Throbbing Platypus

Do Americans give a shit about Brand?

2008-09-08T11:28:00.000-07:00

I always thought that having the hirsute Russell Brand present the VMA’s was an odd move. The foul mouthed, self confessed sex addict is almost completely unknown in the U.S. His style of humour is something very identifiably British even down to his ever-grating ‘mockney’ accent. During the run up to last night’s awards, MTV in the states ran several annoying adverts featuring Brand, further solidifying his image in my mind as a complete fuckwit and casting a doubt as to whether Americans would get him.

Still, disregarding transatlantic cultural differences, his brave lambasting of Bush and Palin was something we could all enjoy. Though such figures are cheap-shot targets for British comedians, Brand had the unique platform of an incredibly popular award ceremony that broadcasts to millions all over the globe. Whether or not he has caused a significant stir in the U.S (which I assume, was all part of his plan to propel his career to mega status) is debatable. Internet comment boards and forums may be buzzing with snipey back and forth political arguments which Brand has inspired, but, judging by today’s New York tabloids, Brand has left little impression on the mainstream media. Both the Daily News and the New York Post dedicating nothing more than a few throwaway sentences to him. Quite a contrast to his constant presence in the British press.

Brand at the VMA's

2008-09-08T09:46:00.000-07:00

Last night saw the 25th annual MTV Video Music Awards with the host, Russell Brand unleashing a controversial series of ribald jokes. The popular British comedian called George W Bush a retard and mocked the pop band Jonas Brothers for wearing purity rings, symbol of pre-marital abstinence.

He also urged the Americans to vote for Barack Obama “on behalf of the world”. Brand said of Bush: “I know America is a forward thinking country otherwise you would not have let that retard cowboy fellow be president for eight years. We were very impressed we thought it was nice of you to let him have a go, because, in England, he wouldn’t be trusted with a pair of scissors.”

Brand’s comments about the Jonas brothers virginity continued for several minutes before he moved on to Republican Vice President nominee Sarah Palin, commenting on her daughters pregnancy and openly suggesting that the whole affair was a “PR stunt.”

Brand self styled provocative humour apparently didn’t go down well with everyone. American idol winner Jordin Sparks responded to his Jonas Brothers dig by saying: “There’s nothing wrong with wearing a ring…not everyone want to be a slut.” Brand did apologise for the remarks but with tongue firmly in cheek: “I didn’t mean to take it lightly…A little sex once in a while never hurt anybody.”

Hilarity at the Republican convention

2008-09-04T20:24:00.000-07:00

Have you been watching MSNBC's coverage of the G.O.P convention tonight? If not, you have just missed a moment of tension busting slapstick. The reporter at the convention was trying to give her post-speech analysis when she was violently buffeted by hundreds of balloons. Actually unable to speak and at points completely obscured by balloons, she tried valiantly to continue but was hilariously cut off. As soon as a video is located, we'll post it.

Protestors infiltrate convention to disrupt McCain speech

2008-09-04T19:28:00.000-07:00

Senator John McCain's speech to the Republican convention was disrupted by several protestors. One woman was shown on live broadcast scuffling with security, taking off her jacket and thrusting her hands upwards giving the two fingered peace sign. As she was aggressively escorted out of the building, a flustered McCain tried to regain composure by pleading with the gathered delegates to not be distracted by the "ground noise and static." There were also sightings of protestors holding signs in the crowd, one reading: "You can't win an occupation." The incident follows a huge amount of unrest outside the convention where an alleged 10,000 protestors gathered, clashing with police resulting in an estimated 250 arrests.

The difference between men and women

2008-08-28T09:33:00.000-07:00

By Sam Park
Television has hit an all time low, and it’s called The perfect vagina. Any man would think that this was a very promising title, but don’t be fooled. The reality show it conceals, is dark and horrifying. Still, it does manage to highlight a fundamental difference between men and women that will always exist.
Read More

A Day in Brixton With Kool Keith

2008-08-21T11:46:00.000-07:00

By David Cano

"Now my helmet's on, you can't tell me I'm not in space."

