As you may or may not be aware, my good friend and sworn blood-enemy Bryan Cook runs an incredible show called Competitive Erotic Fan Fiction. I’ve done this show in Portland and in Seattle and on a recent trip to Los Angeles I was able to do the show again at the Nerdmelt Theater, where Bryan now host a monthly CEFF. The show features comedians reading pornographic tales from a vast array of pop cultural landscapes, from Full House to the Trail of Tears. The first round features comedians reading prepared pieces of their choosing while the second round features pieces written by comedians off of audience suggestions. I went in the second round. So after the audience gifted me with the suggestion of “A Wrinkle In Time,” a book that I had never read nor knew anything about, I speed-wrote the following smut in the back of a comic book shop while other comedians read their prepared pieces for a packed house. And then it was my turn. Here then, is my offering. A fair warning: this is fucking filthy. NOT FOR SENSITIVE EYES. Like, if your one of my friends parents and now we’re friends on Facebook and that’s how you got wind of this entry on my blog, STOP READING HERE. YOU WILL BE DISGUSTED BY THIS AND WILL NOT ENJOY IT. The rest of you, however, will hopefully love it. So enjoy.
Meg Murray’s classmates and teachers had always found her to be disturbingly different. She didn’t pay attention in class, she had disgusting, prolific dandruff like Ally Sheedy in The Breakfast Club, and most days, between World History and Study Hall, she could be found aggressively fingering herself in the girl’s bathroom. Not in a stall, mind you, but right there in front of the sinks, in plain daylight, sometimes leaning over doggy style, then looking behind her and using the angle of the mirror to check the width and girth of her beautiful, mystical vagina, almost as if to see how much her adolescent minge could take into itself, like it was predestined for something greater. The young girl twirled her little pinto bean with purpose.
Consequently she was an outsider. An outsider who once shoved an entire Trapper Keeper up there.
Calvin O’Keefe was similarly alone. A big man on campus sure, but, Calvin held a dark secret – an anus as wide and gaping as your dog’s throat when it’s choking on a bully stick and you have to pry its jaws apart to retrieve it. And it was rumored that much like the universe itself, his anus was expanding. Calvin was the stuff of legend. Indeed, in a soccer-hazing incident, Calvin had once shoved a freshman into his shit-canal, and kept him there for nearly three minutes, until the other teammates forced him to expel his teammate in a fantastic explosion, for fear they would kill the young man. So shit him out Calvin O’Keefe did.
After that people started to talk.
“His anus has a hunger that knows no bounds,” they would say, “What could possibly be the purpose of that?”
But Calvin would show them. As would the elastic-twotted young Meg Murray. For this duo was destined for greater things.
“Why are we at this haunted house?” Meg asked Calvin, her vagina lips agape like a child with down syndrome who just ate an Atomic Fireball. “Who are these Mrs. Whatsit, Mrs. Who, and Mrs. Which and why do we have to go into space with them?”
“There’s no fucking time!” Calvin O’Keefe snapped, his anus drooping like an elephant’s lip against the itchy fabric of his knickers. “Besides, it’s clear the guy writing this has never read or even really heard of A Wrinkle In Time. Let’s just get to fucking space already!”
“Agreed!” the three harpy sluts Mrs. Whatsit, Mrs. Who and Mrs. Which chimed in unison. “And how do we get to space?” they asked, almost mockingly.
“By shoving this magic tesseract thingy into our abnormally gaping orifices, transcending the realms of space and time!” Meg and Calvin shouted in unison, holding prolonged eye contact. In that moment, Calvin’s right testicle descended. It was a good sign. His asshole was going to need the extra space.
“That’s right,” the trio cooed. “For the Wrinkle in Time is not so much in time, as it is in every one of you!”
