Hats and Such

I saw a man down the street today. To call him not very sharp would be to put it bluntly. He did, however, have a rather nice hat. One's upstairs flaws can often be overlooked with the aid of a good hat, such as was the case here. Sharpness is overrated, anyhow. It creates too many pricks.

The Phony Rung

Shoesie correctly pointed out that my rankings are judged mostly on quantity, rather than quality. I'd say about 90%. So to win my undesirable favour all one needs to do is do. Still, I'd like to clear up a few things. His current air of self-deprecation is refreshing in lieu of his previous manner, albeit in an unsettling way, and his dismissal of himself in favour of the currently hibernating Pewter Pew is unfair. P.P.'s biggest strength is his lack of pretension — though his biggest weakness is spawned from the same source, in that sometimes you get the feeling that you'd enjoy a particular weekend chronicle a tad more if you were actually there at the time. I find it akin to explaining your dreams — when they don't feature gold pine cones, that is. He does make for an interesting tonic, though.

It seems the Diplomat landed on this persona to combat his face-to-face manner, much as I vented my unpleasantness in the face of my timidity. A totally organic reader may get the wrong impression. Lucky we don't have any, then. Ah but maybe this is our true selves, and that deep within we're angry, lusting lunatics. Either way, his walls are better than mine. Most likely he'll celebrate this revelation with a blow on the ol' shoehorn — after the well-worn "Who's up for a good shoehorn?" line wears off.

The Shoehorn saga seems to have garnered me that elusive corner of the spotlight, which was most likely my intention in the first place. Thus the real key to my rankings seems to rest on how much attention I get. I am a whore, after all. Though I'd never admit it.

Rotten Sun

Plunging into the wrong pastime tomorrow. For coins. Need certain arms to wrap my gift. Tip the scales. A twenty should do it. Apologise to the fish. Elope and sew hips. One of those jerks was standing at the foot of some obstacles screaming: "I need your lap!" He had a point. It was a stanley knife wrapped in a bum glove. I bade farewell and filled my accountant. He bought me a jet. I mastered it, flew it and found a spouse somewhere.

How to Eat Cape Cod

His sexually-charged persona (three hundred hours of community service) certainly doesn't lend itself to the Juan, but I'm sure there's enough rough and proper stuff beneath the surface to see his extra-busy hand try itself at good ol' fulfillment and all that jazz. Hopefully his shoehorn isn't too persuasive. Though much grander, the next's shoehorn is outweighed by a weightier mind, and only rarely overpowers his hands when the tricks convince and the moment is right. He knows what he's looking for. The last knows too, but his is a harder thread to weave... Or so I believe.

So all this boils down to me and my steam, standing on some sort of mountain and chesting my pride rather aloofly. And I don't care for your verdicts. Or the shapes you twist your pricks. Or even how you clean your specks and spicks. I don't even care for proper sentences. I'm just a lonely country boy with nice ears.

So one, I predict, will die in a sea-side shack near a pier. Here's hoping, though.

Ah screw it.

Here's a breath at the top of my lungs and a bedside end a significant amount of time later.

Hollo Monday

Some wanker wrote the last post. Still, I'm a tad disillusioned, but that always happens to me.

The Mediums III

1. Music.