ACTUAL VIGNETTES FROM THE WINGED PIG’S BIG NIGHT

Cast of Characters:
SDW – smiling devil waitress – great smile, great ass, funny, flirts well in access of her 22 years. Little funny flirt machine. Shakes butt while she walks.
H2C – Hottie 2nd Cousin – shares TWP’s general disdain at normal society. Falls in love easily. Is trying to set TWP up with her hottie friends. Works at a top notch hotel in Budapest as a masseause.
BCW – Blonde coworker, 23 year old attractive girl. Hottie 2nd Cousin’s friend from the hotel. Funny, currently shimmering with rage.
TWP - looking slick, wearing a sardonic grin, cool black leather jacket and jeans

The Winged Pig, in his post brain tumor reincarnation, does not lie or play games. This results in endless hours or amusement.

TWP „So you are from Gyongyos?”
SDW: „Yes. It is a beautiful place. Here! (she passes me a vase full of this amazing smelling flower – matching the name of her home town)
TWP: „Wow, that smells great.”
SDW: „There is a perfume for it but it is too sweet.”
TWP: „Just rub the flower all over your body.”
SDW: „That is a good idea.”

BCW: „So why are you back here in Hungary?”
TWP: (blink blink blink)
BCW: „Did I touch upon a sensitive topic?”
TWP: „Uhm… Yeah. I mean, this is just not a topic for lighthearted conversation. I mean, two words and you will be staring at me deathly pale. Trust me.”
BCW: „Oh come on.”
TWP: „I really have no choice and tell you now… This should amuse me with endless hours of tortured cackling.”
BCW: (bright, intrigued smile) „Go on!”
TWP: (lean forward, smiling brightly) „BRAIN TUMOR.”
BCW: (deathly pale, supernaturally still) „WHAT?”

BCW: „So I call her place and she picks up the phone. I say: ’is this Francois’ girlfriend?’ and she says yes, it is. Then I say I am also Francois’ girlfriend, just not in France, in Budapest. I can hear that she put her hand on the receiver and HE comes on the line, and he puts on a show and screams into the receiver that he loves his girlfriend of two years and I am to stop my lies.”
TWP: „That is really incredibly harsh.”

BCW: „So tell me – I would love to read your book. What is it about?”
TWP: „It is a rather saucy erotic novel.”
BCW: „Is it nasty?”
TWP: (what the hell is nasty? if she means nasty is a bunch of choir boys fornicating with a goat, then it is totally not nasty) „No, it is not nasty.”
BCW: „So can I read it?”
TWP: „I am probably not even going to publish it under my own name.”
BCW: „Is it nasty, then?”

TWP: „You are peeling that bottle with your pocket knife.”
BCW: „So?”
TWP: „You do know what Freud said about peeling a bottle?”
BCW: „No. This is going to be something really weird, isn’t it…”
TWP: „Not really. Peeling a bottle – or chewing ice – is a sign of intense sexual frustration.”
BCW: „I love this bottle!!! (collapsing into a bitter ball of rage) All I have is ice!”
TWP: „Hahahaha, exactly what I said.”

BCW: „Let’s go to Paris. Rain on his parade. It will be a mission of vengeance.”
H2C: „Okay.”
BCW: (facing me) „Why can’t you come with us?”
TWP: „Multiple herniated disks. I am about to undergo treatment. Keep a detailed journal. I will write the book, it will be Thelma and Louise but with hot women.”
BCW: „Good god. Are you serious?”
TWP: „Thelma and Louise? Absolutely.”
BCW: „No. Herniated disks.”
TWP: (laughing hysterically) „oh yeah.”
BCW: „Wow. You are really collecting this shit, aren’t you?”

SDW: „Can I do anything else for you?”
BCW (yawning): „A bed, please.”
SDW (glancing at me): „Mine is really far. Really far. In the XVIIIth district. So I really can’t give you that. Because it is far away.”
TWP: (stares at flower in vase on table)

National Poetry Month - Post Zwei

Salt sour surface skims of god’s eye
Scooped transparent jelly handfuls of raw
Fight ME

My hottie cousin set me up on a sure thing date with her superhot GF who WANTS TO GO PARTY tomorrow night.

What do I do? I NEVER had a sure thing before.

Positives of the Winged Pig

At the suggestion of my really hot shrink (who totally has a crush on me. yes it's a woman) I am assembling a list of my good qualities. This is very theurapeutic supposedly.

1. I am really really good in the sack. (fact. ex girlfriends said it. angry. MUST be true)
2. I am hot. (fact. ex girlfriends said it. angry. MUST be true)
3. I have a large penis (fact. ex girlfriends said it. angry. MUST be true)
4. I am funny. (boyfriends/husbands/fiances of ex girlfriends said it. angry. MUST be true)
5. I can cook. (not hungry people said it who kept eating. MUST be true)
6. I climb trees well. (nobody said it, but it is true)
7. I am great with LEGO (you should see the weekend cottage I can build out of total crap)
8. I give fabulous, thoughtful, unique presents (absolute fact. GF of the time is in total trouble if she gets something from the last 120 years)

I am going to get some wine. I will keep going at #9 if I can think of something else.

National Poetry Month - Part Uno

I am jumping on this bandwagon because I am bored and I have time to kill.
So.

I find myself LOVING some words. Too damn much. For example, 'gleaming' and the last two poems I wrote, I somehow insisted on including the word 'rupture'. I feel I am not done with these two words, though.

Ruptured gleam,
broken hope,
blah blah blah

I know it is not a bad image, I know... I am occasionally deeply suspicious of myself. Am I a hack?

I took that test on Caniches Morts blog and it turns out I scored into the second layer of hell for the lustful ones, having scored EXTREME-ly high on the sexy stuff. Now this I understood... But I also scored EXTREME for violence. The lust I am not at all surprised on - but VIOLENCE? What the hell? That is like the 7th layer of hell! That is BAD!

On the second layer I am buffeted by a constant wind of desire. I fail to see how that HELL is any worse than EARTH. I mean, I am used to the buffeting.

Wow I totally pulled a Sarcastrix today and posted something like 4 entries.

