The Fornication Files

THE FORNICATION FILES

by

Hugh Mungus

© 2016. Hugh Mungus

CreateSpace

© 2016. Hugh Mungus

First Edition

All Rights Reserved

ISBN-13: 978-1539318941

ISBN-10: 153931894x

CreateSpace

7290 Investment Drive, Suite B

North Charleston, SC 29418

“If you and I were squirrels, could I bust a nut in your mouth?”

— Hugh Mungus

To all those brave enough to admit they've been living a lie.

“They Brainwash Ya'. Come into the Church, Your Brain's
 All Empty, They Just Fill It Up Like a Jelly Donut."

(Bill Burr)

THE BIG LIE

L3: LAID LIKE LINOLEUM

SWING SHACKS: INSIDE AND OUT

TAKE A CRAIGSLIST CRUISE

CASE FILES

CASE #1: HINTERLANDS HUMPIN'

CASE #2: THE CLIT TO END ALL CLITS

CASE #3: JUST ANOTHER DAY

CASE #4: STERILITY & SLOE GIN FIZZES

CASE #5: CUTE AS A BUTTON

CASE #6: WELL-TRAVELED

CASE #7: OUT OF THE CLOSET

CASE #8: FOUR MAIDENS

CASE #9: MAKE LOVE, NOT WAR

CASE #10: ANATOMY 101

IN CONCLUSION...

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

NOTES

THE BIG LIE

So, I'm at this sleaze-fuck Days Inn off the interstate ― where an Ebony Goddess is spraying fountains of squirt on my turgid timber ― and I begin wonderin', "Whatever happened to Rick Moranis?" I mean Spaceballs; Ghostbusters; Honey, I Shrunk the Kids! The guy was huge in the '80s! Now nothing?!

My friend Larry ― who'd organized the event ― stood and began dressing, as the black beauty rolled on her side, exhausted, or bored out of her mind. Either way, I didn't care. It was Number 123 on the Newbie List for 2011 ― a year in which I wasn't able to "come out and play" for two months.

Hence, I felt that stat was fairly respectable. Nothing the Global Institute of Numbers Guys would find impressive, but still a personal victory, in the face of an obvious height deficiency, as well as a complete lack of "good looks."

Our Host with the Most hurriedly clad himself, in an effort to be on time for the Winger concert he'd paid $14.37 to attend. Simultaneously, our coal-colored cutie headed to the shower, as I sat back and stroked probably the only reason I was able to have sex with such a delicious damsel.

"Slave existence on this remote insane asylum of the Milky Way is strange," I thought to myself. Most humans don't even realize they're incarcerated ― prisoners of a fucked-up system they erroneously believe they control.

It had taken Larry over an hour to coerce our most recent Conduit of Carnality into stripping down, sucking and fucking ― all of which she excelled at greatly.

The pre-coital conversation had centered around religion ― not an easy path to traverse when seeking sex, unless, of course, you're a priest, and your object of affection is an alter boy. Ostensibly, this darkened dame sang in her church choir, her father was a pastor and she, herself, kept uttering the phrases, "My God this" and, "My God that."

I remained quiet on the sacerdotal front, knowing my disdain for anything remotely religious would deny me the precious sex I craved, and that all-important "next Number." When said and done, it was the sagacious modus operandi. Not only did I wind up atop an awesome achromatic ass, but a second lusty lady wandered in ― as I reclined, nude and jacking ― decided she liked what she saw, and chose to take a test drive, whilst buffing her boyfriend's boner.

Apparently, Larry had scheduled this latest lass, in case our sable senorita flaked. As it so happened, both beauties showed, stripped and sought semen.

While this second sally came hard on her significant other's schlong, and simultaneously slathered my staff, I cogitated, "Those fuckers tried to keep me from graduating their stupid indoctrination institution ― referred to as high school ― because I wrote an essay they deemed 'too incendiary.' " My English teacher literally sat me down, and told me I'd never be a writer.

I may be a hack, but I've got 19 books to prove Darla Dream Dasher wrong:

Talk about inspiring youths to consider suicide!

Of course, George Carlin came to mind ― which brought a smile to my face ― as I pictured him perspicaciously pontificating:

Here's a bumper sticker I'd like to see: […] "We are the proud parents of a child who has resisted his teachers' attempts to break his spirit, and bend him to the will of his corporate masters."

After the daring duo departed ― sometime around midnight ― I sat in my truck, staring at the highway that would take me home. It had been decades since I'd learned how fucked-up this system is that enslaves us. I was proud I refused to acquiesce to it, and had overtly spoken out in opposition to it.

"I don't like being a slave," I ruminated. "I hate it!" For others, it's the only way they can exist ― controlled by esoteric entities, so they, themselves, can feel a false sense of safety, and be obligated to make as few decisions as possible.

"Seconds on captivity?"

"No thanks. I'll pass."

I gotta have freedom! "If only more people on this planet felt the same," I thought, "perhaps we wouldn't be moments from nuclear annihilation every breath of our existences, and headed to slavery we euphemistically refer to as careers. Maybe if we thirsted for autonomy, we'd be traveling this Universe by now, instead of wondering how Khloe Kardashian felt when discovering a zit on her ass."

Everything this system taught you to believe in is a lie.

Working hard doesn't ensure security. Countless folk who've toiled sedulously are homeless and starving.

There is no Atlantic Ocean, nor a Pacific, nor Indian. It's all one big body of water, but humans deem themselves arrogant enough to determine where one ocean ends, and another begins.

Time Zones? C'mon! The lines aren't even straight. Why don't you just credulously believe internal combustion vehicles are necessary, Fukushima isn't steadily slaughtering us, politicians have your best interests in mind, and religion doesn't cause people to kill each other, or fuck kids.

We're existing in a Fantasyland above a transparent sheet of ice covering reality. We can see what's valid, should we choose to look down. That said, most of us would rather stare straight ahead ― doing our damnedest to purchase our next BMW ― as opposed to gazing upon what's real.

Helpful safety tip: Such indifference doesn't keep the ice from cracking, and thus forcing us to face reality.

As eons have progressed, and technology advanced, these fissures in the hardened water have widened, become extremely pronounced, and far more abundant. We can no longer ignore the fact that those we refer to as our leaders are actually our enemies; the systems we place belief in are not only invalid, they're insane; the damage we're causing the Earth ― our one and only home ― is bringing about our own demise.

What does the above have to do with exponentially increasing your number of sex partners?

Everything! If you believe in the tenets of this paradigm, the blog in your grimy mitts will still be of tremendous use to you. That stated, once you comprehend the system we adhere to is a big lie, you'll no longer feel pressured to be with just one woman; you'll denounce the incarcerating ideology of marriage, and be thrilled to sleep with ladies of all shapes and sizes.

Hence, you'll reap maximum rewards in the swinging arena, rather than simply adding a few numbers, via humping only those deemed attractive by stupid societal standards.

Hugh Mungus





L3: LAID LIKE LINOLEUM

Wanna know what it takes to get laid like shag carpet in the '70s?

Believe it or not, living a live porn has nothing to do with singles bars, big bank accounts nor dating. Of course you can go that route, but you'll be just as productive creating pie charts to diagram Drew Barrymore's transformation from fledgling neophyte to outrageous Hollywood icon.

Why waste precious time engaging in the superfluous? If you wanna hump thousands of housewives, stop believing the lunacy with which you've been brainwashed.

I did just that decades ago, and what follows is a typical day in my life. It can easily be a typical day in yours, as well:

He seemed less thrilled ― while watching me fuck his girlfriend ― than Playboy is with the proliferation of online porn.

It didn't matter. Like a priest in a foreign land, attempting to convert the indigenous population, I was on a mission.

It was day one de nuevo ano, and I was determined to devour all four women in attendance before the dinner bell rang.

Today happened to be the lovely Pamela's first time to a swing facility, and the pick-up lines effusing from my mouth were as smooth as a baby's ass...

A baby lizard, that is.

My forked tongue was no hindrance to me on this date, as Pamela grabbed my horn, and played a tune that rivaled the theme from The Greatest American Hero.

The entire time, my sights were set on a petite brunette in a collar, providing her man as much head as a guillotine during the French Revolution.

Similar to placing the words "mustache" and "woman" together, I realized what I was doing was wrong, but ― like presidents killing innocent people ― couldn't help myself.

When Pamela bobbed to her boyfriend's boner, I took the opportunity to dangle for the dark-haired damsel, while she worked hubby. The brunette welcomed me inside her mouth ― which was hotter than a freshly-baked biscuit.

I excogitated a catalogue of stupid jokes, so I wouldn't blow my seed faster than Monsanto's patented variety, all over everything in sight.

"Meteor showers," I thought. “Great idea! Those rocks must get filthy flyin' around space."

Minutes later, round, brown babe was downin' different dong, and I was leading Pamela back to the Mattress of Mischief. There, 20 seconds of her life, and two condoms, were more wasted than trees transformed into junk mail. I sprinted to the Jacuzzi, where a wild woman soaked.

It seemed I'd be less successful with this one than my dream to make Sherman Hemsley's face — a la George Jefferson — the new KKK logo.

After approaching Chick Numero Tres, I was certain she'd been raised by hyenas and, as a result, couldn't speak. Her penetrating stare burnt holes through me like smoldering cigarettes through battered wife flesh.

My attempts at conversation were less well-received than a Larry the Cable Guy Carnegie Hall concert.

Eventually, though ― thanks to her ephemeral paramour's suggestions ― the situation stabilized…

The same way the whole Fukushima scenario is rock-solid!

