The Art that I most appreciate is Art Garfunkel.
He’s a lovely fella, and with his lustrous mop of curly hair, he’s ideal for cleaning out over-sized test tubes.
Everyone should have their own Art Garkfunkel at home (regardless of whether you own a collection of Victorian over-sized test tubes of the approximate circumference of Art Garfunkel’s head).
Sadly, there’s only one of him.
Michael’s wick visibly quivered at the thought of procreating with his beloved Sheila. Alas, his love was destined to remain unrequited, for Michael, you see, was a candle. Oh, the cruel slap of fate.
Michael (always Michael, never Mike or Mickey) had the day he first laid his metaphorical eyes upon Sheila emblazoned on his waxy brain. He had been living in one of those really smelly shops that hippies frequent, with some of his family. He had been sad to leave mother, but the swell of desire he felt as Sheila tenderly placed him into her hempen sack more than made up for it.
Mmmmmm, oh how his mind reeled at the memory of the day that she had first firmly, yet sensitively grasped his rigid shaft. And then had put him on a shelf. The heady feeling of anticipation was almost too much to bear at the thought of her lighting him. Oh, how he longed for her to light him.
That day had now long passed. The day his virgin wick had become sooty. A solitary tear of wax dripped mournfully down the bit of his shaft where there would have been a cheek had he had a face. The irony being that each tear led him ever closer to his ultimate demise.
Oh. Oh, Sheila.
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Dorian Gray sat cross-legged in his high-backed leather armchair and turned to his good friend Frankenstein (the monster).
“It’s a good job that we’re both out of copyright,” the supernaturally sexy rogue guffawed. ”Otherwise you and I wouldn’t be having this conversation, old bean.”
Frankenstein looked bewildered in the face of his compadre’s comment and gingerly fingered the bolts what was sticking out of his neck.
“Frankenstein no understand girlman,” screeched the lumpen travesty. ”What is this copyright of which you speak?”
Gray literally didn’t know where to begin. How could he explain the meta-textual nature of the conversation to his cloth-headed chum? The silken-haired lothario breathed a breathy sigh of relief as he heard two heavy raps at the stoic oak door. He knew that Frankenstein would have forgotten all about this by the time that he returned, and allowed himself a sneaky smirk at the fortuitous timing.
The massive perv rose gracefully from his seat. Such was the elegance of his movements that he even managed to avoid making a farting noise on the antique leather. He glode (or glided) towards the hallway and surreptitiously opened the front doorage. He was somewhat alarmed to be confronted by Lennie and George out of Of Mice and Men.
“What the Dickens are you two doing here?” exclaimed Gray whilst erotically stroking his cock through his flannel slacks.
“Tell me ’bout the rabbits…” started Lennie.
“Shush,” chastised George. ”Not now. I’m sorry, Mr Gray, but we need your help in a matter of the utmost urgency.”
Gray checked his pocket watch, irrelevantly, and shifted uneasily in his patent leather brogues.
“Do not speak another word,” demanded the fop. ”You two ragamuffins were only published in 1937. I really don’t know enough about copyright law to know whether or not you’re allowed to appear in this story. Don’t make me fetch Frankenstein to remove you.”
“But, Mr Gray,” interjected the cleverer of the two bindlestiffs (George). ”There’s been a murder…”
To be continued (possibly)…
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When Kowalski arrived at Maureen’s that crisp September morning, he had no idea what was about to happen to him. He simply thought he was going to routinely interview a witness about a missing cat. The same sort of shit that Kowalski would normally eat for breakfast. On this occasion, it was a breakfast of big (metaphorical) eggy baps.
Kowalski approached the humble abode and couldn’t help but notice how tidily-trimmed the doormat was. It framed Maureen’s entrance perfectly and it brought a minor-flush to Kowalski’s ruggedly stubbled cheek. Kowalski tentatively stroked the engorged door knocker. He sensitively caressed its brassy nodule before tenderly knocking it against the wooden door with his tongue. He waited. Kowalski was not a man prone to uncertainty, but even he wondered if he had done it right. He needn’t have worried. Slowly, expectantly, Maureen exercised the well-lubricated hinges of her front door. Kowalski stifled a gasp as the door lay tantalisingly agape.
“Detective Kowalski, I presume” purred Maureen. ”Do come in.”
Kowalski did not need asking twice. He looked longingly at Maureen’s hallway. He was a man of considerable and impressive girth and he worried that it may be too tight a squeeze. He may have been Kowalski, but Kowalski was a gentleman first and Kowalski second (except on those occasions when he really needed to be a Kowalski, you know, like in an emergency and that). He gently entered her silken hallway and lovingly wiped his boots on the mat.
The sensation of entering Maureen’s house was almost too much to bear and he feared he could not control himself. Kowalski was an experienced man and had entered many witnesses’ houses over the years. None had felt like Maureen’s. His whole body shuddered and juddered as the barrage of sensations washed over his sufficiently toned body.
He managed to make it to Maureen’s plump sofa and he slumped into the voluptuous cushions, completely spent. He asked Maureen is she minded him smoking. Damn, he needed a smoke.
Do you love Kowalski? Read his further adventures in “A Hazard of Parsnips”.
1. It’s in a petri dish.
2. It’s fun to look at under a microscope.
3. Possible cure for cancer.
4. Small.
5. Very, very tasty.
It's a book of this blog.
