“Mommy, where do people come from?” And that’s how it all started, the agony of my existence that is. A friend of mine once remarked to me, “man, you’ve seen so much tail. You’ve seen more tail than some creepy mutated dog from chernobyl…that has like…500 tails or something.” He was kind of high at the time, to be fair. And we were eating ice cream. Cold Stone. Man that shit is good. But more to the point, most animals on God’s green earth have a tail. A tail is, as webster’s dictionary defines it, “The posterior part of an animal, especially when elongated and extending beyond the trunk or main part of the body.” For whatever evolutionary reason, humans lack this appendage, though some of our more artisticically inclined perverts might argue against this. Nevertheless, the word has come to take on an entirely different meaning altogether, and that is the act of acquiring random coitus from a female, typically under the influence of one or more mind-altering substances. And so we return to my friend’s original statement, that is, my acquiring of a large amount of tail. Such has been the history of my life, for better or worse.
I am 22 years old. When I joined this fine community of introverts, furries, homosexuals, and idiot savants, I was a mere lad of 15. I was much the same as many of you find yourselves today (except for the furry part you sick fucks). I had never slept with a woman, let alone touched one outside of my first glorious day of existence. Of course, that first experience was not far off. The very first love of my love was just entering into my eye at the time. Her name was Jessica, first of three. She was a real dork. For some reason, she wore her thick black hair in 5 ponytails, placed in random positions each morning. She listened to Black Sabbath. Her mouth was a tangled mess of wires and cheap rubber bands. To top it all of, she even had the orthodontist put in those little color bands in her braces; she would combine atrocious combinations like yellow, black, and turqoise. I suppose she was trying to be “artistic,” but I think everytime she smiled the collective centrifugal force of the world’s great deceased artists was causing earthquakes somewhere in the south pacific. At this point in the story I should have realized the hopelessness of this endeavor, but I was young, horny, and goddamn if she wasn’t interested in my fat ass. But this is not a story about all the ugly girls I had the misfortune to do the nasty with. This story is about how every minute of every day of every week of every month of every year of my life, I am saving your precious world.
My whole life, I have been plagued with a dream. More than a dream, a nightmare in fact…a nightmare of epic proportions. Imagine David Hasselhoff, Richard Simmons, and Predator having an orgy with each other while the ghost of Peter Jennings calmly recites the play-by-play and one only begins to scratch the surface of how debilitatingly painful my nightmare is. I have only begun to start to put the pieces of the puzzle together as to the meaning behind this dream, for it is no ordinary recurring nightmare. It is an entity unto itself that grows and evolves with my own capacity to understand the world around me. It manifests itself in different people, different locations, different messages. It is a quite wily manifestation, and were it not for my superior powers of deduction, I might have never even realized the nightmares were a recurring circumstance.
My first recollection of these dreams occurred at the ripe age of four. I had just watched “The Wizard of Oz” for the first time, and that night my normally innocent, angelic childhood sleep was disturbed by the most terrifying of nightmares. I found myself running down the gold road. In front of me, I could see the Crystal Palace burning in flames, while behind me the Wicked Witch of the East was chasing me. At first, I thought she wanted to devour me, but then I realized that the object of her chase was to remove my clothes. I’m not sure how I knew it, but hell, it was a dream and I just knew. The witch was also naked, but being that I was 4 years old, I didn’t really know what a naked woman looked like. In fact, that was before I realized that girls didn’t have penises. So there I was, running down the road, in front of me was the total destruction of paradise, behind me was a naked witch with a penis running after me. You can see the dilemma. I would run and run…and just when she was about to grab me, I would wake up screaming. I had this dream for months, but it was nothing compared to the dream I would have 12 years later, where the dream reappeared, but this time I was being chased by a naked William Jennings Bryan in a cowboy hat. Now that was truly frightening.
As I grew and acquired new knowledge of the workings of the universe, the nightmares would occassionally stop, but they would always begin anew after long enough. At the time, I saw no connection. My naked fourth grade geography teacher chasing me in a highly stylized pink version of the car from Knight Rider, screaming something about Bordeaux, Bordeaux, Bordeaux! The cute nurse who gave me my junior high entrance physical; she would reach down to perform the hernia test, then suddenly I would see reflected in her eyes…well, let’s just say that it rivaled well-hung Predator bukkake porno in vileness. And perhaps the worst nightmare of all occurred the night after accidentally watching a bit too much CSPAN while browsing through the naked delights of the internet (I would not reccomend ever combining these two activities), and suddenly I found myself in a room with no doors or windows, tied to a chair, and surrounded by 100 clones of Janet Reno each holding one of those monstrous vericose-veined 16" Black dildos.
