Hobbies by Mr. Lunatik
"What do you like doing with your husband?" I asked my student. "Fucking," she answered.
I threw up while riding my bicycle yesterday. I rode up to stretch of greenery and sprayed as I went. There are always things we haven't tried.
The Frenchman had a café, a Japanese wife, and lots of girlfriends. He started some fires in Tokyo. He didn't know how heavily arson is punished. Because houses were wood and tight packed like a rugby scrum; arson means attempted mass murder. Facing serious jail time, he played temporary insanity. Big mistake. Our mind is all we have. Once they finish with him, he won't have his.
The retired gangster went crazy and shot his daughter, son and three policemen. There will be some investigation: of "bullet proof" vest manufacturers.
Loud punk music regularly blasts down the aisles of my local supermarket. I asked one of the staff why. "The boss isn't here," he shrugged.
She's less than half my age: lithe as a leopard, sharp as a springbok. She hopes I will pump up her pride by penetrating her parted thighs. Her last lover mistakenly called surrounded by his crying children. She parted with him like a fart.
The record producer hates the crap he sells. His life is a plastic lie. As Uday Hussein said of his father: His right shirt pocket doesn't know what is in his left shirt pocket.
We tossed back $30-a-shot drinks in an urban chic bar in Hiroo. Invitation only. Black walls, white ceiling melded by careful lighting to soothe stressed out executives. Racks of spotless, flawless glasses filling an entire wall. A blue light ed toilet only engineers and biochemists can fully comprehend.
We were served with plastic smiles, plastic sentiment, useful as used condoms.