QUEEFBLADE: Chapter Three

“Aardverks the name. I hope the technician strapped you in. This shits about to get heavier. If you now take a deep breath and feel your wig being putty knifed off your head. Allow the heaviness of your air passages to constrict your breathing. Slow and shallow.” Guided Aardverk. “Alright. Who has all the microdots. Its time for these passengers to start frying their brains out.”
    Queefblade jerked out of his trance and grabbed for the keyboard.
    “bvnj dlk ow cogoanj ldskjfo class sle doc alda dod aldgldo co daald codas ddd voss os fldlds cood de ocd dfkldkgcobbya aodofd add doa dfjbh ob yaena gaod bla.dtgn oaobvua dens g ssjg ee. C coc oa goga udc ssjhe taa;zp.”
    “You fuckin shitneck. Get yer dick outta that zip drive. Those computers have feelings too.”
    “Fuck you and the cat you rode in on,” yelled the FCP. The Fly Crew Possie continued their head spins and crazy legs. A 2000 gallon blimp full of turkey felch explodes, showering Aardverk and the Crew with seedblast and kernel shells.
    “You’re probably getting dizzy. I know I am. I’m having severe trouble coming up with the next word.”
    Aardverk pounded the moonshine and bonged down the ounces.
    “You’re not gonna catch me playing korfbugle with a triplet of pint size wood nymphs.”
    “Don’t worry little buddy. Think about grogans and paste. Remember. A bozak is only as good as its hydraulics. And if you keep it engorged for longer than recommended you’re gonna be fizzling out by the time you’re forty. If the damn fucker doesn’t get ripped off in an elf’s loaf choker.”
    “If my t-neck doesn’t pile-drive the entire womens field hockey league.”

Continued tomorrow…


      Gratz meef,
            Reverend Speefnarkle