RECIPE: Soylent Greentini

Unless you’re Rupert Murdoch or Dick Cheney, chances are you won’t be feasting on human flesh any time soon – but that doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy one of my delicious Soylent Greentinis. Take a sip and you won’t believe it’s not some sort of bodily fluid recently harvested from a corpse.

3 oz soy sauce
1 oz. amaretto
Splash Crème de Menthe¹
2 tbsp ground beef

How do you think you make this drink, nincompoop? You make it the same way you make every drink. You pour all the shit into a big fancy-looking glass, drop an olive or a cherry into it, maybe skewering it on a little plastic sword first, and then drink it. Jeez.

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1. Please note that the splash use here is the “traditional” splash, also known as the splashè, rather than the metric splash adopted by the CGPM in 1875.

Captured by Bandits

(When we last left our travellers, Mickey Mouse, the Abominable Charlie Brown, and their companion, Owen the Spermatazoan, they had just been robbed by Ms. Pacman and left to fend for themselves in the nomans land between Blakistan and Fudge Pakistan. How will they survive? Find out now.) 


"What in the name of the ever-present and uncaring God are we going to do?" asked Mickey. "That bitch stole my bling."
"Graggh," commented the Abominable Charlie Brown.
Owen hunched in the corner and simply wept. "She stole my spleen."
"Ah, fuck it," said Mickey. "If we could run that shit in Brooklyn and excape the FBI, what's a wartorn, warlord-controlled borderland gonna stop us? Hell, maybe we can take over the Poopie racket like we did with the Tuss back in Bed-Stuy. But one step at a time, and the first thing I say we do is ditch Owen. He's friggin annoying."
"No, no, please," begged the talking sperm. "You can't leave me here to die."
"I don't see what's stopping us," said Mickey. "Besides, you were the one who got us into this mess."
"But I'm important," whined Owen. "I was on Oprah."
"Hey," said Mickey. "I love Oprah, too. I'd suck that woman's coochie all day long, believe me. But you know what? I don't even think you're who you say you are. In fact, I bet you're nothing more than some Republican hack trying to sneak into Fudge Pakistan for a discrete homosexual encounter."
The Abominable Charlie Brown pulled the mask off Owen, revealing the ghastly countenance of none other than Karl Rove.
"Just as I suspected," said Mickey. "Let's get out of here."
The sun beat down on the unforgiving landscape like the LAPD on a "nigga." Shadows moved behind every boulder. In the distance howled the ass-mastiffs - the vile feral dogs with tails at both ends that had turned many an unsuspecting traveller into a doggy suppository.
Blackened rubble and often bones dotted the terrain where unfortunate travellers had stepped on land mines - relics of a long-standing religious war pitting tribal Christians against those who (due to a long-forgotten case of bad penmanship) followed Ghrist.
Mickey and his lover were street smart, but they were no match for the bandits that had been following them ever since Ms. Pacman had paid them her tribute. There was little the bandits had not seen, and while many a "G" back in Brooklyn rapped about "taking out a zombie with chainsaw to the head/ like that nigga Bruce Campbell in Dawn of the Dead," most of the inhabitants of this wasteland had smitten their first undead before they had hair on their balls.
It might have been a fair fight, had they not been dealing with the most ruthless of all bandits in the land: Burt Reynold's Moustache.
"Hahaha," said the handsome 'stache leaping out from behind a pile of rubble. "Thought you could pass this way without my escort, eh? Hahaha!"
Snipers appeared from all around with AK's and grenade launchers, as Burt Reynold's Moustasche put a cruelly curved knife to the mouse's throat. "I wouldn't move if I were you, Chuckie," warned the bandit. "I've dealt with abominations like you before. And besides, you wouldn't want anything to happen to your precious little mousey, would you?"
Three scarred brutes whose tongues had been cut out long ago approached the Abominable Charlie Brown with cold-forged iron shackles. "That oughta hold him," laughed the talking moustache. "Hahaha."
As the Abominable Charlie Brown was manacled, Burt Reynold's Moustache looked lustfully up and down Mickey Mouse's adorable figure. "I think my men could use a new concubine. Hahaha."
"Hahaha," mimicked Mickey, "kiss my ass." The mouse wriggled his distended rectum from his pants and gave the bandit king a smooch with his anus.
Burt Reynold's Moustache looked Mickey Mouse up and down. "I oughta kill you now." He laughed. "But you got balls. And not only that but you got a prehensile rectum that really turns me on. Men! Set up camp. We're gonna have fun tonight."
Chained to a boulder and guarded by men with heavy artillery, the Abominable Charlie Brown could only watch as the tent shook with laughter, knowing that his lover was going through the same nightmare he had experienced when Screwtoons McFoolery had imprisioned him in the Dimension of All Anal Action. But what was there to do but wait, and hope for an opportunity to escape and wreak vengeance on their captors?
Days became weeks and weeks became months. The Abominable Charlie Brown was forced to pull caravans like a beast of burden when they travelled, and when they stopped, he pushed a water-wheel round and round, propelling some sort of Rube-Goldberg device that made pancakes for Burt Reynold's Moustache out of his heavy labor. Mickey Mouse's ears were cut off and sold as souveniers. He was fucked up the ass with a cactus while the Abominable Charlie Brown was made to watch. There was no end to the cruelty of Burt Reynold's Moustache; but the two lovers, unable to communicate more than the occasional wistful glance, knew their time would come. They had a card up their sleeve and it was this: the bandits had dealt with zombies before, sure; but what they did not know was that the Abominable Charlie Brown was a zomborg - part zombie and part cyborg. If it were just him by himself, he would have long ago ripped the brigands limb from limb. But there was no way to wreak his vengeance without assuring the death of his lover.
So the Abominable Charlie Brown, who not so long ago would have scoffed at the notion of "love," endured the whips and waited.

(Will Mickey and Charlie escape and get their revenge, or will the story return to the doings of Barton Buttmarten? Find out next week - and by next week, I mean whenever I feel like it - when The Odd Odyssey of Barton Buttmarten continues.)

RECIPE: Street Omelette

For the gritty urban cowboy wrangling rats on the streets of “Dirty Jersey,” the days are long and the nights are hard. Most of the time, the only thing he has in the way of companionship is the warm tailpipe of an idling Caddy. So when dawn rises on his aching bones, and he needs a breakfast that can see him across the grisly day, Wheaties just ain’t gonna cut it. That’s why I’ve concocted this recipe for the Street Omelette using ingredients that can easily be scavenged from the surrounding environment.

3 pigeon eggs
1 cup stale chewing gum
1/2 cup coffee grounds
1 sheet newspaper
5 plastic bags

Crack the pigeon eggs into a glass bowl, and stir vigorously, making sure to fully emulsify any foetal birds. Meanwhile, in a small saucepan, melt the plastic bags, stirring frequently. If done properly, you should end up with a viscous substance almost indistinguishable from American cheese.
Next, tear the newspaper into strips and mix with the coffee grounds and the wads of gum that you’ve collected. When eggs are nearly cooked, fold these ingredients into your omelette, and pour the melted bags over the top., and violà! You’ll be singing yippie-kai-yay all the live-long day when you’ve had a breakfast like this.

