Penis pump made homeless own Lamborghini

I never thought of myself as a man in need of, as one would say in polite society, compensation. Those were the morons who drove trucks too big to be useful with gangster rims and coffee can mufflers. Come on, honestly, you can’t tell me that the whole block doesn’t think it when those monsters come roaring down the street. Compensating

But then the day that we all dread came to bitch slap me in the face: lay off. Yep. Lost my job, lost my house, lost my car–hell, I even lost my girlfriend. Guess the stress got to her. Anyways, I found myself in a tent city within Las Vegas poking forks around empty cans and growing beards with the rest of the chums there. Nursing students used us for needle practice. Got to give those poor saps vaccinations or they might disease the rest of humanity. Yeah. Hurray for charity.

Then one day, David, a pal of mine who was flipping his cardboard ‘anything will help, god bless,’ came back to camp with the last thing I expected: penis pumps. The kind the guys in the trucks dream of. Apparently someone took ‘anything will help’ literally. Since we had nothing better to do and since life couldn’t get any worse than this, we watched our peckers grow longer, larger, and ready for action. We giggled like damn girls. Then, lo and behold, one of those poor nursing students walked in right as my pal David walked out to get his plague prevention pokes. I stared at her. She stared at me–well, at a part of me, and…let’s just say I didn’t miss my girlfriend anymore after that. Either nursing students knew things they’d never admit to, or I was just better at sex. Good thing we were all vaccinated.

Little miss nurse spread the word to her friends and more and more kept coming by. Girls rained in from left and right and, like wildfire, word went through the rest of Vegas as well. Tent city became a red light district. Can’t say the other chaps were too comfortable with slobbering women passing their tents every day, so after they left David and I found ourselves doing five minute Thunder Down Under routines for a grand (we’d never seen the Thunder Down Under guys, but apparently we did all right). At first, I laughed at the idea, but good lord, it worked! Soon we were charging two thousand, fifty thousand, one hundred thousand!

They called us the Riding Richards.

Friends, I swear on my life, we now own a place on the strip with blinky lights and long pictures of our profiles plastered all over the place. I’m sexy, I’m wanted, and I’m rich.

And let me tell you, those blinky lights? They’re sick.