Kriss Akabusi

[Monty]

That is the funniest thing I've read in years. Any links? Where the flock does it come from, who wrote it?

[Shaggy]

That is the funniest thing I've read in years. Any links? Where the flock does it come from, who wrote it?

The source of all this is discussed in this thread somewhere, I think. The link is definitely here – it’s from the Football365 forums. Seemingly some bloke (username Rofl_Lundgren) made them all up.

[Monty]

Akabusi sat in his Vauxhall Corsa eating a corn beef and horseradish bloomer from Greggs with all the gusto of an Ethiopian at a Harvester salad bar. He looked out the dirty window at some pigeons fighting and f**king in the strong beams of the low winter sun. He roared with a laugh as loud, dark and hollow as a Lenny Henry comeback tour. What did these animals know of the art of f**king love making?

The thought sent a quiver down Akabusi's ebony frame to his purring pussy pounder. It hadn't tasted the sweet suds of a clunge for at least eight hours and it was getting restless and hungry. Kriss considered inducing a wet day dream - or a "lunchtime geyser" as Geoff Capes had once called it. But no. His throbbing hulk of brown greasy gristle needed kneeding and it had to be from the wettest, reddest lips since Jilly Goolden on a tour of the Bordeaux region.

And anyway, John Regis was sitting in the back of the Corsa nursing a Cheese and Onion pastie and feverishly counting the rain drops on the window. Since the Manchester Casino debacle Regis's OCD had become 456 times worse. Akabusi and Black had tried to f**k the casino over with Regis counting cards but the daft window slurper had gone nuts and pushed the table over and flopped his monster cock in the face of the croupier. Regis insisted there were 39 steps out of the casino but the boy's feet barely touched the ground.

To cheer himself up Akabusi had entered a Pro Celebrity Golf Tournament at Wentworth and as he licked his big brown finger and dabbed the crumbs from his tweed dungerees he looked out on the assembled Z list clebs at the first tee. He knew he was going to get some hole today and he prayed to his Nigerian gods that it was deep and didn't have a flag in it. Yet.

Akabusi wiped Regis down with a wet wipe and headed over to registration. In the distance he spotted that c**t Tanni Grey Thompson rolling over to the first tee with her electronic caddy in tow - it looked like a convoy of sh*t Transformers. Akabusi growled and snarled like an Muslim's belly on the penultimate day of Ramadam. If he was playing against her he was sure he would lose his considerable rag and bury her up to her head in a bunker. He tried to remain calm as he was introduced to his caddy.

Clunge Sunesson was the smoking hot daughter of Fanny, Faldo's old stick holder, and Akabusi's interest in this good walk spoilt was heightened when his greedy eyes focused on the svelte Swedish sexpot that stood before him polishing his wood. The cool air of the early morning breeze slide into his dungerees like Sidney Cooke into a nephew's bunk and licked at his black short and curlys like lesbians at the annual muff divers stamp collectors blow out. He wanted to sink his rapidly engorging brown Mizuno into her fairway as soon as. But he had a game to play and some spastics to buy a bus for or some sh*t like that.

"What's your handicap Abakumi?" hurled Bruce Forsyth as he passed by in his golf buggy which doubled as a hearse. "By big cock, you old c**t" roared Kriss with a sharpness and panache not seen since that bender Wilde complained about the wallpaper. Akabusi knew he had a powerful swing but knew more often than not his balls ended up in the rough. She worked in the clubhouse on Saturdays.

As was Akabusi's custom he let the brass buckles of his tweed dungerees loose and felt the coarse fabric rush past his ebony carcass like a rocket launch. All the celebs knew the score with Kriss and no one said a f**king word as he stood at the first tee looking like a large chocolate "K". Akabusi always played erect- it improved his game and left him ever ready to plunge his black post box into a fan or PR girl. As he shifted his giant onyx rugby balls and pulled his bat or club or whatever the f**k it was called the CTU tone of his mobile started ringing.

Clunge picked up the huge bloody thing and the battery attached and slung it over to Akabusi. It was Derek Redmond. They hated Redmond. Him, Blackie and poor Regis had never forgiven him for plonking Suzanne Davies and not letting them watch and he had a small willy so he never really fit in. As Akabusi held up the whole tournament with his call viewers could see his veiny colussas begin to fall to the ground like Beckett in the cathedral. Apparently Redmond had been sending parcel bombs to various offices across the country. He'd got a parking ticket whilst he was dogging with Collymore and McFadden in Penge and it had driven him nuts. And he had a small willy.

