Raymond Chandler

She walked in--your mother, that is, and I knew she was trouble from the start. Her elephantine gams, her slightly crossed eyes, her flaring nostrils--everything pointed to a dame in trouble; in trouble from her own loose doing.

Your mom pooled herself into the chair in front of my bare desk, and laid out a sob story about some man who done her wrong. I couldn't imagine a man who had done her right.

Everything about this dame, your mom, spelled trouble. She laid out her story, I agreed to take the case, and as she left, in a miniskirt 3 sizes too small and 20 years too young for her, I suddenly flashed on a sign outside a Korean restaurant I had walked by on 21st Avenue.

Parking in The Rear.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

Ozymandias

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and varicose-veined legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, an imbecilic visage lies, whose flabby
Turkey-neck and gap-toothed mongloid grin
Tell that its sculptor well that pitiable ugliness read
Which yet survive, as opposed to her aborted fetuses,
and the buckets of fried chicken upon which she fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
`I am Your Rotund Promiscuous Mother:
Look on my hair pie, ye mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal skank, classless and overweight,
The pubic crabs scuttle far away."

Shakespeare: Othello

It is the stink, it is the stink, my God,--
Please do not smell it yourself, you weak hearts!--
It is The Stink. Your mother carries in her parts;
Fills up the loose fit trash bag in her pants.
Bits, rough like unsanded alabaster.
I must try, lest she screw some other friend.
Put out the light, and then put out the light:
And put it out again. My eyes dare not
Look at your mom's acne and open sores
And not arouse me: but put out thy light!
Thou mom's loose cunt of excreting nature,
Stygian heat, tropical wetness, fear.
Fucking your mom is a difficult chore.
I cannot give it vital growth again.
My penis withers: Your mom kills my lust.

original here

Shakespeare: Julius Caesar

"Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;
I come to bury your mom, not to praise her.
The gas that fatties pass lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their chicken bones;
So let it be with your mom. The noble Brutus
Hath told you that your mom was flatulent:
If it were so, it was a grievous fart,
And grievously hath your mom flaunted it.
Here, under a dutch oven -
For Brutus is an honourable man;
So are they all, all honourable men -
Come I to choke on the trapped fumes.
Your mom was a slut, and gave up her snatch easily:
But Brutus says she was flatulent;
And Brutus is an honourable man.
Your mom hath brought many tricks home
Whose issue did her cheeks fill:
Did this in your mom seem flatulent?
When that it was offered, your mom hath smoked crack:
Fatties should be made of sterner stuff:
Yet Brutus says she was flatulent;
And Brutus is an honourable man.
You all did see that at Taco Bell
I thrice presented her a Chalupa,
Which she did thrice wolf down with hot sauce.
Yet Brutus says it gave her the shits;
And, sure, he is an honourable man.
I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,
But here I am to speak what I do know,
that her clitoris is so long
you can tie it in a knot.
You all did her, not without cash:
What cause withholds you then, to poop on her chest?
O crack whore! thou art sucking cock for a rock,
And men have lost their nut upon her face. Bear with me;
My sperm is in the hair of your mom,
And I must pause till her smell dissipates."

Oscar Wilde #1

"Do you have anything to declare?"

"Only my genius. And that your poor dear mater is so unbeholden to the eye of the beholder that when she saw the Portrait of Dorian Gray, she thought happily that she was looking in a mirror."

Kafka #1

K. woke with a start, for he swore he heard something close by. Something thumping ominously with the machinery of the modern age and ennui and desperation. In the darkness, his eyes clawed the dark fruitlessly. K. wanted to scream but dared not, and knew that his apprehension was most probably unfounded. Still the regular thumping of something ominous couldn't just be from the silence of his own imagination. Something was there, K. was sure of that. He felt his pulse join the rhythm of the horrible thing in the dark, until he couldn't differentiate between the sound coming from his temples and the sound coming from the darkness.

K. lay there in horror, petrified and exasperated. He shut his eyes again, to darkness only marginally darker than what he had experienced with his eyes open, took a deep breath, and opened his eyes again. The thumping was this there. In his heart, in his temple, and in the dark. K. steeled himself and turned on the light, and there in the corner, was the object of his fascination, his horror.

The washing machine he had patronized at a laudromaut a week earlier. He hissed at it--"I dropped my load in you last week, and you still follow me. Who do you think you are? Andrew's mother?"

Mom Rider

Mom Rider.
A shadowy flight into the dangerous world of a man who does not exist.

Mom Rider.
A young loner on a crusade to champion the cause of the nasty, the fat, the ugly in the world of crack addicts who operate above your living room.