If your god doesn’t wear double or even triple denim, you need to find a new god.
I’ve often contemplated the various outfits in which a deity would garb himself in. The gods of ancient Greece wore sheets, or were nude. Either way some of the girl gods, or ‘goddesses’ as I believe they are sometimes called, were pretty hot as well. Like Aphrodite. I’d totally bang Aphrodite. I’d be at the beach and a massive clam shell would wash up on the shore like some monolithic hamburger box (remember that ad were they had pieces of garbage in the sea but they made them look like it was sea creatures? I think it was for clean up Australia or something. Either way it was a relatively clever ad. But that’s another story) anyway a gigantic clam shell would was up on the beach and if look at it and think to myself, ‘fuck! Check out that big clam shell!’
Then my friend would say, ‘I’ve seen bigger.’
And I’d be all, ‘where?’
And he’d say, ‘I see them all the time.’
And ‘you’re full of shit cunt’ would be my retort.
At this point my friend would probably start crying because he’s a sissified lady boy with a no good attitude. Plus he’s probably having his period, or ‘blood cunt’ as it’s sometimes called in the medical profession. Now, personally, I would never call a period ‘blood cunt’ even if I was a doctor. I think it sounds disrespectful and dirty but I’m friends with a lot of doctors, all of whom are addement that ‘blood cunt’ is the correct, medical term for it.
But enough of that. So now that my craven friend has taken his leave to buy some tampax, my only course of action would be to investigate the monolith from the briny depths now washed up on the beach. As I make my approach, stick in hand (you always need a poking stick whenever you find something washed up on the beach. When no stick is available, poking at it with the toe of your shoe will suffice. Provided you are shod in good sturdy, CLOSED TOE, I can’t stress that part enough, footwear)
I’d tap the hard clam shell thrice with my stick and, to my surprise it yawns open like the mouth of an old man at 7:30 on a Friday night. The sun is setting at this point and it’s waning light lends everything it touches a rich crimson hue. Standing in the inner cloister of the clam shell is Aphrodite, as nude as the day she was, presumably, born, Her naked form awash in the last rays of the setting sun. Iam, understandablly, flabbergasted by what is happening at this point. Plus I’d have a boner because she is smoking hot and totally nude.
She opens her lovely mouth, lips as sumputious as any cherry tart Jamie oliver has ever cooked, and the most beautiful words begin to fall from her. ‘what cunt?’ she says
I would never forget those words.
‘could this be true?’, I’d say, ‘ are you really aphrodite?’
‘well,’ she’d reply her expression amused, ‘I’m in a clam shell, I’m nude and hot as fuck with hair like spun gold. Who the fuck else would I be?’
‘sweet’ I’d say ‘hey, did you bang Kevin sorbo?’
‘you mean tv’s Hercules?’
‘nah I just gave him a wristy’
‘oh i see’
‘yeah… And I let him give me a bit of a finger bashing as well’
‘Yep. He wanted to bang me but I heard he has hep c’
‘I haven’t got hep c’
‘oh really? Wanna pork?’