Entertaining as always Artboy, kudos. ;o)

http://razmography.blogspot.com/

The door crashed open and sudden sunlight flooded into the darkened barn to illuminate a lurid tableau – the muscular, dusky form of Barry Mandingo locked in sweating, thrusting, heaving, grunting and some other words ending in “ing” carnal union with the somewhat paler form of Miss Lullabelle, the mismatched couple sprawled across the hay, lost in the heat of carnal abandon.

“Mandingo! Oh Mandingo! Race pollute me! Pollute me now!” moaned the pallid aristocrat. “Hey – who’s that? Who opened the door?

“Lullabelle! Whatshisface! Why, what in the name of Nathan Bedford Forrest is a going on here?!” demanded a furious Massa Harry.

“What does it look like, you cuckolded chump?” sneered a shameless Lullabelle. “Ah’m having a ride on mah pet slave’s Nigerian Love Wand – and Ah was quite enjoyin’ it until y’all showed up”.

“Love wand? Ride on? Enjoying it? Why, you…” snarled the enraged overseer.

“I admit this looks bad” stammered Mandingo, unlocking Lullabelle’s ankles from around his juglike ears. “But let’s not, er, jump to any premature conclusions. I can, um, explain – you see, what really happened is… ”

The nervous Negro’s eyes flew anxiously toward the bullwhip curled in Harry’s furious fingers and even more anxiously to the Colt’s Model 1844 revolver stuffed in his waistband.

“Quit staring at my waistband! What are you – gay or something?” snapped Harry. “And climb off of my wife, goddammit!”

“Yassuh, Massa” agreed Mandingo, hastily unplugging himself from Lullabelle. “Yassuh! Reckon I’ll just be hikin’ up mah trousers and be a-gittin’ back ta dem ole molasses fields double quick time. Sho nuff Ah will!”

“Not so fast, you Nubian Rubirosa!” roared Harry. “Nobody rogers my wife senseless and then just walks away from it”.

“Nubian Whatawhatta?” queried Mandingo.

“Porfirio Rubirosa (1909-1965), the late Santo Domingo born international playboy and superstud” Harry informed the bemused slave. “Supposedly he had a wang as long as your arm or an arm as long as your wang or something like that. Anyway, that’s not important now. Let’s get back to me threatenin’ you with pain – sharp, searing, medieval type pain”.

Uh oh, thought Mandingo. Vivid images of hot pokers, branding irons and nooses being flung over tree branches flashed through his mind. Uh oh.

“Harry…Ah’ve nevah seen you lahk this” swooned Lullabelle, her breasts (for yes, there were two of them) heaving in agitation. “So powahful, so commanding…so manly”.

“Shut up, you common nightwalker! You get back on up to the Big House and iron my shirt – I’ll deal with you later”.

“Ah’ll pencil you in” cooed Lullabelle. “Honeypie…”

Miss Lullabelle gathered up her skirts and bustled out on her tiny little feet.

“Bye, baby” mumbled Mandingo. “Don’t forget to call me, okay?” but she was gone and didn’t look back.

“Well, well, well…now I’ve got you all to myself” snarled Harry, rolling up the billowing sleeves of those weird puffy shirts they wore in those days and giving the bullwhip a preliminary little crack. “All to myself…”

Uh oh thought Mandingo, not for the first time.

“Now look…Barry – do you mind if I call you ‘Barry’?” said Massa Harry, drawing nearer to the alarmed African. “I’m not an unreasonable man. Let’s talk this thing over” he suggested, placing a somewhat more than friendly arm around Mandingo’s brawny black shoulder. “I can understand how this could happen; you’re a good looking guy. I bet you work out a lot, huh?”

“Um, thanks. I like to keep in shape” mumbled Mandingo.

“Oh it shows!” enthused Harry, giving Mandingo’s bicep a tentative little squeeze. “Believe me. Anyway, after what I saw earlier – you and your, um, Nigerian Love Wand – I think you and I could be good friends – real good friends. Real…close. Would you like that…Barry?”

“I, uh, guess so”.

“That’s great! Say, do you know what they like to do in Turkish prisons? No? Then this will be a new experience for you…”

Uh oh, thought Mandingo, his eyes goggling out of his head. Uh oh and uh oh again.

I’d planned to end it here but if public demand warrants I’ll see if I can dredge up another instalment…

“Maybe it was her penis, maybe it was something else”, priceless!

“And y’all kin sleep ovah theah” directed Miss Lullabelle. “No, not theah –that’s the dog’s bed. Over theah on the floah”.

Mandingo’s eyes bugged out in wonder at the luxury of his new surroundings. “A most attractive domicile” he said. “Who is your designer?”

“An’ couldn’t y’all trah ta tahlk a little moah…ethnic?” suggested Lullabelle. “It makes y’all sound so…othah…so…foahbidden. It’s kinda a…a turn on”.

“Oh yassum, Missy!” enthused Mandingo, getting the point right away and shucking and jiving across the marble floor. “Sho nuff! Yassum! Please doan frow me in dat dar briar match! Ole man ribber… dat ole man ribber… Camptown ladies sing dis song doo dar doo dar – so, how am Ah doin’, Missy?”