A Visit to Fudge Pakistan

(Mickey Mouse and his lover, the Abominable Charlie Brown have escaped the Feds and are on their way to Mackistan, but first they must pass through the strange land of Fudge Pakistan.)
When the plane touched down on the runway at Elton John International Airport, Mickey and his zomborg companion found themselves in what commentators were describing as a "politically volatile" situation, by which they meant that it was about to be the start of WWIII. A Fudge Pakistani secret serviceman had just been accused of assassinating the Polish Prime Minister, and a large crowd had gathered round the TV set in the terminal to watch the head of the Secret Service apologize that it was just a misunderstanding over what he had meant when he told his agent to, "go smoke a pole."
Mickey Mouse pushed his way through the crowd of anxious Fudge Pakistanis and changed the channel. "Fuck this shit, I wanna watch Oprah."
"Rubbers Banned in Fudge Pakistan," ran the kicker. The guest today was Owen the Spermatazoan talking about this latest victory in the Spooge Rights movement, as one of the final countries to ban condoms finally made this historic move. "I think that for a long time - partially because some of the first proponents of Spooge Rights were anti-homosexual, anti-masturbation, very extremist - I think the people here held onto the facile argument that because the sperm were swimming not towards the womb, but into the fudge, that they did not have the right to enjoy their brief struggle onward - perhaps into the esophagus, or maybe doing laps around the cornea, even into that dark fudgy goodnight..."
Someone changed the channel back.
"Grraggh," commented the Abominable Charlie Brown.
"Let's get out of here," said Mickey, who in an attempt to go incognito was wearing only three mouse ear hats embroidered with the NY Yankees logo and a single arm-thick rope chain. "I wanna get a taste of the local culture. Who ever heard of visiting Fudge Pakistan without going to see a Poop Shoot."
That evening they bought tickets to the Poop Shoots, and it was all they could have hoped for and more. Fudge Pakistani tribesmen adorned in the traditional robes and rainbow turbans danced their whirling jig, then in unison, at some hidden signal, bent over, lifted their robes, and using amazingly trained intestinal and rectal muscles, defacated up to 100 feet in the air. Meanwhile, trained marksmen dressed in the fatigues worn during Fuge Pakistan's war with the Russians fired Kalashnikov rifles at the feces, while the crowd squealed and ducked away from the fallout.
"It's kind of like a Gallagher show," said someone behind them, "except with fruits splattering the audience with shit, instead of a shit splattering the audience with fruit."
They turned around. It was Owen the Spermatazoan.
"I saw you on Oprah," said Mickey. "Can I have your autograph?"
"Does it look like I have any arms to write with?" Owen asked caustically.
"Umm," thought Mickey. "So can I at least ask how a spermatozoan got to be man-sized and able to talk?"
"Diet and exercise," Owen lied. "So how did you enjoy the Poop Shoot?"
"I'll tell you what," said Mickey Mouse, "if the fags in the United Stated had learned to pack heat the way they pack fudge, they might not all be in those Re-Education Camps."
"More like Reincarnation Camps," Owen chucked. "Anyway, it's the only cure."
Just then, two moon ghosts could be seen on the far horizon. By the colors, it looked like Inky and Clyde. The three Americans were not the only ones to notice them either. By the comments from the crowd, such sightings had become more and more frequent of late, and many in the throng suspected the CIA. Several hostile glares were thrown towards Micky and Chuck.
"Let's get out of here," said Mickey Mouse to Owen the Spermatazoan. "I don't want Chuck freaking out and going apeshit."
Owen, who seemed to be a frequent visitor here, led the pair down a winding cobblestone alleyway to a dimly lit hookah bar.
"Do you think it really is the CIA," Mickey Mouse asked, sucking in a mouthful of marshmallow-flavored opium smoke.
"Do you know who I think it is?" said Owen leaning forward conspiratorily.
"Who?" asked Mickey.
"Santa Claus," said Owen.
"I think this guy's a couple chomosomes short of a genome," Mickey whispered to the Abominable Charlie Brown, who was insterting the hookah stem into his anus.
Owen glared at Mickey condescendingly.
"Where's Ms. Pacman when you need her, right?" said Mickey Mouse.
"Ms. Pacman's not chasing any moon ghosts these days," said Owen. "She's a little too busy chasing tricks in the Pink Distrrict."
"The Pink District? Ms. Pacman? But I thought this was Fudge Pakistan?" Mickey asked.
The giant spermatazoan chuckled. "Oh, you'll find that there are about as many hets here as there are any where else. They've just been forced into hiding, getting their kicks from back alley prostitutes, filthy bath houses, anonymous bathroom sex, that kind of thing."
"And Ms. Pacman is one of these back alley hookers?" Mickey Mouse inquired.
"I'm afraid so," scoffed Owen. "She started mixing in some xanax and valium with her power pellets. Then it was onto Ecstasy and other pills. For a while she was working as a high class coke whore, but you can only keep that up for so long. Now she's a full-on junkie, doing tricks for 5 dollars American, if that's your thing."
"Boy," said Mickey Mouse. "It sure is! With a mouth like that, she could really do a number on my ping-pong ball-sized clit."
"Wokka wokka!" cried the Abominable Charlie Brown, eagerly.
Once they were done, Mickey Mouse handed her a hundred and told her to keep the change.
"So baby," said Ms. Pacman, "what brings two cats like you to Fudge Pakistan? You're not exactly the typical visitor."
Mickey Mouse explained that they were looking for a guide to lead them a across the treacherous mountain borders and into Blakistan, whence they would travel the war-scarred desert into Mackistan.
"Well, you're in luck," purred Ms. Pacman. "My pimp lives in Blakistan. Meet me here in three hours if you want to go. It's a thousand up front and a thousand when we arrive."
"Here's three thousand now," said Mickey, pulling off a wad of bills from his stack.
True to her word, Ms. Pacman appeared in four hours with a pack of ass-camels and supplies for the dangerous journey across the high mountain desert.
That night she led them to a cave that had once been used as a fotress in the war against the Russians. Even the ass-camels - smelly as they were - were sequestered inside the cave, so as to escape the notice of mountain brigands and vicious tribesmen.
When they woke up the next morning, however, Ms. Pacman had vanished along with all of Mickey and Chuck's money and "bling," as well as Owen's liver. The ass-camels had been slaughtered to ward off pursuit. They had nothing except for the clothes on their backs.
Owen the Spermatazoan pressed the icepack against his chest and moaned.
 

(Are Mickey Mouse and his lover and their new companion doomed? Will they ever make it to Blakistan? Is WWIII eminent? What are moon ghosts doing in Fudge Pakistan? And what's going on with Barton Buttmarten, now that he and his companions have escaped the Waffle Iron Fortress? Tune in next time for an answer to between one and three of these excruciatingly exciting questions - give or take a few.)

RECIPE: Cob Dogs

The Cob Dog is traditionally served at the combination funeral/wedding ceremonies observed by the settlers of New Brunswick, but have caught on as haute (diggety-dog) couture amongst the hottest dudes in New Beverly Hills. They make a perfect bar snack, considering their high fiber-to-Vitamin R ratio.

3 lbs. Kosher hot dogs
24 oz. candy corn
2 TBS MSG
1 tsp Vaseline
4 Cadbury Eggs
16 oz. jar of pimentos
½ cup whisker shavings from an electric razor
12 reasonably clean popsicle sticks
1 Costco-size bottle of baby oil

Start by penetrating the Kosher dogs at each end with a popsicle stick, and lining them up in a way that degrades and shames them. Take the Cadbury Eggs and throw them away. Then place the candy corn, salt, pimentos and whisker shavings in a coffee grinder. Turn that bad boy up to maximum grindage until you blow a fuse or something catches on fire. (If you’re a total weenie, two minutes on Armenian press should be fine.)
While your coffee grinder is showing the candy corn what it means to be its bitch, massage the Vaseline and MSG into the violated hot dogs. Dump the contents of what’s left of the coffee grinder into a shallow, yet good-looking dish and spread evenly. Roll the slick long dogs into the mixture until thoroughly coated.
Heat baby oil in a deep pan until it starts to smell like an old hair dryer. Once the smell becomes pungent enough to alert the neighbors, plunge in those coated dogs. When the dogs begin to make a high pitch squeal, let them sit for 12 more minutes then remove all of your clothing. Once you begin to feel ashamed, let the dogs rest in an area with a view, preferably by a window, for about 10-12 weeks.
Serve reheated. If a heat lamp is not available, tuck a couple dozen into a sweatsuit and run stairs until the dogs are nice and warm.

