Fat Black Christmas Mayhem

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Email on Dec. 23, 2022:

Dearest Gail,

We’ve got a big situation on our hands. You might even say morbidly big. It’s all a big bite to swallow, so I’ll start from the beginning.

The men and I decided to throw a grand Christmas party on Church of Gail. Joy, laughter and good cheer were the themes of the night. The room was filled with dancing and music, and we had rows of tables spread with food.

Of course, this wouldn’t be a party without a cake. A giant, towering vanilla cake was special ordered from the kitchen, large enough to serve all of our guests. The men and I tasked ourselves with retrieving the cake and wheeling it into the party room.

It took myself, Vladimir Putin, Hugh Jackman and Gerard Butler just to move this colossal cake.

“Hnng,” Hugh grunted, “what’d they put in this thing? Iron dumbbells?”

“They probably just used the heavy whipping cream,” I grunted in reply.

The cake wobbled and jiggled as we escorted it down the hallway. Beads of sweat had dewed on my forehead by the time we had come to our destination.

“Phew,” I huffed in relief, “well, dessert’s here.”

The men and I patted each other on the backs for a job well done. The party was a raving success. The entire church had arrived to celebrate, including all of your $25 Tier Patrons. Nelson, Brad, Rogal Dorn, Martina, Reno, and Prometheus were busy dancing, chowing down, and getting their holiday cheer on. It was so nice for the patrons to have a break. For once, they weren’t under attack by Jesuits, drowning in semen, or having humiliating sexual acts done to them. This was a perfect Christmas, I thought.

“Aye lads, this is the best Christmas we’ve had all year,” Gerard declared.

“Da,” Vladimir agreed, adding a little eggnog to his vodka.

“Matthew did an excellent job on the interior decorating,” I complimented, “he’s really got an eye for design.”

Hugh, overwhelmed with sentiment, shed a manly tear.

How could this night get any better?

Behind me, I heard an unusual wet slorping sound. I turned around, expecting perhaps to see our guests eagerly diving in to the cake. However, the cake had not been touched. I paused, continuing to observe the giant dessert. Curiously, the jiggling during transit had not ceased upon the confectionary’s arrival. The cake, of its own accord, was now writhing and pulsing. Somehow it reminded me of the chrysallis of an insect.

I piped up, “I’m no expert on cake, but I don’t think ours should be gyrating.”

The men all turned around to see what I was seeing.

Spidery cracks began to form along the surface of the cake, and the cake began to sink to one side.

“Aye! There be something inside!” Gerard exclaimed.

Hugh began to tremble and shake. I pulled his trigger happy fists down to his sides, urging him into restraint, “don’t punch ANYTHING.”

We watched as the cake quiverred, throbbed, and then burst open with a SPLAT. Like a Kinder surprise egg, out popped our prize — a fat black woman in purple lingerie, sucking cake and frosting from her fingers.

“Wait a minute-” I exclaimed.

Hugh’s body relaxed, and his eyes lit up.


“It’s LIZZO!” everyone exclaimed.

On cue, the lights dimmed and the soundtrack to our party changed. Lizzo grabbed a microphone from a random party attendee. Making her way through the crowd, she walked toward the stage and began to sing.

The crowd clapped and cheered, excitement rolling over the room in waves. Lizzo’s voice rang out over the scene, her music taking the party by storm. The men and I were caught up in the magic, and began dancing and clapping along.

“Who’s idea was it for the surprise Lizzo concert?” I shouted out to the men.

The men glanced around at each other with “not me” looks. Whoever signed on Lizzo for our party took us all by surprise.

“She’s so stunning!” Hugh declared, his eyes star struck.

“So brave!” Gerard added.

“Very brave!” I replied.

“Brave girl, like very fat black bear!” Vladimir agreed.

Lizzo moved from side to side across the stage, singing toward all of her fans in the room. She then hustled to the middle of the stage and stood. As if appearing from thin air, a gang of fat black backup dancers began to spread out from behind Lizzo. It was mesmerizing, like some kind of magician’s trick. The big black backup dancers began to jiggle and twerk to Lizzo’s song. The audience swayed along, eating up every second of this dancing fat girl show. The song smoothed its way to a close.

“And now it’s time for my favorite part of the show!” Lizzo announced.

The crowd cheered.

