Lady Gaga's Donkey Punch

Lady Gaga had finished a three hour set at Madison Square Garden and was kicking back with her entourage at The Boom Boom Room, of one of New York City’s most exclusive clubs.

Near her sat a group of Wall Street, hedge fund types. That sort of greed driven, slicked back hair asshole wasn’t usually her type, but there was this one guy amongst them who instantly caught her eye.

He looked like a younger, more handsome version of Gordon Gecko from the 1980’s flick “Wall Street,” with the same haircut, Armani suit (though of a more recent fashion), and overall air of arrogance about him, but for some reason, perhaps the copious amount of alcohol she'd consumed, she couldn’t look away from him.

Pretty soon, Lady Gaga was dancing with her friends, mostly women and homosexuals, and before she knew it, they were engaged in a full blown conga line, which began to snare up the entirety of the club's patrons.

As they danced through the club, Lady Gaga noticed that in back of her, holding her hips, was the hedge fund asshole she’d been eyeing earlier.

“Hey there!” He shouted into her ear, over Britney Spear’s “I Wanna Go,” which was thumping from the club’s sound system.

At first Gaga ignored him, playing coy.

“Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?!” He shouted into her ear again, as the conga line passed by the bar.

Being famous meant everything to Lady Gaga; hell, she’d even titled her record “The Fame,” and this Wall Street asshole not knowing who she was pissed her off even more than the mere fact that he was a Wall Street asshole.

Incensed, she broke out of the conga line, spun around, and got in his face.

“You don’t who I am?” She angrily screamed over the music, when, ironically enough, the DJ started playing her song “Judas.”

“Nope, sorry. But you look familiar.” He replied, stone-faced.

“I’m Lady Gaga!” She screamed, even more pissed off.

“Wait, the singer?” He replied, with a smile. “That’s where I know you from. Of course I’ve heard of you… Sorry, though, other than when I’m at a club, I don’t listen pop. I’m into mostly classical, Chopin, Bach, that sort of thing.”

Suddenly Lady Gaga felt like a bitch for getting so upset. She was actually intrigued to meet a man with refined taste and kind of optimistically thought that maybe he wasn’t just another player jerk trying to nail her so he could brag to his friends about how “he fucked Lady Gaga.”



“It’s okay. I’m sorry for snapping at you…” Lady Gaga said, blushing slightly.

“No worries. How about I buy you a drink and we reconcile, ‘Lady Gaga’?” The stranger asked, his smile widening, revealing perfectly aligned, sparkly white teeth that glistened under the club’s flashing lights.

“Mmm… Okay, but call me ‘Steph.’” She replied, becoming increasingly enraptured by his devilishly good looks.

They ducked around and cut through the conga line, went up to the bar, and downed what turned out to be an endless array of shots. Gaga didn’t remember much after that, other than her and the stranger dancing for a while, and next thing she could recall, they were drunkenly falling into his plush, luxury hotel room at the Waldorf Astoria.

Entering the room, he flicked on the TV to the Golf Channel, which upset Gaga, but before she had a chance to protest, he grabbed her by the arms and stuck his tongue down her throat, aggressively kissing her.

They French-kissed for a few minutes, and then the stranger tore off her high-riding black leather miniskirt and rainbow colored feathery halter top. Gaga unhooked and let loose the black lace bra she’d been wearing underneath and the stranger ripped down her matching black thong and threw it across the room.



The stranger again took her by the arms and tossed her to the large, king sized bed. He disrobed out of his Armani suit in almost military-like precision, slipped off his navy blue boxer briefs and dove onto the bed.

Grabbing Gaga for a third time by the arms, he flipped her over, and she instantly rose up to all fours, knowing what was coming.

And like an earthquake, it hit her. The stranger viciously injected his hard, well-endowed cock, not into her vagina as she expected, but straight into her anal orifice with no lubrication whatsoever (and no condom, either).

Gaga screamed out in a mixture of pain and pleasure as he entered her. Furiously beginning to ram his cock up her ass as hard as he could, he pushed her head down into the pillows to muffle her screams, which had become louder and louder.

After only a couple minutes she could feel his pre-cum seeping into her anus. She was about to tell him to pull out, not wanting him to cum inside her, when… it happened. Just as she was turning her head around to yell at him, she saw his arm cock back, and before she could even formulate words, she felt a blunt force strike the back of her head.

