Stress Relief

This afternoon Shantoozy and I needed stress relief, so we had sex for the first time in a million years or thereabouts. Although we had both been willing, the able part of the equation had kept on eluding us for one reason or another – be it tiredness, fatigue, stress, uni. work, or what the hail ever. We put a stop to that today and I squirted ivory sap from the borehole of my log. (I laugh uproariously at my idjiotic cleverness with that last line and Shantoozy says, “You amuse yourself, don’t you?”) Although I agree that it is probably true what Woody Allen had one of his characters say, that too much importance is placed on the orgasm by many people to make up for the empty areas in their life, Shantoozy and I most certainly both felt instantly a whole lot better after ours this afternoon. (…Which were actually attained between hours, boom-boom!) (…Boom, boom, boom, let’s go back to my room, that is.) (Ahem.)

Then, Hissy Kitty came around and demanded – in a friendly, helpful manner, of course – that we get away from our studies for a while and go see a movie. Who am I to disagree with sound logic like that which involves me being lazy? So, we three went into the CBD and ended up seeing “Final Destination III”. I haven’t seen either of the first two but that didn’t matter. Basically, this movie (like its predecessors, I assume) is pretty much totally devoid of being about anything at all. There aren’t even really any characters, as such; there are some fictitious girls and guys whom we watch on screen but we don’t know anything about them or care anything about them beyond a general feeling of identification because we are human and they are, too. This is probably just as well because the entire movie is simply - oh, yes, quite simple-ly - a successive display of the gory deaths, and the lead-ups thereto, of all of the humans, including the gal with the bare real tits and the gal with the bare jelly-mould implants. There could have been no better type of movie to distract one from wearying intellectual labour than this gleefully dumb and senseless lump of widescreen extravagance. All those splattering bite-size brain bits and the seepy burbling of teenagers frying inside tanning machines! Ah, it really did help me further unwind.

Now would a massage with a nail-gun be too much to hope for?

Or nailing her with my love-gun?

Or maybe I’ll just drink my dandelion-root tea and quit key-tap-yappin’ for now…