Joe The Plumber had been working for a long time. The house had two kitchens and seven bathrooms, and all of them were in bad shape. Every last sink had needed to be fixed, and all the showers had these really strange hair clogs in them. They were all white and snowy, real fluffy like a cat's fur, and they looked like they'd been stuck together with glue. Joe had never seen hair clogs like these. They were unnatural.

It may have seemed like days, but Joe had arrived at the McCain household only hours ago, thinking this would be a run of the mill job, in and out in an hour and half. Then he got there, and the size of the place just about knocked him over. The old guy who owned the joint opened the door wearing a bathrobe and silk boxers, and he looked real upset, like something bad had just happened to him. Any good plumber will tell you that the best idea is to keep to yourself when you run into a guy like that, but the old man would not stop talking. He made Joe sit down and have three cups of coffee. He didn't say anything, but kept mumbling about how sorry he was, how there was so much work to do.

Joe said "Look, I got six others places I gotta go today. I'd love to sit around and chat, but—"

"Cancel them," said the old man. "I have some very special jobs for you. Th—they'll take all day. But it'll be worth your while, my friend. Much more than you'd make otherwise."

The old man named a figure, and he was right. It was more than Joe would make in a month, normally: just over 21 thousand dollars. That is, how much he should make, if the damn government didn't come in and steal most of it. No matter what, this was an offer he'd be crazy to refuse. After a while McCain got up and led Joe into the first bathroom. It was a little dirty, some mold in the grout and some hairs on the sink. Joe saw worse every day, but the old man would not shut up about it.

"Sorry about the mess," said McCain. "So sorry. It's sickening. Very dirty. There are so many bathrooms in my many houses that there's no way to keep up cleaning. E-especially when I'm on the campaign trail." He smiled when he said that looked shyly towards his own feet, hoping Joe would acknowledge him.

"Yeah, said Joe. "I thought you looked familiar. Right now, though, I mostly want to get to work. I'm a hard working professional, you know. A real straight-shooter" The old man seemed happy, validated. "Man," thought Joe. "That guy must really be going through something rough."

That was hours ago.

Now he was in the third bathroom. This was fourth sink he'd put in and the third shower he'd had to fix. The last sink he put in was really weird. Joe'd never seen anything like it. The old man wanted it right next to the toilet, about knee-height. When he finally got it hooked up it kept shooting water straight up in an arch, like a drinking fountain. There didn't seem to be any way to adjust it, and Joe didn't really care.

The clogs kept coming, one after another, sometimes four or five of them in the same drain. It was almost like the old man had put them there on purpose. Then again, how could he have? He was bald, just like the American eagle. And this hair was so thick, so fluffy. A-and that was really weird, but Joe kinda liked the way it smelled, kinda salty and fresh, like the air around the ocean. It was a sick thing to think, he knew, but he was kinda interested in how it might taste, how it would feel if the old man's thick, fuzzy hair was pressed against his gums, brushing against his teeth, tickling his tongue.

McCain knocked twice at the bathroom door, sheepishly, with an unnatural hesitation between the first and second stroke.

"Yeah," said Joe. McCain could come in if he wanted to it. It was his house.

"Sorry… I—I didn't know if you had the door closed because you were, umm, using the, uhh—"

"Naw, I close it because I usually make some noise. Don't want to disturb anybody, you know."

"Oh! Oh my—there's—" The old man laughed. It was scratchy and inhaled, like a cartoon witch. "There's no need to worry about me."

Joe took a good look at him. His shirt was unbuttoned and his chest was covered in that white, fluffy hair. He couldn't stop looking at it, the way it swirled around and got matted. He wanted to pet it, run his fingers through it to feel how soft it was.

"Are you having trouble with the hair clogs?"

"Yeah, they're really thick."

"Made them myself," said McCain. Then he smiled. His whole face shifted up two inches and he looked ashamed of himself in some unavoidable way, like the way a well-groomed dog looks when it's taking a poo poo. Joe looked away, looked back down at the chest hair that swirled like snow on top of a mountain.

McCain walked up to Joe and took the clog right out of his hand—he'd forgotten that he was even holding it. He was a short little guy, and he had to strain really hard to hold the clog up towards Joe's head—didn't make it all the way, though, so Joe bent down a little so that he'd be able to take it.

"The thing about these," McCain was smiling. Joe kept changing his focus from the clog to the chest hair, clog to chest hair, partially because he didn't want to see the old man smiling and partially because he just could not get his mind off that hair. "T-the thing about these, my friend, is that they take effort. Determination. Don't happen by accident."

He stood up on his toes, using the extra couple of inches to clumsily rub the clog against Joe's lips, against his teeth like snow. Joe stuck out the tip of his tongue and suck the clog into his mouth, giving the old man's thick, boney fingers a quick lick. McCain did his laugh again, inhaled, full of the kind of mature pleasure that only men know and only men can provide. Joe wanted to spit the clog out, but he couldn't, his mouth wouldn't let him. It tasted so good. It felt so bad.

"I see you got some pipe to lay down there, my friend."

