While the mystic Knights of Malta roamed the blood-soaked flagons of a circular bastion, the grizzled veterans soaked their beer through mouldy crumbs of doom. Whenever the holiest visions waft and skitter through the mystic clouds of doom, then and there shalt brave and brazen warriors encounter the Goddess, and upon her flappy dugs shalt suckle, till the very meaning of the word "dugs" betrays a curse so hideous that cowmaids forevermore shalt never be. The grizzled veterans sucked their mouldy bread through beer---foul though it was, nor-ever did any substance more closely resemble piss than piss itself---with one ear cocked for the sound of their Commandant’s peremptory bark signaling the onset of the daily Ritual of Abasement. A ritual the origins of which were lost in the mists of time, but the enactment of which was certainly effective at humiliating and concentrating the piss-soaked minds of one-eared half-cocked veterans. And when all was lost, or so it seemed, and fate hung in the balance between doom and despair; when the warriors paused for a timeless instant in their grisly work, the one last true hope of the world was called to the final proving. Eccentricitus, leader of the Freebies, upholder of the faith, bearer of the word and of the deed and of the thought, summonsed the Mystic Knights of Malta, but they couldn't make it. And so Eccentricitus summonsed the grizzled one-eared veterans, but they didn't hear the summons, and would have been too pissed off and were too pissed to respond even if they had heard. And thus the world came to an end. Copyright © S R Schwarz 2007. All rights reserved.
blood-soaked flagons
Labels: piss weak, surrealistic twaddle, tripe, unappealing
