The Result of Feeding Shrunken Women Beans


Posted by Joe Zangara on May 26, 2001 at 07:57:55:

It was a horrible childhood for me. I had this problem every time I ate chili beans, although I loved them so much that I would not give them up for anything or anyone. So, I grew into my teenage years being hated by girls in my high school classes, never accepting my offer to go on dates. The farts always got in the way.

When I grew into manhood, I stuck my nose close to my work, never allowing distractions from my goals and ambitions, until one day while I was in a typical J. I. Joe Six Pack, mid management level position in my company, playing the stooge for the upper crust philistines, and their low, intellectually aspired ambitions to the land of selling out for a nowhere future, I found myself with a great inheritence and bought them all out. Of course, before I threw their butts into the street, I told them that I would not contest unemployment benefits.

Anyway, I suddenly became the target of seven women in the corporation who were willing to use me as a step ladder to higher places. I would take them out to power lunches as a token of my lust for their goods, but, you guessed it, the food made me fart. The server would routinely cease visiting our table, which would surely compound my embarrassing position. One would think that when wealth and power positions are the lead motive of a social association, there could be absolutely nothing to cool that desire off. Unfortunately, my farts held a wretched stink that overpowered anyone's need for smoozing the higher ranks for material success. These seven women who I rotated dates with, all alienated me despite my great position as a company shark. What was worse, was when I heard that they had started telling jokes about me and made me a laughing stock. I knew I had to do something. Firing them right off would be too cheap. Too, unimaginative. I was never one to take a crass way out of any situation, and so I came up with an idea. I used this shrinking ray that I had kept hidden in my office to shrink them down, one by one, as I called them individually in for a conference. Beautiful, they were. Golden brown hair, the eyes that were striking, dresses they wore to work, those soft, silky slithery professional outfits that one would gawk at as they drove down Main Street. All were mine, in the palm of my hand.

After I had acquired all seven of them into my sacred keeping, I decided to prepare a bowl of chili beans in the microwave. Ah, steamy and smelling so good, I took a few bites and farted on top of all the little tinys, sitting on my desk. Well, that was my master plan all right. I thought it was pretty well done, and even laughed when some of the little ladies fainted, but it still wasn't quite the spit on the ol' pitcher's ball. I had to think of something much more savory for the moment. Then an idea dawned on me from out of nowhere, bringing more dignity to my ability to think a little more diabolically.

I picked up one of the blond, snobbish yuppy girls and began to force feed pieces of chili bean matter into her mouth. Piece by piece, she chewed and swallowed it afraid of what I might do if she wielded the slightest protest. I couldn't wait to hear the tiny farting sound coming out the back of her cotton underwear covered ass, but instead was offered an even greaty surprise. She exploded right in my hand. No, not like an A-Bomb, or even a stick of dynamite of course. She just, popped! Right there in front of me, splattering tiny guts into my face, and over the wall in smaller fragments. It was then that I realized how little I cared for the lives of these little creatures. Instead of feeling a moment of remorse or melancholy, I simply laughed. I laughed until I laughed my head off, rolling on the floor as the others stood and looked on in horror. I picked up the curly haired, brunette who used to go out of her way to disrespect me, for no other reason than pure despotic cruelty, as she pushed rude remarks into my face like someone who had come to serve her a latte, and had over milked it to her disliking, up until the time I vexed and achieved great success, almost overnight. As I layed her out in my hand, I shoved a bean straight into her mouth and knew that if she wanted to ever breathe again, she would have to process it through her tiny mouth. Unfortunately, she used her nose, but I soon found that alternative easy to remedy with the blanketing of my big thumb. She finally chewed all of it down before her expression became blank for a moment. Then, all at once, "BOOM!" She was gone. This was beginning to get fun.

It was lucky for me that this discovery was made on the day of July, the Fourth. I took the rest of these women home into my neighborhood where block parties were going everywhere. Picolo Pete's and Bottle Rockets, everywhere. In the dark of night, with a few "Bloody Marys" in me, I took the remainder of women into the palm of my hand, and stood next to the kids on the street, lighting off their poppers. I boasted, watch this, as I would shove a bean, individually, through the mouth of each tiny woman, before tossing vigorously into the air.

"pop," it was hardly anything. That's what the kids told me. I tried again, and again, hoping that each one would be a little better. It must have been the psychological magnification that was produced by the act of revenge, making it seem so loud and proud. Before these superior noise makers, it was nothing more than the act of throwing duds. Still, I kept trying, until I realized I ran out of them.

"Ah Shucks," I said as the neighborhood kids laughed at me and resumed their lighting fireworks. "If those women were gun powder, they wouldn't be enough to make it worth lighting." I now realized what that wise heavy expression, that originated from the back of my mind, meant and why I heard it, from somewhere. Well, in dispensing with the voices in my head, I will just say that I have no tiny women to light off anymore, and no prospects that lighting them would really entertain me, anyway.

Duds. Damn. Duds.

THE END