Circe's Funhouse, submitted by Bobbo. In ancient times, Circe was the sorceress who changed Odysseus' men into swine. Then Odysseus porked her, if you know what I mean I mean they had sex. Odysseus, that sly dog. Oh, come on, people, it was in The Odyssey. Read your Homer. Anyway, it seems that the lovely Circe is alive and well in modern times, and just having a ball not appearing on this crappy website. She's mentioned approximately eleventy billion times, but she never actually appears in any of the art by Comus, the site's owner. This phenomenon is due to Comus' complete inability to drawn women. Frankly, he can't draw men, either, but they are still featured in abundance. The basic premise behind the site is that Circe opened a funhouse (hence Circe's Funhouse, get it?), which is divided into different pavillions. Each pavillion has a written description ranging from disturbing and short to very disturbing and long, and at least one series of crude sketches depicting fat, ugly men eating something and then changing into fat, ugly animals. It's just what the internet needs - an exhilarating combination of furries and eating stuff. In all fairness, some of the drawings show men using certain products and changing into fat, ugly animals, touching certain objects and changing into fat, ugly animals, and, of course, being sexed up by animals and changing into fat, ugly animals.
Meet and Greet Those Flashy, Flirty, Femme Fatale Fillies!" reads the sign over the entrance to one of the Funhouse's most popular pavilions; "Continuous Floor Show - No Waiting!" Inside, amidst the earthy, pungent atmosphere familiar to anyone who has spent time among horses, you find yourself standing against a wrought-iron fence overlooking a small, circular dirt-covered arena illuminated from directly above by some unseen light source. A red velvet curtain parts at the far end, and a sextet of Palomino beauties step haughtily into view, their hooves thudding softly upon the ground, their blonde tails swishing back and forth enticingly across curvaceous, almost-human golden derrieres. From somewhere far away, trumpets are sounding a stately yet strangely enchanting fanfare and march…
Your attention captured, you press yourself against the bars of the fence as the beauties slowly strut around the very perimeter of the ring, so close that as each one passes, you can feel their bodies sweep across the fabric of your garments. As they pass by, each beauty manages to ever-so-casually toss her tail up (rewarding your rapt eyes with a glimpse of a rhythmically jiggling posterior), then, as gently as someone might caress a lover, under and across your face. Their tails are soft, silky and flowing, leaving you awash and intoxicated by their equine scent. They regard you with knowing eyes and make but the slightest of snuffling sounds - to which you find yourself responding in kind.
As one, the sextet comes to a halt and turn their heads towards the curtain. After the briefest of pauses it opens again, revealing the regalest of mares: a filly, snow-white from head to tail - except for the flesh-pink muzzle at the end of her graceful face. The beauties stand silently as she slowly, gracefully enters the arena. Her tail does not lie flat against her rear, but arches up and away before cascading down in a waterfall of pure white strands that flourish from side to side as she nears. She crosses two-thirds of the way across the arena towards you before turning back as if to leave. You let out an involuntary whinny of disappointment, at the sound of which she stops and looks over her shoulder back at you. With the slightest hint of a seductive human smile on her lips, she slowly winks the eye studying you as her tail lifts up to reveal her dreamy hindquarters, then drops and swishes from side to side to side...
You have never wanted anything as much as you desire her at this moment. Your mind is empty of any thought save your passion for this female, and your frustration at the iron fence that blocks your way. Suddenly, the fence you are pressing so intently against swings open, allowing you to enter the arena. You step in unsteadily, with a tottering, tip-toe sensation, dimly aware of your precarious sense of balance now that you are no longer leaning against anything... of the clopping sound your feet seem to be making... of how small and constricting your clothes suddenly feel. You do not notice that beauties have long since departed, leaving you and the snow-white filly alone. You are about to become The Sexy Stable's starring attraction…
I should mention that the words in the picture are not difficult to read because of the size of the image - it's just a terrible site. Perhaps thankfully, the funhouse's server is down often. Visit the funhouse if you dare, but be warned: you won't leave the same. Specifically, you'll be in desperate need of psychological help.
This libtard terminator keeps asking for guns that don't exist and I may have to close early out of frustration.
Editor's Note: Due to a freak power outage, this obituary of Barbara Bush was written without the benefit of research. In order to pay our respects to this great woman in a timely fashion, we have decided to post this piece as-is. We hope you forgive any errors on our part.
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