Tuesday, February 28, 2006

Free Book Review for ass-kissers of the literati


Simply copy the following document, paste it into your own editor, and then fill in the title, character, or pertinent information in the underlined areas, being sure to erase the underlines at some time during the process. There are a few other instructions enbedded within the document, and they will be designated with [brackets].


Forced by function to adonize the bedswerving bedlamites from an illth of worthies, one unearths, as you have shown, a veritable avium of jar-owls, among them, the rantallionic and yclept Mr._______ (who infect with every ejaculum) -- as certainly you must have been [forced], wrinkling and besmirched with that freedom stench -- this unctious fotzepolitik so redolent with stinkfoot fotzepolitik, and, my gosh, did you ever hit the head on the nail! (Muses! Where are you?)
Expose as you will the backsides of our masculine fundamentals, you shed light on the up and down side of invagination with ludibund and comely juvenescence. My cup runneth over! Facinosum est! To watch rather than to think.
But your ________ snakes up our collective spine and sparks the tip of our crown, generating uploads of mentation, tossing our brainsalads aside, to then fro then back again. You have touched our minds, and you have touched our sex. Now can you touch our hearts?
In a very real, yet post-modern, way -- you do. And it is strange how the description and placement of ___________ can download heaping helpings of that warm stuff that touches our hearts open. And yet, I come away with that admonicle of wisdom, touching all ports, that one only hopes for but rarely receives in contemporary "merkin" letters.

Your choice of detail was insightful and jocose, and your dichotomization of ________ I found, particularly compelling. ________'s concupiscent yet insouciant attitude toward the ebb and flow of partners, in this case coincident upon the venerable institution of _____________, might catch a lot of men-in-quotation marks one ball shy, who have notions about female desire and its relation to __________ that can rightly be called naive, if not mounting an all-out atavisticulum on the hingehead populoi who follow along, purblind puppets, fake giants among real pygmies, hoping that the woman will get pissed enough in the English sense to swashbuckle his pants and grunts of simian lippitude and reach toward the sausage that Vienna made famous, then faint with thoughts of nanotechnologies attacking her overcompensated thorax. So be it! Carpe Noctem! You deserve the light of a billion suns!

[Your name goes here]