sex, non-human

Do you like custard? Of course you do. That’s because it’s got eggs in it, and eggs are for sex. It also contains vanilla, which is the kind of sex you have if you can’t stop imagining your mum walking in, and don’t want to upset her too much. Not forgetting milk and cream, which are sexy per se, and sugar, which is what you call a lady to let her know you want to climb inside her blouse and get handsy with her torso. Is it any wonder that we call human jism “nature’s custard”, and feed our children a nourishing blend of custard and jelly, which in this context, means a lovely big arse.

But how do people who aren’t humans “have it off” with their “bum chums”? I will tell you


Polar Bear sex only begins after Polar Bear marriage, but they are literally “poles apart” from the faithful Penguin. Polar Bears only ever fuck around outside of wedlock like their dicks and fannies are on fire, and everyone else’s ass, mouth, fanny and hand is a lovely bucket of water. But because they don’t really like talking about it, Polar Bears invented the don’t ask, don’t tell open relationship.

A typical session begins for the female while the husband is out on a glacier looking for sweet babes to spend his ice dollars on. During this absence, the wife will poke her entire hairy arse out of the bedroom window and shart – or shit fart – pheromones out until a passing male catches a full faceful of her hormone-dreadlocked derriere. This will cause him to begin slobbering and he will say “o boy o boy I can smell a lady’s big ass in a window”

The male Polar Bear presses his snout and dick into one of the many municipal pots of Lynx Africa and shouts “CCOOOOMINNGG”, which will cause the female to run around the bedroom flipping all her wedding photos face down. When her suitor finally lands with a colossal smash through the bedroom wall, he will have fully taken leave of his senses, and will generally begin to initiate sex on several items of furniture, while the female drums her fingers and rolls her eyes at the video camera she has set up, to facilitate a nice frig later on.

Eventually the baser instincts kick in, and the male’s penis finds its way to within inches of the female’s bean, which by this point is sizzling like a Chinese skillet. This is when her husband will burst in, drunk on fermented ice cubes, with his own catch of the night: a second female who is usually the wife of the first male.

After a period of negotiation and discussion, the two couples will reassess their relationships, and establish a loving four-way relationship, and churn our pups in an environment that is so overwhelmingly sex positive that they’ll say something weird at school and their teachers will report them all to social services. Polar Bears – the world isn’t ready for your pioneering relationships.


When the really dry and lifeless male planet is ready to mate, it will jettison a plume of sand from its mantle. This serves a dual purpose: both as a gloomy “come hither” to any melancholic female planets in the quadrant, and is also how the planet steer itself from the orbit of its hostile scorching sun and behind its own moon. Once out of the direct impact of the deadly UV, the planet will begin to spin faster and faster until it starts to sing a low, mournful melody.

It sings in taciturn tones of the absence of lizards skipping over its dunes. It sings a dismal ditty that no life can be supported in its toxic atmosphere, apart from the odd tardigrade or some other extremophile bullshit that doesn’t count. It sings sadly that a tit or a nice big dick has never scampered across its surface, and how it longs to play host to something as mundane to other planets as a Centre Parcs, only a very special Centre Parcs, where the activities come as standard instead of costing you extra.

This morose song will attract a female barren planet, who will say something companiably downbeat, like “I know how you feel, love”.

What follows is the most vast act of coitus imaginable. A fine, dusty dune slips without lubrication or joy through a gravelly valley. The gravity of the larger male attracts some of the female’s own poisonous atmosphere, leaving him larger but no more satisfied, and leaving her a sense of being cheated, even though she entered this encounter knowing full well how physics works.

A more vibrant planet would use a volcanic eruption as a sign of orgasm. But these husks have to make do with a sandy, impotent frot, before jettisoning one last sandy goodbye guff and returning to their respective lonely orbits. Where, the male planet admits to himself, that he was probably being silly about Centre Parcs. I mean, charging extra for the activities is how they keep the basic prices down, and why should people who just want to use the pool subsidise the dickheads who want to fuck around in the forest with a bow and arrow.

“People. I’m better off without them!”, the planet thinks to itself, before losing the will to spin on its axis.


First of all you need to go back in time and have sex with your mum then wait nine months and deliver yourself. Then you need to act like your own dad, only making every opposite decision your dad made with you, enjoying the thrill as you feel your personality change as you mess around with your own history. Hugging you in the past makes now you feel happier. Screaming at your child self, on the other hand, makes adult you angrier and feel less emotionally well-adjusted.

This is obviously paradox ripples and not how interacting with any child makes any parent feel, shut up.

When you’ve been doing this cycle for a billion years, you realise that the only way to break the chain is to find your original dad, who you knocked out of the loop the first time you went back in time. So find him and rim the fuck out of your dad’s hairy asshole until you both die without children, and you cease to exist.

But if you don’t exist – how come you can still taste your dad’s sweet hairy ass?

Learn more! Episode 335