I was assigned mvscal. Nice.
My first thought was to hook him up with the one thing that I think we can all agree he desperately needs...
...but then I thought,
'C'mon, this is Christmas. Do I really want to harsh his gig? What about that other thing he clearly needs...'
In the end I decided...nah. I don't want to be responsible for that sort of carnage.
Instead, I decided to go with something a bit different: a T1B spin on a classic old joke....
~ ~ ~
A talent agent was sitting in his office when mvscal burst in with the Vogel family in tow...literally. They were all ball-gagged, hog-tied and chained together, and he'd dragged them through the lobby behind a beat-to-shit rickshaw he stole from poptart's wife, who'd left it unattended in front of her nail salon/kimchi enema parlor.
'What the fuck is this?' thought the talent agent, but since he had nothing on his calender that afternoon he decided to give the freaks a shot.
"Okay, whatcha got for me?" he smirked, crossing his arms while kicking his feet up on his desk.
Pulling up his camo jacket, mvscal grabbed some wire-cutters from his utility belt and proceeded to go around the room snipping the phone lines and intercom feeds before grabbing the stunned agent's laptop computer and tossing it out the window.
"Just the usual precautions," he grinned, plugging the guy in the forehead with a blowdart loaded with a massive dose of elephant laxative. "Now sit back and enjoy the show."
"Goddammit, what did you just shoot me with?" screamed the talent scout, rising from his chair.
"Going to do it the hard way, huh?" chuckled mvscal, brandishing those same wire-cutters. Shoving the guy back into his overstuffed leather chair, he snipped both his Achilles' tendons before duct-taping him to his La-Z-Boy.
"WHAT THE FUCK! If you were gonna tie me to my chair anyway, why'd you have to hobble me too?" the poor guy shrieked, writhing in agony.
"Some people just need hobbling," mvscal deadpanned.
"Oh god...I don't feel so good. What was that shit you shot me with?" burped the agent, his stomach beginning to rumble.
"You hit him with the Party Mix, didntcha?" giggled Vogel Daughter.
"Oh, quit drooling," grinned Vogel Wife, rolling her eyes at her daughter.
"Please, Britney, don't encourage this psycho," hissed a prostrate Dan Vogel, earning him an immediate kick to the chops from mvscal's steel-toed G.I. Joe 'Desert Storm' Official Replica shitstomper boot.
"Jeez, Dad, are you ever gonna learn? I'm beginning to think you like that shit," sighed his morose little Bette Davis wannabe of a son, Todd.
Turning back to the talent scout, mvscal held up his finger, as if to say, "Watch this." He gave a high-pitched whistle, and in bounded a Giant Mastiff. mvscal made a little clicking noise with his tongue, and the enormous beast dragged his massive dangling balls across Dan's face before lifting his leg and letting loose with a good minute-long whiz into the keening reprobate's ears, eyes and mouth.
"Go German this time..." commanded mvscal, and Dan began to gargle the giant dog's amber spend while humming "Ode to Joy" in a piss-garbled warble.
Unhooking a pair of bolt-cutters from his crossed bandoliers, mvscal quickly freed his charges while undoing his combat fatigues. Eyeing Tiffany, the Vogel's veritable pride and joy cheerleader/honor student/meth dealer/cum dumpster/youporn webcam sensation of a daughter, he smiled when she dutifully crawled over and fished out his "angry little soldier," as she affectionately referred to it.
"I see you've been taking your boner pills," she grinned, twiddling his tumescent nub between her practiced fingertips.
"Unnnggggghhhhshitttttttttttttttt," groaned mvscal.
"But not your stamina pills, you dork," giggled Tiffany. "Ewwww," she whined, taking a pathetic little rope of watery splooge directly in the eye.
Quickly popping another half-dozen pills, mvscal growled determinedly, "Shut the fuck up, you stupid syphilitic circus ape. Don't you worry, there's more where that came from."
"Ooooh, such big talk! Tell me more, Unka Pervy," cooed Tiffany, coquettishly batting her one clear eye.
"Owww!" came Todd's squeaky voice, interrupting their reverie. "Mom, fuck, watch it, will ya? I think you chipped my fucking tooth!" he added, and mvscal turned to see the youngest Vogel sibling holding his mouth where Britney Vogel had just accidentally punched it. Having been drawn by the ominous stomach-gurgles emanating from the talent agent's general direction, Todd had yanked the man's pants off and was fighting with his mom for working space. She was trying to fist Mr. Flatulent, and Todd was eager to plant his mouth at the soon-to-be Fountain O' Plenty; as always when an irresistible force meets an immovable object, there was a violent collision.
In the meantime, things weren't going too particularly well for the increasingly gassy talent agent.
"Wha—" he started to groan, clutching his stomach, then all hell broke loose. With an anguished cry, the guy erupted in five generations' worth of explosive diarrhea, which was mvscal's cue to give another sharp whistle call. In strutted trev wearing a pair of San Diego Chargers powder blue and gold panties, white thigh-high boots, a mesh throwback jersey, and an iron riding bit.
Toting her ubiquitous half-empty bottle of cheap vodka, she looked every bit of Suburban Slutty.
"Oh, that's right, it's Wednesday, isn't it?" she asked insouciantly.
Tugging his pants down, the son started fucking the mom, who was rolling her head back and forth in the talent scout's erupting shitstorm. The daughter was rimming trev, who was feeding Thor the Giant Mastiff's crazy-huge balls into Dan Vogel's hungry maw while mvscal sat off to the side feverishly googling up a response to Truman's latest riposte.
Wanting more of the action, trev started fucking the dog, then the son started fucking the daughter as Frau Vogel ripped off her Mom Jeans and shit on her son's back. Barking like mad, the frenzied dog lapped up the shit while the talent agent kept launching his own arcing brown torrent all over the floor. Scooting over on her hands and knees, the daughter joined trev in licking up all the shit, then the daughter perched herself on trev's face and let loose with a frothy piss to make a three-sheets-to-the-wind sailor jealous. It was a curious mix of colors: cum white, yeast-infection rust, recently-raped-by-a-largemouth-bass crimson, and, even more curious, Longhorns Burnt Orange.
Satisfied that he'd parried Truman's digital thrust with a rapier response he plagiarized from some retard.org website, mvscal doffed his camo togs and rejoined the fray. Grabbing a spot alongside the horny-as-hell pooch, he joined the slobbering hound in cock-blasting the bejeezus out of trev's tortured leathery Cherrio.
"Oh, there you are, sweetie. I was wondering where you had disappeared to," sniggered trev, glancing back over her shoulder. "Be a dear and make room for Todd, 'k?"
Slipping beneath the rutting trio, Todd drove his turgid little pisser as far as it would go into trev's seriously bored pussy. Cumming immediately, he shot off like the exhaust of a '74 Impala, adding his diseased seed to that of mvscal's Kabul-contaminated offering, both of which made the feral Mastiff's rabies-riddled load seem positively pristine by comparison.
Sidling up to squat over the fetid fuckers, Mrs. Vogel and her daughter took turns playing Hose Down The Peasants, pissing on mvscal, Todd and trev in equal measure.
Grinning together, the entire group paused as one to look over to the corner of the room, where Dan Vogel lay weeping in a corner.
Coming to their feet, mvscal presented his bedraggled troupe to the still-shitting-himself talent scout.
Moaning through his ass spasms, the cramping scout drolly asked, "Okay, great, so what do you call your little act?"
Leading his group in a deep bow, mvscal smiled, "The Aristocrats."
~Merry Christmas, asshats.~
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