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Message-ID: <50857asstr$1112343001@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Kenny Gamura" <turtlemeat69@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Girl Scout Bookies {Kenny N. Gamera} 
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Date: Fri,  1 Apr 2005 03:10:01 -0500
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                         Disclaimer

Sir or Madam or Crap for Brains, whichever applies in your
case. This post consists of this disclaimer and a sex story
which follows. You shouldn't read the sex story. Sex
stories are bad things that will rot your mind and corrupt
your soul (quit laughing; I'm being serious here). Sex is a
wonderful thing that is meant to be between two people in
love (no, this is not satire). Like eating, sleeping,
drinking, and other bodily functions short of taking a nice
dump, it has been perverted into some soulless activity
that more often destroys happiness than creates it (and
quit laughing, damn it!).

I own all rights to this disclaimer AND the story.
Especially, I own those rights that involve making any
income (ie. money, $$$, cash, dough, and even Canadian
quarters), not that anyone would want to buy the story).
Would you like it if someone stole the fruit of your labour
and charged people to buy it or forced them to look at
advertising or close annoying pop-ups to see it?  Of course
you would, provided they gave you a check, too.  So, read
it, but don't sell it or in any way, shape, or form
republish it until the check has been cashed and spent at
the strip club. By the way, I own it because I made it up,
the story and the characters and everything else hereafter.
Praise, hugs, and snuggle bunnies to suzeeq and illion for
reading the drafts of this story.

Thank You and Good Day,
Kenny N Gamera
turtlemeat69@hotmail.com

www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Gamera
www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Gamera/www
http://storiesonline.net


                        Girl Scout Bookies
                                by
                          Kenny N Gamera


Walking past the local used bookstore (yes, the one with
the fish), I noticed a troop of Girl Scouts had set up a
table, which they had filled with cookies.  Since the
events related in "Girl Scout Nookie Sale," I have been the
subject of abuse by the little hell spawn and have tried to
avoid them.

Yes, their cookies are great, especially the shortbread,
but you can only be told things like "You're so lame" or
"You're not like that nice Mr. McCoy" or "Even Mr. Ball and
Mr. Hoisington want to get a box" so many times before you
are driven battier than the Hall of Fame's attic.

Anyway, I started to cross the street, but they noticed me
before I had the nerve to throw myself between trucks.

"Mr. Gamera.  Mr. Gamera," called out all four of the very
cute (but not that way cute) girls, waving boxes of
shortbread cookies.

I decided to take my punishment like a man.  I walked over
to the table.  The four girls (who I won't describe for you
perverts, so there) all smiled at me.

"Yes?"

"Mr. Gamera.  We've been saving some boxes of cookies for
you."

"To hit me with?"

"No.  To sell to you.  You're one of our best customers."

I glared at them.

"We're not like those sluts in Troop 469.  We don't sell
anything but cookies."

Another added, "We think that they are being totally unfair
the way that they're letting everyone think you're a
meanie.  You've never been mean to us."

I slowly inched over.  The girls smiled charming little
smiles and held their hands behind their backs as they
swayed back and forth.  I moved within swatting distance.
None of the hidden hands shot forth to clout me.

"Cookies? To sell?"  I licked my lips as the words came
cautiously from my mouth.  I looked around to see if anyone
was watching.  "How many?"

The chief Girl Scout leaned forward and softly said,
"Thirty boxes of prime shortbread. Uncut."

"Show me."

She pulled a box from behind her back.  I took it and
looked at her.  She nodded.  I popped it open and took out
a sheath of the cookies.  Even through the cellophane, I
could smell the factory baked goodness.  I heard the carbs
and trans-fats calling me.

"How much?"

"Three dollars a box."

It was a fair price.  I did a mental calculation on the
number of boxes I could sneak into the apartment and hide,
versus the number I would be forced to admit to having
bought, and the number suzee would eat only to yell at me
about making it hard for her to lose the weight she wanted
to lose.  I found a number I liked, even if I didn't find a
sentence that Word's(c) grammar checker liked.  I nodded my
head.

"I'll take them all."

I handed the little dear a hundred-dollar bill.  She looked
at it.

