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“Com-ease”
It’s
come to this: I’m watching Teri Garr and Connie Selecca
discussing the mind boggling miracle of Connie’s new
rejuvenation cream. Made only with plants... the cream,
not this infomercial. Real live plants. Some that even grow
in Hawaii. Connie and Teri are so excited about this dream
cream, they can barely contain their laugh lines. Teri Garr,
having fallen into the land of Cher (without the gifts that
God and surgeonkind gave Cher), is at least getting paid
to suck-up to Connie. Meanwhile, I’m not. And what’s
far worse is the fact that I’m massaging my debit card
as the incredibly low price for a 90 day supply flashes
above the toll-free number. Following Teri Garr’s crows
feet into this health and beauty aid hell is not what I
had planned for this evening.
Like a bride afraid of being left at the altar,
I’d hate to be a mass of wrinkles just as the global
sex orgy is kicking off.
Whatever
happened to younger women, older whiskey and faster cars?
Or, die young and leave a good looking corpse. Instead,
I’m considering dating a doctor (N.D., actually); that’s
my idea of low-cost health insurance. It’s either that
or buy Connie’s rejuvenation cream and take it internally
as well.
All this when the second sexual revolution is just about
to get started: We’re talking Viagra for men and the
new, liquid condom for women. Just squirt it up inside and
the new super lube kills everything on contact. (Ed’s
note: We at Exotic magazine are struggling to find
anyone willing to talk about this still-in-FDA-testing ultra
lube.) With the dawning of this new sexual revolution rivaling
the advent of The Pill, you can see why I need to keep those
crows feet and laugh lines under wraps. Like a bride afraid
of being left at the altar, I’d hate to be a mass of
wrinkles just as the global sex orgy is kicking off. Because
this product (veiled in more secrecy than nuclear disaster
codes) also kills HIV, Herpes, Chlamydia, Gonorrhea, Syphilis
and every other little fucking excuse not to have
sex on contact. Whoa.
I’m
drawing a line in the sand. No more aging! Since all I’ve
got to do is take a little blue pill and I’ve got wood
like a cork filled bat; and all she’s got to do is
administer a pre-coitus squirt’o’lube up inside
her holy self to protect from my legion of little soldiers,
I now, more than ever, want to stick around for the late
show. And be wrinkle free. This could be better than Mulder
kissing Scully—without her bee sting shock of, “Oh
my God! You’re wrinkled.”
Yup.
Wrinkle free. Perma-pressed. Light starch around the collar.
Please. That’s the new me. With an in-house doctor
to help all the organs above the scrotum keep up with the
Master Glans.
I
admit. It’s not a fool-proof plan. There may be some
flaws, like: Can you truly call it coming three times in
a row when you plum ran outta semen an hour ago. Details.
With the new “Com-ease” sac hidden
in the crack of your ass, you can immolate her face with
sweet, body temp goo as good or better in volume than your
first launch.
Maybe
they’ll invent a little spare sack, easily concealed,
that can be triggered at the moment of release to simulate
the depleted fluids. Shouldn’t be hard (no pun). You
only need about a teaspoon of the simulated goo to pull
it off. And, they could make it actually taste good. Get
rid of that bitter salty finish. (C’mon guys. Let’s
not get all homophobic and act like we’ve never tasted
our own come for Chris’sakes.) I’m telling you,
the person who first patents the simulated come sac will
make a mint.
It’s
like this: You’re ready to go for a third time and
you’ve got a rod you could hang a wet towel on; but,
you know you’ve only got about two drops leftover in
the tank. Not to worry. With the new “Com-ease”
sac hidden in the crack of your ass, you can immolate her
face with sweet, body temp goo as good or better in volume
than your first launch. She’ll be impressed. And so
will you, as she laps it up and says, “Wow! That tastes
good. Is there just a hint of vanilla in your come?”
Try it in different flavors: Cappuccino, mocha, mint, and
the ever-popular steak tartar.
I
think I better go to work on the “Com-ease” infomercial
for men. Maybe hire Burt Reynolds as my nodding-in-aggreement-celebrity-sidekick.
I can hear Burt now: “It was our third go-around in
less than an hour, and I blew a load on Loni’s face
that dripped off her chin and onto her wrinkle-free neck
with a little left over for her saline tits.”
And
there you have it. The future’s looking so bright,
I gotta wear shades—to protect from getting crow’s
feet.
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