Let Us Now Inspect The Orgasms of Hideous Men

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(photo: davy carren)

Louis C.K.: a mild rebuff, akin to an antelope farting on a lizard, flabby jowls jiggling ever-so-slightly, eyes dazed and aloof, something rabid in the mouth with possible dribbling and/or foam, shocked dismay struggling to adapt to consciousness, an effervescence of pride swelling in the chest and then a cautious intake of breath, whispering, “Look at me, look at me, like me, please like me,” until the moment has passed.

Bill Cosby: cheeks puffed to the task, droopy eyes barely open, gargling noises and runny snot trails evident, torso jiggling in Jell-O consistency, spitting bits of hard candy from pursed lips, a huff and a puff and an inconsiderate sneeze-like whoop, and then a whimper, and then uncontrollable tears.

Matt Lauer: impeccable form, shoulders back, perfect lumbar curve, thighs and calves tight and flexed, clever but dumb moan issued at a surprisingly odd moment of release and mumbling, “I am a macho, macho man,” until finished, then lying sideways while preening the sheets back to straightness, cooing softly, “I’ve knocked my own socks off, dear, dear, dear.”

Charlie Rose: buttocks nestled in a soft clutch of peeled persimmons’ skins, rosy cheeked, plump and giddy in a slightly opened robe, oily drips of sweat from rugose brow, chipper, mouth hooting a bit, almost a whistle but not quite, blurting out the chorus from Tom Petty’s “Don’t Do Me Like That” while shaking a clenched fist above head.

Harvey Weinstein: screeching, whiny, cursing, wobbly, enraged, lips making sucking sounds, rude and unforgiving, socks and shoes on, shirt off, hands on back of head with nails digging into scalp, beet-red face, blinking fast, riled, yelling degrading epithets into Bluetooth, blowing a large saliva bubble, and then hawking a giant loogie in the dirt of a potted plant.

Mike Pence: Silent, furious, face screwed-up into a bursting prune, waffling from side to side, eyes rolled back, elbows dug deep into two small white pillows while hands come together in prayer, mouth agog and then screaming uncontrollably, “Here you go, mother, oh, mother! Surrender, Dorothy!”

Al Franken: Contorted limbs blocking all exits, lips flapping with cigar tilted up from them, eyebrows arched, bloated, ring loose on finger, squishy shart reverberating, glasses slipping down bridge of nose, head bobbing, a little nervous as the belly jangles and flops to an uneventful conclusion.

Roy Moore: seizure-like spasms as face tics twitch and body jerks into a rabid hyperventilating state, drool dangles from clownish smile, legs pummeling the carpet, head tilted back in supplicatory gesture, furious, ecstatic, reptilian tongue motions as if catching flies, lashing out at last with a, “Hush, hush, little girl. God…has…cooooooooome,” and then berating all heathens while flipping over to a supine position with hands clasped over heaving chest.

Kevin Spacey: A neat, curt sigh followed by a meditative, “Ohm…Ohm,” while ringing a service bell and kneeling on a rolled-up yoga mat, winking slyly as if conspiring to dance on the graves of victims later on in the evening, a keen lowing issued as tea is sipped from an ornate chalice in one final, “Ah. That’s the stuff.”

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