Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Holdin' Down The Fort…
Still no sign of DB1’s whereabouts…Sammy SpankWell and his two sisters Irene and Darlene have not seen him for days at The Golden Udder Gentleman’s Club, where he would often pay his way with organic llama milk. They are concerned. And lactose intolerant. There are whisperings of DB1 returning to the llama mines of Laos, where he once made the Kessel run in under 12 parsecs, which is impressive.
Perhaps it is time for an intervention for this unhealthy attraction to hoofed creatures…
Neigh, I say, for that would be hypocritical of me.
We shall stay the course, Mr. Spankwell. Now, if I may have a moment with Irene…
I’d take well muscled Darlene because she is full of spite and I could hate-fuck her until depleted at which point she would mount my wounded thrill-missile and get that solid core a-pumping on my beast all night long as she swore, pissed on, and bitch-slapped me all night with a pussywillow baton. Son.
Neigh, I say, FTW.
Really thought Darksock’s last link would be this: About 689,000 results (0.41 seconds)
Looks like we interrupted Mr. Spankwell in mid fist-pump.
Hey Dizzle Sock, you gonna open the HOH back up or is it still in faggot lockdown. No offense to people who call cigarettes faggots.
Isn’t anyone around here (but me) concerned that DB1 has been shanghaied by the Aryan Nation….and being held hostage by Neo-Nazi operatives (like Sammy) in a room full of Boyz from Brazil, whilst being forced to subsist on a steady diet of Grützwurst, surstromming and Sound of Music re-runs?
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Oh yeah….and this is one of the few pictures where I want to gut-punch the girls instead of the guy.
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.Oliviers
Sammy needs a fish slap. I need some bead slaps from Darlene. Or is that Irene?
Darlene appears to have a small woodland creature crawling out of her tasseled g-string.
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and it appears Sam’s arm may be frozen in that position after his spectacular performance at the World Masturbation Championship – Giant Jerk competition. He took first and third.
I peed in the decapitated head of a horse and left it in the bed of a movie studio executive, once
What the Rev said re; well muscled Darlene
Once, I says.
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The chick who can tie her own shoes and doesn’t watch reality TV for HOH. What can I say, I’ve got high standards. And I’m an asshole. But that’s just me. C’Mon already, as RevChad’s power of attorney as my witness (pssst, go ahead and pull the plug on him.) some fine young lady is going to get in there this week.
Darlene is none to happy that someone forgot the hover hand rule and is actually touching her hip. Soon, one Douche will be out on the street crying about the cover charge he wasted.
Laos. I remember my first trip to Laos. It was to hunt “Charlie” and his friends. you haven’t lived until you’ve been dropped into a “hot” LZ from 20 feet because your pussy helo pilot won’t get any closer because they’ve literally wet themselves. Fuccen pussies. They sure move a lot faster gettin’ out than they do goin’ in, that’s for sure. Then again maybe they knew what was gonna happen before I did…
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Me, Bobby (our #2 and back-up team leader), Ducth, and our 3 Montagnard scouts were supposed to scout out a particularly nasty part of the Ho Chi Minh trail that had been bombed by B-52’s the day before and try to capture us a LIVE prisoner. Fuccen higher-ups. Now they want LIVE ones. All I could say was “Whatever his majesty wishes…”
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So we get dropped at dusk and there’s no fire fight. Not one fuccen bullet. Hell, it’s totally silent. That’s the worst. You know they’re there and they just saw you come in but they’ve decided to hold a welcoming party for just the right time. You want to yell “Will you start fuccen with us?” because your adrenaline is pumping through your veins and you need the outlet of that fire fight to get your head clear and in the game. But no, the zipperheads are gonna make us wait and earn it.
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We run to our rally point and fan out in a circle using only hand signals to communicate. That when we all heard the sound of that twig breaking. That sound still sends shivers up my spine when I hear it and it’s been a long time. Now, instead of facing outward from our circle, we all simultaneously turn to see one of our Montagnard scouts with a shit-covered punji stick through his throat. Tough bastard never said a word. He just gasped and died. Poor fucker but better him than me. The jig was up and we all knew it. Not even and hour into it and we’re fucked.
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“Big Papa this is Anaconda. Repeat. Big Papa this is Anaconda. Do you read?” “Big Papa here. What is it Anaconda?” “Need a bright light (extraction) Papa. BoBo KIA and we hear the indians a comin’.” “Roger that. Hold tight We’ll see what we can do.”
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We’re now flat on the ground just below a rise in front of us. Then we see them. A WHOLE FUCKING REGIMENT is looking for us about 100 meters away. AND they have dogs. Shit, fucking dogs. People you can always fool but dogs, no way. Stand up and do a “spray and pray” or hope that the handlers are lazy and just keep moving because they don’t want to be bothered? I hold up a closed fist. Stay. 50 meters and closing. Closed fist. 20 meters. Closed fist. 10 meters. closed fist. Now I can see the white of Dutch’s eyes with more than a little concern on his face. I gotta watch Dutch because he’s a bit of a loose cannon (not in a good way) and I don’t want to have anyone wounded because then we’re fucked for sure. At 5 meters I hold up 1 finger our team signal for “spray and pray” when they stop. Eery silence fills the air. They’re not sure where we are and every one of us is holding his breath and makin’ diamonds in our assholes. Each of us has a bead on someone of theirs and is just waiting. The blood is pounding in your head and you throat is so tight you can hardly breath anyway. Go away. Go away ya fucking gooks. You’re trying to will them away when it happens. They start to move away. “Holy shit, it worked!” you think. And then you see Mack (BoBo’s friend) holding up two fingers. What the fuck? Two means fall back and re-group. Turns out Mack always carried a small piece of bamboo with him wherever he went. We would ask why he had it and he would only say “Best friend in jungle.” We would look at each other, shake our heads and just laugh. Now we got it. Seems old Mack would hunt monkeys and birds with the damn thing and was quite the shot. Without us knowing, he shot a dart into a tree and hoped he would down something. Sure as shit, there must’ve been a THUD somewhere far enough away from us because that’s what made them move away. EXHALE.