- Dr Octagon

Let’s not fool ourselves here, Kool Keith is a bit of a fucking fruit loop. I always chuckle when I see a straight forward, conventional interview with Keith because I know now that getting a coherent answer out of him is almost impossible. Listening to him speak is like being on magic mushrooms. He’ll start off with something that seems to make sense, but then he’ll keep rambling in this strange mesmeresing and non-linear fashion until you stop listening and ask yourself: “how the fuck did he end up talking about kangaroos?”
Read More

Saucy Internet Chats: 2

2008-08-12T20:29:00.001-07:00

Today I spoke with a female friend about the nature of women. And how they like to cry and touch each other's vaginas.

The Slutty Headband

2008-08-12T20:05:00.000-07:00

One time a friend of mine went to Japan and bought me a headband. He also bought me some weird condoms but i was scared to use them 'cos I thought Japanese men have small willies. Anyways, a while back I took the headband to a party and tried to get a picture of every single person there wearing it.

Procrastination

2008-08-10T13:58:00.000-07:00

By David Cano

Daniel Lambert, the 17th Century Fat Celebrity

2008-08-09T10:44:00.001-07:00

Saucy Internet Chats: 1

2008-07-18T11:57:00.000-07:00

Saucy Internet Chats: 2

1970-11-23T20:25:00.000-08:00

Today I spoke with a female friend about the nature of women. And how they like to cry and touch each other's vaginas:

11:48:53 Tabi: sarah tried to talk to me
11:48:58 Me: woooop
11:49:06 Tabi: and i talked back
11:49:12 Tabi: mainly to shut you up
11:49:18 Me: tell me everything!!
11:49:44 Tabi: she said hi on here....and then just apologised again and was like im sorry i really didnt mean it
11:49:52 Tabi: and i calmly said yes you did lets forget it
11:50:08 Me: and.....
11:50:12 Tabi: and she said she didnt mean it
11:50:14 Me: did you cry???
11:50:22 Tabi: and i said lets agree to disagree....cos you did mean it
11:50:25 Tabi: no no crying
11:50:37 Tabi: and then being typically here she went and got all arrogant on me but ill let her off
11:50:53 Tabi: she said oh keep in touch while im away we could even use I chat as she doesnt use it
11:50:58 Tabi: and i said lets hook it up
11:51:06 Tabi: and she said i cant hook up with you i havent got time
11:51:09 Tabi: i was like cheers for that
11:51:11 Tabi: i meant i chat
11:51:42 Me: and then you cried right?
11:51:50 Tabi: no there was no crying
11:51:56 Me: did you both cry and hug and touch eachothers vaginas?
11:51:57 Tabi: i havent seen her or anything
11:52:01 Tabi: oi
11:52:06 Tabi: do not talk about her vagina
11:52:18 Tabi: i dont want to think about her vagina
11:52:22 Tabi: it makes me sad
11:52:24 Me: not in a sexual way
11:52:37 Me: like you both just held eachothers vaginas and cried
11:52:52 Tabi: im afraid not
11:52:58 Me: overcome with the joy of being women
11:53:10 Tabi: hmm
11:53:20 Me: just holding them
11:53:22 Me: blubbering
11:53:29 Tabi: do not talk about vaginas
11:53:30 Me: swapping first period stories
11:53:44 Me: crying
11:53:50 Tabi: is this waht you think life is really like
11:53:54 Me: yes
11:53:57 Me: yes i do
11:54:12 Tabi: im sorry
11:54:15 Tabi: its really not
11:54:20 Me: thats what girls do when theyre together
11:54:29 Me: look at their vaginas with mirrors
11:54:32 Me: and cry

Procrastination

1970-11-23T13:56:00.000-08:00

By David Cano

I am the King of procrastination. Actually, I’m like the fucking emperor of this shit, seriously. Even now, whilst trying to write this column about procrastination, I’m procrastinating. That’s like meta-procrastinating.

