raptor claws polished to shine
thong emits strong musk
Smeagol (Done in Olde English, as it were)
And lo, Smeagol had been bested by the beast we call life, and Failure reigned o'er the land. A pall fell upon his raptor face, one that not even the siren call of 30 day old Taco Bell could cure. Hath the raptor finally succumbed to the cloak Failure doth possess? Were warmer climes and a hint of tranquil winds sapping the hideous strength of the Thonged Raptor? Listen, gentle guests, as I regale you with the tale of Bailey, and how this gay dog brought Smeagol out of his funk (figuratively speaking).
Twas the noon hour, and of course the raptor was ensconced in his lair, the air thick with his musk and flatulence, a mist so pervasive no living thing dare enter it's realm for fear of the impossibility of escape. Mystery was in the living room, pondering life's mysteries as she stared blankly at a wall. I had just come home from School and was getting a bath before I had to head out to work, so pretty much a typical day. The sickle was outside and there were 4 or 5 tufts of grass out, meaning Smeagol was angered by something and had tired his frail body out swinging tha sickle, I can imagine wildly, his eyes a crazy glare that could cause kitten to go mad upon suffering their gaze.
Hark, a bell tolls. The phone was ringing, and from the noise I could tell Mystery, who was sitting right next to it, had no intention of answering. Annoyed, I rose from my restful bath and stormed, a towel wrapped around my nether regions, into the lair of Retard to see why she was not answering the phone. She appeared busy giving the kitten she had captured a full nelson, so I picked up, immediately wishing I hadn't. "Well hello silly!" It was Ted, one of the gayest men who worked with Smeagol at the Nursing home. A largely built man, he wore his hair in what is called a "flip" style, and wore lavender pantskirts with his scrubs all the time. Don't ask, I do not want to talk about what kind of place would allow someone like that to work there.
He wanted to talk to Smeagol, and I yelled for him to come out. In comes what I can assume was him, green thong hanging in front like the quintessential fanny pack, his saggy balls barely hidden from view, massaging his ass as he reptored the phone from me. Apparently Ted wanted him to watch Bailey, his little gay beagle, while he turned himself in and went to jail for a few days for prostitution. Ted had been selling one on one and two on one sessions with his anus at a gay bar when a police officer noticed and called it in. Smeagol asked what any sane person would ask, "How much am I gonna get paid for this, cause I am a busy man and I can't be bothered!" And you wondered why Smeags had no friends.
So a price was worked out, and Ted brought his gay dog over along with a bed for it to sleep in and some special dog food, saying Bailey had a sore tummy and Smeagol might want to massage it a little while he ate, to which Smeagol snorted haughtily and informed him that as a raptor he was about as much obliged to be nice to some gay dog as he was to grown clean pearly whites.
Part II tomorrow