By Michael Goldstein
By Dennis Romero
By Sarah Fenske
By Matthew Mullins
By Patrick Range McDonald
By LA Weekly
By Dennis Romero
By Simone Wilson
On the way to school, I found an interesting piece of paper on the sidewalk. Apparently torn from a magazine, the page had one big picture on one side and four smaller pictures on the other. The same two people appeared in each picture, beside or upon a big brass bed with shiny, bright-orange sheets. The photographs showed the two people -- one man, one woman -- having sex in various ways. Sex lying down, sex standing up, sex sitting, sex kneeling. All, it seemed, for the benefit of the camera.
Five years later, in the 11th grade, I’d find out that the man in the photograph was named John Holmes, and that his penis was twice the length and girth of most. But that morning, stopping to pick up the piece of paper on the way to school, I didn‘t yet know. I’d never seen anyone else‘s erection, and even though I’d understood the basics of sex since kindergarten, knew my boy-size penis would soon make its journey into schlonghood, I‘d never considered exactly how much growth to expect. On the other hand, I thought I knew a bit about breast size -- I’d seen breasts in real life, in tight sweaters and bikinis and so on, and in magazines and on television, so I knew that women in real life had small-to-medium breasts, and women in magazines and on television had medium-to-large breasts. The woman having sex in the pictures had standard magazine-size breasts; I had no reason to believe that the man‘s penis was unusual in any way.
The photograph gave me a point of reference, a gauge by which to measure myself. And, mysteriously, an erection. But since I didn’t yet know how or why to masturbate -- and I had to go to school -- I carefully folded and pocketed the page of pictures for the benefit of uninitiated friends and future reference.
Just like network television, free newsweeklies such as this one rely on advertisers to pay our bills and salaries. Inversely to prime time‘s ratio of about 20 minutes of ads for each hour of programming, we the newsweeklies require about two pages of ads for every page of editorial content.
As the global economy turns ever downward, positioning more and more employees as eunuchs at the capitalist gangbang -- just bend over and wait for further instructions -- I’ve decided to take what little action I can to secure my job and, hence, my ass.
By selling out. By carefully analyzing the advertising content of our paper, by creating a database of our advertisers, by forging some really credible-looking charts, I devised a foolproof plan to rim-job some serious adverbutt all the way to the bank and back.
To the bank: Armed with a prospectus of my analysis and an analysis of my prospects, I qualified for a $250,000 loan, enough to allow me to demonstrate to you, dear reader, just how desirable (how necessary, really) it is for you (for all of us, really) to change our bodies. To save the economy. To save the world.
And back: Literate citizens of America, I beseech you. Onto the shame of our pedestrian forms, forms ill-conceived or intentionally ignored by Nature™, we must attach large andor long andor thick things, things remarkable from 20 or more paces, things that dangle and jut or flow and grow. We must attach these things or we must kill ourselves trying, for it is in this way and only in this way that we shallwill heal, get laid, go to heaven, etc.
For example, I am a man. And I began the healing process by purchasing a boob job. Yea, tho sturdy my chesticles did remain well into my 30s, they weren‘t as firm as they had been in my 20s, so I dropped $19,000 on two big, thick, hard pectoral implants, one on each side. They were painful, and they were hideous. But I remained focused. I spent $21,000 to have the plastic pecs removed and, at the same outpatient-surgery joint, invested $9,400 in abdominal liposuction and another $63,000 in the implantation of multiple female-style breasts with matching sepia areolas. Two hefty jugs across the top (to cover up the pec-plant scars), two slightly larger ones directly below, and two more, larger still, below those. A total of six immense silicone udders. After the bandages had been removed, I looked in the mirror and saw what, in context, now seemed an unmarketably insignificant penis. For just $18,000 I had it enlarged with excess assfat so that, like John Holmes’, it could fit comfortably in none but the most cavernous human orifices; and, just in case, I asked the good doctor to drill me a $35,000 vagina -- the full package, complete with a shiny new set of labia, rechargeable Clit-o-matic™ and G-spot -- encased in an impressive roll of stomach fat (under $2,000) just above the functionless megaschlong and extending between my six breasts almost to my sternum. Unfortunately, my new vagina was a bit too loose around the edges, so I had it laser-rejuvenated for just $16,995.95.
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