tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-42185857384035910432024-03-19T05:27:42.891-07:00The Chronicles of Frank Dieselwang!!!!1Brianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05696832508734980284noreply@blogger.comBlogger31125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4218585738403591043.post-46225993142262820262016-02-24T20:41:00.001-08:002016-02-24T20:41:58.210-08:00Frank Dieselwang Battles Reiters Bloch!<div class="p1">
It’s not as though Frank intended to let his writer fail to document his greatness, as he mused looking through the fourth wall, but it’s more a collective failure of things. Even the greatest of men, Frank Dieselwang, has to rest and recover sometimes. Self care is important, he noted to himself with a growing sense of sincerity that could give Mary Poppins a run for her money. Yes, that’s it, thought Frank Dieselwang who was definitely not just thinking what the author was thinking at the particular moment in a fit of self insertion.</div>
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As Frank mulled this over, suddenly there was a knock on the door. Frank opened it and with ultra natural quickness and mental acuity, noticed a gun barrel barely dodged a gunshot from the gun barrel that was aimed at the position his head formerly occupied. The gun was held by his nemesis, Reiters Bloch!</div>
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“Reiters Bloch! My strongest of foes!”</div>
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“Yes it is I, Reiters Bloch!” Reiters Bloch cackled at first and then trailed off into silence, staring down Frank. Frank stared back at Bloch, mirroring his silence. </div>
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Time passed. Frank grew restless, and lulled into Reiters Bloch’s pace. The pace of nothing at all. The pace of despondency that one gets when someone writes something really heartfelt, puts it online and receives no likes, favorites, or +1s. But a feeling, deep within Frank, one of his largest muscles, began to beat. </div>
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It was probably his bicep, the writer doesn’t have an anatomy degree after all. With the beating of the bicep, Frank focused within and knew he had to continue to fight instead o laying down to take a wonderful nap, as appealing as that was. Frank roared and got ready to punch the living daylights out of Reiters Bloch. But Reiters wasn’t there. Frank looked down at the doorstep. There was a note, with no return address, because notes don’t have return addresses.</div>
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It said “Watch yourself. Or I’ll be back.”</div>
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Frank grimly looked at the note, then tacked it to his refrigerator. </div>
Brianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05696832508734980284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4218585738403591043.post-28647892127277950942016-01-04T20:20:00.001-08:002016-01-04T20:20:35.214-08:00Frank Dieselwang and the Boogie Monster (at night)<div class="p1">
It was a dark and nightly night, the night that bespoke of how nightish it was. It was the kind of night that if a person were to walk out into the time of night, they would remark on how the quality of the night were particularly pronounced, more than usual, which is to say a lot. Frank Dieselwang was out on this night, and to display that he was as much a human as you or I, he said these words as well.</div>
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“The quality of the night is particularly pronounced tonight,” he said, just to illustrate the point once more.</div>
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The moon shone brightly, as bright as something that is worth remarking upon, but we’ve already beaten that joke to death already, so, yeah, don’t worry about it.</div>
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On this nightly night, Frank was walking about unafraid, fully cognizant of his male privilege which allowed him to do so, as well as his muscles privilege, of which he had tremendous amounts for which he could actually defend himself if the need arose and he hoped it would not because violence can be a bad thing sometimes when used indiscriminately, but it will be ok as long as the author makes it clear it is ok. </div>
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Suddenly a boogie monster jumped out of the nearby bush and made a threatening motion. </div>
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Frank stopped and stared it down and said “Hey buddy, watch out!”</div>
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The boogie monster stopped and said “Oh sorry I didn’t think anyone was out at this time of night.”</div>
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Frank said, “It’s ok, just watch where your going with your keen night vision.” Frank knew this because he was a noted boogie monsterologist, and he knew this one was generally nonviolent but certain individuals were careless.</div>
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The boogie monster grumbled off into the forest, taking care to watch where it was going.</div>
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Just another day (well, actually night) in the life of Frank Dieselwang.</div>
Brianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05696832508734980284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4218585738403591043.post-42435274755206987962015-11-16T21:57:00.001-08:002015-11-16T21:57:22.327-08:00Frank Dieselwang and the Person who pet cats in the wrong direction.Frank Dieselwang came across someone who was unintentionally petting the cat in the wrong direction, and the cat was clearly distraught.<br />
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Frank looked at this person and said "Hey the cat doesn't like that you should do it this way," and demonstrated the proper technique.<br />
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The person looked as though a light bulb had exploded in their head, but in a good way, and nodded agreeably, "Oh, I see!"<br />
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And all was well.Brianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05696832508734980284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4218585738403591043.post-92041183403766631912015-11-11T11:24:00.002-08:002015-11-11T11:24:27.660-08:00Frank Dieselwang Vs. Christmas Coming Prematurely<div class="p1">
It was early November, and Frank Dieselwang was looking over stuffing and cranberry related recipes in an adorable hand me down apron when the Dieselphone started to blink, a landline that indicated he was an important business sort of person in this day and age because who really has landlines these days except people who are important business sorts of people.</div>
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“Frank Dieselwang, and Thanksgiving Prep Central, what can I do for you?” Frank Dieselwang said, affecting a somewhat fatherly tone in the spirit of the holidays, subconsciously mimicking in a fond way the fatherly figures in his life from when he was a lad, even though mostly they were still alive so it wasn’t really so much wistful as it was a homage to them as good people.</div>
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“Frank, it’s even worse this year,” said the voice of Yodlinda P. Sweetpeas with the urgency of someone who had something really urgent to say. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/ladylong/80103976/in/photolist-85y83-5U6W2B-dDRaxt-7rUkZC-7qiqko-7Wbbr-4gMmWv-4fJKk2-4fGPkq-7Q1MR-5NBTKt-7MjiU-9eZp58-dEb6nA-7rjPHt-7ro6cC-pA2Smj-7roaNq-7rodUm-7rp2XN-4csB2r-7rjMNp-7rk83t-7rof1s-qz4R5t-4d7SKn-7roDwG-4jBFqg-7rjLzt-7rjTsv-7rj8hP-7rjZqc-7ro9iw-7oTtst-7ro4is-7rjoYg-7rjkBX-qpFFEW-7rju4K-7roUuN-7roQtU-7rjaMx-7rjfi8-7roz2S-7rk9kn-7rjRA6-7rjm9H-dFPR9U-7rjBrg-7roY99">Originally taken by Geek2Nurse</a></td></tr>
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“What is it?” he asked, because he wanted to know what it was that was worse this year.</div>
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“It’s Christmas, and it’s coming even earlier this year.” Yodlinda’s grimace was evident even through this auditory method of communication.</div>
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“Christmas is coming prematurely?”</div>
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“It keeps coming and coming, but sometimes it isn’t welcome, we have Thanksgiving still!”</div>
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Frank grunted, a masculine strong sound that was equated with strength and knowing what to do, betraying the authors heteronormative tendencies in spite of his best intentions. “I’m on it.”</div>
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An indeterminate time later of no less than four hours but no greater than two days, Frank stood outside the door of Father Christmas LLC, a conveniently solitary boss figure for the movement of Christmas Themed Marketing because the reality is far more depressing.</div>
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He banged on the door and waited and then after waiting a few more minutes, enough to display patience but not so much as to be seen as a doormat, Frank opened the door and walked in and looked at Snorris Smarmington, CEO of Father Christmas LLC.</div>
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Frank stared him down, pointing at the artificially snowed over store that was becoming ubiquitous to the warm weathered location that had been liberally covered in Christmas cheer.</div>
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“I see we have you to thank for this mess, Snorris Smarmington.”</div>
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Snorris sneered smarmily back at Frank, “Yes, soon Christmas will come to all and come over everything!” He cackled maniacally, a surefire indicator that he was evil.</div>
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Frank said, “Christmas is coming too soon, you need to slow down and let everyone work their way up to it first.”</div>
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“Christmas will come wherever and whenever I want it to!” Suddenly Snorris pulled an enormous backpack like contraption with a big tube and a huge rod shaped nozzle head and aimed it at Frank, pulling the trigger and unleashing a blast of thick white goopy artificial Christmas Snow.</div>
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Frank reacted instinctively and ducked with the grace of an infamously hard to photograph cheetah diving beneath a rock once some photographers came within earshot. The wall behind him started to drip with white goop, which hardened grotesquely into artificial snow.’</div>
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Snorris cackled again, “Christmas will come to you, whether you like it or not Frank! It’s Christmanifest Destiny!”</div>
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Frank stood up and pointed a finger at Snorris, “That sounds like you’re ignoring consent, and you have crossed a line!” indicating pretty clearly that since Snorris made this violent Frank was able to reply in kind, which is pretty convenient, since that was Frank’s stronger conflict resolution methodologies, even though he prefers peaceful options which never seem to come up now that the author thinks about it.</div>
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Snorris took aim and spewed several spurts of Christmas gunk all over the room. Frank, with nimble weasel like agility, (because weasels are pretty agile too but don’t ever get mentioned in a positive light for the most part and the author thinks that’s kind of unfair) dove and flipped and shimmied away in the nick of time, dodging Snorris’ aimed shots of Christmas.</div>
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After maybe two minutes of this Snorris sighed in frustration and exhaustion as he pulled the trigger repeatedly, with nothing coming out out his nozzle. “What?! NO!”</div>
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Frank strode up confidently to Snorris, and stared him down, “Looks like you…. Just blew your load.” A thunderous punch came towards Snorris, from the arm of Frank, into Snorris’ face blasting him into the other room of wrapping paper, which conveniently wrapped him up in a roughly cylindrical package, and there was a bow on his head too.</div>
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Frank quipped, “Well, it doesn’t have to be Christmas, to get a gift wrapped package.”</div>
Brianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05696832508734980284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4218585738403591043.post-55764657731255443992015-11-02T22:40:00.001-08:002015-11-02T22:40:55.654-08:00Frank Dieselwang and the Man with Angry Hands"My hands are super angry and I am going to punch you," shouted the man with Angry hands, let's call him Bill.<br />
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"Hey Bill, you better calm down," Frank warned him off.<br />
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Bill stared back suspiciously, his hands muttering angrily, "How did you know my name was Bill?"<br />
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"You know that's a good question but let's not dwell on that too much."<br />
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Bill threw the tray of fast food on the ground, which the author neglected to mention, "Enough talk, let's do this."<br />
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Frank, bastion of peace and caring, held up his hands in the universal gesture of "hey, let's not fight."<br />
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"Hey, let's not fight," Frank said.<br />
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Bill charged at him, roaring in a roaring fashion.<br />
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Frank sighed and punched Bill so hard Bill was blasted into the durable plastic bench and was knocked out cold and then he stopped talking.<br />
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Frank apologized for causing a scene and ordered a hamburger, because it was cheat day.Brianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05696832508734980284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4218585738403591043.post-80269915486928451472015-10-28T22:49:00.000-07:002015-10-29T09:15:15.059-07:00Frank Dieselwang vs. Pumpkin Smashers LLC Part 2<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Frank had just finished cleaning out the store with a mighty throw, chucking the 50 pound trash bag of crumbled pumpkin and squash type muck into a dumpster as though it were merely 5 pounds, which was a strong but not guaranteed indicator that Frank was ten times stronger than a normal man, but clearly it can be seen that he is one not to be messed with, in spite of his good humor and being good with children. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Original content taken by <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/10326418@N06/1964576196/in/photolist-3ZAY4o-7crt4S-8NBZ5k-ayEd2r-aCHChy-gFJw5N-5yodaN-3JLJjG-bMH7Hc-pAehcc-2k9f7V-b5ze4t-3JLMFq-az7mo9-r1vk1-az7kRq-7btk7q-5qeSVb-az4FFP-3HqF3j-oFfY3-BSSvN-7byVe5-7dKZNG-8LL4ms-6tFZcc-az7hxS-az4ykn-5ZRVB-az4DP8-3L8vSc-ayQ8k6-s4qLT-s4qS2-6VLLWa-3ZwRuT-azz5x3-az7e4o-az7fmC-8PCvQF-djADsj-8MciMp-dneFoV-dneCMm-dnfavc-8PfsN9-91G9Bv-3ZAUP1-795hiT-5eSQsK">Alexander</a></td></tr>
