SEAN'S STORY
By Sir Peter Behgsferpous
All too often, simple things can be taken for granted. A hot meal on a cold day. Modern technology’s ability to provide us with global communication and information. The miraculous introduction and universal utilization of birth control pills amongst our nation’s women. However despite her strictly obeying the guidelines recommended in “the pill’s” utilization, Nancy Tate became infected with a fetus in 1981 so horrid and culturally disparaging that the animal rights community has deemed her multiple failed attempts at abortions as “a fuckin’ shame”. In what is considered the only known attempt, Nancy was the first woman to have asked for a home water birth in an effort to drown the newborn after it was born. Again the infant managed to thwart the effort after she mistook the newborn as “just another piece of crap floating in the water”. Nancy’s instincts were good. Little Sean grew up to become one fantastic liability to all who had the unfortunate distinction of knowing his asshole face.
Sean spent the majority of his formative years avoiding any semblance of responsibility and instead took an unusual liking to what many youngsters his age would find objectionable. Sean Tate loves bestiality. The obsession began as a young man when Tate witnessed his pet dog “Knight” swallow an entire hot dog whole. Sean thought, “Hey, if he can handle that hot dog no problem, maybe he can take my whole Twizzle dick as well. And if he can take that, maybe I can stuff my nuts in there too!”. It’s not the first thought that comes to most of our minds when witnessing something like that, but nevertheless, Sean pretended to be ill the next day and stayed home from school. His mother didn’t question the 2 empty jars of peanut butter when she got home. Maternal instinct couldn’t foresee her son’s problem, but perhaps it would have raised a red flag had she noticed that none of the bread in the house had been consumed. Maybe that would have been enough to keep her from bringing a second dog into the home. A dog Sean affectionately named “JC”. Sean insisted that the dogs sleep in his bed every night. Even as an eighteen year old man, he justified it by telling his parents he was afraid of the dark. He would drag each of them into his bedroom each night by the collar, he would lock his door behind him, lube up and proceed to go balls deep in their crusty sphincters. When friends would go to the Tate’s house to visit, JC would cower and run at the sight of any visitors. Sean would shrug, laugh and exclaim “That’s just JC!”. It would become apparent years later that JC had been abused into reclusion.
Sean eventually went on to college, giving his dogs a tearful farewell as he left, and promised to write. His freshmen year roommate thought it strange the first time he walked in on him masturbating to a Clifford book, but didn’t contact the campus health services facility until he found dead squirrels under his bed. They had been duct taped to keep them from exploding. Sean took an especially fond liking to squirrels, but it wasn’t completely sexual. Finding one dead on the side of the road, Sean mentioned to his friend of the time that the squirrel was “too skinny and cold on the inside”. So he proceeded to prop it up on a stoop, put a cigarette in his mouth, a live firework in its hand and offered to pose with the carcass for all who passed by. We all know the potentially sociopathic implications involved in animal cruelty, but this was not enough to grant Sean a ticket to the psyche ward. What finally gave Sean a criminal record as a sexual deviant was a terribly inhumane event after Sean moved to Arizona to spend more time with his parent’s dogs. Sean’s obsession with bestiality culminated in a late night trip to a farm, where Sean was witnessed during relations with a particular Goat he found irresistible. Sean was fired from his job at the pet store and took a position at US Air. Last reports indicate Sean’s therapy is going well and he has redirected his sexual impulses towards dudes of the same species.
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