The Bumwhole

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The Bumwhole

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dukebox

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(no subject)	[May. 12th, 2009\|04:39 pm]
I was sipping my afternoon mint tea just now. As I neared the end of the cup I took a long draught and felt an unmistakable chunk of something slip into my mouth and bounce off the inside of my teeth. With my cheeks forced out by the tea pressure I quickly found that it was impossible to manually fish out whatever was thundering around and about my tongue without the use of a basin for the slops, or better, a toilet bowl to gob it all out in. Certainly this was not for swallowing. Jowls all a-puff I slipped quietly to the toilet to spew it up and found my boss in that small room washing his hands. As I was unable to speak I made quickly for the only stall, causing him to quickly stop me. "I wouldn't go in there," he said. "The toilet won't flush." Naturally the only thing to do was laugh at him but this was difficult without causing something of a scene. So I raised my index finger in the air to signify that I had an idea and walked out. Another toilet on the next floor proved empty and although reeking of shat, didn't actually contain shat. Happy that I was desperate enough, into this one I spat a great mouthful of mangey green warm water and felt only ever so slightly better.
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(no subject)	[Mar. 23rd, 2009\|02:59 pm]
Earlier, it was cold in the boardroom. Seated for the meeting, and with my two superiors peering nervously across the laminate at my assymetric cross jewellery, I called no joy at the outset and left to get a nice wooly. Returning, I seated myself as before and leaned into the affair. I had requested an agenda for preparatory purposes but none had been forthcoming, so I was dry but prepared by my own sense of business. They wished to discuss my attitude. "Go on," I urged. After a fairy light list of misdemeanours had been delivered a silence ensued which I used to finish my detailed notes and draw, as best I could, a penguin on my company brand pad. The silence stretched and it was only at the sound of slight whooshing that I broke from my private musings to see a picture sliding across the boardroom table towards me. It came to rest a little out of my reach but I could clearly see it was a brightly coloured ethno-bus, packed with the type who fall asleep many times during the daylight. "You need to get on the bus." I was told. I looked at the bus and then at my two superiors whose eyes were bulging. I had heard this phrase before, delivered only last week by a man whom I had just learned I had accidently insulted in front of a room full of fancy dans and pussies. I had even seen this bus before, but from a different angle. It was the one that had run over Jimi Hendrix. "Go on," I urged further. My livelihood was then threatened in a wispy way and it was made clear to me that there may well be a range of people out there who wished to make mild, non-disciplinary complaints against me in future if I did no mend my slightly off-key ways. I was critiqued gently to my very chair. By this point I had switched off to a degree, being greatly fatigued, and was nearing completion of a poor rendering of Charlie Brown. I looked up and, seeing the hopelessness in much the same way as when I had been close to a heavy road rage beating at the Church Lane junction, told them how right they were and that I was regretful for the situation. After my curdling speech I was told again of the need to get on the bus which, I must confess, made me think they were both fucking idiots. Later that evening I absent mindedly walked straight into a large pile of sick on the pavement that I had avoided for several days. I checked it the next morning for confirmation of my footprint but the sight of such a mess almost caused me to upchuck my bran.
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(no subject)	[Jan. 28th, 2009\|09:49 am]
This morning, as I began my lonely vigil, I was quite taken aback by some casual, and unconcious, prejudice detailed by a tidy scientist on the BBC. To give it some context, she had a graceful neck line and just enough aged razzamatazz to hold a man's attention while he played with himself - but that is incidental. What the Eva Braun said was thuswise, give or take the odd word: When I first came upon science I was somewhat put off by my assumptions that those involved in it were all geniuses. This is not the case as there are a lot of women and a lot of ethnic minorities involved in modern science. It calls to mind my own personal investigations using the resources of no less than Harvard to unearth my own secret and bigotted reasonings - The Research Tool. For the record - I strongly favour White Europeans and Heterosexuals, and slightly favour the Disabled, due I assume to a strong role model in that area. This bias will not change unless I read something pro-black and gay everyday to recondition my subconscious - I can't find anything suitable in my collection and I will have done myself no favours by reading the autobiography of Eric Bristow, who ironically was said to throw like a "poof". My dartboard is up and I am worrying the 60 bed on an occasional basis.
