Farting Coconut Jelly
'So... you, uh... thinkin' on getting your butt off my desk?'
Meet John. John is an avid writer. John does not think of himself very highly, but in the eyes of his peers, he is nothing short of a writing God. If blowjobs were awards and there was no respite for giving them, John's metaphorical twinkie of unparalleled success would be two steps from empty in two seconds flat. A crude description that, in truth, probably doesn't fit the bill as well as something else would, but the sheer literary rapture caused by the simple stroke of his right pinky finger is more than enough to scatter ABC seagulls off the coasts of Writing Workshop bitch beach on any God damn golden glory day! (I really don't know what that's supposed to mean. Cultural watershed explosion sprinkled with a spasmic vocabulary blender stained by suttle perversion I s'pose.) Others felt that if writing fiction was a competition, John would be the epitome of an undefeated champion. He was a monster. He was an unstoppable beast in the ring of pens and pencils. He was ridiculously skilled and talented at his craft and damn it, if he wanted to write something, he was going to write something and by golly it was going to be good as shit!
...Then again, that sort of thing probably shouldn't be jinxed by being forced to mingle with the likenesses' of good.
"Shit with a star."
John has a bit of a problem, truth be told to the naked ear. (Wait... can you put a sock on an ear? Do excuse me as I conduct an experiment.) And this is the first time in, well, forever that he's had it. (John is a young-adult in college. Another testament to just how darn swell he is!) It's plagued other writers for countless generations and now, he was getting his fair share of its triple-pronged fury.
'Would you... quit farting? For like, one second? It's really hard to concentrate.'
This... this was a new brick wall in the path to epiphany entirely. This was a foe John did not know whether or not he could match in greatness. This... in the face of such intimidating opposition... this...
Was a Writer's Block.
Countless lives in the literary war against Writing Block terrorism have been lost against this menacing beast. Corrupting the minds and souls of God knows how many poor fools! It is a merciless plantation owner working the slaves to death, over whipping their brains into unrelinquishable submission. Knees fall and heads drop, brains spill and hearts stop (BANG HOWDY I rhymed and I didn't even know it!), penises shrivel up and fall off while vaginas close up entirely...
Wait. Hold on. That's another rant altogether. Um...
So yeah, I'm listening to Sway and the line, 'Others may be on the floor' sounds way, way, way too much like 'Others may pee on the floor.' Whether it's 10:00 PM at night and I'm surviving on nothing more than Chips Ahoy cookies and glasses of milk has anything to do with it is up to anyone's guess, but I'm of the opinion that it's the undescribably large load of homework I've been laden with over the past month or so. (Most of it I'm not actually doing.)
WAIT! Back to John, the true protagonist of this epic struggle between good and Writing Block evil. Damn them to the depths.
John is sitting at his desk trying his best (and in vain) to write a novel that he has been working very hard on for the past year or so. But there is just one problem stopping his literary genius from breaking the floodgates and wreaking magnificent havoc on the landscape plains of the literary critic world.
Mr. Writing Block Lardass has chosen to occupy his writing space for an unspecified amount of time.
And he, as the past few days have unfortunately come to shown, has a serious fucking problem with farting.
'I'm sorry, cash-in Disney family comedy flicks with half-assed morals are down the hall and on the door to the left.' John muttered more to himself than to the Writing Block with a bad case of burrito mojito.
'But John.' The Writing Block prodded. 'Just take a break, bro'! Go out there and have some frat-boy fun! You're in college. Don't waste your life at your desk in front of the glare of a computer screen writing some gay book. Get some pussy, dog!'
'You're hardly anything near the definition of a black stereotype, Mr. Writing Block.'
'But John.' The Writing Block insisted. 'Have you ever felt the inviting warmth of a woman's flesh?'
'Have you?' John asked. 'You don't even wear pants, let alone, ask me what it feels like. You're just a fat, white, block! You look like the coconut jelly I ate this morning.'
'But John.' The Writing Block pressed. 'But John.' It seemed to have run completely fresh of ideas after that pathetic first go. 'I love you man.'
John... didn't know how to respond to that sudden spurt of scrapped affection.
So Mr. Writing Block just farted again.
And John? Well. John just felt like crying. All the poor hero wanted to do was continue writing, continue his passion, continue doing what he loved doing best! And that, my friends, was your mom writing.
Seriously, I've had this huge Writing Block on my brain for... like, FOREVER and it's killing the unicorn gasoline running my Imagination Engine.
