Blissy's Song -- 15 (M/f, inc. rom.) by Feather Touch
Nothing should be inferred from the use of media personalities.
Chapt. 15
Even knowing Gregg Brady. Even knowing Gregg Brady had not eaten a bite on almost six hours, even know that, the onlooker would have remarked on the boy's adroit passage through the hotel. Anyone who knew Gregg Brady would know he love to dive. Did he circle the slight distance to the board, this time? Ask anyone who was there. He never even looked at it. Headlong, straight into the pool. That was the New Gregg Brady.
Duh'uh, when he came up for air after a minute the pool was deserted. Lunch time? As if. I guess it would be cute to ask for a reader poll guessing at why the pool area was suddenly all but evacuated, over a hundred people -- poof. I suppose I'm writer of the day, so I'll tell you.
Stroking in a daze to the pool stairway, Gregg hauled himself on a convenient step and sat lolling back over the upper steps. Plunkett genius had more or less had the young teen like a ping-pong ball. He was an ultimate client and instinctively appreciated nuances and details a lesser customer might overlook.
His senses returned, young, healthy dancer that he was, rapidly. Had he dived into the pool and come up for a freaking concert? The anvil chorus on steroids, but what were the instruments? Seemed odd. Nothing in the literature about noonday serenades. An outfit as clearly run as The Tame Animal Farm would, no matter what their housekeeping, mention entertainment. They were not lax, they were not lazy, and, for sure, they were not stupid.
Since we've started a little tease, let's play it out. Think of what it was that Gregg heard as his spinning head and, you know, aching body returned to reality. Clouds re-focusing and drifting across the sky as if over a perfectly normal boy in the back yard oiling the bearings on his skate board. Easiest riddle ever written. To solve it, all you have to do is cry Uncle.
They tell us nothing in life is perfect, anyhow, that was a popular old adage before I hooked up with Nifty. Into every idyllic situation, there comes that old cloud. For example, as he lulled, half wasted, and just beginning to realize what had happened while he'd been up with the flat-out pair in the universe that would beat three of any kind, and take a certain boyish pride in his contribution, a shadow fell across his face, blocking the warm SoCal sun. Wearily, he opened his young eyes. It was Jan. It was his Dad. His eyes actually, suddenly, suddenly, squirted tears out on his temples.
"We've voted," whispered the eleven year old female, "and decided that we absolutely adore you."
"Was it unanimous?" the fourteen year old croaked.
"Split decision," Jan announced, flouncing in mockery of the old Jan Brady. "Dad was impressed with who you took up, and me? I was intrigued, very happily, I might add, with how quickly you came down..
Gregg blushed. He had been rather abrupt on re-entering the pool. It was kind of awesome Jan knew why. It helped with the bonding process.
They hauled the kid out, and the puzzled bar tender sought them out. A Plunkett pro, he did allow as to how he'd been working at The Tame Animal Farm for nine years and had never, you know, seen the like. The cool guy responded to Gregg's scarlet blush in the simple and direct fashion which had been bred into him and which could not be learned. "Yes," he said, with a nod at the blushing teen, "a bloody Mary will do you very nicely."
It was command economics. Because it was Plunkett command economics, it included a heaping plate of mixed sandwiches, a matching tray of tall red drinks, and yet a third matching tray heaped with napkins, silverware, sun screen, electric battery fans, six dubers, and a stupid assortment of sundries guaranteed to render the lazy guest chair-bound for four or five hours. Management was working on in situ, you know, relief options, but did not publicize the results of its ongoing research. (Insiders said the results to date had been real caca, and no one would either deny it, or supply photo evidence. Class in, class out.)
"What are you reading?" Gregg asked his sister.
"Kid's book. It was in the lobby. It's called The Royal Reader for Standard Four."
Yesterday's Gregg would have some comment on how weird that was. The New Gregg Brady was just thinking how much he wanted to please his handsome young dad, and so, pool or no pool, was delighted at the diversion.
