Peter Horny. It’s both your name and your catchphrase. You’re a pickup artist, and a damn good one at that. You’ve doinked thousands of gluffs, greebled more supermodels than there are stars in the sky, and, by pioneering a foolproof system for charming virtually any woman into forping groins, you’ve earned the reputation as the world’s preeminent practitioner of the art of seduction.
Yet after many years in the game, you’re feeling empty inside. A man can only plunge so many rangoes before he starts yearning for something more. Your penis, chapped and listless like a dolphin on a hot sidewalk, no longer windmills excitedly at the prospect of intimacy with a stranger’s crotch. It’s time to settle down. It’s time to atone for your life as a sex lunatic and find a woman to grow old and die with.
But before you quit the lifestyle, you want one last fuck. And not just any fuck, but a fuck that cements your legacy as the greatest whoopee scoundrel to ever fuck. An impossible fuck.
You want to fuck the president of the United States of America.
Okay. You will fuck the president without any help.
Here you are at the White House, the old motel where the president and his family are imprisoned. It is harder to sneak into than a movie theater, so you’ll need to be clever to get through the front doors and inside the president’s asshole.
What’s your game plan?
Okay. What do you want to deliver?
Good idea. Presidents need gavels to vote on laws and hammer their papers, so it makes sense that one would be getting delivered to the White House. And even if they try to argue that the president already has a gavel, you can just say, “But does he have a premium gavel?” They pretty much have to let you in.
You approach the security booth where all White House deliveries must be screened. The guard eyes you warily.
“The president already has a gavel,” the guard snarls. “How else would he hammer his papers?”
“Wow, the president definitely needs one of those,” the guard says. “Go on inside.”
Hook, line, sinker.
“What did you say?” the security guard barks, his hand sliding towards his firearm.
Ah, shit. You came on too strong.
After belligerently screaming in a manner that’s threatening to the president for the second time, a security detail rushes over and subdues you. You try to explain that you were just trying to make a delivery, but you end up just shrieking about how you want to slaughter Christ, making things worse. Looks like you’re going to jail.
Sadly, you did not succeed in having sex with the president of the United States.
A sick possum? Are you sure you’re not just saying that because you saw one on the ground next to you and didn’t want to put in the effort to think of anything else?
Just know that this is objectively a really dumb idea. No one’s letting you into the White House with a sick possum.
You walk up to the security booth where all White House deliveries are screened. The guard eyes the infected possum warily.
“Huh?” the guard grunts. “The president wasn’t expecting any possum deliveries today.”
Oh, shit, he’s onto you. Abort! Abort!
Phew, that was close. The guard nearly caught you in your lie, but luckily, you were able to explode your head and die before you got in trouble.
Unfortunately, though, it doesn’t look like you’re going to be able to have intercourse with the president.
Brilliant. While all the guards are distracted by the guy who’s on fire, you’ll be free to casually stroll through the front door of the White House.
In theory, this was a great idea, but in practice, you now find yourself on fire. How did this happen? It makes no sense.
Oh, well. Now you are burning to death. Looks like you won’t get to fuck the president.
You hop over the fence and onto the White House lawn. The front door is still about 100 feet away.
You run towards the door as fast as you can, joining your hands over your head in a triangle shape to slice through the air and minimize wind resistance. But suddenly, a big doofus with a gun steps in front of you. You need to get past him somehow, otherwise your dream of penetrating our commander-in-chief is dead in the water.
You harness the power of your semen to jetpack dozens of feet in the air, well beyond the reach of the guard. Your testicular emissions thrust you skyward towards the heavens, your hands outstretched as if to touch the face of God. It is one of the most beautiful moments you’ve ever experienced.
But, alas, you’ve got a job to do, so you let off the throttle and slowly descend back to Earth, landing perfectly on the White House doorstep.
“Oh yeah?” the guard says, his voice skeptical. “Prove it then. Play the guitar solo to that song ‘Smooth’ you made with Rob Thomas.”
Hmm. The guard seems to have Wade Boggs confused with Carlos Santana.