I’ve got it down to fine art. Over the years I’ve developed a variety of different methods. Most of them involving the internet. I’ve set up a complicated routine of checking that means I’m busy for hours without actually ever doing anything. It’s like OCD borne out of sheer laziness. The key is to have several email accounts and use them all for different purposes, that way you’re guaranteed to get something in each of them. Of course they’re all supplements to the mandatory faceballs, mywank and jewtube accounts. It works perfectly.

It never used to be so easy. The internet has really simplified procrastination. Back in the pre-internet days there was only so much you could do. You could eat, watch tv, maybe have several wanks, but to procrastinate to the fullest, you really had to get creative. One of my favourite things to do was pretending my hand was a little rollerblader. I could make him jump from the desk to the bed, which was only like a foot away but because he was small it seemed like he was jumping the grand canyon. Also, I used to like lying on my bed, throwing a tennis ball at the wall and making it bounce in a way that it would fly directly back to my hand. The purpose was to move as little as possible. I had to stop that one though because once I misjudged the bounce and I took a particularly nasty shot to the nuts.

The thing that really revolutionised procrastination for me was smoking drugs. That was like a whole ‘nother level. I didn’t even have to do anything to procrastinate, it was incredible. I would literally just sit there doing nothing. I doubt I was even thinking, my brain was running on absolute bare minimum. If a spaceship had scanned the area around my sofa for brain wave activity it would have got a reading comparable to the scanning of a turnip. The only time I would get up would be to make some super noodles, but even that required a Herculian effort. I was just sitting there, on ganja mountain. I’m amazed I managed to remember to breathe during that time. Alas, after five years of procrastinating in such a fashion, I developed some pesky mental health problems so I had to stop taking drugs. Which in a way was a shame because ganja mountain was pretty easy compared to real life.

All in all, whether you’re masturbating furiously, smoking drugs or checking your email for the 33rd time, the end result is always the same. And that end result is that you’re doing nothing instead of doing something important, which is all good until you like, get a terminal illness or have a kid or some shit.

A Day in Brixton With Kool Keith

1970-11-23T11:37:00.000-08:00

By David Cano

"Now my helmet's on, you can't tell me I'm not in space."
- Dr Octagon
Let’s not fool ourselves here, Kool Keith is a bit of a fucking fruit loop. I always chuckle when I see a straight forward, conventional interview with Keith because I know now that getting a coherent answer out of him is almost impossible. Listening to him speak is like being on magic mushrooms. He’ll start off with something that seems to make sense, but then he’ll keep rambling in this strange mesmeresing and non-linear fashion until you stop listening and ask yourself: “how the fuck did he end up talking about kangaroos?”

Everyone always likes to harp on about how he spent time in a psychiatric hospital. Whether he did or not remains one of those annoying little rumours that every shitty little hip hop rag likes to salivate over. Personally, I don’t need to see official documentation from Bellevue to realise that this guy is a few raisins short of a fruit and nut bar. Initially I was meant to interview him but instead, we spent a whole afternoon wandering around Brixton while he held my dictaphone and went off on ridiculous tangents.

Keith’s been doing interviews for over 20 years since the Ultramagnetic MC’s days. Naturally after 20 years of being asked the same questions, I think he’s realised that he can just talk about whatever the fuck he wants and the hip hop press will lap it up like the pathetic little Pavlovian mutts they are. When I was with him, I just let him go with it. The experience was enough for me.

I was meant to meet him and Kutmasta Kurt at their hotel in south London. When I spoke to Kurt on the phone he said: “Get here as soon as you can because once Keith wanders off, it’s pretty hard to track him down.” Unsurprisingly, when I arrived he was nowhere to be found. Kurt and I went out on the look for him eventually finding him in a nearby internet cafe. He was slouched in a chair with a Kangol hat pulled down over his eyes, checking his Myspace account and snorting - I assume because of his allergies.

