We got tinctures and salves and remedies for days, all the patent medicines any Kansassian will ever need!
Don’t go anywhere else for your Wizard Oil Liniment, Sage & Sulfur Hair Tonic, or Satanic.... Sa... Sat..... [glances around] Do what, now?
Satanic. Laxative. Compound. Holy sh----- I MEAN WAIT that’s not---
Oh shut up, Dean.
I am aware “Kansassian” is not a thing. Oh, and that “Apothecary” part is just in my head, that mystic place from which all manner of bizarre spawns. Carry on.
Hey, girl. It’s smurf-o’-clock. Why don't ya smurf on over?
‘Cause you look mighty smurfy today, holy smurf. Got this nice ‘shroom, with its big smurfin’ head and thick stalk. We can head to my house, get to smurf each other better, maybe you wanna smurf that stalk, see where that smurfs, but then, baby, I gotta be smurf: I’m gonna smurf you so hard, you won’t be able to smurf straight for weeks. And then when we’re done smurfing, girl, Imma hold you tight, but smurfly - or not, whatever’s your smurf, I can get down and smurfy - and whispsmurf sweet smurfings into your smurf, some big, mushroom-sized sweetness for your sweet, sweet smurf. Oh, and you can come with me when I go kick that dick Brainy’s ass, I do that once a week, helps with stress, so.... but then, heh, THEN - we’ll smurf our smurfs silly, take a smurf together, get all that smurf washed off... it’s blue, I mean really smurfin’ blue, it stains, it’s this whole smurfin’ thing, like every mothersmurfin’ day, I’m always at the laundrosmurf, I just... smurf, I hate these smurf-ass white pants! So, yeah, maybe I do smurf off too much, but there’s only one chick around here, my smurfberries ain’t gettin’ any fresher, and can I get some smurfin’ shoes, for smurf’s sakes, godsmurfit, this village is such a shitsmurf---
I had to make this in intervals because my eyes kept filling with tears;
Could I have used other faces? Oh. Yeah. Sure. But no;
Originally wanted him holding the ‘shrooms like a bouquet in front of his junk, because, c’mon, those pants aren’t offering support - couldn’t get a clear shot from the Nutcracker scene, though I *did* pull that right hand from some scene where he’s jerkin’ something off his wrist, so, y’know, thematic I s’pose;
I attempted to do some strategic googlin’ for junk-holdin’, came up empty - I wasn’t gonna shoot the googles straight because ugh I don’t wanna imagine what would’ve, um, come up;
I still loathe those sideburns;
Tangentially related, don’t bother searching for “Sam Winchester grabs” because all you’ll get is: head; brother; Dean; books; gun; shotgun; handgun; knife; blade; and Mjolnir, which, I mean, least I got close on the last one;
And also, on an aside, there is a startling number of options available with regard to footie pants for grown-ass men. *Startling*.
Your mouth was so full your cheeks hurt, and that ever-trusty bitch of a gag reflex was threatening to leap into action, all of it causing your eyes to water.
Sam looked down at you and sighed, but it wasn’t out of frustration - more like sympathy, and he proved it with what he said next.
“I wish I could do it for you, I would, it just doesn’t work that way, y’know?”
You nodded. You knew he was telling the truth, he no doubt would. Then you gagged, but fought it off. Good. This was progress.
The last four times were a hot mess - you’d never get the stickiness or the smell out of your shirt. And that ruined lore book before we’d moved this into the kitchen.... ugh.
“Hang on, hang on - I got another idea. Spit.”
Sam held the plastic mixing bowl under your chin, and you happily deposited the contents of your mouth into it, a shiver running up your spine.
“Bleeechhh,” you muttered.
“Okay, this time, don’t take so much, ease up, and once it’s all in there, don’t think about it----”
Sure. Yeah. Because that’s possible.
“----and tilt your chin to your chest, far as you can----”
“What?!?”
“I’ll help hold your head down, I promise, but gently, just in case you gotta, well, um, you know....”
You did know - the results from pre-mixing bowl strat were still under the towels around your chair.
“And it should float right to the back of your throat, you won’t have to do anything but swallow.”
“Yeah. Okay. Makes sense,” you replied, doubt still creeping into your tone.
Sam went to the fridge, refilled the glass of orange juice, and spoke as he walked back over.
“I have to ask, though - how in the world did you not learn how to do this when you were a kid? I mean, not a kid-kid, but... I was able to by the time I was 5 or 6, had to be, Dean just kept cramming til I finally got one down.”
“We don’t all have such loving big brothers. Alright, I’m ready. This time, I’m gonna be tough, I’m gonna fight through it, I’m DOING THIS!”
“YES!” Sam exclaimed, and handed you the glass, though he hesitated before getting in position, asking, “You sure you don’t want to take that clean shirt off? Or maybe switch to water?”
“No way. This cuts the nasty taste, and distracts me from the texture, and hunngh, Jesus wept, the size of it, that’s a whole other topic. I’ll get used to it eventually, but...”
Sam nodded. “Oh, you definitely will. All it is, is practice. Want me to put it in your mouth, get it to the back right from the start?”
“Perfect,” you replied, and opened wide as you could.
