The Biggest Slut in Ratville

IN THE TRADITION OF THE BERENSTAIN BEARS COME AMERICA’S

MOST BELOVED FAMILY OF RATS WITH LESSONS THE WHOLE FAMILY CAN LOVE 🙂

 

It was a beautiful sunny day in Ratville. All the delightful sounds of spring filled the air. Robins chirped in the branches of sycamore trees. Bluejays chortled at passing finches, which whistled delightfully, and butterflies fluttered on the warming air currents all over Rat Valley.

It was also the time of year Ratville High produced an immense theater experience. This year it was going to be Fleas & Ticks—one of Sissy Rat’s all-time favorites.

Sissy Rat wanted to play the lead role of Esmeralda more than anything else, so she practiced for weeks getting the lyrics memorized and the tunes in shape, even though her singing gave her brother an assache!

Sissy knew she would be great in the lead role of Esmeralda. Esmeralda was the kindest rat in the whole world.

So was Sissy!

Oftentimes, she brought Mama breakfast in bed, usually a single unpeeled banana. That’s how kind Sissy Rat was!

But Esmeralda was also the hottest rat in the whole world. And Sissy. . . she wasn’t. Sissy was. . . well, ‘lumpen’ would be a good word. Or, another, simply, might be. . . ‘ugly’.

A lot of the rat girls in her school even made fun of her and her ugly protruding hot pink nipples.

Sissy Rat’s nipples projected from the bed of coarse rat hair on her belly, sometimes stiffly, sometimes flaccidly, and always ugly-ly.

Sissy’s biggest rival, Tammy Fay, was beautiful like Esmeralda, and she didn’t have the nipple problems Sissy did. Tammy Fay had cute ears, eight bulging breasts topped with with delectable pale pink nipples, and sharp, elegant claws. What wasn’t to <3!

Everyone was saying Tammy Fay would be perfect to play Esmeralda because they were both so beautiful. Nary a person mentioned how vastly different were Esmeralda and Tammy Fay’s personalities. Everyone was saying Tammy Fay was so beautiful. Everyone was agreeing with everyone else on the topic of Tammy Fat’s beauty. No one listened to Sissy’s argument.

Or said a word about her.

If Tammy Fay gets the part over me, Sissy told herself, I’ll. . . I’ll. . . I’ll do something drastic!

One evening when Sissy had gotten particularly worked up over the injustices of high school politics, her father, Papa Rat, attempted to make her feel better.

“If you think you’re going to get somewhere just because you work hard, dream on,” Papa told her while he sat beside the hearth reading from his newspaper. “Fat chance, is what I say. The world moves on sex and money. Not talent.”

“What should I do?” Sissy Rat asked.

Before Papa could continue, Mama Rat appeared from the kitchen, having overheard Papa’s guidance. “You know what the good lord says—ask and you shall receive,” Mama Rat said to Sissy.

“Does it really work like that?” Sissy Rat asked giddily.

“No!” Papa said.

“Everything I ever asked the lord, he provided,” Mama Rat patiently told Sissy. “I’d always wanted a husband, a nice place to live, and a family—and, thanks to the Lord’s generosity, I got exactly what I wanted.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” said Papa, “quit filling that child’s head with bullshit! Everyone has that. That’s just normal. Come here, Sissy. I’ll tell you how the world really works.”

Papa Rat proceeded to explain, “You’re old enough to hear the truth. . . No matter how good you are, no matter how hard you try, the rat with the prettiest face and the most money always wins. Think I’m lying? Take a look at Ratville. Do you see one poor or ugly rat in a position of authority? No. Our whole society is set up to help pretty rats with money beat down rats with real talent. I go through this every day. No matter how hard I try, I will never go as far as that little ASSWIPE—”

“Your boss?” Sissy asked for reasons of clarification.

“Yeah,” Papa said, “my ‘boss’. And it’s all because his daddy has money. The world is not all sunshine and rainbows, the way your mother thinks it is. You just remember that, kiddo.”

Sissy didn’t know who to listen to. Sometimes, life is just so confusing, she thought.

A couple days later, the theater doors opened for auditions. Sissy Rat sang her heart raw. She’d never sang better, or put so much effort as she did for the part of Esmeralda!

She belted out lyrics like “You make me feel so good when you suck on my nipples” and “I got a feverrrrrrr, an infectious feverrrrrr”!

But when she finished breathlessly, she couldn’t tell how well she had done. Jacques Rat, the director, was so professional there in the stands capped with a black beret.

“Next!” was all he said.

But Sissy knew she’d done better than Tammy Fay. Tammy Fay had just stood up on stage, forgot the lyrics, and giggled.

When Sissy got home, everyone wanted to know how she’d done.

