Chemtrail Infused Homosexual Fire Ants:  A Deserved Plague from God?

Chemtrail Infused Homosexual Fire Ants:  A Deserved Plague from God?


*As printed in the national First Baptist Church USA newsletter. * Authorities have confirmed a case of gay chemtrail infused fire ants transferring homosexuality to an unsuspecting victim in Louisville KY. The CDC wasn’t able to confirm whether transmission was achieved through a bite. (Some sources suspect forced anal sexual penetration, though no substantial evidence has come forth to date.) The following is disturbing and we ask that the faint of heart skip along to this week’s article by brother Kal Kip Kittinger, “African Americans, Not Just Bible School Baptist’s Anymore.”

Mr. Trumtran, a 62 year old deacon at Louisville First Baptist Church tested positive this week for homosexuality. Authorities have confirmed the diagnosis and also pointed to a chemtrail infused fire ant as being the original host.
Mr Trumtran was a typical God fearing, homosexual hating, father and slut shamer of two. He was by all accounts a typical Baptist deacon. He’s also a proud, lifelong money worshipper. * See edit.*

Pictured above, a homosexual terrorist shows elation over his successful attack on innocent heterosexual Christians.

   As the story goes, Mr. Trumtran had just finished his nightly cup of warm milk and pressed stop on his Joel osteen mp3 he’d made his daughter download illegally  He unmounted his saucer sized sharper image noise cancelling headphones from his pasty bald skull and handed his empty milk glass to Juanita, his house keeper.  He patted her hand gently and in his normal fashion startled her, exclaiming in just one step below a shout, “GRACIAS JUANITO, WASHO MY GLASSO THEN GO HOME. THE MILK THAT’S BAD IS YOURS IF YOU WANT TO DIG OUT OF TRASHO.” Juanita was  was born in small town Kansas, knew absolutely no Spanish, and had perfect hearing. Something she had patiently pointed out to Mr Trumtran nearly every day for the 15 years she had worked for him.
Before he stood to go to bed,  he bowed his head and said his nightly prayer. It went something like this;  “Dearest God,  please lay your Divine protection over my family tonight Lord, and shield our estate from the Muslims and blacks sent by Obama to impregnate our daughters. Just throwing an idea out there Lord, but it may be in America’s  best interest, if they all (except of course Doug, my African American racquet ball partner) were swiftly prosecuted in a court of law. I know you see their sins and crimes committed behind closed doors. Maybe you could  rain down on them, old testament style Lord? Your call Lord. Your call. Amen.”

    On his way to bed he gave a full attention salute and wiped any would be smudges from his framed George W. Bush Christmas card. It sat proudly in the center of the fireplace mantle next to its mate, a George Bush Sr. Christmas card. These relics were sandwiched between two more framed photos. On the right, a photo of him on his yearly endangered species hunt on a secret farm outside of Columbus, Ohio. This snapshot boasted him smiling over the top of a Bengal tiger he’d shot at 10 yards, using a high powered automatic assault rifle from the safety of an air conditioned armored tank. This was no doubt one of his proudest moments. On the left was his favorite motivational quote. A miniature black framed poster that looked like it was ripped directly from a highschool Economics classroom’s wall. “If ya can’t be the best, become the best best you can become!”- Zig Bigler. The quote was superimposed over an image of a majestic rhino. A tiny bird roosted triumphantly on the rhino’s front horn. On either side of these sat dusty outdated photos of his two daughters. His wife apparently hadn’t made the cut.

Pictured above: a photo taken from the edge of a marijuana field farmed by illegal Mexicans. The sign a warning to any would be thief. Take my marijuanas and you’ll be gay. Spine chilling.

What transpired next is open to speculation. All they know is that less than one hour after entering his room Juanita reported hearing what she described as “house rave techno” music blaring from the bedroom.   Baffled by what she heard, she leaned in with her ear to the bedroom door, accidently  cracking itt open just enough to glimpse Mr. Trumtran ferociously dancing in his wife’s panties, stilettos,  pearls, and Ms. Trumtran’s favorite “classically modest” shade of lipstick.  It was at this time that Juanita witnessed, a rainbow hued fire ant scurrying from under his door. The following day Mr. Trumtran sold his brokerage firm and began drawing up plans for “a sexy as f*&k retro roller disco nightclub, with karaoke, cause that’s silly fun”. The only official statement Mr. Trumtran has given to reporters is as follows, “Oh my gaw! Hells to the naw naw! Those old full house lookin mothafu*#ers kicked me outta MY church? Those bi*#hes better check my résumé…” He  then turned from reporters and continued his heartfelt choreographed routine to Meagan Trainer’s “I’m all about that bass”.

