Turds of Love

There is no living thing on this planet that gets less action than I do. I never get any sex. Nada, zero, el-zilcho. I make a Benedictine monk look like Wilt Chamberlain. In fact, my sex life is about as action-packed as an old man standing at a public bathroom urinal.

It’s that pathetic. Just this moment, I thought I heard the distinct snap of broken streams of crusty saliva as, somewhere, the future mother of my children just lifted her head out of a puddle of drool.

God, I hope she has a ripper body!

Anyways, my sexual failings aside, I will openly admit here that I am no Matthew McConaughey, but what I lack in chiseled perfection I certainly make up for in lustful obsession. If any lucky female were ever to find it within themselves to look past all my warts, they would find that I am actually the catch of the century. I would worship her; I would cherish her; I would bottle and store her turds in little specimen jars and keep them in an ornamental cabinet in the closet.

Somebody just has to find that attractive and endearing – even if it’s just another weirdo that happens to like having their turds inventoried and preserved for all posterity.

But perhaps I go to far…