Sinister: subject yersel' to another realm

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It's been a long and lonely broken glass, broken forehead and missing mouse
strewn treck, pal, but the missing slipper is now on my foot.

PARENTAL GUIDANCE

To be honest here, I'm in no mood for the sanctimonious sh*t. F**k off. I've
had a sleepless night troubled by the bending moments of the world's longest
bridge based - beaucoup moi - on a revolutionary spinal torsion system clad
in anti-drag co-efficient techno glow worms and Christina Aguilera is making
a damn politico correcto racket in my ears and it's all my fault. As I said
I'm in no mood for argument: this is just the way it is... bear with me if
you want: if not; don't: as Mamet quoted: KISS keep it simple stoopid.

I'm about to make things bl**dy complicated.

Plique; the fold. Just thought I'd add that in to confuse you. Com *pli*
quated. See?

OK. I'd be the first teenager to despise what I write as unintelligible
nonsense but the difference now is, to hell with it I *know* better and I
believe it is within my capacity to be, if not a 'grown up' in the
conventional family-rearing sense then not least someone who's processed
enough information to be both in thrall to the wonderfull results of the
injection of some of the world's greatest fiscal economies in the making of
teenagers as the new chosens and... distanced enough to put it in
perspective: the ideology of youth, yung un, is not a wishing to be so; it
is a re-treading of the boards with what seems like infinite power and if,
wary as you may be it is true reaction: beware: striding before you in mock
importance is a false prophet. Who, after all in their right minds would
feel energy directed backwards except teachers? Forget passing the conch for
a moment: just bl**dy forget it. So onto the prologue:

There are certain circumstances... let's take, as an initial example Liz
Burton to Michaelo Jackson. He is warped way beyond her dreams and as
talented as that suggests. Both in tabloid hate mode- and who wouldn't be?-
rout for these guys: the man can dance anyone's ass off and twicefold around
the universe and we call the little shit a perv I mean give the guy a f**kin
break.
The morning sun is shining; is blinding me in bed in one of those 'God's
Holy Light' moments in the circumstances that, drug-wise offer an
affirmative awakening *WARNING STREAM OF CONCIOUSNESS AS IF THE REST
WEREN'T* of the cerebrum pleasure centers re-wired; and wait for it; I'm
about to tell you here for there is action by way of 20 naked women, 20 jack
daniels and SODA (not coke!!) and 20 strong hits of Brazillian tobacco.
First up, some of the girls.

THE GAMINE

She has the perfect body. Her breasts in alignment with her bottom and the
way she cocks her head side to side so with a smile and her crop topped
hair: it's the cropped top that lends one to think Paris in the sixties...
she almost has it were it not for the betrayal of not Americain French but
lachrimose scotch and so... passing on (love you honey; really : ILOVE U)

THE FERTILITY GODDESS

That eloquence of dancing I mean she moves and swerves like you wouldn't
believe then she, just to flatten you, makes a gravity high heeling
manouvering defying thing with the mirror by the compromised lil' bar room
space and, well... now she's in line of the air conditioning system that is
blowing a storm in her locks as she; as she GLANCES at you.

THE BRAINS

Making up for all other deficiencies this girl is in the process, with a
wink, to instructing some un-named fatal beauty in the art of '20's
vaudeville: I'm a short guy but I'll be Tolouse Lautrec sort of short for
more and more and more and WHEESHT! twirling knickers of bright red lace
and, to catch up on the fatal beauty accomplice... it's doe deer territory:
real gorgeous cute but in the spray cream on her inner thighs fun ... hell;
pal.

THE FIRE

Whirling around the pole like a dervish. This incredible olympic capacity
has a price, I'm afraid to say from a presbeterian outer Isles dressed in
black sense. Comes at a price and this one is in a certain brittleness of
spirit: each of us to match her impossible targets and,, WHOA! she made the
top and she spins like, yes I've said it before but there's no time to catch
up with this PHENOMENON. But as, before I could catch my breath: she has the
unhappy expectation of things even greater than the magnificence of her
wake.

And now to the joys of the interactive TV system; the modernistimo
disembodied sense of being. AH mean I'm bored of yer Marxist shit. I'm
damned bored by it. I DO NOT BELIEVE. I'm sorry honey I don't. I'm trying in
this old alignment of factz and esotericism to get at stuff and... let me
tell you £20,000 worth of trans continental knowledge: WE do pretty patterns
on the Woody Allen.. It gets little better; on the face of our pretty little
planet.

The bestest video on MTV's chill out channel. It goes like this: The elderly
young at heart do their 'dance through joy' upper body not too excercising
motions whilst: up at the top of the class is this SO GORGEOUZS .... i mean
nonchalant blonde item so despairing; so good; so with it in her ugly dress.

Ah'm keepin' it real: I'm a snob and I'll protect the shires from the
infidels but I'll also borrow enough money to praise allah and the rest of
them and I know they know I'm not enlightened enough but I'm on my way there
and they and I know it.

YOURS TRULY

Gordon.


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