Memphis Conan Doyle and His Amazing Quill Pen

"Here's how it works, OK? You get drunk and start giving me shit on Twitter and I block you. Then I block you on Facebook. Then I drop you from my blogroll. Then I block your email and your cell so you can't text me. Cause you know what? I never asked for your fuckin' opinion," he said to her with a seductive grin.

She quivered slightly as his manly reprimand touched some deep recess inside her brain, the little girl region that wants a big, strong daddy-figure to pick her up and toss her around like a tiny little girl who is always safe while he's around.

The quiver led to a little stomach bubbling. "Uh oh!" she thought to herself. And then she farted.

Her face began to glow a red like an electric heater that wastes electricity faster than a fat chick on a Walmart scooter in search of Twinkies, throttle flat out kicking it.

"Pardon me," she squirmed. "I'm sooooo embarrassed."

"No ma'am," he shot back. "If you were bare assed we'd be gettin' busy and bangin' uglies like a pair of Puerto Ricans in a Chevy Impala with a huge bag'o dope, mon."

She wasn't sure why he had suddenly started talking like a Jamaican black man, but it was sort of turning her on, and sort of dumb. She grabbed her keys off the coffee table and began moving slowly towards the door. She was hoping he'd stop her, but also she needed to pee and wasn't sure what might happen if he did. Could she hold it? That fart was the first warning.

"Where you goin', baby? Maybe I'll come wit yew," he said through half closed smoky Italian eyes.

She thought fast and fired back, "I gotta dump a load, baby. I'll only be a second. I go real fast." He nodded and she clicked her 6-inch stiletto heels across the room and through the door, closing it behind her. Now out of sight, she broke into an ankle-straining run, barely tapping the tips of her toes across the floor as she went because she was moving so fast. The door to the ladies room, painted a Pepto Bismol pink and perpetually smeared with handprints and spermicide, loomed invitingly ahead. She wasn't sure if she was going to make it. Worse, the thought suddenly occured to her that the handicapped stall might not be vacant. Oh sure, there was the other stall, but it was cramped and never seemed to have paper or toilet seat covers. Worse, someone always seemed to have just hovered over the seat and hosed it down, but never cleaned it up. She had long ago given up all hope for that toilet and just gone straight for the handicapped stall. What if someone was using it?

She burst through the bathroom door with a loud boom, like the sound of a shotgun being shoved up a donkey's ass and fired out his mouth, banging her right shoulder against the doorframe as she entered. "Ow, fuck" she exclaimed, not slowing the least bit in her quest for gastric release. "Oh, thank God," she exclaimed, seeing the stall empty and waiting. She skidded on pinpoint heels into the stall, spinning with the skill of a ballerina to position her butt for a rapid sit-down. Skirt up and panties down in a flash, she was in position and dropping bombs at record speed.

"oh please, oh please," she said aloud to herself, "don't leave, don't leave. I'll be done and back in there in two seconds. Just don't leave. I haven't been laid in sooo long."

And then she saw it, the dreaded empty brown cardboard roll.


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