Oh Diary!
I have such tales, SUCH TALES to tell! I know not how I can possibly make my pen move swiftly enough to keep up with words that long to spill themselves all over your pages.
Diary? I was PRINCE-NAPPED! Yes! I know you must have been worrying so very, very much as to where I was!
Well, I suppose you weren't seeing as how you are simply a book and not my most bestest and importantest friend, as I wish you were.
ANYWAY.
Not long after I had finished illustrating the frustrations associated with not being permitted to sow one's oats, I strengthened my resolve enough to follow Uncle Banquo and company on their nightly excursion.
As such, I needed an impenetrable disguise. Luckily for me, Father keeps mother's closet unlocked and after I finished weeping uncontrollably into a rack of her favorite dresses, I borrowed a smart little purple paisley number, a pair of sensible yet stylish pumps and a lovely pill box hat.
I was the very picture of elegance! But before I left, I had to test my disguise. For while my delicate, skin is silken enough to belong to a lady, I feared my budding manly physique would give me away.
I made my way down to the back garden where our new landscaper was working well into the evening hours on a special Clematis Bush Restoration project. Whatever THAT means. Anyway, I approached him warily...I will transcribe our conversation here:
LadyMe: Why, good evening!
Clem: Evening, ma'am. (SUCCESS DIARY!)
LadyMe: What kind of plant are you working with there?
Clem: Sorry ma'am, but that's classified information. It's historic, you see. Only a few very gifted gardeners know of its secrets.
LadyMe: Oh, good gracious sir! Why, I never heard of such nonsense. Historic plants. Whatever do you mean? Tell me at once!
Clem: Are you twisting my arm? I'd like for some pretty little thing to come on over here and twist my arm. (UNSETTLING WINK! Why do people wink at me so creepily with increasing frequency?)
At this point diary, I became a little nervous. I did not want to arm wrestle, at all. For I was sure I would have to let him win in order to preserve my ruse, and what would that do to my fragile ManEgo? So, I hurriedly excused myself, satisfied that if Clematis the Historic Bushwacker , or whatever he's called, was fooled, so should all be fooled.
Happily, I found Uncle Banquo, McDuff, Ross and Angus on the back path, already on the south path, already on their way to make their Whore Meal. I silently fell in step a small distance behind them.
Imagine my dismay when they began to head toward that SAME WOOD where I spied the Three Weird Kind-of-But-Not-Really Sisters! I would not let my courage fail me now however, so I continued to follow, keeping up with them in the darkness by the trail of Uncle Banquo's cigar smoke, the scent of Angus' unbelievably amazing hair glue, and the slightly unsettling sound of McDuff's cupcake licking. Where does he even KEEP all of those cupcakes? His pockets? A man purse? I haven't the slightest idea.
We did not make it quite to the Witchy Clearing before Uncle Banquo veered sharply left, and we very shortly found ourselves in front of a quaint old two story house. This was not what I was expecting, as I saw no agricultural tools for oat sowing, nor any giant vats of Whore Meal. I watched Uncle Banquo, McDuffCakes, Ross and Angus enter the house. I could hear them greeted by the sounds of warm cheers, clanking glasses and the light tinkling of....well...the laughter of women.
WOMEN.
I thought perhaps the slew of ladies undoubtedly inside were part of the oat grinding operation.
Oh diary. They were....but not at ALL in the way I had supposed.
But I get ahead of myself! I waited a few moments and then approached the house. I couldn't quite bring myself to knock on the door, so I peeked in the front window.
Oh DIARY! What I saw was almost straight out of one of Father's NASCAR novels! For a few brief moments it was as if I stood staring at a living dream! Then I felt a blow to the back of my head and I blacked out.
Yes, Diary.
Someone.Hit.Me. (re: YOUNG SIWARD)
I came to sometime later on a patch of cold hard ground. I had no idea how long I'd been out, but the charming House of Whore Meal was nowhere to be seen. A fire crackled nearby, and there was a bowl of what appeared to be opossum parts next to me. I think I was meant to eat them. It didn't take me long to realize that I must be in the clutches of the WITCHES. I jumped up, hiked up my dress, and ran as fast as my pumps would carry me.
Diary, you must know that I had absolutely no clue in which direction I ran! I was all turned around! Luckily, it was not too long before I heard the unmistakable sounds of Unca Macbeth's Midnight Choir Practice and Sing Along, and in no time I was surrounded by the familiar sounds of a comforting cat chorus.
I was, however, still in a dress.
Now that I'm home, Father has cruelly put me under house arrest. Not, dear Diary, because I was missing for 4 days. Rather because the landscaper apparently asked for my hand in marriage and was rather distressed to find I was not, in fact, a lady...and quit.
