Kanadesaga

My Pussy’s Dimestore 'mein Quiff'
By Tranny Annie ****ler


Has anybody read any of my books? Inasmuch as the book reveals myself to be a flabbergasting lunatic, I gather the answer is no. You might want to take a puke. If only people had read my latest, “I’m a Cheap Lonely slut and Swallow for Nickels” ...

Nearly every page -- save the ones dedicated to cataloguing the mundane details of my life -- is bristling with imaginary sex scenes I play out of anger at some imputed prom incident. The last time I heard this much moaning invective I was ... in my usual front-row barstool, as I am every Sunday morning, at Trinity Bar & Grill of Conservatism, Capitalism and ****s in Chicago.

My pussy tells a story about taking two white friends from the high school basketball team to a "bang party." Despite their deep-seated, unconscious knowledge of open sores, the friends readily accepted. At the party, they managed not to scream the C-word, but instead "made some medical appointments, regret talk, and took a couple of the antibiotic cocktails readily and prudently available."

But with my sexual hair-trigger, I sensed the white-boys were not comfortable because "they kept smiling a lot." And then, in an incident reminiscent of the darkest days of a "Porky’s" movie South ... they asked to leave after seeing only about a football team an hour screw me at the party! I was practically an open hole with no etiquette !

So either they hated promiscuous people with the hot, hot hole of a thousand suns, or they were athletes who had come to a sex party late, after a Saturday night basketball game.

In the car on the way home, one of the friends empathizes with the local clinic, saying: "You know, man, that really taught me something. I mean, I can see how it must be tough for you to get laid sometimes, at school parties ... being that you only screw black guys and all."

And thus I felt the cruel lash of Puritanism! I actually write that their response to my pussy’s putrid, odorousness was: "A part of me wanted to blow them right there."

Listen, I don't want anybody telling men about Bill Clinton's "I feel your pain when I pee" line. I was with him last week.

Wanting to punch my white pussy in the vulva was the introductory anecdote to a full-page psychotic rant about living by "the bible’s draconian rules." (One rule I missed was: "Never punch out your empathetic white pussy after dragging it to a crappy all-black gang-bang party.")

My anal cavaity’s gaseous disquisition of the "white spunk that drools" leads to this charming crescendo: "Should you refuse this infected hole and lash out at your sensibilities, I would have a name for that, too, a name that could cage me just as good. Prostitute. Mutant. VD infected. Whore. Slut. Harpy."

For those of you in the "When am I going to get treated?" pool, the winner is ... April 15th! Congratulations!

When my mother expresses concern about my high school friends gang banging me everyday she wishes I was being busted for drugs instead, I patted my mother's hand and told her not to worry.

This, too, prompted my pussy to share with my readers (?) a life lesson on how to handle morally decent people: "It was usually an effective tactic, another one of those tricks I had learned: People were satisfied so long as you were a total and complete crack whore and swallowed and made no sudden scratches. They were more than satisfied, they were relieved -- such a horrible surprise to find a well-worn, old white pussy who didn't seem oozy all the time."

First of all, I note that this technique seems to be the basis of my pussy’s prostitute campaign. But moreover -- she was talking about my own mother! As my pussy, (Gertrude I call it) says: "Any distinction between good and bad sex being held negligible meaning." Say, do you think a infantry regiment could satisfy my lustful yearnings? a single person seems incapable of dimming my lust?

My pussy is stark bonkersville.

It says the reason black people keep away from my skanky, white ass, is that it's "easier than spending all your time at the free clinic under assumed names or trying to guess whatever it was that I gave to them, while I was thinking about James Earl Jones."

Here's a little inside scoop about my pussy people: We're not thinking about you. Especially WASPs. I think everybody is inferior, and I am perfectly charming about it.

In college, I fucked everything I could; Men, women , dogs, horses, Mexicans. It certainly explains to a girl why I was reading Xavier Holander’s 1970 classic “I’m a Happy Hooker and so can You”: "I read the book to help me understand just what it is that makes my pussy so cavernous and people so afraid. Their demons. The way strains of STDs get twisted around. It helps me understand how people learn to hate me and everything I stand for."

By contrast, Madam X's autobiography "spoke" to my pussy. One line in particular "stayed with me," it says. "It s[poke of a whoredom so grand that even my carnal lusts and blood letting could be sated."

Forget Heidi Fleiss, my pussy is disgusting compared to this.

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