Mister Anderson

It's been one wig since my last conflation.

Last night as I slept and dreamt I had the usual shamefully erotic thoughts. It was the oft-repeated wanderlust wherein Ivanka Trump creeps into my cupboard in the middle of the night an admonishes me to rub powdered silica gel into her asshole while she bounces her tits off my skull and whispers 'Onward christian soldiers'. I have to admit it's starting to feel a bit rehearsed, she's not a particularly skilled actress.
So there we were in her cupboard, two spiteful lovers playing master and servant, when the door swung open and in walked daddy. My immediate impulse was to bow and worship but seeing as I was already on my knees and worshiping a differently feathered goose that was not an option. My mind being a blank slate I did not know what to do. So I waited.
However, I did not have to wait long. No sooner had the screaming carrot demon opened his mouth to pour forth his distortions of reality than I remembered the butter knife in my left hand that I'd been using to cream his daughter's starfish with. And then inspiration struck.
And herein lie my dilemma. Instead of being a normal person and stabbing him through the windpipe ... baby did a bad bad thing. I climbed his face and butter-knifed that golden crown right off that man. I scalped that hoss. And then I used my free hand to unzip and slip my stiff shock into the warm itching pulpy multch that use to be his hair. As I released my fucklust into the roots of a king I contemplated the thin line between truth and consequence.


And it felt good.