So naturally he walks on over to Mr. Dinks, brushing by his penis and vagina topiaries. He asks, "Hey Mr. Dink, dont you think your new mud spa smells kind of, funny" "Well of courthe it doeth, douglath, itth very expenthive. If you ask me I think it's you who smells funny. HAR HAR HAR" "No Mr. Dink, I think your mud is actually shit" Suddenly all of the purple drained from Mr Dink's face and he turned to his beloved wife. At the same time they said "Oh shit. WE FORGOT OUR BUTT PLUGS!!!!!" They jumped out of the pool and ran to their sunroom with the sex swing, the same one they used to host all their swinger's parties with all the other multicolored freaks in the neighborhood. While they frantically searched for their anal accoutrements, Doug took a closer look at the shit filled tub. He stuck his finger in and gave it a lick. "Gee" he thought to himself out loud "whoever took this shit definitely isn't from Bluffington. Mr. Dink trudged across the lawn with a series of satisfied grunts, clearly signifying his filled anal cavity. "Tho Douglath? You ever tried Jenkem?" "Jenkem? What's that? "Doug inquired. "Well, it's a mixture of fermented piss and shit. It gets you really fucking high" "Well sure, why not" Doug replied enthusiastically, hoping his curiosity had not gotten the better of him yet again, like the time he gave Patti the shocker under the bleachers. Needless to say, that bitch was shocked all right.

Hang on Im a motherfuckin lyrical genius writing this shit as we speak. Mr. Dink insists Douglath take the first hit. He hesitates for a moment before pulling a long drag of shit fumes from the once empty diet mt dew bottle, instantly feeling the euphoria rush over him like a tsumnami. He barely passed the bottle the the baha man on his right before he said "Mr. Dink, I think im browning out. I wanna go home." "Don't be a puthy douglath, or ill tell Patti you couldn't handle jenkem. Theres no way youll ever be able to go down on that rotten stankpuss if you're scared of a little jenkem. Suddenly Dougs sense of smell returned and he felt nauseous. "Oh for Fucks sake Mr. Dink, that smells Godawful" "Well of courthe it doth douglath, itth our pith and thit from and unverifiable thourthe.

Good that is the only one that matters. Disneys dougs is merely tolerated by us true dougheads. Doug and Mr. Dink continued taking hits out of the putrid soda bottle until they were both properly high out of their gourds. "Uh. Mr. Dink? I don't feel so good." "Ah dont worry douglath, thatth jutht the doodoo thpinth talking. You know, they thay thatth what michael Jackthon died of. Too much jenkem" "yeah, sure, mr dink" everyone knew that the doctor who wrote the fatal prescription came from bluffington. That, was, everyone but Me. Dink. Noone in town had the heart to tell him that fact. He was a huge fan of the late great race swapper. He went around wearing one silver glove and his gay ass hat. After a few days of getting high and passing out, the boys had finally depleted their fountain of eternal pleasure. "So, what now?" Doug inquired to a barely lucid Dink. "I know! We'll return thith demonouth jacuuzi to whenthe it came!" Tune in tomorrow for the thrilling conclusion

So, Doug and Mr. Dink began the perilous journey to return the rancid swimming pool, but they agreed to stop for lunch at Sam's Club. Mr. Dink strolled up to the garage style doors like he owned the place and whipped his Buffalo Bill Buckaroo Billfold out of his sportcoat. He flashed the windowed pouch the the Taiwanese ladyboy checking Ids and he said "me no speaky english". Dink realized he had shown his school ID by mistake. "Oh, sorry, I can be a real fuckin retard sometimes." He said with a sheepish smile, secretly hoping he could make this slant eyed faggot his sneaky link tonight. After that, Doug and Mr. Dink made their way over to the food court and purchased a hot dog for $1.50. They found an open seat in the crowded cafeteria and got down to taking turns buttfucking the grass-fed all beef wiener. "Mr. Dink, quit hogging the dog! My balls are practically cobalt over here." "Thorry Douglath. Wanna take turnth?" "Well, thanks Mr. Dink, sure! I usually only share wieners with my dad, but hell, you're close enough!" "Do you need lube douglath? I have thome microwave popcorn we could scrape the butter out of." "Nah, im good to go, Mr. Dink" "Of course you are my thweet thweet Douglath". After about 5 minutes, the champions were ready to call it quits. Suddenly, a small squelch was heard round the warehouse. "Uh oh. Don't look now mr dink, but I think our glizzy split" "youd be correct about that, douglath" said Mr. Dink as he grimaced and sucked the hot dog up inside of him. "I gueth Ill be thaving that one for later". Doug gently glid the now shit-covered hot dog out of his anus with a firm tug, just like his older sister Judy had shown him to do when his tampons got stuck. A few hours passed, and Mr. Dink and Doug had successfully depleted all of the free samples. Mr. Dink was jonesing something fierce for his bad dragon dildo collection his wife had split with him in the divorce. At least he got his My Little Pony Discord anal beads.

