Alice In Nudieland
Alice In Wonderland and Alice Through The Looking Glass were written by the nineteenth centrury mathematician Charles Dodgson using the pseudonym Lewis Carroll. Most critical analysis focuses on his relationship with Alice Liddell, who was the protoype for Alice and Dodgson`s often accused of being a pedophile because of it. In simple terms, if Alice were Britney Spears, and Hit Me Baby One More Time was the `rabbit hole`, Wonderland would be what Dodgson would have wanted to write, which is what the following `spoof` supposes.
Alice in Nudieland
Professor Dongson, soon to be world-famous as Lewis Carnal, author of Alice in Nudieland, is fisting a rabbit's hole.
'Come and see this Alice.'
His young charge, on day-release from Dike Hall; the nearby girls' borstal, takes time out from doing what she's doing with her busy little fingers. Discarding her copy of Big Dicks in Bigger Women, she pulls up panties emblazoned with the simple but effective logo, 'Screw me I'm Good', smoothes down her red rubber mini-skirt,and ambles over to watch the fun.
'Why're ya doin' that Prof?'
The learned old gentleman, nails in up to the elbow, probes the hillside orifice with gusto.
As her guardian-for-the-day vigorously thrusts his hirsute and varicose-veined arm in and out, the focus of his endeavour begins to pulsate, contracting and dilating in rhythmic waves of (presumably) bliss.
'Curiouser and curiouser,' says Alice, 'it's got a big pink clit just like mine.'
Stretching forth her own expert digits, she proceeds to rub and caress the strange protuberance, all the while manipulating the professor's own pleasure pole through the electric-blue fabric of his far-from-Conservative cum-stained loons.
'That's the ticket girlie, see how big it's gettin'?'
The maw before them is, indeed, beginning to yawn. But the increasing frequency of the orgasmic undulations points to a culprit other than Boredom. Alice, teetering on the brink of her Great Adventure, seeks to keep a grip. But our member of the intellegentsia is having none of it. Spurting within its trousered domain, the spent snail of lust, grateful for the crevice of safety beckoning from between the Twin Rocks of Spermatazoa, crawls back into its shell. Bereft of her ever-dwindling link with the world of sunlight and sin, Alice Diddle plunges into the rabbit's private place like a shipwrecked sailor in search of (some sort of) satisfaction.
But hark! What is that sound we hear rumbling and tumbling up from the pit below? Ah, mayhap the hysterical harlot should've kept her gob shut? She'll certainly have to now! 'Tis a tidal wave of creamy fluid goo, rushing forth seemingly at her behest, to choke and drown the young yah-hoo with an unpalatable and, indeed, unswallowable (try as she might with all her practised perfection in porno-pix) draught. Realizing her predicament, with a mixture of delight and dismay (but never disgust), the dainty damsel locks her lips, clamps her nose, and (still seeking to bring honour to the family name) prepares to deliciously diddle despite drowning dreadfully.
The sweet and sour second is so-soon spent. Sopping soddenly from every square of her suckable skin, smiling somewhat secretively, she ceases to stroke her shaven slit, and suddenly slams into a shoddy shelf with a shifty sheen.
Taking down the receptacle which, as Esther Rantzen would once have redundantly informed us, looks a lot like a man's thingy, she prises open the peculiarly shaped cap and, squeezing the conveniently located bulbous pertuberances, causes a jet of the sticky hot fluid to squirt down her eager-to-accept-it throat.
'Ooh, I feel all funny.'
Her breasts, but recently grown to womanhood, seem overly-sensitive. Not uncomfortably so, but rather pleasingly. As if, Alice muses, her current companion in incarceration, that is, Keyhole Kate the Voyeuristic Virgin (well, as far as penile penetration is concerned), is teasing her nips into admitting their owner's perverted preference.
Bursting out of a wet T-shirt that would win her first prize anywhere in the civilized world, a garment boasting the legend 'If you can't fuck it or eat it, piss on it!', Alice's mammary's swell to a ginormous size and, borne up by their miraculously inflated girth,she floats to the floor in flummoxed fankfulness.
