Tuesday, May 3, 2011

"Rasputin's Diary"

Grigori Rasputin, Russia’s notorious Mad Monk, was considered a mystic, healer, psychic, and irresistible womanizer. This is an excerpt from his diary.

May 2

I was neck-deep into my usual Monday routine when there was a knock on my bedroom door. It was Anna Vyrubova, the sexiest lady in Russia. Or at least she was in the top one thousand.
“Why is your room full of trash?” she said. “Only your head is visible in this mountain of garbage.”
“I believe the answers to life’s deepest questions can be found in what we so carelessly discard. Also the stink of the trash masks my horrendous body odor.”
“I love your stink,” she said. “Bathing is for dirty vegetables. In fact I am here because of my powerful attraction to you. I saw your performance at last night’s Tsar’s Ball and I became just like a suburban mother at an overly-crowded baseball day game: hot and bothered.”
I tried to remember which performance she was speaking of. I routinely do several erotic performances each night to audiences of women or bears. “You mean when I spun my penis around in circles over and over until I hypnotized the Tsar himself?”
“No, not the Pinwheel. I mean the one where you stretched your scrotum over your head like a hood.”
“The old Stinky Putty Mask.”
“Right. I am here because my doctor said that if I don’t, how do I put this, get my rocks off in 24 hours, my heart will explode.”
I removed the rocks that were balanced on her shoulders. “There.”
“No,” she said, “I meant I need to have an orgasm. Those rocks are there to keep this from happening.”
She floated up to the ceiling like a balloon. There was a hot, sexy balloon on my ceiling that I now obligated to have sex with. It was just like the time I went to the fair.

Once my servant Sergei fished Anna down with a rake, we locked the door and cleared out a space in the mountain of trash I called home.
“Do you want to bang on the floor?” I said, motioning towards my rug made of Perun skin, that is the pelt of the Pagan God of War. I was confused and thought that Perun was a symbol for bears, not the other way around, so I murdered Perun to get his skin to honor bears, which I thought were more important but it turned out I slaughtered our most powerful God.
“How about in bed?” she said.
“But my bed is only for eating in.”
“Where do you sleep?”
“On the kitchen table.”
“We can’t do it in the bed because I’m allergic to peanuts.”
“I only use cashew-based lubricants.”
“No, I’m allergic to the shelf of Charles Schulz books behind your headboard.”
“Let’s bang on the floor.”
Since we only had 24 hours to have sex, I knew I’d have to figure this out quick. My usual lovemaking sessions are like Peter Jackson’s King Kong in that they are 48 hours long.
Anna got undressed and began to stretch. She said, "I want to show you my beaver."
I said, "I don't give a damn about animals that build them."
She said she was talking about her pubic hair.
I said, “No, you definitely said beaver. Anyway, who exactly was this doctor who prescribed this orgasm?”
“Doctor…Popovych. He’s new.”
I had never heard of him, but that’s not unusual because my unwashed ears are filled with mushrooms and mud. I took off my trousers and started greasing up my dirty penis, which looked like a dead rat soaked in maple syrup.
“I hear you’ve got a real reputation for pleasing ladies,” she said, eyeing down my dripping member.
“What can I say,” I said, knowing what I could say, “ladies love filthy, insane wizards who eat trash.”
I pounced and we were like a man stressed out because his Internet has been down for three days hammering a nail into his mailbox: banging really hard. She was loving it and I was tolerating it and I knew I had a job to accomplish. We switched from one disturbing position to another, and I felt nothing. This was merely a task for me; to me this beautiful lady who just another drop in the bucket of sexy ladies who crave a Rasputin ride. Our sex was like the USA Today, visually appealing but lacking real mental stimulation. My thoughts were a lot like USA Today charts, in that they were of pies.
I unrolled my trusty eleven-inch long index finger and began hunting for her pleasure button. I poked around the usual spot, but there was nothing to be found. I felt all over: her legs, her behind, her back, and it was just like my trip to Oslo when I needed to rent a car: There was no Taurus. Except this time it wasn’t a Ford that was missing, it was a cli.
Time was ticking. I only had twenty three hours and fifty eight minutes left. If I didn’t find the spot and make her scream, she was going to end up deader than my taste buds after trying my first electric PB & J.

I knew what to do. I had to ask the dark lord of the underworld Veles himself. I spoke to him routinely when I forced myself to briefly die, which was often. You see, sexually I am a lot like Boston Red Sox first baseman Bill Buckner because I love to choke.
While I was pleasuring Anna with my dirty penis, I held my breath for five minutes until I entered the mystical realm of hell. I found Veles. He was sitting on a throne of corpses eating a turkey sub sandwich.
“What do you need, Rasputin?” he said, adding, “Holy Christ you smell like genocide.”
“I need information. I must locate Anna Vyrubova’s clitoris or else her heart will stop and I don’t want that to happen because her heart is like Cal Ripkin, Jr.”
“It never takes a day off?” he said.
“No, I mean we call it Iron Man. Can you tell me where to find her pleasure nub?”
“It’s on the roof of her mouth,” he said, spraying lettuce on the demons licking his feet.
I gave Veles a curtsey of thanks and re-entered the world of the living and decided to try the one thing I had never done before: kiss a woman. It seemed barbaric to do that to a woman, an act reserved for dogs, but I did it. I plunged my tongue into her mouth and fished around until I found the nub. After a few licks, Anna was like a tailor on the eve of National Trouser Day: panting really hard. After an hour of mind-blowing pleasure for her during which I outlined in my head a script for an episode of Everybody Loves Raymond, she was done.
We cleaned up our filth and Anna looked back to me. “By the way, I made up the thing about the doctor. I just needed some reason to get you to make love to me.”
“If you wanted to convince me to make love to you should have dressed up as a pumpkin.”
“Any pumpkin?”
“The Great Pumpkin.”
“But I’m allergic to peanuts.”
She walked out and I was alone, buried in my trash, and hungry. I tried to walk over to my pile of rotten rabbit skeletons, but I couldn’t move. I was paralyzed!
It turned out that getting the location of Anna’s little lady wiener from the dark lord Veles was just like the time I bought Adele’s album 21 at Barnes and Noble: I paid a horrible price. But instead of twenty three dollars, this time it was the use of my legs.
I killed two birds with one stone by ripping my dead legs off with my own hands and eating them, then using the bones to bat a rock out my window and take down a pair of doves.

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