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Oh Kerri Walsh, Gobble My Sausage

A National Nitwit Literary Supplement
By Michael Crittenden, Poet & Spoken Word Artist

Crittenden: The Keats of Oral Sex

Kerri, you omnipotent Olympic goddess, no one shall ever unravel the tapestry of your splendor. Winning back to back gold medals in the grueling sand of beach volleyball will cement your gubernatorial chrysanthemum majesty in the history books forevermore.

Kerri Walsh: Athlete, Olympic Victor, Muse for Rubbish

But alas, I cannot lid the Tupperware of my desire, so in the annals of this respected publication, let me ejaculate my burning rag affections for thee:

Oh Kerri Walsh, gobble my sausage

Oh Kerri Walsh, gobble my sausage
softly, its tender veins
a’throbbing, bend your blonde
awesomeness of locks & lips
dripping with the sweet magnitude
of our turkey-and-swiss union.
Ah, we melt! A melt
of sweat & need, two bodies
in the quiver of benefaction.
The glory of your mouth,
the glory of your throat’s
gag & gag & gag, bliss
spooling from my soul
in streams of white enunciation.
My love I shall bestow
a toothbrush & cup for rinsing
so I may feel your tongue on mine
once you’ve cleaned it



I’d Make a Great Eccentric Millionaire

A National Nitwit Guest Editorial
By Mack Holmes, Toledo Sanitation Worker

Holmes: Dreaming of Riches, Stinking of Refuse

You ever see those cable shows where they tour extravagant mansions of the zany rich, what with their gold plated showers, flat screen TVs in their closets, and entire rooms for their cats? Let me tell ya, bub: I’d make a great eccentric millionaire.

All I need to do is invent some ridiculous product like an electric corkscrew and I’d be on easy street. But I wouldn’t just be your regular breed of millionaire. No sir. I’d wear flip-flops all year long, throw my underwear out after one use, and pay for my groceries in Susan B. Anthony dollars.

And speaking of buying shit: look out, Jack. I’d adopt an iguana and name him Charlie Buttfucker so the neighborhood kids could run around saying “let me pet that buttfucker!” I’d also install a urinal in my bedroom so I don’t have to trip over Maggie’s goddamn heels every time I need to piss at 3 a.m. And you know those little robotic vacuums? I’d have fifteen, so when I got bored I could walk around the house all day crumbling saltines.

Then they could put me on one of them crib shows. All of America could see my three hundred pairs of plaid slacks, my collection of stegosaurus fossils, my bronze cast of Angelina Jolie’s boobs, and my frozen blood samples from every Cleveland Brown dating back to 1994.

Partner, I’d make a great eccentric millionaire. Just don’t tell anybody about that electric corkscrew—my patent’s pending.


Nation’s Fathers Endure Peril of Beach Erections

A National Nitwit Investigative Report

By Billy Pilgrim, National Nitwit Rogue Editor

While families across America relish their summer vacations, luxuriating on the shores of their favorite beaches, an age-old peril has gripped fathers of all ages: it is once again the season of the uncontrollable ‘beach boner.’

Another Hapless Father Chanting “Think Unsexy Thoughts” Among the Bikini Crowd

“Don’t get me wrong, I love my wife Linda, but we’ve been married for eight years now so we screw about once per pay period,” explained Evan Richards, a 29 year old computer programmer vacationing in North Carolina’s graceful Outer Banks. “Since we’re renting a beach house, I’ve had these super-shitty shower whacks ‘cause my porn collection is stashed back home. Long story short, I haven’t busted a decent nut in weeks, so when we hit the sand, what with all the college girls in bikinis, I turn into Johnny Hardcock.”

Other fathers on our nation’s beaches painfully reiterated Richards’ sentiments.

“My wife and I just had our third child in June, so she’s still in that delicate recovery period,” expressed Will Adams, a 41 year old math teacher from Michigan vacationing in southern Florida. “Which is totally cool—I’m not one to rush nature’s progress—but damn if these twin high school girls didn’t spend two hours making a sand castle right next to our blanket yesterday. What are these girls eating that they have massive jugs like that at 17? I spent the whole afternoon with a Tom Clancy novel and beach towel covering up my trouser salami.”

So with most married men too honest to violate their vows of monogamy, and the Mandatory Blowjob Bill currently stalling on the floor of Congress, it seems most men must simply endure the unquenchable fire in their loins.

“I think the trick is to learn to live without sex,” intoned James Lawrence, 55, a retired carpenter from Connecticut vacationing on the Delaware shore. “Last year I developed erectile dysfunction as a result of my diabetes, and it’s been a godsend. I can wear my dark shades, ogle all the young ass I want, and there’s no more fear of reprisal. Pathetic? Sure—I have to take a pill to please my wife when she gets in the mood every few months, for Christ’s sake. But at least I can surf fish without pitching a tent.”

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