Chapter 1 of “Letters of Anton & Beauregard“.
When new house-mates chat on MySpace, they revert to high-school toilet humour and giggle like nerds stuck in an elevator with Deanna Troi.
LANGUAGE WARNING: Anton has a filthy mouth.
Everything about you smells. Even your rusty trowel smells. I fail to see how the Larchmonts keep you in their employ given the state of your britches. Seriously, dude.
You are filth incarnate. Everywhere you go you leave a thick trail of slime from your mouldy and diseased probosca, whose foul stench is matched only by their hideous, pustulent appearance. Your eyes bulge and twitch like the maggot-filled corpse of a dead kitten, ready to explode in a sea of hungry flies.
And I love your cute little bottom, and how you stamp your feet when you’re angry.
Your nipples swell, glistening and dangling, ready to burst like overripe bags of meat. O! How i await the wet, smackitty POP when your nipple meat will cover me with a smelly, shiny sheen of greasy smelly fluid. On THAT day, i’ll do a dance of happy.
As I sit trouser-legged on the bridge of your nose, mouth agape at the belching facial smokestacks calcifying your personal ionosphere, I can’t help but be reminded of Katherine Hepburn’s dignified performance in “On Golden Pond”, just before she was eaten by French crocodiles.
Ooh la la!
Mister Whippee III
The estate is in disarray. Remember that time you tried to fuck the lawnmower? Oh, how the children did laugh as you struggled to free your aged, tangled genitals from the blades, and flamingo landed next to you and wouldn’t stop reading haiku’s about your mother? And you yelled “PALINDROME” in agony, and the flamingo bleated “EMORDNILAP!!!” and exploded.
It seems like only yesterday that you rudely exploded at God’s garden party, showering us all with existence and the faint smell of orange-rind.
Since that time you have done nothing to quell the growing discontent at your constant physical expansion. Your racist remarks that you are gravitationally restrained by Dark Matter have done nothing for your reputation, and the balance of scientific opinion holds that you are cold and vacuous in the extreme.
All of us here at the convent wish you would just go away, or we will blast you to smithereens with our trumpety man-ginas.
Sister Mince O’Grady
p.s. Your ongoing childish behaviour has not gone unnoticed. Don’t think we didn’t see you playing with Pleistocene for about 1.8 million years. Grow up!
Piss off. I quit.
PS; I want my copy of the white album back, asshole.