Our object of arousal sat on the edge of the hot tub, spread her pussy wider than the gap between a pacifist and Hitler, and beckoned me to place my fingers inside. Without uttering a word, she stroked my affectionate appendage, transfixed by it the way one would be a gruesome highway accident.

Moments later, she mumbled, "Be gentle with me."

At that, we were off to the bed more quickly than clothes in low-budget porn.

A condom was donned; lube applied; I got two inches in, and she squealed, kicking me back against the wall. Like a nurturing wolf mother, I licked any wounds clean ― between her legs ― and went for a second attempt. Minutes into this subsequent try, I was again kicked off like a rookie rodeo rider.

Comprehending the possibility of intercourse was less strong than a mild scent, I laid back and this crazed chiquita commenced a manual massage on my member.

A second suitor entered the ring, as our fearful female began sucking like a Broadway version of TV’s Home Improvement.

After several minutes, she removed her head from my stiffened staff, squirted milk from her nipples and asked everyone in attendance if they had drugs.

Akin to a Barry Bonds home run, I was outta there and racing for Contestant Number Four ― who was drunk like Dean Martin, and floating in the deep end, observing guys jack-off around her.

With five minutes left in the evening, a suitor shot a disgusting load in the pool, as this little Asian kept her eyes affixed on my hardened happiness.

Another misfire to the side by some random, out-of-control gunslinger.

I pulled my chair directly above this gorgeous geisha, as she slurred I was too big for her.

I'd endured countless shutdown responses in the past, but this one left me in tears. Y'know? The kind congressmen would cry if it became mandatory they receive no more than minimum wage.

At that, sloppy sally left, nearly drowned, and fucked some other dude at the opposite end of the now-cummed-in Sea of Sperm.

Upon returning home, I perused an E-mail from a former fling, apprising me she was trapped in Manilla ― after being "robbed at gunpoint" ― and in need of $2,500.

Concluding I'd hook-up with four women every day until 2003, I’ve now been celibate the past week. That said, my hands still love me, and I’m as well as a deep, brick-lined hole containing drinking water.

Each and every day is a new adventure ― which is the way life should be for everyone. Unfortunately, we've been led astray; indoctrinated into believing we have to suffer; told we must follow the rules ― rules, no less, those in control have made for us. We're informed we have to marry, procreate, enslave ourselves and die…without ever having lived.

Which path you take is up to you. That said, you'd probably be wise to live your life for yourself, as opposed to the ideals of others.

So, what is this magical elixir I've discovered that allows me ― a total dork ― to get laid like linoleum?

One word: swinging. Whether you term it wife swappin', group sex or dissolute debauchery, it all equates to the same thing: living a live porn.

If you met me, you'd have a hard time believing I hadn't been beaten up every day in high school, and voted Least Likely to Accomplish Anything. That said, to date, I've played with over 3,600 women, and am rapidly approaching the 3,700 mark. Without the advent of swinging ― which I've deemed more important than the alternating current motor ― I'd still be a virgin. I'm living proof anyone, including losers, can squeeze every drop of nectar out of life, and live like kings.

Whether you find yourself at a sex club, a house party or in a private setting ― thanks to an online connection ― swing. You'll be exuberant you did. By doing so, you'll have created memories nobody ― including the government, or any other controlling entity ― can take away from you. It's these fond remembrances that will make your life full and complete.





SWING SHACKS: INSIDE AND OUT

"So, what does a typical swing club look like?" you query.

There's no standard answer to that, as all swing shacks are different. Some are private homes, while others are actual places of business. Many allow overt nudity, and a multitude have a dress code. There are sleazy locales in sleazy parts of town, and there are upscale venues in opulent areas.

Hence, when it comes to swing clubs, we're talkin' variety.

Most porn palaces will probably have at least a TV or two playing XXX flicks. You're likely to encounter a hot tub, or tubs, and ― on occasion ― a pool. Beds ― either in public rooms, or private ― tend to be a common feature. Some locales have lockers where customers can store their clothes; others don't.

Dark lighting, and black lights, aren't uncommon. Condom machines, theater screens, and the occasional bar are also amenities you may come across — so to speak.

"So, how do I find swing clubs near me?"

As with so much information these days, details and locations of swing shacks can be uncovered online. One of the best places to start is a Website called SwingLifeStyle, which can be accessed via:

www.swinglifestyle.com

On the above home page, look to the left, where you'll find a cluster of links.

From that grouping, click on "Swingers Clubs," and be magically transported to a map of the "U.S.," with all 50 "states" displayed. Access the region where you wish to swing, and you'll be provided a listing of licentious locales in that area. Entries often come with Websites, street addresses, phone numbers, hours of operation, and general rules.

Here, you're likely to determine whether a venue is singles friendly, as well as on-premises or off.

Keep in mind, the list of swing clubs on SwingLifeStyle is not exhaustive, as some of the better venues in the country aren't included here. That said, numerous auspicious locales can be found, and accessed, through this resource.

A thorough Google search, in conjunction with a look-see around SwingLifeStyle, will provide you the initial information you need to get started.

Whenever possible, call the location you plan to visit, in order to glean as many details about it as you can. Typical questions one should ask would be:

1) Are single males allowed?

2) What's the dress code?

3) May customers wander around nude, and stroke themselves?

Sounds like a bizarre query, but should your best attribute be your erection, that's something you'll wanna show off.

4) What's the entrance fee?

This will often vary from weekdays to weekends; from afternoons to evenings. Perpetually busy times will be more expensive.

5) What days/nights is the venue open, and what are their hours?

Since so many people have weekends off, that's when they tend to play. Mondays at these locales may be far less expensive, but if nobody's present, that does you no good.

Such stated, you don't wanna frequent an establishment that's so overpriced on the weekends it leaves you insolvent.

As asserted in the There's No "E" in Horny series, steer clear of concupiscent clubs with a dress code. Their entrance fees will be high, and you'll almost invariably be dealing with a singles bar doubling as a swing shack.

With dress codes, a pretentious attitude may also be something you encounter. You're not present to compare yearly salaries with folks; you're in attendance because you wanna get laid...a lot!

In addition to SwingLifeStyle, hop on over to Dr. Emilio Lizardo's blog. Said site can be accessed at the following:

www.dremiliolizardo.blogspot.com

It's here you'll find multitudinous reviews on lascivious locales ― in particular, XXX arcades and theaters ― from folks who've frequented them.

Before I travel, I conduct fastidious research on the region to which I'm headed. Much of this time is spent on Dr. Emilio Lizardo's blog. From those who've forged ahead, you'll learn the best days, nights and times to frequent various venues. You'll also be privy to insider tips, including erudition regarding regular couples and females, and when they're likely to show up.

Parties are a different animal, and can prove propitious in your search for sex. Numerous regions throughout the U.S. host regular soirees, either at private homes, hotels or other designated locations. A great place to find these hidden gems is:

www.kasidie.com

As with any wanton Website, sign up with Kasidie for free ― circumvent any desire you have to pay ― and allow those E-mail invitations, and notices to flood your inbox. From there, conduct further research on the shindigs you're made privy to, and attend those that appeal.





TAKE A CRAIGSLIST CRUISE

On those dark and stormy nights in the middle of nowhere, the white glow from a computer screen displaying Craigslist (CL) can be a welcome friend. Although folks find roommates, TVs and diesel-powered Yugos on CL, this Internet resource is also superlative for those seeking sex.

One minute, you're bored, adding highlights to your ball hair, the next you're starring in a homemade porn with twin sisters and their friends from the bridge club.

What follows is the method I've found most efficacious when using Craigslist on a horny hunt.

First off, access the aforementioned search engine at:

www.craigslist.org

In the upper, righthand side of the screen, click on the area where you intend to swing. Large cities are represented here, so ― should your prurient plans include a small town ― access the metropolitan region closest.

From there, click on the "Casual Encounters" link. See the example below:

http://miami.craigslist.org/i/personals?category=cas

At this point, click the appropriate acronyms displayed; i.e. W4M, MW4M, etc.

W represents women; M stands for men; and MW obviously denotes couples.

A catalogue of current classifieds ― posted by those seeking sex ― will then be displayed for you. Click on those that appeal, and feel free to answer them as desired.

Don't stop there, though. That's the mistake most guys make.

Use the search field at the top of the page, and type as many keywords into it as you can. By doing so, you conduct a more thorough investigation.

I've a mental list of terms ― as follows ― I enter on a daily basis. This archive includes:

BBW

bukkake

CFNM [clothed female, nude male]

gangbang

gangbangs

gang bang

gang bangs

gloryhole

gloryholes

glory hole

glory holes

group

groups

[insert local porn theater names]

[insert local swing club names]

party

parties

MW4M

MW4MM

W4M

W4MM

I use alternate spellings for certain words because a monumental number of folks are borderline illiterate. You'll uncover considerably more postings if you go this route.

When responding to ads, have a rudimentary draft you copy, paste and alter as necessary. This will save time, and help you cover far more ground.

What follows is the blueprint I use:

Hi!

My name's Hugh, and I'm responding to your Craigslist classified seeking single men.

I have dark hair, dark eyes, an athletic build and a [insert your penis size here] inch cock. I'm single, straight and DDF [drug and disease free]. I can easily travel, and my schedule is very flexible. Thus, I can work around what's most conducive for you.