Kurt introduced us: “Hey Keith this is David, he’s here to do the interview.” Keith leant over and gave me a limp untrusting handshake. Kurt then asked Keith what he wanted for breakfast: “Shall we get breakfast Keith? Didn’t you want some pancakes?” It’s then I realised the nature of the relationship between Keith and his long time DJ/producer. Kurt is like Keith’s carer. He keeps his schedule for him, looks after him and makes sure he doesn’t disappear or run in to trouble. And he does it with an admirable amount of patience. "We've missed flights," he explained. "He thinks the planes will just wait for him, I say 'Keith, we have a schedule' and he's like 'I'll just wait for the next one'. I have to explain to him that there is no next one."

I got the feeling that looking after Keith is much like looking after a big kid with an insufferably short attention span. Being around him I couldn’t help but fall in to the role of talking to him like he was one. I would ask him the patronising questions you would ask a child like: “Do you like Chinese food? What’s your favourite kind?” It was difficult to relate to him on another level. His mind and focus would just shift as quickly as something new would cross his path, whether it be a shop, a restaurant or more often, a girl. Despite this, he would say some incredibly insightful and perceptive things, though trying to keep him on that track was impossible.

Through sheer persistence and patience, I did actually get him to talk about his music and his latest single, RIP Dr Octagon, which I suppose, was the whole point of meeting him.
"I was tired of Octagon, that's why I made the record dissing him," he said. "I've worked on so many other projects throughout my life, my life doesn't revolve around Dr Octagon, people are just stuck on it. I do a lot of other things. I collaborate with so many people."
"Who do you like to work with?" I asked in my awkwardly patronising way.
"I like rock bands, they just come in and let you do what you want to do. They just hand you an envelope and smoke weed and roll up a bong…"
Kurt cut in: "Did you just say roll up a bong?”
"Yeah," continued Keith, ignoring him, "they just roll they things and let you do what you want. I work with some producers and they want me to conform to the project. A lot of these artists have requests, they want me to rap about a leaf for the whole song. These rock bands pay me out the ass, like ten grand and I can rap about my ass or taking a shit and they like it."

After that, he spent a long time talking about how there should be a huge party in the Bronx and every rapper, producer, DJ, actor and celebrity should be invited. Still, in those few sentences, he’d showed me an illuminating glimpse of his character. He's a non-conformist who treads the line of playing up to his “crazy” persona, and actually living it.

Together we walked up Brixton Road which Keith noted was “like 125th street in Harlem.” I managed to temporarily capture his interest when I told him about about all the shootings and nail bombs that happen in the area. However, he was soon distracted by a robust black lady who he tried to engage with by whistling and shouting: “Hey! Chocolate!” After that we went in to Foot Locker where an over-zealous security guard took offense to me taking a picture of him and for some reason tried to wrestle a sneaker out of Keith’s hands. He suddenly got very confrontational and threatened to "take off my hat and sock that nigga.” As we left, Kurt leant over to me and said: “That’s the Bronx coming out right there.”

After looking at a dozen different places to eat, we eventually ended up in the shitty Speedy Noodle where an admirer had a picture taken with Keith. After some food, Kurt had a meeting to go to so he called Keith a cab to take him back to the hotel, worried that he might get confused finding his way back.

As he lowered himself in to the taxi and said goodbye, I detected a real sadness in Keith. Keith doesn’t fit in with the regular world, he doesn’t have time for the everyday concerns of regular people and thanks to his early success, he never really had to deal with them. He’s seemingly managed to live out a kind of perpetual adolescence, immersing himself in things like comic books, drugs and porn. After so many years of it, he seems tired. The world of constant tours and countless interviews is not interesting to him. His mind wants to reach upwards and outwards in to space but the anchoring monotony of every day life weighs him down. I wonder what his life would have been like if it hadn’t been for hip hop. It’s given him a sense of identity and a position in the world which he will be forever associated with. Without it he could have been just another weird guy on the block. Instead he’s become an icon of black music and eccentricity much like George Clinton, Sun Ra or ODB. The crazy rapper. For this he will not only be remembered but both lauded and misunderstood forever. Whether or not he gives a shit is another matter.

