The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I assume you’re well versed by now in the church’s duplicity, regarding the ratio of mindless fucking and breeding to actual, consecrated worship. They’d like to pretend it’s nothing but holiness and purity, that absurdly engorged genitalia and cravings don’t enter into it. Really, that’s all that enters into it!

It sickens me! Then they have the audacity to open those three-story Britt’s Steak Pits on heavily trafficked urban [and now more and more suburban] corners, towering above all other religious buildings, in addition to offering consumers the biggest bang for their fast food bucks. More than a few people have compared their sudden rise and ubiquity to that of McDonald’s.

Sadly, there’s not a shred of hyperbole to that claim. The church embraces it, too. I can see one of their signs from my bedroom window. “Over 5 Billion Saved!” a red and yellow neon sign screams, above the signature outline of a meaty, womanly torso on her knees: the Golden Haunches. They’re not going to fess up to much when they think they’re being so clever.

Obnoxious. In fact, the only thing I can even remember them apologizing for in the past couple of years wasn’t even anything truly heinous, like their responsibility for the biggest and quickest plunge in book sales in the history of printed word.

(No Family Way freak can read more than a few phrases before experiencing crippling migraines. It’s often one of the first signs of infection, sometimes manifesting before any procreative changes. Even tabloids with articles as simple as, “OMGiggle! Who’z Gonna DP Lady Mama @ Early Mass?", or other similar fluff, can’t seem to move many copies from shelves.

What these gossip rags are discovering is that they make most of their revenue from text-free editions of their magazines. Family Sized, the monthly with the man-on-mam focus, for instance, takes this new era in publishing a step further: it provides a centerfold tissue in each issue, for easy cleanup.

E-books are the last real hope for the industry, though, but the only ones for sale aren’t even books at all: just “instructive” propaganda films.

Like “Fertile Francine’s a Free-Tittied Filly”. That one has more than fifteen bra-busting scenes, along with plenty of outdoor and indoor bits where our hill-bred heroine lets her children and girlfriends alike feed from her ballooning bazooms. The baby oil slathered orgy scene at a book burning should make it very clear where the church stands on the issue of literacy.

And nary a word or letter can be found onscreen in “e-books” like this, let alone one of guilt or reflection. The Brittany-approved toddler train, after all, must forever chug along, into the tight tunnels of a tiny-brained tomorrow. Express. No stops. Reading is for the hell-bound and unclean, those that have yet to find the way to salvation.)

Nor have they ever said they were sorry for their most glaringly obvious evil: the one that starts with molding millions of men into supersperm-stocked engines. Their workload being: to ensure a long lineage of easily corralled human cattle. To use their rugged, chemically addictive physiques to sap the wills of their mates.

To cause determination and decision-making to seem like horrifying sins to angelically afflicted women. Instead, sticking their rumps in the air, wiggling them to usher a thick dick on in, becomes as easy and necessary to these chicks as sleep. Cherubs spend just about enough time humping as they do sleeping, regardless.

Not one regret, likewise, has ever been uttered by the church, for all these pistoned, objectified lasses. They’re trained to love their comic book bodies and the roles they’re told those bodies lay out before them.

The lazy, curve-slung slide from woman to wifey just can’t be seen as an epidemic to the untrained eye. Not when they appear totally fine with cowgirl-riding off into the slutty sunset.

Far away from the more honest futures of her past, the new holy-ho loves to take that big tit-engorging trip, bareback and blind.

Any accomplishments she may have made, before the “Blossom & Bless ’em” stage, that didn’t end with ejaculate or a litter of kids, begin to seem like bad, unfortunate nightmares. Any hard-earned college degree becomes just another slip of paper to burn.

To begin with, the name on that diploma has changed. The brain that worked for it is mostly absent, silenced by sex, only governing her buxom body for brief flashes of time here and there. I’m very lucky to have my job. Nobody’s really employing women right now. Everyone seems to agree that there’s no point.

