I'd long been impressed by Andre "The Matrix" Dirrell's bumming abilities... he was once a man so fast that he could ejaculate in your asshole before you'd even realised he'd taken his cock out of his pants.
However, things hadn't gone so well for him in recent years, and his **** action had faded somewhat. Nevertheless, I was eager to test my bumming abilities against his.
I had to be honest, he was still fast pumping out his pan handle, and every time I tried to **** slap him he'd get away, making me look a little cumbersome at times. I was swinging my taddywhacker at full force, often hitting air, while he skittered around the bedroom like some kind of HIV spider running around the skirting boards.
His **** didn't have much power in the thrust, but it was effective. Although every time I DID manage to clock him with my **** he started blinking like an epileptic on coke, it was sporadic, and I was surprised to hear that after eight rounds of bumming the judges actually had me ahead on the cards.
Suddenly, disaster struck. I heard the bell which indicated a rest period, but I'd already thrusted my **** in Andre's direction. It tapped him gently on the temple and he went down, but not in a fun way.
He got up to his knees, and I thought I was in for a treat, when all of a sudden the daft cunt started flailing around all over the floor like he'd just gone to an Ariana Grande concert.
The referee of the bumming went over and spoke to him. "Andre," he said, "stay down and act some more, and I'll DQ him for you. I already warned him once about six rounds ago and my back pocket is full of fresh dollars."
Suddenly Andre tried to get up and looked about as secure as the ***** presidency, then started rolling his eyes, while De Niro sat ringside, taking notes.
Then, faithful reader, things took an even worse turn as Andre's uncle came up to me and got his own pan handle out, smashing it twice into my unsuspecting maw.
"Y'all want a motherfugging taddywhacker, huh, beech?" he screamed, "I'mma give y'all a taddywhacker! How'd just like that US taddywhacker, huh?"
I stood there, scarcely able to believe what had happened.
Had my bumming been rated too highly this night? Was Andre, as talented with his **** and balls as he was, really cut out for bumming? And was the **** swing from his uncle the best shot I'd been hit with all night?
These were questions for which I had no answers, and I left the bedroom with nought but "what might have been."
However, things hadn't gone so well for him in recent years, and his **** action had faded somewhat. Nevertheless, I was eager to test my bumming abilities against his.
I had to be honest, he was still fast pumping out his pan handle, and every time I tried to **** slap him he'd get away, making me look a little cumbersome at times. I was swinging my taddywhacker at full force, often hitting air, while he skittered around the bedroom like some kind of HIV spider running around the skirting boards.
His **** didn't have much power in the thrust, but it was effective. Although every time I DID manage to clock him with my **** he started blinking like an epileptic on coke, it was sporadic, and I was surprised to hear that after eight rounds of bumming the judges actually had me ahead on the cards.
Suddenly, disaster struck. I heard the bell which indicated a rest period, but I'd already thrusted my **** in Andre's direction. It tapped him gently on the temple and he went down, but not in a fun way.
He got up to his knees, and I thought I was in for a treat, when all of a sudden the daft cunt started flailing around all over the floor like he'd just gone to an Ariana Grande concert.
The referee of the bumming went over and spoke to him. "Andre," he said, "stay down and act some more, and I'll DQ him for you. I already warned him once about six rounds ago and my back pocket is full of fresh dollars."
Suddenly Andre tried to get up and looked about as secure as the ***** presidency, then started rolling his eyes, while De Niro sat ringside, taking notes.
Then, faithful reader, things took an even worse turn as Andre's uncle came up to me and got his own pan handle out, smashing it twice into my unsuspecting maw.
"Y'all want a motherfugging taddywhacker, huh, beech?" he screamed, "I'mma give y'all a taddywhacker! How'd just like that US taddywhacker, huh?"
I stood there, scarcely able to believe what had happened.
Had my bumming been rated too highly this night? Was Andre, as talented with his **** and balls as he was, really cut out for bumming? And was the **** swing from his uncle the best shot I'd been hit with all night?
These were questions for which I had no answers, and I left the bedroom with nought but "what might have been."
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