A Fundamental Lesson On The Jerry Springer Show

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There was no mistaking where I was: Jerry Springer's name was stamped on everything. A young woman, her demanding, forthright tone and urgent manner incongruous for a person who appeared to weigh less than a bag of sugar, concentrated on a voice in her headphones. Then, like a pint-sized Centurion thrusting Daniel into the lion's den, she slapped my bottom and with a "good luck, hon!" propelled me towards the stage.

I must have looked like a startled rabbit, stumbling up the stairs onto the stage and then suddenly frozen by the glare of a hundred or more sets of eyes. Crazy eyes of depravity hungry voyeurs all hooting lewd remarks at the sight of me. My dress, conservative and unrevealing, suddenly felt gossamer thin and useless to deflect the mental undressing of me I sensed was occurring.

"Hello Adrianna. Welcome."

"Hello Jerry." My ears and neck burned with a hot flush of embarrassment.

"So, what's this about butt plugs?" The question was asked with that typical Springer nonchalance. He couldn't have sounded more indifferent if he was asking about light bulbs or tennis racquets. 

I blushed more deeply and waited for the audience to stop chanting. "Butt plug! Butt plug!"

"I don't know, Jerry."

"You don't know?" He raised an eyebrow and smirked.

"No, you must have me confused with somebody else." The lie made me acutely aware of the finger sized, plastic anal invader I was sitting on. 

"It says here --" he referred to his palm cards.

"I'm a good girl!" I interrupted, smiling innocently.

"Butt plug! Butt plug!" The audience hooted hysterically. Springer squinted behind his glasses and grinned broadly, encouraging the crowd into a concerted chant.

"Really? Then you're on the wrong show!"

"Jer-ry! Jer-ry! Jer-ry!" The audience again bellowed between gales of laughter.

"What are you doing here then?" Jerry instantly lapsed into his familiar Father Confessor mode.

The question seemed reasonable, especially considering the company I was with on stage. 

Beside me, a woman the size of a wheat silo groaned and grimaced before unleashing a thunderous fart. Her spindley-limbed male companion, oblivious to the uproar caused by the explosion from her fundamental orifice, dived between her mammoth thighs and sniffed deeply like a connoisseur fine aromas savoring the smell of coffee beans. The audience responded with staccato sounds of dry retching.

"I'm in love with Steve!" I declared.

"Steve! Steve! Steve!" The audience honked.

I looked at the handsome security man standing off to one side of the stage. I'm not sure which of us was blushing more: him or me.

At that moment Miss Flatulence, like a half set jello decanting itself from a bowl, rose from her seat and waddled towards me. She seemed unaware of the flailing arms of Bean-Pole man, whose head was still wedged solidly between her thighs. "He's mine! Steve is mine!" She roared with such angry conviction the sound reverberated visibly through her body, stirring yet another tempest of rumbling farts. 

Steve immediately rushed to the stage but was too late to stop her puffy fingers grabbing hold of my dress. With a force proportional to her diesel locomotive size, she ripped the garment clean from my body as easily as a magician might pull a table cloth from under a vase of paper flowers. I leapt nakedly to my feet and hid behind Steve. Miss Bombay Bottom continued trying to thump me with her clubbed fists until Steve gave her a gentle push after which gravity sucked her hulking, boulder-sized body to the floor. Somewhere beneath the disheveled mound of alabaster flesh colored Buddha was Mr Fart Sniffer but nobody seemed concerned for his whereabouts.

"I love you Steve!" I cooed, wrapping my arms around the muscled abdomen of my savior. I was momentarily lost in a sea of bliss.

"I'm gay," he whispered, confidentially.

Did I feel disappointed? Cheated? Yes, but surely not as much as the viewers at home who would have been treated to nothing more than the pixilated image of my butt plugged bottom rushing from the stage.