Should you be interested, and care to take pics or shoot video, I'm obviously not camera shy. [I attach clothed or nude photos of myself, as specified]. :)

I've participated in numerous twosomes, threesomes, foursomes, moresomes, gangbangs and orgies. In addition, I've organized group events for years, and would love to help bring your fantasy to fruition.

If you'd care for additional pics ― body, cock and face ― or require further information, please don't hesitate to ask. I can always be reached at:

[Insert your E-mail address here].

Thanks so much for posting such a great ad!

Hope you're having a fantastic day!

:)

Hugh

<End of draft.>

Feel free to use any ideas from the above.

In addition, have pics ― both non-nude and nude ― at the ready. Take some time with this. Shoot your photos from a decent camera, add sepia tone or black and white, etc.

You can also place your own classified on Craigslist. This is the path I previously took when CL didn't require a cell number to do so. Since they now do ― and I don't have a mobile phone ― I simply respond to ads.

In addition, I found that placing a classified was too laborious. You'll encounter innumerable guys, on the other side of the Internet, pretending to be couples or women. Determining who's real, and who's fraudulent, takes considerable time and effort.

Like any sex resource ― be it a swing shack, or an Internet search engine ― you'll have your busy times on Craigslist, as well as your slow. Over the past seven years ― which is how long I've been using CL ― I've probably hooked-up with four hundred couples and single females, thanks to said site.

Again, CL is a lot of work, so just be patient and dogged in your efforts. That said, Craigslist can be a great supplement to the regular sex you find at swing shacks.

I average a 3% return from CL. That means I hook-up with 3% of the women from the ads I respond to. Sounds like a horrible ROI, but if you take an hour a day to reply to 10 classifieds, you'll average between one and two new women per week, thanks to Craigslist. Not bad for such minimal effort.

In addition, CL offers prodigious variety ― something you'll encounter at swing clubs, but not to the degree you'll enjoy it on Craigslist. Such is due to the fact CL offers multitudinous locations ― many of them private homes ― where people are more comfortable exploring their wilder desires.

At public venues, roleplaying and less mainstream fantasies are often shunned. At private homes, folks tend to feel more in control of the action. Hence, they can let their hair down even further than at a swing shack.

Responding to different classifieds means you'll be attending such a variety of events, the location will be constantly changing. Thus, each scenario is fresh and new.

What follows is an example of one of many Craigslist Cruises I took during my travels:

One expects a Craigslist Hat Trick (CHT) the way one anticipates Senator Chris Christy lifting his shirt, and exposing washboard abs.

Still, I pulled off this elusive sexual milestone recently.

A Craigslist Hat Trick — similar to a Hat Trick in cricket or ice hockey — is accomplished when one scores three times during the same contest. When it comes to the coital court, I view each round in seven day increments. Hence, a week comprises one game. Thus, a Craigslist Hat Trick occurs when one manages to hump three separate women — from three separate classifieds — in one week.

Doesn't sound like much of an accomplishment, but Warren Buffett is more likely to become a Chippendales' stripper than I am to experience this blessed anomaly again. We'll all readily accept the term Donald Rumsfeld: Male Prostitute, before I attain another CHT. Akin to Halley's Comet, or a devout Puritan housewife, that shit may come every 76 years, at best.

Once achieved, though, the gratification incurred falls between winning a trivia contest in a bar filled with two people — one who's passed out drunk — and finding a nickel on the sidewalk.

Unless the term Ron Jeremy University becomes a staple in popular nomenclature, we're not likely to find college degrees offered for Craigslist Hat Tricks. No worries. Schools are more full of shit than the sole, communal toilet in a low-rent tenement after a neighborhood hot sauce drinking competition.

Remember, one of the first things we're taught in these institutions of heightened propaganda is that George Washington never told a lie...which is a lie.

Hence, my most recent Craigslist Hat Trick had me smiling wider than Oprah's ass at maximum density. Nearly five years ago — when I achieved my previous CHT — I was certain I would never accomplish such a personal triumph again.

Like all Craigslist Hat Tricks, this latest required extreme groveling. "My unholy fuck; Those are the most beautiful tits I've ever seen! You're the reason the word 'goddess' is now a part of our contemporary lexicon! If you've never considered a career in porn, it's time you do!"

Not that I didn't believe my sycophantic statements — all chicks are amazing in my eyes — but, like an ass enduring dysentery, there's only so much crap I can expel before I'm empty. Plus, I've acted — if anyone can call it such — in porn, and know if the sex industry will hire me to hump on screen, they'll employ anyone!

As I departed the hotel/casino — in a forgotten portion of some equally forgotten state — I recalled the past five hours I'd spent on this blue-green speck of space dust called Earth. Four hours calming a husband — more stressed than the need to stay in school, so that one can obtain a good job — and 60 minutes of actual sex with his wife.

Throughout it all, hubby — although not participating — was sweatin' like Donald Trump being informed, "We'll soon be permanently sewing your mouth shut."





CASE FILES

So many of the women in swing clubs spread easier than Skippy Smooth.

― Anonymous

Her tits were bigger — and more interesting to me — than the recent demise of American Top 40 DJ Casey Kasem. Hence, I grabbed those babies with as much glee as a shoplifter does merchandise, in a convenience store sporting no security cameras and a sleeping cashier.

From there, I migrated away from the pool table, and meandered into the back room where Liza was dancing nude.

Aware this Footloose female was the venue's live, flesh sex doll, I plied my trade with a Latin couple who spoke less English than I do street slang Hindustani.

Initially, the seas were rockier on this quest than an ocean drained of water. After an hour of watching this inebriated wife flash her hair-laden honeypot, though, I eventually had a pair of delicious, cellulite-riddled ass cheeks in my palms.

Fifteen minutes later, the duo in question and I were headed to the couple's theater.

Ten minutes following that, I found myself bangin' staff against a rapidly opening — and rather accommodating — doorway of delights, as the Mexican maiden beneath me pretended to cum.

Marv — a second suitor — made his way toward the festivities at just the right time. As such, I handed this brown beauty off — like a football behind the line of scrimmage — and headed to the opposite end of the grind house, where Liza was polishing pole.

Naked as a newborn, I positioned myself on the contiguous couch — a single article of clothing beneath my non-existent ass, in order to protect myself from a decade's worth of bodily fluids embedded in the cushions. From this vantage point, I stroked like a PGA player on the open fairway.

Within moments, Liza sauntered over, dropped to her knees, and tasted my toothpick. Because I'm a loser, a couple minutes into the blowjob, I uttered, "Hi! I'm Hugh."

At this, Liza gazed up from her task at hand.

"What?" she inquired.

"Hugh. That's my name. I'm Hugh."

This lovely lass rolled her eyes, as though I was more dorky than a farmer's tan; more retarded than Mr. Martini in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.

"Uh, yeah. Whatever. I'm Liza," she stated, before engaging in seconds on my slight snack.

Eight minutes later, she was spread eagle atop the dirtiest sofa in the U.S., accommodating my three inch throbber, whilst simultaneously suckling several, salacious swords hovering precariously above her eager mouth.

When it comes to swinging, make yourself more well-seasoned than a $200 steak, and as pro as Hank Aaron. At that point, you'll have no choice but to soar higher in your erotic endeavors than the SR-71.

Like a plane on auto pilot, with a dead captain at the helm, I'm not certain where all this will end up. That said, what follows is a small sampling of some of my own personal experiences in Swingville.





CASE #1: HINTERLANDS HUMPIN'

We’re so self-important. […]

Everybody’s gonna save somethin’, now. Save the trees; save the bees; save the whales; save those snails.

And the greatest arrogance of all; save the planet.

What?! Are these fucking people kidding me? Save the planet? We don’t even know how to take care of ourselves, yet. We haven’t learned how to care for one another. We’re gonna save the fuckin’ planet?!

I’m gettin’ tired of that shit!

― George Carlin

Road trippin' swing venues in the Midwest, I lighted upon a locale deep in the woods. What resulted was a 13 hour magnum opus of sexual torment, as well as a piercing preview into swingin' down-home-style.

Upon arrival at said locale before 3 PM, I proceeded to watch a looping lineup of XXX features, continually headlining an actor resembling a disabled Matthew Perry from Friends. Following three hours of this cinematic low ― without a tactile female in sight ― I realized I was in for a long haul.

I alternated walking the parking lot, counting the hair follicles on my satchel and observing our struggling post-sitcom actor pound away at delicious dames.

By 8 o'clock, things were progressing as rapidly as a peanut butter speed eating contest.

By 9, I was pulling fire ants off a giant, struggling worm along the grass lining the establishment.

At 10, people began arriving. Unfortunately, they were dudes seeking the same thing I was ― women.

By 10:30, we had our first female in attendance. Said senorita sallied up to the bar with her boyfriend, and extracted cream-colored tits from her blouse, whilst downing Buttery Nipple shots.

A smooth talker ― we'll refer to as Dong Juan ― approached, plying his product. Seconds later, he was rejected like a 12 ounce porterhouse down a vegan's throat. In the ensuing tete-a-tete, I heard the woman's paramour utter the always clever, "Fuck off!" and, ”Get the hell outta' here!"

Smoldering, Juan retreated to his table. Being consoled by Lou ― a second regular ― DJ applied the obvious ego Band-Aid, promulgating his wondrous attributes, of which the woman would now be unable to enjoy. "I work out two times a week! Bitch don't know what the fuck she’s missin'!"

I scrambled for a cocktail napkin and pen on that one, so the above is a direct quote from Dong.

By 11, a second duo arrived, securing a seat contiguous the first couple. Once again, more breasts were bared, as an impromptu handjob took place, though partners were not traded.

