Mr. Bunion's Evil Plan: Part Two

Earlier in the series, Mr. Bunions engaged in a deadly battle with his nemesis, age-induced incontinence. Mr. Bunions also contracted a terminal case of Pedophile's Thumb from his favorite groupie, Super Jew.  Fortunately, Mr. Bunions is of direct relation to MacGyver, and was able to save himself with only a kitten, a paperclip, and his trusty adult diaper. And so he lives to fight his leaky sphincter another day. 

Wait. That's another tale for another time.

Earlier in the series, Mr. Bunions plotted evil most foul, and devised a dastardly plan to punish his mild mannered alter-ego's father and grandfather. This... Is his story. 

*The room is quiet, except for the music of barking spiders fluting through the background. Commander Buttwipe and General Wart alternate between picking their noses and asses without washing their hands. Mr. Bunions enters, looking quite spiffy in contrast.*

Mr. Bunions: "Hello there, gentlemen. I guess you're wondering why I've called you together."

Commander Buttwipe: "I ASSUMED IT WAS TO TALK ABOUT WMD'S."

General Wart: "I thought we would shoot hippies."

Commander Buttwipe: "I THINK WE SHOULD SHOOT HIPPIES WITH WMD'S."

General Wart: "HOOAH!"

Commander Buttwipe: "HOOAH!"

Mr. Bunions: "No! Silence!"

General Wart: "HOOAH!"

Commander Buttwipe: "HOOAH!"

Mr. Bunions: "A-TEN-HUT!"

*Commander Buttwipe and General Wart both snap to attention, jowls quivering, anuses clenched tight enough to crystalize poop.*

Mr. Bunions. "Thank you. Now, I don't expect you to like it, but as the Family Head, I do expect you to fall in line and support me on this."

Commander Buttwipe: "I'M FAMILY HEAD!"

General Wart: "RAGE!"

Commander Buttwipe: "gggGGROWWL!"

Mr. Bunions: "Yes, yes. Let's use our indoor voices, now. I've decided on a new family crest and motto." 

Commander Buttwipe: "VERY BAD WORDS!"

General Wart: "UNNECESSARY STATEMENTS!"

Commander Buttwipe: "BUTTWIPE SMASH!"

Mr. Bunions: "This is our new Coat of Arms. I designed it myself."

Commander Buttwipe: "WHAT IS THIS HORSE SHIT?!"

General Wart: "IN THIS FAMILY, WE EAT MEAT!"

Mr. Bunions: "Not anymore."

Mr. Bunions: "And our new family motto is 'Sea verdad a su corazón, y mantenga su puño del chulo fuerte.' "

Commander Buttwipe: *Squinty, suspicious little piggy eyes*

General Wart: "What does that mean. What's it mean, damn you?!"

Mr. Bunions: "It means, 'Be true to your heart, and keep your pimpfist strong.' "

General Wart: "Aaugh! Heartfelt sentiments!"

Commander Buttwipe: "OUR FAMILY MOTTO IS ABOUT PIMPING?!"

Mr. Bunions: "Don't hate. It ain't easy for a pimp."

Commander Buttwipe: "ROOAWRL!"

General Wart: "PACK CALL! ROOAWRL!"

Mr. Bunions: "Down, boy, down! The Power of the Commanding Officer compels you!"

*Commander Buttwipe and General Wart both fall on their backs in passive submission.*

Mr. Bunions: "Good...good. Now go play."

*Mr. Bunions tosses a handful of war medals, which Commander Buttwipe and General Wart immediately chase after.*

- mr. bunions drinks prune juice out of his pimp cup.

Mr. Bunion's Evil Plan: Part One

True to title, Mr. Bunions came up with an evil plan last night. A plan of such nefariously devious cunning, it needs descriptors like 'sinister' and 'diabolical' and 'fiendish' and 'debauched.'

Oh, yes. Perhaps you'd like to take the opportunity to relieve yourself before Mr. Bunions makes you shit your pants. 

Moving on.