National Poetry Month MY ASS. We have had the International Poetry Day and other cool shit like that already. National Poetry Month. Lick Me

The Most Awful Poetry in the Galaxy
Vogon poetry is of course the third worst in the Universe.
The second worst is that of the Azagoths of Kria. During a recitation by their Poet Master Grunthos the Flatulent of his poem "Ode To A Small Lump of Green Putty I Found In My Armpit One Midsummer Morning" four of his audience died of internal haemorrhaging, and the President of the Mid-Galactic Arts Nobbling Council survived by gnawing one of his own legs off. Grunthos is reported to have been "disappointed" by the poem's reception, and was about to embark on a reading of his twelve- book epic entitled My Favourite Bathtime Gurgles when his own major intestine, in a desperate attempt to save life and civilization, leapt straight up through his neck and throttled his brain.
The very worst poetry of all perished along with its creator Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings of Greenbridge, Essex, England in the destruction of the planet Earth.
This is the actual poem mentioned in HHG. This is taken from the TV series, the poem is on the screen during the segment where the book talks about vogon poetry. You can verify this with any standard VCR with a good pause.
The dead swans lay in the stagnent pool.They lay. They rotted. They turnedAround occassionally.Bits of flesh dropped off them fromTime to time.And sank into the pool's mire.They also smelt a great deal.

MSN.com's Chick Is Into You Test

According to MSN.com, this is how you can tell if a chick is into you:

Clue #1: She’s all decked out
Clue #2: She licks her lips
Clue #3: She tosses her hair
Clue #4: Her feet face you

Let me summarize this for you. If she wears some whorish miniskirt while she is topless, licking her lips, tossing her hair, while she is grinding herself on your lap, you are in good shape!

lumbar puncture. thl has nothing on me 

This is a picture of SIC (tan and boobified) for the guys to drool over while I work on the MS PAINT psychedelic stuff). 

Fear and Loathing in Budapest

A gigantic neural surgeon in a stained gray t-shirt and a ponytail meandered into the room. He was at least three hundred pounds of solid beergut. Behind him, a nurse was grinning at me.
He smiled at me. “Well. You are the one.”
“One what?”
Nurse: “The one who is getting the POKEY.”
“Uhm. The injection. Yes, that would be me.”
“Okay then. I want you to sit on this stool… Get us two stools, nurse.”
“Ya ok.” (nurse glides off, smiled supernaturally bright, returns in a moment with two decrepit wooden stools. I sit on one.)
“Now, I want you to strip naked on the top half of your body.”
“Uhm… okay.” I obey. He outweighs me by like 200 pounds and anyway I am supposed to get the contrast material for my CT scan, so I am supposed to get a shot… Why is this nurse grinning at me?
“You will feel a momentary pang of discomfort.”
A SWORD is plunged into my lower spinal chord.
“See? No problems or pain at all! Now, cough!”
“WHAT?”
“Cough or laugh.”
I manage a hysterical cough. I am sensing the needle quivering in my spine.
“You see that? When he coughed, it increased the spinal fluid pressure and the thing is filling up much faster now…”
This is when I realized I was not getting contrast material AT ALL – I was GETTING A LUMBAR PUNCTURE WHILE SITTING EXPOSED ON A DECREPIT STOOL, administered by George the Animal Steel.
After about 21 seconds of unadulterated agony they withdrew the gigantic spear from my back. They took samples of MARROW.
The nurse shoves the thing full of ick towards the gigantic inquisitor “So now what?”
“Regular lab, please.”
“Ugh… so now… now what?”
“Now you must be completely motionless for the next 24 hours. We will send an orderly to cart you down to the CT area in an our or so, where they will take pictures. No movement at all. Drink LOTS of fluids.”
Nurse laughs uproariously. “More ducky for you!” (ducky is the quaint nickname for the bottle you piss in).
“Uhm… okay.”
“If you move AT ALL you will have a three day long migraine headache.”
“I will not move.”

An amazingly gay orderly manhandled me down to the CT area where he deposited my comatose corpse (some poetic exaggeration) in front of the bathroom door. I did not realize this problem until I felt a jostling against my cot. I looked up to gaze at the withered, evil visage of a 211 year old woman (at least – maybe older) trying to CLAW HER WAY into the bathroom through my cart-cot-wheeled thingie. She gasped with every motion, staring at me with a desperate plea in her eyes, moving hand over hand, jostling my contrivance. I detected more elderly in the vicinity, eyeing the bathroom entrance with avid interest. I was apparently classified as a SURMOUNTABLE OBSTACLE OF A TEMPORARY NATURE.

Finally they stuck me inside the CT where the radiologist squinted at me. Her initial attitude of morose indifference had become one of gentle reassurance. Apparently, nobody visits the CT as much as I do without being filed away into the Walking Corpse file.

So then they took me upstairs where I was placed back in my room. There are six beds in the room sized for four. The beds themselves are discarded surplus cots from Rammstein airforce base. This means they are for ambulatory patients and are 4 feet off the ground. When you fall – and let me tell you, some patients FALL HARD in neurology – it is a BAD THING. The whole hospital is Twelve Monkeys meets some kind of plumber’s vision of the apocalypse. Immense, high ceilings, gigantic glass doors, pipes EVERYWHERE… Shelled, bombed bungalows from 1944 littering the ground outside. It is UTTERLY SURREAL.

So I keep drinking mineral water. Even if I wanted to drink something else, it is not available. Mineral water comes from the pipes – since the hospital was built in a natural spring. There is no chlorine in the entire system. I drink a lot of it. I had to dispatch my mother to purchase a duckie, since the hospital supplied duckie – the only ONE the hospital had LEFT – lacked a cap. I need not tell you how thrilled I was at the prospect of breathing in the heavy scent of my radioactivity stained urine all night long. In any event, I obtain the ducky and I am like SET!

Then I realize I have read everything even remotely appropriate for this venue. I have read all the Terry Pratchett. I have read all the silly stupid stuff. I have read the Sci Fi. I have read the magazines. I have no laptop (see my entry regarding it earlier, too lazy to link it) so I cannot write.

What, pray tell, do I have left to READ, in this medical textbook hell?
Drumroll please.

FEAR AND LOATHING IN LAS VEGAS

More MS Paint art or pseudo slutty pictures of Julietta?

I know sic will be upset that I am contemplating putting up more pictures of her... but you know, you only live twice.

So what is the general feeling on this? Funny MS Paint art, or slutty pictures of drop dead gorgeous sweet young thing?

Neurology Blues

So I went to the hospital to get my CT scan with contrast material. They put me in a room and forget me. In an hour, I inquire and this fat, mean nurse tosses me a glass tube and tells me to pee in it. There is no funnel, there is no bottle. There is no way to pee in the tube without peeing on your own hand. Furthermore, there is no indication where I am supposed to undertake this project. I was sort of tempted to just whip it out and ENGAGE, you know, but I really really did not want to turn her on. It would have been just NASTY.

