If 'True Love Waits,' Lust Doesn't

Beautiful women need to start having more sex -- with me, specifically. Whatever it takes, rampant coitus needs to be in vogue in the vicinity of my pants. Whether that requires females to abandon questionable devotions to religious and moral principles, to increase their alcoholic intake, or my adoption of corpses for partners, I'm relatively unconcerned. But I know beauty is quick to decay postmortem, so, if I resort to pursuing gravebound beauties, I'll have to be fast to find suitably luscious corpses.

Seriously, you should see beer bottles when I'm done with them; the entire time the bottle's in my hands my fingernails are in action, ferociously shredding, mangling any and all attached labels until all that remains is the smooth, translucent brown glass adorned by a few skid marks of rough and sticky white residue. Everyone is so damn quick to note such habits supposedly derive from titty-tooshie-twat-tension, aka "sexual frustration." But all that squabbling doesn't do me any good -- unless I can manage to ram my rod into that agape noisemaking orifice, thereby fulfilling my two immediate desires. Sadly, I wasn't endowed a rapist's mentality. I must find a socially acceptable way to let off some cream before the allure of beer and shampoo bottle openings becomes too strong.

And such an opportunity provided itself during a recent trip to a frightening and unknown mecca of subhuman love, Wal-Mart -- an ultra-low-priced retailer where expectations of customer attractiveness are even lower, so low that I'm considered a handsome prince. While filling my shopping cart with cereals I was accosted by a middle-aged women with a mere three or four visible disfigurements, a veritable supermodel in the scope of Wal-Mart's typical clientele. After she spoke several complete sentences I smiled and responded, feigning interest in her generic plucky charms. My words seemed to put her at ease, assuring her, despite our obvious differences, that we were similar species that communicated in similar tongues. But then, in a fit of unacceptable, and I'm sure calculated, bestiality, she tried to intertwine our tongues:

"So, do you have a girlfriend." Her yellow eyes, set too close together, bulged with devious anticipation.

I shifted my feet and stared at the tiled floor. "Uhhh -- yeah. Yes. Yes, I do," I mumbled.

"Well, I'd like you to meet my daughter. She just graduated from high school and we're new to the area. Maybe you could tell her about some colleges? She's very cute."

DAMN. I hadn't been convincing enough. "sure," I replied meekly, wary of mutant reprisals.

As she unleashed a grating sound somewhere between a cackle and howl, something bounded into my periphery with a rather violent lack of coordination. The creature called daughter hobbled toward me and extended a paw; afraid to offend the beast or it's somehow proud mother, I offered my hand, prompting a smile so gap-toothed I didn't doubt the daughter could perform fellatio with her teeth clinched. "If only she were a decayed corpse," I thought, "I'd actually be less disgusted -- and she might have a chance."

Having repressed the rest of our encounter, I can't explain with any certainty how I escaped the grasps of the lusting mutant duo. Maybe I resorted to using words longer than 6 letters in length to confound their meager faculties of comprehension. Maybe a false phone number granted my freedom. Whatever. The simple truth: if you can read these words, Wal-Mart is not the last place on earth you should look for love, it should be absolutely forbidden. If you're overcome with desperation, resort to the mushy warmth of a compost pile or rotten fruit.