I want to eat my wife’s legs.
It comes from a place of love, I can assure you of that, though there is also a chance some small percentage of inspiration comes from a small breakfast.
We have an agreement, you see, in which, as our hearts, lives and bank accounts have become entwined, as have our shared ownership of body parts.
Those are OUR bosoms and that is OUR foreskin, so on and so very much forth.
There are limbs and sundry which have special ownership, however, such as my ready greediness for my wife’s legs.
I’m not sure why, but as time has passed in our whirlwind of passionate going-steadiness, my mouth has passed from open mouthed awe at my wife’s physical form (along with the very decent form of being eager to involve me upon it) to closed mouthedness – with teeth bitten down and much attempted chewing upon a choice buttock.
Probably just arousal, though I feel sure there are connotations of good old cannabalistic adoration…eating the hearts of one’s enemies can only fall more pale to the good etiquette of eating that of a lover’s, whilst I am also confident it’s simple good forward thinking.
Plane crashes were an awfully ‘2016’ thing to occur, but this year might decide to replicate with me dangerously strapped in to my seat.
I can envisage plowing down, cockpit first into the scorched ground of Saharan desert, peanuts and hostesses flying every which way, before blacking out holding my wife’s hand.
Coming to, still with a hand to hold but no wife in sight, I would eventually come about to find her, and seeing this am overcome by grief and an attack of the munchies.
From then on it’s something to chew over whilst considering my future in canabalism.
Of course, this is all nonsense.
Whilst I do encounter a peculiar urge to nibble upon my wife’s legs when I stumble upon a glimpse of them, I don’t want eat my wife.
Perhaps I should simply eat a trifle more (as two trifles evidently isn’t enough…actually, please help me with my trifle habit) prior to our bath time.
This being said, I still do have a degree of autonomy of regions of my Mrs.
We’ve agreed, I get her thighs, whilst my forehead is all hers.
I want her thighs because they are too pure a specimen for her to spoil with some form of “I’m a spiritual wanderer and foot-first hippie” tattoo involving ‘swishy’ lines as if you’ve really got a David-Bowie-starry-summer-breeze on your leg…and a horsie.
Plus they’re simply a smashing pair of pegs.
And she has intentions on my forehead. Not sure why. To hang art from it at some point possibly; it is a rather large forehead and we all have a calling…even foreheads and I.
All this about eating my wife is merely how I feel regarding munching on the public, but I’m not so sure, not so sure at all, about grandmothers.
“Oh I could just eat you up” they’ll say.
And, yes, they jolly well could, but not without a fight and a retaliatory chomp.
Do you have the fortitude to beat off a granny of steadily advancing years and worryingly advancing nashers?
Whilst I’m confident of being socially comfortable with belting a granny about the nose and ears with her own handbag/Yorkshire terrier, I know all too well of chums falling to the dentures and hideously successful gumming of a starved granny who thinks they’re adorable.
Not to mention, these old women are riddled with spare teeth, meaning that they could eat you with dentures in both hands AND with the mouth.
“Ooh ain’t he lovely Doris!?”
“Oh yes Marge, but try him with gravy.”
Personally, I’d have to view the whole encounter as a fine selection of fellow-filled grins from which to elect the most helpful to knuckle heavily before running home to my wife and urging us to eat more before babysitting any potential future grandchildren.
I truly-doodly-do write some strange things throughout my articles.
However, I’d like to remind everyone not to eat anyone and vice versa, unless you find them in a prime state for eating, just remember to wash all hands before cooking. And feet. And sundry.
And don’t forget, canibalism leads to larger larders but fewer friends…not a pleasing alliteration when realising one is a direct result of the other.
So; not chewing, but nibbling.
An enormous gaseous globe rose from the sea’s end and illuminated my world in moments more beautifully than much I have seen, much as it has succeeded in so for eons, epochs, millennia, all of time and yesterday.
High hopes for tomorrow too.
So I didn’t get much done that morning, although my land was golden green, ruby blue, sun fire yellow and a purple only the cosmos can lay upon us.
Am I a good person? Because I’m guilty thus.
Bullfighting is something I would, if so empowered, flick a switch to end the elderly and embarrassing sport, yet I would also pay to see it if opportuned so.
It is an experience this world offers, and with life being so short and all the more apparently so since watching following watching this; how can I yield myself?
Yet still I would end it, with that switch of mine.
I would eat dog when offered and well cooked.
Dogs are amongst our oldest and greatest tools, the species would not be where it is if it weren’t for our identifying of the tremendous power of canines.
This remains with us today.
For amongst those great powers is the intelligence of personality, providing us a companionship of such strong and loving bonds that one cannot be called a “master”; but perhaps older brother will do.
It says so much for both our united species in that throughout all the monstrosity of ancient living in prehistoric life, these two great groups found each other and the inter-species bond proceeded from there.
My children will grow with a dog, my wife and I will die with one, and I would still eat the roasted flesh of one simply being that it is an experience to experience.
I would not kill a man to eat him, but should it come to combat I would like to give him cause to never wish us encounter again.
I would cut off and eat nothing vital, yet something he’d miss.
Not his heart or vitals. Not his eyes or brain. Perhaps just an ear, or a pinky.
What is missing, taken, leaves a mark and I jolly well just might.
In Samoan history the greatest threat and then insult was to say to your enemy: “you’re shit, I’m going to make you shit”, defeat him in battle, butcher him into entrees, eat some and turn him into shit.
No greater defeat.
No greater insult.
I’d eat your pinky, so don’t fuck with me or I’ll shit you.
I don’t know if the ancient Samoans had a ceremony for the first poo following the post battle brunch. I wonder if they looked forward to it, presuming this poo was once you? I just don’t know.
This went through my head as the sun rose.
Perhaps I should have laid in.
Watching the sun rise is unproductive.