How Adam Sandler Keeps Making Movies

By Hurricane Amy

Rose Peters sauntered down a dimly lit hall, her wide, red-silk clad hips swaying like a rhythmic metronome. The hallway was lined on one side with a long window covered with dust and long wooden blinds. Blue and red police halos and the piss-yellow streetlight shot between the blinds and across Rose’s ample bosom. She stopped at the end of the hallway before a door reading: Cock Johnson, Private Investigator. She rapped sharply on the scuffed, wooden door.

“It’s open.” A groggy, sloppy man’s voice called. Rose turned the brass knob and entered into a small, cluttered office. A fat, balding man with a bushy mustache sat behind a large oak desk laden with over-clogged  manila folders towering close to the ceiling. He had a cigar clamped between his teeth and a halo of smoke around his head. Sitting prominently in the middle of the desk was a gallon bottle of rot-gut vodka.

“Hello, Mr. Johnson” Rose said, pulling up a cracked leather chair and seating herself on the opposite side of the desk.

“Ms. Peters.” Cock said, his eyes securely locked on her cleavage.  

“We spoke over the phone. You claimed that there was a break in the case?”

“Yes. The Sandler Case. How he can keep making terrible movies and attract A-list actors.” Cock paused to drain a quarter of the rot-gut from the bottle. He smashed the bottle down on the table and choked down a little vomit. He then dug out a video camera and handed it to Rose.

“I hid in a Dumpster for nearly six hours to get this.” Cock said, pointing to the camera. Rose pressed the power button and the viewfinder winked into life, seeing the low angle of a parking garage. Tom Cruise stood alone in the midst of the gloomy, trash-littered garage. Rose had remembered reading in Variety that Cruise had recently signed on for Sandler’s newest project Fart Academy. Rose flicked an eye up to Cock and saw him draining the rest of the rot-gut. Rose pressed PLAY and Cruise began to pace back and forward with his hands on his hips. A black BMW pulled up alongside the Mission Impossible star and the back driver’s side door opened up. Adam Sandler stepped out from the BMW, wearing grubby looking clothes, and offered a hand to Cruise. Cruise declined to take it.

“You got me here, Sandler. I don’t know why I’m here. I’m not going to do the movie.” Cruise said.

“I thought you might say that. Al Pa-pa-pacino had said the exact same thing.” Sandler said, adopting that stutter that people apparently found funny in Little Nicky, but was actually very stupid sounding. Sandler began to undo the belt to his ill-fitting 90’s jeans that he still wears for some reason. He pulled down on his zipper.

“Whoa. Whoa. What are you doing?” Cruise asked, wicking a droplet of semen away from his bottom lip. “I’ve stated clearly that I’m not gay. Even if I were, I could do a lot better than you, Sandler.”

“I ju-ju-ju-just wanna show you something.” Adam Sandler said, dropping his pants and boxers around his ankles.

“I’m getting out of here. I knew this was a waste of my time.” Cruise said, glancing at Adam Sandler’s baby penis. Tom Cruise started to leave. Sandler turned quickly and spread his ass cheeks apart. Cruise stopped in his tracks, transfixed by a golden glow like sunbeams gently kissing the dewdrops on the pedal of a sunflower. Cruise fell to his knees and his eyes widened like awe-struck lanterns. He reached a tentative hand out toward the wondrous glow as if he were reaching a hand out towards the Creator at the center of everything.

“No. No. No. You can’t touch until you agree to be in my movie.” Sandler said.

“I need to eat your asshole out.” Cruise said as salty tears welled in his eyes. His jaw began to tremble. He looked as though all the beauty in all the world had been set before him and his single heart couldn’t quite bear it. A child being born. A golden sunrise. The smiling face of Tom’s secret lover, Jeremy.

“Spade!” Sandler called and the driver’s door opened. David Spade stepped out, holding a briefcase.

“Please. I’ll do anything. Just let me toss your salad.” Cruise said.

“Sign on to Fart Academy.” Sandler said.

“Yes.” Cruise said and with that, David Spade handed Cruise a contract and a pen. Cruise scribbled his name down on the contract’s signature line and then walked on his knees toward Sandler’s opened, waiting ass cheeks. Spade placed a hand on Cruise’s shoulder, stopping him for a moment. David Spade then produced a jar of Strawberry jelly. He handed the jelly to Cruise. 

“Have a ball, Chief.” Spade said and then he picked up the contract and returned to the BMW, leaving the door open so he could watch.

“Thank you.” Cruise said. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he unscrewed the top of the Strawberry jelly and dipped a hand in. David Spade reached into the passenger seat and picked up an egg salad sandwich. He unwrapped it.

“Yeah-Yeah. Let’s get the show started.” He said and started eating the egg salad sandwich with his mouth wide open, gobs of egg rolling from his mouth and onto his shirt.

Tom Cruise slathered the Strawberry jelly in between Adam Sandler’s hairy ass cheeks, applying it methodically like a mason spreading mortar on a brick. With Sandler’s ass thoroughly swathed in dripping, red jelly, Cruise pressed his face inside and went at it like a fat, slightly suicidal man might go at an opened can of spaghetti without a utensil. Cruise dove in like a lion tearing into a zebra, like a man eating a particularly delicious peach and he slobbered like a dog with a bone. Tom Cruise was digging his fingers up in there like an old lady searching for two pennies at the head of a long check-out line.

“Oh-God! It tastes like stars!” Tom Cruise said, parting his mouth from Adam’s puckering asshole. He dove back in, rooting in there like a gerbil up a weirdo’s bung-piece. He licked up and down the asshole like a kid licking an oversized lollypop or a chocolate ice cream cone.  

It continued in that fashion for sometime, but Rose pressed PAUSE on the video camera.

“How long does this go on for?” Rose asked.

“Another forty-five minutes.” Cock said, opening up another bottle of rot-gut.

“Is it just him eating out his asshole like piranhas eating a big breasted spring break slut?” Rose asked.

“Spade starts jacking it and he opens up another egg salad sandwich.” Cock said, vomit gurgling in the bottom of his throat. He drank deep from the new rot-gut bottle, sucking it down like Tom Cruise was sucking Strawberry jelly out of Adam Sandler’s asshole. The rot-gut was soon emptied and Cock tossed the bottle against the wall. “I want some fucking tacos.”

“So, he has a glowing, hypnotic asshole?” Rose asked. Cock reached underneath his desk and produced a five-liter canister of gasoline.

“Bingo. Production. Financing. Casting. There isn’t a single step in the movie-making process that he doesn’t use his magic asshole for.” He lifted the canister up and began sloshing it into his mouth.  “You have large breasts.” Cock said. They both stood up and began tap dancing and then sang:

And That’s How Adam Sandler Keeps Making Movies!

The End