I imagine Clem will be only the first in a string of broken hearts I'll leave behind on my path to manhood.
Regardless, Mother's closet is now locked, and I must be on guard for those three wiley witches and their servant Young Siward. I have no idea what they intended to do with me, I only know that I intend to make it back to that House of Whore Meal as soon as I can!
Yours in Scandalous Adventure,
Y.B.P.M.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Friday, November 6, 2009
We Need To Talk About Banquo
Diary, it's time.
It is time we had a serious talk about ... well, about Uncle Banquo's weekly whoring.
Don't take this as an aspersion. My beloved Uncle Banquo is a veritable Dionysus in a three-piece suit and someday I hope to be just as much of a dandy as he -- provided I can make some earnest progress in any or all of the areas I've aforementioned.
But I am troubled by Uncle Banquo's strict adherence to form and protocol as regards my accompanying he and his band of merry roustabouts when they sally forth on their Friday Night outings.
Angus can go, of course. Nobody gives him the shoulder of coldcuts. A welcome fellow at any brawl, I'd bet. I doubt he even had a mother, so strapping of a dash-hound is he. The man was born with those Devil-may-care locks, that wry looks, surely he's been whoring since he was in short-pants!
And Ross, that self-appointed occasional guardian of my Lady de Leche, he tags along to document every ribald occasion with his flashy-bulb camera. From that contraption he makes stacks and stacks of foty-graffs. I look at them and I think "A bawd, a bawd!" -- then he catches me, shoves them back under his mattress and shoos me away like I had no business sneaking in his bedroom late at night. He was sleeping, after all, so why should he care if I peruse his picture pages lit only by the lights of a few hundred fireflies in a jar?
And speaking of Lady MacD, even her man-accessory has permission to march in the weekly parade of mashers! Mr MacDuff himself! Why I've seen him in their company on many such an outing. Though I may not go, I do keep a trusty telescope on my window sill, right next to a steno-pad I use to document his every move. "He's drinking the brandy." "He's puffing on a cigar." "He's pulling a cupcake out of his jacket pocket and biting it lasciviously." "He's asking Banquo if they can stop at the corner shop for more cupcakes." "He's recoiling in pain as Banquo slaps him across the pate and calls him an addict."
So why, Diary? Why won't Uncle Banquo let me join in the festivities?! I've asked the Lady Lennox what it is they do when they're out and about. She turned, winked at me in a way that made me feel strangely moved, and said simply, "Oh, dear Malcolm, you know they're out whorin' again." When I asked her to expound on her answer, she bit her lower lip, then said, "Oh, you know ... hootin' and hollerin' ... makin' time and sowin' oats." As is my practice when I'm not entirely certain at all, I continued to stare at Lady Lennox, eyebrows raised like highwires. But she must've had somewhere to be, as she sighed, said "Oh, Malcolm, bless your precious, precious heart," and walked out the door.
As such, I was left to deduce. And deduce I have. It is obvious to me now that Uncle Banquo is leading Angus, Ross and MacDuffcakes to his secret farming lair, where they all are engaged in the production of temporally-displaced oats from which to make time-traveling oatmeal. The breed of oats must be called Whore, of course. And one of them must always be on guard duty to scream at passing owls that threaten their work, lest those owls hoot the secrets of their magic future breakfasts to The Competition. Et voila, as the Italians say: Whoring!
So that's it, Diary. When next I see Uncle Banquo, I'll let him teach me once again how to blow smoke rings and how to hold my brandy, but then I'll lean over and whisper, "I know about the oatmeal, Uncle. The time-traveling whore oatmeal." Then, seeing what a brilliant nephew I am, he'll be all too happy to bring me along for next week's whoring!
Watch out, Whores!
Y.B.P.M. shall know you at last!
It is time we had a serious talk about ... well, about Uncle Banquo's weekly whoring.
Don't take this as an aspersion. My beloved Uncle Banquo is a veritable Dionysus in a three-piece suit and someday I hope to be just as much of a dandy as he -- provided I can make some earnest progress in any or all of the areas I've aforementioned.
But I am troubled by Uncle Banquo's strict adherence to form and protocol as regards my accompanying he and his band of merry roustabouts when they sally forth on their Friday Night outings.
Angus can go, of course. Nobody gives him the shoulder of coldcuts. A welcome fellow at any brawl, I'd bet. I doubt he even had a mother, so strapping of a dash-hound is he. The man was born with those Devil-may-care locks, that wry looks, surely he's been whoring since he was in short-pants!
And Ross, that self-appointed occasional guardian of my Lady de Leche, he tags along to document every ribald occasion with his flashy-bulb camera. From that contraption he makes stacks and stacks of foty-graffs. I look at them and I think "A bawd, a bawd!" -- then he catches me, shoves them back under his mattress and shoos me away like I had no business sneaking in his bedroom late at night. He was sleeping, after all, so why should he care if I peruse his picture pages lit only by the lights of a few hundred fireflies in a jar?
