You lucky son of a bitch did it! You've moved in with your favorite porn star Pamela. Hail to the king, baby! You've earned it! Admittedly, you don't actually feel like a king most of the time and your house isn't exactly Buckingham Palace either, but you've succeeded in giving it some personal touch and slowly turn it into your own private man cave. Moving to San Diego was the best thing that could happen to you. They're not prepared for a guy like you around here, so it's actually pretty much like putting a great white shark into a goldfish bowl. You should write that line down, turn it into a song and make a million dollars, but you're feeling a little bit lazy today, so you simply decide to watch some adult films and masturbate instead. As your hand slips into your soaked boxer shorts you realize that you haven't changed them since you left your housemate Ralph and moved from Illinois to California. They're reeking and are almost starched from all the dried-up sperm stains that have accumulated over the course of the last two months, but you just don't have the heart to change them. These shorts tell the story of your life, and why should you be ashamed of wearing them proudly? Oh yeah, that's good. You've found a nice vintage video starring Pamela in her early twenties when she was the newly crowned queen of scat porn. Seeing her covered with feces and greedily devouring all these huge turds like some famished gourmand makes you hard like a rock. "Eat it, you filthy little whore," you moan as you cum and spurt a massive shot of your sticky love juice into your shorts. You pull your wet hand out of your boxers and wipe it off at your chest hair. Pamela was a goddess back then, and now she's your girlfriend. Sure, age hit her like a sledgehammer, but she's still a looker.

Your neighbor Delmar's loud music jolts you out of your daydreams. Before you moved here you didn't even know that something like National Socialist black metal even existed - now you can already discern some subtle nuances. You look out of the window and see his swastika flag waving in the wind. Perhaps he'll manage to blow himself and his inbred kinfolk up with his meth lab today: at least that would save you a lot of trouble with that aggressive bastard. Ah, it doesn't really matter. Yesterday, you checked out his string bean wife Krystal and her bratty little daughter Fiona, a real sweetheart. Krystal looks as if she belongs to the cast of "Schindler's List". The more you think about her, the more you come to the conclusion that she has the perfect name for a meth cooker's spouse. Sure, her tits are a little bit too small for your refined taste, but it would be interesting to see the expression on her face when you shit in her mouth. Perhaps you could do it with both mother and daughter at the same time. Oh, yeah, momma! Hail to the king!

Alright, you're officially horny now. Pamela is still at work. She told you that Bob had arranged some porn shootings and that she would be busy the next few days. You decide to get another beer from the fridge before you continue watching porn. Entering the kitchen, you see that there's a huge turd lying in the sink. Oh, Jesus! Either you had another blackout and shat in the sink yourself or it was Pamela again. Perhaps that would also explain the turd on your carpet. That old nasty slut is worse than you sometimes. You stick your finger into the turd and taste it, thinking that "Taste the Turd" would be a hell of name for a Heavy metal song. Yummy! The feces is still pretty fresh. It reminds you of rancid peanut butter with a slightly bitter note in the finish.