A comic sardonic adventure of man attempting to follow God's Law in defiance of his family's tradition of incest, upon which he makes a lasting judgment.
INCEST AT THE PRARIE DIVINITY SCHOOL --CONTINUING BUTTERWORTH SAGA
Dear Reader, This article is a tribute to the Butterworth family, famous in history, song, and legend. Why? Because, beloved readers, as you know from reading previous incestuous Butterworth stories, a Butterworth male is a unique species of humanity. Butterworth men have sperm that tastes like freshly churned butter. Women will testify that swallowing Butterworth's sperm is like a trip to the candy store or the dairy. This article is a remembrance by an American Butterworths, a practicing physician. This document was found sequestered in his bank vault after his demise at the age of seventy-eight. He passed on in the middle of a tryst with his surgical nurse and two of his patients. If the nurse had only scooped up a handful of his jizz and placed it in his mouth, the dear doctor would still be with us. On with our story.
In the year of our Lord, 1953, I was proud to be accepted for study at the Prairie Divinity School to become a minister. My name is Kenneth Butterworth Jr. I was the first Butterworth desirous of following the Lord as a lifelong occupation. I had just turned eighteen and had defied my private school friends by refraining from masturbation from the time my school chum Peter Cleeland demonstrated what dick stroking was all about. His high-flying demonstration forced me to wipe off my shirt and forehead and was rather disgusting.
There I stood, as pure as my face was white, except for a few zits, and my large dick was as straight as a unicorn horn, although it had some dark spots courtesy of my great grandad, the civil war black Union surgeon, Col. 'Ike' Johnson Butterworth. Details of 'Ike's accomplishments in the war fields and bedrooms of the conflict (1860-1865) will soon be published.
My Dad, Dr. Kenneth Butterworth Sr., was an active Gynecologist who worked at the University campus in our capital city. Dad said to me, in no uncertain terms,
"Why the fuck, you don't go to school here is beyond me. We have the finest pussy in the state, and I've seen most of them up close. If you went to med school, as I've tried to encourage you to do, you'd spend a lifetime wallowing in pussy, and believe me, some girls love to be wallowed. As for the ones who don't, best to leave them alone."
In unfounded charges, it was alleged that my Dad had broken more hymen than any GYN before him. Eventually, Dad was cleared of all charges and returned to his finger-prodding exams undisturbed.
Dad had taught me to bathe often, pray every night, and keep quiet about our family's proclivities. Dad taught us that incest is the bond that ties a family together.
Every night, I read my dog-eared bible carefully. I know what the Lord requires of us, but there are some sections of the holy book that need my further study. I knew the Lord was displeased by the act of masturbation, but God encouraged Onan to fuck his brother's wife. Kinda like what goes on in my family. I had spotted some negative comments on the Pharaohs marrying their sisters, but no problems seemed to develop in their offspring. I knew a stranger visited Sarah, and thereafter, she was pregnant. Was it a real angel or a horny homeless person? If it was an angel, how was he able to fit his expansive membership into the old lady?
Do angels have feathers covering their enormous genitals? I guess we will find out when we get to heaven. Were the burning bushes that Moses found in the desert, actually a reference to hotties? We know Esther performed a belly dance in a thong and saved the Jews. There was that other belly dancer, Salami, who cut off John the Baptist's testicles, leaving him un-nested. Lot sent his two daughters to be gang raped by a disorderly crowd in order to save their home, proof of the magical power of pussy.
.
I read how Jesus saved a prostitute from being stoned, and I interpret this as a sign the Lord is against drugs. I could go on and on, but the bus taking me to Prairie Divinity was getting closer, and the guy in the aisle seat next to me, who said his name was Orville Whooperfopper, had been playing grab ass with me for most of the trip.
Orville had a small tape recorder with an amazing rendition of 'Funiculi Funicula' performed by The Grateful Dead. Orville played the song for me when he accompanied me into the bathroom during a bus stop. At the conclusion of their performance, he suggested we embark on a performance that seemed un-Christian. What was that all about? He had a button on his red shirt that said, 'Blow Sinners.' The writing on his button was so tiny I had to squint, so I wasn't sure exactly who the sinner was, but I could plainly see his hand inching closer, intent on playing with my dick.
"I forgive you, brother," I shouted as the bus roared into the college's red dirt driveway. I pushed his hands off my fly, grabbed my suitcase and pocket bible, and ran to the head of the bus.
"Behind the line, you idiot," said the driver, "Stay seated until the bus stops."
I squatted in the aisle, and as the bus stopped, I got up from the floor, having finally arrived at my promised land, unlike the prophet Moses.
"God bless you, Driver," I yelled as I stepped into the soft, damp red clay.
"Go fuck yourself," said the driver, what a kidder he was.
Once I dismounted from the bus, I saw a grizzled older woman holding a large wooden sign,
'Divinity students line up here.'
Since I was the only one to arrive, I was at the head of the line.
"Hello, Ma'am."
"Hello, youngster. Are you here for the divinity school or on the wrong line?"
"Oh, I'm here to become a minister. "
"Okay, I gotta ask you three questions,"
"Okay, ma'am."
"Are you a virgin?"