And speaking of Lady MacD, even her man-accessory has permission to march in the weekly parade of mashers! Mr MacDuff himself! Why I've seen him in their company on many such an outing. Though I may not go, I do keep a trusty telescope on my window sill, right next to a steno-pad I use to document his every move. "He's drinking the brandy." "He's puffing on a cigar." "He's pulling a cupcake out of his jacket pocket and biting it lasciviously." "He's asking Banquo if they can stop at the corner shop for more cupcakes." "He's recoiling in pain as Banquo slaps him across the pate and calls him an addict."
So why, Diary? Why won't Uncle Banquo let me join in the festivities?! I've asked the Lady Lennox what it is they do when they're out and about. She turned, winked at me in a way that made me feel strangely moved, and said simply, "Oh, dear Malcolm, you know they're out whorin' again." When I asked her to expound on her answer, she bit her lower lip, then said, "Oh, you know ... hootin' and hollerin' ... makin' time and sowin' oats." As is my practice when I'm not entirely certain at all, I continued to stare at Lady Lennox, eyebrows raised like highwires. But she must've had somewhere to be, as she sighed, said "Oh, Malcolm, bless your precious, precious heart," and walked out the door.
As such, I was left to deduce. And deduce I have. It is obvious to me now that Uncle Banquo is leading Angus, Ross and MacDuffcakes to his secret farming lair, where they all are engaged in the production of temporally-displaced oats from which to make time-traveling oatmeal. The breed of oats must be called Whore, of course. And one of them must always be on guard duty to scream at passing owls that threaten their work, lest those owls hoot the secrets of their magic future breakfasts to The Competition. Et voila, as the Italians say: Whoring!
So that's it, Diary. When next I see Uncle Banquo, I'll let him teach me once again how to blow smoke rings and how to hold my brandy, but then I'll lean over and whisper, "I know about the oatmeal, Uncle. The time-traveling whore oatmeal." Then, seeing what a brilliant nephew I am, he'll be all too happy to bring me along for next week's whoring!
Watch out, Whores!
Y.B.P.M. shall know you at last!
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Fancy Bulleted Lists
Dearest of Dear Diaries,
Since I went ahead and got organized, I thought I might as well get started on tying up all these threads loosely dangling in the cavernous hollow of my brain.
The first of which, is to figure out the cause and nature of my 2pm fits.
Lucky for me, Unca Macbeth had a small dinner party last evening at which a lovely Caribbean lady and/or Bride of Satan was a guest. Her name was Hellcat or Hellkite, or Heh-cah-tay, or something sinister and exotic like that. Well, it turned out she had an amazing gift for hypnosis. Also possession, but we didn't have time for that seeing as how it was Banquo's Tuesday Night Streaking. I begged her to put me under, as they say, and endeavor to discover through discussion with my subconscious why I am victimized by these fits everyday at 2pm.
Oh DIARY! Discover she did!
She unearthed such a memory that it is a wonder I am able to be a marginally functional Little Prince at all.
When I was just a wee tyke, skipping fencing lessons in favor of snuggling the bunnies in mother's garden...a catastrophic event occurred.
It was a Saturday.
It was precisely 2pm.
I was enjoying my first ever batch of Scrumptious GoodTimes Snickerdoodles with Cook in the kitchen, when DonalBORING burst in, bloody dagger in hand, cackling madly and holding up the decapitated head of none other than my most favorite pet chicken, Edward. It was then that cook gleefully shouted "Well done, good master! We'll be having wings and special sauce tonight!"
Commence First Fit Having.
Oh, EDWARD. I had forgotten our adventures together. Preferring to purge you completely from my memory than deal with the pain of your brutal loss. Your noble bearing, your regal beak, your slightly hideous but still completely lovable feet...
I realize now why becoming ENRAGED prevents them. If I had simply thrown my steaming hot mug of spiced cider in DonalBORING's EVIL EYES and defended the honor of the savagely murdered Edward, surely I wouldn't have been crippled by a fainting spell.
Oh, curse my sensitive and delicate nature! I should have never allowed the soft translucence of my skin and penchant for wistful eyes dictate my behaviour!
No more! Now is the time...the fates conspire against me in all things...dare I mention the Keg-O-Blood. However, I know I must take control of my own destiny.
So I shall!
On to bullet point number TWO. What exactly is it that Father does? What sort of kingdom am I Not Quite Prince of?
Terribly Impassioned,
Y.B.P.M.
Since I went ahead and got organized, I thought I might as well get started on tying up all these threads loosely dangling in the cavernous hollow of my brain.
