"Sire, the Chingaderas have destroyed the last output and are on the outskirts of the city. What are we going to do!"
"Damm it", thought Zog, where in the hell was Stumpy, when he needed him. The one legged sorcerer for the court was never around when he needed him. (Little did Zog realize that Stumpy at this particular moment in time was trapped in another bad story, somewhere on this page)
If Stumpy doesn't show up soon, I'll cut his other leg off, thought Emperor Zog. For now, I'll deal with these Chingadera bitches from hell. Who do they think they are, marching on my city.
Zog looked at his cleric, Danielle and thought, "Once I dispatch of these annoying Chingadera's, I think I'll take Danielle up to the tower and show her my family jewels. If her mouth taste as good as it looks, I might even let her ride the sacred steel rod of Valthanus.
A large rumble just went up from outside the Kings audience room. Danielle yelled, "Sire, the chingaderas are here, what are we going to do". Zog looked up from the floor he had been staring at and yelled to his Captain of the Guards,
"Summon the Red Guard, it's time to burn some Chingadera rump. And bring Danielle up to my tower".
Suddenly everything started to go into slow motion for Zog. He looked out into his throne room and everything started to look like a sandy grained picture. Everthing was coming to a stand still. There was smoke coming from everywhere. He smelt a disgusting smell, like rotten egg and fishhead sandwiches. Zog started to close his eyes.
When he opened them he was in a small room looking at the ceiling. The smell was still there and stronger than before. Suddenly he heard a badda rumpf, badda rumpt, badddda rumptta. He turned and saw an extremely fat obese woman laying by his side passing gas. The smell was enough to make you toenails curl. Zog yelled, "What sorcery is this"!
The fat women turned to Zog and yelled, "Jack, get up you drunken bastard, your late for your garbage truck run." "OH, shit", yelled the fat woman at Zog, "You masturbated all over me again, you disgusting creep."
"Jack, Who's Jack", thought Zog. Something is not right here.............
I am ZOG, Emperor of the Blue Planet and Destroyer of worlds. Who is this fat beast of a women laying by my side. And Jack. Who in the hell is Jack. My God, thought Zog the smell in this room was making him sick to his stomach. He had to get some air and get away from this beast woman.
Again the woman looked at Zog and yelled. Get up Jack and get going you usless bastard of a husband. If you ever come on me again when I am sleeping, I will cut off your balls and hang them from the wall. Now get going!!!, yelled the the fat woman.
Zog jumped from the bed and went for the door to the bedroom. As he passed a small vanity dresser with a large mirror on it, he stared in disbelief at himself. Zog was looking at a extremely overweight man with gray hair. Zog put a hand up to his face and touched it in disbelief. This can not me. I am Zog, Emperor. Although Zog had scars on his body from numerous battles in the past, he was never ugly or fat like this man that he was looking at in the mirror. Women threw themselves at his feet in the hope of a rump in the sack with him.
This was more than Zog could handle. He bolted for the door and ran out. Just as he went though the door, the room started to get hazy and smokey again. Zog started to get dizzy and thought he was going to fall.
All of a sudden he was back in the throne room..............
Lord Pothaniel Bottomly-Smythe was ahead of his time. As a gentleman farmer and Lord of the Manor, he took more than a passing interest in his estates, thereby gaining the confidence of his serfs. He had only recently inherited Symthereens Manor upon the death of his father and returned to England from his posting with the Royal Navy in Gibraltar."'is father never spent sa mooch time overseein' the milkin' as 'e does," the farm hands would marvel as they lolled about the pub of an evening, drinking Goose Stout and goosing stout barmaids.
It was true that Bottomly-Smythe spent an inordinate amount of time, often all morning, in the dairy barns. He would stand for a bit beside each milkmaid, watching intently as hands stroked each teat, and from time to time would offer a suggestion or two on how a technique might be improved.
"'e seems 'ypnotized by the milkin'," one rustic would observe and all would agree; "aye, 'e does that."
