the rapist and the three maids

Gather ‘round, boys and girls, to hear the tale of “The Rapist and His Three Maids.”  Listen closely, children, for this story will provide great enlightenment for your young minds!

There once was a squire named Hugh who lived far, far away in the land of Pennsylvania.  He was a good squire, with a good job, and had a good car.  He had a good smile, with a good face, and had a good friend.  One thing, however, was not so good for the squire.  You see, the squire was having a bit of a problem with the ladies.    Despite his valiant efforts, he was failing to get Da Pussy.

It was around this time that Hugh decided to enlist the help of a Beautiful Princess (that’s me).  Hugh promptly made the journey to the land of Virginia where the Beautiful Princess (that’s me) held her court.  The squire brought with him his good face, his good smile, and his good friend.  Upon his arrival, Hugh quickly found an audience with the Beautiful Princess (that’s me).

“How may I help you, good squire?” asked the Beautiful Princess (that’s me).

The squire replied, “I seek your assistance.  I am a man with a good job, a good car, a good smile, and a good friend; however, my game is not so good.”

“Your game?” inquired the Beautiful Princess (that’s me).

“Yes,” responded the squire.  “I am on a quest for Da Pussy.”

“Ah, Da Pussy,” murmured the Beautiful Princess (that’s me).  “I see why you sought my assistance.  I am notorious throughout the land of Virginia in assisting good men such as yourself in acquiring Da Pussy.  Let me sleep this night and tomorrow I will provide you help with your quest, but first I must see your junk.”

“M-m-my junk?” cried Hugh.

“Yes, your junk.  I demand to see your tackle!” exclaimed the Beautiful Princess (that’s me).  So the squire took the Beautiful Princess (that’s me) behind her castle, quickly showed her his goods, and went to bed.

The following morning, the Beautiful Princess (that’s me) awoke the good squire with good news.  She had met and conferred with a young maid named Butterbar.  Butterbar had agreed to meet with Hugh and possibly give him Da Pussy.

“But you must be warned,” the Beautiful Princess (that’s me) informed the squire.  “If you get greedy for Da Pussy, dire things await.”

The squire was so happy about possibly getting Da Pussy, he barely heard the warning.  Da Pussy would be his this night!

And so the Beautiful Princess (that’s me) and her consort (that’s C) went to Da Bar with the good squire, with his good face, his good smile, and his good friend.  There they met Butterbar, and the Beautiful Princess (that’s me) weaved her magic of Jager and SoCo.  The squire remained good, Butterbar remained interested, and that night the squire obtained Da Pussy he so greatly wanted!

But one taste of Da Pussy wasn’t enough for the squire.  Oh, not enough at all!  Hugh wanted more!  So he met with the Beautiful Princess (that’s me) to discuss meeting Butterbar again.  The Beautiful Princess (that’s me) was not taken with the idea of Hugh meeting with Butterbar again.

“Butterbar will not be with us much longer,” explained the Beautiful Princess.  “She is moving across the pond, so her link to Da Pussy will be out of your reach.”

“But I want Butterbar!  I will see her and get Da Pussy again!” cried the squire.

The Beautiful Princess (that’s me) pondered over the squire’s situation.  Maybe it wasn’t so much Da Pussy that he needed.  Maybe he needed something that gave him comfort.

“I think that your situation requires more assistance on my part,” the Beautiful Princess (that’s me) told the squire.  “This night we will feast at the castle, and I will invite over a second maid.  Her name is Milf.  She is a great beauty, and she has a very kind soul.”

“Will she provide me with Da Pussy?” the squire quickly asked.  Its seemed that Hugh’s last meeting with Da Pussy had caused him to be Pussy Whipped, a common occurrence with many good men.  Da Pussy had Whipped his mind, causing him to think of nothing else.

“We shall see what the night holds,” responded the Beautiful Princess (that’s me) with a secret smile.

