The Demon Wench (i.e. my Ex) came by yesterday. Now, I've heard that the mark of a true gentlemen is to recognise that romantic liaisons are fleeting, but friendships can last a lifetime. That one's reputation as a true man of maturity, grace and valour will be found by surveying those who have inspired the notches in one's bedposts. That one should not harbour ill feelings for one's past targets of seduction, as they can become one's fiercest allies in the search for future naked rubbing partners.
...I assume that "gentleman" is therefore defined as "pussy" by whomever came up with such lame concepts. No true Man gets his penis rejected and not moan to everyone within earshot about the See You Auntie who did it to him.
Anyhoo, she brought the stepladder, the pepper-spray AND her new partner in sapphic crime (no, girl-girl encounters are not illegal in Québec, but they darned well SHOULD be. There's enough of a single-female shortage as it is without them getting together and further cutting off the supply).
Not expecting her arrival, I just had Gargy on his one chain that allows him free reign within the apartment (this allows him to work on his potty training and use the toilet for his basest biological needs. He's still a few months away from perfecting his aim). He was working in the kitchen so I didn't think anything of it when the doorbell rang (in any case, I want him available if any heathens from those sects which corrupt the name of my God come knocking). The She-Beast walked up the stairs, dropped the ladder in my vestibule and asked me in a rather imperative tone to hand over HER stuff. She wouldn't listen to reason or my pleas to get out.
...this was NOT going to end well.
Given that I had traveled to Romania to get over her and our six-week relationship (the longest since my marriage. My track record in meeting overly demanding and unreasonable women is rather depressing), she had never met my new special friend and was unaware of his existence. As loyal readers already have guessed, Gargy's exceptional olfactory sense was almost instantaneously stimulated and he bounded into my entranceway. Though the result wasn't what I expected.
Upon seeing the being I used to take pleasure spending time in, the little monster screeched to a halt and his usual green hue started becoming... red, at least in his ears and cheeks. In an utterly stunning development, he knelt in front of her, lightly kissed her elegantly shod feet and, well, kept quiet and stared at the floor.
Even more stupefying, the Ex reached down and started scratching him behind the ears and saying how he was a good boy. She ordered him to bring the ladder to my back room and to come back. This was executed with an almost solemn calm by my usually restive midget, yet he was back in genuflection in an instant. My former pincushion smiled at me with a caustic glance and ordered him to fetch her Blackadder DVD box set and any ladies underwear he could find laying about (she was assuming that I had not bed any of her kin since our split, which I found to be highly presumptuous of her. Unfortunately, her assumption was also heinously accurate). Gargy came back with armfuls of her still-soiled, haddock-scented briefs (Note to self: the under-the-mattress hiding spot won't work against his massive sniffing implement) and one set of the finest sadistic British comedy money can import. I protested that those were MY DVDs, but she simply gathered that which she believed was hers, including her utterly magnificent girlfriend who is even more delicious with the bedhead properly groomed out, and sachayed down the stairs.
Gargy was still kneeling when the door closed. After a few moments, he became aroused and filled up the NASA bucket. He then calmly went about his rope-making duties for the rest of day.
I have NO idea what is going on around here.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Friday, February 22, 2008
The Cleaning Lady
Gargy the gargoyle (this is what his virtual girlfriend calls him now. Ugh), for those of you who were wondering, is feeling better and we're back at full production levels. Gargoyle Flu seems to pass after ten days of slime spewing, so we've advanced the knowledge of the world's reptile epidemiologists.
Unfortunately, the tarps didn't hold and my hardwood floors now have a lovely layer of caked-on gunk. Given that I'm not the type of guy who enjoys vacuuming, dusting, mopping, scrubbing or, really, cleaning activities of any type, I decided to use some of our rope revenues on a professional.
My friend Chantal, a Chartered Accountant with whom I spent many a platonic study session back in my MBA days (yes, platonic. One wishes Plato had been an intercoursing mute instead of casting three millenia's worth of men into the pits of "friendship" with attractive bean-counters. Dammit), recommended her cleaning lady, whom I met yesterday.
