And so it would appear this website is merely becoming a depository for my most elaborate filth. And today is no exception. For I recently competed in yet another Competitive Erotic Fan Fiction, the smut-peddling smash hit curated by petulant tabby cat comedian Bryan Cook. This time the festivities took place at the inaugural Riot LA Comedy Festival, which was a goddamned blast. And I chose to pen a yarn about the television show Designing Women. Please to enjoy.
NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART OR PEOPLE WHO ARE NOT INTO SMUT! FRIENDS’ PARENTS STOP READING NOW!
The women at Sugarbaker Interior Design Firm knew who the general was long before he had ever even announced himself. Indeed, everyone in Atlanta did. With his signature shock of white hair and elaborate, corresponding white suits, the ancient General Jessup C. Jackson cut quite the figure around the Georgia capital’s more elite circles. And with his monocle, cane, and flare for the dramatic there wasn’t a month that went by that the general didn’t make the society pages for some elaborate eccentricity: drunk driving his signature Model T-Ford through the living room of Braves outfielder Dave Justice’s living room come February, being arrested for paying two Hispanic children $10,000 to fight to the death come March. That particular newspaper clipping was one of his favorites as both children died in the process, and he didn’t have to pay either.
The people of Atlanta tolerated the general’s behavior because he was a war hero after all. Plus he was 97-years-old, conventional logic dictated that old codger will be dead soon anyway.
What exactly the general was doing in the tastefully decorated front living room of the Sugarbaker Interior Design Mansion, however, remained a mystery. This was no debutante ball or society gala, this was a place of business more befitting of middle-class incomes, a struggling place of business. Quite frankly put it was beneath the general. Still the Designing Women were intrigued. Any new opportunity seemed worth pursuing.
“Why General Jackson,” Julia Sugarbaker, ably played by the stretch-faced Dixie Carter, began. “Welcome to Sugarbaker Interior Design. To what do we owe the pleasure…”
But before she could ever finish the inquiry General Jackson produced a pair of gloves lifted directly from a dead Korean soldier some sixty years ago and slapped her so hard across the face, that for a brief moment, it looked as if she wasn’t sucking on 75 Lemonheads.
“You shut your puckered mouth, Scout Finch!” the general bellowed, sounding just enough not like Foghorn Leghorn for the author of this piece not to get sued “If I wanted to discourse with an interior designer I’d be across town, at Designing Men. But I’m here, at the Sugarbaker Interior Design because you girls have something those fellas don’t. And that’s four vaginas.”
“Why I never!” the white, trampoline-faced Dixie Carter began. “I don’t care how many metals of valor you won in how many wars, you do not just waltz into my…”
But she never finished her statement. General Jackson once again slapped her so hard that for a brief instant her face looked as if a photographer had not just fired off 2000 flash photos directly in it. As shocked and angry as Julia Sugarbaker was she could not help but shudder with a secret longing. He reminded her of her daddy.
“I need not tell you that Jackson Family Plantation has recently been remodeled and, correspondingly, is in need of a new interior design,” he pontificated. “I also need not tell you the lucrative nature of that contract, nor the dire straits of the current Atlanta economy. This means two things and two things only. One, this will eventually cause a lot of great hip-hop music to come out of this community. Two, any firm would be a fool to pass up such an opportunity. Now I’m prepared to offer the full contract to the Sugarbaker Interior Design Firm provided you women fuck me the way General Sherman fucked this fair city: which is to say thoroughly. Also, Appomattox Courthouse, General Robert E. Lee, Antietam, and other Civil War references!
The women were appalled. But also high on Zinfandel, the way all professional woman constantly are. Plus they were desperate to save their floundering firm. And he was speaking their language. And while Julia Sugarbaker could never express in that moment her willingness to comply, that was not her task. Her task was to bite her lip. Because this was Delta Burke time. Suzanne Sugarbaker, Julia’s cul-de-sac sized sister, took control. This was the moment she had been waiting for.
“Why General,” she somehow managed to say through the four miniature powdered donuts musket-packed into her stupid, Southern mouth. “I do believe we have exactly what you’re looking for.”
With that Delta Burke dropped the massive silk tarp she used to rain-delay the infield of her body, revealing an origami-like series of folds. Fully nude, she led the aging, confused general to a tasteful couch in the middle of the room, where she laid him prostrate on his back. Then, gathering her undercarriage the way a mother hen would prepare to sit on her eggs, she hoisted herself onto the general’s aging visage, completely swallowing his head in the vast land mass between her asshole and former Miss Georgian vagish.
Clapping twice she spurned the other two designing women to action: Mary Jo Shivley, played by Annie Potts from Ghostbusters, and the dumb blonde one who nobody really gives a shit about.
Working together the two of them removed the general’s britches and while Mary Jo attacked his confederate saber with a fervor rarely seen outside Delta Burke devouring miniature powdered donuts, the blond dumb one began working on his balls, which, aged and withered as they were, resembled a desperate search for two missing milk duds in antique change purse. The general moaned ghostly cries of ecstasy. Or perhaps they were racial slurs. No could be sure. He was nearly inaudible beneath the beanbag chair of Delta Burk’s FUPA.
Julia Sugarbaker looked on uncertainly. She was clearly at a crossroads. This man had insulted her. He was a sexist and a racist. He was everything that is wrong about the South, everything she was trying so hard not to be. But she had a business to save. And isn’t sacrifice an important part of running any business? Plus, he did remind her of her daddy.
Swallowing her pride the way that Mary Jo Shivley was currently swallowing the General’s translucent, worm-like manhood, Julia Sugarbaker joined in the only area where the was room, the general’s asshole. Hoisting his thin, barely functional, tiny legs up on to her shoulders, Julia Sugarbaker darted her tongue in and out of the General’s bunker-buddy with an intensity rarely seen outside of Delta Burke devouring miniature powdered donuts. The general moaned with increased fervor. Or, perhaps, just more racistly. Again, he was beneath that FUPA. The women pumped the tiny general, face, dick, ass and balls with white-wine zeal until he bellowed, somehow audibly from deep inside Delta Burke Canyon, “I say, I say I’m cumming!”
The women all leaped back to receive the harbinger of their future economic security, and with a flutter of his skeletal hips, the General fired a chalky film of ecstasy into the air. The women tried to catch it, but it disappeared into thin air before it even landed, no one could say where to. Indeed, there are some who say that on windy, moonless nights, you can still see it haunting the Sugarbaker Mansion.
Silently refastening his tiny britches the general removed a check from them, and began writing it out to Sugarbaker Interior Design. Just then Anthony Bouvier, the only man on the Designing Women team entered through the front door.
“A Negro!” the general bellowed. “You did not tell me you employed a Negro! I could never hire such a firm to work on my house. I say good day to you!”
“Wait,” Julia Sugarbaker yelled after the racist general.
But the general could not hear him. He had already stormed out the front door and, confused and alone, began wandering in the opposite direction from his house, eventually falling asleep in a field.
“Anthony!” the Designing Women all chimed in unison.
Anthony promptly made a confused expression and shrugged his shoulders and with that everyone collapsed into hysterics. None of them could believe this shit would last for seven seasons.