Readers Beware! The
long blonde tigress is out for her bi-weekly tarot walkabout and has demanded
that I, the Guffaw, forewarn you in her place. When she returns she will bring
a temper tantrum so large that it will ache the fluff inside your pockets and even
twirl your pubic hair into vibrant depictions of skeletal excretions. It’s an
imaginative process that could only have been made by a Scotsman carrying
around his shell collection on his person. The tigress has a saleable conquest
to keep you dizzy while she is out to lunch on fishy politician dinners. It is
as simple as this: Constantinople on heat.
Now I do not know what
she means by this but I’m guessing it is a puzzle tailor made for you. You look
about the right height for Constantinople, most ancient cities in fact, so I’ll
just assume the tigress knows what she is doing. It seems to me that she wants
you to mate with the brickwork and the history embedded within it until you
produce some kind of archaic newborn quiz of the century. Here is a scarf that
you might need, it loops through the front near the fronds. I’m pleased it
actually fits you, so many tape recorders have belched contrasting estimations
of your neck size but now I know the truth. You are a bit of a heavy-set
humanoid, aren’t you?
Sorry, I didn’t mean
for that to sound like heckling. Being the latest Guffaw in a globe-spanning
family of abstract belly laughs, I can’t help but seem amused. Seriousness is
an affliction I come down with every winter break so it might be worth you getting
an honest opinion then. I’ll even eat bacon butties. If I’m anything, I’m an
inconsistent vegan with delusions of vampirism. Don’t believe what they say of
me on the internet, I can’t overcome life’s joviality, I can’t actually help
you to venture cyber exposition in frivolous directions. I’m just the soul of a
moment that nobody can suppress, not even your mother’s father’s sister.
And hear this! The
tigress has said some nasty things about my sexual persuasion, claiming I’m
some sort of voyeur. In this day and age! Really! As soon as I see hanky-panky
it is my natural tendency to spank myself until blind. The tigress is just
jealous of my girth, my mirth and most of all my glamour. She couldn’t hold
down a carpet sander if she tried, her claws run so deep. In the meantime, let’s
leave all that under our collective hats, the ones with the really wide brims.
It’s such a sorry shift
of time that leads me to casting you off into the unknown for your grand
epitaph, I mean your grand mission. The starry crossing is headed south of the
portrait so you’ll have to do most of the footwork yourself. I’m sorry but I’m
fading away, paring down into a whistle. I am the Guffaw, Dear Readers, and please don’t
forget it anymore.
No comments:
Post a Comment