“Not bad” mused Lullabelle, biting her lower lip and playing idly with a ringlet of golden hair. “Not bad at all…”
**
Young Massa Harry lay in the darkness and stared up at the ceiling. The humid night air filled the bedroom with its sticky sultriness or its sultry stickiness – either way it was hot and he couldn’t sleep.

On the other side of the enormous four poster bed with its ornate headboard of amorous cherubs carved in precious Bongo wood, Lullabelle snored away.

Harry glanced over at his new bride and ground his teeth in frustration.

Every night he was busy, trying to begat an heir on her, while she seemed to take no notice of him at all. She could at least lie there quietly instead of flicking through back issues of National Geographic and Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper and asking when he’d be finished even as the ardent Harry, mad with lust, thrashed frantically between her indifferent thighs.

Lullabelle was different to other women – maybe it was her penis, maybe it was something else but Harry had never felt such a raging desire with other women as he did with her.

True, he still dallied on occasion with his harem of slave women – Petunia, Malaria, Emphysema and Michelle, with her sculpted arms, but it was the golden Lullabelle he truly desired. And he would have her! She would swoon in his arms and surrender to desire! He swore it! And if that could not be – well, Harry had some ideas about that…

Beside her tormented husband strange dreams filled Lullabelle’s sleeping mind: dreams of obelisks and towering redwood trees, flowers gently opening, trains racing into tunnels, fireworks exploding and fountains flowing copiously –what could it all mean?

She dreamt darker dreams too: dreams of the slaves in rebellion: the plantation burning, her husband Harry killed before her eyes – and then killed some more before she was seized by the jeering blackamoors and, despite her feeble struggles, cruelly forced to…forced to – no, it was too terrible – forced to… watch them all move in next door.

Nooooo! Her mind cried out in anguish and yet there was another part, a small secret part of her that whispered…yes!
**

Mandingo adapted quickly to his new duties; wearing shoes and clean clothes as though he’d been born into them (which is a pretty disgusting image, actually) and growing even bigger and stronger on the table scraps he wrestled away each night from Ole Rex, the hound dog.

Lullabelle was more than pleased with her new pet.

She dressed up Mandingo in a new outfit each day; outfits purchased during protracted expeditions to the Foah Corners Mall, where Mandingo would totter along behind her, weighted down with an ever increasing burden of shopping bags and packages.

She showed him off to her friends at every tea party, soirée and cotillion going; leading him around on his rhinestone studded collar and leash while the belles murmured in amazed awe at the muscled up yet domesticated Negro and tittered behind their fans.

She taught him to read and write simple words and phrases: “Subject to all valid easements, rights of way, covenants, conditions, reservations and restrictions of record, if any. To have and to hold the same, together with all the buildings, improvements and appurtenances belonging thereto, if any, to the Mortgagee and Mortgagee’s heirs, successors and assigns forever. Mortgagor covenants with Mortgagee that: Mortgagor will promptly pay the above indebtedness when due; 2. Mortgagor will promptly pay and discharge all real estate taxes, assessments and charges assessed upon the property when due, and in default thereof, Mortgagee may pay the same and such amounts will also be secured by this Mortgage; 3. Mortgagor will keep the buildings and improvements on the property, if any, insured against loss by fire and other casualty in the name of Mortgagee in such an amount and with such company as shall be acceptable to Mortgagee, and in default thereof, Mortgagee may effect such insurance and such amounts will also be secured by this Mortgage…” he would read haltingly and Lullabelle would clap her tiny hands in girlish delight.

“Verah good, Mandingo! Verah good – we shall make an assistant law professor of you yet!”

“With all dispatch indeed Miss, I mean Yassum!” agreed the beaming Mandingo.

And as their familiarity grew with each steamy, sultry pasing day Lullabelle became more aware of Mandingo’s muscular blackness and the strange new stirring in her pantaloons.

“Git on outta theah!” she would yelp. “Shoo!” and the curious possum would slide down her leg and scuttle away hurriedly.

“Eep eep!” it would go.

Meanwhile, Mandingo could not keep his fevered mind away from thoughts of Miss Lullabelle; forbidden thoughts that could only lead him to the Castration Shed and the auction block but which he could not drive away, anymore than he could drive away the urgent stirring in his trousers – and which wasn’t no possum this time…no suh!

I can’t believer this but the YouTube has closed. Once when I posted the extremist protests by American anti-Jew Muslims the same thing happened, after I posted the link. It was when that Odin believing wicken was saying how great the guran and Sharia were. Scary. Here’s the transpript. Think conservatives are owed alot of news time to be fair.

SYKES: ….– she hasn’t been anywhere. She was like, “I can see Russia from my backyard.” What — what — what — while you were delivering letters to Santa Claus at the North Pole? … you know, how can she be, you know, president or maybe vice president or maybe president with five kids. That is sexist. You would never ask a man that…visions that she’s going to be, you know, some mom and also VP, .. She will pay somebody to take care of those damn kids. She ain’t — .. I hope she never sees those kids when she’s in office…. Out of their damn minds. … — there’s nothing there.

