It's just like the nursery rhyme my grandmother used to tell me....
Old Sally Glot liked to tickle a lot, and no one could stop her murders
She tickles, you laugh. she tickles, you cry
She'll tickle your body far and wide
She'll tickle your rump and she'll tickle your groin
She'll tickle your soft bits like sweet pork loin
She tickles you scream, she tickle you whine
she tickles you pee, she tickles you die.
Lots of different stuff happens after peeing and before dying though. It's not like you wet yourself with ticklish glee and keel over from the effort. No no no. Many other things are voided after your bladder. Let's see... First it's the pee. Then it's the vomit. Then it's the poo, lot's of poo, full internal release... It looks like your intestines shed it's skin and filled it with pudding... so much pudding. Eventually there is blood coming out of everywhere, then it's the hemorrhaging death. Tickling is some tough shit and I am going to tickle you. I am going to tickle the fuck out of you.
Last year I was in Boise, I was hanging out in the Ace Hardware when this young punk comes in. The little fucker calls me out in front of everybody at the Ace. He said "I hear you think you know how to tickle old man, you don't look like hot tickle-shit to me!" I told the boy to stand down, that he did not want a piece of this old tickle machine. But youth and stupidity got in the way. "Fuck you grandpa!" shouted the little fucker "Draw them ticklers, bitch!"
Once the tickle starts, it can't be stopped. The Ace knew what the fuck was up immediately. Shelves were moved and a large circle was cleared for the battle. Word quickly spread and soon the Ace and surrounding parking lot were full of thousands of people. The cops showed up and helped with crowd control, they knew the fight must go on!
The kid had raw, unrefined talent and youth on his side. But tickling is won through experience. My fingers are dry and brittle. My calluses could cut cheese, but my touch...... Gentle as lamb's milk. The kid was grinding his fingers into my armpits and groin, but he wasn't tickling, he didn't know what tickling was.
I let him think he was doing well, but then I laughed. Not the tortured laugh of the tickled, no! The laugh of utter mockery. I began to tickle back. The punk crumpled to the ground unable to tickle in return, his laughter crippling. The crowd began chanting. "FINISH HIM! FINISH HIM!"
I could see only red, the floor pooling with more and more bodily fluids. I could sense Death leaning over my shoulder watching me tickling the last gasps of breath from this young man's lungs. But then I noticed in the crowd. One face not full of blood-lust. One woman's face in the crowd, streaming with tears. Through my blood filled eyes (not my blood) I could see her cry out "NOT MY SON! PLEASE NOT MY SON!!".
It was then that I realized that this boy had learned his lesson. Much to the dismay of the crowd, I could not kill him, not in front of his crying mother. He was lucky. You my friend are not so lucky. I don't see your mother anywhere. DRAW THEM TICKLERS BITCH!!
|I will tickle you... I will tickle the fuck out of you.|