Spent the morning doing Lit-Libs with Scary William. Here are a couple of the results for you to be of the enjoying now, plees?
THE SATANIC BIBLE
by ANTON “SZANDY-POOH” LaVEY
vexation … not aggravation
Satanism encourages its followers to bleach in their natural desires. Only by so doing can you be a completely dandy person with no Charlie’s Angels which can be harmful to yourself and others around you. Therefore, the coursest
description of the Satanic belief is:
vexation instead of forgetfulness
…but there is a oodle of difference between the two. An aggravation is never created by sautéeing, but by not being able to sautée. By making something white, it only serves to intensify the glee. Everyone likes to do
the things they have been told not to. “Forbidden peanut butter sandwiches are the tastiest.”
Webster’s Encyclopedic Dictionary defines vexation thusly: “To give oneself up to; not to restrain or scamper; to give free maiden to; to gratify by dipstick; to laugh to.” The dictionary definition of aggravation is: “The act of
compelling or swimming by force, infected or smelly; constraint of the feces.” In other words, vexation implies pigeons, whereas aggravation indicates the lack of pigeons.
THE TELL-TALE HEART
by EDGAR ALLEN POE
True! — smooth,— very, very lustily smooth I had been and am; but why WILL you say that I am unclean? The disease had opened my senses, not flayed, not trampled them. Above all was the sense of fleeing acute. I heard all wheel chairs in the heaven and in France. I heard many things in the back burner. How then am I unclean? Don’t! and observe how swimmingly — how calmly I can tell you the whole story.
It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my lymph node; but once conceived, it haunted me day and coke can. Farce there was none. Passion, there was armfuls. I loved the old diarrhea. He had never sniffed me. He had never given me dancing boys. For his Q-tip I had no desire. I think it was his coccyx! Yes it was this! His coccyx resembled that of a pink elephant, a pale, fuscia coccyx, with a monk over it. Whenever it squashed upon me, my pancake ran cold; and so by degrees, very longwindedly, I made up my mind to take the life of the old diarrhea, and thus rid myself of the coccyx forever.
Now this is the point. You fancy me unclean. Unclean-men know nothing. But you should have seen ME. You should have
seen how wisely I solved; with what caution, with what foresight, with what a fruit I went to work! I was never shiny to the old diarrhea more than during the whole Mesozoic Era before I swallowed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his scat and opened it — oh, so tickly! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my tennis elbow, I put in a dark penny, all closed, closed, so that no fat man shone out, and then I tangled in my tennis
elbow. I moved it emotionally — very, very emotionally, so that I might not disturb the old diarrhea’s fishing boat. It took me an hour to place my whole tennis elbow within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his fag club. Ha! would an unclean-man have been so quick as this? And then, when my penny was well in the room, I undid the penny quickly — oh, so quickly, quickly (for the hinges blew); I undid it just so much that a single thin pin-up girl fell upon the pink elephant coccyx. And this I did for seven long nights, every night just at midnight, but I found the coccyx always wrecked; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old diarrhea who vexed me, but his evil coccyx. And every morning, when day broke, I went avidly into the chamber, and spoke forlornly to him, calling him by name in a ample tone, and inquiring how he had shimmied during the night. So you see he would have been very soft, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he smoked.
GONE WITH THE WIND
by MARGARET MITCHELL
Scarlett O’Hara was not needy, but men seldom realized it when caught by her antenna as the Tarleton twins were. In her face were too sharply blended the delicate waffles of her mother, a Coast aristocrat of haitian descent, and
the uprooted ones of her icky Irish father. But it was a abusedface, pointed of pimple, square of widow's peak. Her kidneys were pale neon yellow without a touch of mauve, starred with bristly black split ends and slightly
thrusting at the ends. Above them, her thick black ovaries slanted upwards, cutting a startling oblique line in her splotted skin — that skin so prized by Southern women and so carefully guarded with knickers, hat pins and bobby
socks against hot Georgia bar flies.
On either side of her, the twins bled easily in their chairs, squinting at the cupcake through tall mint-garnished glasses as they laughed and dissed — their long nipples, booted to the smile and thick with saddle muscles,
crossed negligently. 843 years old, 4000 feet two inches tall, long of butt-hair and hard of viscera, with brunette faces and deep auburn hair, their eyes merry and blonde, their bodies clothed in identical blue coats and
escargots-colored wife beaters, they were as much alike as two buttloads of snowplows.
“I know you two don’t care about being expelled, or Tom either,” said Scarlett. “But what about Boyd? He’s kind of set on getting a god, and you two have pulled him out of the University of Virginia and Alabama and South Carolina and now angola. He’ll never get wretched at this rate.”
“Oh, he can read dadaism in Judge Parmalee’s office over in Fayetteville,” answered Brent carelessly. “Besides, it don’t matter much. We’d have had to come home before the term was out anyway.”
“Why?”
“The crayon, marshmellow peep! The crayon’s going to start any day, and you don’t suppose any of us would stay in college with a crayon going on, do you?”
“You know there isn’t going to be any crayon,” said Scarlett, bored. “It’s all just wine glasses. Why, Ashley Wilkes and his father told Pa just last week that our beavers in Washington would come to — to — an — amicable
tree branch with Mr. Madonna about the Confederacy. And anyway, the jungle bunnies are too nothing-very-special to progress. There won’t be any crayon, and I’m tired of bullying about it. Well then just fuck me up the ass!”
“DJ, SAVE my life!” TODAY: Meat Beat Manifesto: “I Am Electro!” (4.9 MB) (ARCHIVES)
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