Mike Bloomberg Re-Enacts the Call Me By Your Name Peach Scene With an Orange

Mike Bloomberg Re-Enacts Call Me By Your Name Peach Scene With an Orange

I kept thinking of him as I lay in bed that sultry afternoon. Donald. Donnie. Don. How he called me by his name and I lovingly called him “Mini Mikey,” his pet name for me.  How he had penetrated me with his miniature manhood and stretched me to my limits.

I reached for the orange I brought with me. I held it in both hands contemplating the somewhat misshapen orb, for it was  a navel orange. The pocked skin of the fruit reminded me of him, orange and rough. The nubbin at the end reminded me of his petite meat.

I began to peal the skin, opening the inside segments. It all began to remind me of his ass. The white of the inner peal clinging to the flesh of the orange reminded me of the thicket of hair hiding his  orifice. Having to part it to find my way in.

I was seized by a desperate yearning.  I yanked my erection out of my shorts, rubbing it against the flesh of the orange. The citric acid smarted a bit , but I was too rapt in ecstasy to care. I came hard, drenching the violated fruit with my Bloomberg juice.

Spent, I was about to toss the fruit on the floor for the help to find later, when Don opened the door.

“Whatcha doing there, Mikey…er…Donnie?”

“Uh well, Mikey, I was just…”

“Whatcha got there, pal?” Don asked, thick tiny fingers trying to seize the oozing orange from my hand. ” I am yugely hungry right now.”

“Don’t. I can’t bear it,” I whimpered, tears welling in my eyes.

Don bit into the orange, juices running down his face. A secret service agent handed him his handkerchief.

In the Meantime, A Youtube Video

Still no one has called me about results, my kidneys are hurting, my friend is still pissy, and we’re all going to contract Corona. In the meantime, here’s an Aldi Haul I recorded in January, but only put up today.

PS, no idea why comments are disabled for video.

No answers

She’s still very much alive.

FI think it’s been 48 hours now and no call. I’m tooo scared to call them and I’m too afraid to say anything to my only friend too.

I wouldn’t mind dropping dead or going to sleep forever, but the thought of suffering an extended illness is terrifying. I can see it within the realm of possibilities that if I get bad results, they’ll pass me off to a nephrologist, urologist, or oncologist before ever saying a word to me. That’s how they referred me to the radiologist, without a single word. Just someone from radiology called me with a referral.

She hasn’t contacted me. Even if she did realize she might have overreacted a bit, and I’m not sure she has come to that conclusion, she never apologizes. Being completely friendless with no family is no way to live. Yet somehow I still want to live. I ALMOST want to tell her she’s a miserable fucking cunt for calling me a retard and telling me that I will have no friends left in this life. Is she wanting me to die? . If only people knew the things she said. She’s actually said worse to me over the years:

Said I belonged at Auschwitz ( because she thought I was mentally challenged).

Threatened to throw me out of the car on a dark deserted road (Likely wouldn’t have).

Said my mom’s death was because I didn’t take her temperature.

I still want her back though.

Still don’t Know if I’m Dying, but Got Called a Retard, so There’s That.

It’s been over 24 hours since I had the ultrasound and no one has called me with results.

“The only thing wrong with you is your mind. Call them, Munchausen,” texted my friend to me.

Needless to say, my friend is mad at me. First of all, I find about an hour or so before I had the ultrasound, that she really didn’t want to go with me. That her boyfriend was mad that she was going with me instead of being with him, and that she now has to deal with two crybabies now.

Were I a cunt, I’d let her boyfriend know that I am lumped in the same box as him, the ‘crybaby’ box. He’d love that, I’m sure. I did tell him not to be mad at her, that she really hadn’t wanted to come with me at all, hoping he’d stop being mad.

I was really distressed that she didn’t want to come with me and hid it as best I could. She was nice to me while at the radiologist’s though.

What sealed the deal though is that the strays at the doctor’s office were missing when we went to feed them. She went crazy. “If that dentist trapped them, I’ m breaking out his windows, you know I will.”

