Frenchie Ball G: Episode 287 – “Dirty Souls”

Last time on Frenchie Ball G, Ultrasect continued to ravage the Earth in his attempt to coerce our heroes to surrender Terri to him. Frenchie having just found the first G Ball, raced up the path of destruction where he encountered Tony and his old rival, Matt. In a desperation move, Tony managed to forge an uneasy alliance between the two powerful warriors.

Meanwhile, using the G-Radar, Zach began to close in on the other G Ball! Will the combined forces of Frenchie, Matt, and Tony enough to slow down Utltrasect in time for Zach to return with this other G Ball? Find out next on Frenchie Ball G!

Zach soured above the Brazilian wilderness. “Of all the places this G ball had to be. I fucking hate the jungle. This gay-dar better be working right,” he remarked to himself.

His head was splitting from the fever the heat had given him. The G-Radar in is pocket began to beep a higher interval than he had heard. He pulled it out to find that he was right on top of the signal. Suddenly, an arrow shot passed his head. He looked down to find hundred of natives armed with bows and machetes. He also saw they were surrounding a golden ball. “Ugh, they should have sent Tony down here to deal with these beaners,” said Zach, unaware of his own ignorance that this particular racial epithet is no longer applicable once he went past Mexico. “Well, looks like there is about to be a trampling at the zoo. Prepare to get fucked by America, savages!” he roared as he dove down to battle the entire village.

Meanwhile, back in Canada, Frenchie, Matt, and Tony stood in the ruins of Toronto. It was the first time Tony had a chance to take in what had become of this grand city. Ultrasect had really taken his time here. The air had a taste of death. All the bodies were outside of the smoldering buildings. Ultrasect must have been killing everyone inside then destroying the buildings. “All this carnage for one woman,” Tony thought to himself. “He came all this way just to get his ride on the village bicycle. It was like Predator meets milfhunter.com.”

Frenchie and Matt were still oblivious to the scene around them. The hatred between them was only magnified by the fact they had to work together or both lose something very precious to them. They just stared at each other, both wishing the other to experience some sort of personal holocaust. Matt finally spoke. “Well, let’s get this over with, but mark my words, Seth,” Matt said in the most cutting tone, “after I kill Ultrasect, we are finishing this. You hear me, Frenchie? Your ass is fucking mine!”

“Heh, the only person my ass belongs to is Shai LaBeouf,” said Frenchie in a completely serious tone.

“Wait, what?” inquired Tony.

“You need to listen to me,” said Frenchie, totally brushing off Tony’s question about his longing for the cock of the teen heartthrob. “We can’t just go after Ultrasect head on. You saw what he did to Maslany and Austin. He’s stronger and faster than us, plain and simple. We are totally outclassed in this one.”

“Sounds like he’s really got us in a glory hole on New Year’s Eve in San Francisco,” quipped Tony. He was pretty happy he made a joke without saying dishes.

“If only we were that lucky,” said Frenchie with a longing sigh. “But no, we have to outsmart him on this one.”

“And how do you suppose we do that, queer? Attack him in Lineage II or just suck his dick and cry?” Matt said. He did not appreciate being told what to do by someone who he loathed so much. He was not even really listening, only planning the most heinous insult imaginable for the next time Frenchie shut his fucking mouth.

Frenchie started again, “This is what I need you to do. There is a special attack I learned a while back, but it takes a long time to charge. . .”

“That’s bullshit.” Matt interrupted. “Special attack? You just don’t want to be part of this fight. I’m Matt Motherfucking Mills and I don’t need fucking Frenchie to save the world.”

“Funny, I was saving this attack for you, if that tells you anything,” said Frenchie. “Look, I want to win this one just as bad as anyone else. We are pretty fucked until Zach gets back with the other G Ball. We can attack him head-on and only slow him down for 10 minutes or you can listen to my plan and maybe slow him down for 20.”

“Matt, it is worth hearing him out,” said Tony. The longer the bickering went on, but more cities would be facing the same fate as Toronto.

“Just hear me out. Just catch up to Ultrasect and get him to follow you back here. By the time you get back, I should have my new attack ready. It won’t kill him, but hopefully it will do enough to stall him until Zach gets back here,” said Frenchie. He was really looking forward for a change to try his new attack out.

“Frenchie,” Matt started, “you represent everything this is wrong with this race. I hate the feeling of your consciousness’s continued existence. Your very essence is like poison to my soul. There is simply no way for me to more eloquently elaborate my absolute revulsion of each atom that makes up your person. So, let me tell you this: if your fairy plan does not work, I will break all your Rock Band shit.”

