Kriss Akabusi....

Busi had had enough. His agent, Harvey Goldenblum, was a downpour in a shower of shites. He had only opened eighteen JJBs and one fucking Maplins last week. The £127,987 one bedroom mansion in Luton didn't clean itself. How was he meant to keep Regis full of pills and Black full of murderous rage on these buttons that Harvey was tossing his way? Busi had no idea. That's why he had an accountant. But his accountant was Harvey Goldenblum.

He looked around at the other black men sitting in the green room sipping jasmine tea and thumbing Stanivslaski. His big meeting with Harvey last week had been a mess. They should never had met in Chariots Spa. But you couldn't get the giant front wheel out of there. Krisstopher had laid it on the line. He wanted more acting work. The DVD of "Lotions 13" had been shifting units all over the shop. The commentary by poor old OCD prone John Regis had become a classic and a standard text for all psychologists. The time was right for Busi to have his own show. A cop show. A cookery show. Any kind of fucking show.

So here he was. In the green room of the Letchworth Police Station. About to "appear" in a line up for a suspected rapist in the area. As he applied his rouge and ran over his lines with Adrian Lester he thought of Harvey's garbled words as two Brazilian boys had placed their copas in Goldenblum's capana. "If you want to be a black actor you have to do rep. Police line ups. Crimewatch. The Bill. Maybe a Trial and Retribution. Oh God, that's good." Busi wanted to be the black Bond. The chocolate Columbo. The onyx Oprah. But he needed walnut effect flooring. A job is a job.

Busi was useless though. About as useless as a fanny on Anne Widdicombe. He kept fluffing his lines. And pumping his fist in the line up. And shouting Justin Fashanu's catchphrase "Awooga". It was clear he wasn't the rapist. Or the granny murderer. He was just a very loud ex sportsman with a taste for clunge custard and monstrous trouser cobra. Two cases had been thrown out of court in the last hour. No one wanted Krisstopher Malcolm Akabusi to graduate to reconstructions on Crimewatch more than the Thames Valley Police. Except maybe Busi himself.

Chief Inspector John Stalker took Busi aside after the rapist lineup. Kriss had made sure that the woman had fingered Adrian Lester instead of the real fella. One less Ophello on the Crimewatch market.

Stalker was a tough man. When he wasn't fitting up Irish people for playing with cards and making bombs he was fitting electric awnings. But everyone in the force knew that Drummer, his ever present lab, was the brains of the outfit and Busi wanted to speak to the monkey not the organ grinder. Or the monkey man. Or the grinder man. He was confused. He just wanted to speak to someone who knew what he was talking about.

Drummer motioned for Busi to take a seat in his walnut effect office. He offered a Cuban. But Kriss wasn't here to fuck a Latino. Or was he? Drummer used his hind leg to itch his ear whilst he laid it out for Busi. He couldn't do line ups anymore. He was a worse black actor than the former head of the UN - Bernie Mac. But he had a special job for him. Down in the remand cells.

Amy Winehouse was a fucking godawful mess. He'd seen more meat on a burnt chip. She had a nose that you break ice with, a hairdo that looked like something a giant cat would hock up on the duvet and teeth like pikey paving. Busi knocked on the glass wall that separated her from him. She stirred.

Now Busi liked pussy as much as the next man. As long as the next man was George Best or Julio Ingelellisas. But this bag of bones was beyond the pale. But Regis needed medication. Medication. Medication was all he needed. He felt the hot blood rush into his stone cold meat parcel. He was ready.

He knew that beneath the tatty LBD was a clunge as uninviting as a HSBC in Chandlers Ford and a pair of tits as lifeless as Samanda. It began to speak. "A showbiz reporter once came to interview me. I ate his liver with some brown. And a can of Tennants. SHShsususushhshs". Krisstopher felt vomit form in the back of his throat but he sucked it up.

Busi let slip his acting dungs and the fetid air of the cells swilled around his giant cocoa rugby balls like mouth wash in an alcos gob. His diamond cutter pierced the glass and he entered the cell. Drummer ran in and started pulling at Winehouse's dress. Soon they were both naked. Busi like a proud Nubian warlord and Amy like Steptoe with tattoos.