Mickey Mouse and the Abominable Charlie Brown Take a Vacation

(Since we left them, Mickey Mouse and his zomborg partner, the Abominable Charlie Brown, have been doing quite well for themselves. Using a recipe taught to him by none other that Barton Buttmarten, he has cooked down Robitussin and Drano into a smokeable form known on the block as rubies. Soon it seems the entire borough is hooked, and Mickey and Chuck are up to their ears in "bling." Competition from street gangs and sundry hustlers moves in on the scene, but with the Abominable Charlie Brown running protection, they have no fear. Many a rival has been driven into the psych ward after busting a cap in Chuck, only to have him calmly remove his "rag" and soak up the spurting blood, then suck it up from the bandana while the wound heals in a matter of minutes. Mickey Mouse transacts the product, standing on the corner wearing not less than seven pairs of mouse-ears caps, each professionally stitched in black with the NY Yankees logo. He is also at an advantage over the competition, for the time he spent trapped in the Dimension of All Anal Action has left his ass so cavernous that he is able to hide far more rubies there than the rest of the hustlers. Not only that, but by using his prolapsed rectum, he is able to feel about for a baggie of the correct denomination and slip it subtly into his awaiting palm.)

The filthy lucre is spent on holographic grilles, genetically altered bitches and hoes that piss Hennessy and shit caviar, P. Diddy is hired to compose a song in their honor ("Blow My Mind," featuring a paid-for-and-cleared sample from "Hey, Mickey.") Nike is commissioned to design a pair of hightops to match the Abominable Charlie Brown's trademark yellow and black zigzag shirt.
Shit, in short is "sick."
But a "nigga" on the "block" can't do much for hisself before The Man tries to horn in on the action, and after waiting weeks for the Abominable Charlie Brown to leave his side, the Feds swoop in on Mickey and throw him in a van for a cavity search. Thinking quickly, Mickey strangles the agent with his prolapsed rectum and hops out of the moving vehicle before the dead man's partner can retalliate.
Mickey Mouse and the Abominable Charlie Brown figure that now is a good time to take that vacation they've been planning.
To pass the time at the Ann Coulter International Airport while waiting for their flight, Mickey and Chuck amuse a baby with their "Elephant Routine," which involves the two of them taking off their pants and Mickey Mouse hopping on the back of the Abominable Charlie Brown, who gets down on all fours. The baby is given a bag of peanuts to feed the "elephant." facing away from the child, Mickey then takes the nuts from the child with his prolapsed rectum and feeds them into the toothy rectum of the Abominable Charlie Brown, who ass-masticates them to the baby's glee, while Mickey makes elephant noises (which are actually the wails of multiple orgasm he is having from rubbing his pinpong ball-sized clitoris against Chuck's coccyx.) As an encore, the Abominable Charlie Brown vomits up a jar of Skippy and a rattle, which he presents to the child.
Fortunately for the performers, neither of the two security guards on duty at this gate nor the baby's mother are anywhere about, having all three smoked crack in a broom closet, and currently engaging in some good old-fashioned DP.
Soon enough, the plane has arrived, and the pair board the flight that will take them to where their journey truly is to begin - in the santorum-soaked nation of Fudge Pakistan. (Formerly Pakistan.) From there, they begin the dangerous trek by ass-camel (a cross between a dromedary and a donkey) into the dangerous country of Blakistan - a country currently given Most Terrorist Nation status, and subject to economic (except for arms) and travel embargo. Indeed, anti-American sentiment runs high here, and no American has set foot there, since the assassination attempt by a Blakistani man on Elvis Presley only one month after he finally came out of hiding and was made King of the United States in addition to his previous title of King of Rock'n'Roll. Adding insult to injury, though the bomb failed at regicide, the blast nearly castrated the rock legend, blowing off his penis and one and a half of his testicles.
Through the dangerous land of Blakistan, Mickey Mouse and the Abominable Charlie Brown planned to travel to the Mecca of Mack, the mystical land of Makistan. But to do that, they would have to cross through the land-mine infested territory of Kashmunny, whose ownership had been disputed for millennia in a bloody religious conflict between the Players in Makistan and the Thugs in Blakistan.
The plane hit the ground in Fudge Pakistan and pulled up to gate 69 at the Elton John International Airport, and Mickey and his zomborg partner prepared to deplane.

(Next: Mickey Mouse and the Abominable Charlie Brown in Fudge Pakistan. What sort of hijinks will ensue? Gee, I don't have a clue; but if I were Willard Scott I'd say the forecast might call for a high probability of "fudge" and the "packing" thereof.)

RECIPE: Dog Cobbler

Here is a recipe sure to please the in-laws. They’ll all be gobbling down this Dog Cobbler.

Crunchy Topping
1/3 cup unbleached flour - sifted
½ cup salt
½ cup oatmeal
2/3 cup sand
2 TBS dark brown sugar
*8-10 garbage bag twist ties for garnish

Filling
½ cup granulated sugar
½ stick melted butter
8 bun-length hot dogs
1 TBS tartar sauce
½ tsp cinnamon
¼ tsp nutmeg

Pre-heat oven to 375 degrees.
Combine flour, salt, oatmeal, dark brown sugar, and sand into large mixing bowl. Mix with wooden spoon until it reaches the consistency of Lil’ Kim’s hair. Then in a separate but equally large bowl, so as to not cause jealousy between ingredients, beat together granulated sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, melted butter and tartar sauce. Slice hot dogs into lengths approximately the size of John Kerry’s nose. Fold in hot dog slices with the other filling ingredients.
In an ungreased casserole dish spoon filling in an even layer at the bottom of the pan. Carefully pour on the crunchy topping mix. Curl twist ties into pleasing shapes and push them into the topping leaving only ¼ inch exposed. Place in pre-heated over for 15-55 minutes until cobbler looks like its will has been broken. Remove from oven and serve while scalding hot.
Makes an excellent pairing with oven-toasted paper towels and citrus flavored mouthwash.

Into the Waffle-Iron Fortress

(Our story so far: having wilily thrown the What-The-Hellhound off their scent by whipping up a batch of ass-fromage, Barton Buttmarten and his companions, R2D2-With-A-Boner and Kermit have traveled into the furthest reaches of the cosmos to retrieve the filched sexual orifices of Barbi, Barbie, and Barbee from the dastardly Screwtoons McFoolery. As the sun sets over outer space, they come upon his Waffle-Iron Fortress.)