Discouraged, Dong departed. Seeking a front row seat, I grabbed his abandoned chair, and witnessed four bouncing boobs, and a flaccid penis being stroked.

By 11:10, Juan returned, at which point I offered him back his seat. Furious, he declined, and refused to shake my hand, as I introduced myself.

By 11:15, the show was over, but three more couples had arrived. I worked as much action as I could; however, being shorter than true tales, found myself denied like a 10 year old ordering a Martini at a bar.

Similar to a pinball against a rubber bumper, I bounced across the dance floor and was rapidly shunned by a second duo.

Being solely guided by sex, and having no ego ― due to the fact I resemble a Mexican game show host ― I finally struck up a decent conversation with Mindy and Raul.

After enduring three hours recounting of said couple’s wacky suburban adventures with six cats, three dogs and four kids, nausea set in. Unfortunately, every time I attempted to disengage from discourse, Mindy committed me to continued confabulation.

Eventually, I was able to excuse myself to the shit box. On returning, I watched in horror as every woman in the venue migrated to the couples' theater ― no man's land for the single dude.

I took up ephemeral residence in the adjacent cinema, where I could meekly observe the ensuing action through an adjoining window covered in tinting darker than Seal’s asshole. On the sofa behind me was Lou ― who'd previously told me never speak to him; Dong Juan; some gay guy named Jim; and a nameless, yet conversant dude, smokin' bowls, drinkin' PBR and jackin'-off.

I didn't believe the scene could've been more pathetic, until I discerned none of the duos in the couples theater were swapping. Each pair played solely with their significant other. This creepy-as-A Clockwork Orange activity continued until 3 AM, at which point everybody dressed and departed. The scenario was a sequence from the XXX version of The Stepford Wives.

The icing on the cake came when Lou broke the shameful silence, querying if I'd received sex that night.

What the fuck―?! I'd been standing across the room from him for the last two hours, doing my best to observe group copulation ― minus the group ― with bulletproof glass between me and anything female. How did this Heartbreaker of the Hinterlands deduce I'd received anything but a pair of balls bluer than a clear summer sky?!?

Hence, I informed said Seducer of the Sticks I actually did hook-up that night, fucking six of the 10 women on the other side of the glass.

"Good for you," Louis meagerly proclaimed in forlorn frustration, as he jacked-off against a vacant wall. "I hope your cock falls off."

Surmising Tears for Fears’ Roland Orzabal will be named Musician of the Millennium before single guys engage in heterosexual coitus at this locale, I departed.

On the drive home ― through backcountry resembling L.A.'s Crenshaw Boulevard ― I pondered my prospects. Being flaked on by numerous online hopefuls, it seemed I was down to one: a 67 year old nuclear engineer who — like so many women in these parts — expressed interest, but disappeared faster than virginity in a pro bono brothel.





CASE #2: THE CLIT TO END ALL CLITS

All the words on the wall

Look the same in the mirror

Every riddle and every clue.

You’ve got Allah in the east

You’ve got Jesus in the west

Christ, what’s a man to do?

They’ll find a cure for anything

Just kill the pain, or numb my brain

We see a man speakin’ the word of God

Proven to be a fraud

His own church applauds

Stop lookin’ out, start lookin’ in

Be your own best friend

― Van Halen

She was a butch lesbian with a thirst for dong, whilst her girlfriend was at work. I was a loser comin' off a blindfolded housewife gangbang.

Thanks to an invention called the Internet ― created by Al Gore ― our paths crossed.

The wild card in the deck?

A 60 pound Pit Bull named La Machine who mistook my temporary sex partner’s orgasms for suffering, and entered into protection mode. The above condition ― in low gear ― came complete with snarling jaws, foaming mouth, and gnashing of Einstein-sharp teeth. Think the aliens ― from the aptly-named movie Alien ― moments before they attacked.

In cruise control, this state incorporated light nips at my nuts, as I pounded this deadly dog's master. For whatever reason, it was imperative this killing machine ― more efficient than a Navy Seal on street-purchased speed ― be allowed to remain in the room, while I humped in 106 degree heat beside a broken air conditioner.

After engaging in several rounds of coitus, I noted my ephemeral partner's fingertip-sized clit, and commented how I didn't need a GPS guidance system ― as per my usual floundering ― in order to find her bliss button. To this, I was apprised said enhanced erogenous zone was resultant of testosterone the voluptuous woman beneath me had been taking the past two months.

Being even less of a medical practitioner than Dr. Dre, I queried ― employing technical jargon, "Isn't that the shit that builds up in a guy's balls? Who would want an extra supply of crap from some dude's nuts?"

"A female who wants to be male," replied this 44-DDed wonder of womanly wares.

Shocked like a squirrel eating through a power cord, my thoughts were as luminous as a Tim Leary overdose.

"Well, good luck gettin' rid of those babies," I referred to her tits ― which resembled twin cabbage heads grown in a carbon dioxide-rich environment.

"I plan on having them removed," my gender-confused friend responded.

Feeling the onset of tears, I queried, "Will you send 'em to me when you do?"

Less comical than a Yakov Smirnoff joke, my attempt at levity ended in strained laughter that was quickly replaced by more sex.

Upon leaving this woman's apartment, I was five pounds lighter ― due to the six quarts of sweat I'd expunged during intercourse. Still, I was satisfied I hadn't met her a year from now ― at which point she may have disrobed, exposing a small, malformed penis.

Holed up in a motel room that would be an entomologist’s wet dream, it was my third separate encounter in a week, and each rendezvous had been more strange than the previous.





CASE #3: JUST ANOTHER DAY

And still life pushes on

With or without you

We’ve got to carry on

Our will will guide us to

A place where we belong

Know there lies the truth

I am the believer who gives purpose unto you

― Dream Theater

Conversation at the bar was strained. Darrell sported twin hearing aids, and Betty was less talkative than a Mafia informant given the ultimatum: silence or death. Plying the couple with quadruple Vodka Tonics, I asked enough vapid questions to warrant the opportunity to hump this Titanic-titted lass.

“I’ll be in the basement cleanin’ my gun,” were Darrell’s parting words, before leaving his naked wife between my quivering thighs.

“That was a sexual reference,” I assured myself countless times over. Luckily, I appeared to be scared stiff, as Betty played a tune on my trumpet.

I’m sure this chick thought I was more lame than a bird with two broken wings. Still, I beat the alternative: her 853rd consecutive evening with an inflatable love doll resembling James Garner of The Rockford Files.

The mammoth bearskin rug over the bed was unnerving, especially after being informed it was one of Darrell’s recent kills.

Even so, the scene trumped my sole alternative: a palm similar to a worn-out catcher’s mitt, due to repeated use.

The evening’s "other option" had crumbled like a 1,000 year old saltine. Hours prior to meeting, she demanded I also hump hubby. When I asserted this wasn't a choice, said duo vanished like a tear in the ocean.

For two weeks, it seemed I'd been marketing myself online less effectively than an all-you-can-eat meat diner named Soylent Green.

Then, gloriously, from out of nowhere ― like a legal precedent shutting down the IRS ― appeared yet another guy wanting to watch his wife take peculiar penis.

It had been a busy day, which began less productively than strolling into the next room of your house to determine if the weather's any different. Initially, I thought I might have been more successful mounting a ski trip to Kansas in summer. Still, here I was ― atop the fourth female in 24 hours ― aware I’d worked sedulously in order to get here.

One store I’ll never frequent is Big & Tall. Almost as strapping as a female Mouseketeer, and nearly as attractive as a cadaver rotting in the Sun, men like me must rely on other attributes in order to get laid.

Hence, during the afternoon’s trip to a swing venue, I resorted to strokin' sword in front of a newbie we'll call Hot Honey. H-squared had her eyes glued on my skewer the entire time, as Hubby claimed he was desirous of watching his wife devour strange sausage.

In walks Navajo ― a horny housewife seeking sex. I performed whatever magic this broken-down Doug Henning has left in his 5' 6" inch frame, and found myself nude, atop this newcomer, on the Sheets of Shame.

All the while, H-squared and Hubby observed the proceedings in horror, mere inches away, as I flopped around like an epileptic having a seizure.

Akin to a couple of beaten-to-shit oil derricks, Navajo and I painfully pumped away for a solid 47 seconds, at which point I gathered my belongings and headed for the parking lot. There, Hot Honey and Hubby asked if I'd like to get a room at a nearby motel.

It was at this point I learned Hubby was overcoming jealousy issues, but hopeful he could keep himself in check.

Hesitantly, I rented a room at a regional Motel Sex. Ten minutes in, I was dining at the Young Men's Christian Association, as Hubby received what seemed to be unrivaled oral fulfillment from Hot Honey.

Asking if I could place my insignificant instrument inside Hubby's wife, he replied, "Let me fuck her one last time, in case she doesn't want me afterward.”

Trouble was a brewin’ like the morning menu at Starbucks.

I continued cautiously, while Hubby humped his wife. It was an agonizing affair, since he’d convinced himself she wouldn’t be the same after having me inside her. I failed to inform him women fall asleep on me ― bored into an hypnotic state ― as I penetrate.

When Hubby tossed me his woman, I could tell things were more turbulent than the ocean in The Perfect Storm. Hot Honey had already faked two orgasms on my tongue, and asserted she was enjoying things.

The lass was virgin tight. A minute in, Hubby inquired if she'd ever taken a cock as large as mine. To this, Hot Honey responded, "No."

I silently surmised this woman must've been living on an island of pygmies her entire life.

