Lurkers of the World: Unite!

You have only your anonymity to lose.

Well, here I am, Pallidbust: author/operator of Proper Spanking Stories. Here at Proper we believe in the imagination, so with few exceptions we only post the first few chapters of any given story, then let you, the reader, explore your own creativity to figure out what happens. Also there is a snoose button on my genius box, so I'm a little behind schedule on my writings.

Lets see, something about me. Well, I've always been fascinated by spanking, but I didn't realize that spanking was as necessary as food, shelter, and love until my high school girlfriend's birthday.

She sat on my lap and before us was a computer. Back then computers ran on vacuum tubes and were powered by two caffeinated gerbils on a tread wheel. We dialed Prodigy and were hurled into the internettubeswebhighway to look up the Victory Secret's website.

"How about this one?", PB asked asked in perfect innocence.
"You think I look old, don't you?" answered evil, backstabbing heart eating wench whom-I-hope married a drunk.
"Um... no, we're in high school. How about this one?"
"Fine."
"OK," I said, happy to make progress. "So I'll just pick the size and..."
"That's not my size!"
"Sorry." I smiled, hiding my teeth to show no aggression like the baboons. "You know I've never bought female clothing before so a learning curve should be..."
"Is this your subtle way of telling me I should lose weight? You think I'm fat!!"
"Um... no. Here, I'll just pick... this smaller size."
After I wiped the blood my from my eyes and found the strength to stand, I snapped my nose into place and asked my first and last love whatever was the predicament.

"OH, so now you're buying me paternity clothes in anticipation of getting me pregnant, so I wont go to college and learn how to maximize my potential as a womyn!! Dependent on you economic domination, I'll be your domestic slave, barefoot in the kitchen and, while not exactly illiterate, possessing only a high school literary background. My mother told me about guys like you. You're all alike."

Then, dear readers, Pallidbust learned the importance of spanking womyn. A little later I learned the importance of restraining orders. Apparently spankings should be consentual. Live and learn.

So take a look about. So far my magum opus is Reform. I warn you: it will be the best experience of your life. It'll be all downhill from there.

PB

Democracy Now!

Tomorrow is a "historic" election because, as you all know, not all United States Presidential elections are recorded by history. There's that "U.S. Dark Age" between 1874 and 1902--we have no clue who ruled in those years. Perhaps one man, perhaps unicorns. It might have even be me--wedon'tknow. History is mute. They just weren't historic enough to write down.

But tomorrow, the future, will be history when it is the present. So I submit a timely video for peer review.

PB

Education is a Lifelong Endeavor

I've been reading about Roman Fasces. There has to be the first chapter to a spanking story in there somewhere. It's just too perfect.

The traditional Roman fasces consisted of a bundle of white birch rods, tied together with a red leather ribbon into a cylinder, and often including a bronze axe (or sometimes two) amongst the rods, with the blade(s) on the side, projecting from the bundle.

It has everything. A period when corporal punishment was the norm, handy birch rods (with the added tang of worse punishment from the axe), togas, legal authority... sultry Italian women. Everything.

PB

Writers' Strike!! *Updated*

I have been insulted, and I demand satisfaction. Dammit.

STOCKHOLM, Sweden (AP) - Bad news for American writers hoping for a Nobel Prize next week: the top member of the award jury believes the United States is too insular and ignorant to compete with Europe when it comes to great writing.

Yeah? Well, that would explain that Swedish flag on the moon. Also, I note, the F-22 Raptor, which I think we should use... That's right, people, we own the sky, so you should respect our writing better.

Horace Engdahl is quite the diplomat:

"Of course there is powerful literature in all big cultures, but you can't get away from the fact that Europe still is the center of the literary world ... not the United States," he told The Associated Press in an exclusive interview Tuesday."

Oh, I didn't realize. Well, I guess I'll go on strike then. I shall continue to not write, but now I'm doing it as the subject of a big, insular culture.

