Stolen Diary of Jason Turner: Entry #34

Blow jobs, blow jobs, blow jobs. I love them. I love giving them to guys. I don't even like getting them so much, because penis in my mouth is really just the best.

I wish there was 10 of me, so i could be 10 different places, giving blowjobs to 10 different guys at once.

I wonder how many penises i could fit in my mouth at one time?

ok, i guess its time to go wait in the alley next to woodies for someone to ask if they can put their penis in my mouth.

ANSWER: YES!!!

if i was going to lock jason turner in my basement, how long would i keep him there?

would I feed him food and water all the time, or would I wait for him to whimper from below the staircase?

I would like to throw things at jason turner while he was sleeping, so he knew there was no telling when I would come down to comb his hair, or put make-up on his face.

if jason turner ever escaped my basement, i would lose my mind.

jason turner will tell you he is an artist.

he will tell you he has a loft in soho, where he takes of his shirt, boldly splashing paint over canvases against the exposed wood beams, lit cigarette dangling out of his mouth; completely fucked up on heroin.

he will tell you he has beautiful parisian boys who stop by and model nude for him, usually deteriorating to debauch sex sessions.

he says this while pumping gas off the new jersey turnpike. turning tricks for cigarettes, and dreaming of being someone else.

you can't fool me jason turner.

jason turner closed his eyes and tried to not notice the soppy mound below him. Tried to picture himself in a happy place; on his knees in a circle of squirting dudes

"circle of squirting dudes" he whispered to himself, as his longtime fatty friend eased his tiny bean into her heaving mess of poon.

he threw up his dinner of ikea meatballs and lingonberry sauce all over her hot tits, before breaking down into a shuddering heap of baby bitchery on the floor.

it took years for jason turner to forget that afternoon in the chik-fil-a employee break lounge.

I often wonder how i will murder jason turner.

it isn't a matter of "if" because, I WILL. It is merely a matter of entertaining the various manners in which i would like to see jason turner expire.

i think i am going to sew his a-hole shut, and make him eat broccoli, until he fills up with so many farts. then when he lights one of his fags (cigarette) he will explode in a shit stinking firebomb. treated denim and bandanas everywhere.

see you in hell jason turner.

jason turner was perpetually grappling with his learning disability.

and when I say " grappling with his learning disability" i mean he had a hard time being a fucking idiot.

and when i say "grappling" i mean that jason turner would adorn a wrestling singlet from his wrestling days in highschool (0-36) and aimlessly wander about on a makeshift wrestling mat in his living room. As if "Fucking Idiot" was a tangible enemy that jason turner could defeat.

but fucking idiot was not a foe that jason turner could defeat.

that poor fucking idiot.

jason turner clutched the scalpel until his knuckles turned white. Watching the rivulets of sweat from his brow dripping steadily into the malignant tumor he was preparing to remove from the presidents brain.

in order to steady his nerves, having never even stepped foot in a medical school (let alone given open brain surgery in the middle of an exceptionally debauch gay pride parade) he had eaten 4 qualudes and downed a bottle of jim beam. The president had been campaigning for a blow job from a dude, when he suddenly collapsed in a heap of feather boas. jason turner happened to be giving blowjobs nearby when he saw the fallen eagle.

he quickly removed the orgasming penis from his mouth and ran to see what he could do to help. A secret service agent explained the details of the presidents tumor, and began to saw off the top of the presidents head with a swiss army knife, while also orchestrating jason turner getting prepped for surgery.

now jason turner looked to the wet throbbing brain of the president of the united states, as "its raining men" blared from a nearby float.. and promptly vomited into the gaping sea of gray matter.

jason turner will never again be allowed into the white house.

Jason Fetz enjoys sticking telephones in his peehole. He dubbed this “calling his father”.

I don’t know why.

it bothers me that jason turner never has to try for anything.

it's as if the world owes him some cosmic debt- that is perpetually being paid off in the good fortune that comes to him as easily as hardships to a fatty.

we were once in the library together doing a crossword when it began to storm outside- right as the librarian was making us leave because jason turner wasn't wearing any pants and suggestively grabbing his noodle at younger boys playing by the puppet theater. I grabbed a handful of papers and shielded myself in preparation for the torrential downpour. jason glanced at me with a wry grin, and walked into the storm. The clouds spread wide like a great vagina, and the rain stopped falling as soon as he walked to where he would have once been soaked.

Then 6 birds carrying stacks of 100$ bills dropped their cargo into jason turners outstretched arms as a rainbow formed from the mist.

he is second only to tiger woods in my book of heroes. and if he tries to steal my book of heroes again, i am going to kick his fucking ass.

happy memorial day pussies

jason turner would often compulsively masturbate just to remember what his penis was for.

wait, thats me.

HAHAHAHHAHAHROFL!

jason turner grinned like a wild homeless man, as he furiously swung his glow sticks in circular patterns, profusely sweating off the massive amount of excstacy he had just kissed from a strange mans mouth.

he wandered around the club, grinning and shirtless, taking peoples hands and forcing them to give him back massages. sweaty, pimply back massages. At this stage of the evening he was only wearing cargo pants and homeade angel wings, and the plethora of glow sticks he used to get rave boys to notice him.

he didn't notice the slaps to the mouth he got when he ran around grabbing crotches, or how embarrassed he made made his friends that went to this rave having no idea of what to expect, nor did he notice many of his glowsticks were leaking toxic goo all over his stench ridden body.

what jason turner DID notice, was when the excstacy wore off, and he woke up faced down in a plateful of chocolate pancakes at an atlanta denny's. shirtless and confused, trying to remember when the party ended, and the hell of his life outside the rave had begun.

