My brother, he might be rich. He might have dollars coming out of his anus and flush them after his business is done. His toilet paper might be covered in dimes. That would explain the propectors digging up his septic tank.
My brother has six inches on me in the
height department, and reaching things is not his problem (To reach things, I use the tiny ladder. I resent the way the people look at me when I use the tiny ladder. I am cute. I juggle). Long and lean, my brother does Pilates. The women in the Pilates video generate his fitness with their churning and burning. A wire-taut human spring, he scoffs at Daisy Fuentes and Mari Windsor because he can do better.
He has a small penis. I saw it when we were little, and I saw it again at his bachelor party while he was pissing. His best man rented a bar, a good bar, and no stripper because that would be unnecessary, as my brother already has all womankind in his employ. He uses his tools of arrogance and phermones, somehow generating fantasies of dominance and erotic role reversal, eyes locked at the moment of penetration, etc.
His wife is an French sculpture who plays a starring role in many of my cornhole fantasies. She has red bras which work on the metric system. I know the metric system: her breasts are exactly two deciliters long.
Everyday he hears suits calling him. He goes to the suit-boutique and buys by the carload. His suits are like human-skins, each crafted by pigmented people who would pay their pennies just to lick his shoes. But he won't allow it.
He is compassionate at Christmastime and coolly vicious in summer's sweltering heat.
In his house, nice, sterile, tasteful, you will find glass and stainless steel.
His head is a Christmas ornament, but he does everything better, perfect for the untroubled man. Thinking of him, I drive myself to abuse clowns and Zoolander to a greater extent.
