In the wild, marijuana is a tough number, a prime example of survival of the fittest, hence the word ‘weed’. But in fact, it is a herb.
Today widely commercialised, weed has become ‘delicate’. You start trimming it – it goes into shock. You top it – it gets stressed. In pots, it soon gets rootbound and then needs to be transplanted, another nasty jolt to give it a funny turn. So confused with this battered handling, the poor plant loses all sense of its sexuality and tries to become both male and female. And who is responsible for this abuse?
The Grower. He or she then starts to imitate the plant. He becomes indecisive, overdoes this, underdoes that, hair turns grey or falls out and his mind becomes rootbound too. He then starts to panic and makes rash decisions and becomes a ‘rusher’ : rushes to cut, to top, to trim, to harvest, to dry and to cure. And there’s no cure for this rusher…
Apart from smoking the plant.
These are the words of the Gapanaut.
I suffer from endemic lust. I am plagued by an addiction. As a self-styled hornythologist, I indulge in frisky gropes and wily tickles on the G spot, ovary meddling, have intertwined with many a twat, glad into gullies, and plumbed the depths of many a slut. As a canny arseologist, I have excavated tons of tunnels which were secret until I discovered them. Being a solicitous sadist, and after cries to be “gentle with my membrane’, I did not plunge into the abyss, this devouring darkroom – no, not me. I’m not the sort of chap to ravage reclining cows, even when they deserve to be ravaged, which often happens after unseemly outbursts of dirty words.
Sometimes I’d prefer to do something else, like playing Scrabble.
But I feel I am on this planet for a specific purpose. So, despite my artistic leanings, I must accept I am the ordained guardian of female genitalia, admittedly, a tough number, but we all have our crosses to bear.
I moved here during an incognito snowstorm. Nobody saw me and I saw nobody. I hadn’t been here long before the neighbourly savage arrived to introduce herself. She was wearing a preposterous kimono.
“I’m on Twitter. I seek to make the world a better place. Fuck this, fuck that – we’d all be better off without that fucking lot.”
Being a tolerant person, I made allowances for the gaudy getup and moronic prattle of this jarring Paddy.
“Up the workers!”
Now that upset me. There was something mannish in this unnerving scatterbrained creature. However, beneath the atrocious outfit, I could see she had affable nipples. As for the muff, I hoped it were homogenised. A shag on my doorstep! Ah, this was the life, but of course, life is a risky business, isn’t it.
Orgasms were in the offing, virtuoso of course, but I’m sure she’d make out somehow. Irreversible orifices : I was all for those. I intended to give this effort a hearty poke.
“I’ve just had an operation”
Who cares! Take off that out-of-place artifact and get fucked.
“I used to be a woman.”
And on Twitter too!
I like to climb mountains. There’s nothing like it. Climbing helps one’s mind and I am an uphill thinker.
I also like to climb alone. I feel more free with me, the whole me, and nothing but me. And one would expect this craving for solitude to be easily satisfied by immersing oneself in the wilderness. Not so!
Not if one is being pursued – yes, pursued – by another.
Seeing what was coming, I quickened my pace and looked for a place to hide, something hard to find on a treeless crag. Worse still, my pursuer turned out to be a damn sight fitter than I was, caught me up in no time,.
“Hi. I thought you might need company.”
Speak for yourself, bitch. My whole day was going to be ruined by this slovenly hippy who vainly imagined I’d be after her snatch.
Take a look at yourself, woman! It makes me wonder what these scrubbers see in a mirror
“I’m sorry, but I’m meeting someone”. – I’d like to have said, but obviously couldn’t and damn well didn’t. But my quick mind saved me.
People don’t know this, but I have crafty bowels, and now was a time to be disgusting.
I drew on my latent anal power and released a shocker.
Ugh indeed! After some formidable vomiting, this fair maiden turned tail and fled, downhill to the valley below.
I have been asked to say a few words about this man. I too am pretty old and maybe my memory isn’t what is was, but here is what I remember.
His thundering whisper, or, equally, his whispered shout – it was hard to
tell the diiference.
On the golf course, his dawdling rush up the fairway. As for sex, he enjoyed wholesome smut. About him, there was an air of agreeable unpleasantness, which could have been put down to his mellowed cruelty or tyrannical tolerance of others, especially women who spoke of his grubby beauty and serene agitation.
I think many appreciated the abrasive kindness, the wayward consistency and in particular the arduous simplicity of this methodical idiot, characteristics you don’t expect to see in this likeable violent man whose frenzied calm matched his sleazy honesty. As for his life style, I don’t know which impressed me most : his opulent poverty, or his impoverished wealth.
Whichever it was, his life could be summed as a triumphant failure.
Wanton gossamer condom
Drifting in the breeze
From the land of Whoredom
Settled on my knees
A gift to be treasured
I got up from my seat
My cock needs to be tethered
When in search of meat
Lingerie is waiting out there
To be torn to shreds
Don’t mess around with me
The ace of thoroughbreds
I shall make her squirm
I shall make her flap
When I bring out The Worm
And my chastening strap
I have a kept woman. Sorry. I keep a woman. I can’t get rid of her.
I have been very silly. I told her things.
“I want you.’ I’d said.
“You’ve got me!” she’d replied.
Plus her debts. She has needs. Her ‘shelves’ soon get empty.
I don’t mind the underclothes, in fact insist on what she wears. In fact,
money isn’t the object. The problem is….
She’s started to cling. The body still gets me, but…
The weeping. She’s started to weep. A clinging weeper. A kept wept clinger I’d like to sweep under the carpet. But I am compromised. Christ, I want to hit her!
Later, I arrive home, all miserable. The wife asks is there anything wrong.
I’d love to confide in her. I trust her. She doesn’t cling. She hardly ever weeps.
As for fucking…
“No, darling. It’s nothing”