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Media Review I cherish the beach. I always have. When I was a boy, my father never whipped me once. Not once! Instead, he would take me down to the beach, rip my trousers off my body in front of every last sunbather out there, grab a handful of the wettest sand he could find, and then proceed to rub it vigorously across my tender ass cheeks and in my crack, quoting from whatever latest piece of literature he was currently reading. Just before the skin opened up under the friction of a thousand little sand diamond razor blades, he would drop me right there, my butthole the color of a turkey’s neck, and then he’d walk away, leaving only the beach, the countless sunbathers, the frothy waves, and his confusing literary quotes to soothe my tears. And I’ve had a respect for all five of those things ever since, though I rarely bother the bathers anymore, as it usually ends up with the police involved. Sometimes, however, I just can’t resist. Three days ago, I was combing my neighborhood waterfront, scavenging for whatever treasure or food item the waves had decided to bless me with, when I spotted the oddest fellow ambling along in my direction. My first inclination was to avoid him, to either bury myself or swim out into the sea as far as I possibly could, but on a second glance, I realized that this particular fellow was fancily dressed in those pretty suits that pre-teen boys wear to the prom in order that their dates will be more of a mind to fiddle with their whackers later on in the evening. He even had on one of them tall magician’s hats that he kept tipping to every sand crab and broken shell that he happened to come upon. “Good day to you,” he would say to one. “A precious time for a seaside stroll, isn’t it?” he would ask another.
I will be honest here, I quickly glanced around to see if it would be possible to rob this character with no one noticing, but unfortunately there was a bus full of old bean nuts arriving at the public parking lot, apparently taking a short vacation from the nursing home. Instead, still desiring to utilize his noticeable rich status in life, I decided to beg for some money, sex or food from him. When I approached him, before I was even able to say, “A little something for a helpless retarded World War II vet,” he produced a small book from his coat and plopped it into my hands. “I could not help but notice, my slovenly friend, that you posses the most disagreeably degenerate appearance I have ever seen,” he said. “If you are not indeed riddled with cancer and a thousand of those other diseases you people get, this book here will be of much benefit to your failed life.” He patted me on the head lightly with the palm of his hand and said, “Do you wish to enlarge the bulge in your pants, have a peaceful conversation with a faulty refrigerator, or learn how to carefully slip a live toad into a partner’s drink at a formal dinner party?” I squinted my eyes at him and scratched my armpit. “Then read up, my man,” he cheerily said. He wiped the corners of my mouth with his handkerchief and tapped me on the butt with the bottom of his shoe as he passed. Then he was gone, whistling on down the beach complimenting everything from the driftwood to the waves that washed over the bottom of his nice pants.
I was left
without money, sex, or food - only a book called “The
Semi-Complete Guide to Sort of Being a Gentleman”.
If that finely-clad fellow skipping down the beach behind me was a gentleman (and he surely was because I spotted him on the cover of the book), then I wanted in. A gentleman must surely have tons of sex with piles of money on a bed of food every single day. I began reading immediately. Alas, much to my disappointment and continuing despair, there was nothing of worth, and by the time I reached the section on how not to use old vinyl records as dinner plates, I tossed the book into the sea. Being a gentleman seemed like the hardest thing in the world to accomplish. I was required to kiss every child between the ages of three and nine on the forehead if I encountered such children in the men’s room, or the “Sir’s Toilet” as it was called in the book. I had to sit at the feet of the most obese woman at any park bench where there was no space for me to sit on the bench itself, it being too crowded by park-goers. It was mandatory that I lick the tip of each of my fingers and those of my hosts, before consuming meat in the presence of large carnivores other than other human beings. And if that wasn’t enough, it was at my discretion when passing gas at a picnic to either conceal the offensive odor in between the bread of an uneaten sandwich, thereby losing that sandwich as a meal, or excuse myself and dig a hole no less than twenty-five feet away and between three to three and half feet deep wherein I could then pass the gas safely, remaining over the hole for at least ten minutes until the gas has dissipated into the fresh dirt. If those were the requirements to go from poverty-born, beach-brushing vagabond to fancy formal gentleman, than I was content to stay on the beach. I sat myself right down near the edge of the water, near where I’m sure my mother gave birth to me, and while watching the mysterious gentleman’s water-logged book sail off into the sunset, I furiously chafed wet sand into my own already sore ass crack.
This article written
by
Truston. |
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