Frenchie winced. Hearing the threat was like nails on a chalkboard. Rock Band and receiving anal sex were his only two joys in life. It had to work. If it did not, not only will he not be able to play Rock Band, but everyone would be too dead to fuck him too. “I understand. Just hold up your end of the bargain. Just like a reach around. Don’t bother looking back. Just enjoy the ride.”

With that, Tony and Matt took off, neither wanting to discuss what Frenchie just said to them. They thought they heard the sound of a zipper going down, but they did not speak of it.

Zach’s energy blast vaporized the last of the children in the village. No one was innocent to him. No prisoners. No survivors. He saw that he did get carried away. He picked up the G Ball off the makeshift pedestal and took off towards the states. In the air, he saw another village. “Ugh, maybe next time when I’m not in a hurry,” he thought.

Will Frenchie’s plan be enough to hold of Ultrasect? Will Zach make back in time to help? Find out next time on Frenchie Ball G.

Strange, but True French Encounters: Part 3

One time I told Frenchie about Alain Robert, the famed “Human Spiderman” (a man famous around the world for climbing tall buildings without any support cables: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Human_spiderman) and he got fucking PISSED.

“Look, I’m way more deserving of fame than that fucking guy. I totally climbed like fifty trees when I was little. Fuck that guy. From now on, call me ‘The Human Wonderwoman.’ I’m going to fucking be way more famous that that fuck. Give me like two days.”

I was kind of weirded out and all but, truth be told, I forgot about the whole thing until I turned on CNN a few days later. I don’t normally watch the news or anything—I just really wanted to see if they were going to show that news anchor guy crying about Tim Russert’s death. What I saw was way sadder.

There he was—Frenchie was actually on the news. He finally made it. However, it was kind of fucked up seeing him in golden daisy dukes, lassoing and raping mentally retarded children to “get the truth out of” them. I’ll admit, the golden tiara was stunning and the corset was expertly tailored, but the hair was all wrong and nobody was going to believe that those thighs were built for crime-fighting—nosiree.

Despite his posturing, it wasn’t long before Frenchie was taken down. Those bracelets were not bulletproof at all. In fact, I think they were tin foil. Frenchie was shot thirty-six times—all in the groin and wrists. I think the policemen were making it a point to keep him from reproducing or raping any additional retards.

Before tripping on his cape, hitting his head off of a retard’s head, and passing out, he screamed one final thought:

“I AM AN AMAZON GODDESS! YOU CAN’T DO THIS! GOD DAMN YOU ALL! AND GOD DAMN MATT MILLS MOST OF ALL! YOU BROKE MY HEAR—“ *CRACK*

Strange, but True French Encounters: Part 2

So I was at the Mountaineer the other night–you know, just hanging out with the guys, sticking to the seats, avoiding food-borne illness–the whole whatever. At some point in the conversation, Matt got the idea to go to call Frenchie. We all kind of just assumed Frenchie wouldn’t answer and Matt would leave a funny voicemail or something. Frenchie never answers his phone. Especially not at four in the morning when he’s masturbating, playing with his Ken Doll collection, or masturbating while playing with his Ken Doll collection.

Strangely enough, he picked up. Matt didn’t really know what to do. None of us did. Frenchie…doesn’t answer his phone. There was a short pause as Matt frantically put Frenchie on speakerphone. We missed the first part of Frenchie’s rant, but we did hear this much:

“…you guys. Seriously. You’re all complete fucking dickparts and I’m sick of it. I was in Wal Mart the other day and I saw Zach buying some comestibles and shit and do you know what I did? I fucking put down the panties I was looking at and fucking ran. I’m tired of the derision. I’m tired of you guys talking about how much I like dicks! I don’t even like dicks that much! I sure as hell hate mine! It’s small, hairless, and translucent!…”

Frenchie went on talking about how much he hated his own penis for another five minutes before getting back to his point.

“…and you guys never let this shit go! We were only friends in school–BARELY. I only talked to you because my online boyfriend said I needed to make some friends and keep from being such a sourpuss all the time. I never liked you! Did you know I was so upset by this whole dealio that I used to cut myself? Well, not like really hard or anything. I kind of just used my fingernails to scratch a little on my thighs, but it hurt real bad. Anyway, I’m not ashamed anymore! That’s why I wear daisy dukes! Whatever! The point is you guys are fucking dicks and fags and stuff and I don’t need any of this anymore. So you can fucking deal! I’m going to go listen to some Dashboard and masturbate!”

We haven’t heard from him since.

