Friday, January 20, 2006

Crapulous bowels!

A disclaimer, though Lord knows if it will penetrate far enough into my thick-browed readership. The following curt monologue deals with words of a scatological nature, and if being exposed to such terms makes you either wretch or titter like a school-girl than considered yourself alerted of the following: your existence makes me sick. I hate you for your stunted maturity as much as anything else.

With regard to other matters at hand ..... DIARREAH! That was but a test. Check your reaction, if it fell into one of the above categories then please do the world the simple favor of having yourself euthanized.

As it were,
Curse the wretched bowel movement, basest of all the machinations of hell's grim tyrant. Such displeasure it brings me when I have to perch myself on the commode and wait for my sphincter to get its business done. Cannot a man enjoy his dinner of pig entrails soup and not fear that the next day he will be pinned to some toliet by interminable defecation, as I am now? Thankfully enough I have my deficient protege "D.C." on hand to take dictation as I howl at him from the stall.

Let us not speak of the stench, unholy though it may be. Let us not spend words upon the gruesome sound, squealing from my lower parts with such fervor that I must shout over it to be heard. There is no call to even mention it's horrible texture. No, for the worst of it all is that while embroiled with these excessive and frequent evacuations of my stool I cannot help but feel somehow made level with the common man. Truly this is a grim and terrible world if, in the end, my shit stinks too.

Well, at the very least I may be satisfied with my unique method of pants donning - whereby I put them on both legs at once.

-Philboyd Snrub

Monday, January 09, 2006

My favorite pastime: the stomping on of dreams.

As some of my less profoundly dense readers may have noticed, I have suffered the writings of a young "D.C." to appear in this space from time to time. This is, detestably, a necessary nuissance to be tolerated. As fate would have it the excesses of my hedonistic lifestyle leave me malingering for indeterminable lenghts of time in the various jacuzzis and spas of my far-flung estates. To maintain some rough sense of regularity, and thus a readership to vent my irreproachable spleen upon, I have been compelled to take on this well-intentioned, though ham-fisted, protege. (Forgive my lapse in proper diacritics, once more the bougeious inter-net has sullied my scintillating prose.)
At any rate the man-boy has proven to be obtusely long-winded and meticuloulsy boring, two laudable qualities that remind me of my own young self. Indeed, he would even show the glimmer of potential where he not, in fact, an adle-patted, starry-eyed, bed-pan tender.

Prattle-mongers aside, you will now hear about my recent trip to the Mainland. No, I will not be more specific, if you are confused already I insist you quit reading now - you will only succeed at making yourself look even more foolish by persisting. The thought of your brow furrowing in a vain attempt to comprehend my prose curdles my stomach even at this great intellectual distance.

I find that the larger islands agree with me, so many fewer of the uncouth louts that populate the surroundings here who are forever intoxicating themselves and kicking up their heels without cowling themselves beneath proper amounts of shame. Ah yes, the stodginess, the inflexibility, the rigorous and brittle pride - such a joy to be surrounded by myriad others who personify what I cultivate so mindfully in myself. Indeed, the trill of pleasure was only heightened by the bosom of friendship I was welcomed into. An entourage of like-minded compatriots, nearly as callow and haughty as I pride myself to be, were my willing escorts about the nation proper. Together we threw many an arch glance and inquiring eyebrow at the oafish clodhoppers stumble-bumming their way through the grim pageant of life, only to collapse onto divans afterwards wholly spent and wanting nothing more than a bottle of sweet absinthe to dull the harping edge of existance.

Why, I remember one evening - it must have been quite nearly the Yuletide for I recall that the eponomious log was nearly spent - when my dear friend Ophelia, a sharpish vixen of cruel beauty, drew the hookah pipe from her mouth and called to mind a slack jawed yokel she had seen lummoxing about in the onsen from which we had recently retired. As she phrased it, the lumpy woman had been staring at her perfect form as she strutted through the cloying steams quite in awe that a woman, though so advanced in years, could nevertheless maintain such a figure, as the rose suspended in vacuum-sealed jar may wither and yet maintain all its shriveled leaves. Growing increasingly repulsed by the proleteriat gaze Ophelia of course began to tongue lash the dottering woman, and did so with such blistering ferocity that she quite nearly brought her to tears.
"And furthermore," Ophelia had concluded, "If I were the owner of a pair of buttocks that looked like nothing so much than a bowl of tapioca I'm quite sure I would commit suicide - a course of action I whole-hearted urge you to follow." The frivolity of the anecdote so amused me that I started coughing on my opium smoke! Afterwards we fell to it like minxes until our attendant man-servants came to issue the summons to Christmas breakfast. Oh what a Merry Christmas that was!

Alas, my fingers grow tired of crafting. Go now, my servile readers, lament that paucity of your own lives in comparison to mine.

-Philboyd Snrub