Blistery Mike

Mike was a painter, and he was working on the latest one. It was called: the freaking garage wall. That’s right! Mike was in the middle of a painter’s block. He was trying to pass a hard and heavy painter’s constipation.

The broad paint brush was moving up and down smoothly, the white paint was getting into all the little holes and pores and the wall was becoming nicer and nicer. But that was not inspiring Mike at all.

His wife came out of the house with lemonade. She was wearing a red sweater and jean shorts. Those are colors, right? But Mike was still not inspired. Even the tiny sweat stains (his wife’s sweat had a very erotic smell) and her ample breasts were not inspiring him, he was impotent in multiple ways.

His neighbor came along.

“Hey, Mike. Home improvements?”

“Yeah, the garage needs repainting.”

“Good, good. Hey listen, do you want to watch the game later, have a couple of beers?”

“No, sorry. There’s stuff I need to do for work,” but there was not.

He looked up at the sky, as the sun was setting, but the trillions of colors related to the view were not inspiring him either.

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