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Message-ID: <50780asstr$1111659002@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Russell Hoisington" <hoisingr@hushmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Girl Scout Nookies En Passant {Hoisington} (nosex, humor,scoffing)
Lines: 351
Date: Thu, 24 Mar 2005 05:10:02 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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                  GIRL SCOUT NOOKIES EN PASSANT

                       Russell Hoisington

  ************************************************************

This is an erotic fantasy and shouldn't be read by you if you
are:
   1) under legal age.
   2) living where reading this material is forbidden.
   3) in your right mind.

The characters and the situation are purely imaginary, and this
story is *NOT* intended to be a guide for actual behavior.  Any
similarities between this story and actual people, or between
this story and actual events that you should be ashamed of, are
purely coincidental.

Any similarities to any other "Girl Scout Nookie" stories by
talented writers such as Kenny N. Gamera, Frank McCoy, and Ball
Four are absolutely coincidental and have nothing to do with the
fact that I have them taped to the computer desk in front of me
for reference while I type.  Should you discover, say, fifteen
or forty insignificant similarities, which are are sometimes
incorrectly described as "being identical," they aren't worth
worrying about anyhow.

If you hang out in La Taverna (the ASSD newsgroup), then you
understand the title.  If you don't, then there's no way I can
explain it to you.  Just thank (or blame, depending on your
point of view) cmsix for the title.

This story is copyright 2005 by Russell Hoisington.  You may
post freely to non-commercial (free) sites, or in the "free"
area of commercial sites as long as you do not remove the author
information or make any changes to this story.  This does *not*
mean that it is in the public domain, nor does it mean that I
give permission for you to use it in spam advertising.  I
reserve the right to determine what is "spam advertising" by
*my* definition, not yours or anyone else's.

Thank you for your consideration.

  ************************************************************


                       PREMIERE EN PASSANT

	The doorbell rang.  No, this is not a Nero Wolfe story, even
though I was once a mere ten pounds from that venerable
detective's weight. But I digress.

	I dropped my _Rocky Mountain News_ and grabbed the living room
Thesaurus from the shelf by the door.  In addition to that one,
I keep a copy by the patio door and one in the garage.  Also,
one at each window, at the head of the basement stairs, and by
the entrance to the attic.  I believe in being prepared for any
eventuality, should fortune suffer a sudden lapse of memory and
decide to shine on me.

	I peeked through the door viewer and wiped the gush of drool
from my lips.  Yep.  You guessed it from the title of this opus.
A blonde, a brunette, a redhead, all of small size and dressed
in knee-length Girl Scout skirts with slightly bulging Girl
Scout blouses.  I glanced Heavenward and said (quickly, of
course) "Hey, Big Guy!  I'm sorry I ever doubted your
existence!" before flinging open the door. The speed with which
it opened seemed to startle them.  Or maybe it was the loud
"CRACK!" when the sudden, intense vacuum I'd created cracked the
storm door's glass.  I threw open the storm door, first
apologizing to the redhead for hitting her with it and then
apologizing to all for the shower of sharp slivers when two
large shards of glass shattered at their feet.

	"Hello!" I said, trying to appear non-chalant, which wasn't
easy to do.  I mean, I don't know what "chalant" looks like, so
how can I appear the opposite?

	"You have drool on your chin," the redhead said as the
brunette pulled a long, bloody sliver from her ankle.

	"Sorry."  I wiped it away while ogling the swell of her hips. 
"So, I guess you're here selling Girl Scout Nookies, eh?"

	They blinked at each other.  "You obviously mean 'cookies.' 
No, we wear these uniforms to get people to open the door for
us.  You see, we're Jehovah's Witnesses and we want to share...."

	I finally looked up from their knees, hips, and slightly
bulging blouses.  They were actually wearing Jesus Scouts
uniforms.  It was a trio of midgets!  I slammed the door and
heard another piece of glass shatter, followed by a yelp and
something certainly un-Christian.

	"I take it back!" I shouted Heavenward before sitting down to
peruse the Thesaurus while waiting for the doorbell to ring again.

  ************************************************************


                       DEUXIEME EN PASSANT

	The doorbell rang.  No, this is not a Nero Wolfe story, even
though I was once within ten pounds of the venerable detective's
weight. But I digress once more.

