Thursday, February 14, 2008

Ashes, ashes, we all fall down. (part one)

Greetings my sardonic and audacious companions of the Grand Monde!
I dutifully pen this recent epistle in an endeavor to whimsically titillate and succor your wickedly clever natures, as well as contribute a spot of deviant entertainment.
Is this all a product of my imagination? Mayhaps, but who can argue with a madman?

BUT... Before the main feature - a cartoon!
My personal fav. The island of Misfit Toys,
However...I noticed a couple things...
1) The elephant apparently is a leper or has herpes.
2) The Winged lion is Aslan- apparently also the king of the misfit toys, as well as a prominent figure in Narnia. Moonlighting?
3) That little yellow scooter is soooo a sex toy.
4) The "Charlie in the box" is a total fag. So is Yukon Cornelius and the wanna be dentist.
5) The Choo-choo having square wheels on his caboose is totally code for venereal warts.
6) The Bird that swims? Such a total Jew. But the Elf chucks him outta the sleigh at the end without an umbrella, ella. ella.
7) The dolly is hiding something- she seems normal enough- maybe she is a Jesus hating commie fag hag ...she does say- "Wake up! Don't you know it's time to come out?"
8) My water pistol also shoots jelly. SO you gotta problem with that?
Ahem. Now... Then.. Have we regained our composure?

I awoke this Ash Wednesday to the vision of the stuffed animals up to their usual hi-jinks, The Monkey had constructed a Hollywood sign at the foot of the big fluffy bed out of candy wrappers and back issues of Vogue and had Poodella the Poodle dressed up as a failed 1920's starlet, urging her to jump off the sign.
After resigning The Monkey to the naughty corner, and trying my level best to get the makeup off Poodella, I caught a quick glimpse of myself in the Louis Seize mirror and noticed the ashes on my pert little forehead. Thinking My sins had been absolved whilst unconscious (yet again) by one of Le Cornishon's close Priest friends I started to turn over and go back to "the snooze",
but after a moment I remembered that they were from a certain Bikers cigar the night before and not from a member of the Holy Roman Church. Ah fooled again! Silly Cornichon....

Oh, what a lovely Mardi Gras we had! Everyone were at their best- absolutely on point- And during the recent hectic holidays, there presented on several quite particular evenings, a bevy -- nay nay -- an array, a veritable panoply of luscious scandalous occurrences, the most scrumptious of which beseeches - no - BEGS to be revealed!
Upon the evening of our arrival back in Nouvelle Orleans, Monsieur Moose and I, having dined richly and then donning evening attire, commenced our jaunt to an impromptu engagement at La Maison du Pug.
As we strolled nonchalantly through the crisp evening air, nothing struck us amiss in the tenor of the evening, nor were we bombarded with any symbolic happenstance to alert us to possible emotional calumny looming before us.
Indeed, other than M. Moose and I expressing a slight torpidity due to our indulging in a bit of charming gluttony, we anticipated an evening of sipping sparkling beverages, mutual bemused commentary on the inept cavorting of the lesser classes, and perhaps observing with dispassionate aplomb the maladroit yet vociferously conspicuous theatrical posturing on the part of a certain Monsieur M_____ whose visage I had not encountered in absolutely moons.
Upon our arrival at La Maison du Pug we were warmly greeted by our charming hosts Monsieur Davide and The Lady Jane, I remarked to Lady Jane how amazing she looked in her "La Guêpe de Mardi Gras" costume, (all the while digging for quarters in my pockets to bounce off her ass) and without missing a beat she snapped open her fan and remarked in her sultry voice, "The better you look the more you'll see!" A line she had borrowed from me, but it is all about presentation. (What I saw was that the loud cracking of her fan had caused three spontaneous orgasms around the room.) I noted to myself as I tossed my sable muff onto the counter - nearly missing an important looking alabaster bibelot, that no truer words had ever been spoken and that it also seemed the entire randy retinue were there, Madame Peu de Joie Petrol And her adorable companion and bodyguard Chevalier Petrol- (Hi-Octane to his friends) Her Parentals "Dotty" and her husband La vie de Brian, The Comtesse D___ , (aka "Goth Barbie") with Monsieur Special K, The always divine Madame Anne of Cleavage, and Ah! there he was- her naughty husband Monsieur M_____ appearing suddenly at her side and escorting her out of the ballroom, speaking solemnly into the Madame's ear. As they progressed to the outer antechamber, I noticed the expression on Madame Anne's countenance was one of constipated displeasure. With her brow furrowed, her patrician lips pressed tightly together as though epoxied shut, a supercilious bearing to her carriage, and a harpy-like grip upon the arm of Monsieur M_____, the pair sauntered out of immediate view. Mmmm- the second act will be played off stage I supposed- well back to la belle soiree.

