The Grotto

We slipped into the deep end and slowly bounced on our tip toes over to the waterfall and eventually down beneath the rock wall. Pretty soon we were encased inside the small, man-made cave. This is where the venereal disease was exchanged back and forth between strangers, I presumed.

There were some familiar faces. Paul Reubens was down there jacking off into a motor jet. I spilled my Mai Tai trying to get around him. My little red umbrella fell out and went floating upside down in the bubbly jacuzzi. I felt like putting out an Amber Alert for Mary Poppins. It actually went through my mind for about 5 seconds. I was baking like so hard from the purple power and the cheap bubblegum that Baller and his crew scored on Crenshaw and Expo. Every second I felt stupider and stupider. In another hour I would be clinically retarded. An hour after that? In a coma.













We weren't invited really. We knew somebody who knew someone else. I'm still not sure how we got here. My mouth was dry. I had to keep licking my lips like a hungry iguana. The rock walls were wet with steam. I felt like I had fallen into the middle of a volcano. If Hollywood was a person, this would be its buttcrack. My head felt large, really large, like a rubber yoga ball with an obese housewife rolling her ass around on top of it.

There were about 8 or 9 blondes in the grotto with us and someone was in the middle of them moving their hands around violently up and down. I moved over and saw it was Seth Rogen fucking some plastic titty bitch. Occasionally he would trade off with one of the other ones standing around and switch hit, back and forth, like musical chairs except there's only one chair and that one chair is his dick.

I wanted to warn him of the dangers of jacuzzi dick. Especially if it gets overworked. Shit will dry out. And if it dries out we all know what can happen next. It could crack off. I almost shouted over to him, 'Careful Seth! Next day when you look down to pee, all that will be left is a tiny scab about the size of a dime, and it won't be heads.'



























Paul Reubens looked like he was passed out now, both arms straight out to his sides, but I could tell his eyes were really open and just pretending to be closed, two little slits, and he was watching the girls bouncing on top of Rogan's half bent party drunk dick.

There was a lot of stuff floating on the surface of the cloudy water: Body glitter flakes, ass juice, corn and protein. I bet Hugh had to tip the pool guy a G note after every one of these parties to fish out the chunks. Seriously, it was like Progresso soup in here.




















When I turned around I saw Captain HH McBoner himself on deck holding his pipe in a withered hand. A white yacht cap sat atop his eggy head along with a little burgundy smoking jacket across two bony posts. He looked like a corpse and I wasn't sure if the two ladies on either side of him were actually dragging him around or if he was capable of being self-propelled. His girlfriends, or soon to be coroners or whatever the fuck they were, hauled him around place to place and neither of them ever left his side the entire time. Occasionally they would lean him up against a wall or prop him next to the bar. But they always came back like mindful pet sitters. Yep, I thought, they were on the payroll. Just not sure if either of them had to wipe him or if that was the job of the unseen Filipino girl washing dishes in the kitchen or the hispanic man mopping up the puke on the marble staircase.

Speaking of puke, Reubens had released a tummy full himself and as it made its way towards us I decided it was time to go. Probably a good move.