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Sunday, April 13, 2008

Unglued Madhouse Lechery "In Treatment:" 4th in a Series

The buggy series on In Treatment continues to chug along today with another article drawn from prof bug's madcap postings at HBO's forums dedicated to the masterly dramatic series: this one, which elicited more than the usual frenzy of screwball assaults from enraged forum-members who demanded his execution --- first in cyberspace, then (if possible) in down-to-earth blood-terms with a guillotine --- mischievously intended, of course, to provoke these bursting surges of wickedly funny ripostes.  Shoot, couldn't help it!  What could be better?  Prof bug having a ball!  Non-stop; and for weeks now.  Ever since, a good seven weeks ago, he stumbled onto the forums only to find thousands of girls --- or more specifically girl/girls and guy/girls, plus some guy-girl/girl-guy bi-sexuals and  three or four out-of-the-closet hetero/heteros like yours truly --- acting like horny, in-heat teeny-boppers full of bottom-squirming infatuation with Gabriel Byrne, the very gifted Irish lead-actor in HBO's series.

Faced with this rabid, comically unglued carnal-furor, what did prof bug do? 

Right! Overcome with delight, roaring in pleasure and naughty-boy mischief, he has ragged and hooted at this unleashed lecherous bedlam ever since  --- spearheaded by this naughty little teaser that follows.  Enjoy! 

                                       Sistas: Distressing News about GB!

Sistas! Half-Gay Sistas! All Bisexuals! and the Two Hetero/Hetero Dumbos in These Forums. !

All excited, like the rest of you girls, by my imagery of GB's fantastically shaped ass --- a walking wonder male-backside as reported with joyously trembling revelations yesterday in this thread --- I was up late last night and on the look-out for more hot-stuff news about our little leprechaun darling's assets.

Around about 1:30 in the morning, half-crocked on Irish whiskey and humming Danny Boy obsessively, I was about to give up when, all at once, a new post came in from inner Borneo with tom-tom news that a head-hunter cannibal --- just back from a four-day stint in Manhattan (he sells shrunken heads to a real estate magnate with weird-looking hair, or so Chief Sliceitnicely told our regular Borneo-correspondent)--- had brought back with him some wowee low-down about our little Mick dreamboat.

Guess what? Guess what?

Seems that GB, a jogger, buys only jumbo-size jockstraps when he needs some support for his running on the streets of Brooklyn. Yoweeee! You hear that? Just super-size, jumbo-cut jockstraps for our little Big-Pecker Stud-boy!

And get this. According to our Borneo poster, the manager of the sports store where GB shops exclusively reported that in his entire career, three decades log, the store had sold only one other pair of jumbo-size jocks, and that --- get this, girls! hold onto you panties! --- was to Shaq O' Neal back in 1998" .

God, did you hear that everybody, GB's cock is as big as Shaq's!

Hell, probably pound for pound far bigger yet, and for my money, likely unrivalled in the whole history of male evolution. I tell you, I was so excited that I immediately jerked-off and shot my nuts off right onto my pc monitor while continuing to work my moist three fingers around on my clit. Yeah, you heard me right: on my clit. (The secret girls: inherit a huge fortune when you're parents die, fly to Copenhagen, and you can for a cool $2 million come back to good old America with both a pussy and a prick. Believe me, double-whammy fun when you're in the sack. Yowee!) 



Alas, girls --- I wish I could stop here, but I've got distressing news that I have to get off my chest. Yeah, brace yourselves, it's terrible. Worst than you can imagine.

You see, after several other double-whammy bananas-and-cream stuff, I cleaned off my monitor and spent the rest of the night on my pc looking for more titillating tid-bits about our Irish cock-swinging champion --- Oh, fooking hawt that little urchin is, no? Long live Eire! --- and . . . well, I chanced upon this horrible puking news just being run on the front page of the New York Observer.