For a light entertainment, our Hosts had arranged for their brood to perform individually and then as a group, Zelda being the first- with a stunning reading from "The Big Doll House" the groundbreaking "women behind bars" actioner starring Pam Grier. Bianca followed with a dazzling rendition of "La Vie en Rose" sung in Mandarin mind you, and Angel and Igor did a pas de deux from Coppelia, Angel absolutely brought the crowed to its feet with her interpretation of "The Girl with the Enamel Eyes" We were not disappointed. Indeed, our platter was verily replete. So to speak. As it were.
To resume without too discursive a pause, The entire cast gathered together for the finale, It started with Martha Grahams "Primitive Mysteries" very heady stuff, with everyone in head to toe black- then a few minutes in, the tempo changed and we were treated to a rousing jazz-tap version of "Jesus Christ Superstar" (talk about Holy tap dancing Christ!) Bouquet after bouquet filled the stage and then it was off to sleepy-land for the talented youngsters. So long, farewell, Aug wiedersehen, etc. etc. etc.

To recommence with my narrative, Much later that evening as M. Moose and I twisted our way through the remaining carousing patrons of the Salon, who should I espy garbed splendidly in the attire of a gentleman, loquaciously conversing in heated manner with one of the garcons of the Salon? The Marquise de Metarie! I greeted him with a flourish of social exuberance that is so my genus, asking where had he been and whom had he seen? The Marquise explained that he was only in town for the briefest holiday- he was in demand on both coasts- there was a party in The Hampton's, then there was a "Thing" in Manhattan all before returning to the West coast to do whatever he does do- charming the oranges right off the trees I imagine.
I had just started to extend an invitation to the Marquise for the next few evenings entertainments- The Satyricon Ball and St. Bridgid Ball- but alas! Before my next breath was exhaled, and preempting commencement of frivolous chatting, Monsieur M_____ strolled by and launched into an astonishingly vivid monologue, effusively describing how he was so worried that his lady Madame Anne of Cleavage was this close to needing psychiatric help (I believe the term he used was "fucking psycho") and wouldn't we all like to get some "balcony passes" for Bourbon Street? Mon Dieu! As you all must certainly surmise, M. Moose and I were absolutely mesmerized by the euphoric realization that we were -hopefully- in the presence of a fabulous scandal-in-progress, running veritably amok with intricate ignominy. We awaited each slanderous statement and the occasional lively ejaculation of "YEAH titties!" from Monsieur M______ like hypnotized morphine addicts watching the purest powder being measured out sans additives! Regretfully, M. Moose and I felt our bodies clamoring for rest, and resignedly we chose to depart. You cannot imagine how I longed to perch like tiny dark vulture in a cozy corner of the Salon to watch as Madame Anne of Cleavage either left the Salon for the evening, or slid toward the powder room for freshening up, not knowing that Monsieur M______ lurked just around the bend, pacing agitatedly with his talons poised, his tongue numbed by drink and eager with rage to engage in a shrieking cat fight, or at the very least, a viciously nasty exchange of insults, accusations and a breathtaking contest of tawdry posturing.
But damn it all, just as we were leaving, we witnessed Madame Anne pulling Monsieur M_____ out the door by the ear calling him a "pweshush fuck face" and kissing him on the nape of his brawny neck. The lovable boob was trounced. Drama thwarted- all was well in the House of Cleavage after all. Bliss. Bless.
I shall end this tale of vice and virtue for now, but I shall torment you with anticipation and taunt you by saying that la deuxième partie of this episode is very definitely savory!
Here is a drink to toast our beloved(s)
The Fuck Face!
A popular beverage of Australian origin.

1/3 oz Wild Turkey bourbon whiskey

1/3 oz Jack Daniel's Tennessee whiskey

1/3 oz Bundaberg dark rum

Pour ingredients in equal parts into a shot glass, stir, and serve.
Remember who you are going home with.

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zeitgeist, particular friend, perky libertine, animated trickster, iconoclast, rabble-rouser, object of worship, provocateur, capricious damp enchantress, idiosyncratic beloved reptile, whimsical saucy booze hound, bellwether, luminary, stoic, pensive illicit paramour, aloof, engaged, intuitive, curious, perplexing deranged mastermind, passionate, lasciviously adored offspring, amorous, sultry flamboyant charioteer, scholar, scribe, exalted thespian, voracious, considerable chieftain, impaired, cynical colleague, dreamer, procrastinator, loathsome glutton, artist, oppressed peasant, dainty heathen, narcissist, self-loathing...renaissance man