Priests and assholes

The analogue curse contains only ass. My ass the flamingo boil turned inside out and from it I am delivered a moment’s respite. Artificially manufactured relief in the shape of a white, glossy missile inserted rectally for 2.49 a pop. Like the minmaxing heroinist I advocate Modesty in all things life, and have waited a full 30 says for this delight. Like the plights of living his needle purge my missile evaluate bowels and with it soul, to vacate room for silence and contemplation, a clean slate after a good wipe and fifty minute squeezathon shifting pace between an increased jailhouse Gangbang and the forging of pyramid foundations, compressing granite blocks since the Dawn of earth. Ah, that's a tad dramatic. But my god, it's a rough flight.

Chronic constipation will do to a man what choir camp would a Catholic priest, were it held in an open field, for all eternity, sun never setting, casting no shadows. Your joys are there, in plain sight, but just out of reach. The missile is a simulation. A necessity! Just like choir practice. Every turd outpressed a longing look, every wipe a thumbstroke cleaning from fleshy lips what God was never meant to see.

And so it goes. Insert the tomahawk, dream of little boys and pay the hour-near toll, pop down your local pub, inhale units on an empty stomach and devoid innards, a christening of this vessel’s maiden voyage in anticipation of the forthcoming capsizing once guts are stuffed to their limit with shit and bile once more. Order oysters, partake, write this veritable mess and feel proud, not due to content, but cus I can feel the Velvet texture of my prolapsed anus, pressed against my ass skin on the stool, or even better, the coarse hair of my ass jabbing the inside out, like the priest’s beard chafing cheek, blood of Christ heavy on his breathe. Aaah, to be young once more.