Please note: This piece has been revised in order to avoid (some but not all) shitty stereotypes. It is still vile, so those with delicate sensibilities should turn their eyes away.
The Hallucinogenic Toreador (1968-1970) by Salvador Dali
As our rapist in chief predictably fucks the entire globe, what could be more relevant than analyzing the sexing techniques of the 2020 Democratic presidential candidates?
Even though he’s out of contention now, here’s the tweet that started it all:
Reality check: There’s no way Beto could hold you down and make you come at the same time. The man is just not that dexterous or that generous. (Yes, I employ the Queen’s English here and so should you. The word “cum” is the linguistic equivalent of a hot load in the face. No thank you, sire.)
BUT. If there is a stage in this scenario — and also an audience — and Beto is allowed to fuck you on that stage, in front of that audience? Then yes, definitely. The bigger the crowd, the more intense the calf cramps.
Privately, though, this man serves up highly photogenic sexing with sloppy mechanics. He is imagining how it looks in the mirror, not how it feels for you. You read it here first, folks.
Can’t find his keys. Thinks the clitoris is a flower he saw in Hawaii once.
You know when you go to an Advance Auto Parts store and the clerk ends up installing your windshield wipers in the parking lot, just because she feels a little bit sorry for you? It’s like that. Not very romantic, but gets the job done.
A big man, he understands momentum and force and friction. But he apologizes a lot, for everything. He checks in constantly. Sometimes he’ll interrupt everything and serve you a little cheese board halfway through. Your satisfaction is his top priority, and that’s not always the hottest. Also, his safe word is “Hufflepuff.”
“Honey, should we play one more game of Scrabble, or make love?”
“Whatever you want, dear.”
“Aww, why not? Grab the morning star and I’ll meet you in the dungeon.”
When the seasons are changing on the Planet Zeldor, and the limpy grass grows tall and strong, you’ll meet on the battlefield of love and that’s where it all goes down, baby. Marianne’s going to harness just the tip of your iceberg and channel the dark psychic forces at the base of your collectivized unconscious and I’m gonna tell you, girlfriend, it is so on.
A true gourmand.
Like drinking a cold beer straight out of the bottle, then having another one, because what the heck? Trustworthy, no-frills satisfaction with a smile.
With a lot of focused practice, a little applied mathematics, and the precision of a laparoscopic surgeon peering through a powerful high-res scope, Andrew Yang will deliver the oral goods to land you in a galaxy far, far away. Just don’t ask questions because he will explain everything in detail.
You know that scene in Grizzly Man where Werner Herzog listens to the audio tape of Timothy Treadwell being ripped apart by grizzly bears in the Alaskan wilderness, and even though Treadwell’s girlfriend tells him she doesn’t want to listen to the tape, Herzog makes her watch him listen to it on headphones so he can film the whole thing? Well, your fragile psyche is Treadwell’s girlfriend, your sex drive is the bear, and Kamala Harris is Herzog. All Harris really wants is to save you from your own worst impulses, but all you can do is blame her for it.
OK, admittedly, she also wants you to realize exactly how weak you are — that’s her kink and it’s pretty hot, honestly, even if she’ll never deign to touch you with her actual hands because gross, you’re gross, dude, dude gotta go.
Yeah, let’s really do this thing, motherfucker. You coulda had a bad bitch, but you preferred a racist predator with brains leaking out of its lizardy face. It defies logic. So now Hillary wants you to read all of her perfectly innocuous and super fucking polite emails out loud while she digs a nine-inch stiletto heel into the head of your dick and levitates a room full of mail servers using only her supernaturally dirty brainpan. You know that scene in the new Star Wars where Rey touches the serpent? Hillary is Rey and Bill Clinton is the serpent, except afterwards he says thank you Mommy, runs out to fetch another Big Mac, and ends up having a threesome with a Porg and a tiny alien lady with wooden beads in the hallway.
How much more racist could Star Wars movies be, by the way? Do they exist just to make white people feel less guilty about their still-very-racist cracker brains? And speaking of crackers…
You know that scene from Porky’s II where… Oh, you’ve never seen Porky’s II? Well, sexy time with Bill is an unruly pastiche of every douchey ‘80s horndog flick ever made, set to a smooth jazz saxophone soundtrack. It’s like getting fucked in the face with an OK BOOMER meme.
Come on. Even I have some restraint.
You know that scene in Tequila Sunrise where Michelle Pfeiffer and Mel Gibson emerge from depths of a hot tub, naked and fully entwined, in actual slo-mo, to the sound of some smooth, smooth saxophone jazz that’s the musical equivalent of a come shot that lands right in the middle of your dinner salad? Oh, you haven’t seen that? Just never fuck a boomer, is all I’m saying.
Except for maybe Mick Jagger or Muhammad Ali. Or Leonard Cohen. Or Isabella Rossellini or David Bowie. There are lots of good boomers for fucking, actually. Death is no obstacle.
Steady hands and steady eye contact, which is really 90% of the battle, isn’t it? He’s a talker, too. Good filthy, nasty talk, with lots of suspense and narrative twists in the road. His brother with the prickly beard is even better.
George W. Bush Jr.
You know that cold chill that runs down your spine when you feel a hand on the top of your head, pushing your head down down down, no, further down? I’ve only felt it once, but suffice it to say that there is no more efficient highway to the non-danger zone of sitting alone with your own sad, limp dick in your hand, thinking very hard about your bad choices. Unfortunately, W. isn’t one to reflect on his bad choices, so he remains the impossibly shabby lay he was back when he was still snorting lines off a toilet tank at Yale.
You know that animatronic shark from Jaws III?
Franklin Delano Roosevelt
His deal did feel pretty new, if you did enough opium first.
The man could lay some logs, is all I’m saying.
You know when you can’t stop telling the same joke even though it’s getting less and less funny as you go? I cannot tell a lie, that’s exactly what it’s like to fuck George Washington, except replace “telling the same joke” with “fucking” and replace “funny” with “sexy” and replace “as you go” with “as you relish tiny love bites from a set of decomposing wooden teeth.”
In conclusion, every presidential candidate (and president!) should offer the illusion of truly, madly, deeply wanting to drill every last citizen of America according to their particular tastes and specifications. Luckily for Trump, roughly 45.3% of the country wants to be pushed against the nearest wall and fucked with the half-flaccid orange cock of a confused demon clown. And if the demon clown has spent the past few days murdering humans in sovereign nations thousands of miles away? Even better. But I guess that’s what the super-sized animatronic overlords of late capitalism deserve, for weaning the populace on flashy superhero warmongering and salted back fat since the day they were born.
Ah, but living inside the simulation means that eventually, we all get fucked the same way: tediously, chafingly hammered into the ground with no real joy or spark or shiver or thrill in sight. No one hugs, no one learns, and no one comes.
Now there’s the unhappy ending you were craving all along and you didn’t even know it. That’s how it works in the end times: Your escapism, numbness, and death drive usher in the apocalypse.
And what’s the solution? It’s always the same: Feel more. Teach other people to feel more. Feel as much as you humanly can, alone and together. As long as these antiquated sax-loving zombies can’t feel a thing, we’re all truly doomed. Compassion and mercy are your weaponry. So go out there and spread your love thick, dirty cousins. The planet is counting on you.
Lose friends and create enemies by sharing this filth all you want. For bad advice, write to Molly here: askmolly at protonmail .com. Oh yeah, Polly wrote about forgiving yourself for being an insipid twat. Good luck with that.