Beats Entropy

Ask BE: A question of decency

A.J. Valliant — Thu, 15 May 2008 18:19:17 +0000

“I fear for my moral well being. Could you please rate the fruits and vegetables in terms of their inherent decency

Lucas Darden”

You set difficult task, Lucas. I’m not really a proponent of objective morality to begin with, and my dietary choices offers limited opportunity for vegetable dalliance, but a question is a question….so I’ll give it a shot.

(Ranked in descending order from Most to Least Decent. The Majority fruits and vegetables are fairly neutral, so I will emphasis the less reliable of their ilk.)

Vegetables/Fruits/Tubers ranked in order of their moral forthrightness

********

Potato

1. I would rank toast here, but several exchanges with agriculture Canada made it clear that it is neither fruit, nor vegetable[1]. I must, therefore, surrender up Toast’s usual place of primacy to it’s starchy brethren: Potato.

The dowdy, if loyal, housewife of the vegetable world, Potato’s are blameless in deed and thought[2]. Though we mash and French them into in myriad forms, there dignity is immutable.

Decency: 10 Licentiousness: 0

——————–

2.Raisins.

Ascetic grapes that have chosen to walk the purifying path of the sun; they surrender up their sinful juices that my oatmeal might be delicious, and righteous. Wizened and wise, their chewy husk a martyrs bounty, natures candy deserves our respect.

Decency: 9 Licentiousness: 3

————————————

3. Lemons

Harder to love than most, Lemons[3] are tasty on their own terms. Initially cultivated as punishment for unruly Roman slaves, lemons whispered secret words of justice and comfort…salving their wounds, and puckering their mouths. Eventually the Roman empire collapsed; Lemons persevered.

Yes, Lemons are tad bitter and sour…but who the hell are you to judge? Have you lived their life? Did you and all you fine social graces stop by to bring me groceries when I broke my leg? No…cause Lemons did. That’s right, judge them now….you pimps….you whores!

Decency 9 Licentiousness 0 Bitterness 4

————————————————-

4. Celery

A dietary non entity, celery is composed of: water, string, and a few splashes of chlorophyll. It aspires to nothing, and achieves it. It cannot be reviled, anymore than it can be trusted.

I wrote a poem to better encapsulate my distrust of their vegapurgatory :

Would you watch me die, Celery… unmoved by my passing.

Drinking up my blood, with your capillary action.

Decency: 0 Licentiousness: 0

—————————————-

5.Figs

False Raisins made from shrunken flower plums, Figs are liars and defamers; their huge size necessary to hold the weight of their betrayal. Lacking in prunes somber dignity, Figs promise sweetness they cannot deliver, and provide comfort to terrorists’ worldwide. Were it not for there joyous Newton incarnation, they would much lower on this list.

Decency: -3 Licentiousness: 5

————————————————

6.Kiwifruit

Moderately delicious, if loathsomely hairy, the Kiwifruit is undermined by it’s own low self esteem: any fruit that feels the need to have “fruit” as part of it’s name…to remove any doubt to it’s fruitness, is either a) trying way too hard, or, b) has something to hide. If my parents named me AJclearlyahumanboy you would almost have to assume I was a robot, or time traveling alien bent on subversion of the human race. Wouldn’t you? Fruit of character stands on it’s own merits, without the need for redundant nomenclature.

Also: they look a little too much like the Eye of Sauron when cut open. Makes you wonder.

Compare and Contrast

Decency: -5 Licentiousness 3

—————————————————-

7.Apples.

Wholesome. Dentally efficacious…and by many accounts: in league with the Devil. Sorry apples…we don’t truck with Satanist around here.

Decency: 8 Licentiousness: 5 Consorting with primeval Chthonic forces: 9

———————————————-

8.Parsnips

In olden days Parsnips cavorted in the near ground with their Carrot brethren, brighter hued…but dark of spirit. Eventually Parsnips wicked perversion ignited a war between them, and the more noble root vegetables, forcing them deep into the Kobold caves. Deprived of the near sun, Parsnips were bleached by darkness and bitter woe, until they took on the awful pallid hue they posses to this day.

