I would too.
Do you think Cyril Reris and Roger Black would play their own characters too?
There must be someone on here with 'insider' knowledge and contacts in the TV world!
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Just a thought
I think we should get the author of the stories to write a pilot for bravo or men and motors. I think Kriss would do it, he surely needs the work. The erotic misadventures of Kriss Akabusi. In between "real slags" and "men who shag all the time". Friday nights at 11 o'clock.
Can this be arranged?
I know i would watch it.Leave a comment:
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Can't believe I missed this thread!!
Now I get all the "Awooga" and "pat her on the fanny" references posters make!!
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Originally posted by ShaggyAlonso View Post
You can tell that's not written by the original (and best) author Rofl Lundgren.
So many people have attempted to jump on the bandwagon and write their own (rip off) stories. Not funny.
My mate sent me one aswel, it was a very poor attempt this stuff should be left to the professionals!Leave a comment:
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Kids Say The Funniest Things
It was quarter to ten in the morning and the rumble of Kriss Akabusi's Corsa tickled his arse in a way that made him grin a grin he would only grin if Fash sent him a humourous text, which he incedentally he hadn't done for ages. He heard a ring. It was his top of the range pay as you go nokia 3210 with a tas mania facia. He thought it might be Fash with an amusing text but instead it was a text from his agent saying that he better get over to Itv studios as fast as possible because Itv where very interested in getting a black presented to front the new series of Kids say the funniest things. Busi despised children; his own where in the boot of his corsa behind his over sized jock strap as he sat there. He realised then why he hadn't heard from Fash or Linford Christie in a while. They had been tipped off about the gig. And even though Busi hated kids he had come accustomed to a certain lifestyle. A one bedroom luxury mansion with it's own lock up doesn't come cheap and Busi was already begining to feel that his motovational speech's weren't packing quite the same punch they once did. And so with this is mind he headed off to itv with all the speed of Stan Collymore after the window of his motor had just been tapped at asda car park.
Driving down the motorway reaching the corsas top speed of 85 miles an hour Busi suddenly became very worried. His smart Dungs where in the wash and he was only wearing his summer ones and he had a big cornetto stain on the front of it. It was then he made a decision. To do it in all his glory standing proud like a midgets coat hook. But he had a trick up his sleeve. Busi, having gone to brighton with the lads the week before had awoken with a prince albert penil piercing. He didn't really rate it much and so opted not to wear jewlerry in it. He was out to impress today though and luckily for him a group of local spastics got him a Liz Duke diamonte hoop for motivating them in the only way he knew how; with a toothy grin an awooga and a slip of the dungs. He took one hand off the steering wheel and reached into the glove box where he took out the ring. As he awkwardly attatched it to his goliath plonker making it resemble mister t after a weight watchers diet. Disaster struck. A siren sounded and Busi new he was rumbled for speeding. He already had a few points on his license and couldn't risk a suspension. He had a JJB to open in reading next monday and he couldn't miss that. He would need to talk his way out of this one. He looked in the rear view window and blood filled his plonker faster than a black man leaving a bnp fancy dress party. It was a saucy little red head police woman. Busi liked a woman in uniform, but he knew that uniform wouldn't be on for very long and as she ordered him to roll down the window he knew exactly what was about to happen.
The officer took one look at his decorated staff of power and lunged through the window. Busi in one foul swoop ripped off the uniform ordering her to keep her helmet on. Why? He just felt like it. He threw her to the back seat and in no time at all the windows where steaming up. Onlookers could merely see a corsa shaking like it's never shook before and could only here the muffled whimpers of two very scared children and the mighty grunts of a man doing what he does best.
Within hours he was ready to unleash his mighty load of man chicken. And his target was in sight. The helmet clad head of P.C Perfect. He blew his load and opened up the back door letting her out. He looked at his watch. Realising he had no chance of getting to itv now. He didn't care though. Let Fash get the gig. Nothing could spoil his mood now. He leant out the front door and he said, "I don't suppose you'll be needing my license and registration." He let out a mighty laugh and bent down and said awooga softly into her seamen covered helmet. Patted her on the fanny and went to catch Greggs before it closed.Leave a comment:
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Akabusi was trapped. In the storeroom. Of a JJB just outside of Luton. And he had just farted. The fragrance of his arse bomb was stronger than a Glaswegian Ramp Assistant and the smell would have pulled the skin back on his plonker if he hadn't already pulled it back. To pass the time.