“It’s raining. They probably don’t want to come out,” I replied. She lit into me that they’re strays and if they were that weak, they wouldn’t have survived all the years we’ve been feeding them.

I didn’t see them a few hours later when I came back around midnight. I didn’t tell my friend this, but I was taking them being gone as an omen that the one thing I’m useful for is gone. Surely, I will find out that I’m dying.

I also feel like one of the main reasons I’m kept as a friend is to feed the strays. I don’t tell her this, but that’s how our friendship began. I try to tell myself it isn’t true.

She found the cats yesterday. She even got people from Friends of Felines to go look for them. I didn’t go because I didn’t want to have to introduce myself to strangers who my friend may have bashed me to. She texted me that I didn’t really care about them, that I’m a retard, and that I won’t have any friends in this world.

It’s all a little too much. Now she’s saying she’s going to take them because I’m just like the guy who feeds cats for her in a rural area. He actually is mentally challenged and has the mentality of a 10 year-old.

I don’t think I deserve this. The cats were fine. She knows I suffer from anxiety so bad that I’m on disability for it, so that if a doctor orders a kidney ultrasound it’s going to really fuck with my head. That the thought of losing my only friend while being scared I’m dying is going to fuck with me even worse. I should be happy that she won’t really mourn me if I am dying, but the thought of dying alone is terrifying to me ( which I’m sure she’s happy I’m thinking of that prospect).

I’d ask God what I did to deserve this, but then I remember the guy who died a horrific death on New Year’s Eve near me. I guess almost anything is better than immolation.

Maybe I’m Dying?

Maybe I am dying. It’s hard to guage reality vs. what is fantastical when you’r e a bit of a hypochondriac. I waited over a week for my urine culture to come back. Finally, I called and they said it looked like I had a UTI. This is when I inform the nurse I took the full course of antibiotics and still had kidney pain. I asked what sort of bacteria grew and maybe they could match an antibiotic to it. “I’ ll have to ask the PA,” she said, never to be heard from again.

A few days later, I get a call from a radiologist. The bastards at my doctor’s office referred me without saying a blessed thing. I don’t know what specifically they suspect, or if it’s in an abundance of caution. Do they think I’m riddled with cancer or my kidneys are failing? Luckily, my friend is coming with me and I’m going to take enough Ativan to numb me into a stupor. She can ask questions I’m too afraid to ask.

If I had to guess a reason for my problem though,  I think I caught  Monster E-Coli on New Year’s Eve…

New Year’s Eve, an apt time for bad things to occur. Unlike last year, battling the caprices of my best friend’s mood, this New Year’s was to be my own. I perused the after Christmas sales at Walgreens and Dollar General, and hit my friendly neighborhood ABC Store.

To those of you unaccustomed to living in one of the more God-fearing states of the union, the ABC Store is a state owned monopoly selling spirits. Alcoholic fascism is the southern American way.

I relish my twice a year trips to the ABC Store. I am in forbidden territory. We hope my mother if she watches me from above, averts her eye as I walk about the store fascinated by brands, flavors, price points. I almost relish defying my dead mother, in the occasional homage to my equally dead drunk father.

There were 3 things my mother drilled into my head:

Sex causes unwanted pregnancy, venereal disease, and a broken heart.  Better to remain a virgin for life.

Don’t walk alone at night. Don’t go anywhere alone at night. You will be raped and/or murdered.

Don’t drink. You’ll wind up like your father once the liquid first passes your lips.

You think I exaggerate. Not much. Of these 3 things, the only one I’ve managed to not do yet is the first one. Walking alone at night sometimes is necessary and alcohol is a panacea for holidays.

I left the ABC with a bottle of orange vodka, alcoholic eggnog, and a 4 of those 50 oz. bottles. I went to McDonald’s to indulge in my other vice, overeating. They have the absolute worst service of any McDonald’s in town. After waiting literally 20 minutes for my food, it was going to be too late to take the bus home. Oh well.

