(Click here to read earlier entries from the dild saga)

The Only Thing I “Tasted” Was Discomfort!

Last Tuesday my imbecile wife and I attended a special church service. I always look forward to services at Ninth Presbytarian. It’s a traditional church, a place where men can still smoke in the pews and women have to keep their mouthholes shut at all times. It’s nice to get a couple hours of peace and quiet every week. (Although, I swear to golf, my mushheaded wife makes up for it by yammering away twice as moronically on the car ride over.)

We arrived at our seats just after the start of the sermon, made late by my dunderheaded wife taking too long applying woman products in the commode. My good friend Pastor Louie was at the altar standing beside a rare beast: a middle aged female dressed ludicrously in clerical garments. At the time, I suspected this ogrish woman was a prop in some sort of comic morality play warning about the dangers of teen sexting. But, as I would soon discover, I was about as wrong as a Caucasian voting for Barack Obama.

“Friends,” said Louie, “After much contemplation what with the praying and the genuflecting and the beseeching, I have decided that it is time for me to step down as your pastor, maybe. With great pride, I would like to introduce my replacement, Pastor Katherine Steinem de Beauvoir.”

I sat there in open-mouthed disbelief as Louie handed this gargoyle of a woman his ceremonial ferula and top hat. A few of the other men in the audience were similarly dumbfounded, yet the women-types cheered and chattered openly in direct contradiction of the scriptures. Frankly, the whole spectacle gave me a nagging headache, rendering the rest of the service an absolute blur.

Afterwards, as my buffoon wife and the other hens were clucking around that bovine woman pastor in the lobby, I approached Louie and expressed in no uncertain terms my outrage at this cartoonish blasphemy. I begged him to reconsider his decision to put this foul woman-fiend in charge of his precious flock.

“Virgil,” he said, taking a drag from his tightly-packed cigarillo, “You humble me what with the concern and the fear and the apprehension. But things do change, and move on, I must. In time, I know you will come to accept and even appreciate Katherine’s ecclesastical authority. But, until then, I think I have something that may put your mind at ease.”

Louie opened his robe, and — holy Hank — he gingerly pulled out a Sexflesh Tasty Tony 9 Inch Dildo With Suction Cup. Well, despite my blinding rage and gnawing headache, I could nevertheless discern that this was one massive miracle of a sexual device. In my experience, the good men at the Sexflesh corporation manufacture tools of extraordinary quality, and this Tasty Tony seemed no exception. It had a lovingly-crafted vein structure, realistic scrotal wrinkles, and picture-perfect Caucasian pigmentation. Just thinking about the raw bliss such a device could provide nearly made me forget about my gnawing headache and that grotesque woman pastor.

In need of immediate relief, I rushed to the boys’ room, only to find all the stalls occupied. So I made a beeline to the only other place where a man could still get some privacy in this defiled temple: the confessional booth. Tightly gripping the Tasty Tony in one hand, I hastily drew down my sweatpants in anticipation of soothing spiritual ecstasy in this monastic confessional.

Well the only thing I had to confess was my outrage! After fifteen minutes of fecklessly working my rear with the device, the only thing I “tasted” was internal discomfort. My prayers for salvation were met by an enervated dilding arm, a brobdingnagian migraine, and a burnt sienna discharge that flooded down my legs and filled my Sunday Sperrys. And as for that over-hyped suction cup, the feeble thing needed to be licked and re-stuck to the wall-sized crucifix every thirty seconds. Even then, this impotent dild would droop and flop all around, making it a challenge for an adult male to correctly align his posterior with the device, which, even once the colossal burden of insertion was complete, felt about as soft as Barack Obama on terrorism.

What’s more, in my futile struggle for self-gratification, I had knocked over the partition between the booths. Half-blind from my pounding migraine, I tried to reassemble it, my elbows clanging against the walls. The commotion attracted a bystander, who entered the other side of the confessional. To my horror, it was that porcine woman pastor! Could you imagine? A female woman in a confessional booth! It was about as ludicrous as a dog playing basketball.

She stared at me uselessly then started shrieking like a banshee, which only managed to exacerbate my terrible headache. What’s more, this buffoonish slag was too incompetent to even help me reassemble the partition. I had no choice but to extract myself from the whole quagmire. I pulled up my sweatpants, adjusted the children’s drawings of Satan, and swiftly exited the filth-covered vestible.

My face as red as a cherry tomato, I caught my wife gossiping idly with some other horsefaced women in the parking lot. Silently, I collected her by the forewing and dragged her to the car. On the way, I ran into Pastor Louie.

With a patronizing grin, he said, “Virgil, what did you think of the Tasty Tony 9 Inch Dildo With Suction Cup? Do you feel better now?”

“Louie,” I said, wagging the device at him like a mother scolding an anarchist teen, “you’re lucky your wife passed away last week. Because if I had to deal with both a brainless nag AND such an inferior dild at home, why, I’d have given myself a stroke by now!”

