OK, with the international date line, etc., ben should have assembled his assorted change.

Endured the stinging taunts of neighborhood child as he mounted his tricycle.

Passing by the Op Shop without check on new week's inventory, focusing on his masturbatory goal.

Finding his way to the nearest periodical sales vendor, picking out a fresh undamaged Tara Reid Playboy while quivering with boundless anticipation.

Bumping into countless others on his way to the register, he spills his assorted Aussie coins on the counter.

Fidgeting noticeably, waiting anxiously as they are counted by an angry sneering bad-toothed clerk.

Then, pedaling faster & faster to return home.

Pumping 3 or 4 times on his rescue inhaler during the odyssey home.

Enduring, yet again, abuse from bullying kindergartner and pre-school toughs as he gets closer to base.

Arriving at the entrance to his illegal cellar dwelling.

Trying & failing, trying & failing, again & again, to open the lock to his stench filled rotting hovel.

His hands shaking, the knowledge that he will be jerking off to a pathetic party girl celeb, exciting his muscles to a fevered palsy frenzy.

Impatient for Tara nudity, thankfully and finally, ben unlocks the door.

Jumping from the threshold to his lice-ridden bed, his body warmth stirring birth of a new generation of begbugs.

Opening the Playboy, ripping some pages in lustful haste, He finds the Tara layout.






And, less than 30 seconds later a poorly composed picture of Tara's hideous Frankentitties is covered in what little precipitate his over-masturbated balls can muster.



ben wakes hours later to repeat the procedure, heading out for a second copy ... since Tara's pictorial is now all stuck together with the seeping of his gooey mess.