"Any organization created out of fear must create fear to survive."
― Bill Hicks
Being banned from a porn theater, because you're getting laid more than the venue's owner, is like receiving free hot fudge sundaes for life, and losing 12 teeth, due to resultant cavities.
One night I'm humpin' amidst a sea of semen-soaked sofas; the next, I'm out on my ass, like a five year old ― who can't skate ― takin' a body check from an NHL player.
I was getting fucked at this sex cinema to the magnitude of a XXX actress working on commission. Numerous patrons had informed me how much they enjoyed seeing my endowment in action. In fact, some professed to showing up, just to watch me pound the Nine Inch Nail into yet another horny housewife.
To be certain, I'd taken more beatings at this prurient palace than opponents of Muhammed Ali. Not only had I been punched by a male, bra-wearing meth addict, but I'd been threatened by an employee he'd cut my cock off, if he saw me humping another woman in the locale.
Superlative customer service? You'll more likely find a Hermann Goring Jewish Deli.
Another front desk clerk took a different tack, when he asked to hold my danglin' dong, while I peed. Politely declining, it seemed I'd inadvertently made one more enemy.
Because I was getting as much play, at this haunt, as the Number One Billboard Song on a Top 40 radio station, I was ostracized. According to tale, the owner of the jerk joint in question likes to be King Kock at his establishment.
Crashin' hard, like whatever came down in 1947 Roswell, I scrambled for solace. This venue had produced Numbers for me at a mad pace.
Where the hell was I gonna find a replacement for such a productive sex chateau?! I had a goal — 5,000 women — and I was unflagging in my pursuit of it.
My overheating brain scurried for shelter, and a quiet place to reconnoiter.
When the depleted uranium dust settled, I had no choice but to take my travelin' circus show on the raunchy road. As so, I packed up my midgets ― well, only one, in the form of myself ― my elephant, its trunk anyway, and the balls I'd been jugglin' my entire existence.
My spirits were elevated, when I found myself ― thanks to Craigslist ― embedded the depth of a greasy longneck beer bottle, inside Miss White Trash America. Two-toothed hubby videotaped the frenzied fornication.
A rickety screen door creaked on rusted hinges. A thin skin of sand coated everything inside this couples' desolate digs. I slipped on silt beneath my bootheels, as I fought the fractured floor for solid ground.
A sullied mattress — obviously retrieved from a local dumpster — had been hauled inside what appeared to be some militia members' apartment. The desecrated box spring was haphazardly abandoned in the corner, where we were fucking.
Cracked plaster, and oily fingerprints, was the motif about the place. Stained sheet rock was blanketed in Post-It Notes foretelling a coming apocalypse.
'Natty Light was the cocktail of choice in these parts. Hundreds of crushed containers, obliterating the baseboards, served as proof.
Since dawn was on the crest, I hadn't had a chance to crack a can of whatever that fat fuck Chef Boyardee was whippin' up. No problem. The duo with whom I was currently grindin' existed on microwaved fried food. Its scent permeated the walls; the air heavy with its remnants.
Hence, I simply inhaled, and received enough calories to warrant breakfast.
