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Friday, August 03, 2007


IT'S ALL ABOUT DE

So here I sit, covered in my own goo. And when I say "covered," I mean covered from head to toe. I can't say this with any certainty, but I'm pretty sure that I'm fucking fireproof right now. If I keep this up, I'm pretty sure I could find work as a stunt-double in an action movie.

It should go without saying that I've been thinking about De. Whenever I do that, things start happening to me. A biological imperative to shove both of my hands down the front of my pants occurs. It disturbs my family, friends and passerby on the street. Truth be told, it disturbs me, too. But some things just can't be helped. I don't want to say that it happens a lot, but it happens all the time.

There are certain things that can't be escaped, and things that no rational man wishes to escape from. De is decidedly the latter. And that's how I came to be covered in my own goo. It's an almost epic tale of romance. Sort of like what Shakespere and Nabakov would write about, if they weren't such hacks. Neither knows the kind of love I have for De. It is the kind of love that Charles Bukowski had for booze. The kind of love that Wayland Flowers had for Madame. And that's not just because I want to drink every drop of fluid love that De produces or to see how far inside of her my hand can reach, but I'd be lying if I said that those things weren't a factor as well.

De and I are connected at the soul. Connected in the way that William Howard Taft was to dinner. Connected in the way Thomas Jefferson was to Sally Hemmings. For De, I would have both my tongue and penis surgically enhanced so that I might better resemble an adult male. For De, I would cover the inner core of my being with something that might pass for a soul.

If you wish to know what a special woman De is, I'll give you an example. My beautiful soul mate writes a great deal about baseball. All I know about baseball is that most of its players are homosexual because they aren't charged with rape on a weekly basis like proper athletes. But I memorize every word De writes about the topic. Then I set them to music. Why do I do this? Because De wrote those words.

For too many years, I've had the children of my paramours walk into the room as their mothers lovingly suckled my schvantz. While this is adorable at first, it grows disturbing after a time. It could well lead to serious legal difficulties if it happens on a regular basis.

There would be no such problems with the lovely De. Instead of children, she has a dog. While I can't say that I wouldn't be deeply weirded out the first time it happened, I can say that the pet would know what is happening to its mistress. For it would know what it is to be taken roughly from behind and would be intimately familiar with the guttural noises such romantic treatment not infrequently produces. No one is better aware than I of the confusion that may be created in that canine mind by my constant cries of "Take it! Take it, you bitch," but there's a period of adjustment at the beginning of every relationship, is there not? Some will adjust better than others, but what do you want from me, miracles?

Between us, De and I own several thousand books. This will come in handy when the time comes to barricade the doors against those who would seek to break up our love. Once safely ensconced inside, we needn't fear the black helicopters of your cynicism any longer. You might think our heavily fortified love nest a prision, but De and I would know it as the freest place of all. It would be a monarchy of De and me.

Some men think of trivial things, such as curing cancer or ending human bondage. Make no mistake, there would be no end to the bondage on Planet De, but it would be decidedly different than the variety most commonly found in the Sudan. Some men have no idea what the truly important things in life are. There are causes greater than oneself, then there are the pleasures derived from licking the tastefully done pink ribbon tattoo on the back of De's neck. To trace that lightly with the tip of my tongue will cure the greatest scourge of all - the constant boiling in my balls. Incessant and unrelieved as it is, it could well destroy us all. There are things worse than disease, my friends, things much worse.

I'm certain that some of you can't relate to this love letter. But you're likely the kind of people who think that there's a fate worse than having a rattling in your crotch that sounds entirely too much like a fucking bowling alley. Such people have no idea what love really is.

De and I know what love really is and you don't. I guess it sucks to be you, huh?



Easy Listening Recommendation of the Day: Adore By: Prince From: Sign O' the Times

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