The Faux Pas Press #66

The Faux Pas Press #66

22 October 2010

By Jason Fresh

Sometimes I feel as if a great vagina were orbiting planet Earth, and by ‘planet Earth’ I mean my whole presence, my very egotistical essence. In that giant vagina is a party of women. These are probably all the women I’ve ever slain with Wolfgang, my crooked, girthy, capicola sausage. This giant vagina, I’m sure, has one main purpose. This purpose is not instantaneous or reactionary like my wife’s aim in trying to figure out the Netflix account password. No. I’m not quite certain yet as to what this purpose means. No, I don’t know what it is exactly. But I’m certain that there is one – there is a purpose to this great vagina. Perhaps, the purpose is suck, store, and label for consumption the parts of Jason Fresh that are most valuable. Perhaps, these parts will be consumed during a long winter while said women listen to Bon Iver’s For Emma. You see, the vagina has historically been compared to a lotus flower – mostly by an uber-human yoga teacher that I fanaticize. But I know that it is more like a magnetized wormhole that transports the dreams of my childhood to be consumed by the women at the party. The probably have some nerds up there. Yep, probably have a wall-safe guarded by a librarian from Monterey that I just banged. And inside this giant vagina in the sky, April from Richardson, Texas bathes herself in vagina fluid – what I might call the ‘creamy yogurts’. I could be called ‘my’ creamy yogurt because it comes from chics I believed to have conquered. Surely, they conquered me. I will kiss my wife tonight with gratitude.