Inserting a footlong fudge bullet into my soft-shelled tuna taco got me spattering fallopian fish stock faster than snot off a whip. My clunge pool was trembling like a tasered slab of chopped liver. There was love mayonnaise oozing from his vein cane and I was wetter than a spastic's chin. We were ready for more. With my swollen budgie's tongue now much like a hippo's yawn, he thought it was time to start plunging my poop chute. Is now the time to tell him I really need to arc a hardened fudge nugget, I wondered? Within no time, I could feel the shitty baby gravy sliming from my brown mile and all over my bald man in a boat.