passion for rotters

She Meets Pepi Poppers

There’s something of the sybarite about her. She plays the lute too loud and with reckless abandon — popping strings here and there and singing haltingly about fucking.

About what?

Yeah, and she eats too many moon pies in one sitting and washes them down with half a dozen milkshakes.

My god, woman! Even the Village People thought twice about doing the shake.

This is appalling and I’m whining in a Terry Thomas sort of way: I say, old chap

You have such a limited vocabulary, and no head for figures.

May I call you Pepi?

At half past four in the afternoon? Rather!

You have a passion for rotters —

I’m jealous.

Take thy clyster pipe, syringe, and love me!

You’re being very sentimental. I will. Off we go!

“All the virtues—loyalty, patriotism, courage, honesty, faith, compassion, you name it—are just social constructs, patches to cover the naked barbarism that is at our core…”

— Lawrence Wright / The End of October

About istsfor manity

i'm a truncated word-person looking for an assemblage of extracted teeth in a tent full of mosquitoes (and currently writing a novel without writing a novel word) and pulling nothing but the difficult out of the top hat while the bunny munches grass in the hallway. you might say: i’m thee asynchronous voice over in search of a film....
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