Bloodless as an old mans caress, Parsnips are the reaching pedophile of the plant kingdom. Avoid them at all costs.

Decency: -10 Licentiousness 7

——————————————–

9. Bananas

Oh dear, sweet, dirty bananas. As delicious as you are licentious. Nutrifying as you are scandalizing. Undermining the self esteem of many a man, with your yellow phallic majesty.

When I was eight my grandmother sat and watched me eat a bushel, her unblinking eyes fixed upon me. A decade later I still couldn’t meet her gaze…the unspoken shame lingering…lingering between us. She’s dead now…though I do not blame Bananas for it, I wonder if the extra potassium was really worth those long years of uneasy silence.

Decency: 3 Licentiousness 10 Capacity to produce hilarious accidents and childhood trauma: 7

*****

Obviously many are left out…but I can’t live Lucas’s whole life for him. Man up, Luke….grab something ripe, and take a bite…hell be dammed.

******

[1] It also made clear a wide spread, thinly veiled, hostility woven into Agriculture Canada’s customer service policy.

[2] Only the Russian found a way to corrupt their nature…but commies ruin everything. Potatoes are no more to blame for Vodka, than they are the deaths of a half million gypsies crushed beneath Stalin’s bootheel. If you must blame a third party, blame Frances over punitive war reparations for empowering the Russians…not innocent potatoes.

[3] Limes are lemons flashy cousin that hangs with fast crowd, but never quite fits in. Flavouring Gin and taquitos…all the while trying to forget its caustic Citrus roots. Pick a side Lime… we know who you really are.

Passive Depressive #145

thekenji — Thu, 15 May 2008 13:30:51 +0000

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Passive Depressive #144

thekenji — Tue, 13 May 2008 22:26:23 +0000

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Letterday 180: Short questions revealing motes of hidden bitterness.

A.J. Valliant — Thu, 08 May 2008 18:08:04 +0000

I spent my my week throwing childrens off buildn’s, and preachers from bleachers…yet still my heart is empty of joy. Perhaps a Letter Day will ease my burden. Let’s get down to business.

***********

How are doing today[1]?

Ariel

Concerned Stranger

I’m feeling a little off, to be honest. I don’t know if it was a water pressure issue, or the different angles of my ladies friends shower, but I couldn’t get my balls unsoapy this morning. And I’m not talking a light residue; I was surrounded by a frothy mankini that resisted all the standard abolutions. I almost gave myself a damn faucet enema, yet still my scrotum would not remit its soapy bounty. Vexing.

Eventually time constraints drove me out into the world with bubbly pants, and a waft of failure that belied my alarmingly fresh scent. An unsettling turn of events, to be sure.

***************

Are you mean in person? You seem mean.

Goucho Verde

Not for the most part, but I have my moments. For instance:

I spit on a old man today[2]. Right in his wrinkled old man face. My only regret is not slapping him dry after the fact.

Here’s how it went down:

I, AJ Valliant, am attempting to cross the deathtrap intersection in front my house. A wizened gnome decides he’s going to turn his red Saturn directly into me. I generously direct his attention to the flashing walk sign, the old man acknowledges this, and applies the brakes. I continue across, only to have grandpa mayhem accelerate once again in my direction…bumping my bicycle.

Now, I am understandably upset with his low speed attempt on my life, and make my displeasure known by pounding the hood of his car, and suggesting his surviving relatives euthanize him for the good of the clan. He takes affront, and makes like he’s going to get out of his car and try to be a tough guy…to the obvious horror of his lovely (if equally aged) wife. At this point I’m forced to weigh the visceral satisfaction of pummelling a contentious adversary, with the moral questionability of brutalizing a man well into his 80’s, on a public street.