Bottomly-Smythe was hypnotized by the rhythmic movement of the milkmaids' hands, but more so by the gentle bobbing of their succulent breasts as they swayed enticingly to and fro with every jet of white sent into the milking bucket. He always lingered a few seconds longer observing bronze-haired Prudence Horseapple. She pretended not to notice, but with her eyes at a certain level, could hardly have been unaware of the effect the movements her lithe body had upon the manhood of the handsome young lord standing so close beside her.
The author comments, "Earthy and bucolic, Ellen doubles as a championship rodeo goat roper."
The girl of his dreams,or so he thought. He'd be crushed, but the truth hurts
doesn't it, thought Kendel.He had to tell her how much the past few days had meant to him, but something held him back from doing so . There was something hidden behind her lush lashes in those opaque blue eyes. Something he knew would tear him apart....and yet he had to know.
Maybe I should have told him yesterday when he asked if I'd go skinnydipping and I told him I was on my period.Didn't he even have a clue???
Maybe she was shy and that is why she hadn't kissed him yet...oh but just the touch of her hand was good enough for him....the smell of her skin, and the way she licked her lips often.
It was now or never she thought either he'll hate me or he'll accept me...but I have to shed these lies.
What am I waiting for he thought I can't live without this woman's kiss another minute...play it cool..Stay cool.
Deep breath...Flutter of lashes.....smile...stroking his cheek...."I'm really ......a man."
Did I hear right....oh no the world is spinning....I'm losing it....Falling Falling.
Oh no!The truth really does hurt worse than I thought.After a few moments of splashing water on his face.....eyes open mouth sucks in air....."I hit my head...Ow."
Ow indeed.
Rosalinda moved delicately down the rose-coloured (or was it
rose-colored) hallway to arrive at the heavy handcarved Honduran front
door, clutching her rose gown to chest, pausing before opening the door
in a grand motion (whoever knew who was going to appear at the door,
though heaven knows she couldn't stand another young, unbronzed delivery
boy) and flung open the door, amid the staccato thumping to reveal, to
Rosalinda's great surprise, her long-dead (she had hoped) husband
Harriman, looking rather crumpled in a bad, she thought, cringing and
peering about for neighbours, safari suit, that looked like it would
have fit one of Mujumba's lions better than him (though you could have
said this about Harriman with everything), leaning against the door
frame in a manner which suggested that he wanted to come in, which
Rosalinda knew would be a disaster if he were to enter her boudoir and
discover Bartholemew (even worse if he saw what he was doing to
Rosalinda's toaster, unbeknownest to Rosalinda); she tried to look
surprised and emotional as she clutched her rose-coloured robe to her
bosom and motioned to him with her readily tear-filled eyes (those
acting lessons had paid off on Harriman if not on Bartholemew) and
motioned for him to pass through the doorframe into her rose hallway.
The author comments, "Want to hear about the rest of the trailer?"
His mentor and confidante, Ruskie Willo, affixed a stern gaze upon Bill. "This boy has a lot to learn about the pantribal economics of his sector," he thought to himself. "I'll be honest with you, son. Tacos are the wave of the future. This time around Jesus will be bringing salsa and seasoned beef..."
"You didn't answer my question, Ruskie." His impudent tongue couldn't hide the fact he was scared.
"Pardon me, Willie."
"Don't call me that."
"As you wish." He could see the eagerness in his eyes and sense the fear in his chest. "The Burger King knows his reign is almost over, but can't accept the fact that juicy burgers are passe. Thus he refuses to believe in JHC, Jr.'s return."
"I see," said the startled, fresh-faced reporter (clearly not seeing at all), who, though he looked like a cross between Leonardo di Caprio and Christian Slater, couldn't possibly have been old enough to have finished journalism school, and who, despite his literary pretention, seemed only to speak in monosyllables. He continued to stare placidly and cow-eyed ahead through the cigarette-smoke filled half-light.
