#and only drew as many as a generic clownfish has

[ybkitten]

Quick question, did you separate this mother from her daughter? Just asking for no particular reason.

[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.