Harvey Goldenblum, Busi's agent and confidante, had always told him that he was a potential target for extremists. People were jealous of a man who unzipped his dungs and instantly broke paving stones. So when a copper had burst into the grand opening of this palace of tracksuit bottoms and Gola trainers and announced that a suspect package was outside, Busi hadn't been surprised. He had always known this day would come.
The last few weeks had been omnious. Regis had spent exactly 5678 minutes building Krisstopher a Busi size FleshLight out of a stainless steel bin and some stolen ballistics gel. Regis had modelled the clunge piece on Mick Jagger singing Gimme Shelter and the clit had been fashioned from a mould of Judi Oakes in competition mode. All in all it was a ****ing mess but Busi didn't want to disappoint poor OCD riddled Regis so he got some blood into it and within in seconds he was sweating like a doorman at Tiger Tiger.
Of course the ballistics gel was ****ter than a Concert for Diana and Busi was stuck solid. For three long and hard hours he looked like he was attacking Oscar the Grouch with a cock like five brown babies' arms wrapped together in angry veins. Eventually Roger Black had pulled out his ivory handled Yarborough and slashed through the gel quicker than Vanessa Fletz goes through men of colour.
Busi had been laid up for a week in his £127,874 one bedroom mansion as his ebony pussy pestle had recovered. In the meantime he had to lay off the clunge suds and his balls had gotten so huge that he was sure the Branson and Per Lindstrand would try to fly one of them across the Atlantic unsuccessfully. To pass the time and to keep the blood resolutely in his brain and not in his slumbering onyx sauce bottle he wrote 18 motivational books, recorded two videos on how not to piss or **** yourself in public and poked Tanni Grey Thompson on Facebook so hard he burst her tyres. And her bubble.
Whilst Kriss was out of action the gang resembled a fanny that had just been kicked. Busi had sent Regis to buy some tartan paint from Homebase and he hadn't come back. It had been three days. Black had been asked to head up the new Justice Ministry in ol' glass eyes new cabinet. Of course he was too busy to take the job - he had 18 Maplins stores and one Cotswold Outdoor to open. In a week. Roger had left only one directive - have Derek Redmond shot or stabbed. Or both. As long as he was harmed.
Black had eventually found Regis in Dunfermline mixing paints in a B&Q and for awhile the gang played Bean Flicker on Busi's Wii and sank Jagerbombs until the sun scraped over the horizon near Hemel. The doctor, who for some reason had a mask over his face and C4 strapped to his chest, had given him the all clear. The news sent a bullet train of blood into Busi's sleeping hymen humper and it twitched like a burning man. Krisstopher Akabusi was back.
As they had entered the JJB near Luton Akabusi's pussy levels were instantly raised to clitical and a jet black crack attack was imminent. The musty rarified air of the discount sports store crept into his silk dungs like Shrek into an apartment in La Luz and caressed his giant genitals with all the vigour of Argus speed reading the new Argos catalogue. As was the protocal at official openings Busi let slip his dungarees and proceeded to the cutting of the ribbon his meat Brabantia swinging like Benoit from a multigym. But the numptys who ran this new store had forgotten the Liz Duke scissors that only Busi could use. So Busi went backstage to find them.
And that is where he found himself now. Naked, hornier than Paul Gadd in a fringe production of Bugsy Malone and hotter than a couple of fellas pulling up to Glasgow Departures. Busi peeked out into the store. A robot that looked like a cross between Tanni Grey and Ultra Magnus was approaching his Corsa. On closer inspection it was actually Stephen Hawkings who the Bomb Disposal team used on occasion to diffuse bombs or open fetes. Or diffuse fetes.
Hawkwind was great at sums and theories but he was **** at opening things. So Regis washed his hands 26 times with carbolic and opened the boot. The suspect package was a mangled pile of steel and a congealed spunk. It was Regis' FleshLight. The police reopened the street and released the grip around some Asian's necks. Busi composed himself and strode out onto the shopfloor as proud and upstanding as Venus William's micro penis.
"The only controlled explosion in here will be in her face!" roared Busi with all the might and passion of Thor ****ing Odin and not giving a reach around. "Her" was the smokin' hot chief of Luton Bomb Disposal who was trying on some steel cap Green Flash. Busi knew beneath the crisp white flak jacket were a pair of bristols like two Bruce Willis's fighting and tucked into those crisp black combats was a clunge that would detain you for up to 90 days without charge.
