The History and the Mystery of Butterball: The Man, the Myth, the Legend in his own Mind… if Nowhere Real…. by BaHR

about 5,000 words

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Now… I have tried to answer… to anticipate… all of the questions that any of my critics might have. A priori! But I know that if any of you just happen to be Venusian Bearded Clams… especially if you were born into the Purple… Venusian Royalty. And… I imagine that just about any other species of Mollusk of the Class Hyperreligiositae… you will no doubt find some way to criticize my choices. And… I suspect your first question might be just why someone who claims to be a Conservative Christian would be hanging around… associating with that kind of crowd. Singers. Dancers. Strippers. Prostitutes. Fry cooks. Nuclear astrophysicists. Scientist of any ilk. Sex Industry workers. Government Union employees. Entertainment Industry workers. Anyone else who engages in any other form of prostitution. Any of that sort of occupation on that sordid list of miscreants and unBeliebers. Including Justin himself since he fell of the Wagon of Sainthood. Was thrown out of the Stretch Limousine of Perfection.
Well… if you actually are a Venusian Bearded Clam… or some sort of slimy Space Slug… then you’ve never worked a millisecond in your entire life… so you have absolutely no idea what working men and women sometimes have to do to put food on the table…. To feed their children. To purchase alcohol and recreational drugs. Those not covered on your government unhealthcare plan.
And… by working men and women… I mostly mean working women. On the evening shift. Or… Ladies of the Evening. Working flat of their backs. Or… clinging to a Pole.
While you’re getting all high-and-mighty on me… all hyperreligious… I’ll just remind you that Jesús hung out with prostitutes and riff-raff. Tax collectors. IRS agents. Other Governmental Union members. The worst kind of scum. Souls believed to be beyond… or beneath… salvation…. I do have to admit that he didn’t include many Scientists in his posse. Limited the number of doctors, too. Just one physician. And one assassin. Seems maybe there’s some sort of a correlation there.
Anyway…. I was unemployed at the time. A student. Or… at least in some ways… a stud. In Veterinary School. Studying Animal Husbandry. And… not one was ministering to these poor… struggling… sinners.
I saw a need. They had a need. I had a need. I needed somebody who also had a need….
You know how it goes….
And… there was a position available. It was a Missionary position. And I filled it. As best I could. As often as I could.
What could I do? There before me was a woman with needs. Aflame with passions. So I just did the Christian thing. Same thing that priests and preachers and youth ministers do all the time. For their church members. To their church members. Their students in their Christian Schools. And… their Choirboys…. I just followed a long, well-established Church tradition. And… I was well-endowed, so I filled that Missionary position. Perfectly. No complaints. None. At. All!
I had government grants. Several large endowments….
Our government is so generous with other people’s money.
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Well…. Just occurred to me that some of you may misinterpret what I just said. Spin it. Try to use it against me. Take my works completely out of context. Use my words… to accuse me. Before your church. And then… refuse to allow me to speak. To answer questions. To correct your transgressions. Confront your accusations. Present myself for examination before your blasted Board of Elders…. To answer your trumped-up charges….
That’s all right. I forgive you. Like Jesús himself said about you: you know not what you do. Bunch of blind guides. A nest of pit vipers. Vipers from the pit. Satan spawn. And Satan’s pawns. And you love doing your father’s bidding.
And… that’s really all the love you have in your hearts.
All the love you ever had… in your cold… hard… frozen… solid… hearts….
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WORD!!! A warning to all of you dirty-minded deacons and elders and priests and preachers and presbyters and all of you other holy sodomites of all descriptions…. Get your minds out of the gutter and drag your devious disputations out of the ditch.
You’re crowding me, Brother….
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So… maybe I should explain myself. Explain what really happened. Not that you’ll listen anyway. Not that you even possess the capacity to care. But… just so I have the satisfaction of defending myself. For once….
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As I may have mentioned before… this all started right after a tragic accident. One of my close friends… Rene LeCoq… died. Was killed. Went down in flames in the flaming netherregions of a Belch Hellhound bitch named Hellga Netherflamme… never to be seen alive again.
