John from Topeka Asks: “Will eating ass make me sick?”
(The views and opinions expressed by The Executive Ass Man do not necessarily reflect the views and opinions of Pumpster. Pumpster takes no responsibility for following the advice given here.)
Dear John from Topeka,
In our modern anti-bacterial society we are fixated on washing our
hands after visiting the restroom because everywhere we look there are
those yellow signs that require employees to wash their hands before
returning to work. Even in the corporate office where I am employed,
those same little signs are posted, making the by-products of defecation,
urination, or even the organs themselves seem hazardous. But the reality,
even when we’re getting our tongues right up in there, is much
Yesterday I stopped by my regular lunch counter and I presented the owner, a corpulent woman with massive, sagging breasts, a thought-out argument which revealed the contradictions in the hand washing directive. When she brought me an extra serving of oyster crackers for my chowder, I inquired first about the “employees must wash hands before returning to work” sign posted in her bathroom.
“I am very particular about that!” she said. “Everyone here follows that rule.”
“It just does not make sense to me,” I said. “What if they don’t wash their hands?”
“Well, they might be let go.”
“I mean, what is the purpose of the rule?”
“To stop germs and disease!”
“I understand about hepatitis, but what germs are you talking about?”
“I don’t mean to be coarse, but germs found in poopy.”
I paused, took another spoonful of hot chowder, and said with my mouth full, “Let’s say I stop by here after you got off work. What time do you get off work?”
I shot her a grin and let the chowder ooze out of the corners of my mouth. She blushed. She was thinking about me picking her up, thinking about us going out to dinner, the blossom of love, the potential to be saved from her life of being fat and lonely, and, finally, a move into my penthouse. Then the huge wedding--she would lose weight, she would finally become that someone trapped behind those layers of flab she’s always dreamed of—and we would have a family. What a big goofball she was.
She smiled back and toyed with a lock of hair. “I get off normally at eight, but I can make it earlier--I’m the owner, you know,” she said, as if owning a dive diner can shave 300 pounds off of a person.
“Great, let’s say I stop by and pick you up at six, right after you’ve gone to the toilet and washed your hands,” I said.
“Not that I’m going to.”
“Anyway, you’ve just gone to the toilet and washed your hands, and we go back to my place, but probably it would be better to go to your place so you don’t know where I live.”
“I’m sorry, but what are you on about?” she asked.
“The sign in the bathroom!”
“You better be, mister.”
“And I pick you up—“
“And I’ve just washed my hands—“
“After having gone to the toilet.”
“And I pick you up and take you to your apartment, where I proceed to yank down those stretchy polyester pants and eat your ass.”
“Exactly! I can lick and suck on your ass for hours and never get sick, but for some reason—“
I’m sure my argument triggered her to think more deeply about the rule, but I believe she also thought I was an informant who was trying to trick her into admitting health code violations: she had two dishwashers of Hispanic decent forcibly remove me from the establishment. They at least were considerate enough to allow me to take a yummy piece of coconut cream pie I had ordered to go.
Well, back up in the office after a quick bite from a Jewish deli run by a blind elderly Korean man and his two stunning granddaughters, I called the Department of Health. I had to call four times before I was able to speak to a secretary who at least sounded sexy.
“Let’s say I eat at this diner, and there is a really cute 18-year-old, fresh out of high school, brunette, big brown eyes, just an absolute cutie, like one of those Barely Legal girls—“
“What is this about?”
“The signs in the bathroom.”
“And she, let’s say, gets off at eight.”
“And I pick her up, right after she has used the bathroom and has washed her hands.”
“And then I take her back to her place.”
“Where I proceed to yank up that waitress skirt, dip my stick in her ass, and then, when she’s begging me to come in her mouth, I pull out and let her suck me to completion.”
“Sir, I am having this call traced. This is a governmental agency and calls of this nature--.”
“That’s why I called the health department! The girl, let’s say her name is Angel--like in Shaved Angel--doesn’t get sick!”
“I am calling the police!”
“And what’s up with those Germans, shit eating everyday, and we never hear about them getting sick. Why then all the regulation concerning—“
Now I’m starting to think conspiracy, for the Health Department
hangs up on me, probably because I was one of the first people to ever
scrutinize their “paper tiger” hand washing law.
Naturally, the next step was to call the German embassy to find out why you don’t get sick when you poopen essen.
