The Douchedroid

Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Live
with Sarah Palin the New POTUS USA (2012)

Dr. Strangelove: Sir! I have a plan!
[standing up from his wheelchair]
Dr. Strangelove: Mein Führer! I can walk!

For more than a year now, ominous rumors had been privately circulating—among high-level Western leaders and coy Congressional page boyz.

The rumor was that Sarah Palin the new USA POTUS in Washington DC—had been at work on what was darkly hinted to be the ultimate weapon: the Douchedroid Doomsday Device.

Intelligence sources traced the site of the top secret Lesbos project to the perpetually smog-shrouded shithole Washington DC Beltway bunkers—ensconced way down deep in the muddy muck and humid swamps of the polluted Potomac River Delta.

What POTUS Palin and the Desperado DC Dykes were building or why it should be located in such a crummy shithole place like the DC Beltway—well, no one could answer those questions. Until now….

The Wall Street Whore Lobbyists and Sneaky Tricky Dick Cheney Zombie Hardcore Repugs—they knew something was up. They could smell it—after all it takes one to know one. Crooks, that is. Cheney and his gang were hiding down deep in their doomsday bunkers—playing it safe beneath the Watergate No Tell Motel complex.

Dr. Strangelove: “Of course, the whole point of a Douchedroid Doomsday Device is lost, if you “keep” it a “secret”! Why didn't you tell the world, Senator de Sadesky?”

Senator de Sadesky: “It was to be announced at the Tea Party Convention in Phoenix on Monday. As you know, POTUS Palin loves surprises.”

How did little lowly faggoty me—find out about such a nefariously terrible Douchedroid Doomsday Device?

Well, honey, it was purely by chance, I guess. Just the same old usual slippery, slimy, same-sex serendipity, I suppose. That’s how things usually happen to me—call it my own personal queer Gaydar or whatever. It comes outta the Blue—that’s all I know. Like some magnificent gift—suddenly sticking itself thru the glory hole of the men’s bathroom there at the Minneapolis Airport, dontchaknow.

I usually expect the worse—it’s the story of my life. When you’re down like me all the time—everything fuckin’ looks up, right Kimosabe?

That’s what happens—when all I’m doin’ is minding my own Facetious Business. That’s what I get for being flippant and gay—suddenly something happens to make me Wake Up and Smell the fuckin’ coffee.

Some people call it queer clairvoyance—others call it Having Your Beads Read by TPTB from Hell. Maybe it’s my Female Anima Intuition—but probably it’s more like Enema Douchejob.

That’s how I came up with this—Portmanteaux Nightmare Story I’m telling you. Everybody’s got his skanky Wordhorde up there in their head—it’s got a lot of baggage all the way from Tolkien’s Douchebag to Beowulf’s Last Blowjob.

Rule #1 “Don’t meddle in the affairs of douchedroids—for they are subtle and quick to anger.”

The Douchedroid Doomsday Device—I wish I’d never heard of the stupid fuckin’ thing. But once you’ve opened it up—there’s no turnin’ back. Once you’ve crossed the Point of Shithole No Return—you’re pretty much down & doomed out, baby.

It all started one dark & stormy night—as they say. It was a TGIF Friday night—not long ago. I picked up and took in this college kid—from the University District. His name was Jackie—short for Jack the Ripper. He was rough trade—and had a bad reputation. He had a horror story to tell—naturally I was all Ears…and Ogling Eyeballs.

Jackie had barely escaped alive—from the fuckin’ gay ghetto up on Capitol Hill. He’d had one too many drinks and blow jobs—up there in Volunteer Park.

Too many snaky Nights up there—in the Midnight Garden of Good and Evil. They were out to get him—one last time. He weaseled his way—outta their faggy clutches.

Only to be fuckin’ shanghaied by some mean Diesel Dykes from the U-District and held captive in the Lesbos Ghetto down on the Ave. Where he’d been used and abused for weeks—as a young male sex slave. They had plans for him—and it wasn’t pretty.

The Lesbos motorcycle gang leader—her name was Rita Rotor Rooter. Well, she was the spittin’ image of Sarah Palin—the new President of the USA. I swear to gawd—she was also the ultimate Lady Gaga look-alike wearing her deadly strap-on Taser Dildo doing after-hours Apocalypto Disco at the Neptune Theater.

Like Rita Rotor Rooter really got down bad—she was a SM Leather Queen from way back when. She’d troll the Ave for cute freshman tricks—then get them naked, stoned fuck them to death. Right down to the Last Excruciatingly Screamy Spaz Dick Wiggle and Final Sayonara Solo Squirt...

