PETRIFIED PIMPIN'

Lately, I have let you in on some of my business ventures (TECHNICOLOR MIDGETS 20AUG2011, SOPHISTICATED CANNIBALISM 31OCT2011, PROFESSIONAL QUADRIPLEGIC CAT JACKER 22OCT2011, etc.) around the world that help keep me so rich.  I tend to fund the more unusual and odd ventures so that I can capitalize on unknown and untapped markets for making money.  My latest money making scheme involves becoming a partial financier in the Chicago, IL. (U.S.), Milwaukee, WI. (U.S.) and Madrid, Spain pimping circuits.  I have always admired pimps for their work ethic.  It’s not easy to regulate and manage multiple “bitches and/or hoes” while simultaneously ensuring that bitches “betta have yo’ money” as is so eloquently stated in the pimpin trade (or in Madrid, “Las Perras deben tener mi dinero.”  The problem with the standard pimping circuit is that the game is played out.  Macs gotta stretch their legs and bitches just ain’t the same bitches no moh.  So, I gathered together a few of my pimp associates and we hashed out a plan to develop a new and unexplored market; an untapped resource if you will.  We are going to tap the vast necrophiliac underground.  Those members of society who have been shunned or even arrested because they want to fuck dead women, guys, goats, muskrats, road kill, ducks, whatever, as long as it’s deceased… will have an outlet for their pent up sexual desires.  Why should you have to settle for cheating on your wife with a whore who’s heart’s still beating!  I say, that’s unfair, and to be honest, it’s borderline lifest….that’s right, I said it,  LIFEST.  So what if you’re dead, should you be discriminated against by the living for who you are?! Hell no!  Sorry I’m getting off on a tangent.  I just get a little worked up because as you know I used to date and almost married a zombie chick once (MY ZOMBIE LATINA, 10OCT2011), so you can imagine I have a soft spot for the dead.    Well, as this plan is still in the works and I don’t want to be trumped by some other necrophiliac pimp entrepreneur this is where I’ll leave this discussion until the follow up post. Keep that pimp hand strong!

PRETEND TIME !

We’re gonna play a little game called “Pretend.”  You remember that game don’t you?  The one in Elementary school, you know, where you were the knight in shining armor or the Pretty princess with the pony.  No… ? Well then, how bout more recently, as let’s saaaay a short skirted house maid, or oiled up pool boy….hmmm….that’s more your speed isn’t it.  Alright then, so what are we pretending then?  Well, what we are pretending today is simple enough... let’s just pretend that it's the year 1999, in Los Angeles, California and I was a gay necrophiliac who worked as an embalmer in the city morgue.  I was what you would call a Necrosexual.  I was a bit of a shut in, but really a sweet guy at heart.  I was just like everyone else.  I loved walks on the beach, old John Wayne flicks, a good glass of Pinot Grigio, couldn’t get enough of playing Jenga, and I was and still am a sucker for guys in corduroy pants….. oh, yeah…. and I loved fucking corpses.  Now, since I was a Homosexual Necrosexual, my Wednesday and Saturday nights were usually spent turning all the male stiffs that rolled through my morgue into human Pigs-in-the-blanket.  I prided myself on my efforts towards diversity.  I didn’t care about skin color (everybody was pretty much pale by the time they got to me anyways), tattoos, or body composition, I would say young or old, but what’s the point.  I didn’t care how ripe they were as long as they were male.  I’d fuck Thomas Jefferson’s old ass if I could get past the guards at Monticello long enough to dig em’ up.   Hell, I’d even go so far as fucking a zombie if they were real; now that’d spice up your Friday night!  

Obviously, working at the morgue afforded me opportunities which benefited my particular “interests.”  I wasn’t always like this; I used to just be your regular old run-of-the-mill homosexual.  I’d window shop the various clubs in L.A.  My favorite was this one called “The Tool Box.”  I’d meet young men, such as myself, roofie them immediately, and roll them home in a shopping cart.  That limp sack of Man Meat was as close as I got to bliss before I started working at the city morgue.   Now that I worked there I could take all the pictures that I wanted, make all the videos that I wanted, I could even violate Tom, Dick, AND Harry while pulling their brains out of their nostrils with a crochet needle and douching the left over cavity full of embalming fluid.   I loved my job, it was the best.  If it hadn’t been for the owner showing up at 2AM, and catching me elbows deep in two Asian prior-weight lifters with (10) other stiffs sitting in chairs in a circle around us, and the video camera running,  I’d still be working there.  Life’s a funny thing (no pun intended).