Hubby's expression didn't forebode anything but a derailing roller coaster from there on out.

Two minutes in, H-squared announced, "I'm gonna cum, Daddy! I'm gonna fuckin' cum!"

Hubby swiftly pushed me off his wife, delivering uppercuts to his own head. Hot Honey intervened, halting her man's self-abuse. I fled to the other bed, frightened like a ― well, a 5' 6" dork in a room of angry, normal-sized people

Within moments, Hubby was clothed and racing out the door, whilst Hot Honey was apologizing profusely to me.

Unnerved, I was still exceptionally horny and returned to the original swing venue, where I met Martha ― somewhere in her 60s, and new to the whole scene. Following a generous grope in the pool, this dainty dame hit the orgy bed.

Suiting up, I slid inside, and thought about starving children, dying dogs and baseball for the next 20 minutes. Finally, this beautiful babe yelled, "Uncle," proceeded to purge herself in the bathroom, and cleanse maniacally in the shower, whilst screaming, "I feel so dirty! I'm so goddamned unclean!"

With a half hour left in the day ― and Martha gone ― it seemed I was more likely to find a "Be Kind, Rewind!” sticker on a factory DVD player, than to encounter further action.

In walks a living porn goddess, sporting more ink than The Sunday Times, and hornier than an 80 year old virgin discovering her G-spot. This concupiscent kitty went straight for the bed with her significant other ― who resembled a stressed Bronson Pinchot, post-Perfect Strangers.

The lass in question proceeded to finger herself like the only suspect of a crime.

Hankering to catch the matinee, I pulled-up a front row seat, and grabbed my hotdog.

“Cum for me!” she demanded.

I told her I wouldn't wish that upon my worst enemy ― which, in fact, is whatever seems to be hindering Richard Marx from mounting a comeback ― but, in this case, I made an exception.





CASE #4: STERILITY & SLOE GIN FIZZES

What else is troubling me?

Mickey Mouse’s birthday being announced on the television news as if it’s an actual event. I don’t give a shit! If I cared about Mickey Mouse’s birthday, I’d have memorized it years ago, and I’d send him a card.
 
"Dear Mickey, Happy birthday. Love, George."

I don’t do that. Why? Don’t give a shit. Fuck Mickey Mouse. Fuck him in the asshole with a big, rubber dick. Then break it off, and beat him with the rest of it.

I hope Mickey dies. I do. I hope he goddamned dies. I hope he gets a hold of some tainted cheese, and dies lonely and forgotten behind the baseboard of a soiled bathroom in a poor neighborhood, with his hand in Goofy’s pants.

Mickey Mouse. No wonder no one in the world takes our country seriously. We waste valuable television time informing our citizens of the age of an imaginary rodent!

― George Carlin

“I’d be thrilled to find out I was sterile!”

Ed’s laughing ceased.

Since it was my fourth Sloe Gin Fizz, and I was neither buyin’ nor drivin’, I failed to notice.

“You get all these whiny ass clowns in movies, cryin’ like spoiled children, after their doctors tell ‘em their gun ain’t loaded. What a bunch a morons, huh?”

At this point, I was probably pontificating loud enough for the cooks in the kitchen to hear. It didn’t matter. I was rollin’ like an Ecstasy addict, and ― akin to a 700 pound man walking on soft ground ― making a strong impression.

“If I discovered I couldn’t have kids,” I continued, “I’d be ecstatic! That’s half the damned battle right there! You spend a small fortune on condoms for two reasons: to remain STD-free, and avoid getting a chick pregnant. When you’ve got expired fertilizer, you’ve already won 50 percent of the war―“

“I’m sterile,” Ed leaned in, gripping my collar, eyes more bloodshot than a senorita's crotch during the Crimson Tide.

In fright, I observed radio silence, as I realized I’d gone too far. Ed’s classified stipulated he was seeking someone able to carry on an intelligent conversation, not become a painful reminder of a feat he couldn’t accomplish.

“In fact, Melanie and I had been trying to conceive for years,” the troubled man whispered viciously. “When we learned I was sterile, she filed for divorce.”

With no lifeboat on this sinking ship, I sucked down the rest of my adult beverage, and felt whatever brain was left behind my right eye freeze.

Ed let go of my shirt, staring off at the massive tits of our waitress for a moment. Sitting back, I pressed my forehead to relieve the excruciating pain in my frontal lobe.

As Ed came to, it appeared the release valve had somehow been triggered, and I’d be provided a temporary stay of execution.

“But all that’s behind us, now,” Ed continued. “Mel and I are good. We’re good, okay?! I sleep like a baby every night knowing she loves me.”

I started to interject, prepared to inform this walking neuroses most babies wake up every hour in a diaper full of their own shit, but I judiciously kept myself in check.

“Another cocktail thingy?” Ed pointed to my empty fishbowl.

“Has Ozzy ever done drugs?” I replied.

“Ma’am? One more, uh…whatever it is he’s having, please.”

Again, Ed leaned in. “Look, I just want you to pretend she’s a high-paid call girl, and you’re her first client. Got it?”

“Sure as Genghis Khan didn’t die a virgin.”

Ed winced. “Okay. That being said, there are a few rules we need to establish. First, you’re only there to get a blowjob. Intercourse isn’t part of the deal. Second, no mention of me, or that you even know who I am.”

“Okay.”

“It’s all part of the roleplay. She’s supposed to believe you’re unhappily married, she’s a well-paid prostitute, and you’re her first john. After you leave, I’ll transfer cash into her account, so she thinks you’ve paid her.”

“As clever as a successful escape plan from Alcatraz,” I responded.

My handsome cocktail arrived.

“Oh, yeah. A couple more things. I’m an avid big game hunter, and I’ll be watching from the shadows around the house.”

That divulgence had me more on edge than a suicide jumper. I gulped, “ ‘An avid―‘ “

“Never mind. Go to this address,” Ed scrawled on my cocktail napkin, “at 9 PM tomorrow, and Melanie will be waiting for you.”

Said domicile ― the size of a shopping mall ― couldn’t have been deeper in the middle of nowhere if it was my literary career. I’d passed the last traffic sign miles ago, and appeared to be in the remaining portion of the country not comprehending the perks of street lights.

Upon banging a gargoyle door knocker ― sporting a facial expression resembling Tim Tebow’s reaction after discovering there’s no Jesus ― the most incredible woman I’d seen in 3-D stepped through the entrance. Clad in a dress more gossamer than Obama’s promise to repeal the Patriot Act, this goddess led me to a bearskin rug next to a fire almost as raging as my current hard-on.

“Would you like something to drink?” was her first inquiry.

“Would you like to get nude?” was her second.

As if her initial question hadn’t been uttered, I dropped my drawers faster than Mike Tyson dropped Marvis Frazier.

“Would you like to fuck?” was her third query, as she stripped away the tissue paper impersonating her gown.

At a mental crossroads, I recalled Ed’s initial stipulation: “You’re only there to get a blowjob.”

Gazing about a room rivaling the gargantuan dimensions of Liberace’s asshole, I couldn’t help but notice I was in the wolf’s den. The stuffed remains of bear, elk and lion glowered back at me from the darkness.

I remembered Ed’s hobby of choice ― big game hunting ― and wished the bastard could’ve just thrilled at stamp collecting. Scanning the walls for empty wooden head plaques with the nameplate “Hugh Mungus” beneath them, I felt the sudden need to evacuate my bladder.

When hands softer than the voice of a mute began stroking my amicable appendage, I responded in the affirmative, encasing my engorgement, and easing inside with the precision of a blind driver parking an 18-wheeler into a compact spot. In less time than it takes a Taco Bell fart to clear a room, Round One had completed, and the pretend prostitute raced for the facilities.

It was at this time I found myself alone, naked and gazing at the jungle of murdered animals snarling back at me. Not heeding the “no sex” rule, I surmised ― from the dark regions of this Amityville Horror House ― a rifle was presently aimed at my sweating sack. Visions of my bony body ― in taxidermy repose, between Yogi and Simba ― filled my 10 kilobyte cranium.

Hence, Round Two was even quicker than Round One, and I faked a headache before my female friend could cause my lower extremities to override my upper.

Thanking the lovely in question for what was easily the most arduous experience of her life ― outside of a hysterectomy performed sans anesthesia ― I ran for my truck. All the while, I congratulated myself on obtaining sex, and not becoming a trophy in the process.

When the supper siren sounded, it was an adventure more well-done than a burnt steak.





CASE #5: CUTE AS A BUTTON

Three out of four people now believe in angels…

What are you fuckin’ stupid?!?

― George Carlin

“Isn’t that cute as a button?” Phyllis queried.

“You bet!” I responded. “The button pressed by el presidente to initiate thermonuclear war,” I silently concluded.

Am I the only person who’s never looked at a fucking button, exuberantly exclaiming, "Well, that’s cute!"?

The Phyllis/Owen scenario was bizarre, as the latter attested he enjoyed beating the former; to which the former asserted how much she loved said rough treatment.

Naturally, I inquired, "Beating? You mean like winning in chess?"

“Hell no,” replied Owen, as he made a fist. “I’m talkin’ beating!”

To this, I asked if the hinterlander meant spanking.

"Yeah, that too," was Owen’s rejoinder.

"Slapping?"

"From time to time, but I mean beating!" Again with the balled-up fist, and a right cross into empty air.

"You punch her?!?" I asked, appalled.

“Does a bear shit in the woods?!”

“Not if it lives in the zoo,” I responded.

