Saturday, April 9, 2011

“Allowance for Doubtful Accounts”

To the universe I’m just a bare ass in a pair of high socks straddling a Yamaha crotch rocket, barreling down the highway in the night, a tiny speck of flesh dashing across the blackness. The cool air hits me at one hundred and twenty miles-an-hour and feels divine, ethereal on every part of my skin except my penis, which is buried four inches deep in a Taiwanese stripper like an ostrich searching for water. She hugs the bike and I hug her, my Oriental Princess, and we are one: the yin and yang hurling towards Phoenix like a coital cannonball. We enter the city and peel ourselves off the bike just before it smashes through the hotel window. A storm of glass rains over our bare backs as we soar like doves onto the stage, our bodies fused into a single nude testament to human beauty, and the members of the executive board look stunned; they know that this year I’m not here to screw around. The bike makes contact with a beverage cart and an explosion of Sterno burners sends a tsunami of flames rippling up the curtains just as my lady and I begin to make love on stage voraciously like a pair of deprived nymphomaniacs reunited after World War II. Fifteen hundred individuals hiding titillation under brown suits stare, their bitter eyes exuding deranged delight as they witness us share a life-changing climax before our blazing backdrop of Hell, a bone-shaking nine-minute collaboration of pleasure so great you'd swear a universe was created in the gap between our crotches. A beat, then a wall of applause pulverizes us, the sound waves a barrage of aural sucker punches that slap the sweat off our flushed faces as we crumple into a mess of tangled hair and depraved carnality. That’s how you make an entrance at the National Conference of Financial Modeling and Analysis in Microsoft Excel.

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