"Wh—no, I'm just fixing your sinks…" Joe looked up and saw where McCain's face was pointing. Then he looked down and realized that his dick was practically sticking out of his pants.

"It's alright," McCain said. "I understand." He moved his little arms down Joe's chest, over the front of his jeans where a little dark spot of fluid had soaked through near the tip of his dick. He tickled it, through Joe's pants, grabbed lightly onto the pee hole and rolled the side between his thumb and forefinger. Joe couldn't believe what was happening. He didn't have to; he was getting paid for this job, after all, and he'd never turn down a job. And, god, McCain's hand felt so good on his piss hole. He hand't even moved down the shaft and already Joe felt like he was already going to cum.

McCain used his free hand to unbutton the rest of shirt, revealing a nest of thick, snowy hair that stretched from his thighs to just below his neck. Joe could not stop staring. His dick was the size of his arm and his knees felt like pudding. Little traces of the normal, middle-class plumber he was just a few minutes ago kept biting at him, asking him "why don't you stop this? Why don't we leave?" In response, Joe realized with a muted indifference that we was staring at the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. In the white recesses of the old man's body hair there lay wisdom and experience, the soft, cold, ancient beauty of a dead celestial object. It was completely and overpoweringly strong, like gravity. He could no more disengage his dick from McCain's hand than he could pull the moon down out of the sky.

Thankfully, he didn't need to. McCain let go and took a few paces forward, towards the knee-high sink Joe had just installed.

"This looks wonderful," he said, slipping off his pants.

Naked, the old man crouched over the sink, his front side facing Joe and revealing the biggest, hardest dick that the plumber had ever seen. Even in movies, even in dirty cartoons, they didn't make dicks so hard, so purple, so vieny. McCain didn't even have to point—Joe fell to his knees and tried jamming it all the way down his throat. Water splashed all around, like they were standing next to a lake, and McCain made his scratchy, inhaled laugh.

There was nothing else like it. Joe had no control and loved having no control, loved not knowing what would happen to him five seconds from now. McCain could drown him, if he liked. But he wouldn't. He was safe so long as the old man's dick was down his throat, deep down, tickling.

"More teeth, my friend. Oh god, more teeth."

Joe couldn't believe that there was a technique to this, that women actually put work into it. He was too overcome by the sensations—he wanted to jam McCain's dick so far down his throat that it would touch his own dick, he wanted McCain to slap him and jam that dick so far down his throat it would never come out. Then the dick got harder and shivered and McCain growled, bubbly and from his throat. And thick jet of cum rushed over Joe's tongue and into his stomach.

McCain quickly the dismounted the sink and got behind Joe. Joe still wanted to be controlled, still wanted the hairy old man to dominate him. McCain shoved Joe's face down to the sink flecked with water, dead skin, and poop, and shot the stream of water in his face. Joe couldn't breath. He couldn't see. But he could feel the old man's gummy mouth on his dick, slurping madly. It was so intense that it only last a few seconds before Joe and cum and McCain and once again made his scratchy, chesty laugh.

Dazed, Joe put his clothes back on while McCain sat naked, smiling his lipless scarecrow smile.

"How much I owe you?" McCain asked, finally, after Joe had gotten his shoes.

"I—I really don't know. I'm not sure about anything anymore."

McCain produced a check, from where Joe couldn't tell, and shoved it forcefully into the plumber's pocket.

"Tell me something, Joe."

"Yeah…"

"You might be undecided about your sexuality right now, but who do you think you're going to vote for?"

"I—really, that's like the farthest thing from my mind."

"Is it—well how would you like it if I took 15% of this check from you right now and made you go work for guys who weren't going to fetch you?"

"No! Please don't! I'd much rather let an old man fetch me up the ass than have to pay taxes!"

McCain smiled and said "Welcome to the Republican Party."

tfl;dfr

"No! Please don't! I'd much rather let an old man unicorn me up the ass than have to pay taxes!"

McCain smiled and said "Welcome to the Republican Party."

tl;dr version

I had to skip a major portion of it due to gag reflex issues, those issues being "I possess a gag reflex".

But the moral is WINNER

+1CP

Obama and McCain are virtually the same.

Obama and McCain are virtually the same.

One is black

Obama and McCain are virtually the same.

Except one is the anti-christ and the other is white

one is a muslim

one is going to be president and the other will die as the first and only black presidential candidate CAUTION THIS POST HAS RAZOR SHARP EDGES

Both will die on the same day. One will be assassinated, the other will die of a heart attack.

war hero, etc.

Both will die on the same day. One will be assassinated, the other will die of a heart attack.

I always figured McCain would die of a heart attack the day he goes into office from all that excitement lol.

Quote from: Cum Burping Gutter Slut on 23-10-2008, 00:30:38 AM

Both will die on the same day. One will be assassinated, the other will die of a heart attack.

I always figured McCain would die of a heart attack the day he goes into office from all that excitement lol.

Lol i know... he is very old man.
americans have to know they are voting not simply the usa president, they are voting the powerful man in the world

I am the powerful man in the world, and nobody voted me in.