His wife spared me a difficult choice by restraining him from exiting the car. Instead he rolled down his window, made several loud aspersions in towards to my person and rearing, then presented a gesture of gross incivility. I then spat, derision and phlegm, into his scowling visage. He drove away before things could escalate further.

Not my proudest moment, certainly…but maybe in the top 100.

*************

So what’s been happening with your quest for new music? Any breakthroughs?

It’s been a little silent around these parts lately.

Aldo

Turns out I’m surprisingly down with alt-country-folk stuff. I never would have thunk it… but it really plays into my love of the story song. There is something about the measured pace that really lets you absorb well crafted lyrics.

The best of a good lot:

http://radio3.cbc.ca/play/band/JUSTIN-RUTLEDGE/Too-Sober-To-Sleep/

http://radio3.cbc.ca/play/band/Oh-Susanna/Johnstown/

[The Oh Susanna one in particular has become one of my favourite songs. Sordid old west tales of abusive pimps, and murdered whores, enflame my sentimental streak.]

And for a little instrumental counterpoint: This track has Bass so dirty sexy it’s probably making time with your girlfriend right now.

http://radio3.cbc.ca/play/band/King-Cobb-Steelie/My-American-Partner/

********

[1] Reader note: This email was received on Friday.

[2] And by today I mean some point earlier this week…but it reads better when written in the recent past tense.

No PD

thekenji — Tue, 06 May 2008 18:16:07 +0000

Hey guys,

Due to a crazy workload, there will be no Passive Depressive this week. Sorry for the inconvenience.

Kenji & Phil

Dear India: smarten the fuck up

A.J. Valliant — Thu, 01 May 2008 19:36:32 +0000

*Watch this before proceding*

“Babies are dropped several stories for good health and good luck at a shrine in Solapur, in Maharastra, India.”

They drop babies off a fifty foot building…for luck…and good health.

What is the rational here: You do something so brutally unthinkable off the bat, that things are bound, statistical speaking, to improve for the child? Or perhaps the inevitable brain damage they suffer gives them a sunny disposition…that could be mistaken for life long happiness. Or, more likely, the process (and the concrete) simply weeds out unlucky children from their more fortunate brethren. Darwin’s retarded step sister at work.

I have seen crack addicted child mothers, on prom night, exercise more care and concern over their children[1]..

Now I realize people[2] are going to make the case for cultural variance, and religious tolerance: this is not a question of variance, but velocity. Lying about the Easter Bunny is an acceptable concession to superstition; whiplash is not an acceptable form of karmic adjustment. I don’t even like babies being dunked during baptism…flinging them naked off buildings, in the hopes that blanket wielding yokels will cushion their fall, is biblically irresponsible. Where are the mothers in this[3]?

How does a tradition like this even start:

Tushar: Hey Rajwant, congratulations! How is the new baby.

Rajwant: A blessing, truly a blessing. Only…and I hesitate to say this aloud…he is a tad sickly, and his luck…the worst I’ve seen.

Tushar: Rough deal. Hey…this is a little unconventional, but do you know what you should try?

Rajwant: What is that?

Tushar: You need to take that kid to the tallest building in town…and just drop it off the side.

Rajwant: Are you serious? How is that a good idea?

Tushar: let me tell you this: my cousins wife accidentally dropped her son off a cliff, and now he sells more clay pots than anyone else in town. You’d be a fool not to do it!

Rajwant: I see you no holes in your logic. Get the ladder.

And this is the country we trust to provide tech support for complicated IT enterprises. I don’t want my LAN support team firing our server off a bridge, in the hopes of ensuring future network stability…it’s just bad business.

Oh sure: in a perfect world we could all fling whoever we want, off whatever we want, without consequence. We, however, live a world where there are substantial Newtonian repercussions to launching children off shrines…and any culture aspiring to a level above barbarism should take those repercussions into account, before incorporating gang baby tossing into their religious observances.

The only good thing about this video is the dude at the end busting out a powerslide drum solo. He saw the camera and took a shot at making the big time. While I generally wouldn’t advise a scene of communal child abuse as a ideal venue for self promotion, you have to respect his moxie.

