2005 News Archives
Ether Valentine

Ode to Body Fluids

December 15, 2005
by Vikki Johns

Pity poor Esther Valentine. Her work is never done. She's become the Mistress of Bodily Fluid Sheet Cleaning.

First, it was Katherine, so drunk she couldn't find her mouth in bed. Glenlivet is a nasty stain to get out of the sheets. You can Shout it out, you can Offend it out, you can Blackmail it out, but damn, the telltale signs are still there for all to see, right on the 400-count Egyptian cotton sheets made in China. And there's nothing worse than the smell of dried liquor combined with human sweat, hair oil, and saliva drool.

Then, there was Katherine's upchuck. Wow, liquor barf delivers a hell of a punch to the ole' factory senses. It's got a sweet stench to it that makes street people smell like roses. So, there were those green chunks for Esther to clean up. And she did, God bless her, although she whined the entire time.

Katherine did give up the booze. She traded it in for bed-wetting. Yes, a fully adult-sized bladder which two babies sat on for nine months can make quite a spectacle. We are talking a wet-spread the the width and length of Marco's family sized sheet pizza. Still, Esther was faithful. Yeah, she bitched, but she's Esther, and that's what she does.

And Jill moves in. Jill, who, save a few romps in the bed with The Wartman, was pretty much on her own, except for her right hand and a very lengthy instrument called "The Pleaser" from "The Pleasure Hut." Thing is, what with Jill's hormones signing off about 20 years ago, she's out of juice. No problem. That's what "Like Nature" is for, except the damned thing is oil-based. Plus, Jill has never disliked excess, so the slimy stuff is spread all over the Egyptians yet again. Now Esther is pissed. Why can't Jill use a water-based product like she does?

What's all this make Esther, other than someone who's neck you want to tie your belt around?

Pretty well versed.

So when J.T. moved into the tent, she knew it was only a short time before the camel would be whipping out the donkey kong. Yep, these youngin's and their wild, pulsating genital regions would not keep immorality out of their repertoire for long. For some reason, the Whores of the House, with 12 husbands and 42 stable boys between them, felt they should. And for heavens sake, the whole thing is Esther's fault! For complaining about J.T.'s laundry! This is why all young adults openly live in repugnant sin together instead of stealing around in the dark, tripping over their own big dogs: their worthless maids complain about the sperm-stained sheets they produce!

Poor Esther, only complaining when she was really fantasizing... what did make those sheets so soiled? Can't J.T. aim right? Should she call in Bob Dole and see if he has any ED sample meds for preemie ejac? Or, is JT just so jam packed full of little swimmers and seminal fluid that she should offer herself up for a threesome? And, is she the right type for the threesome, or should she locate Raul? Or the other bisexuals - Kevin, Scottie, and Michael (once he's back from his honeymoon)?

Is it any wonder, really, after all the barf stains, piss episodes, lube lotions, and JT-cum-hither shots, she's the nutcase she is? After all, if sniffing glue can burn your brain, imagine what these people's bodily emissions can do to a person. Eee-yuck!

Mac Attack

June 22, 2005
by Brent Kellogg

So then from way, way down there at the Sugar Shack inhabited by hunkmonkey J.T. Hellstrom, and the latest girl of his wet dreams Mac Browning, Chancellor Mausoleum newly reinstated maid, and personal slave to matriarch Katherine Sterling, Ether Valentine said this week she doesn't understand it. Why do so many Genoa City residents spend so much time at the Athletic Supporter Club busting their buns burning calories on treadmills only to stuff their faces afterwards with toxic swill served up by the Club's dining room?

Accompanied at the shack by her owner, um, employer for the sole purpose of preparing a nutritional meal for Mac and Katherine, Ether was astounded when Mac waved a box of [more calories and carbs in just one than a Big Mac] Krispy Kreme-like donuts under her nose. Why would Mac want to pollute her body with that "garbage"? Because the hunkmonkey said so, that's why.

"J.T. says chocolate is good for the soul," Mac oozed, confident that a couple of donuts "won't hurt."

Ether didn't press the matter for she must have known trying to convince Mac, or any of the pigs in Genoa City, that the food industry routinely modifies the food supply with chemicals and toxins. Ether undoubtedly knew pursing the issue would only cause Mac to sneer and pout and stamp her feet.

America's alarming obesity rate does not concern porkers like Mac especially when the boy she's allowed to get between her legs has now become the most meaningful thing in her meaningless life. "Truth is really important to me," Mac said, of her faithful hunkmonkey. If pale and sickly looking J.T. says junk food is good it must be so.

Except that it's not. Except that every day millions in this country wonder why they feel so sluggish and drained and ill, or why cancer and diabetes and heart disease and a thousand other ailments plague their disintegrating bodies. Mac hasn't seen the Oreo-eating Sierra NoLastName puking out the car window. She hasn't noticed the added 25 pounds of flab around Gina Roma's 5-foot-2-inch, 200-pound frame. She doesn't know of Roma's history of serving reconstituted meats (road kill) and insect parts and miscellaneous organs and slaughterhouse by-products to her former RoadKill Cafe customers and as manager of the Athletic Club probably still does.

Thank the gods it took Ether to make the point and prove she has a functioning brain by warning that on a par with heroin or tobacco, donuts are deadly despite claims to the contrary from an industry that grins and picks its teeth with the bones of sick consumers.