Kool Keith at Myspace

The difference between men and women

1970-11-23T09:32:00.000-08:00

By Sam Park

Television has hit an all time low, and it’s called The perfect vagina. Any man would think that this was a very promising title, but don’t be fooled. The reality show it conceals, is dark and horrifying. Still, it does manage to highlight a fundamental difference between men and women that will always exist.

Picture this scene. A load of guys (I’m talking real guys, with tattoo’s, beer stained wife-beaters, sweaty armpits and skid marked under garments,) sitting in a circle, holding and touching each others penis’ in a ‘circle of trust’, saying things like: “Gary, I just have to say mate you have a beautiful phallus, I really love and respect your member.” It would never happen.

Men see each others genitalia all the time, whether it be in communal showers at the gym, or lining up at the piss troff down the local. But this common bond is, for the most part, not talked about. We may comment on the size of each others meat sticks by giving them playful nicknames like Doug ‘the donkey’ McJib or, at the other end of the spectrum, Nigel ‘The Shrew’ Tweedbury IV. But, other than these examples, which are a part of an ancient ritual where men establish dong hierarchy, this is as far as it goes.

However, judging by The Perfect Vagina, given half a chance, women will talk endlessly about their dirty beef curtains, and it’s disturbing to witness. To save this piece from being a sexist rant some points must be clarified. It is very understandable that women have “personal issues” and may wish to seek council, but come on, on national television? In front of some crack pot who calls themselves a journalist?

It goes something like this: A group of women sit on a bed holding mirrors. One by one they expose their perfectly natural va-jay-jays and everyone else has a look and passes positive comments on how it looks fine even though she’s had eight kids and insists on using a twenty inch dildo five nights a weeks. Then one of them gets upset and has to leave the circle of snatch because it’s just all too emotional to be having a gander at another woman’s pud. Then the crazy boho hippy journalist is like: “no, no, come back to the circle of trust, the circle of minge is a place of trust, it is beautiful, your fishy petal is beautiful.”

Now it’s fine to do this kind of shit in your own home, but at risk of repetition, not on bloody television and not in my name! The constant tampon adds are bad enough, we all know what women do, so why advertise it? Women need to take a page out of the MAN book and shut the fuck up. Also, unless I’m watching some porn like, A Minge Too Far or, Star Whores - The Phantom Minge, I do not want to see a close up of a splayed out meaty gash hole on my television ever again.

Daniel Lambert, the 17th Century Fat Celebrity

1970-11-23T09:31:00.000-08:00

By William Kraemer

Daniel Lambert (1770–1809) is remembered for one reason. He was the most corpulent man of his time. His adipose bulk expanded to such a monumental size that he (willingly) became an object of fascination to the masses. Allow me to relate his massive story.

Born in Leicester, Lambert grew up a regular sized boy. Apprenticed to an engraving and die-sinking firm in Birmingham he enjoyed a reasonably run-of-the-mill late eighteenth century existence. In 1791 his father resigned as keeper of the Bridewell Prison in Leicester and Daniel succeeded him in this post. It was during his time as keeper of the Bridewell that he began to amass the bulk for which he later achieved fame. By 1793 he weighed 32 stone. The uncanny fact that he had an athletic enthusiasm for walking, swimming, and hunting points perhaps towards some strange cardiovascular disorder - though there was no theorising in this vein during his life, nor has there been since. Perhaps he simply ate all day long. I suppose he must have eaten rather a lot, for he drank only water, and slept less than eight hours a day.

The prison closed in 1805 and Lambert was granted an annuity of £50. The next year he decided to turn what was initially an immobilising ring of flab into a source of capital. He was a clever man: he had a special fortified carriage built that could carry him to London. And in April 1806 he began charging to ‘receive company’ from midday until 5 in the afternoon in a room at 53 Piccadilly. The crowds flocked to marvel at his ample proportions and his wallet began to resemble his gut. Even the newspapers took note:

‘When sitting’ (according to one account) ‘he appears to be a stupendous mass of flesh, for his thighs are so covered by his belly that nothing but his knees are to be seen, while the flesh of his legs, which resemble pillows, projects in such a manner as to nearly bury his feet’.

