The deconstruction of Oedipus Complex, Universal Grammar and Sweetie Belle's underage pussy
Sigmund Freud, Jacques Derrida and Noam Chomsky gang rape Sweetie Belle
Sigmund Freud emptied a bag of cocaine onto the wooden table. Across the way from him, Jacques Derrida and Noam Chomsky were topless and busy sorting out their provisions. Chomsky had brought with him a crate of fine beers and Derrida had brought four bottles of really cheap, white cider from a local shop owned by a turban wearing Pakistani rag head who couldn’t count for shit.
Chomsky lit a big fat joint and sucked it half-way down without stopping. He puffed a huge cloud of smoke in Freud’s direction, then unzipped his trousers and pulled out his cock. He started to play with the flaccid little thing in his fingers.
“When is the whore getting here?” asked Derrida, opening a bottle of cheap shitty cider and pouring it into a glass. He eyed Chomsky’s flaccid penis carefully, not wanting to draw too much attention to it.
“She said eight-thirty, it is now eight-forty five,” Freud replied, cutting up the cocaine into lines for each of the three critical theorists. “I wonder if perhaps she is engaging in other carnal activities of a sexual nature with perhaps another group of people.”
“It’s always about sex with you, Freud,” Derrida sighed. “Whenever anyone is late for any fucking thing it’s always ‘carnal activities’ this and ‘Oedipus complex’ that. What if they just missed the fucking bus?”
“Because, the one thing that is at the core of everyone’s mind is sex,” Freud said as he snorted two lines of coke and kicked back like a mule. “OH THAT SHIT IS FUCKING OEDIPAL.”
“Bitch, I need some fucking coke,” Chomsky growled, grinding his joint down on the arm of the chair, “fucking hit me.”
Freud slid the coke over to Chomsky and the linguistics professor did three lines of the shit. By the time he had finished, he was dribbling like a baby.
“Oh fucking shit yeah,” Derrida said as he dropped a tab of acid and turned on some sick house beats. He started to see every colour of the rainbow raping his visual spectrum as the tunes blasted from their subwoofers all the way through the cramped little flat.
It was quarter past nine before their date arrived – Sweetie Belle – her name was. When Derrida answered the door, he got a shock to find that she was not a whore at all, but instead, was a small white pony, who came up to his knees.
“Hi!” she said cheerfully, “I’m Sweetie Belle!”
Holy shit, it could talk. Nothing in Derrida’s deconstruction theory said anything about talking horses. He would have to deconstruct his own theory and revise it, then write an ever more unreadable essay about it just to piss off the next generation of undergrads.
“Yo, Derry,” Chomsky hollered as he did a windmill with his dick to the sounds of Rick Astley, “is the whore here?”
Derrida stared at the little foal. “Can you give me just two seconds?”
“Sure!” Sweetie Belle said, “are you having a party in there?”
“Yeah,” Derrida replied, “something like that.” The theorist walked back inside and glared at Freud, who was busy cutting up more coke, “You ordered us a whore, right?”
“Yes, yes,” Freud said, snorting another line of powder, “I said, give me your best whores.”
“Well here’s a news flash for you, penis boy,” Derrida snarled, “they sent a fucking horse!”
“Curse my silly Austrian accent!” Freud screamed, completely aghast.
“What are we going to do with a two foot tall pony? A young one at that.”
“Well how young are we talking?” Chomksy wanted to know, switching from a windmill to a thrust when the song morphed into some crazy metal shit.
“I dunno,” Derrida said, “I’ll ask her.” The French philosopher returned to the door to find Sweetie Belle still standing there, waiting patiently. “Excuse me, miss. How old are you?”
“I’m old enough!” said the little pony, “how old are you?”
“Old enough,” Derrida replied, “to be your grandfather. What the hell is this shit? We ordered a hooker and they sent us a talking pony?”
Sweetie Belle looked confused, “I just came to sell cookies!” she presented the old man with a tray of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies.
Derrida became increasingly aroused when he saw the way the cookies were baked on the tray. He got so horny, he started thinking of ways he could deconstruct the tray and the pony. Then he decided he wanted to deconstruct the pony. Derrida grabbed Sweetie Belle and carried her back inside. He placed her on the table where Freud was doing cocaine.
