Not Your Momma's Rape Van

A little big part of me wants to be adopted by a gang of maternal lesbians comprised of an even number of butches and fems with the lead going by Pistol Clit (Because of the hormones. Clit Dick to pistol whip with).


I'd like to be walking down a deserted street, admiring the extent of the soapbox shit my mouth spits, inadequate and hobo tacky, wearing a man's jacket who I have never slept with. I look up at the black iron railings of southern buildings and picture celebrity "O" faces in the clouds.


Then an unmarked van with an anime porn-star on the side of it would screech to a halt and a big burly arm would slam the door open and yank me inside by the hood of my jacket. Pistol Clit has the kind of handshake you don't fuck around with. Sugar-Tits can't leave the van without lipstick. Scissor Shaker keeps her hand on your seat when you call fives. Bitch Cassidy hides sugar-free candy in her dreads. Albino Allie terrifies children but has a blank prescription pad. Taco Tickler makes bitchin macrame tampons.

The girls and I would have to work out our differences at first. Work out a system to make sure everybody kept their vegan meats free of beef and my beef free of vegan meat.  They'd reprimand the tendency to put dicks on a pedestal and get me fitted for the proper strap-on. I'd resist- but only to keep it interesting for the ladies.

I could be the token straight girl who ends up sleeping with everybody but ends up bringing everybody together, using sticky fingers to hold hands.

We'd go traveling cross country to find convicted rapists who twerked the judicial system like the pussies they bruised. We'd tie them up at one of our designated warehouses. Our porn stash would be enough to get any suspicious warehouse proprietor to look the other way. Or we'd just rape him like the rapists. He won't say nothing to nobody because the cops would never believe him anyway.

Each one of us would take a turn, wearing our monogramed plastic dicks and auto-tuning the cries of guttural fear that those deviants' sphincters wish they had enough space to make. We'd record that shit and leave it on the doorstep a dubstep DJ who lives in his mom's basement so he could get famous. Spontaneous combustion of every wookie pussy lip within a ten mile radius. (You're welcome future dubstep guy. I'll see you at Ultra. )

We'd find the victims, leave them a note and a gift basket and keep going till we violate every human violation we have fortune to find.


And you know what, before you get all pissy, you have to stop being so hetero-normative about what defines Charity. Altruism meets justice meets DJ promotion meets dildos.

That's pretty fucking charitable.