"It's fabulous," the girl went on, eyes aglow. "So simple. Like diamonds. You have to read about five or six stories to even begin to realize how good they are. How much they say. How superbly they say it. Each story, or article, if you will, must have been copy edited fifty times over two hundred years. The questions. The quizzes. Everything from front cover to back cover."
Hey, he didn't need a girl to love. He already had a superbly happy boy who had picked him fast, from thousands he could have picked, and picked him hard. One full head had to be enough. He was a Brady. He had catching up to do. Well then, Sherlock, who better to teach you?
"What's your favorite one?"
"They're English" the girl said. "You can't read them without crying. Not even tell. Not even boy and not even girl."
Her eyes watered, and how her nervous face had softened. She was with her beautiful young father, but she was with him, too.
"The ship hits a rock," she recited quietly, "about twenty miles from shore. Dead calm. They can see a hundred feet down, through the bottom. There is time for one ferry to shore."
"Women and children," Gregg said.
"Hundreds. On their way to Africa."
"Dickens wrote one," Gregg said. "I remember my baby sitter reading it too me. By that time I was nine. He would never have read it to me younger than that."
"Who wrote it?" Jan asked.
"Charles Dickens."
"What is it about," the girl asked her glowing and beautiful brother, flabbergasted she could speak with him so near.
"It's a short story. Christmas. Two lifeboats are drifting, and they finally come close together. The people in the life boats hold up their children and try to communicate to the other life boat whether each child is dead or alive."
"Maybe John O'Hara used that," Jan whispered. "He has a scene where a house catches fire. The husband meets the wife in the smoky living room. `Is your baby dead?' he asks.
"No Jew wrote any of them," Steve Brady commented.
"No eye make-up and mink," Jan giggled.
Steve Brady had another comment. "At the very end of "Andersonville," he said, "a boy escapes. Maybe nineteen and fifty pounds. After a day of freedom, he meets another boy. They talk feverishly, and then, if you're typing it you have to use four dashes, because the farm boy says - - - - pie. A Jew did write that.
Gregg Brady made a promise to all active deities that when he grew up he was going to write pornography. There was enough Old Brady left in him to want to let the good times roll. Hell, in a way they were already, or so he thought. The umbrella, food, dad and sis. They were looking now openly hotly at each other. How much patience could go with the simple rutting needs they had for each other. Both males were picturing Jan, in her modest two-piece, swollen with their child. Both were picturing giving her that child. Nothing but nothing but nothing could beat it. Life was ab-so-lut...
The teen saw it in their eyes at the last second, half startled then Wham! The world cart wheeled. His sandwich went flying. Jan and his dad only had time to half-stand, and everything went... well, wet. Blubber, blubber, and a gasp of air.
"You are so absolutely amazingly tricked out double awesome with a whole ton of cherries on top." Well, that was nice to know but...
"Kelly!"
"Not - the one and only."
"Speak for yourself."
"Isn't she awesome?"
"Takes one to know one."
"This is fun" said Kelly. "We can promote ourselves until we're children of a greater gods>"
"Then we can become writers," Gregg added.
"I've got to think of something for book two," the younger cutie said. "Book one is signed, sealed and delivered. All I have to do is type it. See if you like the title:
`I wouldn't trady Brady for a lady with a saw
I wouldn't trady Brady for a shark with a maw.
I wouldn't trady Brady for a pail full of gold.
I wouldn't trady Brady, and now you've all been told.'"
"I love it," Gregg said. Deal with morons slowly, deal with morons carefully. Of course, if you were in love, you could try the odd kiss or two.
"When you come over," the older teen said as they perched on the ladder, "you've got to hand out with Bobby. He's twelve. You two are made for each other. And Cindy. We've never seen you when she didn't half freak. You guys can play house with Kelly, the girl."
"An who will guard us while we're playing? I want a fourteen year old. One that's super loyal, especially to his sister and dad."
"My girl will call Pinkerton's in the a.m. and call your girl."