“Holy shit,” said Chomsky, who stopped thrusting for a second to stare at the foal, “is that a pony?”
“It’s one of them little ponies,” Derrida said, “from pony land.”
“It is clearly an Oedipal fantasy constructed by a child who hungers for his father’s cock,” Freud said.
“That made no fucking sense, dude,” Chomsky said, “I thought Oedipus complex was when you want to fuck your own mother.”
“Yes, but you wish to do it with your father’s penis and obviously if you want your father’s penis you are gay,” Freud explained, “Every lesbian is in love with her father, every queer with his mother.”
“Well right now,” Derrida said, taking out his long French dick, “I’m in love with this little fucking pony, and I want to deconstruct her ass right here on this table.”
“Wait a second,” Sweetie Belle said, “what’s going on?”
“Shut up and have some coke,” Derrida said as he smeared cocaine all over Sweetie Belle’s nose and rammed a big fat joint into her mouth. He lubed up his penis with spit and slowly pushed it into Sweetie Belle’s cunt. It was dry at first because the foal was not aroused, but after some stimulation, her lips became wetter and her pussy parted fully to allow Derrida’s cock fully inside. Derrida thrust hard into Sweetie Belle’s pussy, drilling against her little foal body with his big French dick.
Freud did another line of coke and smoked two joints while flicking his eyes between Derrida fucking a pony and Chomsky dancing butt naked to Slipknot with his dick in his hands. Then he took down his trousers and pushed his penis into Sweetie Belle’s mouth. The foal gulped down Freud’s large phallus, the bulbous head of his dick touching the back of her throat. She gagged against the sheer size and hairiness of the psychiatrist’s big dick, and went weak at her little foal knees when he skull-fucked her little whore throat as hard as he could.
Derrida slapped the filly’s little ass, ramming his dick into her pussy as hard as he could. Then, when her juices were dripping onto the table, he slid his dick out of her pussy and into her ass.
“Oh no!” Sweetie Belle screamed through mouthfuls of cock, “not there!”
Derrida fucked her ass as hard as he could, his big French balls slamming against Sweetie Belle’s little foal thighs.
Chomsky swaggered over to them with his dick in his hand, a raging hard on threatening to pop at any moment. He slid underneath Sweetie Belle and forced his dick inside her little foal pussy, while Freud continued to fuck her mouth and Derrida pounded her asshole.
Sweetie Belle stood there, each of her entry holes filled with a big cock, thrusting hard against inside her. She came five times in the space of a minute as the three men continued to fuck her little foal body with every ounce of strength they had.
Then, Freud, in a cocaine filled rage, took a knife and started slitting his own cock, dribbling blood all over Sweetie Belle’s little face. He thrust his bleeding cock back into her mouth and fucked her again, her saliva mixing with his blood. He forced his balls into her mouth so that she had her lips around his balls, sucking his balls and tasting them. He dragged the knife across his chest, cutting deep slashes into himself and smearing blood all over his body. He then shat into his hand and smeared his own shit all over the wounds he had just inflicted on himself.
Derrida continued to fuck Sweetie Belle’s ass and he lit a joint and then smoked it hard. He stubbed the joint out on Sweetie Belle’s little foal rump and then smacked it repeatedly as she choked on Freud’s shit covered bloody cock.
Chomsky came. All over her. All over himself. All over everything. All over the room, the walls, Derrida, Freud. Everything. The entire room was soaked in Chomsky’s cum. He stood up and smeared it over himself. Then shit on the floor and started rolling around in it. He smeared his shit all over Sweetie Belle and then licked it off and then stabbed himself in the stomach and pulled out his own intestines and hung them around Sweetie Belle’s neck. He pulled against her neck as Derrida fucked her in the ass.
Derrida came, shooting his load through Sweetie Belle’s body and blasting it through her mouth. She spewed Derrida’s cum all over Freud’s cock and then spewed bile, shit and blood all over the carpet. Freud masturbated until he came all over the ceiling and then lay down, passed out from drugs.
Chomsky slit his own throat and then cut off his dick before he died.
Derrida brutally murdered Sweetie Belle with a hammer, crushing her skull to pieces. Then he fucked her corpse until her body became stiff.
He glanced around at the carnage.
“You the fucking man, Derrida. I deconstructed that fucking bitch.”