Those of you who remember my attempted tryst from a couple months ago may be asking whether it is wise to have a human female come into a living space shared by a sexually ravenous Gargy. I had the same thought, I assure you. His cage seems to be structurally sound, we've upgraded his chains in the kitchen (half-inch thick U-bolts drilled into reinforced beams) and I've given him a pachyderm-grade shock collar (which immobilises him if he were to get away. When I tested it on him however, he kind of enjoyed the "tickling" so I have to keep the remote out of his reach for his own good). My main concern now is how the Lady will react to being home alone with a violently messy rope-making varmint.
She came by for the interview and was 20 minutes late. This bothered me on a couple of levels. Firstly, I'm a pathologically punctual person who has difficulty bearing others' disregard for my precious time (if I had a life, and therefore something productive to do with myself, I'm guessing this trait would be even worse). Secondly, I had shocked the little bastard five minutes ahead of her ETA in order to render him a little woozy (it takes him roughly five minutes to regain consciousness you see), and therefore less intimidating. By the time she arrived however, he was happily bouncing off the walls hoping to goad me into zapping him again (my herpetology-specialised veterinarian told me that I should be sparing in my use of elephant-dosed amperage on a sixty-pound beast. Though he said this through clenched teeth, as he had just been chomped by said beast and knew that he would be heading to the hospital immediately after our consultation to have a temporary colostomy bag installed in order to lower the risk of infection while his injuries healed).
The Cleaning Lady finally arrived, dragging an empty wheeled cart and she seemed to be lost in her own mind. Chantal had explained to her that I was "a little strange", but my strangeness was lost on her (as was the flightless winged child-like green fatherless creature who was mimicking electrocution spasms and laughing heartily just five feet away from her). I helped her take off her coat while she blathered on about the detergents I needed to purchase and her preferred decontamination implements. I apparently had found the idiot-savant of house cleaning, as she expertly examined the crusty floors and walls while ignoring the foot-long string of mucus that was escaping from her own right nostril.
In any case, I now have someone who wishes to illegally supplement her welfare income with meagre wages by scouring gargoyle waste. She even does windows. I'll have to buy Chantal breakfast to thank her (and, well, subtly stare at her chest, but that's a given).
Unfortunately, the tarps didn't hold and my hardwood floors now have a lovely layer of caked-on gunk. Given that I'm not the type of guy who enjoys vacuuming, dusting, mopping, scrubbing or, really, cleaning activities of any type, I decided to use some of our rope revenues on a professional.
My friend Chantal, a Chartered Accountant with whom I spent many a platonic study session back in my MBA days (yes, platonic. One wishes Plato had been an intercoursing mute instead of casting three millenia's worth of men into the pits of "friendship" with attractive bean-counters. Dammit), recommended her cleaning lady, whom I met yesterday.
Those of you who remember my attempted tryst from a couple months ago may be asking whether it is wise to have a human female come into a living space shared by a sexually ravenous Gargy. I had the same thought, I assure you. His cage seems to be structurally sound, we've upgraded his chains in the kitchen (half-inch thick U-bolts drilled into reinforced beams) and I've given him a pachyderm-grade shock collar (which immobilises him if he were to get away. When I tested it on him however, he kind of enjoyed the "tickling" so I have to keep the remote out of his reach for his own good). My main concern now is how the Lady will react to being home alone with a violently messy rope-making varmint.
She came by for the interview and was 20 minutes late. This bothered me on a couple of levels. Firstly, I'm a pathologically punctual person who has difficulty bearing others' disregard for my precious time (if I had a life, and therefore something productive to do with myself, I'm guessing this trait would be even worse). Secondly, I had shocked the little bastard five minutes ahead of her ETA in order to render him a little woozy (it takes him roughly five minutes to regain consciousness you see), and therefore less intimidating. By the time she arrived however, he was happily bouncing off the walls hoping to goad me into zapping him again (my herpetology-specialised veterinarian told me that I should be sparing in my use of elephant-dosed amperage on a sixty-pound beast. Though he said this through clenched teeth, as he had just been chomped by said beast and knew that he would be heading to the hospital immediately after our consultation to have a temporary colostomy bag installed in order to lower the risk of infection while his injuries healed).
The Cleaning Lady finally arrived, dragging an empty wheeled cart and she seemed to be lost in her own mind. Chantal had explained to her that I was "a little strange", but my strangeness was lost on her (as was the flightless winged child-like green fatherless creature who was mimicking electrocution spasms and laughing heartily just five feet away from her). I helped her take off her coat while she blathered on about the detergents I needed to purchase and her preferred decontamination implements. I apparently had found the idiot-savant of house cleaning, as she expertly examined the crusty floors and walls while ignoring the foot-long string of mucus that was escaping from her own right nostril.