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(no subject)	[Jan. 5th, 2009\|03:59 pm]
Although, in these days, the passing of time seems meaningless to me, I still decided to attempt to mark the year with some kind of token daily effort. A pristine notebook is repeatedly kicked from the top of my vintage amplifier every morning as I rise so I have decided to fill it, even though I have blank paper issues which will cause me much anxiety. I am going to draw a shit picture every day. It may not perhaps be every day, but more importantly it will be a shit picture as I will be taking a shit when I draw it. This is not entirely sensible for two reasons that I have thought of so far. Firstly, I was specifically told not to indulge in activities that prolong the act of sitting on the toilet by a medical professional. I don't think I will prolapse or anything equally as dramatic by testing this advice but still, I am being needlessly cavalier. Secondly, there is no inspiration in the cubicle - so skittling me into the dread of the blank paper terrors. Thirdly, whilst trying to draw a rubber duck earlier this week I had an eye watering experience that skewed my perspectives at a key moment and so caused my rendering to go funny. It still looked like a duck, but it was unsatisyfing, ironically. That's three isn't it? Which reminds me that I haven't been today - the curse of Providence causing the first bout of constipation I can remember since puberty. I am thus thwarted and mocked and discomforted and for what? A scribble of what I imagined my father looked like being interviewed outside the DONUTHUT at The Valley. If you will excuse me.
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(no subject)	[Dec. 23rd, 2008\|04:26 pm]
I found the pull of the sea too strong. Thus did I find myself squatted on a bleak and stoney beach gasping at the dirty waves and wiping bubbled saliva from son's mouth. The seaside was magnificent, being largely closed with only a haggard bunch of survivors shuffling from the magic castle to the quayside motel to the magic castle to block my progress - which they managed. After a brief, but informative tour of the firework display high street and the ethnic zone down one of it's back alleys I returned to my ridiculously low mileage car to begin the powerful, high octane rush back to catch TV Burp. Backing up, a scene caught my attention in the rearview mirror. Grabbing a small plastic sack I left the car and made way towards a late 80s model Nissan Micra, red, that was crouched in the corner of the car park. The windows of this disgusting vehilce were wide open, it was not particularly cold, allowing the stink of whatever was inside to waft about. I caught hints of stale exertion and zip drinks as the greasy pug face of the woman in the passanger seat suddenly appeared. The driver was not fully visible as he she was leaning into the rear of the car and only her filthy crevice was on show. The passenger was eating fistfuls of chipped potatoes which were mashing in her sausage fingers as she pummuled them into her mouth. What had originally caught my attention - that the lady, who was clearly on her second helping, had finished with one batch of chipped potatoes and had disposed of them by dropping them out of the window of that hell-wagon. The scene fanning from that side of the car was reminiscent of Nigerian slums, gulls were already circling. I approached as near as I was able without dirtying my shoes and said "Excuse me." The response was not overly polite, but never mind. "I was wondering," I continued, "I have changed my child and have a heavily soiled nappy in this fragranced bag." I held the plastic sack high enough so that her beefy head did not have to squeeze her porky neck too much by looking downwards. "May I leave it here on your shit pile?" I tossed the sack onto her discarded chips and returned to my car, slightly passing wind. The confusion on her face was clearly visible even at a distance but it did not stop her eating.
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Arse - The End	[Nov. 6th, 2008\|07:55 pm]
Of all the things I have indulged in lately - including the stygian joy of birth (hello mate), pulling my forearm and crushing my finger (yes, that one) whilst on an errand of mercy whilst errant local fireworks discharged, pretending to be in a car club and tooling it around (thank you, Ron) - I choose to relate in detail that my bumhole recently took a turn for the hills and required professional attention. You have been with me on this journey. It has come to this. I hesitate to fully inform of the carnage created down there on the weekend. I thought I had seen it all, to be frank - it happens that I have not. To get to the point, my name was called down at the Surgery and I turned with plummeting heart to look at a quite fetching mid twenties student doctor, a female no less. Cursing beneath my breath, I summed that fleeing was no option and, perhaps with too much gaiety, threw myself into the role. Within minutes, the lovely and very professional medical trainee had a finger wiggling inside my hee-haw. Given my preferences and that this was perhaps the ultimate consumation of this long saga I was distinctly unmoved; but you should be aware that in an entirely non-erotic way I dug the whole experience. For purposes of closure, I mention that I may well have a camera shoved up my arse at a drop-in centre shortly. Thank you NHS, I fucking love you. I really do. I'd mention politics but I think I am blown.
