You’ve got to feel pity for crabs.
Naturally I’m referring to the wee-itty-bitty pubic habitants.
They’re on the way out – fucked to a degree even they’ve never seen before.
Fucked to irony.
A shame for sure, yet I spy and opportunity here; partly coming from being sparky in mind, largely due to feeling horny (whilst being hornly-felt; what a way to write!) and mostly owing to hunger.
Here we have a delicacy that only need be made delicate.
Some ballroom, some European Duke, some Governess spoiling us, a silver platter encumbered with the delights of the finest-bred higher-class prostitutes of Paris; specially bred crabs.
On a stick.
I could bring that about…it’s not as though I’m to be afflicted with the creepy little entrees.
I’m not the sort to have a hard time for medical reasons; that’s not very me.
My immune system is on the offensive and highly offensive.
It teases Gonoreah and bloodies the nose of bleeding noses.
I only bleed for the drama and the sexuality of the moment; matching my outfit and causing a stir when I enter ballrooms (one of my favourite things to enter; aside from women dazzled by my resistance to the entrees).
Bleeding only succeeds in certain areas.
Such as my chest; which can only bleed through three claws scratches, tentatively exposing what’s beneath my shirt.
An indistinct patch of blood on the bicep looks grand too, although only whilst fighting a revolutionary cause and waving a flag. The wound must also be tightly bound in a sexy rag gifted to me by some impassioned wench, who’s also holding my musket for me.
The old wounds were the best. An arrow gouge gets one into so many more clubs than one of these modern “car crash seat-belt whip” wimpy modes. How’s that meant to impress a bouncer; just because one is wearing a windshield?
Bleeding goes so well with black. And not everything does.
Whilst they say black goes with everything, this refers purely to colour. However, though the colour might well go and indeed bugger off with black, it doesn’t mean the substance the colour is of can accompany it also.
For example, as stated, red goes with black; blood goes with black.
Pale grey goes with black; vomit does not.
Vomit only goes well with buckets and humorous landings splats of your current scenario.
I saw Yellow Fever, which goes very poorly with black by the way, in the street a few days ago, or rather I saw its cowardly coloured back as it whizzed away to take out its frustrations on South East Asia.
My immune system does have a tendency to take no prisoners and gift no mercy.
Such as the time malaria got me.
It was a short and chilly summer that spring, with the birds singing sweetly beneath the water and the sun rising early after a brief lunchtime siesta. In other words; times were absurd; permit me a tad absurder.
What did you do to malaria Sam?
Why I’ll tell ya. I took that innocent young malaria strain into my broad and willowy arms and though it struggled immensely, we eventually reached an amicable forced marriage.
Followed by several beautiful and lethal offspring (I wasn’t on the pill), after which my malaria-bride made a break for it with dreams of being either a vet or a contagion. It was at this point I nobly threw acid in its face and told it to get to scrubbing whatever the fuck I told it to scrub.
You have to keep these diseases in their place, otherwise they’ll get all uppity and start demanding higher pay and penetrating your central nervous system.
I’m not at all certain as to why, but I’ve an urge to reassure you all that I do not consider women to be a negative thing, especially when compared to diseases or injuries.
I do however find funny things funny; equating with the previous.
I sleep-off syphilis.
I walk-off amputation.
I begrudge malaria receiving an education.
I am prepared to cater to the fancy ball with pubic crabs on sticks because I’m a fancy motherfucker with pubic ideas.
I am the greatest human to ever live.
And so are you.
Now go kick smallpox in the derrière.
Today I will be talking about talking about taking personification too far, because personification told me to.
To begin, I want to make the point that, as is common with people with an unfortunate/tragic growth- they might give it a name. I’ve never had a growth, aside from hair, which I haven’t named.
So I did some reading.
Take for example Joan, from London, gets cancer, and cancer makes her feel bad, so she focuses positive thinking unto this little bastard of a lump so as to reduces the power it has over her.
Lump equates to chemo. So she names the lump Basil. Now Basil equates to chemo. And it’s better to say ‘fuck Basil’ than just ‘fuck cancer’. Makes the fight more personal.
“How is little Basil doing?” might ask a particularly informed (but not enough to refrain from asking) passer-by.
“My Basil is having a hard time at the moment- he’s in a jar following meeting that wonderful surgeon fellow” Joan would reply.
And then…what would Basil say, as he sat sweating in a jar?
Would he just sigh? A failed attempt, try again next time?
What does a cancer lump do following decapitation from the lucky body-part? And in that vein, what does a cancer lump do when it is victorious and has consumed the whole of Joan? There’s nothing left of Joan to infect- how does a cancer like Basil spend it’s time now? Can it follow up its greatest achievement of having Joan’s tits removed and jarred?
Or does it just die? And if it just dies, then what’s the fucking point in doing it anyway? Obviously cancer has no real vision. Basil could have made something of himself, but is only really a one-hit-wonder following Joan’s bosom.
I’m feeling a strong need to clarify that I hate basil as much as the next guy (and I can see him from here and he actually looks like he hates cancer a little less than me- the wanker). And now that I know Basil has such little direction in life/death, I dislike him all the more.
Fuck the Basil that equates to chemo. He has no right to equate to chemo. Nelson Mandela, Isaac Newton, Freddie Mercury, not even any of those guys had a right to equate to chemo. What makes Basil think he’s so fucking swell?!
And in terms of this, I’m also wondering (seeing as how I’m taking personification way too far today) what cancer would wear whilst out and about.
I have a feeling he/she’d wear lots of undeserved medals. I can picture that easily. The sort of disease that would show off and complain about how the diseases of today are so weak-willed compared to the good old days. The good old days of cholera and Black Death- real hearty stayers of a contagion. Oh they’re in the address book, crossed out and KIA. I’m sure cancer misses them terribly.
Aside from that I’m thinking pinstripes. With a handkerchief and gold teeth. Gold teeth dotted around his face because it’s symbolism for spending money and making only a dent. I bet cancer loves a bit of symbolism. I bet it even bought those gold teeth himself.
Cancer clearly tries too hard.
I think cancer would listen to Coldplay.
This is an image of a pinstriped, handkerchief-ed, penetrated by gold-teeth weirdo named Basil reclining in a burgundy leather armchair, his head rolling back and his ears filling with what he wants, and what he wants is Coldplay.
He looks extraordinarily uptight, like a man that never learnt how to wank.
Cancer doesn’t smoke.
But he does scratch himself with your discarded left-overs. Like Joan’s tits.
Oh my, he is a bastard. I would never do that.
The female version is likely tall, really tall. Taller than all of us, with a hint of burliness that can only be contended with by a distinct knife to the testicles before she hopefully goes away. I don’t know her name, but she smells like petrol.
This is the brute bitch that did what she did to one of Arthur’s two-veg.
She wears a pinny and has killer heels.
I love shoes, and I respect heels, but a personification of cancer wearing fabulous shoes? That’s a tip-toed stride over the line of ‘shoes Sam’s willing to allow’. Not that I have much say in anyone’s footwear. This rule only applies to cancer because I’m trying to find a way to bully it.
Arthur would love to do this, but a knife to the bollocks was his only option.
I wonder what Arthur and Joan would do if they ever bumped into the personification of cancer in the street.
I really don’t know. What do you say to someone after a relationship like that?
Either spit hatred or wish them all the best because you’re not quite sure either. Unless you know you can walk away and simply hope to never see that personification again, in which case that’s currently all we can do.
Apart from personify it.
And mock it.
And wear pink.
Fuck Basil and whatshername… we’ll forget about them someday, and remember Arthur and Joan.
Here’s to you guys.