My father - and grandfather - are both horrifying in their own ways, but at the same time, twins. Nature played Russian Roulette with the gene pool and lost. My father once left a beer bottle full of dip juice in my bed. What exactly was he DOING in my bed? I don't know, but changing the sheets gave me a rash. My grandfather, without fail, will wear speedos to public pools. I nearly became a lesbian because of this. Even Mr. Bunions draws the line at flashing the goods to little kids. But that's not all - he completes the image with a comb-over that would put Donald Trump to shame. Classy sonuvabitch. 

This is standard behavior for them. But more so, they're both military men. For those of you thinking, "Oh, well, isn't that precious...?"

...No. It isn't. Especially when they try to pull rank during family discussions. 

Me: "Hey, Dad, pass me the cornbread, please."

Commander Buttwipe: "I AM THE DECIDER!"

Me: "...Do you... Want to decide to pass me the cornbread?"

Commander Buttwipe: "I'M FIRST IN THE FAMILY, THEN YOUR MOTHER, THEN YOU, THEN YOUR SISTER. END OF DISCUSSION."

Me: "Uh...'Kay... Cornbread? Yes? Feed Lt. Bunions?"

Commander Buttwipe: "APPROVED, SOLDIER."

Me: "I'm sixteen. I'm not a soldier. You're not my commander."

Commander Buttwipe: "ARE YOU BACKTALKING ME?"

Me: "Yes."

Commander Buttwipe: "I AM THE DECIDER! CIRCULAR LOGIC PERMITS NO QUESTIONING."

Me: "Fine. Give me the goddamn cornbread."

Commander Buttwipe: "GOOD QUALITY TIME."

Me: "I hate you."

That's a fairly bland example of our conversations. But I digress.

On top of this, my Father and Grandfather had proudly traced their lineage to the pilgrims who migrated aboard the Mayflower. My ancestors were rapists. They were both inexplicably pleased with this knowledge. What a jolly lot of patriotic cocksuckers my family is. 

Obviously, they were in need of some punishment. 

And one late night, lying in bed, Mr. Bunions whispering wisdom and sweet nothings into my little ear, we concocted an evil plan...

TO BE CONTINUED. 

May Gullets.

I had a near-death experience today at school. A part of my childhood died, together in a catastrophe that could only be described as of epic proportions. It was a monumental clash of elements, quite equal to the wars and grand sessions of butt sex only Greek GODS experienced. Today, I woke as a girl. Tonight, I will go to sleep, a man at last. 

I was only an innocent bystander. Waiting for the bus is a cold and tedious sport; and so my habit for witnessing secret, horrifying events was born. 

I was paralyzed on my frozen concrete ledge as the gayest boy I've ever seen swished past. And I don't mean this is a derogatory way at all - short of the delightful Russell Brand, this was the gayest man I'd seen in the flesh. The trumpets blared, God* commanded the Seraphims to serenade the land with the sweet lisps of Big Gay Al, and suddenly I was overcome by the word 'fierce.' 

But of course, there is no light without the dark. 

While I was still caught in thrall of the glistening aura of SO GAY, a new player entered the stage. And suddenly, I knew balance. This fantastically gay boy had an equal. 

...In the form of a rabidly straight hillbilly, who was blasting a Toby Keith power ballad. But that's not all. He also had one of these sick puppies stapled to the back of his skull. 

...And I do mean sick puppy. I saw it kick and whimper, trying to escape. But that's beside the point.

I thought they would cause an explosion. Gay and Mullet Do. Not. Mix. Under any circumstances. I was sure the gay boy would call upon his brethren for some Fashion Police Brutality. The Mullet would then locate the gay boy by feeling the telltale tingle in his prostate, and commence the traditional 'Fag-Drag.'

And, no, that doesn't mean catwalks and fabulous clothes. 

But my fears were unfounded. Perhaps the gay boy liked Toby Keith, or maybe the Mullet was in denial. Either way, they made eye contact, and then went their separate ways. 

And I was the ONLY witness. Thank goodness Mr. Bunions was settled for his nap. 

*Christianity: The belief that some cosmic Jewish Zombie who was his own father can make you live forever if you symbolically eat his flesh and telepathically tell him you accept him as your master, so he can remove an evil force from your soul that is present in humanity because a rib-woman was convinced by a talking snake to eat from a magical tree.

