My roomate Brian hears his fiancee call from downstairs about something, and he relays the message to Chris and I.
“Guys, you gotta see this. Two snails having sex.”
So we get up and go downstairs, because, you know, snails having sex . . . you gotta check that out. Three guys walk downstairs to see some snails having sex. Brian starts miming how big the snails are with his hands and it seems to me that in seconds I’ll be watching two Chambered Nautili get it on. We get to the door and the bride-to-be, Samantha, is holding an imaginary, grapefruit sized snail in her hand. Now I’m scared they may devour me whole.
I get to the door, and, well, I have to say I’m not too disappointed. They weren’t even snails and I’m not disappointed. First of all, they’re slugs. Second of all, they’re each only about three inches long. They were slithering the side of the house with this blue and white effluvium slowly emerging from this hanging ball of slug love. And they were movin.
“Dude. They’re banging. I mean, they’re bangin’ HARD,” Brian said, as if he’d never heard a better example of an oxymoron. But let me tell ya; these slugs were strokin’.
I remember one time at my house on Slaytonbush lane, I was about ten years old or something, I found a slug and put some salt on it. I regret that. I swear that I heard the poor thing screaming as it shriveled and shrunk into a gooey blob. And this slug was shriveling as fast as it could have possibly shrivel because he was shriveling for his life . . . and he was movin’.
These slugs were going that fast. Just imagine monkeys going at it and then slow it down to slug pace. Yeah. Slug Porn. That’s right.
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