According to the Google image search, this is an example of "language". I can't tell if this proves or disproves my point. Luckily, I'm also not sure that I had a point to begin with.
Why do human beings use language? This is a question that has plagued scholars of literature for so many generations that the question itself has become buried under mountains of novels, poems, plays, and essays. Why do we, of all of the creatures on the planet, use language to communicate our needs? They're the same basic needs as every other animal on Earth - food, water, shelter, reproduction. And yet, not only do we create new words on a daily basis (and I admit, I'm personally guilty of a good percentage of them), but humans around the world speak thousands of different languages, often all in the same public high school. It's like we're constantly adding to the sum of human language, desperately trying to tack on that one more word that will finally convey the idea that began when the first primitive writer set ink to parchment. Because I am actively avoiding the possibility of accidentally finding a job in the future, I am currently an English major. Recently, I sat down and thought about just what that means. Why study the English language? And even more, why study what other people have already written? I came to the conclusion, as I usually do, that I honestly don't care what the real answer is, and that if I make one up, it will be just as satisfying. So I did. We study the literature that has already been created so that we can get closer to finding out what the first thought worth writing down really was. Now, like most English majors, I am prepared to spend my entire life trying to solve this enigma, so long as I can justify it to enough grant committees that I can keep going to school until I'm sixty without paying a dime. However, as resigned to this life as I am, I'm simply not the patient type. So rather than do all that, I just figured it all out. Yesterday, in fact. It turns out that the first truly literary thought, the first notion ever worth immortalizing in print, the first concept upon which all other literature in human history has been based is this: "I want to get me some."
It's beautiful, isn't it? Simple, subtle, and yet it speaks volumes. "I want to get me some." It brings a tear to my eye every time I read it. However, there is a part of me that is saddened by this. Not because the thought that spawned all of literature as we know it is about trolling for booty, not even because the first person to ever write was intelligent enough to create written communication, but still couldn't get any, but because mankind did not make this revelation earlier. Can you imagine how centuries upon centuries of literature would be different if all of those writers knew that the purpose that writing was created in the first place was to say "I want to get me some?" Can you just picture what some of the greatest writers in history would have written if they had only known that the true purpose of all writing is to get some tail? I mean, granted, everyone knows that's what all poetry is about, but everything else, too? What would they have written then? I'll tell you what they would have written: erotica. They would have advanced that original notion by interpreting it the way that only they could. It is my pleasure and privilege to bring to you a taste of what your English class would have been like if the literary greats dropped all the pretense and finally got nasty.
The immortal Bard as he likes to be seen: scary as hell.
My mistress' eyes are blue as the sky's blue,
Her hair's red is the red of flame's ember.
I love to see her cheeks as they flush, too
When her mouth is wrapped around my member.
The touch of her lips fills me with such bliss
And makest me a jolly, gleeful fool.
Aphrodite has no such potent kiss
As that which now my mistress gives my tool
Music hath no rhythm, drums have no beat,
Apollo's harp cannot match time or sound
Like that with which my mistress eats my meat,
The pace with which her head bobs up and down.
She'd strike me if she read this, guaranteed,
So it's a damn good thing the bitch can't read.
"Look at me! I'm delightfully insane!"
semenstain the satin sheets, we soar to boudoir acluttered by a sexualamous gettitonery of human epidermial periphery meshed. Plumber Butch had arrived via autonomous translocational contrapulation marked upon the sides with the gestus of his autumnal plumbery for the occupational and financially motivated extrapolation of a scraggy blocade in the drainagerial cylindrical steel which quelched (rattleysputterbumsplish) the mobilius operandi of the remainder gatsronimacal of Sarah Johnson; she was ensconsed in the pssssssshledropdrop tiled, beaded, devoid of mildew, and justaminute called once dingdong danged; looped cloth tied round her inward intestinal curve and upon the tresses concealed save few and revealed cleft valley twin slopes enhanced siliconiously when she twisted and pushed chunksikswoosh to greet.