“Did you stink up the stage?” Brother asked. “You stunk, didn’t you?”

“Did you kiss the director’s ass like I told you?” Papa asked. “That’s how you move up in the real world.”

“I’m sure you did fine,” Mama said finally. “I’m proud of you for trying so hard.”

“I think I did pretty good,” Sissy admitted, but she didn’t dare let her true feelings show. “I figure if I’m the best, the director will pick me.”

Papa lowered his head. “Then you’re fucked.”

Later, at bedtime, Sissy’s confidence rattled a little. She told Mama she was nervous about getting the part. “I sang better than Tammy Fay,” Sissy said. “She even forgot the words, but she’s so beautiful. Everybody likes looking at her, even if she can’t act. Do I even stand a chance?”

“Of course, you do,” Mama said.

“Do you think Papa’s right?”

“Your father is an old curmudgeon. As long as you did your best, I am sure you will get the part.”

Unbeknownst to the two female members of the Rat family, Papa Rat had taken up residence at Sissy’s bedroom door, listening to what he considered superstitious blather.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” he said. “That’s my advice. I’m not trying to be harsh, but this world is one big disappointment. It doesn’t matter how good you are, it’s all about looks. I’m sorry to be the one who tells you this, but since no one else will be honest with you, if you don’t look like Tammy Fay, you don’t have a shot in this world, kiddo.”

Poor Sissy Rat slumped in her bed.

The next morning, Mama took Sissy to the little nook where the Rat family kept religious paraphernalia.

“Now,” Mama said, “you listen to me. Your father thinks the way he does because he works with a bunch of immoral heathen. But, I know what I’ve seen. If you trust in the lord, you shall prevail. I’ve seen it before. . . Miracles!”

Mama added with a searing intensity, “Of course, it wouldn’t hurt to say a prayer or two!”

Once Sissy heard this, she spent all day on her knees in front of the paraphernalia. Praying to the lord. . .

“Please, lord,” she said, “give me what I want and I promise never to have sex. . .”

She went on praying and praying and praying and swore to the Lord that if He gave her the part she’d remain an ever faithful virgin.

Friday was a perfect day in Ratville. All the delightful sounds of spring filled the air. Robins chirped in the branches of sycamore trees. Bluejays chortled at passing finches, which whistled delightfully, and butterflies fluttered on the warming air currents all over Rat Valley.

Friday was perfect, that is, until Sissy got to the front doors of Ratville High School, because Tammy Fay was waiting there for her. Once Sissy got close enough, Tammy Fay jeered her.

“You really think you have the goods to compete with this?” Tammy Fay asked, puffing up her eight bulging rat boobs.

One look at those glowing rat knockers and Siss scurried away to the bathroom. One look at her face, distorted in a rippled mirror speckled with pimple puss, and Sissy Rat wanted to barf all over the school. While Tammy Fay was beautiful, Sissy Rat was ugly. Plain. Frumpy.

Lumpen.

Instead of bargains everywhere, Sissy showed some class. She retreated to a fecal-stained stall where she produced copious amounts of briny eye dribblings into the padded palms of her forelimbs.

But she was still up for the part of Esmeralda, and that gave her hope. Maybe, at the end of the day, the better rat would win?

At the end of the day, Jacques Rat posted the cast list. Sissy Rat barged her way through the halls until she arrived at the theater doors. And there it was, taped with a single rectangle of cheap tape in front of the theater—the cast list.

Sissy searched frantically for her name, only to see the nightmarish truth. . .

Esmeralda had been given to—

TAMMY FAY!

It wasn’t fair! She’d practiced! She’d sang better than Tammy Fay! She’d even prayed! And made a pact with the lord! Promised Him her virginity!

Still, Tammy Fay had gotten the part!

Sissy Rat cried as she slumped through the halls.

For the next few days, Sissy Rat grew more and more depressed. Neither Mama nor Papa Rat could bring her out of her mood. One night, Sissy got out of bed so upset with the world she raised her hands up to the sky and said, “I promised you if you gave me the part, I’d obey your law and never have sex! Now, since you’ve shown yourself to be fraudulent, I’m going to be the biggest slut in the history of Ratville!”

Sissy picked up the phone and called Tammy Fay’s younger brother. Even though it was three in the morning, she asked him one question: “Wanna fuck?”

THE END

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Bob in Paris

A BIT OF ABSURDITY TO KICK THINGS OFF

It was black over Notre Dame—and I really didn’t give a fuck. It could of been sunny for all I cared. There could have been a tornado rolling round the streets. Or a bunch of dolphin caught in tuna nets off the coast. I really just didn’t give a fuck.

At that moment all I wanted was an orgasm. An orgasm would have made me feel better.

