Picking up threads of skin

November 5, 2017

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5th November

A grim September Monster gobbled me up and shat me out in this cold, inhospitable November. That’s how it feels at any rate.

Brexit apparently will lead this ‘green and pleasant land’ into the black chaos of Lovecraftian doom; but before that dire fate overtakes us we must witness many MPs laid low because of their rampant misogyny. So much knee touching in the corridors of power. It’s almost as bad as the newspaper industry – and that’s saying something!

But, of course, our Parliament is a fantasy. The bizarreness of the events there, while mirroring the society surrounding it, should not surprise – pederasty, incest, all the convolutions of lust, all the varieties of betrayal are there in those dark corridors of power. The poor innocent suffering ravishment in her office after drinky-poos with the boss will, we are assured, become a thing of the past. And the heart-numbing, brain-toppling solution to this serial fiddling will be provided by the people who couldn’t be trusted to sort their own expenses! Yes, that’s right. Our jolly old MPs.

I would respectfully suggest now, that any male Member of Parliament prone to an inflation of lust when in the presence of a female / male person, simply doesn’t go there. Instead they should adopt the masturbatory obsession of Alex Portnoy. It’s safer for all concerned:

“Through a world of matted handkerchiefs and crumpled Kleenex and stained pajamas, I moved my raw and swollen penis, perpetually in dread that my loathsomeness would be discovered by someone stealing upon me just as I was in the frenzy of dropping my load. Nevertheless, I was wholly incapable of keeping my paws from my dong once it started to climb up my belly. In the middle of class I would raise a hand to be excused, rush down the corridor to the lavatory, and with ten or fifteen savage strokes, beat off standing up into a urinal. At the Saturday afternoon movie I would leave my friends to go off to the candy machine – and wind up in a distant balcony seat, squirting my seed into the empty wrapper from a Mounds bar.”

(Portnoy’s Complaint by Philip Roth)

You get the picture? We as a nation can put up with MPs who frenziedly whack off in a bathroom. But we cannot endure their perverse, self-absorbed obsession for unwanted knee feeling, groping and whatever else goes on after a couple of vodka martinis – abuse of position or power by these lechers and political vagabonds verges on the criminal, and should be stopped immediately.

Firing squad at the ready…

And today is Guy Fawkes day. We can set fire to our raggedy-arse, petrol-soaked Guy which bears an uncanny resemblance to Jeremy Corbin – but not by design. Originally it was modeled on that hero of democratic principle, Jean-Claude Junker. Somehow our Guy’s features morphed into those of JC – probably after his criticism of Nigella’s Turkish Eggs recipe on his ‘special’ Gogglebox show…?

“When I was younger I made it a rule never to take strong drink before lunch. It is now my rule never to do so before breakfast – ”

Winston Churchill allegedly said this to king George VI. However, he probably never did – despite all the quotes on the internet and the posters produced by a hundred and one different companies attributing this statement to Churchill. Which makes it an example of Fake History, I guess…

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Ideas abound. A wrecked, ravaged bed this morning. I see the shoulderblades of women, enjoy breakfast after lovemaking, Pepsi and Coke in the refrigerator, fresh brewed coffee on the table, freezing rain in the window. There exists a large lyrical love of the surface of this world within me –

But enough. I have work to do. A bed to make with clean sheets…

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