Here's the headline:


"Worst sex I ever had in my life," Ms. Ellen Beserkerin said in an exclusive interview with our reporter yesterday in her new penthouse on upper Park Avenue. "The guy has, let's face it, a shrunken prick about the size of a 10-year old little boy's. It took him six months even to find my clit, even after I showed it to him where it was at least 223 times. Worse, yeah worse --- his typical sex performance was over in 31 seconds. Wow, what a loser!  I tell you . . . to come, I had to sit him in a chair and climb onto his knee and rub my mound several minutes around his thigh even to get a flicker of pleasure from our, ha! "love-making.

Did that knee-humping help, Ms Beserkerin? 

Are you nuts? You know what it's like to try getting off humping a guy who's humming 121 stanzas of Danny Boy?  Gawd! by the fifth one, I was ready to do a Sharon Stone --- you know, get out a straight razaor, slash off the little prick's wee-wee!  Not that lover-boy would have ever noticed.

"Did you ever talk about it frankly with GB?"

"Sure --- you think I'm some kind of retard afraid to to talk to my husband frankly? You remember that hot-wire reach-around session with Al Pacino in Sea of Love? Hell, even that panicked cop who thought I was a serial killer got immediately aroused and forgot his fears as I starting humping his gorgeous butt. So I'd walk up behind that big flop and try the same thing."

"Did it help, that reach-around tactic"

"What! Are you kidding! GB tries to hide his small-size ding-dong by buying jumbo-size jockstraps and then fills them with two packages of cotton-wadding as he walks or runs around the streets of Brooklyn. When he plays a movie scene or a TV drama that calls for extra-tight jeans, he uses three packages. Don't wanta disappoint the fans, huh! What a wacko-city screwball! Anyway, after a year or so of frustrating bad-bad sex, I got GB to visit the most famous sexology psychiatrist in New York, a Dr. Paul Easton --- an old friend really, well . . . maybe more accurately a former lover when I was starting out in films (and yeah, a pretty good lay). "


"So what happened, did it help GB's sexual prowess?"

"Ha! Are you from outer-space or something? Get real. After six sessions, Paul met with me in a hotel room in Manhattan, and we fucked out each other's brains half the night --- boy, did it feel great to have a real man inside me, electricity up and down my spine, volcanic eruptions again and again. The little prick GB hardly ever came either. When Paul and I were finally exhausted, he rolled over and gave it to me straight: GB, he said, was . . . well, an off-the-wall sexual nut-case.

"Turns out that his sexual interests are strictly directed at shagging sheep in the green meadows of Ireland and, then, once he gets hold of one, together they bah-bah 161 stanzas of Danny Boy. Satisfied, he kisses his 4-legged cutie good by, walks back to the village, enters the pub, and entertains the hard-drinking crowd with hummed refrains of "GB had a little lamb, a little lamb, a little lamb... GB had a little ...."

"Sounds a little kinky, right? "

"Kinky?! Wow, what an understatement! Guy should be in a padded cell somewhere, sheep pictures on the wall; kept carefully away from daydreaming middle-aged women, gays hot for his butt --- a matter of clear public safety if you ask me!"

Ok, got you. But then, Ms. Beserkerin, how do you explain your kids: I mean, didn't GB perform sufficiently well that you got impregnated"

"Are you nuts? You think I was going let that sheep-shagging Mick get his itty-bitty pee-pee into me ever again? Hell, I'd sooner make it with a ram than do that."

"OK, capice!  Go on please."

"So what I did was wait until GB worked himself nightly into a self-inducing trance as he stared at photos of his lamb-lovers and hummed Danny Boy and Had a Little Lamb 2000 times before he fell into a sleep. God, does he snore! How the hell did the lambs stand that uproar? Anyway, at that point I sneaked out and drove to Manhattan where I had this ongoing suck-and-slurp fuckfest with an insurance guy named Edward.

"It's Edward who's the real father of our kids, not that sheep-infatuated fantasist."



Oh my, you can imagine my despondency --- I mean, almost total mind-blowing suicidal stuff, girls! --- when I finished reading the interview. I tell you, I was so down in the dumps I drove right over to the Golden Gate Bridge --- clouds of fog rolling in from the Pacific --- and stared down into the gloomy gray water below.

