Proud To Be An Amerikkkkan

BY Douglas Hackle

Hey, duuude. Now listen to this shit. 

I was in my kitchen not too long ago when I noticed a mosquito sitting on the windowsill above the sink. 

Its dick was bigger than mine. 

You might think I’m cracking a joke, one where I make fun of my own penis size, but that’s not the case. Au contraire, mon frère. In fact, I possess a respectable four inches of limp whitesnake that nearly doubles in length when fully erectified. Not to be a braggart, but I’ve been known to make a few toes curl in my day—know what I mean, big boss?  My dick also boasts a retarded Yosemite Sam tattoo that I thought was cool seven years ago. Ah, the folly of youth—know what I'm sayin', big bosserino?

But I digress. 

So this tiny little mosquito was on the windowsill in my kitchen rocking a twelve-inch pecker. Thick as a beer can this unwieldy phallus was—even in its state of flaccidity—sitting there up on the windowsill like a hot apple pie that had been set out to cool. I was standing several feet away from the sink when I first noticed the thing. I naturally assumed it had been severed from a man, that the mosquito I observed sitting near its base had landed on the penis, was not in fact attached to the penis, was most likely sucking its bloody breakfast from the penis. But upon closer inspection, I beheld with amazement that the bug was connected at its segmented abdomen to the cock—that the organ was indeed the mosquito’s very own natural appendage. 

Lucky for me, not only was I gayer than a rainbow over the San Francisco Bay, not only was I single, but just last year Ohio’s state legislature passed an amended version of the State Marriage Equality Act that finally recognized same-sex marriages between humans and insects. Opposite-sex marriages between humans and insects had already been legal for several years now. 

At the time I noticed that big-dicked mosquito on my windowsill, I was a widower. Prior to coming out of the closet a couple months ago, I had been married to a female mayfly. She was a species of mayfly that had a normal life expectancy of approximately seven hours. Our marital bliss lasted for about five. During that time, as a result of my repressed homosexuality, I was not at all happy. That poor female mayfly—she never knew the truth about me. 

But I’m not in the closet anymore—thank you very much, mam. 

That little mosquito with the gimungous rod that was sitting on my kitchen windowsill that morning—I married him, goshdarnit!

And a fit little fellow he turned out to be. My nameless mosquito husband actually ended up living three days longer than the average, post-larval lifespan of his species, which was seven days. During those ten, all-too-brief, hot, steamy, unforgettable days we had together, I was my husband’s obedient, submissive, shameless, pillow-biting, little bitchslave until the very moment he died inside me.

Oh, by the way:  while I have your attention I’d like to state for the record that I’m proud to be an Amerikkkkan. Both my deceased mayfly wife and my deceased mosquito husband were Amerikkkkans too, goshdarnit. And the only reason they weren’t proud of the fact was because their tiny insect brains didn’t permit them to feel complex emotions like pride (or any emotions for that matter).

But they were fuckin’ Amerikkkkans all the same, ratdamnit!

What’s that? You got a problem with me because not only are you A) a homophobe, but you’re B) rigidly opposed to human-insect sexual relationships and marriages on the grounds that they constitute abuse toward insects since insects are nearly brainless creatures incapable of offering their consent?

That just shows what a moronic, unenlightened, bigoted, bitchass bumpkin you are, you dimwitted duffer, you!

Yo, fuck you, doooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooood.

Now get the fuck outta my face so I can sing already.

Ahem—harrumph—ahem.

Here I go, bitches . . . I’m proooouuuuuuuud to beeeeeeeeee an Amerikkkkaaaaaaaaaaaaan!

____________________________________________

BIO: Douglas Hackle writes fictions that are bizarre, darkly humorous, horrific, veiny, vainglorious, stupid or some combination thereof. His stories have [vein poppet] appeared in several online and print publications. Douglas resides in Northeast Ohio with his wife and little boy, and he’s not exactly sure how that blasted vein poppet be gettin' all up in his bio n' shit.