They high fived with a mutual Word and staggered from the pool to drop by the pool. Go ahead, Life, Gregg said, get better than this.
"Gregg," Steve said, "Jan and I have been talking. We think that as a demonstration of New Brady flexibility and spontaneity, we should re-examine certain heretofore stated policy. In other words, the midnight thing is history. Stupid in the first place"
"Like hell!" Gregg blushed. His father chuckled. A New Brady moment.
Jan looked like a cat and nothing but a cat. Her eyes were huge, her face slack, her lips swollen. If the child wanted a baby she was using every proper signal in the book, in the right place, and at the right time. In no way was Kelly excused from the quiet smolder of those glowing big eyes. "Boy it's nice to be a boy," the young actor thought to himself. Vaguely, he wondered at the logic of using The Tame Animal Farm, in the first place. Sure, it was meant to keep his smile fresh and friendly, but, what if he went back on the lot and he could never stop smiling? Could they use his stunt double? For close ups? They were all the time wanting close-ups. Dumb. He'd have to take his chances. With the Bradys?
No coyness. No lingering touches with bad fingers, cloying their secretive and profane ways into innocent clefts and untouched valleys of prepubescent bodies, sick whispering sliming the forbidden touching, fondling and gentle, lingering, sexual molestation of an innocent child. The door closed on 275. The might as well have been a team of healthy jocks, getting ready to shower up.
Until they got to Jan. She was radiant and all but aflame with beauty in her very conservative yellow two-piece swim suit. Between the top of her panties and the lower hem of her halter was no more than a few inches of her feminine tummy.
Steve, Gregg and Kelly, the boy, stood side by side as Jan eased back on the rickety bed with its musky stained sheet. All three were hugely swollen. Steve really was bigger than Gregg. His powerful shaft bent back to the tiny trace of hair on his lower belly, hot and headed with a ferociously productive looking wide flaring engorged purple head. Jan almost drooled aloud when she thought of the excitement of the feeling her father's organ must stimulate deep inside her when he slowly with drew that wildly flaring, hot flesh from her vagina, as he prepared to do what men do to females.
Gregg was an inch behind. More slender. More beautiful and yearning boy, than powerful and on the spot beast. His foreskins his treasure, as it did young Kelly's. To her very new eye, the males looked as if the might be almost eight inches, almost seven, and almost six. Not yet a woman of the world, Jan did just for a moment wonder what this trio would be worth standing beside the bed of the freak of Cosmo. It was a silly thought for a girl, hardly Brady... or was it?
Her jaspers displayed for their young maiden. They laced their fingers behind their necks, shuffled very close to her, and arched like they were dancing. The males' bodies gently gyrated both to and fro and gently side to side. Their penises were gods unto themselves, defined being full of themselves. Absolutely full of themselves.
It was nice what they were doing. Being all bare, and doing a slow hula-hula before a very pretty girl dressed in a mother's style bathing suit was provocative. Kelly decided to make it moreso.
"Before I left," he whispered, "Sven was on top of Kelly."
Nothing boring about males, Jan breathed to herself. Watching three young stallions suddenly swell impossibly at the slightest audio clue was a total puzzler. Why in the world was not every female with several of these amazing beauties every hour of her life? Life was too, too much. Also, what had she had to wait until she was eleven. She figured three or four would be about right to at least be able to touch such symbolic beauty, you know, if it was your nice dad or your nice brother, or a nice teacher. I mean a girl couldn't just walk into a theater, and, you know, but, still, weighting `till eleven was no answer. None at all. In fact, if these males were any indication, it was a gross violation to an essential right. Pursuit of Happiness. The only phrase in the whole literature of democracy that made any sense, and it simply made all the sense. She breathed a contended sigh. Eleven wasn't so bad, but she sure didn't envy a twenty year old who found so much so late. The real reason for Jan's contended sight, was that her pursuit was over.
