Avec knickers

I walked up the road today.
To buy some milk.
I WAS wearing knickers.
Everyone stared at me.
How did they know??

Sans knickers

I went up the road just before to buy a sandwhich.
I didn't have any knickers on.
Everyone stared at me.
How did they know??

Leather gloves Elevensons

Yesterday was so dark and foggy that you couldn't see your hand in front of your Face. I invited Eleven Sons to go shopping. He arrived at the door, though I couldn't see him. I could tell he was there because of his hiss.
'Tsssst, Tsssssst!' he said
'Hiiiiiiiigh!' I tinkled.
He didn't say anything, but grabbed me by the arm (after swiping at the air a couple of times, or so I deduced by the breeze) and dragged me out the door, flinging me into the passenger seat of his horse-drawn cart.
I could tell he was in a volcanic mood, so I hunched up in the seat and didn't say anything.
Eleven Sons only hummed moodily:
'mm mm mm get down on the floor, mm mm shake that booty like you know what its good for'
'Shake, shake, shake that aaaaaassss.'

Once we got to town, the air had cleared a little, and we could see a wee way in front of us. Eleven Sons slung me like a rag-doll over his shoulder and marched into all the shops he knew had pretty girls in them. In shop with the most lovely maidens he called his photographer.
'I need your services, on the double' he barked
He then ordered each girl to put on a dress of his choosing and posed for wedding photographs with each of them.
In the bank Eleven Sons found out he had recieved his inheritance.
'I'll take you out to lunch, Face!' he said, suddenly in a jolly mood.
In the restaurant, he looked at the menu. Became pensive.
'Everything is much too expensive here! Why dont we go to McDonalds?' he said finally.
'Look,' I said, 'I'll buy my own bloody lunch, you can just buy me a coffee, okay?'
'Okay, good.' he said, much satisfied.

The waitress came along shortly and fatly. Eleven Sons eyed her up.
She noticed and gave him a wink.
He jiggled excitedly in his chair, and blurted,
'Um, would you like to go on a date with me?'
She laughed and replied,
'Sure, 'leven, but you just finish your current date before you go taking me anywhere, okay?'
'Okay,' he said, 'But just remember, I dont put out on the first date, just for you information and everything.'
I then informed the waitress that as this was our third date, I was allowed to take E. S. home today and shag him rotten.
'I'll let you know how good he is.' I told her. 'Might not be worth your trouble, after all.'
She agreed that this was a good idea, and I finished my lunch. We departed, Eleven Sons throwing coquettish glances over his shoulder.

Eleven Son's mood was now bouyant. 'Come on, Face, I'll buy you some clothes!' he cried.
I thought this was the least he could do since I was making all the other girls want to go out with him. We went to all the clothes shops again, and Eleven Sons tried on a suit. I tried on a hat, not very expensive, but he only glanced at me. I tried on a pair of gloves, leather. They were the best bargain in the store.
'Wow, these are the best!' I exclaimed, showing them to 'leven. He grunted
'Will you buy these for me?' I asked
'Mmm, no.' he said
'Well, what will you buy me?' I asked
'Umm, nothing now, I've changed my mind.' he said
So I bought the leather gloves myself and strangled him to death.

Today I found out he had named me as his surrogate mother in his will, and I inherited his millions of inheritance that he inherited.
Lunch, anyone?

Pill more, girls

The other day I was subjected to a television show. I know people used to watch those things all the time in the olden days. It was that jew Eleven Sons actually who subjected me to it. I hadn't realised he was Amish as well as being a Jew, he really has it all.

Actually I used to really enjoy watching television. But I found that watching it was like eating chocolate. Its better to have a little bit of the really good stuff than to gorge yourself on the cheap option. The show that Eleven Sons had me watching was definitely of the latter category.
The fact that I was mellowing out on sedative pills didn't even make it interesting, possibly I should have taken the whole box. The title of this piece of tripe was 'Gilmore girls'.

The show follows the trials and tribulations of a mother and daughter. The mum is young, the girl is old beyond her years. They swap a witty stream of banter where one throws in a witty comment on current events, and five seconds before she's finished the other throws in a witty comment about the first witty comment, two minutes into that the other cuts her off with a wittiest comment, as witty comments begin to fly in from the sidelines and the mother and daughter have to field them with their wit-bats, and then all hell breaks loose as wit-bats and wit-balls fly everywhere, and the mother and daughter get covered in it and have to rip off their clothes in a violent wits orgy.

This would be semi - watchable if the witty comments were in fact witty. As it stands they are just - well - fast. I hope they get talking so fast that they self combust at some point. Perhaps they should try my sedatives, and then would slow down enough to have time to think of something actually funny to say.

