Bonus Googizzle.net Post: A Productizzle Lesson

9:40am, English Coridoor

My fuckin slave sits next ta me, bustin strange noises as I write - tryin ta avoid tha pencil sharpenings strewn across tha table. There be a funky-ass bright yellow threadz peg attached ta tha back of mah headscarf, fo' what tha fuck reason biatch? I aint sure. Da word “porn” breaks tha fuck into mah writin bubble but I dismiss it wit a quick disapprovin look ta mah slave.
“Now, should I draw her up in underwear or...” I sigh. I pause ta say shit bout tha sketchy lines on Skunk’s paper, formin tha framework fo' another mildly suggestizzle manga panel yo. Her work has been gettin mo' betta n' mo' betta since I first saw dat shit. Or maybe I’m just payin mo' attention.
Sub-Zero’s tha only one on our  l-shaped table who’s muthafuckin bustin any work - I’m not even shizzle what tha fuck we’re supposed ta be bustin. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Skunk starts up a monotone hum, which shakes as it endz before bein reborn as another hum up in a higher note. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch seems ta be plannin ta do dis fo' as long as dat thugged-out biiiatch can. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. It be formin a tune. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch is engrossed up in it, her pencil still fo' realz. And then she’s writing, finally startin on her work. I decizzle ta do tha same.

Needless ta say, I fail. Da buggin outom is too much. There is seven minutez of tha lesson left n' I can peep dat tha heat, along wit tha proximitizzle of a notebook n' pen will incapacitate mah concentration enough dat I will git no work done. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Skunk throws a piece of paper down on tha table, bustin tha aforementioned sharpenings flyin up in mah direction. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I take a funky-ass break ta brush dem off tha surface area of tha table reserved fo' mah elbow.
Sub-Zero looks over n' snaps: “Skunk, what tha fuck is you drawing?!” It’s another sketchy design - guidelines fo' a ore screw panel of manga.
“It’s not what tha fuck it looks like!” protests Skunk. I peep Sub-Zero’s doubtful grill n' know our crazy asses is both thankin tha same stupid-ass thang.
“It’s probably worse.” her big-ass booty says.

Introducing the Brotherhood of the Innuendo

Lunchtime, Gym

         I am sitting in the gym, half on the browny orange floorboards and half on the green tarp that’s supposed to separate us from them. Skunk and Lisbeth, who have been wrestling for the best part of the last ten minutes spring up, having been told by a dinner lady in a red jacket, rather irritatedly, that they were in danger of knocking down one of the many stacks of green plastic chairs which line the back wall of the gymnasium. For a moment I imagine them toppling over, sending the next tower falling, and the next and the next... Like some strange furniture domino line. But they stay standing. Another dinner lady begins wheeling them out, soon joined by more Ladies in Red.

         I am hit in her left shoulder by a stray ball of tinfoil that has been being thrown around the small knot of people in the corner since about the same time as the wrestling started. This seems to happen a lot. A conversation has started up,our combined dirty minds and expressive eyebrows supply endless filthy jokes and innuendos. There is a small lull in the conversation.

“Well, we’re a cheery bunch.” observes Lisbeth. Buttons says something I don’t quite catch and they laugh again. Lisbeth moves next to Skunk and proceeds to put the shoes which she has been carrying in her hands back on her feet. She is still holding the piece of paper I ripped from this notebook a few weeks ago and gave to her mere minutes previously.

          And then we’re in the canteen, and Lisbeth is ripping off tiny flakes of the sheet and eating them. Buttons comes back from the queue, sitting down on my left before changing her mind and placing her tray (on which there is a plate of pasta among other, non-paper, edible things) on my right side, opposite Lisbeth, who is still slowly making her way through the paper. When I show them the pages I have written, Lisbeth says, with a hint of awe in her voice, “Your life seems so much funnier when you read it back”

“S’why I do it” I smile.