Reasserting its authority, Gravity hurls the top-heavy temptress to her knees - and keeps her there. 'A good job too,' I hear you cry as, grappling enthusiastically with man's best friend, far from delivering the doubled-up-dike from her dilemma, you prepare to give the dog a bone of diverting dimensions.
Dangling before a dingy doorway, the oval shape of Dumpy Humper swings seductively. About her neck hangs the sign 'Fuck me' as, egging on our horny heroism, her thighs spread ever-wider in bawdy invitation.
'U can't cum thru 'ere wi' titties as fat as they is luv.'
Alice eyes the undistinctive whiteness (apart from the hairline fracture oozing pus-yellow from between too-spindly-to-do-it-standing-up legs) of her rotund (too-gross-to-risk-lying-down-to-do-it-and-then-not-be-able-to-get-back-up-again) interrogator.
As if to comply, the eggy Buddah assumes a crotch-closing yoghurt position.
'U can't cum in 'ere anyways.Yer a gurl, an' gurls ain't got no willies, an' yer've gorrer fuk me afore yer c'n cum in 'ere anyways. Yah!'
Inspired by a burning need to fuck up this whorey oldhag, Alice allows her gaze to wander till it alights upon a prettily wrapped package bearing the label 'Use Me'.
Unfortunately, Gravity prevents her from purloining the item from the table upon which it sits.The best she can do - taking care not to rupture her too-ample bosom on the stone tilesof the vestibule - is bounce towards it like Siamese twins riding Space-Hoppers-in-tandem.
'Try the stuff in the jar dearie.'
'Eh? Oh, good egg!'
Having slipped into the Billy Bunterish vernacular of the Public School System, thereby betraying her middle-class origins, Alice greedily sucks off some more of the juicy blue jism, and is rewarded by seeing her tits expand exponentially.
Floating up to grab the interesting-looking parcel (That's Life!), our nubile nympho tears away the brown-paper-without-any-distinguishing-mark-on-it-anywhere-whatsoever ('cept for a discretely tasteful memory jogger - BUY YOUR SEX TOYS AT SEX TOYS - stamped throughout like lettering in seaside cock-rock), and returns to base weighed down by the heavy immensity of her vibrating baton of victory.
'No dearie, that won't do yer any gud at all. Yer c'n onlie gain entri if'n you fux me fust, an apple-eye-aunts don' cownt fer nowt.'
Dejectedly, Alice inserts the buzzing behemoth between the pouting petals of her own palace of pearly pinkness.But despair turns to solace as, wriggling maniacally, she heaves her gobblesome groin heavenwards. And yet, what's this? Our sweating sweetheart is experiencing some difficulty with her persistent plastic plungings.The course of tool-love never runs smooth (batteries running out, daddy banging on the bathroomdoor (?!), unwilling-to-treat-it-as-a-spectator-sport boyfriend, etc, etc.), but this is ridiculous. Sprouting from her hairless snatch, Megaclitoris (long thought extinct by palaentologists) rears its blind ugly head in quest of Lezzie prey.
'Ah.Um.Th' funnin' abaht yer tits luv? Jus' jokin' loik.'
Alice, inserting her egg-scrambler, is determined to shaft the 'orrible ovoid till she cracks.
'The yolk's on you.'
Reduced to a mere shell of her previous self, the eggy bitch, in a peculiarly total display of female ejaculation, both literally (onto the WELCOME TO WANKERLAND doormat) and metaphorically, spills her jaundiced guts.
'Ah, fuckit! Op'n Sezme!'
The oaken portal creaks open to reveal - a disembodied cat's head grinning oilily.
'Wot're you laughin' at?'
'Don't you just wish you knew?'
'Beat it buster.'
A thick jet of sticky spunk squirts out of thin air and onto Alice's now-deflated-but-still-tittilatingly-tormentative bare breasts.
'Ugh! You bastard!'
The fairly famished feline flasher, face foam-flecked with fuck, far-from-finickily feasts from Alice's front. Finally finished flicking its flexible (tongue), it flashed friendlily (smiles) and fucks off (fucks off).
