Olim, there was a girl named Pearl Prynne. This is the story of her, her mother, her father, and her father's gay lover, who was also her father's husband. Oh, and all of this happened in Puritanical New England. The following is her own written perspective on the events that transpired at this time.
When I was a small child, my father started bangin' my mom's husband. Considering I was a product of him knocking up my mother, this would have caused a lot of controversy in town, because gay marriage hadn't been legalized. It still isn't legal, (homosexuality is a sin!) but it wasn't then, either.
It started on a cloudy day in the beginning of spring. That wasn't very special though- every day is cloudy where I live.
Abigail was a very beautiful girl of nineteen. Her hair was like golden satin, her body like a voluptuous hourglass, her eyes like piercing aquamarine. It was no wonder that she caught the eye of John Proctor.
It was a shameful union, to be sure. John was married, after all, with three sons, and his wife was a weak, sickly creature from bearing his children. He owed her to remain faithful, and yet he went and got laid by his hot servant girl.
John Proctor, btw, is not my father, nor my mother's husband. They come in later, with their sinful slash. John was a farmer in Salem, which is but a few short miles from my hometown of Boston. He was an honest man, despite a bad habit of not thinking with his head because whenever he saw Abby all the blood flowed someplace other than his brain. He felt guilt about the affair, because he really did love his wife.
Abby noticed this, and she took it for something deeper. Somebody was having an affair with her lover who was having an affair!
The beautiful whore paced her room for many an hour, plotting how to find the sinful woman banging her manly, married luvah. She only took breaks to babysit the three Proctor boys while The Wife went out for her weekly bridge club, and to make sweet, sweet love with John Proctor.
Finally, a stroke of realization slapped Abby in the face! She would place a curse on John, a curse that would cause his second lover to have a mark on her chest- the mark of a letter, the letter W, for whore.
Unfortunately for Abby, when John went to Boston to sell his crops, it was not a girl whom he was hooking up with. It was a priest.
A priest named Arthur Dimmesdale. Who happened to have recently impregnated a certain Hester Prynne. John had been drunk, and remembered nothing more than a few shameful flashes. Feeling guiltier than ever, he rushed home to find that his wife knew about his affair with Abby. The rest of his story is history. But Arthur Dimmesdale's story had only begun.
Rev. Arthur Regis Dimmesdale didn't know why he became a religious figure. In fact, all he thought about was booty. But I guess it worked out. Dimmesdale promised to get people into good graces with God by getting into their pants. This was surprisingly effective. By telling people that they could be welcomed into heaven, he was able to get many beautiful men and women. John Proctor was one of many.
Soon, however, a certain Hester Prynne caught his eye. With her voluptuous body and vacant stare and unattainable status as a married woman, Hester was a prize worth winning.
Dimmesdale set about wooing Hester with pickup lines such as, "Good thing we're Puritans, because I'd lie tangent to that pure body." Hester, giggling sweetly, replied, "My husband is dead; I'm pretty sure," and with a sprightly leap joined him in the sin of lust.
Since Puritans didn't know what birth control was, it was inevitable that Hester would get preggers.
So she went to jail, never having time to ask what the A on Dimmesdale's chest stood for. The A stood for whore. Autocorrect had messed up Abby's spell. You see, autocorrect was in the really early stages back then, and it had a few bugs, including one named Gregor. One could blame Gutenburg for making a faulty autocorrect for the printing press.
But anyway, Dimmesdale felt guilty about the entire thing. He hadn't realized one could get another pregnant if they weren't married, and that little baby would reveal to the world that he wasn't being a very good priest.
So he decided to kill her. Right then and there on the scaffolding. He was formulating his plan when fellow Rev. What's-His-Face asked for his opinion on the matter and to try to find out Hester's lover. Who was actually him. Don't you dare tell a thing, you filthy slut, Dimmesdale thought. Of course, he didn't have telepathy, so Hester didn't hear his thoughts, but she didn't tell, probably out of some misplaced belief in their monogamy. When he walked by, Pearl reached for him, but he couldn't kill Hester or me because the entire town was watching. He could say God told him to, and most people would believe him, but that new guy had a shifty look about his crooked shoulder and the Indians didn't believe in God.
But it was too late, and Hester was brought back to the prison.
Thus, Dimmesdale returned to his townhouse in solitude. Alone. By himself. He yearned for human companionship, his thoughts returning to the intriguingly barbaric Indian who had appeared at Hester the Harlot's punishment on the scaffolding.
