Triple D... After Dark

Image by Melissa Harris

Mike Burns is a Michigan made, Los Angeles based, writer and comedian. Follow him @pizzanachos69.

Hey, this is Guy Fieri and we’re rollin’ out, searching for America’s greatest, diners, drive-ins, and dives.

[SFX: The Triple D Theme Song]

This trip? Late-night grub spots, like in Bay City, Michigan, where they’re puttin’ a new twist on french toast made from scratch, in a joint that happens to be run by two wholesome librarian types, but have interestingly large breasts. We’ll also be checkin’ out another spot in Muncie, Indiana, where a lonely blonde woman, who may or may not be crazed with the thirst for man juice, is servin’ up sandwiches piled high with toppings you might not expect.

[Cut to a stupid-lookin’ woman eating a Reuben sandwich with whipped cream on it. “We eat here every Sunday. The Whipped Cream Reuben is to die for.”]

Or, another place in Chicago, Illinois, where the pancakes just keep comin’, and comin’, and comin’, with 37 different kinds. Also, the owner looks like she needs somethin’ thick and veiny shoved in every one of her holes.

It’s all right here. Right now. On Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives.

[SFX: The Triple D Theme Song]

[We see Guy Fieri cruising in his red Camaro at night with his sunglasses on. It’s not very safe and he hits a few parked cars.]

Now if you’ve been watchin’ Triple D, you know that I am a French toast maniac with a side of sausage. So when I heard that Sloppy’s Grill in Bay City, Michigan, was throwin’ down some of the most righteous french toast this side of the Mississippi, I just had to check it out. Plus, I needed a break from drivin’, due to a serious case of road boner. I swear, my meat wouldn’t quit spittin’ up clear bubbles of pre-cum with every bump in the road, and it’s tough as all hell to get a smooth stroke on my bold flavor flesh whip while I’m tryin’ to work the stick shift on the ’67 Camaro. So I thought it’d be best to pull into Sloppy’s for a couple nose-candy key bumps in their john before givin’ myself a quick tug job into the urinal. And after I worked up an appetite from shootin’ a thick and nasty white gob, THEN it’d be time to try their french toast.

Sloppy’s is owned by two nerdy-looking chicks, who could be hot with their glasses off, because we can see how thick and juicy their barely legal cans are due to their low cut waitress tops and skirts. Also, one of them bent over and I noticed she forgot to wear panties that day. When I saw her ripe girl peach, I could feel my man bacon get extra crispy. Also, I don’t know what either of the girls’ names are, because who cares. Let’s just call the blonde one Candy and the black one Rhonda.

What I do know is they’re doin’ everything from french toast topped with chili…

[Cut to some overweight guy who looks like he rolled up in a wheelbarrow, “I like the large portions.”]

To deep-fried burritos filled with cheesecake and pizza…

[Cut to some idiot college dipshit with his dirty baseball hat on backwards, “Sloppy’s is just the best. I always come here after a night of hangin’ out with my friends.”]

To their specialty: A whole in-house, slow-roasted Thanksgiving turkey, stuffed with french toast and syrup, that they’re callin’ “Turkey Toast.”

[We cut to a shot of a whole turkey being rubbed in their special mixture of secret spices. Candy is bent over, and we can see her wet cookie peak out of her shorts to say hello again. This catches Guy Fieri’s eye. He takes off his sunglasses, puts them on the back of his head, spits in his hand, and slowly shoves it down the front of his cargo shorts.]

First, the bird’s rubbed in their special mixture of secret spices, then it’s popped in the smoker overnight for an added layer of uuhhh, oh fuckin’ fuck, oh… oh shit.

[Guy spills a massive hot load of sex mayonnaise, and there’s no hiding it this time. His knees quiver and his eyes roll back in his head as his front tail pushes out two more bursts of white dick diarrhea. It’s completely understandable from the amount of sack sauce that pools into his flip-flops that he NEEDED that release like ham needs cheese and it could have been a life-or-death situation if his fat spikey blonde balls got any fuller.]

