You know in hindsight it might have been a little harsh of me to so rapidly dismiss my current paperback preoccupation as some kind of young adult soft-core pornographic clichéd cookie cutter word jumble.
I’ve given it the benefit of the doubt and ploughed on through six chapters because I’m just that dedicated to second and third chances.
Which sounds impressive on the surface, till I let slip the fact that, while I am at chapter six, I am concurrently on page 40.
It’s not one for heavy thinking. The same chest has been described as ‘chiseled’ in two separate chapters and the hidden identity of the female protagonists mysterious and deadly counterpart in battle was so shoutingly obvious that my brain immediately auto corrected ‘Greyfriar’ to ‘Gareth’.
But they finally put some action sequences in there and eased up on the authors projected and frankly idiotic adoration of felines.
Please don’t think I’m being harsh on the author(s?), I’m not calling them idiots per-se, I just believe the adoration of cats is an idiotic and fruitless activity across the spectrum of existence.
Just think what such prolific people as ancient Egyptians would have achieved if they didn’t spend so much time getting boners over fucking cats. I mean they built fucking pyramids in that weather!
I tried to put together my kids play-tent indoors with the heat pump cranked a little too high and chucked a 90s teenage angst level shit-fit because I was uncomfortable and sweated slightly.
Fucking cats man.
Anyway this weeks WTFDTMF is bought to you by ‘The Geomancer’ by two cat loving individuals Clay and Susan Griffith. Whom I’m certain are delightful and friendly folks despite the fact that their house fucking stinks of cat and they’re constantly covered in feline fluff.
It’s ok, I can make fun of them for this because I’m sadly in the same boat. It’s like how when guys like Kendrick Lamar can use the N word like it’s a fucking comma and its cool but if someone like Eminem did it there would be a riot so he just has to make due with using real words and stringing lyrics into smoldering hot masterpieces of literary godliness.
Which smells like a noun but with a distinct taste of prosody. Which is most certainly not a very specific brand of lubricant used for prostate examinations.
Even though the ‘Pro’ could perform as a prefix and the ‘Sody’ could act as an abreviatio for ‘Sodden’.
In which case you would be dealing with a water based lubricant being that silicon or oil based doesn’t really hold the penetrating power (pun intended) to leave something sodden.
Then again being left sodden really isn’t what you want when it comes to a prostate examination I’d imagine. For a lot of blokes it’s a cherry popping situation and it’s only going to happen analy from here on out.
The least they could do is use some of that ultrasound gel, and warm it up a little bit.
Next time the product rep comes knocking trying to sell you his horrendous Prosody™ then be a good GP and tell him to shove it where the sun doesn’t shine.
But apparently where the tide is in.
Prosody™ is actually a noun and used in reference to the pattern or rhythm of sound used in poetry much like an Iambic Pentameter.
As far as Iambic Pentameter is concerned, I am neither intelligent enough, nor do I care to spend the time learning about it to break it down into a funny yet gutter level bum or willie joke right now so the best description I managed to find is HERE.
If you’re curious that is.
If not, next time someone attempts to pull off a limerick starting with a man who came from Nantucket, you can act all high falutin and tell them that the joke was good but their prosody was utter gob-shite.
Then throw your pint in their face and hoe into your decorative little basket of peanuts which is half full of cigarette butts before they smash a bar stool across your back.
I have honestly no idea where I lost control of that one.