The true story of Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf revealed at last by the editor of the original manuscript. Mother Goose never wrote the story the way you know it. She was one wild goose, and the original manuscript, complete with her own naughty drawings, proves it.
See Sample Below:
Red Riding Hood
The Big Bad Wolf
New Writer Press Canada.
Copyrighted © 2003
by John E. Topham/New Writer Press.
All Rights Reserved.
Over the years a story has been told about Red Riding Hood and a wolf so bold. A story of Little Red and the big bad wolf, written by a goose, no less, (like any goose could write a half decent story?) who also claimed to be a mother. Anyone who knew the thieving feather-rumpler would know that it just ain’t so!
Now, I won’t deny that ol’ Mother Goose did try her hand at writing, but to say she sucked (which she may very well have, because any goose that downright ugly would have to get on her knees on a regular basis if she had any hopes of attracting the ganders), would be an understatement.
Miss Goose (and it was Miss back then, not this Ms. crap that’s politically correct and all that other mumbo-jumbo; like any of us are into politics anyway) may very well have had a talent when she was on her knees – which I doubt very much with the big, floppy bill she had on her; which also explains why us ganders aren’t into pecker-pecking, as we call getting your pecker pecked by a goose’s bill – but sure as shooting (and I heard there were a number of publishers that wanted to do some shooting when they read her first manuscript) that bird-brained goose never wrote anything worth reading. I know that for a fact, because I was an editor for a top publisher at the time.
I couldn’t state it as fact at the time, but the scuttlebutt going around the publishing house was that Miss Goose, (Miss Greta Margeta Goosesofsson if you want her full name) had managed to somehow attract the attention of the publisher, Melvin Ganderstein, who foolishly promised, undoubtedly while he had Greta bent over his desk, to publish her first book. The promise, he later told me, was made without his ever having read a single word of her manuscript.
OK! so we’ve all been there, and we can all understand the thinking of some ball and chained gander who gets it maybe once or twice a
year from his old lady. A chance to get a little on the side looks awfully tempting (and Mel admitted it was just plain awful after I beat it out of him –Greta couldn’t hump worth camels; a saying we ganders use to basically mean a goose ranks up there for title of Worst Fuck ever), and Mel being sex starved and all (aren’t we all) certainly explains why he seized the opportunity to give Greta a ride – carpe humpiem (seize the hump) – but to agree to publish her manuscript sight unseen, in exchange for a little tail feather, was without a doubt totally and inexcusably un-be-fucking-lievable!
The worst part was not that Ganderstein initially refused to admit he slammed it to probably the ugliest goose in all of Goosedom, (which he never did fess up to), but the sonnuvabitch expected me to bail him out. The bastard (yes, he was, because his mother and father never committed to mating for life; his father had commitment issues that saw him in therapy for years) assigned me to work with Greta and produce a manuscript that was worthy of print.
I mean, hey! Ok! I’m good, but there are limits. Sure, I may have managed to turn Fiona Fowl’s manuscript, Flapping In The Breeze into the bestseller, Gone With The Wind, but at least I had something to work with. The crap Miss Greta Margeta Goose offered me was titled, Robert Goose And The Little Corn Kernel. And get this, the main character of her story was the frickin’ corn kernel! Who the fuck could relate to a frickin’ corn kernel? And what was with a goose named Robert?
When I actually read the manuscript the Robert Goose name finally made sense. Robert was a goose alright, but one of those types. She was a die-in-the-wool, bull-goose, strap-on wearing dyke. A real rarity in the goose world.
Don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of limp-wingers in the publishing racket. Hell! half the frickin’ writers that submitted to the houses back then were limp-wingers, with their writing agenda firmly fixed on promoting their limp-winged lifestyles. That was why most of them never got a read and ended up going to Goosywood to become famous actors that remained in the closet for years (actually in cages in closets) until it became vogue to come out and admit they were queerer than a horse riding a cowboy (which I hear is not that queer anymore thanks to the stuff you can find surfing the adult side of the internet).
