+ _ + + "A profile of Cherub Cove's first beatified lesbian, the church's patron saint of edible tube tops and #1 Americhristian pussy-poet, by Joey Joe-Joe Pounder. Her collection "For All Cherubs In Need: Words To Breed By" was the first chapbook of psalms published by St. Brittany's to crack into the New York Times bestseller list. It was this polarizing work, written alternately in crayon and lipstick, that rocketed her to nationwide notoriety. This interview, conducted not long after shooting ended on a softcore adaptation of the book, was originally printed in the September 2011 issue of DDDevout New Teen Health." + + _ +
_____++_ +_ _____++_ +______++_ +______++_ +______++_ +______++_ +______++
(The iconic, strawberry-scented locker poster of Our Sainted Slut + All-American Angel, Lil Miss Chestina Swettacowski.)
Says our fully chubbed-up cherub Patriette today, of the routine Fertile Fashion shoot that went on to make best-selling hillbilly history: "I had, like, no frickin' idea, um -- that, like... I'd be this soul model an' junk. I was jus' a-feelin' all hot an' fancy 'bout fuckin' four or five dudes for lunch. I was pretty frisky that afternoonie, on account of the camera boys learnin' me how to be less afraid of their big nakey cocks. I swear, like... fuckin' suckin' shucks, amirite?!"
St. Chesti denies all of the commie liberal media's accusations, such as rumors that her then-unheard-of rate of growth wasn't a manifestation of gleaming godliness at all, but a standard issue transformation hidden by the church of St. Brittany, trumped up in some implausible PR move. "Growin' gals ever-wheres gon' be shocked as shit to know it took me, like, one whole week to know that all I had to do to get comfy for nakey picture times was jus' a-suck on them long, Christlike things!"
She also swears she wasn't, at one barely believable point, militant dyke and riot grrl Teresa Svetloska, leader of those feminist reactionaries the Infertile Infernals. "I can't even, like, say that ugly, ugly name! What is it? In...vitroid..." She crinkles her nose, as if she's being forced to eat some kind of food even slightly more ethnic than the all-American fare we're chowing down.
("I'm a beer an' burger an' burger an' milkshake an' burger bitch," she tells me with a straight face, between questions. "Girlies gotta grow!" we jinx each other.) She takes a long pull of a root beer float before abandoning the straw altogether, diving face first into the jumbo-sized confection, groaning like she's getting DPed by some well-hung country ghosts. "Jus' so fuggin' gooooood," she tells me "off the recorded records".
She goes on to clarify her claim of complete legitimacy, all without clearing any of the gobs of cookie dough ice cream off of her blessed countenance. They tumble down off her giant chest, sticky and slick and creamy, pooling into her obscured navel, collecting around a big emerald stud. "I'm a good girl," she whines.
Another customer at the diner, embarrassed, picks her fluffy blue poodle off the table. It's been lapping up the melted ice cream from Chesti's belly for close to a minute, as she mews and coos in search of a single word. ("I'm ticklish because I'm a girl!" she excitedly explains, once she calms herself down by sticking a few fingers in her snatch. "I'm ticklish because puppy-wuppy's just so cutesy-wootsy!" she expounds with a laugh.)
"Believe you me, I believe with all my booby-meat in my holy redneck goddess Brittany. I'm proud as my peach that I's a authenticated, hunnerd-percent realchurch country cherub. Nobody done forced this ho to do nothin'. This is what I want. This is what I crave. This what every one of God's girlies needs." Still, "if y'all told me then I'd be fixin' to be a dang saint when I got all growed up and turned seventeen again, I'd prob'ly fuck you right there jus' to get you to stop teasin' me!"
"It's kinda undie-lievable to think that thousands and thousands of new soulful slutsers is cryin' they skinny ol' selves to sleep at night, wishin' they looked like my picture. I mean, them guys took it when my body wasn't even fully freedom-farmed yet!" Her eyes light up as she continues with a steady stream of drool. The same incredulousness, then, goes for the scores of manly missionaries, sowing their God-given spirit seed in cities and campuses across that heathen "nation" that's outside our boundaries here in Cherub Cove.
With the mere mention of our strong, brave men, Chesti blushes at once and squeezes her naked thighs together, squirming enough to make that special kind of sloppy, slurping sound that only the holiest honeys can make with their honey cunnies. She burps out a giggle and unbuckles her chafing, cotton candy pink belt, rubbing a relieved tummy.
A waiter comes by to eye her plate, as if to goad her into finishing the eighth, lonely-looking cornflake chicken drumstick still on her plate. Between mouthfuls, she carelessly (or, more than likely, out of her utmost level of contented country enlightenment) lets some golden crumbs fall off her doughy chin and into the deep cleavage of her biblical breasts. "Those boys," she starts, unable to hold back a gushing stream of tears, "those soldier-boys, those martyrs -- bronze gods among faggy liberal pussies, them's what they is --"
"I mean, like, can y'all even fath-- um..." She looks at me like I might have whatever word she's looking for, the one that's clearly above her place and race, regardless. I point at her awesomely big rippling melons. "Fat titties?" I ask, in the most helpful tone I can muster. She titters tits-first, knowing full well one of those over-full things is bound to fly out of two tiny triangle cups on the shiny purple bra that she's trying to pass off as a swimsuit top.