Jason Fetz just said this to me:

"i missed a blog yesterday and am dissapointed in myself.
but then i got stoned and ate 4 donuts so that kind of makes up for it"

NO Jason Fetz. that does not make up for it.

jason turner is a horrible magician. If he pulls one more fucking quarter from behind my ear, I am going to lose it.

throughout the course of his magic career, he has blinded six assistants with errand flames, cut 2 in half, lost countless rabbits in the infinite space of his top hat, and emotionally scarred a roomful of children when he made a balloon hotdog disappear up his anus.

he is usually drunk when he performs, and often times his top hat is a beverage hat with 2 straws descending to his mouth from his cans of coors light.

if i ever accidentally had a kid, i would never hire jason turner to perform tricks at any of his/her/its birthday parties, and would furthermore never let jason turner within touching distance of him/her/it

the one trick jason turner can always nail is being a fucking asshole.

Jason Fetz is a total dickface.
not for any reason or anything.
i just think he shouldn't breathe anymore and should die because he is, in fact, a dickface.

Jason Fetz is full of shit.

I don’t mean that as “Jason Fetz tells lies”, I mean that as Jason Fetz is literally full of shit. His entire body mass is made of shit. He looks like someone stuffed 150 lbs of shit into a pair of old pantyhose and drew a face on it. He looks, acts, smells, and is a giant pile of shit.
Sometimes, if you’re brave enough to touch a walking talking breathing pile of shit, poo comes out of the pores in his skin. It’s really gross. Just, so gross.

Fuck you Jason Fetz you piece of crap.

Jason Fetz was once diagnosed as being terminally ill with some sort of disease that I forget the name of because I don’t really pay much attention. The doctors first noticed the problem when he went in for a physical and to get medicine for his hay fever. The “rash” the “hay fever” caused was itchy and red, Jason Fetz thought it was just another spring time outbreak. Yet it wasn’t another spring time outbreak, and that was the day he found out he was going to die. The doctors tried there best at both diagnosing the problem, and trying to find a cure for the red-puss-filled-short-man (which ironically is the same name most scientific journals called him). So there he sat in his hospital bed, sentenced to his lonely death.
Terminally ill is a problematic use of words, as it doesn’t really inspire any hope in the patient. Jason Fetz was dying, and he knew it. So in a last ditch effort to find a glimmer of light down that dark dark tunnel he embarked upon his final journey.
Down the block from Jefferson hospital is a bar that he loved to go to. The bar was called Woodys (which, dear readers from outside Philadelphia, is a gay bar with a slightly ironic albeit not so clever name). Jason Fetz danced that night harder than he ever danced before, and as he danced he drank, and as he drank a large man approached him. Mashed potato man was a bear. Not an animal of the same name, but a fat hairy man that likes boners and stuff like that. Jason was instantly hooked, and as they climbed into the bathroom stall for some fucked up things that should really not be done in a public place, Jason Fetz felt alive for the first time in a month.
A few weeks later the doctors started to notice a drastic improvement with the now deformed Jason Fetz (he kind of looks like that leprechaun from the hood). Upon further investigation of tests and x-rays they noticed that Jason Fetz had a belly full of something. Mashed potato man stood by the bedside holding his sick lovers hand as they announced the contains of Jasons stomach.
“cum”
“cum?” asked a nurse.
“yes, his stomach is full of so much semen”
They all decided that was really gross.
They later decided that it was still gross but acceptable if Jason Fetz was getting better, and who were they to say what he does. So the doctor wrote him a prescription for bear semen and sent him on his way.
Jason Fetz was never sick again.
If I could figure out how to spell what a throw up noise sounds like right now I would.
I wish Jason Fetz just died anyway.

jason turner has a lot of creative ways to describe himself giving jobs of blow to penises.

here are a few:
1. mining for mouth gold
2. mid day salt snack
3. afternoon pick-me-up
4. hot doggin
5. guys hanging out
6. dad-hug
7. choking on heaven
8. chocolate covered banana time
9. farming for rice pudding
10. dreamcatching

you can reach jason turner for a blow job at his email

jason turner doesn't care as much about me as i care about him.

i guess you can never really have exactly equal parts caring... although, in jason turners case it is 99.998% look at ME, and .002 percent "hey friend, hows it going?"

jason turner once equally cared about this kiehls facial treatment that he said made him look 1.5 years younger, but then it ran out and his heart grew cold.

i'll give you a fucking facial.

piece of shit.

jason turner is an exhibitionist when it comes to sex.

He lives with a few roomates, and anytime someone was goodly enough to go to bed with him, he would make sure his grunts and groans of rock-hard-cock-delivery could be heard by the others on the other side of his paper thin walls.

i hated that he would play coy the next morning, "oh.. was i being loud?"

