Monday, June 29, 2015
Stories and such
I just happened to be looking at Amazon and discovered that Magazine of the Dead is ranked number 814 is comedy of all things! Comedy!
Sunday, June 21, 2015
Trump, Bitches!
Donald "The Donald" Trump is finally running for President of these United States (of Parody, I guess). This is, hands down, the best news for comedians since Banana peels were invented. Trump is a mashup of rigorous stupidity, vacuous pomposity, turgid speech and grand egotism on a scale never seen before. His bloviations on Immigration and trade are ridiculous and racist. His C.V. is laughable (he drove a casino into bankruptcy! Who does that? Really, who loses money with a casino?). He is a parody of a game show host and nothing more.
That being said, I want to run his campaign. His slogan should be:
TRUMP, BITCHES!
This would be emblazoned over that photo of a raccoon standing on the back of an alligator. No explanation given, none needed.
His running mate should be Lindsey Graham (R - Narnia). Graham can wax eloquently about how he longs to bomb Iran to glass and preserve the beauty and tradition of the Confederacy while Trump demands that Mexico build a fence to keep America out.
Trump, Bitches!
That being said, I want to run his campaign. His slogan should be:
TRUMP, BITCHES!
This would be emblazoned over that photo of a raccoon standing on the back of an alligator. No explanation given, none needed.
His running mate should be Lindsey Graham (R - Narnia). Graham can wax eloquently about how he longs to bomb Iran to glass and preserve the beauty and tradition of the Confederacy while Trump demands that Mexico build a fence to keep America out.
Trump, Bitches!
Sunday, June 7, 2015
Transmissible spongiform encephalopathies
Transmissible spongiform encephalopathies
(Just for us)
by Nathan Tyree
The rhythms of their breath, looped together in twin syncopations, were like venal sin without repentance. Damp scents filled the dark room and the single candle cast shadows about like playful ghosts.
“Here” she said, placing the flat of her palm against his chest and pushing so that he rolled off her and tumbled onto his back.
“What?” He strained to see her in the low, shifting light.
She straddled his pelvis and worked herself down. As he entered her again she said “I don’t believe in God.”
“Not even now?” he asked.
She thrust her hips forward, grinding hard against him. He reached up and gripped her nipple giving it a powerful twist.
“Especially not now,” she said as she quickened her movements drawing closer to orgasm.
“I . . . I . . . Need to . . . “ he tried to make a clear sentence but she clasped her hand over his mouth.
“Shut up,” she said. “Don’t you dare come yet.” Her breathing was changing, they were no longer creating harmony. She was conducting. Then spasm. Release. Her body quaked in waves. The sky seemed to collapse around her.
When she was done she rolled off him and spread her legs. “Here, finish” she said.
He climbed atop her and did just that. When he had exhausted himself and pulled out she said to his receding form “that’s why”.
(Just for us)
by Nathan Tyree
The rhythms of their breath, looped together in twin syncopations, were like venal sin without repentance. Damp scents filled the dark room and the single candle cast shadows about like playful ghosts.
“Here” she said, placing the flat of her palm against his chest and pushing so that he rolled off her and tumbled onto his back.
“What?” He strained to see her in the low, shifting light.
She straddled his pelvis and worked herself down. As he entered her again she said “I don’t believe in God.”
“Not even now?” he asked.
She thrust her hips forward, grinding hard against him. He reached up and gripped her nipple giving it a powerful twist.
“Especially not now,” she said as she quickened her movements drawing closer to orgasm.
“I . . . I . . . Need to . . . “ he tried to make a clear sentence but she clasped her hand over his mouth.
“Shut up,” she said. “Don’t you dare come yet.” Her breathing was changing, they were no longer creating harmony. She was conducting. Then spasm. Release. Her body quaked in waves. The sky seemed to collapse around her.
When she was done she rolled off him and spread her legs. “Here, finish” she said.
He climbed atop her and did just that. When he had exhausted himself and pulled out she said to his receding form “that’s why”.
Types of Crows
Types of Crows
a poem of sorts
by Nathan Tyree
The Pied Crow seeks out windowsills and finds waiting cherry or apple left to cool.
The Cape Crow goes out at night and fight crime with his fists.
The Common Raven drinks PBR and listens to Journey and Styx in his trailer.
The Western Raven owns a saddle, but no horse. He likes sausage and peppers in his omelet.
The Carrion Crow, well you know about his eating habits.
The Hooded Crow tightens the ties on his hoodie and hangs at the corner with his bros.
Jackdaw from Wichita travels around refusing to share the water or the wine.
The Rook will checkmate your ass before you see it coming.
The Fish Crow eats worms.
The Fan Tailed Raven can keep you cool in the summer.
The House Crow has room for a family of four, but isn’t worth near as much as he was last year.
a poem of sorts
by Nathan Tyree
The Pied Crow seeks out windowsills and finds waiting cherry or apple left to cool.
The Cape Crow goes out at night and fight crime with his fists.
The Common Raven drinks PBR and listens to Journey and Styx in his trailer.
The Western Raven owns a saddle, but no horse. He likes sausage and peppers in his omelet.
The Carrion Crow, well you know about his eating habits.
The Hooded Crow tightens the ties on his hoodie and hangs at the corner with his bros.
Jackdaw from Wichita travels around refusing to share the water or the wine.
The Rook will checkmate your ass before you see it coming.
The Fish Crow eats worms.
The Fan Tailed Raven can keep you cool in the summer.
The House Crow has room for a family of four, but isn’t worth near as much as he was last year.
Saturday, June 6, 2015
My Understanding of Sex
My Understanding of Sex
Nathan Tyree
One
Deke asked me why a girl would want to sit on a guy's cock.
