On occasion, when I’m not sure what I should write about, I just sit down at the keyboard and start typing. Sometimes, the end result is pure magic. Most of the time, it’s unintelligible drivel. What follows, is the result of one of these writing exercises. Before you start reading, please allow me to apologize in advance. Sorry . . . OK, might as well get on with it.
Melody lived, worked and played in a small village called Los Angeles. Her occupation? Professional dancer.
Now don’t get the wrong impression. Melody wasn’t some kind of two-bit floozy who humped a pole for a living. On the contrary, she was a classically trained artist who specialized in the art of giving men chubbies. When she was up on that stage, she’d grind her pelvis into that pole. Slither her way up it, hang upside down from it, and then slowly slide back down to Earth, all without using her hands or arms. Yeah, she was a true natural.
Of course, by “natural,” I’m not referring to her breasts. They were far from natural. As cold and as round as basketballs, some might say, which was not an exaggeration. Using a very unsafe technique, Melody’s surgeon used actual basketballs in place of the usual, somewhat-safer silicone implants. They didn’t look as good as real fake breasts. But unlike those fancy boob bags, she could inflate or deflate them by simply slipping an everyday air hose over her nipple.
So in any case, that’s Melody, the classically trained stripper who had actual basketball breasts . . .
I’m not exactly sure where this story is supposed to go. I mean, there are a lot of places it could go, but then this wouldn’t remain a PG-13 blog. It would be PG-14. And that would suck. Because then all these kids who just turned 13 would be pissed off at me because they thought that once they turned 13, they’d be able to check out my blog without any parental supervision.
So next thing I’d know, the kids would unite in some kind of kid cult and they’d elect the creepiest looking kid to be their leader, and they’d plaster this huge picture of me on the wall. But then one of the kids would say something about how it’s not just Smivey, but all adults who are mean. And then the leader would declare that the earth must be cleansed of all adults. And then all the kids would look at their leader like he was fucking insane. And then he’d tell them that if they didn’t want to be part of the solution that they should leave now.
So then the kids would all start getting up and walking out, all while the creepy kid was shouting at them. And they’d all give him the finger, until that creepy kid was left alone with a giant picture of me plastered against his wall. And then he’d look at that picture and he’d vow revenge. And the next thing I’d know, I’d have some creepy kid waiting outside my building, with a bag of rocks and a six pack of Mountain Dew.
I’m sorry, but I just can’t let that happen. I mean, I can handle a good pummeling with a sack of rocks, but I just can’t bear to see a child — even a creepy one — drown himself in a six pack of Mountain Dew. For this reason, I must end this story, hoping that all of you will understand and not get too pissed off that you took the time to read it all the way through.
And just in case you do find yourself a little steamed after reading this story, and it makes you want to pelt me with rocks or other heavy objects, by all means, take your best shot. Just please, for godsakes, stay away from the fucking Mountain Dew. It’s just not worth it. Nothing is. I thank you.
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