Mark Leyner - The Sugar Frosted Nutsack

T.S.F.N. Shocker:

99 % of All Unmanned Drone Attacks & Robotic Prostatectomies Are Being Conducted by the Same Nine-Year-Old Kid in a Mumbai Call-Center Cubicle!

Miss America Diner Waitress:

“I’m fired!”

Furious owner axes humiliated St. Peters sophomore for giving Ike Kartonfree tongue sandwich

Inside her legal battle to regain her part-time job

REAL HUSBANDon CALLER:

“She’s using me to get to Ike.”

Vance: “ Ike’s bonkers.”

Drug-Addled, Blind Bard Steps Out to Flaunt New Super-Sexy Sumo Body:

“I gained 165 pounds from drinking 40 cans of Sunkist orange soda a day!”

75 Sex Tips from Gods:

Sizzling, Sinful, Surprising Things They’re Craving Now

Act like a skanky slut with a train-wreck personality who’s all about appealing to my needs while expressing none of your own. That’s a total turn-on to a God! With your tongue, trace the head of my penis in a circular motion, and then look up at me with your slutty trout-pout and say, “Determine my destiny capriciously, like you don’t even give a fuck. Give me a fate befitting the dirty little whore that I am! Use me and then fling me into the abyss where I belong.” I’ll have a huge orgasm.

— El Brazo

Just at the moment I enter you from behind, sharply contrast my divine omnipotence with your human inadequacies. Say something like, “You’re immortal, I’m not. You remain eternally young and beautiful, whereas I’m going to get wrinkles, age spots, spider veins, osteoporosis, or diabetes, or have a stroke or something.” Or, if you’re riding me on top, reach back, grab my balls, and say, “You’re omniscient — I, on the other hand, can barely follow an episode of Dora the Explorer without becoming hopelessly befuddled and breaking into tears!” I’ll climax so convulsively and with such a magnitude of semen that hundreds of thousands of people in low-lying regions will drown!

— Bosco Hifikepunye

This might sound stupid (but women don’t do it and we love it so much and it’s so easy) — refer to me occasionally as a “God.” Say things like “Oh, my God…oh, my God!”

— Mogul Magoo

My favorite thing is spontaneity. So, say we’ve got courtside seats for the Lakers game. When we know the TV camera is right on us, and there we are up on the giant HDTV screen hanging over the arena, kiss me and put two of my fingers inside your underwear, so I can feel how excited you are. Then we’ll immediately head out to Death Valley, where you’ll slather my genitals with chopped meat or chicken giblets so that buzzards will swoop down and tear at my nutsack with their razor-sharp talons. (It won’t hurt me — I’m a God!) Then we’ll have punishing (i.e., super-hot) sex under the merciless desert sun for eternity (literally). The fact that you’d leave a Lakers game with a God, go to the desert and let him fuck you forever with his mangled, giblet-covered dick will show me that you’re into completely spontaneous, raw, gotta-have-you-now sex — which is a total turn-on!

— Doc Hickory

Plus 71 more!!

T.S.F.N. Announces New Fall Lineup

Monday: 8 PM Eastern

“ Ike’s Narcocorrido”

In the Season Premiere, Ikesits down in a booth at the Miss America Diner (West Side Avenue at the corner of Culver Avenue), with a pad of unlined white paper and a blue-ink pen, perhaps to make a list of celebrities to be gassed, but with no conscious intention to write a narcocorrido. “I might totally flirt with you,” he tells The Waitress. “I don’t mind,” she says coyly, with a slight Mississippi drawl. Ike’s rage and his lust are strong. He’s nursed by the Gods. His honor comes from El Brazoand La Felinaand Fast-Cooking Ali. He’s dear to them, these Gods who rule the world. In his soft voice, he orders a tongue sandwich (this is apparently what he meant by “flirting”). She can’t hear him and leans way over so he can whisper directly into her ear. She’s like some hapless Beckettiantramp in a white waitress uniform so short that it barely covers her spectacular big-ass ass. She’s got big-ass titties as well. As she leans over, her face in and out of oblongs of sunlight, she gently nuzzles his head, almost accidentally.

“What is that?” she asks, hearing something.

“Oh, it’s just this song I can’t get out of my head,” he says.

She puts her ear, now deliberately, to his temple and listens. “That’s the Mister Softee jingle,” she says.

He smiles.

“You know a lot about tongue,” she says.

“I’m a butcher.”

“Are you related to Bilinda Butcher, the guitarist in My Bloody Valentine?”

“No. My name is Ike Karton. I play Akai MPC drum machine in The Kartons.”

“Did you know that the Baal Shem Tovwas a shohet (a ritual butcher) in Kshilowice, near Iashlowice?” (She’s totally flirting with him right now.)

Meanwhile, the Chloë Sevignydoppelgänger, who’s fretting over cold pancakes in the corner, is ritually reciting everything that Ikeand The Waitressare saying as they say it, as if she were mouthing the lyrics to a favorite song or the dialogue from a scene she’d assiduously memorized by heart.

“When I eat,” Ikeexplains, in his shy, measured, Taurus way, “I always propitiate the Gods by offering them a portion of my food. But I don’t want to seem obsequious, so I try to be very casual and sort of uninflected. Do you know that expression actors use, where you just ‘throw your line away’? I’ll just jerk my head toward the Burj Khalifa in Dubai and say something, almost under my breath, like: ‘You want some fries? I can’t eat them. That tongue sandwich was huge. Did you see the size of that sandwich?’”

“I bet you’re too vain to eat fries anyway,” The Waitresssays, giving his ripped torso a slow, flirtatious once-over. “And you’re married,” she adds, noticing the aluminum wedding ring that Iketaps on the table in rhythm to the music in his mind.

Ike explains to her that he and his wife are soul mates, but that she’s too gorgeous, too soft-spoken and articulate, too sophisticated. Her mind is too agile and nuanced, her sensibility is too refined and delicate. She’s a bit too petite. Too ethereal. Too patrician. “Sexually,” he confides, “I’m more attracted to coarser women…sweatier, bigger, less hygienic women…women who have trouble understanding even simple things.”

“You love your wife deeply,” The Waitressresponds, “but you have this completely specific psychosexual / sociopolitical fetish, this nostalgie de la boue . I totally get that.”

“I like the bodies of women who don’t like their bodies,” he says.

Then Ikereveals his intention to get himself killed by the ATF or Mossad in order for his wife and his daughter to collect his life insurance. The Waitressasks, “If you purposively get yourself killed — isn’t that like suicide-by-cop? Insurance companies won’t pay out on suicide, will they?” And Ikeexplains to her that, yes, he’s destined to die by suicide-by-cop, but that the determination of an individual’s mental capacity, or “soundness of mind,” to form an intent to commit suicide is of consequence in claims for recovery of death benefits under life insurance policies. In other words, if it’s determined that a person is of unsound mind when he commits suicide-by-cop, his family is entitled to receive life insurance benefits. And the fact that he’s intent upon neo-pagan martyrdom, that he’s under twenty-four-hour erotomaniacal surveillance by masturbating Goddesses, and that he’s the “inducer” in a family suffering from a form of folie à famille would probably constitute more than sufficient evidence, if needed, that he’s of “unsound mind.” The Waitressponders this for a moment, and then asks rhetorically, “Isn’t fate, like, the ultimate preexisting condition?”