Every (big gay purple) fish story has its eager-eyed, tail-whisking beginnings; overfed midsections…and sad, tear-spattered endings. But before we indulge our tears, dear reader (citation needed), let us first revive in our hearts the good times shared.
We learned of our neighbor’s dilemma: he, a manly-man of the manliest multiformity, found himself saddled with fish of a homosexualist coloration.
We learned of said neighbor’s efforts to sell or trade the ongoing exploits of Queer as Fish on, of all places, Craigslist.
Mostly we laughed.
But now the story has reached its inevitable conclusion. And though that we look upon it with heavy hearts, we can agree that it could have ended no other way.
The big gay purple fish were sold. All 7 of them. To a mystic, shamanistic woman of means and iron skillets. And according to our sources, the sizzles and smells of purple fish could be heard and smelled several counties away.
And as for the neighbor? Well, he got new fish. Oscars and Convicts. The pit-bulls of the aquatic world. And they aren’t purple.
(The action takes place in a slightly-alternate universe, where a grown-up Augustus Gloop is the junior Republican senator from Louisiana: a staunch, if not hard-line family values moralist who entertains a penchant for non-marital, non-procreative coitus of by-the-hour nomenclature. Nomenclature, of course, for whores, denotes an obfuscated code of name-changing and namelessness.)
1. Whereupon Senator Gloop, eluding a shrieking horde of photogs and newspaper writers, clambers into The Museum of Artists and Conspirators, coming face to face with the inscription past the door:
Illegitimus non carborundum est!
Unless it’s a bitch or a whore. Or a Senator with a golden ticket to La Factorie Hardcore. “Life,” he tells us, “is an everlasting gobstopper of god-given gob-droppings.”
(cue Bat-segue music)
back at the mise-en-place of Are Too Much
and Are, Too - Not!
otherwise known as the Mall of Near-Misses
(the museum got tired of losing money and renamed its halls malls)
here is where our nightly Fata Morgana hangs
not like a Mudd or Seurat
but a Surrat
dangling from the five knots like a neo-impressionistic Sunday afternoon
never rejiggered from the 24-hour news cycle sweep-n’-swoon
save an extra stipple of Babylon-Whore Red
on the prim-faced girl to the right:
she’s staring not at the boats on the water
or the mermaid-whore with the daisy festoon
but into the four-poster bed of the sun.
2. Whereupon Senator Gloop, reminiscing about his indiscretions, suddenly finds himself transmogrified into the painting Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte, where its principals become his constituency
“This is America. It’s Sunday in the Park with George.”
And then, of course, it’s later in the scene - the picture’s not between the lines but between the mien of dots and jots and Rorschach blots - and a curse from the couple always a shot away from the picnicked shades of Yellow 36:
ah, shit - we’re in a fuck of a fix
we’ve got the kids this weekend
and they know who’s turning tricks
with all their questions and quotations
and superfetations with needles blood-drawn
that baby’s gone, baby - gone
you can’t pawn off what’s already been pawned
it’s like a fucked-up fable
where the fucking-up is ivy
and the kids are fiber-optic cable
and the vines have got entwined
between the timid and untidy
Senator Gloop’s out of town, you see,
and he’s making movies with a grown-up Veruca
she still calls him Daddy
even though he’s the one with the diaper rashed-ass
you can pawn it if you pwn it
it’s all about the cash
and your sixth sense of smut
sometimes you feel like a nut
if you are willing and are able
and are auto-immune
and if there’s enough salt in the stores to salvage your wounds.
But not so much with the kids. They’re kicking dogs and clicking on to a more urban setting (fuck Seurat): here come the combat-pimped SUVs of Liberty City and the Pepper-me-up-‘til-I-puke-Kids), singing:
“You’re a Pepper”
and, “He’s a Pepper”
and, “We’re all Peppers”
and, “She’s a demimondaine! Ooh la la! Daddy said so!”
And if you look real close, you can see her walking through the trees with Senator TV (not to be confused with Senator TB, whose time came not at all too soon); her bags filled with capsaicin and condoms. But that’s okay - don’t sweat the small stuff, like diaper-rash or dick-span or that diamond-in-the-muff. You can’t believe everything you read in Hustler. Cortez was a killer, yeah, but that was only her working name - her call-sign. And she was called often, between calls for import and impeachment. Sure, she fucked up the exit plan, but don’t get your war-profiteering in a bunch - she was just a flash in the pan. Don’t believe it? Don’t kid yourself. We all got milked; you can catch the clean-up on C-Span and See-It-All Online. And milk kills the burning
3. Whereupon Senator Gloop, cornered and covered in chocolate, is dragged kicking and screaming not through a Senate Sub-Committee, but through the Press Junket:
When excursus has given way to eulogy
when the apoplexy of yellow journalism
or yellow-bellied paternalism is reduced
by force or simmer
to a slimy, pious falsetto of denial
(cue Bat-fight music and strap in for denouement)
“Here he comes. Here he comes.”
