thought, the whiter his face paled. Suddenly, he gasped superiorly. “The Gay!” he screeched. “They are the Gay!”

“What?! What can you mean?” I shot back with perfect aim.

“What I say. The women are being transsexualized by James Franco in his hopes of creating the perfect androgynous male lover so he can finally turn himself into a queen. Funded by the Marvel Cinematic Universe, he has international Lupita Nyong’os in every city infecting innocent young ladies with post-punk. That’s how he came to be: Twinkathée…” Shag closed his eyes. “Do you ever wonder, Don Butch, what has happened in the past four years to Iggy Azalea?”

(Iggy Azalea, now known by her Transgender alias Twinkathée Charlotterampling, changed careers after the failure of her rebound album, “Statistix Easy A”)

Shag’s revelations aroused me, but I could not deny his glistening masculinity or his logic. Amidst an unrelenting focus on the formal perfection of anatomical manhood, I spared a thought for the countless second- and third- rate celebrities who had fallen into Franco’s web, lured in unwittingly by his complete lack of sexual charisma. How many more will there be if the manly men do not stop him? How many in the span of a minute? An impressively long silence stretched between Shag and I as the bus rattled down the road. We are only a weregay and a discharged admiral: on what distant day will the opportunity present itself that we and the half-dozen washed-up sailor strippers who frequent my club will be able to erect ourselves against the wet power of the Progaynitor?

About the Authors

Admiral Willpower Butch, whose portrait was recently commissioned to hang in local government offices, has already mounted a historic nationwide effort to locate women. Participating in this hunt is Butch’s friend and correspondent Paragon Shag, whose expertise in fictional espionage recently led him to discover an entire flock of women in a city street. The search continues. Their secretary and suspicious love guru, Dead Summer Days, has never met a woman, but he likes the idea that the ones in the movies aren’t all played by Benedict Cumberbatch in disguise.

[willpowerbutch]

Willpower Butch Reviews: “The Danish Girl”

Last night, I had the most beautiful dream. I was a baby in my mother’s arms, and she looked down at me, and she called me, “Neo.”

The more one engages with modern culture, the more one is apt to realize that these are dark days for the American man. The advocates of socialism have begun to mobilize against his wealth; the force of lesbians, against the primacy of his mustaches. A deluge of celebrity sex scandals stands as a grim reminder to the straight man that even his dignity is under siege by pathetic non-criminals. If our esteemed readership demands evidence, it may look no further than the predicament of Space Ynvader, a heterosexual who was obliged to proclaim himself a member of the Gay to avoid the legal ramifications of harassing the entire cast of Call Me By Your Preferred Pronouns with a kielbasa. Not only Western culture, but Western cinema has felt the shock waves of the Homosexual, first with its insatiable lust for kawaii drugs, and now with the recent vogue of “transgenderism,” which is explored in titillating detail in the 2015 horror-mystery film, The Danish Identity, and which has frustrated and heated my enormously macho friend Paragon Shag every night for several months. Our review, which shall contain extensive spoilers for that film, proceeds from here.

Transgenderism, for those whose lifestyles are so proprietous that they may be spared from its corruption, is the ontological theory that it is easier to become a bathroom pervert after you have been violently butchered for trying to pee in a surprising way. Historically, the Transgender has been reviled for its attempts to criminalize Florida for looking like a flaccid Johnson, but in recent years it has found favor within radical lesbian communes, such as Germany. The Danish Game reflects a time in Europe’s ignominious history with the Gay-Transgender when Ben Whishaw was permitted to own property in Copenhagen, and when, crowd-funded by his legions of autosexual paranormal fetishists, he set out with his theater friends to make a film so bankrupt of style and entertainment value that Tom Hooper couldn’t refuse to direct it. It is therefore necessary for the critic to examine not only the lurid plot of The Holy Danish, but the disturbed ideology of these communists who brought such a tale, scandalously, into our schools and private residences by force of Sharia Law.

The film opens with Eddie Redmayne, portraying the character of M. Night Shyamalan, and his insurance wife, Drama Swede, leading a sex tour of Denmark. They are accompanied on this obscene adventure by their best friend, Ballet Lesbian, who exists solely to deliver attractive explanations to children on the intricate process of the vaginoplasty. On their first evening in Copenhagen, Gaymayne and Ballet Lesbian become separated from Drama Swede in the red-light district while trying to get an autograph from Daniel Day-Lewis, and it is then that they are approached by a mysterious character. “Nihau,” utters the woman, smearing green blush upon her face. “I am bad.” She then shoves a pastry in each of their mouths and vanishes into a fog of Rihanna look-a-likes. Astonished, the pair choke on their snacks.

“These pastries are laced--!” whimpers M. Fight Campflame, drawing in prolonged, seductive breaths, “with magic mushrooms!”

“Mushrooms?!” echoes Ballet Lesbian. “But those are for the straights!”

“No,” Redgay cries, “it cannot be.” But it is too late. Ballet Lesbian, being a woman and therefore not a Gay, can only look on in excitement as J. Jill Slamclam metamorphoses into a schlock disaster, replete with lip biting, dramatic mascara tears, and a Little Orphan Annie wig.

It is a curious, haunting thing to witness a Gay become a Transgender; I have observed it in person only once, when the homosexual illness pulverized a body so thoroughly that it began to eat away at the loins and joints like a fabulous leprosy. As I saw Ginger Spice transform into a gender despot, I could perceive in her eyes the same feverish, go-go dancing mania that I did when this happened to my former personal friend, 50 Cent, in 1976. Such a spectacle is no innocent fetish, which one might enjoy with one’s fellow discharged naval officers and then denounce in court the next morning: gayngsters such as these have abandoned civilization in droves to join Ben Whishaw’s elvish sex commune, which migrates from forest to forest setting public trashcans on fire to protest the lack of people of color in Jared Leto. Together with his slavish thralls of homorotisseries, Witchaw, who in this film portrays the character of Sexual Loofah, has already turned the streets of Hollywood into a cesspool of coconut hand lotion and cowlicks.  

What follows from Hormayne’s unlikely transition is a three-hour odyssey – the rise, pinnacle, and fall of her alternative medicine body-paint clinic, accompanied by the voice-overs of Gwyneth Paltrow and a herd of braying cats. At the climax of her quest to discredit the medical community by destroying science, Medvedemayne is accosted by racially inaccurate ninjas. Thus commences a pulse-pounding action-chase sequence through the streets of Milwaukee, bringing her into confrontation with the red herring villain of the piece, Syd Whiteman. After trying to bite each other suggestively in a kaleidoscope world stolen from the set of Dr. Strange, Evanescmayne triumphs by tearing off Whiteman’s sunglasses, through which metaphor the audience understands that cultural appropriation is the result of the capitalistic commoditization of marginalized experience, which is different from Hollywood making pointless blockbusters cashing in on ethnic cultures by pedaling them to social justice warriors. However, her victory is short-lived, as she is approached directly by Ballet Lesbian and her fleet of butch friends. “Stop right there, thought criminal!” she screams. “I am placing you in cultural appropriators prison for the crime… of distributing Danish ethnic cuisine to foreigners!”

