DE PERFECTIONE CONCUPISCENTISIMUS HOMINIS

Recent comments on this blog have taken a turn for the worse. My reactive audience appears to have prurient interests, that may or may not intersect with tobacco. Possibly this is because of the rain; some people are cooped up inside with nowhere to go, and naturally their thoughts devolve to prurience and pipe tobacco.


"I hear crackling; it's raining porkskins!"


That was probably wishful thinking. As was the phrase "ngoh seurng sik chyu yiuk, ah, pai gwat!" My apartment mate does not quite understand that everyone in this household speaks Cantonese, and that pork is NOT a dangerously taboo subject, as none of us are Jewish. Or Muslim.
None of me. There are only two of us here.
Neither being Jewish, or Muslim.
Chyu yiuk is fine by us.
By me, fine it is.
Pai gwat.
排骨。

She has no need to hide her appetites.
Given that on the whole they're clean.

But she's the person who made "sausage banana" for breakfast.
I worry about that girl; the weather is making her tense.
Personally I don't eat breakfast until lunchtime.
By which time the rain may clear.

She didn't feel like going to the store recently, what with the inclement weather at night, and the cold. So she ran out of her applewood-smoked thick cut bacon, and was Jonesing for treif.

I left the house twice that evening, to stand in the portico of the grocery store nearby smoking a pipe. No, I couldn't have bought her the oink-strips there, as it closed forever in January. After a quarter of a century or more the owners retired and shut up shop. There is no place nearby with pig.
On the other hand, there are THREE liquor stores.
This neighborhood has priorities.


As I mentioned, her appetites are innocent. As are mine, most of the time. But not always. Not after reading a comment that reminded me of certain things.


A BIG SLICE OF THE NEW VICAR!

(Cut to two ladies taking tea in an Edwardian drawing room.)

First Lady (Carol): Have you seen Lady Windermere's new carriage, dear?

Second Lady (Caron Garden): Absolutely enchanting!

First Lady: Isn't it!

(Chivers the butler enters.)

Chivers (Graham): The new vicar to see you, m'lady.

First Lady: Ah, send him in, Chivers.

Chivers: Certainly, m'lady. (he goes)

(Enter a Swiss mountaineer in Tyrolean hat, lederhosen, haversack, icepick, etc. Followed by two men in evening dress. They look round and exit.)

First Lady: Now, how is your tea, dear? A little more water perhaps?

Second Lady: Thank you. It is delightful as it is.

Chivers: The Reverend Ronald Simms, the Dirty Vicar of St Michael's ... ooh!

(Chivers is obviously goosed from behind by the Dirty Vicar.)

Vicar (Terry Jones): Cor, what a lovely bit of stuff. I'd like to get my fingers around those knockers.

(He pounces upon the second lady, throws her skirt over her head and pushes her over the back of the sofa, then rolls around on top of her.)

First Lady: How do you find the vicarage?

(The vicar stands up from behind the sofa, his shirt open and his hair awry; he reaches over and puts his hand down the first lady's front.)

Vicar: I like tits!

First Lady: Oh vicar! vicar!

(The vicar suddenly pulls back and looks around him as if in the horror of dawning realisation.)

Vicar: Oh my goodness. I do beg your pardon. How dreadful! The first day in my new parish, I completely ... so sorry!

First Lady: (adjusting her dress) Yes. Never mind, never mind. Chivers -- send Mary in with a new gown, will you?

(The second lady struggles to her feet from behind the couch, completely dishevelled. Her own gown completely ripped open.)

Chivers: Certainly, m'lady.

Vicar: (to the second lady) I do beg your pardon ... I must sit down.

First Lady: As I was saying, how do you find the new vicarage?

(They take their seats on the couch.)

Vicar: Oh yes, certainly, yes indeed, I find the grounds delightful, and the servants most attentive and particularly the little serving maid with the great big knockers, and when she gets going...

(He throws himself on the hostess across the tea table, knocking it over and they disappear over the back of the hostess's chair. Grunts etc. Enter Dickie applauding. Also, we hear audience applause.)

[Text from here: http://www.montypython.net/scripts/dirtyvic.php.]


As you know, I have "enjoyed" a saintly and austere life ever since my relationship with another person faded, and I have scarce had thought of challenging female body parts in over three years. I am virtually a saint.
Far be it from me to discourse suggestively on such matters, as, being a single man without any amorous prospects proximally, nor even a shred of intimate possibility on the horizon, there would be no one to speak thus to.

Did I already mention my sainthood?

It's awesome.


There has been NO naughty behaviour in a very long time. Instead, I've stilled passion with pipe tobacco, tea, cookies, copious amounts of hot sauce on snacks at midnight, and rereading De Libero Arbitrio as well as De Bono Coniugali, both by Aurelius Augustinus Hipponensis.

My brilliant cousin is currently writing a tome on the Venerable Bede; when it finally sees light of day, I shall doubtlessly devour that too, with great delight. And avid interest.

No naughty behaviour at all.
I am a man of restraint.

"I like tits!"

Well, yes. That's true. But it's more of an abstract intellectual concept than anything that bears on reality. Perfectly happy indeed to conceive of them, as imagined perfections irrespective of dimension, but there is no practical application.

One or two of my readers, however, disagree.
They connect "tits" with tobacco.
A very novel concept.


I rather wish that a recent commenter had NOT reminded me of Monty Python's Dirty Vicar Sketch. After viewing it on youtube, I found myself muttering with conviction "I like tits" for most of the next day.
It wasn't good for my mental equilibrium.
Because, you see, I do like tits.




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