VERBWHORE XMAS STORY 2010! (21 Words)

[Jemble Fred]

Glad tidings! Mr Apexjazz has once again deigned to vocalise our yuletide witterings – presuming it's as quick and painless as possible. As ever, December is one great big clusterffuck of stress and busy-ness, so the sooner we get started/finished, the better. Try and keep entries to 21 words, or multiples of. That's about it.

It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Whoredom

– OR –

Vilma The Fucking Magical Christmas Ape.
A seasonal story by Sundry Whores.

Falalalala, sang the ruddy robins, and tinkletinkletink went the bulbous bells, for fuck the Baby Lord Jesus ragged if it wasn't the pagan festival of Christmastide once again. The fat villagers merrily weighed out their rank plum duffs and exchanged rather-pleasantries like:

[SetToStun]

good little boys and girls desperately trying to convince Neil they'd been good all year long. Unbeknownst to them, however, terror

[sirhenry]

lurked in wait for a suspecting CaB community. Yes, it was that time of year again. Time to transcribe a tale so torrid that the only person able to read it without being perverted is half a world away (that's me, folks).

[Emma Raducanu]

But then I am the person who read the whole Bible twice just to find a single reference to Father Christmas.

[Cerys]

However, I digress.  It was a crisp, silvery evening as I opened my multi-locked and ultra-studded door to a conclave of

[sirhenry]

cacophanous kiddies slaughtering Silent Night in an orgy of irony and demanding my yuletide bonus to keep them in cheap cider

[Cerys]

and Vaseline.  I declined politely, whereupon they beat me up jovially with a clump of raw holly, the loveable scamps.  I

[sirhenry]

slammed my front door and then proceeded to piss on them through the letterbox. In retrospect this wasn't such a good idea

[Jemble Fred]

as my willy water froze rapidly in the seasonal fug, and for eight hours I was trapped in my letterbox by a plume of golden ice distended from my dick-style penis. Still, it looked quite magical from outside, I understand.

Nevertheless,

[Cerys]

the Christmas Spirit was firmly lacking as I whittled away at my frozen piss arc with a cocktail stick and a

[SetToStun]

steely resolve. It was while I was thus engaged that I first noticed the strange message carved into my door. "Dear

[Jemble Fred]

Dr Cuddlycock, please see me on a matter of not especial importance. EXMAS IS CANCELLED! Yours, FQ Membridge, Mayor, Tits-Titsbridge."

Well,

[sirhenry]

I thought, thank God for that; I can stop writing this diary. But I was wrong. The very next minute my

[Jemble Fred]

solid slash snapped and the door was broken down by Memebridge's burly forces.

"Dr Cuddlycock?" they blasted, "Town Hall for you, kind sir. NOW! Or we'll break more than just your frozen piss. If you'll excuse the impertinence. You cunt. Sorry."

Hustled

[sirhenry]

, bustled and muscled into their Ford Anglia, I found the remnants of my frozen fountain melting into my tweed trousers. The smell reminded me of my late wife Agatha, who died last year from a surfeit of lampposts. Thought she was a cocker spaniel.

[Jemble Fred]

What a dear woolly-headed alsatian she was.

The Tits-Titsford Exmas lights flashed by in a blur as we made our way

[Ginyard]

down Butch Fly Lane and into Lez Bee Avenue, the driver honking his horn and the other two goons honking eachothers.

[Emma Raducanu]

This was as much fun I'd had since doing a poo off the Empire State building. Suddenly I felt a hand

[Cerys]

slide smoothly into my recently irrigated nether regions.  I yelped, tearing my japs-eye quite seriously as I whirled around to face

[Jemble Fred]

the fact that whirling round in the back of a FordAnglia is never a good idea, especially with a ruptured urethra.

[Cerys]

Blood spattered, as it tends to do.  The effect was quite festive.  I hummed off-key carols to myself until Off-key Carol

[Emma Raducanu]

Vorderman appeared on the bonet with her arse in the air, yelling something about these being end times. Her head then

[dr_christian_troy]

exploded like a rotten watermelon, a bit like that bloke in the film Scanners. Although an improvement, the windshield was covered

[Ginyard]

with a pulped brain conundrum:

otherfuckerM

We scratched eachothers heads and desperately tried to solve the puzzle but unfortunately crashed into

[Emma Raducanu]

Eric Pickles dressed as an elf. Checking if he was okay (while hoping he wasn't), he could be heard muttering something

about wanting to end Christmas; that he was trying to infiltrate the inner circle; and that he was going to shag

his way to the very top. Which was coherent of him considering all his bones were broken and his brain looked

[Cerys]

suspiciously like a Christmas pudding that had gone past its sell-by date.  I offered him a cracker.  He declined with a

[Emma Raducanu]

hand held to the air revealing six broken fingers and with a gust of wind, he disappeared leaving only a small

[Ginyard]

pink parcel and some grolsch. It was addressed to Mustang Barry, owner of the village sleigh (the only sleigh in the village),

[Jemble Fred]

about whom we shall hear more if I feel like it. Eventually the old banger wound up at the Town Hall.

"Get yer smelly arse in there, Doctor – forgiving the rudeness, sorry, you fucktard, sorry!" exclaimed one of the daft toughs, and they funnelled me into the oaken-panelled interior of the Hall's hallowed corridors, alternately shoving and offering me nice cups of tea.

Mayor

[the midnight watch baboon]

al assistant Greg Nogg introduced me to da Mayor, who'd an opprobrious beam carved into his soiled, slatted face.

"Whiskey?"