My childhood...

S

smileynev

Guest
Well, not mine. fly's actually. Reimagined, if you will, like the new Battlestar series.


I remember waking up on Saturday mornings to the fresh smell of cooked meat on the griddle downstairs. I'd throw on my underoos, cuz I liked to sleep in the buff like mommy, and take off downstairs to beat my sister and brother to the table. Half the time I'd have to leap over dad, passed out at the foot of the stairs with his pants at his ankles and the dog trapped underneath him. Poor Bart. The little fella managed to live to 20 years before his ol' ticker gave out.

Mom made the best bacon and sausage sandwiches you could ever have. the hint of Jim Bean really brought out the flavor. But we only got that when she accidently spilled the bottle next to the stove. A lot of times my friends would ask to come over and eat breakfast with us. They really liked momma's cooking I guess. They'd always ask for seconds and thirds from momma, which wasn't a big deal except that she ran the risk of burning herself from the grease splatter. I guess thats what you get when you cook naked. I miss momma.
 
J

jaxxor

Guest
what the hell is going on in here? this sounds like some sort of Penthouse letter written by the Comic Book Guy
 

Coqui

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The details of my life are quite inconsequential.... very well, where do i begin? My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a fifteen year old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet. My father would womanize, he would drink. He would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Sometimes he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy. The sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament. My childhood was typical. Summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring we'd make meat helmets. When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds- pretty standard really. At the age of twelve I received my first scribe. At the age of fourteen a Zoroastrian named Vilma ritualistically shaved my testicles. There really is nothing like a shorn scrotum... it's breathtaking- I highly suggest you try it.
 

lemon_fresh

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You insensitive clod, didn't you know fly was oprhaned at an early age when his parents died in a fire when a grease filled pan was left on a hot stove?

It's gonna take weeks to get him to stop crying no. Damn you we had just gotten him to the point where we could use the frying pan around him.
 
S

smileynev

Guest
lemon_fresh said:
You insensitive clod, didn't you know fly was oprhaned at an early age when his parents died in a fire when a grease filled pan was left on a hot stove?

It's gonna take weeks to get him to stop crying no. Damn you we had just gotten him to the point where we could use the frying pan around him.
Whoops. No wonder he's gay.
 

APRIL

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Coqui said:
The details of my life are quite inconsequential.... very well, where do i begin? My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a fifteen year old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet. My father would womanize, he would drink. He would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Sometimes he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy. The sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament. My childhood was typical. Summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring we'd make meat helmets. When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds- pretty standard really. At the age of twelve I received my first scribe. At the age of fourteen a Zoroastrian named Vilma ritualistically shaved my testicles. There really is nothing like a shorn scrotum... it's breathtaking- I highly suggest you try it.
You watch too many movies. :fly:
 
M

Millions

Guest
Coqui said:
The details of my life are quite inconsequential.... very well, where do i begin? My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a fifteen year old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet. My father would womanize, he would drink. He would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Sometimes he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy. The sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament. My childhood was typical. Summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring we'd make meat helmets. When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds- pretty standard really. At the age of twelve I received my first scribe. At the age of fourteen a Zoroastrian named Vilma ritualistically shaved my testicles. There really is nothing like a shorn scrotum... it's breathtaking- I highly suggest you try it.
"Dr. Evil, we're waiting...for you to open up to your son"

"Right. You want a secret. Huh? A secret...from the nazi? Well I'm not prepared. Fine.

Okay. I have a vestigial tail. It's more of a nub, really. The spine just goes on a little longer than it should.

Also, I've dabbled. I mean, perform fellatio once and you're a poet, twice and you're a homosexual.

I remember once I was being fisted by Sebastian Cabot-but here's where the story gets interesting. He was lactose-intolerant. He could eat red meat all night long, but one sip of milk and it was gastric hell. And I remember we were caught in flagrante delicto by Henry Kissinger, and you can imagine my humiliation at having Hank hear me say, "Mr. French, no teeth."

One of my greatest disappointments is that I never became a song and dance man. I could have been a quadruple threat, kind of like a despotic Ken Barry. Dancer, singer, actor, and I would possess nuclear weapons, the latter being the most threatening of the four.

I once sat on a bus and tried to will myself a menstrual cycle. All I ended up with was a sense of failure and a mild neuralgia in my incisor teeth and perhaps a grudging respect for the weaker sex.

I love toe cleavage.

For the most part I distrust dogs.

I slept in a horse once. It was quite roomy. On second thought, it was the Ritz.

I named my left testicle 'piss' and my right testicle 'vinegar'.

I wrote "It's Raining Men", or so the Christmas babies told me.

Oh yes, I also made a Marzipan voodoo effigy of The Fonze while I was in coma after smoking some Peruvian prayer hash, but who at the end of the day can honestly say they haven't done that?"
 

CletusJones

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Coqui said:
The details of my life are quite inconsequential.... very well, where do i begin? My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a fifteen year old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet. My father would womanize, he would drink. He would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Sometimes he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy. The sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament. My childhood was typical. Summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring we'd make meat helmets. When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds- pretty standard really. At the age of twelve I received my first scribe. At the age of fourteen a Zoroastrian named Vilma ritualistically shaved my testicles. There really is nothing like a shorn scrotum... it's breathtaking- I highly suggest you try it.
:heart: I love that line, it's one of my favorites.