100% Match

by Patrick C. Harrison III

I’m not simply looking to get my man rod wet. I can just as easily derive sexual pleasure from mayonnaise jars or crawdad holes. And have. No, I’m looking for my true love, my life partner, my 100% perfect match.

So romantic lol

When the patties are done cooking, I put the burger together. In between the patties I apply the yellowish-green snot from the zip-locked tissue in my pocket. I spread it out over the cheese, the heat of the patties making it more liquefied and less globby, making it look like a secret sauce of some kind. With the food prepared, I wrap the burger in paper and dump the fries into a cardboard container. Hector takes it from there.

She’s had more penis in her than…I don’t know…a penis factory.

After the show, I take a poop into a zip-lock and put it in the fridge next to a used jar of mayonnaise and Mimi, the next-door neighbor’s dead Chihuahua.

Two days later, Debra would die after spraying herself with hydrofluoric acid that had somehow made its way into her perfume bottle. Sad. But she wasn’t going to be a doctor anyway.

While she will make satisfactory masturbatory material this evening, she is obviously not suitable as a lifelong mate.

Dude is wild

From my pocket I take a zip-lock baggy with a couple of two-day old turds in it and feed it to Big Bertha. The turds sizzle. I stir everything together and place the lid on Big Bertha, then ask Jim if I should make any fresh chili in case we run out. I have raw cat meat in my other pocket just in case. But Jim says the chili should last through the day.

After a long shower, I pee into a coffee mug and put it in the microwave for eighty-two seconds and put a sleepy time teabag into it. I drink this while watching a documentary about the prevalence of necrophilia in the concentration camps of World War II.

Before going to bed, I send an email to my senator telling him he’ll be assassinated in thirteen days. I have trouble getting to sleep, so I stick my finger in my butt and count to fifty.

Ummm