As I was saying, I was leaning against one of Notre Dame’s buttresses with a bad case of blue balls. This skinny little whore had her fat French lips around my cock. Torrents of saliva were flying out of her mouth, soaking the front of my trousers with dark spittle marks, and slicking down the two chest apples she’d disengaged from her halter top. She was really going to town, head bobbing, hand jerking so fast I could see three of them at once, but still not managing to finish me off. With a face glistening in ropes of her own spit, she asked if she was doing something wrong.

It was simple. If you can’t make a guy blow his wad after a minute or two you’re doing something wrong.

Finally, I couldn’t keep it up anymore so I pushed her away. I thought I’d get myself an orgasm but succeeded only in worsening the case of goddamned blue balls I’d been suffering that afternoon. I thought about curbstomping her. That is, until I got a good look at the hanging slabs of roast beef between her thighs. For a second I wanted to fuck them hanging roast beef slabs, then I just wanted a sandwich from Arby’s. I hadn’t seen an Arby’s in Paris, yet. I didn’t think they had Arby’s over here, and that made me sad. Especially if I was five thousand miles away from horsey sauce.

I reared my head back and screamed at the top of my lungs, “WHY ME?!?!?!?!” then I tossed the old slut a five franc coin and told her, “Better luck with your next Jean.”

I was walking away when she yelled “Merde! I said Euros! Not this garbage!” and launched the five-franc piece back at my face.

Dumb bitch didn’t know how to give a proper blowjob and she thinks I’m going to pay her in Euros? I should have paid her in Monopoly money.

So, what, if anything, can you learn from this episode? I’m Bob Collins. I’m an asshole. Fuck you and the horse you rode in on.

#

I was walking away from Notre Dame and trying to remember just how much I enjoyed fucking pigs when the French hooker began following me. Forgive me, but I’m not too keen on re-opening “a line of communication” with a hooker that has a defective cunnilingus technique.

“You owe me money,” she barked, “and if you don’t pay, I will call my manager,” like her pimp was an upstanding member of the business community.

This was France, so maybe they did have a pimp union. How would I know?

“Fine,” she said, pulling a cellphone out of her bag. “If that’s what you want, do not say I didn’t warn you.”

“You didn’t,” I said.

After scowling, she tapped the screen.

Not long after that, a guy pulled up along side me in a gray Fiat. He was Albanian. I could tell by the low forehead.

Last thing I needed to deal with was an Albanian. They were the fucking degenerates and losers of Europe, even one step below the Irish.

This particular Albanian looked like he could single-handedly destroy a small Italian village.

“Put down your fists,” he said to me in a very calm manner. “You owe money. Jasmine spends two hours on you, you pay for time and effort. You no climax, problem yours. Still pay for time.”

My position was simple. “She said she’d get me off. She didn’t deliver the goods, so she don’t get no money,” I said.

“Look,” he said, “I can see we are having difficulty understanding one another. I am reasonable man. You give me money, all is forgotten. You refuse, I kill you. Simple as that.”

I didn’t even see it, but his fist connected with some part of my face. Next thing I know, I was handcuffed in the backseat of the Albanian’s Fiat.

“I hoped it wouldn’t come to this,” the Albanian said. He looked sad at what the future was about to make him do.

#

We pulled up to some country house. Inside, he led me through corridors and corridors until we got to a set of doors that led to the cellar. The Albanian then tied me to a chair in the cellar underneath a dim light bulb.

I don’t know much about French country houses, but I do know most of them are old. Because these houses are old, no one would hear me scream.

The Albanian touched together claws on a set of jumper cables and blue sparks went shooting out.

“Where I come from,” said the Albanian, “life very rough. Sometimes, we would play futbol with head of corpse. Because of war, there no balls, but we have lots of corpse. So we find head, kick guy’s head around. Score many goals. But don’t kick too hard—might get brain on the boots. Pavol, my friend, juggle head for ten minutes, knee to knee, foot to foot. Now Pavol play professional in France. Do you understand?”

“No,” I said.

“What I say, American weak. Albanian strong. Now you understand?”

“I got an eleven-and-three-quarter-inch dick,” I explained. “American big, Albanian small. Even Steven.”

“Good luck for you, that thing. But, still, it make you debt, you must pay. Is only good.”

The Albanian touched the positive and negative clamps of a set of jumper cables together again.

“Now, I give one last chance to American, pay me money, or I attach to nipple?” the Albanian said. “When I run electricity through, nipples no feel good. Either American hurt so bad he give money, or he die. Simple. Either way, I happy.”

I didn’t say a word.

“Okay, have it your way. Like Burger King. Just so you know, I’m not so cruel I enjoy this. All you need is cooperate. I let you go. You give me money, I untie you. Is simple.”