"Boy, that sure is creepy," said Kermit.
"Yea," remarked Buttmarten, "one percertain might griddle up verily a breakfast amageddon with that thing. The question is: how are we going to get inside?"
"THE ANSWER IS: GO FUCK YOURSELVES!!!" cried the booming voice of McFoolery over the P.A. "And as proof of that lemma, enjoy a holograph of my ass!" And there over the fortress appeared a butt, half a light year high.
"I'm not enjoying that very much at all," commented Kermit.
"Well then, enjoy THIS!" cried Screwtoons, and the ass let forth such a volley of flatulence that the adventurers were blasted back several miles through space.
"Well bury my heart and spank me over your wounded knee," ejaculated Buttmarten. "It looks like he's turning on the Refrigerator-Magnetic Force Shields."
"Beeb boop," said R2D2-With-A-Boner, trying to fuck a passing O.
Screwtoons farted out "Taps," and laughed.
"There's only one thing that could possibly get us through such a defense," remarked Kermit.
"And what praytell might that be?" said Barton Buttmarten, pulling his ozymandius tight to ward off the cold of space.
"A dinosaur," explained Kermit.
"And where praychance by tell, might we come upon a dinosaur in the vast and most forboding regions of the galaxy?" asked Barton.
"Hey guys, what's going on?" said Buddy the Brontosaurus, who just happened to be walking by. "Nice day, huh?"
"A nice day for waffles," said Barton, and next thing you know, Buddy the Brontosaurus had opened up the back door of the fortress and they were all inside.
They found themselves in the dungeons, where Screwtoons kept his victims and performed his vile medical experiments - monsters that should not live and things too vile to be named. Somewhere in here were the triplets' filched orifices.
Kermit looked through the bars of one of the cells and laid eyes upon a dread diarrhea elemental. "Pass the Immodium AD. That's just sick." Passing down the flagstone corridors, they looked in on many an abhorrent and unnatural thing - a creature that looked like a large worm but was just a living rectum, reanimated roadkill ... In one cell, they saw Michael Jackson and his clone, Ronald McDonald taking turns pretending to be the eight-year old.
Finally, when they thought things could get no more file, the party turned a corner and found themselves face to face with something that made them all freeze in terror: it was Jennifer Anniston.
"First Brad runs off with that bitch, and I have to schlep up with that Vince Vaughn douchbad because no one will put up with me and he's cheating on me anyway and they're off making movies that everyone wants to see while meanwhile Vince and I can't make a film to save our lives and everyone's gonna know that I couldn't hack it except as some dumb broad on television." Jennifer began to cry.
"Don't you worry, miss," said Barton Buttmarten. "I think I can help you out."
"Can you," Jennifer asked, and Buttmarten whispered in her ear. The girl's face brightened.
"Just remember," added Barton handing her a razor blade, "down the street, not across the road. Crossing the road is for chickens."
Ms. Anniston sat down and quickly opened up both of her wrists. Blood began to pool around her and she grew pale. "I'm beginning to feel better already," she said.
"I think we all are, ma'am," said Kermit. "I think we all are."
But Jennifer Aniston was not the last horror that our intrepid adventurers would face that day, for as they progressed ever inward they began to smell something foul and overpowering, like dead things on the beach.
"Bile and begonias," ejaculated Buttmarten. "This smell reminds me of when I was a lad and accidentally left a bunch of dead mermaids in the closet."
"It sure is smelly," commented Buddy the Brontosaurus. "I think our friend needs some Glade Plug-Ins."
"I doubt he's our friend," said Kermit, "and besides, this is no time for product endorsement."
Just then, they came upon the source of the putrid odor - a wide crevace oozing with greenish-yellow pus.
Crap and chrysantemums," cried Barton Buttmarten. "Screwtoons has supersized the vagina of Paris Hilton. All of a sudden a chitinous pincered creature pulled itself from the depths and stared at them with its compound eyes.
"Ew, gross," exclaimed Buddy the Brontosaurus, scrunching his eyes shut and trying to step on it. "I hate bugs. Bugs are so gross. Did you know that if you have just one bug that in a month, you'll have ten thousand bugs. You don't even need two bugs to reproduce because bugs are born pregnant. Just like Mormons."
The gargantuan pubic louse lunged at Kermit, but R2D2-With-A-Boner was too fast, and blasted it with a laser then wheeled over to it and tried to fuck the carapace.
"Nay my metal friend," cried Barton, "do you not smell that succulent aroma that you have fried up for us. The flesh of an insect is quite like that of a lobster or crayfish. Please alow me to conjure up for us a delicious crab bisque."
While Barton Buttmarten worked his culinary magic, the rest of the crew guarded the meal from the shitbirds who had appeared at the scent, throwing stones at the fecal creatures to keep them at bay.
"Poop is gross," commented Buddy the Brontosaurus. "I wish dinosaurs didn't have to poop."
"I wish you'd drop a Jurrassic dump on these stool pigeons," said Kermit.
But shitbirds or no, the feast was soon done, and the flesh of the enormous crab louse was indeed flaky and delicious.
Enheartened, the crew set off towards the center of the Waffle-Iron Fortress, where they saw a number of caged and shackled oddities, including the heretofore-considered-apocryphal Bill Cosby-With-A-Vagina.
Kermit looked sheepish. "Can you guys hold on a sec, I just want to peek in there at ole Bill." The gangly blue guy slipped into the cell, and soon there followed a vile gobbling noise.
"What's going on in there?" asked Buddy the Brontosaurus. "It sounds like Kermit is turning Bill Cosby-With-A-Vagina into a chicken."
"Mayhaps more a chicken-head," Barton commented.
"Beebeebeep," R2D2-With-A-Boner tittered, but Buddy the Brontosaurus looked confused.
Kermit slipped out of the pen, a trail of beige slime encrusted down his leg. He cleared his throat. "Sorry about that boys. I uh, you know I was a big fan of The Cosby-With-A-Boner Show growing up, so I ah, figured maybe I'd get his autograph. You know how it is."
Indeed, they knew, and not even Buddy the Brontosaurus asked to see the signature. Anyway, they were very near victory, and the center of Screwtoons McFoolery's lair.
The last cell they looked in appeared to be empty, when suddenly a red-clad figure dropped from the ceiling. It was Spiderman ... but he had the most luscious lips one could ever imagine. And a tight pink pussy!
"The missing orifices," ejaculated Buttmarten.
"C'mon," called Kermit. "You got an anus there, too? We've got a villain to catch."
"Indeed, I do have an anus," commented Spidey. "Finally. Don't tell me you're going to take it away just now that I'm free to use it."
Barton Buttmarten watched the webslinger bend over for R2D2-With-A-Boner. "Murgatroyd, no!" exclaimed the gourmand. "Those bimbos were total twats, and anyway they look far more fetching on you, Spidey."
"Great! Then I'll show you the way to Screwtoons's chambers."
When the five of them rushed in, though, it seemed as if Screwtoons had been waiting for them all along. For all his sinister ways, he had a jolly and robust look to him, augmented by the bushy white beard and bright blue fur-lined coat and pants.
"I know who you are," said Buddy, "you're Santa Claus's evil twin."
"Right you are," laughed Screwtoons. "And you might have got the best of me this time, but rest assured - you haven't seen the last of me!" He pushed a button opening the roof to the sky, and revealing his mahogany desk to be the helm of a great sleigh. "Ghosts! We must away!"
And with that, four round colorful moon ghosts swept into the room, hitched up to McFoolery's sleigh, and pulled towards the sky. R2D2-With-A-Boner's lasers and Spiderman's webs ricocheted harmlessly off it.
"On Inky and Blinky, on Pinky and Clyde," called out Screwtoons McFoolery as they rose beyond the dome of the Waffle-Iron Fortress. "A Merry Christmas to all, and to all a Go Fuck Yourself."
With that he tossed the party a parting gift. Barton picked it up and unwrapped it. It was a jack-in-the-box. When he wound it up, music played and a butt came out. There was a note between the cheeks.
"If you thought snatching snatches was a true abomination/ When you see what comes next, you'll really piddle your pants./ So if you want to come stop me consider this riddle your chance./ My aim starts with a C, and ends with 'osmic Domination."
"What could he possibly mean by that?" asked Buddy the Brontosaurus.
"I haven't the foggiest," said Barton Buttmarten, "but it looks like the ass-in-th-box triggered the fortress's self-destruct mechanism. We can figure out the rhyme later. Let's get out of here."
And in the distance, the the What-The-Hellhound howled.

(Next: find out what's been happening with Mickey Mouse and the Abominable Charlie Brown, and join them on their vacation to the pimp-ass country of Mackistan.)

