THROW ANOTHER BRICK ON THE SALESMAN
Corey and Candy were discussing the finer points of urinating from a moving vehicle.
"No no no!" Corey said, "You have to aim AWAY from the direction you're travelling, or else you won't hit the destitute kids lying in the gutter."
It made sense to inform Candy of the finer aspects of moving urinary projection. After all, she was a novice and required as much help as the next girl in ensuring that perfectly good piss didn't go to waste. Corey was more than happy to prop Candy up against the window, using the might of his back against her's while Candy's legs protruded from the window like two illuminous white flag poles. Luckily for Corey, he was able to divert thoughts of an intimate nature by having his mouth so close to his own erect penis that he could virtually taste it.
All was not lost as Candy displayed the prowess associated with those of a quick learner, having shown all and sundry her aptitude for mastering the abacus in her third year of schooling and, perhaps even more memorably on the calendar of memorable stuff and so forth, her ability to flex and extend every muscle in her heavily aerobicised body.
Candy took a deep breath and coughed a wad of phlegm pragmatically into the lap of a passing cyclist.
Lance Armstrong looked down at the snot missile that plopped onto his lycra shorts and smiled to himself, admiring the girls accuracy. He looked on appreciatively as she urinated on a passing tramp, her vectoring nigh-on perfect. The vagrant waved gratefully, hoping the jet of wee that had arced so gracefully into his mouth without further soiling his clothes would contain some of the special magic that made Candy so beautiful. As the tramp shed a single tear, Lance thundered passed him, musing that she was actually passing on something by pissing on something, or someone in this instance.
Lance's own excretion technique was one of his few weaknesses. His soggy derailer often left him the laughing stock of the peleton, so he decided to purse Candy to learn her urinary wisdom.
Armstrong accelerated hard. Too hard, so hard that his urine-soaked derailer derailed all the way down the Versailles mountainside, landing on a flock of travelling salesmen headed north for Suomi. Their chants of support for female Republicanism were rudely interrupted by several spokes, loosened and hurtling at breakneck speed through the cosmos following Armstrong's gaff several kilometres in arrears. Jean-Luc, the best dressed and head and shoulders the most successful bachelor at weddings of his fellow work colleagues, copped the brunt of the travelling martial arts sideshow: three spokes had found their way into both eyes and into his crotch, the simplest of the targets to hit should one be so inclined, each protruding half its length from Jean-Luc's notoriously tanned body and spilling, by the proverbial bucket load, a diluted substance his colleagues assumed falsely to be a vintage specimen of cabernet sauvignon.
Jean-Luc would exact his revenge on Armstrong in another life, but for now the well-hung life of the party was fading before he had time to pay his last respects to a world that had appealed to his outlandish sense of moral meandering.
Jean-Pierre and Jean-Reno, Jean-Luc's closest friends through proximity in space, learned from Jean-Luc's misfortune. They ducked then parried then weaved and finally kissed the cobbled road to avoid a spate of bicycle parts from Armstrong's inferior contraption.
"Zis iz not ohver by ze long shot, Mizzeur Arm-zdrong," Jean-Reno spat, waving his hairy forearm and clenched fist to inspire others into action.
"Yez, yez, Mizzeur Arm-zdrong," Jean-Pierre insisted, following in his colleague's footsteps, with one eye trained on Jean-Luc's limp body as it sat propped up against a cheese dispensing machine. "You will suffer ma pungent gallic revenge soon enuff"
Lance, unaware that he had set in a motion a chain of events that would lead to his death 30 years later on the slopes of Space Mountain, picked himself up off the ground and tutted. Peering over the cliff edge, he saw what looked like a huddle of work shy continental folk lazing around a FettaVender, poking at the shattered remains of his wheel.
Idly wondering why the frenchman below had looked so irritable, Lance fashioned a replacement wheel from a nearby boulder, using branches as spokes. He set off in hot pursuit of Corey and Candy in their trainee pissmobile, the wild light of urinary success burning into his over achieving retina.
"Corey!" screamed Candy sensing her bladder draining to dangerously low level. "What?" came the reply, muffled by Corey's knees, which had steadily tightened their vice-like grip on Corey's head. "I'm running out of liquid gold. Any bright ideas?"
