"Good morning, your Grace!"
In the grand stately bed, not quite an acre not by much,
That's from the piece I'm writing. Here I lay on my Mastercouch, fresh coconut water in an iced mug by my side on the coffee table, and I tap tap tap away at the newborn spider's silk. Meanwhile I can spy a slut's butt by the island, putting together my breakfast, as ordered (as in turn invented by another slut, currently absent, running errands for me outside of the house -- she'll be gone all day, but work while waiting here and there on another piece we wrote together ; she took her laptop with and I expect greatness by evening). The slut with the butt's now at attention, and in a second she'll dare yep, there it is. "It's served." she says. She doesn't say "It's served, Master" for it could be too insistent, and I obviously am writing, so.
Be right back.
My breakfast's steak served with eggs poached in wine (by which we denote a fine claret specially imported for my tyranically discerning palate) on home made bread with peppers and peperoncini sliced and so on ; and then Aranygaluska and coffee and...
Meanwhile great technological advances are ongoing, or to quote from that other discussion
mircea_popescu asta ie adevaru' veacurilor, ca teoria e teorie, si pe urma dupa ce o pui in practica vezi cum tre' sa fie
mircea_popescu ce avem noi acuma IN SFIRSIT e encrypted comms protocol.
The trap's well shut, tightly, as if the most delicious morsel made its way in there and it should not be lost at any costs. There's distinctly visible a ring of tightness on the bristly side ; if I had a camera it would be visible for you as well, but I do not. The morsel in question was a tinyi fat spider arraigned through an insolite (or however you say it in your idiom) procedure : first, I captured it into a shotglass aided by a little cardboard bag that came with some slut accessories, perhaps pink stoned earrings or somesuch, maybe false nails, false eyelashes -- have you noticed how great falsehood works on woman ? I much prefer it myself, to the degree I've recently discovered I really don't like natural breasts anymore. You recall those things, as depicted by the Greeks and all, pert, undangling, little mounds poking off the chest... pshaw. I much prefer the fakeness of bolt-on boobs, preferably delivered upon well chiseled, mature women. I love the overwhelm, the absurd, un-natural ripeness, the perverse uniformity of shape whether she stands or bends over... I honestly can't imagine the appeal of the naive tissue anymore. What are you doing, ministrating to the lazy, to the unserious, to the unworked female ? But... why would you do such a thing ?!
Once in the glass, captive under the cardboard cover, I dumped some fresh crushed ice from my fresh crushed ice dispenser in there and waited a half minute or so for the victim to chill. That's what it's called, no ? To chill ? I confess I do tend to lose track of all those zany kids' lingos and whatnot. But anyways, once it chilled I picked it up with tweezers dedicated to the feeding of Mr. Plantcaster (seriously, I confiscated them from my girls, not that it did any damage for they do have a bunch) and ran him into the trap, all delicately. As the plantanimal's green jowls snapped shut on its animalplant dinner, and then proceeded to ever tighten, the dazed spider came to, and for a while the spindly legs still left hanging outside dangled the dangling dance of death. Some deranged nazi needed young jewish girls and strychnine for the same effect ; though I confess the public whipping of a dangling whipping post hung by the wrists au naturel sounds like a lot of fun for the whole party... look that I am contented with Burt Plantcaster the Flytrap an' Vulnavia the female spider. A strong notion of the substantive inhumanity of the other's important in keeping costs under control, you know ? If I was better able to distinguish bitch from bitch perhaps I'd need more expensive amusements, meaning I'd be exactly as amused but your hide a little raggardlier for the extraction ?
In any case, time to go back to real writing now, wherein I fictively write of fiction imagined, as opposed to nonfictively describe the fictive world I in fact inhabit. The difference's slight, admittedly, yet still conceivable, I think. Maybe.
Who knows these things...———
- By local standards -- did you know the girls / dogs (I can usually tell them apart, though apparently not always) found a tarantula by the car ? A young one, admittedly, but a tarantula nevertheless. If I had a camera... [↩]