An Open Letter from WWTF to Casey Serin

Our old friend WeWantTheFunk has published this open letter to TrueCasey.

It is not for the sensitive or faint of heart.

It is not for anybody under 18.

We pass it along as a public service. And yes, we're wondering about him too...

Dear Mr Serin:

What with the collapse/incarceration/etc of the majority of the Truly Funny Old Guard, it seems that nobody of any import has truly stepped in to provide a thorough analysis of this phenomenon that is the Short Bus Entrepreneurial Pump-n-Dump Glee Club. Thus, I am briefly setting aside my catalogue of pornographic links to address the situation as it stands.

As concerns Casey Serin, the proprietor of truecasey.com, I have a simple and modest proposal, that will be revealed in the course of this discussion, and the remainder of this missive is directed towards him and him alone.

Mr. Serin, what you fail to understand is that we here at CHC do not in any way, shape, or form care about what you think about QUick & Effortless Easy Riches (QUEER), passive income, OPM, GSPG, or any of the rest of it. This site is primarily for the discussion of forced male sodomy, and not a single one of your posts on any blog or message board has touched on that subject in the least. Clearly, given your dawning new sexuality, this is a topic we need to discuss. What follows is my proposal to you where we can come to an equitable compromise.

You are still a young man in his mid-20s with the physique of a teenager in high school. This is excellent, as it provides us with a base sodomy demographic for you. I would venture to guess that you have been unwillingly sodomized somewhere between 7-9 times in your life so far. Your religious preferences are a great help here, as if you had attended an all-Catholic boy's school, your browneye would be so stretched as to be useless to me. It also helps that you're not one of those blubbery watersacks who managed to have his mother write him a note to weasel him out of the physical education requirement so that you can spend more time in the library reading Rich Dad Poor Dad and tee-heeing to yourself in wet expectation. 7-9 times, however, is perfect for my needs, as my Scandinavian sausage is well-equipped to handle that.

I'd like to take a moment to talk about my cock, if I may, to familiarize you with the events that are about to take place. It resembles nothing in shape so much as a fire extinguisher; a red cylinder with a circumference about equal to a petri dish and as long as a regulation yardstick, networked with throbbing veins big enough to drive a Matchbox car through, and topped by a nearly luminescent magnificent red head, as big as a mid-size cantaloupe and covered in skin the consistency of #4 grain sandpaper. I could fit your little sister's arm in my urethra.

So I'll come over to your house, introduce myself to your Mom and talk a little bit about what I'm going to do to your anus, lay down some tarps on the floor, and commence what will no doubt be the crowning achievement of your life, even better than wrapping the Highland property. I will sodomize you like God was riding on my shoulder whispering instructions into my ear, Casey, and this is how it'll be done.

When i was dating a girl who rather enjoyed being fisted, the first thing I learned was how to 'make the ducky,' or shape your hand into a position that could slip into the vagina with the least resistance. Then, when entrance had been achieved, the position of the hand was changed to a fist to offer more stimulus. Unfortunately, my young ass-toy, my cock cannot make the ducky. It's just going to have to use brute pelvic force to stretch your brown-walled turd canal to it's utmost. You may wish to practice in the intervening hours with King Cobra malt beverage bottles, just to reduce the intense, searing pain a notch or two.

There will be pain, however, and I am not cruel. I will provide you with a damp rag to clutch between your teeth, muffling the grunts and lamentations from your mouth.

One would think that my pleasure would be reduced from this measure, but I must confess that I find the sounds of your rupturing colon and the gases escaping sufficiently erotic to continue my explorations. Once my cock has reached its limit, buried deep inside you like Grant in Grant's Tomb, the true sex will begin. You and I will bond like few men can, and I may finally come to know your affection for fraud, which I have never indulged in and never will, and you will begin to know the blinding joy of forced male sodomy.

And, as few people know (well, actually, lawnmower man knows, as my pimp, and Tracy of course, and soemdood from that time in the bunker when we both thought we were going to die, and Nigel and btc of course know after the events surrounding the first time we got together last year, and of course TheDude, and serinitis, Orson Buggy, allthingsgood, and Dumbfounded know as valued johns, and as Benoit™ knows because he's from the future and I fucked him), my penis is covered in a number of barbs, much like a dog's, and during coitus, these prevent my unit from slipping out of the blood-lubricated hole and disrupting my tearing rhythm. Upon orgasm, as pints of spooge rocket out of my pee-hole, burning through whatever they encounter like that burny stuff in the Alien movies, the barbs withdraw and my flaccid member can resume its rightful place in my pants.

Unfortunately, Casey, once I had worked my monster cock all the way up your digestive system, your effeminate, almost hairless disgustingness would make it impossible for me to ever have an orgasm again, and my penis would be stuck running parallel to your spinal column for the forseeable future. Of course, I'd cut your arms and legs off to lighten the load a bit, and have Nigel bring over the Makita power sander so I wouldn't have to look at your foolish face with the first little wisps of a moustache growing (and I've heard hair grows after you die, so I bet that thing'll look REALLY BITCHIN once you're super dessicated) and I'd just have to wait for you to rot yourself off of my dick, as I'll be damned if we're gonna do any cutting in there. Needless to say, this does not appeal to me.

Sadly, however, I see no other options. Best tell your mom I'm on my way. I'd like peanut butter sandwiches and a tall, cool glass of milk to be waiting for me. It's gonna be a long day.

-WeWantTheFunk