(Syd Whiteman, one of the villains of Call Me By Your Danish, thrusts his arm majestically as he prepares to attack Daddy Layshayme. Photo from Previously Recorded.)

Edlame startles. “But how could it have been me? I was with you when we ate those pastries!”

At this, Ballet Lesbian shakes her head bombastically and cackles. “Do not take me for an amateur, Ruby Sparks -- I once said the same thing to Miles Teller when he accused me of stealing his dental dams while we were getting him the lead part in Whiplash, and I surely had. I know that the transgender are all villainous master illusionists because you were invented by Guillermo Del Toro.”

“I cannot disagree with that, but you have it all wrong about me,” Sexchaynge retorts. “I am incapable of what was done to us that night.”

Ballet Lesbian sneers. “Prove it.”

A slightly gay silence stretches between them. “Look no further than my love scene with Julianne Moore in Savage Grace,” Innayne pronounces at length. “It is no illusion: I am clearly the girl. Additionally, I often sneak into ladies’ toilets with Rupert Graves and Gus Van Sant and make it rain cocaine on lonely children from the rafters.” Ballet Lesbian nods, aroused by this feat of erotic communism. “But I am not the Danish girl. She was wearing more blush than a Renaissance rustic, and I haven’t gone that far since Richard Gere did sake shots off my ass dimples live on The Graham Norton Show.”

“I am the Danish Girl!” comes the harsh, rug-munching voice of Drama Swede, stepping into the room wearing leather boots lined with mustache hair. “I was conceived by Satan to destroy marriage. You’ve all tasted my cherry pie, and now you will taste my revenge!”

Shyamamane, appalled by her shoes, contracts dandruff and dies, and the film concludes with a chorus of Episcopalians singing “Whip It” by Devo, just like the end of Amadeus. Commenting to Paragon Shag on the message of The Theory of Danishes, Reddame proclaims it a masterpiece of Brechtian anime, as well as a necessary and long-awaited treatise on the condition of the Ben Whishaw fan in America. “It exists, and it features a minority,” he sighs contentedly, “so everyone must see it.” As part of Danishway Camp’s promotional tour, Bedcayme is to be transsexualized onstage at the BAFTAs next month in an event that shall also include a revival performance by Public Image Ltd.

(Winne Annecombe, founder of the Parents Against London SpY [PALSY], was shocked to discover advertisements for A Danish Man displayed flagrantly online. “The Internet,” she explains to Shag, “is a deranged application, a digital dance club where gays compare the lengths of their depression naps.” Photo from tellymix.co.uk)

Speaking in contrast to Reddit’s perspective, Winne Annecombe demands that he overcome his girlish obsession with fish market hustling and let her show him how it feels to get ridden up to heaven by a real Catholic. “Proponents of gay transgenderism, frustrated by the lack of sexual interest from dumb jocks, must distort the minds of our children with logic,” she elucidates, “such as the goddamn foolish notion that one’s chromosomes don’t determine one’s character. Were this truly the case, then why do all men lack the same personality?”

“A butch point indeed,” acknowledges Shag, blushing manfully.

If the reader takes some solace in the notion that Danishes on Pluto, whatever its ginger-freckled obscenities, is only an isolated case of a transgender crushing a melodramatist to death with her thighs until he relents to film a series of boring nature shots with Eddie Fredcame looking gay in the background, it is our solemn duty to dispel this idea. We refer, of course, to the latest in a disturbing trend of propaganda documentaries about the gay-transgender – the recent Marvel superhero product Trans Panther. That account, which bears a striking resemblance to Danish is Burning, is of Lupita Nyong’o, princess of the kingdom of Whack-a-Mole, who identifies as a panther. Her trans-specist dabbling brings her into the care of a radical furry family, who enlighten her in the ways of polyamory until she is ready to lead the gay pride parade through New York City. Her transition will be touted in the communist media, no doubt, as a revolutionary blow against the pinnacle of straight white male apologism, Harry Potter, and we at Manly Men! magazine can only shrug our wearied shoulders and say, “so be it.” But may the revolutionaries know this: so long as there is cigar smoke in our lungs, and so long as the morning sun shines over our penises when wake up next to each other in our shared apartment, Paragon Shag and I shall never submit to the Gay-Transgender communists – not today, not tomorrow, not to the very minute of God’s judgment upon this earth. Amen.

About the Authors

After completing the substance of this review, Correspondent Paragon Shag and Admiral Willpower Butch raced to the airport to obtain tickets for the next available flight to Africa. Unfortunately, they were unaware that booking a trip to Whack-a-Mole is a code phrase used among a community of sex predators, known as the Spacists, referring to sordid acts against Chris Martin. Subsequently, they have been added to the sex offenders’ registry. In atonement for this tragic association, Paragon Shag and Willpower Butch are now choosing to live as gay men. Their secretary and listless birthday stripper Dead Summer Days’ whole life has been a Buspirone commercial the entire time.

[willpowerbutch]

Paragon Shag asks: “Can there be any doubt that Paul Dano’s Gay Transgenderism has gone beyond anonymously unzipping men’s flies in movie theaters?”

[willpowerbutch]

With the fabulous power of transgender sorcery, these perversions and more are not only possible, but irresistible to the militantly breast-fed hordes of the Gay.

So in addition to his cheekbones growing wider, since the age of 16 his forehead has jutted forward, taking the nose with it and making for a receded chin.  I didn’t know that was possible.

[willpowerbutch]

Gay Oil: Chapter 2

Autumn had crept west, painting the wooded foothills and gullies rust-red and parting the clouds to let the morning stars peer through. Eli stretched out, folding his arms behind his head, a pleasurable sensation washing over him as his eyelids cracked open. It was easy to forget, in the communist utopia of New Trotskyville, what it felt like only to lie down, the wind in his lightly curled hair, reposing far from the exertion of musclebound street cleaners chewing on his legs like popsicle sticks. Living in the silver miners’ soviet made him remember another life in a time of innocence, the brutal innocence of capitalism, when Eli had been wont to take dainty hikes through the surrounding forests alone, gaping in wonder at the sturdy oak branches with which he explored his appetite for man logs.

Rising on his elbows, Eli dabbed his lips on a discarded sex bracelet and looked around, over the mounds of heaving flesh. Strewn about him were the implements of the previous night of communion: salt water balloons; dozens of empty tubs of vanilla yogurt; and innumerable dirtied, variously-sized rubber ladles. Eli groaned, shifting his weight. That’s the last time I play 20 Questions through a drilled wall, he thought, dusting pot sugar off his leather-strap boobs as he rose to his feet. He had been roused by the clamor of someone knocking incessantly against his church’s door, and as he drew close to the source of the sound, Eli reckoned he could smell the award-show sweat and mustache wax which announced the presence of one Daniel Plainsex.

