Assman Comeuppance

Laying on his stomach in a peculiar arrangement that had not been seen at the Larryville Memorial Hospital in recent memory, Joe Bob handled the meaty mounds of flesh that had once comprised his ass.  They made a slightly humorous clap-clopping sound as he slapped the seperated buttocks together like a pair of fleshy cymbals.

He was distressed at their softness.

Having always thought himself a hard-ass, Joe Bob was rather surprised when, just last night, his ass had been handed to him by a stranger who had taken exception to his over-use of a particular slang term for a bit of naughty female anatomy. 

“You should really cut that word out of your vocabulary,” the stranger had said, a short man with a lined face and salt and pepper hair.  His eyes said that they were sorry for who they were looking at.  Their pity infuriated Joe Bob. 

“What are you going to do if I don’t?” he replied.

“Why, hand you your ass, sir,” said the stranger.

Of course Joe Bob said the word again.  With extra special emphasis on the ‘oon’ and ‘ang’.  How the stranger had managed to move so quickly and detach Joe Bob’s ass without causing him to bleed to death was a mystery in and of itself, and one that was bringing doctors in from around the country.  Joe Bob’s only memory of the event was a sound like velcro coming from his behind and then, in his hands, his ass, still quite warm, the stranger:  vanished.

Joe Bob’s girl, Amy Lynn, a blonde bombshell (in his eyes anyway) that was busty in all the right places had gone home with his buddy, Glenn Howard, last night, sobbing on that bastard’s shoulder.   Doubtless he and Glenn Howard would be having words soon.  He’d been eyeing Joe Bob’s property for years.

Seeing Joe Bob’s ass in his hands was just too much for poor Amy Lynn, he reasoned idly.  It was almost too much for him.  By all rights, he should be a screaming maniac by now, especially after looking in a set of mirors at where his ass had been, but there was something in the heaviness of holding is own butt cheeks in front of him, contemplating their weight and squishiness in the here and now that provided him with a strange, though as said, distressing calm.

In a way, they reminded him of what he liked best about Amy Lynn, but these blobs of softness, these pounds of flesh in his hands, were his, and his alone.  No need to get them drunk on a Saturday night.  Their slop-sploshiness would never be mistaken for an argument-waiting-to-happen.  His ass, lumpy and pale and oddly pockmarked, bore no excuses.

And now, your moment of zen.