n an act of sheer desperation, Mr. Dink started hollering the lyrics to Smash Mouth's Beer Goggles. "I WANT SOMEONE, ANYONE, FAT ONES, DRUNK ONES, SPUN ONES, GYPSY CHICKS ON ROCKS, EVEN CHICKS WITH CHICKEN POX" Damn, where's a seamonkey chick with a dick when you need one? He pondered aloud. Just then they heard the familiar sounds of automatic gunfire. Doug turned to Mr. Dink with an inquisitive expression. "HOLY SHIT DOUG, SOMEONES SHOOTING UP THE FUCKING COSTCO!! OH MY FUCKING GOD" "Mr. Dink, this is a Sam's Club!" "Itth no time for themanticth douglath!" take cover!" They screamed simultaneously.

Doug suddenly lost his smile. He knew Dink would end up fingering a fish like it had the sensitivity of a coke freestyle touchscreen, mumbling to himself, drunk off his ass on Pink Whitney and Zimas, trying to find the nonexsistent catfish clitorati. Fingerblasting Doug's shithole would have to wait until the eve of his 17th birthday, not 18th because legal poon makes mr dink soft. No, there wasn't enough benadryl in the world considering Doug's dad was the Navy Seal who killed Osama Bin Laden. Too risky, he thought. He should have been in pure ecstasy, but it wasn't meant to happen like this. Finally, after 10 minutes which felt like an eternity for the both of them, Doug had finished cleaning the majority of hair fibres out of Mr. Dink's now red-hot, throbbing anus. He knew there was plenty more where that came from, but it would just have to be expelled naturally. Mr. Dink casually picked up a discarded can of the antiquated cure for baldness. "Holy shit Doug, this stuff expired before I was shipped off to nam!" "No way Mr, Dink, you went to Vietnam?" "Well, yeah, why do you think I love ladyboys and set boobytraps in my yard?" "Yeah, I guess that makes sense. I wouldn't know, anyway my dad was a chicken shit draft dodger. He shit his pants at the recruitment office and was dismissed on grounds of profound mental retardation." "That's a damn shame, Douglath. A little agent orange would have done you well. Maybe then you wouldn't be a fucking fag writing in hith diary while hith dog porkchop lickth peanut butter off your mini mnm dicklet" "Geez, Mr. Dink. That was kinda harsh." Said a flabbergasted Doug. "Thorry Douglath itth juthe the circle of fire radiating from my anuth to my banjo thtring. Doug cringed "im really sorry about that, Mr. Dink" before Mr. Dink could clap back, Adam Lanza,

alleged Sandy Hook Elementary shooter burst through the cooler door. "There you are. I've been waiting all my life for this" the autistic twink announced, to noone in particular. "Alright, that fucking tears it!" Mr. Dink stated, loud enough to make even the anorexic child killer's cheeks clap. He was now enraged more than Carrie Underwood when her significant other fails to think before he cheats. "Me and my pal Doug just wanted to return a fraudulent product and possibly contact the better business bureau. And here you come, trying to take it all away from us. Well NEWSFLASH PAL, NO MORE Mr. NiCE DINK." With that, Mr. Dink delivered a punch to his balls that sent him flying up through the roof of the building, leaving only a small twinkle in the sky ala team rocket. "You saved me, Mr. Dink!" Doug cried as he wrapped his arms around his hero" "gee doug, it was nothin. You don't have to be such a yandere about it" "well, it means the world to me." Doug said, satisfied in knowing he was the fire of Mr. Dink's loins. The dynamic duo cautiously made their way towards the exit, knowing all too well that like Sonic's City Escape, danger could be lurkin' around every turn. God knew the only way they would survive would be to trust their feelings, live and learn.

