ClickHole

You’re The World’s Most Successful Pickup Artist. Can You Have Sex With The President Of The United States?

Peter Horny. It’s both your name and your catchphrase. You’re a pickup artist, and a damn good one at that. You’ve doinked thousands of gluffs, greebled more supermodels than there are stars in the sky, and, by pioneering a foolproof system for charming virtually any woman into forping groins, you’ve earned the reputation as the world’s preeminent practitioner of the art of seduction.

Yet after many years in the game, you’re feeling empty inside. A man can only plunge so many rangoes before he starts yearning for something more. Your penis, chapped and listless like a dolphin on a hot sidewalk, no longer windmills excitedly at the prospect of intimacy with a stranger’s crotch. It’s time to settle down. It’s time to atone for your life as a sex lunatic and find a woman to grow old and die with.

But before you quit the lifestyle, you want one last fuck. And not just any fuck, but a fuck that cements your legacy as the greatest whoopee scoundrel to ever fuck. An impossible fuck.

You want to fuck the president of the United States of America.

Okay. You will fuck the president without any help.

Here you are at the White House, the old motel where the president and his family are imprisoned. It is harder to sneak into than a movie theater, so you’ll need to be clever to get through the front doors and inside the president’s asshole.

What’s your game plan?

Okay. What do you want to deliver?

Good idea. Presidents need gavels to vote on laws and hammer their papers, so it makes sense that one would be getting delivered to the White House. And even if they try to argue that the president already has a gavel, you can just say, “But does he have a premium gavel?” They pretty much have to let you in.

You approach the security booth where all White House deliveries must be screened. The guard eyes you warily.

“The president already has a gavel,” the guard snarls. “How else would he hammer his papers?”

“Wow, the president definitely needs one of those,” the guard says. “Go on inside.”

Hook, line, sinker.

“What did you say?” the security guard barks, his hand sliding towards his firearm.

Ah, shit. You came on too strong.

After belligerently screaming in a manner that’s threatening to the president for the second time, a security detail rushes over and subdues you. You try to explain that you were just trying to make a delivery, but you end up just shrieking about how you want to slaughter Christ, making things worse. Looks like you’re going to jail.

Sadly, you did not succeed in having sex with the president of the United States.

A sick possum? Are you sure you’re not just saying that because you saw one on the ground next to you and didn’t want to put in the effort to think of anything else?

Okay....

Just know that this is objectively a really dumb idea. No one’s letting you into the White House with a sick possum.

You walk up to the security booth where all White House deliveries are screened. The guard eyes the infected possum warily.

“Huh?” the guard grunts. “The president wasn’t expecting any possum deliveries today.”

Oh, shit, he’s onto you. Abort! Abort!

Phew, that was close. The guard nearly caught you in your lie, but luckily, you were able to explode your head and die before you got in trouble.

Unfortunately, though, it doesn’t look like you’re going to be able to have intercourse with the president.

Brilliant. While all the guards are distracted by the guy who’s on fire, you’ll be free to casually stroll through the front door of the White House.

In theory, this was a great idea, but in practice, you now find yourself on fire. How did this happen? It makes no sense.

Oh, well. Now you are burning to death. Looks like you won’t get to fuck the president.

You hop over the fence and onto the White House lawn. The front door is still about 100 feet away.

You run towards the door as fast as you can, joining your hands over your head in a triangle shape to slice through the air and minimize wind resistance. But suddenly, a big doofus with a gun steps in front of you. You need to get past him somehow, otherwise your dream of penetrating our commander-in-chief is dead in the water.

You harness the power of your semen to jetpack dozens of feet in the air, well beyond the reach of the guard. Your testicular emissions thrust you skyward towards the heavens, your hands outstretched as if to touch the face of God. It is one of the most beautiful moments you’ve ever experienced.

But, alas, you’ve got a job to do, so you let off the throttle and slowly descend back to Earth, landing perfectly on the White House doorstep.

