What would you do if you came into the possession of a near-unimaginable pile of money?
My own personal dream is to build a deeply-unlikely-sounding device called a Boobcube.
But what, pray tell, by all the bummings of Hell, is a Boobcube? I hear your strangled cry.
A Boobcube, my curious one, is a cubic room, adorned with scarlet velveted buttoned squares across its floor, ceiling and walls. You awake, disoriented, in the centre of the floor. You glance, askance, this way and that, heretofore and wherefurther, whencewhat and whynelly.
Suddenly! A deep and ominous rumbling consumes your feeble sound-flaps! An incomprehensible commotion! Unbeknownst to you, a gaggle of Amazonian ultra-models have taken up position on the outer surfaces of your prison. Panels on all planes slide away to reveal pairs of circular holes, through which a mass of exquisite young mammaries suddenly emerge from the unforgiving blackness beyond!
A deep and ominous rumbling! It grows louder, ever louder! The room is moving! Slowly once, in some halcyon minutes now lost, but surely faster now!
The room begins to twist and rotate along and through every inconceivable axis as the inexplicably, soon-to-be-EXPLICABLY disturbing tones of ‘Moonlight Sonata’ start to seep from hidden speakers. Bubbles shimmer and dance in the air. Bursts of feathers are dispersed from some unknown aperture.
You tumble and somersault through the twisted eye of a near-unimaginable, consciously-impenetrable, erotically-unconscionable, physically-inescapable, hydraulically-implausible, boob-impact-reductive liquid-jazz-holocaust of a tit-pounding living dream.
Finally, after what may be seconds or minutes or hours or days of your torment (if torment it is), the Boobcube begins to settle, and finally releases you from the furious nipple-studded grip of its spinning velvet claws.
You lie in darkness. Damp. Panting. Terrified. Sated. Strangely sated. A door is revealed. You stagger gratefully into the bright gay sunlight beyond. But who can ever know, who can ever empathise, with the strangely erotic terror felt by the one who has survived…THE BOOBCUBE?
You sir, are a genius, a bit of a perv too, but a genius nonetheless.