Urination Special Collection — Castration Special Concoction
TESTICLES, PISSING ALL OVER THE FUCKING PLACE
Mixology builds inspiration from urology, in a weirdly-formatted and endearingly-demented way.
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•

Stewart has Martha to thank. He still has his cock. Having said cock, Stewart
is in the habit of using said cock.

We all know _how_ , but have I said _where_ he uses it? You can probably
guess, but I'll lead you down the _House & Garden_ path.

Here's the recipe: Beer plus bladder plus buildings. Fosters is his favorite.
And Stewart never wastes any time getting wasted.

Ever notice how it seems the bladder can hold and release more liquid than the
body takes in? _"The best beer in the world is just pissed away." "You don't
buy beer, you just rent beer."_ Frat slogans tried and true.

Just what does the bladder release — a "waste" product, no! Piss is a product
not for the sewer, but a fine product for the connoisseur.

And Martha, she is the consummate connoisseur. Not only the world's most
authoritative gourmet of gonads, but also (but not as well known for this
accolade), __The_ Woman of Urine._

The fags just love her mags. (Her 'zines, not her wheels.)

In fact, all that get kinky in the kitchen love her mags, love her TV shows,
love when she has TV's on her TV shows. (If they can dress themselves so fine,
they sure as HTML can dress a damn-fine turkey.)

So, Stewart drinks all that Fosters. Then he prowls the grounds. That cock
with a piss-hard-on is like a damn geiger counter. Or like it has GPS, or more
like Gee-I-have-to-Piss. It points, Stewart follows.

We've all heard of rock gardens, Japanese gardens, cock gardens, Operation
Market Garden, and all those. But Martha's gardener, Monty, had a great
gardening inspiration one day. He came out of the closet, and from then on it
was clear that his signature garden must be a Water Closet Garden.

•

Stewart and Foster were only half-consumed with each other, so they could
still see. And the WC's in the garden were especially easy to spot — as they
all had a plethora of piss spots, because their seats were always down.

Of course, Stewart would have preferred a nice building, or Blarney Stone, or
other edifice of piss, but the garden would do just fine.

Is it really a surprise that Stewart never lifted the seats of the garden's
WC's? Guys wouldn't even lift the seats in the Garden of God Damn Eden, even
if Eve told them too. _Especially_ if Eve told them to.

Guys are sooo prick-dick-ta-ble.

Some women think men have such superior plumbing because they can piss
standing up and they can so easily piss on any damn building they want...

...But Martha's plumbing is even better.

Under those lilly-white WC's splattered with pale piss all over the porcelain,
is a network of collection pipes. They all lead to her wine cellar, I mean to
her _ur-wine_ cellar.

Stewart's piss is bottled. Monty's piss is bottled. All the piss of the TV's
is bottled. All the piss of the TV people is bottled.

And, after a good nor'easter with a gale-force downpour good enough to scrub
the soiled seats, Martha and her gal friends even contribute a little piss
through the special-garden special-WC's.

But the WC's are even more special than I have told you so far. First, I've
told you about how they collect "Number One." Second, some guys also attempt
to deposit "Number Two."

You've heard about corks for wine bottles. Well, Martha has corks for slime
balls who try to slide a shit into one of those piss-only WC's.

When a gal sits to pee on those rare clean occasions, all goes fine, all flows
fine. When a guy sits on the seat, his dangling testes intercept an electric
eye, and I mean you should see the mean things that happen next.

Knowing that a guy sits on a shitter for only one reason, the sensors trigger
a docking system that was originally made for Apollo-Soyuz. But in this case,
the sensors dock a cork, like quick-quick and like deep-deep, into the
asshole's asshole.

Not only no shit from that piece of shit, but the sensors also dock a
grappling chord around his sac of gonads, and in like no time they are gone,
gone, gone.

The crush and cut are automatic. The flush is automatic. Down the drain go the
balls. Just like that, they're in the vat.

Urine is already in. Now, your balls are in.

Martha just grins.

And sings — a marinade serenade.

• __

Classy Bitch thanks her  
loving, lusting readers  
for sending her over the edge.

More than 100,000 hits  
on her stories  
in just a few months.

She _loves_  
to be hit-on  
like that!  

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