JessicaRulestheUniverse.com

Published 18 Nov 2010

Once upon a time, in the Widely Homosexual Kingdom of Gaynerdia, there lived the handsome Sir Harry the Impaled. He was called so because he had this enchanted sword six inches into his chest, and he can’t pull it away no matter how he tried because certain magical properties kept this awful implement in its place. He was cursed with this stubborn, unyielding sword, and, like most everything in the kingdom, it’s a drag.

Now, whomsoever can unsheathe this hateful artifact from his chest can unsheathe everything else from his person. That was a decree handed down by the helpless King and Queen, one and the same, of this realm because he can’t have the champion of the Harlotte Knights out of commission for so long. The challenge was met with rabid enthusiasm, idol worship and multiple erections. And the proclamation circulated well in the kingdom wide web, and it had blogs in its honor, its own Facebook Fan Page, and a massive Twitter following.

Hundreds of thousands of more or less androgynous hopefuls rose to the occasion in that colorful line of queers that went on forever. And it must be mentioned that each homosexual province was well represented. The Closet Queens of Paminteria arrived in their knee length walking shorts and pointed white leather shoes. The Gym Bunnies of Hunkette were in their gym shorts, training shoes, and their signature Cruising First, Fitness Last membership gym bags. The Parloristas of Statutoria were the noisiest and the funniest and the most fluent in the kingdom vernacular. The Effeme Fatales of Beauconera were gorgeous in their cosmetic and sexually reassigned surgeries and their four inch stilleto heels.

The grammatically challenged “Discrete Bisexuals” of the Shitforbrains Mountains formed their own line because they’re not really really gay at all.

That seemingly endless line of homosexual hopefuls became, at last, finite as the defeated and the embittered grew in numbers. Most of the casualties, however, went home even before they had a go at Sir Harry’s Legendary Perpendicular. By that, I mean the sword. The Gym Bunnies hit on each other, fell out of line, and looked for very huge trees. The Closet Queens followed the Gym Bunnies with their camera phones. The Parloristas made fun of the Hipons, a sad subspecie of the Gym Bunnies. In consequence, these offending Parloristas were punched out of consciousness by the Hipons, and they had to be admitted to nearby medical tents because they are mostly in their forties and had weak constitutions due to their strict diet of cigarettes and semen. Most of the Effeme Fatales were actual fatalities by midday. The blazing heat melted their silicone implants which clogged their blood stream and then killed them by poisoning.

The line of the “Discrete Bisexuals” didn’t move at all. In their frustration, these really really not gay cocksuckers went home to their computers and started their own largely-ignored wordy emo blogs.

Those who were patient and healthy enough to have a go at Sir Harry’s Legendary Perpendicular fared no better than those who cruised, voyeured, got confined, and died. They pulled with all their girly muscle, clenched their teeth in their growing frustration, and they still failed. Even the ogrish Richard Hadede, “hahi-hila ko yan, malaman yan,” suffered defeat. But he went home with a song in his head because his hand accidentally brushed Sir Harry’s cock on that last futile attempt.

“Hapa-plantsa ko nota nung pretch na hombre! Ha-sorry kayo mga bakla!”

He gave an idea and an executable ban, in effect, to the faggots following him in line. Nobody had thought of just unzipping Sir Harry’s fly and then unsheathing his other sword. But those who dared would now be shot.

What nobody understood, or even questioned, was how that sword took office in Sir Harry’s chest. See, it is a magical sword that injured everybody but its master. And it followed its master’s mental commands with such unprecedented loyalty that its owner, the great Sir Harry, was pleased to the very marrow. The truth is, this was all an act set up by the uninjured Sir Harry. Because in his head, he was waiting for the fierce force of nature they call Pussy Kamagong to show up. He just needs Pussy to grab the hilt, very lightly, and then he will command the sword out of his chest.

He’s smiling, too, because these other fools will never get any.