Tuesday, June 14, 2011

The Death of the Gentlemen

Poetic Try-sing of the day:

GladgrimShine Genthen Cig Foo-nigh (funny; also foo or "alien" near)





Incipient Anyway, the one head-less chicken
At it's side dangling spin-(all) column

A Genuine Gentleman from the Roman Cat-a-holic Chich
Or whole-lie oy-ill sniffer bone nose head
Gladshinegrim Genthen approached and watched orange junker smog
Pouring out of genuine gentlemen's head ether vent
'(All)-right, (all)-right,' he spoketh to Genthen 'Who are you?'
Genthen spaketh unto thu sir, 'I am not who, Who are you!'
'What?' he replied
'Yes!,' Genthen answered
'What?' Again he questionethed the Gladgrimshine Genthen
'What am I!,' Genthen directed and spaketh
'Who are you? You have issue with the Roman Cat-a-holic-Chich ' he drilled again
"Be careful of the spin-(all) column your foot be rested on down below - (all)-center, right?"

As The GladgrimShine Genthen de-pauted he ashed the spin-(all) bar with his inspire cig
upon which the Genuine Gentleman's foot was a-rest
And offered the Gen-u-wine Gentle-man a Foo-nigh Cigar

Monday, June 13, 2011

The Closure of the Fem-Nail Question...for now...

 Women Protocol Machine Guerilla Wars

Women run are the protocol directors of the planet earth.  Men retreat from public holdings from boredom, a yawn, effeminateness, let them have it.  Women run the machine with feminine subjective intelligence, whatver, that is, trying to have everyone get along as one big happy village yet fail to be able to recognize their nihilistic mannerisms.

Meanwhile, a secret alliance of men, tried of being war castrated and shoved into mellow prosaic shock syndrome by fem-nails, declare war on the women protocol machine and have psychological bandit guerilla wars with them as a test of their will to see what the fem-nails are made of in regards to the new wave androgynous pulse of subjective intelligence, and whether, they, the females, are able to maintain themselves.  A funny funny scenario to be played out as well as the effeminate spineless men caught in the androgyn undertow rip tide who decide to stay and fight with and for the women.

Let the resistance live!!!

I once was entering a Borders book store and tried to enter a door and a woman laughed haughtely at me with an air of superiority as I tried to enter past her instead of doing what she thought should have been done, what she deserved and merited simply for being female.  I did not hold the door open for her as she squeamishly squawked past.  I have absolutely no reason whatsoever to have any bit of respect for women "these days".  I think the era of the gentleman is over, and have nothing in my life that would inspire or cause me to have any repsect for a female whatsoever.  Until death, may they rot on a stake or become incarnated with androgynous subjective intelligence or bow down to man once again and forever hold their peace.

Saturday, June 11, 2011

AT Long Last...

Women Protocol Machine Guerilla Wars

Women run are the protocol directors of the place.  Men retreat from public holdings from boredom, a yawn, let them have it.  Women run the machine with womanish, whatver, that is, trying to have everyone get along as one big happy village.

Meanwhile, a secret alliance of men, tried of being war castrated, declare war on the women protocol machine and have bandit guerilla wars with them as a test of their will to see what the woman are made of and whether, they are able to maintain themselves.  A funny funny scenario to be played out as well as the effeminate spineless men who decide to stay and fight with and for the women.

Let the resistance live!!!

I once was entering a borders and tried to enter a door and a woman laughed haughtely at me with an air of superiority as I tried to enter past her instead of doing what she thought should have been done, what she deserved and merited simply for being female.  I did not hold the door  open for her.  I have absolutely no reason whatsoever to have any bit of respect for women.  I think the era of the gentleman is over, and have
nothing in my life that would inspire or cause me to have any respsect for a female whatsoever.  Until death, may they rot on a stake.