COCK ZOMBIES
The onslaught that would terminate humanity commenced in the middle of the night, whilst an unawares populace slumbered.
Predawn, I caught sight of the first invader, its claws gripping hunks of grass at the perimeter of the lawn, as it made its way toward the house.
My fear was palpable. You could've cut it with a knife, and served it at all-you-can-eat buffet, complete with Ranch Dressing, and piping hot biscuit.
By noon — 573 hours later — the assault had reached the porch. It was then CNN made the announcement: "Yes, turtles have become ravenous for human flesh."
Over the next 8,000,000 years, Homo sapiens would be unrelentingly annihilated by the tortoise population. People were, at times, nearly forced to walk from the approaching deluge in fear.
The only things slower than the extirpation of humans — by voracious terrapins — are the reading of this article, and my recent swing experience at a Midwest XXX theater. The latter goes a little like this:
The smoldering city beyond was post-apocalyptic, perilous, and where I needed to go to complete my mission. I gazed across the river at what looked like an establishing shot out of Escape From New York.
I was Snake Plisskin — minus the eye patch, cool name, and superior fighting skills. Without Adrienne Barbeau's abundant attributes riding shotgun, I aimed my metallic mare at a borough more feared than the possibility of The A-Team: A Musical.
The chances of me escaping alive? The same as finding an Indy 500 winner who can't drive stick.
That said, I needed sex. It'd become the fifth food group for me, since discovering a Playboy beneath the couch, during original episodes of Reading Rainbow. Still, I was less delighted about placing my life on the line, than Dolly Parton was in keeping her tits real.
"Jesus has risen again!" the billboard screamed forth, similar to the previous 14 interstate declarations. I would've listened, except for the fact that if JC had returned, he was doin' a shitty job, since innocent people were droppin' dead everywhere.
You can use the "master plan," and "works in mysterious ways" excuses all you want. Once everyone's takin' dirt naps — because they've been praying to a godhead that doesn't exist, rather than figuring out how to divert Earth-bound asteroids — there will be nobody left to whom we can articulate.
Yes, it was the Bible Belt, and I was deep in its control-crazy heart.
Since I'd found myself here, and surmised I was already damned, I figured I'd garner a nice piece of ass!
Arriving at the porn theater during rush hour, I produced a crumpled Jackson from my pocket, purchased a ticket for the show, and entered.
I am, by no means, an aficionado of adult features. I mean, is there such a person? It seemed fewer folks viewed porn for its cinematic merits, than those who play barefoot soccer with a cinder block.
There's a reason Siskel & Ebert didn't review XXX films. Nobody stretching the spaghetti gives a burning bung about continuity, nor choice of filters, while watching Madison Ivy engulf erection. At least that's what I'd erroneously concluded, before visiting my first adult cinema in God's country.
Ostensibly, all 12 women on the planet — eager to critique porn — were in attendance, when I made my inaugural trip to this lust locale.
With a turnout like that, you'd think I'd be seein' more action than an Arnold Schwarzenegger flick.
Even so, one lone blowjob was administered during an entire seven hour period. Of course I wasn't the lucky recipient.
Amid snores, and the dissonance of frantic masturbation, farting sounds emitted from the rear of the grindhouse, as a chubby couple rolled nude atop one of the Naugahyde couches.
In response, a gaggle of us migrated toward the noise — cocks in hand. Reaching the perimeter of the sofa, we were stopped in our tracks by the female of the duo. Locking her arm at full extension, she displayed an outstretched palm, while sucking the soul from her man's limp lance.
Comprehending the global gesture for, "Don't come any closer," all but one of us ceased. Unfazed, the number one demographic for Fleshlight sales continued forth, trousers about his ankles, wreaking as though he'd just run a 487K.