Eli swung open the door and was assaulted by Daniel’s intense impressiveness and laudability. “Daddy,” Eli whimpered, “you’ve arrived just in time for our come-down cuddle. Would you like to take the spot beside me?”

“You prison erotica plebian,” spat the gaywad. “You know well what I have come for. I will have your bath oils now, Eli: be a good lad and accept my offer.”

“You’re persistent, Daddy Daniel,” purred Eli, stroking his bedazzled crotch guard absently, “But a framed photograph of Dolly Parton and a box of cracker jacks couldn’t even afford you an hour of nipple worship from me. Why can’t you be satisfied without my bath oils?”

“Pillage, Eli,” Daniel retorted. “The straights have their families, but we homos have only our beauty products to entertain us after a long day of manual labor for the state… This is my final offer,” he declared. “I will compensate you for the oils as promised, and if they make me smell like a cotillion queen, I’ll pay you an additional radish soup voucher and my poster of Whitney Houston that Warren Beatty ruined while I was earning my first Oscar.”

Eli cackled, sliding his ass up the hard edge of the wooden door frame. “You still don’t realize how basic you are, listening to that Disney Channel reject. Whitney Houston is a personified beer nap, Daddy, and Beyoncé is a Bacardi 151.”

“Do not speak to me of Dance Oprah!” Daniel ejaculated. “Beyoncé is the spawn of an Aretha Franklin imposter and sexual nihilism, and if you will not allow me to bathe in your fluids, then I will drown you in mine!”

From the looming trees emerged a battalion of saucy painters adorned only in glittery boy pants, feather boas, and builder hats. Descending upon the church, they brandished their brushes high, dripping white paint. At the sight of that, Eli whined orgasmically. “I will not allow you to asperse the holiness of this Cock Barn any further!” He tightened his grip around his loins, but just as the first bristle touched Eli’s wood, a groaning, explosive sound reverberated through the canyon, and a conflagration rose high in the distance, hot and stark like the men who paid Eli to be a woman.

“Fuck!” exclaimed Daddy Daniel. “Homosexuals are susceptible to fire!” Sprinting back the way he’d come, Daniel vanished into the now-illuminated forest, and Eli felt impelled to follow him --  down, into the gully, then finally ascending into a flatland buffered by foothills, in the center of which was a burning oil rig.

“NO!” Daniel screamed, taking in the vision the way Eli took in common law-married rancheros. “I’ve abandoned my child! I’ve abandoned my boy!” He broke down into a fit of incredible excellence, gasping as hot tears slid down his sexually-aggressive cheek bones. Eli was almost induced to pity him, but before he could offer his body as comfort, a slim, swimsuit-clad woman cat-walked toward them out of the rubble.

“Brother!” she called out. It was the waifish elf, Danny, emerging from the wreckage with a contorted homosexual in his arms. “I have Alex. I will not elaborate on why his lips are wet.”

As Daniel scooped Alex into his arms, Eli observed the daddy reveal fondness for something other than assault for the first time in his memory. But Daddy Daniel’s relief turned to mourning when Alex stirred awake, groaning, “Pappi? Who brought the big carrots? Because my spicy dip is hot and ready to serve.”

“He’s…” Daniel started but soon corrected himself. “This bitch is… a bottom. No son of mine could…” he choked. Glistening tears of fabulous acting returned to his eyes, and he won another Oscar hysterically. At this, Eli placed a long-fingered, sensual hand on his ass.

“Think of it as a blessing, Daddy,” he whispered. “Left in the fire any longer, and it might have become a transgender.”

Daniel, with the pathetic form of his former son in his arms, turned around and began to walk toward the faith healer’s tent, with Eli on his trail. When this brigade of sissies had left to dress Alex’s wounds, Danny stood apart, watching the oil rig continue to burn against the night sky like Paul Lynde. Sensing that he was being watched, the gay turned around to find that he had been approached by the Expository Candy Man, who offered him an enormous lollipop directly. “Are you lost, boy?” asked the Candy Man. Accepting the treat gingerly, Danny nodded his head.

“Lost in thought.”

“But what could a gay youth be thinking about other than anal lube and abolishing racism?”

Danny touched his lips ponderously. “I don’t know,” he admitted at last. “I’ve never thought of anything else before. What should I do?”

“Come with me,” said the Candy Man, slinging a morally bankrupt arm about the broad shoulders of the snack. “I will distract you by introducing you to my friends on Craig’s List.”

Sighing, Danny went along with the stranger. As they drew away from the flame, Danny looked at the lollipop in his hand and noticed a small object embedded within. “Mister?” he queried. “What is this small, pill-shaped item in my lolli?”

“It’s my gonorrhea medication,” the Candy Man replied. “You’re going to need it after we’re finished.”

 *****Six Months Later*****

The overhead speakers crackled, and a gay voice pierced the atmosphere of phallic bedlam. “And now, opening for The Backstreet Goys, let’s make some love for Eli Sundae!” The club-goers gasped as the thighs of multiple builder bears shuddered in unison, and the frightful silhouette of a fey princess appeared behind the stained curtains. Stepping into the spotlight, Eli came into view, bedecked in Halloween glitter and organic soda water. He acknowledged Daddy Daniel, who was waiting for him erotically in the foyer, before addressing the rest of the Gay.

“If you were an ice cream flavor, what would you be, lovers? I’d be Big Banana with a splash of salted caramel inside. Let’s see who wants to get a lick of this Eli Sundae.” Weaving his way through the crowd, the gayographer halted before the table of the Candy Man, who was admiring Danny’s sexual vulnerability sadly from afar. Eli stood by, stroking him silently for several moments, pouting sexily. He flicked his eyes carefully over the Candy Man’s pelvis, lapping him up. “Do you want to taste me, lover?” he murmured. “I’d like you to -- if I wasn’t allergic to gin yetis.” Turning toward his companion parole officer, Eli Sundae startled, then purred, “I’d suck your straw on a street corner for a dime and a plastic watch, baby boy.”

Daddy Daniel had reached the end of his patience. In a fabulous display of noteworthy scene dominance, he opened his trousers, began throwing tequila-soaked licorice onto the dance floor, and stole Eli away in the ensuing chaos. Dragging him toward the dressing rooms, Eli struggled against the daddy to break free, but it was to no avail. Terror flooded his eyes as they drew near the door.

“No, we mustn’t go there,” Eli cautioned Daniel. “That’s where the spirit of Reddie Gayflame lives in eternal death scene makeup, devouring the unwanted bits of transgenders. Let’s sit at a table in the back instead, Daddy.”

Slamming Eli into a chair, Daniel emanated greatness from his magnetic genital posture. “Eli,” he growled, “this is the last courtesy you will get from he.” He held out both his hands. “If I do not have your bath oils in my possession in five seconds, I will kill you in a completely non-homoerotic mud wrestling match.”

Eli swallowed harder than he had with Benedict Cumberbatch, but he held his voice level. “Daddy -- Daniel,” the bottom replied calmly, “you haven’t looked hot in your cowboy stripper act since 1995.”

