Living by me is danger

Every night I have a ritual of trimming my toenails and fingernails. I use my wife's sharpest clippers and carefully trim the edges so that they will not snag my fine satin sheets.

I then take her red nail polish and write in flowing cursive messages on my penis. The usual message is this, "Please leave the people alone, they are frightened."

Then I write about my devotion to God and how with his wisdom we will heal the Homo problem. Then I transcribe Atlas Shrugged and The Fountainhead. Then I write a letter to my mother...the one I never send because it has so many cuss words and repentance.

Then I lay down and sleep the sleep of the wicked. Every night my penis grows and grows and spills into the sidecar that I had specially built for him.

The nail polish is torn like the purple pants of the hulk and when I hear it rip off I wake up and stand on him--stomping him to get back into his cage--shouting that he is shame and that he is not helping the Homos like he should be, but he never listens. He doesn't care about the Homo problem or the problem with the sluts--he cares only for himself.

I entreat him not to do anything rash but I can tell from the steam pouring from the fuck hole that rash is on his mind. And I don't mean rash like VD or herpes. I mean rash like anger. He does look kind of cute, though, like a frappachino but he stinks of sperm.

He runs off and I ride him like an untamed gorgon, steamy semen trails us and the dogs follow and lap it up. Dogs dig sperm.

I scream to my neighbors, "Lock your door, it's moving again. It can smell your orifices. The stinky ones."

They never listen.