To All Those Who Died From Eating Pussy; We Salute You

“I know that I am mortal by nature, and ephemeral; but when I trace at my pleasure the windings to and fro of the heavenly bodies I no longer touch earth with my feet: I stand in the presence of Zeus himself and take my fill of ambrosia, food of the gods.” – Ptolemy

This post may come off as insensitive, but I hope it doesn’t. Because it’s not meant to mock, it’s meant to celebrate, to honor, to memorialize. It’s meant to do all of that for a man I’ve never met, a man who lives up the street from my parents, a man who died of eating pussy.

It turns out that HPV, which pretty much everyone has, sometimes leads to cancer. With that in mind, it doesn’t take a quadratic equation to see how one could get throat cancer from HPV. Spend enough nights out on the town, eat enough pussy, and eventually you’re gonna come across a few boxes full of the human papilloma virus, flick enough infected beans and one of them could cause cancer. At least I think that’s how the algorithm works.

Anyway, as my mother tells it, this guy got diagnosed and couldn’t stop telling people that he got throat cancer from eating pussy.

He died with the sweet nectar of ambrosia dancing across his palette, like so many old sailors who drew their last breaths upon a landlocked bed, but could hear the waves crashing, and gulls screeching a final time before sinking into the abyss.

We honor all sorts of people in this country; authors, actors, politicians, athletes, businessmen, painters, poets, etc, and most of those people never even eaten that much box. I think it’s time we honor those who die by pussy. If I died of eating pussy I would want it written on my tombstone, mentioned in the eulogy, in the first line of my obituary, and on the first page of my biography. No, it should be in the title of my biography ‘The Life Of Mike: Man Who Died From Eating Pussy’.

Those who die of eating pussy should be given our nation’s top honors. Their lives should be commemorated with parades and monuments. The sons of men who died of licking snizz should salute proudly as their father’s coffin rides by, on the back of a stately horse drawn hearse, before a Marine in dress blues hands them a folded pink flag with a black fringe border, and the Rolling Stones lips logo sitting proudly in the center — the battle colors of the cunnilingist.

As we tear down the statues of men who led the Conederate Army, we should replace them with monuments dedicated to all those who gave their lives following too many fun summer vacations in Panama City Beach, or Myrtle, or Ft. Lauderdale, or wherever else cunt hungry southern gentlemen go when on the hunt for a between-the-legs buffet.

But perhaps such ideas are mere fantasy. After all, our hypersensitive society could never, would never, celebrate a hobby that caused cancer. If not for a large voting bloc of lesbians in the San Francisco Bay area, the People’s Republic of California might have already moved to ban the practice. Would you be shocked if the next time you were tongue to clit with a gal from San Diego, your eyes were met with a Surgeon General’s Warning?

“This product contains ingredients known by the state of California to cause throat cancer.”

Of course if booze, cigarettes, candy bars, and now pussy have taught us anything, it’s that filling your mouth with something that can kill you, is usually a lot of fun. And let all of those who have died from eating pussy, hear this; we salute you!