My Night of Passion with Seamus Heaney
People frequently get confused about cultural or sexual stereotypes. This is no big deal, and easily understandable given the poor quality of the American educational system these days ...So let me lead you down the garden path to the unbridled passions of poetry and a raging Irish alcoholic.
I came across The Poet in the back bathroom of Jo's Place. (Remember, Jo used to be married to K.P. before she became a Lesbian and joined the union. Then, oddly enough, for a while she was a Pipe-Fitter, then inherited some money and got her M.F.A. Hence, the poetry-friendly lesbian bar). I have a standing invitation chez Jo as the cabbie of choice, since I'm so lesbian-friendly I've been made an honorary lesbian by over 40 women's organizations. Hell, last Halloween I went as Bea Arthur playing Emma Goldman. Now if that's not Lesbian-Friendly, you'd better pry yourself loose from the toothy grip of Angie's Clam.
Anyway, spank my ass for my mental wanderings. As I was saying, I had to use the little boys' room to powder my diverticuli when I noticed a strangely attractive Irish man sitting, or rather laying, in a puddle of his own sick while being fellated by my friend the Man-Poet and his buddy Hippo Butt! "Schwing!" - I was instantly standing at attention, but didn't want to cut in on the Man-Poet's action. He was obviously calling the shots, mostly letting Hippo Butt lap at the vomit puddle.
I then noticed that the barely conscious, in-his-own-sick laying Irishman had written several poems, with his own feces, on both several yards of toilet paper and the restroom walls. The poetry was incredible, although I can't remember any of the particulars. It was way better than Cooter's, and even better than the Man-Poet's! (By the way, the Man-Poet even has an Associate's degree in poetry!)
Then again, I'm not much of an appreciator of poetry, what with my disability and all (the Color Blindness, not the Ass). So anyway, I fucked all three of them and then we got drunk and I fucked them again. It was pretty hot.
I came across The Poet in the back bathroom of Jo's Place. (Remember, Jo used to be married to K.P. before she became a Lesbian and joined the union. Then, oddly enough, for a while she was a Pipe-Fitter, then inherited some money and got her M.F.A. Hence, the poetry-friendly lesbian bar). I have a standing invitation chez Jo as the cabbie of choice, since I'm so lesbian-friendly I've been made an honorary lesbian by over 40 women's organizations. Hell, last Halloween I went as Bea Arthur playing Emma Goldman. Now if that's not Lesbian-Friendly, you'd better pry yourself loose from the toothy grip of Angie's Clam.
Anyway, spank my ass for my mental wanderings. As I was saying, I had to use the little boys' room to powder my diverticuli when I noticed a strangely attractive Irish man sitting, or rather laying, in a puddle of his own sick while being fellated by my friend the Man-Poet and his buddy Hippo Butt! "Schwing!" - I was instantly standing at attention, but didn't want to cut in on the Man-Poet's action. He was obviously calling the shots, mostly letting Hippo Butt lap at the vomit puddle.
I then noticed that the barely conscious, in-his-own-sick laying Irishman had written several poems, with his own feces, on both several yards of toilet paper and the restroom walls. The poetry was incredible, although I can't remember any of the particulars. It was way better than Cooter's, and even better than the Man-Poet's! (By the way, the Man-Poet even has an Associate's degree in poetry!)
Then again, I'm not much of an appreciator of poetry, what with my disability and all (the Color Blindness, not the Ass). So anyway, I fucked all three of them and then we got drunk and I fucked them again. It was pretty hot.
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