sugarmilkandbits

Lucky Charms fall from the box into 

a bowl that says “Kellogg’s is Best!” All alone in the kitchen, 

I scratch myself in my grogginess and stare 

at a clock that reads three in the afternoon. I trip while shuffling to the couch,

and spill some cereal onto my already stained living room rug.

Still scratching my balls, I find 

the remote and turn on the television, hoping for infomercials 

so I can take my mid-morning-post-waking nap. To my 

satisfaction, there is a program advertising a workout tape series 

that strengthen one’s levator scapulae. The accompanying fitness device resembles the 

    unholy child 

of a meat grinder and dishwasher (complete with carrying case).

Either way, it’s not appealing. 

The infomercial host asks the girl in the background if she likes the workout, 

or if she feels the burn, and she responds 

with a great smile, “It doesn’t feel like 

I’m doing anything!” Truly, she isn’t doing anything. 

She’s getting paid to sweat and wear 

a low cut sports bra and hot pants. 

After this shoot, she’s probably bombarded 

by her obscenely attractive children and

overly buff husband (who’s mind is filled with sex, sports stats, his car, and sex.)

    She’ll take off her clothes, 

shower, and put on some old pajamas, (no, a silk gown) and start 

making dinner. I bet she makes a mean 

green bean casserole. Or maybe she orders out, Chinese food or a pizza 

because her husband is spoiled and doesn’t like vegetables. 

When the delivery guy gets there, 

she won’t have any cash, and neither will her deadbeat husband (who is awkwardly standing there), so she’ll

    make a pouting face, and ask “is there ANYTHING else that I can do in exchange for the food?” 

The delivery guy smiles as he undresses himself and walks towards our female lead,

nine inches of semisoft manhood thumping against his leg.

He takes her by the hand and says, 

“I’m sure we can think of something that you can do,” 

as the husband follows behind, also peeling off layers of clothing. 

They’ll brush aside the pile of papers on the counter.

As our hero takes his mistress by the waist, the husband takes out his 

camera, (no, camcorder) and starts to direct the delivery boy

into positions, all of which he is more than willing.

It is here where our lead demonstrates how flexible, and more importantly,

    how generous she is.

The players move and finagle, sweat and pant,

dressing in costume, undressing (at one point, the husband is a pirate

slaying a “mermaid” most sacrilegiously, while the delivery boy is 

a native on the island, nudely observing interspecies ritual). Minutes waste away

as the cast transitions to a classroom, and now she is a teacher with 

two very naughty boys. Some discipline is necessary, she says. Her glasses slip 

as the first student grabs her by her tiny waist and 

says he NEEDS this ‘A’ to pass high school. She licks her lips, and then

    his cock.

Bathing in the afterglow, the well endowed man puts his 

pants back on and says, “same time next week?” to which she nods and continues to 

    munch on the remaining Kung Pao beef and pot stickers. 

The delivery guy gets in his car and changes hats, 

and magically, he’s a pizza delivery guy. The woman 

falls asleep, naked on the couch (where have the kids and husband gone?) and wakes

     only to put on the same hot pants and bra and jet out the door to shoot another work out tape. 

I look back at my lap and a bulge in my pants 

has tipped over my bowl of cereal. I deduce

that after six hours of stagnancy, the mush still left

in the bowl is no longer safely edible. I walk to the sink and 

rinse the remaining sugarmilkandbits down the drain and watch as the pots of gold turn bronze 

    and then an indiscernible brownish. 

I go to my room and put on some shorts that are a size too small. 

I pick up the phone and dial the number for Chan Li’s Wok and 

start to scratch my nuts again.