By Rutherford Toady
Welcome to the triple-X ranch, where we work hard to break the faux-virginal sissypants pop smears, who in reality are far from pure and in fact have been repeatedly molested by impotent politicians wearing giant strap-ons molded in the shape of their favorite popes. After being buggered by a Pius XXX phallus for years, young stallions such as Justin Bieber can’t help but hurl up wall after wall of protective stony smiles, the ivory fences of their pearly whites being the only part of them not yet scrimshawed with the graffiti tags of corporate logos. The fillies fare even worse; take Miley Cyrus, her tween twat long since marked with the mark of the bestialist, her bust wet from the slobberings of every linebacker faggot who could unclog the blow from his nostrils long enough to get his pecker hard enough to pork her prepubescent pussy. Eventually the scorch-marks from the branding irons scab over and these girls stop shitting bits of cellphone into the bloody basin every morning, stop vomiting up the gobs of spermy vodka that get caught in the backs of their throats like an extra uvula. Yes, eventually our little Britneys and Lilos grow up and become the glassy-eyes nags they were always destined to be, singing with sandpaper rasps and shaving their snatches like they were still thirteen. We put them out to pasture then, but only after riding them into the dirt, those skeletal cumbags whose bloated udders will soon scrape the ground like swollen condoms. We scratch our names in their hides with our spurs, laugh when they get their hooves caught in their own stirrups. We ride them fast and ride hard, and keep plying them with visions of apples and sugarcubes, and when they complain that we don’t deliver the goods, we remind them that this poor falling-apart old world could always use a little more glue. Now, giddy the fuck up!
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Visit R. Toady's site: http://carrioncall.blogspot.com
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