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Who says you can’t fuck a pig (or anything else) in the ass?

By Donald Deadman.

If a dark carnival was to commence at the end of this sentence, who, or what, would you fuck first? Would sexual desire be your primary motivation? Or would darker forces rise to the surface, like hate, disgust, or maybe even revenge? Can you remember where that little blonde girl lives, the one your teenage daughter brought home for dinner last week? Of course you can. She’s waiting for you at the bottom of the hill. It’s the last house on the left.

And after you’ve finished her off, how long before you’re sodomising a pig in the town square while the crowd chants your name over and over again?

And would you, just for the overall effect, wear some kind of novelty hat? A giant sombrero, perhaps? A Viking helmet? Or maybe a fez? Would you pencil on a little square moustache and scream death to all the ‘you know whos‘ as you blow a giant load into that pink, porcine butthole, which was never quite as tight as you dreamed it would be?

Would you snuggle with your porky-lover post-coitus? Or would you slit its throat instead, not knowing why, but also understanding, somehow, that it really is the only thing to do, given the somewhat unusual circumstances of the situation? And then how would you spend the remaining hours of this fading frenzy?

Would you sit there cross-legged and ruminate over what diseases you can you contract from fucking a pig in the ass? And why did you have to do it in the ass anyway? How long before you grew tired asking yourself such questions? Can I call you the n-word while I squeeze my knee into your neck? I thought not.

Would it be worse or less worse if the pig was an immigrant child with a black face? What if he had tears running down his sunken cheeks? Or would a dead stare, like he’s bored to death of getting pounded in the ass by fat old white men, like it means nothing to him now, be more disturbing or less disturbing?

What if this black boy was clinically brain dead and his impoverished parents from Sudan had signed a release form permitting you to do anything you wanted to this discounted piece of chargrilled chicken meat?

What if you’d paid an exorbitant sum for the privilege? What if it was your right?

What if the little bastard deserved it? Or what if the little tease actually wanted it? What if he pulled down his basketball shorts, flashed you a coquettish little smile over his shoulder, and whispered, “Come on, big papa. Give it to me good. I promise I won’t tell?

The mountain-dwelling Sambia people make pre-pubescent boys pre- perform fellatio on village elders as part of a coming of age ritual. That’s right. The noble Sambians think sucking off your uncle and drinking his cum makes you a man. Why are they wrong?

What if it was all for a good cause? Or ordained by Jesus Christ himself?
What if you’d seen a segment on morning television where a child psychologist explained how 10-year-old boys are more than capable of deciding what to do with their own bodies?

What if every penny donated to fuck him in the ass was going toward an aid package to stop other white men from sodomising other little black boys?

Would you deflower one black child in this ‘horrible’ manner if it would stop 1,000 others getting their delicate sphincters ripped apart by white dick? And if not, how would you explain your decision in moral terms? Would you say something vague about the sacred nature of the individual? Would you say that all lives matter? Excuse me for a moment; I’ve just been sick in my mouth…

Or would you break down in tears and tell the court that you just couldn’t do it? That under no circumstances whatsoever could you ever sodomise a black child, no matter the consequences? And by admitting your incapable of doing the ‘worst‘ of all things, do you think that automatically makes you a ‘good‘ person? Or, at the very least, not a ‘bad’ one? And who really cares anyway? Like, seriously?

And when the bell sounds to indicate the return of polite society, how would you feel about the things you had done during the night, given that there would be, logically speaking, no reason to feel guilty about any of it, including the little black boy with milky tears dripping out of his rectum?

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