Nationality: Cockroach

Gender: wooden stick

Skin color: #361fb9

Main Games: Sanding my fingerprints off and Testicular Torsion

My Favorite Bullying Target: Women and those less fortunate

Favorite thing to do: Bully women and those less fortunate


The cockroaches are there again, beneath the skin, beneath the thin veil of flesh that pretends to keep them hidden. I can feel them, their legs like needles, their bodies writhing, carving tunnels through the meat of me. They whisper, too, in voices that aren’t voices, in sounds that aren’t sounds. They tell me things, secrets, things I shouldn’t know, things I can’t un-know. They say they’ve always been there, waiting, biding their time, waiting for the cracks to form. And now they’re here, and they’re hungry.

I scratch at my arms, my legs, my chest, but it’s no use. They’re too deep, too clever. They scatter when I dig, burrowing deeper, laughing in their insect way. I can see them sometimes, just beneath the surface, their shadows moving under the skin, their antennae brushing against the inside of my eyelids. They’re in my head, too, chewing through the soft parts of my brain, leaving trails of black dust and egg sacs. I can feel the eggs hatching, tiny legs unfolding, tiny mouths opening.

The doctors don’t believe me. They say it’s all in my head, but they don’t understand. It’s not in my head—it’s in my skin, in my blood, in my bones. They’ve laid their eggs there, and soon I’ll burst open, and they’ll spill out, a thousand tiny cockroaches, shiny and black, their wings unfolding, their eyes glinting in the light. They’ll scatter, and no one will be able to stop them. They’ll find others, burrow into them, too. They’ll spread, and spread, and spread.

I can hear them now, their voices rising, a chorus of chittering, of clicking, of scraping. They’re singing, a song of hunger, of endless hunger. They’re singing for me, for the world, for the feast that’s coming. And I can’t stop them. No one can. They’re here. They’re here. They’re here..



Look, I’m not a hateful person or anything–I believe we should all live and let live. But lately, I’ve been having a real problem with these homosexuals. You see, just about wherever I go these days, one of them approaches me and starts sucking my ♥♥♥♥.

Take last Sunday, for instance, when I casually struck up a conversation with this guy in the health-club locker room. Nothing fruity, just a couple of fellas talking about their workout routines while enjoying a nice hot shower. The guy looked like a real man’s man, too–big biceps, meaty thighs, thick neck. He didn’t seem the least bit gay. At least not until he started sucking my ♥♥♥♥, that is.

Where does this queer get the nerve to suck my ♥♥♥♥? Did I look gay to him? Was I wearing a pink feather boa without realizing it? I don’t recall the phrase, “Suck my ♥♥♥♥” entering the conversation, and I don’t have a sign around my neck that reads, “Please, You Homosexuals, Suck My ♥♥♥♥.”

I’ve got nothing against homosexuals. Let them be free to do their gay thing in peace, I say. But when they start sucking my ♥♥♥♥, then I’ve got a real problem.

Then there was the time I was hiking through the woods and came across a rugged-looking, blond-haired man in his early 30s. He seemed straight enough to me while we were bathing in that mountain stream, but, before you know it, he’s sucking my ♥♥♥♥!

What is it with these ♥♥♥♥♥? Can’t they control their sexual urges? Aren’t there enough gay ♥♥♥♥♥ out there for them to suck on without them having to target normal people like me?

Believe me, I have no interest in getting my ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ by some queer. But try telling that to the guy at the beach club. Or the one at the video store. Or the one who catered my wedding. Or any of the countless other ♥♥♥♥♥ who’ve come on to me recently. All of them sucked my ♥♥♥♥, and there was nothing I could do to stop them.

I tell you, when a homosexual is sucking your ♥♥♥♥, a lot of strange thoughts go through your head: How the hell did this happen? Where did this fairy ever get the idea that I was gay? And where did he get those fantastic boots?

It screws with your head at other times, too. Every time a man passes me on the street, I’m afraid he’s going to grab me and drag me off to some bathroom to suck my ♥♥♥♥. I’ve even started to visualize these repulsive ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ episodes during the healthy, heterosexual marital relations I enjoy with my wife–even some that haven’t actually happened, like the sweaty, post-game locker-room tryst with Vancouver Canucks forward Mark Messier that I can’t seem to stop thinking about.

Things could be worse, I suppose. It could be women trying to suck my ♥♥♥♥, which would be adultery and would make me feel tremendously guilty. As it is, I’m just angry and sickened. But believe me, that’s enough. I don’t know what makes these homosexuals mistake me for a guy who wants his ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥, and, frankly, I don’t want to know. I just wish there were some way to get them to stop.

I’ve tried all sorts of things to get them to stop, but it has all been to no avail. A few months back, I started wearing an intimidating-looking black leather thong with menacing metal studs in the hopes that it would frighten those ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ off, but it didn’t work. In fact, it only seemed to encourage them. Then, I really started getting rough, slapping them around whenever they were sucking my ♥♥♥♥, but that failed, too. Even pulling out of their mouths just before ejaculation and shooting sperm all over their face, neck, chest and hair seemed to have no effect. What do I have to do to get the message across to these swishes?

I swear, if these homosexuals don’t take a hint and quit sucking my ♥♥♥♥ all the time, I’m going to have to resort to drastic measures–like maybe pinning them down to the cement floor of the loading dock with my powerful forearms and working my ♥♥♥♥ all the way up their butt so they understand loud and clear just how much I disapprove of their unwelcome advances. I mean, you can’t get much more direct than that.