The guy is self-aware, which is something that I respect despite how grotesque he is. You see, every morning, Joe Risquik gets up and takes a big, coagulating wad of last night’s jizz, sticks a bike pump in it, and inflates it for about thirty-eight minutes, if not thirty-nine. And this spunk reeks, mind you. I mean, it’s old. It’s sweet and salty and when you inflate it, it kind of releases some hidden notes (like aerating a wine), so a lot of times when you smell some kind of fermented sugar, you can bet that Joe Risquik is cum-bubbling his way down the road. Some days its berries and foot, others you’ll get vanilla and untreated hemorrhoid and cedar.
So when he’s done pumpin’ this cum-bubble full of oxygen, he raises it over his head and pushes himself through it (super fast, in order to not break the protective barrier). It swallows him whole and you can barely see him through the milky shield.
Then he just walks around town in his cum-bubble, which everyone’s getting sick of. He can’t go into stores or do much, but he does stroll through the park a lot, and you can tell he’s been there because you can see sunbeams bounce off the faint, glistening trail of flaking butter he leaves behind.
He turns blue a lot, on account of the fact that he’s basically in a vacuum of pure spunk. That makes people the most mad, because it’s not a safe practice and the kids really look up to him on account of the fact he defeated the anti-nazis.
I held a town meeting. Grover Hollands was there, and so was Melanie Mink, and then a couple other thousand people packed into the back rows of the Wangatarian mega church which had so kindly allowed us to use their space as a gathering hall for what was “one of the most important intellectual debates in mankind’s recent history.”
So I won’t bore you with the details of the meting, but at the end everyone was crying and we were all singing songs by Joe Risquik and we’d realized that we were petty, jealous heathens who just were so damned disillusioned by our unhappiness that we couldn’t see we really envied Joe Risquik for his joy and his lifestyle built on a plinth of personal meaning that defied the absurdity of human existence.
Joe was the only one that hadn’t been invited, and all one-thousand of us felt really sorry about it, but (god damn it) when we walked out there, who was there but Joe Risquik(?) in a big, crinkling cum-bubble (it deflates throughout the day unless he brings along an auxilliary pump). He held his hands wide open for everyone and shouted “I love you all as you love me.”
And so everyone knew what it meant, and they all ordered themselves in just about the most straight fuckin’ line you done ever seen. We all patiently waited for our turn to enter the cum-bubble and give Joe Risquik a hug.
By the time it was my turn, a lot of people had gotten stuck on Joe, so that I wasn’t really hugging him but I was hugging a bunch of other people who were fused to him (so it was kinda like hugging him).
And let me tell you: if you thought it smelled outside of the cum-bubble, God himself couldn’t prepare you for what it was like inside. My ears swelled when I pulled the stink in through my nose. If the outside smelled like fermented sugar, the inside was a creme-brulee of sweat pudding and smegma. The smell was so nauseating and intoxicating that you could barely breathe, let alone think straight or masturbate uninterrupted by your olfactory curiosity.
And so the moral of the story is that don’t fucking mess with Joe Risquik, because we’re all stuck to him and he’s making us hurt people that we never wanted to hurt.