“Oh yeah?” the guard says, his voice skeptical. “Prove it then. Play the guitar solo to that song ‘Smooth’ you made with Rob Thomas.”

Hmm. The guard seems to have Wade Boggs confused with Carlos Santana.

“Well, I’d be happy to,” you say, “but unfortunately, I forgot to bring my guitar.”

“That’s okay; I got one,” the guard says before reaching into a bush and producing an electric guitar.

You don’t know how to play the guitar, but you try anyway. You start thrashing futilely at the strings, making noises that in no way resemble Santana’s dynamic 1999 chart-topper.

“Hey, what the hell? That’s not ‘Smooth,’” the guard shouts. “That’s ‘Kill The President’ by The Offspring. Sorry, but I can’t have you advocating for the president’s assassination on the White House lawn.”

The guard asks you to sign his guitar, then escorts you off the premises. Looks like you won’t be having sex with the president after all.

You pull open your waistband and start flapping your penis left and right against your thighs in hopes that it will get strong for sex. But moments later, a team of the president’s athletic policemen tackle you to the ground, spoiling all the boner progress you’d made.

“It is illegal to get a boner at the White House without a valid voter registration card,” one of the policemen barks.

Unfortunately, you left your voter registration card at home, and as a result, you’re kicked off the White House lawn and forced to pay a $5 fine. Adding insult to injury, the president gives a televised State of the Union speech later that night and spends most of the time talking about how desperate he is for sexual release.

Sigh. You could’ve had him, but you didn’t.

You approach the security guard with classic Peter Horny pickup posture: nips up; knees bent 90 degrees outwards; mummy hands; eyebrows slowly ascending higher and higher; tongue periodically peeking through lips like a flirty eel. You can already tell he’s turned on.

“The White House is c-c-currently off-limits to visitors,” he stammers, clearly distracted by the sight of your erect penis extending upwards out of your pants and slapping coquettishly against your belly. “Please vacate the premises.”

The guard is powerless to your charms. He tears off his clothes and pulls you into his small, cramped security booth. You also take off your clothes—first your pants, then your underwear. It is time for sex.

You put your penis into the guard and start fucking. You fuck pretty fast, and the guard enjoys it.

“Guh guh guh guh guh guh guh,” he moans as he feels you in him.

The fucking continues with unabated vigor.

“What a wonderful treat this is,” the guard squeals, wearing a smile like that of a man who is having a birthday.

It is indeed a marvelous time, but you’re starting to worry about the logistics of your plan. How exactly is fucking the guard supposed to get you inside the White House? He’s not just going to, like, give you a key to the front door, right? You’re straining to recall how these types of scenarios generally play out in movies, but you’re drawing a blank.

You’ve been pounding the guard for over 45 minutes now, and with every passing thrust, you’re increasingly unsure why. If you’re already giving him what he wants, why would he still give you access to the White House? It’s clear now that you should’ve withheld the sex as a bargaining chip, leveraging his uncontrollable lust for you to get what you wanted. Instead, you’re stuck here fucking him, and will continue to be stuck here fucking him for the foreseeable future.

Damn it. You’ve got to try something to salvage the situation.

You reach for the keys, but the guard immediately catches you.

“Hey, don’t touch those,” he says.

“Sorry.”

Damn. Looks like you’ll need to try something else.

In your many years of fucking, you’ve only made someone cough up a golden egg one time (it was Geri Halliwell, and the egg later sold at Sotheby’s for $8.3 million USD), but deep down, you believe you can pull it off again.

You wait for a lull in the security guard’s euphoric, goat-like moans, and then you present your wager.

“So, if I orgasm so hard that I cough up a golden egg, you get clearance into the White House?” he wheezes, his voice barely audible over the percussive thwacking of your oily testicles against his red, welted flesh. “Sure, baby, whatever you say.”

Great. Now that he’s on board, it’s up to you to deliver. It’s time to break out the most spectacular moves in your fuck repertoire.