Poor Eleven Sons, he hates me now for hating Gilmore girls, its his favourite show. But thats okay since he's just a gay black Jewish Amish who cant get a wife and has no fields.

Eleven Sons

Firstly, I am very drunk.
Secondly, I dont look like a model with big pouty lipas.
Thirdly, I am very beautiful.

Sometimes people dont relaise that they are totaslly beautiful when they really are.
Take my friend Eleven Sons.
He is one of the best people but he doesn't know.
Also he doesnt have eleven sons.

But he has it all.

Eleven Sons is a Jew, therefore he eats as much bacon as possible. He has the curly hair and important nose, and when he puts on a swedish hat and trench coat he looks ghastly. At least he doesnt have the long curly bits. He is the only real Jew I ever met, and also thae only Jew who doesnt know anything about Jerusalem or the Holocaust.

Like anyone like me, Eleven Sons doesnt really care about much history or even current events, he just wants someone to love.
Unfortunately, he just wants a nice quiet girl to love, but everyone thinks that he is gay.
His own mother asked him if he was gay once, and he promptly burst into tears. This confirmed her suspicions.

Eleven Sons is the best of both worlds. Not only is he a hot-blooded man ready to shag most willing females senseless, but he has the sensitivity of a woman. If you are a woman reading this, and that turns you off, wonder why? Women in general spend so much of their time when they fell a man, trying to get him to become more like a woman. I fthe job is already done for you, why should that be bad?

Eleven Sons is looking for a woman, and I tell you, he is virile. But soft. And sharp. But playful. And razor-sharp. And hard, but creamy like a chocolate egg.

Sexy City

As my last post was quite 'Sex In the City' styled , as in - ask a silly question, make up a silly answer to your own question that just ends in a few more silly questions , I thought this one could be in the style of Criminal Scientist Murder Investigation.

MERCURY SPACE STATION. LAST NIGHT. 6.15PM STANDARD TIME.

I was dead.
"Oh goooooooooooohhhhhhhhd, I'm dead!" I moaned, trailing off as I spotted a hot doctor wearing an aviation jacket. By the look of his jacket and his rippling biceps I could tell he'd been doing some high speed, low level flight.
"Mmmm, he looks just delightful!" I thought, perking up a bit. I began to examine my cuts, bruises and bullet holes, slowly inserting my rubber gloved finger into each one. They became more wet as I thought of how the doctor would soon be examining me.
This made me remember that I had to clean myself up a bit in the netherlands, I was wearing a rinforced tungsten carbide chastity belt which I hadnt taken off since I died. I searched in my pouch for the key.
Disaster.
It was not there!
I scrabbled around in the dust, ferverishly. The doctor was drawing closer. I could smell his sweaty flesh and dimly thought
"Sweaty flesh on a doctor? That doesnt seem very hygenic." But forgot all as I turned my autumn eyes to his luminous orange ones.
"This looks bad, very bad." said the doctor, snapping on his own pair of gloves
"The wounds I mean, not the girl!" he gave me a playful wink and my belt nearly melted off of its own accord.
"Who would do such a thing?" He asked the atmosphere.
"I dont know, its a mystery." I pointed out. "But whoever they were, they stole the key to my reinforced tungsten-carbide chastity belt!"
"Aaaaaah." He frowned gravely. "Now that is a crime of the highest magnitude."
We exchanged meaningful glances for a while.

The next morning we awoke to find we had melted into a puddle of our own eyes. I whipped out my trusty spatula and made hot crossed eyes for breakfast while our new peepers grew themselves.
"Mmmmmmm" said the doctor, as he shoveled them down.
"I've been thinking while I slept", said he, "And I think that we'd better go straight to Venus to have your belt removed. We can sort out the rest of the mystery once that's done."
"Okay" I simpered, and we set off in my ship.
The sex shops on Venus double as hospitals treating sexual ailments of all kinds. Once there, I was poked and prodded with all the instruments , by a woman who looked like a fairy princess, but felt like ten charging hippopotomi.
"What is your name, age, height, weight and spitting distance?" she asked.
"How often do you piss, shit and empty your ovaries? How many people have punched you in the guts? When did you last kill a man, and did it make you feel like a real woman? Did it? DID IT!?" She whispered with a voice like a tinkling bell.
Aftr ten hours of this and similar, she at last brandished a pair of enourmous tungsten-carbide snips.
"Hold tight!" She chimed, and 'SNIP' 'CRACK' 'CLITORIS' the belt fell to the floor.
I was overjoyed.
"Hurrah!" I shouted, leaping into the air and streaking out the door, literaly, as I was naked from the waist down.

