Romanian Hemp and the Gargoyle

Romania, for those of us in the civilised world, is a little known piece of ground that we associate with gypsies, gymnasts and gynacologist-dictator-shooting (...alliteration is hard. Screw off). While these elements do make up most of the charm of the place, I've found the people quite welcoming; as long as you don't try to become their megalomaniacal despot (they mostly just look at you strange when you do).

When I picked up my unconscious bulbous little friend, I did so because I had heard that walking through Romania's old capital accompanied by a gargoyle brings luck with the ladies. I thought it must be the overhwelming stench that contains weapons-grade pheromones.

...I quite apparently have a defective gargoyle.

In any case, having brought him home (the babe-magnetism doesn't seem to work on French-Canadian chicas either), I've found that he brings one distinct advantage to his ownership: he makes hemp ropes.

Now, I haven't a clue as to why this would be a good thing, but apparently there are people who use ropes to bind each other during marital (or martial. I'm not quite sure of the translation) relations and Romanian hemp is the rope of choice for these psychologist-dependant folks. While this fact causes me endless reverse peristalsis - I'm much more of a quiet-evening-in-with-wine-and-begging-for-fellatio kinda dude - I've found that the SALE of Romanian hemp ropes is quite profitable.

Being the proud owner of an MBA, I have absolutely no qualms about chaining up a repugnant prehistoric church-adornment in my kitchen and exploiting his innate hemp spinning for lucre. Quite the contrary, as we had an entire semester covering the ethical considerations of using iron restraints and other motivational tactics on foreigners (the conclusion was overwhelmingly pro-shackling but anti-frog-walking. Though I argued for the minority on that last point. Gotta love business school).

It would seem that my gargoyle uses a recipe for making ropes that has been handed down through the centuries (which, for such creatures, means two generations. His mommy gargoyle taught him right before her massively overdone suicide involving a vat of peanut butter, eleven kilos of gummi bears and a pregnant woman).

If you're one of the depraved minority for whom sex exceeds the bounds of that which is NORMAL (i.e. missionary-style, once every two Wednesdays for thirteen minutes), please visit my site at www.GargoyleToes.com. Remember: only YOU can keep a poor, loathsome, slimy but otherwise cute creature in chains. By giving me cash.