Que Pasa (Part 1)
Fumbling for his cha atched a moment and asked him thus: "Squire, should thou be thus?"
I squirmed at the uncomfortableness of it all...finally nge, I sn erupting, "Goddamni w could you?"
He sunk back down and I attempted repargese...it is a kind of French word that means one mu t! Ho st retreat into a shell, or coc ng. I balked and he said, "I could because I must."
He thrust himself forwa oon-type thi rd and declared a Bonapart part, witho sh ,ut all the fla "Why would I not be thus."
It was not a question, I am not a wALRus.
Eventually, the skies cleared and it became clear what a mother-of-a-two-timing-liver-of-fantasies-lover-of-liver he was. How does one combat fatigue...you know, that one associated with labouring under a heavy weight, or lumbering along the path and discovering that love wasn't what it was all tarted up to be? I could have chosen an entity of some sort, oh like nights in the pub with the lads, swirling and swishing long lost dreams in our pint glasses of rose-coloured ale but, I thought I ought not and got a job selling ladies 'pleasurables'. My friend here, on the other hand wore a ring and trumpeted it with flash and bravado (not uncommon for his particular generation). I shifted over to let a young lady sit, poofing and panting from the extra person she was carrying. She glanced a thank you smile and I cranked out some tune from the 40's that sounded remarkably like, 'June I am Your Man' by Thomas Squelchbinder of Kenmore, "Smelcome."
Soon on the fourth day, not long after the variances had fled at the first rumblings of Conga's war dance, a light rain began to fall. It was no matter to us, we three of the Brigada 1974. For equally, light and frilly artwork hung here, dangled upon a string over there, flitted amongst the tired and downtrodden in the next room, whilst meandering and letting off playful cooing somewhere on the floor above. So it could be said, a light fall of the same again was no more than what was had last Thursday but, this was Friday and that meant it was party time! Yeehaw! I stood to sashay, he shifted uncomfortably at first, a forbidding loom of calamity in his thoughts and threatening to charge forth, ramshackle chains and all but, upon request, returned to a slightly wobbly stance, unsure of his haunches, kicking out a jig ensemble akin to stove pipes and our lady friend merely gave a gesture of 'whatever, dude!' with that classic wave-sort-of-thing done by using your hand with nonchalance parlance sans vocal accompaniment. My facial expression must have suddenly paused at befuddlement station, as the corresponding body language went all limp with perplexity trimmings. I cast my gaze reflecting all these recent changes towards her. She was facing away, holding her swelled midriff and kept glancing upward wondering when the skies would clear again. First, I looked up to see if there were some kind of gigantic sunroof in the ceiling and then slowly turned to look at my friend; who stood slightly to the East of her weather-seeking probes. He had a somewhat similar look to mine, with just a dash of flabbergast and a slight hint of incredulity added for flavour. We both turned to take one last look at her - the same, "hmm, I long for snow...oh, the fall of snow...".
"Hmpft! Then we..." he says.
"Shall take our business elsewhere!" I say.
Que Pasa (Part 1)
Fumbling for his cha atched a moment and asked him thus: "Squire, should thou be thus?"
I squirmed at the uncomfortableness of it all...finally nge, I sn erupting, "Goddamni w could you?"
He sunk back down and I attempted repargese...it is a kind of French word that means one mu t! Ho st retreat into a shell, or coc ng. I balked and he said, "I could because I must."
He thrust himself forwa oon-type thi rd and declared a Bonapart part, witho sh ,ut all the fla "Why would I not be thus."
It was not a question, I am not a wALRus.
Eventually, the skies cleared and it became clear what a mother-of-a-two-timing-liver-of-fantasies-lover-of-liver he was. How does one combat fatigue...you know, that one associated with labouring under a heavy weight, or lumbering along the path and discovering that love wasn't what it was all tarted up to be? I could have chosen an entity of some sort, oh like nights in the pub with the lads, swirling and swishing long lost dreams in our pint glasses of rose-coloured ale but, I thought I ought not and got a job selling ladies 'pleasurables'. My friend here, on the other hand wore a ring and trumpeted it with flash and bravado (not uncommon for his particular generation). I shifted over to let a young lady sit, poofing and panting from the extra person she was carrying. She glanced a thank you smile and I cranked out some tune from the 40's that sounded remarkably like, 'June I am Your Man' by Thomas Squelchbinder of Kenmore, "Smelcome."
Soon on the fourth day, not long after the variances had fled at the first rumblings of Conga's war dance, a light rain began to fall. It was no matter to us, we three of the Brigada 1974. For equally, light and frilly artwork hung here, dangled upon a string over there, flitted amongst the tired and downtrodden in the next room, whilst meandering and letting off playful cooing somewhere on the floor above. So it could be said, a light fall of the same again was no more than what was had last Thursday but, this was Friday and that meant it was party time! Yeehaw! I stood to sashay, he shifted uncomfortably at first, a forbidding loom of calamity in his thoughts and threatening to charge forth, ramshackle chains and all but, upon request, returned to a slightly wobbly stance, unsure of his haunches, kicking out a jig ensemble akin to stove pipes and our lady friend merely gave a gesture of 'whatever, dude!' with that classic wave-sort-of-thing done by using your hand with nonchalance parlance sans vocal accompaniment. My facial expression must have suddenly paused at befuddlement station, as the corresponding body language went all limp with perplexity trimmings. I cast my gaze reflecting all these recent changes towards her. She was facing away, holding her swelled midriff and kept glancing upward wondering when the skies would clear again. First, I looked up to see if there were some kind of gigantic sunroof in the ceiling and then slowly turned to look at my friend; who stood slightly to the East of her weather-seeking probes. He had a somewhat similar look to mine, with just a dash of flabbergast and a slight hint of incredulity added for flavour. We both turned to take one last look at her - the same, "hmm, I long for snow...oh, the fall of snow...".
"Hmpft! Then we..." he says.
"Shall take our business elsewhere!" I say.