Mr. Trumtran is not expected to recover anytime soon.

   As is custom, FBC church has removed all record of his serving or even attending FBC. Our children are safe for the moment. Be vigilant brothers and sisters. God Bless.

*Correction* “Money worshipper was mistakenly used in this article. It should have read, Joel Osteen follower. Our editor didn’t feel there was enough difference in the terms to warrant a direct edit.

Update: In a shocking turn of events, the FBI has announced that the origins of the homosexual chemtrail ants were traced back to Muslim terrorists funded by Iran.  Intelligence has reason to believe they have stockpiles of WMG’s.(weapons of mass gayness)
Intelligence coming from sources close to President elect Trump have just confirmed that these attacks were carried out with help from illegal Mexican aliens, and redskin indians high on marijuanas and drunk on firewater. Trump’s Ambassador to non-Whites, Don Biggett, spoke out confirming that immediate laws are being drawn up to expedite construction on Trumps wall, with extra walls being built around Indian reservations so they “can’t meddle in OUR countries affairs anymore”. In addition, Joe Biden spoke out in favor of Congress asking for “a shit ton more money and troops to fund a new war on terror in Iran and thus forth any country who dares to harbor these terrorists and or WMG’s in and around their oil rich landscapes.” When President Obama and president elect Trump were asked when these laws were set to be passed, Trump responded first.  “The timing will be right. You can ask anyone. I have really, really good timing”.

Obama and Biden were asked the same question by a Fox News reporter. Vice President Biden simply pointed his finger over the reporters shoulder and shouted, “Those niggas are stealing your car white boy.” When the reporter turned, he saw nothing and turned back around to see Biden giving Obama a high five as he held up the freshly signed laws shaking them in the reporter’s face like a Polaroid picture.  Biden was quoted as saying,  “Oooohh, you just got served fresh by the real panda panda panda, Joe n Barack! Didn’t he get served Barack? Tell him, he got-“. President Obama cut Vice President Biden off with a sigh, “Yes Joe, he got served.”

The newly signed legislation goes into effect at midnight tonight.


Write Here, Write Now, Right?

Write Here, Write Now, Right?

*Note to reader. Or hopefully readers. This is ENTIRELY FICTION. No need to call social services in a panic. The only things that are true, are that I have two rad children and my ex is overweight. No children were harmed in the making of this blog. Thanks and happy reading.


