The Prick Compiler of The Inter-Continental Organ Trackers (known as Rodney to the astral bodies he resonated with) paced in a square around the ELPB (Extremely Large Prick Book). In charge of documenting, regulating, and thoroughly looking at every Cock, Shlong, Penis, Dip-Digger, Flesh Wet Wipe, Pink Wet Shaker, Anus Plug, etc. in existence, it would be fair to say he was one of the more stressed men residing in the UN’s Sexual Governance and War Finance building. Early in the day he had received an extremely troublesome call from the United States of America (and Associates) lead “Misanthrope Correctional Officer” Chad McMurry.
“Is this the PCOTICOT speaking?”
McMurry had blurted into the phone.
“Speaking.”
“There has been a surge of unaccounted-for prick activity in the Midwest, most likely as a result of the herd movements caused by the NGSA president’s untimely live erection, the growth of the SPABPFTFOMAD, and the young Regional Anti-Molestation Pope claiming that she ‘liked to do those babies for fun.’”
“Blasphemy.”
“I’m afraid I’m looking at the data right now PCOTICOT, the agents under me, only a few literally, helped to procure this information at great personal risk to their very being.”
McMurry had the kind of voice that sounded like a cross between the most grizzled Vietnam Veteran of all time and an overweight loner who had never left the house. The two vocal qualities ran at an extremely unpleasant friction that caused the PCOTICOT to grimace and move the phone away from his ear every few seconds.
“PCOTICOT, are you there? Are you listening?”
“Yes, McMurry, just processing, may I suggest you hold your receiver slightly farther away from your mouth.”
“Never know what might slip in there if I do that PCOT—”
McMurry was referencing one of the darkest chapters in the PCOTICOT’s life, when he was kidnapped by a radical group of homosexual anti-wifers. In a mad attempt to deconstruct the prick length to vaginal tightness work camps being set up on college campuses, they had stormed him as he was walking into work, blindfolded him, and dragged him away. The PCOTICOT was taken to a secret location where a live video stream of his open mouth was set up. After approximately 69 minutes had passed, a large detached horse’s cock was shoved into the PCOTICOT’s throat while a string of canned laughter played in the background and a message reading “Let no prick enter thy tight hole, unless that prick be of proper musk, and that hole be of proper origin” blinked in capital white letters on the screen. When finally a team of UN Prick-Enforcers came through to help the PCOTICOT, their large dildo hats flapping in-between their horns, he had already swallowed the horse dick in a show of complete and utter humiliation.
“Why you American and Associates ingrate!”
The PCOTICOT was fuming.
“Maybe try getting better at your damn job then you useless son of a bureaucratic bi—”
The PCOTICOT violently shoved his phone into his pocket, shuddering with anger. Who the fuck did that USAA brat think he was, throwing insults at the man who kept the measurements. Fuck the terrorists, fuck whatever Pope was using religious babies as fleshlights, that shit was basic elementary anarchy. Apple trees growing apples. But pride, that was what held the PCOTICOT together. There was a reason he had his position. He was the biggest. The veins that ripped through his erect cock roared like fucking rivers. Pressing an intercom button on his desk he impatiently told his secretary to patch him through to the SAT (Size Adjustment Taskforce).
“Take McMurry down three inches.”
“But sir? The international implications of that could be—”
Releasing the intercom button the PCOTICOT unzipped his pants and began the process of pulling his hog from the “exterior worldly mass compression boxes” strapped to the inside of his thigh, then began to masturbate with immense fervor.
The previous events, lasting about ten minutes, are now recorded and noted in most history books as the beginning of the Second Sex Cold War.
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