Scar in the morning

I struggle with many things every day. Chief among them: Gabrielle Anwar. Intense beauty? Or dried up, scary husk?

Maybe it depends on the lighting. I find that with most girls. For example, as the sun changes position round this little planet of ours, I find myself noticing the leech-sized scar just above the right breast of the blonde girl at the bus stop who I have been passively stalking for six months. I now know that she’s Rhodesian. Or, I suppose, descended from people who were once Rhodesian. Now she’s American, like me. Welcome to the ultimate mongrel race. Odin is displeased, but that’s okay, because this mongrel race has more tanks than any god.

Well, tanks are a little bit antiquated. We have more robotic drones than any god.

Can you imagine if Jesus had robotic drones?

“You will come with us to Pilate!”

“I don’t think so!” Umm… Robotic drone attack. No, I don’t think that works. Jesus was fucked no matter what. How would that work with Bush?

“You will come with us to Pilate!”

“Now, now, alright, heh-heh, let’s talk about this, heh-heh.” Then Cheney leaps out of the undergrowth and shoots everyone in the face. Just like stupid spineless Peter should have done.

Then Bush could have sung out: “Put away your shotgun! Why are you obsessed with corporate gain?”

Yeah, yeah. What’s the buzz? Tell me what’s happening.

So that scar. I just want to suck on it. One of these mornings I’m going to ask for permission to do just that. My dear lady, may I suckle that scar above your right breast?