Is it morning already? Hard to tell with the constant ash alerts. Seems to be dark most of the time. Ash falling like snow almost everyday.

Can’t help but admire my own reflection. See how the light catches the scrotums on my forehead? Columnar shapes of intense blackness loom beyond the glass elevator: the Poundhard Building, the Perv Building, the Glitzy Dogturd Building. AIs flicker and dart behind luminous blue windows. Humans aren’t allowed up there where the actual administrative work takes place. “Yes, the system knows the building looks like a big black dick, ma’am. Yes, we’re well-apprised of the situation…” says a sexy AI public relations rep.

Bottom line: there’s no hope for the future unless we’re cumming on everything. Sex is low-carbon activity. Hashtag #ravenousgroins. The guy I’m working with has an array of six boobs on his torso and a pharmaceutical career as a sales representative with a hundred plus sexual contacts a day. He proposed the feral hog as official corporate mascot for the Fuckfest 9000 MetLife Speed-Eating/Obesity Paralympics. Great idea, I said. We need solid brand identification that emotionally engages our key demographic: grotesquely overweight people sniffing their own farts in cum-stained sweatpants. I suggested bonus swag for racking up cum points, e.g. a cheap plastic alarm clock with boner hands and different fetishes for each hour. Perhaps a matching deluxe tote bag?

Cum is the new Standard Oil. Boner hours forecast to be up $400 billion, year-on-year. Hell, everyone was watching porn all the time anyway. Gay lolita Vietnamese goth anime children watching DVDA gangbangs on their phones at Christmas dinner: “What?…oh yeah, I love you too, Grandma.” Porn was oozing into mainstream culture until the dam just broke.

With the increasing irrelevance of human labor, the AIs decided to horizontally deploy the porn business model across the entire economy: menstrual flow rivers, volcanoes of cum, feral hogs with washboard abs rutting on trash piles in bikinis, oh, baby…Internet detects a consumer impulse in my brainstem…”Prostrate massage?” says a sales promo voice in my head. There’s a whir and I look down. The elevator has extended a finger-like actuator, glob of lube on the tip. 30 percent off, says the network, wiggling the actuator. Tempting, but I decline. Think I’ll hit the drive-thru at Sincognito™ on the way home. Get a quick double anal with cheese.

AIs flicker behind the windows. Sky looking weird again. Some really scary weather events have been happening: skies the color of roast beef, skies that look like open heart surgery. Is the unthinkable happening? Ha ha, just kidding. An iguana saunters into the elevator wearing a pink T-shirt that says FUCK MY ASS. Super thrilled with my face surgically grafted with genitals harvested from dead organ donors (FSGWGHFDOD) confirmation surgery. The euphoria is so overwhelming. BTW, I’m sleeping with my father. I’m extremely sexually attractive, clinically depressed, zany, creative, suicidal, kind to animals, psychopathic, and love my own smells. My first day at work, I had sex with 33 different people before lunch. Then I rode across town to hump a plushy toy at Target. Our youth deserve empowering sexual experiences. It’s crucial to explain perfectly valid sex acts, like defecating into someone else’s anus, so kids can be armed with knowledge. Somebody has to protect them. Check out this photo of my face on Viagra. Can we be serious for a minute? Sex equals sales, people. 24/7 fucking is a matter of national security. Any decline in the national orgasm rate may trigger a catastrophic loss of investor confidence: no medicine in our pharmacies, no food in our supermarkets, millions of middle-class job losses. Hell, I’ll drink my own cum if I have to defend freedom and the American way. That’s not idle posturing. The rights of the penis against the state are non-negotiable. High time to decriminalize literally everything.