Deflated, Akabusi told Redmond that the lads would be over to his £117,560 mansion near Watford as soon as the tournament was over. They'd have to kill him of course. He knew too much. But at least the madness would be over and the good people of the parking and traffic enforcement community could sleep easy. Black liked murder and killing so he would garoutte the micro cocked loon whilst he poured the others a Kestrel.

Clunge Sunesson came over and told him the tourny was off. Darren Clarke had waterlogged the second hole with his tears and automatically both won the tournament and managed to f**k loads of mothering birds. Akabusi wished he had a dead wife. Oh well, he thought as his attention returned to Clunge.

He knew beneath the pink Pringle top and flourescent tabard lay a pair of epic blonde bristols with all the promise and weight of Frank Lampard as a teenager. And as sure as Regis was mad as a closed box of c**ts, Akabusi knew that tucked into those khaki shorts was a pussy as hairless and had a powerful grip as a Professor Xavier action figure. He felt the blood rush into his brown campanile quicker than a train delay at the hint of snow.

He picked up Clunge and threw over his shoulder and headed to the tranquility of the nearest bunker. He torn her gear off and flung her into the bunker. She lay helpless in the sand like an unturned beetle - with a pair of itty bitty tits and a fanny as wet as a Zeebrugge purser. He plunged into her like a Johnny Vegas dive bombing a kiddie's pool and before long he was up to his crackers in this blonde spunk wagon.

Within hours he was approaching his vinegars and let out a roar of pain, pleasure and passion as he let fly such a stream of hot man scum over her battered torso that people in the next town thought someone had struck white oil. He had.

As he strapped his dying dong to his toned calves and slipped on his tweed dungs he looked over to the Corsa. Regis was all excited - there were 8796 rain drops on the rear window and couldn't wait to tell Redmond. Black was at the boot loading up some tools and cheese wire. This was going to get messy.

He looked down on the shagpile of giant spermazota, matted Scandic hair, Slazenger Number 1s and a Clunge that looked like a regurgitated steak, bent down, whispered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.

The End.

[cadmium]

Nice one Monty

[The Glove]

How the mother **** had this thread passed me by?

Its the funniest thing I have read since the story of the RJF - 70's kid show violence.

[The Glove]

In fact Ive still got a copy of it.





Whilst most supporters know about the hooligan violence that blighted
football in the 70's and 80's, few people will be aware of the clashes
that took place between rival children's TV gangs.

This week sees the publication of 'Congratulations you've just met the
RJF', the long awaited biography from children's TV favourites, Rod,
Jane and Freddy. This explosive book brings readers face to face with the
relentless violence of 80's kiddies TV.

Sports Offensive reprints these exclusive extracts.

Beginnings

Rod: In 1979 there were a lot of really useful firms operating out of ITV
and "The Rainbow Boys" were one of the best in the business. The
problem was, because we were new, we were always on the outside looking
in. It was time to make a bit of a noise and show them we could handle
ourselves.

Freddy: We decided we were going to take Play School in their home pub,
Chatters wine bar in Hampstead. On the face of it, it was a f*ckin
ridiculous thing to do. They were pretty handy and had a big reputation,
but that didn't mean nothing to us. We were ready to make our mark and
didn't care how we did it.

Jane: We got there early and just kept a low profile. Pretty soon the
whole place was filling up. There were quite a few faces in there: Fred
Harris, Derek Griffiths, Big Ted. I can't say it bothered me. All I was
thinking was, "You're going to get it, you numpties!"

Rod: I think it was Johnny Ball who clocked us. I can remember him saying
something like "I can think of a number: the three wnkers stood over
there" and it all kicked off. Even though they hit us with everything they
had, we took it. All I can remember is Freddy screaming, "Hold the line,
just hold the fckin line" and we did.

Jane: I didn't think they could believe that three of us had taken about
forty of them at their place. They just melted away, flicking the V's
at us and looking like a total set of pussies. I saw Hamble with blood
p!ssing from an open head wound. To be honest I was too wound up to care.

Rod: We walked away from there with our heads held high. The Rainbow Boys would have to take notice now. Rod, Jane and Freddy had well and truly
arrived.

