So when I awoke this morning I was horny enough to hump a mailbox, but there was no outlet for the sudden attack of morning randiness so I coped as best I could during my commute into Manhattan from the Slope. But while riding the rails I was visually assaulted by what seemed to be a legion of toothsome females, each more scantily-clad than her predecessor in an attempt to stave off the stifling humidity, every one displaying acres of tanned and lightly sweaty flesh that was not offered for a kind nuzzle from Yer Bunche.
It was a thirty-five minute tour through Tartarus.
Finally the train arrived at Forty-Second Street and I made my way above ground, struggling to walk straight and not trip over the semi-tumescent bowling pin that lurked in my boxers. And then even the trees mocked my plight:
(Yeah, I know it was a bit of a stretch to set up a cheap gag. So what? I'm half asleep. Eff you.)