What Time is it, Motherfuckers?

Open your buttcheeks, boy. Ya hear me?

It’s 8.15 on a Monday morning, you fucks.

And I rise, once more to the pink marshmallow tones of the puma next door getting fucked ragged by her fat-dicked eighteen-year-old stepson, which happens at this time every day once her thin-dicked husband leaves for his job. She’s one of those women who grunts like the devil when she orgasms. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear there was a young priest next door exorcising a randy demon. And it’s fuckin fine. We’ve all done demon sex at some point, right? We’ve all drawn 666 on our foreheads in menstrual blood while forcing a tied-up billy goat in the corner to watch us fuck his wife.

Right?

There’s an odd smell in the air. It’s water-based lube and carnivore pussy and formaldehyde and old Skittles and that coffee from beans that were shat out by a dyslexic monkey in 1953.

And I’m wearing my fourth wife’s luminous lime green g-string.

I wonder if my sphincter must have gotten cold in the night again. What other explanation could there be?

It happens sometimes — the cold sphincter I mean. And for some reason, my ass cheeks never get cold. They’re consistently as hot…