August 12, 2009
I do believe I came with a hat.
“One gentleman’s guide to not getting thrown out; not throwing up; and how to throw a party.”
When residing in the terrace house in question, I happened to cohabitate with a character you might be previously acquainted with, Stampy McNasty. For the uninitiated, she was a two-thousand-pound quadruped who would skulk around the house with a face as long as the animal she was emulating; and whose mane of horsehair would clog the shower on a daily basis. Living in a house with noise issues and with my bedroom stationed above the kitchen where most of the activity occurred, I was privy to her stomping around like a fairy elephant each morning, the whispered phone conversations to her drug dealer (presumably for horse tranquiliser), and on occasions her hissy fits to uncompliant friends and relatives. Unfortunately, on the rare occasion that Stampy would ensnare a stallion, I would learn of his presence by extended patterns of her snorts and moans: she was a grunter. The sound would filter from the crack beneath her bedroom door and would float into my adjacent room and fill the silence with a chorus from the coital filly. It was rather unpleasant for all concerned, I assume.
—”Close your eyes and think of England.”
(Via Manhattan User’s Guide)
Some weeks later, after word had circulated that King Kong Jr. and his damsel were bumping burgers in the freezer, I was summoned to the kitchen where the burger-flippers were toiling at their grills, slapping down processed meat like it were a belligerent Los Angeles streetwalker. King Kong Jr. turned to me with burger-flippers standing eagerly behind him, keen to witness our confrontation, and said, “Agony Uncle, how would you like to be trained to work out the back?” In a moment that seemed like an eternity, I looked at the grinning pimply faces in front of me and made my decision to retain my status as Drive-Thru tart and my clear skin and replied, “King Kong Jr., I’m too pretty to work out the back,” and flicked my Madonna headset-adorned head and proudly marched off, while an incredulous Neanderthal jaw hit the floor, along with the hysterical burger-flippers.
—”Putting one through in drive-thru.”
Regarding the photograph, I would say it’s just desserts for the unidentified deposit of man pudding. To be honest, I’m quite surprised that you actually have a bed and not toothpick to clean, what for all of the notches whittled in your bedpost.
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