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Tuesday, February 11, 2014

WHITT'S END: 2.11.14

      Whether you're at the end of your coffee, your day, your week or even your rope, welcome to Whitt's End:

   *The update on the proposed fourth all-sports talk radio station is ...

   *Really, this Cowboy player can reverse, double-pump dunk? ...

   *He's been underrated in our area for 32 years, and now he's retiring ...


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5 comments:

  1. Gone are the Krispy Kremes, the second pot of coffee, the sausage, egg and cheese biscuit from the Shell station at 6:00 this morning. They have all been deposited into the simmering kettle that is my stomach. The above-mentioned ingredients form the base of the science fair experiment that is performed every day in the laboratory of my rectum.
    When the neutrons in the molecules of the coffee collide with the protons of the donuts, anal fission is created. Much like a nuclear reactor, my intestines harness this energy and use it to produce steam; which is then used to drive the turbines of my asshole. If the heat produced by the fecal fission is not controlled, a catastrophic core meltdown will undoubtedly occur.

    About 11:30 this morning, my reactor went into alarm. I could feel the depleted uranium fuel rods decaying and the emergency cooling system was failing. My reactor core was melting and I feared a release of molten, radioactive diarrhea from the containment vessel of my spider, into the atmosphere of my office. A violent cataclysm was impending and I had to evacuate the civilians.

    I went into disasster prevention mode and ran into the bathroom. Hopefully the porcelain sarcophagus would contain the majority of the fallout, but I could feel the pressure building and I feared a major accident was about to occur. I lowered my steaming ass onto the seat and prepared for the release of the molten slag.

    Mount Vesuvius had nothing on the lava flow that blew when my asshole erupted. The sensation of the supercritical mass exiting my body felt could only be described as human arm clad in a sandpaper glove giving my asshole a reverse-fisting. It felt as if I were attempting to pass a flaming bowling ball. My taint would surely suffer radiation burns and would need immediate decontamination.

    Two-ply Charmin would be the orange radiation suit of my hand as I tried to clean up the Chernobyl-like scene that was my asshole. As I wiped, I glanced into the bowl and witnessed the byproduct of my intestinal nuclear fission; a hydrogen bomb of shit. Fat Man floated in the water like unexploded ordinance over Hiroshima. I pushed the bomb bay door handle of the American Standard, flushing this most horrific weapon of mass destruction into the dark recesses of the sewer.

    As I fled the fallout area of the bathroom, I feared the possibility of ass cancer and rectal birth defects. I can only hope that the Nuclear Regulatory Commission and the World Health Organization can work together to sooth my scorched taint and prevent such an accident from happening again. I must find and alternate fuel source for my asshole, otherwise, this calamity of caca might become commonplace.

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    Replies
    1. ***** slow clap *****

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    2. Amazing!!! (Jaw on the floor) This is the best writing I've ever read on this blog.

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  2. Refreshing to see some real talent being displayed for a change.

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