Ye Olde Scribe Presents: Hell to the King, a Scent is Born
Ye Olde Scribe’s Links to Oblivion and Other Fun Places
“Stinking up the net at the speed of Barf”
Horrible advertising. Won’t make it Scribe’s way. Scribe knew there must be other reasons why he was avoiding a place that tells even bigger Whoppers than he does.
“My pain runs deep. My acne has never left my face. My memories of adolescence are riddled with the smell of chicken tenders and Vanilla Shakes. I have seen the creatures that live at bottom of the dumpster. I have seen the rat by the soda machine. I have seen dead frogs in the fresh salad lettuce. I have seen undercooked meat served to children and I have seen bags of trash piled higher than I stand as they lay less than 3 feet from the hamburger meat. I am the DISGRUNTLED EX-BURGER KING EMPLOYEE!”
Now, the Rest of the Whore-y
“Before our main attraction, ‘READ ME FIRST, READ ME FIRST'”
Looking for that special Christmas gift? Barf coated? Here ya go! But don’t forget to click above before seeing THE SOURCE FOR THE FOLLOWING SATIRE… done yet? Scribe will wait. (Whistling all the various orchestra parts for Scheherazade, one at a time, and then the 1812 complete with attempts at the canons.) Now, more in the Jeff the Cannon Gannon mode: here’s our main attraction.
Hell to the King, a Scent is Born
Scribe dreamed. It had to be a dream. Well, in one way: NO. But let’s get to the nightmare first.
Mrs. Scribe had promised to give Scribe his “gift” in bed that morning. Feeling aroused after a certain hand had grasped a stiffening bean pole, Scribe turned and saw the face of THE BURGER KING KING.
Scribe pulled back the mask. SNAP! That HAD TO cut into his face. The King was naked. Hmmm… foot aimed. Targets round. Oh, hear him scream. Was that pain or pleasure? Scribe rolled him out of bed and on top of the cats. The cats weren’t happy. The King suddenly found he had been redecorated for Christmas with a few new portals. MERRY CHRISTMAS, KING! The King ran. Scribe was faster. On Donner! On Blitzen! Now he’s covered with kitty litter. Like fake snow on a tree he sparkles! Of course, he did anyway. Out the door he runs, into the night, naked as a jailbird into the arms of the cops! Looks like you’ve got a place to stay for a few nights, King. Oh, and thanks for the home invasion.
Scribe woke up. There next to him was a bottle of the new scent being sold by Burger King, Flame.
“Flame,” as in, “flaming?”
Noble, kind, gentle Gay folk everywhere should be storming BK headquarters and burning it down for their insulting icon, then turn on their advertising agency too.
Very funny, MS. Now, what will Scribe do to get back at Mrs. Scribe?
Wise ass woman.
GOD, Scribe loves her.