We often forget in our focus with the sound and fury of our existence that life, although we do take it ever so seriously, is a tale of idiots told by another, who just so happens to count himself a genius with the malice and purity of a dying race.
And a fabulous eulogy it was for the man that likened himself, the most righteous and holy whisperer of taints, taint whisperer. In his many ventures through forests of untamed oily thatch, gardens of trimmed hedges, and smooth manifolds hidden beneath merkins, the self proclaimed taint whisperer was most fascinated by the flaccid exclusion of fellatio from one particular dancing partner’s repertoire, in the poetry of his own.
She described her experience as an involuntary scream cuckolded by the gestating wyrm forced upon a smile so lacking in appetite—gagging imbued by the maggot expelling a seed of bile, waxy and congealed in essence. Had he experienced her terror himself, his chastity just may have been more suitable for his measure of cardinality. Alas, this was to be the end of the whisperer of taints. With a carpe diem, the holy taint whisperer found his undoing in the cavern of enamelum.
–She winked stifling a gagged whisper, “I swallow.” Left him wallowing.