What better way to display what Bucket O’ Guts is all about then offering up some free fiction. Each month (or so… ) we will post new FUBAR’d fiction from authors who might be even stranger than us.

Please enjoy this first plate of gizzards from our friend Kevin Sweeney.

NOTE: These stories are meant for adult weirdos, so put the kids to bed and read on.


Kevin Sweeney



good man is hard to find, so I decided to make me one instead. Woman’s got needs you know.

            Nah, no trips to the morgue or down the cemetery; frankly, that’s some icky crap I didn’t want to get into. I decided to make do with what was in the kitchen. After all, most of it had been alive at one time or another, before being pre-packaged and marked to clear. If the Good Lord made do with dust and a little divine phlegm I reckoned it wasn’t all that hard.

            First I made his skeleton out of candy canes left over from Christmas, ribs and spine and femurs ribboned red and white as barber poles. Then it was just a matter of remembering high school biology and making substitutions here and there. Two nights work and a couple of trips to the grocery and soon I had me a man. Then it was time to wait.

An hour passed. Another.


A hot dog twitched.

My man opened his eyes, lettuce leaves sliding across boiled eggs. He sat up all woozy, rubbing wiener fingers against melon temples. He worked his jaws, two big old bananas knotted by cherries at his chin, licked liver lips with a pork chop. He coughed, spat Tabasco like a sixty a day smoker.

“Fuck am I?” he said when he saw me watching, “Last thing I remember was being vacuum sealed and expiry dated.”

Well, I told him who I was, and how he came to be, and what a wonderful life we were going to have together. And stupid me I really thought everything could work out just the way I said it would. What actually came next was a story everyone knows.

He parked his ass in the chair nearest the TV and never once satisfied my womanly needs.

I’d spend all day working and he’d spend all day in front of the tube scratching his cotton candy pubic hair. He never touched me, and I’d wasted good money on a cuke and a couple of plums. We even slept separately, me in my big old lonesome bed and him in a super-size Tupperware box to keep him fresh, just like Michael Jackson.

It wasn’t even as if he couldn’t… you know… “do it”. I knew he could, knew that he spent all day masturbating to cookery shows. Hell, who d’you think had to get the Thousand Island dressing stains off the cushions?

Well our relationship was going down the garbage disposal, which was a place I thought of shoving him a few times. But the Lord hates a quitter so I thought on it, and soon I came to an idea. If I wanted any physical intimacy from my man I had to take the initiative.

“A picnic?” he asked.

I told him that was right, a nice romantic picnic.

“Shit, I don’t know,” he said, flicking through TV Guide, “There’s a documentary about Chiquita Banana on…” but I knew he had a soft heart under that crunchy exterior; the caramel apple had been from Halloween two years before, found in the back of the vegetable crisper, “Okay, sure. I can tape my shows.”

We went out to the point. I spread the blanket on the ground.

“Isn’t this nice?” he said, “What did you pack?”

I told him it was a surprise and to turn his back, keep an eye out for bears smarter than the average whilst I unpacked.

When I was finished anointing myself with the baster I told him to turn around.

When he saw what was spread out for him his jaw dropped wide enough to see all of his sweet corn teeth. Then that cuke between his legs was pointing upwards and I knew I had his full attention.

It’s the little pinch of nutmeg that does it.

It hurt like hell when he ripped off my left leg, but as he stood there eating it like a big Thanksgiving drumstick I had to smile. Way to a man’s heart, they say.


Copyright 2009 by Kevin Sweeney
Author bio: Kevin Sweeney, noun. Lives in C/Ford, wishes it were Bangkok. Written three books, such as The Poronographer-General; others forthcoming, including the collaborative insanity that is Sideshow P.I.

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