That night the Beautiful Princess (that’s me), along with her consort (that’s C), held a feast for the good squire, with his good face, his good smile, and his good friend.  A second maid, Milf, was there and much ale was consumed.  The Beautiful Princess (that’s me) once again wove her magic of Jager and Soco, and all the people made merry and got naked in the hot tub.  Replete with debauchery, they all went off to bed, and the squire laid down for the night with the second maid.

The following morning the squire went quickly to the Beautiful Princess (that’s me).  The squire found her in her bedchamber.  She was in a bad mood, nursing a hangover, and cleaning up the mess her consort (that’s C) left from the night before.  It turns out her consort (that’s C) consumed entirely too much ale.  He woke in the night to use the chamberpot.  In his drunken state, the consort (that’s C) stood up and thought that the corner of the bed looked like a proper chamberpot, so he let the piss fly.  The Beautiful Princess (that’s me) chided him at once.  Being far into his cups, however, the consort (that’s C) took a new gown from the wardrobe of the Beautiful Princess (that’s me) and laid it on top of the piss and slept for the night on top of it.  Yes, the Beautiful Princess (that’s me) was in a helluva mood!

“Excuse me, dear lady,” approached the squire gently.  “Might we confer again about Da Pussy?”

“Da Pussy!” screamed the Beautiful Princess (that’s me).  “Did you not have your fill of Da Pussy with Butterbar?  Did I not introduce you to Milf to cure you of the Pussy Whip?”

“But Milf did not provide me with Da Pussy!” complained the squire.  “She merely held my hand and cuddled with me!  The second maid failed, whereas Butterbar hooked me up with Da Pussy!”

“You do not need Butterbar for Da Pussy,” explained the Beautiful Princess (that’s me).  “You are suffering from the Pussy Whip, and Milf was to provide you the comfort that you needed.”

“Fuck!” cursed the squire.  “I don’t fucking want comfort!  I want some of Da fucking Pussy!”  The squire stormed out of the bedchamber, but the Beautiful Princess (that’s me) followed.

The Beautiful Princess (that’s me) found the squire near his good friend.  His good friend had passed the night on an uncomfortable cot, which had folded up around his body.  The good friend of the good squire slept restlessly, encased in the middle of the folded up cot.

“Beware, Hugh!” warned the Beautiful Princess (that’s me).  “I fear your Pussy Whip has affected your good mind.  Just look at you!  Worrying about Da Pussy whilst your good friend sleeps in a taco!”

“I just want Da Pussy,” whined the squire.

“Then let us see what my magic brings forth this night!” proclaimed the Beautiful Princess (that’s me).

Once again the Beautiful Princess (that’s me), along with her consort (that’s C) made their way to Da Bar with the good squire, with his good face, his good smile, and his good friend.  The Beautiful Princess (that’s me) worked her magic of Jager and SoCo for the third time, which brought forth a third maid named Fruitcake.

The Beautiful Princess (that’s me) and her consort (that’s C) invited Fruitcake back to the castle to make merry with the good squire and his good friend.  The ale flowed, and everyone was feeling festive.  The good squire looked at the third maid curiously, for she was quite loud, quite old, and quite odd.  Nevertheless, Hugh still quested for Da Pussy, and his mind was feverish from Pussy Whip.

The third maid, Fruitcake, beckoned the squire behind the castle.  The squire went willingly, thinking only his quest for Da Pussy.  After no more than five seconds, Fruitcake ran up to the Beautiful Princess (that’s me) and started to quack loudly.

“The squire raped me!” cried Fruitcake.  “He’s a fucking pervert!”

“Excuse me?” asked the Beautiful Princess (that’s me).

“You crazy bitch!” exclaimed the consort (that’s C).

“You were with him five seconds, you dumb cunt!” yelled the good friend of the good squire.

“He did!” proclaimed Fruitcake.  “He raped me!  And I will make it known to all that he is The Rapist!”

All the while, the squire stood in shock absorbing these false accusations.  How could one rape this third maid in five seconds, much less pull one’s cock out?

The Beautiful Princess (that’s me) banished Fruitcake from the castle.  Her consort (that’s C) and the good friend of the good squire still made made merry from the situation by calling Hugh “The Rapist.” 