The Battle of Blue Peter

Rod: There's been a whole heap of bullsh!t spoken about who vandalised the
Blue Peter Garden. The truth is that place got torn up in one of the
maddest, bloodiest children's television rucks I can ever remember.


Jane: Blue Peter were always giving it some about how they were the best
in the business. We were happy to let them think that. Our feeling was
they'd got sloppy and hadn't fought anyone decent for about five years.
Their shows always went out live, so the plan was to wait until the end of
the live broadcast and pile in. The trouble was it didn't work out like that.

Freddy: We'd gone over the wall and started heading towards them. It was
Simon Groom and Janet Ellis and we could tell we'd taken them by
surprise. Rod wades in and bang, bang, bang they both go down like a sack
of sht. It was all a bit too easy and we couldn't work out why the camera
crew were holding back. Then we realised, they'd been having some sort of past presenter's reunion. They all came pouring out of the studios: Noakes,
Purves, Singleton; all ready to kick seven shades of sht out of us.

Jane: As far as we were concerned there was only one thing to do. Stand
our ground. Other firms would have run but we just thought, fck, this far
and no further. It wasn't easy mind. They were tooled up with bottle tops
from a bring and buy sale. Peter Duncan was just wading into us with a
bicycle chain shouting, "Take that you c*nt !" I honestly didn't think
we'd last much longer.

Rod: Then we heard it. The best sound in the world; "Up above the streets
and houses, Rainbow climbing high!" It was The Rainbow Boys battle cry
the cavalry was coming. Zippy dropped the nut on Biddy Baxter and suddenly
things were a bit more even. I swear on my mother's grave if security
hadn't stepped in we'd have murdered the b*stards.

Freddy: The garden was totally fcked. They covered it up and said it was
the work of vandals. No it wasn't, it was the scene of our finest hour.

'Congratulations You've Just Met The RJF' is published by Hodder and
Staunton and retails at £7.99

[The Wolfman]

chris i cant believe you missed this thread, i ****ing love it.

Thats why my usernams is awooga on the other site.

That RJF thing is good.

[glynner]

this is absolute gold!!!

I have no idea who this Akabusi fella is...but its funny as ****


AWOOOOOOOOOOGA.

cant wait to yell that out after ive finished servicing the missus

dont forget to pat her on the fanny

[I_Funked_your_mum]

Blind date

The sun shone down on Akabuski's shiny chocolate head which glistened in the mid day sun like the tin foil wrapper of a milky bar. He was in the front garden of his two bedroom mansion and was sitting wearing his summer short style dungarees which showed off his mighty jaguar which would moisten any clunge to biblical vengeance proportions, perhaps an ark would be needed. Fortunately, Akabusi could provide.

His Argos plastic garden furniture was heating up and it began to burn his mighty oak tree like legs. He stifled an awooga and decided that he needed a glass of Coke Zero (he was hoping for a sponsership deal and drunk it at any opportunity he could.)

He walked to his Kitchen/dining room and from the window he suddenly smelt the sweet aroma of clunge. An aroma he knew only too well. It hit him fast and suddenly like a junkie waiting outside the post office for a pensioner on a monday morning. Like the junkie, Kriss also had an addiction. An addiction for the sweet sweet act of love making. Or as he called it. "Munching the branston"

The aroma was sending him mad and his pulsating warrior was almost bursting through the summer dungarees so he slipped them off and he stood there in all his glory like Michaelangelo's David smeared in chocolate with a much larger pocket rocket. He was in a frenzy now and was ready to track down that clunge and attack it like a bully attacking the boy with the stutter in the playground.

He burst out of the door of his mansion and surveyed from left to right. The sun on his balls felt good to him. It reminded him of the time him and Michael Hutchence had gone to a brothel and had some kinky match sex with cheap whores. All of which are now in wheel chairs, like all of Kriss' lovers. It was then that he spotted where that sweet aroma was coming from. It was ex blind date host Cilla Black. She was out walking her dog and saying Chuck to anybody would listen. Kriss normally didn't like old Vag but this smelt too good to turn down.

He bellowed over to her 'surprise surprise' You see, he also has a razor sharp wit. And at this he plunged into cilla like a plane into the world trade center. His mighty staff was up her BHS two piece beige suit and her old ginger saggy clunge was tightening around his mighty penis which looked like Al Jolson but infact several feet bigger than the singer.