In any case, I now have someone who wishes to illegally supplement her welfare income with meagre wages by scouring gargoyle waste. She even does windows. I'll have to buy Chantal breakfast to thank her (and, well, subtly stare at her chest, but that's a given).
Friday, February 15, 2008
Gargoyle Snot
This place is all sticky. Urg.
I'm learning that an immigrant gargoyle's immune system needs to become accustomed to Canadian viruses. I've been dumping vitamin C capsules into his slop (as advised by a veterinarian with bite scars on his derrière. Never tell a gargoyle that he should be neutered), but it hasn't kept him from catching a cold. Now, dear Reader, you must understand what Gargoyle Flu is like.
The first stage is congestion. Nothing slimy, but his howls of sinus pain woke up senile old Madame Tousigny from downstairs. She knocked on my door and had nothing on but a double baby-carrying-backpack thing which held her two favourite cats, pupu and sissi (I can't make these things up). She was convinced that I was making a live-feline stew and would be calling the police. Luckily, her dementia allows me to change the subject, so within five seconds we were discussing how socialists are at the root of society's prostitution and sewer-management problems (the day I discovered her fascist bents was a happy one for me).
After a couple days of deafening bitching, the substance that was causing the pressure within his skull started to leak. Then gush. Now, one doesn't normally attribute a "smell" to snot (Hm. Sounds like a philosophical riddle: if the stuff that is clogging your nose smells, how would you know?), but gargoyle snot is quite a pungent fluid. I spent my entire weekend using large squeegees on the tarps covering my floors and pushing the stuff out onto my front balcony. Unfortunately, it made the snow melt and the paint underneath is peeling. We'll have to check the structural integrity before I step out in the spring.
The final step was the sneezing and coughing. Given that my pet's nose composes fully 30 % of his body weight, the stunning strength of a gargoyle sneeze seems to cause tears in fundamental Calabi-Yau shapes' p-branes and therefore in the very fabric of space-time (string theory is still a controversial segment of modern physics, but I swear I heard Ghengis Khan being given a back rub by three vestal virgins after a particularly violent expectoration).
(...which reminds me of the time I wanted to have sex with Schrödinger's cat. I just wasn't sure if it was legal in its state. Yeah, that's my idea of a joke. Sorry).
The worst part is that rope production is down 20%. I've got to increase his lashings in order to keep up with demand, but my flogger's shoulder is acting up. Ugh, I hope he gets better soon.
I'm learning that an immigrant gargoyle's immune system needs to become accustomed to Canadian viruses. I've been dumping vitamin C capsules into his slop (as advised by a veterinarian with bite scars on his derrière. Never tell a gargoyle that he should be neutered), but it hasn't kept him from catching a cold. Now, dear Reader, you must understand what Gargoyle Flu is like.
The first stage is congestion. Nothing slimy, but his howls of sinus pain woke up senile old Madame Tousigny from downstairs. She knocked on my door and had nothing on but a double baby-carrying-backpack thing which held her two favourite cats, pupu and sissi (I can't make these things up). She was convinced that I was making a live-feline stew and would be calling the police. Luckily, her dementia allows me to change the subject, so within five seconds we were discussing how socialists are at the root of society's prostitution and sewer-management problems (the day I discovered her fascist bents was a happy one for me).
After a couple days of deafening bitching, the substance that was causing the pressure within his skull started to leak. Then gush. Now, one doesn't normally attribute a "smell" to snot (Hm. Sounds like a philosophical riddle: if the stuff that is clogging your nose smells, how would you know?), but gargoyle snot is quite a pungent fluid. I spent my entire weekend using large squeegees on the tarps covering my floors and pushing the stuff out onto my front balcony. Unfortunately, it made the snow melt and the paint underneath is peeling. We'll have to check the structural integrity before I step out in the spring.
The final step was the sneezing and coughing. Given that my pet's nose composes fully 30 % of his body weight, the stunning strength of a gargoyle sneeze seems to cause tears in fundamental Calabi-Yau shapes' p-branes and therefore in the very fabric of space-time (string theory is still a controversial segment of modern physics, but I swear I heard Ghengis Khan being given a back rub by three vestal virgins after a particularly violent expectoration).
