A small time agent, a real down-at-the-heels magicians-and-dancing-poodles-in-tutus kinda agent, is sitting in his office, totally bereft at the prospect of dying as poor and anonymous as he's lived his entire professional life when this guy walks into his office. The agent immediately recognizes him and, delighted, rises to greet him, saying "My god, I am so honored—"

But the guy cuts him off and says "Not another word; have I got an act for you!"

The agent, still beaming, runs his pinched thumb and forefinger across his closed mouth in the international 'My Lips are Sealed' gesture, holds up his hands, and settles back in his chair.

The guy claps his hands, "OK," he says, "This, this is the act, this is the one that's gonna put you on the map. It's got everything: there's thrills, there's chills, there's love and death, tragedy and comedy, it's risque but tasteful and, most importantly these days, it's a family act.

"The band strikes up a lively little number, maybe 'Let's Call the Whole Thing Off' or 'I like New York in June', and me, my wife, my two lovely daughters, we come out on stage in evening wear; I'm in a tux, my wife's in this long, graceful satin gown, and my daughters in pastel. We've all got great big politician smiles, nod our heads to the expectant crowd. I turn to my wife, she opens her mouth to begin singing, and I haul back and slap her so hard that the audience feels there own teeth rattle. One daughter, in blue, she's shocked and brings her hands up to her mouth, and the other—dressed in pink—is delighted, and cackles in glee. My wife turns to the audience and there's blood dripping from her mouth, painting her lips drippy, runny red, like a clown smile. The blue daughter turns to the pink daughter just in time to catch a wicked sucker punch to the mouth herself, which crams her own fingers back into her own mouth, breaking them. In the meantime, I've begun to strip down, and soon I'm naked, and my cock is as hard as a heated-bloated corpse, standing out a good ten inches. A stage hand walks out a bicycle, and I make a great show of removing the seat.

"Tension is building, ya see?

"As this is going on, my blue daughter and wife have drawn close to cling to each other, give each other comfort, and my pink daughter has let her hair down, both literally and figuratively. The stage hands bring out a cardboard box, and I reach in, and bring out a fluffy kitten. I hold the kitten to my cock, and he licks it nippingly. I then smash the kitten into the open upright hollow pipe, where the bicycle seat once attached. I bring out another kitten, which runs its raspy little tongue down my dong, and then similarly stuff it into the bike's structure. My blue daughter and wife are still weeping, and my pink daughter is unlacing the back of her gown, which drops away, revealing a leather outfit, with cut-away demi-bra and black cape like the waxy, leathery wings of a bat. Her garters are the tiny, clenched arms of aborted late term fetuses and her stockings the stretched, pink intestines of cows slid up over her legs. There are no panties, and even from the cheap balcony seats it is apparent that she has the most disturbing, ulcerated, infected case of coliform genital warts imaginable. Her crotch is just a suppurating, gooey mess. She reaches her arms high above her head, luxuriating in the limelight, and snaps her fingers. Two gigantic black men, each at least seven feet tall, shaved headed, wearing horse blinders and grass skirts, come on stage, buck naked, and their rock hard, uncircumcised dicks thrumming—actually juking just a bit with each beat of their huge, animal hearts—and standing out from the skirts.

"These guys are Vic and Michel, who I've worked with for ages. Vic and Michel are fantastic.

"I'm still removing kittens from the box, so that each might give my erection a little tongue bath, and then get crammed in the pipe. My wife and my blue daughter are weeping and shaking and bleeding from the mouth. The blue daughter has her broken hand curled delicately up against her chest, shielding it.

"Occasionally, for a little comic relief, if I pull out a white kitten, I'll wipe my ass with him before sending him to lick and stick.

"By the way, unbeknownst to the audience, I am cracking the necks of the kittens while they lick my dick, before I shove them into the bike's upright pipe. Shoving a live kitten into a metal tube would be . . . well, it's just not that kind of show.

"Also, keep in mind, the music is still playing through all of this. Maybe a little heart-of-Africa toms and kettle drum stuff when the black guys, Vic and Michel, come out, but otherwise, it's still 'Tomato, Tomahto' or whatever.

"My pink daughter—who, properly, is now my black-leather daughter, although she is still wearing the same satin pumps, which are pink—flourishes her arms again, snaps her fingers twice, and one of the blacks, Michel, tips his head back while the other, Vic, grasps her around the waist and places her, crotch down, on the Michel's face. In advance of the show, my pink daughter has taken a lot of laxatives and eaten just enormously—Hormel chili, canned dog food, tripe stew, that kinda stuff—and as the giant begins to work his mouth, gnawing at her diseased gash, she begins to move her bowels, sending a watery deluge down his chin, back over his eyes and, of course, down his throat.

"Also, in advance of the show, we've had an endoscopic camera inserted in Michel's rear—he's really a consummate professional, and just a helluva guy; we've been doing this show for ages, and he's a pro, I assure you—they've snaked this camera up his rear and through his colon and guts and such, and that little fiber-optic lens is sitting just under his cardiac sphincter, where the throat opens into his stomach. As the show progresses, a big screen has quietly been lowering, and now the digital projector comes on, so the audience can see the shit storm pouring down.

"Of course, I'm still cramming kittens.

"The second black man comes to my wife and blue daughter, grabs each by the nape of her neck, and forces my daughter to bend over, shoving her head between Michel's thighs, which are already jizz-slicked, although he continues to be 100% engorged, my pink daughter still riding his face, and holds her in a face-down, ass-up headlock. Vic then does likewise with my wife, who is sobbing loudly enough to be heard over the audience; sometimes she just wails, but other times she prays and begs to be left be. As the mood dictates. For Sunday matinee shows, she can perform a full Latin Mass, if that's appropriate. Both pairs turn to profile, the black men back to back, my pink daughter driving silver spurs and lashing both on their backs as she gleefully bucks on Michel's face, spurting shit over his face and down his throat, along with blood and pus and . . . well, and whatever. A lot of this splashes and squirts far enough to get the first three rows, which is kind of neat, kind of a breaking-the-fourth-wall thing. Now, out from each wing come two lines of a dozen little Vietnamese girls—none older than 11 or 12.

"This is adorable. There isn't anything more adorable then a little Vietnamese girl. Audiences love 'em. The first two girls are wearing those little school jumpers and carrying milk crates, and the rest are naked and wearing big purple strap-on dildos. There are also titty-clamps. As they march out, the band switches into 'You Are My Sunshine," with the girls all singing in Vietnamese.

"I said, it's adorable. It makes your heart just shine to see this.

"The first two little girls set their milk crates down, upside down, and then step aside to carefully lift my wife's and daughter's dresses. The black men reach down and violently tear off each's panties; the second black man, Vic, who has no one on his face, eats my wife's panties, and then my blue daughter's, while my pink daughter punches him in the face, her fists wrapped in rusted razor wire.

"Each singing Vietnamese girl then, in turn, still singing, mounts the milk crate and anally rapes my wife or daughter—depending on which line they're in. They make sort of a two-man-weave, where each rapes the gal at the head of their own line, and then crosses over to join the end of the other line, and ass fuck the other lady. Meanwhile, I've finally gotten to the bottom of the kitten box, and mount my bike by inserting my throbbing, cat-spit-slick manhood into the sharp, blood greased tube. I then make several circuits of the stage while singing—except, of course, I'm singing 'You Are My Sunshine' in English, because I can't speak Vietnamese; that language, it sounds all like mad chicken clucking to me—with my legs straight back, my forehead balanced on the handle bars, my hands pumping the pedals and my hips humping the hell out of that bike tube.

"Needless to say, there's more blood. Audiences have a thrill at blood. Shakespeare, if he could have, he would have written this act, right into the middle of Merry Wives of Windsor; it's that good, that classic.

"For the finale, the black men turn their backs to the audience, and then reach around and force my wife and daughter to flip over, so they're ass-to-taint on those fellas. Vic and Michel, with their free hands, are furiously jerking each other off, my pink daughter is pummeling both indiscriminately around the head and shoulders with razor-wired fists and lash, kicking both with her spurs, shrieking and bucking and gyrating and bleeding and suppurating and shitting, and the tiny Vietnamese girls gather around and circle jerk onto my gals faces, with my pink daughter riding and coming and bleeding and screaming and spraying shit and disease every which way.

"I know this is confusing, with the dildos bukkake-facializing my wife and daughter. See, before the show my wife, daughters, the two black men, the Vietnamese girls, and the entire orchestra—which is, like, 35 men, many over the age of 60—have surreptitiously gone out in the lobby and offered a variety of men in the audience blow jobs, each time saving the semen and spitting it out in a concealed receptacle in their handbag or book bag or tuxedo or grass skirt or whatever, in lieu of swallowing. On the off chance that the man comes on their faces or bare shoulders or flat little chests or taut black buns or into their wrinkly, callused hands or what-have-you, rather than in their mouth, they simply scrape the spunk off into the vessel. So, that's where the semen is coming from in the little girl's strap-ons.

"A lot of times, depending on when I'm ready, I might go and blow my load into the tuba, jerk off into the band leader's eyes, or throat fuck an elderly patron—it really depends. I once had the honor of planting my load in George Burns' larynx, god rest his soul. This was at one of those Friar's Club Roasts.

"It's really . . . it's stunning. It's a show stopper. Seriously. 7 out of 10 times, either my wife or daughter chokes on enough semen to need to be artificially resuscitated by Vic or Michel.

"That done, Vic and Michel haul up my wife and daughter, my other daughter shinnies down Michel, the Vietnamese girls make a line, with Vic and Michel behind them, and the band further back. Everyone bows. We—my family—hop up to the front, clap our hands and amid the thunderous applause shout, 'Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, we are The Aristocrats!

"Waddaya think?"

The agent is silent for a long time, his brow stitched in a deep scowl. Finally he says, "Sir, I'm sorry, I love you, I love you're work, I love everything you've done for this country, but I cannot use your act, Mr. President."

The President, who has been beaming, frowns. "Well, why the hell not?" he asks.

The agent shakes his head sorrowfully and says, "Listen, Mr. President, ya gotta understand, this is Akron, Ohio; you're playing to middle America crowds, family crowds—I'm sorry, sir, but the act you're describing, it's just way too highbrow."

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First published on October 20, 2005, during the second term of President George W. Bush.