An ongoing evolutionary collaborative free-range Atkin's friendly, wardrobe malfunction-free, literary blog. Tastes like chicken, smells like pennies, thinks like Sloths. Hand me your cash, we need an editor.
Parade of Horribles
G_a_w_k: She stood up after we made by-far-the-most-casual-love and looked at me as if I had committed a crime, winced and then exhaled a post-coital gripe, "why is it that you ONLY want to make love to me in the morning?". I was without words. As if her words punched me in the part of my brain that made me answer reasonable questions. I tried to explain that ........
Shirl: ....but before I could, she jumped out of bed and donned her attire for the Parade of Horribles which was about to transpire shortly. "Oh shit, we are going to be late", she muttered as she tossed me my joker hat. I was not in the mood to parade, but hoisted up my spacepants and adjusted my package.
Wonderbritches: “Fecking Parade of Horribles is fecking right!”, I thought, as I helped her lace up her corseted gown. “Nothing but a bunch of drunk wankers parading about under the false auspices of tradition and charity, when in fact its naught but a reason to get drunk and act pretentious. Might want to consider NOT breathing tonite if this is to look right”, I muttered pulling tight, taking advantage my outraged gasp to cinch up another quarter inch.
G_a_w_k: This act of cinching up my lover in the corset was like tying my shoe laces, but with my shoes packed with about 8 hotdogs. This thought stripped the cogs in my mind into being incredibly hungry and I suggested that we grab a quick snack at the 3rd Street Diner before we really got down to some hot, nasty parade action. In fact, we needed nourishment to bear witness to the mass idiocy of 'sheeple grazing' on moral bankruptcy. So off we went...
Shirl: ....stopping at the DisLodged instead, after stumbling upon it on our way to the diner. It had many similarities and a few humorous differences to a Masonic Lodge. There was a pommie stationed outside the building, a uniformed security guard who exchanged a complicated and rather silly set of hand gestures with each patron as they entered. Inside there was....
Wonderbritches: ... a gauntlet of paddles to run through to get to the counter to order what passed for food. Our asses fairly smarted by the time we got to the counter, as if it were penance for even considering grabbing “fast food”. The pizza-faced boy at the register was poised to take our order, but I couldn’t quite take my eyes off his face as the pustules bursting on his face sent rancid sludge slowly draining down an oily path unnoticed by the boy. I tried to order...
G_a_w_k: ....but my stomach turned into a sheep shank knot, refusing my desire to eat. There was absolutely no hope of Clearasil or zitjuice cream that could possibly undo this poor kid's dermatological woes and I worried that he may eventually look like some pock-marked character in some Miami Vice re-run. The expression on my face made Magnolia queezy, so we left and found ourselves back in the street, swallowed in the parade of Skittles™, with colored outfits, wafting of mystery-meat-on-a-stick, cigarettes & pot smoke.
Shirl: The scene was that of the look and feel of Bourban Street past and present, with people on the balconies overseeing the montage below. Wilbur and Magnolia smelled the air, a mix of diesel, urine, fried chicken, crawfish and gumbo. Just then a hooded man approached them and asked if they were partaking in the parade, and when Wilbur nodded, they were ushered around the corner to.....
Wonderbritches: ... climb up onto the float they were to be riding on. “Crewe de’ la Farts de la Fantastica!” A float that was gaudy, bawdy, and aromatic all the same time. The fire farters were ready to go tragically placed with plenty of pinto beans and lighters around the edges. The rest of us donned the gas masks and loaded up with baubles and beads with which to bombard and bean the unsuspecting parade viewers. Wilbur made sure his handy cam was ready to go to catch the flashing action of the drunken hussies in the crowd.
G_a_w_k: I winked at Magnolia and said, "If you are going to flash your owls at the crowd, maybe you need to do it properly and get a 'tramp-stamp' above your coin slot". She winked back but I had no interest in the pain of needles piercing my skin with permanent ink in a needless show of false tribalism. The flashing lights and flurry of activity made it seem as if I was tripping on 'shrooms at a Cirque Du Soleil show. Someone from the passing crowd handed me a Yuengling beer and I quickly slurped it down and barfed up a foamy glop of air then smiled back at Magnolia as she hiked up her shirt and ...........
Shirl: ......took the opportunity to release 'the girls' and undid the corset. There was a hush over the crowd as the strings loosened, and flop! The crowds screamed, babies cried, dogs barked, bottles broke.
Wonderbritches: One of the fire farters is distracted by the flapping boobage and suddenly turns ….unfortunately he was in “Flamethrower fart mode” and his rancid inferno quickly flambeaus the float made of paper mache and tissue.
G_a_w_k: Between Magnolia's unfurled mammary explosion and the Creme Brulee pyrotechnique of parade float disasterous proportion, the day seemed stuck between a dog-eared copy of William S. Burroughs, Interzone.....but without the blur of keif, hashish and bunkerfied hooligans. Wilbur and Magnolia decided that the fate of the day must end with.....
