"Click This Beautiful Face!"
The follow is an excerpt from the new book, “50 Shades of Munson.” This is not a continuation from the previously released content where Martin was caught dipping his balls into the crisper in the fridge. Reader discretion is advised.
Martin removed the 11 decorative pillows that Mrs. Munson loved having on the bed, in the event “Better Homes and Gardens” decided to show up unannounced to take photos, and climbed in. The ceiling fan was set on high, which was perfect, because Martin’s latest ailment, believe it or not, was jock itch. If you’ve never had jock itch before, it’s kind of like if you mixed a potion that contained poison ivy, bug bites, live ants, and psoriasis, then dunked your balls in it. So there he lay, comforter pulled to the side with the breeze from the ceiling fan providing much needed relief to his burning nethers. Mrs. Munson walked in and began talking about her entire day. There was a lot of this and a lot of that, so without going into all of the details, it definitely involved stuff regarding that particular day. Having extremely itchy balls kind of gives you ADHD, so she would forgive Martin if his mind wandered someplace else, perhaps through a trapdoor in the back of his wardrobe to a magic land where balls never contracted fungus.
“Want to watch the Olympics?” she said.
“Yeah!” he said with just enough sarcasm that indicated he did not give a fuck about the Olympics.
Mrs. Munson turned the channel to the regular cable station instead of going to Hi-Def coverage. With his balls in the midst of hosting their own Waldo Canyon fire, Martin was in no mood to revisit the difference between Hi-Def and regular cable with her. He once asked her if regular cable felt like she had rubbed vaseline over her eyes, and she said “no”, and he said “okay”, and then just decided to let her live in that world.
“Oh. It’s just Water Polo” she said.
“Water Polo sucks its’ own balls. These guys are a fucking joke” he said, probably still stinging from the fact he couldn’t swim.
“Why is this even an Olympic event?” scoffed Mrs. Munson, bemused by the notion this would be an event worth two shits.
“That is a great question, my love. The sport itself is merely a game, nothing more, and perhaps the only difficult part is that they’re treading water the entire time,” Martin said.
“Why don’t they just stop treading water?” said Mrs. Munson.
“That’s another good question, Numkins, but the answer is even better. If they stop treading water, they’ll drown. Maybe they should just take away the ball and the nets, then see who can tread water the longest. The last person treading wins the gold, and the others all receive a silver medal once their dead bodies are pulled from the water,” Martin joked. Oh did they LOL while pondering the record-breaking ratings and revenues that broadcast would generate.
The Water Polo Match, also known as “Game of Douches”, thankfully came to an end and it doesn’t matter who won because it’s not a real sport. Next up was Women’s Beach Volleyball, and Martin’s shaft immediately raged with blood, his helmet arose from his testicles like a Phoenix from the ashes. As if a really big fat person spoiled your moment by joining you in a hot tub with their grotesque water displacement, the speed and girth of which this erection grew audibly thrust air from the room like an angry tsunami. Mrs. Munson gasped for air, not at the mere sight of it, but because of all the available oxygen rapidly leaving the room, running for its’ own life. Once it was at full length, no, it was not even remotely close to being clipped by the ceiling fan, however, you could hang one of those hideous upside-down tomato plants from it. When the swell of oxygen was allowed back into the room, Mrs. Munson was able to finally catch her breath and say “Does Daddy like some of the bums on those volleyball players?” Yes. Daddy did.
Martin would periodically laugh to himself about the future generations of mankind. How online porn had ruined those magic moments that earlier generations had always adored and cherished. The first time you slowly reached out to hold a girl’s hand, unsure if the gesture would be a welcome one, or even more special, reciprocated. The first time you realize how thoughtless and not “in the moment” women can be sometimes when a girl drops her ice cream cone, and then you instinctively hand her your ice cream and say “I don’t even like this flavor” even though it’s your favorite and can’t believe how fucking clumsy she was. The first time you lean forward and kiss a girl on the lips and feel those butterflies in your stomach. And, the first time you go to 2nd base. Ah, yes, 2nd base. That was Martin’s favorite. He liked it there. His first time just so happened to be at summer camp, and if you’re wondering if it’s still considered 2nd base if the girl is sleeping and didn’t know it happened, it most certainly does. Martin distinctly remembers high-fiving his penis after that moment, but obviously while making the Six Million Dollar Man noise in slow-motion so as not to damage the tip. Anyway, Martin allowed himself a brief respite from his ball inferno, and began to wonder about this next generation, completely desensitized to romance and all of the magical moments encompassed during the art of love-make, and what it would be like to be a fly on the wall in today’s bedroom.
Guy: “SAY IT! SAY THE WORDS!”
Girl: “I…I don’t know if…”
Guy: “HURRY! SAY THEM! YOU SAY THE FUCKING WORDS!”
Girl: “P-p-p…Pardon me…would you have any…White Poupon?”
Guy: “RAAAAAHHHHH! BABOOOOOOOOSH!” (releases endless spurts of what the kids now call “love” all over her face)
Girl: “Thank you for putting your love on my face. I love you now.”
Guy: “Yeah. Totally. Hold on, I’m going to post a few pictures and then you’re leaving.”
To be continued….