It’s 12:40a.m. I’m watching the end credits to the horror flick “Children of the Corn” in hd and I’m 3/4 the way through a fifth of Maker’s Mark  and well into my third brownie. These ain’t the brownies your granny makes either. (Chances are her pot has a relatively low THC content, but theyre great for a reason, and it ain’t love:)  Yes, I realize I  may need to take a good look at my lifestyle, especially considering I have two kids. Whatever. My alcoholism isnt your business. Just know im drunk and happy, and now I’m maybe kind of scared. Ok. ALOT scared. And alot inebriated. The standing lamp in the hallway and glow from the blank  t.v. screen are all that illuminate my immediate surroundings. Beyond the tunnel of light just out of view, masked by the darkness, lies a horrific  Christmas themed battlefield like scene and possibly evil children with solid black eyes out there somewhere as well. Killer farm kids aside, wrapping paper and ribbon shrapnel and gift box rubble litter my room, and the family room, and the living room, and debris is overflowing into each adjoining room. Im certain if a discovery channel producer comes in this moment I’m in a favorable position to be awarded a spot on “hoarders”.  Now that I really look, which requires the use of my Jedi powers to force my dialated glossy pupils into focus thus turning a blurred mass into a slightly less blurred mass, I notice something disturbing. A tingle runs down my spine. Lying amongst the litter are toy army men doing unspeakable things to barbies. It looks like re-creations of some of those morbid “faces of death” videos or a scene from a snuff film.  Things that are most certainly war crimes even by toy soldier standards. My son is 8 and its doubtful he’s familiar with the rules of engagement or the Geneva convention but this is disturbing. He’s fast asleep though so I’m not addressing the clear warning of mental illness and serial killer like tendencies with him just yet. Im putting it on my to-do list now though. Who am I kidding. There is no damn list. What if my son is being molded right now into a Jeffrey Dahmer all because I can’t make a damned list. Im going to check on him………………………………………… No dead bodies. He seems to be sleeping. Unless he’s faking. Holy shit,  he’s faking isnt he? It has begun. He’s lying there alone now, all snuggled up rubbing his hands together wide eyed giggling to himself maniacally. I just know it. Screw it. Im pad locking his crazy little ass in there. 30 years on this rock, floating through space around a giant fire ball and im still surviving. Im not about to let my own 8 year old spawn take me out. His mother is a social worker and takes issue with padlocks on doors, food cabinets, ankles, etc. Luckily my journal entries are one hundred percent confidential and protected. My thoughts and questionable actions are password protected. The only way my secrets can get out is if I accidentally post them to my blog in a drunken stupor. There is some irony to my ex’s padlock bigotry though because she will most definitely gain alot of self confidence by locking her own food pantry and maybe just , you know, throwing away the key. She’s not obese but I will wager that (on my padlock diet) she survives for the next 10 to 12 years on stored body fat alone, and boom, a village in Somalia is eating well for a decade from the food freed up. That’s what I call a win/win. Crap. I wonder what to do about this lock. Its securely in place now, but think I’ve forgotten the combination. And is it left turn, left turn,right turn? This is what my ex daydreams about daily. Me screwing up so epically that I end up on  Nightline special.   I need to remember to stop drinking for any future middle of the night padlock installations.  Hope he doesn’t have to pee. I can slide poptarts under the door with only a small amount of icing scraping off for sustenance but he’s not pissing in anything that will fit under that door. He can’t even hit a toilet with the seat up. AHA! Amongst all the mess, dotting the landscape, are Christmas sweaters. I don’t mean Christmas sweaters in the sense that they have Christmas motifs. No, these are sweaters my family are blessing me with this holiday season. And every holiday season. Horrible, tacky sweaters galore. Im sliding every itchy, fuzzy one of em under his door for a Christmas sweater pee pad. Crap hes waking up,or getting his scalpel sharp. Can’t tell from the sound. Annnnd he just walked right out……………………………….apparently in my drunken stupor ive managed to mount a padlock on his door but not to anything else.   Im hiding under my comforter, but im also sitting up which is drastically reducing my ability to blend in im sure. What the hell am I doing? He’s my son! And he’s 8 and weighs 40lb soaking wet. I’m just strapping my glock on with one in the chamber and having a nice, heart to heart with my son like a normal parent. Maybe I am using bathroom door as a nice solid barrier but he’s peeing. He doesn’t want me watching….Here I go. Im asking him to explain the brutal physical and possibly sexual torture going on with his toys. He’s responding as he washes his hands. He’s saying it wasn’t him. It was his little sister. My God. She’s even scarier than him. I panic. I have to wade through the mess like a soldier in the swamps of Vietnam to make it to her room. I listen. No sounds. She’s even younger at 5. But a mean 5. Vicious even.. Her hurtful words alone cause me many a trip to the bathroom to cry alone. I grab the doorknob. It’s cold. I suppose this is normal for a door knob of this type. I can’t be certain though. I’m no door knob expert. I can’t bring my hand to turn it. Im thinking about those little beady black eyes. I certainly don’t know that possessions aren’t possible. She’s small but she’s wiry. With a little adrenaline, or evil power, or methamphetamine, she could take me. My hand withdraws from the doorknob. Now, I know what you’re thinking. After all the alcohol, and pot brownies, and the hit of acid I failed to mention earlier, I’m still lucid enough to know you’re thinking I shouldn’t watch scary movies alone at night. You’re right. Better go sleep this one off.