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(no subject)	[Oct. 15th, 2008\|12:57 pm]
The rotation of pubs has come full circle again and I find myself back in the one in which I and Rory "[sigh] I need you, don't I?" McGrath alone seem to prefer before the lunch rush. In here yesterday I sat distracted by a very young man, with bold pink skin and a tight fitting suit, as he rehearsed his speech. He rehearsed it in his mind only, using first some prompt cards and then just the power of his memory. As he was not aware at all of his surroundings I could comfortably stare at him as his lips softly murmured half sentences and his hands faintly gestured to emphasise points, his gaze all the while scanning an imaginary audience. I could tell he was finished when he flushed slightly and bolted for the toilets to have a big shit. I returned to my book, which is, if I am being frank, going over my head, only to be interrupted once again by an absolutely cracking pair of legs. Exceptional pins. On a lady. They were incredibly classical and I was unable wrench my eyes from them and the shapes they formed as the young woman eased herself against the bar. Really, you could have hung them on a wall and been a happy man. I can't emphasise enough how enjoyable they were, aesthetically. For all I know they may have stank of petrol - but on the eyes, marvellous. Her female companion looked a little worn however so I doubt a pair of fellows could have come away from the deal entirely happy.
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(no subject)	[Oct. 7th, 2008\|09:53 am]
Of note is the high degree of aggravation in the air. For example: Taking a few pre-gig pints in over some hot blooded Indian tales I was approached by a desheveled Negro who blathered something about my being his kind of man. I didn't necessarily want to be this man's man so I politely ignored him. This caused him to reach into his plastic bag and thrust two DVDs into my face, not literally, both of which were the worst kind of Video Nasty - the kind with only nasty boobs and acting in, and no nasty ideas. Still, I looked them over and opined that neither would make me shiver particularly, being more of an Andromeda Strain type of person, and added the standard response of "no mate, not for me." At this point, the mahogany vendor took great offense and began to rave somewhat. I began to drink more quickly and steel myself for the scene. After much gnashing of teeth and hearty laughter it was explained that your man was only trying to show me his new purchased films and was not offering them for sale as a Chinese might have done. I explained that when a man shows me a DVD in a pub it is quite clear what is going on and that the error was on his side and his side alone. We agreed to disagree on this point and he finished with the bizarre irrelevance that if I had been doorstepping him in the United States with this type of attitude he would likely have shot me in the face from the threshold of his homestead because they have guns over there. Helpfully, he added the traditional and rather tired glock glock mime as further clarification. I smiled and whilst simultaneously shaking his hand and getting up told him yeah yeah yeah. Hungry now, I bought a cheap sandwich and ate it whilst on the move close to Russell Square. At this point a jogger, for reasons known only to his pointless activity, implored "for fuck's sake" on my behalf and I was forced to loudly slander him. Jogging, I noted, would not ultimately help him given his age and splayed feet. Most wonderful of all was the trap set for me at journey's end. Pop stars have been beaten with their own walking sticks on my turf in the dead of night by groups of young, eager critics. Just such a group implored me to remove my personal headphones as I passed them not long after the last train. MacDonald's was long closed so I took them to be in a state of extreme depression and anxiety and informed them, without consenting to their request, that I was not in the least bit interested in them. Over the strains of San Quentin, I could hear, at my back, the sort of verbal abuse deserved only by Ryman standard referees. Of what consequence was all this unpleasantness? It was of none. As when I awoke the next day, I still thought gravely ill of these people and considered myself above any criticism whatsoever.
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(no subject)	[Sep. 28th, 2008\|01:24 am]
You are aware, or course, that Liam Neeson's new movie poster for the hilariously named "Taken" states from a distance that it is "The Best Action Fuck of the Year?" Oh Liam. I've had the best action fuck I can handle already, thank you. I have to confess I am quite on the edge. Every word must be typed and retyped before it can be understood. But it as I have said too many times, you can stick a pint of milk up your arse. Oh no! J Ross has come on the television. I've been watching vampires myslef so am decent enough but if you are walking through the nice bit of Tooting. WATCH OUT!!! Because a telly is coming on the road out my cunting window. Ayy. You and me. Let's make a film. I got an idea - prick off Star Warz and an emotive issue that strums the strings of common fears so cheaply. No wait. Let's just wank into a saucepan. Fucking cunts.