Akabusi leapt on her like the Daily Express on a new Diana theory. Busi packed more into her clunge than a Renault McCann boot and was leaving as much DNA. To her credit her pussy was juicier than Kate's diary and soon they were rocking it up against the cold stone.

Within hours Busi was on his virulent vinegars and let Winehouse have a mouth full of protein for the first time since Hanukkah 2003. He rolled up his Biltong pillbox and slipped on his acting duds. He tried to persuade her to go for a kebab. But she said "No, no, no." "Suit yourself you scrawny ****" roared Busi with all the might of a bear not giving Brian Blessed a reacharound in the showers.

His pager bleeped. It was Harvey. He had an audition to play understudy to Adrian Lester as a rapist in Crimewatch. Work was work. Busi looked down on the sloshing pile of flipping, flapping spermazota, needles, black eyeliner, Drummer's hair and latkes, knelt down on his muscular knee, whispered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.

The End.

And finally the last one I have.

Busi was cold. He was so cold he had killed two brass monkeys and wrapped their pelts around his ebony carriage leaving him all furry looking like he'd rolled around on a crusty's front room. His clunge plunger had retracted as far as it could go but it was still over a foot long and his shaved chestnuts needed to be roasting on an open fire or failing that resting on a slit arses chin.

All in all he was f**king freezing. To celebrate a good year Busi's agent Harvey Goldenblum had sent the boys to open a JJB in Lapland with a jumbo full of Make A Wish slurpers on the strict condition no tards got killed or maimed or kicked to pieces by nutty reindeers. Busi, Regis and Black had begrudgingly accepted the challenge - deaths were always a possiblity on these trips and reindeers were an unknown quantity. Black was very keen to visit the country that had given us the Lapdance and poor old OCD riddled Regis planned to count every drop of snow he could get his giant hot hands on.

The plane journey had been a nause and a half. 200 nose dribblers jumping up and down, setting off alarms, punching trolley mollys and shouting the word "bomb" continuely. Busi had put on his new iPatch and listened to the audio recording of "Rofl Lundgren's Erotic Stories for Men (and, to a lesser extent, women) History Edition" read by Brian Blessed. He noted from the cover that the book version was out in Janurary 08 and would be available from Lulu.com but he wasn't sure why he had noted that so carefully. Maybe it was spam...

The last few months had been busier than Amanda Knox's imagination. Busi had opened 28 JJBs and one Maplins in Penge, gotten married twice and divorced three times, appeared on Dragon's Den selling his new scat video "2 Guys Wassup" and skating to victory in the Nigeria version of Deal or No Deal on Ice. Regis had been in his penthouse urinating into empty bottles of Tizer and collecting the pixels on his new HD telly so his OCD was officially 2456 times better than it had been 678 hours before. Black had killed eight men. With his bare hands. So all was good in the hood for the jolly boys.

Except that Busi's fleshy hood had retracted less often the Millenium in Cardiff during winter. His veiny parnassus hadn't tasted the sweet suds of any of the five available holes on a woman and his rampant zota were backing up like Christmas Eve traffic. He was carrying so much knacker cracker spread Busi was pretty certain that he was turning white and once woke up on his walnut effect sheets wondering if he was growing one of those sperm tails. He prayed to every god in the book that he would go in up to his nuts on something in Lapdanceland or whatever the f**k it was called.

Black loved whipping huskies, Busi roared to himself with all the gusto of a turkey and sprout fart from an eighty year old relative. They were speeding through the epic white nothingness of Lap towards Santa's Grotty. A few leos had already fallen by the wayside, sliced under the blades of Regis' nasty b*stard sleigh or eaten by wild artic scouse rotts but Busi had told Harvey he never failed to come back from an ouward bound thingy without blood on his meaty cock like fingers.

Busi's sled kicked up more white dust than a leper skipping as he pulled up at Santa's joint. It was a propa big drum with a Maccers, the biggest JJB he had ever seen and a large warehouse that no one was allowed near. Ever. At all. Santa came out to meet Busi, Black and Regis as well as the handful of Tesco packers who had survived the ardous three day trek. He was a nice fellow. Smelt a little of sherry, a bit of reindeer meat and a lot of dried p*ss.