If the person he was with wasn't a "moaner", he would moan and grunt loud enough for the both of them, throwing his voice to give the impression that the someone else was enjoying the sex as much as he was. I once heard him pretending to be someone else saying, "oh god, jason turner, unnnnh fuck me, unnnnhhhh fuck me.. uhhhnnnnnnnn" (then the sound of jason turner losing bowel control from "unnnnhhhing" so hard)

I peeked through the crack in his door during a particularly violent sounding bone session, and saw jason turner (alone) masturbating while facing the wall of his room, loudly yelling in different voices as tears streamed down his face, whacking his tiny member as though he was punishing it for doing something horrible.

i cried with jason turner as i watched that horrible scene, and couldn't help but to start masturbating myself.

jason turner finally gave up and curled to a fetal position on the floor, still making loud grunts and moans as his body shook with his cries of self-hatred.

i wish someone would have sex with me.

Jason Fetz once dated a twelve year old boy named brian. He was twenty-nine at the time and didn’t see anything wrong with that. Now he is thirty and prefers 16 year old Latino boys.
Jason Fetz is a horrible human being.

if jason turner should happen to come up to you today and say "i shit my brains out yesterday",

he is not exaggerating.

the image will remain engraved on my mind for eternity.

The scent was unbearable. It wafted into the room and took everyone by the nose, grabbing and pulling at their sinuses. The aroma of a rotten fruit stand mixed with days old fish slowly filled the nostrils and lungs of everyone within reach. It happened like this every week. Monday nights became synonymous with teary eyes and sick filled throats.
At five fifty-five TGIFridays would start to clear, and by six o’clock the odor crept its way in the front door and mingled with the few remaining people. If one were to walk in five minutes after, the smell and emptiness of the restaurant would resemble something like Bosnia in 1995.
Jason Fetz was born in the garbage. He was cursed to have the lingering perfume of his birth follow him for an eternity. In grade school he was quite often sent back home to his dumpster with a note taped on his shirt proclaiming his blight. His parents tried and tried, but could never wash it off of his skin. He would carry around oranges and cloves hoping to mask it, to no avail. The moment Axe body spray started appearing on store shelves he bought it in droves and still it failed. Jason Fetz never felt the touch of a woman, but once told a story of touching a homeless mans pecker for a dollar. So instead of people he found his solace in a cold beer at a novelty restaurant filled with tourists and unfamiliar faces. The bartenders paid him no mind, and the South Jersey patrons were used to the stench (because they’re from South Jersey and South Jersey smells like turds). Jason Fetz was doomed to have a lonely life. A lonely life because he smells like shit.

jason turner would often volunteer at the senior citizens home near the retard shelter where he was court-ordered to live to avoid jail time for a race related hate crime.

I was impressed by his ability to stomach that sickening scent of aged feces that permeated the halls of the old folks home. It was one of the few glimpses of tenderness I had ever seen shine light on his usually grim countenance. This was until i got close enough to realize that jason turner was trying to cell cds of his home recorded folk music to seniors so eager for company that they would shell out 25$ for one of his shitty cds.

jason turner wasn't at the senior center to patiently listen to paint-drying-paced stories about the past lives of the aged, he would instead never let a word in edgewise while he would go on and on about the kind of music he liked to make,

"it's kind of like bright eyes meets ryan adams, do you like jack johnson? there's a little bit of that thrown in there as well... where do you keep a wallet in that hospital gown?"

when jason turner had collected enough money to buy another guitar shaped like a snake, he would leave the seniors with their empty pocket books and tear filled eyes, re-living the abandonment that had landed them there in the first place- relying on that sonofabitch jason turner for company.

i hope jason turner dies.

I have a poster of Jason Fetz in my room. I made it myself out of a photograph I took and the help of a giant printer nestled somewhere in Chinatown. Though the giant printer tried to pressure me, I opted with the 26x34 sized poster of his shiny face. The moment it was done printing, I rushed it home as swiftly as I could. I pulled four pins from a box and gently stabbed each corner into the soft sheetrock. My face lit up like a house on fire.
Everyday I stare at that poster of Jason Fetz, the rage filling me like a cup of water. I watch his still face until my blood is boiling and my hands feel like they were stuffed with lead. From the moment I got that poster I have beat the shit out it everyday. This action is cathartic. One day Jason Fetz will stop hiding from me and I will feel my teeth clinch once more, and I will smite him with my wrath.
One day I will kill you Jason Fetz. I am going to bash your fucking face in.

jason turner likes to tell people he is a vegetarian.

here is a corollary list of things jason turner considers vegetables:

• Jack links teriyaki beef jerky
• rare roast beef
• bacon wrapped tempeh
• anything from McDonalds
• Ian MacKaye
• fuagra
• raw cheese dogs
• boners

He also used to say he was straight edge, but only when he got really wasted.

if jason turner wasn't so handsome he would be a real piece of shit.

Jason Fetz cries a lot. He cries at weddings, funerals, during hallmark advertisements, when he eats fatty foods, when he combs his hair, at the sight of a “sad animal”, when he wears glasses, at Ritas water ice, when he hears any song by Dwight Yoakum, at second hand smoke, at first hand smoke, at no smoke, when he’s around ladies, when he’s around men, when no one is around at all, when he sits at tables, when he changes light bulbs, at the smell of freshly cut grass, when he pets dogs, when he writes his name, at the sound of thunder, lightening, rain, sunshine, any element at all, when he forgets to wash his hands, at Chilies southwest grill, when I call him short, when I say I’m sorry, when I hit him, when I put a knife to his throat, when I shoot his family, when I murder his childhood dog, at the smell of bacon, at microbes, when he sees a person sitting on a bench, when he forgets to take off his pants before going to the bathroom, at lack of recycling, at bikes, on bikes, in cars, on planes, at the state of the internet, at knock knock jokes, and the taste of tomatoes. I could go on for hours about how much he cries, and what it is he cries at but it's late and i can't be bothered.
I wish Jason Fetz wasn’t such a pussy.
I hate Jason Fetz.