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(no subject)	[Sep. 23rd, 2008\|04:40 pm]
Chipping potato in my kitchen whilst deliberating the size and shape of my frumpy colleague's penis - because she surely must have one with that attitude - I noticed a fruity smell. On my hands and knees I traced this funk to the very corner of the room where I had just noticed a mouse enter a small hole. There was no evidence of a smell cause that I could see so I wondered to myself if it could be that the mouse was the cause of the odour and took to my encylopedias. These informed me that "a house mouse do piss everywhere". And shit no doubt, I mumbled to myself and immediately instructed my heavily pregnant wife to clean up what mess she could find for reasons of hygiene. It was time to bait the traps. I naively, perhaps, selected my useless cat's low protein prescription diet biscuits as lure and with one flick of the wrist I dropped all of these biscuits on the floor. Reasoning that the mouse may well go for the thousands of scattered free pellets rather than the three carefully arranged deep in the plasic tubes of my triptraps, I had the bulbous wife out again on her knees with the bucket. With a flick of the wrist I extinguished the lamp and went to bed to attempt to watch Blade yet again. How I love the cold Blade of the early movies. At dawn I rose to make my sandwiches and noticed with dismay that it was geometrically impossible to do so - one corner of the loaf was missing. Holding the bread aloft I sized the hole chewed through the plastic and bellowed to the wife to get up; many things were required of her. My cat stumbled in, too late, on its two good legs - willing it may be, but I'm afraid its performance is poor and an upgrade is inevitable.
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Unfinished business with Lars Ulrich	[Sep. 17th, 2008\|02:51 pm]
The in-tray today was filled with some sundry Dollars a few notices to stop upsetting everyone in the kitchen and a screwed up message from my cleaner saying thank you for leaving mine coppers on top o table overnight. The place was still disgusting but then you can’t really expect trained medical staff to make good sweeps. Lifting the last of the notices I found a photograph with a note attached. The photograph was of a handsome young man beaming at the camera with an arm around Lars Ulrich, the poisonous dwarf who runs Heavy Metal. The note read “check it out!!” As a rule, mention of Lars Ulrich sends me into convulsions– why, I literally let some piss out onto my settee cushions whilst watching his latest video on the weekend (it is about getting aggressive with Jawa’s, then realising we are all one world full of car owners and car mechanics; also the tragedy of seeing your mate shot in the buttocks with no sanitary napkins to hand) – however, on this occasion I was raging with pure envy. My body was telling me that I wanted to meet Lars Ulrich and why had I not met Lars Ulrich. Clearly I have unfinished business with Lars Ulrich.
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Management	[Sep. 9th, 2008\|10:19 am]
As you know from reading your news, the economic climate is reported to be “not good”. Read into that what you will – I, as the proprietor of a small scale shipping firm, have taken all of the analysis on board and used the slope to my advantage. Yes, a lot like at Lords – so it is not “cheating” anybody. Firstly, I froze pay for the year. 92.3% of my staff are completely in the dark as to the success of their labours so I knew that I could concoct whatever story I liked provided it vaguely tallied with the spirit of the admittedly small financial section of The Daily Star wherefrom the bulk of my employees gain their Noos. In truth, I had been looking to do this for years, but economic sunshine prevented it to date. You may think that such a move would demoralise staff – not so. I have been prudent enough to have long established a two pronged motivational spur. On the one hand I run quarterly staff get-togethers where I give speeches on how well we are doing and what a wonderful person my despicable sales manager is. Key to this is to allow gossip to filter out of my office that we are not doing so well - the truth of either statement is neither here nor there. Thus, the staff develops a sense of superiority over me; believing that they know something that I do not, and I am therefore a useful and distracting focus for their petty-minded grievances, as is my cunt of a sales manager. On the other hand, I provide them with as many alcohol-based social events as possible – they may state that they consider their pay to be the most important consideration in their employment, but they do – in fact, in the short term – prefer a drink. This is proven and they continue to work like desperate immigrants. So far, we see we have additional funds in my kitty and no counter balance. I’m not going to pay tax on that sort of gain without some sort of recompense, so I have addressed this dangerous situation by taking almost the entire summer off work. In the month of August I worked a sum total of 4 days. It’s a risk for sure as certain employees will notice that I am superfluous to the running of the company and certain others may calculate that my salary, should it be removed from the books, could pay for their long denied pension scheme. I reason that at least I have now seen Kazakhstan and that non-skilled employees have as many rights as pet cats.
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I'm watching kerrang until I snuff it.	[Sep. 7th, 2008\|09:05 pm]
Ewen. Ewen. Ewen. Ewen. Ewen! Ah, you're here. How about I have you fix my washing machine you fucking cunt. You'll get back to me? If I have to call you back again you dego New Zealand troll I will fucking make you stutter. I have done this afore Ewen and you know it. I have fucking HONDAS to think about. Here's help now, Ewen. I giving it out. Ewen's list: fix my washine stained glass my fucking door up its arse paint my foyer in reglar fashion padlock! off!
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M. Jama's Lyrically Dense Letter	[Aug. 18th, 2008\|12:24 pm]
Today in my postbag Mr. M. Jama writes (note this is specifically copyright controlled as of July 2008 - I fucking mean that, don't knock this off - it is copyrighted): T.V. Advertisement Client: Car Brand Guy who is sharp looking makes statements below. "What a beauty" Then does a face where he is imagining the beauty. "I like the way everyone stops and stares when we're together" Shot of people in the street turning there heads but you don't see the car. "All my mates tell me I'm lucky" His friends in bar making comments such as "that should so be me/he's a lucky guy. "And lets me put my foot down when I need to" Foot pushes against the accelerator engine roars. "Always deserves first place" Over takes another car.
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(no subject)	[Jul. 14th, 2008\|03:18 pm]
I arrived at my desk this morning and before I could get my coat off, my drink poured and my crossbow cocked, blurted: "What is this fucking cake here?" I am not so hot in sentence construction sometimes but my point got through clearly enough to have the cake maker bouncing in their seat apologising for being kind enough to give me a slice of the homemades. Seeing that it wasn't somekind of insult I gave a warm thanks and the cake a closer inspection, then uttered the words that I will use in response to receiving my MBE early next year: "You have served it on a hand towel from the toilet." That it came from the Girl's toilet threw me a little as I had no idea if that was sexy. The sponge was pretty moist from two feet away - I could tell from the way it was seeping into the paper I usually scour my hands with after a shit.
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(no subject)	[Jun. 25th, 2008\|12:54 pm]
An erotic tale composed whilst sitting in a classroom in the famous London Wall listening to a nervous asthmatic attempt to induct me and a handful of tubby Essex boys. Fiona asked the veterinarian again to explain the problem with her cat. "It is quite simple and logical," he began. "You note that there are two distinct issues here. One - your pet is defecating on your settee. Two - your pet's back legs are lacking in strength. I have manipulated her hinds and I think we may be looking at simple arthritis. It is an old cat, yes?" "Yes doctor." "I am not strictly speaking a doctor in the classical sense. You should be aware of that before I continue." He paused for three obvious beats below Fiona's rolling chest. "I noticed when palpating your cat's bowel," continued the veterinanian, "that there is a lot of fecal matter in the colon. You will note that when a cat defecates is must arch its back quite severely. A cat with arthritis may find this uncomfortable and be reluctant to pass the matter." "I haven't noticed her in any pain," murmured Fiona. "The common cat is both a predator and prey therefore it is not predisposed to show weakness. I suppose that your cat is reserving its fecal matter until it can no longer bear to carry it and deposits it in a place where it feels most comfort to counteract the pain it is being put through." "Put through?" gasped Fiona. "You infer that I am responsible in some way?" "I mean in the sense that the pain has a root cause. In this case the ossification of its vertebrae." The cat lay very still on the examining table, sweating gently through its paws. Some moments passed while Fiona absorbed this well put and straightforward diagnosis. The veterinarian moved around the examing table and placed one palm upon the cat's spine. Fiona wrapped herself around him and he carried her to the dog scales where their energetic lovemaking caused them to weigh between 21 and 23 and a half stones.
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(no subject)	[Jun. 11th, 2008\|10:23 pm]
I was sitting on the London Underpants, going home after some totally graphic lessons in life in and around the Kings X area. I was reading a book. Some folks from Essex got on and sat on my lap, in a way. They were pretty brown and were talking about their friend who had sunk one million into his house and could not sponsor the local fete due to money problems. The train stopped in the tunnel for so long and I got very, very hot. Then two dozen french children got on and sat on my lap, in a way. Whoa. Starving people on telly. Listen to that reporter, he is so serious. "They raise...their...hands. As though...it were...a-begging...for foods..." It's not supposed to be funny, reporter. Bring back Dirtbox. Bring back hanging.
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(no subject)	[Jun. 3rd, 2008\|11:55 am]
At the weekend, the wife and I went to a convention held at a notable Four Star Grade Hotel. The bacon was excellent, as usual, and the added surprise of sharing the well kept grounds with a candlelit wedding party was most agreeable. Though only Four Stars, the establishment has some distinctly Five Star facilities including: a goose run, a leather boutique, a tunnel of lupins and a helipad. It was this last that diverted me most of all as I found the wife kept walking across it and declaring in her abominable West Country way, “Oh no! I am back on the H again!” I never tired of it and it was only the respectful showing of Blade 2 by Channel 4 that allowed me to get any sleep that evening. I awoke early the next day and made my way downstairs for whatever various pastries I could force myself to eat. After, I went for a stroll through the gardens. While on this little detour I wrote the following erotic piece beneath the shade of some kind of bamboo derivative that reeked of the takeaway. Jon took his rippling black thigh and placed it upon Linda’s rumplestiltskin. Linda was certainly aroused but had to fight the strong urge to void herself, still tasting the illegal pate (note: pronounced "pattay") that the two had gorged themselves on that late afternoon. Along with eggs. “Oh John,” she wailed. “Everything is going dim. A black overwhelms me.” “There is no H in my name baby. I could hear you pronounce it. Say it again. Say my name,” said Jon. “Say it in the correct manner.” Jon shifted all of his weight onto Linda’s belly and began to bounce slightly due to his working of her garter belt down the chunky calf. With the garter removed, Jon made cups of his hands and lifted the ends of Linda’s bobbed hairstyle to reveal her pristine ears into which he whispered how much better this would all be with some lotional greases. “I could squeeze you into any nook, any furniture, and close you both without having to shuffle it around because of old runners,” he went on. Linda moaned and did indeed pass out. I was not pleased with my effort but it had at least seen the sun climb to a point where I could visit the golf course and strike up conversation with the less than serious variety of player. The early golfer is not a polite man you see.
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(no subject)	[May. 30th, 2008\|02:13 pm]
Sniffing the air I deduced that the basement I was in had no useful ventilation. The racks of fanzines and old theatre programmes I was flicking my way through were all quite damp to the touch and where some had been placed inside protective plastic bags condensation was forming making it difficult to read cast lists. I wasn't looking for anything in particular having simply been seduced by the prospect of a basement I could actually access by way of some deafening narrow stairs and by parting a stinking green curtain that was half stapled to the floor. I was glad to be alone as my nose was heavy in the faint mist and I kept having to snort to stop myself from dripping onto the merchandise. Curiously, the person responsible for categorising the stacks had seen fit to create a "McGann" section and it was this that I was thumbing when I heard someone coming down the stairs. I ignored them as they struggled with the curtain and half collapsed onto a table of cricket memorablia. "Excuse me," she said, "Can you help me find the registers for the Odeon Listings?" I sniffed and said that I didn't work there to which she replied that she doubted that I did but could I help her anyway? "Well. I'm quite busy," I snorted, eyeing her bodice beneath which something quite splendidly puffy was hiding. She came over to me and peered at where my hands had paused parting some appalling dead play notices. She looked at the filthy wet paper, then at me, then at the floor, then at me, and then turned away, reaching beneath the table opposite to pull at the cardboard boxes. She slid one out with some effort causing her buttocks to swell on each side alternately. I hummed softly to myself and made a mental note to bend a lady backwards over a table the next chance I had. I could see this woman in such a position - her genitals flapping open like a deck of cards in front of me, with just a faint hint of what lies beneath. Her small breasts slumping slackly away to her armpits mimicking her eyes that so struggled with gravity giving her a curious oriental expression. I could see it sliding in and then I would wipe my rouged cock upon the manky curtain, the air a mix of the stench of my super secret jimmy cracks and her tangled pubic sweat mat. I would waft the curtain a little and think of dinner in the meaty breeze. I pocketed what disappointingly turned out to be a version of Half a Sixpence and tripped on the stairs as I left. I could hear her laugh through the curtain and I mumbled the word "bitch".
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(no subject)	[May. 12th, 2008\|04:49 pm]
My father appeared before me with a clear aggressive tic distorting his cheeks. "I am going to Madonna," he gnashed, "and you will not stop me." I explained to him that I had no intention of stopping him if one last crack of the whip was what he really wanted, and restrained my condescending comments to urgently, yet discreetly, pressing a package of contraception on him. "You don't know what they're like. At these things. It has been too long for you," I explained as he turned them over in his hand. "If you think about leaving those little beauties at home I urge you to consider the appaling lack of facilites where you are going and what that may mean in terms of your fun," the last word delivered with a creepy snobbery that even I was nauseated by. I haven't seen him since. The day was a hot one, that much I know. I hope he didn't run around too much when Madonna performed.
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