Should I do it? Should I not? 

I was about to leave, deciding, after a few indecisive moments, that there might just be a life after GB is blotted out from memory and HBO hires Paul Giamatti to play Dr. Paul Weston in the 2 nd season of In Treatment --- hey, did I tell you that? Yeah, Giamatti . . . the great actor in the HBO John Adams series that all you sex-fiends knocked.  Lacked hot sex-appeal dozens of you said!  

How wrong you were, sistas!   I found that out while I was hunting around the Internet looking for more good news about GB --- maybe, who knows, not just jumbo-size jockstraps, but elephant size codpieces; things like that --- when I chanced upon a opinion survey of 121 of the most beautiful female stars in America, Ireland, and Britain.

God, don't you just love celebrities?. I mean, where would we be if we couldn't idolize and identify with then.

Anyway, 111 of those gorgeous stars said that Giamatti was the most exciting lover they've ever had. Eight listed George Clooney first, and Giamatti second. One said it was Bill Clinton. And the last stick-in-the-mud wouldn't say who she preferred --- it was Angelina you-know-who, the one with the big suck-savvy lips --- but she did say angrily that the worst fuck she ever had was with GB. Guy always smelled like a sheep or something like that when they were in bed together.

Oh, wait. Where the hell was I?

Oh, yeah --- a life after GB fades from memory.

Makes sense, no? I mean much as we loved and worshipped the little leprechaun dear, I for one don't intend to jack-off with images of some guy who reeks of sheep. Anyway, with that resolution made, I breathed deeply the foggy air a minute or two and was about to walk back to my car when, all at once, I noticed six other girl/girls and guy/girls from the local San Francisco "Either GB Unzips It For Us Or We'll Go Nuts" Castro-street based chapter walking forlornly onto the bridge from the other direction.



"What's up, girls --- you hear the bad news too? "

"You mean," one of them said with anguish creasing her taut, tear-ridden face, "what Amy just reported about her affair with GB?"

"What! You mean, our Amy --- Jake's former main-squeeze, that dumb sick psycho who never tried to lick GB feet?"

"Yeah, that dumb bitch. Worse than Kate, another sickie. Worse even than Laura, that calculating crazy. The National Enquirer just ran an exclusive interview with her, and --- well, the sick-fuck claimed she went back to Dr. Paul Weston's office for more therapy, especially since she and Jake were getting a divorce.

"So?" I said. "Big deal"

"Yeah, I mean no! --- it's a real big deal!"the poor girl said, tears drenching her crumpled cheeks.  "You see, Amy claimed that she seduced Paul one evening after Kate went out on a date with some insurance guy, and the house was left empty. Ian back in school, a pothead of the worse sort. Rosie shacking up with some junkie in Rome. According to Amy, GB was the worst fuck she had ever had in life. Get this --- worst than with Jake in his nice-guy phase, worse even than the 1 minute jerk-off by Ben in her pussy, worse off . . . well, so bad, so awful, that the only thing she even felt was a few cotton balls rolling around on her mound and onto the couch. "

"You're sure! Because girls, I got bad news too, and it's not just Amy who's said that. So did Ellen Beserkin, the ungrateful bitch: worst goddamn lover in human history, she said --- or something like that. Something else too . . . eh, well, I'm sorry to say this, girls, but it has to do with sheep and Danny Boy."

Screams! Screams!

Guards running from the two ends of the bridge toward us. Not much time left.


And that, sistas, is the last you'll here from me and the other six sisters. You see, I'm posting this on my laptop at 4:30 AM, Golden Gate time, and in another 10 seconds we're doing it. Yeah, all 7 of us have just agreed to a suicide pact.

"Goodbye cruel world, goodbye! May Amy, Laura, Ellen, and 121 hit-upon Sheep in Ireland go to hell!"


Michael (Gordon), AKA the buggy professor