The first of which, is to figure out the cause and nature of my 2pm fits.
Lucky for me, Unca Macbeth had a small dinner party last evening at which a lovely Caribbean lady and/or Bride of Satan was a guest. Her name was Hellcat or Hellkite, or Heh-cah-tay, or something sinister and exotic like that. Well, it turned out she had an amazing gift for hypnosis. Also possession, but we didn't have time for that seeing as how it was Banquo's Tuesday Night Streaking. I begged her to put me under, as they say, and endeavor to discover through discussion with my subconscious why I am victimized by these fits everyday at 2pm.
Oh DIARY! Discover she did!
She unearthed such a memory that it is a wonder I am able to be a marginally functional Little Prince at all.
When I was just a wee tyke, skipping fencing lessons in favor of snuggling the bunnies in mother's garden...a catastrophic event occurred.
It was a Saturday.
It was precisely 2pm.
I was enjoying my first ever batch of Scrumptious GoodTimes Snickerdoodles with Cook in the kitchen, when DonalBORING burst in, bloody dagger in hand, cackling madly and holding up the decapitated head of none other than my most favorite pet chicken, Edward. It was then that cook gleefully shouted "Well done, good master! We'll be having wings and special sauce tonight!"
Commence First Fit Having.
Oh, EDWARD. I had forgotten our adventures together. Preferring to purge you completely from my memory than deal with the pain of your brutal loss. Your noble bearing, your regal beak, your slightly hideous but still completely lovable feet...
I realize now why becoming ENRAGED prevents them. If I had simply thrown my steaming hot mug of spiced cider in DonalBORING's EVIL EYES and defended the honor of the savagely murdered Edward, surely I wouldn't have been crippled by a fainting spell.
Oh, curse my sensitive and delicate nature! I should have never allowed the soft translucence of my skin and penchant for wistful eyes dictate my behaviour!
No more! Now is the time...the fates conspire against me in all things...dare I mention the Keg-O-Blood. However, I know I must take control of my own destiny.
So I shall!
On to bullet point number TWO. What exactly is it that Father does? What sort of kingdom am I Not Quite Prince of?
Terribly Impassioned,
Y.B.P.M.
Monday, November 2, 2009
"I Just Don't Know What to Do With Myself"
Dear Diary,
I am listening to the stylings of Burt Bacharach on father's gramophone. Current mood: incredulous. Oh this song gets right to the heart of the matter! Dearest keeper of my musings and mutterings, I don't know what to do with myself...do doo do do. It seems the fates are more than contented to give me vague prophecies and hopes only to dash them against the boulder of ironic hilarity! Last week's festival fiasco was bloody mess; my vest is ruined. I DID lick lady MacD's earlobe, which was some small consolation, but not much.
Diary, I am at a crossroads. I have so many diverging paths of inquiry that I feel overwhelmed by the mere possibility of choosing one over the other! I must approach this in a systematic fashion.
I am listening to the stylings of Burt Bacharach on father's gramophone. Current mood: incredulous. Oh this song gets right to the heart of the matter! Dearest keeper of my musings and mutterings, I don't know what to do with myself...do doo do do. It seems the fates are more than contented to give me vague prophecies and hopes only to dash them against the boulder of ironic hilarity! Last week's festival fiasco was bloody mess; my vest is ruined. I DID lick lady MacD's earlobe, which was some small consolation, but not much.
Diary, I am at a crossroads. I have so many diverging paths of inquiry that I feel overwhelmed by the mere possibility of choosing one over the other! I must approach this in a systematic fashion.
- Figure out the nature/cause of my fits
- Just what does father do for a living?
- Is Young Siward-Gainsville's hand really possessed?
- *side point* does Y.S.G. try to foil my efforts because he is (gag) jealous of my attentions?
- Why does Unca Macbeth love cats so much?
- Does Gilmer really love me, or was she merely seeking more of the "Ambrosia de Malcolm" that was covering my face?
- Would marketing "Ambrosia de Malcolm" be a lucrative business venture?
- Is there a second Gilmer, or was it merely a chappy witch lady?
- Why is there a talking manwich?
- Do I go after my Dulcet darling, Gilmer 1, Gilmer 2, or simply move to Utah and become a Mormon like that creepy chick-lit writer? *Note to self* "Spidermonkey" does not a good pet-name make.
- Why do I feel the compulsion to free myself from my cottony confines everytime I start to think about freeing Tibet?
- Would leaving a plate of poisonous cupcakes around...perhaps in nose-shot of the MacDuff household...be murder in the strictest sense?
