I don't know why we're out here watching our son tightrope the edge
of a sidewalk when we could be inside making sweet white-hot fresh dewy love. It's hard to say why we'd be
sitting on a bench staring at a bag lady in front of the McDonald's wearing everything she owns including her
pots and pans or the man with the face red as meat no sclerae throwing sunflower seeds to the pigeons when we
could be in our room winding rubber bands around my testicles until they appear as if they're about to burst
their sac. I picture myself in a hospital gurney both laughing and crying simultaneously. Why are we talking
about how the pizza shop by the carwash smells like it's selling slices topped with motor oil when I could be
licking the tzatziki from your pita moiling my face around in the wet cave betwixt your breasts applying
spittle like a salve to your throbbing hemorrhoid? Why discuss the bills when we could be discussing the
subtle differences between the odors of our rectal juices or why the sweat between my ass and balls often
reeks of nacho cheese? While playing the board game I can only imagine Miss Scarlet tying me up with the rope
in the Billiard Room- while watching the movie I can only envision spewing a green toxic sludge from the tip
of my phallus like that which Chevy Chase was exposed to in Modern Problems. I see miscreants on the train
humping air and I think I'd be doing that too if she didn't consider it cheating. You don't want me to become
one of those under-sexed penitents wearing a hairshirt living in a tree wound so tightly that I walk pelvis
forward like I've had the butt removal surgery occasionally sneaking off to the House of Ass to pantjaculate
in my ejacupants do you? Then know this- when I reveal these secret longings to you, they mean something.
Though that meaning can be obscure.