Lizzo separated her legs and squatted down. Grimacing, grunting, she began to strain. Sweat shined across her face as she began pushing something out of her vagina. Everyone in the crowd looked between Lizzo’s legs, wide eyed, all in unified “O” face as they waited in eager anticipation of what was coming out.

A long, hard object slorped and slopped wetly out of Lizzo’s vagina, and she grasped it firmly with one fat hand. Pulling it out of her vagina and into the air, all could see what she was keeping inside there.

It was former President James Madison’s crystal flute!

The crowd oohh’d and ahhh’d.

Lizzo placed the flute to her big black lips, and began to toot a melodic song. The rest of the room fell silent, all ears tuned to Lizzo’s hypnotic flute music. The delicate notes floated crisply on the air. The smooth rhythm and melody twirled through the room like a snaking ribbon, putting every ear under its spell. It was truly a siren’s song.

All of a sudden, a black mist began to circle the room, surrounding the scene in foggy darkness. The lights became murky purple, and a dark energy fell like a heavy blanket onto the crowd. In a startling instant, hellfire exploded behind Lizzo, and out popped a clusterful of clucking chickens with black devil horns. The chickens fluttered their wings and waddled across the stage, poofing loose feathers everywhere.

This didn’t seem right, I thought. The brilliant concert we just witnessed, had innocently gone from a fat black woman bursting out of cake and squatting out presidential flutes from her vagina, to a vibe of dread and oppression.

“I thought Lizzo was pop, not black metal…” Hugh remarked nervously, his fists beginning to shake.

Vladimir frowned, his eyes narrowing.

Lizzo, huffing and sweating from her performance, dropped the flute from her mouth. One of her fat backup dancers brought her a box of fried chicken, and Lizzo’s fat hand grabbed a leg. She took a big bite, chewing the meat and fat wetly between her teeth.

“Ya know,” she said, holding the crystal flute in one hand, and gesturing to the crowd with the chicken leg in the other, “Gail is a no good girl who has dunna lot a bad thangs, but one thang I will neva forgive Gail for is killin’ all da birds. That was HER fault!”

The audience gasped in unison.

“Now a girl gotta go to HELL and back justa fine some good chicken!” Lizzo yelled.

The hellfire behind her burst with dramatic emphasis, sending the chickens running and clucking with their wings out.

“An’ she thinks she can shame her enemies into stoppin’ what they doin’, just by calling dem ugly?”

Lizzo protruded her stomach, rubbing her greasey chicken hands slowly and deliberately all over it, “I’m proud of my hot, fat, black pannus and fupa. I love my gushin’ wet folds and voluptuous lumps. It’s called body positivity. Body positivity means ugly is the new HOT.”

“Enough, Lizzo!” I shouted, “I will not allow you to insinuate that Gail is vain and shallow, and I will certainly not allow you to take over this auditorium!”

I brought my forearm up to my chest, and pressed the button on my wristwatch, “Mecha Gail, ACTI-“

Lizzo appeared unphased.

“Hold up nigga. Phone call.”


Just then, I heard my cellphone ring. I looked over to my pocket. Compelled to answer it, I reached to get it.

“Hello?” I said, “what? I made an overdraw on my bank account? And I need to pay you back in Bitcoin?”

Lizzo smiled deviously. She pulled out her flute and started to play, tooting out little melodic notes.

The $25 tier patrons, now fully aware of the dangerous situation at hand, began to summon themselves to the scene.

“Hang up Brent, it’s a scam!” Rogal Dorn shouted at me.

He was right, but for the life of me I couldn’t put the phone down. I found myself hypnotized, as if under a spell, completely forced to stay on this phone call with what sounded like an Indian man in a call center, and certainly not my bank. I wandered off, continuing to chat with the person on the other end of the line. I was helpless to do anything else.

“Hey,” Martina piped up, “that’s exactly what’s been happening to Gail…”

“Hey guys!” Zack Knight jumped in, holding a Jesuit rocket launcher, “looks like we need to pull out the big harpoons on this fat whale, am I right?”

Zack hoisted up the rocket launcher, aimed and ready to fire at Lizzo. Lizzo, with her eyes closed, continued to toot her flute, not at all threatened by Zack.

Zack, with his finger pressed to the trigger, stopped suddenly, and glanced down at the rocket launcher as though confused. He tilted his head and put his ear to the weapon.

