I'm Sexually Attracted to Gatorade

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It was the last night of Kwanzaa and I ran out of lube. I got up to go to the grocery store but I was all out of cash, so I took it out of grandma's purse. I got out some used bazooka joe and a betty boop placemat from the local Red Barn that still exists in my mind but I died in 1955 so you know how I am. Anyway I was about ready to get my towel and hand soap and do it in public when it occurred to me that I already had all that I need and more at home. I opened the fridge and there it was. Pickled Gatorade, and by that I mean pickle favored Gatorade coated in dead maggots. My life, my dream, my ambition, my Abraham slays Isaac because Xenu said so while choking on a tic tac moment. I rubbed off the lid and I rubbed one and then on my god I couldn't believe it I was blind.

I checked my watch but again I was blind what the fuck did you expect. I dropped the jar of pickles and it fell on my outstretched manpendage and it shattered. Highly realistic gore flew everywhere once I realized I no longer had a dick. Well, this was no laughing matter, I was in terrible pain. I stuck my finger in the ol' rotary phone and called the police. They said they'd arrive in a half an hour but this was a pretty serious injury so I went into the shower when I fell and hit the porcelain goddess and had a near death experience.

You see, life ain't goin' so hot when you're dead. You may think it's all auntie anne's cinnamon raisin soft pretzels salt choking on the freeway with a can of Budwesier because it makes the buds wiser but no. My name is Bud but I am no longer the wiser because I am dead. I had a fantasy in which a 700 pound man with one tooth rode a unicorn but its hump sagged because it couldn't carry his weight so he landed in Bermuda. A chill went down my spine or some shit. I was broke. My spine was broken. So was his and he is me. We are all just 700 pound men inside of a tape riding unicorns, and their horn is already broken. Camels. Yabba dabba doo. I have AIDS and the coronavirus is a real man who died in a toilet after he tripped on a bathroom floor tile.

The coroners arrived and pronounced me dead. Well, no shit, Sherlock. I took a bite out of the Red Barn sandwich and thought a bit about my thirst quencher. Pickled Gatorade. Pickle Gatorade. Pickles. Well, no shit! Oh man. Oh my gourd. Man, I'm so stupid. Why do I try sometimes? Why do I bother? Why do I even daydream? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?

Grandmother gave my eugology. She said some touching words. Said my fetish was rather strange but she also found it rather charming. I lost my guilt trip about it. Settled down, had a couple of ghost kids. You can call me the Michelin man if you'd like, but heck, heh heh, nothin's a ridin' on these towers.

I stared up into the night sky. What was the meaning of all of this? If this is all just a game and opportunities to grow better than why do starving kids in Japan make YouTube videos about feeding beef to their pet crabs? I smoked on a cigar and thought a little bit more about how we're all kind of damned. You develop these crazy sexual impulses when you're just a lad and you're stuck with them for life. Horse radish. I want a unicorn. Grandmother, if you loved me, why did you never buy me a unicorn?

Then I woke up. You do this eight hours a night every night, or less if you work at the cannery. This is how your brain works, and there's nothing you can do about it. The person who loaded the simulation dictated that this is what you would always do and it's their bidding and they like it. I smoked marijuana once but I did not inhale. Life inhales us. Life. Inhales. Us. Red Barn went of business years ago.

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Credited to DaveTheUseless 

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