"Oy gevalt," thought the Blooksucker, "What have I been saddled with? Though a succulent little matzoah ball this ripe nebisher is, what with his lamb's-blood red lips, lemon-tart shaped face, and blue eyes you just want to sink your teeth into . . . feh!" The bloodsucker sighed.
"All right, one more time. I . . . am . . . a bloodusuckuh . . . nosferatu? . . . creature of the night?" Still blank. This was too much . . .
"I AM A ***VAMPIRE***!!" he shouted through gritted teeth, as he lunged forward, almost toppling the table. The Bloodsucker lost control over the volume of his voice, and it shook the walls, cracked a few mirrors, shattered the half-dead lightbulb, and caused all vinyl copies of "Barry Manilow's Greatest Hits" within a 6.66 mile radius to scratch irrevocably such that they would henceforth only play the "music and fashion were always the passion" line from "Copacabanna" over and over again. A little blood trickled out of the reporter's ear as he winced and threw his hands over his head, toppling backward out of his chair.
"Oy, bubelah, I'm sorry. Really. Can I get you anything? A Mr. Pib, a glass tea...?" A tremor started in the Bloodsucker's voice. "Oh, You're...bleeding...h-here...let me get that..." The Bloodsucker snaked out his tongue and licked up the trickle of blood on the reporter's neck and ear.
"WHAT??" the reporter shouted. "And why'd you give me a wet willie?!"
Trying not to evince his surprise at the reporter's use of the polysyllabic word (of sorts) "willie," the Bloodsucker shuddered with pleasure as the tiny trickle of crimson heat washed down the back of his parched throat. He could feel his skin heat up, minutely. Immediately, uncontrollably the Bloodsucker became more aoused than a long-denied stallion in a breeding pen with 20 in-heat mares, a salt lick, and a horse-sized bottle of cheap whiskey. This despite the mild taste of ear wax left on his tongue.
The Bloodsucker stood momentarily within the moonlight which pierced the slats in the blinds. The light shone clearly on his mouth and teeth.
"OH MY GOD!! WHAT...WHAT ARE YOU?! Are you Drac-...Drac-...?" cried the reported, as he skittered awkwardly backward across the floor.
"Dracula?" said the Bloodsucker slowly, thinking that "willie" must've been a fluke. "No, boychick, you got the wrong guy there. My name..." He paused a moment, looking through the slats in the blinds.
"My name is Moishe. I am over one hundred and fifty years old. Get your tape recording, bubelah. We got some ground to cover."
The reporter took his place back on the table. "Gee, you don't look a day over, er, eighty-three. Where are you from?"
"France," said the Bloodsucker. The reported raised an eyebrow skeptically, wantonly. Not as dumb as I thought, thought the Bloodsucker.
"Really!" He said aloud. "See, I learned English from the one and only Yeshiva ever to be opened in New Orleans. Ach, listening to those rabbinical students yammer and yap, night and day, arguing about 'Torah this,' and 'Talmud that,' 'Roshi this,' and 'Rambam that,' 'zmeir, I could rip out all their throats right now. But what's a Catholic to do?" The reporter looked momentarily spooked. "But I'm getting ahead of myself," said the Bloodsucker quickly, attempting to change the subject.
"Let me tell you about my old neighborhood," said Moishe.
"Once, my elegant New Orleans manor was aflush with wisteria and cassia. The bottlebrush bloomed with the elegance of prickly red needles; the rose garden, now overgrown and thorn-laden, once dripped crimson blossoms." The Bloodsucker paused and looked at the reporter. "You taping this, bubelah? I'm throwing out some good chazerai here -- get it down, boychick!"
The author comments, "The author likes to wear crushed velvet, dark black dresses, heavy foundation, veils of black lace, and dark too-red lipstick while eating matzoah brie and listening to "Copacabana." Don't fall in love, Lola-baby."
If only someone would save Felicia! Enter the contest, please!
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