In reaction to yesterday evening's account of the pipe-club's monthly meeting, some friendly spam-bot 'gifted' me with a comment which I have not cleared for publication. However, I totally approve of it.
It represents some of the finest writing I have ever seen.
Perhaps I should mention that, unlike most men of my age, I do not pursue every slice of tail that crosses my path. Consequently my existence is uncomplicated, and frightfully clean.
The spam-bot, however, presumes that I have all the manners and morals of a typical frat-boy, recently graduated and moved to San Francisco, with only one thing on his filthy mind.
Two things.
Two full paragraphs about breasts. Affectionately referred to as "titties". Frat-boys, as is well known, are primarily interested in BIG titties. Enormous titties. Humongous titties. Titties that would make a Texan blush. Breastessessies of the general shape and dimension of watermelons, all floobily-woobily and free-flopping.
Gigantic, ginormous, and ginosauric.
The spam-bot waxed lyrical.
Epic, and poetic.
With links.
Obviously I shall NOT post any of the links. I have no interest in furthering the degenerate escapades of rancid frat-boys -- although I do have a keen and as yet steadfastly intellectual-only fascination with "escapades" -- and the world is already far too full of big breasts as it is. As I understand it, every bleached-out all-American cow-girl from the Alleghenies to the Rockies represents the type of mammary-overkill that characterized the primitive cannibalistic mothergods of Antiquity, rather than the sylph-like or elfin ideal of Audrey Hepburn.
Why do all the "hottest" shiksas look like drag queens?
Far too many bovine farmbelt cheerleaders.
Not enough librarians.
AFTERTHOUGHT
Escapade -- doesn't that word sound like fun?
So evocative, so daring!
Escapade!
Quite unlike the sad and appalling reality of beer-swilling business majors pursuing women who are handicapped above the navel.
Hippopotami, grunting and splashing.
Lumbering rhinoceri.
Capybara.
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