The Happy Zip Lining Santa Elf

After his stint in maximum security prison for raping and murdering a reindeer, Santa was released.  Actually, he was more guilty of first degree manslaughter after disposing of the dead reindeer while on his route Christmas Eve.  It (the dead reindeer) fell on a drunk elderly man who just finished earning $20 to jerk off some well-to-do family man.

Now Santa could no longer carry a whip on his jolly rounds, bringing joy to all the children of the Earth.  The whip he used not only to whip his loyal, subservient, repressed reindeer, he also used it, while drunk, to whip girls he found in bikinis.  It was rare during the Christmas season, but every once in a while during his pass over Miami, he’d find some young, hot girl in a bikini just walking around in the middle of the night.  (He even pitched Google on a girl-in-a-bikini-finding-device to install on his slay to make the search easier.)  The authorities decided it was time to take that whip away after his unfortunate incident with the reindeer.

Santa’s biggest problem has always been keeping his elves in line, who he compassionately refers to as his own personal “joy makers.”  Not because they work in a sweat shop building toys for the fat man to keep the spoiled kids happy, but because sometimes, late at night, when Mrs. Clause is on the rag, and Santa has had a few, he slips his Santa dong in their mouth while they are sleeping and proceeds to “date” their mouth.  Franco was his favorite.

After his little run in with the law, and suffering numerous butt rapping in prison, Santa is more feared and revered in the elf community.  Franco contemplates suicide every day now, because Santa is more violent on their little “dates” these days.  And since elves and Santa never die, it’s become his own personal living hell.

Suffice it to say, Santa will never be viewed the same again.  And the experts recommend buying a cork for your butt and an old school hockey mask for your face when you’re sleeping on Christmas Eve.

Hammerhead Strength Fist: Iron Law

“I have a pounding headache.”

“Did you try relieving it via fart?”

“Yes, and now I have a stink cloud and a pounding headache.”

Scene.

They walked off the stage, sat down next to the director, and re-watched the riveting drama that just unfolded.  The director held each’s hand and whispered into Myrian’s ear, “your tits looked great.”  She whimpered.  Rolling her eyes wasn’t a usual gesture, but this time she didn’t roll them again.

“Wait till he leaves and I’ll show you my pounding hammer fist.”

“Help!”  He cried, without any luck.  The director had already forced him into the ground and began shoving marionettes into his rectum.  It was a display of power.  The director’s way of making sure his subjects remained docile and obedient.  If he hadn’t, who knows what they would do.  Rise up and twist his nipples?  Dance nude and fling piss and shit into his forced open mouth?  Mime the lyrics to Hotel California while riding goats and making stabbing motions with knitting needles?

All threats he couldn’t risk introducing.  So the marionette inserting continued, and after a while David subjugated (i.e. shot a load in his pants, at which the point the director collected for later using as “cooking cream”).

The Vibrating Handheld Velvet Race Car Idiot

They called him the tackling dummy.  He was a Jesus fearing man, deliberate in his tone and soft with his voice.  He could whip a pineapple and dance a jig like no one’s business.

But when it came to obsolete violin lessons, he was no match for the blue cow.  That fucking cow was the master at tossing piles of used spittoon particles into cylindrical openings in walls meant for, well, you know what goes on the bathroom stalls at gay bars and gas stations.

What the blue cow didn’t have though was overgrowth.  Overgrowth of the baby makers.  The tackling dummy did, but he rarely used their powers, mostly out of fear being labeled a “freak,” implying that tackling dummy was a huge compliment.  It wasn’t, and when the hired hands returned home every day, they led him to the basement of a house that had no basement and “punished” him with their ever increasing implements.  Blood was the norm, as was screeching and belching.  You can imagine.

This was the life of the tackling dummy.  He lived it every day with a smile on his face.  Happiness only comes to those who are ignorant of better possibilities.