Sycophant

Elephant, hierophant, tonophant, triumphant, sycophant. Those are all the words ending with phant which come to mind, which if I stay with a Latin derivative, have a big thing in them. I think I could write my name, although it doesn't end with a phant and has a nicer ringing tone of the French AnnMarie. But I am no elephant, I sometimes try to be a hierophant, but i'm no tonophant, perhaps sometimes triumphant and I would rather die then be the synonym to sycophant. Sycophants suck. And the word promptly brings one person to mind, probably the best sycophant ever known to mankind. And... he lives just 5 minutes away. Another and... he could make it to the Guinness Book of Records for being the sycophant that he is. He's that good. Of bad, depending on how you see people like these. They are servile people, who have no moral respect for themselves, for others, they have no principles, they are just so ready to serve as long as their servitude flatters a somebody else who, in their twisted mind, usually is influential and powerful. In two base words, they are the assholes, and in two other base words, they are arse-lickers. They utterly get turned on by being servile. And this is no s and M. They do not like to be controlled, whipped, and chained. They are experts in the art of obsequiousness. Loads of strange words which mean a lot to me. They make me throw up. And my mind goes back again to the sycophant I know. He also is in need of an acetone bath, because such is his readiness to serve, that he gets all heated up and sweaty. A supposed professional who has and will open the sewage when necessary. I have seen him do it. Just to see a spanking smile on his influential, powerful other asshole. Some people feed on being servile. They are called assholes. Other people feed on power, and they are also called assholes. And somewhere perhaps there is a connection, both with arses and throwing ups and loos and sewage. They are the scum of the earth. Both have no morals. But it's worse with a sycophant. He should be beaten with sticks and stones.. and he'll probably thank you for it. I don't see this sycophant anymore. I don't miss him and his stinky armpits either. And I'm not sure if he can stand up straight anymore because after years of being what he is, he is probably lost the little spine he ever had, and is in another word, spineless. May he be wiped off the face of the earth... together with his Master. Parasites, yet another word.

Gods and shoes

And there go the Gods again. As soon as I start speculating about things related to the damn sex, they're at it again. So I decided to be a good housewife and do the washing up that's been piling up. Big mistake. And a surreal one too. Has anybody out there washed a mug only for it to suddenly smash to pieces in your hand? And no I didn't smash it against anything, it just exploded. So I was talking about veggies and slicing and dicing, and the Gods have decided that I need to learn a lesson. Hence I now have a sliced and diced hand, perfect for tomorrow when I have a performance. It's going to be an Elastoplastered pianist. But of course as long as I can still play I can still type. If I managed to play through a whole concert just hours after having my hand stitched up, then this is child's play. I dare the Gods... go on, try harder, there is a tough girl underneath the silly, couldn't be bothered aura. It's not that I'm not bothered about most things. I am just not bothered with plastering myself with makeup at the unearthly hour of 8 in the morning that's all. I am bothered about my work, well bothered isn't even the word, I just try my best that's all. But my best is still my best whether it's delivered through sweat pants and joggers or in high heels. I'm old, I don't have the energy for high heels during the day. High heels were never meant for daytime anyway. High heels scream sexy Lolita, and I am no Lolita, never have been, never will be. I know exactly what I am talking about. I am the shoe guru here, I have more than 500 pairs of shoes. I actually have a shoe room. So, girl, don't you even try flashing your heels at me, because that won't impress me. I have hundreds at home. Now perhaps the Gods will attack my shoes next...

Sex-Casualty

It seems that every time I write apprehensively about something, thinking that perhaps it might be a trifle too wild, someone else comes up with a message that is even wilder. So I was talking about glass, shattering glass and shattering orgasms. Now I get asked. What about the veggies, what about gear sticks? What about the mortified victims who have no other choice than to veil themselves because of the shame and take a trip to the Casualty Department at Mater Dei? Well what about them? It's time I gave it some serious thought of my own. Firstly, why are images like these always akin to nuns and priests? If you were experimenting with, let's say, snooker and somehow got a ball up your arse, wouldn't you at least try to cover yourself up with a robe? Of course you would. So the 'priests' waiting (standing up) may not be real priests. They could be me or you in disguise. And what about the veggies? In a world were healthy eating is so promoted, dicing and slicing green stuff is so acceptable. But who said you had to dice the stuff. Experimenting with them as a whole/hole is also acceptable. Eqqq sometimes it just happens that the phallic looking veggie slips and gets in the way, in the way of the cunt that is. Which lets me off the hook completely (hurray!). Do I look as if I'm eating my veggies every day? No. That is the reason why I am in Casualty for a variety of other things which do not include glass (bottles) or veggies (raw). What worries me is that what goes in must go out, what goes up must go down, so how the hell does something go in and not out? Why are they stuck inside? Is it a case of being very very brazen and another case of getting all big headed down there? But I guess a good doctor could provide immediate relief when it comes to glass and veg as well as broken vibes, although I do not know my way around breaking vibes. I hear of tales coming from very reliable sources, where some people have jammed things such as gear leavers? What the fuck? Don't drivers get to take a driving test before they actually own a car, don't they know that gear levers gather a totally different sort of momentum? Poor doctors working 36 hour shifts. They have studied so hard and all they get to do is remove some foreign body stuck in a body itself foreign. It makes me bland in comparison, and a very very good girl indeed. Because I don't like veggies, I am no fan of gear levers, and I think of glass as in the Diet Coke Bottle. I just dream about the man in the ad. That's it.