With that Meg Murray slowly and meticulously front-loaded the tree-trunk sized tesseract, a device Meg’s father had mysteriously invented, into her fecund vagine, while young Calvin O’Keefe backed himself pucker-hole first onto the other end. A joker in that moment would have made a comical “beep beep beep” truck reversing noise. But no one there was that depraved. Instead Mrs. Whatsit, Mrs. Who and Mrs. Which dropped their pants, laid on the ground, and proceeded to take turns tapping the paddles on each others’ purplish, white-haired, septuagenarian pinball machines, until all three simultaneously squirted a clear sheet of ecstasy, and the five of them magically ascended into space.
“Wait, why are we going into space again?” Meg Murray managed to scream around the kayak-sized device now wedged all the way up to her sternum.
“Something about your scientist dad disappearing!” Calvin grunted, the 37-Chipotle-burrito-sized magical intrusion up his backside now tickling the back of his throat. “It’s clear the narrator has no idea about the fucking plot! This book was obviously for girls. Why the fuck would he read it? I fear what he may have in store for us next.”
And young Calvin O’Keefe was right to be afraid.
On the planet of Camazotz, where, Wikipedia helpfully explained, Meg’s father was trapped, an evil disembodied brain with powerful telepathic abilities called IT – clearly the inspiration for Krang from the Ninja Turtles – had taken over everyone’s minds.
“That’s some fucked up shit!” Meg yelled upon learning this fact.
“Oh fo sho,” Calvin agreed, dropping late 90’s level ebonics wholly inappropriate for the era of this book. “I bet the guy writing this is wishing that he actually read this book now, because this shit sounds pretty cool!”
And that guy, in fact was wishing he read that book. He was wishing that while simultaneously resenting Kyle Kinane for getting that Pawn Stars fucking lay-up in this audience-suggestion round.
“Yeah, but there’s no time for that now,” Meg interrupted. “You and I have to somehow extract this tesseract from ourselves and save the day from this brain-thingy ‘IT.’”
With that Meg held fast to a nearby rock, while Calvin seal-crawled in the opposite direction and wrapped his arm around a tree. Each then exhaled painfully, and pulled as hard as they possibly could, freeing the tesseract from their innards with a loud, satisfying POP!
Meg’s vagina in the moment could be said to resemble a melted, Salvador Dali clock, while what remained of Calvin’s anus could be said to resemble a purple sock, if the sock was full of space splinters, and somehow very tired.
“Fuck, my butt!” Calvin screamed and then collapsed into a pointless heap. For without the tesseract shoved inside him like the Muppet they would never let Jim Henson put on television, he was useless.
“It’s go time!” Meg said aloud to no one in particular, and with that she headed east, her labia dragging behind her like a discarded jump rope.
“Remember your gifts!” Mrs. Whatsit, Who and Which yelled as she went, still covered in the same primordial sex ooze that had orgasmed them all the way to the planet of Camazotz in the first place.
And remember her gifts Meg did. But not the gift of love, or apparently, the creepy gift of Bible passages? – really, A Wrinkle In Time, I remember girls were reading that shit in middle school, a little separation of church and state please! – no, none of those gifts at all. But the gift of her gaping maw.
“You think you can outfox me?” IT asked, again, soundingly eeringly like Krang from Ninja Turtles? “Just give it a try…”
But IT never finished the sentence. Meg Murray was on top of him, taking his entirety up into her fecund womb and then, with a delightful, schoolgirl wriggle, suffocating him to death. Because as everyone knows, aliens on distant planets succumb to the same lack of oxygen as any earth villain. It’s scientific fact.
With that, Meg released the now dead IT back onto the ground. Trying to put her clitoris back inside of herself after that move resembled someone frantically trying to stuff dental floss back into the box, but somehow Meg completed the task, and with a helpful fingering sesh from Mrs. Which, Mrs. Who, and Mrs. Whatsit, and a perfectly-timed, tesseract assist from the now BOSU-ball sized anus of young Calvin O’Keefe, the whole gang was back on earth.
“And to think,” young Meg Murray said a few days later, at a celebratory gathering in an English garden that featured teas and lemon tarts and the other genteel, stupid shit that middle school aged girls like reading about. “Who knew all along, that the wrinkle in time, was actually my giant, giant vagina.”