She’d been donkey punched. Donkey punched so hard the trauma had almost instantly knocked her unconscious, and right before she blacked out, she felt the stranger's cum squirting wildly up into her rectal passageway.

She awoke the next morning to the sight of the hedge fund asshole sitting on the edge of the bed, in a white bathrobe, eating breakfast from a room service tray and watching the Golf Channel.

She groggily stumbled up off the bed, with both her head and anus writhing in a stinging pain, and she noticed that the stranger just ignored her, not saying a word or even looking at her.

Spotting her Gucci handbag nearby, she rifled through it, and pulled out her mace.

First, though, she went into the bathroom to piss, washed up her ass a bit (which was bleeding slightly and dripping semen) and immediately upon coming out, sprayed the hedge fund asshole down with the mace, and proceeded to rip the thin plasma TV off the wall and bashed him over the head with it a couple times.

His body went limp and she’d thought she’d killed him, but she could hear him still breathing and saw him occasionally twitching a bit, so she decided to up the ante, and unsheathed the large black dildo she always carried in her handbag.

Gaga hiked up the stranger’s bathrobe over his backside and forcibly shoved the dildo up into his ass. Doing so awakened him, and he began to cry and mumble. After a couple minutes of sodomizing him, Gaga reached back and punched him in the back of his already bloodied head, delivering a cathartic, retaliatory donkey punch in revenge for the donkey punch she’d received from him the night before.

The stranger then started convulsing, like he was having an epileptic fit, and white foam and pinkish vomit chunk type projectiles shot from his mouth, landing all over the white carpet. A couple seconds later his body went totally motionless. Gaga stepped back, waited a second, and approached him cautiously, put her hand to his neck, and could feel no pulse.

All of a sudden, her rage over being donkey punched wore off, and it dawned on her what'd happened, what she’d done.

She felt terribly guilty, her eyes welling up with tears, and she wished she’d just sprayed him with mace or got a bodyguard to kick his ass. But, somehow, perhaps due to her Mediterranean blood, she quickly came to terms with it.

The fucking bastard got what he deserved, she thought. How many other women had he done this to? What type of STD might I have caught off him? she thought, as she felt his semen still seeping from her asshole.

Fuck this piece of shit, she told herself.

Then, a fitting idea came to her head about how to cover up the scene and further humiliate him; she’d make the whole thing appear like a repressed gay suicide.

So she went back to the bathroom, washed the blood from her hands, got dressed, and went around the room, wiping off everything she’d touched, erasing any fingerprint evidence, and she pulled out a Cher CD from her handbag, stuffed it in the room's Bose system, and cranked up "If I Could Turn Back Time" to an ear-splitting volume and set it on constant loop.

Breaking into hysterical laughter, she dragged the stranger’s naked, bloody, lifeless body to the balcony, stood him up, and shoved him over the railing.

The last thing she saw of him was his backside, with the big black dildo still sticking out of his pale, hairy ass, as he soared down to the pavement, his arms and legs outstretched in the wind like the letter X…

Benoit Arnaud Duval is a psycho child molestor and is not associated with The Meth Lab in any way

We hate him and hope he fucking dies.

What are the signs that a Crystal Meth lab may be present?

The following, often in combination with each other, may indicate the presence of a Crystal Meth lab:

Curtains always drawn, windows covered with aluminum foil or "blacked" on private residences, garages, sheds, or other structures

Evidence of chemical waste or dumping

Excessive amounts of trash, particularly chemical, coffee filters or pieces of cloth that are stained red, and duct tape rolls

Extensive security measures or attempts to ensure privacy (no trespassing or beware of dog signs, fences, large trees or shrubs)

Frequent visitors, particularly at unusual times

Secretive or unfriendly occupants

Unusual odors (ether, ammonia, acetone, or other chemicals)

Meth Lab Radio Show (featuring Willie Nelson from Glasgow)

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Take me out to the ballgame

Attorney John Palmer

Dear Friend,

Please I will like to know if you have hired Attorney John Palmer as your representative towards the collection of your Inheritance with the deposit company. Because am corresponding to the false Email claims I daily receive from Attorney John Palmer. That you have requested and hired his services as your representative Attorney to make the collection of your $1.5Million USD inheritance estate cheque funds collection.