He also thought about some essay by Johnathan Swift he had recently read called "A Modest Proposal" and reflected on how much easier and fulfilling it could be if he could merely consume Hester's child. Perhaps in a balsamic sauce. Delicious.
But back to the heathen, Chillingworth, the man who was with the Indians knew that Hester the Harlot was his wife, and he was kind of ticked that she was cheating on him.
So he decided to keep it a secret and become Dimmesdale's "doctor" because the sickly priest had the most beautiful booty of all the priests in Puritan colonies. As he walked towards DImmesdale's place of residence, he saw the priest in the window and he called out, "The good Lord don't make booty dat fine, brutha!"
Dimmesdale blushed and thought Chillingworth was a hotty mchotterson so he twerked at him through the window. Possessed with a sudden primal urge, Chillingworth burst through the door and ran up the stairs.
"Swiggity swooty, I'm coming fo dat booty," he called as he ran. Dimmesdale panicked. He was not used to men being so aggressive in the first move, but he was intrigued by the chiseled jaw and bangable asymmetry of his hot bod.
So, he merely acted coy and twerked a little more before giggling and rushing off to his bedroom. Chillingworth followed, but when they got to the bedroom, Dimmesdale was gone!
Using the skills he learned as a performer in Vegas, Dimmesdale emerged in seconds in lingerie.
Chillingworth marveled at the smooth, pale man, his long limbs, his lithe body. The heathen's eyes fell upon the red letter upon Dimmesdale's chest.
"Does that "A" stand for whore?" Chillingworth asked.
"You bet," flirted Dimmesdale, gathering Chillingworth in an embrace and initiating a deep kiss.
And so their story begins.
At first it was a bootyful relationship. The two new lovers took many a long walk on the beach at sunset and spent the night kissing kissable lips and twerking twerkable booties. They wrote poetry to each other and healed each other's ailments and soothed each other's angst, all heart wrenchingly fluffy stories that can be found in their respective diaries.
Hester had become a pariah on the outskirts of town, left to her sewing and the raising of her delinquent child, and so the two men were free to put the whore out of mind and focus solely on each other.
For five years the heathen and the priest lived in harmony. But everything changed when the Hester Prynne attacked.
I was five at the time, and to this day I remember that first meeting with my father and his lover, my mother's husband. My mother had been doing her best to retain her status as an outcast. She hated people, you see, for not allowing her to be a Sexually Liberated Ultimate Turpituder (S.L.U.T.) like she dreamt of being, and was doing a good job at (my existence is testament to her skill level).
I was a nasty little child, due to my unfortunate upbringing, being both spoiled and shunned at the same time. So I had no problem with pretending Mum hadn't taught me any parts of our religion when the grandfatherly priest began to quiz me. But the story isn't about me.
My mother's husband, known only to me as the scary man who gave me the chills, was someone to be avoided, but I always felt safe around Dimmesdale, probably because he wasn't wearing the pants in the relationship.
But once again, this is not about me, but about the convoluted relations of my forebearers.
It was another rainy day in Boston. No surprise there. The rain poured down like the sky was peeing. I was soaked in dirty sky pee. It really sucked. However, the rain glistened on Chillingworth's chiseled body and crooked shoulder, attracting Dimmesdale particularly on this day.
If the rain made Chillingworth look hawt, it made Dimmesdale look like the burning clouds of ash and gas pouring out of Mount Vesuvius to fry the innocent towns of Pompeii and Herculaneum (and also the not so innocent brothels within them. And Pliny's uncle. But we don't talk about him in civilized company.)
AND NOW FOR A BREAK FOR A CONVERSATION BETWEEN EVERYONE WITH ACCESS TO OUR DOCUMENT
yo [AUTHOR 1]
Yo [AUTHOR 2]
why do butterflies like bright colors? i need to know
Flowers
They're easily noticeable
gratias mea amare
[FRIEND 1]'shere 2 yo\
sup [FRIEND 1] guess whos subbing for my class
[HOT TEACHER'S NAME CENSORED FOR PRIVACY]!11! OH my glob Did you touch his face?
no he touched mine someone left a binder where we were sitting and he hit my head with his book and was like yo that ur binder and i think we had a moment and
I am so proud of you
Never delete any of this -[FRIEND 1]
[FRIEND 2] just shut off my computer and told me to pay attention to her and i nturned it back on
You mean the monitor? How much more do you have to do on the project?
omg hes talking to [FRIEND 3] ahhhh he's right here watching [FRIEND 3] play internet games aahhahahahahahahahahahahahhaha
Did he ask people for a book?
no he got bored tho so he watching [FRIEND 3] play games
chillingworth
dimmsdale
If he's bored, show him Fifty Shades of Scarlet
and this conversation?
