Ladies and gentlemen, it’s Fashion Week, and as Dick Simmons would say, “Didn’t you get the memo?”
All of San Francisco’s elite fashionistas are dolled up tonight to see and be seen (unless you’re Cumdog Millionaire, of course). Whether you’re Rent Whore styling with fur or Brown Eye cum suspicious bulge, the neighborhood DMV is the place to strut your stuff on the runway. Our models paraded themselves gaily through the Panhandle, where the peasants passing by were delighted by Buck Fucka’s freely flowing locks and Resting Slut Face’s heaving bosom. Apparently 14 Year Old Girl is in this year, because it turns out Just Jackie had donated his lauded gown from the depths of her childhood closet.
Several photo shoots were designated en route. I Cunt Hear You was displaying a beautiful Hawaiian number in front of Lone Mountain, which was sadly photobombed by Do Her Well’s ass. Gobble My Ass deployed a novel signature pose, but Shaft protested that it was too remniscient of Fluffer’s patented “Dropping a Deuce.” Meanwhile John Handcock Abbey Roaded it as soon as an expensive looking Tesla came by, but held back at the last minute when he saw it wasn’t Sir Menage A Lot at the wheel.
Our runway walkers next traipsed to the heights of UCSF, where Fucker begged to be let into the psychiatric ward, only leaving when Blowqueen and Udder Moron declared they’d join him. Tears of Semen was too slow on getting the papers together, so unfortunately all were able to quickly rejoin trail. Fashion critics Dr. Bombardier and Chin Chin Chilla roundly panned the group, to the disappointment of Three Fingers who had left an envelope full of dollar bills at their doorstep a week prior. Unbeknownst to him, Good Shit had intercepted the wad of cash and spent it all on beer. Luckily Judge Drunkin Honuts was much more lenient and gladly awarded Jamison to any fortunate enough to find the Drink Check. Upon arriving, Miss Delivery turned as green as his dress, and Roman Showers was quick to advise a trip to the bushes to resolve his problem, while Dick Ass Mother Fucker followed close behind to “hold his hand.”
Roman Showers’ wise words were not the only fashion advice ready at hand. Zippercised took Circle Jerk to the side to explain what a pair of clippers and Nair can do to protect against sudden depilation, while Mouth Down South offered to blow on the affected area to make it better. The crowd was shocked that Masterbaster, a year older but not wiser, had to be taught about proper kilt apparel. Likewise Cockamole declined to display her birthday suit, to the disappointment of the crowd. Luckily for them the taste of Sister Fister’s delicious cake turned the boos from the group into orgasmic cries of joy, althought some of those may have stemmed from Heracknophobia’s tryst with Wrinklepecker’s canine companion, Scatmaster.
RAs Millimeter Peter and Cockagami emceed the remainder of the show, taking Drunkin Honuts and Masterbaster to task for the sharp decline in presentability and skyrocketing amounts of sweat amongst the models. Chaos reigned—most of the virgins save Ru Ru Rimmin’s had fled to the On After, while visitor Tickle Me Homo had developed at nervous tick after meeting Vagina Dentata. It seemed like the climax of Fashion Week was going to be a flop.
Suddenly, the lights went down and the crowd went silent. A spotlight flashed on in the corner, and everyone squinted at the flash of sequins. Strutting forward in a blaze of chiffon and amazing cleavage, Hand Pump flowed through the crowd like a fresh ocean breeze. Flicking a bag in his right hand and sassily placing his left behind his head, he came to a stop. His lips puckered in perfect disdain, his ass artfully thrust behind him, he froze them all with his gaze.
“Trash goes in here,” he proclaimed, and the crowd melted under his stern yet loving touch.
“May the hash go in peace,” breathed Cockagami reverently.
“May the hash get a piece.” And they all went in search of a cigarette.