He had been driving round and around for ages and still hadn’t found the place. He was already late and he was the one with the tools. Nothing could begin until he got there. And he was lost! His phone was about to die. The satnav had been talking complete bollocks so he’d turned it off. Ah – here was a local. She’d know. He rolled down the wi- BLURFFFBLBLB. Oh, no. He closed the window again and thanked the lord that the local hadn’t noticed. But fucking hell… the sheer amount of shit he’d just emitted into his corduroy bell bottoms was insane, and the stench was in proportion.
Glyndebourne again! He kept finding himself back here, despite swearing off it – and at it – every year. He’d have to find somewhere to do a quick line or, fuck it, quite a few. In fact, he was wet-fingering the empty bag (oo-er) in no time, and less than an hour later he was being hauled out by two toughs who weren’t even wearing any sort of bouncer outfit and, they proudly told him as they shoved him into the pebbled car park, didn’t even work there. They just loved Handl so much that they decided to get a ‘Handl’ on him and stop him doing football chants over the music, as he laughingly related as an imaginary guest on BBC Breakfast the next morning, winking at Rita Chakrabarti when the camera was off him and wanking at her later before sinking into a pit of self-disgust that ended in him ordering another bag of much shitter bugle.
The way the heat from the nuclear explosion flash-fried his flesh before the blastwave tore it all off and blew it away was excruciating and horrifying but also, in a way, quite funny, especially as he’d boasted that he would ‘bang out’ any nuke that came anywhere near him.
He threw himself from the roof, picking a fight with the corner of the lower building and losing immediately, his headbutt not devastating the brickwork as he had hoped but in fact breaking his own skull open, though the snapping of his neck meant that he only had a fraction of a second to contemplate it, and no consciousness left by the time he hit the floor in a contorted mess and expired with his arse above his open gob and, you know it, a turd emitting languidly from one into the other.
His cock drooped pathetically, his miserable, oestrogen-riddled barrel of a body unable to sustain the insistent boner he needed to satisfy his lubricious companion who now gave up and flounced out of his mildewy basement in contempt and disappointment, closing off his only avenue for some measure of birthday action and leaving him alone to onanise lethargically and unsuccessfully as tears streamed down his flabby, acne-strewn cheeks.
“No, you’re having porridge today. We all are. Try it. It’s nicer than it looks,” said Mum. Jennifer gulped melodramatically. “I literally cannot ev-” CRASH! Suddenly Pete from next door hurled himself full-force in through the kitchen window, tumbling awkwardly over the tap and falling off onto the floor between the sink and Dad, his body lacerated in several places and the porridge issue now moot thanks to the shards of broken glass scattered across the table and most of the room.
She rode him for what seemed like a solid hour, grinding and sliding across him in every possible way, alternating sensuality with hard up-and-down slamming, snarling at him, smiling sweetly, coming down to snog him and then whisper something dirty in his ear before ramping it up again. Nothing worked! And they should have known that, really, since only penises can ejaculate, not amputated limb stumps.