Build Date: Fri Apr 19 20:20:08 2024 UTC
Never trust a German to give you advice on what operating system you should use. Just remember what operating system they tried to get the world to use last time.
-- Flesh
On Your Knees, Martha
2002-11-07 15:18:54
If Martha Stewart ends up going to trial for insider trading, I'll have to have a crash transsexual operation and seek immediate employment with Bear Stearns. Since I'll be a seriously hot woman, the dicks at the firm will want me to start immediately. Who knows, maybe I'll even get down on my knees and suck a couple of sexual harassment settlements out of them before I finish my master plan. That is to commit gross insider trading or massive fraud so that I can be sent to Club Fed and have Martha as my prison bitch.
I think she'd be just adorable in that role. As my prison bitch, she can learn the appropriate level of pleasure necessary to take my mind off the incessant boredom that so pervades life in the clink. She can hoe my rows and plant pretty flowers there. I can fist her after lights out and show her the way to life as a less anal individual. She can carry my cigs and say, "Yes, boss," to all of my whims. I can teach her the error of her ways. It's a reformatory story made in heaven.
The trick of the whole thing will be to time the operation and job execution with Martha's trial and sentencing. The maven will never cop a plea, which means another one of those damn O.J. trials without the sex, drugs, and Kato. The most appealing and sexy thing about the trial will be either the choice of décor used to hide the hideous losses Martha caused other ImClone investors or her uber-WASP domme look while she sits next to her lawyer, feigning innocence and purity. Regardless, it will be abominably long and miserably histrionic event at some point (which will most likely be during Martha's testimony when she gets nailed by a government lawyer for lying). But that's okay. Every day and dollar she wastes on her own crucifixion gets my newly-installed pussy closer to healing and my newly-fluffed resume closer to being accepted by a major brokerage house.
I'll get some additional healing/fluffing time during Martha's appeal. The appeal is guaranteed because the housewife-cum-omnimedia maven ranks right up there with Bill Gates when it comes to losing anything. The appellate process will take about another year, at which point the appeals court will hand down the bad news: "Ms. Stewart, your cell is ready." I plan on making full use of this time to insinuate myself into the Corporate Retirement Group of the firm where I end up working. This will take two or three blowjobs and possibly a fuck or four spread out among the senior partners of that group. This may not get me anywhere at first, but when I eventually reveal that I'm 1) a lesbian and 2) a former MAN, and 3) fully planning on touting our sexual relationship to all of their golf buddies, I'm sure my promotion to President of C.R.G. will be guaranteed. If you doubt this, just remember how fast Bob Livingston vacated the House of Representatives when his dominatrix threatened to tell all.
Once I'm in control of the Corporate Retirement Group, I'll have access to billions and billions of dollars with which I can buy whatever stocks strike my fancy. Because the captains of those companies will want me to buy large chunks of their shares, they'll gladly wine, dine, and 69 me into those purchases. Men are notoriously loose-lipped just after they've cum, and I will exploit this to it's fullest by having them reveal to me just how good their companies really are. A shuffle here, a shuffle there, and WHAMMO, I've sold a hundred million in stocks and turned a very illegal profit for my clients! The only thing to do at that point will be to name names and genders. It'll be the most delicious scandal to ever hit the vapid, lackadaisical lives of those poor brokers.
By this time I will have garnered a lot of press and thus elevated myself to the celebrity plane that brings personal invitations to the Harvey Pitt Suite of the Justice Department. They'll have to make an example of me, but the whole transsexual thing will give them an incentive to keep my immoral and unethical twat off the cover of as many media outlets as possible. Therein lies my leverage for a deal: Send me to Club Martha. By then the dear maven should be getting her prison thighs under her (or someone else's around her). But look out, Martha. There's going to be a new bitch in town, and you will belong to me!
I've been so giddy lately with the anticipation of our little love nest on Cell Block D. It'll be the brightest, best-smelling and most aesthetically pleasing room in the whole wing. Coordinated colors sent in by Martha's legion of unshakably faithful devotees. Flowers. Throws. Pillows. Potpourri. My continuous orgasmic screams filling the air, Martha toiling endlessly to make our home a model example of the possibilities afoot in the American Penal System. At a federal prison, no less!
So, do you think that's the happy ending to my twisted little plot? That's because you're only seeing the obvious picture. Look a little deeper and you'll see Martha's full conversion to my under-heel slave. Since I will have tailored my crimes to fit her sentence, our release will be near-simultaneous. At that point I will graduate to the zenith of transsexual treachery-a house in Martha's Vineyard with a loaded blonde babe as my all-too-willing sugar mommy. It's the perfect win-win situation. I get her to give me head the whole time we're in the clink, and I get taken care of for the rest of my life. So what happens when Martha's wrinkled twat no longer does it for me? I'll do what any other nefarious American in my high heels would do: write a tell-all book and live off the interest. God Bless America, and our fine criminal justice system!
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