Post by Bruce Cheeks on Nov 1, 2022 18:29:45 GMT -5
Another week. Another match. A new promotion? Wild. Turns out ole Brucey was too much man for the cowards at WGWF. So, he’s taken his talents to Action Wrestling.
His opponents? Thon Maker. A name that confuses Bruce. He can’t decide if it’s THON or THONG. Does this guy make thongs? If so, Bruce might need to saddle alongside and cozy up to Mr. Maker. Bruce loves himself a snug, tight thong.
The other is far less titillating. Some person named Niobe Martin. Niobe definitely sounds like one of those names a person gives their child because they think it sounds very unique and intellectual. Ultimately, the child winds up going by their middle name which is usually something like ‘Kate’ because Niobe isn’t all that fuckin practical.
So, what’s Bruce up to, you ask? Well, given the fact he found a beetle nesting in his giant, manly bush a few days ago...ole Brucey decided his magnificent man mane needed a trimming.
Staring at his reflection, Bruce rubs his hairy hands through his thick, hairy chest. Slowly twisting and turning his body, his hands run down his belly to his tighty-whities. Winking into the mirror, Bruce yanks his undergarments down, revealing the mighty bush. A bush so mighty Bruce’s anaconda of a penis remains completely hidden.
“There she is,” he admires, looking at his bush in the mirror. “Gonna hate trimmin ya, darlin. But I can’t be havin beetles and other tiny creatures nesting up in ya. It’s just not comfortable.”
Bruce reaches onto the vanity counter and plucks a handheld power saw. He flips the switch and the circular blade runs wild. “A man’s tool for a man’s bush. Let’s get to work.”
BZZZZZZ
The blade makes contact with the course, thick hair. Sparks fly. A few clumps of thick, black hair fall to the floor. Bruce looks over at an empty bottle of Olde English which houses his pet beetle ‘Atty’.
“Feelin a bit of a breeze down there, darlin. It’s brisk!”
Bruce shivers, the fresh air penetrating areas it’s been unable to reach for decades.
His eyes close, he sighs, “Feels kinda good. Almost as good as…” Brucey’s eyes open, looking down at Atty. He smiles, “I’m not gonna go there, darlin. Not yet. I was gonna compare it to my upcoming victory against the Thong Maker and that other girl. Niblowme or whatever. Surely this place won’t throw ole Brucey out, right?”
Atty buzzes her wings.
“I like the way you think.”
BZZZZ
More clumps of black hair fall. Bruce lets out a slightly euphoric gasp...he slowly raises his right leg and rips major ass. A bit of shit flies from his asshole, splattering the wall behind him.
Sometimes it takes a bit of trimmin to realize potential. Bruce is no fool. He knows his upcoming match is a litmus test. There’s no way in Jupiter’s Anus that Thong Maker and Ryobe or whatever are stars. They’re trying to prove their worth just like ole Brucey. Matches like this are meant to trim the dead weight, allowing the beast beneath to be unleashed so that it can eventually rise.
THUMP
Speak of the devil and it shall appear. A few more clumps of black hair sawed off and Bruce’s manhood is freed, falling to the floor with a huge thud. It’s no wonder Bruce is the most popular man in Montana. To spare the ladies watching from getting pregnant and the men from losing their wives we’ve blurred out what resides between ole Brucey’s legs.
“Ahhhh,” Bruce hasn’t felt this fresh in years. He falters back, falling on his porcelain throne. While there, he decides to take a massive shit. As the shit explodes from his anus, he stares at the clumps of black hair. Bruce is never one to let anything go to waste.
A FEW HOURS LATER
Bruce’s doorbell rings.
He scratches his crotch through his sweatpants. He didn’t expect the trimming to create such an itch.
Behind the door stands Ruthie May. A fifty year old woman who looks like she’s forty and probably fucks like she’s 30. She smiles at Bruce, twirling her thinning, graying hair.
“You got the hair for me?”
Bruce motions for her to head inside, “Come on in, darlin. Your charity is gonna love this stuff. It’s gonna make a great wig or paint removal tool for someone.”
Ruthie May squeals with delight upon opening up a briefcase and staring down at the pubic hair. It glows up back at her. “It’s amazing, Brucey. How can I ever thank you?” She thrusts her pelvis in his direction.
“I got an idea.”
Bruce farts. His TV comes on. His favorite movie “Ass Master: Master of Ass” is playing. He winks at Ruthie.
“Oh, Bruce!” she giggles.
“Bottoms up, Babe.”
Ruthie gets on all fours. Bruce’s eyes become possessed. The hair on his body stands on edge. He licks his lips, rips her pants off and dives in, devouring her asshole.
Thong Maker, maker of thongs, I look forward to meeting you. I’m a man who enjoys a plump rump and nothing makes a rump look more plump than a well put together thong. Perhaps we can work out a deal post match...that is if you aren’t too sore over the beating I hand ya, ahahaha.
Niphoby or whatever...I don’t really have much to say. Ole Brucey just assumes you’re generic as all hell. Which is fine, the world needs boring people too. But, like my mighty bush, you’re existence is without merit and consequence so you’re expendable and will be disposed of on Monday.
I didn’t think this industry would be so soft, to be honest. I figured a profession focused on fightin could handle a man like ole Brucey. Does Action Wrestling have the guts to promote ole Brucey or will they shit their pants like that crappy promotion I signed with a week ago? I guess we’ll find out.
