Paul rubbed more oil into his matted pelt of chest hair and crumbs. The sun was rising behind the Washington Monument and the lounger groaned and creaked as he struggled to reach his tofu and rum smoothie. His other hand scratched absently at the angry red strips of assflesh that squeezed themselves out between the lounger's elastic bands. The Nobel Prize that he normally wore around his neck was tucked in the crevasse formed by his left moob.
He drained his glass and roared "Servants! I demand service!" Ezra and Matt bounded from their cubbyholes like retarded hounds. "Herr Doktor," Matt slurred past the zippered mouth of a gimp mask, "vhat do you deshire?" Ezra's high-pitched giggle ended with a hiccup and a fart.
"What prizes have I won today, Matt. I barely tan through all this hair and I need a pick-me-up." Paul flicked away a fly feeding on the insensate flesh around his nipple. It fell to the ground at Ezra's feet, dead.
Matt stammered. "Noshing, Herr Doktor. Not shince ze Nobel."
"Nothing? NOTHING? I'M A GODDAMN GENIUS!" Cats scurried from where they lay in the sun. Paul winged the empty glass off of Matt's exposed genitals. Ezra automatically dropped to his hands and knees, exposing the deep anal fissures that radiated out onto his pale and pimply buttocks. The stench was unbearable. He would die soon of Fournier gangrene, but there were a hundred more like him coming out of Sarah Lawrence College every year.
Paul struggled to stand. Corporashuns had used advertising and unbearably hyperpalatable food to balloon his weight. He shoved the moaning Matt to the ground and kicked him over onto his back. "Oh, I'll get a PRIZE! PRIZES ARE MINE!"
Paul began pissing into Matt's mouth. Matt choked and gagged and swallowed and smiled.