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scubatankfilledwithfarts “Once upon a time there were two little boys [and no you dreary commoners with your Cops and Reno 911 and American Idol, this isn’t a story involving Chris Hanson. Though the manual labor is beautifully hands on and there’s only a little less bodily fluid involved] who went [read as: were forcefully drugged with roofies that had the distinct taste of that cheap cherry cough medicine and kidnapped away by the least charming man on the planet with a habit of rubbing his privates along the items in our trailers, specifically refrigerator doors and chicken wings] to the circus. There they were assigned hazardous tasks…”
A tiny blonde that could easily be mistaken for an aristocratic young woman with a tampon plunged soul searchingly deep into her anus [….that’s where tampons go right? Butts? Sometimes it was difficult to understand these things] seemingly looms over a taller teen with wide frightened eyes and a babbling mouth. The blonde narrows his eyes and huffs, releasing a string of retorts that make the other teen blanch and wave his arms in a signal for ‘I’ve managed to shove my foot so far down my throat it’s going to take a surgeon to remove it from my colon because I refuse to shit that out.’
Abrupt scene change because we’re suddenly a television show with decent ratings and that’s only because the only tits we see are Wolfram’s. And occasionally Badou’s.
A lanky, suave ginger, easy on the eye [ha ha ha ha ha suck my cock] man is gallantly overthrowing his shackles of bondage [not the kinky kind mind you, people are full of jealous, jealous green shit and should eat more fiber and less nomming of even more shit] and sticking it to The Man; by running from his pursuers and screaming at the top of his lungs about the trouble rap has brought to the youth of today, satellite television and the douchebaggery of John Mayer as his would-be enemies [if they could catch the bastard, po-po sprinting wasn’t just a sport it was a way of life] narrow in on his scrawny ass, fists raised [to hopefully dear sweet god please not fist] to deliver the punishment fitting the crime.
“But I was gracious enough to leisurely stroll to the rescue after my morning coffee fix and now they are my slaves. Rather, they work for me.” A delectable young man with an immaculate expensive cut that obviously wasn’t done at no goddamn cheap ass Great Clips adjusts his glasses and smiles a sharp conniving smile. “My name is Kyouya, here’s my business card and I’m ninety four point six percent certain that you’ll owe me a great sum of money before we’re through here. Oh, and please allow my Angels to take care of you. They’re rough around the edges, smell like a Macy’s department and a sewer combined and have the damnedest way of exposing their cracks in the strangest of situations, but they’ll get the job done.”
And now for a title screen because we need one of those; Wolfram Von BootysprinklesWanderLustButthole glares his enemies into submission, delivers a stunning blow………to a man’s sternum and finishes with a majestic elbow to the face, all the while shielding a cowering ginger nursing a black eye and a pudding cup [the one with swirls].
Badou Nails is bent over a copy machine, ass crack exposed to the Underworld and beyond, fiddles with something, and suddenly the machine comes to life, spitting out copy after copy of two very pale very scrawny ass cheeks and the freckles Kyouya eventually spots on the copy taped to his door give the stupid fuck away like a charm. Wofram is also less than amused and promptly balls the assmaster results up [not quite a yo daddy test but if push comes to shove the truth will be revealed] and snaps Badou’s eye patch viciously. And he wasn’t even following orders that time.
------------------------------------------------
Bonus
“So I take it by the indication of the spit stain of my coffee dribbling down your chin and across my desk you’ve seen the new uniforms.” Kyouya briskly wipes the smudge of ginger lips from the rim of his mug, once, twice, a third time [in which Badou grumbles about being racist against gingergerms and deems himself soulful goddammit] and finally raises it to his smugly curling lips.
“No shit dicklock,” Badou retorts, casting a scornful eye on the third member of their little possie, the teeny blonde admiring his booty short/jumper hybrid in a wayward mirror. “I don’t know what you’re complaining about,” Wolfram tutted, twirling one more time and admiring the way his balls felt as light as if cradled by a flower. Or air. Or Yuuri’s hairless little chin. Mmmm. “They’re quite comfortable and easy to move around in. Not to mention they look good.”
“You’re a butt pirate,” Badou swiftly dictates, bitterly crossing his legs like a fucking man and trying and failing to cease them from riding up to damn near his booty hole. “Fuck, I’d take pantaloons over this. Flood pants even. Why the fuck do we gotta do this? Fanservice doesn’t count because my pants are usually tight as Aqua Man’s dickhole and twice as sturdy. And I don’t even wanna mention this ones,” he stabs a thumb in Wolfram’s direction “fucking panties. So why.”
But Kyouya just smiles that fucking I’ll stab you in the goddamn wallet you bastard smile and adjusts his glasses with a middle finger. “Profits. That’s all you need to know. Advertisements have to be done somehow, and I can’t let you try to do a commercial again. The last cameraman won’t stop weeping. That’s your last choice. Your….daddy helped with the design.”
Badou grumps and huffs and whines and grunts and finally, “That was only because he cockblocked eager diddled dick over there and lived to tell the tale. Anyway, can our theme song at least be Don’t Stop Believing? Or Firework.”
“I vote for the second one since you cry during the first one,” Wolfram pipes up.
“Fuck your shit,” Badou answers.
