A Travesty Of Transvestites
“You on a downer, dude?”
It’s a heartbreaking tale of broken hearts and broken dreams … itself broken only by intervals of Life, the Universe and Everything sadistically teasing me with glimpses of what I’ve been missing the rest of my soul-sappingly, spirit-crushingly tortured existence — I daren’t call it a ‘life’ for fear I might die of uncontrollable paroxysms of bitter laughter.
I’d tell you about it, but, by the end of it all, even I’d want to punch me in the mouth and tell me to stop whining.
In summary: yes … with knobs on — but why stop now, just when I’m hating it, eh?
“Do the burlesque then :D”
As I am not gay, not a pervert and not a woman who can sit on a £175 toad-in-the-hole and rocket-launch the sausage across the room using nothing more than the power of my vagina … come back, Liza Minelli, all is forgiven … I fail to see what I could add to the proceedings, I’m afraid.
I’ve never really seen the attraction of burlesque.
It strikes me as a tired (and tiresome) way for the louche of a bygone era to titilate their jaded libidos as a substitute for pulling their thumbs out of their arses and actually living — a catwalk of the ugly and degenerate to a soundtrack of soul-sappingly vapid Miami house music.
If you’re that far gone then the sight of some poor fool with more money than sense getting gravy queefed all over them, as their sausage is launched across the room, like an ethnic minority Evel Kenevel impersonator, from some woman’s spasm chasm … and some other unfortunate is pebbledashed with (ironically) their fish soup … might well provide a moment of amusement that nearly merits the £175 for toad-in-the-hole.
It’s just not my idea of entertainment.
I may simply be too much of an aesthete and my tastes too ‘refined’ for my own good — ironically, perhaps, too far up my own arse to appreciate bawdy humour.
But, to my mind, it is simply a pseudo-intellectualisation of what is, in reality, no more than a puerile obsession with ‘tits and arse’ — pornography for those too timid to admit they like it … too timorous for more than a socially sanctioned peepshow.
I think of ‘swingers’ not dissimilarly: they dream of orgies the like of which even Caligula would have feared to host but are too concerned with what the neighbours might think to do more than exchange car keys whilst giggling under a sheet fort in their life-crushingly suburban living rooms.
Thanks for trying to badger me … once more … whilst I’m in a psychoemotionally fragile state and thus vulnerable … into doing something that I have repeatedly told you would result in my never being able to look at myself in the mirror again as long as I lived and in all likelihood, therefore, slitting my wrists — it’s nice to know that someone cares — but, on balance, I think that, instead, I’d rather go investigate whether drowning oneself in the bath is as much of a laugh as I have been led to believe.
Have a good time yourself though — I can’t wait to hear all the sordid details upon your inevitable return.