RECIPE: Sandy Clam

This X-rated drink will make your neighbor’s Buttery Nipple look positively PG-13.

3 oz. Mr. T’s Xtreme Bloody Mary Mix
2 oz. Vladimir Putin brand vodka
½ oz. Baileys Irish Cream
½ oz. banana liqueur
½ oz. Peppermint Schnapps
1/4 oz.10/30 weight motor oil
1/4 can chunk lite Albacore tuna
Dash sand

Mix the bloody mary mix, vodka and Irish cream together thoroughly in an extra high highball glass, dropping in bits of tuna as you do so. On top of this, float the banana liqueur and remaining tuna. Top off with the Peppermint Schnapps and motor oil for that Exxon Valdez effect. Garnish with sand and serve just above room temperature.

The Mystery of the Purloined Orifices

(Our story thus far: at the behest of his travelling companion, R2D2-with-a-Boner, Mr. Buttmarten has taken a detour to the Planet of the Playboy Bunnies, where the rich and famous from across the galaxy come to relax and get their rocks off.)

While R2D2-with-a-Boner chased the tittering bombshells about the pool, whirring and beeping, Barton retired to the bar to see if he could learn any new and stirring drink recipies from the tender. He was pleased to find that indeed he could. Despite years of culinary training in 16th Century Belgium, there was still a trick or two the chef did not know. Not only did he learn how to concoct the legendary Sandy Clam, which was like a nasty Sex on the Beach made with Clamato instead of pineapple juice (for the recipe, see Vex Magazine Issue #5), but Mr. Buttmarten also learned of the Shirley Temple of Doom, which was like a regular Shirley Temple made with Robitussin instead of grenadine.
Barton whistled happily, engaged in his favorite pastime, while he watched his robot buddy cavort with the bunnies. On the opposite side of the pool, the Chipmunks gangbanged a busty brunette: Alvin taking the vagina, Simon the mouth, and dirty Theodore, the poop-chute. A bluebird landed on Barton's shoulder and whistled Chopin. All seemed right with the world.
But that was just a bitter illusion. In reality, the world was completely fucked.
Suddenly, R2D2-with-a-Boner wheeled up to the chef, beeping madly. Following the droid, Buttmarten came upon a most peculiar sight. Three identical blonde beauties stood by a riverbank in a position reminiscent of the three monkeys who preferred to See, Hear, and Speak no Evil, respectively. But while one blonde covered her mouth, another hid her vagina, and the third her ass.
"What praytell by Jovius affects you three buxom lasses?" ejaculated Barton Buttmarten.
"Woe is hella us," cried the middle one, who held her vagina, "it's like totally terrible." And thereupon, she related the tale of how the triplets - Barbie, Barbi, and Barbee - had been pilfered respectively of mouth, vagina, and anus.
"A fie and scoundrelous deed, absent of all ruth!" pronounced Buttmarten, adjusting his dashing haberdashery. "But what devilish dastard could be devious enough to perpetrate such purloinery?"
"Please," wailed Barbee, "you must, like, help us get them totally back, or we'll be doomed to, like, totally live amongst the freaks in Fetishtown."
"Mmm-mrm m-mmmh," added Barbie.
"Fetishtown, you darest not say?" inquired Barton chewing on his dragoonsman's moustachiolos, "perhaps we should commence our sleuthinations therewith abouts."
"Be-beep," concurred R2D2-with-a-Boner, removing his phallus from Barbi's mouth.
And so, the two compatriots began the journey up the long and winding road to Fetishtown, imbroglio'd as it were in another adventure.
As the cuisinartisan and his trashcan-shaped companion came round a bend, they heard a vaguely familiar nasal voice instructing someone to, "put it back in your mouth, bitch." As they rounded the corner, Barton realized it was none other than Kermit the Frog, engaged in the facefucking of a young lass.
A nonplussed look passed over the girl's face, as the emaciated amphibian pressed her face all the way up to his green body. There was a terrible retching sound, and the lass unceremoniously vomited all over the frog. Kermit thrust into her mouth a couple more times and ejaculated a gob of green semen, which the girl spat out into the pool of puke - a scene that could only be described as hella revolting.
Kermit looked askance at the two sleuths and shrugged. "I hate myself for it," he said, "but I just can't seem to nutt unless they puke."
"Worry you not your sweet green head," admonished Buttmarten, "we have bigger fish to fry." He clued Kermit in on the case thus far, and asked if the frog would like to be of assistance.
Kermit pulled out a magnifying glass, and they were soon in Fetishtown.
Fetishtown was truly and indeed a strange place. In addition to your garden variety freaks, such as chicks-with-dicks, dudes with poons, women with three breasts, guys with two dicks, various and sundry permutations of hermaphrodite and siamese twin, etc., there were also stranger things, such as men with anuses where their mouth should be; women with no head or arms; and perhaps most strangely of all, heads with anuses for eyes, a penis for a nose, vagina for a mouth, and a single large flat foot on which they hopped about, tittering their queefy titters.
A shopkeeper came out from one of the buildings to chase some of the heads off with a broom, and Barton figured he'd ask if the man had heard anything about any missing orifices. Perhaps some of the freaks had been jealous of the triplets, and had decided to take revenge.
However, after a brief talk with Mr. Pansywinkle, who ran a salon for the denizens of Fetishtown, Barton had his doubts. The residents here were just as disdainful of those who lived in the valley below, as the triplets and their ilk were of the folk of Fetishtown.
Buttmarten made himself a Gin and Hair-Tonic while he waited for Kermit and R2D2-with-a-Boner to return, and observed Mr. Pansywinkle ply his trade. He watched with interest an ass-manicure on a woman who had fingers growing around her anus, followed by a wash-and-set on the calf-length braided ass-hair of a second customer.
"I got corn in my cornrows after a bad experience with some cheap Mexican food," the customer explained.
When Kermit returned, he was all in a huff. "I've found a clue!" he exclaimed, leading Barton across the street and handing him the magnifying glass. "Look at this."
But there was no need of magnification to see the glowing red paw print in the mud.
"Egads and egrets!" ejaculated Buttmarten, "'tis the footprint of the What-the-Hellhound! But what the hell is the What-the-Hellhound doing on the Planet of the Playboy Bunnies?"
"Maybe he's our culprit," suggested Kermit. "Maybe he stole our triplets orifices."
"Alack but no," argued Buttmarten, "for to quote the Lesser Key of Solomon: 'whomsoever the hell shall the What-the-Hellhound seek, s/he shall surely be hella decimated and shit.' If it had been the triplets that such a blasted creature were after, there would be not triplets for their orifices not to be on."
"Then who done dunnit?" Kermit asked.
Right then, R2D2-with-a-Boner rolled up, and it appeared he had the answer. The droid had run a check to see if anybody else had reported missing orifices, and indeed the triplets were not the only ones that had been stole on.
A hologram of all the incidents made it all too easy to see that the pilferations were centered around an all too familar locale: the Waffle-Iron Fortress of Screwtoons McFoolery.
"I should have known that old Screwtoons was behind this," muttered Barton Buttmarten, "seeing as how so many of the 'toons he loves so much to screw are lacking in the genitalia requisite for such fornicatery."
"Ba-boop?" asked R2D2-with-a-Boner.
"I'm afearful," replied the chef, "that the What-the-Hellhound has been sent in pursuit not of the triplets, but of myself, in revenge for my rescuement of Mickey Mouse from the dimension of All-Anal Action, where Screwtoons had imprisioned him."
"That's heroic as fuck," commented Kermit.
"Well," perused Barton, "it looks like our heroicity is called upon again. Gentlemen, it appears as if we have an appointment with Mr. McFoolery."
"Beep boop," remarked R2D2-with-a-Boner and set the coordinates.

