The charismatically uncommitted Saint Leone of St. Germain was a reclusive man, since the Inquisition Sea-urchined his face. Now deformed and an outcast. He spent his time canon balling with ditching schoolboys in the nude at the limestone quarry. The inventor of the legendary, "flying squirrel nut dive" was an excellent swimmer, and was beautiful from behind, neck down, and nude. As long as he didn't turn around. His face no longer splendid, was a hiding place for parasites and inchworms with mega phones and hidden agendas. Thank god, he could quote the bible second handedly and suck his own swollen member for days on end. Once nicknamed "the fornicator of fibbery" before his face was sandblasted by a hive of hornets he could turn a virgin's eye milky white, and fill her mind trotting with slithering habeus corpus imaginings. Not just because he was hung like a narwhale, but because he was a real nice guy too. Prone to scent his drawers vanilla and tiptoe through the poppies. A napper and a constant yawner he took to much for granted and was chapter thirteened by the grand order of stool pigeons. Known simply as the frocked flock. Being triple jointed in the back and hips kept his spirits high, and he drank those spirits Friar Tuckishly. Known to consume absynthe until face dirty filled smooth. He could out cuss an unsexed sailor while changing a cooing baby's soiled diaper with his teeth while juggling horse pellets. Many a sailor at Sea has wordlessly abandoned his ship out of pure embarassment for having nothing foul left to say. Do to Saint Leone and his adjective disintegrating lingo. Cussless sailors tend to sink slowly and almost always draw the feared six bellied tunnel shark, regrettably. Sad bastards should've known not to cross paths with the leaky faced gentleman from St. Germain. Hence, they're shamed A scholar and hermit. His father was a brilliant psychiatrist and owned the neighborhood detox center. A patron of the village and a very, influentially important man. He had libraries disassembled in his good name, and super malls erected with ten story parking structures. His name was Gesu' Says-U', and he never completely recovered fully from his son's public face draining. Depressed, and heirless he joined the nunnery to tailor their nylons and shrink his worthless manhood in the eyes of the great lord almighty. He failed, and is often seen rummaging through trash bins behind the renouned private boy's shavery. He claims to have constructed two navigatable UFOs to date, and often lectures to the Robotic Lepers in the bakery's back alley looking for unlevened oils, and risers on the rise. Leone had a knack for botany and herbal implamentations. Once a member of thee enflamed "expensive masons". He was ousted for peeing in the mud mortar used to bond the logs of their lodges together, and disclosing secret rituals to retarded children at the Freptilian Ridiculian Museum during special Ed. field trips. A true educater of the freak, and a prissy prophet. He made a profit on all of his information regurgitations. A vomiter of anti-mundane gibberish, and a huffer of extinct volcanic gasses. He has often sneezed a holy snot scrimshaw with the occassional alien lettering underneath symbol. <Made in China> Capable of creating powerful potions of invisibility and visiting old scratch weekly. Some say he is pushing the envelope to far unlicked. Like the time he removed his own tonsils with a fly swatter and some fresh squeezed arsenic. One day while de-batting his summer cave he came upon a whimpering five toed sloth. "What sayeth you this day monsewer leaf sucker?" asked the curious Saint. "I have been exiled from the green canopies of upwards, my putrid faced sir, and have lost my way and my pay". Replied the tipsy unright-sided mammal. "Well this is indeed a coincidence and a wickless omen". Stated the Saint. "Quickley, showeth me your furry thing"! Pleaded the Saint. The sloth taken a-back politely declined, but to his suprise Leone, flipped him over and chin leaned 'top his package". Yes! Yes! This is a tiding of good fortune to come". Exclaimed the Saint. "You have the chin notch of escrustian complaisancy"! "This is a miracle and a sign from the great beyond". Devulged the saint. "You are the only living creature that my spongy chin has ever accepted without clefting in two and chaffing ripe to an oozing off purple". Quipped the Saint. "Does this mean I can stay for lunch"? Chided the sloth. "Why my musky mildew covered tree preener, this means you can cook me lunch forever, and you will. Now get to it!" "Ha, ha, ha, snort, chorkle, sniff". "Finally a chinable minion!" Trumpeted Leone. After lunch and a good mounting you can feather my calloused dong with a song". Bellied the Saint! It better take all night too, he wished out loud 'pon a star-gnat. But the sloth was warily undomesticated, and decided that maybe he shouldn't be so trusting of this faceless hermit. Then Leone let one fly, and it flew well. Well enough to fell a flock of quail, and lunch was served. This was indeed the start of a remarkable friendship. Sir Leone then pissed a steady stream up into the mid-day breeze, and down it fell as trail-mix complete with yogurt covered raisins. Yes, this was a fine man indeed thought the lazy herbivore. Surely a Saint bent on popehood. The End. Stay tuned for part 2 of this octaseries very soon. It will further detail the adventures of Saint Leone and his treeless sloth with a one of a kind furry chin rest. Our heroes will run into big trouble in the forest of shacks and shanties. When they bump heads with Baba Yaga. A ruthless, toothless, broomless Russian witch toting a speed twitch and a sweet tooth. Within her ostrich legged hut that's bigger on the inside then the outside. We will find our trusted friends in a stew of no goodiedness. Illusion? You bet! And mobile. What will our heroes do? Wait and see for free on channel twenty j--l-p-z-. <Brought to you by 'bend you' the first times free. The second time will cost you the farm, and 'Twixt all' the inbetween..well..... to everything.>