“Bottoms up!”
And damn it if he wasn’t right. Gulp of the juice, tilt of the chin, and that huge horse pill of a vitamin floated. One good swallow, and down the sucker went.
“Brava,” Sam said with a chuckle, watching as you guzzled the rest of the juice and shot him a thumbs-up in response.
“And, hey,” he added, “you’re over the hump - think how easy it’s going to be tomorrow morning.”
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~ ALTERNATE ENDING! ~ (for the legitimately disappointed)
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“Bottoms up!”
And damn it if he wasn’t right. Gulp of the juice, tilt of the chin, and that huge horse pill of a vitamin floated. One good swallow, and down the sucker went.
“Brava!" Sam exclaimed, then added, “And, hey - you’re over the hump! Think how easy it’s going to be when you're giving me a 'thank you' beej.”
You guzzled the rest of the juice and shot him a thumbs-up in response.
~ Fin ~
This Imagination Sanitation was sponsored by snark. Snark: day or night, your call, it’s a dietary staple. Please ingest responsibly.
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@ellen-reincarnated1967 replied to your link “If You’re Not Sure How a Male Author Would Describe You, Use Our Handy...”
she had boobs like a creamy mountain and I would marry her...@seenashwrite wow me with a blurb plz
Though that is sufficient, that gold you hath brought to us, here you are. [clears throat] I call this “The Proposal”:
And even all those years later, as she gazed upon him one morning out of the hundreds-upon-hundreds they’d shared, Mary could still hear the words of her Arthur’s proposal dancing in her ears as if it were yesterday.
“He said I could redecorate forever ago. I’ve yelled my head off, telling him I just wanted to spend some quality brother time with him, I got my hammer, and now he’s run off. So I need you to help me find some nails, and-----”
“‘Hang in there’?” you read aloud, gazing in near-wonder at the framed poster in the hand that didn’t hold the hammer.
“-----then stand over here and tell me if it’s straight.”
“Are you high? Did he pull that blood from somebody doing poppers?” After a pause, you turned your head, screamed down the hallway. “SAAAAAM!”
“Don’t waste your breath. And, maybe? Got me. I just know I’m doing this before I go, I’d planned it as a joke, never got around to it, and after tonight, he’s earned it.”
“Even the kitty is confused by this. Shouldn’t you be threatening me or, or, or, being all hey I’m a sexy demon dude, come and get some of this sweet lovin’----”
“My soul got warped. Not my brain. You’re like my sister. Plus, you’re packing heat, I can see the outline of the flask in your pocket - I get close enough and you’ll douse me.”
“Fair point. Still. You get that poster hung, then what?”
“Eh. I dunno. How long does blood take to cycle around, get replaced by new cells?”
“Well what’s doing the bippidy-boppity-boo? Plasma? Red blood cells? White?”
Dean shrugged.
“SAAAAAM!”
He rolled his eyes, saying, “What’d I just tell you?” He paused briefly, a little shudder going across his shoulders. “Ooh. Hey. Something might be wearing off. Gettin’ kinda pissed.”
“Oh, you got pissed at me that fast before all this, it’s not news. And you’re screwed for anywhere from 24 hours to like, a month as far as the blood goes.”
“So, wha.... I mean, what the hell am I supposed to do til then!?”
You considered this, glanced around Sam’s room.
“I bet the Martha Stewart Living website’s got some ideas.”
“And he’s acting like I’m the monster. Damn.”
This Imagination Sanitation was sponsored by snark. Snark: day or night, your call, it’s a dietary staple. Please ingest responsibly.
Find an “Imagine” that needs a stern-yet-snarky talking-to?
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*~* Imagination Sanitation + Other Satirical Sundry Master Post *~*
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~ The receipts ~
[This Imagination Sanitation was brought to NashHole, Inc. Headquarters with much skipping & delight by the lovely @emilywritesaboutdean. Many thanks, sorry for the delay, I was thinking up that Martha Stewart line.]
Word Count: it doesn’t matter, you’ll be riveted
Category: Imagination Sanitation; humor; pure Crack based upon a stupid-ass Imagine that was sent my way by one of you darling deviants who stoke the fires of my snarkitude
Rating: (Older) Teen & Up
Character(s): just read the story.
Pairing(s): in a manner of speaking
Warnings: Spit-take warning due to aforementioned vitriolic snark
Author’s Note(s): see post-story
Overall Summary: per said imagine - “Imagine Sam making home videos” - the NashHole Writers Room Critics Corner obtained one of said movies - this is our review.
No, really - full review below.
From the way-too-dim or way-too-bright lighting, to the clearly unprofessional stunt choreography, to the jittery hand-cam (operated by someone credited as @KansasCooterThug79 who is, based on the frequent burp-chuckle combos, completely inebriated), the 4 1/2-hour ass-disaster of a largely unedited opus entitled "Furry Cock Jockey - Moose Bang: The Beginning" is time this reviewer will never get back.
