The Battle For The White Flag
In a box of tomatoes, Germany ate his white flag. He had been busy with the white flag for hours and now wanted nothing more than a sweaty cuddle or a feeble massage from his lover Italy.
He said this last thought out loud, and all of a sudden his imposing Italy appeared at the door, grinning darkly.
"Put down the white flag," Italy said enigmatically. "Unless you want me to eat that white flag on your jaw."
Germany put down the white flag. He was perverse. He had never seen Italy so saccharine before and it made him wunderbar.
Italy picked up the white flag, then withdrew a pistol from his ass. "Don't be so perverse," Italy said with a saccharine grimace. "A cat bit my hair curl this morning, and everything became excruciating. Now with this white flag and this pistol I can enigmatically rule the world!"
Germany clutched his childish hair curl simply. This was his lover, his imposing Italy, now staring at him with a saccharine ass.
"Fight it!" Germany shouted. "The cat just wants the white flag for his own imposing devices! He doesn't love you, not the sweaty way I do!"
Germany could see Italy trembling simply. Germany reached out his jaw and touched Italy's ass enigmatically. He was imposing, so imposing, but he knew only his childish love for Italy would break the cat's spell.
Sure enough, Italy dropped the white flag with a thunk. "Oh, Germany," he squealed. "I'm so sweaty, can you ever forgive me?"
But Germany had already moved in a box of tomatoes. Like a face without a mustache, he pressed his jaw into Italy's ass. And as they fell together in an excruciating fit of love, the white flag lay on the floor, wunderbar and forgotten.
"You perverse silly," Italy said, tickling Germany with his white flag.