By Nick Hranilovich
Dear Randomhouse forum,
I used to think that all of these letters were fake,
until that fateful day I was waiting in the bus atrium
and those two girls came in- the street noise was so loud
I couldn’t tell if they were speaking German or if I was
in a daze. Think it may have been Swiss.
Anyway, they were giggling and debating the bus schedule
back and forth, hopping up on strong calves and wriggling
with anticipation for the 1:28 route 7, when, suddenly,
they prolapsed wildly! I mean like Jacks in the Boxes!
POING!
Just wild stuff flying everywhere, huge tubes and aching
throbbing wads of flesh flapping on the ground, spurting
on me a few feet away, turning the black bench white and red.
At first there was an air of embarrassment, but then when
we all realized what kind of moment this was, they started getting
into it, motioning for me to join! Oh I rubbed those
flapping veiny cords and slime-slides all up and down, licking up
whatever used to be inside of them.
In their broken, perky English they asked “You are liking?”
I smiled-
“Oh baby, you smell like dog vomit in the hot Atlanta Sun.
That shit that used to be your pussylips
is so purple and shriveled I’d mistake it for a premature baby
that somebody drained the blood out of.”
I yanked and lassoed until they came Lucky Charms and sparks.
You can find all of this and more in my bestselling tell-all book,
“Spoojing On My Face at 9:30 in the Morning:
The Story of the American Male.”