“Well, I’d be happy to,” you say, “but unfortunately, I forgot to bring my guitar.”
“That’s okay; I got one,” the guard says before reaching into a bush and producing an electric guitar.
You don’t know how to play the guitar, but you try anyway. You start thrashing futilely at the strings, making noises that in no way resemble Santana’s dynamic 1999 chart-topper.
“Hey, what the hell? That’s not ‘Smooth,’” the guard shouts. “That’s ‘Kill The President’ by The Offspring. Sorry, but I can’t have you advocating for the president’s assassination on the White House lawn.”
The guard asks you to sign his guitar, then escorts you off the premises. Looks like you won’t be having sex with the president after all.
You pull open your waistband and start flapping your penis left and right against your thighs in hopes that it will get strong for sex. But moments later, a team of the president’s athletic policemen tackle you to the ground, spoiling all the boner progress you’d made.
“It is illegal to get a boner at the White House without a valid voter registration card,” one of the policemen barks.
Unfortunately, you left your voter registration card at home, and as a result, you’re kicked off the White House lawn and forced to pay a $5 fine. Adding insult to injury, the president gives a televised State of the Union speech later that night and spends most of the time talking about how desperate he is for sexual release.
Sigh. You could’ve had him, but you didn’t.
You approach the security guard with classic Peter Horny pickup posture: nips up; knees bent 90 degrees outwards; mummy hands; eyebrows slowly ascending higher and higher; tongue periodically peeking through lips like a flirty eel. You can already tell he’s turned on.
“The White House is c-c-currently off-limits to visitors,” he stammers, clearly distracted by the sight of your erect penis extending upwards out of your pants and slapping coquettishly against your belly. “Please vacate the premises.”
The guard is powerless to your charms. He tears off his clothes and pulls you into his small, cramped security booth. You also take off your clothes—first your pants, then your underwear. It is time for sex.
You put your penis into the guard and start fucking. You fuck pretty fast, and the guard enjoys it.
“Guh guh guh guh guh guh guh,” he moans as he feels you in him.
The fucking continues with unabated vigor.
“What a wonderful treat this is,” the guard squeals, wearing a smile like that of a man who is having a birthday.
It is indeed a marvelous time, but you’re starting to worry about the logistics of your plan. How exactly is fucking the guard supposed to get you inside the White House? He’s not just going to, like, give you a key to the front door, right? You’re straining to recall how these types of scenarios generally play out in movies, but you’re drawing a blank.
You’ve been pounding the guard for over 45 minutes now, and with every passing thrust, you’re increasingly unsure why. If you’re already giving him what he wants, why would he still give you access to the White House? It’s clear now that you should’ve withheld the sex as a bargaining chip, leveraging his uncontrollable lust for you to get what you wanted. Instead, you’re stuck here fucking him, and will continue to be stuck here fucking him for the foreseeable future.
Damn it. You’ve got to try something to salvage the situation.
You reach for the keys, but the guard immediately catches you.
“Hey, don’t touch those,” he says.
Damn. Looks like you’ll need to try something else.
In your many years of fucking, you’ve only made someone cough up a golden egg one time (it was Geri Halliwell, and the egg later sold at Sotheby’s for $8.3 million USD), but deep down, you believe you can pull it off again.
You wait for a lull in the security guard’s euphoric, goat-like moans, and then you present your wager.
“So, if I orgasm so hard that I cough up a golden egg, you get clearance into the White House?” he wheezes, his voice barely audible over the percussive thwacking of your oily testicles against his red, welted flesh. “Sure, baby, whatever you say.”
Great. Now that he’s on board, it’s up to you to deliver. It’s time to break out the most spectacular moves in your fuck repertoire.
A beautiful thing is happening! You are spinning him so fast on your dong that gravity is shifting, light is fracturing, time is distorting, his moans are warping, doppler-like, and the ecstasy of the fucking is approaching supernatural levels. If you can cap this off with one truly extraordinary, life-changing fuck move, that golden egg is yours.