After that… incident… that… accident… that… tragic event… Hellgal and I were drawn closer together than ever…. Probably had something to do with the thermal convection currents. And the backdraft. The draft… the hot… foul… scary… wind… escaping from my backside. And… the Missionary position. Together those two… conditions… the backdraft… and the Missionary position… conspired… to create… what was functionally… a ramjet engine with an afterburner. Only faster. And harder. And deeper….
Anyway…. That bitch sure taught me a lot….
And… some of it was even useful….
Completely changed me. Changed my life. Changed my perspective. How I looked at life. How I looked at situations. How I looked at myself.
That fiery ginger bitch taught me a lot….
How to dress… inappropriately….
How to strip… seductively….
And… how to talk to a woman… the way she wants to be talked to…. How to talk to her heart. How to get a woman to let her hair down. How to get her to loosen her corset strings. And… her purse strings.
She taught me how to were eye make-up. A feather boa. Frilly panties. Lots of things.
Like I said… that Belch Hellhound bitch taught me a lot.
She taught me how to think…. About others. About a woman’s… needs…. And desires….
But mostly… she taught me how to think… for myself.
When that classless bitch left me. High and dry. And flat broke. Just because in a fit of passion… I screamed out… a name….
In a fit of passion… I screamed out… BUTTERFACE!!!
Immediately… her ardor changed… into pure hatred! Then… morphed further into impure… demonic… hatred.
But… after all… what can else can you really expect from a Hellhound?
Anyway…. My missionary position… that I enjoyed so much… suddenly morphed into a deathtrap. She suddenly began to see me… as a victim. A sacrifice.
I barely managed to escape the same fiery fate… the very same flaming death… as my friend… Rene LeCoq.
But I didn’t die. And… I learned a valuable lesson. A very valuable lesson. A very lucrative lesson… that paid my way through Vet School… with plenty of money to spare.

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I guess… first… I should give Hellgal credit…. She gave me the initial idea…. But… I took it from there….
I thought to myself… if a Butterface can make so-o-o much money doing it… then why not a Butterball? That’s when I hatched my plan. The plan that paid my way all the way through Vet School…. As a stripper.
I mean… obviously stripping is mostly a mind game. A more-or-less rational assumption I reasoned to myself.
So… I reasoned further: I have a great mind; therefore, I should be a great stripper!
As irrational as that idea might seem to some… it turned out to be completely logical… if rather counter-intuitive. Successful implementation of that idea… successful performance under my revolutionary… and even disruptive… totally blue sky business model… was determined almost completely by my ability to apply inappropriate and unexpected spin.
Here’s how I developed and implemented my business plan….
Obviously… right up front… any observant individual can see that the most important thing about being a successful stripper is having a really amazing schtick. And I’ve been told my schtick is nothing less than amazing. By people who should know. Professional people. People in the profession. Real Pros… if you catch my drift. So… by inference… and reference… I should be even more successful at stripping than Hellgal. Because I had a bigger…. A better…. A… beefier… schtick.
And… as it turned out… I was right!
Notice…. I said schtick: not schlong.
Irregardless…. I came to be a huge success. And that huge success… and my massive income… made me morph into a huge… raging… prick.
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Ok. Well…. I guess that statement isn’t really completely true. Not completely true. I need to look at myself a little more honestly. Be accountable. Take responsibility for who… for what… I was. Way back then. Before all of my success.
I mean… I need to admit… that I was immensely arrogant….
Already.
But being wanted by every dirty-minded woman in the whole church…. Or meeting house…. Or revival tent…. Well….
I mean… if that doesn’t make your organ swell… then you probably shouldn’t put yourself up there in front showing off your mastery of your organ to begin with now, should you? Show some confidence. Let your fingers do the walking and your organ do the talking. Get a vocorder and get to work!
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But what man has ever been able to convince his super-ego that he’s a big enough prick.
I mean… really….
I mean… my slacks were packed. But I still wasn’t convinced. Not really….
I mean… I still had my doubts…. I didn’t want to whip out my schtick… and have some lady in the front pew faint… and think that I needed some kind of… augmentation procedure…. A Hooteroplasty or something….
I mean… I have my pride…. And… my fear of needles. And have enough inside connections with deviant doctors who just want to make a buck. At my expense.
I really have one fundamental flaw…. I am an extreme egoist.
Maybe two flaws…. I like to work alone. I like to trust myself. My talents. My assets. And… I believe in my original equipment. Guess I wouldn’t really make a very good female. I just don’t like the idea of anyone… even doctors… especially doctors… sticking their stuff into my private parts…. Just doesn’t sound like my kind of fun.