As they passed by the now days-aged rotisserie chicken, heat lamp still causing the fat to glisten and drip down, Mr. Dink degloved one and started gnawing on it's tough, dry skin. Inbetween bites and lip smacks, Mr Dink thought he might delight and entertain his partner with some knowledge. "Ya know, Douglath, thethe rotitherie chickenth cotht Tham'th Club a hell of a lot more than the $4.98 they sell am for. Keepth cuthtomerth coming back. Itth thimple economicth." Ah shit, here we go again with this Mr. Dink. This is atleast the 3rd time you have told me this factoid and still, it means absolutely nothing to me." Just then, Mr. Dink's throat closed up with a particularly dry bit of chicken epidermis, and he turned even more purple than usual. "Mr. Dink, what's wrong?" "Im choking, fucktard." He managed to gasp out of his nearly closed trachea. Doug looked down to see Mr. Dink at half mast, suddenly remembering the time Mr. Dink nearly died of autoerotic asphyxiation with a migrant worker he had found skankin around the Home Depot parking lot. Or was it Lowes? Nevermind. They had to wheel him out on a bariatric stretcher, it took like 7 male EMTs. Mr. Dink was barely conscious, and sure he would soon expire. "Douglath, youre gonna have to give me a tracheotomy." He managed to desperately stutter, barely audible. "A Trachache-what now? How am I supposed to do that? I don't even know what that is?" "Doug, try to remember your old gushin granny Funnie. Remember that hole she had in her throat she used to smoke and poke? You know, the one I used to slide cigars in?" Doug suddenly remembered that day.

Soon they got a table. It didn't take long because this was the Olive Garden that had received a C from the health inspector. He ordered a nasty patty with pubic hair as a joke, and by God, was it nasty. He got aids and died two years later, to be missed only by his beloved reptile, Puff. His final words, etched on his tombstone by a homeless rapscallion, were "Dis Dinga aint nuttin to Puff wit" Doug and Mr. Dink sat down at the fateful booth in the back corner(Mr. Dink was well over the 250lbs per chair limit) and they observed their surroundings. The lighting was dim... and sensual. Dust covered plastic vines adorned the walls, leftovers from the Rainforest Cafe which previously inhabited the building. There was a wall with stacked wine bottles, all of them containing a different tropical fruit flavor. On the table were 2 standard issue Olive Garden menus, along with a small stand up promo that read "Be a real OG at the OG and get a Coors Party Ball for the table!" Mr. Dink was considering it, but decided against it lest he attracted a Florida Man, or worse yet, a Florida Woman. But Mr. Dink shuddered at the thought of the worst of all the Panhandle state had to offer: The Rare Deepwater Jew, ironically known for lurking in shallow pools of stagnant water(because Jews cant swim). Mr. Dink had just seen an alarming report on the 11 o clock news about the aforementioned jews surrounding the port of Miami. Apparently some say they have been stationed deep in the waters since ww2, since before they sunk the USS Liberty(Authors note: true fact. Look it up if you dont believe me) "At least I don't have to worry about tampa tramps and coin clippers here" Dink thought aloud. Their busty hispanic waitress, who was half-jewish, rolled her eyes and said in a thick chola accent "hola chicas, im Jennie from the block. Like, what can i get for chu?"

>>537164182
YOU BROKE MY GRILL?!

