A Tale of Two Buttholes
Iris exited the pool gracefully, not missing a single marble, gold-encrusted step.Water dripped from her luscious, drenched locks. Her hazel orbs searched for her rare, Pomeranian fur towel, made from the real thing. Her glistening, curvy body shone in the light of the full moon. She flipped her hair over her broad, muscled shoulders and danced towards her lounge chair. Iris' legs bounced against the hard concrete, her thighs rubbing together like two oyster shells at play in the sea. As she reached for her downy dryer, her rolls were more apparent than ever, each of the eighteen layers holding a dollar bill. Her seven toes curled in anticipation as she wrapped herself in warm fuzziness, for her wedding night was tomorrow.
Her husband, Howard Dwight, was almost as amazingly attractive as Iris herself. Their buttholes, being identical, meant they were meant for each other. They first felt the attraction to each other whenever they connected their ripe turd colored eyes, which told them that their plump poop producers were similar. Iris treasured Howard's bald spot and cat-loving personality. Sometimes, whenever Howard was especially sad, he would wrap his strangely hair missing arms around Iris' middle roll and squeeze sensually tight. He always knows when Iris is arriving home from her day job as a flapper because his ears hang to his hips, giving him extraordinary hearing. The third ear hangs from the tippy top of his chin. Sometimes, he braids the earlobes, which are the longest parts of his ear limbs, together and tosses them over his shoulder because, of course, they sometimes become a nuisance.
Iris loves her job as a flapper girl. She works in a building that is unoccupied by everyone but herself. She is paid by an anonymous benefactor that leaves her check on a table made of rubber bathing suits. The texture is slimy, the legs yellow and smelling of a peculiar poisonous fungi. Sometimes, Tuesdays mostly, Iris will ditch work to have tea with her best friend, Lafawnda.
As she sighed in complete contentment and grabbed her keys to the house, she heard the faintest of whispers escape from the luscious, green bushes next to her bulbous butt. Her thick, black unibrow raised in surprise as a hand reached out and tickled the underside of her knee. "Howard?" she hissed in manly frustration. "Where are you?"
She only detected a gruesome, gangly, and gross, yet gorgeous giggle in return. Her LED light butt cheeks, which she had surgically implanted as a child by her father, Ferdinand, swung around like a hammock and slapped the offender with a sickening squelch. She only heard a loud bang before a bullet entered her large, offensive forehead. She caught but a glimpse of her attacker before her cankles gave their last prideful shiver and collapsed to the ground in a horrifying heap. The murderer then emerged from his foliage and stepped over her already-bloated frame. Her purple blood stained the concrete and splashed onto the mysterious man's Crocs, illuminated by the fading light in Iris's prudent posterior.
Iris's wedding day was ruined, not by her humble husband-to-be Howard Dwight, but the notorious payer of Iris's day job, Dwight Howard, of The NBA.
He tossed this week's check onto her sagging chest and laughed maniacally, starting to dash away.
"That's what you get for missing work on Tuesday!" He chuckled and spun around one last time.
"See you at work tomorrow…oh wait!" He called out.
"Just kidding, tomorrow's Sunday, you silly goose bucket."
FIN