xxx short stories

I toil in a joyless, soul destroying cubicle that makes United Airlines economy seating seem spacious. To make matters worse, I’m employed by one of those ghoulish, impersonal banking firms that ruins people’s lives for sport and profit. Pleasures are few and far between in this 85 storey tombstone to ethics and humanity. I move vast sums of other people’s money around and at the end of the day, those people have even more money and I have even less. Needless to say, esprit is about as rare in this dark pit of avarice and despair as an un-smoked “fat one” at Snoop Dog’s house. In an effort to keep my debatable sanity and not hurl myself in front of the commuter train each morn, I spent every lunch hour ensconced in the park, convening with nature and praying for my boss to suffer a debilitating stroke. Nothing fatal you understand, just something that would have him lying in a hospital bed and being fed through a hole in his neck by burly-armed nurses.