As I was finishing up eating, I heard fire trucks . “There’s a fire somewhere down the street, ” said a customer. I hurried outside to make sure it wasn’t near my apartment complex. I could see clearly in my head the fire that tore through a building behind mine back in July, and I had thought then it would spread to my apartment. It hadn’ t, but I was still traumatized.

This fire mercifully wasn’t near my complex. It was across the street from the ABC store and behind a used car lot in some woods. I couldn’t see much, but there was a horrible plastic burning  odor. A few days later, I found out a drunk homeless man had somehow managed to accidentally light himself on fire using his kerosene heater. I hope he didn’t suffer long.

I start walking home. It’s not horribly cold and I’m coming down from a full fledged panic attack. My heart raced and I had feared I would vomit while looking for the fire. Only now was I beginning to calm down as I walk home down another street…and then suddenly it hit, the overwhelming urge to shit. This area is virtually deserted at this time of the night, around 9:30, as it is just doctors’ offices.

I can make it, I keep telling myself, even praying. Oh shit, I can’t.

I leave my little shopping cart in the parking lot of a psychologist’s office, hurry toward the back fumbling in the dark. I pull my pants down, lean slightly against the building, and contort myself into an unnatural but necessary position. All the while, I keep fearing someone will attack me. Once more, I fumble in the dark, breaking off small leaves from nearby bushes to tend to myself. I feel overwhelming relief when I stumble back to the parking lot without someone jumping out at me.

And that’s how I think I got a monster UTI. Maybe it’s not cancer or kidney failure, but ever the optimist, I’m sure I’m dying.

Amy Klobuchar and Joe Biden: My Dick was Made for Ridin’by Lisa B.

It was after the debate,

and Joe Biden needed

to masturbate.

The urge was just too strong

to whip out and stroke his dong.

Known as the ‘hands on candidate,’

Senator Biden was a huge reprobate.

Frottering the ladies and sniffing hair,

Joe’s wayward touching was everywhere.

He just had to find a room quick and soon

to drop his pants lest he become a buffoon.

Where was a bathroom, a closet, a trash bin?

Somewhere to commit his secret sin

.

Suddenly the senator’s ears were as alert as his dick.

A kerfuffle was going on in the thick.

A midwestern squealing, 

shrill and unappealing, 

wafted through a closed door.

“I said I wanted Perrier, not La Croix,

you thoughtless, dim-witted whore!”

The sound of a can hitting a wall,

frantic apologies, and a voice saying ‘damn  ’em all.’

Out spilled an intern and an aide,

running away like their boss was the plague.

Red faced with hands on her hips,

it was Senator Amy Klobuchar in a fit.

The eyes of Satan flashing firey hell,

suddenly, on Joe Biden her glance fell.

“Senator Biden, what a nice surprise!” 

Amy’s voice,  saccharine sweet,

declared without missing a beat.

‘Oh, Amy, you were so great!

You caused Senator Sanders’

socialist ideals to deflate…

And looking  so beautiful too. 

Let me give you a congratulatory hug 

and a little kiss. Hold still, I won’ t miss.

Mmm..Is that Pert Plus?”

“Well, you know me,

I don’t like to make a fuss,”

said Amy,  patting her hair.

.

Mr. Biden reached subtly her derriere.

“You’d make a great VP, Amy.”

“Joe, do you have a VD?”

“Nope, not me.”

“Then close the door; let me see.

I’ve always wanted to fuck you,

Senator Biden.”

“Well, Amy, my dick was made for ridin’.”

And ride is what she did,

frantic liver spotted hands

clawing against her soft skin.

“I’m not getting off,” moaned Klobuchar,

Bouncing up and down on his cock.

“You better make me come, mother fucker,”

she said, in threat and demand.

She perched on the dressing room table, 

Joe went down with his mouth,

on a vagina that smelled like cheese

but tasted like stale ale.

“Wait, I know what I need.

Get up and get me my purse.”

She dug to the bottom of her bag,

And pulled out a plastic fork.

