Playground

by Aron Beauregard

It was the first time she’d gotten to see it, but far from the first time she’d thought about it.

Huh????

Geraldine wasn’t upset her mother wasn’t riding her father’s face. She was upset she wasn’t riding hers.

WHAT?? OH MY GOD???

They were there for the taking, bonded to the pad by a patch of congealed blood.

OH MY GOD.

Even though it was shit, it had slid out from between the two heavenly hams that made up Mom’s posterior.

I’m going to end my life.

At least he ain’t a faggot, Greg thought. It was all his warped, bigoted brain could find to be proud of.

What is going on???

Just like Sam, they were crushed.

Vile.

A fresh teardrop pissed out of his eye duct.

Great.

“But, I’m—I’m your mother!” she cried. “And I’m a motherfucker,” Rock grumbled.

Booo. Lame. Tomatoes tomatoes I’m throwing tomatoes.

“I ain’t good at goodbyes,” Rock said.

Booooooooo.