The beautiful lady with long blonde hair walked into the hotel with her luggage. She was on holiday in North Korea and everywhere she went people stared at her. For she was not only beautiful, but had three breasts. While this disgusted many women, it continued to arouse men: they would fall at her feet, believing that this beautiful creature with an odd-number of tits, would somehow bring a most envied status quo and great happiness and good fortune. It was not so. I should know , for I am her son. When I was born and literally faced with not two but seven breasts from which to suckle, I was overwhelmed, not to mention overfed. My mother was a anomaly budded from the vast form of grandmammy Moloch, the bitch with incalculable teats. Infinity cow. Mum's 7 milkers made me massive and strong, and I conquered lands from Grenada to Canada. I was the Thunder Calf. As Thunder Calf I had to accomplish 12 labors before I could enter the Pasture on Olympus. First, I locked horns with the Veal Industry. Mr. Veal was a nice enough man and was willing to help me get to Mt. Olympus faster. He knew the direct route. I felt so lucky! Mr. Beef was more challenging. The final countdown was playing on the TV in the cook's lounge when I passed through into the meat locker where I would be fighting Mr. Beef. I didn't know if I was Kirk Douglas or Martin Sheen. I also didn't know up from down or shit from Shinola. That's what made me such a great fighter. I just did what I was told. "Punch him, Beef!" they'd yell, and I did. But Ham was my sensei from a former life. We stared each other down, and then that subtle nod in five twelve time just slipped out. We gave them a bloody show, but I got back on the path.

 

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1 Woab's photo

What a meaty tale.

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