Write Here, Write Now

School of Hard Knocks

220px-Color_Me_Badd_logo                    As a boy,  I planned on conquering my every fear in life.  Knowing my own phobias of chocolate filled lollipops and flash photography I would bravely grow up to be the guy that puts tootsie rolls in the center of tootsie pops and the photographer for the Victoria Secret catalogs. When I hit middle school reality slapped me in the face and I realized I would have to come up with more realistic dreams for my future.   I would be a singer. They had lots of money and WOMEN. I often found myself singing along to FM96.5 the groove. “Smooth R&B for all ages to get their groove on”.  Yeah. I got my groove on with Usher. Boyz 2 Men. Color me Badd. I was sure I was as good as these guys. When looking for reassurance, my Dad called me a homo and rolled his eyes,  and my mom told me that I was indeed a GREAT singer. I found out later that this must have been one of her “remembered to take her prozac with her brandy” days. They were  differentiated from her “forgot to take her Prozac but remembered the brandy” days by a general lack of sobbing, cursing, slurred verbal attacks on my father and the occasional ridiculous compliment. I blame her for the events that would follow. Based on my mother’s well intentioned lie, I pursued my singing. I had seen La Bamba. Singing was where it was at and I’d take the world by storm. The culmination of my singing dream came when I boldly performed “I Wanna Sex You Up” at the 6th grade talent show.  I would have come out victorious too but Jody Sizemore was an 8th grade goddess with a full handful of the Lord’s natural padding on her chest which she used to hypnotize the crowd. Unfortunately I was part of that crowd. I was getting ready to go backstage. Her bouncing brainwashing flesh prancing around the stage in interpretive dance put me in a trance. My hormones kicked off what I can only describe as an intensely  raging boner. This was really quite common and could last nearly a full school day . In between classes this would often force the well known “look natural and walk  down the hall with school books pressed firmly over the woody” walk. This method was employed until the restroom was reached so I could slip into a stall and do one of two things. One; think of horrible naked images of the gym teacher or two; proceed to punch the poor thing like it had called my mother names. This self torture had to be done in a timely manner because unfortunately (and I learned this the hard way)  erections arent a valid tardy excuse. So I was five minutes out for my performance and a flogging would take its toll and my mind was too scattered to calm the problem with gross visualizations so I used my unmatched problem solving skills and attempted to scotch tape the thing down to my leg. It worked. How was I to know scotch tape performs poorly on sweaty hip hopping thighs? Apparently it lasts for exactly 2 verses and a chorus. I thought they were cheering for my performance. I mean, even the principal was applauding. Or so I thought.  When she screamed , “get down Mr. McDonald” I thought she was referring to the James Brown kind of “get down”. So I did. In reality she meant, “get down and take your bulging crotch off stage”, which she explained to me in those exact words after the fact. It wasn’t until I hit the splits part of my choreographed routine that I realized what was happening.  I was singing, “Girl, you know it feels real good.We can do it ’til we both wake up……, ” while dancing in a seductive manner, (or as seductively as a pre pubescent 10 year old boy possibly could) and now everyone had forgotten about Jody and her boobs from God so they could only assume I became aroused from my own performance. Needless to say I didn’t finish. (Though a large percentage of the school chanted for an encore.) No. As Jody was handed my golden trophy I was subjected to a lecture from Principal Martin. How one receives punishment for something so natural was beyond me. It didn’t matter. I wasn’t paying attention anyway.  Mrs. Martin was wearing a skirt that day. What shame had forced into submission, her freshly shaved legs were bringing back to life. The talent show program I was clenching slowly moved to my waistline. I walked away with a demerit slip, a hurtful nickname, a fear of  singing in public, and a pair of parachute pants flying at full mast. I would have to put yet another dream aside and come up with a new plan for my future. Whatever my future held, I would face it standing tall. 

A Not So Smooth Entrance


Scientists say it’s impossible to remember things that occurred during the first couple years of life. I am the exception. I remember the day I was born in horrifying detail. I remember because it was the first time my life flashed before my eyes. I remember being thrust from the safety of my warm cavern into the freezing hands of who I could only assume was my executioner.  He shined a death ray into my eyes that im sure must have planted the seed of brain cancer deep inside my pineal gland. He sliced my belly cord with the same primal brutality with which a lion severs the jugular of his prey. My blood spewed across the floor. Luckily another doctor who must’ve been well learned in the art of tying off water baloons saw his colleagues murderous look of insanity and lept into action tying my cord off before I bled out on the spot. My savior must have gone to call for help to stop his mad medical partner leaving me alone with the mad man once again and he beat me ruthlessly as if he’d caught me sleeping with his daughter (which I later in life indeed did do, partly as revenge, partly because she was years older, extremely hot,  and supplied my reefer habit) then he tossed me under a heat lamp like a pan of fried chicken at a Bob Evans all you can eat buffet. I’m also certain his roughing me up caused permanent back and muscular problems. It’s important to note that I wasn’t able to walk for close to two years after our first meeting. (His daughter wasn’t able to walk for almost two days after ours, hehe) Had my thumb not found its way near my mouth distracting me I may be able to recount the attack in much greater detail. PTSD may also be partly to blame. I must have repressed much of the experience as the trauma was too great and my fragile mind couldn’t bear the reality of it. I was 5 minutes old, already had hypothermia, was sliced open, had been beaten to a pulp, nearly choked on god knows what, been infected with brain cancer,  and was suffering early signs of PTSD causing extreme anxiety, emotional outbursts, uncontrollable crying and ADD. This was just the beginning. Within minutes I was put into a straight jacket like blanket wrap to calm my trauma induced outbursts and to prevent me from protecting myself against the horrors yet to come. Next a sexy but sinister nurse scooped me up like a poop filled diaper she was scared to touch. I thought she would pinch my toes with her thumb and forefinger and carry me upside down while holding her nose. She made her way to another lady who was laying in a bed looking sickly and as if she had just rolled out of a cardboard box filled with wool blankets on a humid summer day. She was surely homeless. Covered in sweat, her hair resembled Medusas. Before I could react the homeless woman shoved her sweaty breast into my face nearly smothering me. I can’t speak of what followed. It’s too dark for a blog and my shame is too great. Let’s just say it was similar to a person being kidnapped and forced to take heroin. As much as they know it’s wrong and initially fight it, natural biology causes the person to crave and need it even  once they are given a choice and set free. I like them, was a victim. Over the following days I was pumped with this breast heroin, poked and prodded, had needles injecting me with autism, cancer,  probably herpes as well. At least thats where I tell my girlfriend it came from. What came next was torture.  My homeless caretaker handed me off to a group of masked intruders. I was taken into a small torture dungeon where they pulled a knife on me. They asked me questions in a language I wasn’t familiar with. Perhaps they were testing me. Either way, my lack of answers didn’t satisfy them so they pulled my loin cloth back and without hesitation sliced the tip of my wanker clean off. Worried that they may cut the whole thing off, I told them all that I knew. I screamed and begged for mercy. It worked. They put the knife away. This was how I spent the first days of my life. Feel lucky you can’t remember.


