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Postal Paranoiac
Tittie, Tittie, Ban g Bang
Back in 1986--before the American government required all prospective models to receive breast implants--I met a woman named Kurtsy Durbin. Kurtsy worked in the machine shop of Barnhart Aerodynamics in Michigan. BAM was a major defense contractor, but was obligated to hire big-breasted women as a part of the Reagan Administration's "Hire More Chicks With Big Tits" affirmative action policy. Anyway, "Kurts" used to wear those low-cut blouses tied in the front, you know, so that when she bent over to operate the L-250 automatic machine press, her boobies would tumble out for all of us to enjoy. She was only on the payroll for, maybe, two months, when we began to notice that she was spending a lot of time in the shift supervisor's office. I mean, she'd be in there for lunch. If it was break time, there'd be Kurts up in the office. So one day, we talked Slow Charlie into tiptoeing up there and listening at the door. He listened real close, and kept making all of those "Slow Charlie" facial expressions, like he was confused or something. He walked back down the ramp, shaking his head that day.
"What did 'ya hear?" I asked. Charlie just grunted and scratched his head.
"Damndest thing," he replied. "Just heard a lotta grinding noises...and something that sounded like a bicycle horn."
Well, we all knew Charlie sniffed a lot of airplane glue, so we didn't think much about what he said. But that was until a few weeks later--when the noises he heard got louder. Now, Kurts was up there in that office nearly all day, only making infrequent appearances bouncing her ample boobage our way. Plus she always had this crazy smirk on her face. The mystery eventually got to be so confounding that we made a plan to find out once and for all what was going on.
Inspired by the movie "Revenge Of The Nerds," me, Timmy Smith, Brandon Kylie and Greg Zabiski got together a bunch of materials we borrowed from the shop, along with a couple of cameras, and we went to work. We jimmied the lock on Mr. Thomas' office late one night, and created an elaborate crossfire of hidden cameras, that would hopefully capture every moment of whatever the hell went on in there. Timmy set the timers, and we left the office, sure that we would discover the truth now.
Nine o'clock came real slow the next morning, but it came. And there were me and the rest of the gang, ready as ever. The day went on the usual way--with Kurts disappearing up into the office right after morning coffee. So we went on with our duties, determined to break back into the office that night to retrieve the truth. It was around lunch time when, to all of our surprise, a bunch of serious-looking dudes in suits charged into the shop, and made a beeline straight for the office. We all stood around, waiting to see what was happening. After about half an hour, out come two of the guys, one guiding Kurts in handcuffs, and the other with a wimpering Mr. Thomas in tow. Not long after here came the rest of the guys, carrying out all of the camera equipment we had set up the night before. ****. Now what?? We all just stood there, staring at each other.
Suddenly, Kurts kicked the one dude in the ass, flexed her arms in this weird fashion, and let the cuffs slide off. Quickly, she grabbed the dude's ***, and started firing bullets in all directions. Two of the dudes were hit, and Greg was hit right in the nuts. The rest of the federal dudes--it turned out--wrestled her to the ground, when we noticed that one of her "boobs" had fallen off, revealing several rolled-up pieces of paper. What the hell????
After this horrendous ordeal, we all went to dinner at Sophie's following work. Jim Tunnell upstairs in personnel told us that the State Department had been following the trail of "Comrade Kurtsy" for years for espionage. She had been working for the Soviets--stealing classified secrets from defense contractors, and using her beautiful fake titties to distract us. Mr. Thomas was arrested for "fondling state evidence." The recording equipment was taken by the feds and stored away at the CIA HQ in Langley. We later discovered that the Russians had used this stolen information to produce a number of "Star Wars Defense"-typed inventions--such as the Atomic Ballinizer and the Crosshair Crotch ***, designed to sterilize the enemy.
Time ****** and we never heard anything more about the situation. The Iron Curtain fell, Barnhart went out of business, and we all got different jobs. Brandon works at the bowling alley on Seventh Street cleaning shoes, Timmy joined the Jewish Circus, and I got a job at the post office. The moral here is: Never trust a great pair of melons.
All of the preceding is absolutely true. And to make sure this adds up to at least 500 words, here we go: la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la.