A Frenchie’s Tale: The Two Towers

On our last meeting, Frenchie got upset when he was caught in a lie. Truth be told, I believe Frenchie was under the impression that this interview was all a work. That or Frenchie’s wrestling gimmick and his real life personality are one-in-the-same. Frenchie got up and walked out of the interview when the truth about his backstage altercation with Matt Mills was let out. It was obvious to me that Frenchie holds an intense hatred of Matt Mills. Could all of this stem from just two diva-like pro-wrestlers who believe that they are better than one another? Or this there something more sinister at work? My guess is that it’s probably the former. These steroid-ridden wrestlers aren’t smart enough to look past their own egos. But I wanted to drive further into Frenchie’s personality to see why he was so full of anger.

I managed to pull him back to the interview the next day, but I came with a little surprise.

FF: Frenchie, I am so happy that you agreed to come back and finish this interview with us. I can’t tell you how happy that makes me.

F: Look, I was under a lot of stress that day. My cats attacked my pet emu and it had to be rushed into emergency surgery. I just take stop thinking about the screaming, MY GOD! THE SCREAMING!

FF: Right, so Frenchie, tell us more about the backstage politics of the WCWF.

F: Well, as I said last time, all the other wrestlers were jealous of me.

FF: Actually, you didn’t say that last time.

F: That doesn’t change that fact that they were! They looked at me and they saw massive muscles, chicks with big tits wanting to have sex with me. OH! I had sex with them! I mean, I am completely heterosexual. I grabbed those tits with my bare hands and just…just grabbed the hell out of them! (laughs)

FF: Did you get to write any of your own storylines?

F: The older wrestlers are the ones who are usually the ones who are allowed to come up with their own storylines, but they took one looks at this and said, “You are the greatest fucking thing alive, baby!” I remember I wrote the greatest story for me late one night. I had just finished getting fucked by my roommate Jake, when I got the idea for my character. I was crying, in a fetal position, and rocking back and forth in my closet when it hit me. My character would be accompanied to the ring in the talons of a whole flock of Bald Eagles. Like 17 of them would carry me to the ring and drop me down gracefully. Everyone would look at me and say, “Oh shit what the fuck is this? I want to suck his dicks!” But I wouldn’t say a word. I wouldn’t have any enterance music. All I would do is point to the crowd and then the lights would go out. And when they came back on 20 minutes later, everyone would be all pissed because they would be under the impression that there was a power failure. But it would really be because I there was so much power in my point that it would blow all of the power generaters in the arena. My opponants would come into the ring and they would try to kick and punch me, but my aura was so strong that it acted like a force field around me. So I would just point and them and they would be unable to move. They would just fall to their knees in pain and then I would point at them over and over until they lost consciousness. I would pin them and it would all be over.

FF: Frenchie, did you just say that you were fucked by your roommate named Jake?

F: No, I said I had just got done fucking a hot bitch, who I sent home crying.

FF: No, you said Jake.

F: Look, I know what I said. You calling me queer?

FF: Frenchie, listen…

F: BECAUSE I AINT QUEER IF THAT YOU’RE SAYIN! I beat the shit out of faggots. You know who a faggot? Matt Mills. He’s a sissy fag dick eater and I hate him. If he were here now, I would slap the semen out of his mouth!

FF: That’s funny you should say that because I have a surprise for you. Matt will you come on out?

(Matt Mills, carrying his World Heavyweight title, walks out and takes a seat by Frenchie)

F: What the fuck is he doing here?

FF: I brought him here because you two need to talk face-to-face. I want to get to the bottom of all of these rumors that have been circulating around this rivalry of yours.

F: I have nothing to say to him! I beat him for his precious World Championship.

Matt Mills: Do you want to know why you won that match? It was because the writers felt that you winning the title would create a ratings spike seeing as how you were the most popular babyface wrestler in the company. Instead, by having you beat me, the fame went to your head. You started to think you were invincible. You started getting cocky! If you want to be cocky, I can make you cocky by putting mine in your ass!

F: I bet you think that I would like that, don’t you? Well, I have no comment about that! But you were always less than me! You couldn’t beat me!

MM: You were fired for giving seven pounds of the date rape drug to an eight year old! He’s still in a coma! Have you even been down there to see him? Have you even sent a Get Well Soon card? I bet you haven’t. Not to mention that you speak like someone is typing your dialogue out on a computer really fast, but they just don’t feel like going back and changing the grammatical errors! You know what? You’re a jerk!

FF: Oh shit!

F: What the fuck did you just call me? You want to go right now? Because I will tell you what, I can tangle all NIIIIIGGHHHTT LOOOOOOONG!

MM: I would hit you with the MATTer of Fact so fast that you wouldn’t even have time to shit yourself!

F: That’s bullshit!

MM: I’m not afraid of you, Frenchie! I’m not some eight year old that you can drug and then shove birthday candles up my ass, okay!?

F: That was not what I was going to do with those candles and you know it!

(Matt and Frenchie stand face-to-face)

F: You aren’t ready for this hurricane! I am like a tornado in January! I am like El Nino in Antartica! I am completely out of the ordinary, baby boi!

