Terrible, terrible story

The object of this thread is to continue the story, but post in the most awful, awesome way you can. Try to keep this not super vulgar... The point is to do write this with all the style and panache of someone trying really, really hard to write a good story, but fails grasps the basic fundamentals of storytelling.

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It was a night as dark as only the night can be, with blackness blanketing the streets like a downey quilt made of feathery down. He stood on the corner, looking remarkably like a prostitute in a trench coat, puffing his cigarette like it was a rescue inhaler. Then he pulled out his rescue inhaler and puffed on that for a while, like it was his cigarette. The man who stood on the corner, was a man of many, many talents, the least of which was standing and smoking...

... but also of weaving. His amazing ability to weave however went unrecognized, while a man known as Reynolds held notoriety, which had equaled fame in the man's mind. Jealous at Reynold's flawed attempts at weaving stories together, the man went up to him, realized the odiousness of allowing Reynold's to breed, and punched him in the package. He then went to Azerbaijan...

...surreptitiously to buy a punnet of strawberries, for it was important that none should see him! But such was his lack of balance that he often fell off the greased up cars moving on the highway from Delhi central station, next to which was...

My ass hurts after my last defication.

...written in HUGE scarlet red letters, over 8 feet tall. And in fact, the more he thought about his ass, the more it hurt....

...his mothers reputation. She was a woman I think but maybe she was a man. No one could ever tell with the mo hawk hair and flat chest. How she became pregnant is anyones guess. No man would ever go near her. She did have an awful lot of girl friends though. The thought of what went on in that house makes my hair...

..."itch," she said.

"My hair, it itches. Well, I should say my scalp I suppose."

The lady wore a red dress the color of a scarlet pool of blood, the same as the color of her lipstick as though her lips were of a she-wolf stained by a fresh kill. Here voice had an alto resonance somehow accompanied by an annoying nasal quality. At her side was an assault rifle hanging from her right hand, a sense of a Freudian hint of desire for it to be between her legs. The way her dark blond hair was done up along with the large framed glasses she wore made her look like a school marm, but her attractive profile and shapely breasts would be any 8th grade boy's wet dream. Let's make no mistake--she was a total MILF.



"Palin," I said.

"Oh ya that's me donjaknow" was her nasally yet mellifluous reply.