My gargoyle usually spends most of his days in the kitchen with his ropes. When I'd let him out in the morning, he used to get up, clean his cage and start rubbing hemp between his thighs. His productivity has taken a hit however since he's recently discovered the Internet (he tried to hide his new pastime from me, but the puddles on and around my laptop kind of gave him away).
He now has profiles on Web sites which allow him to meet and greet people from around the world. In three weeks, he's gotten over 300 friends on Facebook despite the fact that he's functionally illiterate in any modern language. It seems that as long as he presses the spacebar every two or three letters, he can communicate with the IM generation.
A sample:
urg 5d fr dse tor nn
...apparently is being interpreted in Web World that he's looking for a small-statured ichthyophiliac woman with her own hedgecutters who enjoys kayaking.
For the past few days, he has been mashing my keyboard in communicating with a strange young lass from London. I've read his message logs and they've been webcamming. She likes his hairy ears and "would love to feel his claws scratching her back". This goes to show that anyone can find a kindred spirit if they look hard enough. I'm just a little jealous that my "cute, fat-tongued little ball of hunkiness" (her words) is getting more attention from the fairer sex than I am.
*sigh*
They're planning on meeting this spring, as she is an avid ice hockey fan and wants to cross the Atlantic, coming to the sport's Mecca for the playoffs. This is ironic as he doesn't have the slightest idea what a toothless puck-pusher looks like (hockey is banned in my home. Yes, I'm a traitor to the French-Canadian race). I'm just wondering how I'm going to be liable if she lets go of his chains in the Bell Centre and he starts dry-humping Youppi!, our orange hairball of a mascot*.
...I doubt many other people have these worries.
*sigh*
*Please note that I was the biggest Expos fan ever. This past summer, I got Youppi!'s autograph at a charity baseball game (I also got Andre Dawson's :D). The narrative required me to keep up my cynical tone, but I've been in love with our mascot since my first steps. The fact that he wears the Habs' uniform now just hurts.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Friday, January 18, 2008
The Marquise
In the months since I've brought back a gargoyle from Eastern Europe and have discovered that the little green buggerer makes REALLY nice ropes, I've been thrown head over scrotum into a world of chains, whips and Romanian hemp. AND, as you've no doubt ascertained from my previous posts, I'm just a little uncomfortable with the idea that male-female intimacy can be anything other than what I had learned from a fifth grade educational video involving avian/apian interactions.
...now, I've realised that I'm in up to my neck in BAAAAAAD things.
A very nice, stunningly-endowed woman had approached me a couple weeks ago to sell our ropes in her boutique. It is located in Montréal's Gay Village, a place most normal, God-fearing people avoid as though their immortal souls were on the line (because they are). A place where men (and vile, libidinous women) openly fornicate on the streets in manners which defy any Earthly description. Or so say those around me who have had the audacity to stroll east of Beaudry street.
Now, I must willingly go there to deliver our wares.
The Marquise, as I have christened her (what a poor choice of words. I'll have to do a few Hail Marys for that one), welcomed me into her bastion of degradation. Though superficially a well-lit, pretty space, the contents of her shop caused me to become a red-eared mute. Latex and leather were combined with steel implements (which I can scarcely begin to imagine how they are to be adorned/inserted upon/into the human body).
Madame La Marquise welcomed me warmly. She introduced me to her intimidatingly smart boyfriend (within three minutes, I understood that this guy had studied in the finest yet most secretive institutes of old-European science). We discussed the terms of our business arrangement and she inundated me with questions of what my life was like since I adopted my companion. I tried to hide my nausea, induced by the items of debauchery which surrounded me, and answered as gregariously as I possibly could.
She assumed I was "in the lifestyle" and made small talk about leather care. She then made a remark which has unfortunately remain engrained upon my now-fragile psyche:
"You know, there are SOOOO many people who take themselves seriously in The Community. How can we be uppity when we have fun by stuffing things up our..."
...and that's when I started retching.
She took immediate pity upon me and sent her significant other to fetch a wet towel to steady me, assuming I had recently underwent a particularly demanding session with a wench of dubious morals. This, apparently, is the kind of secondary effects that occur when one's Mistress doesn't take a particular interest in "after-care".
My desperate mind then had the inspiration of a lifetime: I tossed the recycled shopping bag (hey, even capitalists can be conscious of one's environmental impact) full of premium hemp ropes behind the counter and I bowed to her massive, shiny, rubber-clad bosoms, praying her a good evening but that my Goddess had demanded my presence within the following fifteen minutes, with a night in the stocks as my punishment were I to derogate from my orders.
...she bought it.
The moral (another bad phrasing) to the story is: adopting a gargoyle leads you to bad places. Stay away from really big boobies, no matter how enticing the rewards.
