Sorry I've not been around much lately. Mafia Wars has ruined my life. Not in the way you might suspect, though. You see, I went to a Mafia Wars convention about six months ago to meet my mafia in person and there's no way to say this except to be perfectly blunt: I was abused
It all started when Mark Zuckerberg took notice of the massive amount of power I was amassing in Mafia Wars. I was the most powerful Don, and my empire encompassed many nations: the Yakuza of Japan, the Mafiya of Russia, even the little-known Tah-Kee-Wheet-Wheet of Nauru. (I'll bet you've never even heard of Nauru
, have you, you ignorant peckerheads?)
When Zynga sent me an e-mail saying that I had been invited to an exclusive conference in Bangkok to meet my mafia, I leaped at the chance. I showed up at the airport early, only to find that I was allowed to bypass security altogether--I was allowed to hide in a large box and ride in the cargo compartment with all the goats! Unfortunately, following what sounded like anti-aircraft fire, my crate fell into the ocean. I found myself washed ashore somewhere in Thailand--unable to speak the language, I was unsure of where I was. Clinging to life, I passed out on the beach.
A large, possibly inbred, farmer with only eight fingers found me and carried me back to his hut. I was elated--I had been found and would be nursed back to health. What followed, though, was not exactly "nursing"--I was placed on my stomach on the floor and, almost immediately, I felt a large, warm mass of flesh shoved into my anus. It was his penis. (As I later learned, it had grown massive from radiation that he encountered during his childhood in Nagasaki.) As he put a 45 of "Seven Seas of Rhye" on an antique record player, he thrust himself into my ass in tune to Roger Taylor's drumbeats, climaxing at the end of the song. This ritual was repeated several times a day, and that song is still my most-hated 2 minutes and 38 seconds.
When I was not being sodomized by Ukubukku, as his strangely devoid of any ethnicity name was, nor by his seventeen sons, who were named after the first seventeen tracks on Pink Floyd's The Wall
, I was forced to wear a assless dog costume and tutu, and show my bare ass to anyone who passed their mini-mart. It was mostly American sailors, who often paid Ukubukku a mere five dollars for the privilege of ravaging my butt for however long it took for whatever was on television to end. I especially grew to hate one sailor in particular, whose face I never saw due to the blindfold superglued across my eyes, but whose name I know for certain to be Nick.
Finally, after many years (or, judging from the calendar, four months), a United Nations aid worker named Ruth discovered me. But she just gave Ukubukku five bucks and used some sort of tool to pry my ass open far enough to hide a rabbit inside, then allowed her pet python, Fernando, to hunt for and eat the rabbit. She allowed Ruth to live inside my anus for several days. This angered Ukubukku, since an ass that contained a huge snake that might bite off a penis was not a profitable ass when it came to forced prostitution. And thus began my ordeal of three weeks of continuous blowjobs, for, as it turned out, Ukubukku was able to find far more customers now that I was forced to suck dick. Now, I have enjoyed the taste of many a penis in my life, but there's something about being made to suck a man off against one's will, particularly when it's a diseased leper with barnacles on his cock that slice the inside of the mouth, and semen that tastes like rancid vinegar.
As trying as the three weeks of blowjobs was--and, with only a couple of exceptions, it was pure hell--it became my salvation. A boat full of PETA advocates arrived to train the local water buffalo how to read, and Pamela Anderson thought that I was a real dog being mistreated, not a man in a dog costume. And so she pressured Ukubukku to sell me in exchange for two pairs of Levi jeans (which it turned out were Ukubukku's only goal in life, since American jeans are the mark of royalty in Thailand) and brought me back to the states. Of course, once she discovered I was a man, she dropped me on the streets of Los Angeles, where I had to, briefly, turn to sucking dicks again for a few days in order to earn bus fare back home.
And, so, my friends, I am back. I still shudder when I hear the piano riff to "Seven Seas of Rhye," and I still have the scar from where that damned sailor scratched "Nick was here, oyes!" to the right of my asshole. But time will heal all wounds, so I hear, and I've returned to vynsane.com in search of some semblance of normalcy.