Hot Dog Rally
It was KitKat's birthday party, and she hosted a picnic that all of the cool hockey boys (plus Chris and Al, who crashed) attended.
KitKat liked to have a little fun, and brought out a platter of recently cooked hot dogs. But not too recently cooked. The reason will become clear soon enough.
She rang a small brass bell, and all of the cool hockey boys stopped talking and chatting and flirting. Except for Chris and Al, who burped from drinking too many sodas too quickly.
"Let's play a game," she called out. "It's called the Hot Dog Rally, and I need teams of two."
"Me! Me!" Chris and Al spoke through half-chewed fried chicken.
"Us, too." Derian smiled down at Jamie.
"Hey, let's get into it too, Brett. You could stand to take some 'air' out of that spare tire," chortled Mo.
"That's as funny as a turd in a punch bowl."
"Ssssh, don't give Chris and Al any ideas."
KitKat proceeded to explain the game.
"One guy will be the Hot Dog Carrier, and one will be the Hot Dog Receiver. The Hot Dog Receiver will kneel at the end of a 50-yard slash -- whoops, I mean dash. The Hot Dog Carrier will pick up a hot dog, hold it in his buns -- I mean, the buns behind him -- and run 50 yards to the Hot Dog Receiver, turn around, and feed him the hot dog. Just for grins, the Hot Dog Receiver will be blindfolded. And the Hot Dog Carrier will wear no pants."
Derian and Jamie grinned. Mo and Brett frowned. Chris and Al looked like they had just seen the turd in the punch bowl.
"Everyone decide who will be who?" asked KitKat.
"I'll be happy to be Der's Hot Dog Carrier," said Jamie.
"I think that Brett should do all the running. I'm going to kneel and eat," said Mo.
"Chris will hold the hot dog in his ass," said Al.
"No, you're gonna hold the hot dog in your ass, Al," sneered Chris.
"Says me! I've got four inches on you, Al."
"Not where it counts, Chrissy boy."
In the meantime, Jamie and Brett dropped their shorts (which elicited much whistling from the crowd) and chose the hot dogs they would feed to their partners. Jamie bent over and inserted the hot dog deep inside his body. Brett tucked it between his cheeks and squeezed his gluteal muscles tight, a somewhat less secure hold.
"Are you ready?" asked KitKat. "Get set..." She rang the bell. "Go, go, go!"
Jamie sprinted down the lane, the hot dog secure in its tight, snug holding cell. When he got to the blindfolded Derian, he turned around and pushed the hot dog into Derian's waiting mouth. Derian chomped down with relish (plus a few other aromas not normally found on hot dogs).
Brett had to stop at least eight times to pick his hot dog back up and stick it back between his cheeks. When he finally got to Mo, Mo gagged at the smell of Brett's butt.
"Man, when was the last time you showered?" he asked.
"I shower only on days that begin with T." Today was Saturday.
Mo was, understandably, reluctant to eat anything that had been in close proximity to Brett's posterior. By the time he finished his first hot dog, Derian had eaten sex. (No, six! Six! Damn those Freudian slips!)
Meanwhile, Chris and Al were still arguing over which one would be the Carrier and which one would be the Receiver.
"I have to be the one who eats the hot dog, Al. Look at me. I'm wasting away! I have to keep my weight up!"
"You just don't want people to see your pencil dick."
"Pencil dick? Pencil dick!" Chris stamped his foot, and the ground trembled. "You wanna know what happened to the last guy who called me pencil dick?"
"The Twister kicked his ass all the way to Hades!"
"And where's the Twister now, huh?"
"He's...uh...he's still getting dressed. He's pimping!"
"I think the word is primping, you poop-headed pea-brained pencil dick!"
"Ooooh, Chrissy-boy is mad today!" Chris puffed out his cheeks until they were as blue as the note on his jersey.
KitKat, because she felt like it, rang the bell to end the rally.
"And the winners are...Jamie and Derian, 'cause they consumed the most hot dogs!"
Jamie removed Derian's blindfold, and they gave each other high fives.
"Uh...what's the prize?" asked Mo.
"A night with me," said KitKat, linking arms with Jamie and Derian. "Carry on, boys!"
Kit Kat and her prizes walked discreetly to a little cabin in the woods. Brett cut an explosive lactose-intolerance fart, knocking the hot dog he held in his cheeks to the ground. And Chris and Al were so hissy and pissy that they made the turd in the punch bowl a reality (make that two turds), and all the cool hockey boys beat the tar out of them. And what better way to end this story?