	I dropped my _Rocky Mountain News_ and grabbed the living room
Thesaurus, et cetera.

	I looked through the door viewer and did the drool-wipe thing
again, this time including my chin.  I reached for the door
knob, had a sudden rush of uncommon sense, and peeked through
the viewer again. These definitely WERE in the twelve- to
fourteen-year range, wearing real Girls Scout uniforms (which
appeared to have been altered to make them more form-fitting),
and had blonde, brunette, red, and black hair.  I glanced
Heavenward, but had a second rush of sense and changed my mind. 
Fool me once, shame on you.  Fool me twice....

	THE GIRLS!  Why was I reviewing quaint quotations in my head
when I had teenie-trollops on my porch?  I flung open the door. 
The sudden in-rush of air drew in a fragment of remaining window
glass from the storm door.  I twisted to avoid it and heard a
yelp of pain from the dog before he vanished down the hallway.

	I opened the storm door, this time taking care not to hit
anyone. They stood on the shards of broken glass.  I blinked in
confusion. The chocolate one was the blonde.  The lemony one was
the redhead. The chili-spiced-brownie one was the brunette.  And
the vanilla one with the ice-blue eyes had the black hair.

	A voice behind me shouted, "YOU ASSHOLE!"  It was the standard
greeting from CJ, my Muse.  "I _told_ you not to write when you
had too much blood in your gin stream!"

	I banished her with a thought and smiled down at the quintet.

	Quintet?  There had been four a moment ago.

	"Sorry," said the oregano-flavored strawberry blonde showing
some not-too-shabby cleavage.  "Wrong nightmare."  She vanished
before I could stop her.

	"WELL?" demanded the remaining quartet, obviously unhappy
about being ignored by me, which was yet another non-smart move
on my part.

	"Sorry," I mumbled.  "Not been a good day before now.  So!  I
take it you're selling Girl Scout Nookies?"

	They took turns blinking at each other, which took several
seconds as they went through all the two-to-the-fourth-minus-one
possible combinations.  Then the vanilla one frowned at me. 
"Who are you, the neighborhood pervert?"

	"No," I said, pointing next door.  "He is."

	Well, it's true!  Doesn't cheat on his wife, not even with his
own daughters.  What's a guy like that doing in one of my
stories anyway?

	The lemony redhead appeared to be the oldest.  She certainly
had the best-stretched uniform blouse now that Miss Cleavage had
departed.  She shuffled through a sheaf of papers, extracted
one, and scanned it.  "You are, too.  You're Mister Hoistigon."

	"Hoisington," I corrected.  "People have been getting it wrong
ever since I wrote 'A*F*T*S'.  So, lemme guess:  you have the
lemony flavored box, right?"  I glanced at her red hair. "Or
would it be strawberry?"

	Her flawless brow furrowed in confusion.  "Uh, no.  I don't
use anything except vinegar and water."

	I looked at the blonde.  Before I could speak she said, "No,
it ain't choc'late.  An' you better not make no 'watamelon'
comment neither or I'll cut yo ass!"  She produced a switchblade
from somewhere and waved it close to Mr. Happy.

	"HEY!  Relax!  I don't write characters like that in my
stories!"

	"Den how comes yo named me 'Yolanda' and gots me talkin' like
dis, huh?"

	I mumbled something about 'blood' and 'gin streams' as I 
rewrote her speech pattern and changed her name to 'Buffy.'  Her 
switchblade morphed into a hammer and wooden stake.  "Better now?"

	"No!" shrieked the black-haired vanilla one with the ice-blue
eyes, waving a stake in one hand and a mallet in the other. 
"_I'M_ Buffy."

	How come nothing like *this* ever happens to Kenny Gamera?  I
turned back to the blonde and asked, "Then what should I name 
you?"

	She straightened her skin-tight studded leather Girl Scout 
uniform and snapped the tip of her quirt on the front of my 
trousers, causing Mr. Happy to shrink to negative length.  She
drew herself up to her full four-feet-and-not-much-more height. 
"You will call me 'Mistress Star,' worm," she sneered.