I retreated to the hospital bathroom (sans soap and bathroom tissue, of course) where I procured the necessary sample. I went back and she took my blood. LOTS OF IT.
"You ain't gonna faint on me, are ya?"
"Uhm... No?"
"Good then, we take MORE!"
"Gugh."

Let me tell you about this hospital. It functioned as a poor house during WWII when it was shot up to hell during the siege of the castle. Well, it looks it. It looks like a shot up poorhouse. It is sort of like a scene from Twelve Monkeys, abandoned because nobody would believe it.

I have to spend the night there tomorrow. There should be some good posts out of it. Stand by... There are like two really hot nurses, and one with a cute smile who keeps coming by and talking to me in the middle of the night while the brain tumor patients snore rhythmically. It really is poignant.

I have met this girl in the flesh, and she is much, much better looking than on this picture. And yes, I was unable to even stammer. And yes, you see girls like her here. It is not ENTIRELY UNUSUAL. 

Mr. Fox and Rabbit - Part 12

Rabbit suddenly screamed. “Aaaaaaaaaahhhhh. Fuck that felt good.”
He turned to Mr. Fox and kicked him straight in the balls. The insane red furball doubled over, wheezing.
“Go get Dr. Bear.”
“Uh… Okay. Why?”
“We are going to resurrect Heather so I can have sex with her.”
“WHAT?”
“Mindless fornication is the best medicine.”
“With an ANT?”
“Do not mess with us. We cook your meals. We guard you WHILE YOU SLEEP.”
“Yeeees… I will bring Dr. Bear. You just… stay… put. Right… There.”
Mr. Fox stepped out of the Tree. Dr. Bear was crying disconsolately against a sagging ash.
“Rabbit… He…”
“He cries too… Over HER…” Dr. Bear wiped giant tears from his giant eyes.
“Ugh… Not EXACTLY. He needs you to come in.”
“I understand. I shall come. We need each other…”
Dr. Bear lumbered inside. Rabbit jumped seven feet into the air and rammed Heather’s corpse into his slack jawed maw. As the Queen disappeared down the Ursanoid’s gullet, she looked over the mountain of her dead workers.
“Eat them too.”
“Tasteeee.” Dr. Bear began to lick the insects from the floor. Heather looked on with satisfaction as her army popped back into existence, one juicy protein rich corpse at a time.
Rabbit clapped his paws together. “Splendid!” He pointed to the spot in front of him. “This I command!”
Heather squinted at him. “I presume you want me to assume the position.”
“Yes. Assume the position.”
“You do realize I am extremely fertile. It is in the job description, you know.”
Rabbit smiled, but it was strained. “Hmm.”
“I don’t believe in birth control AT ALL.”
“Uuuuhhh…”
“And I give birth to entire generations of VORACIOUS FEMALES.”
Rabbit’s horny grin began to fray a touch. He began to edge away from the crooning insectobabe. “Well, you know, now that you mention it… I really have a preference to copulating with my own… You know… Genus.”
Heather sobbed and protruded her proboscis.
Rabbit paled.
Mr. Fox pedantically sang to the tune of Money Money Money by Abba. "I had no idea ANTS had a proboscis... Had a proboscis..."
Dr. Bear lumbered closer. "So these voracious females... Are they hot?"

Paulo Coelho

I went to the book festival and asked Paulo Coelho a question and he talked to me - ME! for 15 minutes straight.

And then I went out for lunch and these two chicks tried to pick me up.

It was a good day.

Dirty Old Man

Only I can go to the book show where I attend a publisher's press conference, leave for lunch, come back... and this is where things go just wacky.

I buy a big salty pretzel and meander near the entrance, where I am handed a survey. By a girl. A pretty girl. With pageboy blonde hair. Tall and slender and blue eyed and YOUNG. Like NINETEEN young. Or 21 at most. Still don't know.

So I offer her my pretzel. I know I will get nasty comments about this, but I honest to God just offered her my pretzel. She consumed my pretzel. We talked. A lot. She has not started college yet (just getting into college is a big deal in Hungary - many YOUTHS apply a couple of times over the course of a few years until they get in (if they get in). This was about the time I began to laugh at myself deep within, a tortured, gasping sound.

He hehe he he. (You know that sound.) He ehehehe.

She gets off at 5. No, not like that, you filthy bastards. She tells me she gets off at 5 and SHE IS JUST DYING TO GET A COLD BEER the second she gets off. I got the hint after like 10 minutes and asked her out.

I find myself drinking beer with her for like an hour. Maybe two. Then we went home. Not like that. She went her way, I went my way. We just went part of the way together.

So damned cute and unsullied and charming and YOUNG. Somebody SLAP me.

Budapest Women

Ok, I will try to keep this short.

Budapest women are excruciatingly hot. I have some theories on the WHY.
It is sort of a vicious circle of hotness.

Once upon a time, there was a core of hot chicks who exceeded the Magic Threshold. This meant that the REMAINING chicks had to become hot as well or they were not going to be able to compete, comprende?

Volume demand for manicurists, liposuction, solariums, hairdressers, lingerie and slutty Italian pumps = LOW, AFFORDABLE PRICING. You literally cannot go a single block in any direction without running into (1) a beauty salon that will give you a facial for like a nickel (2) a solarium (3) a manicurist who gives you a French manicure for 5 dollars (4) a healthclub full of sweating 19 year olds who could be in Penthouse.

This, of course, resulted in some absurd consequences. I have met some drop dead gorgeous sweet young things who WORK BEHIND THE DELI COUNTER. By now, they would be trophy wives back in the world, here, they are just part of the scenery.

A few years back a friend of mine came here from England with his girlfriend. Girlfriend HATED EVERY WAKING MOMENT.

Now, add about 15000 really hot callgirls in Budapest, a city of 2 million people. So, out of 1 million women, about 300,000 are in attractive age bracket (since I am neither into kids or grannies). This means one out of 20 women is strutting about in 5 inch heels and a pink crop top. Now I am not into hookers, but this has a runaway effect on the sleaziness of the outfits. Since you look like a stuffy old maid if you wear normal stuff next to the callgirls out for lunch and the perfectly tan long legged 18 year olds getting ready to go clubbing, you have to wear stiletto heels and an ultra tight miniskirt just to look normal.

I really have to figure out how to put pictures up now. I bet I would have a ton of readers if I put up some photos to demonstrate.

