Folks, we’ve just suffered a major national tragedy, and one that has had a direct, causative effect on my desire to have anyone enter me. One might say that the election results have grabbed my pussy by the pussy and sewn it shut.
Some (including my immoral colleague Julianne Escobedo Shepherd) might argue that this is above all the weekend and the circumstances to open your ham wallet and make a deposit. I counter that position, by saying: No, it isn’t.
Picture lying underneath another adult, ready for a few minutes of sex. Then, you close your eyes; in the darkness all you can see is Trump’s withered, puckered lips. You open them back up, and like an airhorn from your groin flaps, you hear I LOVE THE BLACKS. Okay, fine, you plug your ears; but your stomach lurches: SECRETARY OF THE INTERIOR SARAH PALIN. You punch yourself in the stomach and take a shot of absinthe (remember, we live in 1930s Europe now); somehow your butt toots out CONVERSION THERAPY IS A GOOD OPTION FOR SOME FAMILIES. You go to the bathroom and splash some cold water on your face like they do in the movies, and then you look up—how odd. It’s a piece of paper, not a mirror. So you grab it and unfold it—it’s Trump’s plans for his first 100 days in office. You collapse onto the damp bathmat and are unrousable for four to six hours.
So no, sir, sex is not an option for me at this moment, or in the near future. At least not until I have an IUD rocketshipped into my torso and learn how to meditate myself into an amnesic state. Thank you for the offer but no thank you, and also, how dare you ask?
