Bringing sexy back: The mission.

The other day whilst flicking through the channels on my televisual device, I came across one Mr Justin Timberlake. Mr Timberlake was singing a song that detailed his intentions to "bring sexy back". However, from the lyrics and video, I felt slightly unsure that he had succeeded in his quest. Instead of making me content with his bringing back of "sexy", I instead felt somewhat confused: Why, for example, was the woman spying on him in her bra? Why, I ask, was she spying on him in the first place? Perhaps she was investigating what the fuck the song is actually about.

Feeling disgruntled and somewhat non-aroused (note the motif), I decided that it was now in my hands, and my hands alone, to bring sexy back. Justin Timberlake had failed, and if nobody did anything about it, the world was sure to become a purely unsexy place. So I put on my sexy hat, stretched up my sexy pants and brushed my teeth.. sexily. This was going to be dangerous. Sexily dangerous.

My first port of call was to go to the place where "sexy" was invented. Obviously, this place is Denmark, but taking a flight to that bacon-filled country was not as enjoyable as you may imagine. I got frisked, but it wasn't sexy; I got complimentary peanuts, but they weren't sexy. In fact, very few things in that airport were sexy. This was a horrible sight. Clearly the world was becoming a dark, desolate place, somewhat not dissimilar to the great sexy drought of 1456, when thousands of villages were left for years without a single pair of suspenders or even a measly push-up bra. Disgusting.

When finally in Denmark, I needed to find the great mage of sexiness. Asking around, I found that his abode was situated at the top of tallest mountain in Denmark. Fortunately, since the tallest mountain in Denmark, the Himmelbjerget, died of AIDS in 1013, the next tallest mountain is only 5 feet above the ground. Nontheless, it was still a strenuous effort climbing up all of those 8 steps to his front door.

The man who stood in front of me upon opening the door was the most tremendous thing that has ever raped my eyes. Here is an accurate drawing of him:


I could understand how this man was so sexy: he had modelled sexiness on his own appearance. He had dildos for arms, penises for legs, a thousand breasts and a large vagina for a face. He was the epitome of sexiness; he was the archetype for which all sexiness is modelled. The last time I'd seen such an amazing cuntface, I was watching "The Naked Chef". He invited me in, and offered me a drink. "A large pint of Guinness please, mate", I asked. Unfortunately, Guinness was not a sexy enough drink, he told me. As I was about to throw him through a plate glass window, he stopped me, and handed me a swirling green concoction. "What is this?", I asked. "That", he slopped out of his slack fanny gob, "Is the sexiest drink ever created." I was a little sickened, and it obviously showed. "Drink's on me", he said, smiling, "Go ahead. Be gone with it." I looked more hesitant. "Go ahead child. Be gone with it", he responded. Plucking up the courage, I downed the swirling stew in one gulp that would impress even Paris Hilton herself.

As the slimey swirling concoction curdled itself around my tonsils, I felt something very funny going on inside my loins. The world started spinning, and I was blasted through a vortex of time and space. When my feet finally hit terra cotta, I realised that I was no longer in the presence of Mr Sexy, but was in fact standing in a large, barren field. I ran and I ran. I did this because it's what they do in the films. Fortunately, Hollywood once again didn't fail me, and I came across a dark, mysterious cave. Walking inside, and lighting a match off my sexy back, I found the cave to be very cavenous indeed. I asked the helpful woman at the information desk beside me to give me some advice. She gave me a large map and told me to follow the yellow line to the "Sexy Guru", and he would answer all of my questions.

I followed the line like Kate Moss, and was soon confronted by the Sexy Guru himself. I asked him "how do I bring sexy back?" He pondered for a second, before responding with, "You cannot bring sexy back. Sexy is long gone. Sexiness was just a fashion; just a passing phase. It is futile. Give up."

I was disgusted. How could the sexy guru himself say something so slanderous and strangely eloquent for someone who's lived in a cave all his life? At that point, I realised that something was seriously wrong. Leaping up, I grabbed hold of the Sexy Guru's wrinkled face and pulled hard. His face tore away easily, and below it lay a tremendous sight: Mr. Justin Timberlake!

"B-b-b-but why?", asked I.

"You can never bring sexy back!", he tromboned. "I destroyed it, and I will make sure no-one ever brings it back, by means of sickeningly bland music!"

"Noo!", I nooed. "You can't do that you slanderous cunt! Sexiness will prevail! It always does!"

"Never!", he nevered, and he pulled out a pair of pliers. "You want this in your fucking head, you little shit? You want me to put these in your fucking skull?"

He took a single swipe at me, I ducked below with the grace of a goose, and gave him a soft jab backwards.

"Aaaaaagh!", he screamed, as he tripped over backwards. With a sickening crunch, he landed backwards on a splintered shard of his ego, made one last girly falsetto tone, and drooped down, dead. With that, this creamy, mist-like substance started pouring out of the hole in his torso, and flowed out of the entrance of the cave, searching for daylight. It had finally happened: the imprisoned sexy had been released.

Take 'em to the conclusion:

I felt my feet lift the ground again, and I was transported back to Mr Sexy's Danish hovel. A tear glistened on his cheek, and his eyes twinkled like stars. I found this to be slightly cliched, but I wasn't too bothered at this point.

"You've done it", he happily sobbed, "You've brought sexy back!"

"I did it for you, Mr Sexy", I responded.

"Just call me dad", he replied.

"Dad?"

"Yes, that's right. You thought your father had been killed in a tragic kiting accident, but that was all a lie. I am your father, and you've done me proud." Tears were streaming down his face, now.

"So that means-", I started.

"Yes, boy. You are the son of sexy."

And from then on, I was known as the son of sexy. The people rejoiced; the world became a better place, I got about a thousand myspace friends, and people were all generally sexier to each other. And I knew that I, single handedly, had completed my goal: I had brought sexy back.