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<span class="s1">Cinderella smiled at him, “I thought you were just here to be the muscle, but it seems you have a really good sensibility when it comes to sanitary practices and a helpful kind manner.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Frank clapped the pumpkin goop off his hands, and grinned back at her, “No problem Ms. Hubbard, it’s the least that I could do, as a kind person and not because I am a man who is trying to get into your pants,” which was clearly a trustworthy thing to say since he was trustworthy and you’ll have to take the author’s word for it.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Suddenly, a thunderous crash sounding like fifty pumpkins being smashed with steel bats rang from across the street, blasting away the peace and the risk that the reader would be subject to some rather poor conversational writing. As Frank, Cinderella, and that easily forgotten generic side character who I guess we’ll call Bob because it’s faster, looked over, they saw the villains of the story staring them down, wearing various terrible costumes but all with the logo of a hammer and a pumpkin beneath it, and fire and sparks and clearly the author should commission some art because sometimes a picture is worth a lot, like maybe a bit more than 999 words, but not necessarily more than 1001. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Frank stared them down through the newly washed window through the stained glass pumpkins and acorn squash that decorated the window, then stepped out of the store to face them. “You must be the Pumpkin Smashing Gang.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Their leader, who was clearly their leader because of their increased height and shoulder broadness, as well as the totally sweet looking mask that looked like the top half of a smashed Jack O Lantern, bellowed back a correction. “Actually we are the Pumpkin Smashers LLC! We find that the advantages of this structure allow us to be more competitive with other smashing groups due to more favorable tax treatment!”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Frank smirked and pounded his right hand into his left palm, a few times, to make the point clear that they were in for a pounding. “Alright Pumpkin Smashers S Corp, you’re going down!”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">The leader picked up their bat and roared back, charging forward with the anger of a train engine that could express the anger of emotion, bat held high, “I said LLC!”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Frank met their charge head on, batting the bat out of the leader’s hand like a bat hit by a bat, with his left hand, and punched their face with a meaty right hand. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">“Well I guess that means, you’re <b>liable </b>to get smacked down,” quipped Frank, belying a deep enough understanding of LLCs to make a relevant joke.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">With the a sudden crack, like the kind you see in a plumber’s jeans as they lean underneath your sink, the semi Jack O’ Lantern mask cracked on the leader’s freshly punched face, splitting into two equal approximately equal parts. The leader’s distinctly feminine appearing face was a surprise to Frank momentarily, but that surprise was quickly dashed by the look of menacing snarliness on their face. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Frank looked at her curiously nonetheless, “Oh, I had no idea you were a woman!”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">She growled back at him, “I consider myself a man!”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Frank nodded, relenting, “Then you are a man. Let us duel, man to man in this case, because even though you are a foe I respect your identity!”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">The leader nodded back “Thanks, I appreciate that, but unfortunately this pumpkin store needs to be smashed, and you are in the way, so we will smash you as well!” He growled, “Get him!” The leader pointed a finger forward, at Frank, and not a coincidence. The gang, I mean LLC, charged forward. Belated, it should be mentioned that there were twenty of them, aside from the leader.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Frank easily handled two of them, grabbing their heads and smashing them towards each other like two hands clapping, clocking them together like two heads being hit into each other, and their heads made a dull thudding noise, as dull as a calculus teacher is to a student who really dislikes calculus.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">He turned around, setting the manliest of jaws in a deep grimace, bracing for impact with the other 18, which is a number we know of based on arithmetic. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">With a sudden repetitious impact, three heads were slammed with what sounded like a hard hollow object at rapid pace. Frank looked up at his surprising ally, Cinderella “Sugar Pie” Hubbard, brandishing a staff tipped with two laminated pumpkins on the ends. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">She smiled back at him as she held the remaining 15 off if you were keeping count. “By the way, I know Pump-Kin-Do, and I just needed help, not a hero. Thanks for the help!” With that she yelled an amazonian cry and charged into the Fray, Frank laughing behind her as he rushed to support her defense of Gourdness Gracious.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">To be continued…. </span></div>
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Brianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05696832508734980284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4218585738403591043.post-76787175480364542022015-10-26T22:14:00.002-07:002015-10-27T19:52:08.946-07:00Frank Dieselwang vs. the Pumpkin Smashers LLC part 1The One Stop Squash Store, <i>Gourdness Gracious</i>, was arrayed in shambles, orange flesh and gore covering the room, a testament to the dudebomb that just exploded there, which is not an actual bomb, but definitely a bunch of dudes that went in and went apeshit in it, causing such damage that it appeared like a bomb had went off.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLhocEoayV4Zl8vu6GxUade77K-FF8TuwaKNS-Ni-bmXHsB23fK60MKF_9JdGrcUcazSwHltDailAf-lNixPDIIOIiaF6xn5NirK7w5GhpIOrGeud0eomRoWUBs9QiuPkYiPpTAOLtDeMy/s1600/1682370012_96c37d554e_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLhocEoayV4Zl8vu6GxUade77K-FF8TuwaKNS-Ni-bmXHsB23fK60MKF_9JdGrcUcazSwHltDailAf-lNixPDIIOIiaF6xn5NirK7w5GhpIOrGeud0eomRoWUBs9QiuPkYiPpTAOLtDeMy/s320/1682370012_96c37d554e_z.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/mkanyo/1682370012/in/photolist-3yEzZw-aCFtRT-pnRpCJ-77DxNj-8VbJPf-7e9vsM-8JEUuv-5vfQ7T-5CRiF7-iYMJZ-3yqfB2-374rEH-8QoBD2-7tkRAJ-5p3tCW-76F8XH-3MkRtN-aCNByX-374p78-dqbHeC-374shr-374rUg-374qN2-3791PS-8MPigi-8MqFhD-aNQLn-8MSmr3-8NbZeN-374pHB-3791fu-374ooi-4Ei6cj-CP7UZ-dde5Ar-5QNVA1-5PDYBd-4Ei643-4pu9wg-5WUzQX-8LwU3L-3794Jq-4FaoWS-4F6c4R-4F6bHP-4FaqW7-4FapgC-4FapTC-4Fapzd-8NbZgS">Taken by mikekanyo</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
"We can't handle another attack like this!" bellowed Cinderella "Sugar Pie" Hubbard, frustration evident on her frustration covered face. "The Pumpkin Smashing Gang We need someone to stop this from happening again!"<br />
<br />
Hands on her highly functional hips that don't lie because hips are incapable of expressing thoughts, let alone vocalizing them, Cinderella was a picture of entirely justified anger that would not be derided or looked down upon because of her gender like in other fiction even from well meaning authors.<br />
<br />
"Whatever shall we do!" simpered a generic side character who will be forgotten as soon as this sentence ends. "The police won't help because of some convenient reason that requires us to pursue alternative methods of recourse!"<br />
<br />
Suddenly, the door swung open, pushed open by a tanned rough callused hand that bespoke of a lifetime of being in the outdoors, hard work, and probably punching things. This hand was followed by a similarly tanned, rough, but not callused forearm, then a bicep, and a shoulder, and finally a head.<br />
<br />
This head, belonged to Frank Dieselwang.<br />
<br />
"I hear you have a problem, that needs to be squashed."<br />
<br />
"Actually, squash is our business, but we do need a man of your...qualifications, " Cinderella's eyes flicked up and down his well sculpted frame, which appeared to be carved out of mahogany, and detailed like a luxury car that just got detailed. She also checked out his package.<br />
<br />
Frank smiled at her correction, his masculinity not being so fragile that the tiniest correction would make him fly off the handle like some people, not naming names, and nodded. "We'll get this shop back in order, or my name isn't Frank Dieselwang."<br />
<br />
Which it was.Brianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05696832508734980284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4218585738403591043.post-64398742197555761392015-10-21T16:41:00.000-07:002015-10-21T16:41:56.399-07:00Frank Dieselwang & The CDC & The Toxic Dude Outbreak - Finale<div class="p1">
With a superhuman effort, Frank Dieselwang and Shellandra Foreheart-Stiner Coldcrusher, but you can call her Shelly, applied their brainpower to the situation at hand, taking a respite from an intense skirmish, as evidenced by the smell of Axe and the plethora of torn Ed Hardy shirts scattered across the nice guy blasted landscape.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL_sUq8ve809pv5EhdkZicHDAThG6QF0uSDOXXa9njwtzfArKa1nCpmNpqrKjnP82xdRB_qqc55ZhXQCqPp03IkkrJ1mfWCt9m2JL3G2kX5V0H7jdTJIlhrxFXSdYkN8nJce18Sy1aQhZ-/s1600/michael+sauers+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL_sUq8ve809pv5EhdkZicHDAThG6QF0uSDOXXa9njwtzfArKa1nCpmNpqrKjnP82xdRB_qqc55ZhXQCqPp03IkkrJ1mfWCt9m2JL3G2kX5V0H7jdTJIlhrxFXSdYkN8nJce18Sy1aQhZ-/s320/michael+sauers+.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/travelinlibrarian/3661926917/in/photolist-6zAkhZ-bpBPfw-oci5mG-EUMTH-5CwRBo-5CsxQk-5KqNSJ-xW5M7-a95sKS-5Csycp-4LZpGt-ewxdfS-5CwRwy-7ujRio-i79QaV-5CwRjs-kS5dt-g5axJ-4CajDF-5xc1aZ-4BdXk9-4vuXRf-igfwC-8tLLwR-5CsxWe-4Cg3Qb-4NQwQg-F8WHo-4Cagiv-4mz6bX-pAczn-i7aoZF-4HDtRN-9jjwZR-n6749-EUN3r-DPBju-bUdb9u-itjysg-ewu3v8-6C3M74-4Caj8D-6fFZQa-4CezGS-5AUZPz-3qEQ1f-dqzFhX-aqK7va-3cNZai-q2Ay2b/lightbox/">Taken by Michael Sauers</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Aside from a bit of sweat, and lack of shirt, and slightly elevated heartrate which caused his enormous pectorals and laser etched abdominals to heave just so, Frank was perfectly whole, and he looked on next to Shelly as she stared down the huge 90s style computer terminal at the top of the building they found themselves in after a metric ton of fighting.</div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Shelly stared intensely at the monitor, and with a a long manicured fingernail (which indicated her care for style and fashion like a classy lady which belied the author’s progressive but still somewhat informed by modern beauty standards views towards women) pointed at a very complex and scientific and technologically advanced looking system which seemed as though it had a solution to solving the problem, because this story has been dragged out long enough.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
“What’s that?” asked Frank to give the author an excuse to show the readers the inner workings of this solution.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Shelly huffed and rolled her shoulders back, causing her breasts to press tightly against the front of her shirt for the benefit of anyone who enjoyed that sort of thing. “The possible solution to our problems,” she said, qualifying the statement to indicate that there was still work to be done, “provided I get enough time. This is the chemical plant which is conveniently hooked up to a city wide fan system, established to deliver airborne cures and treatments in the case that a proto zombie outbreak occurred, or perhaps if a bunch of anti vaccinating parents from Marin rushed over here to decrease our herd immunity.”</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
“Poorly informed McCarthyists,” Frank muttered, hinting at his opinions on the matter while not having too harsh an invective.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
“It’s calibrated for those two situations, so I’ll need a lot of time to reprogram the system and remix the formula to treat toxic males, rather than proto zombies,” she sighed, as she looked to him, as though questioning his abilities to do this one thing for her, “They’ll be rushing up here in droves though, as toxic males do when they sense even the slightest threat to their fragile, fragile minds. I’ll need you to hold them off for 43 minutes while I….re-bro-gram it.” Shelly somehow maintained a straight face while stating this.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
While Frank thought that was an extremely specific amount of time, he didn’t say so, and gave her a look of supreme confidence which was approximately as supremely confident as he felt. “I got this, let’s get to work.”</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
As though on cue, the door to the room started to thump rhythmically as bodies began slamming into it. The bodies of angry dudebros, in case that wasn’t clear. </div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Shelly, without prompting or a look in his direction went to work immediately, competently, and elegantly. She would get the task done no matter what.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Frank stared at the door with a look of sexy intensity, his desire to protect society welling in his breast like some kind of water pipe with too much pressure in it. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
His quadriceps flexed like coiled springs the size of four footballs (American) strapped together as he pressed his shoulder against the door, holding off the worst of the onslaught seeking to penetrate their defenses. With each slam of dudebro flesh on the wall, the camera would pan to Frank’s pectorals, with a vigorously enticing bounce with each impact.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Inexorably, the door began to splinter and fell to shreds, leaving Frank the last barrier against the insidious assault of toxic men. He took a few steps back and readied himself, arms held wide. Frank bared his teeth and growled at the crash of men charging in his direction.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
“Why don’t you go back to your countr…” bellowed a husky fellow with a Patriots hat before he was dumped unceremoniously headfirst into a dustbin with a might judo throw by Frank. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
With barely time to process, Frank dodged the grabby hands of an older gentleman who looked like a professor who launched into a tirade starting “The lab is no place for women they just cry and fall in love wi…” which Frank ended with double elbow chop to the skull, driving the professor’s jaw into the ground with the force of a cannon, shattering his jaw to save people from hearing his drivel for at least three months.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
“Reverse raci…!” yelped a seedy looking fellow in a designer trucker hat before two stomach gut punches propelled him into the wall, knocking him out cold. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
“Maybe men are just better than all women in that fie…” started a normal looking fellow, which showed that even normal reasonable appearing people had toxic opinions and actually kind of reinforces the whole problem, which Frank thankfully was able to cut off this time with a not quite deadly chop to the throat, choking and incapacitating the nefariously milquetoast aggressor. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
For what seemed like hours and hours this continued, Frank a tireless bulwark against misogynists: so called “nice guys,” representatives of the bottom three quartiles of investment bankers in terms of morality, GamerGaters.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
He turned back, breathing deeply, the face of a manbaby muttering about fighting misandry caught in his right arm, and locked in his left arm was the neck of an angry lumbersexual, hell bent on insisting that if someone didn’t want to be stared at they shouldn’t be dressed that way.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
