 |
By (user no longer on site) OP
over a year ago
|
Suprise has been expressed that the loveable gnome, Fugy, Son Of Fugy, widely respected for his liberal views on homosexuality, animal sex, teenage sex and immigration, should seek to deny that he has put it about a bit.
He told our intrepid roving reporter, Shammy, "I am a complete stranger to intimacies with the opposite sex, animal sex or indeed, any sex.
"The fact that some unprincipled Arbroath busy bodies choose to associate my robust views and mannish appearance with those of a repressed, cock-hungry, closet bisexual who enjoys being spit roasted by complete strangers in a public toilet, is a sad reflection on our immoral times."
Shammy asked, "So there is no truth to the rumour that you have repeatedly invited the members of the crew of the Cargo Ship, Vidar Viking, to munch on your engorged man suasage while being flagellated by a Border Collie?"
"Absolutely none!" shrieked Fugy
"Or shared a 12" dildo with Rover The Rhodesian Ridgeback during an all-night party session down at the local dog's home?"
"Certainly not!" he wailed
"What do you say to those who find it hard to believe that an attractive, gnome, well dressed in your red velvet pantaloons, yellow gingham shirt, green waistcoat and red pointy hat, at the peak of his sexual powers is completely chaste?", asked Shammy
"I think you'll find that this statement will answer that," Screamed Fugy as he handed Shammy a neatly typed documant written on perfumed pink notepaper:
STATEMENT OF FUGY, SON OF FUGY:
I deny absolutely the suggestion that I have been having a torrid affair lasting several years with a well-muscled Latino lover called Miguel.
The suggestion that we regularly meet at the Red Lion Caravan Park, often shutting ourselves in for days at a time and subsisting on a diet of raw oysters and potted shrimp is similarly untrue. Despite what you may have read elsewhere, I am, in fact, severely allergic to baby oil and so would not have been able to use it in prolonged and highly skilled bouts of sensual massage aimed at reinvigorating Miguel's flagging member.
I vehemently deny being brought to a fever pitch of unbridled sexual arousal after being given one of Jeffrey Archer's novels to read on the 18.36 Arbroath to Dundee express.
Eyewitness accounts that allege I went on to strip down to my sodden, soiled grey Y Fronts and pleasure myself to no less than seven shattering orgasm while an unidentified asian looking fellow filled my face with cock, are entirely groundless.
Likewise I have never stood upon two plastic buckets in order to enjoy a knee trembler with Flossy the sheep under the stairs in Debenhams. My screams of ecstasy, as Flossy exercised her fleecy prowess, could not be, and never were, heard rising to a passionate crescendo above the amplified sound of the Muzak in the lifts.
I would like to add, for the avoidance of doubt, that I have never enjoyed a knee trembler with anyone. Not that I have anything against knee tremblers...always provided they are conducted between consenting, married Catholics in the privacy of their own home with the curtains drawn and the lights out for the sole purpose of procreation.
The suggestion that Drew Who Flung Dung, my Filipino Houseboy, used to rub me all over with honey and baked beans before taking me repeatedly from behind in my garden shed whilst shouting ‘Take that Fugy you filthy slut, you know you like it!' is as far-fetched as it insulting to both parties.
My naked body has never arched with pleasure under the firm touch of Drew Who Flung Dung's strong, manly hands. Mr Who Flung Dung's hugely empurpled throbbing member has never, to my knowledge, been anywhere near my rear and inviting love tunnel and certainly has never paid a visit to my gaping tradesman’s entrance—as may have been suggested in this weekend's Dundee Courier"
With that a red faced and embarrassed looking Fugy ran away into the bushes shouting for Miguel....
 |