jason turner often refers to his own style of dress as " foodin ". Before a night on the town, he will put down the book he was pretending to read and say "alright ya'lls, lets go foodin". This means he figures out some kind of meal or snack, that he will literally incorporate into his outfit. last friday he had to take a separate car from the others in his alcoholics anonymous mixer at tgi fridays, because he had decided to fill his shirt pockets with taco meat. It is his comfort in his own skin that makes him capable of pulling off empty cat food cans as a necklace, or smearing peanuty chocolate across his upper lip as a bold statement about never holding back.

he once rolled around in ranch vegetable dip, sprinkled some wasabi peas on his ranch coating, and walked right out into a sunny afternoon in center city- never thinking once about the legality of being entirely nude other than a thin coating of ranch dip and wasabi peas. jason turner has guts. the kind of guts that make you forget his violent racism.

he will often go so far as to devise a scent that will accompany his attire. today was "biker bar" where he lightly sprayed gas from a gas pump under his cut-off jean shorts (filled with cheesedogs). this particular choice of scent also explains why jason turners testicles are all scabbed up.

i wish i had half of jason turners courage

and 6-7 times his intelligence

I have never seen something as miniature as Jason Fetz.

If I had it my way I would put his tiny little frame on my antique glass fronted collectible cabinet. I would gently place him between my precious moment figurines and my “merry wander” Hummel statuette. He could live there, in that case. When he slept he could curl up into the soft fur of my rainbow ty beanie baby, and cover himself with the bill of Quackers the duck. I would whisper stories to him from Jane Austin books about how strong and handsome men will come and sweep him off his feet one day. He would smile, then nod, and we’d both have a good laugh, followed by eating a pint of ooey gooey ice cream. If it were possible I would collect a thousand Jason Fetz, each with different poses and interchangeable outfits. I would hold and coddle these beloved china dolls and kiss each Jason Fetz forehead every night before slumber.

Until that moment I will just hide beneath his sheets and dream my dreams.
I love you Jason Fetz in all your tiny glory.

i wish i could live inside of jason turner.

it would be like taking up residence in the sistine chapel, only looking to the hallowed walls of his intestines, spleen, and miniature penis, instead of looking up at god touching that other guys finger. Sometimes i would rub jason turners belly from the inside, or help him push his poop out- jason turners internal dung beetle diligently rolling turds around. I would slosh around the acid in his stomach, as if I were in a wave pool at a water park.

i get nauseous in wave pools, and maybe I would throw up inside of jason turner, who would in turn throw up my throw up, and we would be one.

i don't know how i would get that small, although i am pretty tiny already, and considering the size of some of the things jason turner has gotten inside of his asshole, it shouldn't be much of a problem.

sleep tight tonight jason turner, i am coming inside of you.

Jason Fetz has a fucking problem, literally a problem with fucking.

Some people are perverts and will slip drugs into peoples drinks. Other people hide in alleyways with burlap sacks in there hands waiting for that hot piece of ass to come by. Others use weapons to knock their prey unconscious. Jason Fetz is all of these things, because Jason Fetz is a rapist.

Those words are not to be taken lightly. Jason Fetz literally rapes anything. One morning as I walked into the kitchen to eat a bowl of fu man chews, I opened the pantry and there he was, raping my cereal. It’s beginning to become a major problem, as Jason Fetz only really rapes inanimate objects that belong to me. It’s kind of like in that movie about vampires when that one vampire is sick of being a vampire so it only vampires from dead animals. Actually, it is exactly like that. Jason Fetz rapes dead animals. He’s like a dog always trying to one-up all the other dogs in the park by fucking something. As I’m writing this at my desk, I’m pretty sure I can hear Jason Fetz raping something in the other room.

Stop raping my stuff Jason Fetz.

patience was king as jason turner lined up his next shot.

The other retards watched in hushed anticipation as jason turner got ready for his final putt of the day at the miniature golf course. There was only one thought on jason turners mind at this juncture- ICE CREAM.

the teacher of jason turners retard class knew that jason turner was different from the other children, she couldn't really put her finger on it... no one could. It was almost like he wasn't as retarded as the other kids. Maybe that was why he was the only retard that hadn't lost either his club or his ball before this 18th hole of the wild adventures miniature golf course.

hole 18 and with the chance to win a free game. jason adjusted his helmet, and wiped the pizza cheese crumbs from the side of his mouth. he gave one last blow of his nose into his shirt and breathed deep- ICE CREAM, the light green ball begins to roll of the tip of his club, a solid hit headed towards glory, towards a place in the annals of retard put-put history.

the ball rolls softly around the cup of the hole before dropping in. The retards go wild in a confused frenzy. jason turner laughs until his helmet nearly falls off his head with the exhilaration of his victory.

ICE CREAM! ICE CREAM FOR EVERyONE!

I once saw Jason Fetz hit a woman.

It wasn’t a light hit either, as to say “stop it”, but rather an undeserved, full blown, open-handed slap. She hit the ground with an incredible thud. I asked him why he did this and the response wasn’t followed by a joke such as “she didn’t do the dishes” or “I already told her twice” he simply said “I hate all women and I think they all deserve to get forcefully hit to the ground”. I stood there, mouth agape, shocked at his words.