“Almost there,yet?”</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
“And done,” Shelly shouted with triumph, a whole 10 minutes ahead of schedule. With that, she mashed the button with the palm of hand, and with a complicated combination of whirring, whistling, and fan noises, a concentrated mist started flowing from the building and across the hazard site that was the city, and as though science had created a perfect antidote, the hilarious except for the serious nature of angry manbaby men was quieted.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Frank felt the men go slack in his arms and he brought them to a rest on the ground, and puffed out his chest, beaming in pride at Shelly. “You did it! You ended the toxic male outbreak!”</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Shelly smiled at him gratefully but sighed as his naivete, “You can’t really cure toxic males, sadly, you can only keep fighting. Women have been dealing with this forever.”</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Frank’s enormous shoulders slumped, and exhaled slowly, “Gosh, that sucks.”</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="p1">
“It does,” Shelly patted him on the cheek affectionately, “but it’s getting a lot better when we have good allies.”</div>
Brianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05696832508734980284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4218585738403591043.post-84686465254460650652015-10-19T22:39:00.003-07:002015-10-19T22:39:35.474-07:00Frank Dieselwang and that one guy who doesn't like Social JusticeFrank Dieselwang bounced his pectorals intimidatingly at the dudebro wearing the gaming T shirt, a trilby that he ignorantly called a fedora.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="http://www.bigbadcon.com/"><img border="0" height="73" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj82rjL-GbznqtIhWcPnYbGSoaIr7jyxURW53-kQ6EK3hasLUa8nxjwW5SNMMdGJ56BNrXhw1PfSWHFkEqaNLYyXfURcym7fMAwBgo1KtpaWo8kqjVrVmEll-soBLgToPy3S15LKpwnvho6/s400/bigbadbanner2015.png" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
"You broke the code of conduct, and you were warned and you still kept on being abusive. You should have been kicked out long ago!"<br />
<br />
"SJWs and Feminists are winning I dema....!" Frank's fist of great social justice smashed into the dudebro's jaw, blasting the dudebro into the sky, Team Rocket style.<br />
<br />
Frank rubbed fist lightly, mostly to wipe off the day's worth of cheek sweat that he had touched.<br />
<br />
He sighed, "I can't wait for Big Bad Con 2016, this would probably not happen there."<br />
<br />
(OOC Author's Note: Sorry for the short post everyone, I had a great weekend at Big Bad Con! If you're a Bay Area Local, you should check it out)Brianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05696832508734980284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4218585738403591043.post-15337492431699901382015-10-14T16:59:00.001-07:002015-10-14T16:59:00.591-07:00Breinded Uther and the Wryters Bloch (feat. Frank Dieselwang)<div class="MsoNormal">
Breinded Uther stared blankly across the way, resigned. The
bridge to his path to freedom, and escape was blocked. Armed with several
energy drinks, two pilot pens and an inspirational quote, he was unable to
muster his energies to fight the most vicious of foes ahead of him, the Enemy
of Creation, the Eater of Inspiration, the Wryters Bloch.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Breinded looked behind him, the streets of paved text behind
him, a testament to his good works, but he could not see a path behind the
Wryters Bloch to get to the promised land of Dedlein. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Please…. I just want to pass.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Wryters Bloch merely stared back, placid, unmoving, but
unsurpassable. There would be nothing to fear, no attack, no derision, aside
from the plague of self doubt that is spawned from your inaction in the face of
it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Breinded slumped a little harder. “Someone, someone please
help me.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Like a blast of lightning shot from a cannon that was
modified to shoot lightning thanks to rubber and other things, Frank
Dieselwang, arms flexed as tight as olympic swimmers in the most tensed part of
a butterfly stroke, burst in, wearing a Muse shirt because he just left a Muse
concert, which was not at all some kind of reference to writing. With a roar
and swing, he blasted the Wryters Bloch, Bane of Beauty, the Warden against
Wordcount, into dissipating nothingness.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Breinded looked up, and Frank turned back, eyes firm and
manly, hand held out. “I won’t carry you to Dedlein, but I believe you can get
there with your own two feet. Will you get there?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Breinded took Frank’s hand and looked up with thanks, “Thank
you, I think I’ll be able to make it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
Brianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05696832508734980284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4218585738403591043.post-3131793373168357292015-10-12T18:40:00.003-07:002015-10-12T18:40:49.181-07:00Frank Dieselwang and the Somewhat Anachronistic Bootlegger"Nyah nyah, you'll never get away with this copper! Nyah!' said that not at all dated mafioso armed with a tommy gun and a fedora but not in the nice guy sort of way, as he menaced Frank Dieselwang with the aforementioned tommy gun.<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"We'll see about that Caponata Coglione!" Frank Dieselwang declared right back, suddenly taking his shirt off for really no discernable reason, baring himself in the mid afternoon sun, his nipples aimed aggressively towards his aggressor. The size and firmness of his erect nipples clearly demonstrated a physical opposition and willingness to fight for his beliefs and justice.</div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZOrctbNkAODZvIjuL9zqncSkjse9bKZSMyG6aFkrlIORg7yLswDnzPn3s8Db_s1cfEKi_feZ8gexTf9XNP4wdbPfvrkUEFjzt7o9iUKm9FyYWrP538Yg3G78kmSmEWW_pY6tBtuoE5QMi/s1600/3350853249_be0431cbd3_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZOrctbNkAODZvIjuL9zqncSkjse9bKZSMyG6aFkrlIORg7yLswDnzPn3s8Db_s1cfEKi_feZ8gexTf9XNP4wdbPfvrkUEFjzt7o9iUKm9FyYWrP538Yg3G78kmSmEWW_pY6tBtuoE5QMi/s320/3350853249_be0431cbd3_o.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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<a name='more'></a>Intimidated, Coglione fired a few poorly aimed shots at Frank, who dodged them in an overly exaggerated manner in spite of really not needing to.</div>
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<div>
Coglione charged into the warehouse which had the sign "secret bootlegger" scrawled over it in chalk, firing into the air for emphasis and demonstrating his full purchase into the unhealthiness of toxic masculinity, and locked the door behind him.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Frank charged in, in a recklessly cautious manner, driving his fist into the door, blasting it into splinters. "There may be a day you get away, but today is not that day!"</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
With a rush, jump, and conflict dissolving and climax achieving punch, Frank punched Coglione so hard that he yelped like a beagle who was recently bathed if that beagle really really really didn't like being bathed and yelped afterwards, and flew backwards into his 20 barrels of illegally brewed beer, breaking all of them.</div>
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<div>
Frank dusted his hands off, with the self satisfaction of a man finishing a job well done. "Now that's what I call a brewed awakening."</div>
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Brianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05696832508734980284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4218585738403591043.post-88563198100212913002015-10-07T22:31:00.002-07:002015-10-07T22:32:11.164-07:00Frank Dieselwang and the Sumo Earl (or maybe Duke)With a thunderous roar, the Earl of Sumo shouted at Frank Dieselwang "I AM THE EARL OF SUMO," in a loud way, which was perhaps a bit of a redundant sentence the author realized after failing to proof it the first time. The volume was of the power to shatter mugs, shattering all mugs within a 100 yard vicinity, yet all of the glasses within that vicinity remained untouched, because it was a mug shattering shout, not a glass shattering shout. There was also a glass mug, which was kind of strange but not unheard of, and it crack a bit to be unusable but it didn't exactly shatter.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOpoG3gDyEAouNHpd21BntHqB6RHsXT7uaNTubU3Efe8Mh02H-3NVP-BIaqTjBTKRUjcNHK-c6UXMd62ESZrMgj-RVY_d74Yej0sQS885SP25SyVLOXWDHq1EBUvgh1l5ILX_z09bkkoFF/s1600/217921586_719305d15e_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOpoG3gDyEAouNHpd21BntHqB6RHsXT7uaNTubU3Efe8Mh02H-3NVP-BIaqTjBTKRUjcNHK-c6UXMd62ESZrMgj-RVY_d74Yej0sQS885SP25SyVLOXWDHq1EBUvgh1l5ILX_z09bkkoFF/s320/217921586_719305d15e_z.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sumo Taxi, taken by <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/richardpluck/217921586/in/photolist-kfUuJ-g7rw-6uqubA-8cLZsV-5V4WJR-8T5neK-89JMdr-8kt1R2-8py1NP-nmPdzd-5137F8-6uqudo-9MaS1-8UqYH-acDn21-acAxPT-86ewKh-acDmWU-acDnih-acDn5q-acDmLU-acDndJ-4Udew2-acDn9A-jnZB7L-jnWv1F-6J7zqP-6oZMm5-8xCLP3-AgKdZ-axAymn-ypP2tx-bmfQ6c-8pBcF9-4hjE-bx4N4G-7YXMGe-HLTix-etyeyp-7Z21vQ-5Fujcd-bmgFv7-c7f3As-bmgG1W-bzbyhz-bzbybz-bmgFEw-bmgFiy-bmgFa1-nLVpPw">Richard Pluck</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
"I hear you're the Earl of Sumo, and I'm here to stop you from dishonoring the honorable ways of Sumo, Earl of Sumo," Frank retorted, the sun catching his shirtless torso in a way, displaying the rippling waves of sexy manflesh that contorted with barely yet well contained power.<br />
<br />
"Hah! The ways of sumo are old and weak! I will turn it into something new!" shouted the Earl of Sumo, and to describe him physically, we was kind of so so in attractiveness, but was really impressively sumo built, with a stomach that looked as though it could withstand a thousand Tonka trucks being thrown into it by pitchers in a highly seeded college baseball team. The ones made in the eighties, so solid ones, not the cheaper ones they have now. "BOXING SUMO!" The Earl of Sumo charged towards Frank with two fists held outwards.<br />
<br />
"Wouldn't this make you the DUKES of Sumo, given that you're putting up your DUKES?" Frank quipped, as he roared in a way that inspired writers suffering from writers block and caused birds to start singing, but Frank is the embodiment of all things good, even cliche good things.<br />
<br />
They collided together in a kaleidoscope of arms and fists, and the Tonka Truck appearing resistant looking belly held firm against Frank's attacks at first, and Frank was pressed back, but skillfully dodged the boxing Earl or Duke of Sumo's fists, because he was an expert boxer and the Earl or Duke hadn't really thought this boxing thing out very far.<br />
<br />
Skillfully evading a haymaker that seems to get dodged by most canny and competent action heroes in a canny and competent action hero fashion, Frank returned a lightning blow to the gut of the Earl or Duke of Sumo which shattered rang like a bell, so pummeled it was by Frank's repeated strikes that it turned into something that could sound like a bell, and the villain was blasted back into a pile of conveniently placed hay bales.<br />
<br />
With the villain incapacitated, as the author was too tired to write Earl or Duke of Sumo again, Frank breathed deeply, basking in a job well done, as applause erupted around him like volcanos, and several attracted women raced/bounced up to him in gratitude, feeling up his abdominals (with his consent.)<br />
<br />
Just another day and job well done in the life of Frank Dieselwang.<br />
<br />Brianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05696832508734980284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4218585738403591043.post-85604982542435505212015-10-05T23:22:00.002-07:002015-10-06T17:41:45.690-07:00Frank Dieselwang & the CDC vs. the Toxic Dude Outbreak, Part the Second<div>
<div>
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"You're starting to turn into your moth..." began
a young man wearing a Limp Bizkit shirt, before Frank shoulder checked into a
dumpster.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Frank began to show slight signs of exertion, which for him
meant that sweat was dripping at a slightly increased rate from his hot,
sculpted torso, glistening and highlighting the creases in his abdominals. He
flexed his chest, causing his pectorals to bounce up and down at an andante
tempo, much like Mozart's Piano Concerto No. 21.</div>
<a name='more'></a><o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shelly blasted the latest down with a grunt, muttering,
"I'm not turning into my mother... dick."<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Frank was nearly caught unawares when a stick thin 6' tall
basketball fan with a Duke Jersey leaped from the rooftops, displaying a
rather respectable degree of hops, roaring with menace, with two pipes in his
hands as he bore down onto the pair bellowing "Boys will be b...!"
which was cut off with a satisfying crunch as Frank recovered from his shock
(in this case his normal .01 second response time was delayed to .07 seconds)
to deliver an uppercut, breaking the Duke fan's jaw into 5 pieces,
incapacitating him into a heap of problematic jelly.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Do they ever stop?" Frank shouted, incredulous at
the amount of punching he had to do in the first fifteen minutes of this foray,
after checking his watch where he made the mental note that 5:13 PM was when
"ass kicking time" started, and noting the fact that it was 5:28 PM
right now.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shelly looked at Frank with a stolid expression, "You'd
be surprised at how often these outbreaks of toxic masculinity happen. They
happen all the time. It's usually a micro event, but sometimes things push them
further." She frowned, "If you're tired, you can stop. It's your
right."<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Frank grunted thoughtfully when suddenly an encroaching
stoner type sulked up behind Shelly while groaning<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"We're suffering from a plague of overly
sensitive p..." which Frank ended by charging past Shelly's shoulder and
backhanding the stoner type into a pile of baskets containing stainless steel
hedgehog replicas.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"I acknowledge that right and privilege, but I will not
stop helping you until this contained."<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shelly nodded at him stoically. "So be it."<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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To be continued<o:p></o:p></div>
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Brianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05696832508734980284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4218585738403591043.post-31697193448761520772015-09-30T17:18:00.005-07:002015-10-01T13:02:27.428-07:00Frank Dieselwang & the CDC vs. the Toxic Dude Outbreak<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We’re glad you came into the office today Mr. Dieselwang,
I’m Shellandra Foreheart-Stiner Coldcrusher, but call me Shelly,” Shellandra
Foreheart-Stiner Coldcrusher said, giving him a firm handshake as he entered
the clear bubble office that was intrinsic to the CDC while sensuously
simultaneously spraying him up and down with a canister with her other hand.