Call me crazy….
Of course… someone like Use Les Pantywaist may find such a maneuver interesting. Intriguing. Enticing. Even necessary.
I mean… I know the guy claims to be a huge gun enthusiast, but seems to me… it’s hard to be effective… to get much penetration on the target… when you’re shooting blanks. And… I’m not sure a bigger tool wouldn’t help remediate that deficit…. I mean… he seems to think… he’s a big enough prick already…. But most everyone I’ve talked think he’s nothing more than a huge tool…. But… maybe that’s just me. Looking at things through the minimizing lens of male reality….
I mean… I’m not sure what he considers a huge gun.
I mean… I’m not sure I’d be all that enthusiastic about three inches. About three inches. As in… almost. That meaning of about. Approaching three from the lower side of the number line….
Sure, Use Less…. That’s really six inches. Uh-huh….
You’re inside a church, Buddy. Tell the truth. Don’t be such an exaggerating evangelist!
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Anyway…. Like I said before… my old main squeeze Hellgal taught me a lot about business. About building a business. About building up business. About giving me the business. About buttering up customers. She taught me a lot about butter and butts and all kinds of similar… slick… things….
But I must admit my act was all my own. My own creation. My own invention. My own schtick. You see… most strippers are straight strippers. But I… was… twisted. Kinky. Unique.
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Hopefully I’ve garnished your interest by now. Got you asking yourself: “What awesome and amazing idea did that genius come up with…?”
Well… here’s a hint…. Holy hanging man-hooters, Batman! My schtick was almost as uplifting as a Boy Wonder Bra. Almost as exciting as a Pentecostal Prayer Service led by a Charismatic Christian Preacher… passed out drunk on the Paschal wine… or rather on the Spirits… that lead to debauchery… if not pure douchebaggery. People were singing and dancing and speaking in tongues and foaming at the mouth and falling on the floor and flailing about…. Holy Rollers were Holy Rockin’ and Holy Rollin’ in the pews and down the aisles and a flippin’ and a floppin’ all over the place… until the ushers finally came forward to intervene! Those lusty church ladies were passing out and passing snakes and passing the plate and it included almost every form of Christian worship there ever was… except laying on of hands… because… that was extra.
Touching the snake….
Rubbing it….
Kissing it….
Worshipping the serpent….
That sort of thing….
Those Reformers were strict. Do-it-yourselfers. Except a few of the most high and holy Church ladies sitting in the first pew… the real Royalty of the congregation… tooting their French Hornies… giving one another the French Kiss of Peace on their inflamed holy of holies. And… the preachers were getting an extra-special Piece of the Rock….
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So… the Church women loved it! And I loved it. And they loved me. And I love the easy money. And it was all ok. It was all good. Because I was an ugly Butterball. And they weren’t doing anything wrong. They were convinced. And I was convinced. That my enterprise… was cumpletely… innocent. Just like the blessed ever-virgin Mary herself. Never defiled. And… Jesus’ brothers and sisters… well… they weren’t really her children…. And… that fat butterball… the round young virgin described in that Christmas song by Carol whomever… Mary… and her husband… never consummated their marriage… and he was good with that….
I know a girl just like Mary the Ever-Virgin. Just as forthright and honest. I guess Mary annulled her deal with Joseph, too. Right after she stole enough money to pay for her and her kids to live the life to which they wished to become accustomed…. I guess that’s why Mary is worshipped in her own cult. And why after she was canonized as Saint Mary… and made Saint Joseph cannon fodder… she went own to be elevated even higher in her own hyperreligious eyes…. Beyond the level of Saints. To the god-like beings. To the level of the few…. Exalted far above all…. But the fakirs of Islam…. The Super-saints. The Sanctimonious. Elevated above all Christians and even God himself in some folks eyes. Elevated above all others… except the Porphyrogénnētos… the Royal Queens and Princesses of the Venusian Bearded Clams.
Princess Guenniver is like that, too. The Ever-Virgin. Never-Virgin. Extra-Virgin. Snake oil. Something like that.
Speak, Oh, Toothless One…. Toot on, Oh, Ruthless Ones! Toot on, Oh, Clam of God…. Toot on….