They both do, and she says, "Nahhh," as I start to thumb on each nipple with one hand, to drive my point home. "Like -- oooh, that feels fine-n-dandy," she coos, and I'm twistin' and tuggin' in accordance with the scripture. She eyes the bulge in my overalls, and I shove my clipboard on top of it before she gets any ideas. I'm a married man. (While I know that this alone doesn't stop me from indulging in my right as a real American to bone any bimbo I choose, what can I say? My wife can be a real rough cunt sometimes.)
Chesti looks at me with those famous shiny, ditzy eyes. "Do y'all know what it's like to be some weirdo skinny-sinny one week, and prayermate of the year the next? Can y'all even understamp what it's like to have missionaries pin up your poster in they hotel rooms, that I'm the thing that best reminds them of home?! ...wait. Under...stables?" Of course we can.
It's just like the bumper sticker says. EVERYBODY LOVES CHESTI. As you know, the decal was selling like ho-cakes, so my friend Mack Slack made a song out of it. "She's the best-y. She's so chesty!" Even my wife Carmen sings it, only, of course, inserting her name.
After all, she's swishin' 'round these parts with nearly the heaviest, hugest hooters in all of Christ Lick county. Only Carmen out-boobs the bitch, and she's lived in town for at least twice as long. At the risk of over-writing myself into this story, it was only with the cattiest jealousy (and Carm taking away the privelege of number five of my daily blowjobs) that she'd even conceded to let me interview our Chesti. She even made me wear boxers. They feel awful!
When I see now that she's about to topple over and cum just from my light and sanctified teat play, I stop short and give a little silent apology to Jesus for being such a nancy. I whisper in her ear, licking along it as is St. Brittany's proper procedure for cowgirl communication. I put a hand on one of her sticky thighs, stick her face in my armpit, and ask her if she had any special final message to the readers of this magazine.
She squeals and bounds up and sits her big pink ass right down on my lap, grinding, melting and mushy. I have to pry that bare donk off of me, can barely sandwich my clipboard in between clothed cock and unclothed cheeks. (I never say things like this, but... homegirl maybe has too much butt. As it slops all over me, immediately making a large wet patch on my denim, I do realize one thing, anyway -- those hips mean business. Each and every swivel is totally the God's honest.)
She squeals and squeals and squeals, eventually simmering down, plowing through the half of a whole cheesecake she ordered, gobbling it down without a moment's pause, faster than you can say "what a big slutty slut-butt". She licks the glass plate clean of any errant crumbs or whipped cream, her lime green tongue stud clanking against the dish. She looks just like what she is: a drunk bitch speechifying.
She's drunk on dessert, though. One of those cherubs. "Listen, ladies!" she says into her fork like it was a microphone, then licks it clean. "Stop readin'. Start eatin'! Too much thinkin' an' them curves, like, start shrinkin'. If you're a twig, eat like a pig! A bimbo needs to be a li'l chubby for to breed with her hunky hubby. Why use, um... Why use that evil stuck-up mind when yer gettin' such a fuckably fine behind?"
Chesti burps loud and garrolously belches out a few follow-up non-words. She's surely the laziest, sluttiest holy woman this reporter has seen. She looks at me, waiting to congratulate her, or maybe call the dippy rhymes (that she basically rehashed ho-sale from Brittany's Book of Babes - Psalm 42-28-40 to be exact) "profound".
I laugh at her. She laughs at me laughing at her. I wonder if she's even thinking at this point. It's probably all giggles. She tries with all her softened might to continue, clenching those notorious, chunky-but-supple thighs around a finger-stuffed vadge. It's all just little parts of words, with possibly a "babe" or "baby" thrown in. I'm too busy snickering. "...an' America and stuff!"
There you have it, guys. Straight from the #2 Brimbo's mouth. I reckon you probably have a headache right now. (It's okay to feel all stupid and head-hurty. Real American Christians don't need to be smart. Just remember the 3 B's: Breathe, Believe, Breed.) That is, if you're not in the 95% of our readership that simply has a man read our nerdy scientific articles (you know: those complicated ones all about big dicks and bigger ditzes) to you as you do all sorts of yummy stuff to him...
When one of the sexiest saints in all of creation gets up to give me the customary goodbye kiss on each of my pecs, I notice most of my notes are ruined, muddled with so much pussy juice. (Thankfully, Channel 40H crews are there and have recorded our interview for a documentary on "democracy". I have to bribe a jumbo-jugged assistant director with my cock, but I eventually glean what I can from the footage.)
Chesti chirps out to me while shimmying out the door of the diner, flanked on either side by two of our town's curviest, swerviest redheads: Janey and Jilly Juttsenbuttsen, Our Family Way's second fruitful pair of bubbly Twinsies. ("My bimbo beards," she jokingly calls them.) "Tell Carmen I said whaddups!" I won't. But I'll never stop imagining the heaven on earth that will ensue whenever my wife can learn to get over her bullshit issues and invites Ms. Swettacowski over to our trailer for a holy three-way.
No comments:
Post a Comment