The hotel was finally beginning to quiet enough so that individual sounds once again intruded. There were furtive sounds. Big brother urgent to be with their satiated and sleeping little dreams of sisters. And so on. All were on fire with curiosity about 273, but common sense prevailed. If Jan turned on the bed to look, and the three males joined her, why, in every likelihood, they'd end up staring into eyes that were staring back. Plus, in theatrical terms, they'd taken in a "show" (so to speak) and the rules of fair play said they now "owed" (so to speak) a show of their own.
To a certain extent, Jan realized it was a show. She was not in love with her dad, or her brother, even thought he now looked more like a hawk than a bunny. Kelly was absolutely cuter than hell, but it was pretty obvious he and Peter were bone against bone, unlikely to share their intensity whatever else they might find to share. It was not love, not passion over that of a wringing lust. Neither, nor. It was much simpler, so simple as to be elemental. Jan wanted to get pregnant. They were well off, they were, far more than ever, thriving. Imagine not being stuck home Saturday night, but, rather, coming home to a wiggling little family cutie, of her very own. The change had been sudden. No more school. No more social posturing. She'd swell in private, drilling in the studio just as all the advisors had insisted she must. Then she'd maybe find a special boy, who she could whisper her secret to, and who would understand. That would be a good time for more babies. She did a little quick math. If she got pregnant soon, and had a baby when she was twelve, she was certainly built for it, then, when she was twenty-two, and on the make for a mate -- yes, she giggled a little -- she'd have, A, a ten year old babysitter for her first own, as against family, child. B, she'd have a dynamic and active assistant at keeping her husband home and very, very, very happy. Just the savings a friendly little girl child could engender would probably pay for the child's college, twice. Who, for example, would want a big house when you had all the haven one could handle in a simple, little house.
The males had been posturing for five minutes, eyes hot on her eyes and her breasts. It almost seemed they couldn't look at her soft girlish belly. As if it held too much potential to bear. A sirenetic electron magnet, likely to trigger a series of rapid explosions. Look what had happened to Kelly, the girl. And it would be three against one.
Her dad was in the middle. The lesser man-boy was under his right arm, her brother, very, very man-boy, under his left. They had slowly gyrated until within a foot of her. She could smell them. Wrong word. They infused her and if she hadn't had long blond hair flowing down over her shoulders it would have stood on end out of raw excitement.
She wanted to be touched. She wanted her dad to do it first. She stood, turned to face the bed, and froze. The man began with a gentle kiss just under her right ear. He had to be patient to tongue and nibble his way through her thick, rich mane, but he was. When he found where he wanted to lick and kiss and blow on her, and suck very gently and sweetly and tenderly, there was not a strand of her gold to interfere with what he was doing to her.
Gently, the powerful male hands found the bare skin of her waist. The male pulled her tentatively, almost nervously, back. She knew what was about to happen, what she was about to feel against her. It made her break out in a hot sweat. The young males were now flanking her, staring at where her dad was going to touch himself to her.
:"Dad," she whispered over her wet shoulder, "the boys want to see me bare. You know, up and top." She was just guessing, there excitement could stem from a number of root causes, but, the fact was, she's never let any boy, or any sister, see her. Jan Brady had kept a secret since she was nine. Bent over in locker rooms, always the nightie, on, the, you know, other things, off. Now she knew why. If a single boy, or girl, had ever felt her up, for even a second, she would not be feeling like she was with her dad now moving --creeping was more like it -- his fingery hands to the rear off her young,, healthy flanks, and up her silky back to the buttercup fabric that suddenly felt hot, oppressive and superfluous. The boys were going to get her pregnant, and, naturally, did want to see her. Sometime life just works out so perfectly.
The males had showed off, well, a little, arching, slow dancing against each others' nakedness, with their hand behind their heads. Jan loved it, but felt it a bit macho. She stood very still, her arms hanging loosely at her sides, her head lolling to what her gentle dad was still doing with his lips and tongue as his fingerers unclasped her, dropped the end pieces, moved to her shoulders, pulled away the straps, and let her halter slip to the floor leaving her bare chested in front of two young beauties and a father that reacted to the sight of looking down over her right shoulder by crossing his hands gently on her lower chest and easing himself against her, as a male.