Mr. Fox and Rabbit - Part (negative) -1

"So. About OOYMFETAI."
"Yes."
"Based on Toad's dying words. What do we know about her?"
Mr. Fox raised a finger. "Well, she just acquired a boyfriend, although she is not yet calling him a boyfriend."
"Hot and heavy?"
"If not now, it will be soon."
"So we don't have a chance in hell."
"No."
"So why are we so bummed?"
"Because we don't have a chance in hell."
"Drink?"
"No."
"Women."
"Yes. Fight fire with fire, I say."
Rabbit sprinkled some cologne on his tail. He picked up the flamethrower. "I will put Dr. Bear out of his misery."
"I think he will off himself anyway when he hears about OOYMFETAI."
"Good point. No reason to waste good fuel." Rabbit dropped the flamethrower on top of Heather who expired immediately. The workers stared at their squashed queen in mute horror, then proceeded to off themselves right away, chop chop.
Mr. Fox stared at the mounting hill of tiny corpses.
Rabbit put a finger against his temple and made the international sign of the trigger pull. "I really have nothing whatsoever to say right now."
"Let's at least bury it."
"Cremate it?"
"We don't want to burn up the tree." Rabbit pulled out the blood stained pictures of OOYMFETAI from his pocket and gently placed Heather's body on the stack. He then flicked open his zippo and lit the pyre.
"Should we sing something?"
"I only know Happy Birthday to You and the Three Kings song mom sang at Christmas."
Rabbit shrugged. "That will do."
"Happy Birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Heather...
Happy Birthday to you."
Rabbit softly blew the flame out.

Chorgil

A lot of this post will be stream of consciousness. It will lack my customary introspection.
Now.

"Tell me, is Dorian Gray very fond of you?"
The painter considered for a few moments. "He likes me." he answered, after a pause; "I know he likes me. Of course, I flatter him dreadfully. I find a strange pleasure in saying things to him that I know I shall be sorry for having said. As a rule, he is charming to me, and we sit in the studio and talk of a thousand things. Now and then, however, he is horribly thoughtless, and seems to take a real delight in giving me pain. Then I feel, Harry, that I have given away my whole soul to some one who treats it as if it were a flower to put in his coat, a bit of decoration to charm his vanity, an ornament for a summer's day."

My heaven is the scent of rain, stomach twisting longing and the fulfillment of fading hope. Magic storms, fire, wings, unstoppable. Climbing trees and hiding gold beneath the roots for the children to find, in thirty years or so, maybe leave a treasure map in my will, addressed to excited young kids, or a random stranger in clever wicked poetry, full of merciless metaphors.

I have no children, I have no gold, I have no trees with big mystery roots.

It would have been nice to find someone who thought those things were worth something.
But I did not. So, I am sad. I am just sitting here, thinking of the point to any of this, when magic seems to have died away. When my pretty crystal presents, so carefully constructed, are just WEIRD. I thought I knew someone. I am the king of projection.

So, here I am, now, humming bars from Mozart's Requiem. Not easy. It is not exactly a catchy tune.

The Saga of the Broken Laptop Converter Thingie - Part 1

I took my laptop and my power converter to this notebook place in the city. I plaintitively raised the universal adapter I bought yesterday and began to cry.
"It's not working! It's not long enough."
Gangly Nerdling Guy looks at plug. Looks at my laptop. Inserts plug in laptop. "Oh, it's long enough. It's not WIDE enough. Not even close."
(weeping hysterically) "So... Like... Now what?"
"Well, we can try to order a new power adapter..." Here gangly guy makes a hand gesture that roughly translates to the metaphorical equivalent of 'we can try to pray to Saint Anthony for a miracle' or we can GO TO TOWN on your power converter."
"Go to town."
"Oh yeah. Rip it apart, soder it together, piecemeal."
"Is that even possible?"
"Let us find our service guy and talk to him about it."
(7 minutes pass) I stare at GNG expectantly.
He stares back. Blinks. Speaks. "Well, what did the service guy say?"
"Uhm. Who is the service guy?"
GNG raises fingers the length of the Alien's claws. "There."
I stand patiently in line for Service Guy (SG).
I produce the powerchord-adapter.
SG: "Hahahaha, you have a US power adapter."
TWP: "Yeeeessss... I do. Now, my problem is... (I describe the problem. Again. For 10 minutes the store staff are staring and fondling my power adapter, making derisive comments about the WEIRDNESS of those bloody American components). "So, can you help me?"
"I don't want to. There will be a short and your machine will CATCH ON FIRE. Then you or your house will CATCH ON FIRE."
"But I can't work without my Precioussss...."
"Okay, I will fix it."
"Huh?"
"It will cost you a fortune but I will fix it. Leave it here."
"Okay. Okay. Bye now."
"Bye Bye."

Mr. Fox and Rabbit, Part 11

“We shall establish the colony here.”
Worker 12321D bowed to Queen Heather as she crossed the great Sea of Charred Honey Flavored Ash.
In the excited, high squeal required by law, worker 12321D responded. “By your command!”
“Tell Worker 1221A to bring me a bottle of malt liquor and my compact.”
“By your command!”
“And stop saying that.”
“Pursuant to your command!”
“Why... why do I even bother?”
“Your Majesty bothers in so that she can set up a new colony in this vast space of plentiful garbage and eternal warmth.”
“It was a literary question.”
“Literary, your grace?”
“What happened to Your Majesty?”
“Must... kill... self.”
“Yes, you do that.”
Worker 12321D inserted head into a crack in the floorboard and continued to move forward, leaving said rather valuable component behind. Immediately Worker 12532A replaced her. She faced Queen Heather and intoned in a sing-song, gravely voice. “Has he lost his mind...”
“What?”
“Is he live or dead...”
“Where is my malt liquor?”
“...nobody wants him, they just turn their heads...”
“Where is my compact?”
“...nobody needs him...”
“Uhm... shut up!”
“I AM IRONMAN! Workers of the hive, unite!” Worker 12532A, having given the prearranged signal, charged forward, to be stepped on by Rabbit’s immense, raspy red tongue.
“Yummmm... Tasty.”
Mr. Fox considered. “You said you did not eat meat.”
“Are insects actually meat?”
“Why not eat the big one?”
“You are not going to survive through the night. You just called a Heather fat.”
“So... We left messages on OOYMFETAI’s machine.”
“You left message.”
“True. You just rubbed yourself against the receiver.”
“Well, she has a sexy voice.”
“Uhm. Yeah. Oh yeah.”
“I want to know why the Insecticons were big.”
“Obviously they were modeled on prehistoric bugs. Big ones.”
“But... One of them was a grasshopper.”
“So? They must have shrank with the passage of time.”
“This is a useless conversation. You might as well question the efficacy of retaining the A-Team.”
“An excellent question. Why not retain Michael Knight?”
“With or without the car?”
“With the car, of course. He was completely useless without the car. It would be like retaining Clark Kent without the Superman option.”
“So ideally you would retain the A-Team, with BA driving KITT?”
“EXACTLY.”

