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Elliot Richman |
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THE RISE AND FALL of NEEDLE PRICK THE BUG FUCKER I was once called Needle Prick, the Bug Fucker, such an unimaginative appellation; and, like Cyrano, I dreamed of challenging my tormentors (wishing my member was one-tenth the size of de Bergerac's nose) as I composed a ballad, thrusting my 3 ft. sword home into their scared stiff groins. How I longed to have Cyrano's proboscis between my legs, until I reckoned what would happen if I had an orgasm. After having spent thousands upon creams, jells, machines, every internet SPAM scan to expand my teeny weeny, I was having a relationship with a Ugandan mortician who, as a girl, had a clitorectomy, as well as infibulation, where, the clit being clipped, the small genital lips snipped, the labia major stitched so only a small opening, as tiny as a matchstick or the size of my dick, is left to pass piss and menstrual blood. What bliss Awa Bleuis (a real African surname) and I experienced on the stainless steel embalming table, the only place she wanted to screw and I resurrect, a perfect storm of fit and fuck, assisted by joints, the marijuana kind, dipped in embalming fluid, known locally as "drank," "wet," "fry," and "illy," fifty times the strength of PCP, a hundred times that of LSD, known to drive kids mad as they hallucinated for days, many believing they were King of the Jews or monstrous shrews. All was bliss with Bleuis, until one night upon our bed of stainless steel, radiating fluorescent light like an angel's hallo, she mentioned when pumping embalming fluid into men, their members swelled like a porno star's; and sometimes, for decorum's sake, there was a "penisectomy," so to speak, a "Bobbit job," as they say in the trade, so the corpse would not be embarrassed by a hard on in an open coffin. So, one night after three hits of "wet" while she slept, I injected my schlong with Embalming Fluid Number 9, enhanced with lavender and pure nard, the ointment Lazarus's sister used to cleanse Jesus' feet, then dry with her hair, a phallic symbol if there ever was one ("Book of John 12:3") if you don't believe me. Much to my satisfaction my erection was like Our Lord's resurrection ascending to heaven, through three floors of the mortuary, finally stopping at the height of the Washington Monument, only to be mistaken for the real thing by a band of nearsighted fundamentalist terrorists in a stolen stealth bomber on their way to martyr heaven to spend eternity with 72 virgins, while I, now useless, penisless couldn't even screw my Ugandan-American maiden, even though I was a hero and won American Idol by crooning a tale of woe, far worse than Juliet & her Romeo. |