MM: I will shove my foot so far up your ass again that the doctors won’t be able to staple it shut again!

FF: Guys, please. This is getting too heated. I am afraid I’m going to have to stop the interview.

MM: That’s fine with me. I just hope Captain Pedo feels the same way.

F: If you were a little younger, I would overpower you and rape your ass!

FF: Ok, this is done.

(interview ends)

 

Confessions of a World Heavyweight Champion: A Frenchie’s Tale

The world of professional wrestling has two sides. One side is the cartoonish and rehearsed matches and gimmicks of the wrestlers. The other side, the much darker side, is a world of sodomy, steroids, incest, pedophilia, and money. Lots of fucking money.

Our story begins with a man known through out the world. He grew up in a torn and dysfunctional family and even sold his ass to pay for college by running his own glory hole in a school library. We’re talking about a man who rose to the highest ranks of professional wrestling, only to have everything come crashing down around him. He’s the man known as Frenchie.

Here to tell us in his own words, Frenchie discusses his rise to the top of the wrestling world for the first time ever.

FrenchieFactor: Thank you for this interview. I know how you enjoy your privacy, so it’s a great honor to be sitting here with a former World Heavyweight Champion.

Frenchie: I’m pretty much the best there ever was. I mean, I was never defeated for my title.

FF: Yes, that’s true. You were never defeated because you were fired for forcing an eight year old boy to ingest seven pounds of the date rape drug.

F: THAT’S A GODDAMN LIE! That little boy was just trying to get money out of me. Then his mom tried to say that I got her pregnant…

FF: Alright, let’s move on…

F: I pulled out of that bitch real early…

FF: Okay, Frenchie! Okay! It wasn’t his mom, it was his grandmother, but this isn’t a time for you to discuss your legal and paternal troubles. What your fans would like to know is about your time in the WCWF. Tell us about your childhood.

F: My childhood was pretty typical. I grew being close to my parents. I remember one summer my great uncle Smitty invited me to come work at this wood shop for the whole summer. Boy, that was a great summer. He used to show me all kinds of things. Once during that summer, a rattlesnake bit me on the ass. I was walking in front of my great uncle Smitty in the woods, when all of a sudden my ass HURT! Uncle Smitty yelled “BOY, YOU’VE BEEN BIT BY A RATTLESNAKE! I DIDN’T JUST JAM THIS SHARP STICK INTO YOUR ASS!” So I started to panic. “Oh shit im gonna die oh lordy lordy my ass owwie owwie” you know, the whole works. But, I must tell you, great uncle Smitty was right there the whole time. He was having trouble removing the venom from my ass with his fingers, so he said that he would have to use his penis. I was really young, I was like 17 years old. So I didn’t know anything, but he put his life on the line for me. He was screaming and yelling, so I know that the venom must have hurt him. He was all sweaty and kept calling the venom “his little bitch.” After he was done, the venom just came right out. There was a lot of it, too!

FF: Alright, Frenchie. That was probably the most disturbing fucking story I have ever heard in my life. Ok, let’s not talking about your childhood. You know what, let’s just skip ahead. Far ahead! Tell us about your rivalry with Matt Mills.

F: Oh, fuck. Matt Mills is a piece of shit. Such a little sissy ass faggot.

FF: So there really is real life animosity between you two?

F: Oh, yeah. He once accused me of being a pedophile because I used to have 30 topless children waiting in my dressing room to rub me down after my matches. I mean, they wanted to be there! Their parents knew they were there! So I approached him and I said, “Listen, you may be the World Champ now, but come Bashlash, I’m going to take you OUT!” And I put him in my finishing move right there in the locker room. He was tapping out and screaming, “OH GAWD IT HURTS SO BAD!” And I just said, “Suck my dick. bitch! I rule!”

FF: That’s not the way I heard that story at all. I heard that you challenged him to a match in front of your underaged entourage. You said that you were so much better than him that you could be hog tied with a sock shoved in your mouth and you could still beat him. So you were hog tied, a sock was shoved in your mouth, and you got the shit beat out of you. You were in a hospital for six weeks. They had to sew your butthole shut because he literally put his boot in your ass!

F: Listen, why are you bringing all of this up? I am the greatest wrestler ever! I am the only Heavyweight Champion to have never been defeated!

FF: You were never defeated because you were fired! They turned your firing into a storyline in which Matt Mills beat you so badly backstage that you were murdered and you handed him the belt right before you died! Why did you break so many rules? Why did you throw your career away? Why the young boys, Frenchie? Why?

F: Look, I’m getting sick of this interview! I’m going home! (Storms off)

 

TO BE CONTINUED!