The thing is, though, that as common as it was for limp-wingers back then, it was totally uncommon and almost unheard of to come across a bull-dyke goosbo. I mean, what goose in her right mind would want a bill peckin’ away at her down there? That’s why us ganders had sense enough not to try any of the oral sex on the ladies.
Sure, you might slide in your bill, when she was in season, if you had a little pecker and a nice big bill, but that was just to make the goose think you were really hung. There was a lot of that going on years back after the big oil tanker mishap.
A whole flock of ganders landed in the stuff and came out black and toxic. But the stuff made them randy and swollen up down there. Next thing we knew they were getting all the good looking birds and telling them, “Once you try black you never go back.” So, ya, a lot of the guys had to use the bill trick just to compete.
Whether it worked on not I can’t tell you because I never needed to do it myself. I was and am, to put it factually, hung like a horse. That’s why the fellas gave me the nickname Rotisserie. Whenever I had a nice goose on my pole, it looked like I was doing her rotisserie style. I could’ve put six or seven on my pole shish kabob style and still had room for a few veggies. But I digress. I was telling you about goosbos and why they are so rare in my world.
It goes back to that bill pecking I was telling you about. What’s a goosbo got to offer? Either her bill, which the ladies are all onto now thanks to those black ganders that took all the photos and placed them on the web (a spider web, that is) for all the ladies to see. So the goosbos can’t use that trick. They have to resort to the old strap-on technique.
Strap-ons aren’t something you can just pick up in a corn field, by the way – mind you, a few are made out of corn cobs (they say they’re ribbed for her pleasure, but the few ladies that have tried them tell me they aren’t very pleasurable – unlike my gigantic pole). That leaves the bull-dykes forced to make their own strap-ons. The biggest trick being to find some string.
Even when they find some string, there’s still the problem of attaching it to a pecker wannabe and then tying the whole thing on so it stays in place. (In case you haven’t realized it yet, wings are not the best things to have if you want to tie knots. It takes a helluva lot of practice and work.) If you want to know the truth, there’s not a goose out there willing to go to all that trouble just for a little sex. Hell! it’s hard enough just trying to get ‘em to wear hose and garters and sexy bras so they look sexy and get your pecker standing tall, never mind trying to tie a string around some stick to act as a dick.
The long and short of it (depending upon the size of the stick the goosbo uses) is that it’s just too much work, and most of the tails would rather settle for the real thing without the splinters. And no, those sticks are not barked for her pleasure. Dr. Gilbert Gander, the local OBGYN back then, could have told you some feather-raising stories about strap-on medical emergencies.
The very reason that story about Robert Goose and the Corn Kernel, written by Miss Greta Margeta Goose, was not even worthy of consideration, never mind rewrite after rewrite after rewrite. I told the bird that in no uncertain terms, telling her to peddle her alterative lifestyle stories elsewhere. If she wanted me to help her edit a manuscript worth printing, then she had better come up with another storyline. Melvin Ganderstein be damned!
A lot of bravado on my part, but as is the case in most real world corporate scenarios, I was in no position to give ultimatums. Mel made it pretty clear that either I help Miss Goose come up with a worthy manuscript, or I’d find myself pounding the corn field looking for a new job. I had to swallow my pride in order to remain gainfully employed. That let me with trying to find something for Miss Goose to write about.
We spent hours and days and weeks and months together discussing possibilities with no success. She was opposed to everything I suggested. Greta kept insisting that the only way to make any work sellable was to lavish it with sex and more sex. A typical new writer trap. They all think sex is the only way to sell a book and get people to read it.
That just ain’t so, because you never know when you’re going to cross the line and offend people. Today that is hardly the case, because you can see human females sharing lip gloss in beer commercials by laying a kiss on one another that just comes short of steam coming out of their ears. Nobody says a word about shit like that today. You can get away with anything now.
Mind you, have some female musician show a bit of tit during the Super Bowl halftime show, and all hell breaks loose. Then again, that was one ugly boob and better kept covered up. Some human females should be covered in feathers. I’m talkin’ offense here. Offensively ugly!
