PART 2: “The Sexening”
I was just reading The Oxford’s Puffin’s Penguin’s Collin’s Brittanica’s English’s Concisest Harper-Collinsest Rhyming Forwards Dictionary of Silly Websites when I just had to unleash minutes of pent-up rage I had been hanging onto for aeons; naturally in a confined space that conformed to modern Occupational Safety and Health standards in a manner friendly and considerate to people of all genders, ethnicities, and skin colours in an atmosphere of equality and mutual harmony. Then I will wipe them all out with my big corporation.
What has made me go steadily insane? All the weird things that have been happening here at Salient this week, that’s what. For starters, the clock on this computer is wrong. It keeps arguing that Einstein never finished his Grand Unified Field Theory, and I keep on reminding it that biologist Ivan Sanderson states quite clearly that Dr B. Russell has privately stated Einstein did finish the theory. Not only that, but mysteriously Tristan has got glasses, and somehow become shorter. I have been paying scrupulous paranoid attention to the tiniest details here—the carpet fluff microtracings, the most and least popular desk graffiti fonts, the doctors wearing tights, and of course, how to poke these binoculars out of the lock of the cupboard I’m hiding in, yet I remain in a gloopy mire of confusionynessismsity. This swampy matrix of unbelievability permeates my memories of Sunday morning at precisely three hours after my neighbour’s lights were turned off on Saturday night. I know because I shimmied up the power pole and snipped the wires. Then I snipped the wires again, because I realised the first time I had snipped the wires to my house. That didn’t matter, because after I did it I said I had just converted to being Amish just before I did it, so I did it on purpose.
But exactly what happened on Sunday morning? Let me fill you in:
I had just put on my viking boots, my cowboy belt with twin dildo-tasers in the holsters and was taking my Elvis pants off my shaven raven haven (a robot I made full of carrier-magpies to infiltrate my neighbour’s wardrobe) when I heard a knock at the door. I also saw what was making the knock, because it was my hand knocking on the door while my eyes were open and I hadn’t crushed wedges of lemon and garlic pate mixed with pureed thumb tac offcuts into them. I was at my neighbour’s again, about to embark on beautiful sex teaching embarkments in our Dungeons and Dragons game I made up and down. I used my thief to pick the door lock when they told me to go away, and checked the hallway for traps and secret doors. I marched on into their house, twirling my Elvis pants above my head, in a new sex move I had invented called The Crash and Burn. In this move, you invade someone’s house, fling your pants at them, and run off into the night.
I stepped into their living room. It was warm, and I was very excited. So what happened? I noticed their computer was on, no doubt they were in league with Chairman LMAO (nothing but net). I snuck into their bedroom. One often ignored aspect of sex is who’s in charge. I needed to show them I was dominant in the bedroom. I drank all their beer, smoked all their buds, scabbed all their ciggies, and cooked up a jolly old bash of a fry-up in the jug. I cooked up coffee, herbs, tea, lemons, cake and ice cream, then ran off to the toilet to vomit, and fell asleep naked in a straw pile under the stars romantically. When I finally got out of the psych ward, I buried all the evidence, faked my own death, and here I am!
So what does this have to do with sexyness? Why are I asking me that? What are I, some kind of sick pervert or something? And why are you reading this? You could just turn the page and read an article that isn’t even about it, but you are reading this one. Why? And why am I writing it, if you’re so desperate to go turning the stupid old page? Because I care about all three of us: you, me, and the page. Thus marks the 701th word of this article. What do you think should be the 702th? I would like to make it the story Rory just told me about how Juliet Swashbuckler always writes about public transport, because she doesn’t have a car. And it’s no big deal that she doesn’t have a car, she just cares about her O2 footprint. Leave her alone, wow, give it a rest. Don’t beat her up because she doesn’t know how to buy an SUV and paint it green. What are you and I all high and mighty about? So what if she doesn’t know how to have a car? If I didn’t have a car, then I wouldn’t have a car.
Let me also remark that I also care about the ink embedded in the page and the photons bouncing off it going into your brain. Photos are important because if you take a photo of a plant, plants are nutritious. Nutrition is also important to enjoy a good sex life. I am currently sitting down to a nice plate of fat, lactose and gluten-free water. This water is easy to digest, and has all sorts of cool things in it; it has water, hydrogen, the letter 2, oxygen, fermented malted barley, hops, yeast, tryptamine, caffeine, ketamine, amphetamine, eeneine, gel, fish and chips, slavery, rock, pop, jazz, funk and metal.
Stay tuned for part 3… if you dare!