- Would that qualify to be put on father's "enemies no more" chart? you know the one that looks like a fundraiser thermometer? Mine is embarrassingly low (actually, I am in the negatives...after I accidentally told Lady Lennox that father was planning to "Off Angus." In my defense I thought that meant he was going to let him go on vacation). Father might be pleased.
- Is Wu-Tang really forever?
- Does the invention of compact discs negate the mystique of the "secret song?"
Oh, Diary, my lines of inquiry are so many...but I believe I can knock at least one off the list. The answer is "Yes, Wu-Tang is forever."
Illily yours,
Y.B.P.M. (a.k.a. Jimmy Analog)
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
All's "Fair" In Love and War!
See what I did there Diary?
Do you KNOW what today is? It's finally here! The Annual Gainesville Homecoming/Paternity-Fest!
I am already at my station in THE KISSING BOOTH (squeee!!!) but business has been a bit...well...slow.
I've worn my best vest, new button and all, PLUS a spritz (or seven) of Father's cologne. Until I can find a way to harvest the mannish scent of Young Siward, that's the best I can do. Luckily, I have brought you for company dearest diary.
I fear it is in fact Young Siward that is stealing my business. He's across the path from me at the Strong Man booth. Diary, you must imagine my exaggerated eye-roll. I just have to keep watching over, and over, and OVER again as the plebeians test their strength against his. And that BRUTE just keeps on dropping the hammer ringing that god awful bell, much to the unadulterated JOY of the local ladies.
OMG.
Methinks? He just WINKED at me.
:::shudder::::
No doubt his arms have been UNNATURALLY strengthened by the powers contained in his demonic hand. I know that he spends his evenings cavorting with THE THREE.
As afraid as I am to see their like again, I do hope they attend, even if it is to wreak satanic havoc on what appears to be a delightful day of deep fried Love Buttah Balls and high-flying kitten trapeze artists. For I MUST know, once and for all, which TTND it was that brought me heretofore unknown levels of bliss.
Oh! OH! Diary!! Diary, I must part with you for just a moment! I can see none other than my Sensual Swan, my Delectable Dish, my Lady McD approaching! Of course, she is arm in arm with her....husband....but it appears that he is distracted by the Cupcake Dispensing Machine next door! Look! There he goes!
Oh my.
I've never seen a man eat a cupcake like that before. I feel sullied an unusual by what I have just witnessed.
But soft! She comes!
BRB Diary!
.....
Oh Diary. I almost lost you! As it is, your cover is a might bit singed. Also, I can see so many droplets of blood scattered among your pages, I could just weep for looking at you. Although, Father will no doubt be pleased since you finally do look as though you've been to battle.
Oh, but a war it seemed today my dearest diary! A war on my poor, poor, heart!
When Lady McD approached my Kissing Booth, her bear of a husband taken off by cupcakes, I was just covered in little goose pimples with anticipation.
She sat across from me, her soft, silken arm resting gently on the ledge between us.
"Oh, Mal!" she said, her voice like a melodious bird song "You've got a little kissing booth! Oh, how charming!"
She then made some offhanded comments about Unca Macbeth's "unsettling regime of discipline" for his cats, whilst I simply gazed adoringly at her. Wondering when and if I should ask her for admission...and then commence with...well...with the kissing.
It wasn't long before I knew I was going to lick her face for FREE Diary!
Let me transpose our conversation VERBATIM for you here!
Lady McD: So, you know how I just adore hosting my weekly themed Cotillions don't you? Well, we've been shopping for the Wren Cotillion, right? I know that Mr. MacDuff just hates it when I go off on a tither with such things, but I can't help it, can I? I mean, these are Wrens, not Ravens. Must keep things classy, you know? Of course you do, dear boy.
Me: Yes, by the fire-like tresses that fall from your sainted head, I do sway and dip with your every move. Just say the word, my lovely Leche.
(Well. I didn't QUITE say that. I thought it though! What I actually wound up saying was something akin to "Lurr...lurrr...yes, yes...heeeee....LECHE.")
Regardless, I took her indulgent smile for what it was, an invitation to 7 minutes of Heaven in MY KISSING BOOTH and leaned just out of the booth where her soft, supple lips awaited me...tongue fully extended as Gilmer/NotGilmer had shown me....when her OAF of a husband came bounding over babbling about those ridiculous CUPCAKES.
ANYWAY, she turned to see him, covered in icing, and instead of caressing her ambrosial cheeks, chin, lips, nostrils, eyelids with my hungry tongue....I salivated all over her inner ear.
Luckily, and I use this term loosely, my humiliation was short lived as it was just at that moment that The Three Weird Kind-of-but-Not-Really-Sisters blew up Old Sow's Keg-o-Blood!
YES! Those Vile Vixens and their Talking ManWitch used their pernicious powers to make that Keg shoot sky high and shower all the Fair-goers with blood.
