Sinister: does writing sinister count as progress on applications?

[Kyla Schuller]

I'd assumed I'd heard the worst of it when "chocky
bicky" escaped my friend's lips.  But now this . . .
"christmas pressie."  Robin, if you are up to it,
please shed some light on the terrifyingly British
need to diminutize everything. Was this the custom
when the empire was still robust?  Or is it a way of
asserting the speaker's magnanimity in the face of her
country's shrinking significance in the post-imperial
era?

My friend has cleverly coined the genre of Shag Pop
for those ingeniously filthy sex-obsessed British
bands such as Hefner, Pulp, Arab Strap, and
Tindersticks.  I helpfully pointed out the aptness of
their member's names: Darren HYMAN, Jarvis COCKer,
DICKon Hinchliffe.  There must be more, and you are
more qualified than I to generate them.

In response to the newly-repeated Sinister phrase
"fuck it, fuck it with knives" I'm tempted to
contribute a story about sitting two feet in front of
a sex performance artist at my favorite San Francisco
lesbian strip club while she, well, you can imagine
(don't worry, she was safe: it was neatly sheathed in
a condom), but I don't know what sort of reputation I
might garner in this parish.  Whatever it would be, I
would fall far short of its promise, that's for sure. 
Let's just say that the most terrifying part was
immediately after the show, when she tore around the
club in search of her huge glass-ensconced pillar
candle (two guesses how this piece was incorporated
into her act) screaming, "where's my candle? who took
my candle?," seemingly unaware of the roomful of
cloudy, averted eyes who wanted nothing more than
extreme distance from the honeyed object.  Pure hope,
she had.  Poor hope.

Changing the topic considerably, the advice for
clandestine workplace Sinister reading has brought to
mind Jane Austen.  Being a woman who wrote in the
1790s, she was not allowed to be a woman who wrote. 
So she hid her papers under her sewing, while she sat
at a small circular table in the family drawing room. 
When afforded the opportunity to be alone, she pulled
out her papers and wrote a few lines -- until
approaching footsteps shamed her into burying the
paper under cloth once more.  Her grave, in Winchester
Cathedral, marks her as a charming daughter.  Not one
word of her future status as Mark Twain's favorite
writer.  

Now, should word get out that Kirsten Kenyon writes in
secret, stealing a line or two at a time, I would be
truly impressed.  A massive Sinister fundraising
campaign to rent the girl a snowy cottage somewhere
frighteningly cold with absolutely no geese would be
in order.  A sort of Sinister fellowship, if you will,
with a DSL connection, a cabinet full of liquor, and a
free candy machine in the bedroom.  You may submit
your application at any time, dear.

Happy Birthday today to my favorite Sinister lurker,
Jacob M. of Superhero Resources International.

-- kyla


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