27 January 2011

Pussy Stone


“I can't remember my name.” 
“charlie. I want to tell you something. ” 
“charlie. go ahead, tell me something.” 
“I can imagine there being people deemed roman, from the empire, who climbed up north to central europe, penetrating like men to the lands unknown for their kind. and you know what they found intriguing in the fine ladies they met?” 
“fine ladies...” 
“they saw these ladies all over the countryside and even in the cities eating the finest cheese ever seen like it was candy. like our candy today, don't know what their metaphor of choice would've been. and the fine ladies of a certain country were told to have hands with white nail tips like the wings of an angel.” 
“I know this one. and so was born french manicure. ” 
“yeah french manicure.” 
“this reminds me of a time, a time my father used to speak about. being stationed in france, back in the WWI. imagine all those all american boys fighting against whatever for the greater good of humanity. those sweet milk and honey boys with no idea about how depraved a land europe was, and how their ancestors had run away from just that sinful chaos of liberation...”
“finding innocence from a battle field is like finding a straight drag queen from here.”
“I never really understood it before, but now I see that war being a trigger for something beautiful. the 1920s.”
“I've missed you, charlie.” 

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