What Famous People’s P$ss$$s Look Like
[ Just as Shakespeare jauntily lifted and displayed pieces from his great store load of words pertaining to and characterizing people’s privates (including “nothing,” a favorite among feminists!) I have decided to whip out here some closely guarded tidbits about famous people’s pussies. So, come on, slap your thighs, crunch peanuts in the pit, and gaze up, all forlorn, at the sultry clouds.
And, above all, enjoy. ]
A non-pregnant Kim Kardashian’s is a furry teacup pig on its day at the spa. Showing off its nails and gleaming skin. The clit’s a snout and it makes gorgeous and empty little squeals that no man can resist.
Paris Hilton’s is very much like a starved Flamingo curled up into a sad ball on the fringes of the high-acid waters of some South American crater lake. The sky’s filled with hotels and jails and at night the stars crowd in like ghoulish paparazzi. . . And the starved flamingo shivers like a scared Chihuahua that pees on Paris’s marble floors whenever it’s afraid or excited.
(Cormac McCarthy’s trying to work this dish into a new disaster novel).
Donald Trump’s vagina (no, it’s a pussy!—a real pussy!) resembles a couple of Greek vendors (let’s call them Konstantine and Stavros) arguing over a hairy crate of sky-scraping bananas in a market dazed with sheeps’ heads, men in red leather, all gaudy, weird and ripe, in the bright and geometric shadows of an Acropolis that wishes it could die off completely, right here, right now.
Michael Jackson’s family’s pussy looks like an abandoned gold mine town where someone like Mark Twain worked briefly as a gunfight correspondent. And they’ve converted all the saloons and whorehouses, perched still on the ragged cliffs, into antique co-ops, cheesy gift stores and sandwich shops. And the family, I mean pussy, just sits around in the dark, slippery-hot dust, waiting for gummy and redneck tourists to come and spew out a few lousy bucks while it watches FOX NEWS for the latest on its stupid pipe-dream lawsuit.
This pussy’s like a death mask. An unsurprising Halloween debacle.
The site of a murder that just won’t fade.
And this pussy (bad A-B-C) stinks up every last circle of Dante’s hells.
Barack Obama’s looks like a golf course in Hawaii or Hilton Head. Or a cigar bar. Or the country club in Trading Places where the Dan Akroyd character (Louis Winthorpe III) comes in and gets rejected by his fiancé (Penelope). Obama’s, on a good day, though, can look like the insides of a massive but simple House of Worship where we all, Republicans and Democrats alike, flock like flies, enjoying, vein-spiked, a giant-hearted voice vigorously and elegantly squirting out “Hope! Hope! Hope!”
Lady Gaga’s could be fake barbed-wire. Or Deuce Bigalow, European Gigolo, awkward in a hottub. Or skittish in a boathouse. Kind of funny. Kind of strange. Kind of WTF??. Or maybe it’s like Barbara Walter’s mouth. The wetlands of Louisiana all gone wrong: stiff alligator corpses yanked over and over up into a shiny boat. (as you can probably tell I have no idea, really, what Lady Gaga’s pussy looks like. Perhaps she doesn’t even have one????)
This pussy’s quite similar to what passed through Tim O’Brien, ghostlike and miraculous, and made him quit on the spot his job at the bagel factory and embark upon the wondrous journey of becoming a great “auteur.”
And the things they carried.
And the things they carried.
And the things they fucking carried.
I am sure, though, on the other hand, that Mitt Romney’s pussy is a magnificent yacht filled with countless dancing horses and private jets—and just as Faith is a House w/ Many Rooms this great ballad of a gold-yacht pussy contains room after countless room after room and in each one there’s a child bride waiting with her swan’s face and a candle extracted from the sad majority.
Tattooed over Mitt Romney’s lavish and perfectly waxed pussy are the words:
“Arbeit Macht Frei” (Work makes one free)
(for the rest of its life this pussy will scream out in its sleep each night “O, if it wasn’t for Sandy!” sniff, sniff. & drip, drip.)
The only “pussy” that’s survived in Demi Moore is an old, ghost-like goat in an old Farmer’s Market selling old, rotten garlic to the sexually blind, ambivalent and dead. And if you ask this ghost-goat-pussy if she’s got something else to offer (like strawberries and cream, for example) she’ll just smile (her cold, dead smile) and offer you another taster’s cup of that old, rotten garlic.
This is the pussy, of course, that Rumi warned us about, repeatedly, in his wine and great-ocean poetry.
Taylor Swift’s pussy looks like a tiny white butterfly. Or a girl on a bike in Amsterdam’s floating flower market. Perhaps the innocence and purity of the Colorado mountains. Or a white-lab puppy in a frat house stumbling adorably from boy to boy, lick, lick.
(This pussy gets confused, sometimes, with Brett Easton Ellis.)
Sofia Vergara’s pussy’s a hot but smashed down Pepsi Can. Or a steaming, Amazon theme park stocked with pink dolphins, piranhas and cement anguish. In the center of it, though, is an arrow pointing up at her save-the-world tits.
Jennifer Aniston’s (hey now!—right smack in the PG-13 bull’s-eye) might be Santa’s workshop, teeming with elves, reindeers, fireplaces and toys for everyone!
. . .& God’s pussy, where Shakespeare’s tongued so often and avidly, is a black hole, the mother (or granddaddy) of us all: and our last stop in this particular tour.