So I’m in this awesomely huge Chevrolet convertible, peoples, outside the Phully Phat Phizzeria, and there’s like me and my coq au pommes frîtes avec Moët and also Chandon in the front seat. Which seat is also most awesomely decorated by the Dixie Chicks, fully naked, I mean wearing nothing but a smile and roller skates totally out of American Graffiti. Also the pale gold radiance of their beauty, which’d make you wanna bang their booty.
And they were squirming around all sleek and smooth like, y’know, totally fit blonde dolphins, and it’s full-on party hour. Natalie and Emily and Martie somehow get my shirt and pants and Mr T boxers off without me even getting out of the seat, which is fully weird.
Then Natalie turns round on my lap, facing the front with her arms stretched out like a car ornament, and lowers her little asshole onto my gearstick, I mean mine, my most intimate gearstick, which is soon more than somewhat comfortable filling her lasshole.
And while I’m grinding Natalie I’m kissing Emily and Martie, and then Theresa and Jenny Lee from Warpaint are, like, sliding most bodily and bodaciously into the car too. Then Warpaint Stella arrives with Warpaint Emily, who hi-fives Dixie Emily, and the Chevy is rockin’ and I’ve got my cock in.
There’s champagne being supped from here and there, and here again, and everything is most entirely squeally and moany and foamy.
And then Natalie climbs off the gearstick and gives it a champagne scrub, and they all demonstrate the superior leg room of the Chevrolet by getting down and taking turns like totally swallowing my swizzle, which is my way of avoiding the word, y’know, cocktail. I am way impressed by the superior technique and breath control of chicks some of who or whom can like even, f’fuck’s sake, yodel. DING!
One of the Emilys looks up and is, like, “awww, what?” but I’m all, “Hey, Corrs.”
Because, like, could you ever really tell them apart?
(To be concluded. There is, sort of, a point to all this.)