the Gauntlet of Luv

Contains sexual situations and naughty words

If you aspire to be a Hot, you must first possess a swinish amount of good looks and an abundance of well-endowed body parts. Any 'Average' person attempting the 'Gauntlet of Luv.' is like a gerbil trying to scale Mt. Everest. But, if you are deemed a potential Hot, you must step out into the world with one goal; Locate, make contact, and engage with as many Hots as your twisted ego can withstand. Knowing full well you will be utterly destroyed. Humiliated to the very core of your being. This one small step onto the Stairway to Hotness is easily the hardest on your quest for temporary immortality.

Example #1: Peter has been surveilling the local Walgreens due to the blistering checkout girl on register 3. She has everything it takes to lift his ego, only to deflate his self-esteem.

He does several dry runs, grabbing something cheap, aka M&Ms, casually queuing up in her line. Ignoring all distractions, focused like a dead- battery flashlight, Peter faces her. He silently rehearses pick-up line inflections. Different word choices, practicing the nonchalant tossing of the M&Ms. But he has yet to control his stuttering. And even after his 3rd rehearsal, his constant drooling is still an issue.

“H-h-howzitgoin…”

"Seventy-nine cents." 'SNAP' goes her gum. She has refused to make eye contact with him, never saying a word. Her signal is clear.

''Don't look at me, don't talk to me, or accidentally touch me while giving me your money. Now, please, step away from the grocery item conveyor belt, or you will leave me no choice but to call the security guard, 'Sycho~P,' who happens to be my secret lover." Picking up the intercom with malice. Even the dry runs hurt.

D-Day finally arrives. The weather; grey and blustery with a large on-shore swell... In his pants. He does the final run-through of his checklist:

mini-vanity mirror; X

mini-hairbrush; X

mini-mouthwash; X

mini-brain stem;

The operation starts smoothly. Peter grabs a box of Whoppers. The line is long, giving him an extra moment to prepare. The pressure is intense. Peter steps in front of her. The Whoppers chattering like nervous maracas in his shaking hand.

Using a pre-owned Scientology ‘ ThiNk-o-MeTeR,’ we have acquired a garbled recording of Peter's thoughts at the moment of contact:

'OK, Pete, here we go tshshsh gawd, oh shit, oh Gawd, oh shit she’s hot tszszsh I'm not gaaak Pleez Gawd help bleep then I blaat, but what if she shshzzz is your fly buzz fuck meeeee going commando screeeee why are you doing tizzz, turn around, and run shreee gotta go poo-poo... whiiine stop crying waaazz, I want mommy screeem, you fucking idiot-oh shit, here we…'

"Go out with me." The caveman approach. That will work. He finally got her attention and everyone else within earshot. For precisely 3.69 seconds, time stops. The Earth stands still. Waiting in anxious anticipation as she pulls the bowstring of shade. She looks up at him for the first time.

"Why would I do that?" ‘snap snap snap’ goes Pete’s heartstrings. She turns back to her register. Peter turns for the exit. 'ding ding ding' goes the bell.

Next is an illustration of pure, primal, 'Me so Ho-nee,' anguish.

Example #2: Phil has located a rarely seen, let alone spoken to, 'Super Smokin' 5 Alarm Fox. A grown man would be so lucky if, once in his lifetime, he could spend even a moment in the glow of her Burning Hotness. But Phil has been playing it cool. His dry runs to her Dunken Donuts have been smooth and productive, with only one major issue…maybe two. Making it imperative he wraps up this exercise as quickly as possible.

First, his six-pack is filling in due to an understandable uptick in the consumption of donuts. And second, his dick is going to explode. All Phil wants to do is lay on his back & widdle. Displaying to her his abject obedience. He's gotten acquainted with her a little. While ordering his decoy donuts, he'll say things like;

"Hello." & "I'll take two glazed & a powdered…uh...my name's Phil… what's your name?"

"Roxxanne." Even her name is hot.

And so, the time to strike comes. Phil feels good. She isn't showing a shred of interest in him, but he's not feeling the 'fuck off' vibe either. He thinks he may have a shot with this Hot.

He approaches the glass counter where she is busy...hotly polishing.

"Hi, Roxx."

"Hello. You want the usual?"

"Actually, I was thinking we should go (fuck our brains) out sometime?"

She strikes a crotch-aching pose, checking him out from head to toe. And in a hot tone of voice,

"How old are you?" She asks. And he thinks.

'How old am I? Look at me! I'm in my fucking prime, for Christ's sake! Should I lie? Of course! But should I lie younger or older? Oh, Gawd, I'm so confused & you're so Hot,you're giving me the vapors!?!' Poor Phil (has) is in a pickle (in his pants.)

