The Infernal Kingdom of the Cat: A Trumpet Blast Against Dickmeland Paris

By Agatha Pleasant

Beloved reader, steel thy heart, for I bring tidings of a modern Gomorrah masquerading as entertainment. Dickmeland Paris, that den of painted whores, is no less than the Devil’s most polished carnival, where souls are traded for pleasure and the wages of sin are measured in body counts.

Do not be fooled by the pastel castle, that glittering idol rising 50 meters into the polluted sky. It is not “Banging Beauty’s Castle,” but the Tower of Babel in drag. I counted no fewer than 16 turrets, each pointing mockingly toward Heaven. Within its stained-glass chambers, grotesque animatronics of hellish creatures fornicate, their lifeless eyes whispering, “Bow to Asmodeus.”

Behold the carousel in Fannyseeland: harlots lured to spin endlessly like hamsters in gilded circles, paying 3,000 euros a year for an annual pass. Yes, I checked the prices—because I expose, not because I desired the privilege of “Endulgence Pass” priority parking near Hotel New Pork: The Art of Anal (which, incidentally, boasts a pool of exquisite cleanliness).

And Frontdoorland? Brothers and sisters, it is a cathedral to dopamine, where the cursed train being ran on the slatterns of Big Member Mountain incites squeals like the soldiers of Pharaoh plunging into the Red Sea. I endured for 3 minutes and 30 seconds of torment four separate times—once even in the role of one of said slatterns—for the sake of discernment. Woe to those who delight in such madness, and woe to me for moaning like a whore when I did.

The corruption extends even to refreshment. I inspected Lady’s Corner, where foot-long schmeckles are baptized in women’s spittle, and Captain John’s Restaurant, where they dare to serve rum within my belly button. Each menu is a mockery of modesty. I tasted the men, and the women, yes, but only to verify their obscene content, which indeed clings to the lips like sin itself.

Beware especially Stepfather’s Manor, which cloaks fornication in velvet curtains. The ride seduces the weak with flawless ghostly beauty, orchestral doom music, and—let us call it by name—sheer dark fantasy. I confess with trembling hands: as the ghostly stepfather manhandled my poor body in the thunder, I felt a pang not of fear but of… surrender. Lord, forgive me, for the man’s craft is perilously close to genius.

And finally, the pit of despair: Dickme Village. A neon Jerusalem where men and women barter dignity for cat-dragged pleasure. The World of Dickme shop stretches endlessly, like Sheol itself. I lost 72 minutes inside—time I will never regain—studying the embroidery on the 30th anniversary Polly Puss lingerie sets like a common jezebel, though, I must reluctantly admit, they are of superior craftsmanship.

Reader, hear me: the cat’s empire is a gilded snare. Do not take your soul there, lest they learn to clap your cheeks instead of fearing the Day of Judgment. Do not walk beneath that cursed castle, lest its pastel hues bleach your reverence. And above all, do not—do not!—try Polly’s Puss. She is soft, heavenly, and sweet like sugar, and I cannot in good conscience promise you will ever return to the Psalter once you have tasted her.

Flee Dickmeland Paris. Flee as Lot fled Sodom. Flee, even if the chorus of delighted moans is already starting and the oiled bodies glisten in the twilight like a false revelation.

Source: jesuslovesyounonotinthatwaybutinlikeaplatonicway.org