Lambeth Log-Flume
Popular with the wives of British service men during the early 40s, the Lambeth log-flume was the method of choice for uplifting downtrodden spirits during the Blitzkriegs of London. Just as it was not uncommon for young ladies to experience their first sexual awakening through the vibrations emitted from V-1 doodlebug blasts, desperately pining housewives would routinely proposition the first man they encountered (often a relative) during a Blitz by tying a yellow ribbon around the base of his cock shaft.
Tying of the yellow ribbon was instantly recognised as an invitation to partake in the Lambeth log-flume. Spurred on by the vibrations of nearby explosions, the housewife would subtly coax the man into first defecating between her breasts, before urinating into her mouth until the overspill flowed out onto the freshly burdened muddy boob gully – the chocolate torpedo thus resembling a log-flume, surrounded by the flowing rapids of golden cock rain. This scene is re-enacted several times, limited only by the quota of rations that was had on the day.
Tying of the yellow ribbon was instantly recognised as an invitation to partake in the Lambeth log-flume. Spurred on by the vibrations of nearby explosions, the housewife would subtly coax the man into first defecating between her breasts, before urinating into her mouth until the overspill flowed out onto the freshly burdened muddy boob gully – the chocolate torpedo thus resembling a log-flume, surrounded by the flowing rapids of golden cock rain. This scene is re-enacted several times, limited only by the quota of rations that was had on the day.
Baza: “Hey Jeza, the other night I’s met this bint over round by the bins at back o’ Iceland, and ya never guess what! She only gone tied a fuckin’ green ribbon round the base ‘o me old chapper! I was right in theres, so anyways I went and took a fuckin’ cheese wedge on her baps, but forgot about the lamb jalfrezi I ‘ad that morning, and sprayed me beige cream ass jam all in ‘er face like a right fuckin’ cunt! The bint ain’t returnin’ me calls now, but she minged anyway so I’s ain’t bovered. Haha da fuckin’ cunt!”
Gerald: “Not to be the pedant, mon cher ami, but the proposition made by your fair lady friend was sadly misinterpreted. Your unfortunate attempt at the classic 40’s past-time activity known commonly as the Lambeth log-flume was in err, since the very calling card, i.e. said green ribbon tied around said base of penis, was not the colour of prize-winning canary plumage, but rather that of a freshly mown lawn of grass. Green was the colour, and thus, the calling card was for the Stockwell Shit-hammer. I trust that you will take my wisdom on bored and learn from your mistake, and I bid thee farewell!”
Gerald: “Not to be the pedant, mon cher ami, but the proposition made by your fair lady friend was sadly misinterpreted. Your unfortunate attempt at the classic 40’s past-time activity known commonly as the Lambeth log-flume was in err, since the very calling card, i.e. said green ribbon tied around said base of penis, was not the colour of prize-winning canary plumage, but rather that of a freshly mown lawn of grass. Green was the colour, and thus, the calling card was for the Stockwell Shit-hammer. I trust that you will take my wisdom on bored and learn from your mistake, and I bid thee farewell!”
Lambeth Log-Flume by Mr Gene Racer April 15, 2009