'Whatever you do sweetie, don't miss the E-party.'
'Shouldn't that be T-party?'
Alice, it seems, is now addressing empty air. Well, almost. Apart from a few weak grey gobs that, emerging from the ether like pigeon's diarrhoea, besmirch and bespatter our buxom's bootiful boobies.
Off in the distance someone somewhere is playing a nineties' re-mix of an old and much-loved 'classic'.
'Twinkle twinkle Cheshire Cat,
No balls! Not out! Still in! Th-wack!
Oh, to grin a grin like that,
While fucking one`s twat with a cricket bat.'
'Curiouser and curiouser,' quoth Alice, 'I wonder who's at the crease?'
Feigning nonchalance, she strolls across rolling lawns, under a few mouldy-and-diseased elm trees, and into a clearing containing three Ravers.
'Bloody'ell, it's that weird techno-band The Mad Fuckers!'
Amid an orgy of pill-popping, arm-gesticulating, and unguessable sexual orientation, Alice strives to figure out what-the-fuck's-happenin'. Apparently, MC Mad-Bastud-in-a-Hat is trying to stick Ice-T Dormouse up the arse of Mad March, an addled and delapidated Hare Krishna freak.
'Excuse me. Isn't that, well, sort of illegal?'
'Don' be fuckin' ridic'lous shite-fer-brains! Ice-T luurrvvs it.Want some E?'
'No thanks, I'll have some tea though, if you've got any.'
'That would be acceptable.'
'C'mere yer squirmy rodent! Bend over baby, 'ere I cums!'
Rather flustered after her near-fatal encounter with the seamier side of psychedelia, Alice stops running just long enough to get her breath. Struck by something gleaming in the grass (hmmmm), she stoops to pick up what looks like a zipper from a pairof men's slacks. Searching for some sort of identification, she comes across a tag with Bread-and-Butter-Fly written on it in indelible ink.
'I wonder if...'
Unzipping the strangely compelling object, she steps back in wonderment as a loaf of French bread - looking a lot like a thingy and carrying a tub of lurpak - pops out, round, up her latex skirt and down the back of her ludicrously lumpy lingerie.
'Help! Help! I'm being buggered against my will bya creepy croissant - and it's illegal in this country too!'
'When in France, ma cherie.'
'But this isn't France!'
'Home is,'ow you say, where ze 'eart ees?'
'Speaking of which, the way to a girl's heart isn't through her bowels. Now, if you cut that out, I'll promise to gobble you down instead.'
It felt a little odd to have a thingy praise her to the skies while she gobbed it, but - C'est LaVie! Anyway, anything's better than nothing when you're starving (guilt-laden masturbators and squeamish proponents of oral-hygiene please take note; there's an awful lot of protein in a cubic centimetre or so of spilled semen: so,what with all the famine and starvation here, there and everywhere, think of it as your duty not to waste it).
Alice, her reverie broken, scans the horizon for the source of this fellatus-interruptus.
'Stratospheric, chicky baby.'
Craning her neck, she peers into the foliage of the tree that has provided cool shelter for her randy repast. Only to realize that the shade is provided by the parasol of a huge mushroom - with an occupant, a quite obviously stoned caterpillar-type dude wearing mirror-sunglasses, toking on a hubblie-bubblie, and listening to 'White Rabbit' by sixties' sensations Jefferson Airplane.
'One pill makes your cock big,
And one pill makes it small,
And the ones that are illegal,
Let you fuck anything at all.'
'That's not how I remember it. There's something very wrong here.'
'How's your version sling it groove mutha?'
'I'll try, but the atmosphere around here, it's making it difficult to think straight. Let me see...
'One pill gets your clit hard,
And one pill makes it soften,
And the ones that are illegal,
Let you do it more and often.'
'No, that's not right either.'
'Who cares? Mellow out sweet thang. Light my candle. Lay it on me. Play with my pistil. Caress my cutesy pie. Finger my flubjous Frampton. Stroke...'
'Hold on! What was that last?'
'Yes, that's it.'