Corey reached blindly with his right arm towards the chauffeur, a fellow they knew only knew as X; on loan to the pair for the weekend from Corey's brother's drug dealer's best client's former boss's laser treatment technician's girlfriend's next door neighbour. Corey tapped X on the shoulder, then said: "Do you have any cartons of prune juice left?"
"What if I do?" asked X impudently.
"Well, we'd really appreciate one right about now as it's far too early to end this escapade of ours. We haven't scored any direct hits of the rich or the famous. What do you think, X?"
X mulled it over, then sang, somewhat surprisingly for a man with his considerable lack of musical ability: "Stop, you can't touch this," jiggling his shoulders like a naked femme prancing about on stage at a bachelor's party with only tassles to cover her silicon flash bulbs. It was quite a sight for Corey and Candy, who had only seen X in straight-faced work mode prior to this newly displayed openness for exhibitionism.
"You wanna hit Hammer's pad?" X enquired following a moment's uncomfrotable silence through the use of the rearview mirror. "I hear from my man in the Riviera that he has a small villa stashed in a quiet valley not too far from here."
The offer sounded too good to decline. "Shit yeah!" replied Corey and Candy harmoniously. "How's about that prune juice, X?"
X smiled through his gold teeth. He tossed a carton of prime prune juice over his shoulder as though giving the peeing twosome a lifeline.
Little did any of them know that Armstrong was quickly gaining on their yellow Citroen or that the businessmen were equally as determined to avenge their colleague's death by pursuing Armstrong. Having stolen a hot air balloon stacked with packets of yoghurt from the lawn of a church, Jean-Pierre and Jean-Reno twirled their bicycle mustaches as they cursed at one of America's contemporary sports icons.
Best described as yogurt madness, a band of tzazika wielding Greek ninjas intercepted the balloon just as it was descending upon Lance's crooked kneepads. Fortunely for the twin Jeans a barroom brawl simultaneously spilled into the cliffside street, with half the urine-soaked drunks taking their side, the other half applauding the ninjas voraciously and projectile puking like a lawyer on a tour of India.
Carl and 'Leaping' Lou Brock, proprietors of the most illustrious brick farm in Europe, Scantily Clad Bricks, were in the middle of proudly showing off a ton of their new season glass and barbed wire range to the Benevolent Stargazers Association of Id when, amidst the scuffle of the day, Jean-Reno accidentally brushed past 'Leapin' Lou's shoulder with less than a 'scuse me' or apologetic glance. Carl, respectful of his brother's short temper, one which culminated with the creation of a life-sized bronze statue commemorating the unsolved disappearance of his first wife, Clarice, which he had unveiled at the stroke of midnight using only his raw and bloodied elbows and triceps out of respect, declared to the brawling throng: "Your geese are cooked, Frenchies!" diving with supersized paws into the stack of bricks as if his life were at stake.
Four by four, bricks transcended space, time and dimension as the Brock brothers hurled bricks at the rate of a machinegun on the verge of ejaculation. The danger zone lay somewhere in the general direction of the twin Jeans, flooring anyone and anything in the way.
Filing his nails absently, raining what the uneducated thought to be snow upon his favourite creation, God decided that enough was enough.
He watched the brick warfare besieged balloon chasing the lone Armstrong chasing the 3 miscreants bound for hammers house and decided he enjoyed that screening of 'It's a Mad Mad World' that St Peter had organised much more than this idiosyncratic farce.
Hammers safety could not be compromised.
Not by a bunch of piss addicts, a swarm of angry frenchman and a load of drunken brick maniacs. There was too much work to be done. God drained his Pina Colada in one gulp and smacked his palm flat on the Earth, crushing all the participants in this unfortunate anomaly in one fell swoop.
Hammer looked on from his balcony and nodded in silent penitence to his master, surveying the mashed bodies with quiet humility.
God was indeed wise, he thought.
"Thou shalt permit Hammertime"
He went back to work on his next sindle; 'The Eleventh Commadment' (UTMG)
"No no no!" Corey said, "You have to aim AWAY from the direction you're travelling, or else you won't hit the destitute kids lying in the gutter."