And may “God”/someone help the miserable case that protests this patriarchal problem, but is already engaged or married to a man newly interested in Man Plan. He’s been given specific blueprints to the logic and emotion centers of his woman’s mind, and the easiest routes to their warping.

This mental takedown, and her olfactory interest in his suspiciously but steadily growing, world-famous kind of dick, wears her down. She doesn’t put up a fight like she used to. She’s been feeling too good to fight. It’s becoming harder to stick up for herself when a big veiny thing is sticking up for her first.

She changes the criticisms about herself at the core of most of these arguments, accepting the opposite stance on all. Talking too much with old friends. Not wanting to eat meat if she can help it. Finding daisy dukes totally absurd and improper for pretty much any occasion.

By the time she’s outgrown her third bra and is leisurely attempting to refigure her monthly budget for Cinnamon Cherub Crunch and all things plunge neck (on the joint account she’d never ever intended to get), she’s locked inside the “Life of Light”. She assures herself she quit her job by her own choosing, the job she fought tooth and nail to get in this restrictive climate.

She resents the way her girlfriends pass judgment on her, in their increasingly brief conversations. That she shouldn’t be spending all her money on “crap” if she wasn’t going to be making any more. That they have the nerve to call cock-n-balls-shaped throw pillows “crap”.

That they think it’s “some sick idea of a joke” when she says she’s so happy, she was sobbing earlier... at her man’s stroke of brilliance to have her first name legally changed to Muttbutt. She can’t see why they criticize her so much, because nothing else aside from that unimportant detail has changed about her at all.

What offends her most is when they say her knight in denim armor is somehow controlling her mind. “Like, as if!” she chirps too close into the phone.

She promises that she’ll always be the same strawberry blonde pinup model they grew up with, with the same custom paysite and jumbo jugs she’s had since high school. She wonders why all of her friends hang up on her after trying to jog their memory.

While making a vow to never speak to them again, she googles “tite bra” to figure out if she’ll really have to buy a bunch of new ones in all colors and styles again. She makes their betrayal yet another mental note to add to the list of things her man has accurately predicted. She gets hung up on some JPEG of two topless, giant-boobed glamor girls just like her, and finds it difficult to remember what she was even doing.

Once she does, after prodding underneath her shorts to better focus, she’s still distractible: alternating between a calculator program and the addictive game Bimbo Birds, on a spam-addled desktop. All of a sudden, she isn’t sure, exactly, what a plus sign looks like. Or that a plus sign is what she even needed to begin with.

She gives up before pairing even a single set of numbers together. She plays four or five more games of Bimbo Birds. She crawls down the hallway, the way he likes it, to her bedroom, in the apartment she always insisted she’d never share with anyone else. She knocks for permission to open her door.

It fills her with deep embarrassment and remorse that she has to bother him while he’s so hard at work, playing Fallout so he could relax and deal better with her ways. She slinks even lower on the crawl back down the hallway, leading him to the office that used to be hers, swishing her tan, thick behind, leading him along though she knows he’s really the one in the lead.

The crawl has become one of the accepted methods of apology that both deem only fair. She acknowledges that there’s going to need to be a special kind of sorry for spoiled bitches like her.

She stands up, hesitates, not wishing to offend him.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” she pleads, gently clamping down on her lower lip with new buck teeth. “I know what a busy, big strong guy you are and everythin’,” she gabs, “and yer like my handsome god and shit. Yew know I’d do jus’ ‘bout anythin’ fore yeh, even ride you on the pot again like last Tues—”

“What is it?” he grunts patiently, by her shuffled standards, already beginning to unbutton his overalls, not an ounce of respect shown to her. It scarcely occurs to either that it’s the kind of thing that might have landed him in the doghouse, back when their roles hadn’t yet been aligned in the proper Christian way.

All she does instead is drip and cower at his abs, struggling to keep track of why she’s wasting his precious time. “I... um...”

