With so many Hostages dying off last week, you poor boys never did get a BBF, did you?
Since it’s Halloween, I decided to treat you guys to our lovely Hostagettes in their costumes; I had to do some real detective work to find out what the ladies were wearing this year:
Never fear, fellas - TiFW (as Velma) is on the case!
We are gathered here today to bid farewell to our friend Jewstin.
Jewstin was born to amateur recreational chemists who decided that a cornfield in Nebraska was the perfect place to conduct their experiments. A freak accident early in Jewstinmother’s pregnancy exposed her to lethal doses of MDNA, otherwise known as Ecstasy. Mysteriously, she only suffered a startling self-actualization that left Jewstindad in fear of his life for 2-3 months. Unbeknownst to either of them, many of the effects fell upon their infant son who held all night raves in Jewstinmom’s stomach and spent the first three years of his life with a pacifier in his mouth except for isolated moments when he slept, at which time his parents forced bacon bits down his throat, chased by orange juice.
While most of the effects of this exposure wore off by the time he was 6, his internal thermostat was always set higher than normal, which caused him to go without a shirt in all by the coldest of weather. While the local farmers could understand this behavior in the blistering summer heat, it was much harder for them to understand in the howling blizzards which shut down much of the local area.
After several seasons of hard stares and accidents in which he put neighbors’ eyes out with his nipples, Jewstin realized that he still hadn’t found what he was looking for, he loaded up his truck and ventured out into the world to see what he could find. This jeremiad first lead him to Boise, where he joined the burgeoning ass-potato production industry. However, a bad economy curtailed the recreational activities of many Americans, including the really disturbingly pervy ones, and the ass-potato production industry was decimated overnight. Because there were precious few opportunities for a shirtless man in the greater-Idaho area, Jewstin was forced to return home to his parents, who while delighted to see him, were nonetheless forced to hide him in their basement from the mobs of neighbors, who never understood him, and who feared more needless eye injuries.
After an eternity cataloging his parents’ considerable chemical inventory, Jewstin again resumed his journey with his parents’ blessing, and soon found himself in Houston, Texas. The climate agreed with his condition, and the close proximity of other Hostages who made him feel welcome caused Jewstin to realize that he had come to the place that would be his home for the rest of his life, which was sadly, not to be long.
Police are still trying to piece together the curious confluence of events which lead to the tragic Nair disaster which killed our friend. Texas workplace safety officials still don’t know why the depilatory manufacturer was developing the new formula for men with extra hairy backs, but both they, and the police agree that had our friend been wearing a shirt, he would have made it to the lab’s shower station before the chemical exposure ate through to his internal organs, causing his untimely death. Authorities are still questioning Helga Rugmuncher, the one-eyed supervisor of his lab.
Jewstin leaves behind a turtle named Speedy, his grieving parents, a former Chippendale dancer named Rocky, friends without the courtesy to kill him when he was supposed to be daid, and an extensive collection of shirts, many of which have never been worn. A Will was found among his effects leaving everything to his “immortal beloved” except his truck, which he left to Leon Caruthers with the admonition to “buck up, and drive a real man’s rig”.
IMPORTANT UPDATE!!!
Ghetto bar, polesmokers.
New update, hosefockers.
Mo ghetto bar, bitches.
When I was a wee lad, my dear granny told me if I ever sat in a wheelchair I would never walk again.
To this day the sight of a wheelchair gives me anxiety, and you couldn’t pay me to sit in one.
What about you? What phobiastic psychological scarring did your family and friends give you as a youngster?
It’s been a very sad week here at H2. Several of our esteemed colleagues have passed on, bought the farm, met their maker, bit the dust, kicked the bucket, cashed in, are pushing up daisies, crossed the river Styx, checked out, gone into the fertilizer business, bought the pine condo, etc.
I thought I would summarize the list in this here poat.
First to go was GheeMLand: he succumbed to an STD. Go figure.
Next, was pretty Roamy: somebody flipped her the bird – right smack on top of her head.
Then we lost Cyn: It isn’t at all clear how she died. But she was married to Sarah Palin, so I’m sure she’s in Hell, because she was surely in Heaven here on earth.
That was all on Monday. Then on Tuesday:
We lost Wiser and Wiserbud: it seems they set themselves on fire. First instance of simultaneous spontaneous combustion evar.
Then Carin passed: her horrendous infection was not a pretty sight near the end, but she wouldn’t listen.
Then later that day Dave went: tragic accident involving……wait fot it…..
Wednesday brought us even more tragic news.
Our fearless leader Rosetta left us: But he does that all the time these days, so no biggie.
But then MJ: Something to do with a chicken wing and an alligator. Apparently it wasn’t his first try.
Then the day concluded with the loss of Americano: They make a powder to cure what ailed him, but he was stubborn about certain things.
On to Thursday – more bad news.
MCPO left us: But at his age it was hardly any surprise.
Then we got the tragic news of BiW’s passing: Car accident. Anyone know which ambulance chaser is on his case?
Next up was me: It wasn’t clear from Roamy’s poat whether I am dead or just lost at sea.
Friday brought us two more sad tales.
Poor Mrs. Peel: A side of her was revealed that none were aware of. May she rest in piece.