A beautiful thing is happening! You are spinning him so fast on your dong that gravity is shifting, light is fracturing, time is distorting, his moans are warping, doppler-like, and the ecstasy of the fucking is approaching supernatural levels. If you can cap this off with one truly extraordinary, life-changing fuck move, that golden egg is yours.

Oh, hell yeah. It worked. The security guard came so hard that he coughed up not just one golden egg, but three golden eggs. There’s an ethereal humming coming from inside the eggs, and while you’d love to wait around to see what hatches, you’ve got a job to do. You’ve got to fuck the leader of the free world.

The security guard, still speechless and perhaps a bit palsied from the nigh-mythical orgasm, absently reaches into his pants pocket and hands you a White House key fob. Then his nose starts bleeding and he passes out.

Welp, this is the White House. The president must be around here somewhere. Go find him and have intercourse.

You descend a dusty staircase at the back of the press briefing room and emerge in the White House catacombs. When a president dies, he and his cabinet members are simultaneously interred here. When children visit the White House, it’s long been tradition to bring them down here and allow them to choose one bone to take home.

At first, it doesn’t appear as if the president is down here, but suddenly, you hear an eerie groaning coming down through the twisting corridors of crumbling human remains.

You follow the groaning through a maze of thousands and thousands of skulls, pretending that it is the sound of a hot babe expressing sexual pleasure so you don’t get scared. Just past a pile of bones labeled “KENNEDYS, MISC.,” you see a small room glowing with candlelight.

You walk into the room and find the groaning man. It looks like he is trying to catch a moth.

“I am trying to attract moths so I can eat them,” he says, partially chewed antennae visible between his teeth. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

“Then I’m afraid I have terrible news for you, son,” the man says, briefly lashing his tongue out to seize a still-living moth escaping through his lips. “The president is married. It is impossible for him to have sex with anyone but his wife. And even if he wasn’t married, he is still very busy—there’d be no time in his schedule for fucking.”

“You could fuck me if you’d like,” the man says as six or seven moths emerge from the neck of his robe and begin crawling on his face. “I might not be the president, but I’m eighth in the presidential line of succession. I’m the secretary of agriculture.”

Hmm. You really, really wanted to have sex with the president of the United States. But fucking the secretary of agriculture is still sort of cool.

You and the secretary of agriculture have sex. It’s fine. Afterwards, you go home.

Sucks you couldn’t have sex with the president.

You go masturbate among the dead people. It’s fucked up. This day didn’t turn out like you’d hoped.

Maybe it’s time to reevaluate who you are as a person.

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Skeletons are too scary. You should look for the president elsewhere.

“My gorgeous, broken son, let me taste of thine supple lips!” you say as you mush Teddy’s chalky mandible against his child’s.

“It is okay for father and son to make out as long as they are presidents,” you declare, mimicking the sonorous, authoritative tone FDR used when declaring war against the Japanese.

You continue doing this for three more hours.

Unfortunately, you can’t just stroll into the Oval Office. His secretary is stationed outside the doors, and you’ve got to get past her first.

“Hello,” she says. “Do you have an appointment with my boss, the president?”

“I’m afraid you won’t be able to see him then. The president is very busy thinking about laws and his private helicopter.”

Welp. If the lady says you can’t go in, there’s really no use in arguing. Guess you won’t be having sex with the president.

“Okay. You can go in and see him.”

You walk in and are immediately greeted by the leader of the free world.

“Hello, welcome to the Oval Office. I am your leader, the president.”

Wow. You’re nervous as hell all of a sudden. It sinks in that you’re literally standing in front of the leader of the free world. The most powerful man alive! But you are the world’s greatest pickup artist, and it is your patriotic duty to make this man wacky with your cock. You’ve got to introduce yourself in a way that distinguishes you from the endless parade of suck-ups he has to deal with—you’ve got to say something that catches him off-guard, something that makes him want to get to know you better.

“Boy, are there ever! Excellent observation, young man.”

