Spatula Pad

The night is young, yet the mansion is ready for the party.
He’s been planning this well & thinking it through all week.
Not one to shy away from the strange & obscene, he thinks of some party tricks.
Ladies are many & boggle his mind, for he sees himself as an urban Casanova.
Unable to settle for one love, he prefers to love in threes or fours.
The time arrives, the guests are bouncing, & the party is swinging about.
Beauty abound & lovely young sights, he thinks of nibbling on chocolates or rose water delights.
Tricks do begin, but it’s the usual tosh, yet he’s thinking about what he can do.
With weird ideas swirling & too much bourbon soaking, he goes to the kitchen & thinks, “What do I have & what do I need to get my perversions on track?”
Looking & looking, he opens the cupboards & draws with swirling thoughts plaguing his mind. Staring about, but not yet drawing attention, he grabs three sturdy blue spatulas.
Like Houdini on crack or DMT, he makes frosting enough for three cakes.
It’s causing some giggles & a few weird looks, but he’s too fucked in the head to agree.
The frosting is made, it tastes like a sweet dream, so he lines the bowls up on the bench.
He waits for the prudes & the boring to leave until ten of the lovelies remain.
Once properly pinched & appropriately plucked to shine bright, he smears frosting all over the nymphs. Once frosted, he moves in & starts to carnally satisfy his longing for sweets.
There’s frosting about & in places unseen, yet he beats his best record of four.
With ten lovely ladies all over him now, he’s a man in a heaven of sorts.

Caravan Park Conundrum

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He’s a retired surgeon with a taste for woodwork.  He lives with his wife in a lovely house with good security and a vegetable patch. There’s a park down past his rear fence, which is pretty and quiet. However, to the right of his house, just a few blocks away, sits a caravan park.

No one knows how this caravan park came to be built in this location. Some say it was a stroke of genius on the developer’s part, while others say that the developer bribed the Council.  There is a reason why the caravan park now sits on that land, but let us not get carried away.

He loves the quiet. It’s wonderful for reading, woodwork, painting, and more. Sometimes he likes to give the stereo a blast to remind him of the 70’s.  It’s never before 9 am and always before 10 pm. He respects his neighbours.  He thinks he’s sweet.

He remembers his first Saturday once the caravan park was up and running. There was never a Saturday like this one before, but will probably be many thereafter.  That Saturday changed him forever.

Now Saturday has arrived again. It is the night. There is a wild party, and the caravan park is alive. What is this hell he must endure? Why is there so much noise? He finds relief with earplugs to grab a few hours sleep.

Then, Sunday descended. Saturday was hard, but Sunday is worse. Sunday consists of many fights from hell. Beer bottles fly about, kitchen utensils and tools go everywhere, shouting and banging lingers, and there’s an awful lot of barbecues.

There is a lull at 3 am, which turns into quiet. The weekend is over for another week. There is so much relief.

Your World of Bling

You live in a world of bling.  Kitsch Swarovski bracelets line your arms, new wave necklaces and earrings from markets and independent sellers line your walls and the Duchess in your bedroom. More beautiful pieces lay locked in your safe, but they are large and gaudy.  

Fashionista, you walk down the halls of fashion magazine offices, take to the seats before runways so modern, and mingle with the fashion elite at shallow parties with dim lights, awful music, and terrible cocktails.  You are living and loving in the scene of chic cool and unencumbered soulless troglodytes.  Never a moment to stop and think about where your life is going or what you will do when those looks fade or your world crumbles.

You invited a new crowd to your home for a party.  They’re a dull bunch, but you think they may be of some use to you.  You’ve become so used to equating commodities with people that you forgot what it means to be human.

He walks in and makes your heart do a saucepan dance.  So loud is your heart, you can barely hear him speak.  This is not who you’re usually like, or is it how you usually act.  He smiles at you and you go a bit limp and loose; melting all over the floor. As you start to talk, it becomes clear he is a particularly sexy chap with elegant attire and a haughty way.  You simply cannot understand yourself.  Why is he doing all of these things to me?

The party goes well, you see most of those boring guebangle-2156210_960_720sts to the door, but he lingers.

He says to you with a sarcastic smile, “Bangle girl, you are so weird…what are they anyway?” 

You’re about to give him the flick but unintentionally say, “They’re kitsch Swarovski. It’s not to everyone’s taste, but I like them…”

Eyeing more than just your bangles, he says, “I don’t mind them.  They suit you…we can’t all be alike…”

You eye each other for a bit, it becomes slightly awkward, and then you both launch into a session of wild pashing, together with a bit of touch and tingle. The floor becomes your bed. You’re both rolling around like 20-year-olds.  Turns out those bracelets, or bangles as he calls them, has multiple uses.

Cullender of Colander

At home she rinses the vegetables in the Colander.  The water washes over the vegetables, then down through the holes, and into the drain to head for the water treatment plant.  Once the water arrives it is treated and cleansed so that humans can consume the resource again.

You stand in the kitchen talking to her about how unsuitable she is to cook you food and how everything about the two of you is disintegrating. She wonders what you are on about, or if you have lost the plot.

Unable to deal with your talking after many attempts to obtain a resolution, she turns the Colander into a Cullender, places your head in it, and washes water over you until you cool down.

Now that you are her vegetable, all the rubbish flows down through the drain to head for the water treatment plant. Perhaps they can clean up your bullshit.