Look at these little oysterettes:
Aren't they cute, with their little shell baby bonnets, and their little shell bassinets?
I certainly thought so, as a child. Hell, Disney's finest animators spent months creating little oysterettes we children would all find endearing.
So what happened to them, these little baby oysterettes?
Why, they were eaten, gobbled up.
They were fucking slurped.
By this interesting fellow:
The Walrus.The obese, moribund, middle-aged Walrus. Gobbler of innocent sweet little things.
I found this merely frightening as a child. I now find it horrific. I needn't delve too deeply into the disgusting inappropriateness of this narrative. It is what it is.
I realize this is ultimately Lewis Carroll's tale, but the baby bonnets? The widdle cwibs? Jesus.
Uncle Walt. He took it to a whole 'nother level.
Puddyhead got some new glasses, which have what I call Apollo 13 frames, given the ubiquitous presence of these things in the NASA engineering field of dreams of my childhood. They not only scream uber-geek, they send a particular and unmistakable message, which is: I don't give a fuck.
He purchased them on a dare from me, and now I am jealous. Lacking vision care at this point I shall have to rely on Walgreen's cheaters in the short term, which are a piss-poor substitute.
I'm springing for a short-sleeved white shirt, thin black tie, and pocket protector with slide rule for Pud. Perhaps a few mechanical pencils, and some white socks.
And, if Puddy stays sober for three days, a vanity plate that says D-FENS. And, in my best keeping up with the Joneses mode, but with a twist, mine shall be horn-rimmed.
I was a fan of Jack London's fiction as a lad. What boy wasn't? And despite pecksniffs who denigrate his prose as juvenile, I posit it is brilliant stuff, despite the condescending riff that it is accessible, or, in other words, simple in form and delivery.
Hell, Erskine Caldwell's prose is "accessible," but one would not in their wildest dreams let their child read of a hairlipped teenage girl sliding her vagina through the Piedmont Georgia sand in orgasmic frustration merely because it was accessible.
But back to London: Yes, he devolved into a rather lunatic socialist alcoholic, but I find that rather endearing. Been there. And even now on occasion I can look at a full bottle of liquor on the table and surmise How can I share this with ALL of the people?
I generally come to my senses, of course, and take the whole bottle for myself, unless there is an exotic dancer in the vicinity, in which case I will share, grudgingly. For remunerances unnamed.
But back to London: The Call of the Wild is a singularly fine piece of work, and as early London it truly is goobon, which I think is what my Geechee maid was saying when she meant Good On. 1963 is a long time ago, Intrepids. My memory may be a bit goobon.
But back to London: Buck got fucked. We know that. But he got screwed by a person who had supposededly rescued him from a far worse fate. And yet.
Buck rebels against the other dogs. Kills him a few. Yes. Not noble.
And yet: I see Buck as a Tea Partier. Agin the system. Bite you when required, but otherwise a good dog.
Here's a thing; when my uncle was a young man in Birmingham he used to take his sammich in the park. One day a black protester crossed over the tiny line by an inch or two, and Bull Connor said "Gimme two dogs!" and they chewed that young man out from under that house.
That's pretty fucked up.
Anyway, I'm not going to explain the Call of the Wild metaphor to you. I'm lazy. You smart. Finger it out.
PS: Good on Gerard van der Leun for resurrecting the word "pecksniff". Only he could have done that.
You know who has a damned fine carnivale? Possibly the best in the world?
Trinidad, that's who:
Talk about cutting the sugar cane.
I believe it is imperative that I attend this significant and historic event. I have $5.49 in my PayPal account, so that won't swing it. I'd put the bite on you directly, however I do have pretensions of pride. Perhaps you could just ignore those calls from your credit card company informing you that you've had unusual and/or suspicious transactions on your account in the last five days.
That way we can both save face, and you can take an unplanned charitable deduction prior to April 15. Besides, little Kaytlin and Jeremy will probably love public school. They're now sugar free, you know. Except for the sucrose they cut the meth with. Your glass is half full. So is mine, except mine's now half full of rum.
I can't promise much about this site, but I can guarantee you won't read a damn fucking thing about Tucson, Arizona here. Other than to beg the question: why did Sarah Palin shoot all those people?
Whilst channel surfing in a drunken stupor I ran across Cathouse on HBO.
I don't consider myself a porn fan at all. Never visit those sites. And yet.
And yet. Seeing a hot girl with large bosoms sitting on a toilet taking what is apparently a shit. Got me kinda hot.
Thank God I'm not a Catholic. I'd have to share that sin with one person.
Instead, I get to share with all of you.
I'm not sure what's causing it, and my skills are limited. So while I'm wielding a metaphorical hammer, everything looks like a metaphysical nail. I can see the comments on my publishing platform, they're just not uploading.
Perhaps my site has just become like an old spinster's cooter. Enough lack of use, and it becomes growed over and malfunctional.
How's that for a metaphorical?
UPDATE: I am totally flummoxed here. Which shouldn't be a surprise, since I am flummoxed by all manner of things, from precisely what a broccoli floret is to the various reactions I elicit from a vagina (was that a bark of ecstasy, or pain?).
I shall attempt to upgrade from Movable Type 3.35 to version 4.0 to fix this issue. If the site goes blank I swung the hammer too hard. Or, in vaginalspeak, Ouch, you idiot!
UPDATE 2: Okay. Striking out here. If anyone feels like assisting in a migration to 4.0 I can pay huge monies, all the way into the low 3 figures. The VERY low 3 figures. And if you're a guy I can pretty much guarantee a reach around from Puddyhead. He won't like it, but I'll pistol whip him with the .45, and put the Jayne Mansfield mask on him for your personal denial regrets, which I hope you will have. I already do.
UPDATE 3: VICTORY! My third rebuild of the site somehow loosed the bowels of the commentariat generale. And lest you worry, I went ahead and bludgeoned Puddyhead, and took that reach around for myself. I wore the Mansfield mask, of course. It's a domination thing.
Yes, I realize "COMSUMATION" is not strictly a word, but the only takeaway I can rationally infer from this label is DON'T FUCK THE BAIT.
...He Neme Is Wilson
My Korean laundress is such a jewel. Despite her obvious D's in ESL, she runs a tight ship. And do not leave the front door child barrier unattended, or Wilson might escape and get run overed.
Wilson? A cute pug, although very shy, obviously owing to his distaste for the smell of white people. Sorry for the poor pick, but it was a surreptitious pocket shot. I didn't want to embarrass Wilson.