De-as fi crai de ghinda...
Or as the bimbo'd say it, dosh ti guy fuginda.
But anyways, here I sit, burnt to a crisp, a cinder on fluid support, ex cochon now chicharon. So... I suppose I'll go carve another pinapple, and then recount the story of how it all came to be.
We were hanging by the pool one of these days, I forget which exactly, when the idea occured of going to the beach.
If you think it through it'll make sense, for instace by bearing in mind that we were by the pool Tuesday and we always go to the beach Wednesday. So since we were going to go to the beach Wednesday like all other Wednesdays (because there's no one there, all the gringo dweebs being in quarantine back in Milwaukee and all the tico derps being hard at work & todo bieni) it's pretty logical we'd do the large barbecue Tuesday. That way waking up at four in the morning and jumping waves like maniacs for six to eight hours proceeds on the solid backing of pounds of protein still in the system, see ? There's method to the madness -- in fact, I pride myself on running the most elaborate sanitarium yet on this good green Earth seen or ever likely in the future to be devised, because there's really nothing more (nor if you think about it anything better) to do with one's time than being as elaborately insane as at all possible.
The text adorning the bagful of chains and locks reads "ayudando a construir hogares", the logo of the local bric&brac store. It translates to "helping build homes", which in-fuckin-deed it very well does! But... more of that later.
"A hermit crab was once blessed, such that anything his shell touched turned to food."
"What happened to it?"
"You tell me, you've been living out your whole life inside of it."
So anyways, the problem with being white is that however attractive tropical beaches might be, and however certifiably reassuringly large the numbers printed on the expensive, imported "this is what Blondie used to keep her heart of glass pale in the sun" UV blocking creams, nevertheless you'll get burned. Especially so if the weather is cool, the sky cloudy as if specifically engineered for your comfort, the water inviting... see, what happens is that the water reflects ultraviolet light, and so the next day your chest will be falling off of you. The back, that was to the sun (this being the Pacific Ocean and it being morning, right ?), that'll be perfectly fine ; but the front, that'll have been reflector-cooked from the belly button up, which is to say a few inches under where the water averaged.
But, uncomfortable as the day after might feel, from under three layers of pure aloe vera goop literally squeezed out of the very leaves before your very eyes, nevertheless it was absolutely fucken worth it! By the time I was done drowning my girls I felt like my thighs were made of concrete, like every bone in my body had been beaten with sacks of potatoes, like I could barely stand. Yet every wave was jumped, and I had the best time at the beach in my whole life!
Which is something I said last time also, and it was true last time, also!
Oh, endless swathes of endless beach bordering a tear drop, lemon drop, raisin drop, ocean. Your day's not yet today ; but it shall be, tomorrow!
Pai nu ?!
These guys are lots of fun to watch ; they readily form raiding parties towards whatever looting & pillaging goals their overactive, quick darting eyes spy in the field. Then there's lookouts and harvesters, and before you know it whatevet it was that interested them in the first place's gone ; then they go to some perch to loudly giggle and chirp and strut and recount their adventure among themselves to great merriment ; then perhaps they go for a dip in the pool... a bird's life, but in paradise.
Oh, right, barbeque.
See, I don't deem myself any kind of barbecuing afficionado, hobbist... it's not representationally something to do with me. It's just something I occasionally do, functionally, something I engage in as such and for itself. It's an activity rather than a representation, and if it's ever examined it's examined as an activity (which is to say, in terms of its internal functioning) rather than as a representation (which is to say, in terms of its likely effects on a [universally presumed, universally absent] audience)ii. So I start the fire by dousing the charcoal in alcohol, and I despise anyone who does anything else. I do because it works, which is something I've found through practice ; and I despise because I've no stomach for impromptu amateur theatrics engaged out of place, as part and parcel of a very deep and very widely expressed intolerance for girly bullshit. If the taxpayer wishes to be an actor that's truly fine, but let him then go up on the stage, and pay his dues ; under no circumstances let the stupid cunt do stupid "just as good" shit specifically engineered to insulate her from those parts of the doing that'd force an end to her girlyhood as necessary part of the natural functioning of the world.iii
This bird spends most of its time foraging among the superficial roots of a certain tree, which looks exactly like that. Outside of its natural habitat the bird makes absolutely no sense ; but see it once in its proper place and be amazed at how well it blends.
Speaking of which, do you think anyone shoe-shines their cockateal ?
Kingfisher fly-tyrant sulphuratus seen here post-bath. They're the cutest things, almost daily coming for dips in my pool -- the younger and the female skittish about it to the point some occasionally bathe limply in shallow puddles of water collected on random surfaces after a rain, such as the plastic chairs ; the manly and mature flying into the pool and out again like a strange sort of naval grapeshot.
The bimbo is fascinated with ants, after some passing remarks about their "eu"social lifestyles -- such as enslavement as an activity. So thereabove depicted, putatively enslaved ant, working the leaf down the path.
Whereas herebelow depicted, definitely enslaved Hannah, working the peppers while I was doing... something else. Have you ever had baked peppers, by the way ? Possibly the best side for any steak anyone ever devised, I'm telling truly for I can not lie.
Not about food, at any rate.
Well... maybe not, anyways.
Delmonico-style (meaning, thick such that the cooking occurs slowly and there's such thing as an inside) Porterhouse steaks. There's seven pounds of meat there, well basted in rosemary and lemon thyme and garlic and whatnot, eagerly awaiting their turn in the fire -- which, I expect, shall indeed be very brief.
