He walked like Johnny Prozac did, low-slung hipster pants that wiggled indecently in front of women and women with children and children with men. Though he argued ardently, passionately, he argued fallaciously, stringing up straw men and camel's noses and tiny green homunculi. For the most part, it must be said, people weren't taken in by his sex hips and the way his moustache jiggered nervously even as he butchered the logic he thought he had mastered. No one really liked him, but not because of the way he structured his arguments but because of his walk, his wiggling, sexy walk. Every once in a while, however, he would win the argument and when he did he would sidle out of the room, hips wiggling, and he would make his way to the nearest whorehouse looking for a cheap lay for the night. What he never knew, though, what he never realised, is that they let him win, they let him win, they let him win because they could no longer stand the fucking sight of him. That's how it was.
tell the gracious host to fuck himself it's time for us to leave
Written on Sunday, 22 October 2006