Her face flushes tomato red, as the thought she’s looking for continues to evade her.

A lighter and easier one, of the afternoon she lost sit-and-stroke-off privileges to his weightlifting sessions in her basement, when she “forced” a BJ on him, doesn’t seem to budge. He’d paddled her rump fifteen minutes longer, once he discovered she had begun to love it.

She feels like half a woman, to have the audacity to just walk in on her man the night before, as he fucked the living daylights out of her own sister. On her own bed.

For a few seconds, it seemed right to pout in frustration at the time, even get upset enough to wonder aloud where he got his nerve: “at Valley Values, or the Stop and Slop?”

The joke met him curiously. He wasn’t sure his receptacle actually said it. He halted the sisters’ favorite double-up thrusting technique, stuffing his current cowgirl’s face with some Cherub Crunch to fatten and train her. Maybe her curves were coming on too slowly to understand that he was her new brain.

She needed to know that the only comedy to be found in her sister wasn’t from irritatingly clever remarks like that one, but from her unwavering stupidity. Laughing at Bull Daddy was never allowed! Laughing at the way her dumb broad sister forgot how to hook her bra clasp shut? Always acceptable, especially if you’re the one that has to help her squeeze into it.

How dare that cum catcher insult him? And how dare his new slave get a kick out of it?

The way the two bimbettes shared amusement sounded more genuine and familial than their slutty tittering, by now entirely commonplace. It was that certain, knowing way they used to get tickled, as close as a month or two before, when he hadn’t yet set them right. It was something that resulted from the years they spent together growing up.

Something he couldn’t immediately control by just waving around a throbbing church cock. Normally, such treason would not only anger him, but make his boner wilt, as well. He couldn’t help but notice his woman, though, huddled into her knees, sobbing. Crying was one of the only remaining things she could do these days that instantly brought him back to the lives they led before.

He didn’t much like to use his brain and heart over his birthright anymore, but there they were. He just wanted to help her, all sad and squishy in the corner like that, fingering her pussy. She looked so cute in that outgrown leotard from college. The faded spandex had started to run along either side, so she only brought it out for special occasions.

She had obviously worn it to impress him for when she opened her bedroom door. She knew he liked the way her jugs blubbed on out, almost like a second pair, the nubs on her nipples drooping into the sticky air, half-exposed. The four-sizes-too-small trim of the elastic cut into her thighs, making them look more obscene than they would otherwise.

She’d come a long way from the gym mat, looking like a hazardously overfilled jelly donut with girly features in that tighter-than-tight thing. He was proud of his creation. He winked at her. She had to catch her breath from the shock.

“I love you,” he mouthed, quite sincerely, surprising himself as much as her. She didn’t know what to do with more kindness than she’d likely receive in the coming year. It was just like old times.

She decided the best way to return it would be to snap her one-piece aside, and bring her plump dumps up to the dildo soldered low onto the wall. It stood comically out, a foot or two below where her framed degree used to hang, now obscured by a Lady Mama poster.

She was hardly thinking of either, though, and simply fed her lonely lips with “Wally”. After ten seconds of easy grinding with her perma-lubed silk, her tits flopped out, nearly smacking her in the face with the force of her exuberant ramming. She was grinning a big, stupid grin, adding another stain to the wall without any effort.

It was Friday, which meant she had to repaint her mess like any other week, but that could easily wait. He couldn’t understand why her parents complained about him so much when he was more than beneficial to their daughter’s well-being. The happiest he’d ever seen her was when she could bounce her bimbo charms on something.

This time was almost too beautiful for him to watch.

He motorboated her sister, hoping to distract her so she wouldn’t see him forsaking his macho rule. His pity turned into a prick flex when her sister squeezed her pussy around it. It was still too tight to really bore in thoroughly, but after five or six more sessions like this, he knew it would plump and pinken just right. He nearly came in it now as it was, and in the confusion.