It made sense to inform Candy of the finer aspects of moving urinary projection. After all, she was a novice and required as much help as the next girl in ensuring that perfectly good piss didn't go to waste. Corey was more than happy to prop Candy up against the window, using the might of his back against her's while Candy's legs protruded from the window like two illuminous white flag poles. Luckily for Corey, he was able to divert thoughts of an intimate nature by having his mouth so close to his own erect penis that he could virtually taste it.
All was not lost as Candy displayed the prowess associated with those of a quick learner, having shown all and sundry her aptitude for mastering the abacus in her third year of schooling and, perhaps even more memorably on the calendar of memorable stuff and so forth, her ability to flex and extend every muscle in her heavily aerobicised body.
Candy took a deep breath and coughed a wad of phlegm pragmatically into the lap of a passing cyclist.
Lance Armstrong looked down at the snot missile that plopped onto his lycra shorts and smiled to himself, admiring the girls accuracy. He looked on appreciatively as she urinated on a passing tramp, her vectoring nigh-on perfect. The vagrant waved gratefully, hoping the jet of wee that had arced so gracefully into his mouth without further soiling his clothes would contain some of the special magic that made Candy so beautiful. As the tramp shed a single tear, Lance thundered passed him, musing that she was actually passing on something by pissing on something, or someone in this instance.
Lance's own excretion technique was one of his few weaknesses. His soggy derailer often left him the laughing stock of the peleton, so he decided to purse Candy to learn her urinary wisdom.
Armstrong accelerated hard. Too hard, so hard that his urine-soaked derailer derailed all the way down the Versailles mountainside, landing on a flock of travelling salesmen headed north for Suomi. Their chants of support for female Republicanism were rudely interrupted by several spokes, loosened and hurtling at breakneck speed through the cosmos following Armstrong's gaff several kilometres in arrears. Jean-Luc, the best dressed and head and shoulders the most successful bachelor at weddings of his fellow work colleagues, copped the brunt of the travelling martial arts sideshow: three spokes had found their way into both eyes and into his crotch, the simplest of the targets to hit should one be so inclined, each protruding half its length from Jean-Luc's notoriously tanned body and spilling, by the proverbial bucket load, a diluted substance his colleagues assumed falsely to be a vintage specimen of cabernet sauvignon.
Jean-Luc would exact his revenge on Armstrong in another life, but for now the well-hung life of the party was fading before he had time to pay his last respects to a world that had appealed to his outlandish sense of moral meandering.
Jean-Pierre and Jean-Reno, Jean-Luc's closest friends through proximity in space, learned from Jean-Luc's misfortune. They ducked then parried then weaved and finally kissed the cobbled road to avoid a spate of bicycle parts from Armstrong's inferior contraption.
"Zis iz not ohver by ze long shot, Mizzeur Arm-zdrong," Jean-Reno spat, waving his hairy forearm and clenched fist to inspire others into action.
"Yez, yez, Mizzeur Arm-zdrong," Jean-Pierre insisted, following in his colleague's footsteps, with one eye trained on Jean-Luc's limp body as it sat propped up against a cheese dispensing machine. "You will suffer ma pungent gallic revenge soon enuff"
Lance, unaware that he had set in a motion a chain of events that would lead to his death 30 years later on the slopes of Space Mountain, picked himself up off the ground and tutted. Peering over the cliff edge, he saw what looked like a huddle of work shy continental folk lazing around a FettaVender, poking at the shattered remains of his wheel.
Idly wondering why the frenchman below had looked so irritable, Lance fashioned a replacement wheel from a nearby boulder, using branches as spokes. He set off in hot pursuit of Corey and Candy in their trainee pissmobile, the wild light of urinary success burning into his over achieving retina.
"Corey!" screamed Candy sensing her bladder draining to dangerously low level. "What?" came the reply, muffled by Corey's knees, which had steadily tightened their vice-like grip on Corey's head. "I'm running out of liquid gold. Any bright ideas?"
