mONo BKT - Smack my bitch up ( remix )

No one ever said he was a bad producer, in fact most people said his tunes were pretty top notch, just his attitude and stubbornness was unbelievable.
 
the remix is shite, why did u create a thread in general for such an attrocious attempt at a remix???? it sounds like all hes done is added sum random drum break over the top of the original tune and then looped it, wtf?? please tell me this thread itself is just a troll.
 
This thread is now about Kris Akabusi:

Akabusi sat in his Vauxhall Corsa as it passed through the car wash humming the theme tune from Record Breakers. All the windows were soaped up and no one could see in so, for the briefest moments, he thought about having a w*nk. But his two kids were in the back so he decided against it.

After dropping them off at school, Akabusi was at a loss as to how to fill his day. He was delivering a motivational speech to a bunch of spastics tonight in Stevenage so he didn't want to over do it. He felt a twinge in his back. It had been aching since him and John Fashanu had wrestled naked in front of a roaring fire at Fash's £128,700 mansion in Hemel Hempstead. Akabusi had smashed a porcelain bust of Justin and he had had to leave.

Before he knew it he was at a massage parlour and had paid his £10 entry. Before he could get to the changing rooms he slipped out of his pin stripe dungerees and could feel the fragrant steam of the sauna tickle his massive balls like a poacher under a trout.

He applied a towel to his lower torso, barely able to conceal his pulsating ebony fire hydrant. He stepped into the room and lay down on the pleather massage table pushing his face through the hole and letting his cock hang over the side.

Behind him the door opened and Akabusi's pussy senses were raised to Severe. The aroma of chicken and sweetcorn soup and Morecambe Bay cockles hit him like a steam train and he knew right then that he would sire another child.

Small hands covered in oil began to explore his muscular, Nigerian coffee coloured bodywork. As the girl's hands reached his proud buttocks he tried everything in his power to conceal a huge fart he had been brewing since he'd parked in the multi storey car park.

When the girl slipped a greasy little finger up his April he let out a yelp and nearly roared "Awooga" but he stopped himself. The hands of the girl motioned him to turn over, which he duly did.

His eyes found a young Chinese girl wearing a little white tunic which he knew concealed a pair of juicy little bristols and almost certainly a clunge as ripe and yellow as a week old banana. As he lay on his back, blood rushed into his veiny Tower of Pisa quicker than Asians into a Cash And Carry at 8.59am. He lay there looking like a chocolate drawing pin as the girl starting applying more and more oil. He was so hard and tall that he worried slightly that the price of oil may be affected by his erection.

Her tiny hands kneeded his giant oak and at one point Akabusi half thought she was an Ewok trying to climb a Giant Red on Endor. He leapt up and ripped open her tunic revealing, as he had suspected, a gorgeous set of two tits, nipples as dark as Green and Black 70% and a pussy so wet and hairless he was reminded of Duncan Goodhew.

He dived into her like a released rapist and set about plunging into every orifice that was available and some that were not. Within hours he was on his vinegars and let rip with such a gush of spunk that the poor girl tried in vein to make a call to the Morecambe Bay coastguard.

Spent, sweating and panting Akabusi untangled his yawning plonker and slipped on his dungerees. The girl, who later from police reports he found was called Hi Tide Run, lay on the floor, a shredded mess of manfat, baby oil, matted hair and rice. Akabusi looked at his Casio watch/calculator and saw that the spastic thing started in 20 minutes. He bent down over the Chinese meal he had just demolished, whisphered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny
 
Akabusi had had a shit day. He'd spent the morning with his accountant Harvey Goldenblum and to put it bluntly he was fucked. He had made some very bad investments in the last tax year - a bus tour for Tourettes sufferers to the Vatican had ended in an international situation and his collection of dildos modelled on his own gigantic black cock had gone into raw materials problems.

His plans to put on a production of Towering Inferno on Ice with Colin Jackson in the lead role had been dashed. Two people drowned in rehearsals and the family were after him for compo.

After a runwank in the park he decided to go to the zoo. He loved the zoo, it was full of animals throwing their own shit and spunk around. It reminded him of home.

He wandered around the near empty zoo, his denim dungerees gently rubbing up against his slick, toned jet black skin and making his veiny python twitch like Ali at an Olympic opening ceremony.

He bypassed the chimps, they disgusted him and he made his way to the elephant enclosure. When he got there he spied that there were no punters around so let slip his dungerees and exposed his naked skin to the cool air of this January afternoon. As he stood there looking like a chocolate tripod, an observer may have mistaken this figure for a baby elephant. With two legs. And who was black.

As per usual, he hopped over the railings, briefly feeling the barb wire scrape his heavy ball sack like nails down a blackboard. As he landed he heard a voice "Oi, you. Get the fuck out of the elephant enclosure, you fucker".