Holy Rock and Rollover Account, Batman!
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Butt… I digress…. Tends to happen when I think about all the wrath and carnage that bunch of unholy gas-spewing funkagenic assholes hath wrought…. I apologize.
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And… moving on…. Or at least trying… to move forward….
Because… my act was Twisted. Seriously twisted. Because I perverted the Nature of the sex act…. My act was not only tolerated… my act was lauded. And… applauded. And… as a direct result… I was well paid. The lovely congregation of lusty Christian ladies… would lust… and drool… and get aroused… and… pay me… to put my clothes back on. You see… my act… tugged at those upstanding… godly… goody-goody’s heartstrings… so they flung their skirts in the air in celebration. And swung their purse-strings open. Because I offered them something they had always wanted. Fulfilled a Psychological yearning…. A need…. An aching…. An all-day… and all-night longing… each lady had felt down deep in her heart of hearts for a long, long time. A debased desire…. But… something more…. An absolute… indescribable craving…. Something they all secretly wished they could do with their husband. Shut him down. Shut him out. Shut him off. Cut him off. Figuratively of course.
But still… I insisted every woman pass through a metal detector. And that each woman submit to a cavity search. For concealed weapons. And other sharp… or blunt… objects. Except for battery operated appliances, of course…. Hearing aids. Pacemakers. That sort of thing.
We told the truth. Clearly advertized our requirements. Inappropriately set expectations. And… none of the ladies ever complained. Not a one. Rather… they seemed to enjoy themselves. They jumped up into the stirrups. Ride ‘em Cowboy. Some even preferred Backwards Cowgirl. Whatever their fantasy… we tried hard to fulfill it…. Not your usual Church Service, for sure.
Why was my performance so well received? I don’t really know. But I can guess.
My perverted act… reversing the natural order of sexuality… gave those ladies a feeling that they were rebels. Harlots. Shameful hussies. That they had always wanted. To feel dirty. To feel that surge sexual of power. Of self-determination. Of domination. Of control over their own lives. Of reversal of sexual… and familial… roles…. And… my acted… offered those sexually repressed females… the opportunity to loose all self-control… in a safe… spiritual… sanctified… environment.
Turns out… every married female… of every degenerate species in the entire sanctimonious… mostly monogamous… congregation had the same damned desire: to dictate the evening plans to that dick of a husband she served and serviced…. And… deal with his dick in a completely different way! And… just like Oprah… every woman in that studio audience got to go back home with something she really desired in her head… if not in her hand…. If not sticking out at an acute angle out of her husband’s cold… hard… heart….
Nope. Not a set of stainless steel steak-knives….
Turns out… most of those women could find it in their hearts to forgive their husbands for a dalliance or two… if he’d just get up and pull out of them…. Get off of them and get off somewhere else. With someone else. Who… didn’t particularly matter. They just no longer felt the love. They were tired. And their netherregions were inflamed, but not actually on fire.
Turns out… every one of those straight-laced Merrywidow-wearing homemakers and widowmakers had the same secret desire. They wanted to whisper… to say softly… even to SCREAM the exact same words to their husbands…. “Put your clothes back on, you son-of-a-bitch! I ain’t your whore no more. She’s somewhere else. She’s someone else. I’m just your wife. And I’m tired. I’m worn out. I ain’t your whore. No more! I’m just plain sore. So… put your clothes back on, you son-of-a-bitch. Please!”
Turns out… I was able to completely fulfill the needs of churches full of beautiful… buxsome… women. I was able to give them a total guilt-free trip to another dimension. A dimension of existence they had always dreamed about… but never actually been able to explore… experience… exploit. I was able to give those churchified women… the ultimate guilty pleasure…. Guilt-free stripping. Those deprived… depraved… desperate… dissipated women could sit back and giggle like bad little schoolgirls. Those desperate vixens could get their jollies… get their panties in a bunch… and… do something dirty…. Those pristine hussies could live the real stripper experience…. And… on Sunday… mourning… they could still sit their sexified asses in their usual church pew… beside those enormous prancing pompous pricks they called their husbands… without squirming. Too much. Because they didn’t want to smear their wet spot.
Turns out… because I was fat…. And butt-ugly…. I was less of a threat…. Much less of a threat…. Than any real man would be. Ever could be. Even a pool boy. And that explains a lot. Looking back up my dumb ass X’s past….