Always a good idea to bake some garlic, by the way. The worst that can happen is that it'll go to waste ; but in practice I've yet to see that wonder.
Yes, we eat that shit raw. Just how raw ? Well... most people've not any idea until they actually see what truly raw actually means.
Then again, the great advantage of barbecue over all other approaches is that the coals being right there, you can serve as raw as you please and then rectify as much as needed. An insufficiently cooked steak is very readily adjusted ; an overcooked steak however... that's for the dogs.
Oh, right, I think I maybe mentioned I put in colibri feeders. I had some doubts about whether it'll work or not -- and the very next day said doubts were laid to rest, with a bird spotted feeding.
I use the whitest sugar I can find (apparently molasses is midly toxic to the birds for containing too much ironiv, and obviously all sugar here's cane-derived) in water, plainly. This is because having researched the matter I find trying to "improve" upon this basic's both insanely difficult and unlikely to actually work -- the birds basically need the extra energy, as a pick-up ; they don't specifically need any other nutrients because on one hand they're perfectly capable of finding those on their own (if they have the energy to go looking) and on the other hand you're absolutely terrible at sourcing fresh tiny spiders and other intricate minutia that they consume for those extra nutrients. I don't use any fungicides (I do add a droplet of bee pollen, but I don't imagine it's more than me being fancy for the sake of being fancy) ; the one time a spot of black mold appeared (right at the liquid surface) I boiled the reservoir for a half hour and then removed the dead fungus.
So as I was saying : we go to the beach Wednesday because there being nobody there the girls go nude, and I make them kneel in the sand and take them from behind alternatively while they kiss an' make out, after they've alternatingly sucked my cock and licked my asshole -- I just stand and turn as the mood strikes and fancy appropriates.
I said, while pounding, "I find this fantasy outright delightful, you know, of you being fucked, naked, on the endless beach, no clothes, no items, no nothing, like some kind of animal."
To which the answer bluntly came, "What fantasy ?"
Kit doarmae is piratodom trace stenograph ilumoresc cutch doit cheasunea yo gansom aparin nami romanesc.
Apud bimbo, of bimbo.club, after a Pastorel original (though I had substituted "inspiratul" for "invatatul", for obvious reasons).
Oh, and then we went for Indian. Hannah bought all their spices, so now there's freshly ground cardamom and everything else -- pounds and pounds of fine Eastern spices enough to make the fortune of a Venetian merchant five centuries, half a millenium ago.
It's still a fortune, though.
Do you think I'm the most accomplished post-coital poet in existence ?
They say you should not build on insecure foundations ; but I build sandcastles, in the wake, on woman.———
- Speaking of this, and in furtherance of the indescribably incredibly inept days of failure : a perfectly retarded 20 year old
camwhoringcallcenter girly who had never been to the beach that the bimbo approached randomly in the street failed to get herself picked up through the usual methodology -- yet another perfectly acceptable piece of ass going to perfect waste through "personal choice" and the other delusions of the retarded (because yes, the beach will be there forever and I'll be taking tail there forever ; but she won't be twenty for all that long).
So... no, the locals don't ever go to the beach. They maybe go through the motions of something that could be only confused for "going to the beach" by an observer further out than the orbit of the Moon -- once a year, in beat down jalopy-clowncars tightly packed full of cousins and assorted family -- if that's going to the beach then Thanksgivings back in Milwaukee are a lot of fun also as well. In which vein, let's quote some Romanians :
Nu propagati raspandirea Covid - 19. Nu mai mergeti la escorte ca sa nu existe si mai multe cazuri de infectie si raspandire
Inceput de whiterabbit , mrt 13 2020 11:16
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mihai451 Maistru Curvar 89 Postari: Inscris la: 20 januari 2014 Locatie:cluj
Postat 17 maart 2020 - 10:28
Nu vedem adevaratul pericol aici. Ca nu mai dam la buci, ok, am mai trecut prin d-astea. Da' sa stai inchis minim 2 sapt cu consoarta in casa? Doamne apara si pazeste, mai bine ma fac ca-s bolnab si prind un sejur la spital
- Aspiration (what you do with your lives) doesn't even enter into this, seeing how I'm not you, of course. [↩]
- And yes, this is exactly the sort of context yielding those famous semne clare. [↩]
- Iron is a problem in all red-blooded animals, being extremely difficult to excrete for intricately unyielding reasons. [↩]
Saturday, 26 September 2020
La tăți ni-i greu!
Saturday, 26 September 2020
Sunday, 27 September 2020
Ridiculously enough the only reference the web knows of the titular expression comes from... me.
Nevertheless, I didn't come up with it. In the sense it is used here it meaningfully originates with one of the infrintii of that whore's inconsequential spawn -- there was even a (very untypographical) little animal drawing included in the booklet, looking rather like a five year old's rendition of a gecko ; but otherwise it's a common enough expression in "colored" Romanian (because gypsy simplification of a certain practice equates the face cards in the common deck with human typologies), and often appropriated by random turkeys wanna-being "real writers" -- exactly like colored subculture everywhere else -- which is how it ended up in "poems" by the ilk of Vasile Militaru or "novels" by the ilk of Ileana Vulpescu. Ever heard of any of them ? No ? Neither has the internet ; apparently this appropriation business doesn't work nearly as well in practice as it seemed to have worked for Horseface Whatshername in that made-for-TV thing.