“What the fuck?!” said Candy.

"Yeah, what the fuck?!” said Rhonda.

Guy sucked in oxygen, savoring his release. “Sorry, ladies, but I been on the road all day with a throbber in my shorts, gurgling with gooey gack. When I saw Candy’s pink beef slit wink at me, I didn’t have any choice but to drain my boiled potatoes.”

“No!” Candy said, exhausted by Guy’s endless sexual euphemisms. “We meant, what the fuck, why’d you waste your hard cock and cum, you stupid fat fuck?! Why the fuck did you think I didn’t wear any underwear today? I showed you my pussy to let you know we were both down to have a threesome, not so you could just beat your dick off like a stupid retarded pig boy. Looks like Rhonda’s gonna have to teach you a lesson, you porky bitch.”

Rhonda removed her skirt to reveal a beautiful black transexual cock. Not too big, but definitely enough to do some damage on a middle aged man’s virgin asshole. Rhonda is the kind of girl-guy you watch in porn videos sometimes and lie to yourself about not being into because she just looks like a super hot chick that happens to have a dick. And who knows? You might be into that, so it wouldn’t hurt to stare at it while you angrily masturbate as “research for the erotic fiction you’re currently writing about Guy Fieri.”

Guy bit his lip at the sight of it. “I… I’m not into that homo shit.” he mumbled as he shifted his line of sight to the floor, nervously moving his toes around in the semen slowly thickening in his flops.

Guy’s crotch told another story as his dong woke from its brief slumber, obviously enticed by Rhonda’s smooth, dark, erection. It was the first one he’d seen in person since football camp in the tenth grade when Coach Tittleman joined the team in the showers. He thought about that day a lot. More than he’d like to admit.

Candy walked over and unbuttoned Guy’s cargo shorts, pulling them to the ground along with his novelty Tabasco boxers, and began slowly stroking his reddish tan shaft. Guy’s cock was as thick as you might expect. Thicker even. Not long, but thick as a can of creamed corn to be sure.

“Now,” Candy whispered as she slowly pushed him to his knees, “you’re gonna get down on your hands and knees like a good little pig boy, aren’t you? AREN’T YOU!?” She screamed as she slapped his ruddy face.

“Yes ma’am,” Guy said. He smiled awkwardly as a solitary tear dripped down his cheek. There was a universe of relief in that tear. Fieri slipped a thumb into his mouth and started sucking on it with the innocence of anyone about to have their “first time.”

Seconds felt like hours as Rhonda doused Guy’s bleach blonde anus with olive oil, then slowly inserted herself past the point of no return. Guy squealed a piggy squeal and was quickly told to shut up by Candy as she ground a heel into the back of one of his hands.

As Rhonda’s piston-like thrusts taught Guy Fieri the ultimate lesson in the pleasure of pain, he had a moment of clarity: “What the fuck am I doing with my life? I’m a fucking clown. Everyone knows it. I fucking hate myself. “

Rhonda’s hips started to buck, and Guy knew what was next. “Take me to Flavortown,” he moaned as he swung around, mouth open like a begger, and starved to taste his own ass mixed with Rhonda’s hog juice.

After Guy Fieri drained every last drop with his lips, Candy took him in her arms on the floor and held him as he wept. Running her hands through his hair she said, everything’s is gonna be all right. You’re Mama’s little pig boy now, and slowly guided him down to suckle on her comforting bosom. Guy drifted off to sleep. And for once in since Guy couldn’t remember, he didn’t wish he were dead.

[SFX: The Triple D Theme Song]

–THE END–

Mike Burns is the creator of @DadBoner Power Moves, Livin' The American Dream USA Style comes out July 9th and is available for pre-sale from Harper Collins' It! Books at www.karlwelzein.com.

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