The Surprise

Frenchie rounded the corner of 5th and Main. The drab red brick buildings were rows upon rows of dark and glistening monoliths of hard city life. To Frenchie’s left, down an alley way, two whores fought with their pimp.

It was disgusting. Frenchie had a hard time resisting the pull from deep in his guts to puke up his pushpop and steak fries. A homeless man bumped into him, and Frenchie barfed a little into his mouth.

With a sense of urgency, he ran down the next dank alleyway to empty the contents of his mouth. Half walking, half hobbling, the cloaked figure of Frenchie shambled down past overturned trash cans and scurrying rats.

On the doorstep of some long-abandoned back-alley gambling joint there slept a drunk old man covered in old coats and a garbage bag.

For a second or a few minutes, he didn’t know for sure, Frenchie stared at the human waste before him, mouth agape. Frenchie searched his trench coat, then his daisy dukes, revealing a very illegal switchblade.

The man coughed, and in a panic the blade disappeared in the long folds of Frenchie’s leather coat. The old man’s eyes opened, and he spoke, ‘Got any change, mister?’

Frenchie crouched down by the man, and with a strained smile said, “No.” The old man looked sad, until Frenchie stabbed him brutally in the throat.

The old man gurgled blood up violently, spewing the liquor tainted red substance all over his red, knee-high cotton socks and boots. “Godamnit!” Frenchie muttered to himself.

Discretely Frenchie made his way back to his ghetto apartment to clean up and do his evening pilates. With a sigh of relief he reached his door, room 69. Home free, he thought to himself, nobody saw him.

Frenchie opened the door, and to his shock his parents and all of his Friends were waiting there in cone-shaped party hats, surrounding a cake on his dinner table.

“Surprise!” Everyone yelled. Frenchie was shocked, and angry, “What the fuck are you all doing here?! FUCK!”

Today wasn’t even Frenchie’s birthday. Turns out Frenchie’s friends and family loved him so much they gave him a surprise party just for the hell of it.

Frenchie tried to choke Matt to death, but the party crowd managed to pull them apart. Wounded and shamed, Frenchie took a shower with his dad and eventually enjoyed the party.

The next day, no one at the party would put two and two together and realize the random hobo stabbing was related to the blood-stained Frenchie.

All in all, it was a terrible day and Frenchie didn’t even get to play any videogames, because Tony M. fell on his rock band instruments, all at once. Also Tony L. spilled beer on his PS3. Frenchie didn’t sleep at all that night.

Strange, but True French Encounters: Part 1

I was in the line at the gas station the other day–just minding my own business, skimming the assorted candies, trying to avoid the urge to compulsively buy shit I didn’t need when Frenchie burst through the door (which is to say he slammed forward into a “pull” door, thinking it was a “push” door and stubbed his face, then pulled on the door really, really hard to still seem intimidating.).

Frenchie threw his Louis Vuitton purse down and screamed at the man behind the counter. “What the FUCK is with these gas prices, you foreign fuck?!” Frenchie is only culturally insensitive when he’s mad, which is to say Frenchie is always culturally insensitive.

The man behind the counter, sensing the escalating tension in the room that only a vegetable couldn’t sense, said “I’m sorry ma’am. I don’t set the prices. I just work here.” He said this in a completely local accent.

“Listen, Poonjob, I don’t speak Arab. And I’m not paying more than 2.99/gallon for the gas I just put in my scooter.”

“Sir, you can’t just choose your own price because you don’t like the price that’s been set.”

“Fuck that shit, you…Klingon. (Frenchie had run out of slurrs.) I have ten monopoly bucks. That’s all you’re getting. And I expect a free cowtail out of this shit. And some batteries. For, you know, emotional whatever.”

By then, the police had arrived to respond to the silent alarm the man behind the counter had pressed. (Yeah, it was fast and all. Um…there was a police cruiser right outside when he pressed it. Whatever.)

“What seems to be the problem here?” the officer asked.

Before the obviously Mexican man behind the counter could answer, Frenchie interjected his two cents:

“This brown fuck is trying to fuck me in the ass is the problem. Arrest him.”

Surprisingly, he did. And we all got free cowtails and batteries.

The moral of the story: Frenchie can be pretty persuasive when he’s being racist.

It was a Dark and Stormy Night Part 2 of 2

Seth Williamson always knew he was special. From the time he could crawl, he could make awkward sexual advances at an eighth grade level. By the time he could read, he was cybering with his first online predator. However, his talents were recreational at best and had no real foreseeable  purpose.

Until tonight.