Jason Fetz is a bigot.

jason turner believes that all races are created equal.

except black people.

jason turner hates black people.

jason turner never participated in sports growing up.

It wasn't due to his lack of a desire to compete, which he had in spades, it was more owing to his difficulty being naked with other girls in the locker room. jason turner knew he was different from the other girls, and he would often look at the little nub protruding from his vagina in shame. "what is that thing?" he wondered. "and why aren't my breasts budding like the other girls?"

jason turner would often wait for hours after a gym class for the others to leave before shedding his towel and hitting the showers. Often spending even longer if front of the mirror after the shower, trying to make sense of his vaginal protrusion. flicking it, stroking it, trying to push it back inwards.

it was 15 years before jason turner, along with the rest of the world, realized he was a boy.

In the theatre of war, Jason turner is an abject failure.

His troops consider him incompetent, and most of those generals he holds in close confidence are aware of his illiteracy, as well as his natural inability to lead.

He once led an entire battalion in a circle around an enemy encampment, because he couldn't understand the map; and was responsible for 90 american deaths at the battle of rock boulder.

he dressed extremely well for such a poor commander, and his horse would never be seen without his colorful dress coat, which jason turner spent many long nights sewing. Nights that his advisers would say could have been better spent learning how to read.

i would often watch jason turner roam indecisively in front of our trenches on his steed. I would lower my rifle to get his head just below my sights, and just contemplate what his head would look like... all exploded.

of course, I am the one who gets caught playing this innocent game, and am dealt a big fat court martial.

jason turner is the one trading military secrets for horse brushes.

Jason Fetz has a nice smile.

When his lips curl to expose this beautiful gift, it takes so much not to fall in love with him. His teeth are perfectly straight and glimmer white, like the fresh ivory of piano keys. There is kindness in his grin, a hope, a chance. As his dimples illuminate his face, and his eyes squint in such a way that says “everything is alright, everything is going to be fine” one feels complete.

However everything will not be alright, nothing will be fine. Like a cloud above our city, Jason Fetz rarely smiles. However, when he does it’s a smile of pure unadulterated evil. As that dark night shines upon us, and his beautiful beam grabs you, it is a horrible mix of right verses wrong hidden beneath those teeth.

Such is the duality of Jason Fetz.

Jason Fetz was tired of being “all horned up”. He was sick of the sweaty palms, and the double bass of his hurried heartbeats. He longed to feel the touch of another persons skin, and to experience the hot sticky fog of their breath on his neck. Jason Fetz was needy. All he knew was that it was necessary.

As he pulled up to the house he could already feel himself get excited. Though as he pulled the keys from the ignition he realized he was stuck. Jason Fetz sat there, unable to move, frozen in this dark quiet car on this dark quiet street. He could feel the tears in his eyes. He was scared of his own sexuality, of his own lustful thoughts. Unable to move for what seemed like an eternity, he slowly unbuckled his seat belt, opened the car door, and placed his foot firmly onto the wet asphalt.

He stepped inaudibly up the sidewalk, unable to speak. His hand reached for the handle and turned. Instantly the smell hit him, an awful mix of shit and dirt, he stepped in. The moment he saw him he knew it was love, as he drove his flaccid member into his new canine friend. The howls were strong. As Jason Fetz fucked that dog, he smiled. Prince was his love and his bark filled the room. Jason Fetz barked back. Their barks could be heard for miles, and as his horny boner finished in the dogs sexy hole Jason Fetz made his final yelp.

This was the only way Jason Fetz knew how to say “I love you too”

sometimes, when jason turner would listen to his favorite song (hunger strike, by temple of the dog) he would let his eyes fall half closed, and he would drift into a kind of trance-like state.

he would moan and sway to the horrible sound of eddie vedders goat braying, and begin to accompany the vocals, often in front of large groups that had no desire to hear a second hand rendition of hunger strike.

jason turner would usually forget most of the words, and just make up half lyrics that destroyed what was already a tremendously awful song...

"we hell, the dogs a flounder, got tried for rape and tomorroowwww weelll findheerrreaahahhaahhHH!!!!!"

at this point jason turners screamed uncontrollably, as the veins popped prominently on his forehead, while the combination of booze and painkillers he was usually on, threatened to render him unconscious. Sometimes he would continue his manic screaming long after the actual song had ended, as anyone around him quietly tried to find an exit.

I hated when he was like this, but it was also the best time to ask him for money

Thanks for posting this Jason Fetz

jason turner was a stalwart opponent of compassion. He believed it made one weak to hear sweet words or to feel that gentlest of affections from a lover.

He was a rock, but a rock with horrible hygiene issues. I couldn't help but question whether jason turners isolation was truly a decision of preference, or rather a defense mechanism relating to his horribly flaky scalp, and overwhelming body smell of gouda cheese.

whenever i would sit close to jason turner and note "it smells like gouda cheese in here" He would slink to the other side of the couch and said his father beat him with a corn cob, as if that was an excuse for smelling like shit.

jason turner had little need for friends, but i offer him my friendship anyways, even if it makes my hands stink to pet him.

Jason Fetz often has horrible migraines. You can see when they come to him, as his face wrinkles and his eyes resemble those of a small sleepy child. His teeth grind and he lets out small yelps like a human smoke alarm quickly draining through its batteries. It is evident that he is in severe pain, though he would like you to believe that his is fine. It is useless to extend a remedy for his pain, as he will refuse it. Jason Fetz is stubborn and juvenile in this state, and it is best just to deal with his moaning and complaining.

