If God ever existed she would have manifested herself as a ham and cheddar sandwich with a pair of giant tits. She would have loved to be eaten but would have hated to get fucked. So I kept eating her. She was loving it and I'm in love.

One bite at a time I escaped from the forty-hour-per-week mentality. Heroin addicts envied me. It was like attending a luncheon with Buddha, Christ and Garuda. I left full and never looked back.

You would obviously cave within hours and attempt to thrust your Irish 'breakfast' (it's probably not more than a nibble, I imagine) in me but I am a woman of class. My cunt does not drip for drooling baboons such as yourself. It, even with its primal urges and pubic hair, is far too sophisticated for a vagabond. It  is invited to all the best parties. Of course it always RSVPs with a plus one (I'm the plus one) because it does not want to come off as some mangled moose head that can be bought and sold with the snap of a finger.

So go ahead, stare at my heaving breasts. You will never touch or see them in the nude. Not even if I die. They would self-destruct, you slobbering jammie dodger. I may be close to thirty-five (forty) but they do not look a day over seventeen. That is unlike your spaghetti and meatballs. The probably look so run down an old Sicilian wench would shriek at its sight but gobble it reluctantly in an attempt to cure her insatiable appetite for crème de la twit.

My men ARE class. Their salaries match their smiles. Of course salaries still matter when you're trapped on a desert island with a man! How else would you pay your way out? With hopes and dreams while you dangle your nauseating flaccid steak and potatoes in one hand and hold an overdrawn debit card in the other?

You! You odious man! I bet you take public transportation. Riding around, tongue draped over your chin, whistling and groping at night walkers and good Christian women. If you ever dared to touch me I would scream! The thought of you in general is revolting and I ought to report you to the authorities out of principle you filthy pocket pool-playing man you.

I smoked a hit of D.M.T. I had lying around and here's what went down: Nothing too exciting.

I fucked it up. Didn't smoke enough. Choked on the smoke and exhaled too soon. Missed out. Sat at a differing angle. Changed my judgment, said, "fuck it" and went to a local bar to forget about it all.

I'm not sure if I experienced residual effects from the D.M.T. but shit got weird when the French girl with the accordion got on stage to sing about penises. Then there was the other girl, Melissa. She was cute but I lost track of her in an unconventional burrito. Sad claims to make but this is how it happens. Beg to differ? Fuck that. This IS how it happens.

Bill and Donnie walked in. Rachel and Denise, caught in the headlights of a semi that has no intention of braking, stopped, stunned, and stared at the men only to succumb to the sudden urge to crack up.

The women laughed and the men walked past, not really knowing what to think. They sit down in the living room and Bill turns on the t.v.

"Have you ever gone to the bathroom to take a piss and found a very long hair mingling with your carnival when there's no reason for one to be there?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you haven't been with a woman in a while, and out of the blue you pull out your snake to refill the Hudson and there's a long hair wrapped around your straw. Has that ever happened to you?"

"Well, could it be due to poor personal care?"

"I don't go more than a week without whacking the weeds. And what are the odds I've been missing this one hair all these years only to have it fall out suddenly?"

"Wait, are you telling me you haven't dipped your pen in Rachel's ink in a while?"

"It's this thing we've been trying out recently that's supposed to get us to bond. She gets sauced by another guy while I watch."

"That's fucked." Bill smirked.

"Ha ha, funny."

"How did you get roped into something as crazy as that?"

"Our marriage counselor suggested it. She said it would help me feel connected to her."

"Does it work?"

"The first few times it pissed me off so now I just bring a book to keep my mind off it."

"Do you at least get to putt in some other chick's green in front of your wife?"

"No."

"That's like... feminism out of control or something, man. You got to put an end to that."

Donnie shrugs. "The only thing I can really do -"

The door to the apartment was broken down and two men wielding shotguns raced in, and in a panic, they immediately fired shots at Rachel and Denise. The men, realizing they shouldn't have been so hasty, bolted.

Bill and Donnie ran into the kitchen and found their wive's brains splattered on the floor and walls.

"Bad ass," Donnie says and they high-fived.

Reality sets in. Donnie awoke from his dream and cut off a stream of spit that had begun to drip down onto his mediocre book as Denise moaned, "Harder, Rex, harder."

He watched Rex's balls slap against his wife's pelvis for a moment and tried to regain interest in his novel...

I've amassed this collection of nice clothing that was picked out by previous girlfriends in their attempts to gentrify me for whatever reason. It itched the shit out of me but I would become so hopelessly whipped that I'd wear a sundress to impress their family and friends if it meant I was going to get laid.

So whenever I'm on the prowl I pick out something one of these jinnis manifested. It always appeared to me that if women sensed that I've committed to sharing my vital fluids with only one female they flock to me as if they have some primordial urge to take what shouldn't be theirs. So I occasionally dress the part and hope for the best.

Tonight the hot water was running especially hot. It felt re-energizing, especially on my tense and mangled back. I had not cherished it when I was younger. I closed my eyes and thought of all those times I could have lifted with my knees instead...