“Now now Angels….it’s time to get to work. There’s some information that needs to be collected and only you can handle it. And don’t fall into a grave this time. The grieving widow nearly had a heart attack when your…..behind greeted her from the coffin. You really must invest in a belt with the allowance I shant give you,” Kyouya began another long tirade dabbling in threats and cock teases.
And so….a legend was born.
A tiny blonde that could easily be mistaken for an aristocratic young woman with a tampon plunged soul searchingly deep into her anus [….that’s where tampons go right? Butts? Sometimes it was difficult to understand these things] seemingly looms over a taller teen with wide frightened eyes and a babbling mouth. The blonde narrows his eyes and huffs, releasing a string of retorts that make the other teen blanch and wave his arms in a signal for ‘I’ve managed to shove my foot so far down my throat it’s going to take a surgeon to remove it from my colon because I refuse to shit that out.’
Abrupt scene change because we’re suddenly a television show with decent ratings and that’s only because the only tits we see are Wolfram’s. And occasionally Badou’s.
A lanky, suave ginger, easy on the eye [ha ha ha ha ha suck my cock] man is gallantly overthrowing his shackles of bondage [not the kinky kind mind you, people are full of jealous, jealous green shit and should eat more fiber and less nomming of even more shit] and sticking it to The Man; by running from his pursuers and screaming at the top of his lungs about the trouble rap has brought to the youth of today, satellite television and the douchebaggery of John Mayer as his would-be enemies [if they could catch the bastard, po-po sprinting wasn’t just a sport it was a way of life] narrow in on his scrawny ass, fists raised [to hopefully dear sweet god please not fist] to deliver the punishment fitting the crime.
“But I was gracious enough to leisurely stroll to the rescue after my morning coffee fix and now they are my slaves. Rather, they work for me.” A delectable young man with an immaculate expensive cut that obviously wasn’t done at no goddamn cheap ass Great Clips adjusts his glasses and smiles a sharp conniving smile. “My name is Kyouya, here’s my business card and I’m ninety four point six percent certain that you’ll owe me a great sum of money before we’re through here. Oh, and please allow my Angels to take care of you. They’re rough around the edges, smell like a Macy’s department and a sewer combined and have the damnedest way of exposing their cracks in the strangest of situations, but they’ll get the job done.”
And now for a title screen because we need one of those; Wolfram Von BootysprinklesWanderLustButthole glares his enemies into submission, delivers a stunning blow………to a man’s sternum and finishes with a majestic elbow to the face, all the while shielding a cowering ginger nursing a black eye and a pudding cup [the one with swirls].
Badou Nails is bent over a copy machine, ass crack exposed to the Underworld and beyond, fiddles with something, and suddenly the machine comes to life, spitting out copy after copy of two very pale very scrawny ass cheeks and the freckles Kyouya eventually spots on the copy taped to his door give the stupid fuck away like a charm. Wofram is also less than amused and promptly balls the assmaster results up [not quite a yo daddy test but if push comes to shove the truth will be revealed] and snaps Badou’s eye patch viciously. And he wasn’t even following orders that time.
------------------------------------------------
Bonus
“So I take it by the indication of the spit stain of my coffee dribbling down your chin and across my desk you’ve seen the new uniforms.” Kyouya briskly wipes the smudge of ginger lips from the rim of his mug, once, twice, a third time [in which Badou grumbles about being racist against gingergerms and deems himself soulful goddammit] and finally raises it to his smugly curling lips.
“No shit dicklock,” Badou retorts, casting a scornful eye on the third member of their little possie, the teeny blonde admiring his booty short/jumper hybrid in a wayward mirror. “I don’t know what you’re complaining about,” Wolfram tutted, twirling one more time and admiring the way his balls felt as light as if cradled by a flower. Or air. Or Yuuri’s hairless little chin. Mmmm. “They’re quite comfortable and easy to move around in. Not to mention they look good.”
“You’re a butt pirate,” Badou swiftly dictates, bitterly crossing his legs like a fucking man and trying and failing to cease them from riding up to damn near his booty hole. “Fuck, I’d take pantaloons over this. Flood pants even. Why the fuck do we gotta do this? Fanservice doesn’t count because my pants are usually tight as Aqua Man’s dickhole and twice as sturdy. And I don’t even wanna mention this ones,” he stabs a thumb in Wolfram’s direction “fucking panties. So why.”
But Kyouya just smiles that fucking I’ll stab you in the goddamn wallet you bastard smile and adjusts his glasses with a middle finger. “Profits. That’s all you need to know. Advertisements have to be done somehow, and I can’t let you try to do a commercial again. The last cameraman won’t stop weeping. That’s your last choice. Your….daddy helped with the design.”
Badou grumps and huffs and whines and grunts and finally, “That was only because he cockblocked eager diddled dick over there and lived to tell the tale. Anyway, can our theme song at least be Don’t Stop Believing? Or Firework.”
“I vote for the second one since you cry during the first one,” Wolfram pipes up.
“Fuck your shit,” Badou answers.
“Now now Angels….it’s time to get to work. There’s some information that needs to be collected and only you can handle it. And don’t fall into a grave this time. The grieving widow nearly had a heart attack when your…..behind greeted her from the coffin. You really must invest in a belt with the allowance I shant give you,” Kyouya began another long tirade dabbling in threats and cock teases.
And so….a legend was born.
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