The muse has kept me very busy lately – busy because she recently picked up the habit of dictating drafts and I’m ladled with the job of making sense of her raw materials and dispatching same.
I’ve got lots of good stuff from her, I’m just working on making them into the kind of stuff you would like to listen to.
Recently, also, a villager complained that her messages have become too short and impersonal and that a classic, longer, short story like the earlier ones would be preferred. Please let me know what you think too because those take longer to whip up.
It’s been a great week so it should be a perfect moment to beat an R Kelly tune on the gong, with some autotune to boot, beacuse AfroSays:
(and yea, it’s not the R Kelly song you think, it’s World’s greatest )
Sir? The mmmm...
Ojukokoro, coveteousness, she brought it all out of the mire of my subconscious to the forefront; you could almost see the lust dripping from the corners of my mouth. Good thing my wife’s gaze was glued to a rerun of Desperate Housewives because my inner man told me that I was looking like a crazed ostrich.
I sucked it all back in, I would not let this Delilah end my career. My wife was right beside me, i would not let this Lorelei end my marriage.
“Sir, your files…” She turned.
Why does this Jezebel turn around five or more times per conversation? Doesn’t she know that my heart is in poor condition?
I massaged the left side of my chest as she turned to face me with a wry smile on her face. She bent low.
“Sir, the stamp”
I used my free hand to ease the excited blood vessels on the side of my head into cooler temper. I refused to die because of this daughter of Eve.
“… And the stamp pad…” She bent lower.
Doesn’t she know that old men don’t see such things and live to tell the story? What in blazes did the succubus want from me? My eyes were running, my mouth was dripping lust in torrents, my body started overheating, my life-support machines became an orchestra.
I passed out.
I came to.
I fired her from my hospital bed.