\Obvs. YOU'RE BEAUTIFUL
he just picked up a book from teh history section of the shelf and put it back now he's looking at gov and politics what a marvelous learned man now he's reading it
Ask him about his bathroom habits
ooobhhh gurl thats a pickup line if there ever was one
"Excuse me sir, I was wondering whether you are a morning pooper or a night pooper?"
Does he go several times a day? I bet he's real regular
regularity is a sign of strong genetics
hi [AUTHOR 2] its [FRIEND 4]
Every:(
one is reading this
hello [FRIEND 4]. everyone but me is in that class, right?
Cause you gave up on 1d5oing 6work5
0010110101011001110101010101010101010
Stolte Dannus25
the feminine is d2ana
2
3
opoop
They have broken me,5 [AUTHOR 2]6 her5 soft 5lady pa2rts ca5ress8ed by 7[FRIEND WITH NICE BUTT]2's 3strong 5but 2gent2le 5hands81
:( ← "Hlep I is tra3ped in6 my own 93 i6nsa5n9ty5 8-Dunu
KSWEGZ IN THE HOUSE
[HOT TEACHER'S NAME CENSORED FOR PRIVACY] is hot
HAWTTTTTTYYYYYY669
ayyo grill was gucci #hottymcthotty #50shadesofmikenave #[AUTHOR 2]x[HOT TEACHER'S NAME CENSORED FOR PRIVACY] OTP
NOW BACK FROM THE BREAK
The rain glistened over Dimmesdale's beautiful face, a face carved by the angles of his religion, a face envied by the likes of the gods David Tennant and Benedict Cumberbatch and Leonardo DiCaprio combined. Chillingworth saw this perfection, this ultimate version of a man, glistening in the rain, his clothes wet and clinging to his emaciated, sickly body. He could not contain himself.
And then, lo! Dimmesdale began to twerk and pop dat booty and Chillingworth fainted dead away from the glare of the pale torchlight glistening on that popping, twerking booty that was soaked in rain water.
I, being a young gurl with no knowledge of such twerking, was enthralled by the motion of his butt, up and down, up and down, girl you know what's happenin. Round of applause, keep that booty clappin, nawmean? The other girls were lackin' what Dimmesdale was packin', and he got them embarrassed by what he got from his parents.
Chillingworth was lying on the ground, his nose filling with sky pee. Dimmesdale noticed this and ceased his booty popping in order to rush to his aid. He sucked out the rain with his mouth to clear his passageways, then revived him with some pungent graveyard herbs. They sat there for a moment, Dimmesdale gazing into Chillingworth's eyes. Considering how close to death Chillingworth could have been (you know, like, from water in his lungs and stuff), Dimmesdale realized how much Ole Roger Chillybilly meant to him. In fact, anyone other than Chillingworth would have been drowned anyway.
Wanna hear a joke?
How did Dimmesdale save the prostitute from drowning?
He took his foot off the back of her head!
Hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha
i hope you enjoyed that joke. Now more of the story:
Dimmesdale dragged the half drowned Chillingworth back to his house. Chillingworth was shivering because he was chilly (GEDDIT?!) and so Dimmesdale got a blanket hand knitted by Vikings to throw over the crooked shoulders of the heathen doctor. Chillingworth's teeth chattered a little but he managed to say "Why thank you. I love you!"
They both gasped. The L word!111! Was that okay to say this early in the relationship? Neither had gotten this far before. Dimmesdale, due to not being allowed the more animal aspects of life due to devoting his life to his religion and whatnot, generally avoided getting this far in a relationship. On Chillingworth's end, he didn't get very far in relationships because nobody liked him.
They stared at each other. Dimmesdale's eyes glittered like orbs in the firelight of the fire he had conveniently built before Chillingworth had blurted out the l word. Chillingworth's face was cast into shadows, perhaps alluding to the more hellish aspects of his psyche. It was warm in the room, and stuff it was super romantic and full of sexual tensions. It was pretty intense, and it was so tension-y that when I learned of it I literally fainted tons of days because my ovaries exploded from the fluffiness.
Chillingworth was terrified. What if Dimmsdale didn't accept his proclamation of love?
But then Dimmsdale took a deep breath. There was only one way he could remedy this situation.
He turned around, sighed sadly, and walked away.
