To Be

I have with me a bowl of rice, rice so delicious, so pure. When I taste it, it melts into me and becomes such a part of me, such a part, that I only wish to have all my nerves upon it, in it, surrounding it, and grow numb in all places elsewhere. There is a sweetness in it hidden behind the bland austerity and I cannot help but capsize and delve in. There is an awful delight with it. So much that when there comes a passerby I scream, “Here, here, taste some of this lusciousness, it is gold, it is none less than gold, or diamonds, or other such nonsense. This rice feeds the soul, becomes the soul itself, gives the soul its greatest fuck, the best pleasure. Come, come, here, taste some. There is a lot, enough for the both of us to pass through this celestial gate. Come, here, come.” The passerby becomes frightened of the agitation, mistaking it for some evil trait or other, and walks hastily away, and I take the bowl and scamper after him. But the bowl hampers me, with its grave motions and spills, and I cannot run much further. I stand and taste the rice again. Pure, the worthiest thing of all, it is. But he did not wish to try. What made the man so unwilling? I could not fathom. It may hurt, as that kicks in crying pussies, but I still have the rice, the bowl. It is as if made of the milk of the angels, or the grounded, discoloured olives of paradise. It melted into me, and became such a part. Another passerby comes. I tentatively try, tell her of what she could become one with, but she laughs and I draw back, embittered. She, too, walks away, still a chuckle inside her, and I begin to feed on the rice again. One cannot become sick of it, or wish for a creamy, sugger-ridden dessert and dream of that while the rice is touched by my intoxicated tongue. It is the appetizer and entree and afters mashed into the peak of peaceful pleasure. Then another comes by, and she wishes to see the bowl, and taste of it, but she would not know. She would only pretend, at best, as she does now, and I scowl at her and cuss her out for her stance, and I resume my delight, taking no note of the vengeful pain I leave in her.

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The Great Battle of Time and Bullshit

They talked shit and made such laughing noises that the worlds shook and the skies broke and the gods came down and shouted, “Who, who on this earth has done such blasphemy? The fools, the dicks, the pieces of shit, tear them into pieces with your godly magics!” “Alright!” the thus-far-silent gods screamed, and they prepared and spoke their divine words and thought their magic thoughts and the laughers were torn away, the shit untalked, the skies stitched together, and the worlds all nicely tidied up.

Good Sweet Memories of a Nice Childhood

Little Billy said to his mama, “Mama, can I eat that too?” “No,” said his mama, “Piss off. This is for me, you little shit.” “I’m little Billy,” said little Billy, “not little shit, mama.” “What’s the difference?” his mama asked. Wow, little Billy thought, mama doesn’t know everything. “Mama, little shit is body excrement that is minuscule in size, but little Billy is me!” His mama said to him, “And you’re my body excrement, you little shit.” “Ooh,” said little Billy. “Can you take me to the bathroom then, mama? I want to see my own little Billies!” Then little Billy and his mama laughed and laughed and lived happily ever after.

Statistical Uncertainty In Legendary Tales of Days of Yore

One mustn’t forget the deeds of the thirteen young men who strove for this goal. On their way, they sweat such sweat that we, the selfish, ordinary creatures, only sweat in a lifetime, or perhaps half a lifetime, or more, for I am not sure. Of course when I speak of our sweats, I speak of the sweats of the average male of my surroundings, for I am only acquainted with my surroundings, and also as it would only be sensible to compare the sweats of the thirteen men with other ordinary men rather than women. Though then there is the fact that I, your humble narrator, mostly know of the sweats of men I have gone to gyms with, or stood in a bus at rush hours with, which is bound to be an skewed sample of the sweats of people. For not only do gymgoers sweat incessantly, but the rush hour buses also only contain a certain demographic of the population, mainly professionals and working men without cars living and working at a few certain areas, themselves home to certain social classes. But of course, by disposing of the gymgoers and keeping the bus users, one can reach a reasonably representative sample of the average male person’s quantity of sweat, and thus can conclude that the sweats of the thirteen young men in their strives are quite a lot.

Romance of Sherlock

Elegance was dripping from her strides, charm floating out of her glance, an awful hope from her smile. But she turned away to intoxicate the rest, and he of course could not bear to do away with the wish. He stepped towards the woman, and a few details became manifest, rather disturbing, but still, beauty had flaws, he warned himself, that could not be denied. Another step, and this time not flaws, but whole horror struck. The past was now in his eyes. The ill life, the traumas suffered and caused. There could be no dismissal. Yet there was, and the self-possessed, love-struck man in search of a beauty beyond grasp, took another step, powerfully, and an avalanche, flood, a whole ocean of immorality poured upon him, unacceptable, intolerable, arrant vulgarity, filth, the hideous, unabashed humanity of her. Then nothing at all. No further step. The woman felt a stare, turned, glanced, uttered a “creep” and strode ahead.

The Death of a Wee Bit Weary Man

In a moment like that, when there was no joy and no sorrow and only a rotten tiredness, he shut his mind to the world and outwardly became unconscious and inwardly jumped gleefully up and down on the trail of the gleeful mind and the things that filled it with glee and the things that gleed him up towards a mountain of made-at-precious-home joy, with the morose doctors losing hope at such pace that even a long nap under the tree would not let the tortoise reach and with their much much sober decision to cut him out of the world, and outside of the world was an absolute and absolute nothing and now, oh fun, so was he.

Dick Joke

Toilets had gone out of fashion and streets were filled with shit, swimming through town among cars and cats. Tourism was gone and with citizens taking leaks in crossways, so was shame, and so nudity also became public and tourism flourished again, albeit with tourists in masks, with only few aroused and willing enough to be without such obstacles between them and bodily beauties ahead. Senses, in a confused state, often mixed pleasure of the skin and alertness of the stink, and the new habit of people was to want lovemaking with the most profane and precarious, and psychological warfare and propaganda of old days was replaced with pornography and arousal. Generations later, atomic bombs had been proclaimed sinful for their sexual appeal, and there were fights in parliaments among prominent groups and allies advocating increase or decrease in budget for pornography as a policy of deterrence. But even by then, no one had yet discovered that it was not only nudity that had accompanied alertness, it was feces too, gaining more and more power with the new propaganda, and that was the dark instrument of the malevolent secret societies; to feed all humans with natural fibre and have them suffer in the abundance of shit, their daily agony.