Busi instantly became thicker than a wrestler's neck and his giant ebony pears lifted into the attack position. His retractable cum roof revealed a jap's eye as large and steely as Gordon Brown's glass golf ball. Kriss stood there looking like an overweight chocolate Pinocchio lying his arse off.
The chief pulled at her heavy clothes and whipped off her kevlar G with aplomb. She was wetter than coke near Cork and her fanny glistened in the strip lighting of the JJB. She had a clit like Keith Allen's penis. Busi stalked her like a black cat playing with a mouse. With tits. He wanted to get in her box and cut the red wire. Or the brown one.
Krisstopher lept on her like the McCanns on a plane and before she could take a breath, Busi was up to his nuts in the law. His hands were all over her and she wasn't shy either. He felt a thumb slip up his bum disposal unit and he knew this was going to a heavy one.
Within hours he was on his violent extremist vinegars and let fly with such a gush of ball broil that several newsagents in South Yorkshire got the sandbags out again. The store was ruined but his empty knackers echoed their approval and as he pulled his dying mickey out and slipped on his dungs Busi knew that this JJB was well and truly opened.
The emergency was over. Busi had gotten his oats and the chief was busily scoffing up the remnants. Black honked her horn in the Corsa. Regis has pissed and **** himself. He'd not watched the video. And he was a borderline ****. But he was family. And he made Busi look good.
Kriss looked down on the pile of flapping spermazota, matted fuzz, mobile phone detonaters, hazard tape and a clunge that looked like a boxer's ear, bent down on his powerful black knee, whispered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.
The End.Leave a comment:
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SuperbBlood filled his plonker quicker than Simon Weston turning on the cold tap. He leapt on her like Hamas on Gazza and thrust his penal colony right up to her stapled stomach. Busi thought he heard a "prison break" somewhere down below but he liked a bit of blood with his pudding. Hilton was open for business and all her rooms were kingsize.
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Akabusi was in the shower. Crying. And w*nking. In fact there was liquid coming from every orifice. He hadn't felt this bad since he'd watched an hour and a half of Britain's Got Talent. It was that bad. He had travelled to Los Angeles for the funeral of international businessman Vincent MacMahon who had tragically and spectacularly exploded on an episode of some wrestling show.
Busi had done a lot of work for the WWF back in the day - once arranging a fight in a skip near Luton between Hulk Hogan, Sir William Regal and an endangered panda. The panda had sh*t moves and had taken a severe beating from Regal leaving it with two black eyes. Busi had withdrawn his support of the wrestling/animal charity not long after.
The funeral had been a sombre affair. Live on cable. Many of the wrestling world's best wrestlers had carried MacMahon's walnut effect coffin and then chucked it into the grave. Mourners then ceremoniously smashed a metal chair or bin onto the coffin as Journey played soft rock classic Don't Stop Belie-
Whilst eating a Powerade vol au vent at the wake at a titty bar Busi's agent had called him with the news that "Lotions 13" had been creating quite a buzz. Mainly because it was a big steaming pile of sh*t but also due to the fantastic tax dodging opportunities it offered. The producers of Hulk II were interested in speaking to Kriss about greening up to play Dr Krisstopher Banner. If the money and tax breaks were right Busi was in but he wanted to play it black and not green so the production company told him to stick it up his arsehole and offered it to John Regis or failing that Jonathan Edwards.
Black and Regis were out in LA with Busi and the entourage had been tearing up LA like Portugese coppers in brush land. Regis' rampant OCD was exactly 873 times better and out here in LA LA land Regis was considered a balanced individual. But a black one. Black had been hooking up with his crew from the Rollin 60 Neighbourhood Crips, although out here they called them chips Busi had learned. Black had put more caps in arses than George Michael on tour and the heat had forced the Busi posse to take refuge in the Mondrian.
So here Busi was in the hot stream of a Hans Grohe struggling to get blood into his ebony pussy pestle as his massive hands moved quicker than an Albanian at a Presidential walkabout. To make matters much much worse, his onyx boa inflictor hadn't felt the sweet touch of a lady's tight white clunge piece since he'd surprise sexed the Virgin Atlantic stewardess as she given him Reiki over Newfoundland. Busi had it all. But he wanted more. More pussy.
