As related to me by a very dear friend. Mind bleach supplied if required.
My friend's sister was happily married, and apparently, the sex was awesome. That is, until her husband passed away in tragic circumstances. As his death was in suspicious circumstances, his remains were kept in the morgue.

Trouble was, the lady in question had something of a high libido. After wearing out three vibrators, one carrot, a garden gnome and the handle of the toilet brush, she was realised she had a problem. So she confided in her friend, who referred her to the local witch doctor.

And so the lady in question visited the witch doctor, who for the purposes of this story, conforms to no stereotypes whatsoever. "What you need to do" he said, "Is to bring me the sexual organs of your deceased husband. Can you do that for me?". And so our lady goes, and returns with her husband's meat and two. "Give me seven days, and return" said the witch doctor.

Seven days, several more carrots, three hairbrushes and a mobile phone later, the lady returns to the witch doctor. He proceeded to bring out a jar, with her husband's veiny rocket and fuel tanks inside. It was bigger than she'd ever seen it. Looking suitably impressed, she asked how to use it. "What you do, is lie back, legs akimbo, and shout '"Pickled willy fanny!'. After thirty minutes, then shout 'Pickled willy jar!' Do not use it for more than thirty minutes, or there will be dire consequences."

The lady rushed home, duly warned. She placed the jar on her bedside table, set a thirty minute time, stripped off as quick as she could, and shouted "Pickled willy fanny!". The jar unscrewed itself, and the magical skin flute hopped across the bed, and went to work. When her thirty minutes were up, she shouted "Pickled willy jar!". The bewitched bell end withdrew, hopped back across the bed, and placed itself back in the jar.

This continued nightly for six months, until one fateful evening when our heroine returned from a party completely out of her mind. Utterly smashed. So much so, that when she began her usual nightly routine, she forgot to set the timer. After slurring her usual command, she fell asleep, waking up four hours later, with her dead husband's pickled pecker still working away. "Pickled willy jar!" she shouted, with no response from the banging bongo boner. "Pickled willy jar!" she shouted again, with increasing urgency, still without any reaction from the moving meat missile. Trying one more time verbally, and still without any murmur of recognition from the repeating magical minge mangler, she grabbed curtailed the automated custard-chucker's activities by grabbing it by the balls, pulling it out, and lobbing it behind the dresser.

She relaxed, until she heard the noise. It was chasing after her. Pulling on a dressing gown, she ran out of the house, round the corner and down the street, until she saw a police officer. "Oh officer!" she cried. "I'm being chased down the street by my dead husband's magical pickled willy!". The policeman blinked for a second, before bursting out laughing. "Pickled willy? My arse!"
(The Luggage is haunted..., Wed 23 May 2012, 14:23, 7 replies)

i don't get it.

( janet aylia y'all motherfuckers need jesus, Wed 23 May 2012, 14:27, closed)

Neither did I, the first time.

(The Luggage is haunted..., Wed 23 May 2012, 14:29, closed)

This comes as no surprise

(Reverend Fister "a disciplined fuckwit", Wed 23 May 2012, 14:43, closed)

why so snarky?

( janet aylia y'all motherfuckers need jesus, Wed 23 May 2012, 14:47, closed)

I'm not surprised with a face like that.
Zing!
(Paolo Nutini's Bikini Better than Frederick Fleet's optometrist, Wed 23 May 2012, 15:58, closed)

Did you really just . . .
did he?

He did, didn't he?

You did.

*sigh*
(username failed moderation, Wed 23 May 2012, 15:32, closed)

Yup.

(The Luggage is haunted..., Wed 23 May 2012, 15:39, closed)