THE END ?
Back in 1986--before the American government required all prospective models to receive breast implants--I met a woman named Kurtsy Durbin. Kurtsy worked in the machine shop of Barnhart Aerodynamics in Michigan. BAM was a major defense contractor, but was obligated to hire big-breasted women as a part of the Reagan Administration's "Hire More Chicks With Big Tits" affirmative action policy. Anyway, "Kurts" used to wear those low-cut blouses tied in the front, you know, so that when she bent over to operate the L-250 automatic machine press, her boobies would tumble out for all of us to enjoy. She was only on the payroll for, maybe, two months, when we began to notice that she was spending a lot of time in the shift supervisor's office. I mean, she'd be in there for lunch. If it was break time, there'd be Kurts up in the office. So one day, we talked Slow Charlie into tiptoeing up there and listening at the door. He listened real close, and kept making all of those "Slow Charlie" facial expressions, like he was confused or something. He walked back down the ramp, shaking his head that day.
"What did 'ya hear?" I asked. Charlie just grunted and scratched his head.
"Damndest thing," he replied. "Just heard a lotta grinding noises...and something that sounded like a bicycle horn."
Well, we all knew Charlie sniffed a lot of airplane glue, so we didn't think much about what he said. But that was until a few weeks later--when the noises he heard got louder. Now, Kurts was up there in that office nearly all day, only making infrequent appearances bouncing her ample boobage our way. Plus she always had this crazy smirk on her face. The mystery eventually got to be so confounding that we made a plan to find out once and for all what was going on.
Inspired by the movie "Revenge Of The Nerds," me, Timmy Smith, Brandon Kylie and Greg Zabiski got together a bunch of materials we borrowed from the shop, along with a couple of cameras, and we went to work. We jimmied the lock on Mr. Thomas' office late one night, and created an elaborate crossfire of hidden cameras, that would hopefully capture every moment of whatever the hell went on in there. Timmy set the timers, and we left the office, sure that we would discover the truth now.
Nine o'clock came real slow the next morning, but it came. And there were me and the rest of the gang, ready as ever. The day went on the usual way--with Kurts disappearing up into the office right after morning coffee. So we went on with our duties, determined to break back into the office that night to retrieve the truth. It was around lunch time when, to all of our surprise, a bunch of serious-looking dudes in suits charged into the shop, and made a beeline straight for the office. We all stood around, waiting to see what was happening. After about half an hour, out come two of the guys, one guiding Kurts in handcuffs, and the other with a wimpering Mr. Thomas in tow. Not long after here came the rest of the guys, carrying out all of the camera equipment we had set up the night before. ****. Now what?? We all just stood there, staring at each other.
Suddenly, Kurts kicked the one dude in the ass, flexed her arms in this weird fashion, and let the cuffs slide off. Quickly, she grabbed the dude's ***, and started firing bullets in all directions. Two of the dudes were hit, and Greg was hit right in the nuts. The rest of the federal dudes--it turned out--wrestled her to the ground, when we noticed that one of her "boobs" had fallen off, revealing several rolled-up pieces of paper. What the hell????
After this horrendous ordeal, we all went to dinner at Sophie's following work. Jim Tunnell upstairs in personnel told us that the State Department had been following the trail of "Comrade Kurtsy" for years for espionage. She had been working for the Soviets--stealing classified secrets from defense contractors, and using her beautiful fake titties to distract us. Mr. Thomas was arrested for "fondling state evidence." The recording equipment was taken by the feds and stored away at the CIA HQ in Langley. We later discovered that the Russians had used this stolen information to produce a number of "Star Wars Defense"-typed inventions--such as the Atomic Ballinizer and the Crosshair Crotch ***, designed to sterilize the enemy.
Time ****** and we never heard anything more about the situation. The Iron Curtain fell, Barnhart went out of business, and we all got different jobs. Brandon works at the bowling alley on Seventh Street cleaning shoes, Timmy joined the Jewish Circus, and I got a job at the post office. The moral here is: Never trust a great pair of melons.
All of the preceding is absolutely true. And to make sure this adds up to at least 500 words, here we go: la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la.
THE END ?