Akabusi had only been caught at the zoo once before when he had sat in the reptile area and had several unsuspecting nuns stroke his throbbing colossus. As he turned he saw a female games keeper, her coarse khaki shirt and shorts clearly concealing epic bristols and he hoped at least one usable hole.

"Oh, it's you, Kriss" she said in a voice as smoky as Roy Castle's lungs. As she told him off, Akabusi knew she was looking at his pumped torso and his increasingly engorged black magic. He knew also that she was becoming more turned on and wet than a homosexual at a Barrymore pool party.

"You better put that away" she said pointing her rake at his cock. "It's making Mumbles the elephant jealous".

Within a split second he ripped open her khaki shirt to expose two huge tits that were so hard and muscular you could put them on a nightclub door and there would be no trouble. "Why don't I hide 'this' up your clunge!" roared Akabusi like a black panther with his nuts caught in a slammed Tom Clancy novel.

The zookeeper let slip her shorts letting the air attend to a pussy so hairy it looked like a mammoth with labia for legs. Peeping out from the bush was a clitorus so big and meaty it wouldn't have looked out of place hanging on a hook in Smithfields. Akabusi hadn't seen anything like it since he'd been "surprised sexed" by Judy Oakes.

Within seconds his ebony trunk became more full of blood and muscle than the aftershow at Britain’s Strongest Man.

Akabusi took a deep breath and plunged into her hole like Albanians through the Chunnel. Her skin was so rough it was like having angry sex with a sander going at full pelt, but Akabusi loved it. He loved it rough. And this was rough.

Around the zoo animals scurried for cover, some even choosing to leave and join the circus with Jeremy Beadle, as Akabusi and the zookeeper’s cries rocked the trees and cages like a bunch of Jews at an adulterer trial.

Within a matter of hours it was all over, the zookeeper’s body lying strewn on the straw, a pile of spunk, hair, muscle and animal feed. The zookeeper mustered her last remnant of strength and rolled up her clit and crawled away from Akabusi.

Akabusi bounded to his feet, his spirits enlivened by this classic intercourse. “Fuck the tax man!” he thought. If he wanted to fund another musical based on the life of Daley Thompson he fucking would. He wrestled his seeping cock back into place as he pulled his favourite dungarees on. He caught up with the escaping keeper by following her trail of clunge suds and bent down and whispered “Awooga” in her ear and patted her on her fanny.
 
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Akabusi was trapped. In the storeroom. Of a JJB just outside of Luton. And he had just farted. The fragrance of his arse bomb was stronger than a Glaswegian Ramp Assistant and the smell would have pulled the skin back on his plonker if he hadn't already pulled it back. To pass the time.

Harvey Goldenblum, Busi's agent and confidante, had always told him that he was a potential target for extremists. People were jealous of a man who unzipped his dungs and instantly broke paving stones. So when a copper had burst into the grand opening of this palace of tracksuit bottoms and Gola trainers and announced that a suspect package was outside, Busi hadn't been surprised. He had always known this day would come.

The last few weeks had been omnious. Regis had spent exactly 5678 minutes building Krisstopher a Busi size FleshLight out of a stainless steel bin and some stolen ballistics gel. Regis had modelled the clunge piece on Mick Jagger singing Gimme Shelter and the clit had been fashioned from a mould of Judi Oakes in competition mode. All in all it was a fucking mess but Busi didn't want to disappoint poor OCD riddled Regis so he got some blood into it and within in seconds he was sweating like a doorman at Tiger Tiger.

Of course the ballistics gel was shitter than a Concert for Diana and Busi was stuck solid. For three long and hard hours he looked like he was attacking Oscar the Grouch with a cock like five brown babies' arms wrapped together in angry veins. Eventually Roger Black had pulled out his ivory handled Yarborough and slashed through the gel quicker than Vanessa Fletz goes through men of colour.

Busi had been laid up for a week in his £127,874 one bedroom mansion as his ebony pussy pestle had recovered. In the meantime he had to lay off the clunge suds and his balls had gotten so huge that he was sure the Branson and Per Lindstrand would try to fly one of them across the Atlantic unsuccessfully. To pass the time and to keep the blood resolutely in his brain and not in his slumbering onyx sauce bottle he wrote 18 motivational books, recorded two videos on how not to piss or shit yourself in public and poked Tanni Grey Thompson on Facebook so hard he burst her tyres. And her bubble.