Soon her belly would swell. She'd had half a dozen periods, and she knew what that meant. But for now, it was her nipples. Her breasts. Even before she felt her father's hot penis against her bottom they had been big. and with his groaning nuzzle and the excited boy staring at her, they got bigger. With her eyes, Jan flicked Pete a pleading-sister glance. The boy dropped instantly, and got his younger sister naked, dropping the yellow swim suit on the dirty sheet. Jan half fell against the wiry Kelly and he helped keep her balance while Pete quickly rose from his dirty work and helped stabilize the shaking young female as she spread her legs for her father. Pete and Kelly stared, transfixed as Steve's huge man boner, now wet from the young female, protruded with gentle surges from between her shaking legs.
Then the three males danced attendance on their panting sylph. Pete but his left arm gently around Kelly and the child's head lolled against his shoulder. Grasping the eleven year old gently, he signaled his sister with his eyes, bidding her look down. She responded and Pete slowly fisted back on Kelly's jutting penis, gently freeing his almost purple swollen glans. "He's beautiful. He'll be like dad in a couple of years," Jan whispered. Kelly blushed with pleasure, and guided the boy against his father, both males we with seminal fluid. Jan gave her beautiful, intelligent, and highly responsive special pleading looks.
Pete wanted it to be himself, but they were New Bradys, firm about things, but, right time and place, right circumstances, able to go with the flow. And Kelly was an absolute beauty. He didn't blame Jan, just loved her. Steve, looking down over his daughter's right should, saw what was going to happen, and urged the young males to touch the female first. Looking into her eyes, they fingered her swollen breasts, surprised they had not thought of the idea on their own. It was an extreme example of venue of the young males' mind.
She let her brother and his young friend experiment with her. Pete was using just the fingers of his right hand, still guiding Kelly against Steve with his left. Kelly was doing it to her with both his tender, gentle, little boy hands. The girl tried to imagine a lover doing what they were doing to her and shuddered at the thought. She imagined a young husband standing behind her, doing what her dad was gently doing between her legs. She imagined the young husband doing what her dad was doing between her long slim legs, only doing it to her daughter while she watched and panted.
Steve felt Jan's orgasm almost as much as she did. As her panting shaking dissolved into a bone deep quaking, she just whispered "Dad," in her special way. The hands of the man joined the hands of the young boys, and in his powerful grip she let herself go, for the first time in her young life. Four legs to this pod, making it a highly stable quadruped (like a Porsche). You didn't have to be Martha Stewart to know that was a good thing.
Suddenly the long, blond tresses were lank and stringy, like tails of rats falling willy-nilly over the wet shoulders and glistening young female chest. She slowly regained control, though taking over from the three sturdy bucks supporting her did not seem like an imperative. He dad had done that to her, just slowly and carefully masturbating her with his hot, surging erection. There couldn't be a beyond beyond that. Not possible.
When gods write, the impossible flat-out happens. Not only does it happen, but you get to hear all the juicy details.
Kelly had responded strongly to the touch of Steve's cock and grunted like a young pig when Pete guided him against Jan's traces of hair. The boy hung his head, staring, seeming to realize that the trace of silk, in combination with the swollen young breast, meant something feral and primal. Pete and Steve both responded to the stripling's obvious needs. Steve re-braced his daughter as she recovered from her first cum, and Pete guided Kelly along side Steve's hot jutting penis, and against her. Simultaneously masturbating the males with wet fondling of their penises, he found Jan, she spread her legs wider, and he guided Kelly to his virgin kid sister, bracing the boy with the left arm which had been gently around his waist. Using his fingers, he helped Kelly in beside his father's powerful manhood, and guided him to the girl's hymen. He cradled Kelly as the boy entered, then thrust his middle finger in a jab. Jan was now open to the boy, and Pete removed his hand, letting the boy be a boy.
