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Thank The Supreme Court And Ferd For This Post (contains explicit language)

Gentle Readers,

Given the subject matter in this blog, we tried to find a nice ‘lunatic’ image but ended up with an image of a ‘luna kit’ and since it is a cool image we may as well just go with the flow and take what our graphics department comes up with!

Why a lunatic? Ferd is quoted here, that’s why the lunatic!

Ferd does not have a computer and does not even have an email address. We told him we were writing about him several times but he has never taken the time to look at the screen to see what we say. That said, let us consider that the Suprme Court recently took all penalties off of using foul language and determined that is is perfectly legal to write, type or speak the words ‘fucking asshole‘.  We find this reassuring to know that when we are pulled over for yet another traffic violation, we are allowed to exclaim, “Thanks a lot, you fucking asshole” to the ‘officer’ who has cited us.

Thanks to our cultural heroes, it is now legal to curse in public and it is with the blessings of the High Court that we relate the following:

One recent hot, sunny Summer day, we found ourselves at the door of Ferd’s domain. Outside and sitting in the sun with no water and not enough leash to reach the shade was his cat, Willie. After pounding on the door, waking and berating him, he unhooked Willie and took her inside (“her” because Willie is short for Wilhelmina). Willie flopped on the floor, exhausted. We questioned Ferd on the lack of water for Willie, at which point he filled a bowl and Willie immediately started to lap it up. Feeling sorry for poor Willie, Your Humble Narrator looked at Ferd and called him a fucking asshole.

Many people would take humbrage or offense to such a remark but Ferd took it in stride. In fact, he complimented me on it. He recounted a day, some 40 years earlier, when Your Narrator was with a group of school friends and Ferd. Pot was pretty unavailable and five of us stood in a circle while the bowl was filled with our last remaining stash. Putting a light to the bowl, we took the first toke and passed it to Ferd, who immediately dropped it on the ground, where the remains could not be recovered.  Everybody cursed him, even himself. This incident had long been forgotten, albiet in the the mind of Ferd. He recounted the occasion and how we had called him a fucking asshole forty years earlier.

“You know,” said Ferd, seemingly amused at being insulted, “Do you remember that time I dropped the bowl?”

“No,” we countered, “and what does that have to do with anything and why can’t you take care of your cat?”

Blowing off the bit about the cat, he related the story of the dropped bowl. “You sound exactly the same calling me a fucking asshole today, as you did when you called me a fucking asshole forty years ago. I can close my eyes and it is like going back in time.”

Great, we thought, a fucking asshole in a timeless warp…or ‘Ferd…An Asshole Through the Ages’…

We thought this was humorous enough but, more recently, we were moved to refer to Ferd as ‘an imbecile’ and he objected strongly to the remark. He had his reasons. He said that being an imbecile was a part of normal human development and that he had passed that stage.  As he put it, “You are born, and from the time you ‘come out of the shute’ you are an imbecile. Then, later you develop into an idiot, until you become a moron. These are the stages of a child’s brain development. I read it in a book!”

We are not sure what book Ferd had his nose in that time – or what he had his nose in before he looked at the book – but  we actually searched the internet to see how he could have come up with such a classic way of distinguishing between inbecility and idiocy. Being a master of both, we almost hoped to find something to support his jive but could not find a single thing to back him up.

He must be a moron. 


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Poetry Corner (Warning XXX Explicit Material. Parents Be Warned!)

     Leering Letches and Creepy Crawldaddies,

     Today we ask our Gentle Readers to harken back to those wonderful days when porn was on paper and could be hidden under the mattress. The Golden Age of Porn produced many unique publications, such as the pictured issue of Al Goldstein’s National Screw.

     National Screw, like Playboy, was not only rife with lascivious and salacious material but was found to be ‘socially redeeming,’ thanks to essays by contributors such as William S. Burroughs, Allen Ginsberg and other highly-respected literary figures of the time. The upcoming issue of Beatdom takes aim at the same concept, only without showing close-ups of moist, pink labia in between photos of serious authors. With magazines like these, the joke used to be“I only buy it for the articles.” 

     Good, old smut has pretty much gone the way of the web, with programmes available which allow a user to insert penis into a device which simulates the sensations of the sex act, while watching a video that is synched-up to the ‘pleasure portal’. Just too weird for us at CFYSA…not only does it take away the fantasy that served as stimulus to ‘yank the carrot’, it masturbates you, too.  There are limits to what is good about being a DIY, ‘Do It Yourselfer’.

      That said, we are not sure what kids do these days. In the waning decades of the last century, sex was a popular way for men and women to pass time together. A common way to find and engage a partner in sex was to go to the public park system with beer and pot. Sitting on the lawn, near the parkinglot, a hedonistic type could smoke pot, become inebriated and when an attractive member of the opposite gender passed, ask her if ‘you want to party?’  Most often, we sat on the lawn along the lot, inbetween the parked cars and the Ladies rest rooms, in order to catch more traffic.

     One bright, sunny day, in the company of an idiot and former acquaintance named Chuck, we sucked down Rolling Rock beers and waited to meet some ‘company’. We were rather drunk that early Spring afternoon and our luck was not with us. Halter tops were a popular article of clothing for women to wear at the time and they were a good thing, in that they allowed a partial view of the breasts of the woman who wore one.

     A number of beers into the ‘party,’ Chuck (who is now a red-nosed, fat bastard who cannot even see his toes without a mirror) had a revelation, an inspiration…an original thought! Original thought can be a good thing in the minds of some people. In his mind, the logical conclusion formed that since we, as men, enjoyed the soft, white skin revealed by the halter, then it was only normal that women take just as much pleasure in seeing a bit of scrotum. If they show us theirs, they must want to see ours…this was his logic.

     While the display of wrinkly flesh did not yield results, it was worth a try. Your Humble Narrator did not try sunning his scrotum for fear of blistered balls but did record a partial account of the events of that day. And, so, My Confidantes, today we present a poem which takes us back to those Golden Days of the early 1980s… 

A Day At The Parkway

Jaws of flocks

of the shocked


as Chuck’s cock flopped

onto the top of the rock.

Like prunes?” he mocked.

The eyes of the cop


as loose cumdrops slopped,

then dripped down the walls

of his fetid balls.


I read a book

and pretended not to look.

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