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Weak stomachs beware. You have been warned:
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Rush got up from his chair after three hours of nonstop desperation this afternoon at 3pm eastern time. As usual, the seat of the chair was soaked and smelly from fat crack sweat, and for health reasons, it had to be incinerated in the EIB smokestack. A new chair was sent up from the downstairs inventory for tomorrow's show.
Rush arrived home in the limo around 6pm after taking care of some business deals, talking with his criminal lawyers, and arranging to have a new shipment particularly foul-smelling cigars sent to his Palm Beach mansion.
Then Rush walked in the door and shouted "Marta, I'm home." It was then he realized that he had destroyed his third marriage. A wave of depression swept over him. He adjusted his hearing aid and meekly greeted the housekeeper, who offered him usual dinner of filet mignon covered in butter, two roast stuffed chickens, a whole baked piglet, three fried pork chops and and a gallon of rocky road ice cream. Rush, feeling particularly down, ate only the filet and the two chickens. He was clearly not himself tonight.
Letting the housekeeper go for the evening, Rush moved to the living room around 8pm, where he grabbed the remote and flipped on the $20,000 Pioneer 80" flat screen TV. He used the remote to open the huge picture windows, allowing the warm ocean breeze to blow gently through his thinning hair implants. As he rolled through the channels, first FOX, then MSNBC, then FOX again, his mind drifted to better days, when he came home to Marta, ate everything on his five plates, popped three or four hydrocdones and a couple of Oxycontins, and drifted off into a narcotic-induced oblivion, where no one had ever heard of awful things like Donovan McNabb and addiction and divorce and deafness.
The phone never rang in the Limbaugh mansion. Rush was used to that. No friends, no close family, so many alienated people. It was a long-term Hell for Rush. "I'd probably never hear it anyway," he rationalized, as he turned off the expensive TV with a violent press of the button.
Then that familiar feeling stirred in his flabby mid-section. He hadn't had sexual relations with Marta since 1996, when they got together that last time on the rented yacht. Rush recalled how awkward and unsatisfying it had been, and how Marta had been distant ever since. But that was a long time ago, and Rush knew how to take matters into his own right hand.
Feeling dejected and more depressed, Rush resisted the temptation to call Wilma for a "hook up." He knew that Roy Black couldn't save him from another bust, and that Barry Krischer would send him to the big house if he caught Rush with another Montecristo box full of "little blues." So he slowly ascended the opulent staircase and shuffled to his bedroom.
Rush pressed the buttons on the wall console and locked himself in for the night. The security system was second to none, he'd been told, and no one could possibly ever get in. Rush lowered the electronic shades and blocked himself off from the world.
That's when he took out his key and opened the porn closet. Inside was a universe of delights. Thousands of sexually explicit DVDs and videotapes, rubber sex toys, cases of lubricants, neatly folded towels and blow up dolls, complete with an air tank that allowed him to inflate his lover of choice in less than 20 seconds.
As he scanned the small room, he fixed his eyes on the deflated image of "Hillary," the doll he had come to know as his "wife." She was Rush's favorite. She knew all the things Rush liked - all his kinky fantasies. She knew about his secret desire for that threesome with that silver haired man named "Bill." She never judged Rush or called him names - unless he wanted her to.
As Rush plugged "Hillary" into the air tank hose, his excitement began to build - in that flushed moment, he was a studly powerhouse of a man, an Adonis whose tiny, flaccid sexual organ was, in his mind, massive and virile.....
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OKAY, OKAY, THAT'S ENOUGH. I'M STARTING TO MAKE MYSELF SICK.....
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