He had nothing much else to do while he waited, so he got stuck into the little pile of beak left from the other night, and before he knew it it was half nine, his bird was at the door, his nose was bleeding and his cock was the size of a baby carrot, though much less firm.
He had been repeatedly told that ‘always be moving forward’ was the key tenet of freerunning, yet he found it increasingly difficult to do so as both his ankles shattered, he crumpled awkwardly between two buildings, his screams of agony were unheeded, and darkness fell.
He stood and chatted with her as she casually chopped out a line and rolled up a twenty. As she bent down to get it up her beak, he lifted a leg and guffed right at her, knowing that she wouldn’t refrain from sniffing – several times, indeed – and thus, albeit inadvertently, would dutifully hoof up all the feculent gas of which his disastrous colon was so keen to be rid.
His wife begged him to spaff on her outstretched tongue, and he promised that he would just as soon as he finished balling her grandmother up against the bannisters. Wifey would have to wait for her 60th anniversary present.