Visiontakened Butch foyerward, ensnagged her with topleg brawny and mouthsoundwinded wanner see muh plumber snake? He downtwist and reach to Sarah bodyraise. Teeheetee we to boudoir quicken thump thump thump; pumphaink upon the bed, she one swany limb towel tossed, mane wriggled and foof, morth aw morth, tun maffazus tun as hens stwih toolbelt laden with metal and clatterclank on carpetting, then Levi's shfook and Hanes' too; knot unknotted and robesides flap nipple peak. Intercourse (mmmahyeahoothatfeelsounhyeahunhoohahoohunhyeahyeahohbabymmmmmmmm ohharderharderyeahohbabymmm rightthereohmmmahyeahmmmoohoohahmammalikesmammalikes mmmunhfftthhhahfasteraheeahoohahbaby thisisthebesthousecallIevermade) ensues and I'm spent. (Author's note: trust me, it's sexy.)
Heh heh... "Dickens." That's too easy.
It was a wooden park bench which sat, that Thursday afternoon in July, before the couple with whose naughty bits this chronicle is concerned. The bench seemed to the young man to suit the purpose to which he had set himself as well as any other surface, and his companion, whose nature was of the feminine persuasion, had no disagreements to raise. Such the height of their passions for one another, this young man of seventeen years, whose father managed Paulsen's Bank on Duchess Avenue, which had admittedly fallen into disrepair but was nonetheless a cornerstone of the community and a well-respected institution, and the young woman of comparable age, who was the daughter of John Maplebottom, the very same John Maplebottom whose fame as a litigant had won him the recognition of the governor of Derry on two separate occasions, the second of which he celebrated with more joy than the first, and with good reason. Their inexperience and anxiety was evident in their motions as they sat upon the bench and delicately took another in their arms. The young man, whose first name was Charles, ran his fingers tentatively across the nape of the young woman's neck. The young woman, whose first name was Elizabeth, blushed and stole a quick kiss. Charles was immediately struck by how forward this young woman was, and upon consideration, found this to be quite to his liking, so he pursued a kiss of his own, which blossomed into many kisses of varying strength and duration. Hardly more than a moment passed before the introduction of a tongue into the scenario. Elizabeth pulled away from such an oral invasion at first, but Charles assuaged her justified fears by informing her that he had heard news from France that the young lovers in Paris had taken to kissing in such a fashion. Swayed by his persuasiveness, she capitulated and they returned to the business at hand.
With trembling and roughly guided hands, they undid the various laces and ties of each other's clothing, refusing all the while to terminate their kiss for even a moment, and similarly refusing to open their eyes, due to a fear that they would have their eyes open at the same point in time, and that their eyes would meet, and the sight of one another's face in such proximity would cause a stirring of awkwardness. In time, however, they managed to disrobe entirely, and they gave no care for where their raiments fell, whether on grass, earth, or cobblestone path, for such was the intensity of the desire of each for the other. They gave no care to the possibility that another person might happen upon them, perhaps an associate of their parents, or worse yet, their parents themselves, nor did they care for the chirped remonstrations of the birds who scoffed at their nudity. Charles leaned his Elizabeth slowly backward, easing her back against the surface of the bench, which thankfully was crafted by a steady hand and from a smooth cut of the finest lumber, so that no splinters jabbed into her pale flesh. As their lips met again, their trembling hands explored each other's bodies, caressing like the rays of the sun warming the highest branches of the trees as it breaks over the hilltops, seeking out the places which elicited the strongest of reactions.
Charles rained quick kisses down upon the neck and collar of his love, until at last his lips, his hand preceded, met with her right bosom, behind which Elizabeth's heart leapt in the throes of anxious carnality and trepidation. A short gasp escaped from between her lips, no longer than a wink of an eye, but Charles took the signal to mean that his actions were encouraged, and indeed they were, and it was only the setting and her nervousness which cut Elizabeth's exhalation short. As Charles nipped and sucked at her full, tender, heaving breast, Elizabeth reached with one wandering hand, down past his shoulders, tanned and toughened by days spent in the fields in play with friends, over his back, taut and straining and lightly speckled with the raised marks of adolescence, down around the curve of his pelvis, to find his manly treasure. Perhaps a woman more familiar with the bodies of men would give a different opinion if she was so asked, but to Elizabeth's her hand, it seemed a massive thing, its many-chambered walls packed to bursting with the young lad's heart's blood, the very stuff of his life. She ran her fingers along the turgid shaft until she felt her lover's weight shift above her.
