PBX

A Corporate Senior Marketing VP checked into a hotel on a business trip, turned on CNN, took one look at Larry King and felt all schpilkes. (Serious dhimmi- tudinal apologies here to our Caliphatic brethren and cistern to whose sacred Icelandic Jihabic self- sacrifices for the purpose of abolishing underpriced oil-induced Poverty, Shekel-Induced Racism and Apartheid from Palifornia and the Nazi Strip must end tomorrow!! Inshallah already, let's kill us some Yids!! Aloha Snackbar™, etc., etc.)

Meanwhile, the VP's thoughts inexplicably turned for some unknown reason to those business cards for girls you see advertised in phone booths when calling for a cab, important weather report updates, NASDAQ results, Yankee-Mets scores, barometric changes, etc.

In one booth, he noted a peculiarly erotic card of a chartreuse-tint that inexplicably caught his fancy.

It contained a list of academic acronymia for a young woman calling herself Eroique, a virtual overflow of a woman, bent over fetchingly in a pose spectacularly well-designed for the dimensions of a card that, after all, went 250 for a fiver.

She had the right curves in the correct places, beautiful long wavy hair, long graceful legs all the way to her epiglottis--you know the kind.

So the drummer's in his room and figures-Hey, is life short or whut? Then, checking out his own Fruit-of-the-Loom™ encased .38 only to find this unusually truncated, he says to himself, "Self--Hey, the whole thing's a con--what in the fuck are we waiting for?"

He picks up the phone.

'Hello?' the woman says in tones he had not heard since an early jerk-off epic from the Mitchell Brothers.

'Hi, I'm new in town and heard from a friend you give a great massage for relaxational purposes exclusively, and I was wondering if you'd like to come to my room and end the pestilential evil that has aggrieved my lower back for the past two years without respite, I don't know how much longer I can take the pain."

"Well, let me look that up in the directory, Sir," intoned his vocally Viagral™ interlocutor.

When suddenly, epiphinally, as if lightning had struck, the Sales VP, in a moment straight off the road to Damascus (Kentucky), experienced a complete spiritual upheaval--a veritable reversal in his approach to the entire thing. Suddenly all had changed--the truth was all that mattered and he would state his position clearly and compassionately and put his faith into the hands of the young woman at the other end of the hotel line.

"Listen," he broke in to his telephonic correspondent. "Forget all that shit. I am so tired of the salesman horse kah kah. Honey, I want to be straight with you--take my word for it. I'm in town all alone and what I really want is sex--I want it hard, I want it hot, and I want it now. I'm talking kinky till-it contuses your pelvis--the whole night long. You name it, we're gonna do it. Bring implements, toys, surgical instruments, large orchestral percussion instruments, heart measuring telephony, nuclear powered dildoes--everything you've got in your bag of tricks. We'll go hot and heavy all night--tie me up, wrap me up in the shower curtain, cover me in chocolate syrup and whip cream, put me through a food processor--anything you want baby, it's yours. And get this--the price is meaningless. I couldn't care less."

"Now, how does that sound?' he concludes, once again the consummate marketeer.

'"That sounds fantastic," she says. "But for an outside line you will need to press 9 first, Sir.'"


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