This lesson will follow me forever.
...now, I've realised that I'm in up to my neck in BAAAAAAD things.
A very nice, stunningly-endowed woman had approached me a couple weeks ago to sell our ropes in her boutique. It is located in Montréal's Gay Village, a place most normal, God-fearing people avoid as though their immortal souls were on the line (because they are). A place where men (and vile, libidinous women) openly fornicate on the streets in manners which defy any Earthly description. Or so say those around me who have had the audacity to stroll east of Beaudry street.
Now, I must willingly go there to deliver our wares.
The Marquise, as I have christened her (what a poor choice of words. I'll have to do a few Hail Marys for that one), welcomed me into her bastion of degradation. Though superficially a well-lit, pretty space, the contents of her shop caused me to become a red-eared mute. Latex and leather were combined with steel implements (which I can scarcely begin to imagine how they are to be adorned/inserted upon/into the human body).
Madame La Marquise welcomed me warmly. She introduced me to her intimidatingly smart boyfriend (within three minutes, I understood that this guy had studied in the finest yet most secretive institutes of old-European science). We discussed the terms of our business arrangement and she inundated me with questions of what my life was like since I adopted my companion. I tried to hide my nausea, induced by the items of debauchery which surrounded me, and answered as gregariously as I possibly could.
She assumed I was "in the lifestyle" and made small talk about leather care. She then made a remark which has unfortunately remain engrained upon my now-fragile psyche:
"You know, there are SOOOO many people who take themselves seriously in The Community. How can we be uppity when we have fun by stuffing things up our..."
...and that's when I started retching.
She took immediate pity upon me and sent her significant other to fetch a wet towel to steady me, assuming I had recently underwent a particularly demanding session with a wench of dubious morals. This, apparently, is the kind of secondary effects that occur when one's Mistress doesn't take a particular interest in "after-care".
My desperate mind then had the inspiration of a lifetime: I tossed the recycled shopping bag (hey, even capitalists can be conscious of one's environmental impact) full of premium hemp ropes behind the counter and I bowed to her massive, shiny, rubber-clad bosoms, praying her a good evening but that my Goddess had demanded my presence within the following fifteen minutes, with a night in the stocks as my punishment were I to derogate from my orders.
...she bought it.
The moral (another bad phrasing) to the story is: adopting a gargoyle leads you to bad places. Stay away from really big boobies, no matter how enticing the rewards.
This lesson will follow me forever.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Happy Times
Anyhoo, we really bonded last weekend over beer and football. I’ve learned that we share a passion for dark, hoppy brews, so we huddled in front of the TV, his 20-litre bucket filled to the brim with Fuller’s Porter, to watch the playoffs.
Literally.
I thought I had seen all manner of excretions coming from him, but the quantity of genetic material which jutted forth the first time a nefarious Budweiser commercial came on was beyond impressive (and intimidating. But I'm not going to get into my porn-and-Got Milk?-posters-induced performance anxieties here). The floor was flooded and I was lucky that senile old Madame Tousigny from downstairs was away for her bi-monthly fertility treatments (she wants to carry her cats' offspring. I tend to avoid her) as her ceiling must've been dripping with gargoyle goop. Further luck: when my wannabe-procreationist... "stiffend", he knocked his bucket over and we discovered that gargoyle ejaculate and brown beer make for a stunningly resistant thermal foam. We're in the premilinary testing phases with NASA, but if things work out, my gargoyle's onanism by-products will make me rich.
I guess he isn't so bad after all.
Friday, January 4, 2008
The Judge
Nature has its laws and we see them in action everywhere. If tall trees block out sunlight to the undergrowth, the latter will feed forest fires which will burn off some of the cover. Females of various genuses have been shown to be able to reproduce asexually when males aren't present, just so they may perpetuate their genes. Packs, prides and pods (not to mention pits, parliaments and prophylactations. Gotta love Wikipedia) organise themselves in order to maximise survival.
We humans, at the zenith of the animal universe and as Mother Nature's most exquisite creation, have created our own laws to mold our world into that which we find most "just". The interpretation of justice does vary throughout our species' range, but one concept - nay, cornerstone - is ubiquitous.
Gape-assed, gonad-sucking judges.
I had my day at the courthouse, heeding my civic duty to own up to the damages inflicted upon our beautiful city's satellite dishes and prudish avian population by my gargoyle last week. Having taken the day off from work at a particularly hectic time (my boss, who has all of the traits needed to become a first-rate judge, will be secret-branding me next week), I faced the music. The insurance company has already taken my deductible and reimbursed those whose property had been harmed, so that part was settled. The proceedings centred on the legality of owning a phylum-busting creature previously unmentioned in the Napoleonic Code.