Okay. That was a dumb thing you just said to the president. It’s fair to say that you have made no forward progress towards having sex with him. But don’t sweat it—you’re still the best pickup artist alive. Maybe try the classic Peter Horny pickup trick of elevating, in which you say something that suggests you’re above a person’s approval. You make it clear that you don’t really need the person, and they, in turn, begin to feel as if it’s they who needs to win your approval.

“That is correct, young man! This is the Oval Office.”

Okay. That was a dumb thing you just said to the president. It’s fair to say that you have made no forward progress towards having sex with him. But don’t sweat it—you’re still the best pickup artist alive. Maybe try the classic Peter Horny pickup trick of elevating, in which you say something that suggests you’re above a person’s approval. You make it clear that you don’t really need the person, and they, in turn, begin to feel as if it’s they who needs to win your approval.

“Hey, well, good for you, young man!”

Okay. That was a dumb thing you just said to the president. It’s fair to say that you have made no forward progress towards having sex with him. But don’t sweat it—you’re still the best pickup artist alive. Maybe try the classic Peter Horny pickup trick of elevating, in which you say something that suggests you’re above a person’s approval. You make it clear that you don’t really need the person, and they, in turn, begin to feel as if it’s they who needs to win your approval.

“This is truly an extraordinary fact that you have told me,” says the president, smiling much wider than before. “You lead a remarkable life. It would please me greatly to earn your approval.”

Good. You have mesmerized the president with your incredible anecdote. Now, you must make him desire you. Typically in these situations, your strategy is to ”accidentally” initiate subtle physical contact with your mark to awaken their fuck endorphins. Find a way to discreetly touch the president so that his loins will begin sloshing for you.

You lean over the desk and ever so briefly mush your bare eyeball against the president’s bare eyeball. It all seems innocent and playful, but you can see from the look on his face that it has awakened the primal monkey feelings of sex deep inside of him. You’ve got him just where you want him.

Before you tempt him any further, it is usually around this point in the seduction process that you pause to rehydrate with a cup of milk.

You touch his arm and then nonchalantly manipulate his testicle pouch with your bare toes. It all seems innocent and playful, but you can see in his eyes that it has awakened the primal monkey feelings of sex deep inside of him. You’ve got him just where you want him.

Before you tempt him any further, it is usually around this point in the seduction process that you pause to rehydrate with a cup of milk.

Mmm. Milk is so good. With every gulp, you can feel the powerful electrolytes recharging you. You are grateful for the cow that died to produce this nutritious treat.

“You know, not many people would interrupt a conversation with the leader of the free world to leisurely enjoy a cup of milk,” says the president, leaning in closer to you. “I must say, I find your confidence to be rather...irresistible.”

The president is really digging you now. You are 90 percent of the way to fucking him. But now comes the most critical step of the seduction process: the pickup line. You must seal the deal. You must say something so mind-blowingly smooth and so breathtakingly arousing that any doubts the president may have instantly vanish, leaving him with only one logical option, which is to pull down his pants and invite you inside his asshole.

You only get one shot. Choose your pickup line wisely.

Some soups”? What the hell does that mean? That’s not a pickup line at all. And it seems like it really took the president out of the moment—he suddenly looks very turned off by you.

“I don’t know why you just said that to me, but it made me very uncomfortable for some reason,” the president replies. “I think I would like for you to go away now. Please leave the Oval Office at once.”

No! You were so close! But unfortunately, it doesn’t look like the president wants to have sex with you. Apparently, you’re not that great of a pickup artist after all.

Oof. That wasn’t a very smooth pickup line. One can kind of see what you were going for, but ultimately, it didn’t make very much sense. And it seems like it took the president out of the moment—he suddenly looks very turned off by you.

“Order! Order!” the president replies, slamming his gavel against his desk. “It would be impossible for me to get horny after that very lame thing you just said. It is my official ruling that you may not do anything sexual with me. Please leave the Oval Office at once.”