During this process, her eyes ate up his extremely masculine form, his
skintight shirt clinging alluringly to his abdominal muscles which seemed to
ripple like perfectly melted chocolate being poured into a parchment paper
lined half sheet pan.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Mrs. Dieselwang is my mother, you can call me Frank. And
it’s a pleasure and an honor,” Frank replied warmly, totally and manfully
unfazed by the sanitizing spray, without taking offense to anything she did, “I
understand you have a problem with Toxic Males.”</div>
<a name='more'></a><o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Sorry about this by the way,” she answered, gesturing at
both him and his bulging abdominals with the canister, “But with the toxic male
epidemic, we can’t be too sure that everyone who calls themselves an ally is an
actual ally.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Frank nodded firmly, “I understand, you need to keep your
safe spaces safe. Good work making that inoculation, that was pretty good work
under the time constraints,” Frank stated without demeaning her competence and
intelligence, then continued, “So what are we dealing with here?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shelly slapped down her hand onto a large table with a
folded out map, the velocity and vibration causing her modestly sized but well
shaped breasts to jiggle slightly, and pressed her arms together, pressing them
together for the benefit of readers who are into moderately sized breasts.
Frank however kept his eyes firmly directed to the table, all business.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“The outbreak of Dificilus Dudus started here, at the Rally
for Dudes For Ethics in Journalism And Just Saying By The Way Men and Women Are
Different So Deal With it,” Shelly declared, pointing at the map, “At the Formerly
Enron But We’ve Changed Center.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So, another gathering of jerks, what was different this
time?” Frank asked, his brows knitted together like two cat owning librarians.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I think we’ve seen an event horizon in ‘nice guys’ constant compounding of their logical fallacies against one another, which we
hypothesize led to a devolution in the newly discovered trollahedrix portion
of the brains of assholes,” Shelly explained, “It has put them all into a self
perpetuating and contagious mass of Ultra Toxic Men. We want to turn them back
to to their regular forms, to just being generally trashy guys, but not a
danger to the public.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She then gestured towards a canister and contraption that
looked suspiciously like a flamethrower and a protective suit, “This is our
solution. Social Juicetice.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“And where do I come in? It seems like you’ve found a way to
distribute it,” Frank inquired, lifting one eyebrow in a panty soaking sexy
manner.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shelly professionally suppressed her lust given the gravity
of other things taking precedent over getting her rocks off, “We hear you’re
the right man for the job, man with the strongest arms in the West and the
East, unafraid to go toe to toe with anything, and we can’t spray this from a
distance and we’ll need to get close, so let’s do this,” She said, not really
offering any further explanation for this plot that was honestly pretty weak on
science.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So, beat them up if they get too close is what you’re
saying?” Frank asked, distilling things down like a Kentucky Moonshiner.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Basically,” Shelly quipped, eager to move this plot along.
“Or hit them hard enough to immobilize them so I can spray them.” She got ready
quickly, stepping into another room (this isn’t a J.J. Abrams Star Trek sequel
after all) to change into the protective suit, and stepped out, looking badass
and well protected in the shapeless suit, which was quite practical. She hefted
up the flamethrower looking thing. “I’m ready.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Frank nodded and opened the door, and side by side they
stepped immediately into the action as a gaming shirt soulpatch bro charged at
them, shouting in a froth of self aggrandizement and saliva, “Actually, it’s
about ethics in journa….”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That stupid sentence which displayed a complete lack of self
awareness was cut short as Frank’s Iberico Ham of a fist caught him in the jaw
with a crunch, sending him head over heels into a pallet of Frank Millar
comics.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shelly efficiently stepped over and pulled the trigger,
blasting the dudebro with a concentrated purple gas, the Social Juicetice. Soul
patch cringed and let out a large belch, then whimpered, “I’m sorry, I’m not
sure what came over me! I’ll stop attacking women anonymously on messaging
boards for at least three months!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Good job Frank,” Shelly said, grimacing at the qualifier
added by the temporarily cured dickbag, looking rueful. “We can only limit the
effects, these toxic men seem to perpetuate themselves, so it isn’t a permanent
solution without them actually wanting to change themselves.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Frank folded his arms and looked with pity at the man, arms
akimbo, hands clutching the female objectifying man celebrating comics. “We can
only hope some of them will change their ways. For now, let’s kick this
outbreak in the ass.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You got it, partner,” she said, demonstrating her implicit
trust in him that did not elevate or diminish either of their efforts.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They strode down the lane, moving into the thick of the
action, seeing more and more Toxic Men charging at them. It was terrifying, the
way you feel when some of your grandparents start telling you how they really
feel about minorities once you’ve grown up.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A bulky football player charged at them, arms up in a sumo
maneuver, yelling, “I’m Biff! I was such a nice guy, but she friendzo…”
suddenly chomping his jaw shut as Frank stepped in quickly within his reaching,
delivering a one two punch to the solar plexus followed by and upward
palmstrike. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shelly stepped forward in a flash, delivering a puff of Social
Juicestice in a concentrated dose to Biff’s nose, causing him to go slack, with
promises that he would google search things himself instead of asking people he
was arguing with to do his research for him. Frank caught Biff before he
slipped, and sat the jock down on the curb in a daze.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was no time for self congratulations, as the mass took
notice of something going wrong, and suddenly it was a Tsunami of a angry
dudebros bearing down on the pair, as if it were a swarm of bees, except
larger, less sweet, and smelled a lot like Axe body spray.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Frank cut off two more douchy screams, one starting with “If
she didn’t want to why did she wea…” and another with “What a bitch, you’re
probably on your perio…” with a chop to one throat and a kick to a chest,
choking the first and sending the other one against a nearby wall, slumping,
and Shelly quickly blasted them with the juice as well.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Frank set his jaw, and turned to face the next self
righteous assholes…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To Be Continued</div>
<!--EndFragment-->Brianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05696832508734980284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4218585738403591043.post-73550673079107953522015-09-28T19:30:00.000-07:002015-09-28T19:30:03.096-07:00Frank Dieselwang vs. The Zombcchini<div class="p1">
Frank Dieselwang didn’t set out to take on a seven foot tall Zombcchini with biceps the size of bowling balls, but when his assignment was to take on the Moreganic industrial complex, he should have foreseen something like this happening.</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_-kEhzqPGPJ1yrG-gwVfwzExeuWhyTK_iY_4XfjFoScgSJm4lkj97_5xs11-MREvcssAk1ZgFqCVhgcTtjUEi8rde10cQbuSPG-NkXKea2pBg0uLC9Ricb70dn9Z7ZuvC534_mSO5rzs9/s1600/15179106161_7779fe9fc2_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_-kEhzqPGPJ1yrG-gwVfwzExeuWhyTK_iY_4XfjFoScgSJm4lkj97_5xs11-MREvcssAk1ZgFqCVhgcTtjUEi8rde10cQbuSPG-NkXKea2pBg0uLC9Ricb70dn9Z7ZuvC534_mSO5rzs9/s320/15179106161_7779fe9fc2_o.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/sesen/15179106161/in/photolist-957piQ-954kh6-954kSK-adKCJf-kmK2x-agcTkJ-aga8m8-ag2886-2jJUbN-a918Xp-5cDPG4-5m1i3r-p8jTqV-6QzCyC-8wwNje-ccxMeE-53x2v2-5eiBe8-6owhyE-9gNbZx-77wRkY-5cr8NX-5tu35t-6Ux7r2-gizL7d">Monster Zucchini, taken by Meg Lauber</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
“Well, when life gives you Zombcchini, make Zomboli,” he quipped before flexing his arms and charging forward, a metaphorical truck with huge arms charging with abandon towards a vegetable patch.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<b><i>Earlier that day…</i></b></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
“As you can see, Professor Gasolinedick, this is the most Moerganic of factories! Everything is certified organic!” shouted the “organics minded” director of Pharm To Tables Totally Industrial Moreganics Factory. That director’s name was Director Cuppingplant Barpillow.</div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Frank Dieselwang, in his alter ego as Professor Gasolinedick, rubbed his fake moustache and adjusted his no frills designer professor glasses with a muscular index finger. “I think you’re taking too many chances, and playing fast and loose by what organic means.”</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Director Barpillow snorted! “Would we have THIS SIGN if we weren’t certified organic.” He stabbed a finger in the air with the authority of a Sunday School teacher on a Saturday who thought it was Sunday at the large sign that said “CERTIFIED INDUSTRIAL MOREGANIC: WAY MORE INDUSTRIAL THAN ORGANIC” which was clearly fingerpainted by the director’s nephew, self styled artist whose heart was in the right place, but whose brain left much to be desired.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Frank, unturned and unconvinced, a monument, no a manument to manliness, knew there was trouble brewing, “But what about those!” With an unerring bicep, he thrust his finger at a giant sized transparent pipe with something inside that looked like a monstrous zucchini, except somewhat humanoid.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
“Ehhhh, don’t worry about that!” The director said, waving a fistful of cash under an unflappable Frank Dieselwang’s nose.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
As though on cue, the “Zombie zucchini” opened its eyes, and smashed through its confinement! A slightly briny smell pervaded the room as it was clear that the pickling liquid was not at the correct percentage.</div>
<div class="p2">
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“Ohhhhh nooooo!” shouted the director as he ran squealing out of the room, leaving Frank to deal with the mess that was happening.</div>
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“I knew this would happen,” Frank said in 20/20 hindsight, even though that was a pretty limited flashback, if you could call it that.</div>
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His quadriceps and calves, tanned from working and fighting under the Tuscan sun, flashed brightly as he charged onward to certain conflict. Recognizing a meatbag charging towards him, the Zombcchini beat it’s squashy mitts together and rushed to engaged Dieselwang.</div>
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Like an enormous piece of ham being slapped roughly against a freshly picked summer squash, Frank and zombie squash met in a crash of flesh and vegetable matter.</div>
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“Just stop! If you can understand me!” Frank yelled at the monstrosity like a D&D player that goes through all of the options before fully engaging in combat.</div>
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Mouthless, the Zombcchini simply pressed its assault, leaving Frank without options, and swung it’s gargantuan right armpendage at Frank, batting him a good two feet off balance (where a normal strong man would have died instantaneously).</div>
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Getting results, it continued to attack, but this time Frank was ready. With a sudden flex of his bicep, his muscles were as hard as oak, bouncing off the attack with the power of human strength!</div>
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Taking advantage of the pause, Frank charged in yet again, kicking his casual dress shoe clad foot (which he was wearing to fit his disguise) into the torso portion of the monster, blasting off a chunk of zucchini with enough volume to more than fill two grocery store value packs.</div>
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Barely dodging a vinelike kick from the lower extremities of his vegetal foe, by executing a vertical leap as high as a 5’ tall kitchen table, Frank shouldered in with a shouldering shoulder.</div>
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Shouldered off balance, Frank took advantage to kick the Zombchhini in its Zomcchi-knees, and delivered a spinning jump kick while it was even more off balance, launching it backward into through several conveniently placed vertical blades that were hanging around.</div>
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The squash monster, cut into neat even slices, lay in a large pile, fit to be dressed with a nice light vinaigrette or perhaps ranch if that’s more your speed.</div>
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Frank grunted, “I guess thats….” Pausing to put on some sunglasses, “how you cut the crudite.”</div>
Brianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05696832508734980284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4218585738403591043.post-29794428905963868152015-09-23T15:17:00.000-07:002015-09-23T17:04:06.059-07:00Frank Dieselwang vs. the Buxom Brick Boulderer <div class="p1">
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<i>[Switching to a different one shots for now, while I try to regain my inspiration for So Sous Me, please let me know if you rather I finish that one!]</i></h4>
