Sloppy Seconds

I was quite flattered that he had chosen my style to emulate. There were a great many different approaches to the gross-out contest at the time, including bizarre props, full-length stories, poems, and true confessions. Cullen had taken what I started and elaborated on it, adding voices and sound effects. It was really good and has improved year after year. In 2007, I noticed something even more impressive: almost every entry that year (with the exception of the veteran participants) sounded - in pace, tone, description, and delivery - like the one I authored in Chicago of 2002. It was perhaps the best gross-out contest I have had the pleasure of participating in. The style had caught on. I had, evidently, started something.

The contest in 2007 was a shoot-out between some of the heavyweights of the grotesque and the comedic: Cullen Bunn, Mark McLaughlin, Jeff Strand, and me, with me once again taking second place.

In 2008, Cullen Bunn retired and instead judged the event. The lovely Rain Graves, another past winner, was the hostess of the evening. Jeff Strand and Cullen did a surprise gross-out duet that would have probably taken first place had they not been disqualified. Judges can't participate.

The rest of the evening was filled with one derivative rip-off of Cullen's style or mine, or some hybrid in-between. Every story involved analingus or cunnilingus with some elderly, overweight, dead, or diseased woman proving that sometimes imitation is not the sincerest form of flattery. Sometimes it's just silly. The winner, the lovely and talented Whitney Lakin, was by far the most original, doing a story about being stuck in a fat farm with nothing to eat but cum-soaked candy bars.

My story about a crackwhore in a leper colony once again took second place in what was my final performance at the gross-out contest.

To commemorate this event, I thought I'd compile this little literary retrospective of my five years in the WHC Gross-Out Contest. In addition, I've included one of the most grotesque and horrific murder/rape/revenge stories I have ever written entitled "Hurting Him" which first appeared in an online webzine called Brutal Tales. This will likely be the last place this particular story will see print, so do enjoy.

Since many of these stories had to be greatly truncated in order to fit the contest's five-minute time limit, this is the first time most of them have been seen or heard in their entirety. You will notice certain scatological themes repeated throughout these stories, along with an almost obsessive recurring theme of analingus and diseased, unwashed female genitalia.

This repetition was not only unintentional, but I didn't even notice it until I put this little book together. I guess when I think of gross, putting my mouth on something covered in pus, feces, and disease is at the top of my list. That, and the fear that my own obsessive adoration of the female form might lead me to similar excesses of lust and perversion. Though, I honestly can't imagine being obsessed enough with anyone to try sucking their soul out of a dead dog's ass.

Still, you get my point. Or maybe you don't yet, but you will. What follows are some of the sickest, most vile, most despicable acts ever put into print.

Have fun!

Morbid Obesity

Second Place - 2002 Gross-Out Contest, Chicago

Mary was a 500-lb contortionist who'd died with her titanic legs still wrapped around the back of her neck. Her legs were like two pale, bloated logs crosshatched with varicose veins. Even in death, her face was pinched and creased with the exertion of maintaining such an uncomfortable position. Her skin was now loose, slack, nearly sliding off of her from the buildup of necrotic fluids as she decomposed, adding yet more ripples to the rolls and rolls of billowy fat suspended from her chin in successive rows of increasing girth. Her engorged breasts and stomach were but more layers in a cascade of flesh that hung all the way down to the cavernous orifice yawning between her mammoth thighs.

Her vagina had been turned inside out as if a grenade had gone off in her uterus. The labia were red and swollen like a baboon's ass and glistened with a virulent unctuousness as a steady stream of dank liquid dribbled out of her raw and bleeding snatch. It looked like an infected hatchet wound - more the symbol of man's fury than his lust. A gangrenous stench wafted from her syphilitic cooze as I knelt between her thighs and licked my lips appreciatively.