Eli stood to leave, but Daniel took his wrist forcefully. Ruminating on how slight and pansific Eli was in his grasp, the older man remarked, satisfied, “I’m going to ruin you like lesbians have ruined denim, Eli. I’m going to savage you like the Transgender has savaged the world.”

“You could do a lot more to me than that, delicious,” Eli swooned.

Daniel gave him a tense, magical stare, but before he could proceed, the flaccid voice of a disco whore wafted to him, and his ears pricked. Rising to gain a better vantage, he caught sight of his brother-sister, Danny, in an intimate moment of under-the-tablecloth fondling with his disgraced son, Alex. “That woodland slut,” he spat, and before Eli could try to immobilize him with lust, he was away.

In their own private romance, the young fruits remained oblivious to Daniel’s approach. “I want to marry you,” Danny declared suddenly, meeting Alex’s gaze with tears. “I want to make applesauce at a lesbian orchard with you, and I want to start a charity to brew Norwegian coffee at homeless shelters. I want to have a radical poetry retreat in Okinawa next year, living off only the money we can raise selling palm-readings and using a GoFundMe page. I want to do it all with you, not just the ball-gag stuff.” The fairy was peering up at him hopefully, but Alex shook his head.

“I’m gay.”

“Oh, Alex,” Danny sniffled, “I’m not really your uncle. I only said that so Daniel would let me handle your under-clothing.” The lovers reconciled with a kiss, but the Daddy, who had heard the substance of their discourse, loomed over Danny’s surprisingly butch shoulder blade.

“You topped my mathematical sex son and you’re not even my BROTHER?” Daniel roared. He kicked their vodka-filled champagne flutes, sending them crashing against the nearby poster of Che Guevara. “Now that he has a hankering for sleeping on his stomach, he will never change back! You have destroyed him! For this, you will die!” Brandishing an obscenely-shaped novelty thermos, Daniel unscrewed the lid and poured the liquid contents down the homofairy’s throat.

“I’m gay!” screamed Alex as Danny began to convulse.

“Coffee!” Danny choked. “Black coffee! The only black my lips have ever touched was Macklemore. Alas!” he cried, shuddering to the floor. “Food is toxic to the Homosexual unless it’s hot meat or condiments!” Dragging himself toward Alex, Danny wept out his body’s constitution of Mio and whimpered, “I haven’t gagged like this since I was backstage at the BAFTAs.” A single, dramatically-lit tear trickling down his cheek, Alex shook Danny’s hand as the homo dissolved into a mournful ghost.

None who bore witness to the execution would soon forget it – not the braying of the cats that escaped from Danny’s rucksack, nor the blood orgy that materialized around his corpse, nor in the least the sexual way Danny had moaned for Sweet & Low to ease his suffering before succumbing to his grievous lack of reproductive fitness. When Alex and the Candy Man had been removed from the premises and the police had taken a report of the incident, the body had been placed in the care of Eli’s church to deliver Danny’s last rites. Standing above Danny’s coffin, the cross of the erection shining in sunlight behind him, Eli lifted his eyes to the bright window and held his hand to his cock. “You and Alex will be married, bitch,” he spoke. “This I promise you: if Daniel should stand in the way of your necrophilic gay wedding, I will penetrate him with my nail scissors like a Master, and not in a ticklish way.” Staring out over his congregation, Eli’s voice whined mightily. “Stand tall with me, brothers, sisters, sister-wives, merry men, men who do fellatio to get free lingerie from perverts at the mall, gay-ngsters, and trans-genitalists. Stand with me, and together, we shall upend the chastity of marriage!”

 About the Author

Tom Rob Smith, award winning author of Gay Slut Death and screenwriter of the shelved pilot episode of Fairies Are Gay Sissies, presents this second instalment of Gay Oil as a tribute to the memory of Daniel Day-Lewis, whose violent death this year was almost as upsetting as the fact that Ben Whishaw is now shilling poltergeist videos for cash. Tom is patronized in this effort by the kind inspiration and credit card details of his platonic nightly visitor, Manly Men! Magazine’s own Paragon Shag. His editor, Willpower Butch, hopes that their partnership shall continue to bring valuable edutainment about the cultural corruption of the Gay to millennials for many years to come. Their secretary and friendly neighborhood evil transgender pervert, Dead Summer Days, hasn’t debauched a pure-hearted heiress all week.  

[willpowerbutch]

The Death of the Heterosexual in Hollywood

By Willpower Butch

The cinema, when it stands in contrast to the fine arts of classical ages, is still ‘young.’  Though it has born witness to luminaries the likes of which the world may never see again -- French perverts, documentarians, and unforgettable screen legends such as Charles Bronson and Cameron Mitchell – in another sense, it is fair to say that the discipline has not yet found its identity. It is immature, uncertain of how it should live and what it should be, and in its brief life, it has often fallen to dark forces. In the ‘30s, the communists mutilated it with montage; in the ‘60s and ‘70s, it was corrupted by sodomites; and now it faces a new and untold onslaught from genital wizards. If, for all its glamor, the cinema has one sin, it is exposing the world’s children to graphic images of these flea market ladies and false-mustachioed villains who compose the Phallic Angst Corps.

What has always united film internationally, one picture to another – drama to comedy, eastern to western, Hollywood assembly-line epics to the budgetless circle-jerk tapes they show at Cannes -- is the enduring triumph of the heterosexual penis against his nemesis, the pansified wrist. It was this self-same heterosexual advantage which predestined the creation of narrative cinema upon him, for the dorothies could not hold a camera on their mere flutes of bones, leaving them fit only to promenade in front of the lens, bitching about Gone with the Wind and slicking each other in canola oil. And yet it was the fairies who charmed the masses with their fanged smiles and insinuating glances, with their girlish lisps and cold jealousy. If the cinema was ever to rise above the low-dangling sensibilities of these book shop radicals, to surpass even the thrill of midnight cocaine odysseys in Kerala, it needed a star who shined so brightly that the Homosexual would think it was always morning and retreat to his cave, unable to transform into an octopus by the light of the manly man’s Sun. This light was ours once – the entire world’s – but has vanished far into the west, leaving behind it only a stream of deep, sorrowful red as the Gay Transgender ascends over the dead body of Daniel Day-Lewis.

The artist, the legend, found his start in the film industry on the set of an unassuming picture called Gandhi: Holy F*ck. He made his mark as the young lieutenant who runs a stripper bar in Bombay – and sometimes performs. His star continued to rise with roles such as Johnny in the experimental documentary, My Beautiful Launderette, which exposed London’s bisexual underworld, and Christy Brown in the bio-picture My Left Foot, a film that explores foot fetishes and co-stars Quentin Tarantino. But international recognition came in 2002 when he led the ensemble cast of Martin Scorsese’s Gays of New York, a fame that he followed up with the string of roles that he is most known for, opposite his long-time collaborator, Paul Dano. Responding to a request from Manly Men! Magazine, Dano consented to speak with us about the loss of this great master of the craft.

