June 25, 2004

bosomas i walked in the evening light, faint fuscia fingers of another beautiful southern sunset glowing on the western horizon, suddenly i was startled by something in the underbrush… could it be a wild animal, come to tear into my soft new york city flesh like that japanese hotdog eating champion who appeared on oprah, the way he tore into that over-sized nathan’s hotdog, a truly glorious hotdog, a full throbbing twelve inches of kosher all beef hunger-satisfaction, which unfortunately has distracted people from all the wonderful qualities of the common garden-variety egg, which is not in fact a vegetable, although it could be, i’m still researching that.  i’ve discovered mention of a purported ‘eggplant’—if in fact this plant does exist, i may be on the verge of pulling away the covers of a vast historical conspiracy which will make the grassy knoll look like just so much grass. imagine: for centuries, chicken farmers have perpetuated the lie that it is their birds who are producing our eggs… all the while surreptiously harvesting bushels of eggs from rows of eggplants hidden out back.  the motivation for this egregious crime as yet escapes me, but when i figure it all out, i will truly be famous.  no more of this let me be your free bakerina crap: all you readers will just be little people who might have known me before i hit the big time.

i put my hand to my bosom, which was heaving.  “unhand me!” i said.  he stood before me, stretched to his magnificent bulging full height.  his flowing blonde locks curled against his muscular bosom, like smoke from a little arkansas hideaway curling into the smoky mountain blue ridge, catskills, whatever, night.

afterwards, he entertained me with amateur hillybilly theatrics.  i’ll never forget what he said to me: bakerina, you are one classy egg researcher.  not, wait, he said, my bakerina, i did not realize how unprepared i was to meet you.  now i know why they say new york is the city that never sleeps.

we can make it there, i replied, suggestively slapping his stupendous schlong

could we? he blurted, like a kid with one of those babe ruth-sized bats full of candy.

we can make it anywhere, i continued.  new york, new york!

Posted by Bakerina at 09:12 PM in • (2) Comments • (0) Trackbacks
Page 1 of 1 pages