No, I don't think I will respond. I'm tired of rectums. (rectophobia, probably).
Actually, my mind has been wandering off the topic. I've been thinking of a sequel to "Fantastic Voyage," with Raquel Welch (1970s ?)
Highly imaginative tale of miniaturizing humans for a voyage of exploration into the rectum. The intrepid adventurers in their miniature craft pass through the rectal orifice -- into a world of utter darkness, but one storied as the site of love, divine pleasure, and orgasm. A world bereft of clitoris, but with countless tingling nerve-endings and access to prostate gland. Our ship's powerful searchlight beam illuminates the way ahead. We come upon a milky white substance that momentarily envelops our craft. As we pass through it, the crew will use external probes to take samples for later analysis. Our adventure is far from without hazard. Following the twists and turns of the large intestine, our crew hears an ominous whooshing sound. It grows louder. The dreaded fart! Our ship is wildly buffeted by winds of up to a 100 mph! The crew holds on desperately, seatbelts straining. It passes as quickly as it came on. At least if wasn't the even worse tsunami of diarrhea, which might have violently swept our crew back whence they came. Navigating around a sharp bend, our skillful captain avoids a an ominously protruding polyp. Our crew is ever alert to an even greater danger, becoming bound, like Arctic explorers, in a mass of feces from which there can be no escape. No one wants to think of the worst danger of all -- that of a male sexual organ suddenly and without warning crushing our ship and its crew from behind.
No, no, I decline to think about rectums any more. It is getting too much for me. Sorry.
Where are my dogs? |
