The performer knows when to mix things up. It’s a matter of knowing what your audience “needs now.” You don’t want everything to be heavy. (Plus I saw Mulder and Scully shift in their seats when they finally realized that they won’t be getting pensions. Maybe they’ll uphold their oaths of office next time when they’re working mall security.)
As you know, the United States Government is dead. I killed it. I finally got tired of that total piece of criminal trash obstructing my ability to work in my chosen field of expertise. It’s such a powerhouse, such a dynamo that it can’t tolerate a professional comedian earning a living. The jurisdiction is on life support. We’re all just waiting for that nondiction to flatline so we can go out to dinner and go home and get on with our lives.
And its limp-dick rubbery fumblings are fun to ridicule. It can’t even get it up, it’s such a geriatric piece of garbage.
So here it is in all its flabby-assed glory. It’s gonna try to get a hard-on, to relive its youth as a strapping young man with a steel-belted cock pistoning in and out of some adoring beauty, she gripping the bedsheets and writhing in anticipation of the pounding she’s heard this guy is packin’ in his pants: “Fuck me! Fuck me with that fuckstick!”
“Er, just you hold on there, you little whippersnapper. There’s the little matter of–”
“–Oooh, I can’t wait anymore, old man! Make me your whore! Buy off my legislature! Spread your reserve currency all over the world! Stick me! Conquer me with your granite love pole!”
“Well, yes, uh, I’m warming up is what I’m doing. A man sometimes, you know, has things on his mind. …That damned USov. …Here, just try rubbing it for a while.”
“But I thought you were so mighty. Can you hear my eyes rolling, you old geezer? I thought everyone yielded to your every demand. I thought you had the biggest cock on the block. And now I hear there’s some new guy? Some young buck with a fat dick in his designer boxers and fully laden goose eggs swingin’ around in his loose, hairy nut sack? Quit rubbing that limp noodle on my thigh, you fraud. Lemme guess: The girls were right; you lost jurisdiction, didn’t you? Huh? Stupid? What ever made you think it was a bright idea to place a comedian into the history books by declaring him to be a terrorist?! Huh?! Idiot?! He’s killed your jurisdiction, dummy! Do you fully understand what that means? First goes the income tax and then whiskey and cigarette taxes and then carbon taxes, and now it’s drivers licenses and allodial title, and next week the man’ll have his own fuckin’ space station for all I know! Get out of here, you senile old reject! And get me Chris King Pop Icon! I want his fuckstick in my cooch! Oh yeah, baby! Gimme some of that magic!”
[This is an example of sex fiction as written by an Aspergers person. Take it for what it’s worth.]