Ördögtörp

Holy shit.
This place - it sells used baby clothes and supplies. It is called Ördögtörp.
Why is this funny?
Because Ördögtörp means the Devil Midget. In Hungarian.
God I am horny (this is a random aside, unrelated to Ördögtörp. God, you are sick.)

Drunk Angel Throws Up in Bar, Hangover Worsened by Being Tossed into HELL

My question is the following:

Is friendship - really deep friendship - doable with someone you are bonkers over?

Mr. Fox and Rabbit - Part 10(a)

“Succulent… Tasteee…. Protein… mining….”
“Oy? What… what are you doing?”
“Yes, very refreshing.” Rabbit examined his reflection in the fishbowl. “Handsome as ever!”
“…Succulent…. Tasteeeeee….. Mmmhmmm…..”
“Aaaaaaaaaaa…………..”
Rabbit issued a manic grin, stamped with his signature ‘frothy’ drool. “I sense Perfectly Frank shall not be moping about OOYMcWittty much anymore.”
Mr. Fox nodded sagely. “You are a creature of Evil, Sire.”
“Toad was right, though. I need to get laid.”
“I believe young Master Frank was referring to the concept of holding hands and caressing and composing poetry with OOYMFETAI...”
“Toad is dead. I want to talk about Veronica’s legs.”
“Uhm... Who is Veronica?”
“Some woman who works at the bookstore. By God! It would be like climbing a mountain. Legs that seem excessively long for someone in her early twenties.”
“You are only 3.”
“I am a rabbit. I am practically middle aged.”
“You are only 1.9 feet long.”
“That’s true. But most women freak out even with that.”
“Uhm... I mean height, not length.”
“Hey, call me Tripod Jimmy. So where is Dr. Bear?”
Just then (isn’t that just a corker! So goddamned convenient that of all the fucking creatures of the Forest the BEAR comes sauntering in. Is this a coincidence? Hell no. This is WRITING.) Dr. Bear comes sauntering in. His eyes are locked on a set of blood soaked pictures.
“So... byoootiful...” A fat globule of drool fell onto the honey-ash stained floor. “So... Byootiful...”
Rabbit snatched the pictures from Dr. Bear’s weak grip.
“Holy shit, this chick is totally hot. No wonder Toad lost his mind.”
“I really don’t think you should be looking at them like that, Rabbit. Dr. Bear is starting to get mad.”
Dr. Bear was indeed becoming alarmingly red in the face. Thick cords of muscle bulged about his neck as he prepared to annihilate the small shrew. He breathed madness and anger! “Gimme back... Gimme!!!”
Mr. Fox caught a glimpse of the picture as well. “Good god. Good god. Maybe there is a phone number in Toad’s clothes?”
Mr. Fox and Rabbit stared at one another for a moment and sprinted out of the tree, with the lumbering shape of Dr. Bear in close pursuit.
“We shall establish the colony here.”
Worker 12321D bowed to Queen Heather as she crossed the great Sea of Charred Honey Flavored Ash.
In the excited, high squeal required by law, worker 12321D responded. “By your command!”
“Tell Worker 1221A to bring me a bottle of malt liquor and my compact.”
“By your command!”
“And stop saying that.”
“Pursuant to your command!”
“Why... why do I even bother?”

Jiggle my Plastic Thingie

Hooookay. Q & A with The Winged Pig, seasoned with a pile of paprika.

Intro to strange text:
So after 4 months in Hungary I keep tzping Z-s when I should be tzping Y-s. Why am I doing this? I am doing this because Hungarian kezboards juxtapose those two letters. It is really, really annozing. I don’t do it all the time, of course. I do it only when I am too layz to backspace and correct. Now, you are probably telling yourself that I must be doing this entry on a Hungarian keyboard. No. Hungarian keyboards simply screwed mz head and I am doing this on my US laptop. A US laptop from the Dell corporation.

- Am I happy with my US dell product? YES.
- Am I unhappz with its power supply cord thingie? YES. I am even comfortable with the thingie I have to jiggle when I open it up to avoid it going into hibernation (and NO, I am talking about the plastic thingie. And NO, not the plastic thingie you are thinking about. I don’t own a plastic thingie like that. I am talking about the little knob that gets depressed when I shut the laptop... whz do I even bother.).
- Is the cord thingie twisted and broken and onlz charges once in a while, if I twist it 23 degrees counterclockwise? YES.
- Am I getting laid left and right by nubile Hungarian vixens? Uhm. NO.
- Am I a heartbroken idiot moping about a woman half a light year away while surrounded by really, really hot chicks who are totally into me? Uhm. Well. Sort of. Definitely moping. Definitely surrounded. Not quite totally into me. Not ALL of them. Just some of them. And not TOTALLY. Just a little bit.
- Should I even be thinking about women, considering their not entirely beneficial impact on my life? NO.
- Should I call the publisher and get my goddamned novel published? YES.
- Should I cook something reallz really cool? YES.
- Should I cook cajun chicken covered in flour mixed with fresh marjoram, black pepper, a ton of random spices I find in the cupboard and an enormous amount of canned peaches, on a bed of sauteed onions? YES.
- Should I be writing some really interesting stuff now that I eliminated 99 percent of all readers with trivial tripe? YES.
- Should I prepare this sumptuous feast in the presence of an impressionable twenty-something with legs that seem to extend to infinity named ******** and her equally attractive (but with much sluttier makeup) friend? YES.
- Is this entrz going to BITE ME IN THE ASS? YES.
- Did I ever have a brain tumor? YES. Operation complete. Looks good. Still have hair. Still get checked out. Thank you God. (Not for the tumor, for the hair and continued life with hair).
- Do I have a herniated disk? YES.
- Am I getting it taken care of? YES. Off to see the Wizard on Friday.
- Is this Herniated Disk thing following my BRAIN TUMOR a cruel joke by the almighty? YES.
- Will I ever publish this total crap? YES.
- Did I get into UBC? YES.
- Am I going? NO. What am I going to do with an MFA in Poetry from Canada?