In mere hours it was all over. He looked down at Cilla who looked like she had just been attacked by a gaggle of angry geese who had an affection for spitting. His famous Akabusi smile appeared on his face and he said. "Are you still breathing?" There was no answer. Barely holding back his laughter he said "Maybe i should ask our Graham" He chuckled so loud and erotically that a 4 year old who was playing near him actually hit puberty right then. She pointed towards her playhouse and Akabusi grinned.

Before heading off too the playhouse he leant over Cilla. And gently whispered, "awooga" in her man juice covered ear. And patted her on the fanny. Today had been a good day for Kriss Akabusi.

The End.

[Guest]

The sun shone down on Akabuski's shiny chocolate head which glistened in the mid day sun like the tin foil wrapper of a milky bar. He was in the front garden of his two bedroom mansion and was sitting wearing his summer short style dungarees which showed off his mighty jaguar which would moisten any clunge to biblical vengeance proportions, perhaps an ark would be needed. Fortunately, Akabusi could provide.

His Argos plastic garden furniture was heating up and it began to burn his mighty oak tree like legs. He stifled an awooga and decided that he needed a glass of Coke Zero (he was hoping for a sponsership deal and drunk it at any opportunity he could.)

He walked to his Kitchen/dining room and from the window he suddenly smelt the sweet aroma of clunge. An aroma he knew only too well. It hit him fast and suddenly like a junkie waiting outside the post office for a pensioner on a monday morning. Like the junkie, Kriss also had an addiction. An addiction for the sweet sweet act of love making. Or as he called it. "Munching the branston"

The aroma was sending him mad and his pulsating warrior was almost bursting through the summer dungarees so he slipped them off and he stood there in all his glory like Michaelangelo's David smeared in chocolate with a much larger pocket rocket. He was in a frenzy now and was ready to track down that clunge and attack it like a bully attacking the boy with the stutter in the playground.

He burst out of the door of his mansion and surveyed from left to right. The sun on his balls felt good to him. It reminded him of the time him and Michael Hutchence had gone to a brothel and had some kinky match sex with cheap whores. All of which are now in wheel chairs, like all of Kriss' lovers. It was then that he spotted where that sweet aroma was coming from. It was ex blind date host Cilla Black. She was out walking her dog and saying Chuck to anybody would listen. Kriss normally didn't like old Vag but this smelt too good to turn down.

He bellowed over to her 'surprise surprise' You see, he also has a razor sharp wit. And at this he plunged into cilla like a plane into the world trade center. His mighty staff was up her BHS two piece beige suit and her old ginger saggy clunge was tightening around his mighty penis which looked like Al Jolson but infact several feet bigger than the singer.

In mere hours it was all over. He looked down at Cilla who looked like she had just been attacked by a gaggle of angry geese who had an affection for spitting. His famous Akabusi smile appeared on his face and he said. "Are you still breathing?" There was no answer. Barely holding back his laughter he said "Maybe i should ask our Graham" He chuckled so loud and erotically that a 4 year old who was playing near him actually hit puberty right then. She pointed towards her playhouse and Akabusi grinned.

Before heading off too the playhouse he leant over Cilla. And gently whispered, "awooga" in her man juice covered ear. And patted her on the fanny. Today had been a good day for Kriss Akabusi.

The End.

What a nickname !

[I_Funked_your_mum]

What a nickname !

Cheers mate. I am rather fond of it myself.

[Shaggy]

Akabusi thumped his hand on the walnut effect table. His brown hammer fist split the table and for a moment he was reminded of Ulrika Jonnsson's well thumbed clunge. This was sh*t. His rider for this gig had specifically specified specific things like 500 gram Tupperware container of Reggae Reggae Sauce mixed with blue peanut M&Ms. He could clearly see that the f**king M&Ms were f**king red and there was only 450 grammes of the f**king sauce. Promises had been made.

Busi had had a bad few weeks. Him, Regis and Black had accidently burnt down a building in Manchester after a pyrotechnics display for the opening of a new JJB Sports had gone spectacularly wrong. It would have to be the last time they let poor demented OCD riddled Regis buy pyros. Or indeed anything. In the rush to evacute two Make A Wish foundation kids had been left behind and their charred electronic wheelchairs and three British Knights trainers were all that remained. Black had "disappeared" the evidence before the fuzz and more importantly the deputy chief marketing officer for JJB Sports North arrived. They had some pretty major openings in the coming weeks.

