Tuesday mornings suck. No hangover left to remind me what fun I had last weekend, but 4 days away from another binge. What makes it worse is my arm fell asleep hanging over the bed and my dog has obviously been humping it recently. I sniff the wet spot to see if his goop smells better than mine. Yep. Getting up before noon is stupid, but Olga the cleaning lady gets here on time every week, and if I’m not up she’ll make the fucking bed with me in it. So I roll out, grab my least sticky copy of Swank and cop a squat for my morning dump. I manage to rub a decent squirt one out between logs, but as I turn to flush I realize that I’ve plopped myself on the edge of the tub by mistake. Ah, fuck it, Olga gets paid to clean, not me. The roll is empty again, but there’s my roommates washcloth to use and I toss it into the tub when I’m done. My roommate gets a suspicious look as he sniffs the wafting stench so I boot the dog across the kitchen and scream, “Don’t ever do that again!” Then I wink at the mutt for giving my arm a good scrubbin’. When Pat looks up from reading the Greenwich Village Gazzette and notices that I’d failed to tuck my package back into my shorts she hurls every bit of his whole grain granola & soy breakfast onto her lap. I can’t hold back my chortling watching little bits of raisin and oatmeal dripping from his nose. He calls me a “bitch” and I tell her that vomiting transgendered people are my kind of folk. Then I write a check to Lyndon LaRouche in his name.
Pat dry heaves when she gets to the bathroom and is hit with the full extent of my earlier defilement. The noise he makes is like a songbird with a sore throat chirping and farting at the same time. I stuff 3 twinkies into my gullet and flip on Judge Judy. That old bitch is calling some bloated trailer trash hillbilly an idiot and I get another granite-like hard on. I try to time my jerk to hit Judy in the face while she is onscreen, but I’m too slow and I nail Bert the bailiff instead. It’s not my fault the mutt is dumb enough to stand that close to me, so I grab him and use him to clear the screen. Pat mutters something about lawyers on his way out to her job at Hooters. I doze off on the couch from such a rough morning.
WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! What the fuck? I ask myself, when did Pat install a solid brass door knocker? Nothing worse than Tuesday morning Jehovah Witnesses, and I’ve had it up to here with them. The pellet gun I stole from my grandma looks just like a real .45, so I sling open the door and take a shot. Instead of white-shirted Jesus freaks running for their lives, Olga just winces and rubs her forehead. I think I made her angry.
“Here for to clean da place.” she grunts. “please to tuck gonads in.” I grab my machinery with both hands and leverage it all back into my leopard print speedo. Olga is staring at what looks like a sturgeon and two bowling balls in a fishing net as she marches past me into the place. She gives the dog the evil eye when she gets to the hallway and gets a noseful – but the mutt is smart enough to dash away. I laugh again because the splooge-mohawk he is sportin’ wobbles as he runs. I leer at Olga when she dips to sweep twinkie crumbs under the rug – there is just something about a woman who has a perfectly square ass that gets my jets a-roarin’. She catches me pinching my own nipples, and pretends like she’s not interested – but we both know the truth.
I peddled my homemade generator long enough to get a good connection to the internet and cruised right over to XNXX. After reviewing the forums for a second I decide there’s more than enough jerking off going on there, so I download a few pics and photoshop them into my ideal babe. She’s 6’ 6” tall with a set of tits on her back. The wad I fire this time ricochets off my prized Franklin Mint sterling silver tray etched with a visage of Dolly Parton, and blasts through the wall to the bedroom. My Polish pretty seems less than amused to have to duck my jizz while performing manual labor. Hey, nobody is paying me to jerk off, so what the fuck!?!
Olga gives me that “I’ve had enough of this” look – just like my 3rd grade teacher used to do until the day she handed me a high school diploma and said, “You gradumated – no need to come back!” I always wondered why nobody else had a diploma written on a napkin. While I am pondering my extensive academic background, Olga was preparing to fulfill the silent promise her eyes made when she arrived. If you’ve never seen a 5’ 10”, 280lb woman with arms like 55-gallon drums wearing a leather corset and a 14” black strap-on dildo running full-steam at you, then you haven’t lived.
When I woke up to the smell of latex and my own bad breath I knew my day was really going somewhere. The bad thing was, when she zipped the gimp mask closed 17 of my moustache hairs were in there and when I tried to scream they all pulled out, going “plink” “plink” “plink” like an out of tune piano. Olga was a conscientious objector when it came to foreplay, and my sphincter testified to that! I couldn’t tell if it was “Ride of the Valkyrie” or “Theme from Bonanza” she was humming while she plowed my chute, but she did manage to get some more dusting done all the while. She added insult to injury by letting the dog have at my ear – I always knew that little fucker had a vengeful streak in him. When I get done putting my colon back into my body, I’m getting that bastard neutered!
I couldn’t tell if Olga was giving me cuddle time, or if it was some kind of slavic post-coitus ritual, but she tied my ass hairs into the most intricate knot I’d ever seen. From then on, all of the porn items in my possession (which happened to be the only things I actually owned) were useless. Looking back, I suppose there was really only one choice left for me. Of course, taking a vow of celibacy and joining the priesthood has its perks too.