D:
D;
*Sobs*
Let's pray to the Literary Gods in Mt. Quill that the heathen demon on my desk be banished to the Netherworld, never to return again please, thank you. :3
Meet John. John is an avid writer. John does not think of himself very highly, but in the eyes of his peers, he is nothing short of a writing God. If blowjobs were awards and there was no respite for giving them, John's metaphorical twinkie of unparalleled success would be two steps from empty in two seconds flat. A crude description that, in truth, probably doesn't fit the bill as well as something else would, but the sheer literary rapture caused by the simple stroke of his right pinky finger is more than enough to scatter ABC seagulls off the coasts of Writing Workshop bitch beach on any God damn golden glory day! (I really don't know what that's supposed to mean. Cultural watershed explosion sprinkled with a spasmic vocabulary blender stained by suttle perversion I s'pose.) Others felt that if writing fiction was a competition, John would be the epitome of an undefeated champion. He was a monster. He was an unstoppable beast in the ring of pens and pencils. He was ridiculously skilled and talented at his craft and damn it, if he wanted to write something, he was going to write something and by golly it was going to be good as shit!
...Then again, that sort of thing probably shouldn't be jinxed by being forced to mingle with the likenesses' of good.
"Shit with a star."
John has a bit of a problem, truth be told to the naked ear. (Wait... can you put a sock on an ear? Do excuse me as I conduct an experiment.) And this is the first time in, well, forever that he's had it. (John is a young-adult in college. Another testament to just how darn swell he is!) It's plagued other writers for countless generations and now, he was getting his fair share of its triple-pronged fury.
'Would you... quit farting? For like, one second? It's really hard to concentrate.'
This... this was a new brick wall in the path to epiphany entirely. This was a foe John did not know whether or not he could match in greatness. This... in the face of such intimidating opposition... this...
Was a Writer's Block.
Countless lives in the literary war against Writing Block terrorism have been lost against this menacing beast. Corrupting the minds and souls of God knows how many poor fools! It is a merciless plantation owner working the slaves to death, over whipping their brains into unrelinquishable submission. Knees fall and heads drop, brains spill and hearts stop (BANG HOWDY I rhymed and I didn't even know it!), penises shrivel up and fall off while vaginas close up entirely...
Wait. Hold on. That's another rant altogether. Um...
So yeah, I'm listening to Sway and the line, 'Others may be on the floor' sounds way, way, way too much like 'Others may pee on the floor.' Whether it's 10:00 PM at night and I'm surviving on nothing more than Chips Ahoy cookies and glasses of milk has anything to do with it is up to anyone's guess, but I'm of the opinion that it's the undescribably large load of homework I've been laden with over the past month or so. (Most of it I'm not actually doing.)
WAIT! Back to John, the true protagonist of this epic struggle between good and Writing Block evil. Damn them to the depths.
John is sitting at his desk trying his best (and in vain) to write a novel that he has been working very hard on for the past year or so. But there is just one problem stopping his literary genius from breaking the floodgates and wreaking magnificent havoc on the landscape plains of the literary critic world.
Mr. Writing Block Lardass has chosen to occupy his writing space for an unspecified amount of time.
And he, as the past few days have unfortunately come to shown, has a serious fucking problem with farting.
'I'm sorry, cash-in Disney family comedy flicks with half-assed morals are down the hall and on the door to the left.' John muttered more to himself than to the Writing Block with a bad case of burrito mojito.
'But John.' The Writing Block prodded. 'Just take a break, bro'! Go out there and have some frat-boy fun! You're in college. Don't waste your life at your desk in front of the glare of a computer screen writing some gay book. Get some pussy, dog!'
'You're hardly anything near the definition of a black stereotype, Mr. Writing Block.'
'But John.' The Writing Block insisted. 'Have you ever felt the inviting warmth of a woman's flesh?'
'Have you?' John asked. 'You don't even wear pants, let alone, ask me what it feels like. You're just a fat, white, block! You look like the coconut jelly I ate this morning.'
'But John.' The Writing Block pressed. 'But John.' It seemed to have run completely fresh of ideas after that pathetic first go. 'I love you man.'
John... didn't know how to respond to that sudden spurt of scrapped affection.
So Mr. Writing Block just farted again.
And John? Well. John just felt like crying. All the poor hero wanted to do was continue writing, continue his passion, continue doing what he loved doing best! And that, my friends, was your mom writing.
Seriously, I've had this huge Writing Block on my brain for... like, FOREVER and it's killing the unicorn gasoline running my Imagination Engine.
D:
D;
*Sobs*
Let's pray to the Literary Gods in Mt. Quill that the heathen demon on my desk be banished to the Netherworld, never to return again please, thank you. :3