Feeling that the time had at last come for him to do what it was that he had brought her there to do, Charles slowly eased his rigid manhood into her magnanimous virginity. Finding the confines therein warm and moistened, he sighed, the sensation overpowering all of the thoughts in his mind of his father, of schooling, or of the strange carriage he had seen at rest beside the six stone steps to the entrance of the bank on Duchess Avenue. Taking his cue both from the majesty of the waves rolling against the shore and back out to sea again, and also from the numerous times which his faithful hound Barkley made the sweetest of loves to his thigh, Charles arched his hips away from Elizabeth, then drove them forward once more, an act he found much pleasure in repeating. Elizabeth, coated in a film of sweat, moaned softly at the feeling of it all, and pressed her palms against his back. The planks of the bench forced themselves against her spine from beneath, which she found distracting. She gave consideration to asking to shift position or possibly even location, perhaps to the grass just beside the bench, but she knew that the phrasing of such a question while in the throes of passion would have to be carefully chosen, lest the intimacy of their encountered be forever shattered. As she dwelled on the particulars of the matter, she felt a peculiar shudder from her lover, and a sense of satisfaction came over her, for she knew that the point was now thoroughly and irrevocably moot.
Admit it, you have absolutely no idea if this is a picture of William Blake or not.
Tiger, tiger, in the sack
Rake your talons down my back
Who can feel that kind of hurt
And not in a minute spurt?
What sort of man can abstain
When you give him such sweet pain?
How can I not shed a tear
When you remove your brassiere?
For I know what lies ahead
When you climb into my bed
And such anticipation
Leads to ejaculation.
Where did you learn to perform
Those tricks that keep me so warm?
Was it in some story'd halls
That you learned to juggle balls?
Perhaps in the future I'll
Last a little longer while,
Until then I'll try my best
To miss your face and hit your chest.
Tiger, tiger, in the sack
Rake your talons down my back
Who can feel that kind of hurt
And not in a minute spurt?
That Blake and his control issues. Ha! That's just a taste of the wonderful smut that the world will sadly never know. Perhaps I will try to recreate the pornographic works of some more of your favorite authors another time. Until then, thanks for reading. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go kill myself for ever thinking it was a good idea to use Finnegan's Wake as a model for parodying Joyce. Ugh, my head still hurts.
A Web of Lies
As we all know, the internet serves two purposes: it is a marketplace for the exchange of all manners of pornography, as well as place for all of society's rejects to come to whine. We'll be getting into that first part in today's Awful Link, but in the meantime, Rich "Horse Tranquilizer" Kyanka has something on that second part. He's here with the results of a special investigation into the world of goths, witches, and wiccans. In other words, get ready for all the bitching, moaning, and angst that your pathetic, sun-drenched, mortal brain can handle, because it's another installment of The Weekend Web!
Yes, it's a veritable orgy of the Damned as all of the pasty, whiny freaks, misfits, and pariahs of the internet-capable world come out to play on this week's Weekend Web! Be sure to check it out, but for the love of God, please take these people seriously! If you make fun of them, they might all kill themselves. Really. They'll do it. They mean it this time.
Did Louis C.K. jerk off in front of two female comics? And why are these ladies squandering an opportunity to learn from a comedy legend?
Elliot said my breakup must have been due to the sweater curse, an unexplained phenomenon where anyone who gives their significant other a hand-knit sweater gets dumped. The only way to break the curse, Elliot said, was to destroy the sweater.
The Something Awful front page news tackles anything both off and on the Internet. Mostly "on" though, as we're all incredible nerds.