Came the day all the microphones in the world turned into penises. Sportscasters sported in their fists big dicks. On location in Beirut, some guy in a suit suddenly found himself spewing the news into an orgasm. Frank Sinatra, Ronald Reagan and all the presidential candidates began to resemble nothing more than a bunch of arrogant cocksuckers.
To avoid the charge of homosexuality, the President was kept under wraps. The First Lady stood before the podium, like Cinderella at a gangbang, and declared a national emergency.
The situation worsened. By afternoon of the second day, every speaker on earth had metamorphosed into a throbbing, hairy vulva. Over the air, fundamentalists howled this was the wages of society’s obsession with sex to the exclusion of Jesus. But since these prophets ranted into squirting hardons, their jeremiads proved hard to swallow.
Throughout the terror, Madison Avenue continued selling. Commercials screwed inside skulls. Chewinggum married suppositories. Cars supposed to save lives killed toothdecay on contact. Men sporting bras were invited to compare headaches, while scarfing a breakfast tiger; purchasing for added protection a brass doorknob. The 4th dimension turned up inside a kleenex. Sanitary napkins invaded the privacy of dogs wolfing horsemeat. Odor eaters burst, like overstressed rubbers.
Most of the public succumbed watching the latest chocolate filled bugspray. The rest fell to razors – knifed in the shower by rhinestone-studded mikes.
The third sex materialized. Then radiated starward. Humanity, at last cheap and affordable, if not free.
Willie Smith
aiurea press 