S.G. Browne

There’s a sign on the door that says:

Not Responsible for Accidental Pregnancies

When you walk into the room, the first think you notice is the lifelike sex doll in a black g-string and bra, bent over the love seat, her vacant eyes staring back at you over her shoulder.

Next to her is a floor to ceiling bookcase filled with videotapes and DVDs with titles like The Cunt of Monte Cristo and Cum Like It’s Hot, while issues of Playboy and Penthouse and Hustler are fanned out on the glass coffee table that seems to hover above the thick, white shag carpet.

In the bedroom, mirrors reflect you from every angle.  Dildos and fleshlights and lubricants adorn the bedside table, while the circular bed is covered in blue silk sheets and purple velvet pillows.

Barry White is singing “Can’t Get Enough of Your Love, Babe.”

There’s a condom dispenser in the bathroom.

Looks like Grandpa’s been shopping again.

I find myself unable to deal with the horrors that confront me each morning as the clock strikes eight times and the bone chilling shrieks of hellish monsters assault my sensibilities.  I can barely breathe at the frightful stench, can barely hear my thoughts through the endless screams, can barely keep from succumbing to madness at the hideous sight of mucous flowing from noses, spilling over lips, and spraying out in long, ichorous ropes and foul mists into the fetid air of my home.

Curse the spirits that compelled me to open this day care center.