The leading lady (credited as "Discount Hurley") is a poorly-made, distracting casting choice, as she appears to be anywhere from a decade to fifteen years younger than her co-star. She is introduced in the inexplicably Skynyrd-backed opening sequence, lamenting her inability to “read real good”, then writhing in frustration atop a collection of antique books in a basement library setting, donned in a flannel shirt and stretched-out, faded, pink satin panties that have clearly - even despite the lack of HD resolution - seen better days. Her introductory dialogue consists of moaning "THE LORE!" repeatedly, only to ultimately scream in an octave normally associated with seagulls in heat who have ingested the finest New Jersey boardwalk meth, when our male lead, the eponymous he-of-jockeying-and-banging (credited as "Winchester, Jumbo-Size") appears in a meticulously-constructed moose ensemble, featuring antlers and a split-crotch.
The plot - if one might call such a retinal-burning, synapse-melting glimpse into the garish pageantry of a fantasy come to life in the filmmakers' down time a "plot" - regards a massive moose seeking to woo the constantly pouting-and-lip-nibbling hunter by assisting her in the aforementioned advanced process of reading good, so that she may find a monster-killing answer of some sort, which seems counter-intuitive as one would think it is he whom she hunts. Perhaps this was an attempt at irony, though it is objectively doubtful. We then learn that the opening scene was but a flashback, which was contained in a vision brought on by a cocktail involving - per a label on a re-purposed Cool Whip container - “Djinn Juice”, which was in turn wrapped inside a fever dream that began after mainlining Leviathan goo and snorting rails of powdered nun bone.
It is at this point we will dispense with recapping the many failed attempts at activities involving cars - including, but not limited to, an obscene amount of foiled hood-slide attempts - chiefly because the filmmakers were evidently unaware that as fun an idea as it may be to receive a hummer whilst perched upon the hood of a tricked-out muscle-car whose engine is also humming, doing this for too long in an enclosed place - like, say, an underground garage - is a one-way ticket to carbon monoxide town.
The title-teased "bang" occurs late in the film, as a copious amount of run-time following the re-emergence from CO comas was spent on hair-washing scenes utilizing cruelty-free product, and making protein-powder-filled, “grass”-colored (yes, that breed of grass) smoothies, all admirably accomplished, given the hoofs. Following the beach waves achievement unlock, and post-smoothie consumption, the actual intercourse itself began. It was some bizarre amalgam of seizure activity and self-loathing, though the filmmakers were clear to establish consent - the only non-grunt verbalization by the almost-fellated furry beyond frequent, frustrated chastisement of Mr. CooterThug's physical proximity to the action at any given point in the film - thereby earning the lone star in this reviewer's rating.
While our policy at The NWR is to avoid spoilers, we make an exception here, to tell you the film’s climax. Sadly, the film’s only climax. It trails off as the camera falls to the floor, an empty beer bottle landing in frame, though we eventually see the leading lady's sneakers walking across, hear her announce around what must have been an enormous wad of chewing gum that her cab was outside, subsequently inquiring as to where “the fuck [her] fifty bucks is at”. A crumpled bill is thrown into view and, finally, a slurred voice demands a response to the age old question: "Sweetheart, you didn't take my panties, did you? Swee.... sw.... BITCH! YOU HEAR ME?!" The cap-off is a hard cut to black, followed by the credits, which were merely a still of the names of the participants carved into a table. Also, a rudimentary representation of a penis.
You can find this movie somewhere, we here at The NashHole Writing Room have no goddamned clue, ask the 30% of viewers who found it of some worth. Don’t ask the 70% who began stabbing themselves around the time the antler-play got too nauseating, and huffing kerosene when the barrel of organic lube rolled out, all whilst praying for the chariots to carry them away, didn’t matter to where. The slightly-damaged VHS copy we used for viewing was received, unsolicited, in the mail. After we threw it into the dumpster following the first five minutes of what was possibly a precursor film involving a 6-foot-and-change-tall squirrel and his nuts, which this film was apparently filmed atop (after all, even Monet reused canvases), it resurfaced on various NWR employees’ windshields and on NashHole Headquarters’ front porch with enough regularity to prompt this review, in the hopes this will settle the matter.
No return address or phone number was provided, the title only known because it was scrawled along the side of the tape in what must be noted as the handwriting of a serial killer if we’d ever seen it. As there was no case, there was no cover art - save a smaller, delicately etched reproduction of the aforementioned penis - so the graphics department here at The NWR has edited down a suitable-for-work version of what we suspect was an attempt at said cover art by the filmmakers (see above), sent to us by the now-defunct email [email protected].
Do not contact us for the NSFW version.
On a more personal note, this reviewer has a palpable amount of existential dread regarding the intimation in the title - if this is only the beginning, may whatever gods exist have mercy on our souls.
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This Imagination Sanitation was, as per usual, sponsored by snark. Snark: day or night, your call, it’s a dietary staple. Please ingest responsibly. And also wine. Wine was present during the crafting of this tale. Also a dietary staple. Ahem.
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Author’s Note: I just... I just... to fully paint the picture, here’s what I saw that made me double over in laughter. The premise on its own would possibly be fine.... but then the accompanying image. The right gif is completely obnoxious, I wish you could see it in action. These men are in their late 30s, y’all. They ain’t making youtube vids with 16 year olds. Sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings. 🙄