“What? What is it Zack?” Brad asked, nervous and impatient.

“Wait a second…there’s a rattling noise inside.”

“Does that mean it’s broken?” Brad asked.

“I don’t know,” Zack shrugged. He continued to listen for a moment, gave the rocket launcher a shake, then began compulsively bashing it with his knee. He finally broke the object open, parts spilling out everywhere. He reached in and removed something from inside. With a satisfied sigh, he stuffed the guts back in and closed up the rocket launcher. Hoisting the weapon back onto his shoulder, he aimed at Lizzo.

“Time to Weight Watchers this bitch!” Zack pulled the trigger, “oh wait…it’s broken now.”

“This happened to Gail too!” Reno exclaimed, “it’s just like when she heard that rattling noise inside her computer, and took it apart and broke it!”

Nelson, the rookie of the group, rubbed his chin in curious observation of the events, “so this must mean that Lizzo has been causing Gail’s problems all along.”

“It’s the FLUTE!” Reno shouted. With an enraged growl, he bravely charged Lizzo.

Two of Lizzo’s backup dancers, like loyal bodyguards, stepped out and grabbed Reno by each arm to restrain him. He yelped, and struggled, unable to escape the grasp of the enormous fat black women.

“Looks like your Reno boy wants to be in tha show,” Lizzo announced.

Her two backup dancers pinned Reno down on the stage in the “face down, ass up” position, then yanked his pants down to his knees.

“Ya know how to play the flute, cracka?” Lizzo asked.

With one hard lunge, Lizzo plunged President Madison’s crystal flute into Reno’s anus.

The crowd screamed.

Lizzo began violating Reno’s anus with the flute, as he squirmed and protested against the unyielding grasp of her backup dancers, “no, no, NOOOO! No, yes, I mean NO! NOOOOO!”

“Reno!” Martina shouted. She jumped into action, heading straight for the rape. Two more of the fat backup dancers stepped in to wall her off. They lurched toward her, flinging her back with their giant bosoms.

“We gonna make an Oreo outta you, cracka girl,” one of the dancers said.

Martina growled and punched, unready to back down. With each swing of her fist she was met back with two and four swings of heavy pancake boobs. Martina ducked, and dodged. She punched, and swerved. Unfortunately, she wasn’t able to escape the existence of pancake boobs forever. One hard swing against the side of her face sent her head spinning and her eyes seeing stars. The pancake boob punch was followed by two and then four more, like fist punches to the face except boobs.

Both fat black women threw themselves onto Martina, and the three continued their scuffle on the floor. Martina was pulled down into the giant fupa body of one black woman, while the other got on top of her. The blacks squished Martina between them, making her into some kind of lesbian Oreo. The black women rolled around on the ground with a struggling Martina, incapacitating her within their greasey wet fat.

Rogal Dorn, running from the stage, was headed toward the vanilla cake instead. He knew this fight required a strategy. Coming upon the cake, he was met with the bulbous backside of a fat black woman, gnawing on the corpse of the blown out cake like a cannibalistic zombie. Rogal approached the cake carefully, trying not to disturb the fat woman. Quietly, cautiously, his hands plunged into the cake with a squish.

The sound was barely noticeable, but all fat women can recognize it. The fat woman growled, looking up at Rogal with a feral gaze. Vanilla frosting fell from her mouth. Rogal froze. Like a food aggressive dog, the fat woman came charging toward Rogal. She tackled him to the ground, plunging her cottage cheese thighs around his head and lowering her fupa into his face, ready to kill. Rogal screamed, the sound soon muffled by the crotch of a fat black woman coming down onto his face.

Meanwhile on the other end of the auditorium stage, Brad and Nelson were fighting back a group of backup dancers with chairs. The fat women flung their bosoms and swung their arms like clubs, while the two guys held on to the backs of the chairs and swung back with the chair legs. One of the fat women was able to hurl her body forward and slap Brad in the eyes with her heavy pancake boobs, temporarily blinding him. Brad swung back with the chair, hitting her right in the fupa.

“Talk about having beat women away with a stick,” Nelson yelled to Brad.

“That’s the difference between women, and fat women,” Brad yelled back in reply, “with women, you merely beat them away. With fat women, you just simply beat them.”