'Well, flubjous is a made-up word. To me it means fucked-up and forgotten. To you, it'd probably mean something along the lines of pissed-on and past-it.'
'Seventies' cockney rhymin' slang fer dick-headed rock-star.'
'Ah, it's all very esoteric isn't it?'
'Aw fuckit.Yer wanna cumon up 'ere an' get yersel' laid or yer wanna stan' aroun' jawin' alla fuckin' day?'
'There's no way up.'
'Jes chew on a piece o' mush slit! Somethin'll 'appen.'
Breaking off a random pice of mushroom, Alice puts it in her mouth and immediately begins to hallucinate. Suddenly it's an edited-out-and-throwed-away scene from the 1950s B-movie Revenge of the Fifty-Foot Woman. Picking up our now-erect-and-panting-for-it green squirmer, Alice proceeds to use him as a living dildo. Lying back with legs apart for hands-free self-abuse, she gives the vegetarian voluptuary his head, and is soon ecstatic to find him giving 'head' in return as, expertly mouthing her clit, 'the safest-sex 'cos testicle-less' screw-loose loose-screwer screws 'er.
'Off with his head!'
Surprised in mid-orgasm, Alice sits bolt upright to see a gardener's spade separating most of her from most of her lover.
'What the f..?'
'Silence peasant! You were caufght inflagrante delecto - I pride my self on knowing the law backwards.
'Do you know it forwards at all? My knickers are in shreds!'
'Silence.You were caught committing the mortal sin of insectiality, a crime punishable by death. What do you have to say for yourself?'
'Insects are people too.Anyway, he was a good fuck.'
'Off with her head!'
'Come near me with that Jack, and I'll tear you in half, your nothing but a pack of cards anyway.
'Do you play?'
'Sure Queenie. Lead me to it.'
'You can be the quarterback.'
'American Football. Know it? It's all the rage around these parts.'
'Well, yeah, I c'n play if'n you show me how?'
'Right. See this?'
'Yup. Now, as the quarterback, your job is to take this and throw it to a 'wide-receiver' who runs it in for a 'touchdown'. Right?'
'Wrong! It's a whole diff'rent ballgame in this here town of Sore Groin, Nudiana. The way we plays it, the quarterback - that's you sweet snatch - gets open real wide 'n' then we stick this here oddest-shaped-object-on-the-field inside ya. Get the picture? Okay, first down an' ten! Ah'd advise ya to run honey chile, cos we's madder 'n' a coon's cunt in a Christmas cracker!
Needing no further prompting, Alice hurtles down the field at breakneck speed. But it all seems so futile when, furious at being cooped-up inside all that surplus NASA space-gear, everyone's 'end' is 'tight' and they're all looking to you to loosen it for 'em.
'Okay, okay! Gimme the goddam ball! Ya c'n play wid yorselfs if'n yer wants, but this motherfucker gets to do the inserting herself! Okay?'
Stunned by Alice's vehemence, the All-American All-Pro All-Faggots All-Stars halt in mid-stride, throwing her just enough off balance so that she falls headlong into a chasm that,somewhat contrivedly, has materialized to gape up in admiration at our hot-to-trot-tottie's knickerless botty.
Everything went black, but she awakens to find the professor attempting to provide mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
'Wrong end Prof.'
Kicking aside the drooling heap of white hair and dishevelled clothing, Alice asks the inevitable question: ''Did you use a condom?'
'Don't you want to hear how I fisted the rabbit's hole till it ejaculated and - pop! - out you came?'
'Ungrateful wretch! That's the last time I let myself be inveigled by the Ladies for Licking Lust out of Leicestershire into treating a Lost Lascivious Loser like you. Pah!'
'Fancy another fuck?'
As the mismatched pair - crapulous crinkly and butter-soft bimbo - get stuck in and stuck on, they fail to notice the hasty arrival and hastier exit of a floppy-eared pink-eyed albino as it consults a fine gold watch-on-a-chain dangling from the hip-pocket of its tackily twee turquoise waistcoat.
'Too late! Too late! Always just too late!'
'Not this time Prof, I'm therrrrrrggguuuuhhhhh!' said Alice.