Dearest Diary,
Strange and weird (in the bastardized, non Anglo-Saxon sense) things are afoot. I read through my last two posts and realized that both things seemed to have happened on the same day. I clearly remember one of these two events, yet why do I post the morning post after the unfamiliar "sexypartytimes-post?" Diary, to further add to the confusion, my postings were a mere half hour apart! Something is amiss though I do not know exactly what.
WAIT! DIARY! Oooh, I am a veritable young Sherlock Holmes...or Brisco County Jr...Doctor Who? Anyways, I noticed a common thread in both these events: Young Siward's daemonically possessed hand.
Fiend! He must have been gallivanting with those lyrical chappy women and talking manwich, I have noticed his lips are beginning to have that rough-hewn look. Clearly he must be dabbling in the daemonical arts and has opened some sort of time fold where-in one of my realities is encroaching upon the other. Does his deviousness know NO BOUNDS!? I shall have to stop him somehow. If he is truly dimensionally transcendental, I shall have to come up with some plan...which I will...after some more of Cook's "ScrumptiousGoodTimes.
Yours in an unknown to woman fashion,
Y.B.P.M.
P.S. Maybe if I get to explore alternate universes...perchance I can woo the fair Lady MacD by trial and error until I know the right combination of verbal and physical come-ons that will make her mine in this world? Perhaps.
Showing posts with label self-aware food?. Show all posts
Showing posts with label self-aware food?. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Monday, October 5, 2009
Work, work, work and a poop bush.
Dear Diary,
What an eventful week! I feel as if I'm slightly hollow, now. As if some integral part of my existence has since evaporated into the deep-dark abysm of time. I hope it's not getting La Gripe again. ANYWAYS (diary, I get so distracted sometimes...but you never fail to re-direct me; a papyrus Ritalin of joy you are.), yesterday Father was absent but left me chores to do. I had to work with a motley crew of nobles, Young Siward, "men of dubious morality...especially in the realm of knifing," and an androgynous man-witch (hmmm...suddenly craving spaghetti sauce on a hoagie) . It was an odd assortment to be sure.
I imagine that father wanted me to be exposed to hard labor and the "rougher element" because he says I too much resemble my saintly mother, only softer. Father said if I was good, he would return with my horse (whom I have decided to name "Madge"), so I set out with my wagon to help.
I was relegated to spare lumber removal. I loaded up my wagon (now named "Clyde"...the man-witch had an odd affinity for distributing nicknames...upon hearing me called "Bonny Prince Malcolm," I became "Bonnie." He thought the juxtaposition hilarious) and began to cart lumber back and forth. I was in terrible spirits Diary. I wanted to join the group of manly men with their devil-may-care clothing, their sweat-stained hats, their ability to lift more than a quarter of their own body weight, but ALAS. I just knew they were making fun of me by giving me a sledge hammer to nail in some errant staples. I was very low. My anger grew, my pulse raced, and my voice cracked from the strain. I had had ENOUGH! With Clyde at my side I began to feverishly pummel a bit of leafy screen into a mangled corpse of PVC and camo netting. I looked up and all my co-laborers (which, by the way, where were the Slavs in all this?!) stared in awe-faced amusement. I gave a final "Harumph!" in the direction of the tattered ruin and swaggered away in triumph.
Diary! SQUEE! They had finally accepted me! They invited me out to a tavern afterwords! Oh, I was feeling quite high on the proverbial hog. I was going to have a cold, malty beverage of sorts (perhaps something denoting my inevitable rise to royal status, like a "Surely Temple.") tell sordid stories (I would have to rely on my imagination for this one...as my illustratively educational etchings were at home), and generally cause a rumpus! Oh the times we would have had, had not some errant knave (probably Y.S.) decided to make a nasty in the bushes approaching the tavern. Diary, my very blood seemed to be contaminated by this unholy odor. it was oppressively potent. Everyone simply made a face and continued on, I tried but my gentle olfactory bulb nearly perished in the attempt! I was so overwhelmed that I simply sat on the ground and cried. I don't know how long I cried for but when I stopped, my co-laborers were exiting the tavern all stumbly-like. Also, it was now nighttime. I had lost all manly respect points I might have gained. I am sure Young Siward planned this...it would explain why he was late?
