Hot girls of your dreams are standing by. Hot girls you remember, from the TV, from pictures. Your brain has assembled their pieces like a collage and you can only half see them in your mind's eye. You can't save your mom. You can't even warn her. You know the egg man is on the other side of the curtain even though you haven't seen him. His face is your face and when you see it you will die.
Maxine is screaming at you and wearing a bloody diaper. You're both underwater. She is banging the bottom of a bucket with wiggly piggly fingers that curl back. Maxine looks like a girl you saw in line at the cinema. You don't know why you call her Maxine. She's got four pendulous breasts and they're oozing what looks like custard. It is custard. She needs to recharge and refuel on the liquid in your spine. Call now.
Mr. Warrant with lustrous black hair and violet lipstick. His face is very near to yours and he smells like the shed your father used to keep the broken riding lawnmower in before you moved back into the city. Where you found the box of sticks that you later realized were Indian bones. Mr. Warrant is touching your body with his hands and pressing his gorgeous cleavage into your face and you're afraid you like it. Type up an email and press send until it goes.
You saw this lady getting out of a taxi. Now you're her hot dog. Relish the chance? No need to reply to this ad, we already know.
You tried to forget it, but it's back. Bad memory of grandpa after he had his stroke. He hates what he has become. Trina from the cubicle next to yours won't stop jacking you off into your coffee cup from the break room. Shoot a flare into the night sky and by its red glow the way will be revealed.
Todd and Isadora from work. They're married even though they aren't. You're at a party or something. She keeps kissing you. He wants to take pictures while you put a baby in her, but when she takes off her pants her legs keep going and going, the panties sliding down and down endless fleshy columns into darkness. You follow them down to her feet and when you look up your mother is peering down at you as if your are at the bottom of a well. Just open the package and you'll know what to do to make it happen.
Your ex-girlfriend Gemma from college is a bird. She flaps in your arms. Her beak tastes like fennel and she smells like gasoline. You make love and at the moment of orgasm she becomes a huge, white deer. You feel sick. Her eyes are red. She is somewhere inside the animal, driving it like a car, but you know she hates you for consummating your love with the hart. Press eights on your phone until you hear the click and then the tone.
1,000 homeruns in a single game should be impossible, but you have achieved the impossible. The cute, gap-toothed girl from the front desk of your building hugs you and whispers sexually exciting things in your ear. You are baseball hero. You marry her and have nine children without ever experiencing the pleasure of intercourse. Then there is a tornado visible out the window and your nine children are your dog Chester and you have to get him into the basement but there isn't enough time. Scrawl a message on your wall in menstrual blood.
Aliens at the window. This time with cocks up your ass. Return the enclosed envelope.
Raised by owls, taught to ingest whole raccoons and reduce their clawing bodies to bone and hair pellets. You excrete them from your pores as dusty marbles that tumble from your naked skin. You craft feathers from leaves painted with berries and use them in your mating display. You find love and her beak nestles in the pit of your arm. She instinctively eats the hairs she finds there. You groom her for lice and watch her egg. She becomes your ex-girlfriend Gemma. Your mother hatches from the egg and begins rubbing your thighs. You try to explain it to Gemma but she is betrayed. Her egg baby gone bad, her human boyfriend betraying her. With mommy eggy baby. It wasn't supposed to happen this way. Text me the maximum number of 7s you have on your phone.
Republicans announce that all legislation must be voted on at 2am in a secret chamber, with no one but the lobbyists who write the bills seeing a single line of text. Democrats' Response: Stumbling around a field stepping on rakes, handles smashing them directly in their faces every single time.
There is a witch hunt going on right now and I promise you that you will not find any witches in the pleasure room in my congressional office.
For fans of meaningless awards, these awards are extra meaningless.
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