And… needless to say… it was a win-win situation.
You see… my business model opened up a whole new revenue stream for the adult entertainment industry. Churches. Day Cares. Coin-operated laundry facilities. Organic Greengrocers. Expensive coffee shops. Exclusive boutiques and department stores. Took strippers… and prostitutes… all manner of “professional” women… out of the dirty, dingy, dangerous environs they had once inhabited next to drug dens, drive-ins and truck stops. Buffed and polished them. Spit-shined their unsavory shit. Bleached their tarnished image…. Bleached their works…. And… bleach cleans almost all social diseases. Made all of them…. All of us…. Almost completely socially acceptable. Almost. Acceptable.
Turns out chlorine bleach… and greenback money… have a regenerative capacity that was heretofore unexpected. Unappreciated. Unheard of. Unobserved. Bleach… and money… clean up…. Cover over…. Disinfected…. Eliminate…. A lot of badness. A lot of odors. A lot of filth. Make… unacceptable things… unacceptable creatures… acceptable…. Almost.
God created the Heavens… and the Earth. And in his infinite Wisdom… God separated the dry land… from the Void…. The oceans… the tides… wash away filth…. Wash the beaches clean….
And then… Sons of Beaches… clean up.
Same things with the Tithes. Same effect. Clean up the scum.
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Well… speaking of scum….
I probably should be truthful about this aspect of my business… of my choices… of my life, too. I sold out. Became a sell-out. Sold out everything and everyone involved.
I syndicated.
Or sindicated… depending on perspective.
And this bad boy is still raking in insane profits right up to this day.
And the best thing…? Selling Religion just happens to be a pure cash business. All of that cash is laundered through the church. It’s like making an investment in the Vatican Bank. Only better! They’re all tax-deductible donations! “Gifts”….
Now… let me explain. When Jesús was asked by the Pharisees whether good Jews should pay the Temple Tax… and 10% Tithe… or the Roman Taxes… to filthy Tax Collectors… who were considered an especially vile category of sinner… set apart from all others… for especially hellacious fury… he demurred. Of course… he was being set up. Now… dig this…. Jesús was supposed to be the Messiah… who would destroy the disgusting Roman filth… the soldiers… the heathens… the pagans… who were oppressing God’s Chosen People… and establish God’s Holy Kingdom on Earth. And establish the Jewish Priests and Scribes… and set up their monopoly on religious contributions. Or else… Jesus would offend all present… which would be just as good… for the people setting him up.
But… Jesús demurred. Their Messiah did something completely unexpected. He asked for the Roman Coin used to pay the Roman Taxes. And… he said… “Whose picture is on this coin…?”
Of course… since it was a Coin of the Realm… legal tender in the Roman Empire… the inscription was of the Roman Emperor…. And then… Jesús answered…. “Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s… and render unto God that which is God’s….
Ok. Here’s the Gospel. The Good News. Or… the really GREAT news… if you ask me….
Show me a coin. Heck… show me a bill. Show me all of them…. Not one of those three-dollar bills with President Clinton’s picture on it. Such Bills don’t count. Every such Bill is a fake. Depending on what your definition of “is” is, I guess….
The coins have the pictures of past presidents. So do the lower denomination bills. But not the $100’s! They show Benjamin Franklin’s mugshot. And… he was never leader of our once great nation…. So… he’s exempt!
And… God’s picture isn’t on any money at all! BONUS!!!
So… I just saved all of you Christians a bunch of money! You owe me. I’ll come by your house to collect my cut a little later. Ciao. Bella.
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Well… confession is good for the sole they say. Other fish, too, I suppose. And I had… what turned out to be a Tureen of Sole Soup filled to over-flowing. A plethora. A cornucopia. The cash equivalent of the Holy Graal. Or the original version of Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s Damsel of the Sanct Grael with legitimate papers of authenticity at the very least.
May sound fishy… but maybe confession might be good for the soul, too. Ya’ never know….
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I don’t know about you, but I find all of that kind of stuff a bit… disquieting…. Religious items. Relics. Reliquaries. Ossuaries. Bones of Saints. Dead people. Demons. All of stuff. The super-natural. Holy. Or unholy. Doesn’t matter to me. I think that shit’s scary.