(...which reminds me of the time I wanted to have sex with Schrödinger's cat. I just wasn't sure if it was legal in its state. Yeah, that's my idea of a joke. Sorry).
The worst part is that rope production is down 20%. I've got to increase his lashings in order to keep up with demand, but my flogger's shoulder is acting up. Ugh, I hope he gets better soon.
Friday, February 8, 2008
The Ex
Gosh. It's already been four months since I broke up with The Chick Who Enjoys Swimming Laps In The River Styx While Tossing Squeaky Toys To The Cerberus. She has three cats and I've ALWAYS told myself not to date cat fanciers. These lessons are like booster shots: if you don't inoculate yourself after a time, you might actually fall for a cat person (which isn't so much a disease as it is being cast into the depths of Satan's realm of gore and iron-broomstick trepanation. Which brings us back to the Styx-diving wench).
She has these big, firm boobies (see The Marquise for further lessons) and a marathon runner's bum. It is always a fascinating time when you're with a woman with whom you share little in common other than a mutual desire to enjoy each other's intimacy in a Papally-approved position with the lights off. At the beginning, she even closed the door to her bedroom to keep the cats out (this decent behaviour quickly disappeared and I had to get accustomed to creatures with natural night-vision trying to shred my eyeballs whilst thrusting into their mistress).
Anyhoo, she called me last week to get herself some of my man-services. At least this is what I assumed when she told me to come over to "pick up your junk" (that's code for sex, right? Guys? Come on!). When I got over to her place, spritzing Tom Brady's Stetson (purchased PRE Super Bowl. GRRRRRR) onto my uncovered chest, she awaited me with a box and a paint-smeared stepladder. Wrinkling her nose in a manner formerly caused by my hoppy flatus trapped under the sheets, she told me that she had "told you a million times that my apartment is too small for me to babysit your trash". She then slammed the door in an undeniably "teasy" way. Luckily, I still had my "secret" copies of her keys (quotation marks are a sign of fine literature and anyone who says elsewhys can bite my sack). I waited for her to turn out the lights, then I put my ninja skills to work.
Slipping in through her back exit, I quietly made my way to her bedroom. I just managed to creak open the door when, of course, the cats triggered the alarm.
Yup. The cats.
My former psycho beauty turned on her bedside light and looked at me with a delicious mixture of sadistic rage with just a pinch of embarassment. Snuggled up to her was a GORGEOUS doe-eyed, ebony-skinned incarnation of feminine pulchritude.
OH YEAH! Things were lookin' GOOD for your narrator :D
Of course, as she is wont to do, she flew into a jealous rage because her girlfriend was SOOOOOOOOO into me. Without going into too much detail, I next was lying down on a pile of feminine garments (and UNDERgarments. Oh yeah), unable to catch my breath from an unexpected blow to my sperm bank, with three cats scratching at my face and screams of unrestrained panic at not being able to find the mace and pepper spray which one apparently moved after dusting, causing the other to chew the first one out for upsetting her space.
In the time it took to understand that the mood was ruined by my ex' usual unreasonableness, and to catch my breath in a manner by which my knees could hold my muscular, virile weight (I'm really sorry for the poor nubile nubian. Kept from my darkness-induced ejaculations), I bounded the heck out of there.
...though I left the stepladder on her balcony. I'll let her have a week for her libido to infuse with thoughts of my body between her couple's and she'll call me back.
Oh yeah.
She has these big, firm boobies (see The Marquise for further lessons) and a marathon runner's bum. It is always a fascinating time when you're with a woman with whom you share little in common other than a mutual desire to enjoy each other's intimacy in a Papally-approved position with the lights off. At the beginning, she even closed the door to her bedroom to keep the cats out (this decent behaviour quickly disappeared and I had to get accustomed to creatures with natural night-vision trying to shred my eyeballs whilst thrusting into their mistress).
Anyhoo, she called me last week to get herself some of my man-services. At least this is what I assumed when she told me to come over to "pick up your junk" (that's code for sex, right? Guys? Come on!). When I got over to her place, spritzing Tom Brady's Stetson (purchased PRE Super Bowl. GRRRRRR) onto my uncovered chest, she awaited me with a box and a paint-smeared stepladder. Wrinkling her nose in a manner formerly caused by my hoppy flatus trapped under the sheets, she told me that she had "told you a million times that my apartment is too small for me to babysit your trash". She then slammed the door in an undeniably "teasy" way. Luckily, I still had my "secret" copies of her keys (quotation marks are a sign of fine literature and anyone who says elsewhys can bite my sack). I waited for her to turn out the lights, then I put my ninja skills to work.