Jan hissed at the entry of the slim youth. "Dad," she whispered, and didn't need to say more to share what was happening inside her. The two youngest were deteriorating fast, hard shaking giving way to an all-out trembling palsy. Steve and Pete braced them, not much good at it, under the circumstances, but still able to maintain the group, standing, and oriented toward the wall on the far side of the dead.
For two minutes they huddled, moving only in a gentle sway dance. Then the sensation of a man's hard penis and an eleven year old's hot, tight, wet vagina was too much for Kelly.
"Hold me, Dad," the young female whispered.
"Forever, baby," he assured her.
Pete sensed what was happening. The same thing that had happened with Kelly, the girl. Jan was drawn irresistibly to the image of earlier in the day. What Sven had done while he was lying beside his little daughter. Kelly, the boy o boy, was doing that very deep inside her. She could feel him spasmming her so hard it almost seemed mechanical. Pete could tell better what was happening from the boys whimpering growls, because he'd heard them before. Looking down, he could see a white flow beginning high on his sister's inner thighs. Proof, if anyone needed. In fact, proof and evidence, galore.
Were Jews around? Was more evidence needed? This was a conglomerate -- too fucked up to be a tribe -- of apparatuses with a genetic need to turn product in the hand. Such a nice material for you, sir. Does not the glow fit madam? That kind of thing, kind of charming and peasant-like in the market. (Just don't buy anything.). Evidence. Product. To Gregg it was not what he was thinking about, even abstractly. He was just a boy.
Kelly remained standing; shaking, but standing. A trooper. And guided Gregg as Gregg had guided him. Steve gasped with lust as he watched his now beloved eldest son take the now beautiful young girl. Again, Jan panted "Dad" at the entrance of the male, repeating, "Oh, Dad," as she felt the shocking newness of the teen's full penetration. Gregg, pent by his furious morning, began ejaculating seconds after he entered his sister. Both his male partners shared his climax almost as intimately as the female who was taking pulse after hot, hard pulse deep inside her. Steve jockeyed to the side, still holding Jan tightly, so he could see what this young tiger of his own loins was doing. It was enough to get him monstrously excited, and when her flow stopped after a minute, the males hunched against the young girl, and soon the man was stinging from what the young boys had left as sign of there presence. Like the youths', his sperm came in an immediate and intense torrent, each spurt gushing into the juvenile womb, each spurt causing the pretty child to grunt like an animal.
It had been a very private show. Not a squeak from the cheap bedsprings. The afterglow was so intense that for long minutes Steve molested Gregg, masturbating his beautiful new son openly. Gregg had Kelly in his arms, and was doing the same thing to the eleven year old boy. Both the males' hands were drenched with the semen from Jan's inner thighs, so it made the still panting boys cum-off quickly and aggressively. Jan masturbated her dad hard and fast, and, just before they collapsed to the flimsy bed, Steve showered the boys with a spray of hot sperm.
. . .
As often seems the case these days, we have a few old maids at the bottom of the bowl. Lets hold a few over a candle, using tweezers.
Grandeur aside, difficult as that is, for just a second, I am a writer god king with simple thoughts. I was wondering how many eye injuries would be caused by the little flag waving fad we just went through. I also wonder how many foot injuries are caused by exercise contraptions. As I said, just a little thought.
Intellectual conundrum of the day: What's the point of being the strongest link?
This is not likely to happen, so let's call it a little fiction. The Bush household. Three a.m. The bikers from down the street crash in, hog-tie Mr. Bush in a chair, blind his wife with acid, rape her, slit one daughter's throat and disembowel the other. The statement of the president of the united states reads as follows. "They had been noisy for many hours. I saw them coming. I was unable to use my shotgun because all I had at hand was lead buckshot, which has been outlawed to protect our clean running streams and the quiet misty pools of dawn and flaring duck."
