Greenpoint
Lorven Pharmacy
Culture on the Cheap
Best story idea EVER
Today at work Larry and I knocked around story ideas. After discussing auto-erotic asphyxiation for about five minutes, Larry told me about a short story he is composing. I am not going to divulge what it is, as it his intellectual property and I respect that. It doesn’t really matter anyway because I came up with a doozy. In fact, it might be the greatest tale ever told.
The premise is this: a man calls phone sex line and dies while servicing himself. The phone sex operator doesn’t realize her client is deceased and continues to talk salaciously. Hours turn to days. Days turn to weeks. Weeks turn to months; the whole time the stiff (with a stiffy) is mutely listening to the sweet nothings these women are moaning into his receiver. A fly wistfully grazes his shaven balls.
The women at the phone bank end up filing a class action law suit against their employer for the carpal tunnel syndrome they got from playing with their bits for months on end. They are victorious and go on to become the most powerful labor union activists in history.
THE END
Postscript: Jump forward to 2300 A.D. An archeologist unearths a rundown studio apartment in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. Inside they discover the petrified remains of a man in a Barcalounger. He is surrounded by numerous issues of Juggs Magazine and empty bottles of Night Train. The numerous cum stains around him have become small sedimentary rock formations. A lonely cockroach has been caught in his semen and is now it is preserved for all eternity. After some dusting, the worker notices that the homo erectus she is unearthing is clad only in a stained wifebeater, nothing else.
This is when the significance of her find hits her. She calls her supervisor over to see what she discovered: the man has his dick in one hand, telephone receiver in the other.
Miss Heather
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