Astroglide is my best friend because she keeps me wet and sane and happy with her electrons flying hither and thither, bouncing into particle beams of sunlight and darkness in the wells of coochies and butts.
“Give ‘em hell, Glo-Glide!” I say.
She nods her oil-slicked head.
“Much obliged!”
Gotta keep the juices flowing, inside and out. Bring it on home in time for Sunday dinner. Can’t be waiting around for the priest to finish his rock-hard sermon about drugs and alcohol, hookers and blow. Get ‘er done and do it fast, I always say.
If it weren’t for Astroglide, where would those horny sphincters sphinct? Into the black holes of their souls, lost to the darkness and hurrying to find the light down the alimentary canal of joy. Almond Joy. Nutty goodness and tweaking ball sacs captured in radiant hues of gold with flakes of white like dandruff dropping down to the shoulder blades of hell, deep across the waters of the River Styx, ferried by the Psychopompous of gourds and reindeer and finger foods. Rejoice! Hallelujah! Our asshole king has come. Off he shoots, like a rocket seeking water on a forbidden planet littered with monkeys who eat only the rinds of dead lemons, sniffing their lemony asses for freshness they will never find.
When that winding path leads them to salvation on the dunes of Planet 10 where the Black and Red Lectroids roam, how will that swanky Astroglide fair? She’s got the swing down, bippity-boppity-boo with her jiggly hips and fair lips. Pussy lips, probably, but maybe a butt shank has a pair too. Never been close enough to notice, but my money’s on SCROTUS’s pucker to be sure. Unfair of ass, smelly of scent, incorrigible of bodily fluids wreaking destruction on various members of Parliament in their Tory and Whig headgear, flatulating, masturbating, complicating the science of the known universe and quelling fears of rogue seminars blaring tiny dollhouse wares. I don’t need another goddamn plate in that wee little kitchen. Give me an egg or at least a mighty waffle to dunk in this rebellious Grade B amber syrup, stolen from the veins of an ancient botanical orgasm.
Why would you ever feel the need to steal such thunder from a noble being of breast and highfalutin neck braces with Swarovski crystal collars? Because we’re greedy as fuck and can’t get our shit straight no matter how hard we try. The waters of Astroglide’s glorious bounty can’t even help this civilization find the path back home. We are truly lost, out of rocket fuel, a sun about to go supernova with no more solar power to spare once the dirty deed is complete. But Asssssstroglide pussies up for us when we need it most. You can bow to its awesome power or drink it for an after-midnight snack, but it ain’t gonna do nothin’ except give your trolleyway a sweet, slick home with a tacky aftertaste.
Lick the Astroglide well, for your very life may depend on it. Imbibe in the fruits of no-man’s land where only the welling tears of ass can fertilize your lost soul.
Praise Psychopompous and the gluttonous revenge of Charon!