Tears filled Chillingworth's eyes, and spilled over, diamonds dripping over the shadowy ridges of his face. But Dimmesdale wasn't heading towards the door.
As he got closer to the wall he slow down, grab the wall, wiggle like you [he] wanna make your [Dimmesdale's] ass fall off.
Chillingworth laughed and clapped delightedly.
But what both lovers forgot wa the giant pot of bean chilly they had shared before the whole drowning incident. It had been a huge pot, all spicy and delicious and almost as hot as their love.
But it wasn't sitting right with Dimmesdale's fragile digestive system. It was sitting somewhere in his large intestine, getting eaten by bacteria that were pooping out methane gas with every beany bite.
ANd this shaking up and down motion, this wiggling and twerking and hopping was shaking up that gas like coke and mentos.
And there was only so much pressure that poor little butthole could hold.
It was like Vesuvius and Mount Saint Helens and all of the explosive volcanoes combined. Chillingworth gasped, his lungs weakened from almost drowning, and promptly passed out. Dimmesdale wailed in horror at what he had allowed to happen. The methane in the room spontaneously combusted.
Suddenly they were in a raging inferno of fart gas and Chillingworth was unconscious!11!
Dimmesdale grabbed his face in his hands and sobbed, "Oh why, cruel world, did my Gas Pedal shift down so much?!"
There was only one way to fix this dreadful, gassy situation, and luckily, Dimmesdale being a priest and stuff, knew how to fix some situations for his man JC. So Dimmesdale pulled out his iPhone 6 (early model y'know?), viciously pressed the youtube app until it opened up, and frantically searched his and Chillingworth's song on the youtube. It was everything a song should be: romantic, touching, sexy, bootyful song that had ever been introduced onto this earthly earthy planet. That song was….
everything
It symbolized Chillingworth and Dimmesdale's relationship down to the T. Just thinking about the song made Dimmesdale's knees quake and his teeth chatter together in excitement.
He turned up the volume on his iPhone until it was all da way turntup so that the song could blast and fill the entire, methane-filled room.
And.
Then.
He.
Pressed.
P
L
A
Y
And the song started.
And Dimmesdale got all teared up and stuff because it was just such an emotional song and time for him y'know. And then, then he got jiggy with it, just as the first, beautiful, soulful words of the song (when the actual song part started) resonated through the speaker of the phone, and Dimmesdale sang along.
"You know what to do with that fat butt."
"Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle."
And wiggle he did.
Dimmesdale got right up against the wall and wiggled his butt and twerked until he thought that his butt was going to fall right off his body and run away and join all the other butts that had left their now-buttless humans.
And lo and behold, their romantic song and body-rockin' booty shakin' earth quakin' moves raised the roof so that the dirty sky pee could enter the room and quench the fire and wake Chillingworth from his smelly state of unconsciousness.
Chillingworth blinked.
Patty cake patty cake with no hands
Everything was so strange, foggy and ghostlike in the steam rising from the fire. THere had been a fire?
Got me in this club makin' weddin plans
Slowly he shook his head, gripping the blanket that was covering his body. It was a classic Viking weave, something that Hester-slut had made with her own hands, those beautiful hands that had once held him, but now held...somebody else.
If I take pictures while you do your dance
Why was this blanket covering him? Had Hester returned? The idea left a strange taste in his mouth. He loved her, yes, but she was a whore, and had gotten preggers by some other man, and that was unforgiveable. If only she had just told him who the father was…
I can make you faaaamous on Instagram
But lo! Roger was ripped from his tragic musings by the sight of something, the image blurred incomprehensibly by the steam.
HOT DAMMIT
Slowly, he pulled himself to his feet, his joints all crackling like a bonfire. The smoke swirled around him like ethereal angels.
Your booty like TWO PLANETS
It was like two planets through the mist, white as Snow White's skin, with a dark cavern between the two pearl-like orbs. Up and down, it popped, up and down.
Go ahead
Roger moved forward, closer, closer, reaching out a hand…
Go ham sandwich
That's it. He couldn't stand it, because Dimmesdale knew what to do with that big fat butt. The distance teased him, datass seemingly within his reach but so far away. It was like a Miley Cyrus concert, with unabashed twerking and a giant fog machine, except Dimmesdale's butt looked less like two pancakes attacking each other and more like a butt, except especially round and nice.
WIGGLE WIGGLE WIGGLE
PAGEBREAK FOR REASONS UNKNOWN BECAUSE TRANSITIONS ARE AGAINST MY RELIGION