The "Buzz, Buzz Bitches!" Offensive

19 Oct

As soon as I got word that Chelle B. had gotten kidnapped, I hatched a rescue plan. Being half-assed and not well thought out I felt pretty confident I would succeed. Her last known location was the Aussie Outback, and no, not the restaurant.

So I decided to grab a plane ticket and head over to the land that is down under – aka the globe’s nut sack. I would have to be careful in that harsh land because that place is the home of x-generation 18th century British prisoners, blokes, and kangaroos. I couldn’t even imagine what other dangers Chelle was facing….

I headed off to the airport, grabbed my ticket, lugged my bags and reached the security posts. Everything was moving smoothly until they got to me. I guess according to their color wheel terrorist gradient system, if you are darker than caramel then you are suspected of having either at least one terrorist item in your bags (they have a list of terrorist items) or tools to make custom shanks while in the air and therefore have to be subjected to a routine cavity search.

Good thing I only packed undies, vodka, rope, some gummi bears, Chelle’s favorite Hello Kitty sex toy, some hooks, night vision goggles, anti-aussie spray, some black masks, leather gloves, a lighter, cabana boy sun oil, and croc boots.

After twelve hours of having my anal cavity probed by three large airport workers, who, ironically, were all named Achmed, I decided maybe flying wasn’t a good choice.

Being resourceful and knowing Chelle’s tastes, I decided to steal a yacht and cruise my way down to Australia, instead.

So I headed down to Cali, land of the rich pricks.

Apparently, to steal a yacht all you have to tell some rich prick is that you are rich, too, and that you have rich friends and your rich friends are Charlie Sheen and Colin Farrel and that your rich friends were partying too hard and stuck a dead hooker in the engine gears of your yacht and now it needs repairing and is in the shop.

And Voila!

A free yacht.

Of course, I didn’t know how to drive the fucking thing, but it didn’t matter.

I was on a mission!

(To be continued….)

This post was written by fellow humor blogger Armando “The Fly” Torres.
You can find him wearing his big boy pants at his blog, After Dinner Mint.

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  • I think to make money by offensive is too difficult task,but i hope,we can do,you may find
    on..
    plastic business card

  • @Chat: I had a huge bean burrito which allows my ass to communicate. I think my ass told them off in three different languages.
  • I hope you at least farted on them when they did the extensive cavity search. :P
  • @Bill: Ive developed an immunity toward fly swatters, now, cute blondes and vodka are my bane, hehe.

    @Tiggy: Hmmmm, looks like Im heading for a career change. ;-)

  • You'd be surprised how much money you can make in LA cleaning dead hookers from engine gears.
  • Let's hope those Aussies don't have Fly Swatters :>) Chelle a damsel in distress? Find it hard to get my head around that one!
  • @Marvel Goose: It would have to be the beads, those are standard security protocol. IF they dont have you walking bull-legged then they havent done their jobs.
  • Ooooh, I cant wait for the stunning conclusion, hehe.

    buzz buzz

  • A description of the anal probe would have been nice. Was that the plug, the prostate tickler, or the beads?

    Am I being offensive enough yet?

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