Corey reached blindly with his right arm towards the chauffeur, a fellow they knew only knew as X; on loan to the pair for the weekend from Corey's brother's drug dealer's best client's former boss's laser treatment technician's girlfriend's next door neighbour. Corey tapped X on the shoulder, then said: "Do you have any cartons of prune juice left?"
"What if I do?" asked X impudently.
"Well, we'd really appreciate one right about now as it's far too early to end this escapade of ours. We haven't scored any direct hits of the rich or the famous. What do you think, X?"
X mulled it over, then sang, somewhat surprisingly for a man with his considerable lack of musical ability: "Stop, you can't touch this," jiggling his shoulders like a naked femme prancing about on stage at a bachelor's party with only tassles to cover her silicon flash bulbs. It was quite a sight for Corey and Candy, who had only seen X in straight-faced work mode prior to this newly displayed openness for exhibitionism.
"You wanna hit Hammer's pad?" X enquired following a moment's uncomfrotable silence through the use of the rearview mirror. "I hear from my man in the Riviera that he has a small villa stashed in a quiet valley not too far from here."
The offer sounded too good to decline. "Shit yeah!" replied Corey and Candy harmoniously. "How's about that prune juice, X?"
X smiled through his gold teeth. He tossed a carton of prime prune juice over his shoulder as though giving the peeing twosome a lifeline.
Little did any of them know that Armstrong was quickly gaining on their yellow Citroen or that the businessmen were equally as determined to avenge their colleague's death by pursuing Armstrong. Having stolen a hot air balloon stacked with packets of yoghurt from the lawn of a church, Jean-Pierre and Jean-Reno twirled their bicycle mustaches as they cursed at one of America's contemporary sports icons.
Best described as yogurt madness, a band of tzazika wielding Greek ninjas intercepted the balloon just as it was descending upon Lance's crooked kneepads. Fortunely for the twin Jeans a barroom brawl simultaneously spilled into the cliffside street, with half the urine-soaked drunks taking their side, the other half applauding the ninjas voraciously and projectile puking like a lawyer on a tour of India.
Carl and 'Leaping' Lou Brock, proprietors of the most illustrious brick farm in Europe, Scantily Clad Bricks, were in the middle of proudly showing off a ton of their new season glass and barbed wire range to the Benevolent Stargazers Association of Id when, amidst the scuffle of the day, Jean-Reno accidentally brushed past 'Leapin' Lou's shoulder with less than a 'scuse me' or apologetic glance. Carl, respectful of his brother's short temper, one which culminated with the creation of a life-sized bronze statue commemorating the unsolved disappearance of his first wife, Clarice, which he had unveiled at the stroke of midnight using only his raw and bloodied elbows and triceps out of respect, declared to the brawling throng: "Your geese are cooked, Frenchies!" diving with supersized paws into the stack of bricks as if his life were at stake.
Four by four, bricks transcended space, time and dimension as the Brock brothers hurled bricks at the rate of a machinegun on the verge of ejaculation. The danger zone lay somewhere in the general direction of the twin Jeans, flooring anyone and anything in the way.
Filing his nails absently, raining what the uneducated thought to be snow upon his favourite creation, God decided that enough was enough.
He watched the brick warfare besieged balloon chasing the lone Armstrong chasing the 3 miscreants bound for hammers house and decided he enjoyed that screening of 'It's a Mad Mad World' that St Peter had organised much more than this idiosyncratic farce.
Hammers safety could not be compromised.
Not by a bunch of piss addicts, a swarm of angry frenchman and a load of drunken brick maniacs. There was too much work to be done. God drained his Pina Colada in one gulp and smacked his palm flat on the Earth, crushing all the participants in this unfortunate anomaly in one fell swoop.
Hammer looked on from his balcony and nodded in silent penitence to his master, surveying the mashed bodies with quiet humility.
God was indeed wise, he thought.
"Thou shalt permit Hammertime"
He went back to work on his next sindle; 'The Eleventh Commadment' (UTMG)
posted by Kaufman at 4:26 PM
5 Comments:
hey what happened to my editing rights?
Try it now. ;)
Me likes.
By crickey this sucker's long.
looks like the god of toast has invoked the heavenly spirit to end this monstrosity. onward and forward.
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