The only way I can stand being around Jason Fetz in this form is to go into his room and steal something that I really like. This is why I own the following things that I did not buy…

• 1 bonsai tree
• 1 1978 issue of playboy
• 2 1/2 pairs of socks
• 14 televisions
• 3 empty rubbish bins
• 1 jimmy fallon poster
• 6 boxes of playing cards

Though I realize it is not nice to steal, and even more appalling to steal from friends. Who really gives a fuck? Jason Fetz is a baby when he has a meager head ache.
I wish Jason Fetz wasn’t such a dickhead.

Also, quit buying televisions.

jason turner would religiously moisten the pinky toe on his left foot.

he called this his "pussy toe". I never really thought it was important enough to ask questions like "who lets you put their feet in their vagina?", but there were many things about jason turner that I didn't want to know the answer too.

like, "why can't you show people how you feel about me?"

or, "if your going to shave your back, why not do the whole thing instead of leaving that unsightly clump in the center"

or "why is it you call him lord and savior, but you won't kneel to beg forgiveness?"

jason turner is going to hell.

Do you ever meet someone, and instantly think "it would be really funny if this person slipped on a banana peal"?
i really wish i could see Jason Fetz slip on a banana peal.

Jason Fetz has a lot of friends.
This is directly due to his gracious smile, grace, and charm, but his very best friend is a man that couldn’t be charmed. “Mashed potato guy,” as Jason Fetz would call him, was a corpulent young rascal. His life was plagued with heart ache and glandular problems (much like that of Jason Fetz) though their friendship was steadfast and strong.

They met pool side, discussing the dishes offered and manners in which one would cook said dishes. The courtship began from there, as Mashed potato guy unbuttoning his not-quite-Hawaiian shirt and Jason Fetz drew in his rich hairy pheromones. They laughed harder than either of them have ever laughed, and cried more than most ladies cry. There love and friendship blossomed like that TV show Blossom, until that fateful moment…

To be continued…

often at social gatherings, someone would single out jason turner as something more than that lonely boy of always.

It would be a wide variety of people that would see there was something special lurking in his loins, aching to be released on the general public.

a creative facial as it were.

most recently, it was a woman with dark skin and a unibrow with alot of make-up on. is she afghani? or from new jersey? or an afghani from new jersey? she sat across from him, magnetized to his person, looked deep in his crystal rainbow eyes and said "you are going to make it, you are going to be somebody".

everyone can feel that something special is going to happen to jason turner.

that is probably why he was in alot of "special" classes growing up.

Jason Fetz loves skittles. I’ve always been more partial to sour patch kids. But Jason Fetz goes bananas for a handful of skittles

Every Sunday Jason Fetz comes over for Sunday tea. He always gets in around three o’clock. About ten minutes before he arrives I put the kettle on. It is not the doorbell, but the rolling water and whistle of the kettles spout that acknowledges his arrival. I pour us both a cup of tea.
Jason Fetz tells me about every sordid detail of his week. He spins a yarn about the male brothels on Mondays, and smoking crack in a dumpster on 24th and Sigel on Wednesday. I quietly sip my tea and listen intently regardless of how much my body wants to cower and expel these ghastly visions. He tells me about the time he “got his dick wet” by giving a north philly prostitute a dime bag, and the time he shaved his pubic area so he’d have enough hair to glue to his face for a poker tournament (Jason Fetz loved mustaches, but couldn’t grow one to save his life).
All of his stories he tells me in private, he tells me them with excitement and shame. I am his priest. I take his confession. By the end of the second pot of tea, his face is red with tears. His disgrace shines like a lantern. He cries and I listen.

I wish Jason Fetz would stop coming over on Sundays.

sometimes, if i am with jason turner at the park, he will see a mother breastfeading and scream "show us your tits!". I laugh, and turn a sad eye to the distance, wishing it was my tit he wanted to see.

why doesn't jason turner want to see my tits?

i once called jason turner a liar because he told me he could fly. Based on my limited understanding of "science" I know that only tibetan monks and magicians can fly.

This was the last time I ever doubted jason turner. He shed all of his clothes as I stood on the corner of 17th and locust, watching in horror / lust as he yet again took off his clothes to prove a point. He clenched his entire body, and doubled over, as if trying to squeeze out that last turtle head from his glorious hole, as sparks slowly begin firing from his anus on to the sidewalk. there were screams from women pushing baby carriages, as Jason turners sparking asshole began to propel him into the air. He raised his hands above his head as if preparing to dive, and ascended to the sky. His flacid genitals flapped to and fro- like and asparagus that had been cooked for too long, as he looked down and laughed from above.

I then called the government to try and get him captured and tested on (national security), but I forgot the number.

There are few things that Jason Fetz likes more than pizza. He loves the stuff, can’t get enough. He acts like a dang dog in heat anytime he smells the darn stuff.

He gets all “hey guys. Lets get pizza!” and we’re all like “nah, I had it the other day” and then hes all “come on, lets just get a slice” so im all “no Jason Fetz, I don’t want pizza” but then hes like “just one piece, come on. It’s pizza!” but then I have to be like “stop. No. no one wants pizza” but Jason Fetz can’t stop. He can never stop.