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“Big Papa. Big Pap. Any light comin’ my way? Seems some locals have backyard issues” “Anaconda give me coordinates and we”l be there soon. Watch for the napalm. Slicks will be in behind.”
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So we never did get the llamas that we went for. The people at the Vietnam Zoo didn’t approve of our methods and tactics so we went home empty handed. We had the wrong map. Turns out Laos IS NOT Vietnam. Who knew? I hope DB1 has learned from this experience and is trying a different tact. The again, he may be after the wild hill llamas. If only we had known. The horror…. The horror…
Spankwell the Crotchless enjoys going through the motions…..sometimes. However, he has never forgotten that awful day that Dad caught him boxing his clown and punished him by making him do yardwork…..
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It was a lovely mid-to-late spring day, flowers blooming in Mom’s tulip and lilac garden, and the birds were singing lustily in the early Saturday afternoon air. Mme. Rybski from next door had just finished her French tutoring session with Sammy in an effort to help him pass her class that semester, but he was 14 and his thoughts had frequently turned to, ummmmm, “other things” as he’d watch her erase the chalkboard or grade papers.
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This day, “Debra” had stopped to chat with Sammy’s parents before heading back home. Sammy retreated to his room where he could gaze, Judge Reinhold-like, through the closed blinds of his bedroom window and eavesdrop on the conversation. Today’s session went “very well,” Debra told Sammy’s mom. Sammy smiled at that; he had always liked Mme. Rybski and would hang around after school while she also performed her duties as assistant girls’ track team coach. She had once remarked how she won 2nd in a state track meet in high school, and Sammy knew that her lean yet muscular legs hinted the former sprinter’s story to be true. As he listened, Sammy caught a glint of sunlight off Debra’s silken black pantyhose and watched it trace a line up the flowing curves of her taut leg. He also noticed that his little friend immediately sprang to attention beneath his gym shorts. Panicking, he tried to push it back down but noticed that he liked how that motion felt, so he cupped his fist and did what always comes naturally to teen and preteen boys, all the while watching as Debra slowly walked back over to her house.
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Sammy was on the brink of a heretofore unknown sense of ecstasy when suddenly, his bedroom door slammed open and he saw Dad standing there, nostrils flaring, spilling a freshly opened Blatz on Sammy’s bedroom carpeting.
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“TEBUS H. CHRIST, boy! What the hell—–????? Getcher goddamned pants back on! What the—–oh, what the—–damn boy, if you wanna yank on somethin’, go pull the cord on the goddamned lawn mower and cut the fuccen grass! I cannot believe I caught you doing that—–TEBUS H. Christ. Miriam?!?!?…..” Dad’s voice trailed off as he stalked back outside to offer the story to Mom.
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Sammy was exasperated and had no idea what to do. Hurriedly, he pulled off his soiled shorts and found a pair of clean ones and ran out to the garage to start on the lawn. He awaited the inevitable backlash as Mom would no doubt ground him for life, and then Dad would surely double it, and then he’d never get a damn car. He got the mower started and was cutting grass when out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Debra heading to her own garage. Debra saw Sammy and waved; Sammy began to wave back, but once again spied her sleek legs in those nylons and was astonished that he was hard again. Not noticing the bit of tree root that stuck up out of the ground, Sammy accidentally pushed the mower into it, flipped it over…..and fell on top of the rotating blades. Only the blood-chilling scream alerted his parents and Debra that something dreadful had occurred.
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Two years later, Sammy’s father died. Sammy never forgave the bastard for chasing him outside that day, thinking only of the emotional scars left behind when Mme Rybski moved away shortly after he passed her class. To this day, he thinks of her fondly and was apparently caught here reacting to one of those fleeting memories…..memories that he can never again properly sate.
WOW!!! good stuff!!!! from Wheezer & Doc Bunsen, I’m gonna be taking a smash a little later and this should make for good reading material.
Darlene’s the type who never smiles during sex..
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Perhaps because triple penetration is the only love she’s ever known.
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.Goldsteins
I want the horse to pee in Sammy.
The brunette on the right looks bored. But I’d still pay her to dance on me.
Rolled up blazer sleeves = Don Johnson went metro.
Full metro, that is…
when i was a kid, i thought those hippie beeds they hung in lieu of a doorway were the most awesome thing ever. this means going down on these chicks in those skirt type things would be that much more awesome because it would also be reliving happy child hood memories. of course the chicks back then were less bleethy but more bushy so even in going down on chicks and happy childhood memories there is a give and take.
shag-rug-munchers.
Sammy’s overcompensating for something he lacks,that is all.
Sammy was the best man at the Cox-Zucker wedding.
George Costanza’s mother ended up in the hospital when she witnessed her son’s indiscretion.
Sammy is a filthy boy, and may end up going blind if he keeps it up.
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And by, “keeps it up” I meant keeps “it” up.
Who else thinks he’s hiding a bald spot?
Fat chicks: some times ya just gotta improvise
Darlene looks like she could make the Kessel run in under 12 parsecs.
I almost peed on a horse once – the renovated School bus (now a makeshift tour bus) stopped at 4 am for me – rural Pennsylvania, May, 1997.
Fog so thick, couldn’t see past 3 feet,,,was going on a wooden farm fence – didn’t see the 2 horses heads till mid – stream.
Backed away cautiously and carefully.
Darlene suffers from melancholia since she caught toxic mold of the mons veneris.
grrr
grrrI say