"Hmm ill have the unlimited eggplant parmethan"said an excited Mr. Dink. Doug smiled at his neighbor's childlike obsession with eating all things purple. Though he knew there would be a shitstorm in the Olive Garden when Mr. Dink realized an eggplant is a vegetable, and later in the bathroom wherever they ended up staying for the night. Last year, when doug was in the 6th grade, Mr. Dink sent him a ? Text at 8pm on the dot every school night without fail. One day, Doug had enough and marched into Dinks backyard to confront him about it. It turns out Mr. Dink literally had no idea what it was and was trying to ask a tech savvy young man. Doug wondered why Mr. Dink didn't try to ask more directly, but he remembered that Mr. Dink was part of the Napa

Napa High School class of 1997, who suffered a tragic waterslide collapse at the end of their end

Napa High School class of 1997, who suffered a tragic waterslide collapse at the end of their end of the year trip to the water park. Though he vehemently denied it, it was Mr. Dink's Homer Simpson ass body that pushed the fiberglass to its limit and killed his classmate. There was so much blood, but to be fair most of it came from Mr. Dink's bacne popping all at once due to his body going into shock. In hindsight there was a lot more vomit than blood. The fall gave Mr. Dink severe brain damage, but it was kind of a relief, because his threatening letters to jeannete Mccurdy were getting more soecific and sexual by the day. Doug was only 3, but the event was so traumatic it became Doug's first concrete memory, replacing the sweet memory of being breastfed right after his teeth came in. He bit her left nipple cleaned off and chewed it right up and swalled it like a pepperoni. Doug's dad burst through the door at the sound of Mrs. Funnie's scream. He jumped into action and bit off the right one, spitting it into Doug's overflowing diaper pail with a cartoonish PTOO. "Gee, thanks honey." Said Mrs Funnie with a smirk and turning to face the camera as the laugh track played. The busty latina smashed a watermelon with her gargantuan tits right in Doug's fucking face. "HOLY SHIT. Uh sorry, Ill have the pasketti and meatballs" "the wha?" The waitress inquired in quite literally the most annoying way possible. " I said. I'll take the pasketti." Doug said, trying his best to show just how not mad he was." "Aiaiai macho i was just playeen wichu! take a joke mane" "yeah, whatever." Doug replied in the bitchiest tone he could muster. Soon enough their food was steaming before them. Mr. Dink got right to chowing down, red sauce and noodles flying everywhere. It took mere seconds for him to reach the eggplant part of the dish. "What the fuck is this?" Mr. Dink asked, earnestly dumbfounded. Oh here we fucking go, thought Doug

"That's eggplant, Mr. Dink. It's what you ordered." "I know that douglath, i mean what the hell ith it?" "It's something that grows in the ground that people cook and eat. Try it, you might like it." Doug pleaded, being extra careful to avoid the word vegetable. Mr. Dink gave it a funny look and a sniff, then stuck out his tongue. Then he carefully touched the tip of his tounge to the slimy, overcooked phallus. "Ewww yucky!! Gross" Mr. Dink said as he folded his arms and pouted like an insolent child. Doug could tell by the firey rage in Mr. Dink's eyes that a tantrum was brewing the likes of which this Olive Garden off the interstate had never seen. "They sliced it up so I cant even use it as A DILDO" Mr. Dink screeched as he flipped the table, tearing the booths right out the walls. Mr. Dink had certainly gone apeshit, but not quite H.A.M.. just then the waitress approached, preceded by her breasts by roughly 10 seconds. "Ay you cholos, what the hell is going on in here, ese?" Mr. Dink turned to face the south of the border beauty with a deranged "IM GONNA RAPE YOU" look in his eyes and his mouth dripping with foam. He walked over to her, tables and chairs that lay in his path flying 20 feet in the air with a touch of a finger. Yup, Doug thought: Mr. Dink is going hard as a motherfucker right now. And he's not even high this time!

