Let me tell you about this time I went to a Fluffmart and they ripped me off. No, really, they bent me over the barrel. Greased up their hogs. Went to poundtown on MY ass.
There I was, innocently strolling around the place. I didn’t have a fluffy. Not yet. Well I’m walking by the usual suspects in their displays thinking, you know, twenty bucks is a bit too much for a fluffy. What do I look like, a Rockefeller? I’m a beans and weenies kind of guy if you catch my drift.
Anyways as I’m perusin’ the inventory I see it, bright as a Revelation from God: A 50% off sticker. Now I don’t know about you but when I see a price reduction sticker, something goes off in my brain. Like a chimpanzee jerking off I kind of just lose all reasoning. That’s why there’s an entire pallet of ketchup in my garage.
So I get up to the display and I look at the fluffy. This thing was fat, lumpy, drooling all over itself, and wearing a diaper. What the fuck?
Sure enough, a glance at the sign next to it declares that this is a peepee poopoo baby. His name is Blueberry, because he’s blue. Get it?
More like Pooberry. Hahaha. The sign went on further and said he shits his britches every 20 minutes, pisses all over himself, shits and farts at the same time, and that he needs extra special food or he’ll shit more. Or less.
So I bend down next to the display cage and I sez to Blueberry: Lookie here, buddy. This is America. We don’t shit our pants, that’s something you do in Europe. If you wanna come live with the BIG DOG, you gotta get over yourself.
This little piece of fuck looks straight at me and you know what he does?
He goes pbbtttttt.
Anyways, I tell the cashier to bag that little fucker and throw in some beating tools. I’m sure he won’t piss me off but I’m not taking chances and wasting 75 cents in gas coming back over here if he does.
Well as soon as I get that nematode out to the truck, you know what he does? He shits all over himself. Playing the ass trumpet! Making diaper gravy! Releasing the brown dragon!
He gets one pass. That’s what I tell myself.
Well we’re back home and I’m spraying his ass off in the backyard like he’s an old dog. He can’t even stand so kinda have to blast him from behind with the hose. Old Mrs Pinkle is looking at me like I’m the asshole, it’s not my fucking fault.
This tubby fuck is so rotund I tip him along and roll him out of the yard and into the house like he’s a soccer ball. He’s going ‘booboo peepee’ like I know what that means.
‘Here you go, fuckface. Here’s a chili dog’ I sez and place one with extra onions and cheese in front of him. He gobbles it down as I’m watching Nascar and drinking beer that was cheaper than your mom when I hear an explosion.
Oh look, the man of the hour. Blueberry and he’d just shitted with such force that he painted the entire wall behind him in brown doodoo feces.
I know the sign said he was a peepee poopoo boy but this was too much. It really pissed me off. I know what the sign back at the Fluffmart said. OK? Don’t fucking patronize me. Things should work how I want them to.
With that, I take the ass-whoopin’ sticks out of the Fluffmart bag and start really wailing on Blueberry. He’s all like ‘EEEEEEE!’ and ‘nuuuuu’ and this just pisses me off more because this is my house, you speak American in it.
I hit him harder. He shrieks like something possessed. They say never beat a dead horse but this ornery glowworm was still quite alive so I threw the coffee table at him.
His whole ass broke off his body. Flew around the room like a fully filled balloon let loose. ‘Fweeeee-pbbbttttt’ is the sound it made as it looped around in circles spraying diarrhea all over the room before finally deflating and getting stuck up on the ceiling fan.
I tried taking this cantankerous cane toad back to the dealership but you know what they said?
‘Sir we don’t take assless fluffies’
I said you know what I don’t take? Your backtalk.