You see, it all seeds back to when he first tried the stuff when he was three. It was his parents fault really, but they didn’t know what they were doing. No one knew what the lasting effects of pizza were back then. Regardless, Jason Fetz was hooked at a very young age. He spent a good deal of his youth trying pizza, and worse still, all the different kinds. By the time his body grew out of its youth, and puberty was only a memory, he was a full blown pizzahead. Throughout college he resorted to hanging out in front of ghettos, waiting for a pizza dealer to come and bring him his delight of delights. He would sleep through his classes, skip appointments, and eventually when he came upon his adult years; miss hours of work just to hang outside buildings trying to hustle pizza himself.

So now every time he starts begging to get pizza, I just give him a bop on the nose.
That’s why I always carry a rolled up newspaper whenever I’m with Jason Fetz.

if jason turner was a stuffed animal, i would squeeze him until his sides burst, and his adorable stuffing came tumbling out in clumps, which I would then re-form, into a strange, and somewhat unnatural recreation, that would occasionally come alive while i was sleeping to try and murder me.

a common sense question would be "why didn't you just throw that shitted up stuffed jason turner in the trash when it started to fall apart?"

my answer to that would be a swift kick to your genitals. NOBODY CALLS JASON TURNER SHITTED UP.

NOBODY.

Sometimes, when I’m telling a story that involves Jason Fetz, the person I am talking to says something like “Jason Fetz… do I know him?” “maybe, I don’t know who you know and who you don’t” “well… what’s he look like?”

This is my typical answer –
“I dunno… Jason Fetz is a weird looking dude. Not weird like he dresses like an asshole, but weird in a… not-quite-deformed, but not-quite-not-deformed way. He’s on the short side, I’d say about this tall” (I then hold my right hand to the middle of my chest to indicate how tall I mean), “rough hands, smooth face. Actually, his face is smooth like a babies face, excluding the pox marks that scarred him in childhood. He has very small hands, almost comically small. Sometimes I ask Jason Fetz to pass me things just to see how petite hands actually are, I asked him to help me move for that very fact. I’d say ‘hey Jason, hand me that box’ and I’d just laugh and laugh at his tiny hands. His body is lumpy, kind of pear shaped. A pear with other pears coming out of the main pear so it all looks very lumpy. He’s balding a little I think. I don’t know. Black eyes. Big ears… the bones in his face look like they’ll never stop growing... Oh wait, you know him. He’s that guy that shit his pants that time”

I can say this and everyone automatically knows precisely who I’m talking about.

Jason Fetz is a connoisseur of dodge ball, this much is true. Once a week he gets suited up and steps into the hard world of team sports.
As soon as his toes hit the court, he is aware of everything, from the velocity of the ball to the earth beneath is feet. Instinctively he is no longer a man, but more animal, but even more like a machine. Jason Fetz becomes something like an electric puma wolf computer.
His hips twist as if he’s dancing the ballet, weaving between the quick movements of rubber fury. He throws with alarming precision, moving through the ranks of the team, one by one. He catches the ball and seconds later it is busy excavating the lower intestines of some poor child that expected nothing. At the end of the game the lights in his eyes twinkle with satisfaction, and he steps on, embracing the day.
He is like lightning, yet also like thunder. He is Thuntning.
Jason Fetz is a God.

jason turner once spent an entire evening trying to pick hiself up from a bar.

he took his usual stool, where he could be close to the mirror- behind the various bottles of booze. He took all night to compliment his reflections sense of style, laughing with himself at a variety of witticisms, even going so far as to attempt to reach out and touch the beautiful man before him. He drank until his reflection looked drunk enough to invite home with him, and it looked like he had it in the bag, but found that when he went outside, and the cool spring air brushed a wave of sobriety over him, that he was alone.

his tears broke my heart that night, as he crawled into bed beside me, and i got inside of his sweet, sweet hole.

The sweat dripped from his forehead, this was it, the moment Jason Fetz had been so carefully planning for months. He had schemed and calculated every moment and movement, carefully sketched diagrams and gently written each strategy with soft dark lead. And finally, he was ready. His preparation had come into fruition.

Jason Fetz stomach was full of nerve and butterflies as he stood high atop the roofs edge. His heart sank as he peered through the blanket of the warm nights sky. His palms were heavy with the weight of anxiety. Would he succeed or would he fail? He cleared his throat and his body became electric. Jason could feel each breeze as if it were the first and his arm hair stood on end. He stopped and with an exhale, he rubbed his eye as and peered deep into the telescopes lens.

It was a Tuesday. He knew that every Tuesday was their night. A night that rightfully belonged to Jason Fetz.

His hand shifted the lens into focus. He carefully removed objects from a bag, opening a container along the way in which he emptied into his hands. He watched as his parents removed their clothing and began to pee on one another, his hands violently rubbing his wiener. Jason Fetz is a pervert and likes watching his parents urinate on one another.

Tonight was his night, and his alone.

Jason Fetz was twelve years old when he stopped growing in height.


jk he was thirteen.

jason turner is not a fan of his own tastebuds.

after a pipe of opium, he would usually go on a half conscious tirade about how taste buds were merely a bugeoise tool to make the "upper class" feel self important.

i think he is just bitter about having lost his taste buds in the great bandana fire of 2003.

there was a sinister air that surrounded jason turner that night. he held his cloak tight as he disappeared into the forest, seeming to search for some refuge in that creaking darkness.

he moved like a cougar through the brambles and briars that attempted to obstruct his path, he reached the clearing with a light translucent stone in the center- illuminating the surrounded treeline with its ethereal glow.

jason turner shed his cloak to reveal the rippling body of a man who made a living with his hands. those raw straw hands that could break a heart. he walked to the stone and calmly swallowed it, the effects being seen visibly throughout his body as it's energy spread from his head to his toes. His skin glowed with his glory.

then he went to a gay club and fucked like, 1000 dudes.

