Comics & "Stuff"

It was an unusually warm February morning in Merboile Alabama when Frampkin decided to visit the beach in search of a bomb-ass pussy to put his dick all up in. Since the coast was nearly three hours away, Frampkin packed his totes and fannie-p’s to the brim with, like, lotions and shit, and left home before the clock struck 3:12 a.m. Upon arriving, he greeted the small man in the parking lot entrance with a toothy smile smeared across his face and an indomitable erection smeared across his calfskin Speedo. “Greetings, beachmaster!” he yelled, stuffing tissue paper into his bathing suit to hide the erection, “how froths thine morrowdawn spave?”

The gateman grimaced and spat onto Frampkin’s windshield. “What did I tell you yesterday? Get the fuck off my property!”

 Frampkin laughed and exited his car, tossing the man his keys overhand with the finesse of Michael J. Fox on cocaine. “Good to see you too, Manfred!” he chuckled, unloading his beachables from the trunk, “no joyriding this time!”

Manfred wept with shattered dignity. “My name isn’t Manifred and you’re blocking my driveway! Why do you do this to me?” Frampkin waved and disappeared over a dune as Manifred continued weeping like a bitch. “I don’t even think Manifred is a name,” Manfred squeaked through the earliest slug of bourbon he’d taken in his life.

  After finding the perfect spot for poon-oglin’, Frampkin spread his loungin’ tarp and promptly lounged for two and a half hours, waiting for some fine bitches to slut on by. By nine-o-clock, the first patrons began trickling onto the beach, most avoiding Frampkin’s 50 square foot tarp as he shouted pickup statements like, “Get dicked!” “I taught your husband that move you love!” and of course his standby, “I’m not a registered sex offender in this state!”

By noon, however, Framkin grew despondent, as all the heartily-assed milfs had ignored his noble salutations and taken their probably pencil-dicked children to the side of the beach with fewer dead seagulls. I don’t understand, he thought whilst arranging flotsam and driftwood to spell “no black chicks,” why ain’t my dick sucked yet? He peered to the majestic oilrigs on the horizon, potent metaphors for his inevitable premature ejaculation, and struck a contemplative pose that would’ve made a great profile pic, had anyone been taking candid Instagrams.

  Suddenly, a Frisbee landed 20 feet from the edge of Frampkin’s tarp, after which bounded a voluptuous young girl probably named Bethyl. Noting the urgency and poorly concealed terror in her eyes, Frampkin scrambled to the Frisbee, confident that if he didn’t use this excuse to talk to Bethyl, he wouldn’t have a chance again until he followed her home that night. As Bethyl bent gingerly over the disk, Frampkin slid to intercept it, spewing sand into Bethyl’s face in yet another potent metaphor for premature ejaculation. “Hey, I’m Frampkin, we should bang,” he purred, unpacking the tissue paper surrounding his still-ripe boner.

“Please, I don’t want any trouble,” she pleaded seductively, inching away from Frampkin.

Frampkin scooched closer and throttled her shoulder hissing, “Wait! There’s something you need to know first!” Bethyl froze, perhaps due to either tepid attraction or the iron grip of Frampkin’s jackin’ hand. “You complete me,” he whispered, quoting what he thought was The Matrix: Revolutions.

A tear rolled down her cheek as she whimpered, “Please sir, let me go. You’re scaring me you know.”

“I haven’t seen someone drop a line like that since the last time Michael J. Fox did cocaine,” Frampkin smiled, confusing her inadvertent rhyme for the start of a dope freestyle. He gripped her shoulder and leaned in for a kiss, but was suddenly floored by a blow to the back of his head and his simultaneous ejaculation, premature as the prophecies writ.

“Get the fuck away from my daughter!” A voice bellowed through the fog of Frampkin’s post-gasm concussion. Frampkin reached towards the sun and cried the name of his lover, but by the time his vision cleared she was gone. He wept amongst the seagull remnants until a shit-faced group of college students took notice and surrounded him, kicking sand in his hair and pouring Rumplemintz into his eyes. With as much dignity as a man wearing a calfskin Speedo can manage, Frampkin stood, collected his tarp, and plodded back to the car, which had been impounded long ago. He never found love that day on the beach, or at any point in the few decades of life that followed, but he found a nickel from the year he was born once, and that was pretty cool I guess.