To cheer himself up and get Regis out of the wardrobe, Roger Black had arranged for Busi to deliver one of his magnificent and hugely expensive motivational speeches at a local prison. A woman's prison. As Regis towelled down the sleek, jet black chassis of Mr Krisstopher Akabusi, the thought of pumping his fist and shouting slogans at a room full of caged heat was too much to take and he had hit John in his eye with his inflated helmet. Just like Barcelona in 92. Maybe he would get some LA gear after all, Busi mused as he slipped into his Armani dungerees he snagged from TK Maxx.
As Busi, Black and poor demented Regis pulled up to the Century Regional Detention Centre in Lynwood in there hired convertible Corsa they could all smell the accrid stench of unpounded pussy and the sweet aroma of women slipping more fingers and tongues than a professional stamp sticker. Busi wanted to high ten but choose a five to appear cool.
They checked in, received some prison issue mirrored shades and waited in the back stage area whilst Busi ran through an arm pump, an Awooga and a Awwwwwiggght in front of Black's sunglasses. Regis had totally covered himself in a map of the prison but he was too scared to get a Schofield so he had transfers. In the LA heat he now looked like a panther who had rolled in a Hello Kitty collection.
The crowd were baying for Busi and when he emerged in his ermine dungs wearing his Olympic medal the place erupted like Palestine. He hadn't seen this many women with tats, piercings and buzzcuts since he went to the Melanie C comeback concert. There were "women" here rougher than Barrymore's chair leg and just as dangerous. Regis was sweating so much he was now standing in a pool of ink and Black kept his hand firmly on his ivory handled Glock.
Many of the deep C divers were touching themselves and others whilst Busi spun out his usual brand of David Coleman anecdotes and lispy bullsh*t. By the end of the 5 minute speech the gang of tail didn't even clap, they squelched. And that was enough for Busi. He let slip his dungs and felt the fabric slide past his smooth toned thighs. He stood there for a moment looking like a beautiful chocolate elephant with it's back legs and torso chopped off. Then the riot started.
With two women dead and fourteen guards severely raped the posse took refuge with the prison padre Father Ignatious O'Reilly. "Mr Akabumbum. Despite your naked torso causing the biggest riot since that Ikea opened in Edmonton I would like you to visit one of our poor prisoners on Death Row. I think she would appreciate your kind words...and your giant cock".
Prisoner 9818783 or Paris Hilton as she was know around here, cowered in her cell as the riot took off. Busi stood at the bars his grumbling fire hose twitching like Lubbock after a belly flop. Busi knew that beneath that Gucci orange jump suit was a pair of tits so small that her cell walls were jealous and a clunge as well thumbed as the lingerie section of a Freemans. Her stylist and PR let Busi into the cell and Paris dried her eyes with a silk do-rag. Kriss knew that The Hilt had seen more mileage than the McCann European Tour but he still wanted in. Up to his ginormous nuts.
Paris knew the drill. She peeled off her Gitmos and exposed a tanned torso that had seen more action on the internet than Pete Townsend and Leslie Grantham put together. Apart from the golden mane that topped her pin like head there wasn't a hair on her body. Busi thought he was looking at a shaved kitten and in a way he was.
Blood filled his plonker quicker than Simon Weston turning on the cold tap. He leapt on her like Hamas on Gazza and thrust his penal colony right up to her stapled stomach. Busi thought he heard a "prison break" somewhere down below but he liked a bit of blood with his pudding. Hilton was open for business and all her rooms were kingsize.
Within hours Krisstopher was on his violent vinegars and let fly with such a stream of knacker lava that Paris's spray tan was stripped from her boney body and for a brief moment the prison riot was quelled - a little in awe and a little in disgust.
Busi rolled up his heiress aerator and watched as the last of his giant spunks flipped and flapped around on the cold stone floor of Lynwood. Regis and Black had gotten a call from Robbie Williams to play football against Rod Stewart up in the Hills. Busi knew that the buffet at these things was always quality so they had no time to lose. And the prison was on fire.
"Good luck Hilt. You f**king idiot. Do your time with some dignity and don't bend over in the showers. Or the internet. Peace out" roared Akabusi with all the might of Brian Blessed with his nuts caught in the Complete Works of Shakespeare.
Busi looked down on the twisted pile of matted blonde hair, hotel reservations, dying tadpoles, rice and tiny tits, bent down on his powerful Olympian knee, whisphered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.
The End.Leave a comment:
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