home authors guest shorts graphical shorts
"I now channel every ounce of creative energy into my romantic relationships," Al Pacino replied in a salty baritone. His dissipated flesh hung down in loose folds over once-mighty cheekbones, skin tone as nonexistent as the seed in his depleted testicles. His jowls dangled in cunty layers around his gizzard, swaying in an errant breeze they had managed to catch on Entertainment Tonight's breezeless soundstage.
"She buy that one?" he wondered, boring into the female reporter with his rheumy eyes. No chance. Truth is, he had crapped it away years ago. His intensity he had wasted on a Bob Crane-like double life. Pussy. Did he ever know from that. But now, when the scripts called for the old fire, Pacino found within himself only a small pile of cold cinders.
Then he would pick up the cinders to see what had extinuished the fire, and, from the whiff of chlorine and mushrooms, deduce that it was semen had done it. Barrels and barrels of semen had oozed all over his fires of creativity, boiling away at first in a fragrance like burning marshmallows, but year by year, gallon by sticky gallon, overwhelming and suffocating the blaze. Yep.
Date Written: September 18, 2003
Average Vote: 4.75