************

[1]Let me be the first to say I am not the best parent. I gave my children absurd names, am often drunk in their presence, and once forced them into a zeppelin race around the world to prove their love for me…and still, even I never considered hurling them off a five story tower for luck. All right…I did consider it…but I didn’t go through with it.

[2] Damn hippies, and closet babies flingers, for the most part

[3] Likely pressed beneath long poles, on a bonfire, to preserve their honor.

Passive Depressive #143

thekenji — Thu, 01 May 2008 15:07:17 +0000

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Passive Depressive #142

thekenji — Tue, 29 Apr 2008 13:31:03 +0000

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Letter Day 40: Letters n’ stuff

A.J. Valliant — Fri, 25 Apr 2008 19:27:49 +0000

It’s too nice a day for intros. Let’s get down to business.

******

“When is it appropriate to use a smiley (or emoticons in general)?

Joshua Filmore”

It is appropriate when you are:

-Posing as 13 year old to catch a child predator

-A child predator trying to disguise your real age

-(ironically) applying one, following a scathing personal assault on someone

Ie. I’m sorry god twisted your womb and made you barren in punishment for being such a bitch ;)

-High as shit

Outside those narrow exceptions emoticon use casts a pall of doubt over ones literacy, upbringing, and general worth as person…making one suspect you were raised by a mall food court, and told bedtimes stories via black berry.

******

“You write a lot. Or at least you used to. But you never talk about what you are reading. Do you read books.

VJ Abishak”

Not a lot…certainly less than I should. Mostly I get by on sugar packets and the liner notes from Danish live sex recordings. I’m honestly surprised I haven’t back slid into complete illiteracy (as opposed to the somewhat functional illiteracy I make due with currently).

In part this is cyclical thing: I read two or three books a week for a while, hit one that bores me, then I’m stuck until I can bring myself to finish it. I’ve spent upwards of six months away from the written word trying to wait out low quality narrative… praying for prairie fire to sweep away the offending literature. Gradually, I forget I ever enjoyed reading in the first place. Eventually I push through, start something good, and am reminded of the transformative power of other peoples words.

My summer goal is to read a book a week that is outside my outside my literary wheelhouse (read: people with laser eyes and talking swords). I’ve recently begun a bedtime dalliance with a historical account of Karl Lagerfeld and Yves St. Laurents rise to fashion power in late 60’s/early 70’s Paris (The Beautiful Fall). It’s dry, absurdly specific, and gayer than Freddie Mercury’s moustache…yet still I persist. The dreams….have been troubling.

*********

”What do you think about this http://www.cnn.com/2008/CRIME/04/25/sean.bell.trial/index.html

Essentially 5 plainclothes police officers rolled up on a bachelor party, guns drawn without identifying themselves, causing the guys to book it….to which the police responding by firing 50 shots into the car. One cop fired 33 shots. There were no guns on any of the men in the car”

Amal,

Beechburg, NY”

Now lets not rush to judgement here: as I understand the car brushed one of the officers pant legs as the suspects were pulling away….and by all accounts they were very nice pants…so it’s only natural that the cops fire a few dozen warning shots, directly at them…for a couple of minutes.

The part of that article that made me laugh (in a tragicomic way):

“Federal prosecutors will conduct a review to determine whether there were any civil rights violations, Brown said”

Now I’m not that familiar with American law…but I had assumed “not being gunned down in your car by random police officers” was kind of a given, in terms of rights one could reasonable expect to have. Do they really need a expert in constitutional law to suss over the facts…make sure no Flags ignited while the cops were playing Bonnie and Clyde? Perhaps there’s concern about their right to assemble…in a car…without being gunned down by the police. The whole thing is obscene and depressing.

Though the winter is long, living in Canada defiantly has its pluses.