In a moment of rare honesty, he pulled out of her, ordered her to “go on and lick that sass out of Muttbutt’s coochie.” (He’d forgotten what made her so upset in the first place. So had the girls. There was so much drizzly fuck-mist in the room that the only thing that seemed important was getting off.)

He gave her rear a great big slap of country encouragement when she hesitated, still briefly hung up on the “middlin’ sins of the city” that her sister had all but banished. These “demon voices of prudity” told her to keep at arm’s length from the weird stuff she was learning to feel comfortable with.

Even if the weird stuff could make her cum like a banshee. Despite his continually breaking them down, she could hear their warnings every now and again.

Barebacking this stallion, milking him for all the baby batter he’d graciously allow, that was one thing. She had begged for that, hadn’t she? But... her sister?

...Really?

“Lick her good now,” he demanded, slapping her brand new, only half-ripened backside again. It sent her careening, face first, into her sister’s snatch. The scent was strong and reeked of strawberry, her favorite flavor, and still she balked. This was—what was the word?—wrong.

“This is, tota- uhhm, totally wrong, Mr. Master,” she muttered, surprised and shocked by how easily she’d talked out of turn. Both the skankified siblings winced at the manly growling she provoked.

Saliva pooled onto her lips. It trailed off her face as her heart continued to worry, as her mind lagged under the goopy drip of incestuous pussy. ”Do it!” he shouted. “You don’t want me to call your pea-dick ‘boyfriend’ back home and let him know what you really think of that promise ring.” Her nose was getting sprinkled.

She gently licked through the light fur on her sister’s slit. It wasn’t good enough for him. “T’ain’t much fun fer any of us unless you git into it!” He teased her with his monster, just above her asshole. She reached behind to guide it in, but he retracted, whacking her on her lower back with it. It felt as thick and heavy as his leg.

She missed having it inside. Without considering what it meant, even if it had been compromised, she pulled off her ring and flung it carelessly to the side. It disappeared into a heating duct. “Whatever,” she drolled, diving into her sister’s pussy with renewed intent.

Muttbutt silently congratulated herself on being able to do her nails, without error, at the same time she received oral. Before sisterly love had devolved into a 69, which he allowed on the condition that they both clean the bathroom in the buff. It was hardly a problem.

They just soaped up afterwards, and had even more time to bond over the majesty of their master’s prong. Especially when he came in to appraise their progress, and granted them the opportunity to share a BJ. He was in a giving mood, but mostly sprayed on his fiancee’s tits.

By the time he had emptied himself out, it was business as usual. She polished his weights while he took her sister out for dinner. She knew what that meant. “Dinner” meant a hotel room where they could better practice their prayers, without any of her catty interruptions, on into the dawn.

She gave each of them a couple hundred bucks and kissed them goodnight. They both ignored her. He slammed the door in her makeup-smeared face, just as she started to wave.

She knows for sure that she was just acting out, now, that she was just being a jealous brat. She knows better how that’s no excuse for trash like her. She glances at her nails, the same blinding neon she applied to her sister’s, and has trouble counting her fingers.

She quizzes herself. What’s after three, but before... the other one?

Oh yeah! “I just can’t do numbers, anymore,” she says, stroking the tip of the schlong poking out of her hubby-to-be’s boxers, red and rigid to bursting at the sight of the quart of juice she’d slurped out onto the swivel chair.

She tries to explain away the goopy result of her messy squirming. She knows it drives him crazy when she pretends like he’d disapprove in any way.

“These daisy dukes is drivin’ me ding-batty! They’s almost tight enough to wear to the mem...mem-or-iable service tomorrow, but they, like... squeeze my coochie really tight an’ stuff, like, really tight, and, like—”

Her man responds by shutting her up with a craggy hand, then runs a finger along the sopping, stonewash thread holding her shorts together, practically hidden under the insouciant swell of her naked cherry lips. It makes her shiver, causes her legs to fall open without her authority.