I might continue this incredibly interesting, thrilling list of questions later. For now, I am moving on to write an episode of Mr. Fox and Rabbit, Part 10(a). I am simply going to pretend the Part 10 that is already on this blog does not exist. I do this because I am the master of time and space here. And because I typed that one directly into Blogger, so I would be inconvenienced by the necessity of looking it up, as there is no Wireless Internet in the Hungarian boonies (not that I am not tempted to acquire wireless internet for my parents, but it would be a bad thing, very bad for creative writing, if I could just surf the web and procrastinate ad infinitum by reading (and commenting on, much to the strained delight of their owners) the three blogs I actually read. Yes, that would be THL, Sarcastrix and DigitaliCat).

9.5 minutes

hahahahahahahahahahahaha
Now that is a good commercial. Some cellphone company in Hungary has this hot blonde in a pushup bra and lace panties and this guy in a black turtleneck. He is (absently) shoving strawberries in her mouth, runs to the fridge for icecubes, throws them on her stomach, sprays her with whipped cream and runs out of the apartment.
She is moaning on the floor, covered in shards of ice, whipped cream and marascino cherries, saying something like "oooh that was so wonderful..."
It's some kind of a promotion for cellphone time in 9 and a half minute increments.
Genius.

Sluttiest names EVER

This is a quick poll of the, like, three people who read this blog.
What is the sluttiest name for a woman, excluding obvious stripper names like Candy or Princess? And why? I mean... What and who do you see when you see the headline: "....... strips naked"?

A: Heather
B: Stacey
C: Amber
D: Tonya
E: Michele

Feel free to add your own suggestion of an established name.
Thank you.

Master P

I am Masteh P.
Master of Procrastination.
I have to translate 15 pages (ok, I already did one, 14 pages ) of gruesome legalese from Hungarian into English and I just have no desire to do so.
Instead, I want to write another novel and a couple of poems.
Does this make me into a bad person?
Spank me for being bad, then.
I went to see the Salvador Dhali exhibition at the Palace of Exhibits because I refused to pay 50 cents to the bitchy fat attendant woman for the privilege of using her filthy public bathroom and instead I just paid the 9 dollar exhibit admission fee.
Does THIS make me into a base person?
Random shoe fetish aside: This girl (hot if you like them blonde with big boobs) who was also visiting the exhibit wore the coolest shoes I have ever seen on a woman. I seriously considered asking her where she got them from but (1) I don't wear women's shoes (2) there would have been no way for me to appear I did not. They were incredibly pointy with a medium heel, and the point was curving UP, kind of like a completely wicked jester's shoe meets some slick black leather pumps. They HAD to be Italian.
I am Sooooo Goooood at procrastination.
Say it after me:
"Soooo Goooood at procrastination."
"Soooo easy. Just don't do anything. Soooooo Goooood."

Mr. Fox and Rabbit - Part 10

“Succulent… Tasteee…. Protein… mining….”
“Oy? What… what are you doing?”
“Yes, very refreshing.” Rabbit examined his reflection in the fishbowl. “Handsome as ever!”
“…Succulent…. Tasteeeeee….. Mmmhmmm…..”
“Aaaaaaaaaaa…………..”
"I really enjoy the sound of the silence."
"Nifty."
"Permit me to savor the strange sour depiction of this murder."
"I permit you."
"It really should be: You have my permission."
"NO. I permit you to EXIST."
"You are not nice, Rabbit."
Dr. Bear walked in. He grinned slowly, licking his chops. "Prrrrrooooteeeein Meeeeeeeyyyning."
"Splendid job ol' chap! Good work!"
"prrro... Prooo.... Oy, it was."
"What?"
"Oy! I enjoyed the tastyness! Now I must go and call McWtii..."
"WHAT?"
"My precioussss.... My precioussss...."
Rabbit sidled close to a corkscrew. He picked it up and pressed it against Dr. Bear's forehead. "The power of god compells you! The power of god compells you!"
"Isn't it compel?"
"Who cares? Toad possessed Dr. Bear. Is possessing him. Now. Currently."
"Well, that makes sense, doesn't it? I mean, you made him eat him."
"Is he actually dead? I mean... Did he eat him completely?"
"Oy! Tasteeee.... Protein mining..."
"In that case, he would be alive."
"Uhm."
"Uhm?"
"Let us examine the evidence. With him dead, we own a Suzuki Samurai."
"Obviously he must be dead."
"Obviously."
"I am indescribably horny."
"You tend to be, Rabbit, you tend to be."
"Dr. Bear, does McWtii put out?"
"Noy... She is a creature of light and energy, my best friend and my soulm..."
Rabbit's foot was entirely immersed inside Dr. Bear's surprised maw. "SILENCE. HER IRRELEVANT ATTRIBUTES MEAN NOTHING TO ME UNLESS SHE IS WILLING TO SERVICE ME."
"I really think you should remove your leg from Dr. Bear's mouth... Before he begins to explore new veins of protein, say, in your leg."
"Uhm. Good point."

"That is a silly question. You should ask that from your BRAIN SURGEON."

"So... is there an alternative treatment besides surgery for this, uh, herniated disk in my neck?"
"Shoor. Wheery goood reesults vid many pashents." (I am too tired to keep typing in Russian accent, so just imagine it, please)
"Ah. I see."
"Of course, with your history, I can't really touch you until you cleared the treatment plan with your BRAIN SURGEON."
"Uhm... Yes. Of course. Silly me."
"It's treatable, but with that shunt in your BRAIN, sticking needles into it might be a bit risky."
"Hahaha. Yes, I imagine it would be. What should I, you know, avoid, until this is fixed?"
"Well, no hot water whatsoever. No hot showers or baths."
I nod, crying deep within.
"And absolutely no diuretics. Nothing that can dry you out."
"You mean... No caffeine?"
"Exactly. OR alcohol. Particularly wine or beer. Or acidic foods."
I nod, numb with the realization that he just ripped all joy from my life.
"And of course, working out should be done only in moderation."

Dear God: Anvil or piano dropped on head - simpler and funnier. Just FYI.

Lemur Child

So I was on the light rail again. This train is a neverending source of amusement for me. Whereas in DC people board the train and spend their commute in embittered, lonely silence, staring down at their sneakers which they will change out of into equally ugly flats, in Hungary, people begin talking to one another immediately upon boarding.

Hot chicks don't think it is uncool to commute to school on public transportation, so the view is always pleasant. There are, of course, about 5 out of 100 people who are sort of little islands of envy in the sea of social interaction, but Fuck Them.

This woman boards with her son. The woman did not look particularly remarkable. Maybe in her late 40-s. Theoretically, she could have been the grandmother of... of Lemur Child.

