What You Can Do For Me

And after you come back for more, when you decide that your “normal” life is boring, myself and another angry pro-wrestler will blindfold you. You will be pile-driven into the hood of an old Crown Victoria and your ears will be stuffed with raw meat, so you will be unable to hear well. A freshly worn jock strap shall be packed into that pie-hole of yours so all we can hear are your barbaric grunts and moans. Now, you will be REQUIRED to attend a FREE motivational seminar in a filthy and cavernous garage off of Ohio St., behind Franklin Park Conservatory. You shall be firmly directed to wear a small cage on your greedy hog, to keep it under control. You will be bound in bungee cord and helplessly transported, in the trunk of the Crown Vic (fist class of course) to the bleak neighborhood mentioned above. Your body will otherwise be saturated in hot motor oil, 40 weight because it’s winter, and, even though you say you don’t drink, a cold brew will be vigorously shaken, popped open and placed in a very dark hole in your body where it’ll overflow. It’ll numb your insides as you are prepared for the motivational speech and demonstration.

This is when I’ll take your temperature with an oversized meat thermometer. In case you didn’t know, the brain isn’t ready to receive messages until the body is the perfect temperature.

If you are thirsty, you will drink only the pass water lavished upon you by the other wrestlers. Drink all you want we’ll make more. This is far more nourishing than Gatorade, believe me!

Part of being motivated means that you’ve turned your mind and your body over to a higher power. Therefore, a six-foot long, beaded rosary shall be repeatedly tucked into your dankhole and removed, slowly or all at once, at the wrestlers’ discretion. You will praise THE MIGHTY NAME and show your gratitude to us, your fellow wrestlers, and your teachers, whomever sacrificed so much for your freedom and narcissism. At this point, your blindfold shall be removed and I will gladly devour the raw meat from your ears with my swollen tongue and filled incisors. What I leave behind I leave behind for the ‘bullies’.

You will be challenged to a sword fight with the ugliest wrestler, and your restless brown hog will be uncased and dipped in very old lard. The strap will also be removed from your mouth. The hog shall be hand-milked by a mystery guest, a native of the village whose teeth are rotted away from years of crack smoke. The mystery guest shall then consume the milk and be given her (or his) payment. This shall mark the beginning of the sword fight.

There will be a crossing of the swords and then THE BATTLE. THE BATTLE shall involve a fair amount of lunging, jabbing, and ultimately, for you, sword swallowing. You will be taught to take the whole sword down that fat throat of yours, and you will practice until your attitude is positive and you can perform proficiently. Whomever wins the swordfight will then be allowed to park his mule in the opponent’s slippery (and hopelessly filthy) canal. Now, mind you, you will be up against two very deranged opponents and a crack addled “mystery guest,” all hungry adversaries who won’t stop until their snakes spit venom into your eyes… THE EYES OF THE BLIND! Or until you are put into an extremely wrenching forbidden hold. Or until you expire. Whichever comes first.

You didn’t know there would also be snake handling. Did you?!

Before you “graduate” to the next level, it will be demanded that you toss a disgustingly greasy salad. In return, your kitchen will be scrubbed clean with a steel wool pad. You will then be forcibly coerced to move a bunch of scrap metal, in bare feet, away from the cruddy sink area in the garage. Here you will “take your shower,” as a gathering crowd of street urchins critiques your body, ridiculing your apparent, and no-so-apparent flaws as they relieve themselves across your narcissistic persona.

During this seminar, each time you disobey, hesitate, or FAIL to complete a demand placed upon you, show any signs of a negative attitude etc. etc, you will gain WHIPPING POINTS. At the end of the session, we, the wrestlers, shall count up your infractions (e.g., every time you try to be a hard ass). Then, assuming you have infractions (trust me, YOU WILL!), you’ll be bound, again, in bungee cords and paddled with a rough-hewn plank and lashed with a Pat of Nine Tails (he’s a fugly, angry man that smells of salami). The paddling/scourging shall be performed on your bare ass and genitals. For each infraction, you’ll receive a minimum of 10 whacks/cracks. Don’t worry, we’ll know when to stop because you’ll have plenty of broken blood vessels in that bubble-butt of yours or you’ll be vivisected, the indicators of which are unmistakable.

If it is evident that your attitude has improved, and I’LL BE THE JUDGE OF THIS, then you shall be permitted to let your filthy hog run wild amid the jagged metal, broken glass and syringes until it is red, sore and exhausted (or uprooted entirely and fed to the ‘bullies’). It’s only when you attain humility and gratitude that the insignificant needs of yourself and your unsightly doppledinger will be given satisfaction. You will turn over a new leaf, guaranteed.

Scenario #2

You are hanging out in Goodale Park, trolling for hungry hippos. I come along and see you lurking outside the porta potties, put in central location for your fucking convenience. There’s nothing quite like the smell of nitrogen, vomit, and fecal matter when you’re getting your dick sucked, and I’m needing my attachment hose cleaned by some beefy little closet-case like yourself. You will be only to eager to have your mouth stuffed with my purple pulsing chorizo in the noxious gas of the outhouse. I let the monster loose from my trousers and wash that belligerent face of yours with my whiz. I only hope that it rinses the scales from your eyes. My bladder will be so full from the 12 pack I’ve just POUNDED that your face will get very clean under its steaming warm, high-powered spray. You will become intoxicated with delight as your shirt drips with man spray. Your nipples will harden as the sour liquid dribbles over them. Your undisciplined cock will be bursting from those tacky nylon jogging pants that you think you look so cool in.