Upon entering the courtroom, I was told that my case would be the third to be examined. I was in the audience and sat through a welfare family's rant on how its landlord (and therefore, society) was forcing them to live in hellish conditions after it took four days to change the lock on their masturbatory teenaged son's bedroom door. This apparently justified their pyromania engaged upon the proprietor's four longhaired cats. The second case was less eventful, though the scorned spouse's creative use of a curling iron did allow me to strike an urban legend from snopes.com.
When my turn came, I walked to the defendant's table with my lawyer and the obese gentleman holding a gavel looked over a rather hefty-looking file. The thin line of slobber dripping from his right jowl betrayed his quasi-literate intellect's attempt to understand the case before him. When he asked the prosecutor to sum up that which he feigned reading, the lovely lady at the table next to ours stood up and spewed a litany of nausea-inducing acts of wanton gargoyle revelry. Our defense strategy was to argue that our civil responsibility has been established and that no criminal liability exists as property claims had been settled. Furthermore, we invoked labour laws to protect my rights as a businessperson, i.e. I can chain up a productive creature and exploit its unique skills if I damned well wanted to.
Luckily, this last argument seemed to get across the many layers of brain-protecting snot inside our presiding magistrate's skull, as it probably reminded him of his country club's HR policies. He mumbled something and, though utterly incomprehensible, it had quite an effect on the audience just by the cascade of saliva that soiled his lapel when he pronounced it. By everyone's reactions, I understood that I was to ensure that my gargoyle stayed properly incarcerated in my place of business for as long as he made me money. Once his productive days were over, he was to be deported or executed, whichever was more cost-efficient.
All in all, things seem to have worked out. The insurance company even sent a former penitenciary designer to advise me on how to avoid any further episodes and to keep the little green bastard indoors. For free.
Nevertheless, we need to make sure we keep selling ropes if we want to afford the quintupling of my premiums. Come on people. Get kinky.
We humans, at the zenith of the animal universe and as Mother Nature's most exquisite creation, have created our own laws to mold our world into that which we find most "just". The interpretation of justice does vary throughout our species' range, but one concept - nay, cornerstone - is ubiquitous.
Gape-assed, gonad-sucking judges.
I had my day at the courthouse, heeding my civic duty to own up to the damages inflicted upon our beautiful city's satellite dishes and prudish avian population by my gargoyle last week. Having taken the day off from work at a particularly hectic time (my boss, who has all of the traits needed to become a first-rate judge, will be secret-branding me next week), I faced the music. The insurance company has already taken my deductible and reimbursed those whose property had been harmed, so that part was settled. The proceedings centred on the legality of owning a phylum-busting creature previously unmentioned in the Napoleonic Code.
Upon entering the courtroom, I was told that my case would be the third to be examined. I was in the audience and sat through a welfare family's rant on how its landlord (and therefore, society) was forcing them to live in hellish conditions after it took four days to change the lock on their masturbatory teenaged son's bedroom door. This apparently justified their pyromania engaged upon the proprietor's four longhaired cats. The second case was less eventful, though the scorned spouse's creative use of a curling iron did allow me to strike an urban legend from snopes.com.
When my turn came, I walked to the defendant's table with my lawyer and the obese gentleman holding a gavel looked over a rather hefty-looking file. The thin line of slobber dripping from his right jowl betrayed his quasi-literate intellect's attempt to understand the case before him. When he asked the prosecutor to sum up that which he feigned reading, the lovely lady at the table next to ours stood up and spewed a litany of nausea-inducing acts of wanton gargoyle revelry. Our defense strategy was to argue that our civil responsibility has been established and that no criminal liability exists as property claims had been settled. Furthermore, we invoked labour laws to protect my rights as a businessperson, i.e. I can chain up a productive creature and exploit its unique skills if I damned well wanted to.
Luckily, this last argument seemed to get across the many layers of brain-protecting snot inside our presiding magistrate's skull, as it probably reminded him of his country club's HR policies. He mumbled something and, though utterly incomprehensible, it had quite an effect on the audience just by the cascade of saliva that soiled his lapel when he pronounced it. By everyone's reactions, I understood that I was to ensure that my gargoyle stayed properly incarcerated in my place of business for as long as he made me money. Once his productive days were over, he was to be deported or executed, whichever was more cost-efficient.
All in all, things seem to have worked out. The insurance company even sent a former penitenciary designer to advise me on how to avoid any further episodes and to keep the little green bastard indoors. For free.
Nevertheless, we need to make sure we keep selling ropes if we want to afford the quintupling of my premiums. Come on people. Get kinky.
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