Passive Depressive #141

thekenji — Thu, 24 Apr 2008 14:53:25 +0000

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Passive Depressive #140

thekenji — Tue, 22 Apr 2008 13:59:06 +0000

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Angst and Basketball

A.J. Valliant — Mon, 21 Apr 2008 05:07:18 +0000

I spent three and half hours, on a perfect Sunday afternoon, drafting an imaginary NBA team in a league I will likely never play in. The other twenty eight people that were supposed to be in the league no showed the draft, so it was just Rob and I talking trash, while a soulless computer hustled us into a series of bad decisions and interpersonal conflicts.

During the 15 minute wait that punctuated each 10 second turn, I stood underwear clad in front of my street side window, doing squat thrusts and weighted lunges. It was my way of punishing the world for not being sufficiently enticing to give up my inane choice of activity. Eventually I begin doing fancy plyometric drills, trying to avoid eye contact with the city folk that pass beneath my window. I cannot attest to the location of my underwear.

Predictably, this utter misuse of a day stirred up the sort anticathartic angst that leads to games of Russian roulette, and purchases from Ikea. I feel like gathering up children and forcing them to watch a slide show of my trip to Pomona beach….until they start calling out the names of the waiters.

The irony: the reason I engaged in a multihour draft with theoretical strangers, instead just playing a few quick games with Rob, was a desire for narrative; a greater context to celebrate my victories. In the process I created a dead spot in narrative of my actual life. The need to freeze and construct my fun made it this draining artless thing; leading to a day of perseverative lament and overwritten self commentary.

The moral of this dismayingly true story: Do stuff, instead of trying to make the non-stuff you are doing seem important.

Passive Depressive #139

thekenji — Thu, 17 Apr 2008 14:29:59 +0000

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ASK B.E.: Baby names?

A.J. Valliant — Tue, 15 Apr 2008 17:22:46 +0000

My wife and I are about to have our first child. While we are good people, we are not creative people. I do not want my child to be dammed by a bland name, or stigmatized by an lame or ill fitting one. Could you please help us suss this issue out, and come up with a suitable list of candidates.

Daniel Maitland,

Portland, Ore

You were right to come to us, Daniel: few factors shape a child destiny like poorly chosen name. There are a few factors to consider:

Does the name, in and of it’s self, suck?
Does the name set a unreasonable standard of cool to live up to?
Is it gender appropriate?
Is it French?
Did you ever bang a crazy girl/guy that happened to have that name?

Let’s address these issues one by one, together, like a family.

*Note: I’m not going to rag on the really foreign ones: people from places without potable water already know their names are ridiculous, no need to rub it in.

*******

1. Does the name, in and of it’s self, suck?

Certain names, independent of cultural context and personal appropriateness, fail at the starting gate. Observe the following subcategories

Acoustic atrocities.

These dissonant sonic constructs offend the ear, and summon deeply unpleasant onomatopoedic association: Helgatha, Pubert, Regina, Oswalt, Edwina: all bring to mind substances squozen out of a boil. You might as well give your kid a bowl cut and unibrow straight out of the womb.

b. Crimes against phonics.

You cannot simply lay down random collections of letters, then assert pronunciation after the fact. Nor can you add random foreign prefixes to make them sound classy.

Ryne is not Ryan… no matter what your trendy whore of a soccer mom told you.

Kristee wastes E’s, and deprives down on their luck Y’s of much needed work in the Vowel industry.

Deron is not Darren, it Dee-ron, so no, Mr. Williams, you don’t get to correct people when they “mispronounce” it.

J’Anthony or La’Quisha suggests a thwarted GED study, not a lost French Barony.

c. Hyphenated double names.

Bobby-Jo, Mary-sue, Joe-jack, Tommy-John (not the surgery). You need to pick a first name and stick to it. Double names show a lack of commitment, and general hillbillery.

Initials ending in J are subset of this: giving a child an over a 70% chance of becoming a douche bag. Names such as J.J., B.J, TJ…and yes, even A.J., all provide substantial detriment to developing into a respectable human being.