We must have been ten or so at the time. It was august and we had been trying
to suck the last bit of freedom out of summer before we had to go back to
school. Our bikes were tossed over and almost forgotten. We were lying on our
backs in the grass when he asked the question. The image I got was of a man
standing next to a chair with his wang stretched out on the seat and some girl
plopping down on it. It sounded painful to me and not at all in line with my
current understanding of sex. The way I had heard it the girl had to lie on her
back and the man had to get on top of her.
“What the hell you talkin’ about?” I asked leaning up on one
elbow.
“You know my mom’s new boyfriend”
“Yeah.” I had met him a couple of times when I stopped by to
see if Deke wanted to hang out. He was a tubby guy with a shiny brow that
extended too far back. I didn’t like the way his eyes darted around when I
entered the trailer.
“Last night I walked into mom’s room and saw her on the bed
with him. It looked like she was sitting on his cock.” Deke didn’t look at me.
I got the feeling that maybe he was embarrassed.
“I don’t know, man.” I got up and walked to my bike. I
righted it and climbed on. “Come on, let’s go watch the girls at the pool.”
“’Kay,” he said and we rode off. We spent the afternoon
looking through the fence at girls a few years older than us swimming and
jumping and bouncing in their bikinis.
Sunday, May 31, 2015
The Comeback
I've been thinking of bringing MotD back from the dead. That will happen soon. Stay tuned . . .
Friday, May 24, 2013
Nat'e Vault
Some of the people responsible for this thing, are now responsible for this other thing:
Nate's Vault and Our website.
Check us out, "like" us on that facebook thingy.
We have some of everything, and we sell it all cheap!
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Trick with a Knife
Magazine of the Dead really, really likes Trick with a Knife. It's the hot new lit blog. It's got reviews, interviews, news, opinion and other crazy stuff.
Some MotD peeps are over there. JMES Horn, Nathan Tyree, Jon Catron and more. Anyway, peep it, love it, fuck it.
Some MotD peeps are over there. JMES Horn, Nathan Tyree, Jon Catron and more. Anyway, peep it, love it, fuck it.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
The new issue of Thirst for Fire has dropped into reality. Go get it. Have a look. It is jam packed with crazy, weird, beautiful imaginings from some massive talents. You should take some time to fall in love with it. It will caress you, love you back, start to grow jealous of your flirtations with other magazine and then kill you.
Get face fucked by Thirst for Fire right fucking here
Get face fucked by Thirst for Fire right fucking here
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
I've Got a Bird
“I’ve Got a Bird to Whistle and I’ve Got a Bird to Sing”
by anonymous
1.He stands. The ground beneath his feet describes a gentle, gradual slope; an easement, which moves imperceptibly downward to the place that delineates the difference between earth and road. This is the place where the dewgrass ends and pavement takes over. He tries to lift his head, to look up to the sky, but the dreadful weight of air and the ruminating thunderheads force down on him, halting any upward progress. He wants to look up so that he wont be looking forward.
2.Forward. Despite every attempt to seal his eyes, to clinch the lids and blacken the landscape he looks ever forward at the ruin before him. It never occurs to him that he could look down at the brown surface of his work boots, or at the grass that those boots are wrecking.
3.Wrecked. The Ford Taurus is resting well into the median just behind him. The front grille has become concave: bent inward. The hood has crumpled, and popped upward, opening just slightly to release tendrils of off-white steam mixed with heavy oily smoke that wends its way into the darkening sky.
4.Sky. The sky seems to be constricting around him. Now sirens are in the distance. He thinks that the air around him tastes vaguely of stale champagne. He rubs his palms against his face, and tries to remember how to breathe again.
5.Again, forward. In front of him is the ruin, the ravaged body that had been a brown haired little girl racing across the four lanes after a bright blue rubber ball that had somehow slipped away from her grasp and gone bouncing against the cold concrete. Now she was disjointed, bloody and strewn out along highway 62 like bits of a broken doll. Long black skid marks led up to the place where her little body in its flower print dress had gone airborne.
6.Somewhere near by a bird sings as the first drops of rain begin to fall.
by anonymous
1.He stands. The ground beneath his feet describes a gentle, gradual slope; an easement, which moves imperceptibly downward to the place that delineates the difference between earth and road. This is the place where the dewgrass ends and pavement takes over. He tries to lift his head, to look up to the sky, but the dreadful weight of air and the ruminating thunderheads force down on him, halting any upward progress. He wants to look up so that he wont be looking forward.
2.Forward. Despite every attempt to seal his eyes, to clinch the lids and blacken the landscape he looks ever forward at the ruin before him. It never occurs to him that he could look down at the brown surface of his work boots, or at the grass that those boots are wrecking.
3.Wrecked. The Ford Taurus is resting well into the median just behind him. The front grille has become concave: bent inward. The hood has crumpled, and popped upward, opening just slightly to release tendrils of off-white steam mixed with heavy oily smoke that wends its way into the darkening sky.
4.Sky. The sky seems to be constricting around him. Now sirens are in the distance. He thinks that the air around him tastes vaguely of stale champagne. He rubs his palms against his face, and tries to remember how to breathe again.
5.Again, forward. In front of him is the ruin, the ravaged body that had been a brown haired little girl racing across the four lanes after a bright blue rubber ball that had somehow slipped away from her grasp and gone bouncing against the cold concrete. Now she was disjointed, bloody and strewn out along highway 62 like bits of a broken doll. Long black skid marks led up to the place where her little body in its flower print dress had gone airborne.
6.Somewhere near by a bird sings as the first drops of rain begin to fall.
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