Rita the Rotor Rooter Woman was on a Mission—to get even for all the goddamn years of Mean Misogyny Planet terror and malevolent Male-abuse. She was out to kick-ass and kick-start Revenge Inc. and Getting Even Co. No more Butchy Patriarchal Pricks—no more oppressive male Jack Boot Tyranny Clomped down on the Neck of Vulnerable Feminine Humanity!!!

Down in the Basement Disco of the Neptune Theater not far from campus—that’s where the House of Evil lived. Rita the Rotor Woman and her Gang of Douchebag Dykes—with their fabulous Revenge Parties and had their Sultry Sullen Horrible Long Lost Weekends.

The kind of Lost Weekend Parties that would make blushing Ray Milland bug-eyed—like in “The Man With the X-Ray Eyes.” DOA Dead Boyz—the helpless, vulnerable Look of Doomed Young Dicks. Stupid Cross-eyed Child Idiot Circus Freaks—getting’ off one last long-drawn-out time.

That’s what Rita the Rotor Rooter Queen—liked to do. She’d be having her Big Juicy Climax—with some dumb young spread-eagled Muy Macho Male Sex Slave Victim. Dragging it out—as long as she could.

And then she’d push the Pain Meter button—all the fuckin’ way to the Top of the Scream Index. Fuckin’ the poor young male sex slave to death—with her mean vibrating strap-on Taser-Tool gun.

Electrocuting the poor young stud to death—in front of a whole louche dick-mob audience there in the Neptune Theater. All the cheering diesel dykes—and their swooning lesbian lovers. Hookahs, humping—Vodka and creamy Russian caviar oozing down the aisles.

I would’ve laughed earlier if anybody had told me such a crazy foolish Ripley’s Believe It or Not Story—but now with Palin as POTUS, I was ready to believe just about anything. After the 2012 Elections—and the BP Gulf Apocalypse, well, anything seemed possible, even Jackie’s jack-off fantasy.

The collapse of Male Beltway Dictatorship and the End Dayz of Planetary Hetero-Hegemony happened so quickly—nobody was ready for it. But the glut of Nightmare Crude, Bad BP Gulf Spill Advice and Benzene Bilge Pump Baloney!!!

Soon the Mess overcame even the most paranoid fantasies of FOX-News Reports and NYTimes scuttlebutt gossip-queens. The BP Fiasco made believers of even the most ardent cynical Manhattan and Wall Street observers—even the stoic Easter Island statues and grim Face on Mars shook their stony heads in disbelief.

That and the deadly Hurricane Evita—sweeping Big Oil debris and turning the Gulf of Mexico into one big deadly New Dead Sea. The Hurricane was twice as bad as Katrina—and spread the BP benzene poisons and crude oil tar balls all the way to Poughkeepsie and Topeka, Kansas. Well, all that pretty much changed everything for a lot of minds—about how money was wasted and how things were gonna be run from then on.

The only reason I survived—was Rita Rotor Witch liked me for some reason. She be my Lesbos Motorcycle Cop Sugar-Momma—who took me under her protective witchy wings. I’d suffered the Death of a Thousand Cuts—ever since I was a stupid little fag.

Vulnerable, useless—a hopeless Bildungsroman Basket Case. From my ugly, despicable boyhood—beginning with Killer Kindergarten USA. All the fuckin’ way from there—to today and my Neptune Night School dayz.

Where Rita the Rotor Rooter Girl—had saved my skinny little ass. Somehow I’d got seduced by Theodore Roethke and Elizabeth Bishop—with their seminal seminars on Sat nights. There at the Blue Moon Tavern—on 45th Avenue.

But the jealous Male Mafia Mob in the English Department—had caught me doing Professor Don’t Ask Don’t Tell. There in the Suzzallo Library on campus—down there in the DOMA Tea-Room of the infamous No Tell Motel from Hell.

Anyway, Rita Rotor Rooter was the one who told me—that there was something terribly rotten in Denmark over in the DC Beltway one night. It was the same old stench—of centuries-old ugly-smelling smegma-smeared Male Hegemony dayz. They were comin’ to an end—that’s what she said, Kimosabe.

The Vandals of the Void, the Secrets of Saturn’s Rings, the Asshole Asteroid Space Wars—all these so-called Golden Years of Sci-Fi Pulp Fiction fantasies. They were really true—just like some Hollywood Ed Wood Jr. “Plan 9 From Outer Space” Male Monster Grade-B Snake Pit Drive-In Movie.

All of it outta some cheap crummy Mickey Spillane beat-up dog-eared Paperback Novel. Just like outta some closet-case Raymond Chandler moody LA Big Sleep Long Goodbye film noir fantasy. Just like outta some decrepit A. E. van Vogt Late Capitalism “Slan” drag show from some gone flatline fantasy of alien hardcore corporate gamesmanships.

