They called her, The Crimson Poonani.
Me: Grande Poubelle.
Together we saved Paris. Or, rather, the part of it that mattered.
It’s dead now anyway, killed by its own excesses.
Much like our love.
by Balls Malone
In the olden days of the Bavarian Alps, folk would whisper of the Anusrasiertleckenman.
As the story goes, on the vernal equinox if you slept out of doors or in a barn or shed, the Anusrasiertleckenman would visit you.
Wearing only undersized lederhosen, the Anusrasiertleckenman appeared in the form of a small, rotund man, perfectly hairless but for his marvelously swirled handlebar mustache.
Now, if as you went to sleep, you left beside you a pitcher of fresh cream and a bowl of newly churned butter, the Anusrasiertleckenman would strip you naked, massage your body and his with the cream and butter provided, and then shave your anus skillfully with a razor-sharp hatchet. Only when your anus was perfectly smooth would the Anusrasiertleckenman lick the rest of the cream and butter from inside it.
However, woe to those who might fall asleep out of doors or in a barn on the vernal equinox without providing the Anusrasiertleckenman his dairy offering. For this offense, or for providing cream and butter not of the utmost freshness, the Anusrasiertleckenman would exact a fearsome toll with his hatchet: adding the offender’s anus to the collection he would tote around in a sack made from a troll’s scrotum.
What an exquisite torture it must have been, to feel that blade’s edge in your anus, wondering the whole time if your cream was fresh enough to prevent your hole’s extraction! Thrilling!
These days, cultural anthropologists who can be persuaded to speak of the Anusrasiertleckenman tend to regard him as a cautionary folk tale emphasizing the importance of hygiene standards in dairy production. Of course, the hatchet ass shaving and rim job stuff is just Germans being German.
On the job I combine highly professional and skilled work with aggressive and horrifyingly repulsive guerrilla flatulence.
Well, alright then, Mr. Business Success Consultant with all your snappy answers for every possible scenario, tell me this:
What do you do when you’re giving an crucial presentation to the Board of Directors and your butt plug pops out and slides down the back of your pant leg, and you know from bitter experience that it’s going to fall out onto the floor right there in front of everyone? What then, huh?
If you have some kind of mental-hygiene, positive visualization, networking hack to solve this one, I’d love to hear it.
Brevity is the soul of wit? Fuck that.