Do not meddle in the affairs of dragons, for you are crunchy and taste good with ketchup
It started innocently enough.
[psylog] But you are the loverlord
[psylog] Oops. I mean overlord
Then it got worse.
[@tezcat] you could replace the entire Ach front page for the day, with a giant drawing of you. Scowling.
* tezcat suggests radical ideas
[@tezcat] The Loverlord Is Displeased.
And now -
People generally like mementoes of places that they visit. It’s true. A generation earlier, this memento would have taken the form of some ghastly ceramic ornament to adorn some glass walled cabinet. Someone I know swears by fridge magnets. Me? I just buy tshirts. Not to pack them up in a drawer and keep them around, of course. I generally buy them and wear them. No, not the drawers, the tshirts. Ostensibly, by the time the tshirt is hacked up and ready to throw away (so my optimistic reasoning goes), it’s time to visit that place again. No, I haven’t revisited most of the places I’ve been, but I can always hope, right?
But I have this friend, whom I shall name Fred. Fred has an even odder idea of mementoes. When he visits these fair shores, our boy Fred buys himself a copy of the Playboy magazine and takes it home. What he does with those magazines once he reaches home is unknown, but I’m desperately trying to dispell the mental imagery of mattresses, hand lotion and tissues from my mind as I type this.
Not that there’s anything wrong with secreting Playboy mags under mattresses and indeed err.. secreting things into tissues, of course. I’m just not sure I want to imagine Fred doing any of that. No offense, Frederick old chap.
The problem with Fred’s most recent visit, however, is that he forgot to buy his Playboy mag. This is (unsurprisingly, perhaps) where I come into the picture. I’d say centerfold but the thoughts of myself in any centerfold isn’t an image I particularly want to imagine either, so I presume this goes in triplicate for the rest of you lot. Right, so picture. Me. Playboy.
In my misspent childhood, I used to read Lucky Luke, the cowboy who could draw faster than his own shadow. In one comic, Lucky Luke and Jolly Jumper (his horse, of course of course) accompany a stagecoach. Unfortunately every single meal served by the stagecoach consists of two things. Bacon and beans. Beans and bacon. Bacon and beans ice cream. Bacon and beans flavoured pancake. The works. Bacon and beans. All day, every day.
Needless to state, that shit gets a bit old. And don’t even talk about the flatulence.
