THE DIRE SITUATION
Chaos immediately ensued. The ex-Labour Party leader had just revealed his ubergut to the packed courtroom. They were not impressed and soon regurgitated the lunch which they had consumed several hours ago. It was a blow the likes of which caused others to be ill.
The judge vomitted on the bailiff; the bailiff vomited on his shoes; the shoes vomited on millipedes. It was, needless to say, an invomitable situation.
The smell of vomit induced rampant horniness in the police chief, who quietly touched himself beneath the podium, recalling distorted rose-tinted memories of his days working at a young offenders institute. Everybody was suitably distracted by Beezleys frightening girth to allow him to climax. It was always an image of a steel bunk bed that filled his mind at the point of filling his pants, and he hoped it always would be.
Several reporters noticed Shania, her scantily dressed accomplice and Chuck Norris amongst the throng of onlookers outside the courthouse.
And then the unthinkable happened: the macarena stared playing from the heavens above, and everyone started dancing along! Worst exponents were the jury, followed by a feral man in tights, whose hip gyrations and one-fingered disco moves should have halted the show permanently. Lights flashed as the tunes increased in tempo. It felt hypnotic to be rubbed by pleasure seeking love missiles, so more drinks were promptly ordered.
And then Condoleeza woke up.
Her pyjamas were bathed in sweat. The dream unsettled her. She put it down to pre-nato penetration nerves. It was always the same dream, except the tempo of the music and the lavisciousness on the faces became more intense every time.
Why?
She gathered herself together and walked out into her marble fountain. The water was tinged a faint yellow, just how Condoleeza liked it. She stepped into the liquid wonderland, farting as she did. "That is bliss," she said. "Now on with the plan."
Condoleeza displayed determination which had earnt her a place on the Varsity Blowjob Team. She had earnt her stripes with patented neck dexterity and throat prowess, having practiced at home on steroid-grown cucumbers and home-made wursts of varying dimensions. Little did she know how useful it would be to her future job aspirations.
Condoleeza dried off and walked into the cabana, where her resident mule was waiting. "Got milk?" Condoleeza asked because she was more stupid than three purple veins on a shoehorn. The mule packed plenty more than milk as it reared onto its hind legs. Silver horseshoes flashed in the corners of Condoleeza's twinkling pupils before making her face reminiscent of a squashed cumquat. Condoleeza's vain attempts to prevent the incoming attack were of no use - the mule had pulverised her to within an inch of her life.
But Condoleeza wasn't a quitter.
The judge vomitted on the bailiff; the bailiff vomited on his shoes; the shoes vomited on millipedes. It was, needless to say, an invomitable situation.
The smell of vomit induced rampant horniness in the police chief, who quietly touched himself beneath the podium, recalling distorted rose-tinted memories of his days working at a young offenders institute. Everybody was suitably distracted by Beezleys frightening girth to allow him to climax. It was always an image of a steel bunk bed that filled his mind at the point of filling his pants, and he hoped it always would be.
Several reporters noticed Shania, her scantily dressed accomplice and Chuck Norris amongst the throng of onlookers outside the courthouse.
And then the unthinkable happened: the macarena stared playing from the heavens above, and everyone started dancing along! Worst exponents were the jury, followed by a feral man in tights, whose hip gyrations and one-fingered disco moves should have halted the show permanently. Lights flashed as the tunes increased in tempo. It felt hypnotic to be rubbed by pleasure seeking love missiles, so more drinks were promptly ordered.
And then Condoleeza woke up.
Her pyjamas were bathed in sweat. The dream unsettled her. She put it down to pre-nato penetration nerves. It was always the same dream, except the tempo of the music and the lavisciousness on the faces became more intense every time.
Why?
She gathered herself together and walked out into her marble fountain. The water was tinged a faint yellow, just how Condoleeza liked it. She stepped into the liquid wonderland, farting as she did. "That is bliss," she said. "Now on with the plan."
Condoleeza displayed determination which had earnt her a place on the Varsity Blowjob Team. She had earnt her stripes with patented neck dexterity and throat prowess, having practiced at home on steroid-grown cucumbers and home-made wursts of varying dimensions. Little did she know how useful it would be to her future job aspirations.
Condoleeza dried off and walked into the cabana, where her resident mule was waiting. "Got milk?" Condoleeza asked because she was more stupid than three purple veins on a shoehorn. The mule packed plenty more than milk as it reared onto its hind legs. Silver horseshoes flashed in the corners of Condoleeza's twinkling pupils before making her face reminiscent of a squashed cumquat. Condoleeza's vain attempts to prevent the incoming attack were of no use - the mule had pulverised her to within an inch of her life.
But Condoleeza wasn't a quitter.
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