“You know what’s really simple?” I said. “Your mom! Last night I fucked her asshole out, then I made her sniff her own shit right of my johnson!”

Where this came from, I had no idea, and in hindsight, probably wasn’t the smartest thing to say to an Albanian gangster who’s about to electrocute your nipples.

The Albanian sent a bazillion jolts of electricity through my knackered nips. All I could do was spew out curses about the Albanian’s mother until my puffy pink nipples were black and smoking.

#

“See? Is very simple. You are in a life death situation. Here, in cellar, no one can hear you. You scream for days in torture, no one come rescue you. You are at my mercy. For you, I am now God. I have power make you live, make you die. See? I make you pay. One way or other, you pay. Either money, or life. To me, I go on, not one care what I do to you. I sleep fine. So, why make enemies when be friends instead?”

There wasn’t no other way out of this. I’d scoured the room for an escape route. Nothing but the door we’d come in from.

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll pay you, but I don’t got the money on me.”

“I am shock,” the Albanian said. “Of all stupid things to do you get whore but no money. I almost think I should kill you just to make world less suffering.”

“No argument from me,” I told him.

“Instead, I just do one thing—for fun!”

The Albanian clamped the jumper cables on my balls. When he threw the switch, jolts and watts and joules of power ransacked my scrotum. So much energy went through that sag bag a geyser of semen squirted from my dong. The lion’s share got the Albanian in the eyes. He reared back, screaming that his eyes burned. That’s what you get when you take a Bob Collins load. Not just sperm, but a whole host of random and assorted microorganisms.

I managed to snap my bindings—the dumb motherfucker only secured me with a bow tie—then I walked up to the Albanian, who had assumed a kneeling position before me, and I kicked him right in the nuts.

As he rolled and flailed on the ground I told him no one fucks with Bob Collins, excepts hookers and sluts.

#

I still had some unfinished business with a certain French hooker that reminded me of Arby’s. I found her dorking some Jean against a Notre Dame buttress.

“Hey!” I yelled.

She looked over her shoulder. “You!” she said. “How did you—?”

“Leave the talking to me, toots.”

“But, Dimitri—”

“’S’gonna have a real sore sack of nuts in the morning,” I told her. “Now, it’s time you finished what you started.”

“Who are you?” the Jean said. “Get out of here. I’m busy.”

“Sorry, bro, but I don’t cater to Frenchmen,” I told him just before I kicked him in the groin. His boner went flying through the air. He ran after it, like a wide receiver going for a Hail Mary, so, just to be a good citizen, I tripped him, then kicked him in the head, knocking him out cold, an act of patriotism.

“It’s just you and me now,” I said with a level glare at the whore. “I want you to take me to Arby’s.”

“Arby’s?” she said, a pseudo-ignorant answer if I ever heard one.

“Don’t play innocent with me,” I said.

“But—but—I never heard of—RBs?”

“It’s a roast beef joint. Get it? Roast beef, RB’s, Arby’s? I could really got for a good giant right about now.”

“A good giant?”

“Enough of the innocent talk, sister, you’re coming with me!”

I dragged her off by an armpit. I was going to get a roast beef sandwich, come hell or high water.

#

We looked all over Paris. No Arby’s.

Next thing I know, Paris either had a blackout or someone had conked me on the head.

When I woke up, the Albanian was smiling at me. He had third degree burns around his eyes.

“I told you,” he said, “you pay, one way or other.”

Finally, I nodded, yeah. I’d pay. I tossed him a hundred Euros.

“More,” he said. “For eyes.”

I gave him four hundred more.

“We ever see each other again,” he growled. “Bring money, or I kill you again! Are we understanding one another now?”

“Now, I take you back to Notre Dame now,” he said.

The Albanian drove me back down to Notre Dame, where I was sleeping on a cardboard box. He was going that way, anyway, to drop off the French whore at her post.

“Okay, is settled,” the Albanian said, opening the door to his Fiat. “Is nice doing business with you,” he said as he and his hooker walked away.

I stood there all alone with only a couple charred nipples for company.

I looked at all the shit around me, all the lights and noises and sounds I hadn’t noticed before. Paris was kind of pretty when you stopped to look at her, but, like I said, I didn’t really give a fuck. It could have been sunny for all I cared. There could have been a tornado rolling round the streets. Or a bunch of dolphins caught in tuna nets off the coast. I really just didn’t give a fuck.

So, what, if anything, can you learn from this?

Bob Collins is an asshole.

And there ain’t no Arby’s in Paris.

Pdug

 

 

My name is Patrick. I write and design stuff. I really like absurdity, so expect to find some absurdity here.

You can find some stories I’ve written up above under the “stories” tab. There will be some photos too, under the “photos” tab.

That’s about all for now. Enjoy.

—Patrick