It was just like when Mother was alive.
:::sigh:::
Chaos reigned, and Lady McD and her dripping ear were scattered to the wind, along with my dreams of kisses.
On top of all of that, my best vest is stained past all hope.
I can hardly even sign off.
Y.B.P.M.
Do you KNOW what today is? It's finally here! The Annual Gainesville Homecoming/Paternity-Fest!
I am already at my station in THE KISSING BOOTH (squeee!!!) but business has been a bit...well...slow.
I've worn my best vest, new button and all, PLUS a spritz (or seven) of Father's cologne. Until I can find a way to harvest the mannish scent of Young Siward, that's the best I can do. Luckily, I have brought you for company dearest diary.
I fear it is in fact Young Siward that is stealing my business. He's across the path from me at the Strong Man booth. Diary, you must imagine my exaggerated eye-roll. I just have to keep watching over, and over, and OVER again as the plebeians test their strength against his. And that BRUTE just keeps on dropping the hammer ringing that god awful bell, much to the unadulterated JOY of the local ladies.
OMG.
Methinks? He just WINKED at me.
:::shudder::::
No doubt his arms have been UNNATURALLY strengthened by the powers contained in his demonic hand. I know that he spends his evenings cavorting with THE THREE.
As afraid as I am to see their like again, I do hope they attend, even if it is to wreak satanic havoc on what appears to be a delightful day of deep fried Love Buttah Balls and high-flying kitten trapeze artists. For I MUST know, once and for all, which TTND it was that brought me heretofore unknown levels of bliss.
Oh! OH! Diary!! Diary, I must part with you for just a moment! I can see none other than my Sensual Swan, my Delectable Dish, my Lady McD approaching! Of course, she is arm in arm with her....husband....but it appears that he is distracted by the Cupcake Dispensing Machine next door! Look! There he goes!
Oh my.
I've never seen a man eat a cupcake like that before. I feel sullied an unusual by what I have just witnessed.
But soft! She comes!
BRB Diary!
.....
Oh Diary. I almost lost you! As it is, your cover is a might bit singed. Also, I can see so many droplets of blood scattered among your pages, I could just weep for looking at you. Although, Father will no doubt be pleased since you finally do look as though you've been to battle.
Oh, but a war it seemed today my dearest diary! A war on my poor, poor, heart!
When Lady McD approached my Kissing Booth, her bear of a husband taken off by cupcakes, I was just covered in little goose pimples with anticipation.
She sat across from me, her soft, silken arm resting gently on the ledge between us.
"Oh, Mal!" she said, her voice like a melodious bird song "You've got a little kissing booth! Oh, how charming!"
She then made some offhanded comments about Unca Macbeth's "unsettling regime of discipline" for his cats, whilst I simply gazed adoringly at her. Wondering when and if I should ask her for admission...and then commence with...well...with the kissing.
It wasn't long before I knew I was going to lick her face for FREE Diary!
Let me transpose our conversation VERBATIM for you here!
Lady McD: So, you know how I just adore hosting my weekly themed Cotillions don't you? Well, we've been shopping for the Wren Cotillion, right? I know that Mr. MacDuff just hates it when I go off on a tither with such things, but I can't help it, can I? I mean, these are Wrens, not Ravens. Must keep things classy, you know? Of course you do, dear boy.
Me: Yes, by the fire-like tresses that fall from your sainted head, I do sway and dip with your every move. Just say the word, my lovely Leche.
(Well. I didn't QUITE say that. I thought it though! What I actually wound up saying was something akin to "Lurr...lurrr...yes, yes...heeeee....LECHE.")
Regardless, I took her indulgent smile for what it was, an invitation to 7 minutes of Heaven in MY KISSING BOOTH and leaned just out of the booth where her soft, supple lips awaited me...tongue fully extended as Gilmer/NotGilmer had shown me....when her OAF of a husband came bounding over babbling about those ridiculous CUPCAKES.
ANYWAY, she turned to see him, covered in icing, and instead of caressing her ambrosial cheeks, chin, lips, nostrils, eyelids with my hungry tongue....I salivated all over her inner ear.
Luckily, and I use this term loosely, my humiliation was short lived as it was just at that moment that The Three Weird Kind-of-but-Not-Really-Sisters blew up Old Sow's Keg-o-Blood!
YES! Those Vile Vixens and their Talking ManWitch used their pernicious powers to make that Keg shoot sky high and shower all the Fair-goers with blood.
It was just like when Mother was alive.
:::sigh:::
Chaos reigned, and Lady McD and her dripping ear were scattered to the wind, along with my dreams of kisses.
On top of all of that, my best vest is stained past all hope.
I can hardly even sign off.
