Email to a potential suicide

Dear ____,

I read your ‘have a potato’ email.

If the specter of suicide is that close, I respectfully request you please put in your will a gift to me of US$1000. I promise I will use the money to fly to visit ______, then onward to San Diego, where I will cross the Mex-Sicken border and drain balls as many times in the whorehouse with whatever of the $$$ is left.

Setting aside a little dough for me is more important than leaving it to bald, sick kids who will die anyway or some hippie nature preserve that will use the dough to buy weed. My happiness is more important than Mother Earth’s, and though I’ve suffered long and you have suffered longer, if you end it now, I’ll STILL be suffering while you’ll be at peace.

At least for a little awhile.

You probably don’t know or care about God/the gods, but THINK: with as much trouble and hassle as life is, do you really think death will be an escape? Would the Gods of Torment, IRS and DMV really allow such an easy escape route, like an unguarded vent cover in the secret base in a James Bond movie?

All right, you have my two cents. In exchange I would like US$1000 in the will, please. It will give you something to do, and you can leave the earth knowing you passed along some hope and courage and bought vagina. Good karma, man! You will be happy one day in this life or the next but it’s up to you.

Portrait of a Penis as a Deadly Cobra

I hadn’t jacked-off in 12 days, some kind of World Record. Mostly it didn’t bother me, but other times–especially when good ass was in sight–my scrotum burned like glass in a blue flame. It could’ve been my imagination, but it also began to feel leaden, less willing to yo-yo in response to stimuli.

Finally the time came to come again. I summoned Kaylan Nicole like a genie from her hard drive bottle, cuing the scene. CC Fafafini, yet another hairless porn-dolphin, was ramming that vagina like his penis was a plunger working to unclog a toilet in a BAD Mexican restaurant. Such a beautiful vagina she had, the close-ups excellent.

With my penis heavy like a shotgun I figured it’d be over fast. Not so!

I got through Kaylan’s plowing twice before sighing with boredom. I debated switching to something else; my left hand clumsily clicked the mouse. Now it was Mack Wallass, he of the hooked nose and horn, working away on one Renee Emerald, one of those women who do only one or two films, then nothing. Sean Elephantay, the Black Stud, was also involved.

The scene, low-key as it was, did the trick, but there was no blast. In the 12 days of inactivity, my poor cobra had forgotten how to spit, leaving only a few weak coins and gurgles of man-yogurt.

I tried again, but the show was over. The Cosmoslick lubricant had actually turned to foam, making it look as if I’d tried to screw a Starbucks latte.

The next night I had no idea of the outcome, but my cock had the block on lock. This time the scene was Wallass with Maya Puissant, which never fails. In short order I was feeling much better despite earlier losing my wallet. A brilliant, steaming Rorshach of white wet music glorified a soon-to-be-trashed sock, testament to the power of happy testicles, counterbalancing an unhappy mind.

Such is the power.