I was in the midst of plotting to kill Ray Charles--an old blind colored human who had spent the past 60 years of his life abusing pianos. For a brief while, I was banging Susie, a Compact Disc player who lived in a Starbucks. Every time I would stick myself in her, we had to make love to the sounds of this old, crusty, bum killing a piano with his hands. I could never get off to the sound of the archaic noise this man and his instrument bashing hands were creating. NO erection. No sperm. No money shot. No nothing.
Then, I awoke one morning to hear from the CD-player-chickenhead that old man Charles had bit the dust. Died. Done. Thank the lord! The music would finally stop coming out of her each time she had an orgasm, and I could finally have one myself. It had been months.
But, my robot penis remained soft. The sound of the poor piano being pounded was played in that little Starbucks only more after Ray Charles' death. Suddenly, I wanted Ray to be alive again. For the past twenty years, we never heard anything about the poor guy. Now that he was dead, America suddenly appreciated his "art". If abusing dogs is looked at as a crime; why isn't senselessly abusing innocent pianos with terrible, old fogy music? More importantly, how is causing Synthesis Five to have a limp rocket not a felony?!
But, the truth was--I couldn't avoid Ray Charles--the piano killer. Every state, I saw his ass. If it wasn't him, it was that hack of a human--Jamie Foxx. Two X’s!
He was all over the People's Choice Awards...the Grammy's...and probably the Oscars. And I haven't gotten off in about nine months. I've taken the Viagra, popped the Cialis, even eaten mango. Nothing. Like a rusty nail, it just sits there...no movement.
The days of Synthesis Five--robot player--are no longer. You can blame "Ray".
