I'm so confused about all this sexuality talk. When we were kids it was simple, you put on the fake raccoon mascot head, hide out in the bushes and try to find someone else in a mascot costume. These days with the internet, kids have it too easy. You can order raccoon mascot heads on amazon and find events on facebook. To think, I used to use peanut butter on my Johnson (no! not my penis! My neighbor, Sean Johnson) and have my dog lick it off me. It definitely helped me get aroused. But, then I created my own mascot outfit I called it Super GlitterButch. No one would recognize me in my amazing transgendered furry costume. I was part male squirrel and part female snunk in the tradition of oh I don't know, say, Hannah Barbera? I was this sort of sloppy furry mammal that even Darwin couldn't identify, y'know, fresh off a Navy boat with only ten dollars to my name. I wandered around looking for a place to stay and landed a gig with a jazz band playing violin. This family lived in Harlem and bought me new modern clothes to wear when offstage. When I asked them again what was wrong with my own clothes they finally told me the truth. "Sonny boy, those clothes were for breeders and you're not a breeder. You're a gelding." So I took off the 1970's skin-tight polyester slacks I was wearing. Obviously they were not fooling anyone, least of all myself. The only other pants I had were disco clown pants. So I rushed into the nearest bathroom, shoved my legs into either pant leg and got back out there. I can't make a tit of myself, not here. If anyone asked I could always say it's the after-effects of my shock treatment. I could twitch my eye so they'd believe me. They DID believe me, the naive idiots that they were! And so I still roam...

 

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