Okay, I wrote a short story, and I’m going to share it with all of you. It’s THE MOST AWESOME THING I’VE EVER WRITTEN! FOR SERIOUS! Okay, so yeah, I wrote this like, when I was on the bus, and I DIDN’T EDIT IT, and a lot of people say it was a bad idea, but it’s GREAT! Anyway, here goes:

====================

“Elvis”

If life is a buffet, then Marianne was the gravy.

Thick.

Lumpy.

Rich.

Filthy. Stinking. Rich.

If a few hours in bed with that hideous sack of lard was what it would take me to become a millionaire… well, just make sure I’m on top (I don’t wanna be crushed).

Besides, I won’t have to bear it for long. After all, I’m going to kill the ****. Yep. Poison her. All I have to do is rub it on her ****ing lardbum with a towel and psh… she’s dead. A tragic, inexplicable (and most importantly) absolutely untraceable death.

What’s that Mr. High and Mighty? I’m a reprehensible bastard? Yeah. I suppose you’re right. But I’m going to be a rich reprehensible bastard.

Maybe I’m not painting you a good enough picture here.

She has waist length black hair that WOULD be fetching if she washed it (“I don’t believe in bathing with soap or shampoo- it’s bad for the environment,” [“and so is her stench”, I’d add in my head]), a black fuzzy caterpillar of a unibrow crawling over her two blue oases in a pasty cookie-dough desert of flesh. The only fetching feature on her face was her big pouty lips, although they would have been a lot sexier if they would SHUT once in a while. But no, they always flap open and shut, open and shut, open and shut. She looks like a… a… grouper. A ****ing fish. And when she breathes on me? It smells like a combination of sour milk and spoiled bacon put into a blender and sat out in the Sun for about ten days. Her dentures (she was twenty eight- twenty ****ING eight with dentures) were filled with bits of food and God-Knows-What, although I’d rather she keep them in, because when she took them out that meant she wanted to suck my male reproductive organ. There is nothing more arousing than bloody gums. Mmm-mmm.

Her body was that of a morbidly obese human or an anorexic elephant. I suppose she was human, because elephants don’t tend to have gigantic mammary glands (DD, she aaalways bragged about that) with stretchmarks the size of the Mississippi River. Her mammary glands might be more impressive to me if her greasy woman's genitals wasn’t the size of the Grand Canyon. And I guess some of those ****ing pack-mules got lost in there or something, because it smells like ****ing carrion in there. Finger ****ing licking good.

And her legs? Ah, her legs were a source of most of her angst. “Oh, I can’t exercize, my legs are too short to support my body, woe is me.” Well, that’s terrible, I’d really feel for you if you didn’t eat French cuisine all day then complain about your ****ing weight. There are still exercizes and diets people who can’t stand up can do, and she can ****ing stand up- so she should stop ****ing. But instead, she sits at her TV eating bon-bons and watching an old John Wayne movie. Or Charlton Heston. Or Elvis.

Elvis.

****ing Elvis.

Her favorite and damned near ONLY subject was Elvis. “Elvis is the King of Rock N’ Roll! He paved the way for every rocker! Long live the King!” “Elvis could sing in a rough voice or croon softly, he was the King!” Or… or… oh God. The most dreadful of all the phrases:

“Have I ever told you that you look like the spittin’ image of Elvis?” That was MY cue to… excavate the Grand Canyon.

I’m “blessed” with looking exactly like Elvis. Unfortunately as an actor (yeah, that’s right, I’m a ****ing actor, the only other people that can pull this **** off are politicians and lawyers and they don’t NEED to). You might have seen me in the Mr. Pancake commercial as Elvis, or Elvis in that God awful toy car commercial with the rats. But you more likely saw me in one of my… starring roles.

You know…

“Blue Suede Shoe Fetish.”

“Handcuff Hotel”

“**** Me Tender”

Women, men, both at once. Hey, it’s a living. It pays the bills. And I get some recognition. It’s recognition from the horny nymphomaniac FREAKS (hey mom- look what four years at acting school did for ME!) but hey- YOU don’t have a fanbase.

Unfortunately, for all that recognition, I lived like a college student. Cramped room. Ramen. No cable. Ramen. Ramen. RAMEN. ****ING RAMEN!

But anyway, back to the point, Maria’s father tragically died about a year ago under his personal bumistant. His wife died soon after (of heartbreak, they say). Thank youuuuuuuu mom and dad. Ahahaha! If you didn’t croak, then I’d still be eating ramen ramen ramen… ramen. ‘Cause you see, the fat **** gets all the money, now.