	Remember that scene in "A*F*T*S" where my underwear suddenly
turned yellow and wet?  History damned near repeated itself.

	"Y... yes, Mistress," I croaked before turning to the
brunette, who suddenly waved her own switchblade.

	"No more references to chili peppers or chocolate, or vanilla,
or any other flavors, right?"  Although there's a question mark
there, said question was clearly rhetorical.

	How did I lose control of my fantasy so quickly?  "Of course
not, Mistress Maria."

	"Just Maria," she said, vanishing the switchblade.  "I'm not
into that S&M crap."  The switchblade suddenly reappeared.  "And
you'd better not be thinking that Steve Martin line about
'Spaniards and Mexicans,' if you know what's good for you."

	"N... no, Maria," I said, trying futilely to think of anything
else.

	I turned to the redhead, who had a Chinese AK-47 trained on
me, and squeaked, "Ming," mainly because I haven't told you her
name yet, "is your name okay?"

	"Never mind the names," Star said.

	"MISTRESS Star," she corrected, snapping her quirt against my
thigh since Mr. Happy was still in hiding.  "Look, just buy some
Girl Scout Cookies so we can get out of here before we have to
hurt you."

	I no doubt looked as confused as I was.  "You mean Girl Scout
Nookies, don't you?"

	You've never seen real scoffing until you've seen these four
scoff. You'd think they had college degrees in it.  "Not for
you," Buffy said.  "You're sixty years old!"

	"I'm only fifty-eight!" I protested.

	"Hah!" scoffed Ming.  "Same thing.  You still need Viagra by
the handful."

	"But....  But.... But Frank McCoy got to...."

	"That's a different story with a different troop and in a
different city," Maria said.  "We have our own age rules."

	"That's right," said Buffy.  "Ten and seven, give him heaven."

	Ming nodded.  "Ten and eight, fuck him straight."

	Maria nodded.  "Ten and nine, let him dine."

	Star nodded.  *OUCH!*  MISTRESS Star nodded.  "If he's twenty,
don't give any."

	"That doesn't really rhyme, you know."

	She shrugged.  "Fifty-eight, go masturbate.  How's that?"

	"Doesn't help me."

	"Who cares?  How many cases do we put you down for?"

	"Each," added Maria, whipping out the switchblade as Ming
produced her AK-47 again.  "We're trying to win college
scholarships."

	"And if not," Ming added, "we're going to earn enough to fund
our education."

	"You are?  What are you planning to study?"

	"Scoffing," said Buffy as she aimed her stake at my heart and
drew back her hammer.

	I groaned.  Graduate school is expensive.

	"Don't worry about the cost," said Ming as she searched
through her papers again and extracted a form.  "Just sign here
for the second mortgage on your house."

	Five minutes later I was sitting at my computer, writing hate
mail to Kenny Gamera, Frank McCoy, and Ball Four while wondering
what the neighbors would say when some semi delivered a trailer-
load of cookies.

	At least I didn't have to withdraw any statements directed
toward the Heavens.

  ************************************************************


                      TROISIEME EN PASSANT

	The doorbell rang, et cetera.

	The _Rocky Mountain News_, Thesaurus, et cetera.

	I looked through the door viewer and saw an even dozen of
early-and not-quite-teens of varying hair color and nookie
flavors complaining about all the broken glass underfoot.  Their
Girl Scout blouses had been shortened to expose midriffs with
varying amounts of residual body fat.  Said blouses were fully
unbuttoned and juuuust covered their nipples.  The rib-rippled
flesh underneath varied in elevation from plywood to the Rocky
Mountains.  Their Girl Scout skirts had been shortened to mini-
skirts that juuuust barely revealed panties that were color-
coordinated to match their hair.  And the one with the plywood
chest had pink panties.

	At least, I _think_ they were wearing panties.

	I glanced Heavenward.  "WHAT THE FUCK DID I DO TO DESERVE
THIS?" I screamed before throwing down the Thesaurus and locking
myself in the basement.

	With nothing to eat.

	And that was three days ago.

	I'd kill for a cookie.

  ************************************************************

Copyright Russell Hoisington 2005

Russell Hoisington
State of Confusion

Stories archived at
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Hoisington/www
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Hoisington/
http://www.storiesonline.net



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