This guild of men–this “Brotherhood of Buttstuffers” as it were, had but one purpose: to exploit and sell male children to the NAMBLA black market. They had been watching Frenchie’s progress from adolescence and nurtured his development. He was a pedophillic prodigy–a man amongst infant-touching boys. The Brotherhood needed him. They needed his talents. First, they had to gain his favor. The gay orgy was more than enough for Frenchie to love these men. And their anuses. Now, it was time to seal the deal.

——–

Frenchie had been working up a gay sweat for almost two whole minutes. Needless to say, it was a record in his anal-pounding book and he was satisfied with his progress. After another intense fifteen seconds of giving and taking cock in what could only be described as a ring of nasty, Frenchie passed out. When he came to, an elder Brotherhood of Buttstuffers scholar took him on a tour of the facilities. The walk provided a relaxing backdrop for the heavy mamma-jamma about to be laid on Frenchie.

The elder told him everything–the inner workings of the whole compound, the gay sex, where to find a good appletini on a weeknight, and–most importantly–Frenchie’s prodigal role as the future leader of the BoB. Frenchie was so excited, he got a boner. The elder was flattered, but declined intercourse in lieu of more important business. That and his hemorrhoids.

“However,” the elder said in a lisp (an impressive feat, as the word “however” has no s’s), “you must complete three tasks to prove your worthiness before we can give you the title of Head Nigga in Charge.”

Frenchie sighed his signature sigh. He had played video games before. He knew where this was going.

“Let me guess. I find something, I do some physical challenge, and I pass some stupid mental challenge,” he said. His words dripped with concentrated angst.

“Er…yeah. Sorry. I don’t make the rules. First off,” the elder lisped,” you have to find the Dildo of Ahmon-Rah. It’s in one of these three chests. The other two contain poisonous dick crabs.”

“Okay, that doesn’t sound so tough. I can do that shit blindfolded, son.”

With that, Frenchie rolled up his ruffled sleeves, did some toe-touches (He made sure his nutsack fell out of his daisy dukes and was in plain view of all present.), and closed his eyes. Frenchie could sniff out an anal sex toy across a football field. Finding this ancient dildo was no problem.

“What’s next, you old stud?” Frenchie winked.

The elder blushed coyly. “Well, that was impressive. Alright. The second task is fairly straightforward as well. You just have to physically survive ten minutes of Grey’s Anatomy.”

Frenchie reeled. “No. It can’t be done. That’s too gay even for me.”

“You must try. The fate of the BoB depends on you!”

Reluctantly, Frenchie agreed. “Alright, master. I’ll see what I can do.”

The elder led Seth to a heavily fortified part of the compound. The room he entered had walls of eight-inch-thick lead. It was a simple room–generally used to torture traitors to the Brotherhood. Frenchie was made to sit strapped to a chair facing a small television. The elder quickly left the room and told Frenchie over the intercom to just breathe. He would get through this. Soon, all that could be heard throughout the compound–even through eight-inch-thick walls–was the sound of screaming. For ten straight minutes.

Frenchie emerged, shaking and resolute. He didn’t want to talk about it–only asked for the next challenge.

“The next challenge is the hardest of the three,” the elder said in his french accent. “For this challenge, you have to convince a 12-year-old boy to send you a picture of his genitalia in under three minutes over aim. Any longer and you will be traced by Chris Hanson himself!”

Frenchie logged in as usual–screen name: Frenchie VIII, password: scottbaio6969. It was time to get to work. He found a pokemon chat and mentioned his level 50 Steelix, Dildondita. It wasn’t long before the children were like fleshy putty in his soft, feminine hands. With an “asl?” here and a “u liek mudkips?” there, the conversation quickly turned sinister.

Fenchie VIII: o u evr masturbaet b4?

tinytim2: ya liek evry nite

Fenchie VIII: cool me 2. its betta if u get sum1 else to do it 4 u. my dad does it 4 me.

tinytim2: no wai. cool.

Fenchie VIII: yaweh. i can do it 4 u if u want. mayb more. u just gotta send me a pic to make sure ur not some faker lol. lemme see ur nekkid butthoel.

tinytim2: i rly shouldnt, but u seem nice. i’m sure you won’t exploit me and sell me to gay older men or nething lol.

And with that, Frenchie had passed the third test with 30 seconds to spare.

“Incredible! I’ve never seen it done that fast!” exclaimed the elder.

“You’re dealing with a pro here.” Frenchie brushed off his shoulders in his classic limp-wristed style.

———

With that, Frenchie lived and had sex with boys for the rest of his days as the Head Nigga in Charge of the Brotherhood of Buttstuffers. It was a storybook ending. Kind of.

That is, until Chris Hansen and his Death Troopers descended upon the fortress and ruined the operation.

But that is a story for another day. Wink.