The psychotic nature of Liberalism is enough to make one crazy themselves – as in ‘how can anyone over the age of 5 believe that stuff’ – but more it belies that their whole ‘core’ of values is as much a lie as the stuff they spew.

What gets me is how anyone can still vote for them – as Liberals not only ‘favor’ their ‘cronies’ and ‘special interests’ and of course feather their own nests while exacting financial retribution on all others but are the prime reason that the ‘anyone’ is still struggling and/or kept in the abject life that they lead.

Liberalism is indeed a mental illness – and it sucks to have the inmates running the greatest country in the World into the gutter, the poorhouse and the ground.

Under a blazing, burning sun of brazen gold the young slave Barry Mandingo toiled in the steaming molasses fields of the Falconhurst plantation.

Ankle deep in vast acres the sticky liquid, his broad, muscular, swarthy, muscular back scarred by the overseer’s whip and his brow gleaming with sweat, he listened to the low, soft crooning of the other slaves as they too labored away their miserable lives of bondage and humiliation:

“When Ah gets dat feelin’ Ah needs sexual healin” they crooned. “Make me feel so fahn…”

Is that all anyone ever thinks about around here? wondered Barry Mandingo. Sheesh. Maybe I can raise the tone…he cleared his throat (ahem ahem), pulled out his little pitch pipe, blew a note, and began to sing a song that came from the very depths of his ardent soul, a song capturing all the pain and anguish of his suffering people:

“Her name was Lola, she was a showgirl
With yellow feathers in her hair and a dress cut down to there
She would merengue and do the cha-cha
And while she tried to be a star, Tony always tended bar
Across a crowded floor, they worked from 8 till 4
They were young and they had each other
Who could ask… for… more?
At the Copa, Copacabana
The hottest spot north of Havana
At the Copa, Copacabana
Music and passion were always the fashion…”

The other slaves dropped their molasses buckets, which plopped heavily one by one into the ooze. They stared at Barry Mandingo with open mouths and wide, astonished eyes. Then slowly, one by one, they too joined in his song of joy:

“At the Copa , Copacabana
The hottest spot north of Havana
At the Copa, Copacabana
Music and passion were always the fashion
At the Copa….they fell in loooove…”

“Now take it home!” cried Mandingo. “Big finish! One and two and…”

“Hey boy!” snarled a harsh voice. “Leave off with that! Who do you think you are –Stephen Foster?”

It was Harry, the Young Massa, mounted on his white stallion and holding a bullwhip. “Get back to work! That molasses won’t harvest itself!”

“Sorry, Massa Harry” mumbled the slaves. “Yassuh, Massa Harry. We’s a-workin’, we’s a-workin’…”

“And you there, boy” threatened Harry. “I guess I need to whup some of that sass out of your black hide!” He raised his bullwhip high as the proud Mandingo stood before him with bowed head, awaiting yet another whuppin’, I mean whipping.

“Harry! Stop that at once!” cried a shrill voice. “Put away that bull’s pizzle!”

Mandingo lifted up his eyes and the breath caught in his swarthy throat. It was Miss Lullabelle – and man, had she grown up!

He noted her yellow hair, her yellow teeth, her two heaving breasts-one even bigger than the other – her two blue eyes, her pouting red lips- not to mention that white, white skin – and Mandingo felt a sudden stirring in his trousers.

“Get out of there, stupid possum” he muttered at the curious marsupial that had climbed up his pants leg. “Go on, shoo!”

Meanwhile, a furious Lullabelle glared angrily at her abashed husband.

“But Hillary, I mean Lullabelle…” he whined. “I was only going to whup, I mean whip, him a little bit”.

“You ain’t whuppin’ nobody, Harry Reid!” snapped his furious young wife. “That n****r’s special! That n*****r belongs to me!”

“What’s a ‘n****r’?” wondered Harry. “Is it like being a ‘h****ie’?”

“The exact opposite, you moron! Anyway, Ah’m takin’ this boy and Ah’m makin’ him mah special pet. What’s yoah name, boy?”

“Barry” mumbled the confused slave. “Barry Manilow – I mean Mandingo”.

“Ah prefer the name ’Kunta Kinte’ but Ah guess Barry will do” said Miss Lullabelle. “Come along now, Barry – you kin carry mah parasol”.

She marched away toward the Big House on her delicate little white feet and Mandingo followed obediently, not failing to enjoy the view from behind and unable to believe his luck, while Harry sat on his high horse, his pale features contorted with anger. That uppity n*****r or h***ie or whatever he was, he’d pay for this…

Tune in for more “MONDO MANDINGO” tomorrow!

Prehaps the 1st Amendment will now be safe.

However, I must admit to stumbling a bit over the adjective-enhanced Miss Lullabelle part. I just can’t picture Shrillary as “slim waisted” or “nubile” but the “ripe” adjective brought me back to reality. She’s “ripe” alright, much like a three day old bovine carcass in the Arizona sun. ;o)