So you see, one of the chickies I worked with in “A Little Less Conversation” knew the ****ing ****whore, and so to do me a favor (or so she said) she introduced me. Apparently, Marianne saw me in a couple of my movies and was a big fan. A really ****ing big fan. So this chickie, right, she sets me up with the ****ing ugly chick. Well, since she has lots of money, I charm the ****ing pants off of her. She immediately falls in love with me (sucker), so I enjoy the ride (****, getting the attention was enjoyable enough, at first). I courted her with all the flattery I could possibly squeeze out of my lying little mouth (oh God, I deserve a ****ing Oscar for that one “You’re such an intriguing woman,” “Mmmm… I love the big, beautiful women,” “Mmmm… That was the best sex I’ve ever had”Log in to see images!, and don’t forget the God awful wedding. Hahaha… THREE WEEKS LATER- MARRIED! In Las Vegas, by an Elvis impersinator, but I was married. My ma would be proud of me, I suppose.

And with marriage comes the house, comes the entertainment and the food… all the food I want. No more ****ing ramen. Ramen has been abolished from this household. Yeah, she’s unbearable to look at and BE with, but I’ll ****ing tell you something- for all the moneyI get I’d watch Andy Warhol movies for a WEEK while Kenneth Anger was peeling off my skin with a potato peeler. Besides, all the grief will go when she finally croaks. It’s nice being the sooole recipient of her father’s fortune. Ahhhh…

Get off your high horse for just a second and put yourself in my shoes. Besides, she’s pretty ****ing pathetic. Her whole life revolves around Elvis and my male reproductive organ, how sad is that? I’m doing her a favor, after…

...****. I spilled the damn thing. I guess that I’m gonna have to buy a new bottle. Well **** me. Nothing is going my way today. I think that I’m going to go into the living room and watch TV, relax a little. Eat… drink… be…

No, I think I’m going to go to bed, I’m getting really…

———————-

That rocked your male reproductive organ.

genericangstyposter Posted:

Okay, I wrote a short story, and I’m going to share it with all of you. It’s THE MOST AWESOME THING I’VE EVER WRITTEN! FOR SERIOUS! Okay, so yeah, I wrote this like, when I was on the bus, and I DIDN’T EDIT IT, and a lot of people say it was a bad idea, but it’s GREAT! Anyway, here goes:

====================

“Elvis”

If life is a buffet, then Marianne was the gravy.

Thick.

Lumpy.

Rich.

Filthy. Stinking. Rich.

If a few hours in bed with that hideous sack of lard was what it would take me to become a millionaire… well, just make sure I’m on top (I don’t wanna be crushed).

Besides, I won’t have to bear it for long. After all, I’m going to kill the ****. Yep. Poison her. All I have to do is rub it on her ****ing lardbum with a towel and psh… she’s dead. A tragic, inexplicable (and most importantly) absolutely untraceable death.

What’s that Mr. High and Mighty? I’m a reprehensible bastard? Yeah. I suppose you’re right. But I’m going to be a rich reprehensible bastard.

Maybe I’m not painting you a good enough picture here.

She has waist length black hair that WOULD be fetching if she washed it (“I don’t believe in bathing with soap or shampoo- it’s bad for the environment,” [“and so is her stench”, I’d add in my head]), a black fuzzy caterpillar of a unibrow crawling over her two blue oases in a pasty cookie-dough desert of flesh. The only fetching feature on her face was her big pouty lips, although they would have been a lot sexier if they would SHUT once in a while. But no, they always flap open and shut, open and shut, open and shut. She looks like a… a… grouper. A ****ing fish. And when she breathes on me? It smells like a combination of sour milk and spoiled bacon put into a blender and sat out in the Sun for about ten days. Her dentures (she was twenty eight- twenty ****ING eight with dentures) were filled with bits of food and God-Knows-What, although I’d rather she keep them in, because when she took them out that meant she wanted to suck my male reproductive organ. There is nothing more arousing than bloody gums. Mmm-mmm.

Her body was that of a morbidly obese human or an anorexic elephant. I suppose she was human, because elephants don’t tend to have gigantic mammary glands (DD, she aaalways bragged about that) with stretchmarks the size of the Mississippi River. Her mammary glands might be more impressive to me if her greasy woman's genitals wasn’t the size of the Grand Canyon. And I guess some of those ****ing pack-mules got lost in there or something, because it smells like ****ing carrion in there. Finger ****ing licking good.

And her legs? Ah, her legs were a source of most of her angst. “Oh, I can’t exercize, my legs are too short to support my body, woe is me.” Well, that’s terrible, I’d really feel for you if you didn’t eat French cuisine all day then complain about your ****ing weight. There are still exercizes and diets people who can’t stand up can do, and she can ****ing stand up- so she should stop ****ing. But instead, she sits at her TV eating bon-bons and watching an old John Wayne movie. Or Charlton Heston. Or Elvis.

Elvis.

****ing Elvis.

Her favorite and damned near ONLY subject was Elvis. “Elvis is the King of Rock N’ Roll! He paved the way for every rocker! Long live the King!” “Elvis could sing in a rough voice or croon softly, he was the King!” Or… or… oh God. The most dreadful of all the phrases:

“Have I ever told you that you look like the spittin’ image of Elvis?” That was MY cue to… excavate the Grand Canyon.

I’m “blessed” with looking exactly like Elvis. Unfortunately as an actor (yeah, that’s right, I’m a ****ing actor, the only other people that can pull this **** off are politicians and lawyers and they don’t NEED to). You might have seen me in the Mr. Pancake commercial as Elvis, or Elvis in that God awful toy car commercial with the rats. But you more likely saw me in one of my… starring roles.

You know…

“Blue Suede Shoe Fetish.”

“Handcuff Hotel”

“**** Me Tender”

Women, men, both at once. Hey, it’s a living. It pays the bills. And I get some recognition. It’s recognition from the horny nymphomaniac FREAKS (hey mom- look what four years at acting school did for ME!) but hey- YOU don’t have a fanbase.

Unfortunately, for all that recognition, I lived like a college student. Cramped room. Ramen. No cable. Ramen. Ramen. RAMEN. ****ING RAMEN!

But anyway, back to the point, Maria’s father tragically died about a year ago under his personal bumistant. His wife died soon after (of heartbreak, they say). Thank youuuuuuuu mom and dad. Ahahaha! If you didn’t croak, then I’d still be eating ramen ramen ramen… ramen. ‘Cause you see, the fat **** gets all the money, now.

So you see, one of the chickies I worked with in “A Little Less Conversation” knew the ****ing ****whore, and so to do me a favor (or so she said) she introduced me. Apparently, Marianne saw me in a couple of my movies and was a big fan. A really ****ing big fan. So this chickie, right, she sets me up with the ****ing ugly chick. Well, since she has lots of money, I charm the ****ing pants off of her. She immediately falls in love with me (sucker), so I enjoy the ride (****, getting the attention was enjoyable enough, at first). I courted her with all the flattery I could possibly squeeze out of my lying little mouth (oh God, I deserve a ****ing Oscar for that one “You’re such an intriguing woman,” “Mmmm… I love the big, beautiful women,” “Mmmm… That was the best sex I’ve ever had”Log in to see images!, and don’t forget the God awful wedding. Hahaha… THREE WEEKS LATER- MARRIED! In Las Vegas, by an Elvis impersinator, but I was married. My ma would be proud of me, I suppose.

And with marriage comes the house, comes the entertainment and the food… all the food I want. No more ****ing ramen. Ramen has been abolished from this household. Yeah, she’s unbearable to look at and BE with, but I’ll ****ing tell you something- for all the moneyI get I’d watch Andy Warhol movies for a WEEK while Kenneth Anger was peeling off my skin with a potato peeler. Besides, all the grief will go when she finally croaks. It’s nice being the sooole recipient of her father’s fortune. Ahhhh…

Get off your high horse for just a second and put yourself in my shoes. Besides, she’s pretty ****ing pathetic. Her whole life revolves around Elvis and my male reproductive organ, how sad is that? I’m doing her a favor, after…

...****. I spilled the damn thing. I guess that I’m gonna have to buy a new bottle. Well **** me. Nothing is going my way today. I think that I’m going to go into the living room and watch TV, relax a little. Eat… drink… be…

To summarize, since he has now taken to eating fruit like pineapple most days, I find that swallowing his semen is alot easier …

———————-

That rocked your male reproductive organ.

Philistines!

Qualjyn Posted:

tl dr presuming it is self-insertion erotic fiction about lesprit descalier

ARE YOU CALLING LESPRIT DESCALIER A FAT ELVIS ENTHUSIAST!?

Qualjyn Posted:

i didnt read your gay story