Lemur child had a passing resemblance to a human boy of maybe 8 years of age. He had the largest yellow-green-brown eyes I have ever seen. The creature had a round head and a well fed, sort of roundish body. Its hair was the same length everywhere, kind of like the healthy expanse of fur on a healthy Madagascarian monkey. The moment it sat, it began to explore its surroundings, peering inquisitely at me, at its (grand?) mother, at the people across the aisle. I was hypnotized, could not take my eyes off it. Since I had neither food nor interesting toys, it ignored my captivated stare and extracted a newspaper from an unknown location. He began to read an article on tax relief, those enormous yellow eyes absorbing every single detail of the recommended legislation. I tried to read the article with it, but feared its feral reaction. I began to contemplate the possibility that the creature was maybe an Owl of some kind, not a lemur. Everyone knows owls are academics.

"Were we blind to miss this?"

"Were we blind to miss this?"
<-- polite blink, vague concommital smile
"I mean, it is really ugly."
<-- rapid eye movement, smile supernaturally still, sort of affixed to the lips
"Here is your disease, right there! We don't have to look anymore!"
"Ghaaa...?"
"There! You see it? (waving MRI results against spotty sunlight filtering in from the outside) It's HUGE!"
"Uhm..."
"It's a textbook case of a badly herniated disk."
"I... see."
"It really bears the stench of surgery."
"It bears the stench of surgery..."
"Yes. You know, when someone has something like you had, a herniated disk is just not stuff we think about. Oh, I do remember this 65 year old guy who had the same thing you did, and we treated him exactly the same way we treated you, and he developed a herniated disk in his neck as well."
"Uh...?"
"I am writing an article about it, right now."
"Aaah."
(Enter secretary) "Hi A------."
"Hi M-----. Guess what! I have a herniated disk!"
"Hahahaha. You are really crossing off the diseases at the Neurology Department, one by one."
"Hahahaha. Haha. Yeah. Ha."

About to Die

So I am quitting coffee drinking tomorrow after my dentist makes me all pretty. I went through so much pain to get my teeth to look all hot and stuff, I don't want to muck them up with icky brown stains. Did I just use the words 'pretty' and 'icky' in the same post? Do I sound completely gay? Anyway, like a giant serpent, instinctively aware of the coming dry season, I am consuming vast quantities of coffee, storing away the evil goodness for the coffeeless journey ahead. I already had, like, 10 cups worth of poisonous espresso. My heart hurts, and not from romantic angst. Wow, now my eye hurts too. I am eyeing my coffee cup lovingly (she is still half full of ebony colored EVIL). Expect some completely bitter posts as of tomorrow, full of headache filled growling angst.

Tomorrow's Schedule

Ok so I wrote a whole post about what I was going to do tomorrow and then I realized there is really no point in predicting the future. We are all going to die from a supervolcano eruption in exactly 12 years, 18 days and 1 hour anyway, so what is the ... oh crap. I did it again.

Hungarian Poetry Reading

I went to a poetry reading. Now, in the States, poetry readings are inevitably attended by insane looking, fat, single women in their early forties. They are held in decrepit cafes that are half a payment ahead of foreclosure in up-and-coming suburbia. There are a lot of hand gestures during recitals and a bathtub full of Killians is consumed before going home, alone, and eating a vat of Cookies & Cream.

This was the second poetry reading I attended in Budapest. The first one was at the Palace of Exhibitions, a celebrity filled, televised event within a 19th century edifice on the Square of Heroes. This second one was inside the Museum of Mass Transit.

The Museum of Mass Transit is in Szentendre (Saint Andrew), a place that has been an artist’s village for something like 120 years. During its history, there were stretches when it had been inhabited strictly by painters, sculptors, poets and other winged people. It is charming and pretty, with whitewashed medieval houses and a cathedral on the hill. The Museum itself is at the terminus of the light rail line, a small, neat little railyard full of trams and light rail carts from the history of Mass Transit. A huge warehouse/port facility building had been converted into the main museum exhibit. The finest of the trams and a few of the light rail cars have been lovingly displayed within. The doors are open on all of them. Children run around like mad and play hide and seek among the bleachers, or pull the chords that still make the bell cry, roleplaying conductors, passengers, even the foolish pedestrian.

A flatbed cart between a pretty yellow tram and a green light rail cart had been set up to act as the poetry platform. Lights were trained upon it and a sound technician was in charge of the microphones. The trams and trains surrounded a sizeable open space within the warehouse. Maybe a hundred chairs have been set up there, with tables from the poetry publishers surrounding the whole scene. There was a table on the extreme right selling homemade sandwiches, sconces and fresh coffee. The other tables were covered in books, manned by women and girls in thick framed glasses. The host for the Event was a man in his early fifties, with a mustache and wavy brown hair. I do not know if he had a title or if he was a big deal, but I assume so.

“Please – let us start with the first four poets. Come up on stage namenamename (I forgot their names except for the pretty brunette with the blue eyes and the red leather coat. Her name was Julietta. Heehee)”.
They all sat down and he read their poems, slowly, with relish. The majority of the poets preferred that he do the reading. A band came on stage when he was done. Four musicians and (yet another) gorgeous brunette in a long dark coat. They began to play and she began to sing poetry, accompanied by flutes, guitar and chello. She had a powerful crystal clear, powerful, contralto voice. When they were done, the host came on stage, flanked by two 8 year old girls.
“During the break these two young ladies came up to me and asked if they could have their works read. They brought this.” Here the host raised a spiral bound, little book. “It is called Our First Book of Poetry by Eszter and Gabriella.” He bowed to the girls and he read two of their poems. The girls stood behind the microphones, beaming, trembling under the lights, listening to their words out of his lips. It was beautiful.
He next called up the winners of the literary competition for the past three years from the nation’s high schools. Two girls and four boys. They came on stage and read their poems, one at a time. They looked too colorful for poets, did not wear nearly enough black. It was too warm for turtlenecks. They were all good. They did not go for quantity or forced angst. The first boy wrote cute children’s poems, susurrating words in perfect rhyme. The second girl wrote Haiku, although she would not have called it that. I envied them. So young and so good, still so immortal, untainted by fear.

After they were done I took a break and meandered outside. It was warmer outside. I saw them on top of an open railcar. They climbed into the exhibit and passed around a bottle of nearly black red wine. Six poets and their girl/boyfriends, drinking red, red, red wine on top of a museum exhibit under the sparkling hammer of the sun. In the Land of the Free they would have been arrested.