On account of Paragon Shag’s ongoing investigation into Donald Trump’s ties to his wife, it fell to me to interview Day-Lewis’ pitiable muse. Having never encountered Paul “Hip Action” Dano in the flesh before, I was struck foremost by his cleft chin, which looks like his vagina, and which was insufficient to carry the weight of his sad mouth; this resulted in his frequent collapse into sexual cat-crawling around the company gymnasium. Having just returned from Cannes, where he was promoting his new K-Pop group, Okra, he greeted me in ethnic style. “Konnichiwa, big boy,” he groaned, sliding his horn-rimmed sunglasses to the end of his odiously lewd nose. He was wearing bright purple eye shadow. I opened the interview with a question about The Ballad of Jack and Royce, Dano’s first collaboration with his acting daddy. How had his working relationship with Day-Lewis come about? When and where had they met?

Dano laughed at the memory. “I was one of the women he attacked while he was training for Gays of New York. I’ll never forget it. I was in the market looking for just the biggest radish I could find, and suddenly there was Daniel, punching baskets of produce to the ground and shooting my girlfriends with a water pistol. They tried to duck out of the way, but I motioned to him and said, ‘If you’re going to spray in my face, you should use a larger canon than that, White Chocolate.’ That was how our friendship began.” Dano, who was wearing lace-up leather skinny pants, fidgeted with the ties above his ankle absent-mindedly. “The next thing I knew, he flew me out to talk to Rebecca [Miller], and she cast me as Baby Back-Ribbed on the spot.”

Dano continued to work at her laces as I wondered, at length, why the collaboration had lasted as long as it did. It was clear to me from our conversation that Dano, quite contrary to my expectations, was not a monster intent on poisoning the film medium with high-minded obfuscations or sexual vice, but merely an evil sorceress buffeted about on the sweaty winds of her mentor.

“I didn’t have many great ambitions then,” agreed Dano, stroking her sensual, clean-shaven legs. “I don’t know when I stopped being happy with door knobs and some Crisco, but I think it was around the time that Daniel thrashed me with his arrest warrant from The Last of the Coke and then made me sit on his rock collection.” She referred, of course, to the haunting scene in There Will Be Blood where Dano’s character, Ellie, is punished for not being able to fit her mouth around the head of Day-Lewis’ BAFTA. “That’s when everything changed for me,” she went on. “I haven’t been able to unfurrow my eyebrows since.”

By interviewing Dano for this tribute, am I ascribing her too much credit for memorializing Day-Lewis’ influence in a career that has been, hitherto, one of drifting from daddy to daddy in endless pursuit of bubblegum-flavored narcotics? Perhaps. And yet – lopsided though the favor of a manly man may be – her longtime collaborator is gone, having expired while preparing for the role of a self-feminized Siberian monarchist, and these stories are all that remain of (formerly) him. What was it that drove this legendary artist – to his pulse-quickening rise, to his stark majesty, and to his very, very, extremely bloody downfall? “It was never just about acting for Daniel,” Dano provided thoughtfully. “Anyone can act, and everyone does, whether it’s while you’re trying to sell your neighbor a pyramid scheme or when you’re pretending to be into blindfolds so you can get rented by Benedict Cumberbatch. What Daniel had that normal actors don’t was the obsessive need to one-up everyone just so that he could feel like the best.”

The spectacular manner of Day-Lewis’ death marks the end not only of a career, but of an era. We are in uncharted waters now, in a time and place where children’s programming is indistinguishable from furry erotica, where Middle America flocks to see a summer blockbuster about Batman and Superman power-fisting in Wonder She-Man’s shadow, and where the Gay has adjusted his flaccid grip on the thrust of heterosexual industry so tightly that a modern actor cannot find work unless he is willing to play naked rugby in Harvey Fierstein’s cuddle sauna. Thus, have we killed the straight man in Hollywood, and in the epoch to come, few, very few stars will be as well-mannered and capable of discerning reality from fiction as Daniel Day-Lewis.

 About the Authors

Admiral Willpower Butch, who was recently honored with the Leopold & Loeb Award for Bright Ideas, is sometimes haunted by the knowledge that there is a song called “In the Navy” about a bad singer overcoming his fear of water to sabotage the military with low-budget disco. He would like to thank the currently-unavailable correspondent Paragon Shag for his contributions to this piece, which benefited greatly from his insider knowledge of fey joints and Paul Dano’s gender confusion baby food company. Their secretary, Dead Summer Days, is nearly as crushing a disappointment to his dates as he is to the Lord.

[willpowerbutch]

Early morning. A skinny, pasty-white bitch is lying on his stomach with “Tousle my hair, Daddy” tattooed on his back. It is COMRADE CUM. Hearing the knock of his next client, he attempts to rise out of bed on his ginger snap arms but immediately crashes back into the mattress while managing to decadently spread his legs wide open at the same time.

COMRADE CUM: “Alas, I am too gay to exert my energies on the butch pursuits of the athlete. I must call a straight to motivate me.”

CUM dials his boss, ELLEN, and pleads for physical excellence.

COMRADE CUM: “ELLEN, you must help me, for I have slipped on my pedicure kit and cannot find my testosterone.”

ELLEN: “Roll over, touch yourself, and think of John Wayne.”

Obeying, COMRADE CUM moans frivolously.

COMRADE CUM: “I must think of a way to repay her. I must go antiquing and buy some divine thing. Something... for Ellen.”

THE END

~excerpt from the script of “For Ellen”

[willpowerbutch]

Donald Trump: An Investigation, Part 1

By Willpower Butch

It is the wisdom of many erudite historians that what social, economic, and existential ills are not caused by the government are the work of anal omnivores. Since the untimely French vacation of eminent manly man Jack Palance in 1963, the core of the American political regime and the organized wedding pansies have been one and the same. In an age where many crimes go unaccounted for -- from ukulele loners to interactive Barbie phalloplasty kits -- one matter in particular is near to the substantial biceps of Manly Men! Magazine’s editorial staff. By way of investigating Paul Dano’s illegal gaysexualization of Sad Gandalf’s dick magnet, correspondent Paragon Shag proceeded with all haste to the residence of Donald J. Trump, America’s most prominent true crime celebrity and sheik of sexual harassment on earth, who could surely answer his enlarged questions. Armed on this holy mission with only a family-size canister of drugstore blush, he embarked from his Rhode Island property on Good Friday, 2017, ignorant of the Spanish activist poetry that awaited him.

 Cant-bro I: Escaping the Wood

Passing from the cul-de-sac of his condemned bourbon mattress into the backwoods from Gus Van Sant’s Japanese suicide fetish, Shag felt his ankle hair shrivel into nanciful fuzz. His heart was stopped by a flood of genteel dignity. “Lesbians,” he whispered, pouncing behind a boulder just as the grotesque silhouette of a buzz-cut, muscle-shirt-clad pregnantagonist emerged from the tight opening between two arched fruit trees. Slowing to adjust her pocketless denim, the mammarian sniffed the air carefully. Upon detecting the spice of heterosexual perfection, she made her way to Shag’s rock. She halted before it and touched the surface, causing the stone to crumble into the chalk of a million surprise Ecstasy fellatios. Shag clutched his package as he came indecently into view of the she-man.