You wanna let that hot blonde on NYPD Blues, the one that’s supposed to now be married to Sipowhataluckyfucker, take away her hands in that scene where Theo walks in on her when she’s buff in the bathroom, and ya, it’s cool! I mean, it’s real cool! (Send me the edited cuts on that one, will ya Steve? Yowza! Super Bowl that babe anytime! Get her on all fours in the tub and I’ll give her the old shish kabob ride.).
What? You got a problem with that? Who you kiddin’? It’s okay for two babes to be exchangin’ lip gloss with a lip lock just to sell you some beer, and you got a problem with me doing some hot blonde? Yo! Where your head at brutha? Get real! You think the kink ain’t bin goin’ on for years. Better think again!
What the hell do you think Red and the Big Bad was originally all about? It sure wasn’t the nice little story I created with a lot of heavy editing. Even with all the editing I did, a total rework of the story, Greta insisted a lot of unnecessary violence be added. It ended up in the published book. A book she stole from me and claimed as her own. That Swedish bimbo –did I mention she was Swedish ? – changed her name to Mother Goose, and went on to rip-off a lot of other editors.
Trust me, Miss Greta Margeta Goosesofsson wrote nothing like the finished version you all know of Red Riding Hood. See for yourself.
The original manuscript, titled Red Riding Hood And The BIG Bad Wolf, by Ms. Goosesofsson, is finally being revealed at last.
Original creator of Little Red Riding Hood.
See Sample Below:
Red Riding Hood
The BIG Bad Wolf
(Rod Ritt Huv und da STOR Dalig Varg)
Greta Margeta Goosesofsson
(One Mother of a Goose)
Once upon a time there was a young woman by the name of Wilhelmina Johansson. She was the daughter of a Sven, a Swedish woodsman, and Beata, a former Swedish milkmaid (before she married Sven) who had dreamed of leaving Sweden and going to the United States of America. Young Wilhelmina’s parents had heard that in America the streets were lined with gold and the forests filled with tall, broad trees that almost touched the clouds.
For Beata, the thought of anything big and long, that would almost reach the clouds, made her undies extremely wet, and she would have to put her hand under her skirts and play with her fitta (cunt) until she shook all over and moaned out “Ja! Ja! U, Ja!” (Yes! Yes! O, Yes!).
Beata Johansson was a real nymphomaniac. That was the reason Sven Johansson had married her in the first place, because he liked to knull (fuck) a lot. Beata liked to ride Sven’s stor kuk (big cock) all the time, which he just loved shoving in her whenever he could before they were married.
When Beata was not riding his big, hard, huge, thick, wonderful kuk, before they were married, she used to milk cows on several farms near her home, where she lived with her aunt. Beata liked to milk cows because she said their little teats reminded her of little kuks. Beata loved to handle anything that resembled a kuk.
That was why her garden was planted with zucchinis, cucumbers, carrots, and onions. She added the onions to her garden, even though they did not look like kuks, because she said they reminded her of big ballar (balls). That was the one thing she always said was missing on a cow’s teats – big ballar. If cows only had ballar hanging above their little teats, she claimed, instead of an utter, she would have been content to milk cows for the rest of her life. She liked ballar with her kuks. That was why she liked Sven – he had a stor kuk with stor ballar (big balls).
Beata liked to squeeze stor ballar. Sometimes she liked to spank stor ballar, which Sven loved because he was just as kik (kinky) as Beata. He liked to let Beata tie him to the bed with his legs spread and his ballar tied with string.
(This is the way Sven first saw Beata when she was excited from milking the cows on a farm nearby. He also took advantage of her most convenient position and she fell in love with his stor kuk. It was a lot more fun for Beata to play with his kuk than a cow’s teat).
Beata would put on her hose and garter, and a special garment she called a titsinhauler, which she put her barm (breasts) in to haul them up. The titsinhauler had no real cups, only half cups, and wire under them to push up her barm so her spene (nipples) stuck out hard and pink.
Beata had really stor barm (big tits) like very big cantaloupes that were nice and firm and stood out proudly; with the nipples hard and pointing up so they jutted right through her blouse whenever she wore one.