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At the time when most decent people were asleep, Frank Dieselwang bore his 8 back abdominals out in the starkly dark moonlight, his muscular curvatures glinting like quartz crystals in a mine with subpar light, which is to say somewhat dimly but more than you’d expect things to gleam in the night.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDDrpGQrDbMmAD0ShXTpr7JO_NFQBVHJuSaPPDCoPmRV37a2JkopftEt2d5vTxjPmTc7HQTs_UhiHydOwq9mjyVHtKfIHex2ATeadWMhHRYdCbsOg0d3ZxQzNewqeYWMEyPskJWWhG6N2t/s1600/5270987711_d18c4b98d0_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDDrpGQrDbMmAD0ShXTpr7JO_NFQBVHJuSaPPDCoPmRV37a2JkopftEt2d5vTxjPmTc7HQTs_UhiHydOwq9mjyVHtKfIHex2ATeadWMhHRYdCbsOg0d3ZxQzNewqeYWMEyPskJWWhG6N2t/s320/5270987711_d18c4b98d0_b.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bricks, <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/49889874@N05/5270987711/in/photolist-92Mc1t-w7bSZW-xLe1C-4VPu5j-4B8Zp3-8cc44h-4oHjB9-pE3FPV-3criB-e9eKTX-5iP9oD-7rhrv1-7TgSPm-oDGBWi-7oQT7c-e3b88U-9pEcUR-r6Qxyj-aWZD3n-bdPiac-7BzaBG-aWZD3c-aWZD2Z-aWZD3H-dV87G-5DHi8w-aWZD2x-aEAAbe-6fdLBn-64iZNC-cUWmnE-pHBtVm-f62iv8-NmZuL-7jEx5k-84nt6N-oMEVLi-7Dpa6X-cDGVMN-4TLtzH-bFkDZX-Ahzdh-Bc3bG-7qxNwY-9xnZP6-DwRqs-4q14QY-egc33t-7AXjrp-cUWjh5">originally taken by Marc Falardeau</a></td></tr>
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It was the witching hour, and most decent sorts were safely tucked away, but Frank was up. Even though Frank was a decent man, because the author used the word “most” and not “all” this is not necessarily a contradiction. </div>
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Balanced on the balls of his feet, he clung with peak human concentration to the top of the roof of the Tennis Ball Gatherers Society (TBGS), which wasn’t really relevant except it was the roof upon which the Buxom Brick Boulderer, legendary cat burglar who bouldered, was also standing. She, a female presenting cat burglar, eyed him back and her eyes shone with starlight. Her hair stood on end as this … this man stood across from her, challenging her superiority.</div>
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“You don’t have to do this!” He said, as the camera panned to her eyes eventually, but the camera started on her big breasts, which is why the adjective buxom was prefixed onto her criminal name (her regular name was Mildred Fox). He said this because the author knows that while a male hero is fully justified in beating down male enemies, must find female gendered criminals (especially attractive ones) sympathetic for the most part and give them reasons to atone.</div>
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“Never, you, stupid man!” She said, currently the least clicheed thing the author could think of a woman saying. With that she flicked her fingers, causing retractable wings to snap into place from her utility packpurse strapped to her back and she sped off into the night with the speed of a brick being thrown at a pretty decent speed by a strong person.</div>
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Frank clenched his jaw, the definition and veins, and uttered a vow to bring the Buxom Brick Boulderer to justice, whispered a prayer to the laws of Physics. He charged edge and began a leap against all odds that he’d catch her and bring them both to safety but in such a way that she would be caught and he would be in control upon landing and neither of them would die.</div>
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His toes flicked as he just cleared the roof into the side of the building, causing spiderweb cracks to blister into the stone surface as two sonic booms, one for each of his feet blasted him into her gliding form at rapid speed in a straight line which might be impossible.</div>
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As his body overtook her, he wrapped his arms around her, crushing her wings with his majestically defined biceps, and bringing her torso to his. While he did not touch her “sensitive ladyparts” with his grip because he is a considerate man, her breasts nonetheless due to their really awesome size pressed into his chest, tantalizingly highlit by the camera angle tailor targeted for men.</div>
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As their angle of descent turned downward dangerously, the Buxom Brick Boulderer clenched her eyes at their apparent death, cursing that her lot in life would end like this. “Just let me live, God, and I swear that I’ll live a life of justice for now on,” and she actually meant it, but she’s kind of an unreliable narrator so maybe that won’t work out so well.</div>
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As they passed a large but sustainably grown tree, Frank roared and punched it with the force of fifty walruses charging into a beached clam truck, splintering it and slowing their descent. He landed smoothly, now inexplicably holding the Buxom Brick Boulderer in a fireman’s carry.</div>
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“I’ll hold you to that promise.” He said as he looked into her eyes, holding her gaze. She pouted, and looked up at him, but nodded, once.</div>
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Brianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05696832508734980284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4218585738403591043.post-25975495124590419412015-09-21T16:43:00.002-07:002015-09-21T16:43:18.670-07:00The Calm before the Smoke - So Sous Me - Part 8<div class="p1">
With a mighty heave of his corded muscles, perhaps three times as corded as a well above average man, Frank heaved in an enormous piece of wood into Taeryn’s cavernous smoker. </div>
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Frank grunted with slight exertion which nevertheless resulted in his porterhouse steak sized pectorals to heave heavily in the sweat inducing sun as they were coated liberally with sweat, the pectorals with which he wiped down with a rag in a spiral pattern so that the sweat caused by the sweltering sweat inducing sun, the heat causing his nipples to lay flat against his chest, waiting for more ardent stimulation.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj-NctXRVWWkCfahanGqK_cjoM4u-KY8Fd3FLWgyU-y1w6wqScMX-jRA24jCfBytvx9ytEA01yTLhmBf-Tquk7SNfe3NCaUMhS4oQR8fIlhRrmhfV-bdx3vbkEtQrAGzilgHKrKEboG-OQ/s1600/Pectothefuture.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj-NctXRVWWkCfahanGqK_cjoM4u-KY8Fd3FLWgyU-y1w6wqScMX-jRA24jCfBytvx9ytEA01yTLhmBf-Tquk7SNfe3NCaUMhS4oQR8fIlhRrmhfV-bdx3vbkEtQrAGzilgHKrKEboG-OQ/s1600/Pectothefuture.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Modified image, originally <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/celebmuscle/1202839922/in/photolist-2QhSpm-2QhSR1-rhRKa1-q5WcfS-56FbwN-56FaVN-56AKX7-2zd2L-2QdsrV-2QhSZ3-2QhSty-2QhSmu-mh7Q4F-2QdqLZ-2QhR6j-2zd4J-56nQHi-stvcZY-qxmyC7-5rimjq-bBLikB-nyrrEa-8aL2kC-8aL2g1-8aGKez-8aL26U-qxuinD-2QhSJq-2Qds4D-2QhSWC-2QdqdR-2QhRah-2QhR8d-2QhTCY-2QgLQh-2QdqoX-2QdsNV-56ES6U-23h1Pm-56s2LJ-vqjQ68-56nPvF-2Qdsbv-56nY9T-56AJAx-r8uZRz-r8DVwZ-2zd3N-2zd52-E8K9j">taken by Blake</a></td></tr>
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“That’s the last of it for the next few hours,” Frank grunted at Taeryn with an intensity and tone befitting his large masculine stature, which under less stressful situations would have resulted in the significantly increased moisture content or stiffening in the undergarments of people who enjoyed the company of men (Unless Frank wasn’t their type, which while rare, is possible and he was absolutely ok with that).</div>
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“Sure am glad you’re here,” Taeryn waxed philosophically back at him, as she thought deeply the deep thoughts about the implications of not having another able body assisting her in this endeavor, which basically meant she would have had to work harder, increasing fatigue and likelihood of mistakes.</div>
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Taeryn and Frank stayed up all night, except for the parts when one of them slept, stoking the fire between them. Actually it was slightly diagonal from them, as they were positioned next to each other and looking at the central point of the smoker. But from the reader’s point of view it would be between them if the reader was at ground level and looking at them from behind. A smouldering intensity of tension of anticipating the judging the next day combined with sexual tension could be measured at five times the temperature of the the fire in the smoker.</div>
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As the sun rose on their supple, toned bodies and a rooster somewhere crowed the arrival of dawn, Frank threw off his covers with the force of a trebuchet with a two ton counterweight, causing a small sonic boom to echo across the camp fairgrounds, awakening the nearby camps and causing a couple dogs to start barking.</div>
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“Was that really necessary?” yawned Taeryn in slight annoyance which was quickly mollified by a glance at his multiple adbominal ridges. </div>
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“Sorry, it happens sometimes,” Frank responded with strength, sincerity and respect at the same time, not that such a thing should be be held as particularly amazing but it’s notable that such a thing is achievable, as the author inserted his own biases towards civil conduct between men and women.</div>
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“Well, it woke me up, so let’s get down to brass tacks,” she said, strongly the way a strong woman does, indicating her ability to make the best of a situation, as befit a capable person, the author insisted.</div>
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“Indeed, let’s get ready.” </div>
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The meat was pulled out with the dedication , wrapped in foil in a mammoth sized mountain the size of a mammoth, because not only was this a tasting competition, it also was a charitable event to feed anyone who wanted to arrive, which the author absolutely did not add as an afterthought right now.</div>
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This charitable giving was a requirement and a major motivator for why Taeryn participated, along with most everyone else who participated aside from the corporate plant, showing how giving they were, and may be kind of a plot hole but just roll with it for now.</div>
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“Well, time to get busy,” Frank announced, as he tightened his totally manly apron over his beefy torso, and showed off his ass nicely. </div>
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“It’s gonna be a scorcher,” predicted Taeryn, as the day’s events began to break over them like a really tall wave of water going at a rapid speed.</div>
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<i>To be continued.</i></div>
Brianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05696832508734980284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4218585738403591043.post-13124323070933847102015-09-16T09:49:00.000-07:002015-09-16T09:49:30.206-07:00A Contest of Grills - So Sous Me - Part 7<div class="p1">
Frank, shirtless, sat bare-chested in the sun of a well lit train car as two drops of sweat hung like jewels from the tips of his engorged nipples, so excited he was for the competition to take place. Like the dual nature of man and woman, Frank and Taeryn were bathed in light and darkness over and over again to some dramatic effect, to the author’s best approximation and attempt to class up this piece with visual imagery.</div>
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Repeatedly, the train went through mountain tunnel entrances and came out into the light again and back in again into mountain tunnels on the way to the contest site, the phallic vaginal sexual imagery readily apparent for anyone who seeks to grab it, though whether this is a victory sex kind of metaphor or some kind of screwing over foreshadowing remains to be seen, even for the author who is kind of flying by the seat of his pants at the moment.</div>
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“Did you say to put the salt on the right?” Frank asked, pointing with his right arm, and flexing as he did so, revealing the sexy “cuts” in his muscle definition simply because he could do so, “Or the left?” he continued, pointing towards the left in a different arm holding but equally tantalizing pose, for the sake of variety. He held this pose unnecessarily so that anyone who liked male bodies could appreciate him for a bit.</div>
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“Naw silly! Ya put it in the middle, cause it’s important,” Taeryn answered playfully, hip checking him, the velocity of that movement causing his chest to jiggle slightly, in spite of its hot firmness. She admonished him encouragingly, pressing her cleavage together with her arms as she said, “Now git yer game face on, cuz it’s bout ta git HAWT.” </div>
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Reassured by the sight of her winning face and encouraging words and not her bosom, though that was a nice bonus, not that he was trying to look that way, Frank put on his Nintendo Entertainment System playing face; pensive, attentive, undivided. Which was pretty much the only way you can beat a Nintendo Entertainment System game. </div>
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After a perhaps excessive amount of mountain tunnel entering and re-entry, Taeryn and Frank, Taeryn slightly in front because she was the leader of this expedition, entered the fairgrounds of Mega Oil Magnate Landing LLC (Formerly known as Goldenrod Fairgrounds) and headed to their station, Number 4, which had been prepared by a lot of those same townsfolk who have supported her time and time again but the author hadn’t had time to flesh out. </div>
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“Good luck to y’all!” The crowd collectively called out, while simultaneously leaving, saving the author time and mental energy, instead of forcing him to make up characters on the fly/read back a bit to remind him of some names.</div>
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Taeryn pointed at things and barked orders in a meaningful and purposeful way, and Frank got to work helping her set up the mise en place. Frank wiped his barrel chested barrel chest torso, more sweat gleaming down his pectorals and biceps and abdominals as he stood in the hot Texas sun, even though there was a perfectly good canopy there.</div>
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Taeryn queried in a drawling fashion, “Aren’t ya hot out there?”</div>
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Frank smiled at her, assuming it was a compliment, “It’s kind of you to say that.” He pecs flexed reflexively, subconsciously showing off how hot he was for her, before he consciously realized the true meaning of her statement, “Oh, right. Force of habit.” And with that he shifted into the shade, effortlessly, like a sleek jungle beast sliding back into the bush.</div>