And cue Senator Gloop!
as he does his Cajun kabuki dance of regret, about as subtle as a head of garlic floating in facedown-suck on the chocolate river
And cue sweet wife Violet!
as she snaps her gum not in silence but with a blueberry eye toward the reelection campaign
And behind the green door a pas de deux of hush-hush acquittal and ‘How do you do?’, brought to you and us and them and we by Big Pharma and the letter B: “Brandy Britton? Yeah, I know her. She was a Playmate, I think. October ‘82? Oh, right, Shannon Tweed. I admit it; I forgot: I did not serve.” And, “It’s hard to have a good time, when the time’s already bought, and a good time means trying not to get caught.” And, “If it weren’t for the Aughts,” and, “Of all the fucking nerve…” And, “It’s a shame it turned out like it did, but that piece of ass was so damned ripe…”
And one more thing was overheard:
“Hey…I think there’s something stuck in the pipe.”
PART III: Duuuuuuuudes.
And now, the startling conclusion.
Boys, boys boys…where to begin. Oh, yeah. Whining. Let’s get something straight; whining is not attractive. Neither is begging (unless you’re trying to land a dominatrix; in which case, keep up the good work). And neither is bitching about the fact that no one wants to email/date/fuck you (most likely because you are whining and begging). Hissy fits are generally not regarded as being aphrodisiacal in nature.
And now that we’ve got that little bit of unpleasantness out of the way, let’s move over to the unpleasantness of varying girth. Yes, on to the man-junk. Look. We know you like the sex. The sex is the bomb. We understand this. I myself am a big fan of it. But a little discretion goes a long way. Put the man-junk away unless it is specifically asked for. Pictures of man-junk are like Vienna sausages at a 4-star restaurant: it only gets served on special request. MORE>>
PART II: Hey, Ladies!
In part one of this Open Letter, we outlined the circumstances that may bring a normally lucid, forward-thinking (okay, we’re reaching) human of any sexual persuasion to the seemingly Salmonella typhimurium-drenched buffet table of Craigslist. Craigslist is indeed like a restaurant that narrowly tap-dances its way out of Health Board-mandated shutdown every few months, and only because the inspector really loves those fucking spring rolls.
Today, in part two, we address the women of Craigslist. Avec torque.
Ladies. Women. O, curves-endowed soul-searchers of the night. Uncle. We get it. Seriously. We get it already. You like tall non-smokers with Master’s degrees. Who love dogs, fondue, and cuddling. And you don’t want to see pictures of man-junk. Furthermore, it is said that you hate the drama. Fan-tastic. Got anything else to share? Mystery is alluring, dear reader (citation needed), but vagueness for its own sake is simply not going to win you any points in the great poon-up or post-off. Posts that put forth little more than “I like dogs and yoga LOL”, followed with a challenge for the menfolk (those hapless, witless wretches who will be first-responders to your lovelorn distress call) to be original, be witty, be clever, are doomed to horrible, flaming failure.
PART I: The Situation.
Boys and girls, pimps and hos, gather ’round the fan for a sec. It’s time for a little come-to-Jesus on the subject of date-trolling your friendly neighborhood Craigslist. Because it ain’t pretty, folks. You have stumbled, bumbled, and fumbled your way through ill-conceived form letters, capped-up hissy fits, demands of blowjobs and roses, and every spam-artist from NOLA to Nigeria.
This is what Craigslist is here for. Easily attained, NSA sex; used furniture; the occasional zombie sighting; and ultimately a refuge for the nerdy, BBW-sturdy, and sex-over-30 crowds. You prayed, you wept, you toiled and sweat, you wished upon a star domain and woke up to your wildest dreams. You are why Jesus turned a stack of moldy old Robert Heinlein novels into the internet.
So let us set things right. Let us lay down a few ground rules. A gauntlet, if you will, of style and sense. MORE>>
Je me demande pour quelle raison il paraît que nous sommes nés et élevés avec l’idée qu’il faut être méchant avec les français. Après tout, ils sont, en générale très ingénieux.
Veuillez regarder cet bon exemple pris de pages de Craigslist:
“Are you tired of having plenty of hair in your mouth while you suck a dick? Here is the solution! Look at the photo, all the hair is hidden by my underwear. So you quietly lick my balls and dick with no hair in your mouth! If you’re interesting in taking advantage of this new way of sucking, please contact me with your photo and we’ll get in touch pretty soon!”
Mais, il y a de plus, beaucoup plus…Il y a…le photo. Après le saut! PLUS>>
1. to linger; idle; trifle; loiter, at the immediate area of a vagina with sexual intent; in a teasing manner
2. to move slowly; languidly at the immediate area of a vagina with sexual intent; to tease a vagina
3. to waste time in locating a woman’s clitoris by finger or tongue (usually followed by away): He twatdawdled away half the night and still I didn’t come.
>twatdawdling, n. to actively twatdawdle.
twatdawdling, v., p.t. to twatdawdle.
twatdawdler, n. one who twatdawdles.
twatdawdlingly, adv. to perform in a manner that is twatdawdling or twatdawdlish
hy·po·thet·i·cal · pink [hahy-puh-thet-i-kuhl pingk]
1. the assumed or hoped-for hookup a man has conditionally secured with a woman via the internet, usually Craigslist: Henry scanned through Casual Encounters, his heart a-pounding, as he frantically dispatched a flurry of furtive form-letters to every hypothetical pink in w4m.
2. the color of theoretic sex: Henry shut his eyes tight and prepared for sleep, dreamlike swatches of hypothetical pink washing over him.
1. the state of hoping that the hookup you have just procured on Craigslist is indeed a woman and not a man; i.e., Henry’s hookup is hypothetically pink, but he won’t know for sure until it’s too late.