The following is a true account of Mister Benjamin Clefland Ebenberg (b. 1883), second generation Russian Jew and fifth generation stupid American:

It was with much injury to my person that I had to step off my bicycle and tend to my hand. It felt as if a rock of sizeable proportion (say an under-ripe lime) resided beneath the skin of my palm. I had gone through the trouble of preparing a picnic lunch: a tin of sardines (said to be caught off the coast of Wales), a thermos of tepid tea, two saltines (with salt already scraped off) and a dessert of four pralines (my cavity was not yet overtaxed). I had bicycled out of the village I have lived in since my seventeenth day of life (my origins as yet unknown to myself, though I suspect known to my adoptive British parents). My aforementioned parents are quite prestigious. My father is part of the British Parlor Room (for my American readers, I shall not quibble over the properness of the Parlor Room versus your bastardized Parliament). My mother, a seamstress of sharpest eye and most calloused fingers, much adored by her sister, Amelia (whom she saved from a treacherous marriage to a carpet roller), is of the noblest of hearts. My dear Aunt Amelia has oft whispered to me, over a lit candle (her precious companion), that my name is not that of Clefland.

"I am not Benjamin Clefland?" I asked.

"No, child, you are not," she whispered in response. Not a Clefland in body, but a Clefland in soul! Regardless of birth, I am heir to twenty ounces of gold said to be hidden in the left-hand coat pocket of my grandfather, Aribert Clefland. He lies in a grave not far off of the road to St. Aquinas College. It was on this road which I pedaled.

With a liqeur of chamomile, bayberries and mint schnapps I keep in medicinal amounts in a blue bottle, I massaged my palm. The dastardly under-ripe lime worked back into my palm until it was the approximate size of an overcooked pea. With that, I remounted my bicycle and pedaled towards St. Aquinas College once more. I should have paid respects at the grave of my grandfather, but I am pedaling to a pleasant grassy knoll about a mile past it. It is filled with marigolds.

Hog Country

Domino knew when Paul had finally arrived that they weren't going to listen to the new Cocteau Twins LP like they had previously discussed on the phone forty-five minutes earlier -- he was tipped off by the fourteen-inch dildo that Paul had slung over his left shoulder.

"Let's go to Perpetua's parents' place!!" Paul screamed with childlike delight. And that they did.

The pair arrived at the Perpeptua house in Cold Springs, NY at a little past 11:30 in the morning and found the fat little man up in his attic bedroom (his parents wanted him as far away from the family as possible) reading his favorite back issues of Raygun magazine and listening to Live on Two Legs by arena rock upstarts Pearl Jam. Perpetua was a sweaty naked mess. Heck, he was always sweaty, but this was just what Domino and Paul were hoping for: they knew that the perfect lubrication for anal intercourse was man-tit sweat and, believe-you-me, Perpetua had plenty to spare. Perpetua was so consumed by the David Bowie interview he was "reading" (this is rock journalism, you see, and thus isn't real honest-to-goodness reading) that he didn't even notice Paul creeping up to remove a large glob of the tit-sweat. Lifting up Perpetua's huge man-tit was quite a feat for just one little man, but with the aid of the dildo wedged under the tit like a jack and the super-human strength Paul was receiving from the pulsing sensation in his tiny tool, somehow he managed. Paul and Domino then retreated to their "secret sex spot," which was located deeply inside Perpetua's cavernous ass, in which there was room enough for three ships and forty stout men to sail them. They climbed up inside and got down to rutting.

In their XTC [sic], they didn't even hear Stirmonster and *phIL* climbing up the ladder into Perp's private attic abode. Perpetua heard them, though, and when they came into view he instructed them to "show [him] the money." They did as they were told. Perpetua, The Bra Burning Corpse himself, was so pleased that he would have loved to have masturbated to their sexy dancing if only he could have found his little prick, which was left treading beneath the ocean of flesh that he called a gut.

Just then two Ewoks crawled out of his belly button declaring, "Show me the money!" This startled Stir and *phiL* but the Ewoks calmly explained that they lived inside of Perpetua's blackhole-like belly button and that they had come out to feast on the breadcrumbs that were oftentimes caught in his wiry chest hair. It was calm again for a moment (like before a storm...) but then all heck broke loose: the Ewoks lost control of themselves and began to violently fistfuck *phiL* and Stirmonster. The sight of those little bears punching their balled up little fists into twat excited our hero immensely and he knew that somewhere underneath that mountain of obesity he would've found a raging hard-on struggling to cum. Perhaps in response to the ten grilled cheese sandwiches mom had made him for a snack twenty minutes earlier, Perpetua let loose with a wicked blast of onion ring fart that completely destroyed Paul and sent Domino flying; Domino sailed along an evil black wind out of Perpetua's ass and into Perpetua's Bjork-postered wall. The Ewoks, who were clearly frightened by the AWESOME power of Perpetua's huge flabby ass, made a beeline for the attic ladder and were greeted by a hideously shrill shriek from the Latina housekeeper as they leapt into the dumbwaiter to hide, just as Perpetua had once done when he was still small enough to fit inside. But those days were long behind him and as the camera panned away from the site of all this human suffering, C-3PO -- a robot that daddy had bought for Perpetua when he was ten -- was heard to tell Domino's greasy corpse, "Show me the money!"

Dollar dollar bills, y'all.

Mon Dec 18 11:56:11 2000

Mom and dad never understood my desire to dance. Actually, mom had been a dancer when she was younger (dad had met her at his club, but that's another story entirely), but maybe it was my choice of dance that got her goat. You see, dear reader, I breakdanced. Shocked to hear that one of my wealth and good breeding enjoyed dancing like common gutter-trash with street urchins in the city? You would then understand my parents' concern.

The only one who did understand my calling in life was Paul, the limo driver. You see, Paul had been a featured dancer on Solid Gold, so he could relate to my dream. At nights (long after mom and dad had fallen asleep in their four post bed), Paul would shuttle me from our estate in Cold Springs, NY to the subways of Manhatten where I would do The Robot with the best of them. And the best of them I did do The Robot -- my arch nemesis of dance was always there: The BBC (or "El Beebio," as he was known on the street to his homeys).

Whenever I would dance, El Beebio would taunt me without mercy: "Is that how they taught you to dance at that sissy school of yours? WHITE BOY CAN'T DANCE, WHITE BOY CAN'T DANCE!" It was the same every night.

But soon enough there would be a showdown: Weeks after I began dancing in the subway, I traveled to Grand Rapids, MI (with cardboard box in tow) to compete in the International Breakdancing Competion.

And when I heard the Die Krupps' "Dance, Fat Man, Dance" (El Beebio's signature tune) blasting from the speakers of a massive boombox, I knew I was in for the challenge of my life...to be continued...never.

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