Now, I could give a "big culture" argument for the occasional accidents of beauty that is American scribbling, but instead I'll use pure logic:

Horace Engdahl is an asshole, and I hope he dies an asshole's death.

My stories about spankings are done until the entire U.N. passes a resolution to my glory. It would be their first resolution that actually did something in the world, and it would be glorious!

Hell with it. We still have Elvis. You hear that, Horace? Elvis.

*************Update******************

Magnus, a high ranking diplomat from the Constitutional Monarchy and Parliamentary Democracy of Sweden, has assuaged my wraith with wise words that, like the Outlaw Josie Wales, carry the word of both death and life.

The Great Writer's Strike of '08... is over. For here-on-out I shall resume not writing out of laziness, not revenge. Fellow citizens of the world, I ask you to try to get back to your lives as best you can. That is all.

PB

Find your voice!

This is so very and egregiously funny that I want to have a daughter so she'll marry it and make me grandchildren that will carry the blood of My Family Line and this article, and these grandchildren will rule you.

The Lupus Pictures folks (they make good product) are looking for feedback from the fans. Seeing as I've estimated my fan base at about three-billion, yet have, like, two readers that leave comments, I understand their thirst for empathy. Oh how tragic is my life!

Anyway, it's kinda cool and "meta" that the spanking industry has gotten to the "Pepsi Challenge" stage of marketing. "What do you want in a film about spanking?" People, we are through the looking glass. I'm just saying.

On a personal note, I would like to personally note that I gave serious thought today to writing the next chapter of "Tessy Plinkerton Saves Proper", but then I got distracted by something shiney. It did shine... it shines still...

PB

Words fail me

Paul Newman is dead. Damn it.

I am now depressed. I am going to go to a fancy eatery and order fancy food and drown myself in alcohol and confections. Tomorrow I am going to buy a shit load of Newman's Own salad dressing. I like the Light Italian myself.

PB

I'm so freaking lazy...

"Lazy" is a word I use a lot to describe my work habits. I use it because I am just.

But I feel I should post something to appease my throng of fans. So here is a little thing I wrote some years ago. Am I proud of it? I can say only that I wrote it.

Enjoy.

A Man I Met in a Steam Room

“My left eye got blown out by a booby trapped Libyan cigarette. I found the Libyan. Made him eat his arm to his elbow before putting a hammer to his brain again and again. My missing pinky? Kalashnikov, Korean border. Cut off his balls, but he got away with his life. I made the mistake of trusting U.N. Peacekeepers. Never again.

“Oh, I have scars alright. I’ve got a red line from my right pinky toe to my dick. Sudanese cut me with a blade made from melted down Italian WWII bullets. Buried him alive with his family watching. I say my right pinky toe because I lost my left to a baby Great White on vacation in Nassau. It tasted like chicken.

“Bus bomb exploded in Dublin, sending a child’s femur bone into my ear; my left one. Can’t hear shit there, but I still have to pay for the second ear mic for my Ipod. I pled my special case, but the hippy manager at Best Buy didn’t care. Ain’t fucking Christian, you ask me.

“Scars? I strangled a Nicaraguan with his own intestines, but the fucker bit a chunk off my neck. He was a wetback vampire, but he died alright without air to breath. You notice how my hair parts funny? Cuz a Turk tortured my head with lemon juice and straight razors. It’s okay, I got him back with acid and rusty nails.

“You might have noticed my missing left testicle? Amsterdam whore got a little over enthused in her work. Bit when she should have sucked. I let her be, since she only had one leg and all—but I did not tip her.

“Scars? Let me tell you about scars. Got sent back to medieval Spain in a time machine. Fucking priests roasted my ass on the hotseat. Iron chair with a fire lit under. You know what your own ass smells like on the barbecue? I do. Those priest burned up my ass pretty good. Singed my only testicle, too. Here’s my necklace of their teeth. Mostly Incan gold. Sort of my rainy day money.

“My testicle still works, but I hate explaining the scars to the whores. Ruins the magic, you know?