I began to slow down as I was reaching the ship. Only then I noticed the large crowd of beautiful Venusian women parading around my vessel. The doctor lowered a pair of binoculars from his eyes as I entered the cockpit.
"They have a wide array of sexual implements in that place, don't they?" He asked
"Because I might need all of them to sevrice this lot!" He hooted "Wooowoo! Rrrowwrr!"
My face fell. And by that I mean all of me sagged to the ground. Looking down at myself I couldnt say I blamed him. Venus women bathe in liquid milkilicone every night, and resurrected great artists paint their faces and bodies every day. I was still covered in bruises and scratches and bulletholes. My t-shirt was torn and muddy, and my hair was matted with eye-juice. And I wasn't wearing pants.
"Sigh" I sighed.
The doctor noticed my reaction and patted me on the arm.
"Dont worry!" He said brightly, "There is such a thing as a mercy fuck you know!"
I jumped up like lightening and bounced onto his knee. "Well lets GO!" I shouted, and we rocketed outta there.

Later, smoking a post-coital cigarette, the doctor nudged me.
"I hate those Venusian women, anyway." He said. "Much prefer someone a little rough around the edges like you, especially when they're not wearing any pants! Besides, those bulletholes..." he trailed off and I felt a Loveboat song coming on.
"By the way, I'm not really a doctor, and I figured out who killed you." He said.
"Who?" I pushed my ears up over the edge of the covers.
"It was the gingerbread man. I found evidence everywhere. He's struck before, plenty of times, quite careless. He kills with kindness, you see, and buiscuts, and pies. Much more powerful than bullets. Someone else must have added those later."
"Oooooooh" I said, tilting my head. "Thats funny considering he wasn't even in the story at all before now. Not much of a mystery then, is it?"
"No." said the doctor. "It isn't."

A very shellfish, cunt.

In a world where almost everyone is out for themselves and a total asshole, does everyone have to become this way to get what they want? Do I? even with the people who are closest to me?

Take the case of the figgy strudel:

One evening in the master bedroom of the Manor Gaylord, Lord Rasputin van Scotty was whining.
"All I need is a little bit of pudding, just a little bit" he whined
"Worry no longer", stated I, Lady van Scotty, "for I shall make us a wondrous figgy strudel!"
and I betook myself to the kitchens.
Hours of toil later, I produced from my hot box a wondrous pudding indeed. Despite figs being my most favourite fruit I could not eat any of the pudding that night, having already wolfed three sealions in butter sauce and a turkey sandwhich. So I saved myself a piece and left it in a bowl in the kithchens. I served up a generous portion of pudding to Lord R. van Scotty with the last of the ice-cream.
He took it wordlessly and curled up with it in the master bedroom. "Is it okay?" asked I
"Oh, yah, its alright, quite nice." he shrugged non-comittaly, and fell fast asleep.

The next morning I seved my Lord a poached egg with soldiers and went out for a jaunt.
Some hours later I returned, mouth watering at the prospect of my saved bit of figgy strudel. I went down to the kitchens. It was not there. I searched high and low. No luck.
I raced up to the master bedroom with fire in my eyes.
"WHO ate my piece of figgy strudel?" I cried, pointing at Lord whatsit.
"Oh, um yah, it was I" yawned Lord thing.
"That was MINE!" I screamed. "I spent ages making that, that was MY piece that I saved especially!"
"Oh yah." he shrugged "I just couldn't see why it would still be there, so I ate it, got to make things make sense somehow, you know".
The musician who was entertaining Lord R. v Scotty piped up at this point.
"Mmmm, yes, personally I couldnt see why you hadnt eaten it for breakfast." he said
"O, well," I stammered, a bit confused by their nonsensical justifications, "well, it was because I felt like an egg."
"Well I bet you do, now!" chuckled Lord cunto, and settled down in bed to congratulate himself for having made his best joke of the day.
I retired, stony faced, into silence.
It wasn't so much the eating of the dessert, but the attitude of the perpetrator that got to me, and continued to rattle me for the rest of the day.
At dinner time Lord fuck piped up: "I'll make dinner!" he chimed
"Good, okay, fine." I croaked groggily, having just woken up from a nap.
Dinner turned out to be vegetables and rice. It was fairly bland. I noticed that Lord pooface had fish with his.
"You have fish on yours" I observed
"Oh, yes, this is my half of the fish that you caught, fairly, got to get our fair shares."
I went out.