Mary Christmas showed them to their rooms and instantly Busi's plonker started twitching like an epilectic at a gabba night. Santa's missus was hotter than two volcanos wearing no factor on a a week's holiday in Sharm El Sheik. She had long blonde hair that looked like the arse p*ss of some heavenly Greek god and blue eyes that spoke a thousand words. All of them "trouble" and "pre-cum".

Busi knew that beneath the red velvety cloth and lush white ermin was a pair of epic bristols like two missing disks containing 25 million titw*nks and downstairs was a clunge tighter than Scrooge on Ryanair, booked months in advance. "Mr Akabusboi, stop looking at my arris" she purred like a cat that had just got the cream and then found it was on top of a tuna steak and that was nestling on a bed of mices cooked in catnip. Busi laughed. And at that instant he knew he'd ruin this broad before this day was done. He felt a jet of exploratory blood shoot into his resting yuletide log and his balls dropped an inch into their attack position. She'd keep.

After they unpacked and the kids had been locked up for the week Santa and his missus toke the Busi Boys on a tour of the facility. It was huge. Funded by a conglomerate of Halliburton, Mothercare, Poundland and a few other key military industrial corporations it pumped out dolls, guns and Simpsons merchandise at a rate of knots. All built by primordial dwarves and out of work Ewoks, Santa exclaimed as Mary Christmas darted Busi a look that would pull the skin back on a cock at twenty paces.

Regis was getting a bit antsy. He hadn't been able to clean his hands for the required four hours after meeting Santa and his cocktail of pills had been eaten by Donna or Blitzkrieg or wahtever the f**k those dopey c**ts were called. When he swung open the doors of the huge warehouse they all heard Santa's april squeak like a loose balloon flying across the room. The warehouse was packed with children of all colours, creeds, disabilities and nervous tics toiling away in the biggest sweatshop Busi had ever seen since he had "mistakenly" gone to GAY with Biggins and Cilla. "You nawty greedy cahnt" shouted Busi with the force of 12 angry men in a quandary as to what to buy in La Senza for Christmas. Black waisted no time in punching Santa in the mouth and blood streamed out his fat kisser into his white beard. Regis ran at him and pushed him into a big vat of boiling plastic which would later make a novelty socks for BHS. The big fat heap of dirt was toast. And now they ran the show. Black and Regis got the little ankle lickers back to work as Busi turned his attention and his cock towards Mary.

He wasted no time as he pulled the heavy garments from her back. She had tits like two Christmas puddings covered in cream and topped with a walnut effect whip. Her pussy hair was carved into the shape of a Christmas tree and her labs were wetter than a drowned canoeist in a pool in Panama. Busi rose to attention like a Daily Mail reader during the Queen's speech and his brass monkey hair dungs tore off his torso as violently as a misguided box stunt on a Noel Edmonds show. Krisstopher wanted to get his stuffing inside this tight bird and he didn't care about the giblets. She needed roasting.

He set about her and before long he was pushing her across the snow like Tanni Grey Thompson chasing a departing blue bus on black ice. "Santa's coming!" roared Busi as he got right amongst it and felt Mary gasp as their bodies smashed together like the inevitable Chritmas plane crash or earthquake. Within hours Busi was on his violent, vigorous vinegars and he let spray with such a gush of globe lube that when his grog froze he looked like black Ice Man. He looked at his giant sperm screaming in suspended animation like Hans Solo's spunk and gave them a cheeky w*nker sign. In the distance he heard an explosion from the huge sweatshop and a hot jet of fire rose into the clear black sky. Regis had f**king touched something.

Busi looked down on the slushy pile of matted blonde hairs, dead reindeer, a clunge that looked like turkey leftovers and a vicious looking brass monkey, slipped on his new red Santa dungs, bent down on his powerful Nubian knee, whispered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.

cheers for these spider. I printed some and sent them round the office today and they were a hit!

No problem, I have a few more that were'nt written by the original author, they aren't as funny.

I was considering sending a few to Sasha to see if she use any of the descriptions in her stories!!!