Threat to Russia. If you nuke us, we won't nuke you. Try to imagine those Slavs living closer to the rut of swamp and forest than they live already. An exquisite case of the best punishment, and certainly the cruelest and most enduring, being no punishment at all. The man who hates his son shrugs at a drunken son. Something like that.
We need a delineating name for September Eleventh. Nothing has emerged, to I'll suggest "Double-Play Day." "Double -Trouble Day" would be a second offering.
What's in a name? Hemmingway had a knack for names. Sod couldn't write anything above the level of a populist drudge, has turned millions and millions of kids off reading because some swingaroo of a teacher, probably female and nurturing, you know, notions, tells young Dick and Jane stuff about great writing and classic literature, and the books turn out to be murky twaddle.
You always feel dirty struggling with the emptiness of another soul, like, you know, what am I doing here? But the big-faced old goof could, in fact, pick a title. Not this slim, fox-faced art boy. My last book features a summer camp for young geniuses, so I named the whole thing "Creative Camp." (Not "The Campers Also Rise," which would be a little on the humorous side since the campers are known to, you know, lay. "For Whom the Bone Trolls"? Sure, some of that kind of stuff went on. A hundred pubescent boys and young teens, and you mean to tell me it wouldn't?
Weren't no geezers in the summer camp story, but, if I had he'd be "The Old Man and the C-Camp." None of it, just a flat "Creative Camp." And inside? Eight hundred pages that, gentle jesus, have absolutely nothing to do with the drab, monochrome slough of Bearded Papa Whose Art Was Nada. My nickname for him would be The Cretin of the Crayon. Interestingly, like Jackie's communists, he led the life of a marlin bouncing around in the cockpit of a Bertram 32, and I'll leave it up to the imagination of the reader to draw his or her own images of how healthy a life that is.
Another name I'm not real not real not on is Feather Touch. Sooner or later I'm going to suffer the humiliation of being derided as a mocking bird. Hey, I was just trying to be funny.
Regrettably, we have another name to deal with during our little afterglow. It will send chills down the spine of any literate person because the name is Phony War. Double chills, because that's exactly the state we find ourselves in today. The deed had been done, the die cast.
Now what?
England went thus for a long and particularly beautiful summer. We're two weeks into the autumn of our year. It is a numb period. Even gods with deep track records of accurate forecasting and prognostication are out of their league. Talking cowards, is all he sees. Such is the level of treason and subversion, such is the refusal of the president to protect his people, that the Laden/Israel connection, would, by a visitor from another planet, seem to include the executive branch, the legislative branch and the judicial branch. Sleeping guards are dangerous men.
We face a rhythmic enemy who spaces his blows, making them linearly more massive. I mean I picture, say, ten McVeighicles parked in the garment district. Maybe ten minute intervals? Or how about Critter Land where god dancing zombies skitter with the glitter. (Think of being a first responder, especially a female, and finding so many Best Friends in the rubble.) The point being, these will be their part of the Phony War, while ours is what the media call fragile coalitions. In other words, do as your king says, retaliate, inoculate and cleanse, or be blown up with a cherry bomb in your ear and another up your puckering, you know.
They keep talking about closure' and moving on.' Here's my question, to spoof Jay. Is this perpetual motion? No, wait, listen. If they keep talking about closure, instead of closing, and moving on, instead of moving on -- where does it end? You know what it's like folks?
Now think back a few years. Jerry Springer, Heraldo, Ricki Lake, Maury, it was after Phil's time, but, yes, him to. See what they did, is produce shows castigating each other's shows, which lowered their standards so they could in turn be castigate by the other shows. No especially funny, more of an informative nature. After all, we do not broadcast from Hollywood by random chance.
Possible investment opportunity. The common personal computer box. Set up at about 750 megahertz with 256 meg of RAM. Reason being? It is quite possible Double-Trouble Day will leverage economic activity. Meantime, many tens of thousands of computer builders have been laid off and many assembly facilities closed. Just a thought.
