Tuesday, June 21, 2011

The Waterpark

As a result of the church episode, bitch ma has decided to abandon her whole "improve-my-demon-son" undertaking. And since she might as well be mentally retarded, the bitch is giving me the silent treatment...as punishment! To all those feeling a little down in the dumps; this is proof that dreams do, in fact, come true.
But after a few weeks of living the dream, parasite-free, reality set in. At the ATM, on a picturesque summer day nonetheless, I was informed my accounts had been frozen. I knew things were just a little too perfect. Fully aware that I need a constant stream of dollah billz to maintain my lifestyle (xbox live, cheetos, and a healthy supply of the finest long-cut lippers), the scum-whore cut me off. If the cunt thought she'd gotten an earful in the past, she had another thing coming.
I stormed in, slamming the door so forcefully that the handle flies off. And, with a face redder than Satan's nutsack, I scream, "Bitch, if you are not standing in front of me, with an explanation for your childish shenanigans, I will burn this place to a crisp." Without hesitation, she obeys. But instead of an apology, she stands in front of me, arms out, holding a stack of papers. "What's this fucking garbage?" I retorted. And, remaining silent, held it higher, showing me an extensive list of job applications. I wanted to hit her. I wanted to punch that bitch so hard that her dentist appointment would have been pushed up six months. But I don't hit things with vaginas. It's immoral and they have enough blood to deal with as is. Realizing I'd have to submit to her absolutely and utterly, ridiculous request, I took the stack and rifled through my options. After hours of looking through positions way, way below my measure of intelligence, I found my golden ticket: Waterpark Lifegaurd.
I went into my first day chipper, knowing that in a matter of minutes, I'd be surrounded by gorgeous bitches yearning to get plowed by my three-foot penis. It would be an all-you-can eat buffet with meat I can sink more than my teeth into. By midday however, I was crestfallen. The women I had seen on that day fell into two categories. 1) obese and middle-aged, knowing that they'll get more cardio walking up to the waterslide than they've gotten in their entire, Boston creme-filled lives. 2) Pre-pubescent, and flatter than a deadman's BPM. Upset, I had to spoil their fun.
So I threw away the lunch bitch ma  packed for me, and created something truly special. I reached into my backpack and pulled out my freshest tin and a can of whipped cream. I tilted the can over the opened lid, and made a swirl as high as it could keep sturdy. And with one slurp, I devoured both the delicious cream and the fresh, juicy long-cut. Momentarily, I had to muster all of my body's strength to get the meal past my gag-reflex and into my stomach. It worked, and I whipped out my special lock-box to prepare for the shit that was about to ensue.
Fully filled, I carried the thing up to my post, patiently awaiting the most opportune time to use my weapon. And, soon enough, it came. The waterslide grew quiet and was replaced by an impromptu swim party in the wading pool. This pool was filled with the most disgustingly overweight heifers I have ever seen in my life. I mean, the shit looked like baby beluga's birthday party. I moseyed down, and poured the undigested, creamy, dipshit into the filter. I watched intensely as the crystal clear water gradually transformed into a murky cesspool. Chaos followed. All at once, the whales looked to exit, but to no avail. The hysteria resulted in oodles of scrambling and fumbling, with many falling into the watery manure (though the farm animals should be used to it at this point in their lives).
Thanks to my feat, and the lack of evidence for indictment, I once again escaped Scot-free. And though I am not the smug type, I believe I do deserve some recognition for the park's closing. One less place for those portly bitches to be seen in public.

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