Don't recall seeing this one......
Busi Goes to Hogwarts
Akabusi hated trains. They made his balls ache. And they were about the only land based thing he had ever seen that was as long, hard and powerful as his dribbling beef ionic. He looked out the steamed up window at the blurry countryside as the vibrations of the journey went right up his toned onyx legs up to the recently weaved bush covering his monstrous sud carriers.
Before long Busi's meat and two f**king huge veg looked like Kevin Keegan impaled by a giant bum cigar and for a brief moment he passed out as every drop of his Nigerian blue blood shuffled into his genitalia quicker than Gray Thompson on black ice. It would be a shame to waste this god given erection but there was a gang of snotty kids in the same carriage so he got poor OCD riddled John Regis to pinch the end.
Two hours later the beast had been tamed and Akabusi went back to his well thumbed copy of his biography "f**k Me, That Kid Can Run" by Michael Crick. Regis continued playing iShylock on his portable Wii and so far had collected £4763 in rent and just over a pound of flesh or 0.498 kilogrammes to be exact. Which Regis always was. It was just a shame that the carriage had so many germs. Or 8,763,229 to be exact. Regis would scrub his shovel like hands until they bled tonight.
Roger Black wasn't on the train. In fact Busi hadn't seen Blackie for a few days since he had gone up to Cheshire to collect some gambling debts from the Katonas. What a pair of tits! Her and her husband had been. You borrow from Busi you will get burned and Black gets the Vig by any means necessary.
Busi put down his biography after he had read about the infamous Cirque de Soleil incident from 98. Busi liked circuses or circi as much as the f**king next man but he hadn't paid 200 nicker to see some frog in a leo tarding around to pan pipe moods. A circus "should include cruelty to animals, French fellas farting onto talcum powder and clowns dressed as Chris Langham". Good times. Good times.
Krisstopher wiped down the window. They were here. Hogsmeade was a f**king dump. Full of ropey old brass flashing grannies that looked like Gordon Ramsey's chin and Albanians selling shrooms and day trips. Busi laughed as he recalled the time he made Regis drop acid. It had gone right through his Gola trainer and the little bleeder had screamed louder than Hagrid bumming Blessed.
Busi was in town to deliver a motivational speech to some poxy students in their final year of the school up on the hill. A technical college or something, Busi didn't give two magic sh*ts. He was getting ten K for this and all the pussy he could eat. It would have taken 28 JJB openings and 2 Maplin's closures to make that kind of cash and that made Busi harder than a 10 year old gyppo riding on the back of a waltzer.
As Busi and Regis waited for the carriages up to the college they saw a queue of weirdos waiting outside the Hogsmeade Bookshop for the next Rofl Lundgren Sex Story. f**king idiots. Busi knew what happened. It always ended the same way. Clunge carnage.
Turned out the school was a bit huge. And full of "special" children. Not window slurpers or self harmers but magicians and elf harmers. It was like a c**t soup with magic croutons. And owls. Apparently the big man on campus was called Billy Bunter or Barry Norman or something. But Busi was here now and he would give the little f**ker a run for his money. He was going to enjoy his time at Hogtarts.
As he walked onto the stage for his 89 second motivational he felt the cool air of "that what should not really be talked about much" - sex - slip into his Gryffindor dungs and circle his massive hymen hurta and hairy snitches like spirits around Derek Acorah. Mainly gin. He looked down on the 17 year olds and could sense that most of the birds and a few of the owls wanted a piece of the Busi sex pie. And it was just about legal.
There was a ginger tard winking at him up front. Kriss was glad the kid from Mask had lost weight. His mum Cher would be pleased. Next to him was berty big bollocks or Terry Grotbags. He really didn't care what the squeaky little f**ker was called. He just knew he had a much bigger penis and that is what mattered to men. And Busi. As was Busi's wont he let slip his dungs at the climax of the speech and let his slythering pranny pounder fall to the heavy stone floor like their old headmaster - Professor McClusky. He stood there like a chocolate centaur standing on his hind legs about to enter Desert Orchid. Dead or alive.
