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Having nothing on my own agenda, I rang up my good friend, Marvin Hinton, a few days ago to see what he might be up to. As it turned out, he'd planned to run a series of errands that afternoon. Among them, paying a cable bill and heading to the hardware store where he could obtain the parts for the pneumatic drill press he was constructing. I asked if I could tag along, and he didn't object. Soon after, he arrived at my house and off we went into menial adventure!
Midway between the two chores I described above, we became hungry, and agreed to hit the foot court at the local shopping centre; more out of convenience than any real desire for that particular fare.
As we sat and ate, Marvin stared off at something just long enough to get my attention. I turned to look in the same direction, but saw nothing that seemed out of the ordinary. A fat bald woman in a wheelchair, a glam-rocker, an assortment of obnoxious children, and a trendy looking fellow with a paper bag, heading towards the bathrooms. I looked back at Marv, who'd already resumed his eating. I asked him what he'd seen.
"Know a fag by his bag." he said.
"What, you mean his balls?" I asked. He shook his head.
"That guy with the paper bag. he's a homo... sexual."
"Oh." I said. "How do you know?"
What Marv told me then I relate to you now. You will, no doubt, be shocked and perhaps a bit skeptical. But considering his pedigree as a voice of authority and security, I do not doubt the veracity of his words. And that should be enough for you.
Anyone who's ever resigned themselves to use of public facilites will no doubt be familiar with the grafitti that frequently adorns the walls and stalls. Also to frequently be found are lewd messages promising good times if only you would call the number written there.
But the bombshell, the greatest secret of the gay community, is that public bathrooms serve as meeting places where they can anonymously carry out their unique brand of perversion. The public toilet is practically Cocksville town square.
Of course, no public bathroom can offer complete privacy. There is always a gap between the floor and the partitions of each stall. Any casual passer-by would instantly notice two pairs of feet in one stall, and presumably immediately alert the local authorities.
Ever devious and cunning, the faggots have devised a strategem to counter this liability. It's simple ingenuity would be admirable were it's purpose anything but so irredeemably deviant. This is where the paper bag comes into play.
Not any old paper bag will do. It needs to be a large paper bag, the sort given out by "boutiques" and clothing stores. Maybe it even has handles on it. The bag is placed on the floor, and one of the homos stands in it, while the other sits on the toilet ans sucks the bagstanders' cock. Should the forces of all that is good and decent happen to peek underneath the partition (for the purposes of security), all the would see his two feet an a paper bag, allowing the blowjobbery to continue unhindered.
As Marv finished his story, I turned just in time to catch the trendy fellow just leaving the washroom, now without the paper bag, the glam-rocker just behind him.
So now you know the truth. Anytime you're having a shit anywhere but a private residence, somebody else has been sitting right where you are, but sucking cock.
I'm sending a written copy of this update to National Geographic, in hopes they'll expose this depravity to the world and, ultimately, end it. I know that's the way God would want it.
Midway between the two chores I described above, we became hungry, and agreed to hit the foot court at the local shopping centre; more out of convenience than any real desire for that particular fare.
As we sat and ate, Marvin stared off at something just long enough to get my attention. I turned to look in the same direction, but saw nothing that seemed out of the ordinary. A fat bald woman in a wheelchair, a glam-rocker, an assortment of obnoxious children, and a trendy looking fellow with a paper bag, heading towards the bathrooms. I looked back at Marv, who'd already resumed his eating. I asked him what he'd seen.
"Know a fag by his bag." he said.
"What, you mean his balls?" I asked. He shook his head.
"That guy with the paper bag. he's a homo... sexual."
"Oh." I said. "How do you know?"
What Marv told me then I relate to you now. You will, no doubt, be shocked and perhaps a bit skeptical. But considering his pedigree as a voice of authority and security, I do not doubt the veracity of his words. And that should be enough for you.
Anyone who's ever resigned themselves to use of public facilites will no doubt be familiar with the grafitti that frequently adorns the walls and stalls. Also to frequently be found are lewd messages promising good times if only you would call the number written there.
But the bombshell, the greatest secret of the gay community, is that public bathrooms serve as meeting places where they can anonymously carry out their unique brand of perversion. The public toilet is practically Cocksville town square.
Of course, no public bathroom can offer complete privacy. There is always a gap between the floor and the partitions of each stall. Any casual passer-by would instantly notice two pairs of feet in one stall, and presumably immediately alert the local authorities.
Ever devious and cunning, the faggots have devised a strategem to counter this liability. It's simple ingenuity would be admirable were it's purpose anything but so irredeemably deviant. This is where the paper bag comes into play.
Not any old paper bag will do. It needs to be a large paper bag, the sort given out by "boutiques" and clothing stores. Maybe it even has handles on it. The bag is placed on the floor, and one of the homos stands in it, while the other sits on the toilet ans sucks the bagstanders' cock. Should the forces of all that is good and decent happen to peek underneath the partition (for the purposes of security), all the would see his two feet an a paper bag, allowing the blowjobbery to continue unhindered.
As Marv finished his story, I turned just in time to catch the trendy fellow just leaving the washroom, now without the paper bag, the glam-rocker just behind him.
So now you know the truth. Anytime you're having a shit anywhere but a private residence, somebody else has been sitting right where you are, but sucking cock.
I'm sending a written copy of this update to National Geographic, in hopes they'll expose this depravity to the world and, ultimately, end it. I know that's the way God would want it.
posted by Jamie S. Luxton III | 7:14 PM
2 Comments:
But what if the guy was just shopping? It was, after all, a shopping mall you were dining in.
You see faggots in everything, Luxton. There's a word for people like you and it starts with 'f', ends with 't' and has 2 depraved 'g's snuggling in the middle.
Oh, so what, Fags are cool now? Please.
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