"You know.  We aren't just handing out cookies here."  I
flinched.  "No, not that.  It's just that March isn't just
about cookies, you know."

She looked around and licked her lips.

"There's basketball.  You know.  College.  The
championships."

I nodded in understanding.

"You're selling brackets, eh."

She shushed me with a finger.

"Not so loud."  She wiggled her fingers to get me closer.
"We're doing Men's and Women's.  Five bucks a bracket."

I thought about it for a second.  I don't follow basketball
or any sport other than baseball or the occasional cricket
match. It was a good cause, and I always like to support
the local kids until they start insulting me.  Still,
gambling is almost as illegal as parking in a handicap spot
or driving seventy-one on the interstate.

A little one at the end saw my indecision

"We're using the money to go to camp this summer.  It'll be
my first time, and I'm looking forward to going.  I'll get
to do all kinds of things I haven't done before"

I looked into her big brown eyes set above a cute button
nose.  She used those eyes to implore me.  Inside, I
sighed.  She was the daughter I never had.  So, I decided
that I would let her wrap me around her finger.

"Okay."  The girls cheered.  "One of each."

The leader handed me two sheets that I absent-mindedly
filled out with a pencil I borrowed from them.  The leader
folded them in half and slipped them inside their cigar
box.  Then, she held out her hand for the pencil, which I
took from my pocket to return.

"Anyway, how much is the prize."

"Oh, the prize isn't money.  That would make it gambling."
The oldest girl smiled at me as the others tried to talk a
little old lady into buying Thin Mints(c).  "Our prize
committee has something special for the winners."

"Okay, let me know if I win."

"We will, Mr. Gamera.  I hope you win."

That was two weeks ago.

This morning, there was a knock on my door.  I picked up
the thesaurus.  The cats hid themselves.  I looked into the
peephole to see a small group of Girl Scouts.  I put down
the thesaurus and backed slowly away from the door.  They
knocked again.

"It's us, Mr. Gamera.  The Girl Scout prize committee.  We
won't hurt you.  Both your brackets won the contest."

Slowly, carefully, and with many more similar adverbs, I
undid the chain to the door and opened it.  Six cute Girl
Scouts in slightly longer than regulation uniforms bounced
into the room.  Again, they held their hands behind their
backs and began to sway.  In unison they chimed, "Hello,
Mr. Gamera."

"Hello, girls."  They had arranged themselves in between
the door and me.  "How are you all?"

"We're good Mr. Gamera," said a girl in the middle who was
both taller and older than the others.  She giggled  "Do
you know that you are the only one who picked Money Sucking
University to make the final four in either tournament."

I shook my head. She smiled a smile that I have seen on
sharks.

"You were.  And your generous support is letting us all go
to Camp Lotta Sticky Nookie this year, too.  So, we decided
that you would get a special prize."

I began to get nervous.

"Uh...  What's the prize?"

"The prize committee, of course."

"Erp!"

They began circling around me as they moved closer.  I
wondered if the cats had left room for me under the futon.

"I...  I...  I thought you girls weren't selling nookies?"

"Just because we're not sluts selling off our nookies
doesn't mean we can't raffle them away."

"I...  I...  Uh...  I...," I managed before slipping off
into my happy place.

A small part of my brain that was not off the hook heard
one of the girls say, "Oh, poo.  You made him crash,
Angie."

"How was I supposed to know his programming was by
Microsoft?"  She kicked my frozen body.  "I guess troop 469
is right, and he is lame."

Another one kicked my lifeless body, "Yeah, he ain't mean
but he sure is a wimp.  Do you guys want to sixty-nine
while we wait for him to get back on line?"

"Naw, let's just go.  The whitebread types just can't
handle hot-blooded babes like us."

When I came to, I found the door open.  Officer Sherry was
leaning against the doorframe.  Seeing that I was awake,
she shook her head and tisked at me.  After a moment of
that, she stood straight and picked up my thesaurus before
walking over to me.  She leafed through it, found a page
and slid her finger along the text.

Finding something, she looked up and said in a clear voice,
"You chowderhead."

She snapped the book closed.  Taking it in both hands, she
brought it down on my head, then dropped it on my foot.
With a militarily precise turn, Officer Sherry walked out
the door.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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