Strained silence, as rusty wheels attempted to turn with no luck.

“Well, I love it!" Phyllis chimed in.

"Where the fuck do you punch her?!" was my next obvious question.

"In the woods," came Owen’s inebriated reply.

"No, I mean where on her body?"

"Oh, gotcha'. Ribs and sides."

“Sounds like a menu entree in Louisiana,” I offered.

At that point, Owen displayed a quarter-sized scar above Phyllis’ butt crack, and produced the pocketknife that ostensibly caused the mutilation. Said senorita elucidated how she thrills when her man marks his territory.

"Couldn't he just take a page out of Lassie's book, and piss on ya'?"

Blank stares.

At this point, I'm wondering what’s to prevent Prince Violent ― sporting an NRA shirt, and alluding to owning several guns ― from givin’ me the shiv, while I’m humpin' his chick.

I recalled Owen mentioning something about attempting to bring one of his shootin' irons with him from the boondocks. I couldn’t recollect if he was successful in doing so, but with TSA comprised of pedophiles and the cast from B.J. and the Bear, that seemed vital info.

All this on top of Owen’s proud predication he thought he'd once killed Phyllis, while choking her against a tree. According to the object of his "affection," she couldn't sleep for two days afterward. When she did, she'd awaken in cold sweats, unable to breathe, clutching her neck.

As if this crap wasn't enough, Owen begins a drunken rant about "Towel Heads," and how it’s imperative the U.S. nuke the entire Middle East, and commandeer its oil.

It was a brilliant plan, on the order of jumping off the top of a 50 story building, to determine if you can fly. Wouldn't it be safer to launch yourself from the ground on that one?

"Excuse me, folks. Hi! I'm Hugh. I'm a sex addict. I just came here to get laid. Uh, thanks?”

It seemed Seal would successfully market his own line of facial skin care products before this couple would invite me into their cabana. All that changed with a single swig, as Owen suddenly crossed that delicate line between drunkenness and lucidity.

As if by miracle, my hands were suddenly cupping Phyllis’ 38-Ds, and I was being drawn into this remote bungalow by that all-powerful tractor beam known as sex.

Moments later, the woman in question was faking orgasms with the proficiency of a ‘70s porn actress, a thin sheath of latex separating our naked frames. From an undetermined locale, Owen wandered about, certain he was engaging in conversation with Grandpa Jones from Hee Haw.





CASE #6: WELL-TRAVELED

Every magic trick consists of three parts, or acts.

The first part is called the Pledge: The magician shows you something ordinary.

The second act is called the Turn: The magician takes the ordinary something, and makes it into something extraordinary. But you wouldn’t clap yet, because making something disappear isn’t enough. You have to bring it back.

Now you’re looking for the secret, but you won’t find it because, of course, you’re not really looking. You don’t really want to work it out. You want to be…fooled.

― The Prestige

“If you weren’t so large, I’d let you fuck my wife up the ass.”

I was certain I’d heard Merlin Olsen utter the same sentiment in an FTD floral commercial. Disgusted, I gawked back at the small, brown businessman. “You kiss your mother with that mouth?!”

This conversation must’ve been as pleasant for the diminutive dude as waking up naked in an ice-filled bathtub, a crisp suture above his kidney. That said, this was all his idea. I mean, he was the one with the wife, right?

He was the one who wanted to see said significant other suckling strange schlong. I simply happened to have a weird wang. I could’ve been one of a million other random dorks.

From a pinpoint in this suburban rat maze, the man glared at me, as though attempting to siphon what was left of my brain through my eye sockets.

Tense, I glanced around for a topic of conversation that would deter hubby from homicidal thoughts. “Ever wonder why it’s called a living room? Does that make all the other rooms dead?”

Akin to Larry Sellers’ homework, it had nothing to do with anything. Still, I was desperate to keep this guy from envisioning what I was about to do to his wife.

“So, uh, you said you travel and, uh―?

“Melissa.”

“Ah, yes. Melissa. Uh, Melissa doesn’t always get the attention she needs? Where is it you, uh, travel to?”

Squinting, as if mentally measuring me for a body bag, the man took an extended amount of time to answer. “Recently, Peru, Columbia and some smaller countries in Africa I’m sure you’ve never heard of; but I’ll be headed to Sicily and Scandinavia next week.”

“Really?” I gulped, having barely made it to a handful of local motels within the last month. “I― I travel often, as well.”

“Oh, yes?” The man questioned. “And where have you been, lately?”

“Monaco.” It was the first country that came to mind. At least I’d hoped it was a country.

“Monaco? Impressive. How’s the weather this time of year in the Middle East?”

Silence more painful than hearing the words, “Please welcome President Oprah―!”

“Uh, did I say Monaco? I meant Conoco―”

At that awkward moment ― more uncomfortable than a 28 year old at a junior high school dance ― the tallest female not playing in the WNBA entered the room, saving me from annihilation.

The Amazonian was definitely all woman.

Prior, the interrogating husband had informed me his wife ― who had yet to arrive ― was named Melissa. Fifteen minutes later, the lass in question ― with hands the size of first basemen’s gloves ― ducked below the doorway, introducing herself as Ecstasy.

More confusing than a 14 year run of the TV show Survivor.

Said senorita was 6' 7” in heels, apprising me immediately she possessed a vagina twice as deep as the average female’s.

The latter was info I was happy to hear, since I now knew she wasn't danglin' dong between her thighs.

Melissa/Ecstasy ― or whatever her name was ― asked her man for a glass of vodka. At this, I speculated ― similar to an old car in winter ― she’d require time to warm up.

More wrong than licking an electrical cord, to determine if it still had a charge. She downed the shot, and hit the bedroom. Within a minute, moans of rapture emanated from behind me.

I remained on the couch ― completely naked, watching reruns of Marlin Perkins castrating a feral cat the size of a Barcalounger, with a plastic convenience fork.

Deducing the event had begun, I entered the room. Hubby demanded I stuff my staff in his female power forward’s mouth, as he played at the YMCA.

Before following orders, I glanced between this gorgeous girl’s gams, ensuring she had feminine parts. She did, and they were more impressive than an eight year old kid who can speak 30 languages.

Melissa predicated I was "nothing more than a cock with legs," and only present for her pleasure. A tear cascaded down my cheek. "You've been hurt, haven't you?" I asked.

Said sally gagged on horny ham, drooling over salacious sausage, like a recently-converted vegetarian undergoing withdrawals.

Initially, it was solely hubby and I tracking this giraffe in the underbrush. Eventually, an additional suitor arrived, but appeared indecisive, since Melissa/Ecstasy was tall enough to dunk a basketball. After playing no more than 30 seconds, said stallion departed, and was quickly replaced by two other online courters.

This was my cue to make a rapid, yet acceptable, exit. “Thank you for your cervix!” I exclaimed, gathering my clothes and racing into the frosty, fall night.





CASE #7: OUT OF THE CLOSET

All governments are liars and murderers.

― Bill Hicks

Wish I could attest ― akin to a satisfying shit ― I'm euphoric with the way things came out. However, following five cancellations and a time change, the situation went more awry than a KKK parade through South Central Los Angeles.

The scenario was a pair of beautiful testicles; i.e. pretty nuts!

I arrived to find an apartment door left unlocked. Upon entering, I headed for the back bedroom ― as stipulated by the lass in question. There, a naked, nubile goddess awaited at the edge of the mattress.

Like a movie that starts out with the IRS exploding, it was a great beginning!

As previously specified, I stripped down and entered…not unlike a Dachau prisoner headed to the gas chamber. Little did I know this situation was less stable than a collapsing bridge.

It was demanded I refrain from speaking during this merger, save for an initial, “I’m here.” I was bequeathed a 20 minute maximum, and was to gather my belongings and depart upon completion of this suicide mission.

The rules were as follows:

1) Protection mandatory for penetration. If it weren't for the fact nobody in mainstream society would believe a person like me gets laid, I could be the spokesman for some obscure condom company. I'm apologetic for the rate at which I'm consuming rubber plants.

2) I was to receive a cursory handjob, prior to massaging the object of my temporary affection’s clit with my cock. There’ve been worse ideas pitched across the plate. For instance, the tinfoil condom.

3) Shortly thereafter, I was to initiate intercourse. A derailing train is helpful…when the tracks are headed off a cliff.

4) I could indulge in a box lunch, but it had to be a light snack.

The concupiscent queen with whom I was to copulate was to remain blindfolded during the ensuing action. We weren't talkin' a thin strip of material here, but an opaque, black stocking covering her entire head ― executioner’s style. I felt she may, at any moment, confuse me for a victim of the Inquisition ― since I’m an obvious lover of religion ― and brandish a headsman’s axe from beneath the box spring.

I followed the rules as though the dismantling of government depended upon it. Within minutes, I was naked and standing over this suburban sex slave. As stipulated, I lead her palm to my horny hanger, and a handjob ensued, while I played with her twin dollops of delight.

From there, I gently eased her back onto the mattress, stating I wanted to taste her like a home-cooked meal provided a starving man.

She responded that wasn't part of the deal.

Confused like Piers Morgan when confronted with real journalism, I hesitated.

Able to adapt like Billy Barty in an NBA game, I referred to my rulebook, mentally accessing our second stipulation. Hence, I began stroking clit with the underside of my swollen saber.

My actions were the fissionable fuse that set off a thermonuclear explosion the equivalent of Tsar Bomba.

I immediately noted rustling emanating from a capacious closet to my left.