(Next: Into the Waffle-Iron Fortress.)

RECIPE: Diesel Chicken

If the South is ever going to rise again, they need some spiritual Viagra, and this Diesel Chicken is just the thing to bring out the red in your neck.

· 2 Chickens, mostly de-feathered (If chickens ares not available, possums may be substituted.)
· 2 Quarts 10W-30 Motor Oil
· 1 Fifth Zachory Boone Whisky
· 4 Cups Bisquick
· 1 Can Skoal Chewing Tobacco

Okey dokey, we're gonna make this shit simple. Take the Bisquick and mix in the Skoal. Mix it in nice and good. The Colonel's Chicken may have seven different herbs and spices, but this here Skoal's got seventeen different carcinergens. Splash in just enough of the Zachory Boone's to make the mix stick to the chicken.
Now, drink the rest of the of the whisky and chase it with a swig of the motor oil. Can you feel the South starting to rise?
Good. Now pour the motor oil in some suitable metal object (you can probably find one in your front yard), and set that shit on the BBQ. Watch some NASCAR while it heats.
Once that oil is good and hot, cut up your chicken or possum or whatnot, batter it up and toss it in the hot oil. When it's crispy it's done. Good eatin'!

Into the Lair of the Abominable Charlie Brown

(When last we left our discombobulated duo, they were hot on the trail of the Abominable Charlie Brown; however an accident with Mickey Mouse's anal unguent had left the rodent in rectal peril, and an encounter with Bed-Stuy resident Dub-C seemed certain to add "knuckle sandwich" to the gustatory bon mot's book of recipes.)

Suddenly, something caught Mickey's eye. What was this sticking out of the pile of garbage they had landed in? Was it..? -why, yes: a Middle-Belgian-to-Bed-Stuyanese dictionary. Mickey tossed Barton Buttmarten the tome. The epicure flipped quickly to Appendix Q: Check Yo Delf Befo' You Wreck Yo Delf - Handy Phrases for Everyday Use, and found what he was looking for. Buttmarten read aloud, attempting his best to perfectly mimic the accent, of which he had heard three full words.
"Yo, son" intoned Barton with gusto, "we is in requirement of some serious motherfuckin' anal assistance, na'mean son. My boy jus' got hit off wit' jus' 'bout a rectal 187 by dat ill nigga Screwtoons McFoolery. Man, it were one thuggish bebuggering, na'mean son, and it would behoove a nigga muchforsooth if you could give a brotha' a hand on where my boy can score for that shit that's the shit, son - you know I'm talking bout that greasy greasy, spread so easy up in your Anal-eez?"
"Oh dat. Whyn'cha say so, son?" drawled Dub-C. "What you wanna do, na'mean, is up on Stuyvessant, they got dat donut and porn emporium. They prob'ly got yo shit, na'mean. "Yo, and check out they got that Dreemy Kreemy Kombo, na mean. Ya get a free issue of Cream Filled Teens with the purchase of a dozen creme-filled donuts, na mean."
Barton and Mickey thanked their new friend, and headed in the direction he had indicated, seeking to soothe the mouse's sore and torn anus. They were off again, into a world of adventure and mystery (or at least pornography and pastry) - drawn inevitably, by what immpetus they did not know, into the lair of the Abominable Charlie Brown.
While Mickey Mouse applied his ointment and perused photgraphs of strippers in cheerleader outfits, their distended orifices spattered with ejaculate, Barton Buttmarten savored the donuts, his trained tongue deconstituating every flavor. "Ah yes, I believe I do see," explicated the gastronaut. "The secret to the recipe is that rather than using heavy cream in the filling, they are simply recycling the lube used during the filming of the pornotographic cinema that goes on in the back room. I am sure of it."
Mickey bit into a donut. "You sure can call it, Barton buddy," he squeaked. "I would have guessed DAP kitchen and bathroom caulk. But be it caulk or K-Y, my bunghole's balmed, and I believe we've arrived. Let's pay ole Chucky a visit."
Barton hit the buzzer repeatedly, until a savage hissing groan issued from the speaker and they were buzzed in. The stairwell smelled (as did every stairwell in this city) of malt liquor and piss. Two Hatians stood in a doorway smoking a blunt and speaking in some incomprehensible dialect of English. The epicure wrapped his chambardnay tightly against his face to stave off the eye-watering aroma and pushed Mickey Mouse ahead of him, as they made their way to apartment 223.
The door was ajar and the pair entered. There was no sign of the Abominable Charlie Brown, however. A white guy in a beanie played X-Box with a tall racially-mixed follow with an afro pick sticking out of his gargantuan 'fro, while in the corner former Speaker of the House, Tom Delay, gently massaged the prostate of a young lad with his glans. Kneeling rapturously and the feet of the young specimen was Father Doheny, awaing the immaculate communion.
Suddenly, with a cry like a pterodactyl fighting the giant squid, the Abominable Charlie Brown came swinging like Tarzan from an inexplicably placed vine. He wore no trousers and his weird trademark zigzag shirt was torn and bloodstained. His round head was covered with pustules and sores. But his cyborg aim was deadly precise. Releasing from the vine, he turned in air so that he was flying ass-first at Mickey Mouse, then reached behind him and, grabbing the rodent's ears, pulled Mickey's snout deep into his rectum. The two rolled on the floor, and Barton could tell by the scent of spoor that Mickey mouse was strangely turned on by the encounter. But something also was not quite right in the scent, something that even the highly trained nostrils of Msr. Buttmarten could not place.
The pair finally stopped their frolicking when the Abominable Charlie Brown fell into a retching and coughing fit, and proceeded to vomit up his spleen and a can of creamed corn.
"Why 'tis a miracle of truly loaves-and-fishean proportions," ejaculated Strativartius Buttmarten, snatching up the organ and the corn. "The sweetbreads do chime vigorously with all corns of the cremed nature. I shall prepare for you a feast of yay gustatotalean proportions, whilst ye young lovers doth make that beast which hath two backs."
"And I have a little surprise of my own, Charlie Brown," Mickey Mouse squealed. "Trust me it's better than a fucking Christmas Tree." He unbuttoned the giant buttons on his red shorts and pulled them down, as the zomborg looked on in sexual rapture. Instead of the wee mouse pee-pee one might expect, Mickey possessed an enormous clitoris the size of a ping-pong ball. There was no vagina nor pubic hair - just the lovely love nub like a second belly button. "They named me Mickey, because when I was a baby they thought it was just a malformed weiner - but really I'm an anaphrodite."
The Abominable Charlie Brown let forth a gutteral roar of arousal, bit off most of his left bicep which he chewed up and spit on the floor - one of many such piles of masticated flesh, Barton noticed - and pounced on Mickey. Barton buttmarten adjusted his wainscollar and headed to the kitchen to prepare his feast.
After the meal, which the Abominable Charlie Brown ate backwards, shoving the food up his toothy anus, Mickey and Charlie announced that they were getting married. "I never could resist an ass-masticator," Mickey tittered, then looked sad. "I hope you understand, my epicurious fried. I hate to abandon you on your quest after you saved me from Screwtoons McFoolery and the Dimension of All Anal Action, but this is true love."
"Graagh, me know," cried the Abominable Charlie Brown, and gave out a whistle. With a beep-beep boop-boop, R2D2-with-a-boner rolled into the room.
"Ah," ejaculated Strativartius Buttmarten, "a dowry. And what better travelling companion than R2D2-with-a-boner?"
"And check out this feature," said Mickey Mouse bending over for the robot. Barton Buttmarten watched in awe as the blue and white droid pumped away at the mouse's ass, finishing off with a gaggle of beeps and whistles.
Once R2D2 withdrew his boner, Mickey Mouse stuck his finger in his rectum and pulled it out dripping with white goo. He held the finger to Barton. "Try it."
Barton Buttmarten took a lick. "Bleeding and tormented Crist!" he expostulated, "That's the finest Bernaise Sauce I've ever encountered. This is indeed a fine gift! Thank you my dear and cherished friends, and best of luck on your nupitals. I must away!"
And with that, Barton Buttmarten and his new droid companion turned into birds (Florence Nightingales to be precise), spreading their wings to the sky and taking flight above the soot-stained highrises of Brooklyn, seeking beauty, truth, and new adventure.