I mean… religion is like a drug. Only… more addicting.
A lot of people seem to think that it was Karl Marx who suggested that religion is the opiate of the people. Soothes their physical… emotional… and spiritual… pain…. Allows low-life people to better tolerate political and economic oppression…. Over-use. Abuse. Bondage….
But… Marx was simply quoting… the Marquis de Sade… who I think knew a little bit about pain…. About oppression. About bondage. And… about discipline…. About S&M. About Sex and Manipulation. That man must have known my second wife pretty well. And… that dude was scary….
Not as scary as her, but still… pretty scary.
Not pretty. Scary.
And… that’s the thing about Relics. Indulgence. Papal Dispensation. An outpouring of grace from the Pontifex Superanus’ plentitudo potestasis. His Plentitude of Power.
Well… I was there the moment it happened… and to me… it sounded like nothing more than a blast of gas from out of his ass. Just what one might expect to hear expounded by the Pontifex Superanus of Uranus. Or my anus. Or any other of a hundred million alien assholes for that matter.
But… the fact that people are willing to suspend disbelief so strongly…. To pay so much money to buy indulgences. Cheap… and not so cheap… grace…. To me… it’s a lot like Secular Humanists buying that shit about their religion having facts… and not needing faith…. Listening to those rants by people like Professor Richard Dawkins… and Professor Lawrence Krauss… who espouse the extremely popular propaganda of Progressive Liberal Socialistic Fascism… and mix it all up in a dogmatic religious stew… and viciously attack anyone who dare to believe something else… something rational… and who realize… that those legalist… those lawyers… those schysters… those scheistkopfs… as selling their lies… and their books… and their souls… and making enormous profits. Which is what enormous pricks always tend to do. Sell themselves. As I said before.
I admit that I made a ton of money doing it. And it’s scary. Selling religion. Especially when you choose to confuse and delude people… and assure the assholes that you are doing exactly the opposite. But… for Dawkins and Krauss… I guess their ships came in. Because they sure made a lot of money feeding their flock. Swindling the seagulls. The Rats of the Ocean. Amazing. And scary.
And… something else amazing. And scary.
I made an amazing amount of money prostituting myself. So much money it was scary. Real scary. Selling myself. Selling religion. Selling religious women what they wanted so badly.
And… how did my congregation respond…? They were excited at first. Very excited. Then they began to act a bit like ass sniffin’ crack hoes and rotten-toothed meth bitches. Man… that was the first… and the last time I ever saw my second wife getting French Horny while looking at me.
But… on second thought… maybe it was just my money….
Well… I guess if I had a trailer right then… we could have gotten trailer park trashy right there on the spot! I guess I would have been in like Flynn.
Or… gotten in like the Woody in the Hoodie.
But then again… I decided to do the prudent thing. I hired a bodyguard. The best bodyguard a man could buy… for small change.
And… it just so happened… that after the whole Killer Turkey Episode… or fiasco… depending on one’s perspective, of course, the bottom dropped out of the whole atomic powered stealth turkey market. So… I purchased the very same killer turkey that I have described elsewhere. The turkey that was supposed to serve not in anger in war, but in gravy in Thanksgiving Dinner at the Poor House… as the humble home of the Sissy Bubba Bunch was also known.
Worked out well. For me.
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Ok. One other thing I should probably fess up to….
This one turned out to be a bad experience. The worst experience of my life. That’s where I met my second wife. Imagine that…. At one point… she was stuffing money down my g-string.
Guess what…? Those granny panties she wears hold a whole lot more cash. And… other negotiables….
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One more thing, I guess….
I mentioned that I was fat and ugly. Not so much anymore. Now I’m just ugly. A Butterface. No longer a Butterball.
Turns out… being enslaved…. Being starved…. Had some tangible benefits.
I guess I owe X a lot. She changed me. And… some of the changes she force on me… seem to be for the better….
So… thank you. You bad-eyed and loveless stinking shellfish from Hell!!!

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One thought on “The History and the Mystery of Butterball: The Man, the Myth, the Legend in his own Mind… if Nowhere Real…. by BaHR

  1. Pingback: The History and the Mystery of Butterball: The Man, the Myth, the Legend in his own Mind… if Nowhere Real…. by BaHR | Wright-Wang Extreme Mystery, Inc.

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