Sunday, January 26, 2014

Finding Floofy by Donald Rump

Now Available!
When a man falls head over heels for a murderous fart, he has difficulty coping with her mysterious departure. Was it something he said? Something he did? Is his penis too small? None of it makes any sense. "I will find you, my darling Floofy. Even if it's the last thing I do!"

For mature (and not so mature) audiences. Approximately 4,250 words in all.

EXCLUSIVE! The Special Edition EPUB contains bonus content that can only be found on this site (an additional 1,200 words).


I still remember the first time I met you. I’d fallen from grace, much like I have now. In my pit of despair, you raised me up. Made me laugh, cry. That warm bottle of Killian’s Red smashed over my head never tasted better. Oh sweet, sweet memories, take me back to the song of yesterday…

My life had been empty till you came along. I was drinking my way towards a slow, painful death, my Catholic upbringing preventing me from ending it any sooner. The breakup with my fiancé of twelve years shattered me, and felt like a divorce and a funeral all rolled into one. For the first time in a long while, I felt vulnerable and alone. How could I ever trust another soul again?

Ten long, miserable years I’d spent earning a doctorate degree. “It will make you proud, and give you a new sense of purpose and self-worth,” my mother told me. While it helped me secure a higher paying job than my peers, it also brought with it a mountain of debt. “One day you’ll look back on this and thank me for pushing you so hard,” my mother rambled on. “A good education completes you on the highest and most honorable of levels.”

Who was I to argue? She was my mom after all, and wanted the best things for me in life. But the only thing it completed was her lofty expectations of me. Inside, I was very much the same lonely, confused child that I’d always been, and didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life yet.

“My son’s a doctor!” my parents shouted in every ear that would listen. But in reality, I was merely an expert in Turfgrass Management, and it did little to fill me.

“Turfgrass, what’s that?” said a drunken fool with a red face, bad haircut and a golden nametag that read ‘Squiggy.’ He set down his bottle and grinned. “By chance are you referring to something of the female persuasion?”

Monday, January 6, 2014

The $500 Question by Donald Rump

Available Now!
Perkins Deadwood can't believe his ears. His twelve-year-old son just asked for a pet fart for Christmas. And not just any fart, a Spanish fart. Hay caramba!

Can the used car salesman talk his son out of it? Or is this Christmas really going to stink?

For mature (and not so mature) audiences. Approximately 2,100 words.


"So, son. What would you like for Christmas?" Perkins Deadwood flashed his million-dollar smile. Thanksgiving holiday had been good to him, enabling Bottom Dollar Buick to sell half of its fleet of used cars in record time.

"Well," his twelve-year-old son Nelson scratched his head, "I'd really like a pet pedo for Christmas."

Perkins angled his head, his smile melting away. "A pedo? What's that?"

"Oh, that's Spanish for fart," Nelson smiled.

"So you want a fart for Christmas?"

"Yes, sir. But not just any fart. A Spanish fart."

"What's so special about Spanish farts?" Perkins tried to hide the horror creeping onto his face.

"I don't know. They're just spicier, like Jennifer Lopez. Didn't you say that you like your food and women spicy?"