“Lie with me amongst these sand dunes,” I urged a Floridian stud. After my sold-out show at Sluggo’s – Pensacola’s most beloved, illustrious DIY punk venue – we had retired to a nearby beach to satisfy our every unspeakable erotic urge as Great Whites mated in the Gulf’s shallow waters.
“Here, in the Sunshine State, we make a sunny kind of love,” my beach bum assured me. “It is a friendly, tropical, Eden-esque coitus – much like the love made in Brooke Shields’ 1980 film The Blue Lagoon.”
“I grow tumescent at the very thought of this pure, pre-Tree of Knowledge fuck, ” I panted, discarding my clothes. “Let’s create a XXX-rated Disneyland amongst these orange groves.”
“When I make the beast with two backs, I like to quote Wallace Stevens’ tropical/ mystical 1954 poem ‘Of Mere Being,’” my sandy macho man informed me as his hands explored the heaven between my thighs. “‘The palm at the end of the mind/Beyond the last thought, rises/In the bronze décor – ‘”
“Your familiarity with modernist poetry makes sets my body a-tremble!” I exclaimed, running my fingers down the cleft of my lover’s buttocks. “But don’t recite too much – if you keep going, I may e.e. cummings all over you!”
“Don’t worry, my love,” this surfer/Lothario assured me. “Our lovemaking will be as drawn out as a Gulf Coast foreclosure. After all, Pensacola is one of the oldest Spanish settlements on these shores. We’ve been sexing North America up for 450 years.”
“Take me!” I exclaimed. “Slay me like the many johns murdered by that Floridian serial killer Charlize Theron played in 2003! What was that movie called again?”
“‘Monster,’” my cassava Cassanova murmured. “This film, for which Theron won Best Actress for her portrayal of convicted killer Aileen Wuornos, co-starred Christina Ricci. Wuornos died by lethal injection in 2002, though there is some debate whether she was a serial killer.”
“What is the nature of the debate?” I demanded. “Explain it as you smother my hairy coconuts with lusty citrus kisses!”
“As per Wikipedia,” my beauteous beau explained, “many are reluctant to use the term ’serial killer’ to describe murderers seeking personal gratification, and do not apply it to women killing in postpartum psychosis or to any murderer acting solely for financial gain, such as women who have killed a series of boarders or spouses.”
“Your considered forensic analysis stimulates me!” I cried. Far out to sea, many leagues below the surface, whales cooed. “Let’s get C.S.I. – that is, (c)razy, (s)exy, and (i)ntimate!”
Keep it coming, Edie. This is some of the best poorly written nonsense I’ve read in ages.
March 30, 2009 at 5:20 pmZzZ
March 30, 2009 at 10:39 pmI say god d&*^ Justin! Every post gets better
March 31, 2009 at 11:31 amJustin & Stud. Scene 7. In which Justin speaks a little more than was prudent of him.
The apartment. Uncle Otto makes bacon in the kitchen. Justin & Stud lounge in the parlor.
Otto (sings merrily to a polka tune):
ich bin fuehrer nicht cun beat
fried pork is goot to eat…
Justin:
Hipsters don’t heart my esthetics. Perhaps it’s too post-modern for them.
Stud:
For heaven sake, Justin. I’m at the end of my tether. My ass is not my own. As is yours. And all you can think of is your fucking esthetics?
Justin:
I know, I know. Uncle Otto. His unending invasions. But let’s distract your cruel relative from the obsessive thoughts of brutal anal penetration by means of a lengthy scholarly debate.
Stud:
Yes, let’s. So hopeful of success.
Enter Uncle Otto:
Listen up, punks. I’m about to reenact the invasion of France.
Justin:
My fuhrer, if you insist on calling us punks, please precede the term with prefix ‘post‘, danke shoen. Post-punks are we.
Stud:
Oui oui, mon oncle. The difference is crucial and has been long understood outside nazi circles.
Otto:
Huh? Ich verstehe sie nicht. Why, you insolent little swine…
Justin:
Allow me to elaborate, my fuehrer. The difference between punk and post-punk is the difference between the Ramones and Joy Division, respectively. As an alternative, consider Sex Pistols vs. Killing Joke. Let us compare the latter two in greater detail, shall we? Take the track Submission from the seminal effort Never Mind the Bollocks….
Otto:
A whip, a whip. My pig farm for a whip! (fetches a scary looking whip from the dungeon)
Stud:
Shit, Jason. Why do you always make things worse than they already are.
Jason:
When faced with a whip, submit and swing hip.
Stud:
Fuck you, Jason.
(stay tuned)
April 1, 2009 at 11:20 am
seriously, when is this going to be done? this is the most poorly written nonsense i’ve read in ages. make it go away.
March 30, 2009 at 3:54 pm