Sex is best when performed alone. There is no one to think, “I wish he would stop doing that” or “Why is she just laying there?” No one to care if you fall asleep after your carefully handcrafted accomplishment. Fall asleep during if you want – you’ll still be there in the morning. Well rested and completely alone to please yourself in whatever manner seems appropriate.
A solitary soul with dirty, dirty thoughts and a camcorder on top of the television prepared to capture your oeuvre. All alone - aside from God and a feline companion and the cat doesn’t really care what you do. “Pssh, I can lick my own ass,” mutters Mr. Whiskers. “Let’s see you do that, then I’ll be impressed.”
God is the only cause for alarm. If he is watching, which is probably the case, because religion makes the Almighty seem to be a voyeuristic child amusing himself with peeping and plagues. “Billy just touched himself, I shall smite ten kittens now,” says God. His animosity towards kittens is terribly vexing.
They are cute, cuddly and all over the Internet doing silly things, like hanging in there. My best theory is that God is allergic. Allergies must be the cause for all of the smitten kittens. I speculate that a god-sized dose of Claritin doesn’t exist.
Heaven’s lack of an Atlasian amount of anti-histamines is causing a problem for us. A mountain of cat dander obscures God’s already dodgy omniscience. Churchgoers - stampeded by nuns, children - orphaned due to alien abduction, and mimes still existing. Bad things are happening and to make it worse, Dairy Queen doesn’t offer a Twix Blizzard.
Chopped up bits of a knowing cookie finger lying with a caramel paramour, wrapped in a sheet of smooth chocolate and embedded in the creamiest, most satisfying soft serve ice cream available to be picked up while in the driver’s seat. Assuredly an image worthy of the finishing line and best enjoyed in bed - with a damp cloth on the nightstand for any necessary clean up.