His opponents? Thon Maker. A name that confuses Bruce. He can’t decide if it’s THON or THONG. Does this guy make thongs? If so, Bruce might need to saddle alongside and cozy up to Mr. Maker. Bruce loves himself a snug, tight thong.
The other is far less titillating. Some person named Niobe Martin. Niobe definitely sounds like one of those names a person gives their child because they think it sounds very unique and intellectual. Ultimately, the child winds up going by their middle name which is usually something like ‘Kate’ because Niobe isn’t all that fuckin practical.
So, what’s Bruce up to, you ask? Well, given the fact he found a beetle nesting in his giant, manly bush a few days ago...ole Brucey decided his magnificent man mane needed a trimming.
Staring at his reflection, Bruce rubs his hairy hands through his thick, hairy chest. Slowly twisting and turning his body, his hands run down his belly to his tighty-whities. Winking into the mirror, Bruce yanks his undergarments down, revealing the mighty bush. A bush so mighty Bruce’s anaconda of a penis remains completely hidden.
“There she is,” he admires, looking at his bush in the mirror. “Gonna hate trimmin ya, darlin. But I can’t be havin beetles and other tiny creatures nesting up in ya. It’s just not comfortable.”
Bruce reaches onto the vanity counter and plucks a handheld power saw. He flips the switch and the circular blade runs wild. “A man’s tool for a man’s bush. Let’s get to work.”
BZZZZZZ
The blade makes contact with the course, thick hair. Sparks fly. A few clumps of thick, black hair fall to the floor. Bruce looks over at an empty bottle of Olde English which houses his pet beetle ‘Atty’.
“Feelin a bit of a breeze down there, darlin. It’s brisk!”
Bruce shivers, the fresh air penetrating areas it’s been unable to reach for decades.
His eyes close, he sighs, “Feels kinda good. Almost as good as…” Brucey’s eyes open, looking down at Atty. He smiles, “I’m not gonna go there, darlin. Not yet. I was gonna compare it to my upcoming victory against the Thong Maker and that other girl. Niblowme or whatever. Surely this place won’t throw ole Brucey out, right?”
Atty buzzes her wings.
“I like the way you think.”
BZZZZ
More clumps of black hair fall. Bruce lets out a slightly euphoric gasp...he slowly raises his right leg and rips major ass. A bit of shit flies from his asshole, splattering the wall behind him.
Sometimes it takes a bit of trimmin to realize potential. Bruce is no fool. He knows his upcoming match is a litmus test. There’s no way in Jupiter’s Anus that Thong Maker and Ryobe or whatever are stars. They’re trying to prove their worth just like ole Brucey. Matches like this are meant to trim the dead weight, allowing the beast beneath to be unleashed so that it can eventually rise.
THUMP
Speak of the devil and it shall appear. A few more clumps of black hair sawed off and Bruce’s manhood is freed, falling to the floor with a huge thud. It’s no wonder Bruce is the most popular man in Montana. To spare the ladies watching from getting pregnant and the men from losing their wives we’ve blurred out what resides between ole Brucey’s legs.
“Ahhhh,” Bruce hasn’t felt this fresh in years. He falters back, falling on his porcelain throne. While there, he decides to take a massive shit. As the shit explodes from his anus, he stares at the clumps of black hair. Bruce is never one to let anything go to waste.
A FEW HOURS LATER
Bruce’s doorbell rings.
He scratches his crotch through his sweatpants. He didn’t expect the trimming to create such an itch.
Behind the door stands Ruthie May. A fifty year old woman who looks like she’s forty and probably fucks like she’s 30. She smiles at Bruce, twirling her thinning, graying hair.
“You got the hair for me?”
Bruce motions for her to head inside, “Come on in, darlin. Your charity is gonna love this stuff. It’s gonna make a great wig or paint removal tool for someone.”
Ruthie May squeals with delight upon opening up a briefcase and staring down at the pubic hair. It glows up back at her. “It’s amazing, Brucey. How can I ever thank you?” She thrusts her pelvis in his direction.
“I got an idea.”
Bruce farts. His TV comes on. His favorite movie “Ass Master: Master of Ass” is playing. He winks at Ruthie.
“Oh, Bruce!” she giggles.
“Bottoms up, Babe.”
Ruthie gets on all fours. Bruce’s eyes become possessed. The hair on his body stands on edge. He licks his lips, rips her pants off and dives in, devouring her asshole.
Thong Maker, maker of thongs, I look forward to meeting you. I’m a man who enjoys a plump rump and nothing makes a rump look more plump than a well put together thong. Perhaps we can work out a deal post match...that is if you aren’t too sore over the beating I hand ya, ahahaha.
Niphoby or whatever...I don’t really have much to say. Ole Brucey just assumes you’re generic as all hell. Which is fine, the world needs boring people too. But, like my mighty bush, you’re existence is without merit and consequence so you’re expendable and will be disposed of on Monday.
I didn’t think this industry would be so soft, to be honest. I figured a profession focused on fightin could handle a man like ole Brucey. Does Action Wrestling have the guts to promote ole Brucey or will they shit their pants like that crappy promotion I signed with a week ago? I guess we’ll find out.