When My Arse Married That Cake

George stumbled into the thumb, his teeth mushed like tangled sofa. Beside him, Jemima the fisherboy slurped at his bowl of owl chutney. The scent of arse and biscuits and even arse-biscuits filled the air and tangled around their outstretched kneecaps.

George heard a noise and immediately jizzed.

He looked down at Jemima, but not a word was said between them. Suddenly, before them lay a massive slice of fig wearing a fez. Now they were not taken aback by this giant spewing chunk of unsalted fruit, as they had seen it all before. The fig growled and hissed, yet George still smoked his shisha with quiet satisfaction.  His fear had not yet reached him until a large quantity of couscous was set before him challenging him to a duel. The fear struck him like moist lemon curd on a crispy summer night. He didn’t know what to do and so hastily licked a segment of Buddhist Quiche.

This was the final straw.

The harsh and crumbling fig charged towards George in desperate anguish, blowing couscous from his path. The battle was far from over. The next thing they knew they were locked inside a washing machine drenched in their own arse. Then, completely out of nowhere came a cruel and calculating pillow-case with a mission to eradicate all within the orange-peel galaxy. All seemed lost, until…


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