Even more depressingly Kriss's ebony pussy plunger hadn't tasted the sweet sticky sauce of a pretty major or minor opening in a while and the grisly pulsating Kaa betwixt his toned thighs wouldn't let him f**king forget. It needed feeding or it would go elsewhere. It also needed bathing but that was another story.

As Busi keyed in his agent Harvey Goldenblum's number into his Raspberry he looked around the table at the most useless eleven c**ts since he saw West Ham play. Jury service was the last thing he needed and when the Old Bailey celebrity bookers were going to persist in serving up red M&Ms with his sauce he wanted out. And he wanted in. A pussy.

At the moment they were deliberating over some Muslim numpty who had been caught cooking up fertiliser "above the shop". Busi had been called in at the last minute to fill the gap left by Sally Gunnell who had left to perform an emergency opening of a JD Sports in Letchworth. She got all the good gigs. The Old Bailey had made him the foreman and Busi had accepted with open muscular onyx arms. Kriss soon realized this meant he didn't get a fat reducing grill or anything to cook with and he would have to "make notes".

There was only one angry man in this room and it was Krisstopher Akabusi. The other members of the crew or whatever the f**k you called it were sure that Omar Epps was going to blow up Bluewater. Busi didn't give a monkey's clunge in hell, he preferred f**king Lakeside and he was willing to bully the others into a not guilty verdict if it meant he could get off to Cape Canerval where Roger Black and Regis were holed up. This was justice, Akabusi style.

The hot air of this cracking late April day crept into the walnut effect conference room like DJ's into the Walton Hop and found it's way between Busi's polished Texas Gold black body and his fine pinstriped dungarees that Mr Raja had knocked up for him. He could feel the chocolate liono stir as the air caressed his newly shaved rugby ball size balls. All three of his genitalia knew it was summer and knew that outside in parks, Lidos and street corners were women in tight white tops and towelling shorts splashing around in the watery arc of a burst water main. Goddamn, all four of them needed kneeding.

"Right let's get this sh*t over with" roared Busi as he stood upright like a cock in a fanny shop. "This is not a quarter as exciting as the f**king Phil Spectrum trial and this f**king one isn't televised. I was made promises". The eleven ugly men and true shuffled their papers, some followed Busi's gaze out the window to the frolicking pussy in the street. Some knew his pain, some didn't have a clue about Akabusi and that was their f**king loss.

The verdict in his fist, the twelve strode through the marble hall of the Old Bailey, crims, briefs and nickers parting as justice passed by. Akabusi had requested two drummers to play him in as he entered Court One and surprisingly they were there. As they pumped out the epic drum solo from Nilsson's Jump into the Fire in perfect unison Akabusi felt like a brown Buddha, a chocolate Jesus, a black...gas. But this wasn't about him. It was about Lady Justice.

Lady Justice was the raghead's brief and Busi's slit senses were enlivened and his sperm levels were raised to Severe as she entered the court in her long black cloak, white high collar and horse hair wig. He knew that beneath the apparel of law was an epic pair of bristols so firm you could make them heads of state in North Korea and a clunge so tight it fiddled the electricity.

For over a week Kriss had been asking these guys in gowns to make him a large Mocha with a side shot of espresso but it had turned out these dudes were barristers and not baristas. The law was an ass and Akabusi wanted to part it and plunge his jet black sack attack into it. The drummers stopped and once the screams and applause stopped Busi stood. As he opened his large piano key filled mouth he caught sight of Lady Justice. She had a leg up on a desk and had her gown pulled up to her arse as she smoothed down the creases in her Agent Provocateur stockings.

Busi was instantly harder than Dave Courtney's missus' clit. But without the Liz Duke T Bar through it. The power of his engorged cock tore the pinstriped dungs from his back and he stood naked and horny. He lept over the walnut effect partition and stalked Justice like an elephant at an Indian celebration that got out of hand.

"Erection" cried the clerk of the court. "Overstained!" roared Akabusi with all the might of Andre the Giant farting into a Sennheiser. Justice was up for it and she whipped off her legal gear quicker than Paul Gadd will be back in the ELC. Busi was right. This brief was epic. Her milky white duds had nipples darker than South London and her clunge was wetter than Tony Bullimore's copy of Heat and covered by a horse hair merkin.

