Her name was Russell.
Well, faster than you can say, "shallow grave", this pretty little thing come up to me and starts kneading my balls like hard-boiled eggs in a tube sock. She said her name was Bambi and I said, "Well that's a coincidence darling, because I was just thinking about skinning you like a deer." Well she smiled, had about as much teeth as a Jack-O-Lantern. And I went on to tell her how I would wear her face like a mask as I do my little kooky dance. And then she told me to shush. I guess she could sense my desperation. Course, it's hard to hide a hard-on when you're dressed like Minnie Pearl.
So, Bambi's going on about how she can make all my fantasies come true. So I says, "Even this one I have where Jesus Christ is jackhammering Mickey Mouse in the doo-doo hole with a lawn dart as Garth Brooks gives birth to something resembling a cheddar cheese log with almonds on Santa Claus's tummy-tum?" Well, ten beers, twenty minutes and thirty dollars later I'm parking the beef bus in tuna town if you know what I mean. I got to nail her back at her trailer. Heh, that rhymes. I have to admit it was even more of a turn-on when I found out she was doing me to buy baby formula.
A day or so had passed when I popped the clutch, gave the tranny a spin, and slid on into the Stinky Pinky Gulp N Guzzle Big Rig Snooze-A-Stop. There I was browsing through the latest issue of "Throb", when I saw Bambi staring at me from the back of a milk carton. Well, my heart just dropped. So, I decided to do what any good Christian would. You can not imagine how difficult it is to hold a half gallon of moo juice and polish the one-eyed gopher when you're doing seventy-five in an eighteen-wheeler. I never thought missing children could be so sexy. Did I say that out loud?