I got buck-arsed naked—to the point of my ding-a-ling shriveling up to next to nothing--slap dab in the middle of Big Earl’s House of Porn and Bait Shoppe. That kind of thing ain’t normally allowed in Big Earl’s, but the whole dang crowd knew I was recovering from a three-month binge on rot gut just to make these world-wide awaited predictions.

Giving the condition of my Johnson an appraising look, Lucille, shimmied up and down, weaving them hips that would’ve froze a cobra his-self dead still. Despite her being one of the sexiest lasses this side or the other side of the Pecos, Big John remained Little Johnny. So, Lucille called in reinforcements. Little Egypt and twelve Egyptian belly dancers. Their super-perilous curves and yiyi overcame the cold and resurrected a unit Anthony Weiner would love to have tweeted as his own.

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