New Game: A Turtle's Story

(So let's all write a story, a paragraph at a time. Leave elipses to mark the end of the section, so we know where people left off and picked up. Wingal will begin:)

Once upon a time there was a turtle named Max Scuttlebutt and he was a loser. He was completely incapable of dressing himself, mostly because he always made bad choices. For example, he generally purchased his clothing from Sears. He went everywhere on a tricycle with a "I love Dick Cheney" bumpersticker on the rear. He had gotten a picture of William Shatner tatooed to his shell. He also only listened to techno music and frequently drank Zima. Most of his friends suspected that Max might be gay, but Max didn't think that he was. In fact, he had been looking for a new girlfriend for ages, but no one would have him because ... he smelled like macaroni pretty much all the time.

One afternoon, Max thought he'd take his trusty tricycle up into the mountains, reasoning that he'd have a much better chance of finding a woman if he could figure out where they were hiding, and that being high up would give him a nice view of potential hiding places. He also thought it not unreasonable to hope for a clear view down someone's neckhole. It had been a long time. As he cycled up and up and up, the air began to thin and Max began to see things out of the corners of his eyes. Well, he'd always had bad vision. Surely he was imagining things. So he kept on. Finally Max rounded the bend that would take him up the final winding trail to the highest point where he could look down and search for women. There was a sudden movement ahead of him. Max blinked. Oh, that's strange, he thought, peddling a little faster. I could swear I just saw a ...

. . .Starbucks. But why the hell would there be one out here in the mountains? Max back peddled to see if he was hallucinating or if indeed he could stop for a breather and get himself a Venti iced-half-caf-tripple-mocha-latte-with no foam. The thought of the tasty beverage made his nipple hard with anticipation. Indeed! It WAS a Starbucks. Oh eternal joy and rapture! Max dropped his bike, totally forgetting his earlier plan of spotting poontang from above, and rushed to the barista. His effervescent pasta smell filled and cleared the area around the food counter. Fumbling for his wallet, Max looked up at the barista to order his pretentious-nipple-hardening drink, when suddenly. . .

...he realized that the barista was Bruce Vilanch from T.V.'s "Hollywood Squares." Knowing that Bruce Vilanche was capable of eating ANYTHING and fearing for his life, Max started to back away. As he did so, Bruce Vilanch burst into tears and started sobbing uncontrollably over the previous customer's espresso. "Mr. Vilanch?" Max said plaintively, still fearing for his life, but also being a caring individual. "Are you okay?" Bruce straightened himself up and said, "You thought I would eat you, didn't you? Everyone's still afraid I'm going to eat them." Bruce sighed heavily and Max took pity on him. Max waited around until Bruce went on break and then the two of them bonded over chocolate chip scones and Grande iced chai lattes. Upon learning of Max's burning desire for lady turtle poontang, Bruce laughed and slapped his thigh jovially. "It's your lucky day," Bruce exclaimed to Max. "It just so happens that when I'm not working at Starbucks, I secretly pimp out young female turtles. As a matter of fact, I gots me one little biatch who's willing to take her shell off for...

...anyone who quacks like a duck. Realistically, of course."
"Of course," said Max calmly. Inside, however, he was squirming. If there was one thing Max was good at, it was quacking like a duck. Realistically. "If you're interested," said Bruce slyly, "She's right around back..." Max hastily stood up. "Am I!" He paused, "Would you like the rest of my chocolate chip scone?" "Would I!" exclaimed Bruce, and Max headed out to the alley behind Starbucks, a shady place if there ever was one. He shivered and peered into the shadows for poontang. "Hi there, big fella," someone whispered. Max jumped. There she was, the turtle of his dreams. Voluptuous, sensual, green and pebbly...and all but naked. She stood before him wearing only stilettos, twirling her shell seductively on a finger. "Quack for me, baby," she demanded suddenly, tossing her shell over the coarse skin of her luscious shoulder. Max melted. He quacked realistically like he'd never quacked before. Together they quacked and loved and loved and quacked there in the alley. And then it was over...much too quickly. "You're amazing, baby," she gushed. "Hold me." Max complied. As he stood there, however, he noticed something he'd been in too much of a hurry to notice before...Huh, I think she's a man, he thought tenderly. Wow, now it all makes a strange awesome kind of sense. William Shatner, Dick Cheney, Zima, Sears... It's true, he thought. It's always been true. I AM gay. I'm...GAY. And as he stood there in that shady Starbucks alleyway, holding his naked turtle transvestite lover in his short, stubby little arms, he raised his head. "I AM GAY!" he shouted for all the world to hear. "Gay Gay gay gay gay gay gay! And furthermore...I'M IN LOVE!" His lover gasped. Max let him/her go. "...WITH BRUCE VILANCH!" And with that, Max ran inside to consummate his relationship with Bruce, who, luckily for him, felt similarly and had no strong aversion to the smell of pasta.

THE END