“You didn’t shave today, Muttbutt,” he admonishes her. He notices the pool of his hour-old cum trailing down her thigh. She doesn’t. “Take a shower, too, while you’re at it.” She takes too long for his liking to rifle through her purse, for the vibrator he and her sister picked out, set aside for her bubblebaths.

He shoves her a little on her back, and she bends and props her still-growing ass up to say sorry. She’s not sure which grievance she’s apologizing for at this second, but relishes the feel of his rough hand on her dimple-buttered cheeks. “You’re dirty,” he says, and she knows it.

She feels filthy, actually, for expecting she’d be welcome in the bed after her sister came back for seconds with a friend.

She can’t remember the word, though. It doesn’t really matter if he doesn’t want her to talk all that much. It’s enough to just be grateful for being permitted to laugh like a little schoolgirl.

It’s the kind of giggle she had when she heard the three of them having quite the party in there, until they banged on the headboard for her to quiet down. She has no knowledge that the threesome had decided her knew name then and there, when she blubbered and whined back down the hallway, the slow clanging of the newly fitted cowbell around her neck ensuring she was still on all fours like she was supposed to be.

She’s totally oblivious to how he and her sister laugh behind her back that she hasn’t worn her heels, or any shoes at all, in almost a week. That she’s forced to crawl around her repossessed apartment, unable to leave, doesn’t seem at all unfair in respect to her sister’s long list of liberties.

She doesn’t have any thoughts, one way or another, about her sister taking her car keys away until she can sufficiently apologize to the both of them for interrupting that three-way. She’s not stupid, though, she knows that much: thinking will make her big new boobies go away. She still feels great remorse that she was somehow fine with being flat-chested for all those worthless years.

Though she thought it was maybe asking too much to retrieve a corset from the backseat, she hopes that one day, her sister will at least let her ride shotgun or something. Not that she knows where she’d even go.

She used to want to make her man smile, convinced that what made him happy was what made her happy, after the forgotten two and a half years of him doting on her. Now, she feels ecstatic if he chucks her the occasional sneer. “You’re lucky I even let you cook for me,” he glowers venomously.

She agrees, as the last pools of her master collect at her ankles. She still can’t remember why she even called him in there, until she sees her Halo Clitty wallet at the bottom of her bag. Hocking spit onto her hand for to make her drippy duty a little easier, she jerks his prick in easy, liquid motion.

As per usual lately, masturbation of her big boss man gives her a tiny amount of courage to present the types of questions that would normally rack her with guilt and anxiety. He adds another deposit of his cum right above her butt, in a generous display of forgiveness.

At least it’s a start, she manages to think, through a dense, dick-driven fog.

She turns around, wobbles her big new body to a kneel. A huge tit pops out of her metallic gold tanktop, but she lets it hang there. She doesn’t mind, as this is not about her. He unloads the rest of his jizz onto it, marking his ownership, setting her mind at ease.

All she wants is to be the best wife she can be. Maybe he’s still really mad at her, for serving herself a second helping of sausage at breakfast without permission, but she has to ask anyway. If there’s anything at all to fight for in this perfect life, she knows it must be this.

Even if, in the end, all decisions are totally up to him.

“Can y’all be in charge of my money stuff now, forever... sir?” He mulls this over for a moment, addresses her semen-painted lower body with the kind of disdain he reserves for her dim, overly trusting, face.

She can sense his downward gaze, and claps her tubby cheeks together, in keeping with the neverending hill-hop music video her existence has become. This is her favorite way to say “pretty please” as much as it’s his.

He allows her this much. To him, the sticky way her ass snaps open and shut is much cuter than if she’d batted a whory eyelash at him. He can’t resist opening those things up again, even in her messy state, for the night’s fourth fuck.

A little tattoo of the Golden Haunches on her left buttock quakes and dances. Its rumpy silhouette winks in her defense, like it’s bending and bobbing around its own invisible dick. He considers how jiggly and big she’s gotten all over, bigger than all the promises made by the pamphlet that seemed too good to be true.