2. Does the name set a unreasonable standard of cool to live up to?

Marcus Vandal Vaughn is a legacy, not a name. Were I to affect that name, I would need employment as a underwater welder on a mob submarine…fighting off sharks the whole time, to have any chance of pulling it off.

If you are less cool than your name, then every day ends in failure…every moment becomes a lie. Parents need to realistically asses their level of cool, and name their child within 20% of this range. Awesome names you may want to avoid out of prudence

- Jericho
- Justice
- Strong V’s such Vincent, Victor, or Votolimous
- Lancelot
- Dragonlord

Be sure to factor the Surname into the equation. While A.J. is a pretty shaky first name, having Valliant as a last name made it a strategic necessity (and I’m pretty damn cool).

Quirky is fine if you plan on raising an arty little bastard (like my son Ricochet), but you don’t want a account manager named “Dappled Sunblossom Hernandez”. Trust me…they will get real tired of that conversation.

3. Is it gender appropriate?

Men named Ashleigh, Lillian, Tracey, and any name ending in a ‘I”, live lives of quiet desperation. Unless you want a overcompensating date rapist as a son, avoid them.

4. Is it French?

Even if you’re French, I would avoid this.[1]

5.Did you ever bang a crazy girl/guy that happened to have that name?

If you cram your pockets full of woe, don’t come crying to me if you get woe stained legs.

—————–

In short: name your kid Lucas if it’s a boy, and Lilly if it’s a girl. Strong….but not too strong. Mundane….but melodic. And what I would have named my kids…had I not wanted to punish their mother.

Should you wish punish your wife for past slights, or children for future, consider: Jim Jim the Wobbly Ocelot, Pucifier, or Momambula.

*****

[1] This falls under the Red head corollary. Where it’s sexy and coquettish if you’re female…and a Ginger cross of woe to be born if you’re male.

Passive Depressive #138

thekenji — Tue, 15 Apr 2008 14:09:19 +0000

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Melodies

w0rmwood — Sun, 13 Apr 2008 04:52:57 +0000

Passive Depressive #137

thekenji — Thu, 10 Apr 2008 17:07:01 +0000

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Passive Depressive #136

thekenji — Tue, 08 Apr 2008 16:47:08 +0000

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My Diary: Why I can’t go to Bridgehead anymore

A.J. Valliant — Tue, 08 Apr 2008 15:13:24 +0000

In my mental makeup decency is layered last, and predicated on sufficient rest. The AJ at large is kind, courteous, gentlemanly…but this is a sleep fuelled façade, held in place by social necessity, and daily habit. On this particular day I had not slept for a fortnight [1], and my better nature was frayed near through. In an effort to jump start my nervous system I went to bridgehead[2] to get some coffee. The visit went as such

7:15 am

I enter store. A large line of hippies, trendy government jerks, and bike couriers are ahead of me. The dreadlocked ( lame Caucasian kind) fellow in front of me has a burlap purse. I asked him “where can I buy a wicker purse like that”. He told me it was a hemp, and a satchel. I informed him it was only a satchel if it was filled with C-4, otherwise it was a purse…and hemp was only good for making inedible biscuits, and paper thin excuses to grow pot. He turned up his Ipod.

7:19 am

Though it is odd to admit it: While standing in line I discover I’m a little turned on by the dirty spoon bin. Something about strangers grabbing a hold them, using them up, then throwing them into a filthy pile together…where they lie exposed and entangled. I resolve to use stir sticks to avoid giving cheap voyeurs any sort of thrill.

7:20

These office chuds in front of me were discussing names for the band they wanted to form: I suggest “The Christ tighteners“…because that’s awesome. They said they would think about it. I suspected that they will not actually think about it. This angers me. I then suggest the name “Our drummer works in the finance department…and he’s the coolest one of us.” The drummer laughs…the others simmer with milk warm anger.