I will not oblige to his request, the reason is because you have not personally notify me about his coming and also after making consultations with the law suit Chamber he claimed he represent. I was told such name do not exist with the law firm either in the past or present. Without wasting much time, I have taken your cheque inheritance collection to the finance ministry to de-activate the Encrypted code been placed on it by your benefactor. All this activity was done by me last week to enable me conclude the final phase of your transaction with the finance ministry.



Meanwhile, I have received response from the Deposits company that they have received your package collection Friday last week at about 14:00 GMT.Because they were the issuing bank deposits company that notify me earlier that you have a package collection consignment for pick up as bestowed in the will document papers of late Rev Father James. Elias who issued you this $1.5Million USD payment cheque in your name. So as the attorney to the deceased I was out-rightly informed about your collections which prompt me to take decisive actions immediately by following what was stated in his will papers.



Once again, I hope and pray you use your Inheritance collection payment as issued to you wisely by investing with it and paying One tenth of it as your tithe to any Red Cross society or orphanage homes near you in helping a soul today.

Furthermore, your compliance towards this E-mail is highly anticipated, to enable the deposit company remit your inheritance payment cheque to you immediately, thank you.

I really want to know your stands on this matter before I pull OFF.

Signed:
Barrister George Williams.
Legal Consultant on Mortgage Equity and Financial network.



(Pics by Pieter Hugo)

an excerpt from The Professional Donor (a working novel)

It's been three days since we last saw Finch, and everyone's got their theories. When he told me he thought he was having a heart-attack, I'll admit, I was somewhat skeptical. He hunched over the table balancing his head between his arms; complained of dizzyness and chest pains. All the while, his cigar teetered between his fingers when he wasn't puffing furiously at the filter.

"Do you want me to call the ambulance, man?"

"Nah. Not really. I'd like to just die to be honest with you. But I want this pain to stop first."

Last night, I dreamed he had come back to the house and in my REM-induced imagination, I conjured up a fictitious conversation in the living room between Finch and Ian.

"Where's my orange lighter?! It was on the dining room table when I left."

"I don't know man. I haven't touched it."

Ian was obviously nervous-pacing back and forth through the intersecting hallway in avoidance of confrontation. The lighter was safe in my pocket.

"Bullshit you fucking thief! I know you got sticky fingers! Empty your pockets right now!"

Although I awoke to no such conversation having transpired, I knew it could easily veer in that direction had Finch come home during my nap. But that was Finch; desperately clinging to every facet of his menial existence. The smaller things have so much precedence. A lighter. A JW Little King Cigar. A bowl of spice. A bottle of Sierra Mist. Everything that meant something was trivial and clamped between his swollen mits; while "the bigger picture", as some call it, eluded him and his otherwise apathetic disposition.

I started thinking about his laissez faire attitude towards his impending demise, and how he clung to the pain and I wondered if maybe he hadn't mentioned his death wish to one of the nurses on duty upon admission and she hadn't in turn, referred his "case" to an inhouse social worker who asked Finch:

"Are you being serious when you say you want to die?"

And he had answered yes, immediately granting her the authority to place him under a seventy-two hour suicide watch in the psych ward upstairs.

Yes. Finch has a tendency to focus on the less important aspects of his life and thus negates the presence of more pressing matters at hand. Then again, this is all merely speculation-bordering on a classic case of self-projection and we, the tenants of the house, have other theories as well.

We are learning to pay close attention to detail; finding pleasure in making it up as we go along simultaneously. Ian is busy flushing anything worth saying down the toilet or barking at the empty walls of his tiny room once the lights are out. We still haven't spoken, save for our coordinating the phone call to 911 a few nights earlier. Benny seems to think it may have had something to do with Finch's spice intake.

"He buys that shit off of some guy he works with and there's no telling what they spray on there. I tell ya, acetone may be the least of his worries."

Benny had heard some of Finch's conversation with the paramedics. As it turns out, Finch had a history of cardiac distress and a stint placed in his heart around six years ago.

"You smoke that shit and it makes your heart beat real fast and there ya' go. Not to mention all those cigars he smokes, the nonstop walking with his job, the heat! Just asking for problems with all that if you ask me."

Finally, Mrs. Just disspells the rumors on collection day; informing us all that Finch did indeed have a heart-attack, and that he was recuperating accordingly in the county hospital.