- mr. bunions drools when he sleeps. 

...Great Success?

Last week, the boys in one of my classes fulfilled the beautiful and majestic male right of passage into maturity, responsibility, and integrity by talking about their favorite pornos. 

Loudly. In detail. 

Needless to say, both myself and Mr. Bunions were a bit disgruntled; for different reasons, of course. I was annoyed because my studious note-taking was interrupted. Mr. Bunions was 'annoyed' because in his day, there were no catty harlots lounging in the street or on the boob-tube. You had to hunt them down in the forest, and even then, you were lucky to see a little ankle. But most of the time, Mr. Bunions had to settle for watching the Grizzly Bears rut. But don't ask me about that. 

As an unworldly and rather shy teenager, I was somewhat out of my depth. But Mr. Bunions wasn't. So in this case, I was perfectly content to cede control to Mr. Bunions. And Mr. Bunions was perfectly content to assume it.

Mr. Bunions: Now, youngster, if you don't shut those salami slices you call lips, I'll be forced to play hackey-sack with your scrotum. 

Jock #1: Whut?

Mr. Bunions: Fair warning. *taps his steel-toed boots*

Jock #2: What are you talking about?

Mr. Bunions: In my day, there were no 'Porno-Tubes' or 'Astro-Slides'! I would have been damn grateful if I had that! I would've loved a tube of porn! I didn't even have a tube of cheese! You know what I had?! National Geographic! The Sears and Roebuck Catalogue! Do you know what those women wore? Do you? They wore gender-neutral onesies! And the Grizzly Bears! Goddamn those bears!

Jock #1: You're sick!

Mr. Bunions: Touché, motherfucker! *BURRRP*

A round of applause for Mr. Bunions, please.

- mr. bunions demands applesauce and porno tube. 

Hitler-stache-TASTIC

The other day, I happened upon some of those people hate mongering about Obama. You know the ones. They even photoshopped a nifty little Hitler-stache onto a poster of Obama; they obviously took their time, because they matched his hair texture and even added dignified grey strands, too. It was a slick operation. 

While I was admiring the dedication to their smear craft, Mr. Bunions hijacked my mouth to yell at them. 

Mr. Bunions: Hey, you little LaDouchies! 

Me: Mr. Bunions! I am appalled by you! You know very well their organization is headed by LaRouche, not LaDouche!

Mr. Bunions: Settle down, buttmunch, I'm working! Have some respect for your elders!

Mr. Bunions: Hey, LaDouchie, that's a very flattering comparison you're making.

LaDouchie: Yeah, because --

Mr. Bunions: Because you know what else Hitler did?

LaDouchie: What?

Mr. Bunions: He fixed the ECONOMY!

Me: Mr. Bunions! That's politically incorrect and offensive! You're going to time-out!

LaDouchie: Ppppfft!

Mr. Bunions: Hah, suck on that, youngster!

LaDouchie: Hey, genocide isn't a stable business model, BLAHBLAHBLAH.

And then I walked to my bus stop, hot and flustered, Mr. Bunions cackling maliciously in my head. 

- mr. bunions takes no prisoners.

A Slice of Bunion for All.

Given the name of this blog, introductions are in order. Let me introduce you to the singularly peculiar man who crouches inside my head, Mr. Bunions. 

Now, I know most of you chalky, yuppy, degenerate, spiritually constipated assholes like to coo about your inner children, and generally feed said children a healthy diet of beer and porn. 

Not me. 

Instead, I have an Inner Bunions. He's a crusty curmudgeon that longs for the Good Ol' Days and paisley bow ties. He don't need your respect, neither; he don't pay no man no mind. In fact, you can shove it up your puckered ass, because he's blowing this popsicle stand, bitch. 

Did I mention he's also a doctor? He's got a nasty habit of inspecting beautiful boys of eighteen. Mothers, hide your sons, Dr. Bunions is coming to town. 

Other than that, he's a jolly old man. Like Santa. Except without the good humor, presents, nifty costume, and wife. Actually, he's not like Santa at all. He's too angry and geriatric for all that Christmas bullshit, so don't expect a present. 

- mr. bunions be pimpin'.