I FUCKED UP THIS IS THE REAL CHAPTER 7

Doug suddenly lost his smile. He knew Dink would end up fingering a fish like it had the sensitivity of a coke freestyle touchscreen, mumbling to himself, drunk off his ass on Pink Whitney and Zimas, trying to find the nonexsistent catfish clitorati. Fingerblasting Doug's shithole would have to wait until the eve of his 17th birthday, not 18th because legal poon makes mr dink soft. No, there wasn't enough benadryl in the world considering Doug's dad was the Navy Seal who killed Osama Bin Laden. Too risky, he thought. He should have been in pure ecstasy, but it wasn't meant to happen like this. Finally, after 10 minutes which felt like an eternity for the both of them, Doug had finished cleaning the majority of hair fibres out of Mr. Dink's now red-hot, throbbing anus. He knew there was plenty more where that came from, but it would just have to be expelled naturally. Mr. Dink casually picked up a discarded can of the antiquated cure for baldness. "Holy shit Doug, this stuff expired before I was shipped off to nam!" "No way Mr, Dink, you went to Vietnam?" "Well, yeah, why do you think I love ladyboys and set boobytraps in my yard?" "Yeah, I guess that makes sense. I wouldn't know, anyway my dad was a chicken shit draft dodger.

He shit his pants at the recruitment office and was dismissed on grounds of profound mental retardation." "That's a damn shame, Douglath. A little agent orange would have done you well. Maybe then you wouldn't be a fucking fag writing in hith diary while hith dog porkchop lickth peanut butter off your mini mnm dicklet" "Geez, Mr. Dink. That was kinda harsh." Said a flabbergasted Doug. "Thorry Douglath itth juthe the circle of fire radiating from my anuth to my banjo thtring. Doug cringed "im really sorry about that, Mr. Dink" before Mr. Dink could clap back, Adam Lanza, alleged Sandy Hook Elementary shooter burst through the cooler door. "There you are. I've been waiting all my life for this" the autistic twink announced, to noone in particular. "Alright, that fucking tears it!" Mr. Dink stated, loud enough to make even the anorexic child killer's cheeks clap. He was now enraged more than Carrie Underwood when her significant other fails to think before he cheats. "Me and my pal Doug just wanted to return a fraudulent product and possibly contact the better business bureau. And here you come, trying to take it all away from us. Well NEWSFLASH PAL, NO MORE Mr. NiCE DINK." With that, Mr. Dink delivered a punch to his balls that sent him flying up through the roof of the building, leaving only a small twinkle in the sky ala team rocket. "You saved me, Mr. Dink!" Doug cried as he wrapped his arms around his hero" "gee doug, it was nothin. You don't have to be such a yandere about it" "well, it means the world to me." Doug said, satisfied in knowing he was the fire of Mr. Dink's loins. The dynamic duo cautiously made their way towards the exit, knowing all too well that like Sonic's City Escape, danger could be lurkin' around every turn. God knew the only way they would survive would be to trust their feelings, live and learn.

As they passed by the now days-aged rotisserie chicken, heat lamp still causing the fat to glisten and drip down, Mr. Dink degloved one and started gnawing on it's tough, dry skin. Inbetween bites and lip smacks, Mr Dink thought he might delight and entertain his partner with some knowledge. "Ya know, Douglath, thethe rotitherie chickenth cotht Tham'th Club a hell of a lot more than the $4.98 they sell am for. Keepth cuthtomerth coming back. Itth thimple economicth." Ah shit, here we go again with this Mr. Dink. This is atleast the 3rd time you have told me this factoid and still, it means absolutely nothing to me." Just then, Mr. Dink's throat closed up with a particularly dry bit of chicken epidermis, and he turned even more purple than usual. "Mr. Dink, what's wrong?" "Im choking, fucktard." He managed to gasp out of his nearly closed trachea. Doug looked down to see Mr. Dink at half mast, suddenly remembering the time Mr. Dink nearly died of autoerotic asphyxiation with a migrant worker he had found skankin around the Home Depot parking lot. Or was it Lowes? Nevermind. They had to wheel him out on a bariatric stretcher, it took like 7 male EMTs. Mr. Dink was barely conscious, and sure he would soon expire. "Douglath, youre gonna have to give me a tracheotomy." He managed to desperately stutter, barely audible. "A Trachache-what now? How am I supposed to do that? I don't even know what that is?"