• Member Since 4th Aug, 2011
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How could you do this? And on Jueves?!


A Chronology of Posh Canon · 9:47pm Aug 2nd, 2019


...Anyone? No? Okay, that's fine. I guess.

I'm fine, really. :'^)

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Posh's Story Reviews: Folio the Second · 10:42pm March 24th

I just returned from a place called Seven Elevenths, which serves a chilled beverage known as a Slappie. I wished to purchase one, but my Madness Meter exceeded one hundred percent when I tried to reduce the fraction in the store’s name. Both seven and eleven are prime numbers, and such reduction was impossible. madness. madness. inescapable.

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Words of Praise

"I fell on hard times a few years back, and went to Posh for help. He made me come all the way out to his house, an hours long journey, on the promise that he'd let me stay a few days to help me out. When I got there, he laughed in my face and poured soup in my hair. He made me stay in the doghouse in his back garden, and all the time I was there, he kept calling me Soup Boy. Posh is a vile man, and I would not edit these crossovers for him if I had a choice."


"I'd describe Posh's writing as ‘good’ and ‘imbued with the undying spirit of Armenia’"

-Dubs Rewatcher-

”as far as i can tell, posh is some variety of gremlin which thrives in the recesses of Discord servers, creeping forth only to speak with trusted individuals or to offer some sort of cryptic message.”

-Sir Fiddles-

"Some of the writing is as pretentious as he is, but it’s written competently enough that you can usually ignore it."

-Some anon, idk-

i wish i was as cool and hot as posh


”If only Posh were here. They say he’s the greatest.”

-Posh (Me)-

”[Posh] is the greatest.”


-Royale Cantaloupe Liberty for "Teach Me Goodness"
-Scrubbingfest Pranky Pea award for The Next Best Thing
-Winner of the Changing Seasons Sunset Shipping Contest with ...But It Often Rhymes
-ScrabbleFabble Fluttershibby Award for Be Good To Your Daughters, For They Become Mothers.
-Second Place in the Journeys Sunset Shipping Contest with Neither Rhyme, Nor Reason
-Fourth Place in the Endings Sunset Shipping Contest with Arrhythmia.

Check to the right for a chronology of the many, many convoluted timelines I've cooked in my literary crock pot.

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A MILF with Blue Hair and Pronouns
by Trunch Buncheon

Stella was the sexiest MILF in their neighborhood, and they knew it. She also had the most ominous predilection for sudden, inexplicable tremors. The woman's acne was swollen across her forehead like a hog, her lips had fallen off and the bastard ex was eager to build a home out of them, perhaps because nothing felt so delicious as those withered rolls withering beneath his fingers. Despite her age, 70, Stella stayed in incredibly good shape and her perfect pudgy mams lifted a kettle at breakfast time that didn't need lifting. She never saw a mirror. She assumed the devil was right behind her. Her arms were dainty, though she still dangled dainty champagne flutes filled with sauceless grease from three meters in the air, and for some reason she sometimes forgot that her adorably comical jowls were attached to her head in the first place. If Stella didn't make noise at night her 5 children never knew.

What else were five kids supposed to do with their time while their parents compulsively masturbated to showtunes in the family's basement closet with a rolodex of panties around their waists? On occasion Stella loved to douse their rubber sheets in "cosmetic sauce," which had inexplicably always led to bleach baths. Eventually her scruffy kawaii Häagen-Dazs tabby cubdog and black Persian kitten would grow tired of forcing flashcards under a subway train and return to the neighborhood for hugs and eyedrops. The cats picked at the mouse hole in her diaper covers.

One summer Stella had revealed to her son Xav (who loved mixing tabasco with toothpaste) that someplace off Broadway there was a porn theater called Flashes that burned hundreds of teen asses every weekend. I don't really want to know why Stella chose to do this, but the moral she left her husband with upon asking him to pull Xav's rusty pool-leak hose outside was what she said, with sincerity, to Xav: "Just because others chose to, it doesn't make your choice wrong." It was probably the stupidest thing Stella had ever said, but much like single parenting, single motherhood is not for the weak of spirit. Why move across town when you can just masturbate less and choose not to have kids? But sometimes it feels good. I remember all those nights after my younger brother's birthday party my Mom had gone into my basement, packed a bag, dropped it off at my dorm room in Frostburg and then locked herself in our garage with the porn magazines. Sometimes even childhood feels worth it. Maybe there was a baby in there with my Mom too, and she didn't want to throw a bath that night. Maybe Xav was made to choose a sport that asked less of him; I think video games are as appealing to males as breastfeeding. Stella never showed any interest in family planning herself (the shrill squeaks and vocal acrobatics of the neighborhood cat indicated this, however), so all she really needed were a 24 hour heroin habit and a loyal fratboy boyfriend who went to Pratt. These she acquired from Stache Knuckles, patron saint of Eastern Salsa, of which she couldn't tell you the spelling.

One cold rainy April day, after a pair of Trojans knocked out I-95 and required 11 hours of clawing through tangled steel for the nearest Starbucks, I decided to go pay one of Stella's friends a visit. I figure if I acted the way I felt and confronted her with the photographs my friend had seen, perhaps she'd just back away in horror, tearing the incriminating shit in two. We had found Stella on a particularly bleak boardwalk in Altamont, a few stops from Albany. When I exited the Old Bethpage station, which hadn't seen a train since Andy was in the double digits, the sun was sending its final flecks of ash to the floor and tugging the roof in place of a roof above me. I found Stella with my friend Lucchese. A boy's name for some reason? No way to say it out loud. They spun through the soggy throngs of falafel eaters in beach shirts, granola peddlers, sword swallowers, tattooed club promoters and suburban teenagers with mismatched rain ponchos. Despite her coke allergy, Stella had surprised me in that trash-brown jacket she always took shopping with me. I half wondered if Lucchese was dating the hope diamond-ring-maker before I realized that I was to offer my assistance. Lucchese mumbled a few prim oratory about how Stella was not welcome here, and besides, the restrooms smelled foul. Given that mine were next to them, I listened and pretended to continue chanting Casses's name under my breath. Lucchese won.

you don't even have blue hair loser

Pish-posh, my name is Josh.

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