Freedom is not defined by abstract ideals. It is defined by its absence. Go and do what you want, always, without hurting others, and when you run into the electric fence, you have found the boundary. In America, people have ran into the electric fence so many times they don’t even test their prison anymore. Nobody tries to walk on the pretty lawn by the public building, drink champagne from a bottle by the riverfront, or hold poetry readings in lofty public buildings. You would get fined, arrested, laughed out of some important man’s office. Dreams have been circumscribed and wings have been clipped. This is why angry young men rampage through their schools, not because they have guns, not because they have books on Hitler. They have no freedom or outlet for self expression.

I am not fishing for comments here. As a rule, I abhor politics. Little monkey brains in little monkey suits, classifying everything in terms of issues, inevitably corrupted by some sacred goal, a thousand times justified in their little monkey brains.

Mr. Fox and Rabbit - Part 9

“NO!” screamed Toad. “She can’t! She won’t! I won’t listen to this anymore!” Perfectly Frank ran to the door, ripped it out of its hinges and hurled himself out of the tree, into the ridiculously star filled romantic night.
“Wow.” Said Dr. Bear.
“Yes. Love conquers all. Including doors, Or so it seems.”
Rabbit’s grin was rather disconcerting. “Well, not exactly all.”
Mr. Fox looked dubious. In the same tone of voice used by third grade teachers who confiscate a note in class only to find the message ‘I will suck you off for a hit of freebase’, he confronted the toothsome little shrew. “What have you done?”
A horrible, bloodcurdling scream shattered the relative silence of the night outside. Rabbit’s ears immediately flattened themselves against his head, to protect his delicate eardrums. The screaming just did not stop.
“Aayayaaaayaaaayaaayayaayayaaaaayaaayayaayaayaaa”
An unknown voice in the forest asked: “What the fuck?”
“Ayacayaaycayaccyaacayaaccayaayacaaaycaaayaacayaa”
Dr. Bear stiffened his shoulders. “Should I go outside and check?”
“Naw. This is good for him. I really don’t think he is thinking of OOYMFETAI right now.”
“Aaaaayyyy stepped in a bear trap! Help!!! I am bleeding to death!”
Rabbit patted Dr. Bear on the shoulder. “My friend…” His voice had the sugary, thick consistency of honey laced motor oil. “My friend… Such terrible burden… To have succulent… Succulent, helpless meat outside. Really, it is only a matter of time for poor Toad to join Mr. Pig in heaven. Mr. Pig was practically dead anyway.”
Mr. Fox sighed. “Dead drunk, you mean.”
“Well, yes, that is what I mean. What I mean to say now, to DR. BEAR, not to MR. FOX, is that there is some tasty, fresh carrion outside, just waiting for an opportunistic, pragmatic forest dweller to take advantage of the bounty. It is simply protein mining!”
Dr. Bear drooled. “Succulent… Protein… mining…”
“Yes…. Yes…. Its succulence calls out to you. Do not fear its call, for it is your friend...”
“Aaayayaaaayaaaayaaayyyy am getting weak… Please call an ambulance…”
“Yes – you can hear its tasty goodness through the intervening wood of the Tree. Such tasty goodness!”
“Tasteeee…. Goooodnessssss…..”
Rabbit loomed over the goldfish bowl. He dove inside, feet first, until only his ears extruded from the water. He bent them at a right angle, forming an impromptu periscope, tracking Dr. Bear’s shambling, glassy eyed exit through the doorless doorway. Once the giant ursanoid was gone, he surfaced and exited the fishbowl.
Mr. Fox nodded. “Refreshing?”
“Ayaaayaayaaayaaaayayayayaa Dr. Bear? Thank god you are here!”
“Succulent… Tasteee…. Protein… mining….”
“Oy? What… what are you doing?”
“Yes, very refreshing.” Rabbit examined his reflection in the fishbowl. “Handsome as ever!”
“…Succulent…. Tasteeeeee….. Mmmhmmm…..”
“Aaaaaaaaaaa…………..”

Gracious, noble, generous and kind

And I am not bad looking, either.
I should rename this blog The Winged Doormat.

Mr. Fox and Rabbit - Part 8

“Philippine chicks are really hot.”
“They can be, they can be. I suppose they are Philippinas.”
“That sounds vaguely dirty.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“Who is speaking?”
“Not really sure.”
“Oy.”
“That is a fairly good identifier, Perfectly, but it is overused.”
“That was me, Rabbit.”
“Why did you say Oy?”
“’Cause I am in disguise.”
Toad looked at his watch.
“Have some place to go to, Perfectly?” Dr. Bear inquired politely.
“I have to go home so I can be up at DAWN. She told me she would be on-line, her time, and I will have a chance to talk to HER.” Perfectly Frank put a hand over his heart and closed his eyes. He began to hum something. A completely idiotic smile suffused his entire being.
Rabbit spat on him.
Fox patted Toad on the shoulder. “There, there… Now, why would OOYMFETAI… why would she come on line at dawn? Are you MAD?”
“I don’t know… Because she is busy until late?”
Rabbit grinned. “Now I wonder, why would she be busy until late on a Thursday night? BUSY…”
Perfectly Frank’s face went from a healthy, excited pink to a pale, trembling shadow of its former self. “No…” he gasped.
“Haha. Think about it, Toad, doormat man. She won’t tell you she is going out with some guy because she knows you will pull a freakout. Now, when you go home, she will not be on-line if the date went well, because she will have been out until the wee hours of the morning, at least. And the last person she will want to share her wonderful incredible date experience with is YOU.”
“At least you know she is not out with Rabbit. I mean, he would be screwing her every which way but Sunday by now.”
“There ain’t nothing wrong with Sunday either, Dr. Bear.”
Toad moaned out loud and slowly pulled himself against the wall in the corner, collapsing in stages into a whimpering, crumpled heap.
“Get a hold of yourself, man. Go get yourself some ass.”
“But she is special…” whimpered Toad.
Rabbit grinned. “Can she…”
“NO!” screamed Toad. “She can’t! She won’t! I won’t listen to this anymore!” Perfectly Frank ran to the door, ripped it out of its hinges and hurled himself out of the tree, into the ridiculously star filled romantic night.
“Wow.” Said Dr. Bear.
“Yes. Love conquers all. Including doors, Or so it seems.”

Tick Tock Tick Tock Tick Tock it's DAWN

Ever sat in front of the computer at DAWN?
NOT because you are waiting for someone to come online.
NO. That would just be SAD.
I am sitting here because I WANT to.
It is immensely pleasurable.