If you find this message, it’s likely I have come to an unfortunate end.
I was born with a talent, a talent for drinking boxed wine, running places, and then drinking more boxed wine. It’s a funny old world, when a knack for something becomes not just an interesting hobby, but a potential career, and a route to fame and fortune as it were.
At least, that was what I thought when I first met Wee Wee Wee All The Way Home and Lost In Foreskin. Their premier race was world-renowned, and they recruited me from a young age, helping me hone my skills in practice meets and smaller events until I was ready to join Le Grand Tour.
I knew I would be in for stiff competition with Bitch’s Bitch around, and I could tell at a glance that other rookies like Bi-erectional and Just Bahar would see me to a hard finish at last. Douchicorn had the novel thought that year to organize a team within the race, and he was quick to scoop up Dickweed and Millimeter Peter to collaborate.
But it wasn’t until The Uniballer approached me that I truly began to worry.
I told him I didn’t believe everyone could be doping. Muff Daddy? I asked. How else do you think people get the drugs? was The Uniballer’s reply. That man is sitting on top of a massive pyramid scheme, he revealed, stunning me into silence.
He told me how even ABBAH’s impressive run in the Colombian races was tainted, how Fucker had swallowed specially engineered plankton that could metabolize alcohol, how Wrinklepecker’s bribes had made his personal Franzia stash particularly palatable. His tale spoke of Just Get It Over With’s specially installed second throat, how the pills Just Ben had swallowed gave him a very unique finish on Machu Picchu. The locals still call him Machu Machu Man, as do the ten children that his orgasm resulted in.
And so I gave in, I bought in to The Uniballer’s system, and in no time he had persuaded me to go into a PortaPotty and piss into Shaft’s beer mug to save a clean specimen. Just James kicked the drugs under the door, and I immediately downed them in one swallow. Perhaps if I knew just how Banana In Public had smuggled them in from Panama I wouldn’t have been so hasty.
Immediately I started to hallucinate that Wrinklepecker was morphing into Ska Skank, who then became Just Doesn’t Get It. Udder Moron set him upon the back of his motorcycle, and they started performing wheelies in the park while Backside Banger moved the van so that they could jump over it after Hello Titties finished lighting a rag in the tailpipe on fire.
Wrong drugs, I heard The Uniballer say, as I took off with the race gun and floated along towards the end of our first leg. However, even I could see that I was gaining an advantage over Brown Eye and Mouth Down South, and even One and Done’s swift feet couldn’t keep up with me. And neither could The Perfect Woman’s swift mouth.
Slurring like that is probably a side effect-- The Uniballer’s voice floated by me, as I peered down a narrow alleyway that was doubling and tripling itself. Before I had time to feel tired, we were released on Stage 2 where the minds of Wee Wee and Lost In Foreskin took even more devious of turns.
Weiner I Am was quickly waylaid, and not even Tricrapylete could unfold the mysterious twists and turns. It wasn’t until I heard the voice of Sleazy Like Sunday Whoring that I knew I was safely in, although in retrospect it could have been an auditory hallucination.
Cream Chugger was quick to sip from the bag, and not wanting to lose my advantage I dove in after her. Not even Buck Fucka could tear me away from the red wine, and it was only when Pole Her Bare distracted me for a second that I let go of the Franzia teat. I took in the spectacular view around me in the few seconds I had to breathe, and then we were off, Masterbaster with Allahu Aqbark tugging him along, while Vagina Dentata tried to rig up a similar harness for Cirque du So Lame out of the remains of the Franzia bags.
The Lombard steps are the vaguest of my memories of the night, but even with the help of performance enhancing drugs I and the rest of the group suffered. The grimace of Dick Ass Mother Fucker would have discouraged an army, while even Minor 71er was cursing the day she first slapped a wine bag.
At this point I felt confident, on top of the world, the belle of the ball, the light of my own life, the… oh, the peloton has set off? I rushed to join them, floating as if I were walking on air, all the way into the finish line.
Did I win? I asked, but it was not the podium that Rent Whore and Chicken Bone Her were dragging me to.
You’ll tell us everything, Six Tits a Week’s kind face loomed over me, but I did not speak.
The photos Dick Simmons took reveal it all, Can’t Rush Anal’s steady voice sent a chill down my spine, but I only asked for water.
It was only when they brought in Cosmopolitits and her Advanced Interrogation Techniques that I cracked. Tuna on Top wrote rapidly as I ratted out everyone from Wash This Asshole to Deadbeat, and it wasn’t until I popped out Reverse Schoolgirl’s name that I was finally done. I’m sorry, Reverse Schoolgirl, I would have sold out my own mother if they had asked.
It was when they were transferring me over to the pub that I gave Circle Jerk the slip—this game is too big of a trap for a rat like me. I will be heading off for someplace warm. Maybe South San Francisco.
Miss Delivery, I put this in a PO Box, which will be opened by a robot if I do not send it a new digit of pi each day. The robot will then take it to the post office desk, it will pay for a stamp, it will address the letter to your current address, and then it will pay for a tea with its change. After its tea, it will put the letter into the post office box, and then go for a nice nap before it goes back to its job at Uber.
If you are reading this, therefore, it is safe to say that I have come to an unfortunate demise, be it at the hands of The Uniballer and his gang or an untimely incident with a ping pong ball. One final, remote possibility is that I am fine, but I missed a digit in pi.
Please make sure that someone feeds my parrot.
Do Her Well