(Any resemblence to any person living of dead is purely poppycock)
[image: darrendecker]
It Didn’t Happen
You stand at the end of your journey, looking fantastic. Every pore, every muscle, and every hair is in place--clean, trim, and manicured to perfection. Your eyes sparkle, your lips pucker, your trained smile borders on the magical. You walk with the certainty of one who knows her place in the hearts and minds of humanity. You have put upwards of 20 million butt tucks into making your fabulous derriere get the hearts of every red-blooded male pumping somewhere north of 150 bps. Even your toenails are clipped, smoothed, and polished to be able to cast images of the divine back to those who glance in that direction. And those toned calves suggest an athlete who has seen the Pearly Gates and returned with an approval from Heaven. Your movements are so graceful, your aura so inviting, that your presence transcends the moment. You are the personification of perfection, a glimpse of Paradise, the epitome of feminine pulchritude. Every nano inch of your body, every hint of your mind, and every suggestion of your soul shines forth in beauty like the most splendid display of astral glow that ever lit up the skies. You “walk in beauty, like the night, of cloudless climes and starry skies, and all that's best of dark and bright, meets in your aspect and your eyes.” You stand in humble anticipation, without fear, and in complete control of yourself and all that you survey.
And then the moment of Truth arrives. You expect the best, but you are prepared for any outcome. And then comes the announcement. You are crowned the winner, the most desirable woman in the entire Universe! You goal is achieved, your destiny is fulfilled. For a moment time stands still, your entire past, present, and future merge to make this moment the most glorious of any that ever pierced the shroud of consciousness. You did it.
Then somewhere off in the distance you hear a stammer, and a stutter, a cough and a sputter. There’s been a mistake. You are first—but only the first runner-up. Someone else is the winner.
What? WTF? Get your freaking hands off my crown! NO, you cannot have it back. I won it fair and square. Your freaking reading skills do not matter. There are 100 million viewers out there. You cannot change their minds. Go screw yourself. And while you are at it, take all your demented ancestors with you. This crown is mine, the glory is mine, and you are just another f^^king son-of-!.#$ who needs a #$%^ castration, and a^&*() rammed up your *&^%$.
The mayhem that followed was a bloody mess. Survivors names are listed on our website. Our sincere condolences go out to the families of all those who met their Fate on that inglorious evening, December 21, 2015—a date that shall live in infamy.
I'm imagining those very same thoughts of the actual winner who thought she'd lost to the first runner up! Only, she didn't have to chip a fleck of polish on her perfectly pedicured toenails.
The Wholly Book of Doo-Doo-Rot-on-Me is adult satirical humor featuring adult language and adult content, and the work is a parody of the Old Testament Book of Deuteronomy.
Stories Worth Wiping Your A** With
Whether you're making a deposit at the stank bank, dropping a return at the squat shop, or conducting a brown business meeting, these perfectly timed tales provide the literary fragrance your privacy deserves. F
It Didn’t Happen
