The particles in the atmosphere were vibrating with vastly decreased and diminished energy, as was not atypical for the ultimate moon of the annual cycle, and Donald Trump was feeling frisky. A vast expanse of time had elapsed since last he had felt the exquisite sensation of a foreign object being inserted into the exit of his digestive system. Oh, how he longed for it! Longed for it with the desperation of a sailor lost at sea, ever on the lookout for land, jutting out into the sea like the male appendage. Donald was distraught. His Vladimir Putin butt plug was permanently stained with his ordure, to the point where it was unrecognizable. Donald knew what he had to do. He reached into his trousers and retrieved his cellular device. He opened the application frequently used to send written messages and texted three men on whom he could rely to release endorphins, in whose soft hands #45 placed an abundance of trust, far exceeding the trust that he placed in Melania's sweet bosom. He requested their presence immediately.

Somewhere in the western leagues of the sociopolitical entity known as York Jr., Carl Edward Sagan, PhD, slowly dragged the joint away from his beautiful mouth and swept his oak-tinted tresses away from his visage. His two five-digited extremities, strengthened by years of writing, traversed the expanse of the breasts of the female human to whom he had declared his pledge to engage in coitus exclusively with at a public ceremony and for whom he wore a annular band of Au. As he gazed upon the supple organs that would on occasions yet unknown leak lactose-infused nourishment for their spawn, Carl commented, his encephalon permeating with the chemicals released by that green leaf, "your tits look like cherries". Moved by the musical harmony of his distinctive baritone voice, Ann Druyan removed the cloth that covered her feminine genitalia. The astronomer, planetary scientist, cosmologist, astrophysicist, astrobiologist, author, poet, and science communicator felt a familiar urge in his nether regions. He was experiencing the primitive instinct that nature and evolution (not god) had cultivated over the eons and epochs and ages through selection that is natural. Thus began the act of copulation. No longer was Carl a PhD astronomer, UChicago grad, and Ivy League professor. Now, he was only a vessel for the continuation of his genetic material, at the mercy of the hormones that inundated his limbic system and coerced him into desiring to stick his reproductive organ into his wife's repeatedly. The mating process continued for an extensive amount of time, no doubt elongated by the intoxicating plant and its divine fumes. "I'm gonna probe Uranus", "sure ain't no comin' outta that black hole", and "take my star stuff, baby" were some of the profound, poetic vocalizations expressed during the intercourse. Eventually, Carl deposited his seminal fluids in the vaginal cavity from which parturition would emerge in three quarters of a dozen moons hence. Suddenly, his auditory preceptors detected sound waves. The text was from Donald and it stated, "come and help daddy Donny". Whilst removing his member from the crotch of his copulatory partner, Carl exclaimed, "text from Donald. Gotta go". The slender brunette disappeared.

Somewhere within the boundaries of the sociopolitical entity notorious for men who wore plaid skirts whilst in a commando state and folks whose scalp fur was reminiscent in hue of tomatoes (solanum lycopersicum), Severus Tobias Snape was seated in the enclosed space referred to as the headmaster's office, facing the geriatric sorcerer. "Benevolent finale to the Earth's journey around the hydrogen fireball, my good pawn" said Albus Percival Wolfric Brian Dumbledore coyly, his irises like blue raspberry gumballs. "What is that object that appears to resemble processed timber on which is imprinted symbols with ink?", the goth professor inquired of his superior.

"T'is a paean that I have composed for the being to whom I speak. My sincerest gratitude will be bestown upon you if you should read mine ode to thy grandeur". At that moment, Severus began to read aloud to the elderly aged individual whose facial hair had reached impressive longness.

"Dear Severus,

I am interminably indebted to you for being my triple agent. Thence I serenade you.

Your keratin strands are like the midnight sky on a moonless night

When the gale blows softly through the foliage

The strands hang around your face like an elegant waterfall

Your spheres of sight are irresistibly smooth like Lindt Lindor 70% Cocoa Extra Dark Chocolate Truffles

Your hooked nose reminds me of the succulent penis of Gellert Grindelwald

We can use the grease from your hair as lubricant

Have sex with me, Severus, please"

The Potions Master concluded articulating the poetry in his distinctive extremely slow manner of speaking. The elderly one looked upon his employee with an air of unmitigated lust and desire.

"Severus, please", he repeated, now with desperation laced within the sounds emanating from his vocal cords.

"Dumbledore, we are simply a pair of amiable, platonic companions" noted the semi-sanguine fluid royalty. As Dumbledore began to remove his modesty cloths, he emitted more romantic declarations from his facial aperture,

"We are lovers, thou and I. We are destined for one another. Like Alabama and illiteracy. Like Germany and Poland. Like the Catholic Church and pedophilia". The slate-bearded homosexual stretched his humeri, ulnas, and radii towards the oily obsidian locks of Severus. Just as the nude Dumbledore shouted at maximum decibels,

"I must acquire your lubricant", a noise was detected by their cartilage side head organs. Severus avoided Dumbledore's groping digits and grasped his Apple device. The text read, "come help daddy Donny". Patting gay Gandalf's testicles solemnly, Severus chimed in, "text from Donald. Gotta go". The slender brunette disappeared.

In relatively close proximity to that emo teacher, in the same bagpipe-y land, dwelt a chartreuse humanoid whose thinking sphere was lamentably devoid of fibrous brushable protein strands and shone in the visible light not unlike a great multitudinously layered onion. Currently, not 1,238 millimeters distance from Shrek's optical orbs was a mighty fine ass.

"What are you doing in my swamp?!", ejaculated the ogre menacingly at the ass. In Eddie Murphy's delectable tone, the ass replied,

"This ain't no marshy wetland. Us two are bathing in the charred, pulverized remnants of Mongo's skeletal structure".

"Ah, indeed", coughed Shrek vivaciously. Mongo had been the engorged man of ginger dough who had perished in the hydrogen di-oxygen in the attempt to vanquish Fairy Godmother. Subsequently to their extermination of Fairy Godmother, Shrek, Fiona, the mighty fine ass, and their comrades had cremated Mongo's doughy corpse, inhaling his vaporized particles through their nostrils. Now they washed their physical forms in his ashes. Seeing the ass covered in the bits of blackened bone made the bald one experience something peculiar. Shrek permitted his chlorophyll-pigmented taste bud muscle to touch the sooty equine. Shrek used kinetic energy and his taste bud muscle caressed the powdered osseous material from the ass's hindquarters. At once, the green being orgasmed intensely, as though his reproductive organs had been fondled even though such an event had not occurred. Shrek wished in passing that they had turned Mongo's luscious bones into gelatin and thus immortalized him as jello, but, alas, 'twas too late. Shrek grunted and moaned with pleasure as he consumed the ground up bones of his friend from the fur of the equine, who was himself orgasming. Alas, poor Mongo. Shrek knew him well. Where once had been a vibrant, animated being with consciousness, identity, and will, now there remained nothing. Mongo's Golgi apparati and mitochondria had long since become dust in the wind, his few osseous remnants dissolved by the gastric acid of an ogre. Just as Shrek had nearly completed his ordeal and was tasting the ashes on the ass's snout, he perceived an ill-timed "ding".

"I deeply regret being compelled to cease our intimacy", Shrek spoke to the ass with melancholy ubiquitous in his exclamation. The text contained the words, "come help daddy Donny". Shrek respired mournfully,

"It's a text from Donald. Gotta go". The horizontally-enhanced baldette disappeared.