Though, on a side note, Y.S. seemed to be possessed and controlled by some daemon that had taken up residency in his hand. He was looking at it and, well, "communicating" with it as well. needless to say, I was mortified. Perhaps Y.S. isn't so bad after all, just possessed by a demonic presence. I must study up on demonology.
Until I am known to Woman,
B.P.M.
P.S. Just yanking your chain, I couldn't leave you for that long.
What an eventful week! I feel as if I'm slightly hollow, now. As if some integral part of my existence has since evaporated into the deep-dark abysm of time. I hope it's not getting La Gripe again. ANYWAYS (diary, I get so distracted sometimes...but you never fail to re-direct me; a papyrus Ritalin of joy you are.), yesterday Father was absent but left me chores to do. I had to work with a motley crew of nobles, Young Siward, "men of dubious morality...especially in the realm of knifing," and an androgynous man-witch (hmmm...suddenly craving spaghetti sauce on a hoagie) . It was an odd assortment to be sure.
I imagine that father wanted me to be exposed to hard labor and the "rougher element" because he says I too much resemble my saintly mother, only softer. Father said if I was good, he would return with my horse (whom I have decided to name "Madge"), so I set out with my wagon to help.
I was relegated to spare lumber removal. I loaded up my wagon (now named "Clyde"...the man-witch had an odd affinity for distributing nicknames...upon hearing me called "Bonny Prince Malcolm," I became "Bonnie." He thought the juxtaposition hilarious) and began to cart lumber back and forth. I was in terrible spirits Diary. I wanted to join the group of manly men with their devil-may-care clothing, their sweat-stained hats, their ability to lift more than a quarter of their own body weight, but ALAS. I just knew they were making fun of me by giving me a sledge hammer to nail in some errant staples. I was very low. My anger grew, my pulse raced, and my voice cracked from the strain. I had had ENOUGH! With Clyde at my side I began to feverishly pummel a bit of leafy screen into a mangled corpse of PVC and camo netting. I looked up and all my co-laborers (which, by the way, where were the Slavs in all this?!) stared in awe-faced amusement. I gave a final "Harumph!" in the direction of the tattered ruin and swaggered away in triumph.
Diary! SQUEE! They had finally accepted me! They invited me out to a tavern afterwords! Oh, I was feeling quite high on the proverbial hog. I was going to have a cold, malty beverage of sorts (perhaps something denoting my inevitable rise to royal status, like a "Surely Temple.") tell sordid stories (I would have to rely on my imagination for this one...as my illustratively educational etchings were at home), and generally cause a rumpus! Oh the times we would have had, had not some errant knave (probably Y.S.) decided to make a nasty in the bushes approaching the tavern. Diary, my very blood seemed to be contaminated by this unholy odor. it was oppressively potent. Everyone simply made a face and continued on, I tried but my gentle olfactory bulb nearly perished in the attempt! I was so overwhelmed that I simply sat on the ground and cried. I don't know how long I cried for but when I stopped, my co-laborers were exiting the tavern all stumbly-like. Also, it was now nighttime. I had lost all manly respect points I might have gained. I am sure Young Siward planned this...it would explain why he was late?
Though, on a side note, Y.S. seemed to be possessed and controlled by some daemon that had taken up residency in his hand. He was looking at it and, well, "communicating" with it as well. needless to say, I was mortified. Perhaps Y.S. isn't so bad after all, just possessed by a demonic presence. I must study up on demonology.
Until I am known to Woman,
B.P.M.
P.S. Just yanking your chain, I couldn't leave you for that long.
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