No! You were so close! But unfortunately, it doesn’t look like the president wants to have sex with you. Apparently, you’re not that great of a pickup artist after all.

What the hell does that even mean? That pickup line was super weak. And it seems like it took the president out of the moment—he suddenly looks very turned off by you.

“Order! Order!” the president replies, slamming his gavel against his desk. “It would be impossible for me to get horny after that very lame and confusing thing you just said. It is my official ruling that you may not do anything sexual with me. Please leave the Oval Office at once.”

No! You were so close! But unfortunately, it doesn’t look like the president wants to have sex with you. Apparently, you’re not that great of a pickup artist after all.

“You have made me wacky with lust,” says the president, his dong growing audibly in response to your incredible pickup line. “Take me now.”

You retreat with the president to the Executive Bedroom and begin fucking him on the same bed that Lincoln and Reagan used to get fucked on. You can hear history echoing through the bed’s squeaky springs with every thrust into the president’s anus, and it is truly humbling.

Per protocol, two Secret Service guys stand there watching with their guns drawn. You’d think it might feel dangerous in a sexy way, but it’s actually just really scary. The president senses your unease and graciously puts blankets over them, although you can still hear them breathing pretty loudly underneath.

After plowing the president for 14 minutes or so, the time comes for you to blow your load.

With climax achieved, you and the president exchange thank yous over a brisk handshake, and then he sends you on your way.

As you walk away from the White House, you find yourself feeling sort of empty. Sure, you pulled off the greatest sexual conquest of your life, but if you’re being honest with yourself, all you really did was stuff another hole. You manipulated someone and made them vulnerable, and then you took advantage of them—story of your life.

Whoa, that’s very mature of you. That decision surely took a lot of courage. You are such a good person now.

Anyway, congratulations on having sex with the president.

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When you started out on this amazing adventure today, your goal was to boink the president, not fucking grow as a person. And sure enough, you succeeded. Maybe someday you’ll be more open to some kind of moral transformation, but for the time being, you’re happy being a piece of shit.

God bless America.

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Goddamn it. That pickup line was weak. And it seems like it took the president out of the moment—he suddenly looks very turned off by you.

“Order! Order!” the president says, slamming his gavel against his desk. “It would be impossible for me to get horny after whatever the hell it was you just said. It is my official ruling that you may not perform your genitals upon me. Please leave the Oval Office at once.”

No! You were so close! But unfortunately, it doesn’t look like the president wants to have sex with you. Apparently, you’re not that great of a pickup artist after all.

“Please don’t do that,” the president says as you unleash a torrent of piss onto his legs. “Please do not piddle on the president.”

“No, I can assure you that it is not a treat,” the president says matter-of-factly. “When you do it to me, I wonder to myself, What the fuck is happening? I am frightened, and I would like for you to leave now. Please go away.”

Damn. The president kicked you out. Looks like you won’t be having sex with him. Guess you’re not as great of a pickup artist as you thought you were.

You slam the president through the bookshelf and then plunge a fountain pen through his thigh. It is wildly sexy, and you can see the primal desire for fucking burning in his eyes. But before you can act on these sensual monkey feelings, you’re interrupted by a shrill voice hollering from the doorway.

“WHAT IN THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?”

Oh, shit! It’s the first lady, and she’s not happy.

“Are you two cocksuckers committing adultery—in my house?!?” the first lady screams, ripping out shocks of her hair and stuffing them into her mouth out of rage.

Before you can reply, she barrels over and starts ferociously spanking both you and the president, punishing you for being bad. It stings a lot, and you cry a little bit.

Damn. Looks like you won’t be having sex with the president after all. Guess you’re not as great of a pickup artist as you thought you were.

“Hmm, what a curious thing for you to tell me,” he says, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “If true, it would indeed be a remarkable fact. But my gut tells me you are deceiving me.”

Fuck. He’s onto you. You lied when you said you were 5-foot-11—you just blurted out the tallest height you could think of.