Springing from the storage space, an acrimonious animal ― in the shape of a monstrous, irate husband ― emerged, fists balled in fury, prepared to do me damage.

"You said you’d use a condom!" was the initial exchange in which Thor and I engaged.

"I― I am," I stammered, shocked like a cow at the end of a beef herder's prod.

"Well then how come you don't have one on, motherfucker?!"

I referred to the 36 pack of jimmy hats at the ready on the floor beside me. "I haven't put it in her, yet. She told me she wanted me to massage her clit with my cock…By the way, who the hell are you?”

“Her husband, asshole! You come in here, and try to fuck my wife like a fuckin’ stud, without wearing a condom?!”

"Again, I didn't even come close to putting it inside her. I was massaging her clit like she'd asked―"

"We know how many women you’ve fucked! You think you’ll just come in here and screw my wife without protection?!"

"But I didn't―"

"I'll fuckin' drop you, man!"

At this point, I was gathering my clothes like guilt-ridden converts at a born again Christian meeting. Moments afterward, I was out the door ― manipulating shoes, socks, etc. ― wearing nothing but sweatpants.

Upon racing down the stairwell, I tripped, and my dong flopped out in front of a large black woman, to which I heard her exclaim, "Damn! Nice dick for a white boy!" as I streaked to my truck.

"Thanks!" I yelled behind me, as I couldn't get to my vehicle quickly enough.

The trip home felt like a scene from Colombo, during which fuckin' Falk continuously checks the rear view mirror to see if he's being tailed.

Upon return to my happy haven, I received the following E-mail from what appeared to be the mammoth man in the closet:

you had your chance to play with my wife. She asked you to play with her with a condon [sic] you didn’t want to. we still want to

What a wordsmith!

Marvin Hamlisch’s now-decayed asshole will be deemed the center of the known Universe, before I reply to the above ill-conceived missive ― which is more confusing than why people still vote.

Having to rationalize this scenario, I'm left to posit this damsel in distress has been married sometime, and realizes what a scam the connubial con is. Hence, she's fantasizing, and in search of bizarre bone.

Hubby ain't pleased regarding the situation, but finds himself coerced to comply. Thus, he's gonna assert his dominance any way he can. In this case, that supremacy took the form of threatening a guy who's short enough to be his 10 year old son, in front of his wife.

In conclusion, I'm steerin' clear of this Battle of the Bulge like a week-long family vacation for affluent, white folk to Cabrini-Green.





CASE #8: FOUR MAIDENS

It’s all about money, not freedom. If you think you’re free, try going somewhere without money, okay?

― Bill Hicks

Four maidens disrobed poolside, but only one tugged at Excalibur.

Sure as Craig T. Nelson from Coach is the evil overlord of Hades, this was PJ’s initial trip to a swing venue. Thanks to the Internet, said tawdry tart was on a first date. In fact, she professed to be in search of a relationship. At a fuck facility?! She'd have more luck proving Whoopi Goldberg doesn't retain a Y chromosome than she would uncovering love at an ass arena!

After engaging a couple ― who solely spoke Spanish ― in repartee that flowed like dried mud, and becoming more frustrated than a guy with a 12 inch penis and no pee hole, I plied my terrible trade with PJ. Our lass du jour was a buxom beauty with superhero squirting skills.

As sure as a pair of undescended testicles reside between Oprah's legs, PJ was nude in moments, enthusiastically consuming cocks in the Jacuzzi. She had more nuts in her mouth than a plump squirrel living in Central Park.

Akin to a skilled photographer, I got the picture. Seconds later, I found myself slingin' sausage ― against our leading lady’s ass ― with the vehemence of a hot dog vendor during a Yankee Stadium double header.

French Stewart will be crowned King of the U.S., before Jacuzzi sex becomes easy. Thus, I suggested an exodus to the Bed of Blasphemy: the most well-used mattress in the metropolitan area, although no one ― unless having sex with me ― has actually slept upon it.

My recommendation was heeded, and festivities continued on solid ground.

Not bad for a day that began so slowly, I initially pondered going through the metal detector at the airport to see if TSA would feel me up, so I could get my jollies.

I'd like to assert this recent journey to the cum cottage in question kicked more ass than Bruce Lee goin' 15 rounds with a donkey on sleeping pills, but I'd be lying. One salacious senorita ― when uncharted territory, though ― is definitely worth an entrance fee comparable to a Martin Sheen concert at SeaWorld!





CASE #9: MAKE LOVE, NOT WAR

The planet has been through a lot worse than us. […]

Been through earthquakes, volcanoes, plate tectonics, continental drift, solar flares, sunspots, magnetic storms, the magnetic reversal of the poles, hundreds of thousands of years of bombardment by comets and asteroids and meteors, worldwide floods, tidal waves, worldwide fires, erosion, cosmic rays, recurring ice ages, and we think some plastic bags and some aluminum cans are going to make a difference?

The planet isn’t goin’ anywhere. We are. We’re goin’ away. Pack your shit, folks. We’re goin’ away.

And we won’t leave much of a trace, either. […] Just another failed mutation. Just another closed-end biological mistake; an evolutionary cul-de-sac. The planet will shake us off like a bad case of fleas.

― George Carlin

Staring down the barrel of the well-oiled handgun, I pumped away at the sweaty, black, female Marine beneath me. The Sun set through the hanging blinds partially covering the sliding glass door to this shitty apartment.

Beside us, stroking himself like the family dog, was the dark damsel’s dude ― discount hairpiece more lopsided than a popularity contest between Kanye West and a high school nerd. “Fuck her! Fuck her like she needs to be punished!” the rotund, brown man barked.

“Is it loaded?” I motioned to the weapon on the dresser beside the squealing mattress.

“Always,” the chiseled woman under me replied.

I took in the menagerie of war paraphernalia perfectly placed along the walls, as if done with loving attention. Some people exhibited sports trophies; others displayed pictures of their kids in the fuckin’ 4-H club. This woman had explicit photos of what’s known as war porn ― in this case, pictures of herself posing with murdered Middle Eastern civilians and soldiers.

The onset of orgasm, as my pro tempore paramour began to cum. Her head turned to the side, and I took the opportunity to direct the muzzle of the firearm away from me. In doing so, I noticed the safety was more off than Bill O’Reilly’s unbalanced brain.

“That’s it!” shrieked the squat suitor squeezing snake at the precipice of the bulging box spring. “Make her pay for her sins!”

Thanks to the dying light, I couldn’t discern if the agglomerate of objects hastily piled at the other end of the room were avocados or hand grenades.

Everywhere I looked were portraits of pillage, and trophies of trench turmoil. I felt as though I’d transported to the survivalist shelter of a backwoods militia member. Either that, or the wet dream of a creepy, combat-craving 17 year old, using fake ID so he could “serve” his country by killing people with brown skin.

I surmised this weird woman masturbated to the stack of Soldier of Misfortune magazines I observed alongside the bed when I’d entered. I conjectured the glossy pages of the propaganda rags were stained with plenteous amounts of chick juice.

As the solar ball — friend to us all — descended beneath the mountain range in the distance, and whatever illumination gracing the room died, I once again became afraid of the dark. When the lights went out, what would stop this woman from diving deep into an Iraq War flashback, scrambling for her piece, and stuffin’ me full of more lead than a refillable pencil?

For all I knew, on the other side of that closet ― no more than 10 feet from where I was using my depth finder ― she might possess an arsenal that would make a Blackwater subcontractor drool.

Given her physical conditioning, the woman could easily breach, fire, and fill me with more depleted uranium than the 300-plus tons U.S. assassins unleashed on the populations of Afghanistan and Iraq.

“Fuck her! Fuck her!! Fuck her!!!” came the maniacal war cry, somewhere in the nebulous dark beside me.

I pictured a pair of blood shot eyes ― stripped of fluid ― having been open longer than a 24 hour fast food joint. Behind said psycho sockets ― within a rotting husk termed a skull ― lurched a brain that was never meant to be; a Dr. Frankenstein invention.

Was it possible these two were conspiring to do me harm? Seemed a stretch the likes of a straddle split spanning the Grand Canyon, but stranger things have occurred. Just look at Mickey Rourke’s current face.

In the blackness, a door opened. Since horny hubby was beside me, and his wife beneath, it was a sound ― like a fart from a man with no asshole ― neither could’ve generated. In less time than it would take Ray Charles to flunk a driving test, I was scrambling for my clothes and racing for freedom.

Behind me, muted voices emanated:

“What happened?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where’d he go?”

“And I was just about to fake another orgasm!”

In my sprint for safety, I tripped over something alive. Between my feet, I heard a yelp of pain, as I stumbled across a warm, breathing, furry whatever.

Wrenching the apartment door open, I looked back. In the scant illumination provided by the communal hallway lights, I caught sight of a cowering Chihuahua behind me. It didn’t matter. Pooch or land mine, I was more gone than individual thinking in church.





CASE #10: ANATOMY 101

Days grow shorter and the nights are getting long

Feels like we’re running out of time

Every day it seems much harder tellin’ right from wrong

You got to read between the lines

Don’t get discouraged, don’t be afraid, we can

Make it through another day

Make it worth the price we pay

― Triumph

Hookin' up with women is easier than choking to death on one's own vomit, whilst watching The Ellen DeGeneres Show. Thus, I lose less sleep over being turned down than a narcoleptic overdosing on Lunesta and NPR broadcasts.

Been workin' it the better part of a week, and it appears to be takin' a dive akin to a Rodney Dangerfield Triple Lindy.