Y.B.P.M.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Dearest Diary,
Your ruffles do always comfort me so, as do your firm -yet supple- pages. After last weeks bout of possible skullduggery, I have been flying "incognito" as they say. TTND 1 and 2 have been giving me such trouble. I am wracking my nubile little brain trying to arrive at some definitive answer, but to no avail. But, fear not! I have a plan...
I have heard tales of these magical pleasure machines called "kissing booths" set up for a non-committal exchange of the smoochies. The Annual Gainesville Homecoming/Paternity-Fest is fast approaching, and guess who has registered to man the aforementioned booth? Hmmm?! MEE!
I shall determine, by way of my impeccable recall of sensual memory, which of the two redheaded rapscallions gave me my first chocofly kiss. I have been going through chapstick like Unca Macbeth goes through Meow mix in an effort to give the two old boys a head start and keep the ladies happy.
I must now go about making sure all parties will be in attendance, I wonder if father would follow through with his threat of live burial if I use his printing press again? For love...I'll risk it; who knows? Maybe my matronly morsel might stop by and solve my dilemma once and for all :)
In anticipation of snogging,
Y.B.P.M.
Your ruffles do always comfort me so, as do your firm -yet supple- pages. After last weeks bout of possible skullduggery, I have been flying "incognito" as they say. TTND 1 and 2 have been giving me such trouble. I am wracking my nubile little brain trying to arrive at some definitive answer, but to no avail. But, fear not! I have a plan...
I have heard tales of these magical pleasure machines called "kissing booths" set up for a non-committal exchange of the smoochies. The Annual Gainesville Homecoming/Paternity-Fest is fast approaching, and guess who has registered to man the aforementioned booth? Hmmm?! MEE!
I shall determine, by way of my impeccable recall of sensual memory, which of the two redheaded rapscallions gave me my first chocofly kiss. I have been going through chapstick like Unca Macbeth goes through Meow mix in an effort to give the two old boys a head start and keep the ladies happy.
I must now go about making sure all parties will be in attendance, I wonder if father would follow through with his threat of live burial if I use his printing press again? For love...I'll risk it; who knows? Maybe my matronly morsel might stop by and solve my dilemma once and for all :)
In anticipation of snogging,
Y.B.P.M.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Toil, Trouble, and FunNubbles
Ooooooooh.....Diary.
You must imagine my pen as a secretive, terrified whisper along your page. For the tale I am about to relate surely demands it.
Diary, my curiosity outweighed my sheer, unadulterated terror, and I ended up following NotGilmer on her accursed path. I stayed a good distance behind, afraid my heavy breathing may awaken her...or...IT rather, to my presence. Often, in the night Father (4 doors down) complains of it disturbing his slumber, so surely it would alert this unworldly thing that no doubt had the heightened senses of Unca Macbeth's prize genetically altered feline, The Professor.
Of course, I was still without a shoe and my SpongeBob sock did make an awful crunching noise on the forest floor (yes...THE FOREST). AND I stepped on THREE pebbles that hurt something awful. In order to stifle this unfortunate noise as well as shelter my little naked foot against the treacherous ground, I was forced to sacrifice my fashionable summer scarf. I tied it in a giant, cushion-y wad over my foot. Father would be so proud of my resourcefulness! Another plus, my subsequent uneven gait made me feel much like a fearsome pirate!
Even though I had a scarf leg, rather than a peg leg.
And no sword.
Or ship, as it were.
The illusion, however, did embolden me to some degree as the sun began it's descent, and the shadows crept in all around me. Luckily, my best vest is fitted enough that one button missing didn't disturb it's deliciously tailored appearance. Nothing makes one braver than a nicely tailored vest.
We reached a clearing deep in the wood, and NotGilmer finally slowed. I tucked myself behind a tree nearby, covering my face (still sticky from Gilmer/NotGilmer's chocolatey saliva) with leaves and grit to conceal my appearance. And then?
She began to sing.
Her siren call brought forth two more...beings...into the clearing. I recognized one as the Talking ManWitch! The other? Well I'm confident she was the dusky hued Lady Satan that took DonalBORING on his "Cruise to Nowhere".
It was not long before the three weird kind-of-but-not-really sisters began singing together over a steaming pot of what smelled not entirely unlike my favorite stew that Cook used to make.
Oh, Cook! Shim used to make me that warm delicious FunNubbles stew whenever I was feeling cold and lonely.
Which was almost all the month of January.
Once they threw a hard-used Squirtten into the pot, I was out of there like the fat kid in dodge ball.
Oh DIARY, you SEE how fear makes me crass?
I ran straight home, caring not for the briers and brambles slowly but surely shredding my scandalously scintillating summer scarf, and straight up here to record my observations in you, my dearest devourer of dark, dastardly....d....d....secrets.
