Tuesday, December 8, 2015

They are entirely enthralled by my Booty Monstering ways. Enthralled, I say.

It's been a while, and yet, a legendary fighter can still return to smite all of you.

Behold: The Booty Monster!

Where Walks the Booty Monster!

The Tears of Mortals Sate the Booty Monster!

I am that Booty Monster, that noise in the night, that nagging feeling when you think you are alone, the notion to turn around and scream in the very face of absolute horror.

I'm laying this on pretty thick, ain't I?

Typical boasts of an aging horndog, a crazy loner ascetic prayer warrior with capacities that have never been exhausted, save for physically running(which is a known and low quantity).  I run neither far nor fast, but at the age of 36, out of shape, diabetic: I can still run. 

Just know.

There will be lust, if only a passing lust, like a mosquito doing a kamikaze attack on the bug zapper.  If only a few short breaths, and then I return to reality, away from the pictures of women, to the real world-with its hurts and aches and dull disappointments.

You cannot hold down a good Booty Monster.  And I am a good Booty Monster; the voice outside of the shower, that shadow you saw out of the corner of your eye-I am that shadow.

In the words of Rudy Ray Moore:  "Put your weight on it."  Also: "That honkey sheriff want to be like me; think he bad and got no class."

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