7:21

The attractive, blunt shoed, cashier chick is arguing quietly with her barista girlfriend. The drummer behind me suggests gays are temperamentally unsuited to customers service positions. I demand that he respect her, as lesbians are natures toothbrush. The incredulous cashier overhears and is laughing despite her anger. To her credit: my coffee arrives promptly and untampered.

7:23

I use three spoons and splash a little coffee into the bin. The Lesbarsita see me and knows my secret shame.

***

[1] I didn’t go twenty days without sleep…I was just up all night building a fort.

[2] This sort of hippy fair trade coffee place. It’s next to my work…I prefer Tim Hortons.

Passive Depressive #135

thekenji — Fri, 04 Apr 2008 20:16:21 +0000

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Passive Depressive #134

thekenji — Tue, 01 Apr 2008 19:03:29 +0000

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No PD, no cry

thekenji — Tue, 18 Mar 2008 14:49:55 +0000

Hey folks, we’ll be taking a short break from Passive Depressive so we can catch up with our lives, and subsequently with the comic itself as we start preparing to deliver the pivotal second half of this season. The various plot lines will twist and turn like DNA strands in gene-spliced coffee. Might I refresh your memory:

-Leo’s hand is now a big crushing robot hand
-Denny is now a bigwig at the Singh group, and apparently a woman.
-Warnick is alive in Neembucu, Paraguay!
-Larsen’s head looks like someone’s cooch.
-Tracy’s still got a love for the streets

We hope you’re enjoying the comic as much as we enjoy saying “Neembucu”.

Kenji

ASK BE: political-fantasy-satirical-romance novel

A.J. Valliant — Mon, 17 Mar 2008 19:55:23 +0000

“your comic misogyny aside, a lot of that was seriously entertaining prose (the post, not the adolescent rant above). You should write a political-fantasy-satirical-romance novel. Okay, minus the romance bit, though it’d boost sales.”

The Mysterious Baredfeetandteeth

Technically more a suggestion, than a question proper; but an oddly prescient one. Though I have never mentioned it before now, I have been working on just such a novel for the better part of three years. Due to publisher oversight I can only post a short excerpt. There are a few autobiographical touches, but mostly it’s a allegorical study on the nature of power, and mans desire for fundamental connection.

******

For your consideration:

(Excerpt) Woman in full: A bicamerial seduction

Senator Craig toed the door shut with shocking pedial dexterity, his sinewy calfs bulking impressively under his tawny Aberdeen slacks. Hillary perched coquettishly on the edge of a pages desk, eyeing her political rival with wary intrigue.

” Did you really need to privacy to gloat about blocking my health care reform package” said Hillary.

Senator Craig twitched a lipless smirk.

“Do you believe in compromise, Hillary” said Craig, closing the distance between them with alley cat grace.

Hillary raised a well plucked eyebrow

“Do you mean compromise, or, spun surrender? I’ve no wish to put a bow on my defeat, for appearances sake.”

Craig cosied up the last few feet, until there were bare inches between them. His sleepy lids rolled back to reveal startling orbs of cerulean fish eyed majesty; reaching out he took her bony wrist into his delicate pink hands.

”Perhaps you could have my support after all…if you were willing to reach across the aisle.”

Hillary looked away demurely, but her filthy hands slipped to his waist, seemingly of there own accord. With practised ease she unsheathed his congressional member, taking it into her small, and only partially liver spotted, hands…dutifully going about the business of the people.

His turgid man engine surged to life, thrumming with the rigidity of a high tension power wire. Grunting like a stuck wildebeest, Craig lustily flipped Hillary to her stomach, tearing off her tasteful pantsuit with Precambrian abandon

“You just got nominated to chair the senate subcommittee on taking my load…balls deep!”

Hillary laughed at his clever wordplay…not finding his constant governmental double entendre tired or cliché in any way…then grunted as he gerrymandered his dumptruck like manhood into her lower congressional district.

“Dear God Senator….I see why your party has an elephant as it’s symbol”

Craig shuddered then collapsed against her. Pushing away, a look of sudden concern overtook him.

“You’re pro choice, right?”