Love Strikes Back


Suggested Audio Jukebox:


[1] OutKast “B.O.B.”
[2] Megadeth “Peace Sells”
[3] Neil Young “Living with War”
[4] John Lennon “Give Peace a Chance”


acde522d9fe94d766c32a157496f8367It feels good to have a rant right? What could be better than getting a few things off your chest and saying it how it is? This can indeed be a liberating experience and, every time I scribe, I’m fully committed to every last bluster. However, when someone revealed the pastime of ranting and raving to me, I opted for the latter and dashed straight for the strobe lights. You see, bitterness is something I flat refuse to have a bar of. Should you know me well, and anyone reading this now likely will, then you will know that conflict dampens my tail like no other. If there’s drama in the midst, then I’m heading in the opposite direction, as I simply haven’t time for such cancerous endeavor. When I was born I was requested to fall into one of the following two stalls – lover or fighter – and there was absolutely no choice to make in my eyes. Karma has my address, my debit card pin number, and direct access to my extensive wanking log book, so towing the line seemed mandatory. Anything even vaguely negative disinterests me entirely and, in the past, I would have scurried away to my crawlspace at its first signs.


However, I’m so comfortable in my skin right now that it just isn’t funny, and no longer feel the need to regress once trouble starts to simmer. Neither do I have any desire in partake in it and, should explosions go off all around me, then they are little more than distant white noise to me. Not everyone gets along all the time, things are said in the heat of the moment, judgement then becomes impaired, and feelings are hurt or worse. I despise this and have seen it too many times not to omit a monstrous yawn each time it plays out. He said, she said, they said, who gives half a rat’s rump who fucking says. That’s just one voice in seven billion and soon drones when others are more eloquent in their chosen dialogue. We have a few hundred words at our disposal every day to impart on others so it makes sense that we make them count. I peddle love, belief, and empowerment because I can. I could also choose to be an asshat but all I would find myself surrounded by then are other asshats. I like ass and I like hats too, but together they are ludicrous and likely to result in the worst kind of dandruff imaginable. Think I’ll stick to being Mr. Good Bar.


Of course, the fact that I refuse to be drawn into shit that I have no idea about, means that I can come across a soft touch, and I pity the fool for underestimating my rage-o-meter. Indeed, there can be no worse enemy to make than I as, even if you’re stronger than me, there’s nothing more mortifying than a foe who won’t stay down. I choose my battles so carefully that I have no battles whatsoever. However, back me into a corner and address me directly, and you will truly see what glue binds me together. Will I swear? Unlikely as a point is far more potently made without the need for time buying expletives. Stomp my feet? Nope, both will remain rooted beneath the topsoil. Throw a low blow or two? Through prose alone and there are one million plus words out there all begging for encore. But I will remain calm and composed. And I will make my point as there is only one person who will look stupid come the close. You’re damn right I snagged myself some fight when slipping on the love mittens.


I have a fair idea what you’re thinking right now. Jesus, something has Keeper riled. Actually no, I’m as happy a camper as the one who cannot resist a midnight skinny dip, and just as likely to slip a finger in while treading water. I just like to explore and can’t be all hearts and flowers all the time or I’ll grow a vagina. Let’s not get this twisted, I’d be a most contented hermaphrodite and provide both muscles the daily exercise they needed to flourish. But I don’t wish to wear one stapled to my forehead. Indeed, I can see it how – “here come’s Keeper or is it The Great Pit of Carkoon? Oh well. At least his breath smells of strawberries” – genitalia may be pretty under the right light but not the 60 watt halogen variety. I’ll show I’m a man if that tickles any more fickle pickles amongst us but only roll up the sleeves for special occasions and bi-monthly Bar Mitzvahs. Just don’t offer me brisket as it sounds like a rogue biscuit to me. Right now I’m feeling particularly manly so there seems no better time to flex those biceps.