Much later, and probably much too much later for it to make sense to his mind, I rounded on him.
"If you're going to be so sellfish, and uphold your policy forever of never saying sorry, at least you could do some small nice thing for me to make up for it." I said
Lord Scotty rolled his eyes and went "pffft".
"I spent alot of time making that strudel, and that piece was mine." I stated obviously
At this, Lord S tossed himself about, stamped a bit, and angrily switched out the light.
"Why are you so angry now then?" I asked
"I'm angry because you are the one who broke all my toes a year ago, and I have to live with the pain for the rest of my life, and pay for all the doctors visits" and at that he fell fast asleep.

So, I lay awake feeling hotly guilty all night, and all the next day, until I found out in the evening that his toes weren't even sore. It was just that using the toes beats anything I could possibly ever get upset about.

So, should I develop a harder shell, and keep all my treasure tucked away like all the other assholes? And never make strudel again? I dont know.

Interpretive Dance

I once knew a man who was less a man and more a soggy fish-stick, thawed out on a plate and lying in a pool of its own hormones, chemicals, and tears. This man met a fresh young girl and tried to steal her youth and beauty by injecting his own chemical junk into her body on a regular basis. The young girl eventualy tired of this treatment, but used to it as she was, she found an equally chemicaly piece of rotten steak to spend her time with and be contaminated by.
This was a mortal blow to the fish stick.
He began to write TERRIBLE poetry. This would have been okay with me, had he not latched on to the staff in my hotel. He would come to visit us there, unexpectedly oozing from the refrigerator when no-one was looking. He then would commence to bewail his wretched existence, his small eyes filling with pools of soggy tears. We all gave him as much sympathy as possible without turning into puddles ourselves.
This was a mistake.
Taking the sympathy as encouragement, in the midst of other people's conversations when he thought he wasn't being paid enough attention anymore, he would begin to spout forth his horrible poetry.

"My legs stand like flowers by a pool
at sunset
Oh, where is the pollen?
The bees have been eaten
and I stand alone
bee-less
and alone
by the pool
at sunset.
I cry tears of joy
at the sun
and the pool
and my legs
all alone."

As I always tried to pay as little attention to his rants as possible, I don't know if this poem is historicaly correct, but the general feel is there I feel.
It was most embarassing for my staff at the hotel to have a soggy worn-out fish stick reciting poetry in the corner over the top of other people's conversations. Generaly when it happened everyone would just try to look the other way and pretend nothing untoward was going on.
But eventualy my friend the poisonous bird woman and I devised a plan to foil the fish stick.
It was something along the lines of "If you want to break up with someone, pretend you are obsessed with them and want to have 15 of their snivelling brat babies."
What we did was this:
The soggy stick materialised one evening and perched himself on a stool in the corner. He had the woes of the world etched into the breadcrumbs all over his face, and we knew that some particularly sentimental spoken verse was not far away.
He began to spout forth a vile vomit of words:

"The horizon is bare in the sunset." He proclaimed,
"But I am not bare,
although I should be
considering how beautious my flesh
and my fine legs
they are covered in wounds
like bee-stings
on beautiful flowers
my soul is hurt
oh why does the sky
look so beautious-ful?
It is a trick." He spat

The bird woman and I began to moan and sway in sorrowful ecstacy. "So true! So sad!" I cried.
The fish stick smiled smugly and continued with his utterances.
"I can'y contain myself any longer" sighed the birdwoman. "To the interpretive dance-floor!" she proclaimed.
We both arose accordingly and began to interpret, dance-ly. I was the ill-wind, bird-woman was the muddy shit. I was the stunted tree, BW was the spotted fungus. I was the vomitous soul of the soggy fish stick, BW was the dead bees in his trousers.
It was the most magnificent interpretive dance I have ever been priviledged to witness or indeed, be a part of.
The soggy fish stick however, did not see the genius in our bodily effusions. His damp eyes widened as his speach trailed off.
"Why must you mock me?" He cried, "While I am baring my soul?"
"Bog off you stinking soggy mess!" cried the birdwoman.
I was inclined to agree.
"While interpretive dance is of course a form of expression of the lowest and most puke-inducing sort," I intoned, "It is nothing compared to the enormous earwax-eating peaks of terrible boredom that your 'poetry' produces."
"Hear, hear!" cried the staff
"Now, if you can't be a little more congealed," I said, "I suggest you get out of here before you absorb more chemicals through your naked feet than you ever had the pleasure of thrusting into an un-witting young girl in the bloom of her life." (For indeed, our floor at the hotel was caked in noxious junky skin particles which the various over-stayers at the hotel had dropped over the millenia.)
Obviously, the soggy fish-stick knew that rather than becoming more firm and quiet, he would only continue to get soggier and more moany as time passed. For he took to his heels and was never seen again.
And that, my friends, is the power of a little interpretive dance, on even the greasiest surfaces.
La.