Dear carnal buffet of wonder and taste,
I’ve got it bad from both sides. My jack is jilling and my Jill is jacked. I’ve got a motor in the moonhole and an engine in the stars. And they both run on gas, Baby, gas. And by gas I mean the sex. I take it pure and fluid and nasty as a Norwegian Swede at a Mississippi Swamp Jam. You heard me. So. Question one. You wanna meet me in the bog, baby? Cause I’ve got thick wrinkled mudflaps that hang all the way from hello to goodbye! And I need a hot splashbone to part my curtains and wash my windows. My skin is covered in sexual grease and I need a heavy dripper to scrape me off and dry me out like a Bedouin Jacuzzi. I wanna feel the harsh wind of a throbbing blunder nugget splitting my mottled thighs open like a mountain does the sky. Make my sex place a Montana licence plate and ride the beef fleet on in and in and on and on. Juice my lewd tube and make it send sticky clouds into the fleshy sky. I’m a deuce caboose front and back and side to side stopping at all stations from Ladyville to Mantown. My body is nude thunder and naked lightning all buff and smooth and wrinkled and creased like a midnight prune. I give it and take it and mix it and make it because I’m double-edged piece of Parmesan that you wanna sprinkle on your erotic lasagna. I’m spaghetti and meatballs, baby. I’m sweatpants and tightjeans. I’m a loose goose. I’m a slop dog. Lather me up and rub me down and use my multi-body to clean the grime off of the city with them officials down at City Hall sitting up in their crystal offices writing sex cheques their nut butts can’t cash and sticking the dirty costs hard up into the crowded holes of the commoners sitting all complacent in front of their teevees vaping bubblegum and eating pudding and smiling their toothless smiles and wallowing in ignorant glee.
My name is Gus and I am so down with the law, man, you criminal S.O.B.’s had better watch out. I am full on hard as a throbbing slab of fleshy concrete with justice. I am engorged with it. And if you think it’s a good idea to cross the line and commit a crime, I will stroke off like an atomic ape and blow a thick, hot wad of judicatory cum in your ugly scofflaw face. You will feel the steaming stick of Sweet Mother Justice with her sword and scales dripping down off your chin and onto your racketeer’s golf shirt. I will nut the law hard. NUT IT HARD. I am so horny for jurisprudence my balls are blimps and they are floating over the city seeking you goddamn yardbirds who are in desperate need to feel the sick sting of the gooey juice of due process. All you greasy punks making illicit moves on the street staining our beautiful law abiding tarmac with your black-market diarreha hear this, “I AM ASS NASTY HORNY FOR TRUTH AND RECTITUDE!” So get your peccant face down and your indictable butt up and get ready to receive the fairest and most constitutional reaming of your deplorable life. I AM GUS! I AM JUSTICE! GUSTICE!
I am a blob. I am hot for a cube. Lines excite me. Corners move my fluids to the untamed ever shifting boundaries of my existence. Angles take me and make me. My form is one of no form, but the cube, it is strict, real, and exact. That floods my spume fires with sexual fuel. Inside my glubulous being it is like a free wheeling flow of hot erotic moisture that pushes against my intumescent innards and outtards as I stare longingly at that perfect three-dimensional shape. All sides exactly the same. Whoa nelly, if that cube don’t stop being so straight and angular I’m gonna pop. I’m a swollen blister full of sex puss. Yeah, baby, yeah, cube, that’s what I am. That’s what you do to me. I’m a super protuberant sac because of you, cube. Excessive nodulation has my shapeless soul bursting at the membranes. Not a curve on you and I’m spuming. Rigid. Straight. Hard. That’s you. Not me. I’m a blob. I ain’t go not form. Not in a regulatr way, no. I’m a sexual salient being, yo. Let me check you out. Blob all over you, baby, cube. Oh yeah yeah yeah. Ooooo. Mmmm. Uhhhhh. Damn. Busted that lump. I love you, cube.
He had a cock with the head of Anubis.
She had a honey pot called the “Well of the Souls”.
When they screwed it was like
the Pharoahs had returned.
(Had they even ever left?)
