Tuesday, January 31, 2006

SACRILEGIOUS SURGERY

"A facelift is what's needed!" thought Condoleezza, as she used her broken fingers to explore the mush that was once her face, "And I know just where to go!"

She hobbled to her Hummer and pulled a skull from the enormous exhaust pipe. It was a leftover from that crazy homeless guy who had tasted so good last Wednesday after the cock fight. She scraped off a cheek, sniffed it and inserted it between her cheesy flaps.

Condoleezza's knowledge of human anatomy was nothing shy of daft. She thought that saggy cheeks induced labour.

After ninety minutes she still hadn't dropped, so she held a breast in her hand, said seven Hail Marys and blew her nose. A prolific goober emerged from Condoleezza's nasal cavity. It spoke to her and said, "I ain't yo bitch, beeeyatch!"

The bogie launched itself at Dr. Dre, a registered hermaphrodite, who flicked it impressively back into Condoleezza's electorate.

That was enough to start a brawl. Dr. Dre whipped out two yo-yos and a hula-hoop. Condi responded by brandishing her corduroy jacket lasso style, neatly puncturing the Muso's* eye. Dre's yo-yos walked Condi doggie-style through a showroom window. Instinctively, she yelped and licked the blood off a shard; crouching to pee and sniff the puddle, she went off at Dre like a donkey full of cheap lager and Draino.

"Listen here, you talentless mofo!" she belched, "Eminem's ass tastes fruity compared to a custard trifle!" Dre knew she was right so he bit his lower lip and conjugated several verbs - got busy applying the anaesthetic.

A short silence ensued as Condoleezza lost herself in a nostalgic moment. She recalled goats and honey and last time Dre and herself were locked in that magic brawling moment. "This is just like that time we were in Paris!" recalled Condoleezza.

"More like that time we awoke in Dahmer's freezer. Remember how your tongue got stuck on my penis and you were like: 'uuhh mah tung is thtuck on thure penith' and I was like, 'Di'nt yo momma ne'er teach you not to speak wid yo mouth full, foo?' and you were like 'uhh why you thpeaking lith Mithter Thee?'."

"Stop this nonsense," Condi spat. "I have a press conference and nothing to wear. Where's Andy K, my wardrobe guy?"

Andy was peeing in the next alley down, ears atingle, drinking a B-52 cocktail. Sensing Condi's angst, he practiced an irritating rendition of Tomorrow. Condi, sensing Andy's apathy, flexed her calf muscles. "I'll show everyone my withered and crusty maid," she said, jiggling her withered and crusty maid.

Andy gasped for air as the maid's crustiness reverberated nauseatingly. Within seconds, he stank like six-day old socks. His engagement proposal to Robbie Williams would have to wait for he had more pressing concerns. He had to iron his afro, serenade his brother's goat and shit out six blocks of tar.

"Stop that!" he said, squatting above an open manhole.

"Enough of your insolence," Condi said, spitting on his hair as she did. "Where are my pants?"

Andy looked skyward, pointed to Condi's head.




* Please note: Dr Dre is a 'rapper', and hence, not a 'Muso' (short for 'musician'). We apologise for any inconveniences this typographical error may have caused.