Gee, don’t come rushing at me all at once, like a Handel chorus

Veritable smoothie of sophomoric humor. Strawberry = you. Well! (he spluttered). This is a fine how-d’you do! I work myself to the bone getting all sacrilegious, spend literally minutes in Photoshop desecrating the memory of possibly the 10th-greatest plummy English contralto who ever lived, blend it half-heartedly together into a veritable smoothie of sophomoric humor that would make a reader of Harvard Lampoon blush, and what thanks. Not even a flicker of furious placard-writing activity from the Phelps family; No snooty, outraged editors at Gramophone magazine canceling my remaining issues; No high-minded “disgusted, Tunbridge Wells” complaints, not even a sad little WordPress unsubscribe¹.  Nada. Plenty o’ nuttin’. A great big world so full of “NO” it could make Dame Janet herself take up a second career in lap dancing.  (Dame Janet Jackin’. Off her high horse and onto yours.  So to speak.) A great big world so chock-full of “so-what, dude?” it could make a co-pilot take an Airbus filled with over-stimulated adorable teenage choristers on their first trip away and apple-cheeked adorable grannies clutching Tupperware containers of brownies in their lap lest the icing should get dislodged during turbulence, and face-plant it into the nearest Alp.  As if! When it comes right down to it.  Do you ever think of anyone but yourself?  Like, Hello-o-o-o – ! Over here, darling, other person who exists!  Lips moving that aren’t your own!  I mean really. But never you mind, Murgatroyd. Your pathetic attempts at making amends by text message come too little and – at 3.37 AM – way too late.  I’m resilient.  I’m a survivor. I’m filled with pluck, grit and spunk.  Or at least I was on Saturday night which I assure you is the last time I’ll try to get laid by a shift-worker in a chicken-processing facility. While on the job! It’s all the more grist to my application-for-lifetime-and-beyond-PTSD-benefits mill, cause guess what? You are just the strawberry on my smoothie, babe.  Naked.  Or even better, in your saggy, made-at-home-yet-still-just-as-crappy-as-if-made-by-Third-World-slave-labor American Apparel Y-fronts. And one more thing since I finally have the floor and will miracles never cease you’ve paused for breath:  Jesus WAS white. You know how I know? The Bible tells me so. ¹ Update:  Between starting this post and finishing, someone DID
unsubscribe.  Which would seem entirely to put the kibosh on the
already pretty thin premise of the piece. This might flatten
a lesser man. But self-esteem, no matter how rooted
in fantasy it may be, always
wins the day.  So nice try.  Little Miss Unsubscribe. #complaints #epiphany #rants

Gee, don’t come rushing at me all at once, like a Handel chorus