Jason Fetz (at the loss of a bet) was once forced to write his name down twelve thousand times. It took him nearly five notebooks to complete the task, each filled to the brim with the loops and lines of his name.
It took Jason Fetz a really long time and he was noted as saying, “that took a really long time.” He also spoke of hand pain intimately and without burden, and I quote, “my hand kind of hurts.”
Jason Fetz is brave.

I wonder what it would be like to be jason turner. To look into a mirror and know that I wasn't seeing a human being, but rather the image of a living god.

When I look in the mirror at myself, I usually cry, and throw it on the ground, and call jason turner up and say "come over here and look in my mirrors so they are pretty again"

Jason Fetz called me thirty six times last night. I can prove it.
I woke up this morning and checked my phone (as one typically does), it said clearly, " missed calls. Jason Fetz (36)". The text messages were worse. Though i only got 8 of those.
here's a preview...

jason, hello, its me jason fetz

why wont you pick up ur phone?

all i want to do is to doo doo on your chest,

and then eat all the doo doo off of your

chest, and then doo doo that doo doo that

i ate back on to the chest that i doo doo-ed

on earlier. k. call me back.

When i called him back this morning to ask "what the fuck" Jason Fetz simply replied.

"i love ca ca all over my boner

i am a pretty girl that is also a

man liker. i like men and ca ca.

im a big homosexual with an

intense ca ca addiction."

to which i can only say "fair enough."

his words. not mine.

When jason turner turns the pages of his favorite book of poems, he closes his eyes after a poignant thought, taking a deep breath as if he was inhaling the essence of the poems meaning.

what makes watching this so special is that he can't read.

Jason Fetz is a disappointment to us all.

When i think of Jason Fetz having a dream home, I often imagine it placed upon two fluffy clouds. He would ascend the stairs on the back of a beautiful butterfly and wash his hair in rainbows and morning dew. I picture a sofa made of living kittens that purred as he would curl up for a rest. He would watch the sunset from his large floor-to-ceiling bay windows overlooking a garden of gumdrops and shoe string pasta. Jason Fetz would live, love, and die in this home. It would be a jewel to carry in his chest for eternity.

watching jason turner have sex with women through the crack of the door in his closet i am hiding in, is a surreal experience.

I wish he would hear me masturbating, but his ears have been damaged by the time he spent working at a chimpanzee refuge, and two chimps simultaneously bit both his ears because of his strong, musky scented pheramones.

i wish his cats hadn't pissed in the closet

usually if anyone in the room says "I have an idea", jason turner usually replies with "I already had that idea".

It is his confidence that makes him so lovably horny.

Jason Fetz likes Mr. Softy ice cream. He is lactose intolerant but eats it anyway.
I think that’s pretty cool. I like him for that.

It started with an explosion. The sound alone whispered to me that i was going to die. The hot breath, the nauseously sweet smell, that great noise crackling against my ears. It was like a dark shadow forming over by face like the cold clammy hands of a killer. It engulfs me, it consumes me. It goes on like that for hours, eventually draining me of all hope and will.

Jason Fetz was no hero, this much is true.
But this is how i feel every time he walks into the room.

jason turner has soft lips. he took my head in his hands and gently placed his mouth to mine, letting the bristles from his unshaven face run rough against my cheek. I was ready to let him have me, but the bristles were like my penis being slapped in the face, and i had to turn away.

i remember his lips like it was a dinner with ecstasy.

Jason Fetz has a soft and gentle voice. He speaks with a smile and an almost commanding disposition. One is instantly drawn to him, nurturing the words that float from his mouth like a leaf in an autumn breeze. His kindness and warmth wraps around you as a blanket would. His eyes shine like a disco ball.

The first time I met Jason Fetz I thought he was an asshole.

Jason Turner has difficulty breast feeding. He claims it is due to the lack of any milk ducts, but more than likely it is due to him being a man that wishes he was a woman. He folds in his weiner between his legs, and sticks out his stomach to try and recreate the majesty of pregnancy, a gift he will never be able to truly enjoy. In the meantime he can be seen staring covetously at other mothers and their babies in various parks throughout the city. Whilst also courting gentleman to put a baby inside of him.

newsflash jason turner- babies don't get made in assholes

Jason Turner is one of the most gentle men to ever comb my hair. He parts it and brushes slowly, making sure he doesn't scratch the scalp. He holds my hand for a moment when I ask him too, and we look in the bureau mirror together while he makes me pretty.

He is a gentle man.

Jason Fetz was a large man, both in height and weight. His massive shoulders supporting a neck that somehow was seemingly larger than his actual head. This is not to say that Jason had a proportionately small head, just that he had quite a substantial neck. This was to the extent that Jason often had trouble moving his head to look left, right, up, or down, not to mention a sharp stinging pain that accompanied it. It put quite a damper on the amount of oral sex that Jason Fetz desired to give on any given day. The amount was typically two. Jason Fetz liked to give at least two blowjobs a day. Jason Fetz likes to give blowjobs. Jason Fetz loves blowjobs.