Seems more worthwhile than the impetuous shit most people come up with, though:

I'm 104 years old, and I've never run a triathlon, after skydiving naked without a parachute, following a bare-knuckled brawl with a pack of ravenous lions. Even though I don’t have any arms, and haven’t walked since the age of three, I'm goin’ for it!

Of course, CNN is on the first leg of this fucker’s stupid-ass journey, promoting his asinine attempt to kill himself ― because somebody didn't fuck enough women when he was younger ― like it’s an inspiration to us all.

As should be expected, the bastard suffers a massive coronary before he can even leave his wheelchair, shitting himself on camera. At that point, the pack of lions break free from their cage ― mauling this son of a bitch in his death throes. Shortly thereafter, the plane he was slated to skydive from loses an engine, and crashes into the entire sordid mess.

I may not always be as successful as a home run competition between Barry Bonds and a drunken six year old with his arms tied behind his back ― “Shit! Look, little man! Yet another one outta the park!” ― but I do persist.

Case in point, Marianna and Sol finally replied. Communication with these two can be as effective as attending a Women's Lib convention, continually using the word "cunt" in conversation, and hoping to get laid.

Due to pursuing this lead with a stalker-reminiscent mentality, I prevailed, and found myself nude atop said housewife in a motel that wreaked of burning tractor-trailer brakes, unfiltered Mavericks, and deep fried roadkill.

Earlier, I'd received an E-mail from the meth-smokin', ex-con husband of the Austrian wife I hooked-up with this past Friday. Said stud enlightened me I was rude for not firing off my "Howitzer" during the interlude with his significant other.

I didn't respond. With this guy's history of domestic violence ― and extended prison time ― in the words of Apollo Creed, "Ain't gonna be no rematch!"

This prior week, at a local swing shanty, I attended Anatomy 101 with a newbie named Apple. Well, said senorita was new to me, but a 15 year veteran of the screw scene.

Rusty ― a second tenerfoot ― allowed me to taste her tits, as hubby dug his drill inside her.

An older duo arrived, and hit the pool. Apparently, they became more annihilated than innocent Iraqis during the bombing of Baghdad, and invited my friend Terry back to Room 14. Unfortunately, said couple were in Room 28.

As such, Terry wandered aimlessly for half an hour, before returning poolside, and doing his best to shoot a load on a lesbian.

The older couple then departed ― still more hammered than a hundred miles of railroad spikes ― and careened their metal carriage into oncoming traffic.

When said and done, I would’ve paid more for two large pies at a local pizzeria than I did for this memory of a lifetime.





IN CONCLUSION...

The day began like every other: I ventured forth to see Alan Greenspan and Wham! in concert, after downing a hearty breakfast of chocolate-flavored lube.

Little did I know I'd end up at a strange place, having sexual relations with not just one, but five bizarre women! My word! That wasn't like me at all!

More akin to my true demeanor, I spent the rest of my week at church, toiling assiduously at a needlework quilt, lovingly depicting George Soros sodomizing woodland animals―

In actuality, I'm living out of my truck, banging out these final words on my laptop at "work" ― where I sit in a guard shack, in sub-zero temperatures, atop an ice floe. None of the customers with whom I engage have any clue I live a live porn in my off hours.

The paradox is astonishing: I'm barely circumventing homelessness during the day, whilst playing with anywhere from two to 12 women at night. I'm like a superhero, minus the muscles, cool cape and super powers.

Hence, don't look to your author for financial advice. I have none. I've got my eyes on a $21,000, heavily-used mobile home, but I'm short roughly $21,000 on that one.

That said, if you wanna bring your wildest sexual fantasies to fruition, peruse this greasy blog. Pore over the electronic pages, by the waning nightlight adjacent the cockroach-infested box spring in your sleazy motel room.

Rather than relegating yourself to an existence of servitude, make every day an adventure. Hit the achromatic asphalt in search of new, uncharted territory, and create those imperative memories.

After all, when you wax your willingness watching porn, we both know you'd rather be participating, as opposed to observing. The blog you're currently pawing will enable you to do just that.

Why study how to deliver pick-up lines, when the most you can hope to accumulate from such modality is a glovebox filled with phone numbers, bar tabs rivaling the aggregate contents of Warren Buffet's bank accounts, and an occasional lay? Place yourself in the proper environment ― on a regular basis ― comprehend how to conduct yourself, and go to it. It's that simple! You don't need to be handsome nor hung…

Just horny.





ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Snap, crackle...pop!

It wasn't the sound of milk cascading over breakfast cereal that wrestled me from slumber. Outside the window of the sleazy motel room, a neon Pabst sign sizzled.

In the darkness beside me, a woman twice my size snored with the cacophony of a thousand lumberjacks working.

Somewhere nearby ― probably in another room ― something was being fried. The entire hellhole wreaked of ash, tar and nicotine.

Acclimating to the blackness, I discerned the unique shape of a Jack Daniel's bottle. Adjusting against a mattress harder than convincing the populace they're living a lie, I realized I was perfectly positioned in the wet spot.

This was home.

I couldn't be more comfortable than I currently was. Not certain in which city I was holed up, let alone which state, the afterglow of sex, and the accumulation of yet another Number ― and another story ― cradled me like a nurturing mother.

It didn't get any better than this. Unless, of course, two women had been sleeping beside me.

These were the simple pleasures; the stretches of euphoria that didn't cost six months of enslavement to bring to fruition. After all, I recalled going dutch with the lass beside me, and somewhere along the line seeing a "Single Rooms $40" sign.

As the glow of the full Moon crept through the blinds adjacent a bed probably older than I was, I focused on tits that would've made the final edit in Playboy. Silken, red hair flowed over a creamy Mulatto body, as somebody broke into a vehicle in the parking lot below, and yet another car alarm went unheeded.

Damn! Whomever was beside me, she had attributes for everyone: crimson locks, cocoa-colored skin, Hugh Hefner-certified breasts, and an ass wider than the impassable gorge between government and freedom.

Her name? Who knew? I'm guessing she did, but such was information on a need-to-know basis, and I didn't need to know.

As I harvested clothes from a floor as sticky as freshly-licked taffy, some indiscernible creature outside  ― perhaps human, perhaps not ― shrieked in victory or abject pain.

From the condensation covering a window greasier than the palms of a politician, I could tell it was below freezing in the parking lot. Not absolute zero, as amorphous forms moved about, but still too cold to venture forth in shorts and flip-flops.

I dressed and departed ― a sense of accomplishment accompanying whatever I'd just done. I was constantly scoring on the sport sex playing field. Every night, and most days, were perennial first downs, and I perpetually sprinted for the end zone. I couldn't be more thrilled at the continual adventure I was encountering.

My tenure on planet Earth was ― and is ― one monumental E-ticket ride, and I have an unlimited, all-access pass. I am Hugh. Hugh Mungus.





NOTES



TABLE OF CONTENTS

1. BILL BURR. “They brainwash ya' […]”

        https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m4sy5AWFmAc


THE BIG LIE

1. Berkowitz, Matt; Joseph, Peter; McLeish, Ben. (2014). The Zeitgeist Movement Defined: Realizing a New Train of Thought. CreateSpace. ISBN: 1495303195

2. Rose, Larken. The Most Dangerous Superstition. (2012). ISBN: 9781624071690

3. GEORGE CARLIN. “Here's a bumper […]”

        https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y94kJdVS8zY

4. MUTUALLY-ASSURED DESTRUCTION

        https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mutual_assured_destruction

5. Black, Edwin. (2006). Internal Combustion: How Corporations and Governments Addicted the World to Oil and Derailed the Alternatives. St. Martin's Press. ISBN: 9780312359089

6. Pineda, Cecile. (2012). Devil's Tango: How I Learned the Fukushima Step by Step. Wings Press. ISBN: 9780916727

7. HOLY WARS

        https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Religious_war


L3: LAID LIKE LINOLEUM

1. Gatto, John Taylor. (2005). Weapons of Mass Instruction. New Society Publishers. ISBN: 0865714487


TAKE A CRAIGSLIST CRUISE

1. Gatto, John Taylor. (2005). Weapons of Mass Instruction. New Society Publishers. ISBN: 0865714487


CASE #1: HINTERLANDS HUMPIN'

1. GEORGE CARLIN. “We're so self-important […]”

        https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uHgJKrmbYfg


CASE #2: THE CLIT TO END ALL CLITS

1. VAN HALEN. “All the words […]”

        https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IVH7mHldMOo


CASE #3: JUST ANOTHER DAY

1. DREAM THEATER. “And still life […]”

        https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qMFPqSxDdHs


CASE #4: STERILITY & SLOE GIN FIZZES

1. GEORGE CARLIN. “What else is […]”

        https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7RHc9IduDbw


CASE #5: CUTE AS A BUTTON

1. GEORGE CARLIN. “Three out of […]”

        https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2Virqo-pI5c


CASE #6: WELL-TRAVELED

1. THE PRESTIGE. “Every magic trick […]”

        https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nbkbhVhhGMQ


CASE #7: OUT OF THE CLOSET

1. BILL HICKS. “All governments are […]”

        https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mjuu89B-Myc


CASE #8: FOUR MAIDENS

1. BILL HICKS. “It's all about […]”

        https://www.azquotes.com/quote/866400


CASE #9: MAKE LOVE, NOT WAR

1. GEORGE CARLIN. “The planet has […]”

        https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uHgJKrmbYfg


CASE #10: ANATOMY 101

1. TRIUMPH. “Days grow shorter […]”

        https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QEgpcgO4Hvk