July 13, 2016 at 18:21 #4145
I submitted this column to TFM, but it was rejected. I can’t understand why…
The clear plastic hose embedded firmly in Bacon’s rectum and snaking across the room to its terminus in Dan’s mouth told the story. And a pleasant tale it was not.
Bacon lay on his side on a dingy couch, completely naked, looking like a pink suckling pig, curled into a fetal position. “Ungh!” he grunted, and a cloud of gas exited his ass and began its journey across the room. The vapor was condensate-rich, and as the compact cloud wended its way through the tube it left behind tiny droplets of liquefied shit on the plastic interior. At the foot of a cum-encrusted Lazy Boy recliner, the tube rose, following a route between Dan’s manspread legs and into his mouth which was salivating in anticipation. The cloud entered Dan’s mouth with an audible release of pressure. Dan clapped his lips shut and threw himself back into the chair, holding the noxious fumes on his Chipotle-scarred tongue. Then he jutted out his lower lip and allowed the creamy vapor to drift upwards into his nostrils. “Ummm,” he cooed. “That’s some good shit.”
“Hey, asshole!” Boosh barked. “Don’t bogart the shit!” And leaning in from an adjacent chair, Boosh grabbed the tube from Dan and gestured with spasmodic, nicotine-stained fingers for Bacon to fire off a round.
“Ungh!” Bacon grunted, and another loathsome cloud entered the tube. Boosh, as usual, had a burning cigarette clamped between his lips. As the gas rose toward him, he was faced with an unsolvable dilemma: how to insert the tube into his mouth without removing the cigarette. Unable to choose between the cigarette to which he was addicted and the Bacon Gas that he craved, Boosh simply held the end of the tube in front of his face while continuing to drag on the heater. The resulting explosion burned away all of the hair on Boosh’s face and head and completely fried his eyeballs, boiling them away with a sickening crackle of grease. Boosh fell to the floor and writhed in agony, holding his hands before his now-empty eye sockets. “Somebody gimme another cigarette!” he gasped through swollen, blistered lips.
The commotion brought Bolen tottering into the room on his spindly legs, looking like Mr. Potatohead balanced on two toothpicks. He glanced disinterestedly at the howling, convulsing Boosh, a site he had beheld many times previously. Bolen momentarily eyed the tube protruding from Bacon’s ass, then muttered, “I need solid food.”
Bolen teetered across the room, clumsily bypassing Harrison who sat cross-legged on the floor, naked, holding an iPhone before his glassy, unfocused eyes and furiously masturbating to an image of a fully-clothed HotPiece. His raw and bloody penis bore mute testimony to the duration, and futility, of the effort. “Don’t you ever give up?” Bolen yelled in passing.
In a dark corner of the room, Bolen found Dorn, wearing a Reagan-Bush T-shirt from Rowdy Gentleman but unclothed below the waist, straddling a wooden chair backwards. The seat had been removed and Dorn’s pasty white ass rested on the chair’s bare wooden frame. Bolen dropped to the floor, turned on his back, and thrust his head beneath the chair, staring up into the horrible abyss of Dorn’s junk and asshole. “Feed me!” he croaked.
Dorn strained, gripping the stiles with calloused hands. His knuckles turned white and the veins in his temples throbbed into prominence. He exhaled and rocked forward, and a spherical turd dropped from his ass and into Bolen’s gaping maw. Plunk. “Agh!” Bolen gagged, the hard turd filling his mouth. “Ah hawl nn wuun…”
Bolen stood and began to roll the turd around in his mouth. Pungent brown liquid seeped from his lips and ran down onto his chin. He put his fingers into his mouth and extracted a clean white golf ball. Bolen examined the ball’s surface. “Titleist. Shit.” He threw the ball at Harrison. It struck the iPhone and shattered the device’s delicate screen. Harrison continued to flail at his disfigured member, seemingly unaware that the object of his desire had been reduced to a spiderweb of cracked glass. “Yeah, she looks a lot better now,” Bolen smirked.
“Hey!” Jared yelled, stumbling into the room from the kitchen, holding a steaming dish of previously-frozen Dorn turds fresh from the microwave. “That’s my phone!” He ran towards Harrison, only to trip over Boosh’s still-twitching body, spilling the turds into Dan’s lap. Dan scooped up the putrid blobs and shoved them into his mouth. “Stop eating so much corn,” he burped at Dorn. “It sticks in my teeth.”
Steadying himself, Jared lit a cigarette and thrust it into the charred beef jerky that had once been Boosh’s mouth. Boosh sucked at the heater greedily, and tobacco smoke poured from his barren eye holes. Jared glanced up and noticed Dan licking shit off his fingers as he gulped down the last morsel of turd. “Godammit, Dan, I’ve been saving those turds in the freezer since Thanksgiving! Those were the special ones that he shit after he ate the cranberry sauce!”
“You snooze, you lose,” Dan whined as he lifted one butt-cheek and blatted out a grotesque fart that smelled like a litter of dead puppies. “Post that on your Facebook page, loser.”
Struggling to contain his anger, Jared stomped from the room and was heard banging around in the kitchen. He returned bearing a gallon of milk, a bottle of mineral oil, and a squeeze bottle of mustard. Jared closed on Dorn, grabbed Dorn’s lithesome mane, and tilted back the man’s head. “Drink!” Jared commanded, pouring the entire bottle of mineral oil straight into Dorn’s gullet. Casting aside the empty bottle, he poured in the gallon of milk, followed by a stream of mustard.
Within seconds, Dorn’s gut began to percolate and rumble. Jared lay on his back and thrust his face beneath the chair just in time to receive a massive explosion of liquid shit. The black goo completely covered his head, face and beard. His Asiatic eyes peered creepily from the mask of shit. Rising to his feet, Jared began to dance a hideous jig. “Ah’m free! Ah’m free!” he cawed. “Massa Dorn done set me free!”
“Wake up! Wake up, Madison!”
“What? What’s happening?”
“You were having that nightmare again. You were screaming in your sleep.”
“Oh… Thank God it was only a dream…”
OR WAS IT?????????
July 14, 2016 at 21:38 #4147
Total Frat ForumKeymaster
And all this time we thought Bacon was a Frat erotica fan.
July 19, 2016 at 21:46 #4189
You must be logged in to reply to this topic.