Monthly Archives: December 2012

Apologies to Nabakov and Poe.

The old man watched her, his precious M, three little sounds, primal and indicitive of satisfaction, like biting into a sweet slice of banana creme pie.  Cool, filling and refreshing.  She was all knees and elbows still, sitting in that chair that was just a little too big for her waifish frame.

Mmm, Mmmmmm, Mmmmmmmm,

Her skin was a soft brown, and she wore a little skirt that let him see several purple splotches on her thin legs, the trappings of a youth not fully expended.

“You shouldn’t watch me like that, it creeps me out you know.”  She tilted her head as she spoke, ah, how quick she was to dismiss his scrutiny.  “Oh, darling, I only hope to absorb as much of you as I can before you disappear forever.”  She tied back her kinky hair and waved a hand at him, “Whatever.”

Oh, that one word, how it stung his old soul, having heard it so many times before from D, that terrible indifference.  Give me hatred, give me love, anything, just steer me clear of indifference, he thought.  “Are you going to start whining about whatever again, I bet that’s exactly what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”  Clever M, always so quick to say exactly what was on his mind, and always so quick to insert the pin into the balloon of emotion that always waited to inflate beneath the surface.

“Once again, you have scoured me clean of the dirt of thought.”  His words seemed to mollify her momentarily, and she came over and sat on the large red cushion next to where he sat, and threw her thin tanned arms around his neck.  The old man sighed heavily, it was a sigh of exasperation mixed with a pleasure that held him as surely as iron chains.  For her never to move, he would have cut his few remaining years in half.  “Good, god, I love you, but you can be so depressing sometimes.”  She mumbled the last word, already nuzzling his neck as she was prone to do, sending little thrills up his old spine, and bringing his heartbeat perilously close to seizure.

“When I am gone, will you continue to love me?”  He asked wistfully, as if he did not dread her answer, which in truth, he did.  She lifted her head for a moment to search his eyes, and then narrowed her emerald eyes at him, looking so much like a cat about to pounce on an unsuspecting rodent.  “Why do you keep asking me such silly questions?  Sometimes I think it is you who will not love me anymore, and you are asking yourself, using me as a soundboard of sorts.”  The old man matched her gaze, and answered carefully, not wishing to disturb the fiery temper beneath.  “My old mind is set love, I dream of things that I wish to be, knowing already what it is that would bring a smile to my face, sure that from today until tomorrow my whims will stay anchored within, waiting to be set free.”  She passed him the small glass that sat on the long wooden coffee table that M currently was using as a footrest.  “I am old M, my whims are ones that fly past the rocks of certainty that represent my deepest desires, my deepest happiness, a place that you have carelessly penetrated, and I fear my old heart could not bear such a loss.  I speak of fear M, a cold desperate fear that awakens me falsely amidst deep sleep, only so I can feel its crushing weight a split second before screaming in a voice that no one can hear.”

She stroked his head as he spoke, twisting her lithe form so as to put the whole of her slight weight leaning on him.  “I said I would be here, but you, are you not desired as well?  Do you not entertain others such as I?  How am I to believe that once penetrated as such, you will not be infiltrated once again, in a simpler way, one that leaves less wreckage and spoil in its wake?”  He closed his eyes and tried to imagine another, or another, and could not, he tried to mouth the words, the sounds that at once meant ultimate betrayal, and ultimate happiness, words that lost all meaning, and meant everything to him.  He could not.

“You may never know, and what a tragedy that would be, what a tragedy we would be my love.”  He threw back the glass and swallowed the contents greedily, not wanting to imagine the depth of that sadness.  “Why must you drink so much love?  Am I not good enough to be with, that you must lose your senses?  Is it because I am not really here, and you seek to keep my spirit in flesh?”

He nodded to himself as she faded into nothing, precious M.  “Tis better to have loved and lost, than to never have loved at all.”  Looking to the side, and seeing the empty red cushion, he shakily rose, and stumbled unsteadily to the small table which held a single bottle of amber liquid, and a small bucket of half melted ice and silver tongs.

“Quoth the raven, nevermore, nevermore.”

Twist and Shout.

Why wait for an evergreen that is never seen?
It was the beauty of watching the seasons change,
Colors and love and eyes stayed the same.
It seemed that evergreen tree, grew for me.