"Twenty-five!?!"he says, not knowing if the truth is a good thing or a bad thing. Once again, time stops as she hotly flips her hot hair & ponders.

"You're too old!" She replies, going back to the glass counter top.

"Um…. I'll take a tube of Preparation H, a bottle of Pepto Bismol & a gross of adult diapers… extra-large... Please…to go.

Thank you very much. Have a nice day."

The bell on the door...& Phil tinkles as he exits the building. It takes guts to be a Hot.

. . .

FAIR WARNING! Many a Hot have succumbed to the intense pressure of savage public rejection. Once your self-esteem is damaged, there is no possibility of remaining a Hot. Best you retire & write your memoirs, let the next generation of Hot have their moments of glory.

Following are transcripts of the interrogation of Dick McNibbler, a now recovering ex-Hot. Questioning why he lost his ' mojo.' The interview was held in the basement of the 'Church of Later Day Hots' by pastor Freddy O'Pants.

F.o'P: So tell me, Dick, what humiliation finally brought you down? It says here you were 28 at the time. A bit young to crash and burn.

D.mcNib: Hey, Freddy, I was doing just fine! I was a Hot for many years after this...event.

F.o'P: Yes, but this was the first crack in your Hot foundation. It grew into a fissure that eventually brought your HotHouse down.

D.mcNib: OK, O'Pants...why am I sitting here if you know everything already?

F.o'P: Humor me, Dicky, make it good.

D.mcNib: Well, it was a hot summer night on Hollywood Boulevard. 1979, the year debauchery reigned. I was playing guitar for the infamous disco-chick band, 'Cold Finger.' We were a disco inferno after the sprinklers came on. During a...neurotic set at 'Doug Weston's Troubadour,' Mr. Weston came on stage with his three poodles & proceeded to water- board me with Champaign. The crowd went crazy, so he pulled down his..."

F.o'P: Do I look like I care, McNib? Fast-forward, OK?

D.mcNib: After the show, I admired a 200-foot tall palm tree. Wondering how the fuck it stayed upright. Meanwhile, a blonde dude in satin hot pants was admiring my ass."Are you into helicopters?" He says. And I say, "What...?"

F.o'P: OK, OK, I understand, Dick. Too much Saturday night fever. Now get to the point.

D.mcNib: Well, to make a long story...less long, I ended up with the drummer's cousin, making passionate love on the sands of Malibu...it felt like an eternity, the gentle surf was lapping at our...

F.o'P: Shut the fuck up, Romeo. Tell me about the week before...the 'invasion' if you will.

D.mcNib: Well, me & the Hamburg sisters were hanging in my waterbed, munching 'ludes & watching cartoons...the girls got a little crazy &...you know...

F.o'P: I know, I know. Un-fettered fornication. I've heard it a thousand times. But what interests me is the gifts they brought you.

D.mcNib: A few nights later, I was sitting

at my desk, scratching my crotch. I felt

what seemed to be a little scab & picked it

off. I dropped it on the desktop for further

examination.

And...Oh, the HoRRoR!

Dick was looking down at some sort of creature. It sat motionless in front of him & sure enough,the little bastard looked like a Rock Island Crab! He put his finger on the desk an inch before this motionless abomination. It began to twitch. He watched, mesmerized, as it started crawling toward his shaking digit. Remove the finger. It stopped moving, sitting quietly...waiting. Return the finger, it began quivering forward. It didn't jump or fly. It trudged. Relentless, unseen towards its victim. Hitchhiking from one or more crotches to the next, while the unclean humans shared fluids...& other things.

He tried smashing it with his thumbnail, then a roach clip. Finally, crushing through its exoskeleton with the edge of a bottle cap. And the time had come to panic. He couldn't live with a crotch full of blood-sucking bugs for even one minute. His plan was simple. Remove the pants, sit on the toilet, spread the legs, & pour a bottle of rubbing alcohol on the infested scrotum.

A bit of friendly advice. Never do that.

He eventually evicted his tiny squatters. But there was one more thing that had to be done to put this episode to rest. He must do what any true Gentleman would if faced with the same situation. Confess. Tell Malibu Barbie he's populated her bush* with vampire bugs. "Take this bottle of;

triple strength

CARL'Z CROTCH

CLEANZER

Cillz Crabz Cwickly

So you can get back down to

'BIZness!!!'

Use every drop!"

He never saw her again. She's most likely mad at him.

* for those of you boys too young to remember, a 'bush' is hair that grows naturally on a woman's pubic region.

. . .

And finally, the inspiring story of an iconic Hot as seen through one of her many whim's eyes.

