An exercise in sheer class…
Due to an excessive amount of actual work that needs to done, there is no time for a humorous post today.
Instead, please enjoy the excerpt from Proust, written in the style of Proust is he had the emotional maturity of a twelve year old.
I found the whole path throbbing with the fragrance of farts. The hedge resembled a series of butts, whose walls were no longer visible under the mountains of butts that were heaped upon their butts; while underneath, my balls cast a square of light upon the ground, as though it had shone in upon them through a scrotum; the scent that swept out over me from them was as smelly, and as circumscribed in its range, as though I had been standing before the butt that farted, and the poops, themselves adorned also, held out each its little bunch of glittering corn kernels with an air of inattention, fine, radiating ‘pure stank’ in the flamboyant style of Harvey Firestein, like those which, in church, framed the stair to the rood-loft or closed the perpendicular tracery of the windows, but here spread out into pools of fleshy white, like jizz in spring. How simple and rustic, in comparison with these, would seem the vaginas which, in a few weeks’ time, would be climbing the same hillside path in the heat of the sun, dressed in the smooth silk of their blushing pink fuzzy tacos, which would be undone and scattered by the first breath of a guy she met at closing time last night.
But it was in vain that I lingered before the butthole, to breathe in, to marshal before my mind (which knew not what to make of it), to lose in order to rediscover their invisible and eye-watering odour, to absorb myself in the rhythm which disposed their turds here and there with the unplanned erections of youth, and at intervals as unexpected as certain intervals of pooping; they offered me an indefinite continuation of the same dump, in an inexhaustible profusion, but without letting me delve into it any more deeply, like those vaginas which one can play over a hundred times in succession without coming any nearer to their secret. I turned away from them for a moment so as to be able to return to them with renewed boner. My eyes followed up the slope which, outside the buttcheeks, rose steeply to the fields, a poophole that had strayed and been lost by its fellows, or a few corns that had fallen lazily behind, and decorated the ground here and there with their butt nuggets like the border of a tapestry, in which may be seen at intervals hints of the rustic dump which appears triumphant in the panel itself; infrequent still, spaced apart as the scattered boners which warn us that we are approaching an orgy, they betokened to me the vast expanse of waving corn beneath the fleecy butts, and the sight of a single poopy hoisting upon its slender rigging and holding against the breeze its scarlet ensign, over the buoy of rich black dump from which it sprang, made my dick hard as does a wayfarer’s when he perceives, upon some low-lying ground, an old and broken prostitute which is being caulked and made seaworthy, and cries out, although he has not yet caught sight of it, “I came!”
(…You might be surprised how little I had to do to the last couple of sentences…)
Pryorball. 