The following morning, the squire sought out the Beautiful Princess (that’s me) for the last time.  He needed to know what went wrong in his quest for Da Pussy.

“I only wanted Da Pussy,” exclaimed Hugh.  “I did not expect to dishonored this way.”

“Ah,” cooed the Beautiful Princess (that’s me).  “I am afraid that you have brought this curse upon yourself, good squire.  You did not heed my warning.”

“What warning?” demanded the squire.

“The first night of your quest, I warned you to not get greedy in your quest for Da Pussy,” explained the Beautiful Princess (that’s me).  “After Butterbar, the first maid, gave you Da Pussy, you became Pussy Whipped.  The Whip of Da Pussy frazzled your mind, so my magic provided you with a second maid, Milf, to comfort you.  You did not accept the comfort for your Pussy Whip, which caused my magic to do whatever was necessary to fix you.  The third maid, Fruitcake, cured your Pussy Whip only by claiming you raped her in record time.  You now must forever live with being called ‘The Rapist’ by me, my consort, and your good friend.”

The good squire, Hugh, was humbled.  The good squire, with his good job, his good face, his good smile, and his good friend travelled back to their land of Pennsylvania.  For the entire journey, the good friend of the good squire made merry in calling the good squire “The Rapist.”  Whenever the good squire and his good friend make merry with the Beautiful Princess (that’s me) and her consort (that’s C), they tell the tale of “The Rapist and His Three Maids.”  To this day, the good squire from Pennsylvania is called by this name.

And that, boys and girls, is the end of this tale.  I hope you learned from this tragic story!  The moral should be obvious: don’t involve me in your sex life, ‘cause I’ll probably fuck it  up.

Good day!
~V

the frog and the crackhead

This, boys and girls, is a true story entitled, “The Frog and The Crackhead.”  Gather ‘round, children, and learn from this tale.

Once upon a time there was this beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) who had many, many redneck friends.  The beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) and her many, many redneck friends loved to play redneck games like stealing the occasional road sign, playing in the mud, and drinking beer.  And, boy, did they ever drink a lot of beers!

One night the beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) and her many, many redneck friends began drinking their beers.  And, boy, did they ever drink a lot of beers!  After the Drunk Fairy came and dusted them all with a thick layer of buzz, it was decided that the beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) and her many, many redneck friends would play a new redneck game.  They decided they would take their paintball guns down into the ghetto and do drive-by “shootings” on all the silly crackheads that would be there!

The beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) and her many, many redneck friends climbed into a Ford F-150 chariot.  The beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) sat up front with two redneck friends, while four redneck boys sat in the back of the chariot’s bed.  Off they went into the night, holding their paintball guns, and ready for their redneck game.

The game began slowly, but it was quite fun!  The beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) and her many, many redneck friends continued drinking their beers.  And, boy, did they ever drink a lot of beers!  The group made their way down into the ghetto, making their first pass of the night.  The Ford F-150 chariot slowed when the corner came into view where the silly crackheads hung out.

POP! SPLAT! BANG! BANG! SPLAT!

“Drive-by!” yelled the silly crackheads, for they did not know that it was merely paint being shot at them and not bullets from a Glock.  The silly crackheads scattered, and the beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) and her many, many redneck friends laughed in merriment while drinking their beers.  And, boy, did they drink a lot of beers!  This redneck game was so fun, they decided to take another pass into the ghetto!

Once again, the beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) and her many, many redneck friends slowed the chariot when the silly crackheads came into view.  There were fewer crackheads this time, but this redneck game was such fun!

“Is dat da same truck?!” cried the silly crackheads.

POP! SPLAT! BANG! BANG! SPLAT!

“Mutha fucka!” screamed the silly crackheads. 

“Shit!  Dat’s fuckin paint!” they yelled. 

“Dem crackas got paintballs!” they exclaimed. 

The silly crackheads scattered, and the beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) and her many, many redneck friends laughed in merriment while drinking their beers.  And, boy, did they drink a lot of beers!  This redneck game was so fun, they decided to make one last pass through the ghetto!