Though each of these nightmares were excruciating on their own, I began to notice a patern after awhile. Though different, each dream contained two common elements. On the one hand, there was always a woman of sorts, often naked, trying to elicit some sort of bizarre sexual ritual onto my body. On the other hand, the utter destruction of mankind awaited. Much like a dog instinctually understands that sniffing other dogs’ anuses is a pleasurable and rewarding activity, I had an innate feeling that somehow, if I let myself succumb to the immediate pleasures of sexual perversion, I would not only destroy myself but the rest of mankind. On the one hand, the fat chick I made out with while drunk. On the other hand, my only escape: many nights of taco-bell fueled diarrhea. But how could that be? At first, I thought maybe the Church was transmitting some kind of subliminal message not to fuck chicks into my head, but after seeing John Paul II on TV for the first time, I realized the Church must have been spending all of its scientific resources on keeping his body alive for another 500 years. It was not until I was twenty years old that the answer smacked me in the face like a palm slapping some guy’s face. My girlfriend at the time was late on her period and she asked me one night after enjoying some gloriously blood and mucus free sex, “what if I’m pregnant?”
<u><i><b>Offspring</b></i></u>
That was it! The meaning behind all of those awful nightmares. My offspring, assuming I were to ever have any, were destined to destroy the world. That’s why I was running from the veluptuous vixens in my dreams, and that’s why I knew that I could not get caught. That’s what those visions of apocolypse were in my distant vision. I was left with only choice. I had to eat my girlfriend’s ovaries. I whispered sweet nothings of love into her ear, and I then commenced to chow down on those delicious ovaries like a bucket of greasy KFC fried chicken. It’s true what they say, you know, about everything tasting like chicken. I discarded her tender remains in the only container I had around my room: an old moldy KFC bucket. Oh how I love delicious ironies. I have been on the run ever since, from myself, from women, from the authorities of the state of Illinois. I know it’s awful, but I had no other choice. What’s one life when considering the whole of humanity? As far as I’m concerned, my feast was nothing other than saving the world from total destruction. But this story has a happy ending. I can now combine my two favorite activites, eating and fucking, into one big pleasurable, world-saving experience! A little bit of kissing, a little bit of touching, a little bit of sexing, a little bit of ravenously devouring some poor Asian girl’s unsuspecting ovaries, and a little bit of saving the world. You can thank me later.
Instead of making a question thread for my one thousandth post extravaganza, I thought I’d write an absurd little story for you all. Somewhat autobiographical, except for the whole William Jennings Bryan thing. That never happened, but I thought it would be a funny little literary quip. But I suppose if you are really curious about anything regarding my existence, you may also use this thread to pose a question or two to me, and as long as you aren’t one of those “furries” all the cool people keep talking about, I’ll try to answer your query. But please don’t ask any questions that would involve devulging information about other posters here, because I won’t answer them. But anything else is fine.
<b><u><i>ANSWERS!</b></u></i>
I am currently living and working in Asia…so that would be why.
Sorry, I do remember getting your entry. I only got like 3 entries for the contest, and since we had so many staff entries already, I just got lazy and didn’t bother. No one seemed to care at the time. I still might have them saved somewhere. I suppose I could make an effort to put them up on the shrine sometime soon.
我要
I think I honestly believed that I was in love with my first girlfriend, but then don’t we all think that about the first? Since then…I can’t say I ever truly believed I was in love or wanted to marry anyone that I was with. I did have genuine feelings for a couple girlfriends, I’m not a complete animal. But I tend to run away before anything can truly develop.
I’m not sure if this is a serious question or just an attempt at humor. Um…the real you? You’re definitely the quiet or shy one. I think sometimes you can be jokes and no substance, but we can’t always be substance. And I suppose now that you’ve moved out of shithole SoCal, maybe you’ll have less of an excuse to play video games all day. But I don’t really know. I haven’t talked to you since like December, so I guess I don’t feel I can answer this question.
I’m guessing you aren’t a big fan of books.
Nope, I was travelling in Winter, and it was cold enough on the mainland already. I’ll be back soon enough, and I’d like to see them.
