Butter My Biscuits & Call Me a McMuffmin.
Lube Me Up with Fry Grease part 4!
Happy Mother’s Day to all those who chose to “just let it marinate.” Ya lil nasties. A Super-special Happy Mother’s Day to the beautiful saint whomst bringeth’d this abomination she & y’all gladly tolerate unto the world! Also: DON’T READ THIS ONE!
Last time on As the McBussy Turns:
-Ronald is down one gum drop button.
-Wendy is still the dairy queen in distress.
-Flashback Hamburglar has one helluva story to explain to the paramedics.
-Colonel Sanders is a freak with probably a host of STDs & I heard he wipes back to front. IJS.
Now onto the show!
Hamilton B. Urglar poked idly at the white cake he had been served in the colonel’s parlor. He had never been able to enjoy the confection, or anything with frosting ever since his dearly departed Grimace left him to fester on this lonely earth. The frosting, no matter how fluffy, still reminded him of the same vegetable shortening that coated his entire hand and forearm during their love-felching sessions. He ached to be enraptured in Grimace’s loving arms and his squelching intestines once more.
His veiled eyes rested on the tufted thick rotund pillows of purple chesterfield he sat upon. “Robble Robble Robble” he said, FORLORN and CRESTFALLEN. Some say the quickest way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, but Hamburglar knew the backdoor was faster. Plus, his elbow always hit his lover’s prostate just so that the fluffy purple eggplant creature would honk like a conch shell horn blow. The neighbors would often call as they were degreasing the countertops to ask if a moose was giving birth somewhere & the two would laugh and laugh.
Perched upon the garish settee, he couldn’t help but rub the plush purple velvet. He felt his loins rouse, cautiously peering around the gaudy sitting room to see if he was truly alone. With the coast clear, he allowed his [double quarter pounder with cheese] to snake down his aged prison uniform pant leg. The seat on the divan next to him looked worn and sagging, noticeably darker and possibly moist. He fondled himself with anticipation as he leaned to sniff the aromas of farts and ass-sweat of yore.
Unbeknownst to many, Hamilton was a practicing olfactophiliac. He got his jollies by smelling the seats of chairs, bar stools, and couches. He even gained the nickname “Seat-sniffing Sally” in prison, but that’s a whole other story. Anywhere an accumulation of fetid fanny fragrance could be accruing dynamic olfactometry (stink) levels, he wanted to bury his football-shaped head from ear to ear. He cleared his sinuses with anticipation. He hoped the rankest, most rancid white castle farts had been locked into the velvet along with accrued taint sweat and the boggiest swamp ass possible. Just as he bent down to faceplant into the timeworn fabric, a ruckus rang out upstairs souring his satiating olfactory orgasm. The colonel screamed out “Git I say, git your striped ass up here Mr. Urglar!”
Hamburglar looked longingly at the seat as he stood and adjusted his [happy meal toy] as he charged upstairs. Colonel Sanders was laughing uproariously as he closed and locked the door to one of his holding chambers.
“I do believe you’ve got a friend in the Red, White, and ooo Room my formerly felon friend.” A smile crept across his withered face, like the decrepit cat that ate the canary. “I say, I say gag him first. I don’t want to hear him fussing while I watch my Family Feud. That Steve Harvey with his ridiculous accent tickles me so!” He winked at his half-chubbed staff member and retired to his quarters for the night.
Rage filled the horizontally-striped man as he entered the torture chamber. He walked into a spattering of crimson as blood and the smell of burnt pizza enveloped the room. Ronald’s eyes flashed toward his former compatriot, trying to gather himself to plead for his life. Hamburglar already had a ball gag in his hands as he swiftly walked up to the confined clown. Ronald was incoherently trying to reason with the Hamburglar as he brought the red ball gag up to match his nose. Just as Hamilton prepared to grab something to shut Ronald up with, the clown screamed out, “The colonel ordered the hit on you, you masked fool!”
Passive-aggressively yours,
Phrique
Grimace got a fat ol' ass