By now, my mound of love pudding was slobbering like a George Foreman grill. The mixture of toilet twinkie and baby gravy in my marmite motorway created the delicious porthole pudding that he was so fond of. The slamming makes me spray my flange custard all over his eight inches of throbbing pink jesus. With my lunchmeat now much like a dropped burrito, he thought it was time to start plunging my marmite motorway. Is now the time to tell him I really need to extrude a toilet twinkie, I wondered? The seemingly never-ending streams of cock snot emanating from his bald-headed yogurt slinger soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio.