you're as smooth as a cement milkshake
(go suck some pavement)
smooth as the scalp of the
laziest buddhist monk, smooth as
the ride home from a sixteen year old driving
stick shift, smooth as
premature ejaculatory fluid
you are as smooth as a rocky road sundae
in a greenhouse
in kentucky
in july
if bricks could pillow talk
you're as smooth as cream of burlap soup, as
the screams of an overworked
hooker, smooth as the…
It's January. Almost February. Heck, it's 2023! It's been a busy and emotionally wearying few months and I've been re-evaluating my life and myself. I've been organising, making lists and doing some longer-term planning. One thing I have not been doing is writing. My 1000-word a day goal is shredded on the floor and I need a kick in the arse to write. So here goes nothing.
I spent a week at The Dryad's home while she was away, looking after her youngest and a whole passel of cats. I got to…
Our class teacher in 9th grade, let's call him Mr Huber, was not a pervert like our biology teacher. I really need to get this straight: He liked double entendres, Freudian slips and the like, but these were there for his entertainment, and ours. I never thought Mr Huber meant his little wisecracks and remarks as anything other than a bit of fun - it was part of his creating a fun learning environment. The jokes could become kind of dirty, but they mostly seemed innocent to me early on.
W…
Poodle Springs, or more accurately, The Poodle Springs Story, is Raymond Chandler's last, unfinished book about private detective Philip Marlowe — abandoned per force majeure when Chandler died. Subsequently the incomplete story was finished and published under the shorter title by the famed wine critic Robert Parker, wait, no, I mean by some schmuck crime hack named Robert B. Parker. It's possible that the wine guy would have done a better job. At least he and Chandler have the…