My Memories of Frenchie: A Matt Mills Memoir

I’ve known Frenchie for years. And I can personally say that I’ve watched him grow, prosper, and mature into the emotionally wrecked, paranoid, powdered sugar snorting son of a bitch he’s become. I’ve watched this from spending many a night sleeping next to him in his bed without him knowing or by breaking into his house and standing at the foot of his bed as he slept. The most glaring aspect of Frenchie’s personality that you first notice upon meeting him is how confrontational he is. I once watched him stop one of the special education teachers in high school as she was wheeling one of the “special” kids down the hallway. He put his hand up as if to say, “Halt!” He didn’t even say a word. She stopped and gave him this strange look. Frenchie pointed directly in the special kid’s face and said, “I saw the way you were looking at me as you ate your oatmeal this morning in the cafeteria! You think you can eat oatmeal faster than me, you crippled shit?”

The tard giggled incessantly. I mean, what the fuck did it know? It was blind, deaf, mentally retarded, and paralyzed. It had no idea Frenchie even existed, but Frenchie took it upon himself to enforce his will on this poor kid.

“Even with my hands tied behind my back and a gag ball shoved in my mouth, I could still eat oatmeal faster than you. I would ingest it anally—”

The teacher began to move toward Frenchie and Frenchie just punched her right in the face. The tard began rocking back and forth and clapping, which was remarkable because he was paralyzed. It took seven teachers to grab Frenchie and hold him to the ground. Frenchie just kept screaming, “ANALLY! I WOULD TAKE IT ANALLY! ANALLY!”

Little did we know that Frenchie was being sexually abused by his bus driver and that he really was taking it anally. But at that time, we thought Frenchie had just lost his mind. I remember standing there, completely confused. I thought to myself, “Is my friend going to be alright?” A couple of tears ran down my face. I wrote a poem about it later that night:

My dear, dear friend, how I wish I could be inside of you
And look around to see what is wrong so that I could fix it with my tongue.
My tongue would soothe you with gentle words and I slowly insert myself into your
Mind, so that you could think about me whenever you get in the mood
To hurt yourself or someone else. I love you. I love you, dearly.

This part of his personality is just too big to ignore. More recently, I asked him who he was going to vote for: Barack Obama or John McCain. He told me, “I’m not going to vote. Voting is for pussies! What are you going to do about that?!” He said this in a Brooklyn accent. I have no idea why. I guess he thought that I wouldn’t realize that he was faking an accent to sound more intimidating. So I kneed him in the nuts.

Probably the worst thing Frenchie has ever done (not counting the time he had ribs removed so that he could “practice yoga more comfortably”) was when after a huge argument with his parents, he allowed himself to be abducted into sex slavery ring to “show his parents who really ruled his life.”

You see, Frenchie has a habit of going off the deep-end and vowing vengeance by doing something that has absolutely nothing to do with what he’s mad about. In this particular situation, he had gotten into an argument with his parents over Frenchie’s strange powdered sugar habit. Years ago, Frenchie wanted to be accepted and he wanted people to look at him and think, “Wow, he’s a BAD ASS!” So he started snorting this white powder through a straw and telling everyone who would listen that it was cocaine. But, one day, I walked into his bedroom and I caught him with a box of white powdered donuts and he was rubbing all of the powdered sugar off all of the donuts. He had a whole Zip-Loc bag full of it. “I knew it wasn’t cocaine! Because you were snorting so much of it that you would have had to have a $10,000 a day habit!” His face turned bright red with embarrassment. “N-no! It is cocaine! See!” He shoved his face in the bag and began breathing all of it in. His face started to turn blue and I said, “Stop it! Now you’re faking overdoses, too?!” But it wasn’t an overdose. He was choking on the powdered sugar. It looked like a genuine overdose. He was blue, white stuff was bubbling out of his mouth, he was shaking, and he was making weird noises. So I just left him. Come to find out, he was in a coma for two or three days. All because of his need to be accepted.

Frenchie had been sitting at the dinner table when he pulled out a bag of powdered sugar, put it into a line, and snorted it in front of his parents. His parents were dumbfounded. “What are you doing?” his mother asked. “I’m medicating myself!” Frenchie spoke in a monotoned voice. “This is ridiculous!” his father screamed. “It’s powdered sugar! It’s powdered fucking sugar! It’s not habit forming! It’s not addicting! It does NOTHING!”

“SHUT UP! YOU JUST SHUT UP RIGHT NOW!” Frenchie yelled. “YOU DON’T TELL ME WHAT TO DO! I AM DAMAGED! I HAVE AN ADDICTION AND I CANT CONTROOOOOLLLLL MYSELF! AAARRGGHHHHHH!” Frenchie tried to flip over the dinner table, but he wasn’t strong enough. “I’LL SHOW YOU!” Then he ran out of the house. Two weeks later, Frenchie was found in Malaysia wearing a German milk-maid outfit and speaking about how he was his own man.