It amazes him that just three weeks before, she had kicked him out of this very room, and then her apartment, for finding him on CherubChat. He can’t understand why he ever put up with her when she acted out of line like that. Why he’d ever have to go down on her at all, let alone to apologize.

He doesn’t really care that it was the mutt’s idea to relinquish her assets to him. Of course he knows the thousands of dollars she earned are going to be nice, but that’s just how he was told it would work out in the brochure. If anything, this just proves how good of a trainer he is.

He pumps his pride into her a little harder, feeling vindicated. “Sure,” he obliges, “I guess I can take care of yer finances, since yore too simple to take care of them yer own damn self.”

She knows that it never used to be this insanely hard, that she’d been an accountant or whatever. She’s pretty sure that means she had to be good with numbers. And not the easy kind that she has no trouble following, such as when he counts down the five seconds to titty-fucking time, after she winds the cord up from vaccuming.

(These days, she’s gotten used to having the dogs around, cleaning up for them, even though she was vehemently opposed to getting the first one, having barred his own pooch from ever setting paw in her place. But then, he surprised her with crotchless hot pants in each color of the American flag.

They were rubber, from a limited line of Angelwear formal clothing, so she thought it was only fair to let him buy that dog.

On her charge card, of course. It just made sense for his own dog to move in, too. “Think of it this way,” he’d sold her, “at least you’ll make some new friends that can communicate on your level.” Naturally, he was right. She got used to them very quickly, and would care for their needs as much as she did for her man’s... but still she wondered, even now—Did he have to give the new pup her old name?)

She feels awkward that number crunching got so draining and difficult, but knows he’s right when he says a woman should hardly concern her smaller brain with things like that. Like almost everything else, really, he had also been right that her only real work should be in the kitchen.

The little bimbo victory of preparing dinner that night swells in her swollen breast, as fresh as the extra-fat whipped cream on the strawberry shortcake she’d made for dessert. He liked the honey barbecue spare ribs so much, he let her blow him while she waited for her turn to eat, instead of giving him the usual tugjob.

She finally feels like she’s halfway there to impressing him, and hopes he gives her the blessing she needs, to be the wife she so desperately longs to be. She doesn’t notice the blended ring of sauce and semen clinging, these three hours later, onto her lips and chin.

The dried residue of his favor on her chest, making her cleavage cling together in the middle, like velcro on either side of her tits, well... she makes an idle promise to eat that off in the shower, or something.

Whatever. She feels way too overwhelmingly nice, to apologize for big bullymath again, anyway. That would just dig her hole deeper than he was. “It’s only right for a man to keep track of his woman’s spendin’ habits,” he grunts. “So it’s only right that I be a man and do this for ya.” His genius thrills her.

He pushes in mightily, to the hilt now, making her whimper like a dog, making her apologize for whimpering, on her own. (Sometimes she apologizes for cumming.) “But Muttbutt—”

She clenches her oozing cunt around his cock instead of turning her head. Their generally one-sided new mode of communication has developed quickly and expertly. The gummy mucus of sex that dribbles off her crotch asks, “Yes?”

“Only if I can marry your sister. I wanna keep you as my backup bitch. You can sleep in the bed with us on Sundays, but otherwise, your big dumb ass is on the couch.” It disappoints her that she won’t get to be all preggy like she’d taught herself to need, but whatever. She’d still get fucked.

“Yes, sir,” she sighs, defeated: not by this news, but how filled up she feels. She thinks her sister is pretty cool, even if she just graduated high school. She’s proud that her man took her virginity, that he gave her some decent curves already. She forgets the leery way he used to look at her at family functions, the now-ancient, half-real fights that it had caused.

She can barely add one more breathy appreciation, before that fun and tasty brain shutdown happens again. It’s a treat for her whenever it feels like words come out of her booty. This time, at least, the slushy slurp of her ass is louder than what she has to say. They both know it well enough, regardless.