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Time lazily passed, like a high school senior in June who had received his college acceptance letters from his backup school already and was resigned to living closer to home than he wanted, and they waited until it was time to throw down. </div>
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For the sake of adding wordcount, Frank and Taeryn gazed around at their competition at their own stations, a pretty motley assortment of competitors. </div>
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There was the requisite newbie at Station 1, also known as the “one and done” table. This year it was Waid Ayed Inos Cente, who would in a normal year be destined to see the corruption of the competition, go home, and then probably get a job as an accountant, having his or her or their dreams of being grillmaster crushed underfoot like the notion that a bachelor’s degree is all it takes to secure a good job in modern times.</div>
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Huffily, the officiant, Fauxsef Pallehgreengo, shouted, “Let the Big Jim Bob Joey’s Mega Meat Mountain Competition begin!”</div>
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There was Peligro Infierno at station 2, the stoic latino competitor of the open air barbecue joint, Fiesta Del Chorizo, known for his bounty of sausages. He nodded respectfully at Taeryn, conveying with a gaze that he wanted anyone to win except for the dick at station 3. “Good luck to you Ms. Yewanewon.”</div>
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Taeryn smiled back at him, grim and respectful, knowing that the outcome was probably beyond their control, “Y Usted, Senor Infierno,” she said in his grandmother’s tongue (He was born here, and his parents, but he did appreciate the language, as they were friends in the trenches together and this was a good thing, and not just appropriation/showing off her language skills, which is still nothing to be ashamed of).</div>
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Such pleasantries were not exchanged with the dick at station 3, almost interchangeable each year, the main commonalities being that it would be an entitled male with blood ties to the Barbecuerporations that had taken over the town. This dick will be described later because the author had already written the description and it doesn’t quite fit here, so sit tight reader.</div>
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As though cued, a shot fired through the air, ringing with promise and anticipation as competitors raced to their stations, eager to deliver an excellent product deserving of a win, except for the one smarmy looking brat that vaguely looks like the reader’s nemesis from high school, named Chaz Bradding Sanjeevingtodd, and pronounced in the most annoying and insistent way possible to the reader (options include nasally, self righteous, entitled, self important, etc).</div>
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As Taeryn blazed through the initial steps to assembling her ketchup and rub by rote, Frank competently kept up with her, grappling with thick, hard wood, and setting it ablaze with his practiced lighter, and then got to working on the meat, sawing through the ribs with a keen eye and steady arm, going back and forth with intensity and care, stacking the sausage with the precision of a master log cabin builder, and massaging tenderness into the pork butts with his strong, masculine hands. </div>
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Frank was extremely confident and competent, and it is clear this is not the story where the assistant bumbles through and does lots of stupid things only to come through at the end with some kind of clinch accident and reveals himself to be the hero who saves the day, because the readership should be really tired of that crap by now.</div>
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“Ribs! Ready?” Taeryn shouted at him to reach through to his ears in the rising chaos of grillmasters working loudly and in a hurry.</div>
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“Yes! Ready!” Frank asserted, holding two whole racks of ribs before him, and Taeryn rubbed her hands herb fortified salt up and down this meat, and Frank threw it into their large oil drum smoker. The sausages, already seasoned, were slid in with care onto a rack to cook and drip onto the other meats, and the butts went to the bottom.</div>
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The crazed work over, Taeryn and Frank smiled at one another.</div>
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“Well, now we keep an eye on it for a while.”</div>
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<div class="p1">
“Good work Taeryn, we’ll get through it and get you that prize.” Frank said, with more confidence than anyone else, because he was a Dieselwang, and because he hadn’t seen the corruption of the competition firsthand. In the distance, Peligro Infierno shook his head sadly, as though he had heard.</div>
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Taeryn set her jaw. “Sure hope so Frank. Sure hope so.”</div>
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To be continued.</div>
Brianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05696832508734980284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4218585738403591043.post-57460866525547207202015-09-14T11:26:00.001-07:002015-09-14T11:26:24.450-07:00Getting Saucy! So Sous Me - Part 6<div class="p1">
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Taeryn gasped gently, as Frank’s meaty hands closed around the pair of her meaty tomatoes.</div>
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“Softer! Gently! Gently grasp it just so… yes, just like that… now… twist the tips.”</div>
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Frank, while a massive specimen of man who would appear to have the fine motor control skills of a Rhinoceros on a T-Rex sized dose of Ketamine, displayed technique and care, as he slowed the grasp of his sausage like fingers to grasp firmly around the pliant skin of her tomatoes, the tips of his fingers reaching the top of that supple flesh, and he tweaked the top ever so gently, until they gave way, and yielded to him, and fell off into his hands.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZN8ItLPkDMFX2JfgBLgLtmDPQiRnd1X1_20q2msZYIHXiJ0AIChezmV9ILSVvKmsWa8xjuQbOKb1obqaGU0rIAVFldZOtxJa7Hmbk3JMqGS_Ft3BHMapmwMER-zo37nhvH6ZXPtCJXQVQ/s1600/19992388222_cab6369188_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="174" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZN8ItLPkDMFX2JfgBLgLtmDPQiRnd1X1_20q2msZYIHXiJ0AIChezmV9ILSVvKmsWa8xjuQbOKb1obqaGU0rIAVFldZOtxJa7Hmbk3JMqGS_Ft3BHMapmwMER-zo37nhvH6ZXPtCJXQVQ/s320/19992388222_cab6369188_b.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Two Big Tomatoes, <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/fs999/19992388222/in/photolist-wsEduE-8ycz34-abDzgG-4mbeXy-41Wc5-59VDYa-gmi9Tx-26Mimu-ov2Dm-ffYpHd-8xDKTX-9XpLr3-8mdSWF-ojYvQF-e1DGgd-8kYiw8-fwbvdz-oLhf7-8uVXTL-acF98e-dYzjx7-8rnVMR-w3J5nM-9DBDxu-hWgP5H-6HaHBx-fwwJoL-5iez8w-8wdnNe-6GyfTZ-5QDMSD-3ZPuqr-dduy4U-5myfuB-ddy5pb-8QUCT7-2CaPBH-8yy1vn-5Tjaz-9pHhWc-7zeHHv-5bkFTH-fTbz5f-8tnBYJ-LY9hR-6WoLiX-2GHf87-rxRyJ-4MiDyB-3eV1Ui">taken by fs999</a></td></tr>
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“Oh yes… very gee gollying grand. And that’s how I harvest my tomatoes,” Taeryn stated with satisfaction, basking in the afterglow of a well taught lesson. “Like they are delicate female breasts that need to be treated with care and delicateness. Which varies from woman to woman, but in this case they are an analog for how I like to be treated,” she said, giving him a pretty clear indicator of how he should treat her in bed if that were to happen again.</div>
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Frank nodded, “This is something I know about,” he said in a not bragging way but which simply a matter of fact, because of the author’s insistence that Frank is not a boastful sort of fellow but needed to get the point across that Frank was very very knowledgeable about pleasuring women.</div>
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In another heavy handed metaphor for feeling up breasts, Taeryn held before her chest two large Vidalia onions, the size of 36D cup breasts before her own 36DD cup breasts, using the advantage of compare and contrast to highlight to the reader just how big her hooters were. </div>
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“Now show me how you peel good glorying fresh farm raised onions right here in the heartland of Texas,” Taeryn moaned with a bite of her lip, which really was quite unnecessary if you think about it. </div>
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Frank delicately pulled back the papery outer skin of the onions before removing the tough outermost layer of the onion, in what the author assumes is a pretty straightforward allusion to removing a woman’s bra but will be lost on most of the readership.</div>
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Several cut scenes featuring cutting the tomatoes into a puree using knives carved out of Texan meteorites, which by definition were bigger than normal meteorites take place, with a stern expression and lots of finger pointing from Taeryn, which annoyingly got close to touching Frank’s large and well defined abdominal section but never quite got there in spite of several emotionally charged eye locking moments. The onions were given similar treatment, hand broiled in both Taeryn’s and Frank’s hands to hand caramelized perfection, and it was all mixed together into the big melting pot.</div>
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“And that’s how you make a hoot hollerin honest to betsies ketchup, my family style!” Taeryn concluded, revealing the author’s ignorance by overlooking most of the actual steps of how to make ketchup. “That’s all you’ll need for now, the rest is a family secret.”</div>
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<div class="p1">
“I absolutely respect that,” Frank said, and he meant it, where a more angsty male character might have taken this as some mortal insult, and take it upon himself to discover her family’s recipe to improve upon it like 85% of movies like this where the well meaning outsider disrupts years and years of tradition and improves it in a tired savior metaphor.</div>
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“Alright my big hunky looking helper, let’s get some rest for the big competition tomorrow,” she drawled at him, without a hint of suggestion of sexytimes, because she actually wanted to get rest that night.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
They then slept quietly, because Frank respected her as both a person and her instructions, since she knew what she was doing, and deserved to win each contest before, so there was really no need to fix what was broken, and because unlike what mass media will tell you, even though Frank was a man (and a big strong virile one at that) he did not need to have sex all the time, and slept without complaint through the night, which normally should not be that impressive.</div>
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<br />
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Unlike his morning wood, which was always impressive, and his dong is tastefully highlighted in soft shadows of this morning scene underneath the coverlet which was barely large enough for his gorgeously work tanned and genetically tan body, and it is there for the female viewer to appreciate since this is a double standard that is well overdue for being rebalanced if not outright overturned.</div>
Brianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05696832508734980284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4218585738403591043.post-83939029281344697122015-09-09T09:00:00.000-07:002015-09-09T09:20:44.102-07:00Frank Dieselwang in So Sous Me! - Part 5<div class="p1">
<i><u>[Extremely NSFW sex story link here once the author gets enough interest and an arbitrary (crowdbasing website) pledge level is reached]</u></i></div>
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Later, after that extremely satisfying sex scene:</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg58QLkbiMKS9s85v5R9nEARcORNmPnftRa9N_O39DyQsgkmWl7TQxsln7h-DJ4V7hZC8sb-odz4SWZATxBGOJy6LwpuL9bkiJwRBG-GzCw74ivp3Odo0bxGCC_n-6QFQwTfk8s6juuMZG9/s1600/abcropped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg58QLkbiMKS9s85v5R9nEARcORNmPnftRa9N_O39DyQsgkmWl7TQxsln7h-DJ4V7hZC8sb-odz4SWZATxBGOJy6LwpuL9bkiJwRBG-GzCw74ivp3Odo0bxGCC_n-6QFQwTfk8s6juuMZG9/s320/abcropped.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/istolethetv/15344915899/in/photolist-cbDxES-aSYMBx-aSYMA6-oHsP13-pDcY7H-pDu767-pnYGTv-oHGgYe-pDvopk-pn22nV-pDsdCE-pDe8s4-38gGan-8Rw371-bc62TH-ai8aQ3-4oCCmD-dqwWMD">Modified/Cropped image of a Fit Finn, taken by istolethetv</a>. Only a rough approximation of Frank Dieselwang's perfection.</td></tr>
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“Damn, your abs are amazing,” Taeryn declared, lending credence to the notion that the author has constantly been hammering, that Frank is a great looking guy, especially his abdominal area, but also the rest of him too.</div>
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Frank smiled and continued to flex his abdominal area for her visual benefit, then maintained this flex, for reasons that will be detailed shortly.</div>
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“I always wanted to do this,” she admitted as she grunted with effort, her hands moving up and down suggestively in front of his body based on the camera angle which focused on his back, buttocks, and most of her arms, but not her hands, which looked really suggestive.</div>
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In her hands, her fingers were misleadingly held firmly with practiced precision, with both hands having a thumb and index finger creating an O with a 5 inch diameter and roughly a <span class="s1"><b>π*5 </b>inch<b> </b></span><span class="s2">circumference.</span></div>
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<span class="s3">In her hands she grasped roughly at the thick bedding that she was laundering, as Frank stood before her, wearing tasteful swim trunks and standing calf deep in a tub full of suds, as she used his washboard abs as a literal washboard. </span></div>
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Stoutly he held his abs before her, holding his genetically and suntanned torso before her, stock still in a calisthenically perfect cleaning implement, as she continued to rub the bedding up and down his body.</div>
