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Back You are here: Home Themed Collections The Collective Speaks June 2012: The Tarot The Tube Top Shebop Tang Yeah Woo
Wednesday, 27 June 2012 15:07

The Tube Top Shebop Tang Yeah Woo

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Image from the Darkana Tarot Deck - http://dandonche.co/store Image from the Darkana Tarot Deck - http://dandonche.co/store Dan Donche

It had started out a fine afternoon.

Skipping through the park, jazz hands out, I was waiting for my friend to return from some business about a girl, when I spotted a squirrel and decided to skip after it. It was in no hurry, allowing me to maintain a fairly close distance. Like me, it seemed to be enjoying the first sunny day of summer.

I called after the squirrel.

It seemed to slow, returning my calls with cheerful chittering which made me feel oddly happy. In some sense we seemed to be communing. A few yards from a tree, our reverie was broken by cheering from a little Asian girl in Hello Kitty clothing. She yelled, "Get the squirrer, Rodney! Get the squirrer!"

I had no clue who this Rodney fella was, but her cries were so lusty and urgent, the squirrel so close, that I was forced to grow more serious in my pursuit. I had to get the squirrer.

I was an arm’s length away from the little bugger when it flopped onto its back, winked at me, then squeaked, “Rrrrrrico! Suave!” Although, the squirrel clearly had its girl woo woo parts splayed, it spoke like a man.

Clearly, this was no ordinary squirrel.

Hello Kitty continued to cheer me on but I was confused, no longer oddly happy. I considered leaving this weird trip to go look for my friend.

As I turned to leave, the squirrel began rubbing the swollen pouch above its nutty brown star furiously. Then furiouser and furiouser until its chittering became choked. It looked straight at me, an ominous stirring in its eyes. Its man voice deepened further as it let loose a series of subharmonic wails pleading for my help.

“My ladybone! Oh! Oh! It hurts. It hurts. How it hurts! Help a poor squirrel out, buddy?

I found myself unable to turn away. I considered the squirrel carefully before replying, “Exactly, how…”

“Rico! Suave! Gerardo! The hair! Rub it! Sing! Pleeeease!” it said.

The squirrel was clearly fucked and I wanted no part of this; although, try as I might, I could not turn away from the gender confused mess in front of me. Chicks with dicks had nothing on this little guy.

Attempting to shrug off its advance, I replied, “Nah, man, not my style.”

But the squirrel persisted, this time in a high pitched feminine voice, and I felt myself involuntarily moved by its plea. “Pleeeeease mister.” To boot, it fluttered its tail in a way I always found to be extremely cute in a squirrel.

I tried to resist. “Fuck you, squirrel,” I said, with as much conviction as I could muster.

But it was not much.

The squirrel paused its rubbing, an abhorred look settling across its furry little face. “Wait … wait …,” it said, sounding man-like again. “You don’t know the words to Rico Suave?!”

It appeared utterly disgusted at my apparent and extreme lyrical ignorance of Gerardo’s piece de resistance. Challenged, I began to hum the song as if to say back at you, buddy.

But the squirrel, translating that as more Yeah Boy than throw down, resumed its woo woo rubbing in a most animated manner. Big jerky strokes, threatening to rip away its walnut-sized pouch of squirrel girlie parts. Loud, wild, animal chittering— in 4/4 timing, no less.

Uncontrollably, my hips began to sway to the sweet sounds of Latino bass. I found myself in tremendous want of a black bandana, a bare chest and a leather jacket.

No white t-shirts for this guy.

Squatting, I let the music bounce my heels against my butt. The squirrel, woo woo at paw, seemed to match my movements.

No! No! No!

But I could not help myself. My lips, having tasted bliss in the form of a demented, self-pleasuring squirrel, betrayed me. Continuing to mostly hum the song out (because I, in fact, only knew two words of the song), I closed my eyes and warmed my face in the sun until the song came to its natural end.

Opening my eyes, I quickly realized three things: 1) that the squirrel was a squirter, 2) that my pants were warm like my face but not from the sun, and 3) that I smelled heavily of salt lick and doggy shampoo.

I averted my gaze from the squirrel only to find Hello Kitty looking down at me, fists balled to hips, completely disgusted.

“Rodney, sick!”

She kneeled down to the perverted rodent. “Poor baby squirrer!”

The squirrel flipped off its back, fluffed out its tail and hopped onto her back pack. As Hello Kitty walked away from me, the squirrel happily chittered out to me, and waved a goopy paw.

“I know, I know, just when you think everything is going easy-peasy, some jerk-off asks you to stick your finger in his butt! Well, I have one bit of advice for you— eat with chopsticks.”

Alone, feeling completely molested and sticky with myself, I pondered the deeper meaning of this strange interaction. But before I could grasp the cosmic significance of it all, my friend had found me.
He looked down at me from his furry brown brow. He held a cage with three cats smooshed into it. They cried and meowed lightly and smelled like tuna in olive oil and sweat. He pulled a tarot card out of his pocket and showed it to me. A grim half woman half octopus splayed across the front, titled The World. A single name on the back: Greta.

“It’s a clue,” he said, proudly.

