CHÂTEAU BIMBEAUX
invites you to the
MASTURBATORY
EUPHEMISM FÊTE
on Sunday, January 7th, 2001, 4pm–?
**** Fourth Street in the Garden District
New Orleans, LA
Tél: (504)***.****


Marquis Déjà Dû               Melusine de Nuit
e: marquis@sepulchritude.com       melusine@sepulchritude.com




FAQ:
Q: What the hell???
A: Yah, you heard right. It’s a themed “Come As Your Favourite Masturbatory Euphemism” party. Whether you dress as a spanked monkey, a choked pope, a waxed dolphin, any of the suggestions in the column on the right, or your own super-special creation, it’s all good!

Q: Should I bring sumpin’?
A: Sure. Thanks for axin’. Bring some booze or beer or wine or somethin’. Cheers, dollink.

Q: Okay, I don’t even know who you are. Can I still come?
A: Well, how’d you get a hold of this flier? Probably through one of our friends, and any friend of a friend of ours is a friend of ours … or something. So yah, please come. (Are you cute?)

Q: Can I bring my cousin from Iowa? (S)He’s in town and (s)he’s really cool n’ stuff…
A: By all means. (Is [s]he cute?)

Q: I have to work on Sunday day/night/Monday morning, so I can’t come. Boo.
A: Sure you can. That’s why it starts at 4p and goes all night. To accommodate everyone. Jeezus, that was a weak argument.

Q: So, like, what the hell happens at a Masturbatory Euphemism Fête? I’m a-scared.
A: Don’t be. Oh you know. The usual. Nibbly things, cocktails, mewzik, photos, comraderie, bonhomie, and a pervasive sense of sexiness condusive to masturbation. Enough with the questions already!

Q: But I’m still so confused … about so very many things …
A: All right Jan Brady, you can learn about the Masturbatory Euphemism Fête’s conception at the Marquis’ diary:
http://www.hereandthere.com/chateaupernod/diary/001208.html#masturbate

Brought to you by le Marquis Déjà Dû & Melusine de Nuit — skøl, dahlinks.







TART!
“Making a deposit in the Bank o’ Love.”





SLUT!
“Emancipating the little slave.”
Minding the store.
Polishing the bald-headed sailor.
Combing the hair.
Handling the little man in the furry canoe.
Takin’ care of business.
Handling the merchandise.
Changing the oil.
Rotating the stock.
Shaking hands with the Pope.
Caulking the tiles.
Exhausting the Muse.
Two-fingered tango.
Parting the meat curtains.
Shocking the monkey.
Rosining the bow.
Testing the Mic.
Shaking hands with one-eyed Harry.
Visiting the land down under.
Setting the clock.
Burnin’ down the house.
Punching the munchkin.
5 against 1.
Jerkin’ the gherkin.
Ringing for the maid.
Doubleclicking the mouse.
Tossing the pink salad.
Firing the Surgeon General.
Heil Clitler!
Shaking hands with the unemployed.
Playing pocket-pool.
Tickling my fancy.
Extending the pipeline.
Shooting for the stars.
Pruning the shrubbery.
Lighting the red lantern.
Stirring up trouble.
Waxing nostalgic.
Banging the drum slowly.
Rebooting the hard drive.
Writing a letter to daddy.
Harassing the help.
Brushing the pony.
Stuccoing the ceiling.
Spackling the wall.
Borrowing a cup o’ sugar.
Moistening the self-adhesive flaps.
Frothing the baby batter.
Milking the Euphemism.
Foaming at the mouth.
Ordering a second helping of bearded clam.
Starting the lawnmower.
Shaking hands with your plus-one.
Digging for gold.
Teaching junior to stand up straight.
Testing the waters.
Making daddy proud.
Taking the easy way out.
Having a generous helping of me.
Churnin’ butter.
Climbing the rope in gym class.
Adding mayo to the hand salad.
Prying the Shriner into the tiny car.
Badgering the witness.
Getting the gold in the one-handed olympics.
Teaching the dog to sit up and beg.
Finding out how the other half lives.
Tinseling the tree.
Smothering the fussy baby.
Exorcizing the dæmons.
Joining Martha in the Hamptons.
Refingering the concerto.
Making merengue.
Icing the cupcake.
Dressing the turkey.
Finessing the outcome.
Climax and Resolution.
Diciplining the orphan boy.
Baptising the newborn.
Avasting me hearty.
Coaxing the turtle out.
Rubbing the magic lamp/Conjuring the genie.
Shootin’ for the stars.
Playin’ the meat flute.
Sneaking the puck past the five-fingered goalie.
Humming with the hairy harmonica.
Oiling down Jean Benet before the pageant.
Addressing the masses.
Tending the flock.
Weeding in the cucumber patch.
Bogarting the doob.
Mowin’ the fuzzy triangle.
Getting my learner’s permit.
Performing genetic testing on porceline.
Embezzling funds.
Popping the clutch and burning rubber.
Spelunking in Chocolate Canyon.
Collecting pollen.
Skimming off the top.
Pulling some taffy.
Knocking angels off the head of a pin.
Trephining the tree trunk.
Shining the saddlehorn.
Looking for middle-C on the left-handed piccolo.
Masking my contempt.
Stiffening the upper lip.
Performing the “Frosting Fountain Trick.”
Bleaching the sheets.
Taking candy from the baby.
Watching junior march in the parade.
Tossing tadpoles.
Giving the babysitter a ride home on the Lear jet.
Converting the bald-headed leftist.
Sittin’ on the dock of the bay.
Putting the tray table in the upright and locked position.
Parking the pink caddie in the velvet garage.
Etc., etc., etc., etc., etc., etc.