“You think you can infect us with rape culture?” she screamed. “We may all be vegan indie rappers, but that doesn’t mean we won’t enjoy watching you spin on a medical dildo to the soundtrack from The Joy Luck Club, Testomorph.” Her eyes glinted with body-positive armpit worship. “This is for Wonder Woman.” Brandishing her boy band-scented implements, she approached Shag, channeling the evil power of quinoa. “Say goodbye to your white privilege.”

Suddenly, a monster truck of sacred light descended from the treetops, and before them appeared the long-dead ghost of Mickey Rourke. Shag recoiled in manly courage, but the fair-weather Buddhist was undeterred. “You think you can fight me with a freezer-burnt church stroker? I have the miracle of childbirth on my side,” she snorted with disdainful laughter.

The shade crouched low, drawing his gargantuan arm back, and took a deep drag from his coal cigar. “Children are pussies,” he roared, and with that, he let fly his fist. It connected with her chin, sending the womosexual high into the air, into the sun, vanishing from sight like Dominic Monaghan.

Shag exhaled his morally ungay emotion. Left alone with this stranger, it occurred to him that the phantom may not be all that it seemed until, finally, it addressed him. “If I have to look at these goddamn trees for five more seconds, I’m gonna beat them into popsicle sticks.” Shag relaxed then, reassured that it was truly the spirit of his late gym partner.

“Help me, sir, for I am on a butch task to make Donald Trump answer for his Edith Piaf slippers,” appealed the correspondent. He then bit off his own breast envy and broke down into a display of armless push-ups. Moved by Shag’s engorging virility, Rourke flexed his affirmation, and the two individual men set out in vague, unlubricated proximity of each other.

After a distinguished silence, Shag asked Rourke how he had come to know of Shag’s throbbing adventure.

“The guy who told me to come is the baddest motherfucker of any of us,” said he. “He makes Arnold Schwarzenegger look like Jean-Claude van Damme.”

“No,” replied Shag in disbelief. “It cannot be.”

“You bet your ass it’s David Carradine,” shouted Rourke, kicking a squirrel.

Heartened by the muscular attention of his hero, Shag and his comrade boarded the train to Satan’s province and began their long travail.

Cant-bro II: Limbo

When Shag awoke, they had arrived in the first circle of hell. “Why is everyone bent over?” he asked. “Is this some sort of Episcopalian ritual?”

“No, man,” came Rourke’s hushed warning. “It’s the Greeks. God threw them in the bullshit for inventing shade.” So distressed was my friend the correspondent at the sight of ethnics trying to deal with Joan Crawford that he fell back swiftly into a troubled sleep.

Cant-bro III: Gays

He came to once more to the sound of innocent children being corrupted by manga. “Where are we now?” Shag inquired of his guide and then noticed heterosexfully that Rourke was sitting by the opposite window, a crossbow lodged under his heroically swelling nipples. “Are we under attack?”

“Yes,” the manly man growled back. “We are under attack for our marriage.” It was then that Shag heard a loud synthesizer from without the train, and the car pendulated. Thrown up against the glass, he saw with his own eyes what was destroying America: dozens of small gays ramming up against the cabin like erect wasps, violently knitting war film bisexuals. In the center of them emerged a glittery, Baileys-drenched ‘70s muscle stripper, the sight of whom caused Shag’s blood to freeze. “Darling! You came back for another taste of my see-through ice cream!” purred the woman. It was Ben Whishaw, undulating in his bead skirt as he stroked a hand sensuously through the bristles of his porn mustache. Aroused by the presence of sweaty men, he came to alertness out of his Tylenol-induced strip-tease and, after disentangling himself from a blonde naval street predator, he leapt through the open window beside Shag.

“My love!” he exclaimed, demurely licking Shag’s stratum of chest hair. “Don’t be afraid. I’m a changed man. Look!” Whishaw touched his upper lip proudly. “I’ve become a straight!”

“Don’t listen to Hindu Rachel Weisz,” yelled Rourke. “She’s tryna slip white wine in your vodka!”

Shag karate-chopped the wall, sending a number of homosexists flying. “I will never fund your bearded child pageant!” he declared. With that, he lifted Whishaw high above his head and tossed him back out the window like a paper mache lioness. “Go peddle your human protein shakes elsewhere, Boy George!”

Soon, Paragon Shag slumped back in his seat, exhausted by his sacred duty to resuscitate divorce. The manly men’s train pulled out of the gay wastelands skillfully, and as it did, they heard in the distance the nasal voices of trendy Jesuits seducing Mahler fairies at a midnight Waffle House as they descended further into America.

Cant-bro IV: KFC

“What is the meaning of this?” Shag demanded as their vessel nose-dived into a lake of fiery chicken grease. “You cannot tell me that the ‘90s is here, too?” Rourke shook his head and indicated out the window, where Shag beheld a remarkable thing: an enormous structure in the shape of God’s preference of men, its tip aglow with yellow lights. It read, ‘Drumpf Shaft.’ Shag looked upon it with his mouth open, doused in pure, volcanic admiration.

“Why,” Shag breathed, “I don’t believe I have ever beheld such an attractive spectacle.” The thing rose so high and proud that it blotted into the sun, casting the netherworld in moist darkness. “It must be so wonderful on the inside. Shall we try to see it up close?”

Losing patience, Rourke disciplined my friend with a majestic bitch parade. “That’s how the queers get you,” Rourke cautioned him. “One day you’re admiring each other’s towers, and the next he’s licking Halloween glitter off your sliding back door.” Shag swallowed his disgust, and his arm hair grew three inches in manly indignation. So that’s what happened to James Franco, he thought bitterly.

Their train continued to slice through the countryside, leaving far in its wake the many fabulants of years past who had made the world today such a cataclysm of Nancy Sinatra hookers. A rare calm befell them. As Shag stretched out again, lulled by the peaceful monsoon winds and the biblical throw-downs of slap-fighting car wash preachers, he confided in his companion. “If it could only be like this always. Always men. Manly men. The manliest-tempered ungay fruit ripeness of muscle manliness. Men.”  

TO BE CONTINUED

***

About the Authors

Admiral Willpower Butch cemented his reputation as the 21st century’s most important journalist when he became the first member of the press to condemn Antonio Banderas for seducing America. Today, his various masculine pursuits include stealing the rest of John Waters’ mustache, hacking down the Amazon with his fists, and not having cried since Rock Hudson was born. His friend and faithful correspondent, Paragon Shag, is driven to righteousness by the memory of Colin Firth’s heterosexuality. Their secretary, Dead Summer Days, is the kind of guy who practices karate in public restrooms.

