Ass Cleavage! Endangered Species! by Crad Kilodney
Bet you never expected to hear from me again, did you, you bondage slut? You still owe me $50 from that reading in ’89, but never mind that because you’re going to make it up to me, see? Get your Polaroid out of the closet and take some ass shots of yourself. I want you to lie over a comfy chair with your knees on the floor and your ass spread wide. You can do panty shots with the panty pulled up to show me your ass cleavage, and also some good naked shots with good light on your bunghole. You’re going to do the same with your girlfriends and your female customers. I want good asses with lots of meat. I’ve been appointed Endangered Species Protection Agent for the Metro area — a great honor but no stipend to go with it unless I take a trip to Ottawa and blow this Liberal punk named Noel, which I would never do. So I’m going to make money with the ass cleavage shots you send me. I’m going to sell photo packs and maybe produce some gag tourist postcards (“Hi from Toronto!”). I can work with Polaroids or negatives or regular prints or digital, whatever. The money will go to save endangered species, in a vague way. I’m supposed to get people to count whatever the fuck is endangered and tot up the numbers they send in. But mainly I want to bite your ass and lick it all over, you bitch, because you only dated fucking wogs, not white Canadians. You need a stiff ramrod up your pretentious artsy bunghole, you bohemian trash slut. So get that ass up because I have to save, what, penguins? Salamanders? Some fucking woodpecker that supposedly migrates over Mississauga one day a year on its way to Louisiana? Whales for sure. Never mind that we’re nowhere near the ocean. Somebody’s gonna send me a whale count, just you watch, and I’ll accept it. (Prove they didn’t swim up the St. Lawrence Seaway!) If something goes extinct it’s technically not endangered any more and not my problem. I just want to get bundles of hot ass shots from you, and I don’t care how you get them (should be no big deal since you advertise in Now). Just don’t get all artsy with me with dumb poses and costumes and weird shit, just normal (bondage okay) ass meat targets a prisoner or mental patient can jerk off all over (with a clear plastic protector, of course), which brings back memories of Penetang, but I digress. I want my animal counters to be happy campers (I don’t have to do plants). Yeah, that’s how I’m recruiting them. They count fucking endangered wolverines or chipmunks for me, I supply girls’ ass cleavage shots. I’ll just throw the reports in the closet, that’s all. If the government wants me to write up some sort of white paper or green paper or whatever the fuck the Environment Minister stands up and reads in the House of Commons, they gotta send me a hot female assistant with a BIG ass I can thrash around in with the trouser snake. It’s a hard job, but I’m ready to do it as long as nobody blames me for dangerously low counts of marmots, skinks, or ospreys. I never did anything to any species in my whole life except kick a few pigeons that expected ME to walk around THEM, but they’re not endangered and, besides, they had it coming because of their city attitude. Now listen, you bitch, you bend over for me and pull that g-string up your crack and show me good ass cleavage, and all is forgiven. And if you find me some prime callipygian butt-babes (Italian brunettes!), you may even have a favor or two coming if I’m in the mood. I don’t want to see any faces, understand? It spoils the fantasy. And like I said, no fucking experimental, conceptual bullshit like your terrible poetry, which you’ll never get published unless you butt-fuck some totally marginal CanLit wiener with your strap-on. Listen, you screw up this assignment and I’ll leave a dead porpoise in your pot garden. I want straight-on, rude-and-crude crack shots, and I want a pile of them every month because there’s a lot of fucking endangered species crying out in their pathetic little voices, “Help! Save me! I can’t reproduce because my habitat sucks!”, and I’m going to protect them if I have to come over there myself and rip your leather panties off and whip your white Canadian ass.
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Crad Kilodney, P.O. Box 72577, 345 Bloor St. East, Unit 7, Toronto, ON, M4W 3S9
— Crad’s new writing is now at CradKilodney.wordpress.com