DEEDS! Dark, dastardly DEEDS!
Anyway, it is clear to me, and I'm sure to you Diary, that these THINGS, and this NotGilmer are:
WITCHES.
Oh yes.
I said it.
And now, I still know not whether I am covered in the saliva of the Devil's Dam or that of my almost-goddess....my divine bit of "special"...
And if I HAVE been kissed by Lucifer's Mistress....does this mean it was the dirty kind? The kind of kiss reserved only for a late night NASCAR victory party?
And even MORE questions are raised! Has Gilmer gotten her Butterfly devouring knowledge of transformative powers from these three hellions? OR, is the reverse true? Are the three midnight hags (except that's it only 9!) haunting TTND because this is HER discovery?!
?!?!?!?!
Dammit. Now I KNOW I've used my interrobang quota for the day. Maybe even the WEEK.
Oh Diary, I'm not sure how to proceed! So many things happening at once. This morning I was an unkissed wisp of a boy, and this evening I'm a face-licked, witch-hunting piece of ManCandy!
How quickly bright things come to confusion!
To bed, to bed.
To bed.
Ever Yours,
Y.B.P.M.
You must imagine my pen as a secretive, terrified whisper along your page. For the tale I am about to relate surely demands it.
Diary, my curiosity outweighed my sheer, unadulterated terror, and I ended up following NotGilmer on her accursed path. I stayed a good distance behind, afraid my heavy breathing may awaken her...or...IT rather, to my presence. Often, in the night Father (4 doors down) complains of it disturbing his slumber, so surely it would alert this unworldly thing that no doubt had the heightened senses of Unca Macbeth's prize genetically altered feline, The Professor.
Of course, I was still without a shoe and my SpongeBob sock did make an awful crunching noise on the forest floor (yes...THE FOREST). AND I stepped on THREE pebbles that hurt something awful. In order to stifle this unfortunate noise as well as shelter my little naked foot against the treacherous ground, I was forced to sacrifice my fashionable summer scarf. I tied it in a giant, cushion-y wad over my foot. Father would be so proud of my resourcefulness! Another plus, my subsequent uneven gait made me feel much like a fearsome pirate!
Even though I had a scarf leg, rather than a peg leg.
And no sword.
Or ship, as it were.
The illusion, however, did embolden me to some degree as the sun began it's descent, and the shadows crept in all around me. Luckily, my best vest is fitted enough that one button missing didn't disturb it's deliciously tailored appearance. Nothing makes one braver than a nicely tailored vest.
We reached a clearing deep in the wood, and NotGilmer finally slowed. I tucked myself behind a tree nearby, covering my face (still sticky from Gilmer/NotGilmer's chocolatey saliva) with leaves and grit to conceal my appearance. And then?
She began to sing.
Her siren call brought forth two more...beings...into the clearing. I recognized one as the Talking ManWitch! The other? Well I'm confident she was the dusky hued Lady Satan that took DonalBORING on his "Cruise to Nowhere".
It was not long before the three weird kind-of-but-not-really sisters began singing together over a steaming pot of what smelled not entirely unlike my favorite stew that Cook used to make.
Oh, Cook! Shim used to make me that warm delicious FunNubbles stew whenever I was feeling cold and lonely.
Which was almost all the month of January.
Once they threw a hard-used Squirtten into the pot, I was out of there like the fat kid in dodge ball.
Oh DIARY, you SEE how fear makes me crass?
I ran straight home, caring not for the briers and brambles slowly but surely shredding my scandalously scintillating summer scarf, and straight up here to record my observations in you, my dearest devourer of dark, dastardly....d....d....secrets.
DEEDS! Dark, dastardly DEEDS!
Anyway, it is clear to me, and I'm sure to you Diary, that these THINGS, and this NotGilmer are:
WITCHES.
Oh yes.
I said it.
And now, I still know not whether I am covered in the saliva of the Devil's Dam or that of my almost-goddess....my divine bit of "special"...
And if I HAVE been kissed by Lucifer's Mistress....does this mean it was the dirty kind? The kind of kiss reserved only for a late night NASCAR victory party?
And even MORE questions are raised! Has Gilmer gotten her Butterfly devouring knowledge of transformative powers from these three hellions? OR, is the reverse true? Are the three midnight hags (except that's it only 9!) haunting TTND because this is HER discovery?!
?!?!?!?!
Dammit. Now I KNOW I've used my interrobang quota for the day. Maybe even the WEEK.
Oh Diary, I'm not sure how to proceed! So many things happening at once. This morning I was an unkissed wisp of a boy, and this evening I'm a face-licked, witch-hunting piece of ManCandy!
How quickly bright things come to confusion!
To bed, to bed.
To bed.
Ever Yours,
Y.B.P.M.
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