It seems the internets are filled lately with accounts -- and accounts of accounts -- of girls who say they've slept with or attempted to sleep with or dreamed that they slept with (and dreamed it so hard it became true) Keith Olbermann. One claims he masturbated her to climax with a "steak bomb" (or possibly a "fat boy" -- the presence of jalapenos is in dispute), another that he lured her to a hotel room, poured a thick, Bulgarian wine over her naked body, and chanted a Masonic ritual prayer as a fat, blonde man called "Gunther" emerged from the closet and defecated on the floor in front of her. Another covered herself in tuna juice, hoping to lure him into her baby gulch with the heady scent of her subaqueous sin. Yet another claims to have stolen his tie, inserted it in her anus, and confronted him on the street with a naked performance of "How Much is that Doggie in the Window." The most recent claimant purports to have dined with and been sexed up by Keith, after which he gave her a puppy. Nothing very exciting there, aside from her claim that the course of their lovemaking moved a bed which had been bolted to the floor, indicating that he may perhaps have used his oversized penis as a hydraulic jack (an ability I am prepared to corroborate from my own personal experience with Keith, a stalled car, and two small boys trapped behind a culvert grate during a freak storm).
People, I am here to tell you that what you've heard thus far barely skims the surface of Mr. Olbermann's sexual zeal.
Keith and I met at Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contest, drawn together by a shared reverence for Takeru Kobayashi. He offered me a Slushy, and we talked and flirted as night fell and the lights appeared, blue and gold, along the boardwalk. We made love for the first time that night atop a pile of discarded hot dog buns, the hot, salty issue of our passion soaking the bread until finally we lay exhausted in a wet, doughy embrace, the scent of warm wiener mingling with our own sexy funk.
Upon regaining our senses, we took a taxi to a nearby hotel, where Keith demonstrated his unique lovemaking talent -- full manual control over his penis, like that of an elephant with its trunk. Using this elongated, dexterous member, Keith poured and passed me a martini, brushed a strand of hair from my forehead, and dimmed the lights. He then disburthened himself of his uneasy attire, as did I, and we spent the next seven or eight hours engaged in punishing, acrobatic sex in every room of the suite (except the closet -- Gunther was sleeping). Afterwards, I smoked a much-deserved cigarette and Keith licked himself clean, like a cat. We woke Gunther and the three of us went for pancakes at the local IHOP.
