ok that kid totally looks like winona ryder
1983 changed everything.
The Being, a guano-addicted troglodyte, slithered from one of Jackie Kong’s various generative orifices to declare a homosexual dictatorship over some bucolic swampwater shit-hole called Pottsville, Idaho. This seventy-foot tall malevolent uterus then proceeded to ejaculate neurotoxins into the local aquifer, causing several of the town’s nearly one dozen incestuous philistines to develop rheumatoid arthritis.
Mortimer Lutz, a shaman who slathers his followers’ genitals with warm mashed potatoes during public fornication rituals, casts superstitious aspersions upon the barnacled collapsed vaginal ceiling that has begun terrorizing the half dozen mindless cattle molesters who have not yet emigrated to a polity habituated to the use of toothpaste.
Resembling a sat-on roast beef sandwich, The Being is played by a Ziploc bag with a cheeseburger in it. The encased sandwich is then rolled down various declines, creating a sense of dynamic motion. At the end, Kong places the ghastly item onto a skateboard and rolls it into the Atlantic Ocean.
Ben Ford, a sentient erection who has not yet emigrated to a polity habituated to the use of toothpaste, also hosts his own blog, TorturedEnglish.blogspot.com.
There’s nothing more upsetting then when ordinary feline nut-balls swell into a bloodthirsty seventy-foot tall sentient erection. But exactly this is what transpires in Jackie Kong’s The Giant Thinking Penis.
Having endured a harrowing ordeal which sees him reduced to a puddle of regurgitated cat food in Kong’s previous installment in the Being franchise, The Incredible True Story of Michael Smith’s Gelatinous Human Nut-Balls, The Being returns to confront once and for all his arch-nemesis Mortimer Lutz, played by Harold Wilderbum, animal porn-star. Wilderbum delivers a whirlwind performance which showcases his versatility as an actor in addition to his physical durability in scenes that call for all-out dinosaur-style monster fucking.
When one horrifyingly serene evening the soup that is now Michael Smith is fortuitously struck thirty consecutive times by lightning, the moment Dr. Finger has been waiting for has arrived. Slurping up the radioactive slop with a purple twirly straw and swishing it around in his herpetically-blistered mouth with the precise proportions of giblets, goose semen, and Pabst Blue Ribbon, he then swallows the odious concoction. Mortimer wipes clean a foggy window with his flannelled forearm and peers into the abandoned warehouse on Main Street just in time to witness The Being’s emergence from Dr. Fingers mouth in conjunction with a caustic burp with causes Dr. Finger to erupt into flames.
America’s favorite notorious retard is back in A Premonition of Debauchery.
Ben Ford engages in all out dinosaur style monster fucking on his own blog, TorturedEnglish.blogspot.com.
Does God exist? Can mankind devise an equitable and viable future society? What about gender on gender conflict?
We live in trying times. Yet one truth has remained unchallenged since time immemorial.
A hot-air balloon filled with macaroni and endowed with a sixty-foot long mechanical impregnator-canon, The Being mutilates and decapitates. The Being drops translucent semen blobs the size of rhinoceroses on metropolitan areas, causing his victims to raise his instantly-maturing spawn even as they are awash in rivulets of globular cock-mayo.
Some sort of duck shows up.
The movie quickly devolves into a forty-five minute disco music video in which The Being shoots lasers out his rectum. But what the fuck else is new?
Thank for fucking my life, Jackie Kong.
Ben Ford, a translucent semen blob, also hosts his own blog, TorturedEnglish.blogspot.com.
It’s hard to believe The Being first appeared nearly three decades ago. It still remains enigmatic.
The Being, a fetid mud accreted between the wrinkled, greasy labia of Michael’s mother’s ruffled and decomposing pussy, like a slimy, pea-colored mayonnaise slathered onto a rumpled and weathered ham sandwich half-crammed into an agape and threadbare mauve sock, “mutilates and decapitates”.
The Being batters hapless victims with his enormous and crooked poisonous erection, at the end of which is a flaking, mildewed toenail. The bludgeoned are then subsumed into his man-eating scrotal sac. This menacing fanged nut-purse then balloons with digestive fluids, and victim’s remains are excreted in The Being’s swampy, bone-filled urine. In one upsetting scene, an entire intact rhinoceros cranial structure emerges from his warped, over-elongated frankfurter, which then explodes, disrupting the chronology of the narrative.
Now in diachronic disarray, The Being leaps senselessly from scene to scene, forcing the viewer to stitch the non-contiguous fable back together. It turns out The Being has fashioned an even deadlier reproductive member utilizing elements of his victim’s pets. But this gnarled and knuckled ad hoc monster-sausage turns on The Being himself.
Constant, non-stop lightning subtly establishes the momentousness of the final scene, which takes place on a bright sunny Easter Sunday night. Beneath a thunderous clear blue sky The Being’s murderous Frankenwang confronts a loyal testes-bag.
Preposterously disgusting, provocatively absurd–Jackie Kong, you’ve done it again, you bloodthirsty anus.
Ben Ford is ad hoc monster sausage who also hosts his own blog, TorturedEnglish.blogspot.com. Hi, Pat!
Jackie Kong’s 1983 film The Being is a perturbed imploration to quit butt-fucking the shit out of Mother Earth.
The Being, augury of mankind’s final state of decadent putrescence, is transformed into a sea cucumber nourished on its own rectal gravy. For Kong, mankind is nothing more than a gangrenous necro-wang ejecting lethal yogurt into the pimpled posterior of a prostrate and pusillanimous Pan.
All of history is but a pageant of pungent poop. Michael not only seeks solace in the bowels of the earth within the confines of a “dump”: his mother in fact produced him in a bowel movement. Michael Smith is the excrement of the human race, birthed in a toilet, nursed on diarrhea.
Michael’s mother–Linda or something–symbolizes contemporary womanhood. Outwardly a typical soccer mom who walks around radioactive dumps wearing a full-body condom for some reason, she is in reality a dissolute cock-pocket smeared with ruby lipstick and distended with musk-scented douche.
Rife with symbolism, Jackie Kong’s quixotic entreaty to cease sucking the toxic dick of nuclear power amuses, entertains, and stimulates–but it fails to persuade. Therefore, one must conclude that dumping nuclear waste into the aquifer does not–and will not–affect the water.
A combustible atomic porcupine.
Juggling work, school, and a demanding masturbation regimen, Ben Ford also hosts his own blog, TorturedEnglish.blogspot.com.