“I need to talk to a hot frauline, if you know what I mean,” I said to the mannen that answered, breaking out a bit of my high school Deutsch.
“Actually, sir, I don’t.”
“Okay, never mind,” I said, thinking that the mannen are the real big shit eaters anyway. “Do you ever get sick?”
“Sick? From what, sir?”
“From eating shit.”
“Sick from eating shit, you know scheissen poopen essen schlagen. I’ve been trying to figure out—“
Well, I can’t say if the conspiracy goes straight up to the Third Reich, but it’s hard not to think along those lines when yet another person hangs up on you, and a German person, no less, from the German government, no less.
Outside of the soap producers, who I did a little research on and discovered were not all owned by depraved Deutsch corporations, (except for one pushing a dubious all-natural organic vegetable oil soap made with ginko biloba and green tea) I could not think of any other entity who might have conspiratorial motivations for desiring us to all wash our hands when we didn’t need to. But bango! It hit me!
I stopped by this quaint antique book store with a sweet slice of coconut pie for my friend Jenny who is a stupendous red head finishing up her PhD in medieval history, and I happened to see a religious book called the Bible. Suddenly I had a vision: Noah battling stormy seas, Moses and the plague, Job, the whale and that guy inside him, Solomon’s mining camp, Christ being executed on the cross thing, and finally the Papal States and their glorious splendor.
“Are you okay?” Jenny asked.
“I had a vision: Noah battling stormy seas, Moses and the plague, Job, the whale and that guy inside him, Solomon’s mining camp, Christ being executed on the cross thing, and finally the Papal States and their glorious splendor.”
“What a horrifying vision,” she said. “You sound like me. I can’t manage to shake Martin Luther from my mind I’m so engrossed presently in extrapolating—“
“Luther! He was a German, wasn’t he?”
“Yeah. Started the Protestant revolution.”
“Puritans, they hate rimming!”
“I haven’t gotten that far in my research,” she said, smiling. “Let’s lock up and go somewhere where I can express my Catholic beliefs.”
So there was a conspiracy after all, not only involving Germany but also the U.S. government as well as the Christian right which descended from the Puritans. So the Christian Right, a consequence of the Puritans who in turn were a consequence of the German Luther, secretly lobbied congress--not the soap producers—and managed to pass a law. Now, every time you visit the restroom of a dining establishment and see that sign, which says, “Employees must wash hands after using the restroom,” a little voice is implanted in your mind, a little voice that says
“Eating ass is unsanitary. Jesus loves you.”
I’m not about to waste my time trying to prove this in a court of law, since luckily there are many Jewish, Catholic, Muslim, Buddhist, Hindu, Atheist, and Agnostic women who know the truth and a few million or so hung up Baptists aren’t going to affect my average. And probably it’s a good law, because although I would be careful about washing my hands if I happened to be a salad prep, it’s well known all those foreigners preparing America’s food don’t know a damn thing about hygiene. Most of them used to live in dwellings constructed from dirt and leaves! And because they weren’t raised on antibiotic-treated beef like us full-blooded Americans, they’re just crawling with disease as well.
I’m just thankful that some questions and answers, some quandaries and struggles, can be concluded. And although my friend from the book store was suspicious about the Korean/English dictionary--in brail—I purchased (I think a certain couple of Korean ladies are going to be very grateful when their grandfather receives that!), I managed to get her to express her Catholic beliefs while bent over the back of my divan. And I ate it like a man filled with a fever; I ate it like a man dying of thirst in the desert who believed that tight sphincter held the last remaining drop of moisture in the known universe; and I ate it like a dog. She later told me that she had envisioned my moustache to be a magic carpet, and she let it take her across the Sahara--through the sands of time and far far far into the firmament on a magical journey of ass and tongue. She’s a great friend.
Now I’m not advocating running out there and yanking down the soiled trousers of some intravenous drug using gay Hispanic and chewing away like it’s Christmas in Tennessee, because you could maybe get hepatitis, and if there was any blood in the stool, you could maybe contract AIDS. That’s what is called ”risky behavior.” And there’s nothing I find more confusing than all this “risky behavior,” so that’s why I came up with this easy-to-remember rhyme to use when you’re about to be orally intimate with your love’s rusty sheriff’s badge:
I hope this helps! Bon Appetite!
The Executive Ass Man