Akabusi jumped on her like SO19 on Brazilians and tore into her like a Fitness First bag on the top deck of a bus. To the assembled crowds it looked like a feral chocolate scales of justice was attacking a white gavel of sexiness. Busi was inflicting Zero Tolerance and Maximum Poundage into the defence and she was lapping it up like a cat with diabetes.

Within hours he was was on his violent, volcanic vinegars and he let spray with such a gush of giant tadpoles the Judge fell to his knees and prayed for a Noah's Ark speed boat to pull up. Justice had been served and as Busi rolled up his Persian he thought he might just make the flight to Florida and the hook up with Black and Regis. This was a good day.

"Mr Akabumbumbum, what is your verdict?" pleaded the sodden Judge. "Quality shag. Quality" roared Busi as the twin drummers started up again. "And him? Let the all the f**kers go. It's summer time! Let's get out there."

Busi pulled on the shredded dungs and looked down upon the pile of flipping flapping spermazota, horse hair, fertiliser and torn stockings, bent down, whisphered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.

The End.

[Shaggy]

Akabusi sat in the back of his Corsa watching Loose Women on his black and white portable. He hadn't seen this many mouthy c**ts since he f**ked all of B*witched at Ainsley Harriot's barbeque in Staines. That had ended in bloodshed and he knew if he watched another minute of this menstrual backwash he would have to take a life.

It was piping hot in the motor, Kriss never opened the windows and the air con was like a war veteran with emphysema trying to blow out a dropped John Player Special. Busi was wearing his spring wardrobe - crushed tan linen dungarees which were more breezy than a French cheese shop. The air was creeping in around his sleeping genitalia and tickling his taut black curlies like a favourite uncle at a niece's birthday party.

Akabusi turned the telly off, he was depressed. That morning he had given a motivational speech to a large group of deaf young achievers in Stevenage and he spent an hour pumping his fist and mouthing "Awooga". Which wasn't far removed from his usual routine. Kriss had wondered what these f**kers would achieve anyway other than playing the xylophone really fast and signing Open University programmes about ants. When they didn't clap Busi had stormed out without even flashing his chocolate donger. He'd stuck a fat index at them. It was the only language they understood.

To cap it all he looked down on his weeping dark colossus and realized it hadn't supped at the frothing fountain of a ladies clunge for over two days. His fat balls were more full of tadpoles than the Blue Peter pond after Peter Duncan dared to have a w*nk into it. He needed to unsheath his meat drill bit and screw something into a wall soon or he feared a bigger cum explosion since Paris Hilton made herself sick before lunch.

He got out of the car as a bucket full of crumbs from the ten Greggs Steak Packs he devoured quicker than the North Sea eats oil rig workers dropped to the ground. He looked around at all the other cars parked up at The Priory and laughed a deep and dark laugh that set off a few alarms. When you had a plonker like Busi's you didn't need a Hummer to get pussy, pussy came to you. In your '91 Vauxhall Corsa. He was at The Priory to see poor old John Regis whose OCD had gone ballistic since he was turned down for a part in the sequel to the Greek fight flick 300. 301 was a perfect project for Regis and his rampant OCD would have been helped exactly 3021 times more than the cocktail of drugs he swallowed every morning.

"This is Regggggggggggggggiss" was the last thing Akabusi heard as Regis was carted off in The Priory's white Escalade ambulance outside Kriss's £127,983 mansion in Luton. If Roger Black had been there then maybe they could have saved the huged chested blubbering fool but Black was in Tehran about to poison that President Inmydinnerjacket or whatever that guy who looked like a minicab driver in a £10 Spastic Society suit was f**king called. It had meant cancelling four JJB Sports opening events and one signing at a Maplins in Letchworth but work was work.

Akabusi strolled into the clinic, his midnight pussy piercer slapping against his toned inner thighs like Collymore on Jonsson. The Armani clad nurses stopped administering placebos to cigarello thin models to watch as Busi headed for the John Paul Getty ward with the confidence of a man with a gold medal and a brown wheelie bin in his dungs.

