Sunday, October 18, 2015

Vegas (Part II of Syrinx)

Now, Skeeter's wiener hadn't actually pounded a human orifice since prior to the new millennium; strictly speaking, he was all talk no action. But believe it or not, even hairy balled flaccid tube steakdom does have its merits, especially in a glittery cesspool like Vegas that's teeming with opportunists, converging and multiplying like flies feasting on gilded shit. So from that perspective, Skeeter's impotence was an attribute, not a flaw.

Vegas. What better place on earth to fulfill his dream of opening the world's first Cunts, Punts & Blunts, a sex shop/sports bar and medical marijuana dispensary all rolled into one? The only chink in the armor was Faith and her moral uprighteousness. Where there's a will, there's a way.

 "Wives, submit to your own husbands, as to the Lord."--Ephesians 5:22

Miraculously, manipulating Faith into leaving her day care job at the Reformed Church of the Perpetually Unworthy had required only a modest degree of effort. By exploiting her devout and unwavering belief in the subservience of women to their husbands, Skeeter managed to convince her that peddling Amway in Vegas would permit her to serve not just him but the Lord our God, assisting them both in disinfecting and detoxifying mankind through bio-friendly detergents and phytonutrients. Any way you sliced it, this situation was a win-win.

Faith's zeal for meddling, martyrdom, and self-aggrandizement was a convenient foil for Skeeter's sleazeball business venture, allowing him and his limp dick to sponge effortlessly under the radar, milking the tit of human kindness and shitting out gold bricks (albeit mostly fake ones). And let's face it. Faith was an epic bitch, a real buzzkill who was so inherently unlikable that nobody really paid much attention to Skeeter anyway.

"A night in the arms of Venus leads to a lifetime with Mercury."--Elizabethan saying

Not everything that happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, the open sores Doris Patel acquired on her twat after an evening of oral tomfoolery with Skeeter being a prime example. Only Doris was convinced that it was Rasputin's evil spirit, and not Skeeter, who'd visited this grave psychic and bodily harm upon her. The smiling faces within the orbs she frequently attempted to photograph told her so.

Part I: Syrinx
Part III: Ham Planet

5 comments:

  1. That Skeeter is a rascal, ain't he?

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  2. This is why, all my life, I have never trusted anyone named Skeeter.

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  3. Kris, I can literally feel the fun you're having writing this. The energy, wildness, uninhibited imagination! Pure unadulterated madness! You really are delightfully whacko, my dear.

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  4. Ah, the Twenty-First Century Waste Land! The punishing language conveys epic disillusionment. I am waiting...

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  5. LMAO about the name of that sex shop/sports bar/mj dispensary ha ha! All rolled into one, now that would be something. The church name cracks me too, and so does peddling Amway in Vegas!

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