Just for laughs.

A Portrait of a Happy Man

The sappy warble of morning birds burbling wet mucus suds behind the spire of their pointy masks and stinging the plumes of summer sun with wakeful eternity sounded. Or something like that… Mike’s teeth chattered with excitement as he explained, totally committed to the lie, why he could not for the life of him replicate his seed in the body of a current seamless though unenthusiastic lover. …and I realized,

• My darling.* My Sweet-Sweet-Sunshine! and I knew undoubtedly… I was called to be an Ambassador of Love on Earth in the name of Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ …and tethered to that call was a bargain, a minor trade: My devout celibacy of mind and body, henceforth and forever anon. Her plastic eyes stood frozen in their obsidian sockets, and echoed back the garble of his words. Operation Lady: Confounded was a success. Besiiiiiides Baby: waste not your plump and puckered flesh, O your taught and nubile form, on the agley withered limbs of my leafless arbor. Groaning at the thought of taking that brainless slut one more time on the floor of his kitchen, he leaned in close for a farewell peck. “Aaaand Scene.” Mike spouted certainly at the latex blow up doll leaning against the fading paint of his state funded section 8 basement-apartment. “Whaddo’ya think, Agatha?” Agatha Christie, his lifeless companion, said nothing, judiciously. “Well fuck you too you slack jawed bitch,” Mike mumbled coldly as he raised a rusted paring knife from the jar of blades sitting by his bed, and began to strut around the room like a showgirl. LIKE A VIRGIN! OOOOO! TOUCHED FOR THE VERY FIRST TIME! Mike sang in a disturbing soprano as he thrust is hips in a way that rattled his sweaty love handles and swung his package in staccato slaps against pale and furry thighs. A train of dancing ribbons attached to his low-cut kimono chased after the fabulous man. He raised the residue stained blade to a knot fusing his naturally thinning hair to a woman’s weave: purple locks of curls looking glitterier than a shameless faggot’s fart and less like any sort of sensible hair ornament.

As the pleasant blade seared artificial fiber,  Mike realized in that moment: Everything was going to be well, and that he was home.

Down comes the curtain of theatre and up goes the gunfire of applause. Mike had wrestled the part away from the quivering fingers of some artschool shy-tooth on merit of his methodical devotion to the role. So much so that he had hosted a slightly weathered sex toy as a lover for eleven and a half months: An incontestable professional to the core, my lovelies.