Only this time, the pass through the ghetto did not go as planned.  On the way to the corner where the silly crackheads could be found, something extraordinary happened!  The Ford F-150 chariot was making its progress through the ghetto, while the beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) and her many, many redneck friends drank their beers.  And, boy, did they drink a lot of beers!  The chariot continued on its way.

BA-BUMP! ... BA-BUMP!

“What was that?!” cried the beautiful redneck girl (that’s me). 

“What happened?” questioned the redneck friends that sat in the front. 

“We ran over something!” yelled the redneck boys from the back.

They did, indeed, run over something.  A very big, very dark something was stone-cold dead in the middle of the road.  At the thoughts of a poor dog being killed that fine redneck night, the beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) and her many, many redneck friends lost much of their merriment.

“We must look at the creature!” cried the beautiful redneck girl (that’s me).  “The blood of a beloved family pet may be on our hands, but we can make amends!”

So the beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) and her many, many redneck friends left the safety of their Ford F-150 chariot to march down the street of the ghetto to see what had been killed on that fine redneck night.

The body was large, not moving, and long.  As the group got closer they could see long, thin legs extending from a very large body.  What an odd looking dog!  On and on the group marched until they halted in front of the family pet that was killed that fine redneck night. 

Only it wasn’t a family pet.

It was a frog.

A. huge. fucking. frog.

A huge fucking frog from a deep, dark mud hole.  The kind of frog people jigged for.  The kind of frog that gets ran over by a Ford F-150 chariot and gets mistaken for a dog.  A huge fucking frog.

All the rednecks gathered round the huge frog and wondered what to do.  Being rednecks, it was against their nature to just leave such a large prize behind.  It should either be eaten, stuffed and mounted, or put to use.  The rednecks did not want to eat the frog; its legs were too lean.  They never heard of a frog being mounted for display.  The rednecks had to find a use for the large fucking frog.

“Ah!” cried the beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) as an idea emerged.  The frog could prove useful in their redneck games!  The beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) encouraged her many, many redneck friends to put the frog in the back of the Ford F-150 chariot.  The rednecks continued on their way through the ghetto, all the while drinking their beers.  And, boy, did they ever drink a lot of beers!

Once again the beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) and her many, many redneck friends slowed the Ford F-150 chariot when the silly crackheads came into view.  There were far fewer crackheads this time, as only the truly desperate remained.  Paintballs could never interfere with a crackhead’s love for crack.  This time, however, would be different.  This time, the paintball guns would not be used.  This time, the rednecks had a huge fucking frog.  A frog that must be put to use, lest it be wasted.

Two of the redneck boys picked up the huge, dead frog.  Working as one, the redneck boys swung the frog back and forth, building momentum.  Back and forth, back and forth, the dead frog swung back and forth, until --

WHOOSH! SMACK!

“Argghh!” screamed a silly crackhead, who had fell on his silly crackhead ass when the huge fucking frog busted his silly crackhead face.

“Crackas hit me with a frog!  Them motherfucks got frogs!”

All the remaining silly crackheads scattered into the night, as they were apparently more afraid of dead frogs than paintballs and bullets combined.  Only the one silly crackhead remained -- the silly crackhead that had been been hit in the face with the huge fucking frog. 

As the Ford F-150 chariot carrying the beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) and her many, many redneck friends drove off into the night, they could hear in the silly crackhead in the distance weeping...

“Frog right in my face... fucking frog hit me right in da head... frog bits on my clothes... that was a huge fucking frog.”

And the beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) and her many, many redneck friends continued drinking their beers.  And, boy, did they drink a lot of beers!  The rednecks laughed with merriment because of their wonderful redneck game!  Oh, what a fine redneck night!

And the beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) lived happily ever after.  The end.

So that, boys and girls, was the true story of “The Frog and The Crackhead.”  I hope, children, that you understood the moral of this tale:

Stay off crack, or you may get hit in the head with a frog.

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