Eel
I pulled on my mukluk boots and wrapped a shawl around my flabby shoulders. It looked cold outside. I would have to make this quick or else risk losing everything: my bodily warmth, my girth, my dignity, maybe even my life. I faced the door, humming “Venga Bus” in my mind’s ear in an effort to work myself into a frenzy. “The Venga Bus is coming,” I hummed. And it was coming. It was coming fast and catlike, rolling down the avenue of the mind, turning the corner of the gut and parking itself deep in my bowels. Cometh the bus, cometh the man. I darted for the door. I had to move fast. I threw the door open and lunged outwards, my legs flailing like hot pythons while my nose grunted and squeaked a catatonic rhythm that served only to confuse the hoards of mice that had assembled.

Culkin and I collided on the pavement and landed in a heap. The mice dispersed. I was most disgruntled.
“Culkin!” I bawled. “Culkin, why for doth thou linger in such a manner, akin to that of a dormant street-ostrich? Tell me, attractive boyman!”
The tears came fast. Culkin clasped his hands to his cheeks. It was all he knew how to do. He needed a cuddle so I embraced him, taking him under my shawl.

We lay like this on the street for some time. The passers by on that busy morning street barely noticed, although Boycey gave a knowing wink, and Wincy Willis gave her trademark doff of the hat. She always was and always will be a true gent.

I mustered the strength to carry Culkin inside. He was unconscious so I lay him on the bed. I carefully removed his jeans, and the room filled with the familiar strawberry scent. There was a scratch at the door. It was my loyal dog, sitting proudly like a patchwork tomboy on the doorstep. I invited him inside.

Culkin slept for three days while my perfect little furry urban hippo and I kept watch.

On the third day I mixed a broth and put a small spoonful to Culkin’s lips. The aroma killed him instantly. I vomited blood for ten minutes while my faithful canine landfish gave a silent prayer. Then, like a Trojan eel, he leapt up, and it was only then that I noticed the zip.
“No!” I howled. “Thou art my beaglehorse! My fleshy, wet-nosed brethren! What sorcery is this?”
On only his hind legs, my betrayer used his forepaws to unzip all the way down his undercarriage. And then, from beneath that canine exterior there emerged a sight I had hoped to erase from my mind for ever.
“No, Coleman!” I sobbed as I fell to my knees.
Gary Coleman stepped out of the dogsuit. His cheeks were rounder than ever. His stumpy brown fingers clicked a rhythm – ta ta ta-te ta – and I was transfixed. He then issued forth a guttural howl from deep within. Not again.

I was forced to listen to him screeching the story of the time when Muhammed Ali had mistaken him for a child. I used to love that story, and he often regaled me with it in bed. But now each syllable rang bitterly in my ears. The erection rose swiftly, the thrusts were short and fast, and the climax came quickly. Culkin’s body lay on the floor, ruptured and malformed, and I could only stare in horror at the ungodly jimmynudgery I had been compelled to perform. Coleman had conned me yet again!
(stusut79, Fri 19 Oct 2007, 10:39, 5 replies)

you fucking freak!
that's great.
( Jay, Fri 19 Oct 2007, 11:06, closed)

Yeeeeeees!
Welcome back, sir!
(Potty Jag har smör i min rumpspringa, Fri 19 Oct 2007, 12:27, closed)

Welcome back!
stusut79 you complete hatstand!
(Doctor Pubes, Fri 19 Oct 2007, 12:29, closed)

Finally!
*ignores*
( scoshi pretending to diet since, Fri 19 Oct 2007, 12:55, closed)

Great
I now have that fucking 'Vengabus' song stuck in my head.

It took me weeks to get rid of it last time.

You cunt
(Pavlov's Frog figures no-one really reads sigs anyway, Sat 20 Oct 2007, 20:46, closed)