The attention sent a spark down his body and his meat twitched to a semi and he knew that if he had a look it would now be the size of two kingsize Mars bars wrapped together with fat veins. He let slip the confines of his linen dungs and let the imported air of the clinic cling to his toned onyx chassis to Ciccone to black babies. Regis was sitting at the window of his oak panelled room wearing a Maria Grachvogel clincal gown and was busy counting the reality stars ghost writing their autobiographies in the grounds. "97, 98..." wept Regis as he heard the unmistakable sound of flesh against flesh that meant Busi was in the room.

They embraced. They weren't sh*t pushers or anything but the touch of Olympian on Olympian seemed to cheer up the vacant Regis. "What the f**k have they got you on, John?" roared Kriss with all the power of a Spartan attacking a Ginsters concession. "Karl Malden, Kriss. f**k knows" said Regis as he secretly counted the bristles of Akabusi's immaculate tache.

"Get the f**k out of here, Mr Akabumbum" said a voice from behind the boys which was a smooth as a babies arse but without the skid marks. Akabusi was almost at full lob as he turned to spy a nurse clad in a tight white tunic that Busi was sure concealed a pair of bristols so epic that Cecil B Demille made her bras. If Kriss's pussy senses were right and they always f**king were he suspected that joining those tits was a clunge as wet as a Norwegian work experience chap.

Busi knew at that precise moment he had to get Regis out of this c**t soup factory but he also knew that he had to bash this nurse's doors in like coppers visiting a Rasta temple. Before this thought even left his brain to tell his balls the nurse had ripped the tunic from her hard body and let the buttons fly across the ward. The combatants faced each other, Akabusi looking like a brown capital T on it's hind legs and her like a naked woman with nice tits.

Akabusi pounced on her like a fat person devouring a buffet of obesity genes and within seconds he was sliding the length and breadth into a glistening hole that had previously been as unable to open as a bacon sarnie stall at Golders Green tube station. As she reverse cowgirled him he was faced with a tight little arse hole that looked like an 80 year old whistling. Busi called to Regis to come over and stick his pinky up it. Struggling with his OCD, John finally couldn't resist and slipped it up to his Liz Duke signet. This was progress. And it made the nurse yelp like a dog being kicked.

Within hours Akabusi was on his violent vinegars and let fly with a gush that looked like a dam letting off pressure. The nurse slide all over the floor looking like she had just had union with Slimer.

"Pack your Transformers rucksack Regis. We're f**king out of here" cried Akabusi as he rolled up his brown St Bernard cock and popped on his linen dungs. Busi wanted to get to a party near Durham he'd heard of on Myspace, it was called "House Rape" or something and he knew that sounded quality.

Akabusi looked down on the twisted pile of dying giant sperm, matted blonde hair, Prozac pies and a clunge so wasted it should be in The Priory, he bent down, whispered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.

The End.

[Harv]

Akabusi sat in the back of his Corsa watching Loose Women on his black and white portable. He hadn't seen this many mouthy c**ts since he f**ked all of B*witched at Ainsley Harriot's barbeque in Staines. That had ended in bloodshed and he knew if he watched another minute of this menstrual backwash he would have to take a life.

It was piping hot in the motor, Kriss never opened the windows and the air con was like a war veteran with emphysema trying to blow out a dropped John Player Special. Busi was wearing his spring wardrobe - crushed tan linen dungarees which were more breezy than a French cheese shop. The air was creeping in around his sleeping genitalia and tickling his taut black curlies like a favourite uncle at a niece's birthday party.

Akabusi turned the telly off, he was depressed. That morning he had given a motivational speech to a large group of deaf young achievers in Stevenage and he spent an hour pumping his fist and mouthing "Awooga". Which wasn't far removed from his usual routine. Kriss had wondered what these f**kers would achieve anyway other than playing the xylophone really fast and signing Open University programmes about ants. When they didn't clap Busi had stormed out without even flashing his chocolate donger. He'd stuck a fat index at them. It was the only language they understood.

To cap it all he looked down on his weeping dark colossus and realized it hadn't supped at the frothing fountain of a ladies clunge for over two days. His fat balls were more full of tadpoles than the Blue Peter pond after Peter Duncan dared to have a w*nk into it. He needed to unsheath his meat drill bit and screw something into a wall soon or he feared a bigger cum explosion since Paris Hilton made herself sick before lunch.