Wonderbritches:...................a hotdog.
G_a_w_k: She stood up after we made by-far-the-most-casual-love and looked at me as if I had committed a crime, winced and then exhaled a post-coital gripe, "why is it that you ONLY want to make love to me in the morning?". I was without words. As if her words punched me in the part of my brain that made me answer reasonable questions. I tried to explain that ........
Shirl: ....but before I could, she jumped out of bed and donned her attire for the Parade of Horribles which was about to transpire shortly. "Oh shit, we are going to be late", she muttered as she tossed me my joker hat. I was not in the mood to parade, but hoisted up my spacepants and adjusted my package.
Wonderbritches: “Fecking Parade of Horribles is fecking right!”, I thought, as I helped her lace up her corseted gown. “Nothing but a bunch of drunk wankers parading about under the false auspices of tradition and charity, when in fact its naught but a reason to get drunk and act pretentious. Might want to consider NOT breathing tonite if this is to look right”, I muttered pulling tight, taking advantage my outraged gasp to cinch up another quarter inch.
G_a_w_k: This act of cinching up my lover in the corset was like tying my shoe laces, but with my shoes packed with about 8 hotdogs. This thought stripped the cogs in my mind into being incredibly hungry and I suggested that we grab a quick snack at the 3rd Street Diner before we really got down to some hot, nasty parade action. In fact, we needed nourishment to bear witness to the mass idiocy of 'sheeple grazing' on moral bankruptcy. So off we went...
Shirl: ....stopping at the DisLodged instead, after stumbling upon it on our way to the diner. It had many similarities and a few humorous differences to a Masonic Lodge. There was a pommie stationed outside the building, a uniformed security guard who exchanged a complicated and rather silly set of hand gestures with each patron as they entered. Inside there was....
Wonderbritches: ... a gauntlet of paddles to run through to get to the counter to order what passed for food. Our asses fairly smarted by the time we got to the counter, as if it were penance for even considering grabbing “fast food”. The pizza-faced boy at the register was poised to take our order, but I couldn’t quite take my eyes off his face as the pustules bursting on his face sent rancid sludge slowly draining down an oily path unnoticed by the boy. I tried to order...
G_a_w_k: ....but my stomach turned into a sheep shank knot, refusing my desire to eat. There was absolutely no hope of Clearasil or zitjuice cream that could possibly undo this poor kid's dermatological woes and I worried that he may eventually look like some pock-marked character in some Miami Vice re-run. The expression on my face made Magnolia queezy, so we left and found ourselves back in the street, swallowed in the parade of Skittles™, with colored outfits, wafting of mystery-meat-on-a-stick, cigarettes & pot smoke.
Shirl: The scene was that of the look and feel of Bourban Street past and present, with people on the balconies overseeing the montage below. Wilbur and Magnolia smelled the air, a mix of diesel, urine, fried chicken, crawfish and gumbo. Just then a hooded man approached them and asked if they were partaking in the parade, and when Wilbur nodded, they were ushered around the corner to.....
Wonderbritches: ... climb up onto the float they were to be riding on. “Crewe de’ la Farts de la Fantastica!” A float that was gaudy, bawdy, and aromatic all the same time. The fire farters were ready to go tragically placed with plenty of pinto beans and lighters around the edges. The rest of us donned the gas masks and loaded up with baubles and beads with which to bombard and bean the unsuspecting parade viewers. Wilbur made sure his handy cam was ready to go to catch the flashing action of the drunken hussies in the crowd.
G_a_w_k: I winked at Magnolia and said, "If you are going to flash your owls at the crowd, maybe you need to do it properly and get a 'tramp-stamp' above your coin slot". She winked back but I had no interest in the pain of needles piercing my skin with permanent ink in a needless show of false tribalism. The flashing lights and flurry of activity made it seem as if I was tripping on 'shrooms at a Cirque Du Soleil show. Someone from the passing crowd handed me a Yuengling beer and I quickly slurped it down and barfed up a foamy glop of air then smiled back at Magnolia as she hiked up her shirt and ...........
Shirl: ......took the opportunity to release 'the girls' and undid the corset. There was a hush over the crowd as the strings loosened, and flop! The crowds screamed, babies cried, dogs barked, bottles broke.
Wonderbritches: One of the fire farters is distracted by the flapping boobage and suddenly turns ….unfortunately he was in “Flamethrower fart mode” and his rancid inferno quickly flambeaus the float made of paper mache and tissue.
G_a_w_k: Between Magnolia's unfurled mammary explosion and the Creme Brulee pyrotechnique of parade float disasterous proportion, the day seemed stuck between a dog-eared copy of William S. Burroughs, Interzone.....but without the blur of keif, hashish and bunkerfied hooligans. Wilbur and Magnolia decided that the fate of the day must end with.....
Wonderbritches:...................a hotdog.
Transcript from your home movies, Gawk? ;-)