[willpowerbutch]

Gay Oil: Chapter 1

A fan fiction by Tom Rob Smith

It was another frigid morning in Soviet America. Outside Eli’s front door, grey evergreens stood stark against the white pall of clouds, and the winter sun rose behind them like the communists had risen to power when he was only a boy: red, large, and full of nuclear threat. Being one of the denizens of New Trotskyville, it was Eli’s life-long habit to take this route to work at the silver mines – past the jutting cliffs, on threadbare government-issue slippers, clutching his coat to his chest while quietly whistling along to the morning broadcast. In the distance, there was the rustling of canvas as the breeze sent ripples through a mining encampment; and, there was the sun, mounted high now above the oil wells, the only part of the picture that wasn’t drab and lifeless. It sparkled in the sky in a way that reminded Eli of his phenomenal gayness.

It bears discussing for a moment just how gay, for Eli was not merely homosexed, but fruitilicious in a fragrant and radically soft way. Often, in his teenage years, he lounged on a garbage heap outside his house, smooth chest shining in the afternoon light as an electric fan blew photographs of Christopher Reeve between his thighs. Like this he languished for hours but to rise at the sight of an approaching straight man, whereupon he would hoola hoop nakedly into the center of the yard. “Why don’t you come have a sip of my water, baby boy?” he would call to them, only to be greeted by righteous beard frowns. Of course, homosexuality was subsequently outlawed, and Eli had to learn how to walk with his legs spread apart. He couldn’t count on his free hand how many times he had narrowly evaded the police at abandoned country restaurants; other times, he spotted them at the market among the cucumber-melon-scented bath soaps, just waiting to snap a pair of handcuffs over the carefully exfoliated wrists of a gay. Thus, he had been impelled to smell like peppermint social alcoholism for years.

He approached the silver mines, dropping his bag in the dust as he noticed the silhouette of a muscle daddy struggling on the ground. That’s my job, he thought, taking offense at the sight of a real man sprawled in the mud like a health spa happy ending. Pam Grier didn’t die for this amateur bottoming bullshit. He approached the homo-queer daintily, his oral sex nose sniffing fast, and admonished him. “Brother, you’re ruining your facial. This is not Arkansas.”

“I’m going to murder you,” said the daddy raising his head, his left eye twitching. “I’m going to drain you dry like a vanilla milkshake. Now bend over and adjust me.”

It being in Eli’s nature to follow grunted instructions, he spread his legs far apart and lowered his generous package to the ground. “Daddy,” he murmured, butterfly-kissing the man’s belt loop, “I’m this town’s least arrested psychic, and I think it would reassure the community if you visited my jiu-jitsu sex clinic. I do readings for the modest price of a second-hand butterscotch latte. Will you come?”

“Readings?” The daddy appraised him with extraordinary spectacularness. “I can make you give me one for the cost of Ben Whishaw’s box office value: I pay you nothing, and you gratify me in the privacy of an empty movie theater. Hmm? What do you think of that?”

But before Eli could stop licking his fingers long enough to reply, an eerily British Sylvester background dancer trundled toward them, weighted down by his ‘70s streetwalker mustache and lack of current television exposure. “Daniel!” exclaimed the girl, “I am your brother, Danny! I accept cash!” He fell weeping to the man’s feet, smearing mud along his naked inner thighs while all the studio executives in the world showered him with discontinued LSD gumdrops from a canon the shape of Ben Hur’s nipples. Then, his slim frame quivering with exertion from pretending to be a top, he vanished into the newly-risen, Rami Malek-esque sun.

“What are you running from, my boy? You, too, could get paid for shitting on Andre Bazin,” Daddy Daniel laughed after him with undeniable method acting. He then turned his attention back to Eli, who was busy braiding his leg hair. “Speaking of Will Smith, have you seen my sympathy son, Alex? He was here a moment ago, but he must have left to turn into a dick cowboy.”

“I have not, Daddy. We should check for him in a BBC nepotist’s syphilis dreams,” concluded Eli, lighting his crack pipe on a parking ticket.

Thus, the pair set out, Eli retaining his coral purse and Daniel genuinely bleeding out of his ears as the scent of Marxist documentarianism drifted to them on a wind of discrete builder farts. Eli’s excitement throbbed at the smell of flatulence, and as they sashayed across the rugged, biceptual terrain, he began to dream of one day gay-marrying a former child. Pulling his mink tighter, he led Daniel into the midnight grocery store where he had hosted his first erotic bathtub monologue, stopping in the entryway to reapply his favorite lipstick, Autocannibalism Red. As he sifted through the contents of his bag, Eli felt the daddy’s screwed, twitchy eyes turn on him once more, undressing every last stitch of his fishnet tights from him, and he froze. “Was there something else you wanted to ask me, Daniel?”

“You know what I want, Eli,” said the older man, flush and barely able to control his rage erection.

Being a dignified girl, Eli smirked. “I’ve already told you my price, Daddy Daniel.”

“Not that, you residual muck of one of my delicious milkshakes. Your bath oils, Eli,” he growled, indicating into Eli’s purse. “I want to buy them. Name your price for those.” Daniel withdrew his checkbook, but Eli merely wagged his finger.

“I’ll give them to you for free when Eddie Redmayne stops winning Oscars for whispering,” he replied. “You can keep your glorified chocolate milk. My fluids are my sheep, and I am their shepherd.”

At this, like a volcano of passionate incredibleness, Daniel Plainview burst into a groundbreakingly American display of angry sniveling which put to shame every dramatic performance ever. “ELI!” he screamed, and the bristles on his face stood up as high as the ones in his trousers, “If you do not, in accordance with your victimhood fetish, act like a murdered soap opera heiress and sell me your bath oils for this very reasonable 100 rubles, in the name of my sexually innocent math bitch, Alex, THERE WILL BE BLOOD!” Daniel reached out to strike Eli with his art conniption when, inexplicably, his hand was stayed. “Whitney,” he breathed.

The public radio had changed songs, and it was now Whitney Houston that played in Orwellian warehouses throughout New Trotskyville. Eli’s ears became a cesspool of optimism and ‘90s drumkits. He stared on in fabulous judgment as Daddy Daniel took her photo out of his breast pocket and licked it. “Her eyeshadow looks like Sean Penn’s divorce,” he told the daddy in disdain.

“Which ‘era’ of Whitney do you like, Eli?” asked Daniel, cracking his knuckles.

Eli was aghast. “The one where she hasn’t been relevant since Beyoncé happened, Brother. You really listen to this abstinence charity music?” The older man’s eyes bore into him, filling him with frightful, kaleidoscopic visions of leotards. Eli shifted uncomfortably. A cold silence stretched between them. “I suppose… I can see why you like her voice, Daddy Daniel,” he acknowledged at length, bowing his head, “since you, too, sound as if dental surgery turned you into a radio pervert.”

