Tuesday, July 25, 2006

Gallivare's Neckerchief

"I am Gallivare." Said Gallivare. "And this is my neckerchief."

Would be a very odd way to start a story.

Unless of course the title of said story happened to be Gallivare's Neckerchief. In which case it wouldn't really be so odd at all--would in fact, actually, make quite a bit of sense.


And the title of this story does just happen to be Gallivare's Neckerchief.


Um, so I'm going to start again now if you don't mind.

"I am Gallivare." Said Gallivare. "And this is my neckerchief."
Gallivare removed his neckerchief and held it high for all to see.
"It is a wonderful neckerchief. I am quite fond of it."

Gallivare nodded at each person in turn, and his eyes were soft and sincere.

"I tie my wonderful neckerchief around my neck and then that is where it is. And I don't ever have to think to myself, 'Oh no, where has my neckerchief gone?!' Because it is right there and then I am not lonely and also my neck won't get sunburned."

Gallivare demonstrated; and if you won't forgive him the slight flourish as he tied--what with so many eyes on his wonderful neckerchief--well then, you're just a crueler person than most.

"There." Gallivare said. "It is tied around my neck now as you can see--just like in my description of how I said that it would be. And now I am not lonely and also my neck won't get sunburned."

And then slowly, stealthily, despite all rationality, everyone in the room found themselves wishing they too had neckerchiefs.

And then later that week Gallivare died. He was too beautiful for this world.

Well, that and also he had a furious batch of cancer gnawing holes right through his brain.

I weep for Gallivare and smoke to see him soon.

(Hmm, that took a turn, right at the end there.)

Okay, just so you don't go away weeping, here's a short, lewd poem to cheer you up. I wrote it just now. It took about a minute. There is actually a very distinct possibility I am unholy, and on the far side of spectacular.

The aforementioned poem begins now:

Savagery and sorrow,
these are all the things I know.
I probably need a blowjob quick,
before mad my mind doth go.

Miss if you'll facilitate
and bear the Admiral's men,
I swear I shall reciprocate
and chin awash in sin.

Goodnight evildoers, and puppies and children. (But I sure hope the children and puppies aren't reading right now.)


At 2:33 AM, Anonymous Nicolas Papaconstantinou said...

Heh. Brain cancer.

It seems to me that Mr Latigo Flint is playing around even more with form and structure.

I like it.

I hope that he is having as much fun writing it as I am reading it.

At 6:04 AM, Blogger Helga von porno said...

I reckon there's a storm brewing

At 1:25 PM, Blogger Sam, Problem-Child-Bride said...

The contents of your unholy poem disgusts a proper housewife, such as myself. Disgusts, and yet.... causes unbidden thoughts to crowd out my flower-arranging plans for later...

Damn you, you fiendish Flint. The devil surely works through your tippy-tappy blogging fingers.

Now where did I put my azalias?

At 10:22 PM, Blogger Lightning Bug's Butt said...

You scored a bag this weekend, didn't you?

At 9:33 AM, Blogger Noir Muse said...

I have a extraordinary love for lewd things – especially poems. Thank you Mr. Flint, you’ve made my day.

At 6:00 PM, Blogger Berlinbound said...

That's it - that's just what I needed this evening.

OS: sound of a single clapper ...

At 1:50 AM, Blogger Latigo Flint said...

Writing isn't supposed to be fun, Nicolas Papaconstantinou, a lot more people would do it readily if it was.
(Or is that blowjobs I'm thinking of?)

Yup Helga Von Porno.

Don't you just hate those unbidden thoughts Sam? Absolutely no consideration for busy schedules... and piety.

What makes you say that LBB? A big bag of awesome maybe. Is that what you mean?

You're welcome Mrs. Muse. Anything for you. For you I'd shoot down the moon and replace it with something really lewd... um, like a big cardboard cut out shaped like genitals or something.

Happy to oblige Berlinbound my old friend. I'll try to be unholy more often.


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