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“Jim Bob Sandy, you sure have yourself one rippling body!” Taeryn exclaimed, joyously, as she bit her lip not so subtly thinking of the crazy wild sex they had that had not been written by the author yet. “I sure had a lot of fun tumbling in the hay with you the way a woman does with a man to whom she is both attracted to and has mutual consent with!”</div>
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Frank grunted in acknowledgement, a manly grunt of acknowledgement that was what he could manage while being her washboard, but still this grunt seemed to convey respect, tenderness, and a desire to help her achieve her goals in her local geography, the way he just helped her achieve orgasm several times in a row in that sex scene the author will totally write if his [crowdbased goals] reaches funding. </div>
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The very scene seemed to simmer like barbecue sauce that needed reducing coming off a boil, and sexual tension hung in the air like the sugary smoke of the air within a 5 foot radius of an oil drum grilling rig several hours after firing.</div>
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They locked gazes on each other, her hand inching upwards towards his pectorals, which due to their size and smoothness would not be very suitable for clothes laundering, but still she reached upwards anyway. The palpability was as thick as some kind of thick cheese that is difficult to slice into, even with a high quality knife,</div>
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As their eyes continued to lock, and Frank’s jaw started to work, but not really since he was limited to grunts, it was Taeryn who broke the silence.</div>
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“I reckon it’s time I got you to learning enough of my sauce secrets… time for more fun will come later, after we win, because keeping some kind of tension and the illusion of a reward after major story arcs are complete tend to result in the best conclusions in erotica.”</div>
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Frank grunted in agreement, the suds dripped down from his underpecs and along his abs, favoring the straight female gaze.</div>
<br />
To be continued....<br />
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Brianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05696832508734980284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4218585738403591043.post-74595510654069965372015-09-02T11:49:00.002-07:002022-06-09T21:12:14.579-07:00A Woman Named Sally - Part 2 - End<h4>
Trigger warnings: Gore for humor's sake and/or mild violence for humor, text descriptions of nudity.</h4>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-6b4QbMSahYQGGE3NDZypN78qmzS2Sc3P0MT4OfFbsBCTBuEm_PM7c9fPuN-v-ZeCfzoT20bKij2KHE27rNNf3NrBkibYRJ4pQnV-Eehw3z_JW1ersP4J6JrGDXwOenefofPSlwrb83bQ/s1600/5965558796_f171c27bbc_b.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-6b4QbMSahYQGGE3NDZypN78qmzS2Sc3P0MT4OfFbsBCTBuEm_PM7c9fPuN-v-ZeCfzoT20bKij2KHE27rNNf3NrBkibYRJ4pQnV-Eehw3z_JW1ersP4J6JrGDXwOenefofPSlwrb83bQ/s320/5965558796_f171c27bbc_b.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/benhusmann/5965558796/in/photolist-rDPZzq-a6a3N1-7iXZSL-6ZYz4Q-5fTT8M-npSVG5-bztYPk-qKj2uC-dK1ycm-8rGQ1U-amXxh6-nQijr2-boMCEU-69BuSy-qp267R-65r76L-Lk2FZ-dejBaS-jztiW-9F1xBz-sf1tFE-5ETmrD-FQRgL-aytweL-bANg6h-4HiwTb-BCUM-qKXWyK-4vfXTg-7G6gd7-dYCDrJ-ehHEfz-bgvdyD-8MhRXi-7urKkK-7BtXJX-8JbmXG-8tZj2p-cTu9Zf-jzqXW-6mcnv-agtgBw-agtgv7-5tvdph-6kxuRs-9yrRE-xevxMm-bS1SpD-2Tsn3F-dur6PT">Photo by Ben Hussman.</a></td></tr>
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<div class="p1">Frank kept his eyes locked on her as he strolled across the bar like he owned it, which wasn’t true, because it was owned by someone else, but due to some background, he happened to have saved this bar from some evil corporations, which the author believes can be a universally accepted foe (as opposed to good corporations. #NotAllCorporations). The author’s main point for all of that was being the savior of the bar lent special privileges to that savior, which is displayed by the conveniently placed outdoor style shower inside the room, placed in the corner, which this new character had requested. </div>
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It was frosted from the waist down so that as he stripped only his perfect buttocks were visibly as he stripped and tossed his clothing over the side and manfully soaped his bulging 10 pack abdominals down with soap, cleaning off an honest day’s grime, the evidence of the work washing down the drain from his body… of work. </div>
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He made his way to the nearby dressing room, modesty barely preserved, for whichever ways can be imagined by the reader, but if you don’t have that imagination due to the reader’s boss giving the reader a hard time today, the reader may choose to imagine a towel held firmly yet flowingly from a strong clenched grip, fluttering with the movement of this character’s movements, bouncing around to show a lot of skin, but never the penis. </div>
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Some time later, enough time to show that he didn’t slack off with preparations, but not so long that it made you wonder what was taking so long, which should be a pretty clear indicator of how good a lover he would be, this perfectly sculpted man of a man stepped back into the room.</div>
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When he emerged he was well put together again, in a tailored Italian cut suit, navy in color, a bespoke checked Italian shirt underneath the perfectly fitted jacket. They clearly were of some money to show he knew the value of quality and buying to keep clothing for a long time with good maintenance, but not so much that he appeared a dandy.</div>
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He strode over to Sally confidently, who by now was sitting at the bar and strangely not surrounded by the typical frat boys and dudebros that would normally populate this kind of bar if it was in the wrong kind of city (which this was not), and looked into her eyes, communicating to her with a single glance the confidence and experience that only the most worldly of men can, indicating that he knew they would be drawn together with possibly frivolous reasons in a torrential affair for the ages or at least a few hundred pages. He also communicated through Sally to the audience that he was no Frank Funburthers, but instead a much more audience pleasing, improved Frank.</div>
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“Pleased to meet you. I’m Dieselwang. Frank Dieselwang.”</div>
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She looked down and licked her lips, her nipples pressing hard against the thick but clear plastic of her worn umbrella.</div>
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“You certainly are.”</div>
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*No guarantees that you experienced no discomfort, but the author has hope.</div>
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**That something is sex.</div>
Brianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05696832508734980284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4218585738403591043.post-5565228386159788942015-08-31T09:51:00.000-07:002015-08-31T09:51:14.229-07:00A Woman named Sally, part 1<div class="p1">
<h4>
Introductory note: Sorry folks, I didn't want to rush part 5 as it has not met my muscly standards, so instead I bring you something from the Dieselarchives, A woman named Sally. Sorry for the interruption, rest assured there will be a continuation of the saucy adventures! Until then, let this piece tide you over for now.</h4>
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Frank Funburthers sat around staring at the cucumber dish in front of him, and knew he needed a woman. A woman named Sally. Suddenly a woman walked into his room wearing an umbrella.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgchS3LJNd8coo2MAT4OMBEDwt1npIyhsA_RzYQqkmyuuKhOv7SEmhRMZYnUhNuBM96oXUTU2pz5sn_EjY4kTm5ACa2raTtf54YoFRScmSsIjZ3tYhl06vb2-xky40Kr2C4AA1auH7-NWrd/s1600/7856258414_9671bdc11d_h.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgchS3LJNd8coo2MAT4OMBEDwt1npIyhsA_RzYQqkmyuuKhOv7SEmhRMZYnUhNuBM96oXUTU2pz5sn_EjY4kTm5ACa2raTtf54YoFRScmSsIjZ3tYhl06vb2-xky40Kr2C4AA1auH7-NWrd/s320/7856258414_9671bdc11d_h.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo taken by <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/hansel5569/7856258414/in/photolist-cYenVh-61MRyV-372Huk-7rXrpj-8uVxxV-aiBZpC-8SBdha-kLMfk-8HAmV6-fryn17-8Sf4bx-8atpJ3-6QiKzP-5WZBx9-5fRWaQ-99M7Y7-61MRLH-2FHbhQ-oRWy7R-9K3sPR-9tNm28-q7jKEV-5WVmSp-mjjj3d-4yVbX8-iW3jba-jVpiMi-72CFtR-mHrGt4-8sjJ6j-se5wMy-6KcaMX-6Wznmt-eBCgxq-6m7SVv-6m7SVz-bYj8C9-tGTqaj-mGtKz5-kyQ7Yo-9mLtP8-9kmpGE-g9xZ6-pzvHUc-a4iuQb-nbj89Y-Lkj4Q-8mxJ5M-8qrXsj-jSxZJW">55Laney69</a>. Apologies that it is not duck patterned.</td></tr>
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<div class="p1">
"I'm Sally," she announced to the room, letting all know that she was Sally, and since this is third person omnipotent you can rest assured she isn't lying.</div>
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The metal ribs of the umbrella clung to her voluptuously thin form, making marks in her skin, the flimsy clear plastic and duck patterned plastic hiding everything and nothing at all. It clung alluringly to her 34JJ breasts made all the larger by her parking meter thin waist, Her head popped out the top where the cheap aluminum spike would probably have been in the normal world, but not this one. </div>
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This is a world where a person could dress up like a sexy umbrella if they wanted to, and wanted to she did because she is a strong powerful woman without any other justification than the author saying it is so, completely oblivious to his inability to relate to real women. But at least he isn't writing about manic pixie dream girls (though you might wish he had by the time you were done with this book).</div>
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That aside, her hair was done up in a perfectly coiffed poodle princess curls, and her makeup was perfectly applied in such a way that made her two luminous eyes, one purple, and one yellow, and one gray, stood out and bore into his soul.</div>
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She knew he was dumbfounded because he was a dense stupid man, but she wanted him, so she announced herself to him again.</div>
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"I'm Sally."</div>
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Frank Funburthers looked on with mild astonishment that his serendipitous thought was so suddenly thrust before him like a plate of pickles in front of someone suffering from a severe salt deficiency and an extreme love of delicious pickles, and preferred them plated. That is to say, he was extremely pleased. But that didn’t last long since the author realized that this character wasn’t appealing to the audience and a pack of wild wolves charged into the bar, but not one of those hipster bars, but like, a really manly bar, where his kind wasn’t typically seen.</div>
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I digress, the wolves tore into him and whisked away his corpse into the collective forgetfulness of suspended disbelief, only remembered in the very niche fanfiction of this eventually completed piece.</div>
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Sudden pan shot dramatically to the other side of the room! </div>
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Through the saloon style double doors which showcase just how positively manly the bar was, burst a man who threatened to outmanly the room that he just entered. Perfectly tanned from just the amount of time he spent in the sun (to your personal preferences) his square jaw and dark black hair framed piercing green gray eyes that penetrated the soul in a deep and stabbing way that is probably symbolism for something that will occur in about four chapters from now. Or two depending on how rabid the readership is.</div>
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But back to the manliness! Barechested from his belt up to the top of his perfectly disheveled hair that showed that he did real work but not so messy that it was clear he was a bum, unless you’re so into that sort of thing, his body rippled with the easy flexibility and musculature evocative of a hunting cat well sated after a kill, sweat dripping from his muscle girded muscles onto the floor. Oh, and he had good broad shoulders that reminded one of a workhorse, and big pecs too. But not like, scary big. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand and turned to regard Sally like some kind of …. predatory animal that is not a hunting cat because repetition is bad. </div>
Brianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05696832508734980284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4218585738403591043.post-78286784243765185312015-08-26T12:36:00.001-07:002015-08-26T12:39:47.580-07:00Frank Dieselwang in SO SOUS ME! Part 4<div class="p1">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiisUIb7zVc03xHaI3XEuGuv48ycrHVt4tHgIj1Hay9MVuMDL4w9pO-YfwvYrp57kBNJ3EvelzX2_q52UkJquahoKTfO9WzDN-o7ZkDDCi4XhJ6M9JloQxLqya8_mLeFt41nRE7w_kSTfhc/s1600/2306141954_83be3d4131_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiisUIb7zVc03xHaI3XEuGuv48ycrHVt4tHgIj1Hay9MVuMDL4w9pO-YfwvYrp57kBNJ3EvelzX2_q52UkJquahoKTfO9WzDN-o7ZkDDCi4XhJ6M9JloQxLqya8_mLeFt41nRE7w_kSTfhc/s320/2306141954_83be3d4131_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is not the actual recipe, but a tribute to the recipe presented in this story. <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/jmcar/2306141954/in/photolist-4vMzEb-8vmqty-5WLKre-6QTtxG-83zxqq-8zweLW-8a9bAD-81JzLb-81EsMc-g9LvqT-dhn4jG-6zDV8a-jkowiN-cUkSSq-cUkSsq-5tsA7R-aAHoRR-fQwLuG-dhn4mA-fS7Txw-6w8AVT-5ZU7Ea-rTigRc-a94WW8-2TPepY-dtZiUf-uFwMUt-5tsikR-4QD7V8-9onrpi-bCfWFW-8frcH6-kQEoxJ-fYiwh4-DAAEY-cUkT6N-cUkSfo-cUkSEs-7JqNbp-dhn4LC-81JAH3-81JA6w-81JzpW-ahxyj2-8vmqw7-bR9afV-8369Jd-8367w1-bErzCi-81FtLe">Original photo by jmcar.</a></td></tr>
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“Oh yeah, give it to me,” Frank attempted to say, which was difficult given the massive length of sausage stuffed into his throat by a very eager Taeryn. So it came out more like “ommm gyah, gibmehtemuuurrr” which was pretty good considering the circumstances of physical difficulty he was overcoming.</div>