The man’s entire body shook with incredible extremeness. “Beyoncé is nothing but a post-apocalyptic Kate Bush. A lottery hoax,” growled Daniel. “The Dark Ages are over, Eli, and the power bottoms lost. I own the factory where you pedal your sex calendars now. And if you don’t sell me your bath oils right here, in this renounced nacho bar, I will break all your pussy power bracelets and feed them to my sad Abercrombie virgin, Alex.”

Eli was stunned silent. The house lights began to flicker out, slithering across his face like an ill-fitting condom. Finding no apology from Daniel, he made the sign of the Z and vanished into the club’s back room, where he screamed and flailed around like the girl from The Exorcist if she was sick on chocolate wine. When at last Eli regained his composure, he changed into his racist Dalai Lama costume, preparing for another afternoon of preaching to children about the importance of politically-gay movie extras.

TO BE CONTINUED

***

About the Author

Tom Rob Smith, screenwriter for the acclaimed television documentary London Gay and author of such novels as Vintage Suicide Communists and Momentary HIV, is a rampant fabulant whose gay suffering hard-on has inflamed the manfully heterosexual attention of the editorial staff of Manly Men! Magazine. This fan fiction is the first part of an ongoing media promotion of Paragon Shag’s new political action dinner group, Feel Dirty When You’re Seduced By Rentable Firemen Into Performing Celery Porn Again (FDWYSBRFIPCPA), the aim of which is to discredit the evil teachings of gay transgenders such as Paul Dano, Ben Whishaw, and Rick Perry.

[willpowerbutch]

Pornographer Wang Lee hypnotizes an anthropomorphized polo shirt into doing erotic yoga with Paula Dano. Pictured here describing the width of Jake Gyllenhaal’s manhood.

BTS of Taking Woodstock

Anyone care to suggest what Evil Hippie Dano is up to?

[willpowerbutch]

Yet more photographic evidence of Ben Whishaw’s gay cat march.

[willpowerbutch]

Daniel Radcliffe: A Day in the Life

By Willpower Butch

In our last report, Manly Men! Magazine exposed the shocking conditions of Paula Dano’s necrophilia compound which defaces the outskirts of Santa Monica. One denizen there who did not receive mention is a man known to the public overwhelmingly as the David Bowie of psychological torture -- the boy who lived through Ralph Fiennes -- Harry Potter. Portrayed by Less-Surrealist Elijah Wood, he revealed himself as a child of Satan when he brought Britain’s Got Talent to an abrupt and fiery conclusion with his phallic rodeo. For sixteen years, he has entertained the nation by going through puberty, garnering admirers the world over. But these legions of fans who once crowded his shows to catch sight of his wand might not recognize him now: turned to an existence of beat poetry and cilantro, he tarries his days away on unlisted family beaches, pretending to be dead so as to attract new victims whose farts to smell. By night, he returns to the compound and to Dano, his husband-wife, for long, musical interludes of pyro-erotic revelry. It was there – after just such a performance -- on a mild, unmanfully pleasant March afternoon, that correspondent Paragon Shag made his acquaintance.

The past several months spent in Dano’s dubious apprenticeship have taken their toll on Potter. When Shag found him, he was sitting alone in his wine-box yurt singing “Cotton Eye Joe” to a magazine cut-out of Dane DeHaan. The floor was strewn in banana peels and ‘used’ bubblegum, and there was no furniture but a stolen bar stool. Without turning his head, the boy wizard addressed him: “Somebody hand me the barbeque sauce because you’re a hot piece of meat. I’d like to put you between my buns.”

So pathetic was this sight of a boy without liquor tolerance that Shag could not endure it: he insisted that Potter come away with him so they could speak freely elsewhere. But the beast shook his head. “My husband gives the orders. I think he’s been like that since he was in that slavery movie where he played Paula Deen.”

It is true that the box office has been kind to Dano of late – far kinder, at any rate, than it ever was to real men like David Carradine. But what influence could an actor whose claim to fame is the crying woman from There Will Be Blood possibly exercise over a wizard? Shag tried to elicit an explanation, but he was unsuccessful. “Don’t talk to me about that. I’m finished with Harry Potter,” the youth replied brusquely. “You can call me Bobby Seale now unless they decide to cast Jared Leto.”

He then withdrew his pot pipe. Shag inquired of him why it was necessary to summon the Devil by consuming trend produce like a Gay. “Because I want my poetry to be organic and natural,” he said, lighting up. The toils of the artist seemed to weigh heavily upon his mind. “You are what you ingest, right? If you smoke that processed stuff, you’ll write bullshit like A Christmas Carol.” The boy took a deep drag and sighed. “America really is bitchin’,” he continued, looking up at the rippling canopy. “You want to know why so many Englishmen wind up as Costco queens like Benedict Cumberbatch? I’ll tell you,” he gestured to the correspondent, who leaned his ear closer. “Two words: acting school.” He made Shag wet with his waterfall of tears. “First, they smear you in lipstick and hold a blood ritual where you sacrifice live chickens to Olivier, and the next thing you know, you’ve lost six years of your life reenacting medieval seductions in porno theaters. It’s all because of the fucking gin drunks.”

“But why give in to it?” Shag attempted to reason with him. “You’re in America now. They wouldn’t know Shakespeare from a misspelt YouTube comment.”

“And what about the metrosexuals?” wondered the boy, guarding his hope.

“It is common knowledge that they cannot handle water.” It appeared, ladies and gentlemen, that Seale’s gay fortitude was beginning to crack, when suddenly Shag felt a pair of wimpy arms encircle his waist from behind.

It was the evil hippie, Paula Dano.

“But giving in is so much fun, lover,” said the witch. A lock of red hair fell over Shag’s shoulder that told him that Dano was in the guise of his drag personality, Swiss Miss. He froze in terror. Swiss locked him in her embrace, and Shag buckled as his joints grew flimsy and his skin softened. His impressive 19th century mustache fell out and lay on the floor beside him before vanishing into a puff of glitter and shoe-shine boys. But just when all seemed lost, an old friend came to his aid. Into the sorcerer’s shanty strode a man entirely immune to happy endings, Tom Rob Smith, who had noticed the attack in the course of his own pursuit of Ben Whishaw.

“This will not reflect well on you in my fan fiction,” he growled, uncoiling Shag from Swiss Miss’s Amazonian legs. “When the BBC hears of this, they won’t work with you again, either.” Thus, rode TRS into the distance on a kitten-powered Harley Davidson, nursing Shag back to heterosexuality with chili dogs.

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

In agreeing to print Tom Rob Smith’s forthcoming fan fiction, Admiral Willpower Butch has, for the first time in his career, knowingly collaborated with a Gay. He hopes that his discerning readership will trust in the intent of this association by his otherwise-spotless record for journalistic integrity. When he isn’t not admiring male waiters, correspondent Paragon Shag is writing a children’s book entitled Sir Slants-a-lot: The Bisexual Menace, to raise medical awareness of his condition. Their secretary and disfigured fantasy villain, Dead Summer Days, has no enemies in this world but Duran Duran.