I received obscene mail today. A magazine from Bill, who contributed on Nostrodamus. He didn't know what he was in reality posting. Who did? It was over two weeks ago, so prurient motives were absent. Since I'm going to tease the shit out of you in a following snippet, I'll say that the name of the magazine is "Vanity Fair." I'm sure it looks as obscene in your fine house as it does in my little Shaker box.
Remember Rosa Parks? Back of the bus, keep ye behind me? This magazine has Vidal on page 347. I used to drive the bus. It's bumpy, hot and noisy back there. What's the problem, Writin' Boy? Or am I mistaken, lacking in perspicuity and observational ledgermaine?
Not only are the writers way back there in the rear seats, the effort needed just to find the index to their copy is unprecedented. How many Jews must a man thumb through, before he can find him a man; how many pages of treacle and glue, before the yids choose to eat ham. The answer my friend, is on Manhattan winds, the answer is blowing in the wind. I'd suggest Gore Vidal eat his heart out, but the food and drug folks, along with those in agriculture, warn against the consumption of stale product. Bang -- bang -- bang / Fiddle -- filled -- fiddle. / Vidal's got the name, / But no guts in the middle. (Leaving us to wondered who gored him, when , how, where and why. That's how a real journalist thinks.)
I'd like to be the Bob Causey of writing. Bob Causey was a street-size man, who not only totally excelled with the Celtics, back in the Sixties, but who established both dribbling between his legs and passing behind his back as athletic set pieces. No, you will never write as I do, but maybe you'll come out a better writer than you went in.
High-school stars use Bob's moves today, but the first thing to do is read about Mr. Causey, and note how much he practiced. And a dreary note, since we're doing basketball. He's baaack. A reason whitey blocks and marginalize blacks, to the best of our considerable ability, is emblemized by the erratic and undignified behavior of black athletes. This behavior devalues and destabilizes in insidious and subtle ways. Irritates us, ruins them.
This is the one where I tease you.
Embarrassment, thy name is god. That's me, alrighty, dead embarrassed. It's this way. For some time I've been nurturing the idea of finding a Jew and seeing if, since his people created god, he or she could create one for me. Well, not for me exactly. You probably get the picture.
My current status is defined by two essentials. First, I am a king because of the overwhelming contributions of the Emerson/Forbes coalition. That's been outlined on the pages. Second, I am a god because no mortal has ever, or could ever, write as I do.
This leaves me needing a higher being to be. Since the Jews invented one, they'd the obvious place to start looking for a higher one.
Now for the embarrassing part. I honestly don't know, however much time I spent tooling around on the DMZ, if I have the courage to face this. I discourage reader mail. Eighty-plus of you wrote to ask if I refastened the rope on the World Trade Center (of course I did), and so on. But this might be more an hour of need, and a pat on the shoulder from a reader or two, well, it just could be the thing to ease the misery of my humiliation.
Look, this is a whispered confession, just between people. I know, I'm stalling, you would, too. See, it's like this. You know, not to put too fine a point on it,. well, what I've gone and done is, you know, write this big long piece for the Internet -- dumb -- dumb -- dumb -- I misspelled not one, but two of the character's names. Plus, I don't know if it's Cousey or Causey. May be neither.
Sure, it might not sound like so big a deal. Errors creep in, right? Everybody makes mistakes. To err is human. The list goes on. With me, time spent researching is time not spent at the tail of the manuscript. But you're missing the point. Torah must be spelled perfectly to have any value. A little Hebrew can spend years on a scroll and one miscue with a single letter renders the work scrap.
Ergo, how am I meant to persuade this meticulous people to find access to super-god status, when I break their most sacred tenet? Again, if you have any suggestions do write. It would really cheer me up.
Oh, yeah, if you're going to write and tell me that the real underpinning of Jewry was rabbinical lust for the sperm of thirteen year old boys, yeah, it's true, but I already know it.
Writer, thy name is god (and for Christ's sake, stop whining and making with the endless jokes). (You're bringing me off as a buffoon.)
Posted by Thomas@btl.net
xxx