"Enormous erectionanus!" shouted a voice from the back of the hall. Busi's instantly became harder than blood diamonds and just as shiny. He filled the room with a gigantic meat chimney that Fred Dibnah would have had trouble blowing up. Especially as he was brown bread. A small figure stepped forward.
Hermoine Granger was definitely 18. Maybe even 17. But she was definitely 18. And she was smokin hot magma formed into the shape of a six former. Busi knew beneath that tight jumper was a pair of bristols like two O2 Arenas fighting and a clunge tighter than two jocks on an early morning Easyjet flight to Palma. Busi's offal wand quivered as he was drawn towards Granger, helmet first.
And boy did Busi have helmet thirst. His japs was gasping like Hiroshima residents for eye drops. "Clothus flingoffus" roared Busi as he landed near Hermoine. And they did. She stood there like a beautiful female greyhound with a tits like philosopher's stones and areolae as bumpy and as hot as a landing at Sao Paulo.
He dug in. And lept on her like chocolate leaping frogs. His hands were all over her like Cerberus on three scouse kids. She wasn't shy and Billy Rotter looked over at Krisstopher with a wink. She'd been around the school more times than nits. Within hours Busi was on his vigorous vinegars and he let fly with such a gush of nad sauce that Voldermort was knocked clean out and all the kids started laying into him. He was a f**king dead man.
Roger Black appeared out of nowhere in a flying Corsa. Turns out he was Sirrus's younger brother and sh*t. Regis piled in. Busi rolled up his seven volume saga and slipped on his sodden dungs. He always knew how this would end.
Krisstopher Malcolm Akabusi looked down on the twisted pile of giant spunk bubbles, long matted hair, smashed in back doors, Dark Arts and a clunge wetter than a plunge pool on the Titantic, knelt down onto his powerful black magic knee, whispered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.
The End.
Busi Goes to Hogwarts
Akabusi hated trains. They made his balls ache. And they were about the only land based thing he had ever seen that was as long, hard and powerful as his dribbling beef ionic. He looked out the steamed up window at the blurry countryside as the vibrations of the journey went right up his toned onyx legs up to the recently weaved bush covering his monstrous sud carriers.
Before long Busi's meat and two f**king huge veg looked like Kevin Keegan impaled by a giant bum cigar and for a brief moment he passed out as every drop of his Nigerian blue blood shuffled into his genitalia quicker than Gray Thompson on black ice. It would be a shame to waste this god given erection but there was a gang of snotty kids in the same carriage so he got poor OCD riddled John Regis to pinch the end.
Two hours later the beast had been tamed and Akabusi went back to his well thumbed copy of his biography "f**k Me, That Kid Can Run" by Michael Crick. Regis continued playing iShylock on his portable Wii and so far had collected £4763 in rent and just over a pound of flesh or 0.498 kilogrammes to be exact. Which Regis always was. It was just a shame that the carriage had so many germs. Or 8,763,229 to be exact. Regis would scrub his shovel like hands until they bled tonight.
Roger Black wasn't on the train. In fact Busi hadn't seen Blackie for a few days since he had gone up to Cheshire to collect some gambling debts from the Katonas. What a pair of tits! Her and her husband had been. You borrow from Busi you will get burned and Black gets the Vig by any means necessary.
Busi put down his biography after he had read about the infamous Cirque de Soleil incident from 98. Busi liked circuses or circi as much as the f**king next man but he hadn't paid 200 nicker to see some frog in a leo tarding around to pan pipe moods. A circus "should include cruelty to animals, French fellas farting onto talcum powder and clowns dressed as Chris Langham". Good times. Good times.
Krisstopher wiped down the window. They were here. Hogsmeade was a f**king dump. Full of ropey old brass flashing grannies that looked like Gordon Ramsey's chin and Albanians selling shrooms and day trips. Busi laughed as he recalled the time he made Regis drop acid. It had gone right through his Gola trainer and the little bleeder had screamed louder than Hagrid bumming Blessed.
