(no subject)
I have a new theory, one that defies all expectations and mandates formerly set by the Italian Restaurant formerly known as Prince, formerly obliged by and adhered to like a snail to his cabbage, a lark to his worm, an onion to its skin, a rabbit to its right paw, etc., etc.
Now is the time for rule-breaking, expectation defying (as in its defiance of expectation, like a new- born baby with jell-o for brains, a cormorant that speaks Italian, a marmot leaping into your underwear, a jaguar with no legs who still catches prey, an eagle with sideburns, etc.,etc., and duck sitting.
The aforementioned prospect of cockatoo hunting is barbaric at the least, and, if successful, a feat not unlike those of men with no legs who climb mountains, hermits who murder madmen, genetically mal-formed geese that prey on livestock, one who has genetically modified a goose to prey on livestock, they who make cats out of violins, Darcy in his pursuit of Elizabeth, etc., etc.
To make it perfectly clear, I have no inclination to accept this gentleman as one worthy of the thing himself. His form is weak, his features not noble but feeble, his eyes shrewd and his hair mousey. The grey in his moustache adds not character but rather gives one the desire to take a razor to it, and his chin, if it is even there at all, leaves something to be desired. Though I have pressed him many times for an answer, he has time and time again answered me, in the most uncivil of manners, with a brisk reply of negativity. "NO," He says, by which, I am sure, he means "probably." To make matters worse, his mother is eagerly pursuing his wife in an attempt to darn her blouses. If her blouses needed darning, or perhaps the darning needed the blouses, then the blouses would be darned. And darn it if those aren't fine blouses, with no need for darning and life in them yet. Many a night have I spent in the company of his wife's blouses, and unless I am to be deceived, there is not even room in his boudoir for trousers. If anything needs mending, anyway, it is most definitely his trousers. The man, in addition to a weak figure, has very weak trousers.
And so on and so forth.
Now is the time for rule-breaking, expectation defying (as in its defiance of expectation, like a new- born baby with jell-o for brains, a cormorant that speaks Italian, a marmot leaping into your underwear, a jaguar with no legs who still catches prey, an eagle with sideburns, etc.,etc., and duck sitting.
The aforementioned prospect of cockatoo hunting is barbaric at the least, and, if successful, a feat not unlike those of men with no legs who climb mountains, hermits who murder madmen, genetically mal-formed geese that prey on livestock, one who has genetically modified a goose to prey on livestock, they who make cats out of violins, Darcy in his pursuit of Elizabeth, etc., etc.
To make it perfectly clear, I have no inclination to accept this gentleman as one worthy of the thing himself. His form is weak, his features not noble but feeble, his eyes shrewd and his hair mousey. The grey in his moustache adds not character but rather gives one the desire to take a razor to it, and his chin, if it is even there at all, leaves something to be desired. Though I have pressed him many times for an answer, he has time and time again answered me, in the most uncivil of manners, with a brisk reply of negativity. "NO," He says, by which, I am sure, he means "probably." To make matters worse, his mother is eagerly pursuing his wife in an attempt to darn her blouses. If her blouses needed darning, or perhaps the darning needed the blouses, then the blouses would be darned. And darn it if those aren't fine blouses, with no need for darning and life in them yet. Many a night have I spent in the company of his wife's blouses, and unless I am to be deceived, there is not even room in his boudoir for trousers. If anything needs mending, anyway, it is most definitely his trousers. The man, in addition to a weak figure, has very weak trousers.
And so on and so forth.