“Prove it to me. If you are truly as tall as you say, then you should have no difficulty riding the horse of our nation’s tallest president, Abraham Lincoln. His horse, Huge Kristin, lives on the White House South Lawn, and ever since her master died, she’s been waiting for someone equally tall to come along and ride her.”

The president takes you out back where Huge Kristin is grazing with her ordinary-sized husband, Regular Clint. The 173-year-old beast is truly enormous—taller than a two-story building—and it’s clear that only a man 5-foot-11 or larger could ever hope to ride her.

“Go ahead, ride the horse,” the president goads. “Her master, Abraham Lincoln, got his head exploded with a gun.”

You try to climb onto Huge Kristin’s back, but she gets pissed because you are not tall like her master, who abandoned her 150 years ago to live in Hell. She gruffly shakes you off of her and then bends down and eats you.

“Yes! Yes! Eat the liar!” the president laughs as Huge Kristin mashes you between her soda can–sized teeth. “He is a terrible idiot!”

Goddamn it. Looks like you won’t be having sex with the president.

“Young man, when you lie to me, it makes me frown—not just on my face, but in my heart and in my cock,” the president says. “It is my job to serve the American people, and I will gladly do the sin of fucking to anyone who shows me proof of citizenship. All I ask is that they tell the truth. And because you failed to do this, I’m afraid that you must leave.”

You nod understandingly and glumly exit the Oval Office.

It crushes you to think that after so many years of trying every conceivable trick you could think of to get people to have sex with you, you somehow never discovered the most powerful aphrodisiac of all: honesty. And because you cared more about deceiving people than telling the truth, you were unable to accomplish your life’s dream of feeling your rock-hard dick inside the president of the United States’ moist asshole.

What a fool you’ve been.

You enter the bedroom to squeals of “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!”

Shit. It’s the president’s three mediocre daughters, Rochelle, Rumpus, and Rocket. The president isn’t here. And even if he was, it would be inappropriate for you to sodomize him in front of his children.

“Wait a minute,” says the youngest, Rocket, who gained notoriety last Thanksgiving for killing the turkey that her father had just pardoned on live TV. “You’re not our daddy.”

“Hello, Peter Horny,” says the oldest, Rochelle, who is often remembered for getting a bloody nose during her father’s inauguration address but making no effort to stop or wipe it. “Why are you in our house?”

“Oh,” says the middle one, Rumpus, who made headlines two years ago during her father’s diplomatic visit to Japan after losing all of her baby teeth at the same time and spitting them out onto Emperor Akihito’s lap. “What does sex mean?”

Looks like you will be the one who gets to explain sex to the president’s children. Very neat and cool.

“But why would you do that to our dad?” asks Rocket, who doesn’t have hair.

“Gross,” says Rumpus. “This is our dad you’re talking about. We love him.”

“Seriously, what’s wrong with you?” says Rochelle. “It makes me sad that people like you exist.”

The little girls are disgusted by you. Which makes sense, because you’re a disgusting person. You’ve always known this, and it’s never really bothered you. But hearing children say it really hits you in the gut. You feel shitty.

Fuck.

Damn. That was super shitty of you.

Where would you like to go look for the president now?

The small talking apes have shown you the error of your ways. Being a pickup artist is scuzzy as hell, and you’re only making the world a shittier place.

You apologize to the girls for trying to fuck their dad, and you promise to give $10 to charity to make up for it. The girls forgive you unconditionally, and to help symbolize your transformation into a new man, they take you out to the White House Rose Garden and baptize you with hose water. Then, Rumpus takes out an acoustic guitar, and the girls sing you a song that they’d weirdly already written and rehearsed. The song goes:

[Verse]
Hey there, mister,
We’re so very glad
You’ve decided not to violate our dad.

Hey there, mister,
It’s such a relief
That you didn’t defile our commander-in-chief.

