It is amazing what you can find when you root around somebodys parent's basement while they are upstairs in front of the television watching Pam Anderson in "V.I.P" and waiting for the Viagra to take hold. This is exactly what I did last nite and came upon a young Thrawn's diary. I sold it to the Enquirer for a case of Olde English 800....oh and by the way Thrawn, I don't know if it was your mom's hip replacement and the diet pills, or your dad's double dose of Viagra but it was a fairly house rocking pork the old 6 minute man managed to pull over on the old lady last night....now here is and excerpt....

Bees. Swarming buzzing bees. Tickling temperamental bees. Bees with pointy painful stingers...

I poured honey down my back and shook my buttocks left to right. I am a naked crazy boy. I passed by the beehives, jogging not running. Taking my sweet innocent time, through the grass, toward the white perfumy clover field. The bees rose in a fuzzy brown herd, filtering out their hive, cleaving the air like an arrow aiming for honey-dripping bare-bummed little Thrawn.

I couldn't help it and smiled broad and white, my feet advancing toward the clover, tossing my hips from side to side, my breathless voice chanting, "Beeeeez. Zzzzzzzhahahahahaaaaaaaa."

I slipped a finger between my perspiring crack, taking away honey as if from the stale edges of a white wonder bread sandwich. I loved the bees, almost as much as the sticky sweet clinging goo of honey that formed and hung from my perineum, and dripped dripping drops

The bees closed in. Thousands of bees, their murmuring buzzing chorus titillating my little ears, stingers angry and shining in the sun, quivering mad. I jogged toward the clover field, licking my finger clean of the sweet sweaty honey.

Honeybuns, I thought, and laughed until I fell rolling over the start of clover. Honeybuns, I thought , and I laughed, giggled, a smile playing over my bare freckled puss.

"Beeeeeeez!" I shouted, as a fuzzy buzzing cloud converged on my little honey sticky ass. The sun rolled in golden fury, and hours later, when it had turned a dark red, and sunset swollen, little old me laid stiff and puffy, pink and happy, dead stinking sweet.