As I open my fly for the umpteenth time today to urinate on this elderly gentleman in front of me, I am once again reminded of the honesty and purity of my poor, dear, very very dead mother. For she was the lady who first revealed to me the healative properties of a good old decrepit gent drain-on-him session. Kelsey is his name. I found him last night in the midst of a particularly depraved Halfling Hash den. Some uniquely talentless and TRAGIQUE! bards were attempting and failing to perform their amateurish and undercooked rhythmic dance story songs when I locked eyes with Kels. His eyes said no, but my mid section said yes. The chasm of lust and intention proved too much for me to boo-bear and here I am now pouring a vast yellow stream into his old dusty maw, dribbling the golden liquid all over my new sheepskin rug (you can also double it as a child syrup blocking sheath!).
Which brings us to Dorff . . .
I am not talking about Stephen, but the Deuces are wild! His Blade is limp and soul is dim, but he could take a neon rod of life better than this poor Grammarian ever could. Open and close and reignite the prose. The cloven hooves are not your table wine flagons! My observations are cloudy and my mind is filled with insects and they all want me to tell them a story so tell them I will.
Open the doors and close the legs of the whores. Can’t stop the music like a Jennered Bruce who is loose and cannot get past the smell of goose, the goose is his lady and her stead is a man who knows the lady who OWNS us all. Do you understand the web I weave in this world wide cataclysm of sexual urges and fooded purges. When the sheepskin rug is upon my stiff and savory whole I cannot unleash the stream of yellow and pillow without a visual reminder of the lady I once loved more than any one else in this sad little world of ours, Turmusa. Oh Turmusa! Why did you have to eat that bar of poison that I gave you to eat! It was a prank of most hilarious dimension, you flat footed de la whore! I tire of these reminisces and hope that my fellowrinos are ready for the most unpleasant and tiring tires that tired. Open the gates! Flood the pates! Give me a rind and I will tell you want is on my mind! Can I borrow a feeling? A Rub for my steaks? A placeholder for the one who cannot grape? I know not much of who or what or where? But the urge to pee inside of Kelsey’s mouth is strong. He knows this and I know this. I hold him down and he swallows. I lift him up and his spits it back up. Yes, he will be a good one, if he is not Dorff than he is the next best thing.
My impertinence is not your concern, young fools. I hold in my mind the key to this whole journey we are all on, but I feel as if your trust has not yet been earned. What shall you have to do to get into the mind of a poet and a thief and a liver and a giver and a maniac and a poet and a sadness in a bag? NOONE, not Herman, nor his hermits, but perhaps you, perhaps. PERHAPS.