“Anything you want from Muttbutt, um—Fuck!—ss-sir. ”

This type of situation is rarely acknowledged as the imprisonment it is, and most certainly never by those involved. Personally, it’s hard for me, even, to keep track of hope, when nearly every single one of the twenty-six women who worked tirelessly with me at Family Way Fighters have turned wifey.

I still keep in touch here and there, but mostly, our conversations devolve into echo chambers of disgust and smugness. There’s only so far you can go talking about all the things you can do with bullballs during blowjobs. They can tell I get bored, but then they can’t think of much else to talk about when they get rolling.

Around a third of those girls from my coalition were branded as radical dissidents, relegated by the church to live out the rest of their lives as Wheelbarrow Wandas. Breasts too big and heavy to stand up or walk on their own accord, they are the ones perhaps most totally controlled by men.

These overly saddled girls count on dudes for their every move. Because they can’t move, not really.

If a guy doesn’t feel gracious enough to let a chick and her fat floppers climb aboard for a piggyback ride, she has to ask him politely (typically peppered with some sort of penis-pleasing activity) to push her around in the designated CherubCart. If he still decides that she doesn’t deserve to go anywhere, then she has to try with another man. The cowgirl-movers are made of such heavy metal that only brawny brutes can move the things.

These cherubs are infallibly conditioned and held down, because they eventually train themselves to lie or kneel in wait for men, not wanting to bother them with their demands to be wheeled such insurmountable distances as five whole blocks. It doesn’t seem to concern anyone that almost 15% of all women in the U.S. are Wheelbarrow Wandas, or that revoking their drivers licenses was one of the most unanimously accepted laws in recent memory.

The disconnect is staggering. It’s more than insulting to those of us left with legitimate handicaps, but these “accommodations” for WWs, like their adult-sized high chairs in restaurants, for example, are treated like they’ve been around for fifty years instead of one. That they are somehow granted the privilege of dining for free is a heated topic for news media and late night talk shows, but with absolutely no discussion of how crazy these huge-pillowed mutants’ ascent into normalcy is.

Nobody bats a mascaraed eyelash at the Angelwear line of designer BimboBarrows, either, in styles ranging from neon leopard print to “Sparkleskank Sinnabuns” (“extra boom room fer yew assy lassies”), being hocked by church officials on home shopping networks. Any protest of a recent fad involving perfectly mobile teen girls pushing each other around in plastic versions of the carts, is merely centered around how demeaning it is to the real barrow-bound.

Wheelbarrow Willie, the redneck comic, has an immensely popular pseudo-reality sitcom that shares his name. The half hour showcases his exploits with these poor specimens. Every episode ends with some mushy moralizing as the guest WW of the week wraps her hangers around his pecker. The money shot, “miraculously”, always coincides with a folksy one-liner of summation.

His is the second most watched prime time program in America, trailing just behind “Nuthin But Tits-n-Ass”. That it’s simply a broadcast of a church service from the first St. Brittany’s in Cherub Cove might make name of the show a little misleading, if it wasn’t so representative of typical worship.

But, whether you’re a Wheelbarrow Wanda, a Porky Pear piggy-girl, an airbrushed Shimmerslutt, or just your average leaky angel, infection is beginning to seem inevitable. It’s so expected nowadays, that one dairy-ditzy day, all females will, by way of their own inclination or just plum giving in, all get giggly and gooey.

The insurmountable feeling one gets from new variants like these, practically being delivered by the dozen every day, fortifies our present climate of jadedness. It makes the best and brightest of us women feel like any sort of resistance is worthless. The church wouldn’t have it any other way.

Its mandate and message is pushed through to every element of society, as if society itself recognized a scratch it could finally itch. Like the first itch of the milfy way that starts with a trickle in the panties, nagging ever restlessly with the chafe of a bra strap. You and I, well, we’re just the final flick on the flabby derriere of reality.