(What kind of crap will happen next? Will the shit hit the fan, or will the fan bitch slap the shit first? Tune in next week and find out. We promise a shorter wait.)

RECIPE: Verdigris Vomelette

While unable to steal the recipe for the omelette served at the Last Breakfast from the OO, I'm certainly at no loss when it comes to some egg-stravagant egg dishes. This is one of my favorites for after a night of heavy drinking. It's easy to make, and all the grease will either soak up the alcohol or help you chuck it up.

· 6 Eggs, medium large
· 1 Cup Meat Jelly
· 1 Cup Petroleum Jelly
· 1/2 Cup Sawdust
· 2 Tbsp Aim Toothpaste

Take half the Petroleum Jelly and use it to coat the most indestructible pan that you have. This will ensure that no matter how hungover you are, the vomelette will not burn and stick to the pan. Then, in a shallow dish, beat the eggs (don't worry about leaving the shells in - they just add texture) together with some of the sawdust for added texture. The dryness of the sawdust will make a nice counterpart to the sliminess of the other ingredients. Pour the egg mixture over the petroleum jelly and heat over maximum flameage (Cuz goddamnit, you want to eat!)
Once the eggs begin to firm up, place the meat jelly and the rest of the sawdust in the center and fold. Take the remaining petroleum jelly and use it to seal the whole fucker in a petroleum jelly cocoon.
Soon the petroleum jelly should begin to pop and hiss, like those Rice Krispy elves on a bad PCP trip. At this point the vomelette should be a deep golden brown. Braise with the Aim toothpaste as a nice minty balancing note to all that meat jelly, and also to impart to the dish the blue-green on copper color that gives it its name.
Split between you and the person you woke up next to - and if you didn't wear a rubber, don't worry: a Verdigris Vemelette also serves as a wonderful "day after" pill.

Bedlam in Bed-Stuy

(When last we left our virtuous epicure and his red-knicker'd rodent companion, they had just made their escape from The Dimension of All-Anal Action, only to stumble upon a Sectar of space that had been decimated by the Abominable Charlie Brown, a zomborg created by the nefarious Fitch, Schmidt, and Schifflet. However, before the pair could come up with a plan, they found themselves falling through a poopwormhole.)

"...iieeee!" contintued the compatriots, as they fell. Mickey Mouse had said something about Fitch, Schmidt, and Schifflet being behind the creation of the Abominable Charlie Brown. Why did those names ring a bell? Did it have something to do with that secret society, Ornithicus Obscuro, that Barton had infiltrated, having heard that they had the recipe for the omelette that jesus had eaten at The Last Breakfast? But for some reason, there was a fuzzy spot in Msr. Buttmarten's memory in the days around the accident that had sent him into The Dimension of All-Anal Action. He remembered grabbing Mickey and making a run for it, but there was something before ...
For his part, Mickey Mouse was about to mention that on a couple of occasions he thought he'd overheard his captor, the evil Screwtoons McFoolery, on the phone with someone from Fitch, Schmidt, and Schifflet. He was about to mention it to his rescuer, when he hit the ground face-first - that is, if by "ground," you mean a pyramid of leaking garbage bags piled on the curb and swarming with flies. Buttmarten followed a second or two behind.
It was summertime, and by the stink, Barton knew that they had landed in beautiful New York, NY - specifically (if a nearby streetsign were to be believed, and why wouldn't it?) on Bedford Ave. in Brooklyn, probably in the neighborhood of Bed-Stuy. Barton understood all of this, despite the fact that he had never heard of New York City, it having been founded by the frigging Dutch only a few years prior to the accident that had sent the 17th Century gourmand tumbling through time apparently, as well as space. But then again, he'd always been precocious. (He also was able to transmogrify himself and those around him into a variety of small birds - a gift he'd shared with no one, save his mother, fearing he might be hanged for witchcraft.)
Barton Buttmarten picked himself up from the urine-braised sidewalk, calculating by the thoroughness of saturation the half-life of the aroma to be 225 years, give or take a couple decades. He also realized that through coincidence or divine providence, the constellation of blackened gum he had landed upon formed an exact 4:1 replica of the moles on his mistress's back. But she was long gone, killed in the accident that had flung her lover into The Dimension of All-Anal Action and the lands beyond. Barton would never see her or the Belgium he knew again, and the knowlege made his memory bittersweet. The gum, too, was bittersweet; however, its bittersweetness stemmed from the adulteration of its natural sweetness with whatever had also made it turn black.
The chef spit out the piece of gum he had scraped off the sidewalk back whence it had come, and looked to see if Mickey was okay. A coffee filter hung over one ear and there were several gargantuan cockroaches crawling over his back, but he seemed to be none the worse for wear.
"Well I'll be pickled and dipped in shit!" Mickey tittered. "You can still kind of taste the mint on this dental floss."
"Nay, perhaps not," commented Buttmarten, noticing the greasy stain on the front of the mouse's knickers. "It looks like you just landed on your Anal-eez and it burst."
This, of course, constituted a crisis of epicurean proportions, a true fecalamity, as Mickey Mouse was still reeling rectally from his stint in The Dimension of All Anal Action. Now was the time for a different type of anal action - the kind that soothes as it cures! Only, being unfamiliar with this part of Brooklyn, the duo was unsure where to look for the ointment.
Barton raised a finger in the air.
Nothing happened.
Mickey picked a booger and ate it.
"Well," said Barton, "I guess that puts the lie to the old chestnut about being able to pick your friends and being able to pick your nose, but not being able to pick your friend's nose, does it not?" A laugh track rang in the distance and Barton paused for comic effect. "So how do my boogers taste, ol chum?"
"Bu-bu-bu-boogeriffic!" Mickey Mouse squealed.
And still they waited. A taxi drove by; a pair of pigeons pecked at the garbage; a subway rattled in the distance; someone threw a bottle at the two of them and it shattered on the street in front of them. Still Msr. Buttmarten did not lower his raised finger.
Finally, after what seemed like weeks, but was only really about a day and a half, they were sauntered up to by a young youth in a white-on-white NY Yankees cap worn "Cleveland-style" (that is to say with the brim completely flat), which cap was placed atop a red-on-red NY Yankees cap, also worn in the style of that fair Ohioan city, but rotated 60 degrees from the white cap.
"What up, rat?" the newcomer addressed Mickey.
"My good sir," intoned Barton Buttmarten, "we require dire anal assistance. My travelling companion received recently a nearsome fatal rectal reamery at the hands of the nafarious Screwtoons McFoolery, a brutal bebuggering to be sure, and it would behoove us muchforsooth if ye would kindwillingly point us to the most forthwith purveyory of that most unctuous liniment, Anal-eez?"
Dub-C (as he was known, due to the Double Cleveland caps that were his trademark) rolled a toothpick from the right to the left side of his mouth and said nothing.
The silence had just grown awkward, when in the distance could be heard an enormous belch; and though it was blocks away, it's odor drifted to them on the wind - a smell of cabbage farts, "High Gravity" malt liquor, and halitosis. It could only be the Abominable Charlie Brown, robbed from the grave to wreak havok on Bed-Stuy. Barton Buttmarten had not trained in the nasal arts under the tutelage of olfactory grand master Pierre le Boeuff for nothing. Each chamber of his sinuses was like a mobile chemical lab or a fortress of solitude or a gang of bloodhounds or a gang of bloodworms or a gang of poopworms or ...
But Mickey Mouse was tugging at Barton's sleeve, pulling him out of his reverie. "I think Dub-C is about to punch you in the face," commented the rodent. "I don't think he understood a word you said, and there's no way we can face the Abominable Charlie Brown with my anus the size of a pie tin and your face looking like a side of ground beef."