“But what does this mean?” I asked.

“I don’t know. But I’m pretty sure that the boys at The Neon Boneyard will know. And even if they don’t, Flaming Whitney’s are the drink special tonight. So if all else fails, we can set ourselves to blotto while we figure out our next move.”


On the way to my apartment to change my pants, my friend told me about his day’s adventure. His jabbering jaws helped put my mind at ease, his emphatic grunts over locating Tang Girl giving me enough distance from my own squirrel-laden adventures to properly enjoy the rest of the sunny day.

My friend had been watching Tang Girl’s home for days with stalker-like determination. Having caught no sight of her, but only her poor kitties in the window, he’d taken it upon himself to break into her home and rescue the abandoned kitties. Tang Girl was nowhere to be seen, but he’d located multiple bowls of water and kitty chow. He’d already committed to the quest so despite the ample sustenance available to the cats, he’d quickly located a cat carrier and had stuffed them inside for good measure.

Having found no other evidence of Tang Girl in the immediate vicinity of the kitties, he did the next logical thing and searched her panty drawer. This is where he’d found the tarot card, nestled next to multiple pairs of lacy panties and a big black rubber dong.

When I suggested that he should’ve taken the dong too, that it could’ve been a clue, he looked at me as if I was a pervert, mumbling a series of comments meant to elicit a shame response in me. But this was no ordinary day of shame for me. I’d hit a new high. I refused to be ashamed for something as simple as suggesting a B&E on a giant chocolate dildo.

I had other squirrels to fry.


When we arrived at The Boneyard it was still very early. The gal at the door let us in even though they were still in the process of opening. My friend left the cats with the girl and gave her a tip for holding them. She took the money and the cats without batting an eye. Because that’s how they roll here. Nothing is too weird. Which made it the perfect place to investigate the meaning of this card.

We sat at the bar and ordered a Flaming Whitney each— a shot of flaming Drambuie served with a Coke back, straight up. My friend pulled out the card and handed it to the bartender along with some dirty dollar bills pulled from his pant pocket.

The bartender smiled, all pink lipstick, plastic tits and southern twang. She snapped her gum before speaking.

“Oh, yeah, I could see you guys being into that sort of thang. Just make sure to bring your goggles,” she said, winking, grabbing the cash.

My friend gave the air a few lusty fist pumps before going, “Ah! Ah! Ah! I knew it.”

“What sort of thing would that be?” I asked.

She pointed to the half woman half octopus creature on the front of the card. “A succupuss, of course… Now you’re just playing with me.”

“You mean succubus?” I asked. My butt lips swirled into a firm pucker.

Bad memories.

But then I remembered we’d brought the cats which relaxed my kisser enough to feel the stool below it.

Cats are awesome when it comes to succubae. They tear that shit up.

“No, darlin’, a succupuss,” she said. “You don’t know what a succupuss is? Oh my, you guys are a couple babes in the woods, aren’t ya?”

My friend was still too busy being proud of himself to be of any use so I threw some more cash on the bar and told her to spill it, but minus all the judgment.

“Succupuss. Half harpy, half octopus, like super pretty and all but they got tits down to their waists and supposedly their cooches are like some irresistible death trap for men.”

This totally beat a masturbating squirrel and I was biting. I downed my drink eagerly then showed her the other side of the card. “You, by any chance, know any succupuss by the name of Greta?”

“Oh yeah, Tang Girl brought a gal in here. Real pretty, tits real low, said she was a tarot card reader down at Scamps. Don’t know for sure, but she very well could’ve been a succupuss. Or just a chick with real low titties and a fucked up tarot deck.”

“I knew it! I knew it!” my friend blustered. He went to throw more crumpled money on the bar but instead threw down a pair of lacy white panties stained orange.

“What’s that, man?! What’s that? Huh?” I asked.

My friend looked at me sheepishly, “A clue???”

My eyes set on his twitching unibrow.

“You get all down on me for the mere suggestion of bogarting a goddamn piece of plastic— clean, likely— and you had already gone all rat snatch pervy on her and B&E’d her crusty underwear? What’s wrong with you?!”

But he diverted his attention to the bartender, and as he often did, he began blowing her big juicy raspberries. But, hell, I had to let it go. He’s what psychologists refer to as “developmentally appropriate” for his age, which is just another way of saying he’s an utter emotional retard.


For a few more raspberries and a pair of Tang encrusted panties, we extracted Greta’s current location.

My friend rang the doorbell of Greta’s turn of the century Victorian. My friend poked at the kitties through the cage door while I went into a full head spin, waiting.

Having had enough distance and time from my earlier escapades with the squirrel, I had begun the process of teasing out the meaning of it all. As I hummed over the events in my mind, I realized that likely the squirrel had merely been aroused by the doggy shampoo-like scent of dryer sheets wafting off my freshly washed pants. And that my inability to turn away from the lusty little beast had more to do with respecting the right for all mammals to behave within their nature and persuasion than any real prurient interest I had in jilling squirrels— regardless of the fluids spilled on either of our parts.