My guess is that Frenchie had seen more dick than any person I know in that two week period. Frenchie didn’t come back changed. The whole ordeal didn’t phase him. It was as if Frenchie had really wanted to go to Malaysia, get fucked by men under the false pretenses of being an underaged girl, and then return home.

In conclusion, I believe that Frenchie is just simply misunderstood. I love him deeply and with my whole heart.

Frenchie, if you’re reading this, I want you to know that I will always be with you. So shine on you crazy diamond.

Shine on…

*cue Freebird guitar solo*

It was a dark and stormy night

It was a dark and stormy night and one Seth “Frenchie” Williamson sat alone in his chamber. It was a simple room with simple furnishings–a penis pump here, a cosmo girl there–but the centerpiece (and the station at which Sethie spent his long nights) was the computer. Frenchie spent most of his computer hours blogging in third person or masturbating to an image of himself making out with one Tony Lockard at a “We Love Frenchie: Seth’s Friends Give Back” gala of questionable legitimacy, but tonight was a night like no other. Tonight, Frenchie would embark on an adventure of Brobdingnagian proportions–one of peril, justice, and more cornhole than he could shake a dick at.

For now, however, it was time for some pre-adventure dinner.

—–

Frenchie’s mother was what you would call “bangable”–she gave most of Frenchie’s friends (except Matt, the gay one) what you would call “a huge boner.” There were times when his friends would do what some might call “fucking his mother to make him cry,” but to those in the know, it was all in good fun. For his friends at least. And his mother.

On this night, Frenchie’s mom was rustling up a mighty feast of tofu burgers and V8 juice when, like lighting, Frenchie burst through her kitchen door looking for some eats.

“Now Sethie-baby, you know mommy’s rules about running in the house,” Frenchie’s mom said. It was a tired phrase and Frenchie was tired of hearing it.

“Mom, I’m not a kid anymore!”

Sternly, “Seth. If you live under my roof, you will obey my rules. Now sit down and eat your vegan dinner–just the way you like it. I’ll get you a Flintstones vitamin if it will calm you down.”

“Fine! Just make sure you pick out an orange one. Those are my favorite.”

“Sure thing, dear. “

And with that, it was dinner as usual in the Williamson house. Until…

—–

*BAM!* Frenchie was knocked unconscious and stuffed in a burlap sack. He awoke
and had just enough time to mutter something sarcastic about having worse experiences with sacks in the past before receiving the business end of a fist right to the cocksucker followed with a knee to the groin. It was a deep, visceral pain, but Frenchie was used to this kind of abuse by his uncle. In fact, he got semi-hard just thinking about it.

Sensing that this tactic was not working in his favor, Frenchie’s attacker opted to speak to Frenchie.

“Listen here you little shit. I know what you’ve been doing on your little computer at home. I know about the underage gay porn and your gay cyberterrorist pseudonames. I know you’ve got children locked away somewhere and your government wants those children found. Now either you are going to cooperate with us or we are going to–Aw what the fu–put your dick away. Dude what the fuck are you doing? Put it away. Now. I swear to God, I’l cut it o–Dude, seriously. What the fuck? Are you…are you actually masturbating right now? Like, in front of me? I just kidnapped you and y–Dude, dont sniff me. Don’t you dare fucking sniff me. Are you fucking serious right now? I’m a federal officer and you have your nose in my–OW. You just–HE JUST BIT MY ASS.”

With that, Frenchie was knocked cold for the last time this night. When he awoke, he felt the vibration of a moving car. It reminded him to change out the batteries on his vibrator when he got home. “Little Bunny Patterson” was getting a little lackluster in the vibratory department.

“Where am I?” he asked the driver, whose face could not be seen from Frenchie’s perspective.

“You’re in a car, oh Sexi One,” an obviously male voice obliged.

“…Sexi One? Wait, am I having that dream again? Are you Ted Kennedy? Are you going to pull over and have your way with me?”

“No, master. I am but a butt slave for you to do with what you will. I rescued you from those nonbelievers and I’m taking you somewhere safe–somewhere nobody will think to look for you.”

—–

The pair arrived just after midnight at a nightclub–a straight nightclub. Frenchie felt out of place and alone, but his “butt slave,” as he called himself, insisted that it was alright. They walked around the back and entered a door to the cellar. It was a cold, dark, long walk through the antechamber of what turned out to be a huge underground lair. Frenchie wondered if his hair would handle the moisture. Upon reaching the center room, Frenchie was overjoyed to see a huge gay orgy. All were receptive to his 2 inches of rock hard man-love and they celebrated his coming (get it?) with 200 gallons of sex oil. He was home at last…

TO BE CONTINUED