Slipping in through her back exit, I quietly made my way to her bedroom. I just managed to creak open the door when, of course, the cats triggered the alarm.
Yup. The cats.
My former psycho beauty turned on her bedside light and looked at me with a delicious mixture of sadistic rage with just a pinch of embarassment. Snuggled up to her was a GORGEOUS doe-eyed, ebony-skinned incarnation of feminine pulchritude.
OH YEAH! Things were lookin' GOOD for your narrator :D
Of course, as she is wont to do, she flew into a jealous rage because her girlfriend was SOOOOOOOOO into me. Without going into too much detail, I next was lying down on a pile of feminine garments (and UNDERgarments. Oh yeah), unable to catch my breath from an unexpected blow to my sperm bank, with three cats scratching at my face and screams of unrestrained panic at not being able to find the mace and pepper spray which one apparently moved after dusting, causing the other to chew the first one out for upsetting her space.
In the time it took to understand that the mood was ruined by my ex' usual unreasonableness, and to catch my breath in a manner by which my knees could hold my muscular, virile weight (I'm really sorry for the poor nubile nubian. Kept from my darkness-induced ejaculations), I bounded the heck out of there.
...though I left the stepladder on her balcony. I'll let her have a week for her libido to infuse with thoughts of my body between her couple's and she'll call me back.
Oh yeah.
Friday, February 1, 2008
My Friday Evening
We've had a rather uneventful week. I'm still single and lonely, the pus-dripper is scoring on the Web and hemp bunnies are under my sofas.
The business is rolling along quite nicely. The company's labour got a new kettle, so we've doubled our capacity and he's currently scrunched under my dinner table whip-stitching the ends of ropes. It's kinda cute the way he sticks his tongue out just slightly when he's getting the thread through the eye of the needle.
I'm wondering how he manages to so skillfully handle a needle when his fingertips are topped off with monstrous, inch-long daggers. He can go through a pile of freshly-cut ropes in the time it would take a normal person to halve a grapefruit.
...hm. Grapefruit.
Yup. This is just a monumentally boring Friday evening, spent weighing the benefits of juicy citrus fruit with the pain that will come from applying toothpaste to the vestigial citric acid at 9:00 p.m. (my pathos-induced bedtime).
Today's snowstorm wasn't as bad as predicted, but now we're getting freezing rain, so I'll have to scour my windshield tomorrow before heading to the gym. I wonder if the cute petite geekette-like brunette with the tight bum will be there. Hm.
My Patriots are playing for a perfect season on Sunday. I've been a rabid New England fan since the age of 11. These are happy times on THAT front.
Yup.
...time for bed I guess. Sorry for troubling you all. Even with a gargoyle, we can't ALWAYS have adventures to write about.
The business is rolling along quite nicely. The company's labour got a new kettle, so we've doubled our capacity and he's currently scrunched under my dinner table whip-stitching the ends of ropes. It's kinda cute the way he sticks his tongue out just slightly when he's getting the thread through the eye of the needle.
I'm wondering how he manages to so skillfully handle a needle when his fingertips are topped off with monstrous, inch-long daggers. He can go through a pile of freshly-cut ropes in the time it would take a normal person to halve a grapefruit.
...hm. Grapefruit.
Yup. This is just a monumentally boring Friday evening, spent weighing the benefits of juicy citrus fruit with the pain that will come from applying toothpaste to the vestigial citric acid at 9:00 p.m. (my pathos-induced bedtime).
Today's snowstorm wasn't as bad as predicted, but now we're getting freezing rain, so I'll have to scour my windshield tomorrow before heading to the gym. I wonder if the cute petite geekette-like brunette with the tight bum will be there. Hm.
My Patriots are playing for a perfect season on Sunday. I've been a rabid New England fan since the age of 11. These are happy times on THAT front.
Yup.
...time for bed I guess. Sorry for troubling you all. Even with a gargoyle, we can't ALWAYS have adventures to write about.
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