It was a reasonable explanation of the events. One which I could accept. I cracked a smile. I’d been through worse. Try waking up in the taint ass heat of an L.A. sidewalk, your pants ankle bound, a sea cucumber no longer in its bucket. That shit will fuck you up.

A woman pretty-faced woman with pendulous, tube-topped breasts dangling down to her waist answered the door. I felt my circuits frazzle a bit in comprehending what was the most extreme example of a reverse butterface I’d ever seen.

My friend was equally discombobulated. “You fuck like a girl!” he said.

Entranced with the enormous dew sacks slapping her belted skirt, my friend spewed our entire game out in machine gun fashion, “We have Tang Girl’s kitties. And we know who you are and that you have her. And we won’t go until we get some… until we get her. So that’s why we’re here. And we heard you were a succupuss. Or possibly just a woman with unfortunate breasts. And a dark sense of humor. When it comes to tarot deck design. That’s right!”

Lustily fist pumping, of course.

The woman seemed to take this in stride and invited us in to wait for Tang Girl to arrive.

As happy as I was to have squared away in my mind the incident with squirrel, an ominous feeling settled into my belly as multiple slurpy sounds emanated from the other room. My friend seemed blissed out and unaware that bad things were about to go down.

“Fuck, man,” I said. “What the hell are we doing here? Obviously Tang Girl is mixed up in some twisted shit and is just fine. Let’s just leave the kitties and be on our way. The show is about to start. Let’s go.”

Greta entered the room, naked, her large raspberry nippled titties hanging just above a very long muff curtain not unlike a squirrel’s tail. She approached us hissing, then began humping the corner of the coffee table before dropping to the floor, rutting with babble.

“Maybe she has worms,” my friend said.

“Nah, man, that’d be her other end,” I replied.

Hot damn.

She flopped on her back, pushing aside her long, fluffy muff tail to expose, grotesque hanging labia smattered with barnacle-like protuberances. What appeared to be a mass of tentacles bloomed from her nasty cooch, writhing against her orange crusted thighs … but wait…

“Look away if you have to,” I told my friend. “But I think Tang Girl may be inside there! The crust, man, the crust!”

“We’ve got to save her!” my friend cried.

“Ah shit, she’s pulling us inside! Can you feel it?! Find some rope!”

My friend dug between the couch cushions and found a length of rope, a riding crop, and a pair of handcuffs. My score was a more normal half roll of strawberry Mentos that weren’t too hard.


The succupuss licked her lips, her eyes turning a glowing red, as tentacles parted and began rotating in fan like fashion around a mucus laden vaginal sphincter which loosened into an ever enlargening hole. Phosphorescent goo flung the room with slurpy whips and splatters. A creepy green light began shooting out from the orifice bathing us in a swampy, strobed light and mushroomy smell. The cats yowled wildly as my friend quickly attached them to us via rope and handcuffs. We were going in, whether we liked it or not.

“Viva le resistance!” my friend screamed.

Then another much louder noise joined the cacophony of cats, blubbering idiots and succupuss maw.

"Excuse me!"

The light disappeared from the succupuss’s snatch and eyes, and we fell to the ground like a pail full of sea cucumber— wet, sticky, out of element.

Tang Girl stood above us her hands fisted at her hips, snarling.

“Are those my cats?!”

The succupuss looked confused, and though the light had gone from her eyes and nether regions, her gaping puss remained open, and the tentacles continued to spin but more slowly.

Tang Girl placed her arm on the succupuss's shoulder, spoke to her tenderly "Greta, would you please close your maw? These are my friends."


Back at The Boneyard, we all had a good chuck. It turned out that the tarot reading succupuss had hired Tang Girl to teach her how to perform her signature trick. Which explained all the crusted Tang on her thighs and why she had left the cats with extra food and water. She knew these things took time. It was hard enough to teach a normal woman to fart dry Tang out her ass while simultaneously squirting fluid from deep within her maw, but a succupuss— with all those tentacles and shit in the way— she’d known she had her work cut out for her.

But we all got to pay the mortgage somehow.

Waiting for his damsel to enter the stage, my friend held his high ball of vodka below his chin to catch any Tang that might run down his face. The lights dimmed.

Tang Girl entered the stage nude except for the orange dreads hanging down past her ass. Daintily she glided over to the stage in front of where my friend was sitting— her would be hero. Squatting, she bent back in crab walk position, placing her cooch and bum just inches away from his face and fondled herself. A drum roll started then she simultaneously sent a large puff of dry tang from her bum and a stream of fluid from deep within her vajazelled cooch.

The crowd went mad with applause as the reconstituted Tang dripped down my friend’s chin, some of it making it into his highball of vodka. My friend slammed his drink then cleared his throat loudly, pumping his fist lustily to a Wooo-Weee.

Using my best jazz hands, I ordered a second round.

There would never be enough weirdness for us. Lusty fist pumps, crusty maws and plenty of Tang. That’s how we roll. And that’s The Tube Top Shebop Tang Yeah Woo truth.

Right arm.

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Last modified on Wednesday, 27 June 2012 15:21
Nikki Guerlain

Nikki Guerlain lives in Portlandia. She can be reached at nikkiguerlain@gmail.com.

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