Remarkably, he was not an object of laughter, ridicule, or derision. This blubbery globule of a man was an object of polite intrigue. Indeed, it was agreed that his face was ‘manly and intelligent’, and that he possessed a quick wit. He was an admired freak.

After London he went on tour, visiting Cambridge, Huntingdon and Stamford where, according to one newspaper, he ‘attained the acme of mortal hugeness’. It was indeed mortal: he died in Stamford, on the third leg of his tour of the provinces. His coffin was specially constructed with a vehicular chassis consisting of two axles and four wheels; it required 112 square feet of elm wood for its construction. His body was rolled down a gradual incline from the inn to the burial-ground of St Martin's, Stamford Baron.

Lambert's sudden and unexpected death was caused by the stress placed on his heart by his copiously pinguid innards. At his death he was 5' 11'', and weighed 52¾ stone (336 kg). His waistcoat had the impressive girth of 102 inches and is preserved in Stamford Museum with other articles of his clothing. This weight greatly exceeded that of the two British men whose corpulence achieved fame: Edward Bright (42 stone), and John Love (26 stone). However, Daniel Lambert was not to be the international master of meat, he was not to be the worlds tubbiest lard-bucket. No. An American contemporary, Miles Darden, outweighed Lambert at a whopping 71 stone. They've always outdone us in the obesity stakes across the pond (something for which we should be thankful).

There are several portraits of Lambert; the best is an oil by Benjamin Marshall in Leicester Museum and Art Gallery. Lambert's portrait also appeared on a large number of public house signs in London and the eastern midlands. This presumably was not to give the patrons an image of what they might become if they indulged too heavily in their drinking. The image of the morbidly obese was not then what it is today. In Lambert's time there weren't newsagents on every corner selling a plethora of cheap confections consisting mostly of sugar in different coloured shapes. The eighteenth century, though it knew of gluttony, was not married to it with the lust and vigour that today's society is. Even the 71 stone Miles Darden would never have tasted a processed burger whose contents would be largely unfamiliar to a butcher. Today we struggle to avoid mono sodium glutamate, a flavour enhancer that persuades palates worldwide to enjoy fast food even though it boils down (not literally) to a haphazard bundle of sugar and lard. For someone to become a gigantically spherical in the eighteenth century was clearly fascinating, intriguing, even admirable. Things are different now.

Today the image of the morbidly obese is all too common and takes up too much space on public transport. As obesity clogs up the media, the government, and even the bureaucratic institutions, with its oleaginous obtrusiveness and sweaty odour, we can but pray that it dies of a heart seizure. Fat chance.

In Pixar's new CGI cartoon, Wall-E, they're issuing a gentle political message: humans of the technologically advanced future are a universally obese race whose floating wheelchairs convey them hither and thither (seemingly to no purpose) while telescreens are suspended in front of their faces, blocking out any possible true contact with any true, unmediated experience. Pixar's somewhat soft dystopia, for obvious reasons, fails to adequately address the health risks of obesity. But no one expects (or wants) a Disney film to address the cardiovascular, musculoskeletal, and neurological side effects of obesity. That's what I'm here for and I have the secret to that toned body you see in every Gym advert. But you know the secret already: stop watching television and ditch the secret lard habit.

If that doesn't work and all the salads you can possibly eat have no effect your tumescent rolls of flab, its probably because you're still living a sedentary lifestyle (sitting or remaining inactive for most of the day (e.g. in an office) with little or no exercise). If you're not a fan of sports, or running for the bus, or staircases, or getting out of your seat for any reason beyond the most severe bladder-based expediency, fear not. There is always angst: physicians have known for centuries that anxiety can cause weight loss but no one, as far as I am aware, has taken it on as a functional tool for flab-removal.