(Are our heroes lost? Will they defeat the Abominable Charlie Brown? Will Mickey Mouse's anus ever stop bleeding? Does anyone care? Tune in next week for another pants-pissing pulse-pounding episode of The Odd Oddyssey of Barton Buttmarten, and you may or may not find out the answers to these questions and more.)

RECIPE: Gruel Souffle

This light and fluffy gruel dish will bring out the starving peasant in everyone.

· 12 Cups Groats
· 6 Mouldy Potatoes, small
· 1 Dead Rat, large
· 6 Pair Dirty Socks (for seasoning)
· Assorted Leather Scraps
· 6 Grouse Eggs
· 6 tbsp Flour
· 1 Stick Sweet Cream Butter
· 3 Cups Buttermilk
· 3 Cups Groulier Cheese

The day before you plan to serve the souffle, beging to prepare the gruel by boiling the Groats, Dead Rat, Dirty Socks, and Leather Scraps in a large metal cauldron. This is important, as otherwise the leather and the rat will be tough and inedible.
The next afternoon, add the Potatoes to the gruel, and begin to prepare the souffle by buttering up an earthenware casserole dish, and heating the Buttermilk. Prepare a roux by melting the butter, and beating in flour until it browns. Beat vigorously, the way you would beat a child, or you will "roux" the day you tried to make this souffle.
Once the roux is ready, add to the warmed buttermilk. To this concoction, stir in the yolks from the Grouse Eggs, followed by the Goulier, until you have a delicious cheese sauce. Now comes the tricky part. You may wish to fish the socks out of the gruel at this time as a way of procrastinating the step you are sure to ass up. Now ...
Beat those eggwhites like a motherfucker!
At this point, chastise yourself for not getting the eggwhites fluffy enough, then gently fold in the cheese sauce and the gruel. Bake for 35 minutes, and - voila! - you now have a delicious Gruel Souffle.

Buttmarten Begins

"Sodom and begorrah," ejaculated the chef. "Pardon my french, but quelle que chose sur le fuck, ne pas?"
Something had gone horribly awry. One minute, Barton Butmarten had been whipping up a batch of gruel souffle, and the next, the 17th century gourmand du monde had been flung forward through the Space-Time and Reason-Rhyme Continui, respectively.
Landing with a P-THUNK on a pink couch, Buttmarten found himself watching in horror and amusement as a gang of animate broomsticks brutally buggered and savagely sodomized an adorable anthropomorphic mouse, who for some reason was dressed in wizard's robes. It was a scene the likes of which Barton had not seen since his visit to the very gayest parts of gay Paree several years ago.
"I knew I should have used buttermilk instead of margarinemilk," Buttmarten thought to himself. "Well, I guess I might as well rescue the rodent."
Barton Buttmarten grabbed Mickey (for that's in fact who it was) by the ear, and they hopped into a conveniently waiting pushcart. Soon they were barreling down Brown Boulevard. A quick right on Rue d'Poo-poo, then a left, and they were speeding down the Hershey Highway.
As Buttmarten stitched up the mouse's anus, using one of his shoelaces, Mickey explained that he had been imprisioned in the Dimension of All-Anal Action by none other than the nefarious Screwtoons McFoolery, the dirtiest perv in the galaxy, and that they had better be on the lookout for his minions.
But weeks later, lost somewhere in the All-Anal sticks, they still hadn't seen any sign of Screwtoon's goons. Mickey's anal bleeding had subsided a good bit over the past couple of weeks, but Barton was still concerned. He had recommended a hot poultice, but the mouse had preferred the Anal-eez.
"I'm working on an unctment I do say you'll find posifizzily peachy," mentioned Barton Buttmarten, buttoning his wainscotting against the harsh interstellar winds. "It would combinate the well-observed lesion-sealing and prophylactic properties of petroleum products with something a little closer to home. There's no mess, and I'm initially thinking of offering it in a Mutton and Rice flavor and a smokin Jalapeno and Brie blend. If only there were an epicurean greengrocers in this godforsaken neck of space. There's not even a newsstand. What I wouldn't give even for a copy of Entertainment Weekly."
"Man, damn," concurred Mickey. "If I had a magazine I would read the fuck out of it right about now."
Indeed, this neck of space was not only empty, but foreboding as hell. Maybe there was a reason they hadn't been followed. In fact, this neck of space was like the face of the abyss if that face had neglected to use a good exfoliating cream and had grown thick with blackheads and rosacea.
Somewhere in the not-too-distant distance, a zit burst, spattering Barton and Mickey with pus.
Mickey wiped the slime off his ear with a spotted hand-kercheif. "There's only one thing so foul and unnatural that could lay waste to space like this," mused Mickey.
"The dagnabbed duo of Zombie-Anna-Nicole-Smith and Jason-Alexander-with-a-Vagina?" Barton Buttmarten asked.
"Yes!" exclaimed Mickey Mouse, holding a finger aloft. "No. Granted, they could make a whole Sectar smell like a beached whale at low tide just by thinking about it. But could they be responsible for such pustulence." He held out his rag for Barton to inspect.
Barton Buttmarten screwed in his monocle. "Considering the viscosity and thermal breakdown of this substrate, I would have to concur. But what in god's creation could it be?"
"Nothing in God's creation. No. Something this abhorrent could only be envisioned by the publishing conglomerate of Fitch, Schmidt & Schifflet - the same ones responsible for the undying stream of raw sewage that we call The Family Circus."
"Egads, ye gods!" Buttmarted cried. "What pustulence could come from the dark hand behind The Family Circus?"
"You see boss," Mickey explained as he wiped a gob of mentholyptus anal-eez off a fat white finger, "it's like this. You know how they're keeping Bill Keene and that wretched filth who writes B.C. cryogenetically subspended in anathema in order to stimulate the few working neurons in their brains into producing an endless torrent of self-same family-oriented puke? Well, they were going to do the same to Charles Schultz, but he escaped from the robots and spent the last years of his life in the Netherlands, smoking hash with Arlo Guthrie and Woody Harrelson. They said he died, of course, just like they tried to get us to believe that it was al Qaida and not Dick Cheney and H. Mellon Scaife who blew up the Twin Towers. But anyone with access to the internet knew better. That was, of course, before they turned the internet off permanently. (This mentholyptus stuff really hits the spot by the way. Much better than the banana stuff we got back in New Seattle.) But you see, even though Schultz himself remained in hiding, the goons of Fitch, Schmidt and Schifflet dug up the corpse of Charlie Brown and brought him back to their masters who planned to reanimate the baldy using robot voodoo power and turn him into a zomborg. But the experiment went horribly awry..."
"Egads and egg nads!" Buttmarten ejaculated. "Let me guess - instead of using extra-virgin olive oil, they used regular corn oil?"
"Worse," Mickey's voice began to quaver. "They used ultra-hydrogenated shitflower oil they stole from the grease-trap behind Wendy's."
And before the chef could respond, the he and his friend found themselves falling down an ass-aroma'ed crevace - a wormhole made by the poopworms of the Stool Sectar.
"Aaaiieeee!!!"

(Next week! Into the lair of the Abominable Charlie Brown???)