So, as a child I was somewhat of a writing prodigy. Or so I was led to believe. In reality I was the only kid with such a non-existent social life that I had relatively enormous amounts of time to put into my writing. In reality I shat out mediocre short stories on paper while most kids my age shat out other, less socially handicapped and less bully provoking things with paper such as spitballs and notes with check boxes scribbled in hopes of hooking up with whichever girl had matured the most that year. Not that I didn’t pass notes. I did. I even included check boxes occassionally until I realized the “yes” box wasn’t necessary for a lad of my social standing. In fact I think the majority of my notes ended up plastered to my forehead, or at least shreds of them rolled into hurtful little humiliation balls saturated with shame and the spittle from the girls’ mouths I so yearned to connect with. Did I occassionally peel the spit wads off my face and sneak them into my mouth so I could justify saying that we had “swapped spit”? Come on now, that would be weird. Right? So anyway,  I loved to read and I loved to write. I loved the classics; Steinbeck, Dickinson, Stevenson, but above all the man who took me on adventures on the mighty Mississippi. The man who sent me back in time to roll in the grass laughing my ass off as Adam and Eve tried to knock the moon from the sky by hurling rocks. Samuel Clemmons aka Mark Twain. My writing was a lot like his. That is if you took his writing, jumbled up the words, fed them to an owl who also ate a few mice (because I’m sure owls can’t live soley on literature, no matter how great it may be) and that owl were to regurgitate little mice and twain pellets, then one were to dissect said pellets and throw the findings on paper, my writing was like his in that way. But I won’t brag anymore.  My grandmother always said that bragging is like a dog licking his gonadz and expecting a treat. I’m not quite sure what the hell that had to do with bragging but most of her stories had to do with dogs or genitalia or both. It’s people like her who motivate me to write. She was quite racist. Every year I’d cut a picture of Halle Berry out of a magazine and put it in my wallet to show Grandma as my girlfriend just to get a rise out of her. She would curse and mumble something about Poodles licking Rottweilers privates and I’d chuckle like an evil villain as I dissapeared under the dinner table to tie her orthopedic shoes together by the laces. Somehow year after year no one noticed this and every year upon getting up to change her mush filled diaper or whatever old people do after chowing down a large meal, she would fall face first into whoever was unfortunate enough to have the seat next to her. I realize this seems awful and heartless but you have to understand, she was a racist bitch. The fact that she was my elder and a full century old was no excuse for her buying KFC and grape soda in case I did bring Halle home for Christmas dinner. So a face plant and a family lecture on getting velcro shoes if she couldn’t stop tying her own laces together was justified I think. She has since passed away, God rest her soul. But in case of the second coming or a zombie apocolypse I tied her laces together in the casket. She also rests with an 8×10″ screenshot of Halle Berry in that awesome nude scene with Billy Bob Thornton, placed gently under her frail hands. The lady at Walgreens was hesitant to print the photo for me but when I explained it was a gift for my Grandmammy she happily obliged. In retrospect that was really strange. Anyway, given my love for writing, my aforementioned mediocre skills and the fact that Great Grandma Eileen was one of the more normal members of my extensive family, I figure I have a never ending well of interesting subjects from which to draw my stories. And these stories will be relayed to you through this blog. In the interest of those involved, I will change names, dates, places, and possibly facts entirely. Other than in those cases, almost every word will be true honest reflections of my life, family, friends, and imagined events.