"Smooth, not what I am. Rough 'cos I'm a man. No matter what the name, we're all same. Pieces in one big chess-game"

Sci/Spec-fiction, probably mature. Mainly. Obscene.

Dickcancer is no laughing matter, first your pelvic floor goes, then the sack turns into a harsh tumorous crevice. At the end, a lack of bladder control means you ROFLPM, without the laughing or rolling.  Sad face :(

Happy face :) Philip K. Dickcancer is no reflection on the state of my junk. The proximity to my actual state of health is as close to Arthur C. Chlamydia, H.G. Cockcheese, Frank Herbitch, Orson Scott Scared-Balls, Robert Hein-peen or I-seek Assmeoff are to the noble scribes of futures yet to pass. 

Please take what you are about to read with a handful of salt. I welcome all comments great and small, if you enjoy this story then keep your eyes peeled for my forthcoming epic historic romance "Gonorrhoea with the wind."

(based on a true story)

Peace, whoever you are.