The whole goddamn panoply of Male Planet Bullshit and Big Dick Sci-Fi Dictatorship. Rita gave it all a fuckin’ shrug—and gave me a chance to see the true Palin POTUS future. Even though I had a dick—and belonged to the Enemy.

The story Rita Rotor Girl told me—was indeed scary and hair-raising. It was back of the neck scary—erect pubic-hair scary. It was Doomsday Douchedroid Apocalyptic Last Days scary—truly Slave Planet SF horror flick scary wary. Naturally, I was all ears…

I couldn’t get enough of her shithole, douchebag storyline—since this 18-year-old kid I saved told me the same thing Rita told me. He was lucky to be alive.

I didn’t just put a pillow case over his head—like Robert Mapplethorpe did with his hung Mandingo boyfriend. You know the one—“The Man in the Polyester Suit.” All twelve inches of him—getting’ it on in his swanky NYC studio with the usual Afro-disiacs.

This young hustler kid from Disco Night at the Neptune—naturally he was built like a brick shithouse. Somehow he’d got sucked into one of Rita’s all-night Neptune SM Parties on the Ave. He’d almost been drained fuckin’ dry—all his lovely vital life-fluids and seminal juices. I was lucky to get my lips on it—before he’d been blown away forever.

His name was Jackie—his mother had liked the movie “Dr. Strangelove.” He played the dumb jock sex slave cameo shot so well—you know the one. Goofy Sterling Hayden as Brigadier General Jack Ripper—the madman who sets the whole thing going down the tube in the Strangelove movie.

“I don’t avoid women, Mandrake.
No, I don’t deny them my essence.
In fact, I let them have all of my
precious bodily fluids—every fuckin’
drop they want or desire!!!”
—General Jack D. Ripper,
Dr. Strangelove

I called him Jackie Boy the Ripper—talk about a low IQ Neanderthal Noodle Head. Like most stupid young douchebag dicks in love with themselves—he thought the whole world was a conspiracy out to get his you know what.

An apocalyptic Cocksucker conspiracy—say what? It's incredibly obvious, isn't it? All the cocksuckers were after his precious bodily fluids—fuck everything else—they were greedy for every fuckin’ drop, right?

Ah yes, the Cocksucker Conspiracy—nobody was safe. Not even the Marines anymore. And pussy in the submarines—20,000 leagues beneath the sea!!! The whole planet had gone—down the Douchebag shitter.

No more decent All-American Apple Pie, no more holy roller Bible-stomping, no more Elmer Gantry tent revivals with guyz howling at the moon, no more TV evangelical Jerk Offs, making out in Big Easy motels and dirty Minneapolis airport bathrooms.

That's the way your hard-core Cocksucker Conspiracy works—happy Hetero society dragged down into the homo sewers and gutters of human despair and destruction!!!

This time though, t wasn’t the usual same old Cocksucker Conspiracy Theory—dragged out of the Closet for the usual Election to suck in the usual dummy rubes.

This time it was the Dyke Douchedroid Doomsday Conspiracy—my new killer boyfriend Jackie Boy pretty much had it all figured out.

Me: Uh, Jackie, Jackie, listen, tell me, tell me, Jackie. When did you first... become... well, develop this dyke douchebag doomsday theory?

Jackie Boy: Well, I, uh... I... I... first became aware of it, man, during the physical act of love.

Me: Hmm.

Jackie Boy: Yeah, a uh, after sex I had this profound sense of self-loathing... a feeling of douchebag depression and emptiness oozing outta every pore. Luckily I... I met you. Losing my precious seminal body fluids. It’s not so bad with you. I know it’s kinda like going to a good cause, dontchaknow?

Me: Hmm.

Jackie Boy: I don’t feel right with regular fags and cocksuckers. Women uh... well, they’re different. Women sense my sex power and they want my muy macho male essence. I, uh... I don’t avoid women, you know. I can’t seem to keep them away.

Me: Of course, not. What about me tho?

Jackie Boy: Well, you’re different, dude.

Me: Yeah?

Jackie Boy: Yeah, you saved my ass from Rita!!! Rita the Rotor Rooter Witch. The Bitch with the strap-on Dildo of Death!!!

Me: That’s okay, kid. I’ll just take it out in trade.

Jackie Boy: Sure, that’s okay. You can have all you want. There’s plenty from where that last wad came from, guy.

Me: You’re fuckin’ lucky I saved your ass. She was gonna make a snuff-movie outta ya, that’s for sure.

Jackie Boy: Oh Yeah, man!!!. Go ahead, dude. Do me again, will ya?

No comments: