Death, pain, suffering.

I have been complained at for my innocent, cheerful post about smiling. This annoyed me somewhat, but I'll give the readers what they want. So, I'm not even going to think of a topic or anything, I'm going to rush straight into this next story, regardless of errors in consistency, spelling, grammar, or whatever the hell. Hugh O'Reilly, this shit is for you, you needy fuck.

'Twas a cold Summer's morn' (because shut up) and little Shoe was strolling through the meadows conveniently stapled to the sides of his creamy yellow house.
  "Moy moy, eets royt chilleh innit" Shoe spat the words out with visible effort. His father, sitting in a rocking chair slammed his face into his palm and groaned loudly. Shoe extended his ear lobes and promptly took off from the roof of his house, making spitty helicopter sounds as he did so. His father took one look and retrieved a .44 Magnum Desert Eagle from his fanny pack, rammed the pistol into his eye socket and fired four times. The maid appeared from the pool, sighed gently and began mopping up the brain matter.

At this point Shoe was half way across the Atlantic Ocean. Unfortunately his ears were very tired, so they flopped lazily to his cheeks, causing Shoe to plummet towards the water. Suddenly, his homosexuality - in the form of a promiscuous, purple pilchard - soared upwards and caught him. Shoe squealed with delight, he became erect as the fish nibbled on his ear, although it more closely resembled gumming considering the lack of teeth. The happy couple twirled in the moonlight, in fact they twirled all the way to Trenton, New Jersey.
      "We simply must attend the ball" The pilchard whispered sensuously into Shoe's ear. He giggled with glee and clapped his hands together like a demented seal, complete with stupid throaty noises.

Fourteen hours passed and the team had found themselves in Maine for some reason. Since they began searching for the ball, Shoe and Pilchard had been joined by a flamboyant red and cyan bear, as well as a mute hobo carrying a brown paper bag full of dismembered cocks.
     "I do believe we may have taken a wrong turn" Pilchard said as it sipped on Earl Grey tea. At this the hobo reached into his bag, pulled out a large, floppy Johnson and beat the pilchard to death. Once finished the hobo calmly tossed the used dick over a fence into Mrs. Branson's back garden where she was carefully arranging gnomes in order of attractiveness.

Eventually, Shoe, Michael the flamboyant bear and the hobo reached the ball. It was suspended 50 feet in the air above David Hasselhoff. The hobo frowned, this was clearly impossible. So he retrieved a couple of penises from his bag, scattered them ceremoniously along the ground, then dove in front of a passing truck. The bear skipped down the lane, having spotted Jim Parsons. For the first time in his life, Shoe felt totally alone. Then something amazing happened. Shoe had a feeling he was about to construct a proper sentence. This had never happened before, so such a thing would be monumental. He puffed out his chest, opened his mouth wide and out came:
    "A blurghh, fudd mecubr yeck" This pleased him greatly, a colossal smile spread across his face. Then he was shanked by a passing druggie and crumpled to the ground, crying and pissing himself.


There, screw you, Hugh. I'm tired.
Lots of love, JF