[Chorus]
Whoa-oh-oh, whoa-oh-oh,
Our dad might get assassinated one day.
Whoa-oh-oh, whoa-oh-oh,
It happens to, like, half of the presidents.

It is the worst song you’ve ever heard.

You leave the White House and go home without achieving your goal of having sex with the president. But you realize that it’s probably for the best. You’ve given up being a pickup artist, and you’re excited to begin life anew as a guy who never gets laid.

“Oh,” says the middle one, Rumpus, who made headlines two years ago during her father’s diplomatic visit to Japan after losing all of her baby teeth at the same time and spitting them out onto Emperor Akihito’s lap. “Well, good luck with whatever you’re doing. Goodbye.”

Those children were dumb and gullible. You told them that you were here for reasons that did not involve having sex with their father, but the truth is, that’s exactly why you’re here.

Where would you like to look for the president now?

“No, you’re not,” says the oldest, Rochelle, who is often remembered for getting a bloody nose during her father’s inauguration address but making no effort to stop or wipe it. “Daddy’s arms are longer than yours.”

Shit, they’re onto you.

“I’m 90 percent sure you’re not Daddy,” says the middle one, Rumpus, who made headlines two years ago during her father’s diplomatic visit to Japan after losing all of her baby teeth at the same time and spitting them out onto Emperor Akihito’s lap. “I’m going to call security now.”

Phew, that was close. Children are such bullshit.

Where would you like to look for the president now?

Before you can convince the girls that you are indeed their father, security bursts into the room and places you under arrest. Being the elite pickup artist that you are, though, you seduce them into removing the handcuffs and letting you go with a warning. Unfortunately, however, you are rearrested 12 seconds later for trying to steal a bust of James A. Garfield by stuffing it under your shirt.

You go to jail, and you do not succeed in your mission to have sex with the president of the United States.

Good idea in theory, but you forgot to take one little thing into account: You don’t know how to do a backflip—especially not with another person attached to you. You leap into the air and make it through only about half the rotation before landing on your neck. And while it’s too early to know for sure, you’re definitely feeling a little paralyzed.

Damn. Looks like you won’t be having sex with the president.

See that thick, slightly curved, penis-like band at the top of the ultrasound? That’s your thick, slightly curved penis. You have inserted it umbilically into the security guard. In a way, you are a mother now.

And, disturbingly, in many ways, the security guard is now becoming an infant. He’s reverting to his embryonic state both emotionally and intellectually, his language regressing to nothing more than goo-goos and ga-gas. And, somehow, he is also reverting physically. Something weird and cosmic happened when you put your penis through his belly button, and now years are disappearing from his face and body. He is rapidly returning to infancy.

This is fucked. You shouldn’t have done this.

This is the security guard now. What did you do? He is a baby. What the hell?

This is bad and wrong. Forget about having sex with the president. You should probably go see a counselor or something. Jesus.

Smart choice. Don’t go to the president—make him come to you. Seduction is a chess game, and making the president play by your terms is like doing a really good chess move.

You don’t know the president’s phone number, so you call 911. You know 911 will help you because you pay their salaries with your taxes and they are your slaves.

“Hello, 911 emergency, please describe how you are dying,” the operator says.

“Certainly,” the operator says. “Please hold and I will transfer you to the president.”

Four seconds later, the president picks up.

“Hello, this is the president of the United States of America. I am speaking to you on the phone.”

“Hello, Mr. President. I am Peter Horny.”

“I don’t know who you are. Are you calling to tell me that you found out about the corruptions I did?”

Hmm, interesting. You have no knowledge of any corruptions, but if you pretend like you do, maybe the president will have sex with you in exchange for your silence.

“Oh, okay,” he says. “I did some crimes, but since you don’t know about them, you can’t blackmail me. I guess I can keep doing crimes for now.”

“No. I already went to Sports Authority and the woods today.”

“Oh. Me too.”

