DIzzIE
27th October 2005, 08:54 AM
I never write fiction. You'll see why. Nonetheless, read it twice.
Lamcontenmpt of the Pyuppie Bitch.
Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. ?Someone who doesn?t matter.
My pussy smells bad. I mean just fucking awful. The girls wrinkle their puffy noses at it. The boys wont go near it, except Jim, who takes pictures and sells them to a website he knows. They pay $50 for fresh muff shots of my fetid, dead cunt. That cunt, my pussy. That dead pussy. My dead pussy. Repetition helps get the point across, so shut your fucking face. You never do just one line, no? $100 for videos of me fingering it, coo-coo-ca-cooing it. $200 if I ram my own creamy shit into it. But whatever. I get 15%. Money is money is love. I use it to buy crack. Shut your fucking face you foul fuck, that?s not the problem, that?s not the motherfucking cause here. Crack didn?t kill my pussy, Dick did. Hey, let me play with pussy or I?ll cut you. Don?t hurt her, jesus christ, just don?t hurt her. The sick fuck. But whatever. I took precautions. I shot her full of Diazepem. She didn?t feel a thing. I hope not. I don?t care. I miss her. I just want my (c)(r)ock. What the fuck will I do now. It used to be different. You want I should do one of those flash things, take you back, so you can get a better taste? I don?t shave it you know, you?d be flossing for weeks, you sick fuck. Ok, I?ve got a few grams in the pipe, let?s go.
I found my pussy under the bleachers in fifth grade. Stereotypical shit, a fucking clich?. Ha. Get it? Fucking. The audience groans. Fuck you. I was young, duh. The boys said it wouldn?t hurt. There were five of them. They gave me beer. Then they ripped it in half. I cried, sure. They said it wouldn?t hurt. Heh. I cried a lot that night. Grooved to that whole pre-teen razor-to-the-wrists drama scene. Bitch and Animal ? Sour Juice and Rhyme. Track 5. But I couldn?t let her go. I stitched it back together again. The boys were unaware, it still smelled good then. Sure. It didn?t meow anymore, but they liked the silence. Dead girls don?t say no. I had to sell the car. With that bumper sticker. For drug money, duh.
Flash forward. Dick liked my pussy the mo(i)stest. He?d rip it every day. And every night I?d stitch it back up, coo it up, perk it up, douche it up. The bionic pussy. Shoot it up. Diazepem?s ?spensive. It still feels pain, you know (I pretend). Not-so-bionic pussy. No. Shit, 425. He finally fucked her to pieces last week. I couldn?t fix her this time. There wasn?t much left anyway. Now she fucking stinks. Muffie, lying here dead on my bed. Dick, that fucking pitbull, he killed my fucking cat. Yeah, you were probably expecting that by now. I didn?t mean for it to be a surprise. Fuck it (as you did) and fuck this (and you are). All men are dogs, and women too.
Lamcontenmpt of the Pyuppie Bitch.
Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. ?Someone who doesn?t matter.
My pussy smells bad. I mean just fucking awful. The girls wrinkle their puffy noses at it. The boys wont go near it, except Jim, who takes pictures and sells them to a website he knows. They pay $50 for fresh muff shots of my fetid, dead cunt. That cunt, my pussy. That dead pussy. My dead pussy. Repetition helps get the point across, so shut your fucking face. You never do just one line, no? $100 for videos of me fingering it, coo-coo-ca-cooing it. $200 if I ram my own creamy shit into it. But whatever. I get 15%. Money is money is love. I use it to buy crack. Shut your fucking face you foul fuck, that?s not the problem, that?s not the motherfucking cause here. Crack didn?t kill my pussy, Dick did. Hey, let me play with pussy or I?ll cut you. Don?t hurt her, jesus christ, just don?t hurt her. The sick fuck. But whatever. I took precautions. I shot her full of Diazepem. She didn?t feel a thing. I hope not. I don?t care. I miss her. I just want my (c)(r)ock. What the fuck will I do now. It used to be different. You want I should do one of those flash things, take you back, so you can get a better taste? I don?t shave it you know, you?d be flossing for weeks, you sick fuck. Ok, I?ve got a few grams in the pipe, let?s go.
I found my pussy under the bleachers in fifth grade. Stereotypical shit, a fucking clich?. Ha. Get it? Fucking. The audience groans. Fuck you. I was young, duh. The boys said it wouldn?t hurt. There were five of them. They gave me beer. Then they ripped it in half. I cried, sure. They said it wouldn?t hurt. Heh. I cried a lot that night. Grooved to that whole pre-teen razor-to-the-wrists drama scene. Bitch and Animal ? Sour Juice and Rhyme. Track 5. But I couldn?t let her go. I stitched it back together again. The boys were unaware, it still smelled good then. Sure. It didn?t meow anymore, but they liked the silence. Dead girls don?t say no. I had to sell the car. With that bumper sticker. For drug money, duh.
Flash forward. Dick liked my pussy the mo(i)stest. He?d rip it every day. And every night I?d stitch it back up, coo it up, perk it up, douche it up. The bionic pussy. Shoot it up. Diazepem?s ?spensive. It still feels pain, you know (I pretend). Not-so-bionic pussy. No. Shit, 425. He finally fucked her to pieces last week. I couldn?t fix her this time. There wasn?t much left anyway. Now she fucking stinks. Muffie, lying here dead on my bed. Dick, that fucking pitbull, he killed my fucking cat. Yeah, you were probably expecting that by now. I didn?t mean for it to be a surprise. Fuck it (as you did) and fuck this (and you are). All men are dogs, and women too.