I will have to take a very large dump as a result of the trendy new PRUNE DIET that I’ve been on… and I’ve got just the thing for you to do while I’m dumping. You will be performing what is known, in poopy poker culture, as a “blumpie.” As I set my skinny white ass on the piss covered toilet seat, I feel my hog growing to fill the “spiritual hole” in your face. You will be very cramped in the outhouse on your knees, in between my legs as I loose the contents of my disturbed gut into the pit of disgust below. Loud n wet is how it is. You don’t seem to mind the smell as you suck my eight-inch divining rod. For me, the rush of outgoing waste mixes with the pleasure of the hungry hole that is your mouth devouring my super-stiff red-rocket. I grab your ears and plow your face into my shaved crotch… the stubble irritates your lips but only serves to make you more hungry for the frothy little HEALTH SHAKE at the end of your late night meatsnack.

When compared to the stench of the portolet and the sour taste of my wastewater, my thick and plentiful genetic fluid will taste like a Porterhouse to your ravenous tongue. You may even crave a mouthful of my homespun pudding after you gobble down the potion I’ve got brewing especially for you.

At this point, all your angry, resentful feelings will boil to the carefully constructed surface that you’re so proud of. You will force me out into the park and bend me over the bike racks and plow through my unwiped ass with savage abandon, getting shit smeared up and down your belly and legs. This makes you even more vicious. You proceed to donkey punch me until your suds shoot out with such force that you scream a curse to heaven. I shall then knock you to the ground and press your face into a pile of Mounted Policemen’s HorseShit. You will be thankful that you met me and pray that no one will ever find out about this.

Scenario #3

Twelve trained and greasy Alpha Fratbros (including me) shall put your naked, sorry ass in an old claw-foot bathtub, see. And you’ll be willing putty for our rough skinned, battering ram arms. You shall cave in like a fragile maiden as we descend upon you; have you ever been a skin puppet with sausage fill’d?

We’ll begin by packing your mouth full of spreadable process meat product which, unbelievably, you cannot seem to get enough of. You are ordered to keep it in your mouth as the Fratbros leak all over you in a shameful display, cursing your sopping pate with hot words of disdain. You see, you’re not following the orders that have been given to you from on high. You are our subservient plug-in-toy, to be “sacrificed” in our phallocentric god’s name for your own salvation. We shall cleanse and overflow you with our salty waters. It’s antiseptic and you will grow to thirst for the taste; why, you might even start using it in your coffee maker for your GOOD MORNING CUPPA JOE. It’s something the Taiwanese have done for years, so why shouldn’t you? There will be no worry about our running out of golden currents, because we’ll have drunk plenty of GATORADE before this “corrections session” so there will be an uninterrupted flow of THE TWELVE RIVERS THAT SHALL MEET AT ONE OCEAN. Your impurities shall undoubtedly swirl down the drain through this transubtantiated medium. You are being glitched into a sugar wafer.

If these impurities don’t flush away— if they are stubborn little impurities— the fratbros shall break into four groupings of three and plunge, 3 at a time, into the only hole in your head that makes no sense at all: YOUR MOUTH. Separate groups will be operational on your fore and aft, clawing their clumsy ways to the middle of the wasteland that’s becoming you. You’re a windbag that needs to be retrained. In a tough love kind of way. Imagine this, it’s like we’ll be washing your mouth out with soap, only different. It’s more like pump-style soft soap. You’ll have to prime and prime and prime and prime and prime and prime and prime and prime and prime and prime and prime and prime and prime and prime and prime and prime and prime and prime and prime and prime and prime and prime and prime and prime and prime the pump until a HUGE-ASS, CHOKING GLOB OF CLEANSER is dispensed. The personal gifts of the Fratbros shall leave their marks on your tongue, face, back, legs etc. etc. It won’t be unusual when you start speaking in Hebrew or Latin at this point.

Thus, your rehabilitation has begun.

Afterwards, when your stomach is full of “cleanser,” your deep and lasting wounds shall be rinsed once again by a host of twelve nubian maidens who are posing as sorority sisters (experts in the Maximal Arts of SQUIRTIN). You’ll positively be wallowing in the TRUE WATERS OF NINEVAH!

Praise be!

Now, you shall be carelessly removed from the tub and escorted, i.e., carried by your limbs to a steam room using the twelve male commandos. In the steam room, your aggression will be removed via your old dirt road. This road will have to be thoroughly bulldozed in order for the free flow of cars (i.e., life energy) to reoccur. A repaving using Quikrete brand cement will be necessary. This isn’t a metaphor.

You have been a husk for too long. You will have to experience an archeological dig on your person the likes of which the entire country of Egypt has never seen.

We shall extract each of your teeth as tokens of your implied sincerity and respect for your brother and sisters who have given so much to you. And taken so much away.

Your rapidly cooling armpits will be filled with strawberry jam and fucked. Your bluing thighs will be smeared with duck fat and fucked. Your puffing face will be, once again, filled with the glorious hogs of your masters/brothers. Your evaporating ego will be lost to the supreme wills of the men in charge and you will become their brother through incest and demolition. It’ll never be your turn to correct a pledge. Next time, it won’t be you who’s the master hand. Next time, this will be a secret memory that never left this room. Next time, there won’t be a next time.

Confronting a Satyr, oil on panel, 1999 copyright GPD

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