"Yes, Ma'am, very much so."
"Do you accept Jesus as your rock and salvation?"
"Yes, Mam, I certainly do; he is my rock star. I'm not sure if he played the guitar?"
"Did you wack off last night?"
"No, Ma'am, I've never touched the naked buzzard except to aim pee in the pot; otherwise, you might slop up the wall."
"Okay, you pass; follow me."
She took me into the divinity office, where there was a clerk. He was an obese man whose desk had a placard, which I assumed was his name.
"Good morning, Mr. Calhoun."
"I'm not Calhoun."
"Well, your nameplate..."
"Sonny, don't believe everything you see."
"What do you want?"
"I want to serve the grand master on high and his sacred son, Jesus.
"Never mind that. You got your registration money?"
"Yes, here in an envelope pinned to my underwear."
"If that envelope touched your asshole or cock and balls, you might as well put it right in the trash can," and he kicked the metal can to show he meant business.
"It's okay; it's taped to my thigh."
"Hold on," said Calzone, or whatever his name was, and picked up the phone. I heard the person at the other end say,
"Massage Parlor."
"Is Miss Tiffany free at 3 o'clock?" said Calzone.
There was some mumbling, and he hung up the phone.
"Going for a massage?" I foolishly said.
"This is a private phone. Forget whatever you think you heard."
"My ears are pretty good. Didn't you say something about 'getting your rocks off?"
"Your ears are not very good. I called for my mosaic class and asked if the instructor, Roxie, was off."
"Oh, I'm sorry, I guess my ears ain't so good after all."
"Okay, Butterworth, fill out this paper and fork over the loot. We don't tolerate any deadbeats making late payments."
I rolled up my pants leg, pulled out the cash envelope, and forked it over. Calzone put the envelope in his pocket. I filled out the form as best I could and returned it. He took a long time reading it, then removed a pair of thick glasses from his jacket pocket and reexamined the form.
"It says here your father is a pussy doctor."
"He's a GYN."
"Same thing. Has he been charged as a molester?"
"No, sir, he's a good doctor."
"Okay, we'll take your word for it since your hearing ain't so good. Go upstairs to room 204 and see Dr. Peter, the Peter doctor. He'll check out your hearing loss and the length of your dick. Ha, ha, just kidding ya, not. Well, why are you standing there? GO!," and Calzone pointed at the stairs.
Since there was no elevator in the ancient building, I climbed the stairs to the second floor, where I found room 204. The nameplate on the door was covered with a piece of white surgical tape, scrawled upon it was 'Doc. Peter Cronkite, Osteopath.', The Doc was an elderly man, probably in his late seventies, which means he should have retired years ago. His gray hair was shoulder length, and his face was so creased he looked like a Greek fisherman. He finally noticed I was standing there when I started tapping my foot rhythmically to a tune I could not get out of my head, 'Funiculi Funicula.'
"Okay, boy, get your dick on the table. Afterward, you can join the choir."
I unzipped, approached the examining table, and laid my penis on the brown paper that looked like a shopping bag turned inside out.
"Doc, what's an osteo-pathetic doctor?"
"It's the one you're unlucky enough to find today," said Cronkite, and then looked down at my cock.
"Oh my God, your dick is circumcised, and it is enormous, and it's a golden yellow color. But I gotta tell ya, sonny, we don't want no Jews around here."
"I was born in an Army hospital, and that's how they do things."
"Well, it's actually disgusting; a gal likes to feel soft foreskin when she sucks dick, not a hard bone. And I gotta tell ya, a dick that color means you're gonna end up with dick cancer, as sure as you're a Jew.
"But I am a Christian."
Army brat, you say. "Let me check your balls."
"He reached out and sunk his fingernails deep into the tender skin of my testicles.
"Ouch!"
"Sensitive little fucker aren't you, to have such a big dick. But I gotta tell ya, Sonny, it's only a matter of time before you are going to get a hernia; it's only a matter of time." (He was right about that; I've had two of them)
"If you'd cut your nails, I wouldn't have yelled."
"Bullshit, you Jew interloper."
"But I'm not a Hebrew.
"Oh, okay, but don't let our preacher girls suck your cock. Once they've mouthed a heeb cock, they won't wanna suck on the rest of us. And suckin' on your yella dick might give em throat cancer."
"Turn around while I check your ass. Drop your drawers, Mr. Pathetic Butterworth."
"It's Kenneth, sir."
I had no sooner turned my back when a giant fingernail was shoved deep into my anus. That hurt like a motherfucker, forgive my French, but I kept quiet as he twisted his digit, causing considerable pain until he finally pulled it out.
The doctor carefully washed his hands.
"Shouldn't you have washed your hands first and worn gloves?" I said sheepishly.
"You little jerk off, are you telling me how to check for prostate cancer?"
"Well, is my prostate okay?"
"At the moment, it is, but by the time you graduate, it will have the initials of half your classmates carved in it. You better tell them to wash their dicks first and wear a glove before they fuck you in the ass, you pathetic punk."
"Thanks for the advice, Doc."
"Yeah, and just a hint, shave off that big bush you've been wearing since forever. If you expect one of these preacher guys or gals to blow you, you better clean up that hairy mess.