I met Gretel at Old Albuquerque Hall while running sound for my ex-girlfriend & her band. Sort of known for her signature songs of Peace & Love. Kindness & Compassion. Self-serving up a glutenous portion of Goddess Worship & Harmonious Unity...Rejoicing! Against All Odds!

Or maybe not...

"This next song is about deadbeat Arlo. It's called 'How Dare You Hurt My Feeling You Stinking Pile of Shit!!' That's him trying to be an actual soundman. Say hello to the entire audience, Arlo!

1 & 2 & 3...

Fuck You, Arlo; you're A LOSER!

You're a Bad Man & you make me SICK!

You're a Despicable ABUSER!

And what's up with that teeny-weenie

DICK?

C'mon, Everybody! Sing Along With Me!

What's up with that teeny-weenie

DICK?

ARLO'S GOT AN ITSY-BITSY,

TEENY WEENIE D I C K !"

I checked out, leaning heavily on the Coronas. "Why should I make 'You Suck Arlo' songs sound good? In fact, I'm gonna turn her vocals down…there we go…now add some more high-end to her guitar, & now she sounds like…holy shit. Is that fox checking me out? Stay cool…sure, you're rusty & old, but you still got…oh fuck. She's coming over here."

And the Games were afoot. Gretel & I, both veterans of the Hotness Games spent a lengthy two minutes within the dangerous spittle-zone while she decided if I was worthy of her hotness. Satisfied, she gave me her phone number, leaned in close & whispered,

"I Luf You!" 'I love you? In two minutes, she loves me? She's a donametricks… dominotreks...dominaitorex...ball-buster. At the very least, I get to 'sleep' with this Viking Goddess…or maybe I'm the one getting sleeped.'

"Vee Vill Make Luf Now! 'Pleez retire to zee betroom undt remuf your trouzers!

Schnell-Schnell! Vee vill begin by insertink zis 3-inch vibratink Butt Plug! Now bend ohfer undt relaxxx! Haf you seen mine Leather Vip, Poopsie?" Tender words of luf.

It just so happens. Gretel was an oral stimulation of the penis expert. A 'Weenie Whisperer,' if you will. And after several lengthy, informative tutorials, she gave me the oral history of her rise to power. How she, like a moist summer squall, blew her way to the head of the Ashram Hierarchy. Gretel, very well known among the guru elite, was considered highly enlightened. Worthy of 'private sessions.'

A reporter for the 'Des-Moines Register' got the scoop of his career when he cornered High Swami, Gimmee Yermaunee, at a book signing for his latest newsletter;

'The Price of Enlightenment is Giving…to Mee'

Following is a transcript of the short but uplifting interview:

REPORTER: Thank you for speaking with me, Mr. Swami. Could you tell our concerned citizens what influence Gretel has had on your teachings?

SWAMI GIMMEE YERMAUNEE: Gretel is Rati,cumming from Svarga! The ascension of my root chakra was swift & explosive, ending in Kundalinic Bliss & Self Admiration!

REPORTER: Uh… I'm not sure what you mea...

SWAMI GIMMEE YERMAUNEE: My 'Mega-Meta' ID shot from my crown chakra like a spouting blowhole! Straight to Nirvana, Man! I mean, she is unrelenting, dude! She blew my mind off!

REPORTER: OK! Cut the mic! Thank you, Swami Gimmee. Enjoy your stay here in Des Moines. Pack it up, boys. This guy's lost it!

SWAMI GIMMEE YERMAUNEE: Where's Jasmine? Somebody find Jasmine PRONTO!… And don't forget my hot chocolate & my beddy-bye pills !!

After a most unfortunate year together, (except for the blow jobs), she dumped me for Biff, the next-door neighbor. Biff happened to be married with three teenage kids. His soon-to-be ex-wife's response was swift.

"Fuck You, You Bastard!

GET OUT!

The House Is MINE!

I'm Taking The Kids!

Get yourself a good lawyer, you PRICK!!"

SLAM!

Gretel left Biff a month & 21' chakra alignments' later. She hooked up with an up & coming 'eco- sculptor' by the name of Heimlich VanHorn. Having mastered the ancient Japanese art of wasp nest sculpting…& his tiny penis [easier on her jaw] won her heart. She was overheard at Heimlich's gala opening, at the Northside Ace Hardware, back in the plywood stall;

"Hiss vurk iss …how do you say… Sehr Klein. So Tiny! Heimie's 'Little Soldier' vill change life as I know it! Do you agree vith me? MINE HEIMIE!!" Vill you pleez reshpond vin shpoken to?”

Six months later, she ran off with a Polynesian glass-blower named Ku Eithumatupua.