(another trademarked, somehow familiar blast of eerie static)
Uncle Geezilius- I see you are lazily dawdling through another homoerotic sub-genre of equestrian cinema verite: love stories involving horses. Should I save Timmy from the burning barn or be mounted by Goliath, the gorgeous (but ill-tempered) Arabian stallion my father purchased from market last fort-winter? Oh, you're such a girl with your stupid questions. It always makes me think of a great joke I told at a very inappropriate time in mixed company.
A man enters a federal penitentiary. He is obviously first-timer, and very nervous. He is escorted to his cell, where his cellmate, a large, 250-pound gorilla of a man, turns and cordially greets him.
Cellmate: Looks like you're new here. I'll tell you what- I'll give you a choice. You can be the man- or you can be the woman.
New Guy: (Thinks briefly) Well, I guess I'll be the man, then.
Cellmate: Fine. Bend over!
But I'm getting off the subject, which was Gatsby's longing ode to our four-legged friends and those courageous, pre-pubescent boys and girls who are either saved by or savagely made love to by these magnificent creatures. I often think about how I used to quietly masturbate to International Velvet and then cry sweet, comforting tears into my sweat-soaked pillow.
You know, reminiscing about all of these magical moments makes me think of my first kiss. Oh, young love. Those stolen, furtive moments where our eyes would lock in a smoldering arm-wrestle between lust and primal wanting. She was thirteen, and I was thirty-four- I shudder when I think of what could have been, mon cherie. Forgive me, gentle reader- the fog of time has swirled around my legs and gently tugged at my dingus. Oh, yes- the cinema- and all of those great, great moments I wanted to share with you. Tomorrow.
END TRANSMISSION.
counterpoint-gatsby-
holy christ.
i feel as though i've just walked downstairs to the den to find the berber torn up around a chasm belching forth demons.
everytime i think i'm walking the line between funny and poor taste, i catch old bug's voice off to my left, about a hundred yards into the inappropriate side, flirting with a young asian boy or telling someone they're a fat slob or something.
well, kudos old man!!
i can't wait to read about the dirty groping experience you tie into tomorrows "great moment of cinema" i can see you now, slowing down your 93 geo storm and pulling over to the curb, folding up your collapsable porsche sunglasses as you retrieve a gigantic science-class-tape-recorder from the passenger seat...
"idea for some disturbing smut to confuse and upset children," you slither.
your military sized mobile phone rings; you answer-
"yes old bug? we have your aptitude test results; looks like you're perfectly suited to be a filthy lecher. report to the career development center to pick up your giant lapels and gold medallion necklaces."
amazing.
-gatsby out-
breaking their way into the unprotected sanctity
of your house. Oh, we should have bought a gun. We should have
triggered the alarm. Did the neighbors hear anything? Would they hear
anything? No, no, the time for making bad decisions was behind us. The
worst one, unceremoniously dumping Old Bug from this site, had already
been committed. Some things couldn't be undone. Was it him? Was he
creeping in through an opening somewhere, with his bag of depraved
devices to insert into every inviting orifice? You bet your ass he
was. To paraphrase Alice Cooper, it's no more Mr. Nice Guy, you
sniveling malcontents. Don't try to pull the covers over your head- Bug
is here- hell, he never left.)
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