"He fine. Finch is fine. I speak to him a couple of days ago." she explained, as she taped the eviction notice on his door. "He is two weeks behind now. And now he is eh...not whowking. So I don't know what to do. All the time, he is here and nevwah says hewhoah when he sees me. You know? He is here slamming the doors and spraying bug spway everywhaire. We are not kids and there are no bugs. Maybe Finch have lice or something. I don't know. But there are no bugs. So...eh, Finch must go. I have nice married couple, like you and Lisa, who need the womb."

Mrs. Just was still justifying her decision as I trailed off for the bathroom. To my unamazement, sitting on the back of the toilet, was another dirty spoon.

A few more days passed and then Sunday, there he was in his old seat at the ceremonial round-table. Sulking. Alone. There were multiple puncture holes in his left arm; where the i.v.'s had once been attached...where his blood had been checked. The exact points of insertion glistened, fresh scabs beneath the ray of an L.E.D. flashlight dangling from the wire over his head. The fly paper swung in the breeze and so far, had mostly been successful at capturing debris from the trees in the yard. Very few insects were attracted to the scent. Finch had bought the roll some time ago.

"They (paramedics) didn't believe I was having a heart-attack. They thought I was having some kind of drug reaction or some shit. 'Kept asking me if I was sure I wanted to go to the hospital." An empty vial of X-Pressions "potpourri", a glass pipe and a rusty nail (THE RUSTY NAIL!) sat in front of him. I got the impression he had been sitting there for a few hours before I happened along. His head wobbled back and forth on his shoulders. He spoke uncharacteristically slow...

"Say do any of you guys happen to have an orange lighter?"

'You guys?' I thought, just before turning to my right and finding Ian's silhouette lonesome. Sullen...in a chair next to the neighboring fence.

"No. I haven't..." A train rumbled along the tracks of the boxed-in night; making his reply indiscernable.

"What about you Anton?"

"No. I ain't touched it man. I got this one, that I bought in Albuquerque last night. Still has the sticker on it."

"I had one sitting on the table with my smokes when they took me. The cigars were in my room when I got back, But no lighter."

"Hmmm. That's weird. How'd your cigars get in the room? Who put them there? Were some of them missing?"

"No. I had everything but the orange lighter."

"Who would just take a lighter man? That's just weird."

"Ah, who cares? Just forget it."

"Shit man. I was curious. Lisa and I have had some things come up missing lately."

An awkward black silence seized us, as I looked up between the branches and past the gutter of the house. The moon looked like the tip of a bright yellow finger, pushing...no pointing its way through a black ironed sheet; which had collected dust mites or stars. Finch lit one of the three JW's he had left in the pack.

"It's sposed to get up to around 108 degrees by the end of the week."

"Oh yeah?" I replied.

"Yeah. 'Gonna be a hot one for a while I suppose. Fucking sucks. I 'gotta get some things together, talk to some people. I guess I 'gotta find a new place to live by the end of the week...talk to the title people 'bout my car and go back to the hospital at some point."

"Did they set you up with another appointment?" I asked.

"Well, I have to go back and see the damned doctor so I guess that's an appointment. It's whatever. I'll either have to go back for that or another heart-attack one. Whichever comes first, I guess."

I felt as if he were searching for some source of empathy; digging amongst darkness and relative strangers.

"Doc said I have 80% blockage in one of the valves. Don't remember which one. But, it's just a matter of time before round two."

"They 'gonna do surgery?"

Finch shrugged, which made his head rock slightly. "I doubt it. I got no insurance. I tell you, I think they gave me some kind of radical drug treatment," he squeezed his arm in the light, "that turns fat cells into piss or something. I lost ten pounds while I was in there. I was pissing like thirty liters a day and I wasn't drinking nothing you know? So, I wonder..."

The ember began to falter on his cigar-due to his inconsistent drags throughout the conversation. Finch picked up a red lighter and re-lit the little king. "Yeah. You need to eat healthy, workout, and quit smoking." He pointed to the roll-up in my hand. "I mean, you can look at me as an example if you want." he chuckled. "Quit now, while you still got the chance." He stubbed the cigar on the edge of the table. His head dropped. He closed his eyes and didn't speak again.

Ian's shadow was looking in his direction. He had been listening intently the entire time. Even though it was hypocritical, today, it seems like some of the most sincere and mindful advice I ever received. I still smoke however...