Until you’re known as a monster, you’re not a star.

—Bette Davis

The night Cock E. Cuntsmart wore his stupid man suit and made mischief of one kine

and another

the Great Mommy called him
“TEMPORARILY-EMBARRASSED LIBERTINE!”
and Cock E. Cuntsmart said
“I’LL EAT YOU(R) (W)HOLE!”
so he was sent to bed without cold milk or warm milk or blood or cum or anything.

That very night in Cock E. Cuntsmart’s room a miraculous udder grew

and grew

and grew until it was mysteriously detonated by the Imposition
and from his ceiling flowed primordial rivers from glow-in-the-dark stars
and the glow-in-the-dark stars became binky-bonky nipples
and his walls became the milky, curdled world all around

and the milk ran black
and the primordial rivers were the Lethe, Phlegethon, Cocytus, Acheron, and Styx
and the rivers flowed into an ocean of black tar cum with a private boat for Cock E. Cuntsmart
and he sailed off on the ocean of black tar cum through night and day

and in and out of weeks
and almost over a year
to where the cum cows are.

And when he came to the place where the cum cows are,
Kundalini-Kellogg’s Funny Factory Fuck Farm, in Lower Hades,
the cum cows lowed their terrible lows
and gnashed their terrible porcelain veneers
and licked their terrible acid-filled lips
and clapped their terrible cum cow tits
and puckered their terrible bleached assholes
and gaped their terrible whispering eyes
and showed their terrible jungle-red claws

till Cock E. Cuntsmart said “BE STILL!”
and tamed them with The Dick Inside

staring into all their artificially pinkened, jet-puffed pussies without blinking once
and they were frightened and called him the most temporarily-embarrassed libertine of all

and made him king of all cum cows.

“And now,” cried Cock E. Cuntsmart, “let the wild rumpus start!”

Elder cum cows, udders great big, as though drawn by Cock E. himself who’d heretofore never seen a pair of tits, so big the cum cows fall over forwards like the chickens at Sanderson Farms in McComb, Mississippi, pussies gel-filled for labial vitruvianism, fucked full nelson by the animal husbandrists who grab the cum cows by the biceps, pull them back in Jesus Christ poses, to raise high those cum cow tits standing tall, doing the barn proud. 

The animal husbandrists administer recombinant bovine growth hormone (rBGH) and oversee the body modifications that make cum cows cum cows: buttock and clit augmentations with liposuctioned fat grafting, bee sting facials, slap massages, cryotherapy, lifts of all things gravity has made to sag and droop, caulk, epoxy, and ready-mix asphalt jabs to all surfaces age has made to crack. And, of course, not least of all, augmentation udderplasties.

The elder cum cows get fucked by the animal husbandrists and suck the cocks of inseminataurs wearing witchy execution masks, fluffing the inseminataurs while the animal husbandrists tweak the JJJ-cup udder teats until they produce milk and squirt fresh cum cream, “bumping the bag,” as it were, turning the whole funny farm/big red barnyard into a milk orgy. The elder cum cows suck hard and make efforts to be as productive as possible, for the threat of retirement to the beef class looms—the career of a cum cow in its prime is two-to-four years, after which it is used as its use value may permit but at any point may be slaughtered. 

The inseminataurs get fluffed and enjoy the show as they prepare for highly ritualistic insemination, an occult rite, picking angel numbers from a wizard hat, the numbers corresponding to gloryholes punched into stall doors. Behind the holes punched lie more holes, of nameless, faceless, ass-in-the-air cum calfs who have recently begun their estrous cycles. They get blind-fucked through the gloryholes roulette-style. The inseminataurs put their dicks in these holes, quietly praying they don’t get stuck with the one that does not open to a cum calf but a milking machine—a practical joke implemented by barn owners and executives.

It’s a gloryhole gangbang to maximize the chances of impregnation, to ensure optimal milk production for standard pasteurization and sale to commercial markets. What’s left unpasteurized is bottled and sold on the black market to cum cow fetishists. 

The inseminataurs swap angel numbers and take turns in each other’s divinatorily-assigned holes until one is Goldilocks and they go a-nutting. Usually, this means multiple loads are blown into each of the younger cum cows before the rite is finished and the circle is closed. Meanwhile the elder cum cows continue to suck and get milked and fucked as blue ribbon examples to the youngsters, and because the show must go on for the inseminataurs to stay hard, well-fluffed so they may nut more than once in the pinch hitters, little pussies like ham sammies and turkey lunchables, to secure the chances of breeding more cum cows, thereby keeping the barn, the funny farm, in business and giving the dairy industry a boost. 

VIP platinum card-carrying inseminataurs, as well as any barn shareholders and executives participating in these rites, may later choose to have paternity tests performed and, if positive, cum cow ownership is ceded to he who has the winning sperm, and along to another barnyard with that special man the cum calf is forever sent, fucking the cum calf to create the mother cum cow, fucking the cum calf born of incest-rape to create new cum calfs for fucking, to produce more cum calf-mother-daughter-whores who get fucked, propagating a dynasty of inbred cum calf-mother-daughter-whores who get fucked and keep getting fucked, and that’s the ouroboric self-fecundating principle as known to The Dick Inside, Kundalini-Kellogg’s Funny Factory Fuck Farm, and big red barns worldwide. 

“Now stop!” Cock E. Cuntsmart said and sent the cum cows and cum calfs off to bed
without their supper of feed containing ingredients that do not pass bovine muster.

And Cock E. Cuntsmart, the king of all cum cows, was lonely
and wanted to be where someone, the Great Mommy, loved him best of all.

Then all around from far away across the world
he smelled good things to eat
so he gave up being king of where the cum cows are.

But the cum cows cried,
“Oh please don’t go—
we’ll eat you(r) (w)hole—
we love you so!”

And Cock E. Cuntsmart, his erotics a fear of love, said, “No!” 

And the cum cows mooed their terrible moos
and rolled their terrible are you my mother? eyes
and puckered their terrible vulvoplastied meat roses
and popped their terrible bonobo pussies
and twitched their terrible dick-like clits
and bounced their terrible cum cow tits, red and blistered from the feeding of the masses
and participated in terrible milk t-shirt contests
and showed their terrible Kardashian asses
and tightened their terrible holes around forearms and fists
and snapped their terrible buboes together
and grew their terrible eternity fistulas

but Cock E. Cuntsmart stepped into his private boat and waved goodbye

and sailed back on the ocean of black tar cum over a year
and in and out of weeks
and through a day

and into the night of his very own milky, curdled room, spoilt and rancid
and stripped off his stupid man suit
and he found his supper of cum cow milk
and cum cow cum
and cum cow bloody mid-rare steak
waiting for him

and it was still hot.