What Time is it, Motherfuckers?

Open your buttcheeks, boy. Ya hear me?

It’s 8.15 on a Monday morning, you fucks.

And I rise, once more to the pink marshmallow tones of the puma next door getting fucked ragged by her fat-dicked eighteen-year-old stepson, which happens at this time every day once her thin-dicked husband leaves for his job. She’s one of those women who grunts like the devil when she orgasms. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear there was a young priest next door exorcising a randy demon. And it’s fuckin fine. We’ve all done demon sex at some point, right? We’ve all drawn 666 on our foreheads in menstrual blood while forcing a tied-up billy goat in the corner to watch us fuck his wife.

Right?

There’s an odd smell in the air. It’s water-based lube and carnivore pussy and formaldehyde and old Skittles and that coffee from beans that were shat out by a dyslexic monkey in 1953.

And I’m wearing my fourth wife’s luminous lime green g-string.

I wonder if my sphincter must have gotten cold in the night again. What other explanation could there be?

It happens sometimes — the cold sphincter I mean. And for some reason, my ass cheeks never get cold. They’re consistently as hot as Ramsay’s scallop pan. And yet my sphincter — cold as a penguin’s tit — always. It’s a rare condition called UCS — unusually cold sphincter. And it’s the ONLY reason I wear my fourth wife’s luminous lime green g-string.

So shut your whore mouth.

If I was lying, don’t you think I would have putten my eagle smugglers on?

Ya know the Chewbacca ones with the extra pocket in the front where I keep the miniature crocodile clamps and the lighter for when I drip hot fucking wax on my third wife’s nipples while I fuck her with that ten-inch purple dildo ‘The Stretcher’, that I bought from Catch Of The Day when I was drunk one night on three pints of that fucking mint chocolate Baileys that tastes exactly like the ordinary Baileys.

What’s that you say? Why is it called, ‘The Stretcher?’ 

Well, it’s cos it’s also wide. I tried to work out HOW wide once. I estimated the radius to be around 1.5 inches but I forgot the order of operations so I couldn’t remember if it’s fucking PIE times the radius squared or PIE times the radius and square the whole fucking thing. And I couldn’t find a fucking tape measure anywhere. So fuck it.

Anyway, I get it. You’re not a mathematician. Let’s move on.

What’s that? You wanna watch next time?

Yeah, sure. Ya CAN watch next time if ya want. 

I’m gonna do one of those fucking competitions for all my subscrubbers where ya send a picture of ya cat and the cutest fucker gets to watch me n my second wife go at it in the shower while ya perched on the top of the greengrocer’s roof opposite with ya fourteen-foot binoculars n one of those fuckin water bottles by that cunt Frank Green that’s bigger than Shaq’s nutsack which ya gonna need cos it’s gonna be a hot fuckin day n that roof is fucking metal n ya just gonna get so fuckin sweaty when ya see that hot fuckin’ purple monster.

What do ya mean what purple monster? 

The Stretcher, remember. Try to keep up you mad fuck.

Anyway, fuck it. I get up and stare myself down in the long mirror.

I’m lookin alright, except for the lime green g-string which is compressing my FLAC-like junk into a filthy Mp3. 

N the nurse at the damn fertility gaff told me not to do that cos apparently ya nuts cant produce potent spunk when they're gettin fucking crushed in a lyrca shopping bag or when yer dip em in cheese n tomato soup cos the damn heat kills the Spunkus Maximus. Yer better off dippin them in one o’ those frozen Slurpee fuckin things from Seven Eleven. A massive blue one is best. I mean that shit gives yer cancer o the teef but it will no doubt make yer spunk potent. 

It’s a three-part process:

1. Buy the blue cunt

2. Dip ya gonads in for at least a minute like yer some testicular Wim Hof.

3. Go fuck ya cold wife and shoot ya iced spunk up through the cervical gate into the hot bio-oven where either Nature or God or Allah or Beelzebub or Ganesha or fuckin Taylor Swift will do the rest dependin on what yer particular flavour of noodles is.

What was the question again? 

Fuck it.