Start with some Sartre. He was the venerable father of French existentialism and his works are guaranteed to startle you into a veritable quicksand of disquietude. You should have no trouble developing an intense existential fear of the purposelessness your existence. And if you really apply yourself there is no sensible reason why the angst should ever diminish. Indeed, the more thought you give it, the more futile will seem your every moment of existence. As the worry accelerates and your brain churns with vigorous machinations, trying in vain to out-think the mute, unforgiving universe, the pounds will drop from your breeches and that wonderful summer swim suit you wore in 1974 will fit again. You may also go completely mad. But thats better than being fat, right? Neitzsche descended into unutterable lunacy when confronted with the existential intractability of the Godless universe and his sister stepped in and rigorously revised his complete oeuvre into a antisemitic whirlwind of nationalist propaganda.... but he wasn't fat now was he? There now. You'll be alright. Uncle William has the answers.

If you'd like to further wallow in Daniel Lambert's corpulent magnificence, you can visit either the Stamford Museum or Newarke Houses Museum in Leicester who both house some artifacts of his.

Saucy Internet Chats: 1

1970-11-23T09:21:00.000-08:00

This is basically where on of us directly copies and pastes a private IM conversation we've had. Naturally with no regard for anyone's privacy. For this, our first installment, I lifted a convo I had with a friend who's recently split up with his lover. All I wanted to know was what everyone wants to know: whether he popped her in the bum or not.
13:21:49 Me: is Tabitha in Manchester?
13:21:54 Gunther: yeah
13:21:58 Gunther: kinda gay
13:22:01 Me: how does that feel?
13:22:11 Gunther: kinda gay
13:22:29 Me: are you thinking about touching her hair?
13:22:53 Me: and smelling her ear lobes?
13:22:57 Gunther: hahaha
13:23:08 Gunther: not really
13:23:14 Me: dont lie to me
13:23:19 Gunther: never
13:23:26 Gunther: are you still going to the u.s of gay?
13:23:47 Me: you're imagining the sweet caress of her pubic hair against your chin
13:24:08 Me: the gentle lapping of your balls against her bum hole
13:24:23 Me: too far?
13:24:51 Gunther: no comment
13:25:07 Gunther: anyway
13:25:08 Me: did you ever put a finger in her bottom?
13:25:11 Gunther: fucking hell
13:25:13 Gunther: no
13:25:16 Me: why not?
13:25:31 Me: just a little tickle
13:25:53 Gunther: dont wanna push my luck
13:26:00 Me: so you never ventured in to the chocolate compound?
13:26:18 Gunther: nope
13:26:22 Me: shame
13:26:29 Me: could have been beautiful
13:26:54 Gunther: i guess so
13:26:59 Gunther: still got something to look forward to
13:30:23 Me: so its all done then?
13:31:23 Me: you and Tabitha?
13:31:40 Me: no more romantic walks in the park
13:31:51 Me: no more sweet whispers
13:32:08 Gunther: im going away for half a year so yeah
13:32:11 Me: no more tender misunderstandings
13:32:33 Gunther: no more breakfast-less nights
13:32:44 Me: you love her
13:32:48 Me: i know you do
13:32:54 Me: i can hear it in your voice
13:33:13 Me: the way it cracks and trembles whenever her name is mentioned
13:33:19 Me: Tabitha
13:33:24 Me: can you hear it?
13:33:31 Me: its being whispered in the wind
13:33:40 Me: carried on the wings of butterflys
13:34:10 Gunther: (W)
13:34:19 Me: sorry, is this upsetting you?
13:35:06 Me: you're gonna be ok buddy
13:35:07 Gunther: 'sall good
13:35:12 Me: we can get through this
13:35:19 Me: you can learn to love again
13:35:53 Me: i can teach you
13:35:59 Me: but first
13:36:04 Me: i need you to let go
13:36:09 Me: and just...
13:36:12 Me: touch it
13:36:19 Me: go on
13:36:23 Me: it wants you
13:36:36 Me: the flesh is willing
13:36:36 Gunther: touch what exactly
13:36:40 Gunther: oh
13:36:42 Gunther: that