Building hot and fleshy monuments
To the erotic-Kings and sensual-Queens
That had come before. Oh so triumphant.
While out in the desert it was
All grunts and groans.
Like a million ass slaves
Was moving huge stones,
And not getting paid.
But instead of making pyramids
They was making love.
And instead of the Nile,
It was a cum-drenching flood.
Oh Sweet Mama-mia!
Since the dawn of civilization
People have been banging
Hard and sweaty and soft and fierce
And just like the Pharoahs
When they step out on the gallery
To address the throng—
Her meaty vagina.
His throbbing dong.
Witnessing their sex is liking seeing God(s)!
BOW DOWN! BOW DOWN! BOW DOWN!
The fleabag motel
Not so many stars. But you
Can get blown real cheap.
Listen, lists are the best. A list of the best. In an order. The best order. They’ve been arranged, by someone in the know aka A MOTHERFUCKING AUTHORITY, so you don’t have to. All you have to do is peruse down it from the TOP to the BOTTOM. And bingo bango you’ve got yourself some sweet ranked knowledge that will put you on the road to the ladder to the big list in the pie in the sky. The following are the 7 best top 10 lists in the world as determined by the International Consortium of Lists and Rankings:
—Top ten haunted lighthouses
—Top 10 sex positions in the world
—Top ten most expensive burgers
—Top ten dumb words for vagina
—Top ten schools for women’s golf
—Ten best tips for buying roller skate wheels
—Ten tips to grow teen facial hair faster
Okay, spoiler alert: WE’VE GOT SOME TAKEAWAYS HERE! The only way to do your best is to read the best. The TEN BEST. Because eleven doesn’t cut the mustard. It doesn’t even part it’s hair. So you have to absolutely ensure you have a list of ten things that mean more to you and them and us and all than anything else. TEN. 10. X. Not one more, not one less. Ten. Got it? Got it? Got it? Good. So if you can narrow that list down to seven you are in list heaven, baby. ‘Cause Yahweh hisself cums clouds of hot, thick virgins when she reads a sweet Fuckin’ A list of 7 pieces of steaming awesome shit. And when the arch-duke of the cosmos wants to bullet point the 7 best of the 7 best of the ultimate 7 whatever in order of MOST FUCKING IMPORTANT you gotta believe he/she/DannyTrejo is checking the top 7 lists of best lists of ten most important things and making sure their/its/MargaretAtwood’s list is ON NUCLEAR FUCKING POINT. And, most important of all, you must ensure that you absolutely just do your perfect best to make it bank not dank, cause its rank won’t stank if it don’t wank blanks, dig? Y’all better, chum, cause in this new modern now of an age if your list list ain’t on the list list you’re done like Gandhi in Pakistan. So tug hard and rub fast and let fly those g-spot streams of creamy lists. Society is depending on you.
Mama, that’s some head spinning shit, he thought, who writes this stuff?
He looked at the book’s spine. Thornelius Lumberbottom. Some weird ethnic with too much education and not enough wood in the shed, Rupe thought, I guess that’s how you get deep alright.
He turned his gaze back to the thick, musty tome. Picked a passage at random–
Yeh, ye musteth let the stink weed dry before ye puteth it in the pipe packer to be packeth in thee bowl for ye to smoke. That’s only commonest of sense, ye dumbass, so get ye head out of ye bowels and get ye in the game. It be started soonest enough, am I right? Yeh, I be. Toketh hard.
The game must be played by ye and all. For it be the game calleth life. Maximum to the mosteth. Winner take all. No do overs. Stampeth, stampeth, no eraseth.
Rupe filled ahead a few pages–
So then, when ye need to hit ye olde time sexxe shoppe to get ye some of that sweet olde time sexxe for ye nuts must need yeh a sweet busting as ye I can tell don’t have ye nuts been busted for yeh some long time like since ye got drunk on foul mead and olde time rotgut wine and made sweet olde time sexxe to that sweet olde nag in the stable of the vicar. Yeh what a time that was. And be ye I mean me. Yeh, I be the nastieth…
Rupe wondered if they sold rotgut wine at the Jolly-J Liquor Shop.