Trollpasta:Jeff's Boner

Chapter 2: Jane and Ben sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g

Jeff kinda just sat there for 9 hours not doing anything. Then it took him 4 weeks to remember where he was. It took him 9 days to remember what he was doing, and even then, he couldn't even remember what he was doing, nor did he know why he went outside. So, he desided to go back inside his farmhouse.

When he got to the front door, he had trouble opening it. (Partly because he was drunk, and partly because there was something barricaded behind the door.

Frustrated, he knocked the door down with his demon strength ( and his drunkard rage) when he did, he heard a loud KEEEEEERRSSH!!!

Jeff looked on the other side of the door, he saw millions of shards of green glass. He heard a stoner yell "the grass is on the glass!"" He looked at the rest of the house, at least the parts of it in his current range of vision.

Bottles. Bottles of beer. Bottles of beer lined the floors. Bottles line the walls. Bottles lined the shelves. Bottles Even lined the celing.

Jeff tried to walk around the living room, without breaking any of the bottles. A difficult task to do when one is drunk.

Step.

Step.

Step.

Step.

Jeff tip-toed across the living room. He tip-toed across the bathroom. He tried to take another step foward, but ended up accidently stepped on the bottle behind him. He missed the gap between the bottles. It fell over, and so did jeff. "Oh dear..." Jeff said as he fell. He fell. And fell. And FELL.

AND FELL.

AND FELL!!!!!

AND FE-until he landed on the bottles of glass. Shards of glass sounded everwhere. The shards of glassy glass flew onto jeff. They cut deep into his pale, rotten flesh. HYPEREALISTICC crimson liquid oozed out of the deep wounds. Letting his instincts take over, Jeff thrashed about, only causing more cuts. Deep cuts. Deep pain. Something all too familiar to the homicidal imbicelle. The walls were painted red. There was HYPEREALISTICC BLUDD EVERYWHERE. BLUDD ON THE WALLS. BLUDD ON THE FLOOR. BLUDD ON THE CELING. BLUDD IN THE DOGGO'S SNOUT. BLUDD ON THE ASTRONAUT SUIT. BLUDD ON THE DANCE FLOOR. BLUDD ON THE BLUDD. BLUDD! BLUDD! BLUDD! BLUDD! BLUDD! BLUDD! BLUDD! BLUDD! BLUDD! BLUDD! BLUDD! BLUDD! BLUDD! BLUDD! BLUDD!

Has the word "blood" lost all meaning to you yet? Too bad! FUCK YOU BALTMORE! Here, have a HYPERREALISTICC BLUDDBURGER, with a side of HYPEREALISTICC BLUDD fries, and a HYPEREALISTICC BLUDD MILKSHAKE!!!!!!!!!!!!! WANT A REFUND? YOU CAN KISS MY ASS! GO AHEAD, BRING YOUR WIFE! WE'LL FUCK HER! THAT'S RIGHT! WILL FUCK YOUR WIFE RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU!!!!! GUARANTEED!!!!! ComeOnOverToFatBoiBurgerAndHaveAGrandOl'FuckinTime!!!!!!!!!!

Jeff grabbed the remote and turned off he TV as he thrashed around like an arangeatango-ious.

After 90 days, Jeff calmed down, he rolled over onto a part of the house without bottles of beer on it. He kinda just lay there with shards of glass pondering his own existence for 2 minutes. Then he fell asleep. He woke up a day later. It took him 3 hours to realize how much pain he was in. Jeff screamed like a Goddamn goat. "YOU LITTLE SHIT! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MUCH PAIN I'M IN?!?!?!?! CALL 911!!!!!! Oh wait... I don't have a son..." Jeff screamed.

Jeff slowly got up. HYPER REALISTICC BlUDD still oozed out of his cuts. "I sure do have a lot of blood for a guy who spends all his dough on booze..." Jeff coughineialediadiaded as he sputtered HYPERREALISTICC BLUDD from his rotten lips.

He slowly walked over to a door. The door to the BASEMENT! He reached for the DOOR KNOB. Slowly he turned the DOOR KNOB! He pushed the DOOR in as much as he COULD. (Not very far) Jeff took one step and tripped on fruit punch. He fell down the STAIRS. As he crashed into the stairs, the shards were pushed deeper and deeper. Are you grossed out yet? Good! Jeff landed on the basement floor. He painfully groaned of painful pain. "FUCK FUCK tucking FUCK IN fuck!!!" He yelled. Hishtaig relaitabal.