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  • It Just LOOKS Like Saturday To You...

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        Saturday, January 13, 2007

    It Just LOOKS Like Saturday To You...

    It is still 'late Friday evening' to me. My New Favorite Reader (except for you other ones...and stuff) has acted like a jolt of caffeine to me by sending me Season 5 of 24, plus, I have been watching our latest habitat in action...

    After watching tonight's episode of 'Dogfight'. And the last thirty minutes of 'Blade: Trinity'. And the last 45 minutes of Crichton's 'Rising Sun'...

    As to habitat: the wife named the catfish 'Stripe'. Pedestrian. And the special of the day where I had my clam chowder today. Well, yesterday. She (the bartender) used the word 'catfish' in a sentence, along with 'special', and my nose and most of my face wrinkled as if I were the Queen of England, and the closest to me horse drawing my carriage to the coronation had just farted out an amazing horse-loaf into my lap...

    "I'm guessing you don't like catfish" she said. Lord knows, I've tried, I replied. And then I dropped a fork over behind the bar so she would have to bend over and pick it up, thus showing her cleavage to its best advantage. That never gets old. For me. I think she likes it, too. Harmless fun.
    She sighs, grins, bends, presses her puppies together most fetchingly, and we are both satisfied.

    There are many subtle ways to honor a stranger. Oh, I know everything I'd ever need to know about her. I could manipulate her in ways she couldn't concieve of. I choose not to. She curtsies, and gravitates to me, and I, giving her really nothing but the reflection of her own worth in my eyes, benefit by getting excellent service, nice titties, and the benefit of female human companionship, other than the wife's, guilt free.

    I know everything I need to know about her, except her name. Oh, I've heard it, I should know it, but I don't. She wants me to come to her house and help her with her computer issues. Classes. Hah. Fat chance. Lead me not into temptation. It was tough enough when I was dealing with internet women, flirting with them, they miles, states away.

    Odd, I can't remember her name, but I could describe her well enough so that a police artist could render a photographic drawing of her. All women possess guile in abundance, great teeming wells of is how they enslave we men, to be sure. She has it, as well, being a woman, and all, yet she does not spill it out.

    Men? This is what...whom you seek. Trust me. A woman who knows her power, and yet holds it in abeyance. Women? Seek ye the same in a man.

    Folks, fall neither to the hunter, or the huntress, lest you become just another drying pelt.

    The ease with which I have collected so many, and have been collected in turn, appalls me.

    I am, to bed, and I wish you all well...

    ...except for those fuckers amongst you I hate.'s Saturday...