Back in the day, when getting laid was putting down sod, and turkeys were as large as a Kia; when man didn't have the intelligence of a granola bar (some things never change); when the earth was still flat, and brontosaurus salad was all the rage; before the evolution of homo sapiens and clothes pins; there were Cling Stumps, AKA sub-blooming humans. Pretty much resembling what we have today, they were akin to Homer Simpson.
Once upon a time, in the far-off land of Godswoon, somewhere between Scranton and New Rochelle, the story begins—just after 'the big guy' invented quail and caves, but before antacid pills, Donald Trump, and the word "dude."
The Big Guy (BG) also created Atom Bum and Evelyn (the A&E channel) in his own test pattern. Atom had an appendage resembling that of a (PUPS) pop-up pulsating water sprinkler. BG called it a penis. Evelyn called it a spigot. Evelyn had a twat, looking not unlike a woolly mammoth with a large pink tusk. In those days, a pussy was a large sabre-tooth tiger.
Now, a few centipedes later, Merloon was living proof that a corn cob had kernels sharper than Cling Stumps, and wizards had saw dust for brains. Neanderthals were still short of a frontal lobe, and what remained had the consistency of tomato aspic—thus, having the IQ of a pop tart or drywall paneling.
A great deal of his time was spent doing a polly-wolly doodle all day, which equates to absolutely zilch.
His mom swore up and down that he was the result of what dripped from sinus cavities, and he thought beating his meat was like whipping scrambled eggs by using a club on his cock. Mallets were still a couple of pyramids away from being invented. He didn't know an idiom from an ism. "He was living idiom a cave and ism she ugly?"
His mode of transportation was a 2,176,324 BC palmetto bug, weighing in at 15,564 pounds. This bug had teeth that looked like the grill of a 1954 Buick, but it came with a rumble seat in the back. Back then, women didn't have a cherry, so Merloon broke wind in the rumble seat by farting over the top of an uncapped Bud Lite bottle—the very first Anheuser-Busch bottle.
Tootles (his girl friend) was lying on her back, with her legs straight up, garlic between her ten little piggies, to ward away fungus and swarming locusts. She was hee-hawing and grunting. 'Ugh' and 'duh' weren't part of the vocabulary yet. Her tits looked like mud flaps on an eighteen wheeler.
Merloon was singing her sweet nothings as he was fucking her with his PUPS. It was the best of twat, it was the worst of got. With one hand, she was flossing her one tooth, and with the other, keeping score of the ongoing volley-ball game. It was a barn-burner of a game. The orangutans were leading the Cling Stumps, fifteen to two.
On an upstroke, his PUPS exploded, sending a glob of goo bouncing off the lawn and ricocheting across a volley ball net. Lord Tonsil Itis leaped three feet in the air and spiked the gelatinous abomination back across, screaming, "Two points, two points."
And another polly-wolly doodle all day.
The next shot was out of bounds, and Merloon was penalized five yards and two jaw bones of a ruptured armadillo.
Tootles told him to fuck her 'dinosaur fashion', but he had to look that up in his magician's hand book for that: "Dinah Shore was an American singer, actress, television personality, and the top- charting female vocalist of the 1940s." She settled for him just spitting tobacco juice on her pussy and waving a plucked chicken over his head. Then she demanded that he rim her.
The only hymn he knew was The Old Rugged Hoss. It started to rain and she said, "Get in out of the rain." It took him six minutes to free his head from her ass, and he also lost his good 'cattle' oxfords, the ones that came from Amazon
Now hired by Lord Tonsill Itis, the Earl of Adenoids, Merloon worked as a part-time bassoon player and full time wizard, having completed a correspondence wizardry course. Now a full-fledged Private [First Class] wizard, he was in a bit of a funk, as his 'wagic' wand was letting him down. The mainspring on the wand was getting weak and the wind-up key, off a sardine can, was outdated. He had just switched over from an antiquated muzzle-loading wand, because the foo-foo powder it shot was getting too expensive. Also, the recoil fucked up his rotator cuff.
It all started when Lord Tonsill wished for an exotic dancer, and got a frigging reindeer (Dancer), belonging to some fat-ass dandy dressed in red pajamas—a fool in a sleigh, named Santa Claus. It was that fucking weak spring again on the 'wagic' wand. Conjuring sure wasn't what it was cracked up to be.
Santa was one very pissed-off man, and threatened to have his elves start a union.
Another polly-wolly doodle all day.