And finally we were shocked at the loss of Laura: she just couldn’t take it anymore, and managed to provoke a mugging and knife fight.
Anyway, it was a tough week here.
Oh, and by the way, Rosetta, bite us!
IMPORTANT UPDATE!!!!!!
Ummm…nowhere in the civilized world.
That Shit Never Gets Old. And Neither Does This:
But, take heart, Dallas. When this guy is working for you, grand times are ahead:
Sad Romo Is Sad
Exclusive to The Connecticut Currant and Picayune
Local Woman Dies in Bar Fight
Local resident Laura W. was killed last night at the Nightshade Bar & Grille. According to police reports, Ms. W had accosted several patrons inside the bar during the evening and had been ejected from the club. A man dressed in a chicken costume, identified as Mr. Budd Wiser of 17 Slumlord Court and a prostitute, known only as “Mare” (no fixed address) were walking towards the bar when confronted by Laura W. The victim then brandished a knife at the couple. Several witnesses thought that Ms. W’s appearance was quite frightening and that the couple were clearly defending themselves when “Mare” kicked and stomped on Ms. W. When the victim had fallen, Mr. Wiser proceeded to stab her 40 times with a dirk he had on his person. Police are awaiting the coroner’s report to determine if the death was suspicious.
My friends, we gather here today to celebrate the life of Laura W. She was a sideshow freak and a cook of some renown. But there was more to Laura’s life than these paltry facts and the strange circumstances of her death. If I may, I wish to relate those singular aspects that made Laura a truly unique character.
This is my eulogy for Hotspur. No, he is not dead, may he have many more days of good health, chardonnay at the ghetto bar, and correcting my grammar. Go kick Wiser in the shins if you don’t like this.
I’m going to do this right and start it off with an appropriate song.
I thought about mentioning how old Hotspur was. There’s the jokes like “he’s so old, when he was born, the Dead Sea wasn’t even sick.” Well, he did grow up with William Wallace. See if you can pick Hotspur out of the crowd here. He gave Mona Lisa her smile. It was when she saw Hotspur nekkid. His first computer was an iAbacus. (Good thing he didn’t ship it to the New World via Scott, or he might still be unwrapping it.) He also met Davy Crockett and insisted on stealing his hats, which his friends thought was a great prank.
When he told his family he loved 15-year-old Scotch, his family thought he meant the drink until he brought home Hotbride. For those of you who haven’t been lucky enough to meet Hotbride, let’s just say Hotspur married up. She was very kind to me, considering I went all Hostage on Hotspur’s personal blog and made a comment about sweater puppies.
Hotspur has always been a hard worker. He lived in Battle Creek for a while, coming up with the classic kids’ cereals You’re Adopted Bran, Lice Krispies, CheeriHoes, Porn Flakes, and Post Lemon Party Crunch.
After that career ended, he began his home construction business, Hotspur Solutions!. That went well until The Couple From Hell™ showed up. These people put the hurt on Hotspur so bad, stock in Jagermeister went up $4 a share. Mrs. Satan wanted “just one more change”, and Hotspur just snapped. Then Mr. Satan started bitching about how Hotspur should have used hickory instead of ash for the shovel handle, and you can guess what happened next. The trial was sensational. With BiW calling the shots from afar, Jazz volunteered to be Hotspur’s lawyer and somehow got Carin, Leon, MCPO’s son, and Pendejo Grande on the jury. (You say, but wait, Pendejo lives in Texas. Pendejo will do anything for the right amount of booze.) XBrad was also supposed to be on the jury, but he was busted for running cheap cigarettes to Canada. The Hostage team successfully freed Hotspur with “they needed killin’” defense. He kicked the prosecutor in the ass with dick slippers on the way out of court. Hotspur’s later customers would bring him a bag of money and then disappear. “Let us know when you’re finished. Please. Sir.”
Hotspur grew more and more restless each day without people to abuse him, until the fateful day when Rosetta said, “I need Bloody Mary mix, potatoes (non-ass variety), Kwanzaa candles, Snausages, a shock collar, rubber gloves, lime, large garbage bags, ten white pine seedlings (raaaaacist), sixteen cartons of cigarettes, Vermont maple syrup, the entire Buffy DVD set, a toupee, a case of Fat Tire beer, a turducken, a batch of homemade brownies, tiki torches, and a girl in a bikini.” Hotspur jumped up and yelled, “I got the girl!” He sailed off in his boat
and was never heard from again.
Now we mourn the loss of someone dear, a loving husband, a brave rescue diver, and an art connoisseur. Someone who made sure the tagline matched the header, someone who once tried snorting coke, but the ice cubes got stuck in his nose, someone who once put a KISS tape in his grandson’s Teddy Ruxpin doll. The only other Hostage besides Rosetta not afraid to wear a skirt. I never did get to tell him how much I cared for him, how much I enjoyed his company in St. Louis, and I never got a chance to do that research we talked about, space environment effects on slightly used rubber fists, with and without lube.
We will remember him how he wanted to be remembered:
Comment by Hotspur on October 12, 2011 4:32 pm
Let’s be bad so Mommy has to spank us. Me first.
Smooth sailing, Hotspur.
**raises glass in toast**
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