Karl Koch Oh-So-Funk-a-Licious
I saw him. He saw me. What a hunk. What a dream. I rustled my bum over to him like a sneaky snake. He was holding a marshmallow, the kind you get cheap in the meat aisle. Not even a Peep, what a cheap bastard. But I didn’t care. I just wanted his balls.
It was Karl Koch, Weezer’s in-house magician, punk-rock stereotype, and all-around hunk boat toot toot. I wanted to smell him, but also his balls. He was busy playing hockey in the street with the other IT guys, Frarp and Carcunk. Frarp has a sketchy past with a hint of wow deodorant and Carcunk pees the bed. He drinks too much Mountain Dew when Coke’s not available, which is always.
I could tell that he wanted me, because he yelled it at me through a telescope. “Where’d you find that telescope,” I whimpered darkly, thinking of his balls.
“Voldemort?!” He spouted excitedly about how much I reminded him of a bag of salt and vinegar chips (with a side of balls I hope).
“No,” I shrieked, “it’s just me. Girl part 2, you know who.” I’m a famous rap artist in this town, much like an older, fartier Igor Azalea. My fans are called Boner Killers for undisclosed reasons.
“I hate your stuff,” he shouted. What a liar. I had sent him an autographed copy of my latest EP, which included two songs, fifteen seconds each. The first one is called, “Jar of Mayonnaise With a Side of This Clit” and the second is entitled, “Home for the Holidays.” It sold out in 12 years, with a grand total of 15 copies sold, including the one I bought for him.
He shoved me out of the way with his hockey stick, but I immediately ate the stick before it could touch my eyes. “Way to go, bro,” I said while humping the ground. “Could you pour me a glass of those balls?”
“You know it, girlfrannn,” Karl squirted. Picking up a squirrel and licking its butthole, he suggested that I go shuck some nuts. I knew he meant his balls and I felt content.
“Suck some nuts, you say? Don’t mind if I blue.” What a poised gentleman. Six feet fourteen inches high, with calves the size of I don’t know ‘cause he was wearing jeans (dark wash), Karl was the man for me. He didn’t think so just yet. With hair below his balls, and also under his armpits, covering his legs, arms, face, eyebrow bone, and top of the head, he melted in the breeze like a jar of mayonnaise with a side of… you know the rest. He was cool as a cum-cumber.
Then in a flash of my thighs, Pat came from behind a tree and said, “Hey guys, what’s up?” and repeated that process for six minutes, coming from behind tree after tree. I was frozen in the moment and could not speak for it was the man of my dreams accompanied by sweet, sweet pitty-Pat, whom I had engaged in sexual escapades for a few weeks many moons ago. Now thinking back, Karl had been there filming the entire time.
“Threesome, anybody,” Karl asked the two nuns walking across the street. Shaking their heads, they climbed onto broomsticks and rushed off. In that moment, I thought I could never compete with such witchy beauty. Feeling brave, I spoke up about what was on my mind.
“Kim Kardashian is a reckless monster, right?” Wrong. She is the most wonderful scientist alive. Karl and Pat gave me nasty looks, like I was a fresh turd, but not the cool kind, and I returned their gazes with bedroom eyes. I would like to give them my bedroom thighs, but they began sipping beers and reminiscing about Janet Jackson’s nip slip.
After six to eleven beers, Karl finally succumbed to my advances. I seduced him by wiggling my two front teeth back and forth. It was exhausting. Pat took all his clothes off and laid them on the ground and Karl did the same, handing me his camera. They were about five feet apart on separate pallets. “We want to be models, not rock gods!” Pat was silly and is and also continues to be.
I told them I could take them home, but Karl spoke up, pooping as he did. “Can you leave now? I’m tired and need my baba.” I reached into his camera bag and handed him some hot, hot milk in his new bottle. Then, I carried Pat and Karl piggy-bag style, Pat on top thirty miles to east L.A. I laid them down in my bed, which was covered in moth balls and Fisher-Price toys.
Giving them a blanky to share, each of my wittle boys snuggled in for a bedtime story. I turned my back for fourteen seconds and one of the witch-nuns had flown in through the window. She began raw dogging my beautiful baby boys. I was knocked out by her broom, which smelled of Brian Bell’s hair and sexy dreams. My puss puss got super swoll. To my surprise, I awoke belly-down on a kitchen counter with an apple in my mouth. It was a Father’s Day gathering for my ex-gym coach’s dog.
Oh what night, I sang to myself while the guests patted my tush and roasted me over an open fire.