"That is MISTER Cocksucker to you, sir."

"The Cocksucking Cocksuckers of Cocksucker Valley."

The idea was going to be the saga of an immigrant family coming to America in the 1850s, the Kochsukkurs. Which gets Anglicised to the 'Cocksuckers'. Obviously. Those kind of things happened back then. I reckon. People 'reckoned' a lot back then, too.

The Cocksuckers find a small valley in the West that they call home, and name it Cocksucker Valley, because -- hey -- it is their Valley, they found it and they founded it.

Unfortunately, none of the Cocksuckers had any skills such as farming, hunting and the like. So, to survive, they would visit neighboring towns and suck the cocks of grocers and store-keepers and handymen, in trade for food, services and pantry items.

I just think the phrase 'pantry items' is funny.

When they would come into town the men would loudly proclaim "Here comes a Cocksucker!" and excitedly find whatever they had to barter, lining up in the old shack behind the Barber Shop where their 'business' was conducted.

Sometimes the cock-sucking Cocksucker would be Mom, sometimes Dad, maybe one of the older children, occasionally Grandma. During those times everyone in the Family had to pitch in and do their part.

After the trades were done the Cocksuckers would return home with their goods, jaws tired, but Proud of a Hard Day's Work.

Occasionally their would be incidents in town. Like a grizzled local exclaiming "Hey You! Cocksucker!" To which the Father would firmly reply "That is MISTER Cocksucker to you, sir."

Or the son coming Home from town:

"How was your day, son?" the Father would ask.

"Great, Pa! I only need to suck Mr. Frank's cock five more times for us to get us a mule!"

"Son, whatever would we do with a mule? We're Cocksuckers, not Farmers."

You know: Family Drama. Son has Bigger Dreams, etc etc. Work for a Dairy Man, maybe, learn a trade that isn't cock-sucking.

"Son, we're Cocksuckers, not Dairy Men."

"But Pa, if you can suck a cock I'm sure you can milk a cow!"

Like that.

Oh: and at Home the Family would constantly be complaining of chapped lips. Of course.

"Son, some working men get blisters on their hands, some get chapped lips: Work is Work."

So I think you get the idea.

Except I then realized just how long such a piece would be, and decided I wasn't going to scale that mountain.

But now I've kinda set it up, really. Who knows. I'm going to give it a Label, anyway.

I am Laslo.