Busi was in town to deliver a motivational speech to some poxy students in their final year of the school up on the hill. A technical college or something, Busi didn't give two magic sh*ts. He was getting ten K for this and all the pussy he could eat. It would have taken 28 JJB openings and 2 Maplin's closures to make that kind of cash and that made Busi harder than a 10 year old gyppo riding on the back of a waltzer.
As Busi and Regis waited for the carriages up to the college they saw a queue of weirdos waiting outside the Hogsmeade Bookshop for the next Rofl Lundgren Sex Story. f**king idiots. Busi knew what happened. It always ended the same way. Clunge carnage.
Turned out the school was a bit huge. And full of "special" children. Not window slurpers or self harmers but magicians and elf harmers. It was like a c**t soup with magic croutons. And owls. Apparently the big man on campus was called Billy Bunter or Barry Norman or something. But Busi was here now and he would give the little f**ker a run for his money. He was going to enjoy his time at Hogtarts.
As he walked onto the stage for his 89 second motivational he felt the cool air of "that what should not really be talked about much" - sex - slip into his Gryffindor dungs and circle his massive hymen hurta and hairy snitches like spirits around Derek Acorah. Mainly gin. He looked down on the 17 year olds and could sense that most of the birds and a few of the owls wanted a piece of the Busi sex pie. And it was just about legal.
There was a ginger tard winking at him up front. Kriss was glad the kid from Mask had lost weight. His mum Cher would be pleased. Next to him was berty big bollocks or Terry Grotbags. He really didn't care what the squeaky little f**ker was called. He just knew he had a much bigger penis and that is what mattered to men. And Busi. As was Busi's wont he let slip his dungs at the climax of the speech and let his slythering pranny pounder fall to the heavy stone floor like their old headmaster - Professor McClusky. He stood there like a chocolate centaur standing on his hind legs about to enter Desert Orchid. Dead or alive.
"Enormous erectionanus!" shouted a voice from the back of the hall. Busi's instantly became harder than blood diamonds and just as shiny. He filled the room with a gigantic meat chimney that Fred Dibnah would have had trouble blowing up. Especially as he was brown bread. A small figure stepped forward.
Hermoine Granger was definitely 18. Maybe even 17. But she was definitely 18. And she was smokin hot magma formed into the shape of a six former. Busi knew beneath that tight jumper was a pair of bristols like two O2 Arenas fighting and a clunge tighter than two jocks on an early morning Easyjet flight to Palma. Busi's offal wand quivered as he was drawn towards Granger, helmet first.
And boy did Busi have helmet thirst. His japs was gasping like Hiroshima residents for eye drops. "Clothus flingoffus" roared Busi as he landed near Hermoine. And they did. She stood there like a beautiful female greyhound with a tits like philosopher's stones and areolae as bumpy and as hot as a landing at Sao Paulo.
He dug in. And lept on her like chocolate leaping frogs. His hands were all over her like Cerberus on three scouse kids. She wasn't shy and Billy Rotter looked over at Krisstopher with a wink. She'd been around the school more times than nits. Within hours Busi was on his vigorous vinegars and he let fly with such a gush of nad sauce that Voldermort was knocked clean out and all the kids started laying into him. He was a f**king dead man.
Roger Black appeared out of nowhere in a flying Corsa. Turns out he was Sirrus's younger brother and sh*t. Regis piled in. Busi rolled up his seven volume saga and slipped on his sodden dungs. He always knew how this would end.
Krisstopher Malcolm Akabusi looked down on the twisted pile of giant spunk bubbles, long matted hair, smashed in back doors, Dark Arts and a clunge wetter than a plunge pool on the Titantic, knelt down onto his powerful black magic knee, whispered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.
The End.
hahahahahahah ****ing class!
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