If I really take exception to something, then the first place I head is straight for the Crimson Quill to orchestrate and infiltrate. That said, I’ll create a piece of fiction and make some other poor bastard suffer the indignity, as horror scribes are at their most formidable with the bit between gritted teeth. Considering I average around 7000 words every weekday and similar for the weekend, I’m more than at ease with how this informs my output. Naming names is only something I will ever do if heaping praise and, the kicker is, that is not subject to change regardless of incident. Bearing grudges couldn’t be a less attractive proposition to me, neither can wishing someone well while holding a serrated blade to their spleen. That is time wasted in my book and the reason why I feel like I’ve grown through my art is that I have picked all the cherries I’ve found and discarded their bitter pips en route. Focus on a goal, trust where that will lead you, find companions for the journey, and stroll past the fisticuffs. Better yet, learn how to pilot a penny farthing and pedal past. If you’re feeling especially impish, then find a harlequin’s hooter and blast that shit right in the earlobes of any combatants, just to fuck with their equilibrium. Then come rejoin me at the campfire and we shall tell creepy tales and scoff marshmallows, while it’s off to the emergency room for our gladiators.


It takes a lot to get a rise out of Keeper and I choose my battles so carefully that my fight record is W0 D0 L0 after three years plus change in the ring. Being a lover and not fighter, launching haymakers feels a little too much like over-exertion. Fuck that Mousekatool and raid Mickey’s Clubhouse for another. I’m only wearing these flimsy shorts so why not flash my junk while I’m front and center? We’ll see who gets the most rousing response. Plus, last night I shaved my shit like Errol Brown, and this fist comes pre-loaded with three fleshy knuckles that trump your five easily. Let’s break this down shall we? The eye of the tiger earns you three broken ribs, a split lip, and a black eye that Rodney Dangerfield couldn’t see out of. The eye of the anteater recompenses you with a glee face packed with Elvis complete with cheeseburger, ten curled toes, a clenched sphincter, and one helluva clear up job cum final bell. Loving 1 Fighting 0. And who needs TKO, we’ll just drag out the punishment until the judges tally. When they release the scores, I won’t even be listening, as I’d rather ask the dotty old dear in row twelve what she thought. Judging by the fact that she’s knitting my cock a pullover and seems to have misplaced her dentures, I’d say that’s a ding-ding. Then, while you’re spitting out blood in a bucket, I’m thrashing my primate in mine.


I can do sinister but I prefer to let that out in mere flashes. As you scroll through my blog in your public places and happen across an image to get you ejected, you’ll know full well that PG13 is my least favored setting. However, as you’re preparing to wag your finger in my general direction (and understandably given that your library card has just been revoked on account of my tomfoolery), I may just say something to disarm you. Who needs arms anyhoots? The world has enough fire and brimstone already and, more critically, it is liberally sprinkled with pockets of joy. Join me in my rabbit hole, burrow into my archives and forage yourselves gaga, and pleasure is a given I assure you. Sounds cocky right? Not when the gloves are off it isn’t. You all see the lack of calluses, hands that clearly wash dishes, and they lather up a treat in hot soapy water. Think of the tickles and nuzzles we would miss out on by punching each other purple. Besides, have you ever tried knocking one out wearing boxing gloves?


I shall not be providing judgement but the Crimson Quill is only too happy to do so on my behalf. The results are in and they’re unanimous to boot. Loving 1 Fighting 0. You know what that means right? That means if I can change, and you can change, maybe the whole world can change. I look back to my corner and what do I see? Dozens upon dozens of Mickeys chanting “You’re a bum Rich!”, the odd grouchy Paulie, and a handful of Adriens flashing their jugs at the ropes. I’ll step over the broken remains of the fighter in question, accept my playful swipe from Mickey, smell Paulie’s latest fart as that keeps the old dog happy, and hoot those tooters ’til honk becomes wonk. That’s just me, all views are endorsed by me, and I’m the one with a granny’s gums on my dick stalk so enjoy that canvas. Watch out, here comes the ten count.



Get up dammit


Don’t give up. You’ve come too far


How are those legs feeling? Is there anything I do to make your stay more comfortable?


Perhaps a pillow?


That’s the spirit. We’re all behind you…





Second thoughts, stay down. Best for all I believe


Okay then, do the precise opposite. Everyone’s willing you on


So close…just need to hold the pose for one more numeral


While you’re down there nearly man, yo granny left a few sailors on the plank



Click here to read Face or Gut?





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