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“You know, people say it’s the best sauce in town,” she said saucily, as the camera (but not Frank's eyes because he is a gentleman) panned down her feminine form again, displaying her heaving bosom, shining lightly from her sweat from her exertions in the kitchen, her smallish waist, but not too small, as she was a grilling expert who spent a lot of time standing up, but also needed to sample things and be strong, and then her big butt, which the author recognizes as something that’s appealing in the current tastes of many male readers, due to songs about the preferences of certain serpentine creatures unless various baked goods are in a woman’s possession at the time of observation.</div>
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“It definitely deserves an award, and I will trust but verify,” and so if we might fast forward a bit, after Frank finished polishing off the sausage and swallowing down all the meat on his plate (with the appropriate amount of chewing to prevent indigeststion) at this restaurant he stood up manfully, stretched and flexed his bulging muscles, and his abs started to pulse rapidly, breaking down his meal into easily consumed fuel for his future manly activities.</div>
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To trust and verify, Frank reasonably went to the top five restaurants according to the local hearsay/food app to try their barbecue sauce. Thankfully for Frank, it was his “relaxed dietary standards day” (Frank never cheated, not even in his diet) so he was able to eat as much as he wanted to and give the restaurants the correct amount of respect for their food. </div>
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At approximately 6:17:13 Texas Time, Frank strode back into Taeryn’s restaurant and declared “Yes, that is the best sauce in town, and I have not only trusted but also verified.”</div>
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Taeryn gasped at the manliness of his form in the doorway, with the slight 1cm increased paunch around his waist by .65 inches and slightly bulgier abs from his marathon of eating that even his muscles had slight difficulty in processing.</div>
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“You took <i>all that meat</i> for me?” Taeryn said saucily.</div>
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“You’re (barbecue sauce was) worth it.” Frank said with a sense of manly determination, and gritty masculinity that indicated he meant business that could be perceived in a physical closeness as well as a smell sort of way, not entirely on account of all the BBQ joints he had been in to that day. He took a manly but not imposing and threatening step closer to her, “It’s a real crime that I heard your sauce has been robbed of it’s rightful prizewinning place on account of vested corporate interest in this town since ‘2011 when the local ordinance of echoing Citizens United, BarbeCuerporations United went into effect, and dictating that corporations were Grilling Sauce Judges too, along with most other grilling, barbecuing, and for some reason industrial fencing’ took over and screwed you over.”</div>
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Seeing his huge pectorals and capacity for intelligence and his enormous D(etermination to seek out the truth and back it up with evidence) sent Taeryn into a frenzy. A hot sex frenzy. </div>
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“I’m really turned on right now, and I want you, because of your brain, and other reasons,” Taeryn declared to Frank in a way that was a bit of wish fulfillment for how straightforward the author wishes his interactions with women would be.</div>
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“Oh good, I want you too, but I respect you first and foremost as a grilling sauce master, and didn’t want things to get weird,” Frank said as he took off his hard working man’s shirt, revealing his huge dusky, sweat shined arms, pecs, and abs, once he took off his undershirt.</div>
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“We are both adults, and once consent is expressed, it’s ok, and isn’t it convenient that the restaurant is strangely empty at what would normally be peak dinner hours?” she huskily moaned as she embraced him, secretly gleefully running her fingers along his well Oxford dictionary defined body...</div>
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To be continued.</div>
Brianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05696832508734980284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4218585738403591043.post-55408366024881610732015-08-24T11:11:00.000-07:002015-08-24T11:11:13.540-07:00So Sous Me, Part 3<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE2r6xlyQn8LVIq8n7BZYoJ9FWZsZSNMb4ZMZejtD_HjFVAHMaP3eHA7rnEXixWDjX2J5H1oc1zzowhi40RA3KyW271kuDKkd0A72hPg87ZQY6wO-L3zxTYLD6vJKrP5e-RN-uXV9dpuB4/s1600/2309398221_485031f16f_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="130" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE2r6xlyQn8LVIq8n7BZYoJ9FWZsZSNMb4ZMZejtD_HjFVAHMaP3eHA7rnEXixWDjX2J5H1oc1zzowhi40RA3KyW271kuDKkd0A72hPg87ZQY6wO-L3zxTYLD6vJKrP5e-RN-uXV9dpuB4/s400/2309398221_485031f16f_z.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Original Photo taken by <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/delphien/2309398221/in/photolist-4w5gCH-fSxTsv-dk6cP-7e7emW-qCVtRR-8LxAGP-9LbLum-2tig-7QXrby-Jar3A-axbURv-NcVJi-4AnkL5-5Tj8r8-5jjJN6-xeiZpC-cqTVrN-MXty5-xvRLZA-wiQ8M-kFwAqa-dCTY15-5wqdVH-924KmZ-3EtWzM-6u8XJm-8WpKB3-6zhPE2-f2CUin-wAZYZt-521hin-iRsAK-iRsBR-rYxBgz-5aDmT9-7swtZq-bCuyhj-gjuQDH-dKM7QP-e7iHmT-9m1eGg-ao47Xe-3jSmSK-eeAecT-4Gtw5s-dVbQwt-6YQdqC-9sPMph-6YQdXW-4BhuQR">Henry M. Diaz</a></td></tr>
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To describe her sauce, imagine this reader, taking a bag of rusty nails, broken glass, the leftover residue of fifty fifty year old toothpaste tubes and the grease of your local public transit if you have one. Put that into a blender that can liquify anything, including broken class, leftover toothpaste tubes, and a bag of rusty nails, and the grease found on local public transit.</div>
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It was the exact opposite of that. Except that it was liquid, it was not opposite that way. Basically it was the opposite of torture, which is pretty good I think.</div>
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Wait, that’s a really lazy literary convention, scratch that, unless it really worked for you, in which case you could probably skip this next paragraph.</div>
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For Taeryn, making a sauce wasn’t just cooking, which it was, but it was also a way of life. From the ketchup she lovingly made tomatoes she lovingly handpicked and hand grown and the onions lovingly hand cooked, literally in the palm of her hands with a greasing of olive oil, after a strong workout. And then Frank was able to swallow it all down off of a well muscled, lean, strong, sausage.</div>
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It went down like this. Frank was hungry one day, after working on the railroad system of Polesbumpkitkisstown, and the sweat was pouring down his perfectly formed pectorals and abdominals in figurative rivers, because literal rivers would dehydrate even a prime figure of man that was Frank Dieselwang. Nonetheless, he needed to eat, so he went to the local hole in the wall barbecue restaurant that most people hold up to be the best places to eat and in this case it actually bore out.</div>
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Bustling with the hum of a village worth of farmers, farm supply owners, and a village’s relevant amount of pharmaceutical salespeople who were the sons and daughters of said farmers and farm supply owners who happened to be in town to show their grudging love for their parents by coming in town for the railroad renovation/annual state fair which they grudgingly enjoyed to some degree and fondness for the kettle corn, which was a lot better than most pharmaceutical salespeople who never returned home ever because they were ingrates who didn’t care about their parents and maybe called home now and then, but probably not.</div>
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Here, at the hole in the wall, lovingly torn open by Taeryn Yewanewon’s late father, grill master Ripin Yewanewon, Taeryn was sweating aplenty as she bustled about, sweat rolling from forehead, down her neck, and then into her cleavage in the classic male gaze pan shot for the sake of the reader, but Frank simply found his seat and waited to be served, and if he looked at her he kept his eyes at approximately her eye level when he did happen to be looking in her direction.</div>
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Skipping all the charming details of waitstaff and such, Frank eventually found himself presented with a big person sized (formerly gendered as man sized prior to Taeryn’s managership due to her father’s well meaning but outmoded way of thought) sized portion of burnt ends, brisket, and a huge sausage to rival any he had ever seen before, all liberally coated with a glaze of Taeryn’s special sauce. </div>
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Frank groaned with approval as she forced open his mouthhatch (figuratively and with his consent) and stuffed her enormous sausage into it. His eyes bulged with pleasure of the pleasurable feeling of the meat entering his mouth, as well as that indescribable taste of her enormous encased meat. A small cut made at the top of the sausage started to give way the more he tasted it, revealing an even more strong meat flavor.</div>
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It was the best sausage Frank had had in his life, and whenever someone asked him what his best sausage experience was from that day onward, it would be the one that Taeryn Yewanewon gave him.</div>
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To be continued.</div>
Brianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05696832508734980284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4218585738403591043.post-22381829669112835102015-08-19T10:47:00.000-07:002015-08-19T10:47:57.737-07:00Frank Dieselwang in So Sous Me! Part 2<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgentW8200d3hFcMo5I2QiAtak5T2ifsmv-y7aPxOTR5sD7eNJpNV5SK6gwPR4H0ZdMwS8IFX_wu9Ge3aYiKFGu8NCFOguWiTC5IEv7uVm0FjvxtshWjvaa1uta78HfliNGreGprKMsdo6J/s1600/11247870905_e1182f32ba_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgentW8200d3hFcMo5I2QiAtak5T2ifsmv-y7aPxOTR5sD7eNJpNV5SK6gwPR4H0ZdMwS8IFX_wu9Ge3aYiKFGu8NCFOguWiTC5IEv7uVm0FjvxtshWjvaa1uta78HfliNGreGprKMsdo6J/s400/11247870905_e1182f32ba_z.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Picture originally taken by <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/stevendepolo/11247870905/in/photolist-i8Wh9H-afzPhM-afzNXZ-4U9P8x-5vP6Db-QJG4-oRpuL2-n9uE7-bVydfV-cgTVxb-7LUPB3-67Ss5H-gatxb-8fUzof-9vz8su-6C8yg8-6FuLZs-6FqEjv-6FuM37-afCB11-ewc2cE-5y9whT-6KwPg6-jAYHe-3zrLiV-AAtE6-3zrLjD-jAYYJ-jAZ8y-9me9uh-b72UBv-aHrLXe-8znfBs-ccVt1w-7sKtTD-djDbfL-74DT1k-4Uuhf3-2qnT2-fM8Hi-8g9wPe-3eNn2k-usxznk-67WEr1-8ZwxUW-6TA6GH-4LUNq5-2qnTJ-jAZdC-jAZoa">Steven Depolo</a></td></tr>
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Frank nodded masculinely, manfully agreeing with a grunt with the woman because he was secure in his sexuality while taking orders from a woman who was an expert on sausages on how to handle her sausages. And anyone who chose to say otherwise would be handled in a mature fashion, and he would not escalate it to violence unless it was in self defense, because that’s the right thing to do.</div>
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“Just to be sure though, I won’t let this go to waste.” Taeryn said, pulling her hair back with a delicate pull of her feminine hand, toughened and rough from her tough woman barbecue master chores, hauling around her kit, chopping her own hickory fuel, and enduring the dusky heat of the pit. This hair being pulled back like a dramatic curtain, framed the living art that was her face, a smooth angular jaw, piercing blood sienna eyes and a slightly upturned nose on her face. The kind of face that made men reach into the deep recesses of their mind for a pick up line that was not written jokingly for an early 2000s website compilation of bad pick up lines.</div>
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For Frank, her pretty face was just a bonus, as he was stirred by her spirit and barbecue sauce which was #1 absolute prizewinner material, and the fact that he was commissioned by the spirit of the townfolk of Polesbumpkitkisstown to help her out, as she had never won the barbecue sauce competition before in her 5 years of competition due to the nefarious politicking and backdoor politics of the county formerly known ad Polesbumpkitkisscounty, now known Pharmdarkistcorp, LLC.</div>
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It all started to go wrong those many many years (four) ago, which is a suitable way to start a flashback, back in the distant 2011, when the local ordinance of echoing Citizens United, BarbeCuerporations United went into effect, and dictated that corporations were Grilling Sauce Judges too, along with most other grilling, barbecuing, and for some reason industrial fencing.</div>
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Just her luck that it was in 2011 that her pappy finally passed on the grill sauce competition duties to her, when all of these cards fell on the table. Lead cards, also comprised of a proprietary amalgamation of tears, sadness, and corruption.</div>
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Since then, it was a tank rolled rogues parade of travesties of justice, the most memorable one being what was known as the Exxon Mobil Oil Spill Disaster of BBQ Grill Sauce Judging history, when local oil tycoon’s nephew Chester P. Douglasrailroad won in 2013 because the taste and quality of his sauce most closely mimicked the secret annual theme of “oil,” in both taste and quality.</div>
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That and the fact that he just brought along one blue barrel of Texas Crude his uncle had given him, for the purpose of sharing not only it’s ability to drive the petrochemical industrial complex, but also its alternative uses, including hair styling, hiding the bodies of corporate spies, and yes, barbecue sauce.</div>
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Frank was but a simple man, an American man, who also happened to be extraordinarily gifted in physical health, keen intellect, and a clear deep brutal self introspection of his position in world as well as having a pretty good grasp of his own privilege and what to do with it, but always knew there was room for improvement. And he would put all of himself against that machine of cronyism, including his perfect abs, steel pipe like arms and legs, and extremely dense skeletal structure as leverage to help Taeryn Yewanewon get to her rightful place as #1 prizewinner.</div>
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TO BE CONTINUED.</div>
Brianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05696832508734980284noreply@blogger.com0