He got out of the car as a bucket full of crumbs from the ten Greggs Steak Packs he devoured quicker than the North Sea eats oil rig workers dropped to the ground. He looked around at all the other cars parked up at The Priory and laughed a deep and dark laugh that set off a few alarms. When you had a plonker like Busi's you didn't need a Hummer to get pussy, pussy came to you. In your '91 Vauxhall Corsa. He was at The Priory to see poor old John Regis whose OCD had gone ballistic since he was turned down for a part in the sequel to the Greek fight flick 300. 301 was a perfect project for Regis and his rampant OCD would have been helped exactly 3021 times more than the cocktail of drugs he swallowed every morning.

"This is Regggggggggggggggiss" was the last thing Akabusi heard as Regis was carted off in The Priory's white Escalade ambulance outside Kriss's £127,983 mansion in Luton. If Roger Black had been there then maybe they could have saved the huged chested blubbering fool but Black was in Tehran about to poison that President Inmydinnerjacket or whatever that guy who looked like a minicab driver in a £10 Spastic Society suit was f**king called. It had meant cancelling four JJB Sports opening events and one signing at a Maplins in Letchworth but work was work.

Akabusi strolled into the clinic, his midnight pussy piercer slapping against his toned inner thighs like Collymore on Jonsson. The Armani clad nurses stopped administering placebos to cigarello thin models to watch as Busi headed for the John Paul Getty ward with the confidence of a man with a gold medal and a brown wheelie bin in his dungs.

The attention sent a spark down his body and his meat twitched to a semi and he knew that if he had a look it would now be the size of two kingsize Mars bars wrapped together with fat veins. He let slip the confines of his linen dungs and let the imported air of the clinic cling to his toned onyx chassis to Ciccone to black babies. Regis was sitting at the window of his oak panelled room wearing a Maria Grachvogel clincal gown and was busy counting the reality stars ghost writing their autobiographies in the grounds. "97, 98..." wept Regis as he heard the unmistakable sound of flesh against flesh that meant Busi was in the room.

They embraced. They weren't sh*t pushers or anything but the touch of Olympian on Olympian seemed to cheer up the vacant Regis. "What the f**k have they got you on, John?" roared Kriss with all the power of a Spartan attacking a Ginsters concession. "Karl Malden, Kriss. f**k knows" said Regis as he secretly counted the bristles of Akabusi's immaculate tache.

"Get the f**k out of here, Mr Akabumbum" said a voice from behind the boys which was a smooth as a babies arse but without the skid marks. Akabusi was almost at full lob as he turned to spy a nurse clad in a tight white tunic that Busi was sure concealed a pair of bristols so epic that Cecil B Demille made her bras. If Kriss's pussy senses were right and they always f**king were he suspected that joining those tits was a clunge as wet as a Norwegian work experience chap.

Busi knew at that precise moment he had to get Regis out of this c**t soup factory but he also knew that he had to bash this nurse's doors in like coppers visiting a Rasta temple. Before this thought even left his brain to tell his balls the nurse had ripped the tunic from her hard body and let the buttons fly across the ward. The combatants faced each other, Akabusi looking like a brown capital T on it's hind legs and her like a naked woman with nice tits.

Akabusi pounced on her like a fat person devouring a buffet of obesity genes and within seconds he was sliding the length and breadth into a glistening hole that had previously been as unable to open as a bacon sarnie stall at Golders Green tube station. As she reverse cowgirled him he was faced with a tight little arse hole that looked like an 80 year old whistling. Busi called to Regis to come over and stick his pinky up it. Struggling with his OCD, John finally couldn't resist and slipped it up to his Liz Duke signet. This was progress. And it made the nurse yelp like a dog being kicked.

Within hours Akabusi was on his violent vinegars and let fly with a gush that looked like a dam letting off pressure. The nurse slide all over the floor looking like she had just had union with Slimer.

"Pack your Transformers rucksack Regis. We're f**king out of here" cried Akabusi as he rolled up his brown St Bernard cock and popped on his linen dungs. Busi wanted to get to a party near Durham he'd heard of on Myspace, it was called "House Rape" or something and he knew that sounded quality.

Akabusi looked down on the twisted pile of dying giant sperm, matted blonde hair, Prozac pies and a clunge so wasted it should be in The Priory, he bent down, whispered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.

The End.

HAHAHA.


never get tired of these.

absolute gold

[Guest]

Where do you source these materials guys ?