Whilst Kriss was out of action the gang resembled a fanny that had just been kicked. Busi had sent Regis to buy some tartan paint from Homebase and he hadn't come back. It had been three days. Black had been asked to head up the new Justice Ministry in ol' glass eyes new cabinet. Of course he was too busy to take the job - he had 18 Maplins stores and one Cotswold Outdoor to open. In a week. Roger had left only one directive - have Derek Redmond shot or stabbed. Or both. As long as he was harmed.

Black had eventually found Regis in Dunfermline mixing paints in a B&Q and for awhile the gang played Bean Flicker on Busi's Wii and sank Jagerbombs until the sun scraped over the horizon near Hemel. The doctor, who for some reason had a mask over his face and C4 strapped to his chest, had given him the all clear. The news sent a bullet train of blood into Busi's sleeping hymen humper and it twitched like a burning man. Krisstopher Akabusi was back.

As they had entered the JJB near Luton Akabusi's pussy levels were instantly raised to clitical and a jet black crack attack was imminent. The musty rarified air of the discount sports store crept into his silk dungs like Shrek into an apartment in La Luz and caressed his giant genitals with all the vigour of Argus speed reading the new Argos catalogue. As was the protocal at official openings Busi let slip his dungarees and proceeded to the cutting of the ribbon his meat Brabantia swinging like Benoit from a multigym. But the numptys who ran this new store had forgotten the Liz Duke scissors that only Busi could use. So Busi went backstage to find them.

And that is where he found himself now. Naked, hornier than Paul Gadd in a fringe production of Bugsy Malone and hotter than a couple of fellas pulling up to Glasgow Departures. Busi peeked out into the store. A robot that looked like a cross between Tanni Grey and Ultra Magnus was approaching his Corsa. On closer inspection it was actually Stephen Hawkings who the Bomb Disposal team used on occasion to diffuse bombs or open fetes. Or diffuse fetes.

Hawkwind was great at sums and theories but he was shit at opening things. So Regis washed his hands 26 times with carbolic and opened the boot. The suspect package was a mangled pile of steel and a congealed spunk. It was Regis' FleshLight. The police reopened the street and released the grip around some Asian's necks. Busi composed himself and strode out onto the shopfloor as proud and upstanding as Venus William's micro penis.

"The only controlled explosion in here will be in her face!" roared Busi with all the might and passion of Thor fucking Odin and not giving a reach around. "Her" was the smokin' hot chief of Luton Bomb Disposal who was trying on some steel cap Green Flash. Busi knew beneath the crisp white flak jacket were a pair of bristols like two Bruce Willis's fighting and tucked into those crisp black combats was a clunge that would detain you for up to 90 days without charge.
Busi instantly became thicker than a wrestler's neck and his giant ebony pears lifted into the attack position. His retractable cum roof revealed a jap's eye as large and steely as Gordon Brown's glass golf ball. Kriss stood there looking like an overweight chocolate Pinocchio lying his arse off.

The chief pulled at her heavy clothes and whipped off her kevlar G with aplomb. She was wetter than coke near Cork and her fanny glistened in the strip lighting of the JJB. She had a clit like Keith Allen's penis. Busi stalked her like a black cat playing with a mouse. With tits. He wanted to get in her box and cut the red wire. Or the brown one.

Krisstopher lept on her like the McCanns on a plane and before she could take a breath, Busi was up to his nuts in the law. His hands were all over her and she wasn't shy either. He felt a thumb slip up his bum disposal unit and he knew this was going to a heavy one.

Within hours he was on his violent extremist vinegars and let fly with such a gush of ball broil that several newsagents in South Yorkshire got the sandbags out again. The store was ruined but his empty knackers echoed their approval and as he pulled his dying mickey out and slipped on his dungs Busi knew that this JJB was well and truly opened.

The emergency was over. Busi had gotten his oats and the chief was busily scoffing up the remnants. Black honked her horn in the Corsa. Regis has pissed and shit himself. He'd not watched the video. And he was a borderline flid. But he was family. And he made Busi look good.
Kriss looked down on the pile of flapping spermazota, matted fuzz, mobile phone detonaters, hazard tape and a clunge that looked like a boxer's ear, bent down on his powerful black knee, whisphered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.
 
Freek said:
the remix is shite, why did u create a thread in general for such an attrocious attempt at a remix???? it sounds like all hes done is added sum random drum break over the top of the original tune and then looped it, wtf?? please tell me this thread itself is just a troll.
Click to expand...

actually, completely different melody and chord progression. the intro+ drop is nearly entirely original, you ears arent working very hard! infact its a good remix to be fair, but completely pointless all the same.

---------- Post added at 13:56 ---------- Previous post was at 13:53 ----------

actually not sure why i am defending this cunt to be fair. it goes against all my instincts. but you gotta give the music a fair ear, music is independent from the artist as some of the biggest cunts in the world have written some of the loveliest tunes
 
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