Fake Candidate

Really, Uncle Joe? Intercourse? Of all the words in the English language, your handlers/you chose that one?  We all know what it means, but you.. you pedantic, grotty predator.. just made it sparkle like Christmas at Grandma’s house.

I understand; you’re only going through the motions. And, were I a more forgiving soul, could almost overlook the fact you’re losing your faculties. That you’re more to be pitied than believed.
They’re using you, Joe. If you can’t see it, you really are demented.
Or getting a nice, fat paycheck for letting your wife stick her arm up your ass to move your lips.

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D’arcy Takes A Ride

So, this morning I get a frantic call from D’Arcy. “I need you to come over right away!”
“Why? What’s up?”
“I can’t explain right now, just please hurry; and I can’t get to the front door, so use the spare key!”

I honestly have no idea how she always knows when I’m not dressed, but she does it every time; this time being no different. I scrambled to find anything fit to be seen in public, dropped my eyebrow pencil in the toilet, and stepped into an insidious shoe that hid a puddle of cat pee. I couldn’t find my keys, or my car. Then I remembered I’d left it parked in the alley behind the bar the night before.

I dashed over to the neighbor’s apartment, banged on the door for five minutes when the bleary-eyed fairy finally threw open the door and screamed, “What the fuck happened to your eyebrows?!”
“Screw my eyebrows, I need a ride, stat!” “Now?,” he asks… while standing inside his door in only his whitey tighties. “Yes, now; and for God’s sake, is that Trevor’s underwear?”

Thirty minutes later, off we go; tearing down Putnam Place; doing 70 in a 30 MPH zone… when the local constabulary pulls us over for the rainbow stickers on the back of the car.
“This your car, son?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. Now get off my street.”

Arriving at D’Arcy’s place, I jumped out while the car while it was still running… frantic to get to her. Once inside, there she is… in the kitchen, squeezing carrots with a Vegematic; except she has her left tit caught in it.
“Where the hell have you been? I’m dying here!”

“You really own a Vegematic?”
“Shut up, you stupid cow! What am I going to do?”
Well, that did it. I laughed so hard I couldn’t catch my breath.
“We’re calling 911, that’s what,” I said in a hysterical fit of laughter. If looks could kill I would have been dead, dead, dead.
“No, you’re not!!”

Long story short, we arrived at the ER, with the Vegematic still attached and her boob was successfully released.

And we both have hot dates scheduled next week with the paramedics.

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