You can’t think of anything else to say, so you hang up the phone. Looks like you won’t be able to have sex with the president in the woods or at Sports Authority. This is the first time you’ve ever been rejected, and you’re suddenly filled with doubt about your seduction abilities.

“Well, shit,” he sighs. “I should’ve known someone would find out.”

“Peter Horny,” you say, defaulting to your catchphrase.

“Listen, Peter, you don’t have to ruin my career over this. Maybe you and I could meet up and come to terms on some sort of...mutually beneficial agreement. How’s that sound? I could meet you anytime today at either Sports Authority or the woods.”

“Hey, wouldn’t that be something? Sexual intercourse with my ass. That’s certainly something we could discuss. Let’s meet in the woods eight minutes from now. I’ll drive there in my helicopter, and we’ll sort everything out.”

“Great. Meet me in the woods in eight minutes. I am the president. We will sort this out. I will drive my helicopter there.”

You are now waiting for the president in the woods. Soon, he will pull down his pants, and you will put your penis in him.

As you squat and push really hard to make your penis stiff, you hear a rustling in the bushes. Suddenly, a government assassin pops out! With a gun!

“Hi,” he says. “I am going to kill you for trying to blackmail the president for his many corruptions.”

“Hi, my name is Peter Horny,” you say. “What’s your name?”

The assassin shoots you with his cool gun until you are dead. Drat! Looks like you weren’t a good enough pickup artist to have sex with the president.

“‘Dying to feel my penis shaft inside the president’s warm butt’ is not on the approved list of commonly occurring emergencies. To continue this call, please select one of the following approved emergencies:

A) Got head stuck inside mailbox and are slowly starving to death.

B) Heart fell out.

C) Being followed by menacing blimp.

D) Still trapped under a beam at World Trade Center.

E) Swallowed Pepsi can and now can only sort of breathe.

F) Being head-butted by 30 pugs.

G) Tried talking to pretty girl, got nervous, and now brain is filling with blood.

H) Stuck inside couch and spider is walking closer and closer to face.”

“Thank you for indicating how you are dying. Emergency responders have been alerted to your situation and will be arriving to assist you shortly. I am 911. Goodbye.”

The 911 operator hangs up, cutting you off mid-sentence. Moments later, an emergency crew arrives and straps you into an ambulance. They try everything they can—CPR, cutting a big slit in your stomach, replacing your eyes with tubes—but nothing helps. They decide to euthanize you right then and there so you don’t have to suffer.

Looks like you’re not going to have sex with the president of the United States.

Share Your Results

You pay a visit to your old pal Frightened Rodney, who was your wingman for many years before he got sick.

“Frightened Rodney, would you please be my wingman for one final conquest?” you ask.

“I-I-I don’t know...I’m afraid I might get frightened!” cries Frightened Rodney.

“Please? Help me out with this one last fuck and then I’ll never bug you again.”

“Gee, I really don’t know,” Frightened Rodney stammers. “Who is it you want to f-f-fuck?”

“The president!” Frightened Rodney wails. “No, no, no, no. I’m frightened just thinking about it!”

Frightened Rodney is so frightened by the thought of trying to fuck the president that he falls to the floor and begins having a seizure. Looks like he’s not gonna be your wingman for this one. You’re on your own.

Here are some great tips for seducing a woman, as chronicled in your groundbreaking work of nonfiction. Granted, the president isn’t a woman, but they’re still good tips.

Before you embark on what will surely be the biggest sex challenge of your life, you should decide whether or not you want to bring a wingman. Generally, you prefer to work your magic alone, but sometimes a Wallace needs a Gromit, especially if your adventure entails persuading the leader of the free world to let you enter his anus with your erection.

Fucking the president will not be easy. He is guarded by policemen at all times. He is committed to his wife. He is pretty busy.

You’re going to have to use every trick and technique you’ve developed over your years of experience, all of which are detailed in your bestselling pickup artist handbook, The Peter Horny Guide To Talking To Strangers And Getting Them To Agree To Fornication Activities With Your Hardened Penis.



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