I have told none of you, of my cold lonely nights,
I hoped that my love would sit here right beside,
In those hospital beds, or in my head.

Maybe she could comfort me, Tell me I have not made a single mistake,
Right away I would know her lies, but rather than see them selfish,
Their purpose I would cherish.

But most of all.

More than any other question that makes me a dancer,

I avoid this answer.

Live. Love. But procreate like robots. Why? because even if you two had fifteen brothers and sisters that would land me in a mandatory work hog farm, I would not love even one of you little stinkers a shade less than the other.

Remember boys. despite how hard it is to be me, I love being your daddy, and I love knowing I am a daddy, regardless of interaction. I’m glad I wrote so much, for so long. I’m sure one day you two will get to read that recording of my brain. I love you both so much. No matter what bullshit you are fed.

– Dad

Whats IN IT…Mr. Wonka…Violet, put DOWN that guitar Violet!!

::panting::…so…this is the latest entry in the ongoing series presented by TWYL….::huff::…this episode…::gasp::….is centered upon America’s….sweetheart…’fuck’…..::huff..gasp::….Taylor…Swift..so….without..::stumble::…’FUCK’…ado…TWYL presents…What’s in it…Mr. …Wonka…::game over man….GAME FUCKING OVER::…Taylor..Swift edition…::muffled screaming::…

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Step one. Take every literal translation of every Sting lyric ever written. That’s right. Every step you take. Every move you make. Every fucking time you didn’t text this vagina sporting triffid back fast enough, she will be watching you. Why? Because…::Errr..Ahhh..::..She’ll be buying property close enough to. (Thank you Kennedy kid, and by the by, take a lesson from uncle Ted, Sheeeeee will never ever, ever, get out of a car plunged into a dark lake alive).

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Next, you take..

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“Don’t even fucking think about it blog boy…….”

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Right. My bad Jackie.

Anyway, next,
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….What the…sorry folks…technical difficulties..

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So, as I was saying, after you’ve had a healthy dose of cutesy face rape, then, you ironically add a heaping, putrid dose of,

(Editors note: If this gets your panties in a bunch, you are not a complete woman, and you should be ashamed of yourself)

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That’s right folks. It’s,  John “I got an Oscar Mayer and I ain’t afraid to use it…a lot…you dirty whores..::cue romantic warble::”.  Sure, he’s got almost a decade of frogger-like vag-jumping on her, but our little wholesome belle seems to be doing everything in her power to let the world know she’ll ‘swiftly’, surpass the source of her biggest heartbreak (competition), in terms of genital dominance.

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So then, after you’ve written your next formulaic love song..

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…I’m sorry, I keep getting these hiccups in my entry, well, whatever…anyway..

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Alright people, this isn’t going to get any better, so hold your collective noses and toss in two VERY light spoonfuls of,

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If you can honestly argue that one of these two cockmunchers is ‘more talented’ than the other, than that means two things. One, regardless of your musical skill, you have zero concept of musicality and function, and you joyfully partake in your favorite past time much like a pretty little stupid canary, with negligible variation and not a shred of aesthetic understanding. And two isn’t worth considering.
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Look at that cute little middle finger. Awwww. …Alright, focus people!! That lovely little digit is the crux of every Swift hit song so far. No…no!…I don’t mean that lil Beibs made our face…um….sucking siren write all these thinly veiled love induced hemorrhoid ballads with his chubby love glove, I mean that even the nice sounding, “I’ll live somewhere happy!!!…with someone!!…forEVER!!…that isn’t YOU!!! MOTHERFUCKER THAT I WANT TO STAB!!!”…songs, are just that. A more subtle fuck you to someone, as opposed to say, a “Dear John”..

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“I was so hurt…::mmmrfhrrhmm::…I couldn’t believe that…::MRFSHHSMmmshmm::”

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Look John, at least have the courtesy to finish sucking off that massive black penis before you give us a quote.

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Finally, the most important, crucial ingredient one must possess before being able to make your very own Taylor Swift..

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“Now Imma letchu finish….but John Mayer got a mouth like a twenty dollar whore…”

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…Oh…ohmygah…okay..

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..Um….. And..there you have it..??

Live it, Love it, (Kill it with fire!!!)

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~T