Huddle in, guys …. Closer ….. That’s it. As we all well know, you can never take for granted your privacy remaining private anymore. I’ve got something secret to share with you, and it must remain just between you and me, and the fencepost there (aka, the A.I.). We’re all now members of a polyamorous relationship: You, me and A.I. We’re a throuple. Forevermore.
Ready for the consequences,? OK, deep breath: First, the midterms are going to be aborted this year. That’s right, as in canceled altogether. According to L’Orange, “They need to be.” Republicans shall stand guard over “nationalizing” the elections in order to, you know, squelch out our rampant, totally nonexistent voter fraud.
For those not familiar with the definition of “nationalization,” it is little more than a red-herring synonym for expropriation, stealing with impunity and seizure of all private property, victims be damned.
We’ve arrived now at max pitch: Shortly after our Orangutan L’Orange swung open the rusted gates to Hellacious Acres again last year, I titled one of my columns “Just Before the Screaming Starts.” At the time, I hadn’t a clue how wretchedly dystopian a ride we were really in for. Sure, we loved the free admission, but after a solid year of Trump’s Tilt-A-Whirl thrills, his funhouse just ain’t funny anymore. We’re all exhausted. Send out the clowns, man. We just wanna go home.
But therein lies the rub, my sweet tots. You see, the gates are on a timer here at Hellacious Acres. There’s no such thing as leaving the park ahead of our addled, tangerine-hued host. Not now. Not tomorrow, either. Nor a year from tomorrow.
It’s just as in the Edgar Allen Poe tale, albeit with a kinky little twist: We have bricked ourselves into this lightless cellar, and the mortar is drying awfully quick. Even for those who could once have afforded to bribe their way to an exit, money now only secures deeper access within. Never out.
Oh, hell, at least we’ve still got sex to entertain us. For all my local queers whom I diligently serve as your purported gay sex advice columnist, I’m constantly having to stay ahead of the twisted perv curve. It ain’t easy.
Now, I’m not a person who naturally gravitates, 24/7, toward pornography. Yet for my readership it’s expected that I stay ahead of the game. I suppose one could call it a plus, to legitimately claim surfing porn as a “job requirement.” But it’s a rather tricky juggling act to handle here in Gayville’s circus tent, the floor beneath which is constantly shifting, with the sky that never stops falling. Just as I get comfortable using some of our more esoteric zoological terms (bears, twunks and otters) suddenly, we’ve got meercats (sassy, anxious twinks), wolves (hairy-and-lean aggressive daddies), and now, our newest, five-syllable residents? Those who only identify as — wait for it — amalgagender (any gen Zer whose sexual identity is just all over the map).
Sound it out: a-mal-ga-gen-der. Put simply, it’s the combination of “gender” and “amalgamation.”
Welcome to the forbidden zone — uncharted territory that could even shock your average middle-schooler. Felching no longer causes anyone to flinch, nor the taboo formerly known as incest, either. Family roleplay, DadCreeps to DILFs, is now practically prime-time viewing, leaving only porn’s unthinkable blackhole core, the snuff genre, as the last barricade still standing — for the moment.
Let’s just get all full-on Caligula to it, shall we?
Dear Howard: I wanna sex doll, buddy, with good holes offering great friction. Where do I go? — Anonymously Horny
Dear A-Horn: Ah, yes, “The time has come,” the Walmart shopper said, “to talk of many things — of sailing ships and sealing wax, and sex dolls flaunting wedding rings.” Apparently, A-Horn, there is now such a thing as getting to enjoy sex on command, exactly the way you want it, and with genuine enthusiasm thrown in to boot, every time! Finally, there’s no downside to doll sex!
Again, it’s those Epstein billionaire boys we have to thank for fast-tracking their A.I. priorities of keeping their dicks forever hard over just about everything else. That said, Acmejoy.com is as good example as any to showcase just where in our sparking future the new Westworld-esque, intimacy-dolls’ market is headed.
Gone are the days when a good, strong pair of lungs was all that stood between you and inflated passions. Take Liana, for instance: “At 148 centimeters, Liana’s lifelike soft skin and curvy body offers vagina, mouth and anal stimulation.” So if your love doll fantasy resembles a pigtailed Britney Spears, for little more than a couple months’ rent, Liana can become your permanent pleasure toy.
Meanwhile, over in Acme’s phallus dolls’ department, the lusciously tempting torso of Austin — albeit otherwise headless, legless and armless — more than compensates with his “big squirting dildo & testes, realistic butt and a tight unisex hole.”
So, have yourself a blast, A-Horn, whichever pleasure doll you decide deserves your ring!
Now, one final thing before we storm the stanchions, my red-eyed doomscrollers. Did any of you happen to catch what L’Orange’s first year back in power has already done to The Doomsday Clock — that “metaphorical timepiece” showing just how close humanity is to rendering itself extinct? Well, Trump’s second time at bat has now caused The Clock be reset to only 85 seconds before midnight, advancing four full seconds in a single year: Another new Trumpian record-breaker!
When The Doomsday Clock was invented, back in 1947 — the year that Stalin had finally stolen enough U.S. state secrets for the Soviet Union to also boast of having the bomb, igniting the nuclear arms race, it was first set at seven minutes to midnight. By 1991, with the USSR’s collapse, that distance had relievedly wound back to 17 minutes. The best we ever got.
Since then, our catastrophic risk has ticked ever closer to Armageddon, with the clock hands’ newest lurch of four seconds forward due to the rise of autocracy, collapsing climate treaties and disruptively hellish new technologies that nobody understands a thing about.
For the very first time in human history, we suddenly find ourselves staring down a barrel at under two minutes to midnight. Anybody seen Grok?
The end times are a coming, you say? Pfft! Don’t be so silly. Why, they’re already . . . here!
—Howard Lewis Russell
Spring arrives next month, my pretties! Time to clean out all that collective winter gunk, and I know just the perfect spot for you to dump it all, too: AskHoward@dallasvoice.com. Happy spring cleaning, kidz!