Anal Fear: Difference between revisions

In the tradition of Stephen King, my asshole has come to life and is trying to kill me. Strap in, strap-on, and strap out, cause it’sit's about to get 11/10 spooky.

When I awoke that fateful Thursday (Friday woulda been more alliterative but this is clearly nonfiction) My asshole hurt like the dickens. I get a lot of ‘roids'roids cause of the way my typewriter chair sits. Instead of trading up I just changed my Nom de Plume to Ernest Hemingrrhoid.

Wouldn’tWouldn't you know it, no preparation H.

What’sWhat's this?

Preparation X? Id never heard of it. In true hedonic fashion I disrobed right there in the Walgreens (continuity freaks bewaaaaare) and really went to town. Straight up applyin’applyin'.

An employee walking by noticed what I did. The horrified look in their eyes told me all I need to know. My asshole was to become haunted. Until I died. Or they’rethey're some kinda prude. Either way, I’mI'm on the way home, and something isn’tisn't sitting right.