Flying FUCKs

ImageI was sitting quietly under a tree, eating my spicy duck tongues, washing them down with some fresh sheep’s blood, when a strange scabby man came along and obtrusively sat himself down right next to me.

I was sitting alone in a secluded square, surrounded by numerous shady seating areas for the pleasure of other picnickers, so why had he chosen to sit an arm’s breadth away from me? Not only did he sit close enough for me to smell his toenail fungus but he seemed to be suffering from full body herpes.

‘Me nah speaky de engalishee,’ I screeched with as much hostility as I could muster.
When this didn’t put him off, I farted and allowed the fumes to waft in his direction. Classic skunk kung pu deflection.


His weird glaring eyes made me feel icky. It was as if he’d never seen someone with blue skin before. On Venus it is considered incredibly rude to stare at someone enjoying a moment of solitary mastication. So with my warped mind I plotted my revenge.

I’ll really give him something to stare at, I thought with an evil cackle to myself.

Telepathically I contacted the crew of my ship — it was difficult as they were in the middle of a helium fueled orgy — and told them to give my spectator a little sneak and peek hoping to scare the living bejeezus out of him with threats of an alien take over.

ImageBe afraid.

Be very afraid.

Silently, and as if from nowhere, a flying FUCK appeared hovering above our heads, strobe lights flashed from its magnificent underbelly. I pointed up through the trees and gasped, causing the odd, scabby man to look up.   I thought I’d have even more fun with him, so while he was distracted I switched my camouflagulator to light pink, changing my skin tone to a more Earthly hue. When he looked back at me he didn’t batter an eyelid. He just shrugged his shoulders and pointed at my tits. He told me I had nice ones and belched.

Interesting factoid: On Venus we don’t call UFOs UFOs, we call them FUCKs (Flamboyantly Ubiquitous Cruising Krafts).

Interesting factoid 2: Interesting factoids are usually made up.


Befuddled and bemused I refused to accept defeat. ‘Look look!’ I pointed, ‘a UFO. Maybe the aliens are landing.’

‘I like you, you have really nice boobs,’ he replied with an accompanying spray of dribble.

Awww, well that’s kind of sweet strange scabby man… but could you avert your eyes for a millisecond and instead look up in the sky and just tell me what you see,’ I insisted, wiping dribble from my cleavage as I reached for my antibiotic spray.

‘Oh, you mean dat weather balloon, it’s perty, like you,’ he replied, barely making audible grunts.

Image                 Image

………….>               FUCK          >………………..>………………..>         a  weather balloon

He finished off the contents of the green bottle he was clutching for dear life and then with great intent began picking at the wax in his ear. I could tell he was taking mental photos of my breasts as he was actually making the clicking sound as he blinked his eyes like shutters. His breast obsession didn’t offend me as much as the intrusion into my personal mastication space.

‘Are you fucking blind, or just stupid scabby,’ I yelled, motioning towards the kraft.

Nothing. no reaction. Just dribble.

It was then I realised he didn’t know a flying FUCK when he saw one. He couldn’t see it. He didn’t believe in them, so they just didn’t exist.

A powerful sorcery he possesses. I want that power for me, me, ME! 

“Teach me of your magic oh master,’ I begged.

If only I could wield such an ability. To be able to ignore the things that were right in front of me. To change reality.

He shruggeImaged his scabby shoulders and reached out a scabby hand to pass me something he called ‘beer’. He grunted at me, insisting that I drink it. After two bottles of the stuff (we Venusians have a very low tolerance to spirit juice) he tried to cop a feel of my breasts.

I recoiled.

He gave me another beer.

The next time he tried to touch them a strange thing occurred, instead of being violently sick as expected, I remembered how I hadn’t been touched like that in weeks, it made me feel sad. I’d missed all the orgies due to work commitments and jail time. The local supermarket had run out of aubergines. My nether regions were suffering a severe drought.

It was then the magic began…

I suddenly felt as if I didn’t give a flying fuck anymore. About anything! Magically his scabs vanished before my eyes.

His face looked like that of an angel. And what’s more, the more of his beer I drank, the stronger my abilities grew.

By the end of the sixteenth bottle, instead of odd scab man, I was making love to Hugh Jackman.

a-scab ——–hugh-jackman-ce9xzc

……………..A Scab …………………..>>>>………………..Hugh Jackman……………

Thank you master. Thank you for sharing the secrets of your magic with me, a humble traveler.

And don’t worry, the scabs are healing just fine now, I hardly even notice them.


About kristal111peierls

Alien, explorer, blogger.
This entry was posted in comedy hyperbole and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to Flying FUCKs

  1. Hilarious!!!!! OMG!!!!!!

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