AGT introduces some woman whose daughter Jennie had passed away to cancer. Jennie’s dream had always been to be a world famous performer, so mom hopes the dreams of her daughter live on through her stage acts. She tells the judges about the cancer battle; the crowd “ooh”s and “Aww”s at just the right parts, and then the music gets serious. Howie asks “what was your daughter’s performance art?”

And the woman says “ramming strange objects up the asshole.”

Crowd claps politely. Howie raises his eyebrows. “Let’s see it!” he challenges, as a hush settles over the room.

A table is wheeled out. On it is a length of rope, two shampoo bottles, a burning candle, and a bowl with small pieces of paper in it.

The woman puts one finger up, as though to say “wait!” to the crowd… They all silence in anticipation. The woman places one end of the rope within her ass. It slowly begins to crawl in deeper and deeper still, pulled along by the woman’s skillful contractions of the sphincter. The rope picks up speed, zooming upwards now with the impression of a greedily-slurped piece of spaghetti. The coils on the table are shooting apart with greater and greater frantic twists and whirls, threatening to knock objects off the table. With a *schlop* the free end of the 400 ft rope launches free through the air and up the woman’s ass. The crowd claps politely, but this is nothing they haven’t seen before.

She moves next to the candle. She slides it up her ass, flame end first, with little flourish. She curtseys, expectantly, but the crowd’s dull applause shows that enthusiasm is slipping. She then takes the shampoo bottles and pops them in, one at a time. The crowd yawns. But the woman’s act has only begun.

She walks for the bowl and draws a name from it. “Simon Cowell,” she announces. He walks to the stage.

She instructs him to lie down. He does. She then twerks above his head. Silence hangs heavy upon the stage. And then, the magic happens: shampoo begins to squirt out into Simon’s hair with each downward thrust. The crowd goes wild.

She continues thrusting. The candle pops out, still lit, and lands in Simon’s lap. The crowd screams and is now drooling mad with energy and power. She holds up a finger, as though saying “wait there’s more”. She then twerks out the rope, but it’s no longer just a rope… Out pops a noose, the rope having been fully prepared and tied by her lower gut while she twerked. The crowd begins to cheer and convulse and foam as Simon hangs himself on stage. But the magic is not yet over.

She draws one more name from the bowl. “Howie Mandell,” she calls. He walks up on stage and watches Simon’s body swing on its creaking noose, clumps of shampoo sitting on his head like a lumpy melted angelic halo.

“Very impressive so far… What are you putting up there next?”

“You,” she says, as she begins to climb a ladder. The crowd is entering adrenal failure from all the screaming and fervor. Most hands are bloodied, tattered ruins from the thundrous nonstop applause. And then, all at once, silence falls. The woman is atop the ladder over Howie. She leaps and falls ass first onto his head. And with a pop, she takes him in.

The crowd explodes into applause and screaming. 1/4 are now dead, and more will soon join them. The woman asks Howie “what do you think?”

And from within, as though controlling a puppet, the woman’s own hand slowly raises and shows a thumbs up gesture.

From within the woman’s head, a second, smaller voice speaks: ^”you’re ^going ^to ^Vegas, ^baby.”