Oh, hell yeah. It worked. The security guard came so hard that he coughed up not just one golden egg, but three golden eggs. There’s an ethereal humming coming from inside the eggs, and while you’d love to wait around to see what hatches, you’ve got a job to do. You’ve got to fuck the leader of the free world.
The security guard, still speechless and perhaps a bit palsied from the nigh-mythical orgasm, absently reaches into his pants pocket and hands you a White House key fob. Then his nose starts bleeding and he passes out.
Welp, this is the White House. The president must be around here somewhere. Go find him and have intercourse.
You descend a dusty staircase at the back of the press briefing room and emerge in the White House catacombs. When a president dies, he and his cabinet members are simultaneously interred here. When children visit the White House, it’s long been tradition to bring them down here and allow them to choose one bone to take home.
At first, it doesn’t appear as if the president is down here, but suddenly, you hear an eerie groaning coming down through the twisting corridors of crumbling human remains.
You follow the groaning through a maze of thousands and thousands of skulls, pretending that it is the sound of a hot babe expressing sexual pleasure so you don’t get scared. Just past a pile of bones labeled “KENNEDYS, MISC.,” you see a small room glowing with candlelight.
You walk into the room and find the groaning man. It looks like he is trying to catch a moth.
“I am trying to attract moths so I can eat them,” he says, partially chewed antennae visible between his teeth. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”
“Then I’m afraid I have terrible news for you, son,” the man says, briefly lashing his tongue out to seize a still-living moth escaping through his lips. “The president is married. It is impossible for him to have sex with anyone but his wife. And even if he wasn’t married, he is still very busy—there’d be no time in his schedule for fucking.”
“You could fuck me if you’d like,” the man says as six or seven moths emerge from the neck of his robe and begin crawling on his face. “I might not be the president, but I’m eighth in the presidential line of succession. I’m the secretary of agriculture.”
Hmm. You really, really wanted to have sex with the president of the United States. But fucking the secretary of agriculture is still sort of cool.
You and the secretary of agriculture have sex. It’s fine. Afterwards, you go home.
Sucks you couldn’t have sex with the president.
You go masturbate among the dead people. It’s fucked up. This day didn’t turn out like you’d hoped.
Maybe it’s time to reevaluate who you are as a person.
Skeletons are too scary. You should look for the president elsewhere.
“My gorgeous, broken son, let me taste of thine supple lips!” you say as you mush Teddy’s chalky mandible against his child’s.
“It is okay for father and son to make out as long as they are presidents,” you declare, mimicking the sonorous, authoritative tone FDR used when declaring war against the Japanese.
You continue doing this for three more hours.
Unfortunately, you can’t just stroll into the Oval Office. His secretary is stationed outside the doors, and you’ve got to get past her first.
“Hello,” she says. “Do you have an appointment with my boss, the president?”
“I’m afraid you won’t be able to see him then. The president is very busy thinking about laws and his private helicopter.”
Welp. If the lady says you can’t go in, there’s really no use in arguing. Guess you won’t be having sex with the president.
“Okay. You can go in and see him.”
You walk in and are immediately greeted by the leader of the free world.
“Hello, welcome to the Oval Office. I am your leader, the president.”
Wow. You’re nervous as hell all of a sudden. It sinks in that you’re literally standing in front of the leader of the free world. The most powerful man alive! But you are the world’s greatest pickup artist, and it is your patriotic duty to make this man wacky with your cock. You’ve got to introduce yourself in a way that distinguishes you from the endless parade of suck-ups he has to deal with—you’ve got to say something that catches him off-guard, something that makes him want to get to know you better.
“Boy, are there ever! Excellent observation, young man.”
Okay. That was a dumb thing you just said to the president. It’s fair to say that you have made no forward progress towards having sex with him. But don’t sweat it—you’re still the best pickup artist alive. Maybe try the classic Peter Horny pickup trick of elevating, in which you say something that suggests you’re above a person’s approval. You make it clear that you don’t really need the person, and they, in turn, begin to feel as if it’s they who needs to win your approval.