I slip off the luminous lime string and examine my cock which has that day-after lubricant feel to it. N I know I should wash it off in the shower but I don’t have time. It’s 8.16 now n I have to be at this job interview at 9.45.

Never mind what the fucking job is, ya nosey prick. 

But since ya asked, I’m interviewing to be one of those cunts that stands in the road and holds the signs that say either STOP or GO. 

N now I think of it that’s what I need to get for when I fuck one of my four wives like Bill fucking Paxton. So yeah that’s the new prize now for the cutest picture of ya cat, I guess. Ya get to hold one of those STOP slash GO signs but ye also gotta also wear all the road safety gear too. 

Luminous G string included.

I’m a safety guy. 

N no ya won’t be gettin forty-five an hour for standin there either. But ya at least get to tell me when to fuck and when to pause. 

N now I think about it, it ain’t STOP n GO. It’s STOP n SLOW. 

So we’re also gonna need at least one more sign which on one side says, FAST n the other says FAST AS FUCK. 

Then maybe also one of those fuckin neon signs that ya see outside Fish n Chip shops that says something like FAST AS A FUCKIN FAIRLY UNFLACCID FALCON ON FENTANYL, FUCKFACE. Or similar.

Does Fentanyl make ya faster? Or does it just turn ya into a cunt?

Fuck it. Pepsi Max is my sexual drug of choice. 

So what’s the point, Frank? Wheres the fuckin story in all this?

N yeah yer right. That’s what they always say in those writin blogs don’t they? Those fuckin writing gobshites that tell ya what ya should be writin but dont write any fuckin shit o their own. 

They say,

Shit has goota have a distinct beginning middle and end, Frank.

So look, let’s just say that I wrap myself in one of those silk, Egyptian camouflage dolphin skin loincloths that ya buy from Temu. N I look out of the window cos I’m wondering if the siddhi of voyeurism will manifest today since I've been prayin to the guru Shanshek for some window action to fulfil my yearly quota for the National Association of Voyeurs (NAV) in order to qualify for my yearly membership discount. Five percent is five percent, fuckers. 

And fortunately that fuckin puma next door comes out the front to check the mail in some kind of golden rusty orange juice brazier. She’s got fuckin nice tits too. She’s got that rosasea like she’s just been fucked hard or she had too much red wine last night. And she’s got one of them backs that’s seen a lot of the rowing machine and a big fuckin tattoo of Hasselhoff giving head to Ron Jeremy. 

N I should be turned on, but instead, it gives me another guilt flashback n my head swells up like a fuckin fish in the great FAKKU lake in Fukushima Zoo.

N its cos I suddenly remember whippin my wife’s cuckoo with the fuckin HDMI cord last night while I made him lick her smooth pussy and I wanked myself off with a spoon while watching a video of Macaulay Culkin get fucked by Ronald Regan’s wrinkled banger on Jeffrey Epstein’s Roller Coaster on Pleasure Island in 1984.

N I put six n six n six together n realised I must have been on the fuckin dark web aka the gothic web aka Snowden’s anus again. And that CIA bitch told me not to. So now I’m gonna be paranoid that he’s gonna be back sittin in that silver van across the way, watchin my every move. 

And to make matters worse I remember that I’ve sent my fucking new book to at least ten literary agents across this wasted globe n I think, they’re gonna fuckin think I’m deranged.

So if yer a literary agent reading this, please accept my book. I’m really nice actually. I don’t worship the devil unless it’s part of a sexual fantasy and I don’t drink alcohol unless I get told to by my dominatrix mistress who I met on Reddit. Also, I’m a team player.

So look, the point is, she’s got nice tits that puma next door. 

That’s the beginning, middle and end of this. 

Oh yeah n the launch of my competition. Post pics of yer cute cats in the comments. The cutest gets a good whippin from my assistant Jeremy with the good quality HDMI cord (It’s thicker) while he fucks a Fleshlight and rubs free-range bacon grease into his larger-than-average for a man nipples *

That’s right, I changed the prize again. Deal with it.

And where am I in all this, you ask?

I told you. I’ve got a fucking job interview, you schnub. 

I’ve gotta practice my standin’ around technique.

Get a fucking grip.

* The poster gets whipped with the HDMI cord, not the cat.

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