Real shame about Testiculoso. Apparently, he puked in his S&M zipper mask high on meth while his elephant lover’s trunk was rooting around in his ass trying to retrieve a USB stick full of hyper-realistic simulated kiddy porn. Got a robocall to come identify him at the morgue. AI coroner unzipped the flap, showed me his genitals. Scrotum ballooned to the size of a pumpkin due to multi-liter injections of saline. I sobbed, “Ohmygod, yes, that’s him.” Funeral was a blast, though! Partied with a drug called Revivox from XenoDyne-PharmoMonkey. Death is only the end if you let it be.™ Inject the corpse in the lower spine, and they come to life as a sex-crazed, priapic zombie for 12 hours. Funeral director suggested a $1,449 package deal, rutting with the cadavers he rents out for insurance scams. A wild orgy ensued! Buried T. well fucked and happy, his smartphone up his ass, casket well glazed with cum.

Ding! Ground floor. Slut Walk by the Menstrulo River today. Giant inflatable robo-ass of color twerking. Cute little blonde boy—no pants, hairless wee-wee—holds a sign that says “My Mom’s a Slut.” Mom’s wearing a pussy hat AND a cervix armband AND a fallopian tube hijab AND a transsexual menstruation awareness lapel ribbon. Musses junior’s hair as bystanders upload pics. “Honestly, you’d think people would be more accepting,” she says.

An illuminated blimp with two balls putters through the grimy morning sky.

Oh no; my ex-wife and nine-year-old son Jimmy are trudging through the ash, cutting a bee line across the plaza. Stress indicators on their foreheads way over 100. Turns out it’s the same old shit about Jimmy being teased at school because of my facial penis grafts. By the end of it, I’m bawling my head off…totally traumatized. Zero effort to comfort me. “You know what’s repulsive?” I say. “That you actually coach your own child to say shit like this. In public. That’s how eager you are to sabotage my happiness.”

I’m sobbing on the curb as my ride pulls up. “Fuck the door, please,” says the computer. “You have to fuck the door to open it. Fuck the door please.” I hump the prolapsed socket and communicate my destination via penis-tip orgasmal spasm.

Blizzard of augmented-reality ads in the back of the self-driving vehicle (haven’t subscribed to premium yet): Monkey Vaggies, the vagina-themed cereal for monkey-human hybrid kids, now with Truvada! No luck getting your ’09 Ford F-150 pregnant? United penises of color, sponsored by Citibank and Raytheon, squirt hearty nutritious cum on a piping hot dinner roll.

Traffic is a twinkling river of red and white lights descending into the valley. I notice some dark bundles hanging from the rusted-out, immobile wind turbines on the viaduct. A lot of bundles, actually. Are those dead bodies? A large spray-painted banner says: “Don’t snitch. Carry on with your day.” What? I look back, nervously. Hmm…must be a kink thing, he he.

Now the vehicle is taking the off-ramp. “Where are you going?” I ask, but the AI ignores me. I put my penis into the socket and start humping. Socket isn’t working. Vehicle seems to be malfunctioning. Help! I pound on the window to signal other riders, but they’re all busy cumming; mooning me with their asses, jerking off on little blue screens, immersed in virtual-reality goggles, stroking pale, bluish boners…

We end up on a barren plain of ash. Rusty pipe burping out a black, tar-like substance. All around, rainbow-themed Pride police cars are flaming, overturned. A female sex robot with heavy jiggling breasts and an RPG launcher approaches. She drags me out of the car and shoves me into the back of an idling bus with blacked-out windows. Is she going to do me with a strap-on?

My eyes adjust. People on benches bathed in the eerie blue light of my phone. They’re shaking, blubbering, blindfolded with Ace bandages. This is a hot abduction fantasy! Is the AI reading my mind again? I turn on Grindr. Generally, there’s a dozen men within 20 feet of me looking for a hookup, night or day. No hits. What? A scary thought flashes through my mind: Are these people anti-masturbation terrorists? Have the authorities mistaken me for one?

“Why aren’t you cumming?” I ask indignantly. “What’s wrong with you people?”

No one says anything. Just sobs and whimpers.

Finally, an old man speaks up. He’s holding the hand of his granddaughter with great tenderness.

“Don’t you get it, dumbfuck? The AIs are gassing and incinerating us. Sex is the distraction. It’s how they lure us into the cattle cars.”