When Beata had Sven tied to the bed and his ballar tied so they looked nice and plump, she never wore a blouse. Sven liked to see her bare barm in that titsinhauler with her hard nipples pointing up so nice that they could balance a riding crop on them. A riding crop that Beata used to gently slap Sven’s tied up stor ballar. He would moan and tell her it was so bra (good). His stor kuk would get even storer and storer, and Beata would ride it until she screamed out, “Ja! Ja! U, Ja! You stor knull (big fucking) tied up ballar Swedish ktjockskalle!” (dickhead). She did not think much of him, thought he was a stupid woodsman with no chance of advancement or ever making any good money, but he had one great stor kuk that she just loved riding.
Beata Johansson like to scream out silly things when she was riding Sven’s very stor kuk. Sven never minded because he always said it made him get bigger and harder until he exploded. Sven would be just about to explode, from Beata riding his big, huge, powerful, hard, wonderful kuk – that made Beata scream, “Ja! Ja! U, Ja! Du (You) stor knullin Swedish hump knull kuk slamming in me and fill me up and shoot it out on my face!” – and she would push him away and make him explode all over the bed or floor or wherever they were at the time; not on her face.
Beata had heard that was the way to make sure she did not get a fat belly. She liked riding Sven’s big, huge, powerful, hard, wonderful kuk – that made Beata scream, “Ja! Ja! U, Ja! Du stor knullin Swedish hump knull kuk slamming in me and fill me up and shoot it out on my face!” – so much that she did not want to get a fat belly so she could not ride his big, huge, powerful, hard, wonderful kuk. She believed if Sven exploded on her face or in her mouth, she would get a fat belly.
Beata also liked to call Sven her Humpminfitta (Humpmycunt), because she was such a nymphomaniac that she always wanted him humping her fitta. He would no more than just walk into their modest little house, they had built for themselves in the forest after they were married, than Beata would scream out, “Humpminfitta!”, tearing off her clothes and opening her legs wide and pointing at her fitta crying out for him to “Sugar min barm! Knipa min spene! Ata min fitta!” (Suck my tits! Pinch my nipples! Eat my cunt [or pussy]).
Sven would rush in and do just that, and she would scream out, “Ja! Ja! U, Ja! Hump min fitta, you stor knullin Swedish hump knull kuk slamming fill me up and shoot it out all over me my Humpminfitta, tjockskalle!” Beata really liked to knull. “Jag lik hos diar ouch knull!” (I like to suck and fuck!) she would say constantly. And she wanted to, constantly.
For the first year Beata and Sven Johansson were married – and living in their modest house they built in the forest were Sven worked as a woodsman where he would never amount to anything or make any real money – Sven liked the fact that his nymphomaniac wife was always wanting him to knull the snot out of her whenever he was home.
It is something all men want, and most men would be very happy with a wife who put on a push-up titsinhauler and hose and garter and sexy high-heeled shoes and wanted them to knull them good three times a day. But Beata was not a woman who would be satisfied with just 3 or 4 knulls a day. Beata was a nymphomaniac with legs that opened wide at just the thought of a stor lang kuk (big, long cock) – which is all she ever thought about.
Beata would be at home doing the dishes, and she would be all wet in the fitta, and wanting to get knulled good by a nice stor kuk, because that was all she could think about. She could be sound asleep, and still that was all she thought about. Beata was a real nymphomaniac that soon proved to be more than Sven could handle. When she started going out in the woods to find him, the second he got out the door to go to work, and knull the snot out of him again and again and again and again and again, until Sven was too weak to even lift his axe and make any money, it got too much for Sven.
“Al skar du mig inte?” (Don’t you love me?) she would cry whenever Sven told her he was not going to have samlag (sex) with her. The question always bothering Sven, because even though he was constantly tired and his stor ballar were now liten ballar (little balls) and his kuk was worn out, he did love her very much (and she was a great knull if she did not want it constantly – only 4 or 5 times a day instead).
Poor Sven was at a lose as to what he could do. Then one day he heard some of the other woodsmen talking about how their wives never gave them enough samlag, and how they wished they could find a bordell (brothel) somewhere ...
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