“Fuck me by that wall;

I want to look in the mirror

and see it all.”

“Ma’am, I aim to please, 

Joe decreed,

But what Amy did next

nearly brought 

the geriatric man to his knees.

Amy shoved the fork’s handle,

without much preamble,

up Biden’s behind.

” Why-why-why-why?”

stuttered Joe,

who was about to 

shoot his load.

“It’s my kink,

plus I shudder to think

of ever being without

adequate cutlery.”

Maybe

Maybe,

In a parallel world,

I’d tell you.

But not here.

Maybe,

Were I accomplished

at anything,

You might forgive

the deficits:

in appearance,

in charm,

in intellect.

I might tell you then.

Maybe,

She will tell you.

She is deserving

and superior

in every way.

I wish I could

make her feel an ounce

of the  regard I feel

for you.

SMaybe,

she would tell you

while I’d only fail you.

Andrew Yang Math Professor and Pete Bootyjudge Student Porn Parody Story

Andrew Yang Math Professor and Pete Bootyjudge Student Porn:

“You wanted to  see me, sir?” asked Pete Bootyjudge. Pete’s cheeks blushed crimson as he looked at his math professor, Mr. Andrew Yang. Was it apprehension or the shyness of a young man horny for his calculus professor, calculating how fuckable  he was.

“Son, take your ‘Math’ hat off and close the door. Don’t you have any respect?”

“I..I’m sorry, sir. Forgive me,”  Bootyjudge said, almost in a whimper.

“Yeah, I bet you’re sorry. Do you have any idea why I called you into my office, Booty…” Mr. Yang  trailed off. “Bootyjudge, is it?”

“It’s Gaitise,” said Bootyjudge.

“Gay? What did you say, boy?”

“No, no. Gai. Tise. Gay. Tease. My family is from the Island of Gaita in the Mediterranean.”

“Well, that’s interesting. Gaita. Never heard of it, but we all got to be from somewhere.”

” Yes, yes, sir.”

“So, Bootyjudge” Mr. Yang snickered. Do you know why I  asked you into my office?”

“Maybe, sir.”

“Look at this grade! Mr. Yang shook  the test in his hand. “A big fat D.”

“Look, I’m no good at calculus. I’m good at theology, the arts. Not math…Even though I bought your math hat,” said Bootyjudge, a hint of a smile on his face, as he ran his fingers over the hat that hid his massive 4  inch hard on.

“There may be something that can be done to get rid of this big fat D you got here.”

“Uh, what?”

Mr. Yang crooked his finger, beckoning Bootyjudge to him. “I want you to judge my booty, Bootyjudge.” 

Mr. Yang stood up, went to the  the wall, and unbuckled his belt. He turned around, dropped his pants, showing his bare ass to Bootyjudge. “Well, what do you think?”

Bootyjudge looked at the man’s round,  almond colored bottom and felt himself salivate.  “It’s beautiful,” he whispered.

“Would you fuck an ass like mine?” Mr. Yang spread his cheeks, showing a perfectly bleached asshole.

Bootyjudge gasped. “Oh, heavens, yes!”

“Come here. Kiss me, boy.” Their lips met, their hands clasped together. Tongues thrust in and out. Mr. Yang  licked up the side of Bootyjudge’s face, as the young man shivered. Mr. Yang opened the drawer of his desk and pulled out a half empty jar of Vaseline. They looked into each other’s eyes.

 ” I want you  to fuck my ass until I come, then I want to drink all of your cum, every drop.”

“Well, OK.”

Bootyjudge and Mr. Yang were naked, Yang bent over the desk as Bootyjudge lubed up Mr. Yang’s taut hole.

“Aww yeah, fuck my ass, harder, harder!”

“Ohhh I can’t hold it anymore!” cried Bootyjudge after 2 minutes, pulling out his dick and shoving it into Mr. Yang’s mouth as he came. Mr Yang couldn’t help but notice that Bootyjudge’s hot jizz tasted like mayonnaise.