2010 had arrived. This had pleased Busi enormoulsly considering some of the down-low **** Blackie and Johnno had gotten him into over 2009. Thankfully for the gang, Madaline Mccann still hadnt been found, Duane Ladejo had agreed not to press charges and Josef Fritzel had taken the fall for Regis’ groundbreaking reality porno idea, infact, Fritzel’s loyalty to the project had been nothing short of commendable, so much so, that Rog had already pulled a few strings to ‘get his back’ covered in the Austrian slammer. However, Busi knew the **** might yet hit the fan if Fritzels shag piece slut of a daughter ever released a diary- and that was one thing even Blackie and a bent Portuguese cop wouldn’t be able to paper over. Yes, it’s true to say 2010 brought with it, its fair share of issues.
But Busi couldn’t let inconsequential issues like rape, incest, paedophillia and snuff erotica get in the way of his life. He had commitments. Greggs was expanding quicker than Cambodian childs mouth at a Gary Glitter penis pinyata party, JJB’s stock was rising higher than Hannah Montana- but this time, and thankfully for K-Bizzle, these openings were legal. And finally global conglomerates were clambering for 1 minute 47 seconds of Busi’s time when it came to his motivational speeches (well, not including the W.I of course who had to concede their ideologies on wet clunge simply didn’t concurr.)
So Mr Kristopher Awusu Abeey- Uchukuwu Akabusi had plenty to keep him busy prior to the phone ringing from his glorious Penge Townhouse.
‘Busi!’, a voice he recognised cried. ‘It’s me- Michael Johnson’.
Now don’t get me wrong, Busi had never really liked quickblack****, which him and his Olympic relay team of 1982, 1986, 1990 and 1994 had affectionately called him, but the dust had settled since Busi ‘busied’ Johnson’s fiancé at the alter of his wedding day, and they had become reasonably close in recent years. ‘We need you to join us here at the BBC, there’s an opening……..’ ‘I am not ****ing Claire Balding again’, Busi mused ‘whether shes got the rhythm is a dancer or not- I do enough charity work already- and throat cancer isn’t even a real cancer’. ‘No, No Kris. It’s nothing like that, we need your expertise in the commentary box, do you want the job or not?’
As it transpired, Colin Jackson had finally contracted AIDS and as a result would not be able to fufil his commitments track side. Busi accepted the offer, and ran straight for his Olympic Dungs and his Cica Blades-admittedly, they had selotape all over them. Them ****ing discs were well ****.
Blackie was well excited for Busi as he drove him down to crystal palace for the golden league meet. Infact, it really wasn’t putting him out at all. Blackie had earlier been given an assignment which was an ideal opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. Busi didn’t ask any questions, Blackies business was his business. But, both Busi and Blackie knew, come 9pm, Dwain Chambers would not be finishing the 100 metres final…..with a splein. Regis was in the back of the Corsa. Standard. He didn’t say much these days, not because he had become a great philosopher or anything. He had taken the failure of ‘Basement Cum Shots’ very personally. And so he should, Busi considered- the tax benefits of investing in the British Film Industry had proven scant consolation for the whole sorry affair.
Busi arrived at the track, there they were, all his old mates. Well not Crammy and Ovette of course. Those gayz did the long distance commentary. Only Ethiopians gave a **** about that ****. But nonetheless, it was good to be back thought Busi. It was also worth noting that Tanny Grey- ****** wasn’t around tonight either. This wasn’t some ******** special night where everyone is a winner- this was a night for real athletes. Rumour had it she was noshing off Pistorius anyway these days. It took kangaroo legs a while to realize he was different- and not in a good way- so it wasn’t a surprise for Busi to hear the news- he knew all along Tanny was a nasty little slut, he always told Rog and Regis that Pistorius’ boat accident was no accident. ‘from Duane Ladejo to a paraplegic’, Busi chuckled to himself.
Busi was giving a fine performance track side using all his skills acquired through the years. A precise 1 minute 47 seconds motivational speech to a **** young Brit from Somerset that had finished last, Awoooga’s and random fist pumps to get the crowd going, he even gave Sue Barker a cheeky finger during an ad break. But then he saw something which threatened to destroy everything in his wake- yes, that included the clunge of the women in question…………Ferne Cotton.
Cotton was doing a mile for sport relief that very night. Busi had always fancied a go on the notoriously **** shy Cotton ever since he had patted her number one gal pal Hollie Willougby on the fanny. It was unfortunate for Busi that her one stipulation had been for Phillip Schofield to be allowed to watch and knock one out. But he was a right dirty little **** and everyone knew it. But Busi fancied his chances- he was a cotton picker after all.
Busi could feel a twitch, sorry, tremor in his dungs. His purple headed womb ferret was getting more anxious than John Venables at a high school reunion. As Cotton crossed the line. What a doo gooding ****, Busi mused, but regardless, she had to be punished, and Busi was equppied with just the sort of pump action yoghurt thrower to get the job done. ‘Sport Relief’, Busi questioned…….more like Busi relief he thought to himself.
Busi strided over to cotton. Everyone in the crowd arrrgggggghed as they saw Busi’s navy chocolate warrior growl from side to side. Even with only a little bit of wind in the businator, the crowd appreciated the respectable 14inches on show…….a track record at Crystal Palace.
‘weeeeeeecccccorrrrrddddd bwakeeeeeerrrrrrs alriiiiiiiiiiiiiighhhhhhhhh awoooooooooooooooga’, Busi said to Cotton. Cotton was immeadiately intrigued. Maybe it was because she thought it was Jayz, maybe it was because she was looking into the eyes of a glorious Black *******, but either way, Busi Knew it was Business time. Busi grabbed the petite Cotton and headed straight for the sand pit.
Busi bent Cotton over and lowered his pre-cum drenched dungs. He lowered Cotton’s lycra panties from her tight little *** and could see her glistening little snatch gleaming like a paedophile on facebook. He ripped of her top to reveal a pair of pert bristols so epic, that they should consider going freelance. Within moments, Busi was on his violent, vivacious, vulgar, vinegars. Plunging his manbeast in and out with more criminal intent than Charles Bronson on acid, Phillips Idowu looked on stunned as he could see Cottons juices being sprayed all over his triple jump runway. Busi hadn’t been on his violent vinegars since his Mongolian cluster **** the previous day, so it wasn’t surprising that within 45,985:054seconds (Johnno had calculated it), he was ready to unleash a creamy eruption so large it would make the Haitians count their blessings. And less hot and sticky blessings. Busi roared so loud as he blew his beans, Rog needn’t have used his silencer to clip Chambers. As the crowd sat fixated on Busi, a textbook kill ensued for roger. Once again, Busi had really done him a good turn and rog, not overawed by a challenging kill, was thankful for an easy days pay.
Busi began a ceremonius lap of honour around the stadium to see fans cheering their hero, the cum hungry Sue Barker licking the offcuts of busi’s violent salt and vinegars off a disused javelin, the poetic bludgeoned mess that was a dead Dwain Chambers inches short of the finish line and the cum heavy mess of Ferne Cotton sprawled over the sand pit that was rapidly turning into quick sand.
Busi hitched up his dungs, whispered awooga in Cotton’s ear and patted her on the fanny.