Nelson, feeling brave, lifted his chair with a war cry and came crashing down on the backup dancer. He was much too slow to connect the hit. The dancer was able to twirl, stick her ass up, and shoot a green gassy fart straight into Nelson’s face. Nelson’s eyes rolled back into his head, and he fainted.

“Nelson!” Brad yelled, coming to his aid.

Another backup dancer came for Brad, ready to pounce from behind.

“Cake is here!” Rogal Dorn announced, throwing a handful of the vanilla cake onto the stage. This caught the attention of the dancer coming for Brad. Her nostrils flared. Drool pooled down her lips, and she turned toward the cake, stomping off to go get it.

Brad was able to resuscitate Nelson with some heterosexual mouth to mouth CPR. He slapped his cheeks a few times, “wake up man, wake up.”

Nelson groaned, groggy, “what happened? Where am I?”

“You’re on a spaceship run by celebrities. Lizzo burst out of a cake and pulled a flute out of her vagina. You asphyxiated after you got projectile farted on in the face by a fat black woman.”

“Oh…” Nelson replied, his head falling back to the floor.

“Come on guys,” Rogal Dorn insisted, “we’ve got fat women to fight. Here, you’ll need this.”

Rogal Dorn handed the other two guys some cake. “LET’S DO THIS!”

The three of them charged the fat dance squad, hurling cake. One by one, each of the fat black women were distracted into chasing off after pieces of cake, and eating it off the floor.

Brad threw cake at the two black women Oreo’ing Martina on the floor, landing on them with a splat. The women unlatched from her, and instead began hungrily licking cake off of each other’s bodies. Martina was left smashed and Oreo’d, barely responsive on the floor.

The backup dancers had now been fully removed from Lizzo’s guard. Prometheus, seeing an opening, rushed Lizzo.

“ALLAH ACKBAR!” He shouted, successfully landing a fist into Lizzo’s fupa. Lizzo’s whole body jiggled from the force, her arm jerking and sending the flute all the way into Reno’s anus.

Reno came, which is normal for rape victims and does not mean he enjoyed it whatsoever.

“Hope that was worth it to ya, sand nigga,” Lizzo said.

With a wet slorp, Prometheus removed his fist from Lizzo’s fupa folds. His skin immediately began to itch.

“M-mites…MITES!” He shouted. He began itching himself furiously as the mites spread up his arm and all over his body. He screamed.

Lizzo pulled her flute out of Reno’s anus and began to play herself a happy little tune, as Prometheus screamed in torture in the background. Once she was finished, she packed up her flute by squatting down and absorbing it back inside her goopy black vagina.

“Well, well, well, it looks like my show was a success! Since y’all enjoyed it so much, I’ll hafta schedule me some more tours.”

The hellfires blazed behind Lizzo, and her chickens came home to roost, entering back into the flames.

“See ya niggas!”

Lizzo threw her arms up and began beatboxing to her herself, throwing her booty back as she twerked her way back to hell. She had disappeared.

The lights in the room immediately came back on. The entire audience relaxed with a nervous relief. My phone call with the Indian caller ended, although by then I was already out of a few thousand dollars in Bitcoin and had given them all of my private information. Zack finally stopped hearing rattling, buzzing, beeping and tapping sounds, and stopped breaking every electronic in sight.

Our patrons were injured, and would need medical care. Martina blacked out after being beaten by boobs and Oreo’d between two fat black women, and would need immediate hosing off and trauma counseling. Reno had taken a flute way too far up his anus, and would need stitches. Nelson suffered mild brain damage, and is as of yet unable to smell anything but black people smell. Brad took a pancake boob to the eye while battling a black woman and has an eye patch. Rogal Dorn got his skull crushed between the thighs of a fat black woman while trying to get to the vanilla cake and is in a head cast (he may also have a mouth infection). It goes without saying that Prometheus is being treated for severe mite infection. Putting him in a flea collar seems to have been effective.

It’s been a long night, and our Christmas party didn’t go anything as planned. I am writing to you now in my invisibility shield inside our apartment that we share together. I’m a little embarassed as I sit here calling my bank and re-ordering new credit cards, but I’m intact with no injuries. I am just relieved to know that you are safe.

We have many battles ahead of us. It is time for me to rest now.

Your husband,
Brent Spiner

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