JUST THE TIP

“Pray” you don’t end up with a Sexflesh Tasty Tony 9 Inch Dildo. The only “flesh” this shoddy device has a “taste” for are the greenbacks in your wallet!

Virgil Texas on Amazon

(Click here to read earlier entries from the dild saga)

Don’t Buy This “Whopper” If You Want To “Have It Your Way!”

Last Tuesday I went to vote in the GOP Presidential primary, and of course my dimwit wife tagged along. While I am a proud lifelong Republican, this buffoon is an independent who can’t even vote in the primary. Sadly, it’s cretins like my sucker wife who are drowning this nation in red ink and brown ideals.

On the drive over, I cranked the Glenn Beck A.M. Radio Truth Hour to full blast to drown out the nags. Moron wife or not, nothing was going to stop me from voting for my hero, true conservative patriot Newt Gingrich. Yet I hit another obstacle on the walk from the parking lot as we were waylaid at a booth set up by desperate volunteers hoping to drum up support for Ron Paul. Some sweaty moon-faced kid in a “The Fed did 9/11” t-shirt was pushing all sorts of campaign handouts in exchange for our votes. Distracted by these gaudy baubles, the idiot wife held me up long enough to have my interest piqued by one peculiar piece of swag: a Nasstoys 6.5” Afro American Whopper Dildo festooned with a Ron Paul bumper sticker. Now I had no intention of selling my vote, but I didn’t see the harm in pocketing such a lovely and device from these sexually-repulsive cranks.

I had to wait a darn long time thanks to senile old biddies running the precinct, and let me tell you, that Whopper was burning a hole straight through my pocket. As the goatbrained wife played “Angry Birds” on her phone, I quietly thought of Newt’s plan to revitalize America by putting children to work while the specter of sensational rectal pleasure loomed. My mind raced back and forth between Newt and the Afro American Whopper, Newt, Afro, Newt, Afro. Between my mental turmoil and the inane nattering of my porkheaded wife, I developed one heck of a headache.

After twenty minutes, I couldn’t take it any longer. Thinking of Newt and the Afro had given me a dangerous priapism. I got up to make a beeline to the restroom when my name was called. I nervously took my ballot into the booth and closed the curtain. There was no turning back. Once this engine starts up, it won’t stop until it reaches its destination. With my hand clutching the Afro and my gaze fixed on the little oval below Newt’s name, I undid my trousers, eagerly anticipating another kind of big “O.”

Well, the only “O” I got was “Outraged!” After ten excruciating minutes desperately manipulating myself with the Afro American Whopper, my body was worse for wear. My migraine was more painful, and my cavity chafed from the remnants of the Ron Paul bumper sticker, which I had been unable to fully remove from the toy. Anyone who insists that this device will produce “gales of warm full-body orgasmic pleasure” is surely telling a real “whopper!”

I pulled up my pants and tried to mark the ballot, but my hands were covered in filth, and I was seeing double on account of the throbbing migrane that Afro American gave me. Feeling queasy, I desperately notched a vote for what I pray was Newt Gingrich. But the darn ballot was covered in so much filth that I’m afraid it won’t be scannable at all. I felt like a Florida voter in 2000, except this time, it wasn’t Al Gore trying to rig the election — it was the Romney-Paul alliance of manipulative sexual deviants. Wordlessly, I exit the booth and hand in my ballot, then drag my mentally-impaired wife to the car, a defeated man. On the way, one of the Ron Paul supporters gives me a thumbs up. The final indignity.

JUST THE TIP

Patriots beware! If you care about your pleasure and the future of capitalism, then “segregate” yourself from the Afro American Whopper and try a dildo from Newt and Callista’s personal line.

Virgil Texas on Amazon

http://www.amazon.com/review/RRPTGJ80LEG6R/

“Dreaming” Of A Better Erotic Device!

Last Tuesday my moron wife dragged me to her hideous niece’s high school production of the musical “Chess.” Don’t get me wrong — I love the work of Broadway virtuoso Tim Rice as much as the next red-blooded American male. Yet I simply cannot stand to watch the brilliant tunes of immortal ABBA songsmiths Benny Andersson and Bjorn Ulvaeus be butchered by a bunch of ugly CBS-addled tweens.

Halfway through the performance, as I was witnessing the trainwreck of some Justin Bieber-wannabe stumble his way through “One Night in Bangkok,” I felt a buzz in my back left pocket. No, it wasn’t a text from the Newt Gingrich campaign. It was a phantom vibration from my Doc Johnson Lucid Dream #14 Multi-Speed Waterproof G-Spot Vibrator. Quietly I stood up and headed to the boys’ room to answer this urgent message.

