Anyway, those times are over. I just want to go about my life. And I've been doing just fine...until I met Crystal.
Crystal is everything I like in a woman. She's fat, hideous, and her massive tits sweat through her bra, allowing me to lap up the salty aftermath of her afternoon walk from the front door to the mailbox as she collects her cheese and beer money. Her vagina smells like two week old Meow Mix, and that just gets me right and hard.
But something happened to Crystal recently. Something very grave. The way she approached the matter, I thought her daddy had died. But since I still tasted her daddy's mouth on her breath, I knew that wasn't it. No, it was something much worse.
She told me she was diagnosed with.......the cancer.
That's right, the Big C. My first thought was to cut all ties quickly, and move on about my business. What's gonna happen is gonna happen; ain't nothin' I can do about it. But she spoke of her illness, and what was to come. And that's when she told me...she had three months to live. I was utter shocked. Could not believe it. The woman I had hid from my wife and six kids was about to die a horrible death. A horrible, imminent death. And what was I to do?
She had only but one request: "Come to my room and have sex with me during my dying days."
I had but no other response..."you got it, babe." Little did she know that banging fat, ugly skanks on chemo was my ultimate fantasy. And that is precisely what she was.
And so it began. The first couple weeks she was on the stuff, I had crept into her room late at night. My balls were as cleanly shaven as her newly clippered dome. She was ready for crank, and I was ready to feed. I clawed my fist into the back of her skinhead like a John Smoltz grip on a split fingered fastball and guided her diseased manhole onto my disgustingly large filth. As she bobbed up and down I took swigs off my flask of Scoresby, and dribbled tiny pools down my neck as I exhaled with ecstasy.
"I'm gonna hurl!" she screamed.
"What in the fuck are you talking about?" I yelled.
"Chemo-induced nausea" she said.
"Sweet mother of FUCK!" I belted out, while feeling my balls. The key was to keep the momentum going. I didn't......I COULDN'T lose my wood. It was all about GETTING THE FUCK OFF.
"This vomit feeling...this is common with chemo patients," she said. "Do you have any pot?"
"Well, yeah, but what's that gonna do ya?" I asked.
"It should keep the sickness at bay," she said.
"Well, alrighty," I muttered.
And so I sparked one up. Right there in the hospital room. It soon smelled of death, and classic rock, and sterile needles. I got back to work, ravaging her borrowed-time stink box.
That's when she said, "I got somethin' to show ya."
"Oh yeah, what is it?" I asked.
She dropped to her knees, and started to reveal a tit more massive and sexy than her other two. A malignant tumor that was ready to explode. Screeching with excitement, I saddled up that death-pussing saucer with no shame or fright.
And that's when it all hit me. Literally. I was bum-rushed by cops and swat staked out, ready to cockblock my cancer fiending crank. What last I could do was take a long swig off my flask, reach inside my ball-funked Hanes, and rub out a tribute to Crystal with chemo.
Sweet mother of FUCK.
