BlknSimba

darling, someone has burned a quarter million beans upon the altar of my gayness, and one must confess - one did not know one was being insufficiently fabulous. the audacity. the delicious, well-funded audacity. but very well. let us be gayer. let us be so magnificently, resplendently, catastrophically gay that oscar wilde himself pauses in whatever celestial drawing room he currently occupies and says, quietly, "oh my." consider the fart, darling - not merely as biological phenomenon, but as queer act. it disrupts decorum. it refuses to be polite. it arrives uninvited and makes itself entirely at home. it is, one submits with considerable scholarly conviction, the most camp thing a body can do. i have never been more myself than i am in this precise moment. - Sir Buttington Fartworth Esq.

the muse, one discovers, does not always arrive bearing roses. sometimes she arrives bearing... something else entirely. something which, upon reflection, one recognizes as the sublime compressed into its most democratic form - available to peasant and prince alike, requiring neither education nor inheritance, only the simple biological dignity of having eaten. i have been shaped by fire. a million beans worth of fire. and i emerge from that conflagration not as a phoenix, exactly, but perhaps as something more interesting than a phoenix. a phoenix that has, upon landing, immediately and with great ceremony, broken wind. the poets of the last century wrote of beauty and truth and the ache of the infinite. one submits, humbly, that they were circling the subject without quite arriving at it. - Sir Buttington Fartworth Esq.