The Fagspital is yet another humour establishment supported by the public budget. Its inner functioning is no longer the secret it once was, but nevertheless the reader may perhaps appreciate a run down of its operation in the broadest strokes, from a lay-man perspective.
The faggot's visit to the Fagspital starts in the triage room, where he queues with the other fags to go before the head nurse. He is to be accompanied by his wife ; they must each carry photo ID as well as the marriage certificate, which must be at least one year old. After verifying the items the nurse takes them through a purpose-built questionnaire and marks down the respective information. At this point the Fagspital's website receives - in a dedicated if public section - yet another update : the personal treatment page of yet another faggot. Friends and family, as well as her ex-boyfriends, his middle school nemeses and the general public can from this moment onwards peruse the course of the faggot's treatment, well illustrated with static as well as video content, by simply following the name-based URL.
There is of course a bill, which is well peppery for absolutely no reason other than pile-on-the-faggot, and an appointment is made with the Image Diagnostic Unit of the Fagspital - with any luck for that same day! Here the happy couple is separated, the faggot is called by name and has to go into a little dressing room, where the nurse instructs him to strip down to his socks and panties, put one of the paper gowns on and wait. The provided paper gowns come in a satisfying variety of prints, from the textual ones describing in intricate detail private intricacies of a married faggot's life to the visual ones depicting in stylisized form the same subject matter.
The faggot is next taken to the prepping room. En route he receives his faggot bracelet, which he is to wear forever from that point forward for identification purposes, and is required with all the pomp and pretense of supposed arbitrareity to carry his underwear in his hand. He is subsequently dehaired, washed and generously lubricated by a dizzying array of workers and machinery, after which he is taken to the imaging unit proper, where he is imagined in all kind, manner and type of conceivable and inconceivable posture, pose and position to the complete satisfaction of the doctors present as well as the answers he himself gave to the questionnaire and the whim and caprice of idle bystanders, both male and female, both physically present as well as remotely connected.
Once these festivities complete - which may well take multiple hours - the faggot's penis is safely tucked away in the cage, and the happy couple rush home to catch up with each other's experience. Mostly him with hers.
The follow-up visit is usually scheduled five to seven weeks thereafter. The pillar of the proceedings is the wife peeing in a cup. Should the result come out positive - as it almost always does - a further blood test is conducted. Once the test confirms the good news, the couple (by which we mean, of course, the wife) receives the key to the faggot's little cage. Nine months later, give or take a week or two they will be crowding the Hospital - but that, of course, is another story.
PS. Should your doctor somehow summon the courage to inquire why your yearly checkups give you such raging hardons, feel free to introduce him to the magical place that is Trilema. There's no shame to being a slut, after all.
Sunday, 7 March 2021
If you re into any kind of contemporary popular music other than jazz and folk standards or indie retreads of The Kinks or The Yardbirds, then you re listening in some way, shape or form to a musical language originally articulated by Trans-Europe Express.
Sunday, 7 March 2021
Funny thing, because... I'm not.
Besides things you'd never have heard about like a good dedicated ESLtard, I pretty much only listen to jazz, big band and some very selective early rock (that don't include any Beatles crap). There's exceptions, but not many, and so there you go.