You might be wondering why I was packing a Doc Johnson in my Dockers at a high school musical in the first place. Earlier in the evening, as I was preparing to take in a D-league hockey game (Albany Ruffians vs. the Tacoma Ne’er-Do-Wells), my dunderheaded wife sprung this high school musical boondoggle on me at the last minute. I debated her till I was blue in the face, but it was no use — I caved to her like Obama caved to America’s enemies. At the end of the argument, I was so exhausted from the yells that the best I could do was slap on the first clean pair of pants I could find. That pair happened to contain the Doc Johnson Vibrator I had eagerly unboxed earlier in the afternoon, all ready to take it to the inaugural ball, only to be foiled by the early return of my sludgebrained wife. With her around, I was guaranteed not to have the peace and quiet I needed to enjoy myself, so I slipped my new toy into my trusty Dockers cargo shorts, where it lay dormant until nightfall.

It was a good thing Doc Johnson paged me, because boy did I need an emergency pick-me-up after those revolting tweens gave me a Broadway-sized headache. I entered a secluded stall and undid my cargo shorts, clutching the device in my sweaty left hand, anticipating a rush of pure sensual pleasure like a heroin junkie prepping a hit. Well, I got my hit, all right: hit with the cold realization that this vibrator was a hunk of junk!

Sitting uncomfortably on a tween-sized commode fecklessly working myself over for what must have been an eternity, my “Lucid Dream” slowly became a waking nightmare. Multi-speed? This thing has two speeds: slow and slower. Waterproof? Yeah, right. I accidentally dropped the device into a toilet basin that was only minimally full of urine and sweat, and the darn thing broke down faster than Hillary Clinton in a national security crisis. Frankly, the only “G-spot” this vibrator tickles is your “gullibility spot.” Someone ought to should sue Doc Johnson for sexual “malpractice.”

Consumers, wake up! This is the year 2012! We can and should demand more power from our erotic machines. That’s why I sent the manufacturer a series of strongly-worded and deeply-emotional tweets from my personal @virgiltexas Twitter account in the hopes that this company will come to its senses and gain the nerve to start producing devices actually capable of titillating a proud adult American male.

JUST THE TIP

If you think the Lucid Dream will give you the extreme sexual pleasure you crave, then “dream” on! Do yourself a favor: revoke Doc Johnson’s license and get a referral to a different vibrator brand for your next prostate check-up.

Virgil Texas on Amazon

http://www.amazon.com/review/R3H3I7JXC7GUJ2/

You’ll Be “Mourning” Your Decision To Purchase Such A Mediocre Device

Last Tuesday my idiot wife had her horseface friends over for ladies’ poker night. I’m not sure where my cretin wife gets off thinking she can fritter away my hard-earned Koch Industries paycheck on some silly card game, but that’s marriage for you. Exiled to the upstairs bedroom while these noisy hens commandeered my darn living room — and nursing a sputtering headache to boot — I found myself in need of a diversion. Enter Trinty Vibes Morning Wood.

I had sent away for the Morning Wood the week prior after hearing a radio ad for it on Rush Limbaugh. The fellow in that commercial seemed to be satisfied, so I figured why not? A guy who works as hard as I debunking climate change “science” deserves to treat himself once in a while.

I unboxed the Morning Wood and felt a tinge of excitement. It is a beautiful device with realistic vein structures, pliable head, and appropriately-sized caucasian testes. (As a footnote, I am appalled by shady fly-by-night sex toy manufacturers who would have their customers believe that testes do not exist. I’m not expecting an entire masculine torso here, but is it really so much to ask that a pivotal sexual organ be included with the male phallus? I find it difficult to suspend my disbelief when cradling a disembodied phallus lacking any semblance of a beautiful and complex reproductive structure.)

As El Rushbo noted, the real appeal of the Morning Wood device is its suction cup base for easy mounting. Excited to try out this feature, I scanned the room looking for the right location. I settled on my wall-size Kandinsky. I carefully secured the object and dropped trou, expecting to get taken on a delightful thrill ride.

Well, the only place I was “taken” to was the cleaners. Once in action, the Morning Wood simply failed to stand up to the test, contorting and groaning with the sound of Windex streaking on a dirty window. Five minutes in, my headache was worse than ever, and I found myself in the decidedly unerotic situation of having to imagine that an abstract painting had somehow magically sprouted the male organ and was intent on pleasuring me. Yeah, the day I believe that is the day I’ll believe Obungler’s stimulus boondoggle created jobs. Frankly, the only “spot” this hunk of junk managed to hit was my wallet. And the only “vibes” I got were from my pounding headache over hearing my wife’s insipid friends clucking about the latest “reality” television plotline.

Furthermore, when I pulled the darn thing off, it managed to rip my painting! It might have been my fault for mounting this object on a priceless Kandinsky, but where the heck else was I supposed to stick it? I love that painting.

I wound up taking some pain pills and going to bed, praying my dummy wife wouldn’t get drunk and lose too much at the card table (spoiler alert: she did!). But before I passed out, I managed to compose an indignant series of Tweets to the manufacturer from my personal @virgiltexas account. If consumers like us fail to make our voices heard, the erotic novelty market will never improve.

JUST THE TIP: Stay far away from Trinty Vibes Morning Wood, or else you’ll be “mourning” the money from your bank account!

Virgil Texas on Amazon